Ephemeral Pleasures
Jan. 23rd, 2008 02:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustPorn! Though not actually all that porny, as yet…oh well.;)
THINK LIKE A GUN
Author: Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Pairing: Ben Wade/Charlie Prince
"When you’ve begun to think like a gun
The rest of your days are already gone."
—John Cale.
Part One
The very first time Ben Wade met Charlie Prince, the man’d already had a rope around his neck; probably should’ve told Ben something, he often thought, afterwards.
And maybe it had, in context. But maybe, also—it being most convenient for his needs, at the time, that he do so—he’d simply chosen not to notice.
Yet that’d been an entirely other day, at the bitter end of the War Between States. What might yet turn out to be the worst strategic decision of Ben’s life, on the other hand, began several years later, with a coach full of bank script and railroad gold, departing from Contention at a secret time Ben’d easily managed to charm from one of the railway scouts’ neglected wives.
The snatch itself had gone like clockwork—‘cept for the Pinkertons lying in wait, that is. After ten more miles of hot pursuit, Ben reckoned something needed to be done, so he nodded at Charlie; they reined up under the lip of a hill while Charlie rounded up the few stragglers, neat as any sheepdog. Ben half-turned in his saddle, to better address the whole gang.
"Gents," he said, "I think we’ll part company here. Y’all go where your appetites take you. Charlie, you’re with me."
"Boss."
Ben caught Tommy Darden frowning at this, and cocked an eyebrow; at the very edge of his vision, he saw Charlie trace the glance back, scowling like he’d just noticed someone trying to make off with his treasured pot of pistol-polish.
"Something about this plan strike you as particularly disturbin’, Tommy?"
"Well, sorta. Like how’re we s’posed to know where to meet up, after?"
Ben thought a moment on what to answer, but opened his mouth too late; Charlie had already cut between them, snapping—
"You’ll know when Mister Wade takes a mind to tell you, farm-boy; ‘til then, just keep your head down and your big damn mouth shut." Then, as though realizing he might’ve spoke out of turn, he wheeled back, deferring to Ben once more: "Ain’t that right, boss?"
No real time for suitable chastisement, not with Agency men gaining fast on them. So:"It is," Ben agreed, and tipped his hat. "Boys, I’ll see you when I see you. Now you best ride hard and hide even better, if you don’t want to be sportin’ hempen neck-ties—or John Law’s store-boughts connectin’ with your asses, either."
That put paid to ‘em, scattering men and horses alike to the compass-points, with noise and dust rising every which-a-way—exactly the sort of cover Ben’d hoped for, when he’d said it. He whistled to rouse his own mount, grabbed Charlie’s reins so he could shoot two-handed without worrying over navigation, and made for an open gap. Soon they were through and mainly out of danger, even with Charlie’s uncannily nimble lead managing to pick off three more of old Byron McElroy‘s hirelings as they went.
Then it was nothing but one long, hard gallop through the scrub, stones underfoot and slipping all the way, ‘til the horizon finally came up clear on a last check behind. Ben saw the lights of Mahoney’s cathouse flickering ahead, and pulled up to find Charlie at his elbow, as ever—though presently squinting the other way with a look Ben might’ve almost called contemplative, had he not known him quite so long (or well).
"They sure did keep a-comin’," Charlie said, a faint hint of surprise in his flat voice—as though he’d genuinely never remarked on the fact before.
Ben nodded, grimly. Pointing out: "They’d’ve probably stopped some miles back, you hadn’t’a kept on killin’ so damn many of ‘em."
"Uh huh. Well, I do hate Pinks."
"Why, Charlie Prince, is that so? You take me aback." Ben kicked his horse into a canter, calling: "Next you’ll be tellin’ me how you hate posses, or the Union. Or Ulysses S. Goddamn Grant!"
From behind him, quiet, in the fading twilight, as Charlie spurred his own mount to a similar pace: "Whatever you say, boss."
