Ben and Charlie, FTW
Jan. 30th, 2008 08:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustWell, what the hell.;)
LITTLE RED ANTS ON A HILL
By Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Pairing: Charlie Prince/Ben Wade
Rating: Pre-slash, PG-13
Summary: Charlie helps Ben pull the long con, with some fallout.
Part: One of Three
Fools fold their hands
And consume their own flesh.
Better is a handful with quiet
Than two handfuls with toil
And a chasing after the wind.
Ecclesiastes, 4-5, 4-6.
Part One
"It’s a fairly simple scam, Charlie," Ben Wade tells him, that last night in Tlaquepaque. "A little Bible quotation, some minor barn-raisin’ for charity, all cut with a substantial smidgen of charm—could do it in my sleep, but I can’t really do it alone; not anymore. Certainly not when the prospective take’s on this particular order of size." His voice dropping further as he leans forward, breath stirring at the hot cup of Charlie Prince’s ear like some well-honeyed silver spoon: "And of all these fools we been runnin’ with this last year or so, you’re still the only one I’d ever trust to help me out on something this important." A beat. "‘Course, if you think you got somethin’ better to do with your newfound, uh…free time…"
But Charlie don’t, obviously. And that’s how it all starts.
*
And: "Well, I ain’t gonna shave my beard," Charlie repeats, contrary-soundin’ even to himself, some hours later.
"You’ll have to, Charlie. Can’t have you lookin’ like you, after all—it ain’t safe."
"Uh huh, okay. ’Cept for nobody knows what I look like, that is."
"Oh, I actually think you’ve made damn good and sure they do in justabout every town we’ve ever hit, in point of fact."
"You’re Ben Wade, though. Think they ain’t likely to notice that?"
"You’d be surprised. Take off the hat, put away the Hand of God, swap my neckerchief for a collar—I think gentle Reverend Ben’ll seem pretty damn far away from that dreadful scoundrel Ben Wade, in most parishoners’ eyes."
"But they write dime novels on you. You’re known."
"You’re in those too, y’know."
"…I am?"
Much as he’s ill-inclined, therefore, he lathers up extra-heavy all the same, and starts in to scrapin’—but it’s been so damn long, the razor slips free, sharp edge out, on only his second try. Before he even knows what’s what he’s already cut himself, shallow and painful, along the flat of one cheek; hisses like a cat at the sting, and hears Ben tsk—tongue between teeth, all schoolmarmish, like he’s blotted his damn copybook again—from behind one shoulder.
"My God, Charlie—keep on like that, you’ll end up making a right ol’ mess. Let me."
Charlie sees himself blush deep in the mirror, bright red to his hairline. Snaps: "I can do it my ownself!"
"Don’t be foolish, Charlie Prince. Now, just sit, and stay."
And after, staring at that Goddamn stripling’s face he hasn’t seen for seven years or more, so shorn and goggly-eyed and looking maybe all of eighteen…Charlie sees his lips thin and crimp, stupefied by the spectacle, only to grow angrier yet once he realizes he may need to bite his own tongue (hard enough to hurt) in order to keep his betrayin’ jaw from trembling outright.
Ben just smiles, however—and chucks him slightly under the chin, far too fast for Charlie to shy away in time from such indignity. Saying, cheerfully, as he does it:
"There, now: You’re somebody else. Ain’t that a neat trick?"
Charlie just shakes his head, grimly; doesn’t trust himself to reply. Thinking—
But I don’t WANT to be somebody else, and damn sure not THIS feller. I want to be ME.
Because: He’s worked hard enough for it, hasn’t he, since the War ended, and Lincoln’s murderous "peace" first set him on his way to Ben Wade’s side; before and during, same as ever after. Lied, stole and burnt, robbed stages and trains, killed men by the score—and it’s not like that last part was anything he wouldn’t’ve done anyhow, given the opportunity, but that’s hardly the subject at hand. For Charlie surely does enjoy his favorite chosen form of recreation, much as most next men do.
