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handful_ofdustSICKBED DUET
By Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Rating: Pre-slash, PG-13
Pairing: Charlie Prince/Ben Wade
Oh my God, I’m on fire!
The heart is deceitful above all things; it waxeth perverse—
Who can understand it?
Jeremiah, 17-9.
Part One
For most in Charlie Prince’s line of work, waking up in a cold sweat, then puking ‘til your guts ached fit to split would’ve been nothin’ but a normal Sunday morning’s business. To Charlie, however—who drank seldom, little, and mostly only on Ben Wade’s orders—he didn’t think of it as a hangover so much as first poison, then the cholera…and having seen a fair few people die that way, back during the War (and before), he sure didn’t want to breathe his last in a pool of his own waste with the added sorrow of the boss looking on while he did it.
So off he flew, or rather crept, and holed up quick in some Juarez dive where he knew they were all shit-scared enough of his mere presence they still probably wouldn’t think to rob him even if he passed out cold, right in front of ‘em.
For all of that effort, though, it came to nothin’, like he’d probably known (or hoped) it would: Took Ben maybe half a day to find him, if that—draped face-down across the bed with his head in a basin and his hands too kitten-limp to grasp a gun in self-defense, even if his Scofields’d actually fallen within easy reach when he’d first divested himself of ‘em, earlier in the evening.
"My God! What were you plannin’, Charlie? Make it so’s I’d have to read about this in the penny papers, with the rest of the suckers?"
"Didn’t want you to…see me like this, is all. I…I feel like I’m gonna…die."
"Well, you ain’t; I got it on good authority you’re gonna die in the street like a true pistoleer, so that’s enough of that nonsense. Shove over a bit." But all Charlie could do was flop around, aimless, so Ben had to just move him where he wanted, gently—sat down next to him, one big hand reaching to span the soaked small of Charlie’s back, uncommon warm and soothing. "Now, why don’t you go on ahead and think of all the things you hate? I bet that alone’ll make you stronger."
He fuzzled up his brow, straining to recall. "Uh…Pinkertons. Posses. The Union…"
"That’s right, Charlie. Just like that."
"Ummm…them theatre shows where men dress up like ladies, smell of gas from a leaky sconce, uh…" He drew a quick breath that turned into an even quicker groan, feeling sweat sprout all over him one more time. "…uhhh, God, shit, uh…tapioca…"
Ben frowned. "Did you say tapioca?"
Into the pillow, muffled: "…it’s really nasty…"
And: Ben just laughed and laughed at that, guffawing near uncontrollably, his amusement at Charlie’s discomfort like some new species of torture; at the same time, nausea swept over Charlie like a stampede, making him vomit ‘til his whole body felt wrung limp, beaten black and blue from the inside out.
"There, now," Ben said, briskly, "Don’t that feel better?"
Charlie shivered, spat. "Than what?" he demanded, hating the way his voice broke on the last word, like some child’s.
But screwed as it was, he had to admit that last bout seemed to have worked some sort of trick—he did feel a little less like he was lyin’ on his own death-bed. Besides which, it all seemed almost worth the suffering when Ben smiled instead of frowned to hear him talk back, and ruffled his wet hair fondly.
"Just lay still and sweat the rest of it out, you maniac," he told him, drawing another dipper of fresh water and wrapped the blankets tighter, as he did; a wave of giddiness ensued, pulling Charlie under. When he resurfaced, it seemed far later than it’d been; Ben had moved over by the vanity, leaving Charlie cold.
Charlie coughed, spat. Managed, at last, like there hadn’t been maybe hours elapsed in between: "I do hate that…damn name people call me, too."
Ben glanced back over, and nodded slightly. "’Charlie Princess’? I don’t blame you. ‘Course, to be fair, you are somewhat of a fop." Adding, gently, as Charlie stared up at him in utter confusion: "A clothes-horse, a dandy—fashionable beyond the proper bounds of sense, is what that means."
"You get all your clothes store-made."
"So I do. But you’ll note I still ain’t the one of us wearin’ orange cowhide pants with brass buttons all up and down ‘em, or a purple shirt."
Charlie felt like telling Ben the only reason he was still wearin’ either was ‘cause he’d been too damn sick to take ‘em off before he got into bed, but the way he was feeling, he didn’t quite see the point.
