Chapter Text
The cold night wind blew across his face as he moderately slowed down on his snorting horse. The deathly silence of the city was left behind as he approached the pub.
This was no place for decent people.
With a heavy thud, Betelgeuse dismounted from his horse and landed on the ground. He patted the animal’s neck once, more habit than affection, and tied the reins to a post scarred with knife marks and some dry blood spots. The building before him sagged slightly to one side, like it had been built crooked on purpose. Light leaked through the grimy windows in weak, amber slashes, and the sound inside—low voices, a laugh that cut off too sharply, told him everything he needed to know. He pushed the door open. A stale, clingy smoke hit him first as the pub welcomed him with a loud talk and laugh of people. The pub was crowded but subdued, the kind of place where men spoke with their shoulders tense and their hands never strayed far from their belts. A piano in the corner wheezed through a tune it barely remembered. Someone was cheating on cards. Someone else was pretending not to notice.
A few heads turned as he walked in. They always did.
He caught the flicker of recognition in their eyes. The hesitation, the quiet measuring. He didn’t need to see the wanted posters to know they’d gotten him wrong. They always did. Too thin, too ugly, too mean, never quite enough teeth and always with a wrong nose. But always the same blond messy hair which catches people's attention and makes them wonder: is it him?
Tonight, he let them guess.
Betelgeuse rolled his shoulders and stepped fully inside, boots heavy against the floorboards. Dust still clung to the hem of his coat, but he didn't care to check how he looked. He took a seat at the bar without asking, long legs stretched out, and rapped his knuckles once against the wood. He took a cigar and matches from his pocket and lit the edge, poisoning the already dirty air with his own smoke.
“Whiskey,” he said. “The kind that burns.”
The bartender eyed him, then the door, then him again, before pouring. That’s when he felt it. Not eyes on him, he was used to that, but attention. Sharp and focused glare which caught his attention. Like the click before a trigger pulls. He turned his head.
She sat alone at a small table near the wall, just beyond the reach of the brightest lantern. Black clothes, clean but worn, hat low on her head with a slight noticeable unusual bangs under it. Her drink sat untouched in front of her. She wasn’t watching the cards or the door or the bar. She was watching him. Not greedily, not nervously, but with calm, unsettling interest. Her eyes were dark and steady. Not wide. Not afraid.
Dangerous.
Betelgeuse felt something twist in his chest, surprised and unwelcome. He flashed her a grin out of instinct, all teeth and bad intentions, but she didn’t smile back. She didn’t look away either. Just tilted her head slightly, like she was deciding where to place a blade. He noticed how she was rolling a coin between her fingers, which was resting next to her glass.
“Well,” he muttered into his glass when it arrived, “ain’t that somethin’.”
He drank. The whiskey burned just like he asked, but it barely registered. Every sense he had leaned toward her. He noticed how still she sat, how she didn’t fidget, how the men around her gave her space without seeming to know why. As if they know they should avoid getting closer to this trouble-making woman.
She finally broke eye contact. Not abruptly or embarrassed. Just done. Her gaze slid away like a door quietly closing.
And Betelgeuse felt it like a missed opportunity. That should’ve been the end of it. He stayed longer than he meant to. Listened to half a conversation. Won a hand of cards he didn’t sit down for. When he stood to leave, he looked for her again.
Gone. Her chair was empty. Her drink is still full.
Before leaving, he got closer to her seat, but there was nothing left from her besides the drink. With slight disappointment, he grabbed her glass and drank it in one gulp, wincing at the scalding whiskey, but pleased with himself. Outside, the night felt colder. Betelgeuse stepped into it, tugged his coat tighter, and paused, scanning the street.
Nothing. No retreating footsteps. No shadow slipping away. He laughed under his breath, the sound low and pleased.
“Dangerous,” he repeated, like a promise.
He mounted his horse and rode out of town with the strange, persistent feeling that something important had just brushed past him. And that the road, sooner or later, would bring it back.
***
He found the mark three days outside of town.
A man with soft hands, a nervous laugh, and a purse heavy enough to make his horse walk uneven. The story was simple: needed protection, needed guidance, needed someone mean-looking to scare the road into behaving. Betelgeuse listened, nodded, smiled when it was needed, using his charm. By sundown, the man was lighter by several pounds of gold and considerably wiser about trusting strangers. Betelgeuse rode back into town pleased with himself, the weight of the saddlebag comforting against his leg. He’d earned this one clean—no blood, no chase. Just his charm and manipulation. Kind of work that left room for celebration.
