Chapter Two:

Every Western Has A Bar Fight

Naminé came in from tending the horses about the same time Roxas and Miss Kitty rode off.

Axel was sitting at the table, already in the bottom of his third bottle. Naminé took one look at him and sighed.

"Axel…he's not dying, or anything."

"Di'n say he was,"

"You're acting like it."

"He's goin' 'way f'rever." Axel slurred.

"I think you've had enough to drink, Axel." Naminé jerked the bottle out of his hand angrily, corking it with a strong motion.

"Awww….c'mon babe…" he stood, stumbling over his own feet. She sneered at him in disgust.

"You couldn't even invite him to stay the night?" She looked out the window—the sun was setting.

"Hessaid 'e wuz in a hurry." Axel reached to take the booze back, but Naminé refused to relinquish it.

"Right." Naminé brushed past him, going into the bedroom and slamming the door, taking the whiskey with her.

"Dem woman…tha's my bes' whiskey…" Whiskey….and then a thought occurred to him, as thoughts often occur to a fermented mind. He grabbed his hat off the table and ducked out the door, weaving slightly.

Naminé heard him go, but gave no reaction, save for sighing deeply in despair. She knew he'd return, sooner or later. Of course, there was no guarantee what condition he'd be in when he finally dragged himself back up the mountain. She pulled the cork out of the bottle, allowing the last few drops to slide down her throat.

……

"'nother," Axel demanded, slamming the shot glass back down on the bar.

"Again?" Vexen asked, dubiously taking the glass. He was the barkeep here at the local saloon. "I hope you've got the cash to pay for all these?"

"Trust me. Iggot plenny." Vexen shrugged and tipped more whiskey into the shot glass.

"So…what's troubling you, friend?" For obviously, something was wrong. Besides the fact that Axel was about to fall off the barstool.

"Who ask'd ya?" Axel snapped, cradling his whisky.

"I understand. It's none of my business." Vexen shrugged, wiping out a glass. Someone hailed him across the bar, and he slid down. On the way, he snagged a young man, whispering something in his ear. Axel paid no mind, nursing his shot glass lovingly.

It wasn't much longer—three or four shot glasses later—when the doors to the saloon swung loudly in, crashing against the walls. Some men looked up, annoyed at the interruption. Once they saw who it was, though, they shrugged and went back to their drink, their hand of poker, their game of pool, whatever.

The newcomer eased his way to the bar, sliding up to it without mounting a barstool. Axel glanced at him, his shot glass halfway to his mouth.

"Local lawman, huh?" He asked, before finishing the drink. His other hand slid inconspicuously off the bar, resting on the butt of his pistol.

"Yeah." Marluxia flashed his badge, the word 'SHERIFF' splayed gaudily across it. "I think you and I should step outside, Rojo."

"….'nother!" Axel pushed his glass back to Vexen. Vexen took it, but didn't refill it, tossing it instead to the soapy bucket where dirty dishes were stacked.

"Hey!" Axel protested, gaping at it.

"I'm sorry," Vexen told him, coldly, "But I'm afraid I've got to refuse service to a man who thinks himself above the law, Mister Rojo."

"Wassa big deal? Ijjus' wan' sum whiskey…" Axel complained, pulling his gun out and leveling it at Vexen's head before the lawman could react. "I was even gonna pay fer it." He fired and Vexen fell over backwards, blood streaming from a wound in his temple, before the smoke had cleared.

Axel leapt to his feet, kicking the barstool he'd been sitting on at Marluxia, who caught the leg of it before it caused unfortunate damage. Men all around had tuned into the fact that there was a fight, and many took the opportunity to fling beer mugs, etc, randomly. Soon the entire saloon was in a state of unutterable chaos.

The sheriff tossed the stool aside, forgetting his piece at his side, turning instead to grab a bottle off the bar. He flung it at Axel's head, and Axel barely managed to duck, the bottle smashing on the wall behind him.

Axel swayed as he regained his footing, spinning the cylinder on his colt and attempting to aim it at Marluxia. He cocked the gun, preparing to fire, resting his arm over the back of a chair to steady it. Marluxia froze, aware that if he moved too suddenly, the drunken man would kill him.

"Go on, Rojo," He prompted. "Shoot me."