"Let’s get you bathed, any rate," Ben said, at last, pulling the bell-rope. "My God, Charlie Prince, you do stink like a barn full’a dead sheep."
"Don’t keep sheep in no barn…"
"Uh huh, ‘course you don’t. Now shut the Hell up, Charlie."
And oh, that bath was nice, especially with the boss around to tell that Mexican whore where best to scrub—Charlie’d never understood why the rest of the gang scoffed at his taste for cleanliness, when the process was always at least as enjoyable as the results.
Later, though, he came to kicking and screaming into Ben Wade’s torso, voice raw as he raved at men long-dead and rotten: Hold the line, hold the line, hold the Goddamn line! No no no, you sons of blue-belly bitches, you ain’t takin’ me NOwhere! I’ll kill each and every Goddamn one of you first—
But: Ben’s voice, leaking down to him through the layers of memory, level and calm as ever—Ben’s grip holding him down, fast and sure, with so little apparent effort it scared Charlie white to think how weak this thing must’ve made him…
"Hush, Charlie Prince—nobody’s gonna burn your house down, nobody’s gonna sling you in the stockade. I’ll keep ‘em off of you."
Head whippin’ back and forth, starin’ wild around him but not seein’ much of much, eyes all wide and straining like he’d been slipped a dose of belladonna. And telling Ben at the same time, begging him: "Boss, you got to kill ‘em if you can, you hear me? Put ‘em down hard and shoot ‘em twice in the head for me, ‘fore those bastards get themselves up again—"
"I know, Charlie."
"They’re like devils, boss; there’s no damn end to ‘em. Never any Goddamn end at all."
Both hands on his chest, this time—pushing him back down hard, too firm to fight. "I know, Charlie, you know I do: You’re safe, I’m here, all that’s been over a damn long time, so don’t make yourself crazy. Sleep, now. Just sleep."
Murmuring low in his ear, then; yet another one of those Bible quotes he came so well-equipped with (Psalms, 51-7 to 51-10): "Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean; wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice…"
…Hide your face from my sins,
and blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And put a new and right spirit within me…
Sleep, sleep, Charlie: After which, finally believing it, he did.
Then, much later still, even later than all that—Charlie Prince woke at last, his fever broken, to find himself pressed tight in Ben Wade’s sleeping embrace. Feeling Ben’s strong and ruthless heart beat steady through the back of that oh-so-fashionable purple shirt of his, while Ben’s breath sang in his ear like balm.
Thinking, knowing, the same way he knew this world was stripped of justice like a carcass left to rot in the sun, and God’s "vengeance" never really came but down the barrel of a man’s gun: ’Cause you always DO take care of me, boss, when the chips are down. That’s why I’d cut my Goddamn heart out for you if you asked, for sure—and might still, dependin’ on circumstances, even if you never did.
Charlie reckoned it was just about the best sleep he’d ever had in his whole life—before, or since.
*
Part Two
This time, though, it was Ben Wade that was the sick one, and the very fact of it fair made Charlie Prince want to tear at something with his teeth—preferably himself, or any other Goddamn fool who got in his way on the long, lurching walk between Scrapegrace’s main hitching post and its only doctor’s storefront. Been a while since he’d last had to carry the brunt of Ben’s full weight, which remained not inconsiderable; Charlie felt his shoulders strain as he kicked Ben’s feet forward, step by step, trying to make it look like he was just one drunk helpin’ another walk it off.
Then, with a final push, they were through the door at last—the Doc came out just as Charlie stilled its bell with one hand and shot its bolt with the other, turning the sign to face CLOSED-side outwards with his one unoccupied bicep while Ben sagged against him, side all swole up red and tender to the touch under his fancy weskit, groaning anew with each fresh, labored breath.
"We usually prefer to see patients by appointment," the Doc began—then shut up quick once he saw Charlie’s right-hand gun, pointed straight at his educated brain-pan.
Charlie: "Mister, you either set this man here right, or I will put a bullet through your head."
The Doc paled a bit at the thought, but otherwise seemed to take it in stride, considering. "Well…all right, then. Do you have any idea what might be wrong with him?"
"I look like a Goddamn doctor to you?"
"Obviously not, no. Can you lower him into that chair, over there?"
"I can if you help me."