So he celebrated.
The pub greeted him like an old vice. Same smoke. Same dim lanterns. Same tension humming beneath the floorboards.
He claimed a table this time, dirty boots up on an empty chair, and ordered something strong enough to dull the road out of his bones.
That’s when he saw her.
Lydia sat near the bar, half-turned away, fingers rolling the same coin across her knuckles with idle precision. Different clothes than last time. Same stillness. Same sense that she knew more than she let on.
Betelgeuse felt that familiar twist again. And this time, he didn't miss the chance.
“Funny,” he said, drifting over without asking permission, “how some places got a habit of introducin’ folks twice.”
She looked up at him slowly. Recognition flickered, then settled into calm.
"You're not as bad as you appear on those wanted posters." she said, gifting him just with one glare, before turning it away to the crowd in the pub.
"I'm much better, babe." Betelgeuse chuckled, already sitting next to her at the table, but keeping a slight distance from her. "Idiots can't draw my face, but that's only to their advantage... Though surviving is certainly hard.”
“So you survived,” she said.
“Barely,” he replied. “Road’s cruel. People are worse.”
Her eyes dipped briefly to his saddlebag, resting by his boot.
“Looks like the road was kind to you tonight.”
He grinned. “I can’t complain.”
They shared a drink. Not together, not apart. Words passed between them like cards face-down on a table. Nothing personal. Nothing honest. Just enough to feel the shape of each other’s minds. His eyes examined the coin she's rolling between her fingers. Unusual one. A gold coin with an engraving unfamiliar to him.
“Haven't seen yer posters,” Betelgeuse slowly sips from his glass. Eyes never leaving her face. He never saw her before, only heard gossips lurking around, until now realizing it was about her.
“You won't.”
Betelgeuse thoughtfully scratches his stable on the chin, relaxed by the drink, but studying her. She was mysterious as hell. And damn beautiful.
“I didn't catch your name by the way.” He took off his hat, running with his hand over his hair, to make them look less chaotic.
“I didn't say it.” She finished her drink, putting the glass on the table a bit louder. Betelgeuse chuckled. He wanted to know her name. She left him without answers. He looked at how gracefully she stood up about to leave, reminding him a black panther. Definitely a wild dangerous cat.
“Safe travels,” she said.
He smiled charmingly at her, not even realizing it. “Try not to miss me.”
He didn't stay long after she left. Outside, the night was cool and forgiving. Betelgeuse rode until the town lights fell behind him, found a quiet rise of land, and slid off his horse with a satisfied sigh. He loosened the saddle, stretched his back, and settled down to rest, just for a moment.
That moment stretched.
When he finally reached for the bag, the weight was wrong. Too light.
He frowned, sat up, and opened it. Empty. No gold. No trace of the evening’s work. For a heartbeat, the world went very still. Then he laughed. Low at first. Then louder. A sound full of disbelief and genuine admiration. He shook his head, reaching deeper into the bag, more out of habit than hope, and his fingers brushed metal.
A coin.
He took it out of the bag to have a better look on it.
A gold coin with an unfamiliar engraving. The same coin she’d been rolling across her knuckles in the pub.
Betelgeuse held it up to the moonlight, grin splitting his face wide.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “You clever, dangerous thing.”
He turned the coin once, twice, before tucking it safely into his pocket. He has no idea how or when she tricked him. But he doesn't feel anger at her. It was quite an admiration and desire to meet her again. The gold was gone. The road stretched on. And somewhere out there, Lydia rode with his money and his full attention. And he somehow knew that their path would cross again.
***
Days passed. Betelgeuse walked along the road, collecting rumors and clues. Gold had less interest for him now. He was driven by the hope of seeing her again. But it seemed almost impossible. She disappeared from the town and the pubs. But he didn't lose hope.
They met again where neither of them should’ve been.
The road had thinned to a pale ribbon of dust by the time Betelgeuse pulled his horse to a stop near the creek.
The sun was low, bleeding gold into the water, and they needed to rest. He swung down, loosened the reins, and knelt by the bank to splash water over his face.