Not that any of it would mean even the slightest damn, though, if he weren’t carrying it all out for the boss, with the boss…riding into battle at every fresh opportunity, given and ungiven alike, on Ben Goddamn Wade’s express say-so. If he weren’t the most wanted man in Arizona’s right hand, his best gun, kept constantly cocked and loaded for bear—not to mention more’n well-ready to hammer down on any fool might dare dream to challenge him for that exact same privilege.
"Think I’ll be William Beckford, from now on," Ben tells him, musingly, as he checks his already preacher-black jacket’s cuffs in the newly-free vanity mirror. "What name strikes you best for easy pseudonymity, Charlie?"
Charlie scowls at himself just one more time, then turns away with a quick twist, determined not to torment himself overmuch (so long as he can possibly help it). And: "Ethan Rees’ll probably do me fine," he replies, shrugging. "Same as my second cousin, his Daddy, and his Daddy before."
"Never knew you had any one of the above, I must admit," says Ben "And what did they do, anyhow, the family Prince—back before Davis’s secessionist leanings broke out fully, that is?"
"Not much of much, most of ‘em—but it ain’t like that matters now, given they’re all of ‘em dead."
Now it’s Ben’s turn to shrug, a move he injects with at least some small portion of seeming sympathy, along with all the physical style he can muster—masterful economy, effortless command such that it still makes Charlie fair shiver to see, even now he’s been this close to it almost every other minute of his life, for more days put together than he would care to have to count. Turning to fix Charlie’s eyes with his as he does so, and quoting, in that amused rumble of his—
"Vanity of vanities, saieth the Teacher…for what doth a people gain from all at which they toil under the sun?"
A generation goes, and a generation comes,
Yet the earth remains forever.
The sun rises and the sun goes down,
Round and around goeth the wind…
All streams run back to the sea once more,
Yet the sea is never full.
"Ecclesiastes, 1-2, 1-7, Charlie."
Oh, no damn doubt.
But: "Amen to that, boss," is all Charlie has to say, in audible response. Then trails him outside, head down to mask this dreadful new face of his from any curious passers-by, and puts his heels to his own horse in turn once Ben’s safely mounted up…
…quick (as ever) to follow—blindly—after.
To Be Continued
LITTLE RED ANTS ON A HILL
By Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Pairing: Charlie Prince/Ben Wade
Rating: Pre-slash, PG-13
Summary: Charlie helps Ben pull the long con, with some fallout.
Part: One of Three
Fools fold their hands
And consume their own flesh.
Better is a handful with quiet
Than two handfuls with toil
And a chasing after the wind.
Ecclesiastes, 4-5, 4-6.
Part One
"It’s a fairly simple scam, Charlie," Ben Wade tells him, that last night in Tlaquepaque. "A little Bible quotation, some minor barn-raisin’ for charity, all cut with a substantial smidgen of charm—could do it in my sleep, but I can’t really do it alone; not anymore. Certainly not when the prospective take’s on this particular order of size." His voice dropping further as he leans forward, breath stirring at the hot cup of Charlie Prince’s ear like some well-honeyed silver spoon: "And of all these fools we been runnin’ with this last year or so, you’re still the only one I’d ever trust to help me out on something this important." A beat. "‘Course, if you think you got somethin’ better to do with your newfound, uh…free time…"
But Charlie don’t, obviously. And that’s how it all starts.
*
And: "Well, I ain’t gonna shave my beard," Charlie repeats, contrary-soundin’ even to himself, some hours later.
"You’ll have to, Charlie. Can’t have you lookin’ like you, after all—it ain’t safe."
"Uh huh, okay. ’Cept for nobody knows what I look like, that is."
"Oh, I actually think you’ve made damn good and sure they do in justabout every town we’ve ever hit, in point of fact."
"You’re Ben Wade, though. Think they ain’t likely to notice that?"
"You’d be surprised. Take off the hat, put away the Hand of God, swap my neckerchief for a collar—I think gentle Reverend Ben’ll seem pretty damn far away from that dreadful scoundrel Ben Wade, in most parishoners’ eyes."
"But they write dime novels on you. You’re known."
"You’re in those too, y’know."
"…I am?"