Ben went down heavy, sprawled every which-a-way, with something close to a yelp. The Doc made to grab up a scalpel and start cutting, but Charlie soon taught him otherwise—you show some respect, sawbones, both for the clothes and the man. Skull a-ring and one eye already bruising, the Doc shook his head, looking down—yet still couldn’t quite stop himself from exclaiming, far too loud for his own safety:
"My God, is this Ben Wade, the outlaw?"
Charlie gave a snarl, and rammed the barrel against the Doc’s nose. Gritting: "He’s Ben Wade, I’m Charlie Prince; this is a gun, and this is your head. Now FIX HIM, shit-for-brains!"
"Young man," the Doc said, with surprising dignity, "this may take some time."
"Well, you best get to it, then. I’ll be right here, watching."
As it turned out, what Ben had was "an inflammation of the appendix"—something Charlie didn’t think he’d ever heard of before, but didn’t much like the sound of, nonetheless. It required surgery. Good part was that this Doc kept ether handy, which most didn’t; he washed his hands in rubbing alcohol before he touched anything, too, which gave Charlie hope. Bad part: The last time somebody’d said the word "surgery" near Charlie, it’d been just before a blue-belly butcher had told two more to pin Charlie’s cousin Job down fast, and started sawin’ his leg off just above the knee.
"He lives, you live," Charlie said yet one more time, with far more patience than he’d thought he really had in him, given what the situation merited. "It’s that simple."
"He may well not, though, Mister Prince. Are you prepared for that eventuality?"
The answer to which was: No, absolutely not, in no Goddamn way. But it wasn’t an issue, not even a possibility. Ben Wade would put everyone he knew in the ground, eventually, just through force of will and charisma alone—Charlie amongst them, probably. And that was a prospect sat just fine with Charlie. After all, if he could only be assured his dying would save Ben Wade’s life, he’d volunteer to do so right this minute, without a second’s hesitation…
…while counting himself eternally lucky, as he did, to never have to face the pure Hell his life would surely be, living on without him.
But: "You just damn well better hope he does, Doc," is all he said, out loud. And left it at that.
Ether worked fast, which was good when it came to the cutting part; Charlie made himself watch, proud at being able to hold his gun so relative steady while he did so, ‘til the thing itself was out and the wound well-sutured. But its after-effects rendered Ben all logy and paper-white, those beauty-mark moles of his—two on either cheek, one planted right between the brows, like compass-points to hold his face straight—standing out dark as smallpox scars.
"You could sleep a while, Mister Prince, if you felt you needed to."
Charlie snorted. "Yeah, I’ll just bet I could. And how fast’d it take you to call the Law then, Doc, exactly?"
The Doc’s color rose a bit at that. "I took an oath to my practice, not that I expect such things mean much to you—point is, by the Hippocratic standard, I’d have to wait ‘til Mister Wade was well enough to make the journey long before I let the marshall cart him off to Yuma prison…or anyone else to anywhere else, for that matter. Believe me or don’t, but I need food, as you probably do as well; let me tell my landlady the right sort of story, and we’ll both get it. Or you could always shoot me here and now, if you thought that’d be of better benefit."
The spunk of it made Charlie smile, if only slightly. He nudged Ben with one elbow—"Boss?"—and drew nothin’ but a groan for his troubles. So that meant it really was well and truly up to him, alone.
"Okay," he told the Doc. "You wrap a kerchief ‘round your face, go tell her you got some contagion up in here needs quarantinin’, and that means you, too—tell her to lay the food outside at nine and six, and keep herself the Hell away, otherwise. Think that’ll work?"
A nod. "I think it might."
A day or so after, Charlie shook awake to find Ben starin’ at him, eyes all full of dreams. "How long you had them green eyes, Charlie?" he asked.
"Uh…all my life, boss. I guess."
"Funny. I never really noticed ‘em. Before."
It was much same note to his gaze the boss always got whenever a pretty girl walked by after a particularly good take, and Charlie blushed fierce—his blood rushing hot, all over—to see it applied to him, even in mistake. Or joke? No, not that, not hardly…
(Oh, please, no)
"No reason you ever should’ve," he managed, eventually. Then, lighter: "’Sides…ain’t like I’m some San Francisco sea captain’s daughter, am I, boss?"
Ben gave him a much closer scrutinization then, peering like he was judging distance, the sheer unguarded glare of it fair burning through Charlie, touching every inner part of him at once. Until—
"No, you sure ain’t," he agreed, at last—and fell right back asleep, almost on that same instant.