*
The day Ben’d saved Charlie from hanging, he certainly hadn’t done it out of the nonexistent goodness of his heart. He’d come to town that morning looking to raise himself a gang, which—especially with no start-up funds on offer—soon proven a harder proposition than he’d initially thought it might. Instead he’d found Charlie, who needed help, and Ben had given it to him betting that Charlie would be the kind who paid his debts in full. As it turned out, that bet’d been a fairly sound one.
Ben believed the original point of dispute between Charlie, the remaining members of his platoon and the citizens of Wherever, Kansas had had something to do with payment by Confederate script, instead of "good" (and near-worthless) Yankee greenbacks. But by the time it spilled over into the bar, Ben had been perfectly content amuse himself watching the luckless greycoats fall like dominoes—all but one, who managed to put a former blue-belly down along with every one of them, apparently without blinking.
After which he bit the first drunk who grabbed his arm on the cheek, stole his gun as he kicked him in the balls, and stood firing two-handed into the crowd, cursing a mean blue streak, ‘til somebody—Ben never saw who—threw a chair that collided with the back of his head, knocking him cold.
Ben saw no earthly reason why someone that potentially useful had to die just for avenging his friends, stupid as they might have been. So once the townsfolk got the boy he would later find out was named Charlie Prince loaded onto his horse and slung a knot ‘round his neck, Ben followed close behind—laughed a bit to himself when Charlie told the preacher he’d rather spit on a Bible than hear one read from, and noted how they’d obviously been too scared of him (even unconscious) to tie his hands safely behind his back, like any normal posse would.
"Hope they’re keepin’ the fires hot for you down in Hell, you damn murderin’ secesh!" Mayor Dumb-ass of Shithole City yelled, slapping Charlie’s horse on its butt—and Ben took his shot, not a second too soon. Unfazed by his mysterious good luck, Charlie dug his spurs and knees in tight, both pinned hands using the horse’s mane for reins; he was long out of sight before any of those yokels had time to wonder why their necktie party was suddenly missing its guest of honor.
Ben caught up with him some miles later, thrown off in the brush, trying to cut himself free against a not-too-sharp rock. One look at Ben’s gun got him still and quiet, poised proud as some banty-size rooster in the face yet another prospective execution—but when Ben threw him his knife instead, his dirty face cracked wide with a toothy predator smile.
"That’s some nice side-iron ya got there, mister," he said, shearing the rope with a single, economical tug, completely uncaring what damage the reversed blade might do to his cuffs (or wrists). "Have those crosses put on the hilt yourself, or did ya find it done up that way already?"
Ben eased back on the safety, matching the smile with one of his own—far more convincing, he reckoned, unless he was losing his touch. "This here’s the Hand of God, son," he replied. "Maybe you’ve heard of it."
Charlie nodded. "Then you must be Ben Wade,"he said. And Ben, against his will, felt the familiar glow of infamy recognized warm his cold, black soul a bit towards even this scrawny, wall-eyed representative of the ultimate losing side.
That night, ‘round the campfire, Ben’d studied young Mister Prince at close range while he tore through most of Ben’s saddlebag pantry: Full height but rail-thin, like he hadn’t quite got his real growth yet, his cheeks still suspiciously clean under all that grime. "Just how old are you, anyhow, kid?" He asked.
"I ain’t no kid."
"Going strictly by combat experience, probably not. But humor me: How old?"
Charlie paused to wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, glacing down briefly, as though suddenly struck shy. "Twenty-five," he said, eventually.
"Not hardly, you ain’t." Ben waited. Wheedlingly: "Aw, c’mon, Charlie…must’ve killed ten men today, at the very least, back where your friends fell. Don’t tell me you’re too embarassed to say your proper age right out loud, where anyone could hear."
Another, longer pause. Then, practically into his collar—
"…seventeen."
Which was how Ben knew Charlie must in fact be younger, though he hated to think by just how much.