Much as he’s ill-inclined, therefore, he lathers up extra-heavy all the same, and starts in to scrapin’—but it’s been so damn long, the razor slips free, sharp edge out, on only his second try. Before he even knows what’s what he’s already cut himself, shallow and painful, along the flat of one cheek; hisses like a cat at the sting, and hears Ben tsk—tongue between teeth, all schoolmarmish, like he’s blotted his damn copybook again—from behind one shoulder.
"My God, Charlie—keep on like that, you’ll end up making a right ol’ mess. Let me."
Charlie sees himself blush deep in the mirror, bright red to his hairline. Snaps: "I can do it my ownself!"
"Don’t be foolish, Charlie Prince. Now, just sit, and stay."
And after, staring at that Goddamn stripling’s face he hasn’t seen for seven years or more, so shorn and goggly-eyed and looking maybe all of eighteen…Charlie sees his lips thin and crimp, stupefied by the spectacle, only to grow angrier yet once he realizes he may need to bite his own tongue (hard enough to hurt) in order to keep his betrayin’ jaw from trembling outright.
Ben just smiles, however—and chucks him slightly under the chin, far too fast for Charlie to shy away in time from such indignity. Saying, cheerfully, as he does it:
"There, now: You’re somebody else. Ain’t that a neat trick?"
Charlie just shakes his head, grimly; doesn’t trust himself to reply. Thinking—
But I don’t WANT to be somebody else, and damn sure not THIS feller. I want to be ME.
Because: He’s worked hard enough for it, hasn’t he, since the War ended, and Lincoln’s murderous "peace" first set him on his way to Ben Wade’s side; before and during, same as ever after. Lied, stole and burnt, robbed stages and trains, killed men by the score—and it’s not like that last part was anything he wouldn’t’ve done anyhow, given the opportunity, but that’s hardly the subject at hand. For Charlie surely does enjoy his favorite chosen form of recreation, much as most next men do.
Not that any of it would mean even the slightest damn, though, if he weren’t carrying it all out for the boss, with the boss…riding into battle at every fresh opportunity, given and ungiven alike, on Ben Goddamn Wade’s express say-so. If he weren’t the most wanted man in Arizona’s right hand, his best gun, kept constantly cocked and loaded for bear—not to mention more’n well-ready to hammer down on any fool might dare dream to challenge him for that exact same privilege.
"Think I’ll be William Beckford, from now on," Ben tells him, musingly, as he checks his already preacher-black jacket’s cuffs in the newly-free vanity mirror. "What name strikes you best for easy pseudonymity, Charlie?"
Charlie scowls at himself just one more time, then turns away with a quick twist, determined not to torment himself overmuch (so long as he can possibly help it). And: "Ethan Rees’ll probably do me fine," he replies, shrugging. "Same as my second cousin, his Daddy, and his Daddy before."
"Never knew you had any one of the above, I must admit," says Ben "And what did they do, anyhow, the family Prince—back before Davis’s secessionist leanings broke out fully, that is?"
"Not much of much, most of ‘em—but it ain’t like that matters now, given they’re all of ‘em dead."
Now it’s Ben’s turn to shrug, a move he injects with at least some small portion of seeming sympathy, along with all the physical style he can muster—masterful economy, effortless command such that it still makes Charlie fair shiver to see, even now he’s been this close to it almost every other minute of his life, for more days put together than he would care to have to count. Turning to fix Charlie’s eyes with his as he does so, and quoting, in that amused rumble of his—
"Vanity of vanities, saieth the Teacher…for what doth a people gain from all at which they toil under the sun?"
A generation goes, and a generation comes,
Yet the earth remains forever.
The sun rises and the sun goes down,
Round and around goeth the wind…
All streams run back to the sea once more,
Yet the sea is never full.
"Ecclesiastes, 1-2, 1-7, Charlie."
Oh, no damn doubt.
But: "Amen to that, boss," is all Charlie has to say, in audible response. Then trails him outside, head down to mask this dreadful new face of his from any curious passers-by, and puts his heels to his own horse in turn once Ben’s safely mounted up…
…quick (as ever) to follow—blindly—after.
To Be Continued