Did some babbling himself, later on, the way most do, in extremity: No, Mister, don’t move me on, I got a right to be here, My Mama said she was comin’ back to get me; she’ll be here yet, I swear. Any minute now…
Charlie just held onto Ben’s hand, tight as he dared, and tried his best not to pay attention.
When the boss opened his eyes on the same morning the Doc said he was probably fit to ride again, meanwhile, Charlie could see (with some relief) that he definitely had all his usual faculties back, in spades—Ben Goddamn Wade once more, with no apparent ill effects to show for his recent brush with death. He cleared his throat, took a proffered sip of water. Asked: "I say anything untoward to you, Charlie, when I was out?"
Charlie shrugged, perhaps a bit over-elaborate with it near the end, as Ben’s cool look seemed to imply. "Threw a bunch of the Bible at me, like always. Why?"
Ben smiled at that, drily. Like it did his heart good to know everything was finally back in its proper place.
"Charlie Prince," he said, "you’re a fine lieutenant, and a dab hand at casual impressions. Take my advice, though—never fool yourself you’re anything but a truly lousy liar."
Which was when the Doc walked back in, breakfast tray in hand. "Oh, Mister Wade, you’re awake," was all he got to say—before Ben caught Charlie’s eye, and raised one brow, expectantly. But Charlie did feel at least a moment’s twinge of regret, before bringing Scofield Number Two’s hammer down.
"He did fix you up, is all," Charlie felt he had to remind Ben, even as they set about lighting up the place, to cover their retreat.
Ben: "But he’d’ve told, Charlie, eventually. You know that."
"I guess…"
‘Cause here was the plain truth of it—the Doc had seemed like a good man; acted like one, too. Better than Charlie was, or ever would be, for certain. But Ben Wade alive would always trump a thousand lamentably well-meaning doctors dead, just as loyalty to the former would always trump gratitude to the latter, at least in Charlie’s personal arithmetic.
By noon they were miles away, heading down for Mexico again, where Ben Wade still wasn’t wanted, as yet. And still sharing the last of the Doc’s final breakfast, between ‘em.
THE END
By Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Rating: Pre-slash, PG-13
Pairing: Charlie Prince/Ben Wade
Oh my God, I’m on fire!
The heart is deceitful above all things; it waxeth perverse—
Who can understand it?
Jeremiah, 17-9.
Part One
For most in Charlie Prince’s line of work, waking up in a cold sweat, then puking ‘til your guts ached fit to split would’ve been nothin’ but a normal Sunday morning’s business. To Charlie, however—who drank seldom, little, and mostly only on Ben Wade’s orders—he didn’t think of it as a hangover so much as first poison, then the cholera…and having seen a fair few people die that way, back during the War (and before), he sure didn’t want to breathe his last in a pool of his own waste with the added sorrow of the boss looking on while he did it.
So off he flew, or rather crept, and holed up quick in some Juarez dive where he knew they were all shit-scared enough of his mere presence they still probably wouldn’t think to rob him even if he passed out cold, right in front of ‘em.
For all of that effort, though, it came to nothin’, like he’d probably known (or hoped) it would: Took Ben maybe half a day to find him, if that—draped face-down across the bed with his head in a basin and his hands too kitten-limp to grasp a gun in self-defense, even if his Scofields’d actually fallen within easy reach when he’d first divested himself of ‘em, earlier in the evening.
"My God! What were you plannin’, Charlie? Make it so’s I’d have to read about this in the penny papers, with the rest of the suckers?"
"Didn’t want you to…see me like this, is all. I…I feel like I’m gonna…die."
"Well, you ain’t; I got it on good authority you’re gonna die in the street like a true pistoleer, so that’s enough of that nonsense. Shove over a bit." But all Charlie could do was flop around, aimless, so Ben had to just move him where he wanted, gently—sat down next to him, one big hand reaching to span the soaked small of Charlie’s back, uncommon warm and soothing. "Now, why don’t you go on ahead and think of all the things you hate? I bet that alone’ll make you stronger."
He fuzzled up his brow, straining to recall. "Uh…Pinkertons. Posses. The Union…"
"That’s right, Charlie. Just like that."