At any rate:
"War’s been over quite a piece now, Mister Prince. You had your fill of soldiering yet?"
"Maybe. Got somethin’ better in mind?"
"Maybe." Ben leaned closer. "How much you know about an enterprising outfit called the Southern Pacific Railway?"
*
Now, five years gone, Charlie was all filled out at last—muscled broad at the shoulder, narrow at the waist, a lush gold growth of moustache and beard around his bitter little mouth. When they hit places like this, the whores clustered ‘round to compete for his diffident attention, which Ben could understand; he didn’t drink overmuch, after all, and his vanity alone kept him far cleaner than most.
Yes, vain as a bored girl on Sunday morning, was deadly Charlie Prince—still quick to pick a fight and just as quick to end it, usually with a bullet. Though not pretty, as such, even with the side-whispered "Charlie Princess" nickname to contend with; his was a peculiarly masculine appeal, shiny like a well-kept weapon. A gun much like either of his own, perhaps, with notches on the stock and grease in its immaculate barrel—no crosses, just the decoration inherent in having killed one Hell of a lot of people.
Haughty eyes and a proud heart—the lamp of the wicked—are sin, Ben thought, watching Charlie catch sight of himself in the mirror over Mahoney’s bar, preening in a way that made him want to kick him hard. Adding, automatically: Proverbs, 21-4.
Once safely inside, a sufficient outlay of coin soon bought them a night in one of the "special" rooms—private, upstairs, lockable from the inside. Charlie almost immediately took to stripping and cleaning his guns, his usual evening occupation, while Ben managed to add a few bottles of fine whiskey to the tab without incurring further expenditure, at the mere cost of twenty minutes’ sustained flirtation with a gal who said her name was Lilibet.
"I’m on the floor ‘til ‘round midnight," she told him. "Maybe after, though, if you wanted…"
"Darlin’, I await the hour with baited breath."
Charlie made some sort of noise at that—maybe a cough, or a snort. But his odd, pale eyes never left the metal beneath his hands, deftly spinning first one reloaded barrel, then the other, before flourishing both back into their respective holsters. He stretched his red-clad legs, jacket creaking, and took another moment to admire himself in the bedside mirror; the sight made Ben’s tamped-down temper suddenly flare with unexpected force, leading him to polish his just-poured glass off in one gulp. After which he poured two more with elaborate care, nudging the second Charlie-wards, and said—
"Sit down, Charlie. Night’s young—you can shed your kit awhile, and take a drink with me while you’re at it. Given how hot under the skirt that young lady who just left seems to be over a touch and a few kind words, I think it’s highly unlikely Byron could get himself in here without us knowin’."
Hesitant: "I, uh… don’t really drink, boss. You know that."
"Oh?" Ben shrugged. "Well, you do tonight. It’s main cold in here now the sun’s gone down, this close to the roof, and I ain’t drinkin’ alone."
Charlie took a sizable breath. Ben could see he didn’t much like the prospect, but knew he wouldn’t rail against it, either. Fact was, there was something in Charlie Prince, even now—perhaps bred into him, or even born—which wanted orders to follow, authority to reverence. More than a touch of the Spartan to his personality, far from Greece though he’d been spawned…in every possible sense of that ancient, woman-decrying warrior epithet, possibly.
And: "Okay, then," Charlie said, at last, his all-too-brief moment of resistance apparently gone by the wayside. "I’ll bite. Pass that bottle over, and let’s us get rowdy."
Which, coming right in the wake of his prescient insights into the man’s motivations—Ben would think the next day, with slight yet genuine regret—was probably the exact instant when the idea of how best to deal with Charlie’s earlier insubordination first came clear to him.
To Be Continued
THINK LIKE A GUN
Author: Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Pairing: Ben Wade/Charlie Prince
"When you’ve begun to think like a gun
The rest of your days are already gone."
—John Cale.
Part One
The very first time Ben Wade met Charlie Prince, the man’d already had a rope around his neck; probably should’ve told Ben something, he often thought, afterwards.