“That’s far enough,” a voice said calmly behind him.
He froze. Slowly, he straightened, hands empty and visible, lips curling into something like delight.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, turning just enough to see her reflected in the water. “Either I’m dead and this is one hell of a pretty afterlife, or...”
“Turn around,” she interrupted, voice low and certain.
He did. She stood a few paces back, revolver steady in her hand, posture relaxed like she wasn’t aiming at a wanted man with a reputation longer than most lifetimes. Same dark clothes. Same sharp eyes. Same unreadable calm. The wind lifted a strand of her hair and she didn’t bother tucking it back.
“Y'know,” Betelgeuse said, glancing at the gun and then back to her face, “most folks tremble when they point one of those at me.”
“I’m not most folks.”
“No,” he agreed, grin widening. “That was obvious the first time.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to his horse, then to the saddlebag, still light, still empty. A faint crease appeared between her brows.
“So,” she said. “You didn’t find me.”
“Didn’t look very hard,” he lied easily. “Figured if the road wanted us to cross again, it would.”
That earned him a look. Measuring, sharp, curious despite herself.
“And?” she asked. “Does this feel like fate?”
He shrugged. “Feels like bad timing. Which is fate’s favorite trick, y'know?”
She didn’t lower the gun. She didn’t raise it either. Instead, she stepped closer, boots crunching softly against gravel, until they were standing at a distance too close for comfort.
“Why aren’t you angry?” she asked.
Ah. There it was.
Betelgeuse tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he’d already decided not to solve too quickly.
“You stole from me fair and clever. Didn’t shoot me. Didn’t leave me tied up for the law. I’ve had worse first dates, gal.” Her mouth twitched, just barely.
“You laughed,” she said. “When you realized.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Couldn’t help it.”
He took a coin from his pocket and rolled between his fingers. Like she did.
"Nice surprise left. Believe me or not, this worth more than what you stole."
She searched his face now, really looking, as if expecting the punchline to reveal itself. It didn’t.
“You’re supposed to hate me,” she said.
“I’m supposed to do a lotta things,” he replied. “Hating you ain’t high on the list.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The creek gurgled softly behind him. Somewhere far off, a bird cried out and went quiet again. Finally, she lowered the gun. Not all the way. Just enough.
“Lydia,” she said, after a pause.
He blinked, genuinely surprised. Then he tipped an imaginary hat. His hat was away in his bag.
“Betelgeuse."
"That's not your real name." She scoffed.
"Yer always this skeptical?"
She answered him with a steady smirk.
“You going to take it back?” she asked. “The money.”
He looked at her. Really looked. The calm that hid calculation. The stillness that promised violence if needed. The woman who had outplayed him clean and left a calling card. Slowly, deliberately, he closed his fingers around the coin and slipped it back into his pocket.
“No,” he said. Her brows knit, just slightly.
“No?”
“No,” he repeated. “But I am gonna ask you somethin’.”
She waited. That made him laugh—full this time, bright and crooked, echoing against the rocks.
“Well,” he said, spreading his hands, “since we’ve accidentally met and all… you plannin’ on robbin’ me again?” Her eyes slid to the empty saddlebag.
“Depends,” she said coolly. “You got anything worth taking this time?”
"Depends what you are lookin' for." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "This is the third time we met by the way. I don't believe in coincidences. Y'know what people say..."
Their gaze met again, studying each other. Her dark sharp eyes studying him, his warm blue ones admiring her. "Third time for charm."
The air between them tightened, charged and dangerous and undeniably alive. And for the first time in a long while, Betelgeuse had the strange, thrilling feeling that he’d finally run into someone who might just outrun him.
"You won't find your money." Lydia is still holding the revolver. Just in case.
"I don't need 'em. Always can rob more. That's why I'm gonna ask you somethin'," he is standing relaxed in front of her, hands on his waist. Probably a big mistake, being so chill in front of the danger, but damn him, he enjoyed this so much. She is worth more than any gold.
"You always work alone?"
"Yes.”
He nodded. “Figures.” Then, with a grin that was all trouble and possibility, he added, “How’d you feel about changin’ that?”
The wind carried the question between them. The road stretched out behind and ahead, wide and uncertain. Lydia watched him for a long moment, unreadable. Then she turned away, swung smoothly into the saddle, and looked back at him over her shoulder.
