Years ago and miles away, Frankie Dalton was a wanted man. A fairly successful and relatively content thief, he made his living robbing others of their own, targeting well-to-do travelers traveling through the area. After a while, though, he realized his gang of like-minded miscreants weren't so like-minded at all; when it became about the thrill of the crime and the glory of the getaway, Frankie got out. He was a criminal because he was good at this; but he didn't aspire to that degree of wealth and danger. So he retired, and being too much of a gentleman to turn his former friends in (and too much of a danger for them to let him alone,) turned tail and fled as far as he could make it.

Frankie ended up, as so many do, in that great, nameless City. Now he's just trying to lay low, with a quiet job in a saloon and not much more than a horse to his name.

Looking for: anything! Former brothers-in-arms, people who might recognize him from his checkered past, other robbers who think he might be an easy mark, regulars or co-workers from the bar, friends, Romans, countrymen, whatever. Feel free to ping here with questions/suggestions/ideas, or we can just wing it, or whatevs.
Someone's screaming his name. 

It's Eden, he realizes, through the haze.  Frankie has died once, and has come back from the dead once; he never thought anything could hurt worse than that, but he'd seriously underestimated what it'd be like to be shredded by a hundred starving soldiers.  

Knowing she's with him is some small comfort.  Passing out is the greater comfort, because he doesn't have to feel his wounds, doesn't see her bleed as she patches the worst of it with her will, doesn't worry over the wait when she goes to fetch someone to fix him up.  He's home. 


He's not home, he realizes, the second he opens his eyes and Moore is there.  He's weaker than a fucking kitten, but the other man takes care of him without a complaint. 

Frankie feels like maybe he's got a handle on it until Moore's helping him to the loo one day and mutters, just loud enough to be heard-- 

"Good to know you're a man of your fucking word." 


Eden tries to explain it a few days later, when Frankie's out of the worst of the fever and rehydrated and able to sit halfway up for more than a few minutes without serious danger of his stitches exploding. 

"Gonna sound weird, I know," she says to Moore, biting at her lip, "but Frankie and I... Go way back, sort of." 

Frankie snorts at the understatement of the century represented by the words sort of just as Moore says: 

"I know who Frankie fucking Dalton is, what the fuck is he doing here?" 


The argument stretches on. 

"Wait, you remember visiting the City? And you never mentioned it?" 

"Your nose does look a little busted," Frankie muses, far more entertained than he ought to be.

"Didn't know that was real, did I? If you didn't remember it I'd look like a fucking lunatic," snarls Moore, scowling at Frankie while Eden scowled indiscriminately at the both of them. "We had a fuckin' deal, you had that place and I had mine!" 

"Like I wanted to bleed out on your breakfast table?" Frankie sneers back, baring an eyetooth unconsciously.  "I have no idea how I got here."

"Jesus, the both of you, shut up!" Eden thunders, and they do.  Short as she is she's loud when she needs to be. "We're not throwing' him out, for fuck's sake." 

"'Course not," Moore sulks, and Frankie tries really hard not to give him a smug look.  

Eden covers her face with her hands. "Why the fuck did I come home? You're both fuckin' children."

"I thought he was about fifty," Moore mutters.

"Keep it up," Frankie warns. "I used to eat fuckers like you for breakfast." (Which is bullshit, but that's beside the point.)

"Ha! I'd like to fuckin' see it. Can't even hold your own dick!"

Frankie's about to answer in kind when the door slams, and both of them jump, which leads to a huff of pain on Frankie's part and a look of anguish on Moore's.

"See what you've done?"

"I'm not the one starting shit," Frankie growls, remembering exactly how pleasant ripping people's throats out used to be, even though he's been off that wagon for years.

"You're the one who fuckin' showed up!"

And Frankie just sighs. After a while, Moore slumps in his seat, fingers clenched on the armrest, knuckles white.

"Think she's coming' back?" he mutters after a long, long while.

"Hope so," Frankie says wistfully, and pauses. "I bet you're a shit cook."


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Frankie Dalton [cursed]


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