And maybe it had, in context. But maybe, also—it being most convenient for his needs, at the time, that he do so—he’d simply chosen not to notice.
Yet that’d been an entirely other day, at the bitter end of the War Between States. What might yet turn out to be the worst strategic decision of Ben’s life, on the other hand, began several years later, with a coach full of bank script and railroad gold, departing from Contention at a secret time Ben’d easily managed to charm from one of the railway scouts’ neglected wives.
The snatch itself had gone like clockwork—‘cept for the Pinkertons lying in wait, that is. After ten more miles of hot pursuit, Ben reckoned something needed to be done, so he nodded at Charlie; they reined up under the lip of a hill while Charlie rounded up the few stragglers, neat as any sheepdog. Ben half-turned in his saddle, to better address the whole gang.
"Gents," he said, "I think we’ll part company here. Y’all go where your appetites take you. Charlie, you’re with me."
"Boss."
Ben caught Tommy Darden frowning at this, and cocked an eyebrow; at the very edge of his vision, he saw Charlie trace the glance back, scowling like he’d just noticed someone trying to make off with his treasured pot of pistol-polish.
"Something about this plan strike you as particularly disturbin’, Tommy?"
"Well, sorta. Like how’re we s’posed to know where to meet up, after?"
Ben thought a moment on what to answer, but opened his mouth too late; Charlie had already cut between them, snapping—
"You’ll know when Mister Wade takes a mind to tell you, farm-boy; ‘til then, just keep your head down and your big damn mouth shut." Then, as though realizing he might’ve spoke out of turn, he wheeled back, deferring to Ben once more: "Ain’t that right, boss?"
No real time for suitable chastisement, not with Agency men gaining fast on them. So:"It is," Ben agreed, and tipped his hat. "Boys, I’ll see you when I see you. Now you best ride hard and hide even better, if you don’t want to be sportin’ hempen neck-ties—or John Law’s store-boughts connectin’ with your asses, either."
That put paid to ‘em, scattering men and horses alike to the compass-points, with noise and dust rising every which-a-way—exactly the sort of cover Ben’d hoped for, when he’d said it. He whistled to rouse his own mount, grabbed Charlie’s reins so he could shoot two-handed without worrying over navigation, and made for an open gap. Soon they were through and mainly out of danger, even with Charlie’s uncannily nimble lead managing to pick off three more of old Byron McElroy‘s hirelings as they went.
Then it was nothing but one long, hard gallop through the scrub, stones underfoot and slipping all the way, ‘til the horizon finally came up clear on a last check behind. Ben saw the lights of Mahoney’s cathouse flickering ahead, and pulled up to find Charlie at his elbow, as ever—though presently squinting the other way with a look Ben might’ve almost called contemplative, had he not known him quite so long (or well).
"They sure did keep a-comin’," Charlie said, a faint hint of surprise in his flat voice—as though he’d genuinely never remarked on the fact before.
Ben nodded, grimly. Pointing out: "They’d’ve probably stopped some miles back, you hadn’t’a kept on killin’ so damn many of ‘em."
"Uh huh. Well, I do hate Pinks."
"Why, Charlie Prince, is that so? You take me aback." Ben kicked his horse into a canter, calling: "Next you’ll be tellin’ me how you hate posses, or the Union. Or Ulysses S. Goddamn Grant!"
From behind him, quiet, in the fading twilight, as Charlie spurred his own mount to a similar pace: "Whatever you say, boss."
*
The day Ben’d saved Charlie from hanging, he certainly hadn’t done it out of the nonexistent goodness of his heart. He’d come to town that morning looking to raise himself a gang, which—especially with no start-up funds on offer—soon proven a harder proposition than he’d initially thought it might. Instead he’d found Charlie, who needed help, and Ben had given it to him betting that Charlie would be the kind who paid his debts in full. As it turned out, that bet’d been a fairly sound one.