"No."
Dry answer. He hadn't expected her to agree so quickly.
"Hey, babes,” he said lightly, stepping closer, hands open. “Just think about it.. ” Lydia raised the gun to him, and Betelgeuse stopped mid-word, hands freezing where they were. But there was no fear in him. Something warmer, sharper curling low in his chest. Admiration. Desire.
God, she was good.
"Listen, let's at least agree that you like me? You would have shot me long ago..."
The shot cracked through the air. Dust exploded at his feet and he jumped sideways on instinct, heart hammering despite himself. Betelgeuse turned in her direction, but Lydia was already galloping away. But he wasn't going to let her go this time.
“Oh, come on!” he laughed, scrambling for his reins. “That’s not a no, that’s a maybe!”
Quickly jumping onto his horse, he tore after her, never losing sight of Lydia's graceful black horse and her small figure on it.
"Babe, just think about my offer!" he shouted, grit stinging his face as he closed the distance.
"Fuck off!" Lydia yelled back at him back and her horse surged faster.
So did his.
“What about a drink?” Betelgeuse called, pushing his horse harder, nearly riding alongside her now. “Same time. Same place.”
For a split second, he thought she hadn’t heard him. Then Lydia moved. She leaned low, hand snapping out to catch the black lasso hanging from her saddle.
Betelgeuse realized too late what she was doing. Her horse stopped dead.
He hauled back on the reins, instinct screaming, but momentum betrayed him. The lasso captured him tight, and the world lurched violently backward. The breath tore from his lungs as he hit the ground hard, the sky flashing white, then black. Pain bloomed. Adrenaline running in his blood. Before he could fully sit up, a boot slammed into his chest, pinning him there.
She stood over him, framed by dust and sunlight, revolver loose in one hand, her weight deliberate where her heel pressed into him. Menacing. Controlled. Beautiful in every way.
“You’re still breathing,” she continued calmly, “because I don’t kill people without reason.” Her boot pressed harder. Just enough to warn him. “So don’t give me one.”
Betelgeuse sucked in a breath, chest burning, and then, despite everything, he smiled. God help him.
“You wouldn’t have left me a coin,” he said, breath rough, “if you didn’t want my attention.”
“That was a message,” Lydia replied coolly. “One I hoped you’d understand. I didn’t plan on seeing you again. And definitely not like this.”
“You play rough, darlin’.” His voice came out low, hoarse from the fall, pain threading through every word. “I ain’t mad about the money. Can always hunt another fool. Hell, if robbin’ me again makes you happy, I might make it a tradition.”
She leaned closer. Before he could add another smart remark, her hands slid efficiently through his pockets.
She found her coin and lifted it free. Betelgeuse rolled onto his side as much as the rope allowed, watching her with open fascination as she turned back toward her horse.
“Not everyone gets my attention like this,” he said lightly. “You know that, right?” She ignored him, adjusting the saddle with practiced ease.
“So what was that coin about, huh?” he pressed, almost pleading now, tugging uselessly against the lasso. “A keepsake? A warning? A promise? A mark?...”
“You talk too much,” Lydia said. She slipped the coin into her pocket and finally looked at him again—breathing hard, helpless in the dust, but still smiling like he thought this was going well.
“I can be quiet,” he offered quickly. “With the right incentive. And a drink. You free me, I shut up.”
She studied him in silence, something thoughtful flickering behind her eyes. Then, without a word, she mounted her horse, rode in close behind him, and reached down to loosen the lasso. The tension eased. The rope fell away. Betelgeuse stayed exactly where he was, hands open, heart thudding.
“So,” he said carefully, “that’s a yes?”
Lydia didn’t answer. She turned her horse and rode off, slow and unhurried, disappearing down the path she’d chosen.
Betelgeuse lay there for a moment longer, then pushed himself up, dusting off his coat with a quiet laugh.
She is irritating. Infuriating.
Irresistible.
He swung back into the saddle and followed at a distance, not chasing this time, just keeping pace. Somewhere deep down, he let himself believe what he probably shouldn’t. That this wasn’t a rejection. That it was a truce. And that before the night was over, they’d be sharing a drink.
Same place, same time, whether she admitted it or not.