Dragon Age One Shots

Sheriff Stars & Cowboy Spurs

This is a Cowboy AU I wrote for my friend.

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Candlelight glinted off the tin star tossed to his desk. Sand and the grime of time blackened the outside that would only take a bit of elbow grease to clear off, but he didn't see the point. The blood of his predecessor lingered in the S of the badge — a grim reminder of how he got the job and what future awaited him.

"This is why I don't drink at night," Cullen moaned, wiping at the five-day scruff peppered across his cheeks. Dark desert winds howled through the scraps of wood he nailed to the windows. They rattled as if the ghosts of a thousand lawmen before him whispered that only death awaited those who traveled between the canyons.

He eyed up the half-finished bottle that grew smoother with each glass. Never a good sign, even on a better day. Cullen picked up a cork that'd served as his missing bishop and crammed it into the neck of the bottle. There wasn't anyone else to cut him off so he had to police himself.

"Well I no, nay, never..."

Ignoring the slurring sound of a dying horse attempting to sing, he shuffled through the bounties stacked on his desk. In his younger days, he'd have pursued them as surely as any Ranger. But that fall from a spooked horse put an end to his free-range days and trapped him behind the desk. He was respectable now, a proper lawman. As much as one could be in a town with two bars, two brothels, and one church to forgive all that sinning.

"No nay never, no more!"

If he had it his way, he'd be in his small cottage cooking a mess of beans by the fire. Maybe re-reading through the stack of books Miss Josephine brought him one long winter. But no, he had to be here, presiding over the jail proper.

With a groan, Cullen rose to his feet. He tugged on his trusty duster, true to its name as the once black leather faded to a dusky gray from years of service. Only the red clay of the land gave it a hint of color. Affixing the tin star to his chest, he paused from grabbing his hat. Cullen stood taller and wiped the back of his hand over the sign of law and order. It didn't gleam justice, but a hint of law did shine through the dirt.

"Will I play the wild rover..."

The horrendous singing paused at the creek of the lawmen's boots outside the cell. Barely any lantern light reached inside, only a sliver highlighting the ripped up boots of the man reclining on the bunk. He had one leg crossed over the other, the toe of which kept twisting back and forth as he sang.

A black cowboy hat shrouded his face, which he kept twisted down to hide in the shadows of the cell. Not that it mattered. Cullen recognized him from his posters in an instant and didn't hesitate to drag the man in instead of letting him sober up in the water tank. All of his gear, including the holster holding a revolver worth the sheriff's annual salary, hung upon a nail out of reach. It left the man in nothing but his long underwear, which didn't seem to bother the drunk one lick.

"No never—" the drunkard sang at full volume.

"Knock that off!" Cullen shouted.

The song paused and the man tipped up the edge of his hat until an eye of pure malice gleamed at him. Cullen watched a tongue slowly slide out to lick along chapped lips. Certain that he'd made his point, the Sheriff turned to leave, when a voice even louder than before cried out, "No more!"

Right. "I warned you," Cullen said and hauled up the dousing bucket. Without hesitation, he threw the entire gallon of fetid, frozen water onto the prisoner.

The man ceased laughing at him as he screeched and leaped to his soggy feet. Water drenched his ivory underwear to a body that was deceptively toned. Drunkards should carry barrels for stomachs not chests.