Ben believed the original point of dispute between Charlie, the remaining members of his platoon and the citizens of Wherever, Kansas had had something to do with payment by Confederate script, instead of "good" (and near-worthless) Yankee greenbacks. But by the time it spilled over into the bar, Ben had been perfectly content amuse himself watching the luckless greycoats fall like dominoes—all but one, who managed to put a former blue-belly down along with every one of them, apparently without blinking.
After which he bit the first drunk who grabbed his arm on the cheek, stole his gun as he kicked him in the balls, and stood firing two-handed into the crowd, cursing a mean blue streak, ‘til somebody—Ben never saw who—threw a chair that collided with the back of his head, knocking him cold.
Ben saw no earthly reason why someone that potentially useful had to die just for avenging his friends, stupid as they might have been. So once the townsfolk got the boy he would later find out was named Charlie Prince loaded onto his horse and slung a knot ‘round his neck, Ben followed close behind—laughed a bit to himself when Charlie told the preacher he’d rather spit on a Bible than hear one read from, and noted how they’d obviously been too scared of him (even unconscious) to tie his hands safely behind his back, like any normal posse would.
"Hope they’re keepin’ the fires hot for you down in Hell, you damn murderin’ secesh!" Mayor Dumb-ass of Shithole City yelled, slapping Charlie’s horse on its butt—and Ben took his shot, not a second too soon. Unfazed by his mysterious good luck, Charlie dug his spurs and knees in tight, both pinned hands using the horse’s mane for reins; he was long out of sight before any of those yokels had time to wonder why their necktie party was suddenly missing its guest of honor.
Ben caught up with him some miles later, thrown off in the brush, trying to cut himself free against a not-too-sharp rock. One look at Ben’s gun got him still and quiet, poised proud as some banty-size rooster in the face yet another prospective execution—but when Ben threw him his knife instead, his dirty face cracked wide with a toothy predator smile.
"That’s some nice side-iron ya got there, mister," he said, shearing the rope with a single, economical tug, completely uncaring what damage the reversed blade might do to his cuffs (or wrists). "Have those crosses put on the hilt yourself, or did ya find it done up that way already?"
Ben eased back on the safety, matching the smile with one of his own—far more convincing, he reckoned, unless he was losing his touch. "This here’s the Hand of God, son," he replied. "Maybe you’ve heard of it."
Charlie nodded. "Then you must be Ben Wade,"he said. And Ben, against his will, felt the familiar glow of infamy recognized warm his cold, black soul a bit towards even this scrawny, wall-eyed representative of the ultimate losing side.
That night, ‘round the campfire, Ben’d studied young Mister Prince at close range while he tore through most of Ben’s saddlebag pantry: Full height but rail-thin, like he hadn’t quite got his real growth yet, his cheeks still suspiciously clean under all that grime. "Just how old are you, anyhow, kid?" He asked.
"I ain’t no kid."
"Going strictly by combat experience, probably not. But humor me: How old?"
Charlie paused to wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, glacing down briefly, as though suddenly struck shy. "Twenty-five," he said, eventually.
"Not hardly, you ain’t." Ben waited. Wheedlingly: "Aw, c’mon, Charlie…must’ve killed ten men today, at the very least, back where your friends fell. Don’t tell me you’re too embarassed to say your proper age right out loud, where anyone could hear."
Another, longer pause. Then, practically into his collar—
"…seventeen."
Which was how Ben knew Charlie must in fact be younger, though he hated to think by just how much.
At any rate:
"War’s been over quite a piece now, Mister Prince. You had your fill of soldiering yet?"
"Maybe. Got somethin’ better in mind?"
"Maybe." Ben leaned closer. "How much you know about an enterprising outfit called the Southern Pacific Railway?"
*
Now, five years gone, Charlie was all filled out at last—muscled broad at the shoulder, narrow at the waist, a lush gold growth of moustache and beard around his bitter little mouth. When they hit places like this, the whores clustered ‘round to compete for his diffident attention, which Ben could understand; he didn’t drink overmuch, after all, and his vanity alone kept him far cleaner than most.