"Ummm…them theatre shows where men dress up like ladies, smell of gas from a leaky sconce, uh…" He drew a quick breath that turned into an even quicker groan, feeling sweat sprout all over him one more time. "…uhhh, God, shit, uh…tapioca…"
Ben frowned. "Did you say tapioca?"
Into the pillow, muffled: "…it’s really nasty…"
And: Ben just laughed and laughed at that, guffawing near uncontrollably, his amusement at Charlie’s discomfort like some new species of torture; at the same time, nausea swept over Charlie like a stampede, making him vomit ‘til his whole body felt wrung limp, beaten black and blue from the inside out.
"There, now," Ben said, briskly, "Don’t that feel better?"
Charlie shivered, spat. "Than what?" he demanded, hating the way his voice broke on the last word, like some child’s.
But screwed as it was, he had to admit that last bout seemed to have worked some sort of trick—he did feel a little less like he was lyin’ on his own death-bed. Besides which, it all seemed almost worth the suffering when Ben smiled instead of frowned to hear him talk back, and ruffled his wet hair fondly.
"Just lay still and sweat the rest of it out, you maniac," he told him, drawing another dipper of fresh water and wrapped the blankets tighter, as he did; a wave of giddiness ensued, pulling Charlie under. When he resurfaced, it seemed far later than it’d been; Ben had moved over by the vanity, leaving Charlie cold.
Charlie coughed, spat. Managed, at last, like there hadn’t been maybe hours elapsed in between: "I do hate that…damn name people call me, too."
Ben glanced back over, and nodded slightly. "’Charlie Princess’? I don’t blame you. ‘Course, to be fair, you are somewhat of a fop." Adding, gently, as Charlie stared up at him in utter confusion: "A clothes-horse, a dandy—fashionable beyond the proper bounds of sense, is what that means."
"You get all your clothes store-made."
"So I do. But you’ll note I still ain’t the one of us wearin’ orange cowhide pants with brass buttons all up and down ‘em, or a purple shirt."
Charlie felt like telling Ben the only reason he was still wearin’ either was ‘cause he’d been too damn sick to take ‘em off before he got into bed, but the way he was feeling, he didn’t quite see the point.
"Let’s get you bathed, any rate," Ben said, at last, pulling the bell-rope. "My God, Charlie Prince, you do stink like a barn full’a dead sheep."
"Don’t keep sheep in no barn…"
"Uh huh, ‘course you don’t. Now shut the Hell up, Charlie."
And oh, that bath was nice, especially with the boss around to tell that Mexican whore where best to scrub—Charlie’d never understood why the rest of the gang scoffed at his taste for cleanliness, when the process was always at least as enjoyable as the results.
Later, though, he came to kicking and screaming into Ben Wade’s torso, voice raw as he raved at men long-dead and rotten: Hold the line, hold the line, hold the Goddamn line! No no no, you sons of blue-belly bitches, you ain’t takin’ me NOwhere! I’ll kill each and every Goddamn one of you first—
But: Ben’s voice, leaking down to him through the layers of memory, level and calm as ever—Ben’s grip holding him down, fast and sure, with so little apparent effort it scared Charlie white to think how weak this thing must’ve made him…
"Hush, Charlie Prince—nobody’s gonna burn your house down, nobody’s gonna sling you in the stockade. I’ll keep ‘em off of you."
Head whippin’ back and forth, starin’ wild around him but not seein’ much of much, eyes all wide and straining like he’d been slipped a dose of belladonna. And telling Ben at the same time, begging him: "Boss, you got to kill ‘em if you can, you hear me? Put ‘em down hard and shoot ‘em twice in the head for me, ‘fore those bastards get themselves up again—"
"I know, Charlie."
"They’re like devils, boss; there’s no damn end to ‘em. Never any Goddamn end at all."
Both hands on his chest, this time—pushing him back down hard, too firm to fight. "I know, Charlie, you know I do: You’re safe, I’m here, all that’s been over a damn long time, so don’t make yourself crazy. Sleep, now. Just sleep."
Murmuring low in his ear, then; yet another one of those Bible quotes he came so well-equipped with (Psalms, 51-7 to 51-10): "Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean; wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice…"
…Hide your face from my sins,
and blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And put a new and right spirit within me…
Sleep, sleep, Charlie: After which, finally believing it, he did.