Yes, vain as a bored girl on Sunday morning, was deadly Charlie Prince—still quick to pick a fight and just as quick to end it, usually with a bullet. Though not pretty, as such, even with the side-whispered "Charlie Princess" nickname to contend with; his was a peculiarly masculine appeal, shiny like a well-kept weapon. A gun much like either of his own, perhaps, with notches on the stock and grease in its immaculate barrel—no crosses, just the decoration inherent in having killed one Hell of a lot of people.
Haughty eyes and a proud heart—the lamp of the wicked—are sin, Ben thought, watching Charlie catch sight of himself in the mirror over Mahoney’s bar, preening in a way that made him want to kick him hard. Adding, automatically: Proverbs, 21-4.
Once safely inside, a sufficient outlay of coin soon bought them a night in one of the "special" rooms—private, upstairs, lockable from the inside. Charlie almost immediately took to stripping and cleaning his guns, his usual evening occupation, while Ben managed to add a few bottles of fine whiskey to the tab without incurring further expenditure, at the mere cost of twenty minutes’ sustained flirtation with a gal who said her name was Lilibet.
"I’m on the floor ‘til ‘round midnight," she told him. "Maybe after, though, if you wanted…"
"Darlin’, I await the hour with baited breath."
Charlie made some sort of noise at that—maybe a cough, or a snort. But his odd, pale eyes never left the metal beneath his hands, deftly spinning first one reloaded barrel, then the other, before flourishing both back into their respective holsters. He stretched his red-clad legs, jacket creaking, and took another moment to admire himself in the bedside mirror; the sight made Ben’s tamped-down temper suddenly flare with unexpected force, leading him to polish his just-poured glass off in one gulp. After which he poured two more with elaborate care, nudging the second Charlie-wards, and said—
"Sit down, Charlie. Night’s young—you can shed your kit awhile, and take a drink with me while you’re at it. Given how hot under the skirt that young lady who just left seems to be over a touch and a few kind words, I think it’s highly unlikely Byron could get himself in here without us knowin’."
Hesitant: "I, uh… don’t really drink, boss. You know that."
"Oh?" Ben shrugged. "Well, you do tonight. It’s main cold in here now the sun’s gone down, this close to the roof, and I ain’t drinkin’ alone."
Charlie took a sizable breath. Ben could see he didn’t much like the prospect, but knew he wouldn’t rail against it, either. Fact was, there was something in Charlie Prince, even now—perhaps bred into him, or even born—which wanted orders to follow, authority to reverence. More than a touch of the Spartan to his personality, far from Greece though he’d been spawned…in every possible sense of that ancient, woman-decrying warrior epithet, possibly.
And: "Okay, then," Charlie said, at last, his all-too-brief moment of resistance apparently gone by the wayside. "I’ll bite. Pass that bottle over, and let’s us get rowdy."
Which, coming right in the wake of his prescient insights into the man’s motivations—Ben would think the next day, with slight yet genuine regret—was probably the exact instant when the idea of how best to deal with Charlie’s earlier insubordination first came clear to him.
To Be Continued
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-01-24 07:43 pm (UTC)I read somewhere that Ben Foster wanted to play Charlie as though David Bowie was playing the role.
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Date: 2008-01-24 11:34 pm (UTC)As for Foster doing Bowie, I can see definitely it. He told Out magazine that he was working a deliberate glam rock vibe overall, which is why he chose those particular pants and that jacket; apparently, he knew that the cinematographer for Yuma had done a lot of Lenny Kravitz videos, and that's what pointed him in that direction.
At any rate: Glad you like it thus far. I've got almost all of the rest done, though not in the right order; I'll be working on it tonight, hoping to post sometime tomorrow. Damn that Ben Wade for being so over-articulate, and that Charlie Prince for being SO under-!