Then, much later still, even later than all that—Charlie Prince woke at last, his fever broken, to find himself pressed tight in Ben Wade’s sleeping embrace. Feeling Ben’s strong and ruthless heart beat steady through the back of that oh-so-fashionable purple shirt of his, while Ben’s breath sang in his ear like balm.
Thinking, knowing, the same way he knew this world was stripped of justice like a carcass left to rot in the sun, and God’s "vengeance" never really came but down the barrel of a man’s gun: ’Cause you always DO take care of me, boss, when the chips are down. That’s why I’d cut my Goddamn heart out for you if you asked, for sure—and might still, dependin’ on circumstances, even if you never did.
Charlie reckoned it was just about the best sleep he’d ever had in his whole life—before, or since.
*
Part Two
This time, though, it was Ben Wade that was the sick one, and the very fact of it fair made Charlie Prince want to tear at something with his teeth—preferably himself, or any other Goddamn fool who got in his way on the long, lurching walk between Scrapegrace’s main hitching post and its only doctor’s storefront. Been a while since he’d last had to carry the brunt of Ben’s full weight, which remained not inconsiderable; Charlie felt his shoulders strain as he kicked Ben’s feet forward, step by step, trying to make it look like he was just one drunk helpin’ another walk it off.
Then, with a final push, they were through the door at last—the Doc came out just as Charlie stilled its bell with one hand and shot its bolt with the other, turning the sign to face CLOSED-side outwards with his one unoccupied bicep while Ben sagged against him, side all swole up red and tender to the touch under his fancy weskit, groaning anew with each fresh, labored breath.
"We usually prefer to see patients by appointment," the Doc began—then shut up quick once he saw Charlie’s right-hand gun, pointed straight at his educated brain-pan.
Charlie: "Mister, you either set this man here right, or I will put a bullet through your head."
The Doc paled a bit at the thought, but otherwise seemed to take it in stride, considering. "Well…all right, then. Do you have any idea what might be wrong with him?"
"I look like a Goddamn doctor to you?"
"Obviously not, no. Can you lower him into that chair, over there?"
"I can if you help me."
Ben went down heavy, sprawled every which-a-way, with something close to a yelp. The Doc made to grab up a scalpel and start cutting, but Charlie soon taught him otherwise—you show some respect, sawbones, both for the clothes and the man. Skull a-ring and one eye already bruising, the Doc shook his head, looking down—yet still couldn’t quite stop himself from exclaiming, far too loud for his own safety:
"My God, is this Ben Wade, the outlaw?"
Charlie gave a snarl, and rammed the barrel against the Doc’s nose. Gritting: "He’s Ben Wade, I’m Charlie Prince; this is a gun, and this is your head. Now FIX HIM, shit-for-brains!"
"Young man," the Doc said, with surprising dignity, "this may take some time."
"Well, you best get to it, then. I’ll be right here, watching."
As it turned out, what Ben had was "an inflammation of the appendix"—something Charlie didn’t think he’d ever heard of before, but didn’t much like the sound of, nonetheless. It required surgery. Good part was that this Doc kept ether handy, which most didn’t; he washed his hands in rubbing alcohol before he touched anything, too, which gave Charlie hope. Bad part: The last time somebody’d said the word "surgery" near Charlie, it’d been just before a blue-belly butcher had told two more to pin Charlie’s cousin Job down fast, and started sawin’ his leg off just above the knee.
"He lives, you live," Charlie said yet one more time, with far more patience than he’d thought he really had in him, given what the situation merited. "It’s that simple."
"He may well not, though, Mister Prince. Are you prepared for that eventuality?"
The answer to which was: No, absolutely not, in no Goddamn way. But it wasn’t an issue, not even a possibility. Ben Wade would put everyone he knew in the ground, eventually, just through force of will and charisma alone—Charlie amongst them, probably. And that was a prospect sat just fine with Charlie. After all, if he could only be assured his dying would save Ben Wade’s life, he’d volunteer to do so right this minute, without a second’s hesitation…
…while counting himself eternally lucky, as he did, to never have to face the pure Hell his life would surely be, living on without him.
But: "You just damn well better hope he does, Doc," is all he said, out loud. And left it at that.
Ether worked fast, which was good when it came to the cutting part; Charlie made himself watch, proud at being able to hold his gun so relative steady while he did so, ‘til the thing itself was out and the wound well-sutured. But its after-effects rendered Ben all logy and paper-white, those beauty-mark moles of his—two on either cheek, one planted right between the brows, like compass-points to hold his face straight—standing out dark as smallpox scars.
"You could sleep a while, Mister Prince, if you felt you needed to."
Charlie snorted. "Yeah, I’ll just bet I could. And how fast’d it take you to call the Law then, Doc, exactly?"
The Doc’s color rose a bit at that. "I took an oath to my practice, not that I expect such things mean much to you—point is, by the Hippocratic standard, I’d have to wait ‘til Mister Wade was well enough to make the journey long before I let the marshall cart him off to Yuma prison…or anyone else to anywhere else, for that matter. Believe me or don’t, but I need food, as you probably do as well; let me tell my landlady the right sort of story, and we’ll both get it. Or you could always shoot me here and now, if you thought that’d be of better benefit."
The spunk of it made Charlie smile, if only slightly. He nudged Ben with one elbow—"Boss?"—and drew nothin’ but a groan for his troubles. So that meant it really was well and truly up to him, alone.
"Okay," he told the Doc. "You wrap a kerchief ‘round your face, go tell her you got some contagion up in here needs quarantinin’, and that means you, too—tell her to lay the food outside at nine and six, and keep herself the Hell away, otherwise. Think that’ll work?"
A nod. "I think it might."
A day or so after, Charlie shook awake to find Ben starin’ at him, eyes all full of dreams. "How long you had them green eyes, Charlie?" he asked.
"Uh…all my life, boss. I guess."
"Funny. I never really noticed ‘em. Before."
It was much same note to his gaze the boss always got whenever a pretty girl walked by after a particularly good take, and Charlie blushed fierce—his blood rushing hot, all over—to see it applied to him, even in mistake. Or joke? No, not that, not hardly…
(Oh, please, no)
"No reason you ever should’ve," he managed, eventually. Then, lighter: "’Sides…ain’t like I’m some San Francisco sea captain’s daughter, am I, boss?"
Ben gave him a much closer scrutinization then, peering like he was judging distance, the sheer unguarded glare of it fair burning through Charlie, touching every inner part of him at once. Until—
"No, you sure ain’t," he agreed, at last—and fell right back asleep, almost on that same instant.
Did some babbling himself, later on, the way most do, in extremity: No, Mister, don’t move me on, I got a right to be here, My Mama said she was comin’ back to get me; she’ll be here yet, I swear. Any minute now…
Charlie just held onto Ben’s hand, tight as he dared, and tried his best not to pay attention.
When the boss opened his eyes on the same morning the Doc said he was probably fit to ride again, meanwhile, Charlie could see (with some relief) that he definitely had all his usual faculties back, in spades—Ben Goddamn Wade once more, with no apparent ill effects to show for his recent brush with death. He cleared his throat, took a proffered sip of water. Asked: "I say anything untoward to you, Charlie, when I was out?"
Charlie shrugged, perhaps a bit over-elaborate with it near the end, as Ben’s cool look seemed to imply. "Threw a bunch of the Bible at me, like always. Why?"
Ben smiled at that, drily. Like it did his heart good to know everything was finally back in its proper place.
"Charlie Prince," he said, "you’re a fine lieutenant, and a dab hand at casual impressions. Take my advice, though—never fool yourself you’re anything but a truly lousy liar."
Which was when the Doc walked back in, breakfast tray in hand. "Oh, Mister Wade, you’re awake," was all he got to say—before Ben caught Charlie’s eye, and raised one brow, expectantly. But Charlie did feel at least a moment’s twinge of regret, before bringing Scofield Number Two’s hammer down.
"He did fix you up, is all," Charlie felt he had to remind Ben, even as they set about lighting up the place, to cover their retreat.
Ben: "But he’d’ve told, Charlie, eventually. You know that."
"I guess…"
‘Cause here was the plain truth of it—the Doc had seemed like a good man; acted like one, too. Better than Charlie was, or ever would be, for certain. But Ben Wade alive would always trump a thousand lamentably well-meaning doctors dead, just as loyalty to the former would always trump gratitude to the latter, at least in Charlie’s personal arithmetic.
By noon they were miles away, heading down for Mexico again, where Ben Wade still wasn’t wanted, as yet. And still sharing the last of the Doc’s final breakfast, between ‘em.
THE END
