Detour, 1/1
Mar. 23rd, 2008 06:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustDETOUR, 1/1
By Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Pairing: Charlie Prince/Jackson
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After Bisbee, before Contention. Unrequited whatever’s a bitch.
Notes: Blame baggyeyes for figuring out that Jackson might not have died in the final shoot-out, and making me take another look at the coach scene. For the rest, blame me.;)
Eventually, they had to stop for the night—even Charlie Prince wasn’t crazy enough to keep riding once the sun went down, thank Christ. After Apache Joe and Nez made a pit-fire, Campos started cooking; Kinter fed the horses, gave ‘em what extra water could be spared, as the others laid their bedrolls up against the canyon wall and piled brush as a wind-break, to try and stave off the coming drift of snow. Meanwhile, Charlie and his own red horse (the same color as those fantastical chaps of his) moved just far enough away to say “don’t come ‘round thinkin’ to talk to me”, while at the same time all but shouting “I can still see you, so don’t think ‘bout runnin’, either”—just sat there checking and cleaning his guns with a scowl on his face, one at a careful time, like only doing it slow enough might at last calm him down, let him get some much-needed sleep.
Personally, Jackson had no intention at all of trying to desert Charlie in the middle of the night, or otherwise. For one thing, his jaw already hurt enough. For the other, he knew full well that running would only mean turning his back on the Princess—never a good idea, ‘specially if you’d given him good reason to want to shoot you in it. So he sat near the fire picking away at Campos’ chili, close enough so the flames made his skins uncomfortably hot, and thought equally uncomfortable thoughts until everyone else seemed fed enough to drift off, before drifting over towards Charlie in his turn.
Charlie’d been staring up at the stars with those icy wall-eyes of his, lost in dreams—of that high-toned motherfucker Ben Wade, probably—but sure swiveled them back fast enough when he heard Jackson’s tread behind him, one hand going to whatever Schofield was nearest. “Gonna shoot me now, that it, on top of the rest?” Jackson asked, spreading his own hands wide, to show how empty they were.
“I should’ve already, back there at the coach. Put it down to mercy.”
Jackson snorted. “’Mercy’’s Wade’s bullshit pose to strike, Charlie. You ain’t got enough Bible-learnin’ to support it, without makin’ yourself look ridiculous.”
“Jackson,” Charlie said, “I damn near broke your jaw today; that’d’ve been enough, for most idjits. But if you let slip one more word against Ben Wade to me, I’ll—“
That Goddamn name! It lit a fire in Jackson’s belly, made him trample ill-advisedly over the rest without listening with more’n half an ear: Probably some variation on —shoot you where you stand, most-like, as though he couldn’t figure that one out for himself. Barking, instead:
“Wasn’t Ben Wade I was insultin’ there, you crazy sumbitch—it was you, yourself, Charlie friggin’ Prince. S’pose you can’t even tell the difference anymore, though, huh?”
At that, Charlie finally drew and cocked, in one single motion; Jackson froze stiff at the sound, thinking how he really might’ve gone too far, ‘til he heard the back-shift a second later, and knew Charlie’d finally got himself even-keeled enough to re-think killing another of Wade’s men—not without askin’ him first, anyhow.
And: “Fuck you, Jackson,” Charlie said, at last, without any real heat. “Just lucky I need as many men as’ll come with me, I want to get the boss back outta Contention alive.”
Jackson nodded, turning his repressed shiver into a shrug, and sat down, keeping a respectful distance. “Yeah, fuck me.” A pause, then: “You thought much on that one, since? Got yourself some sort of plan?”
“I might, at that. Yours’d probably be to just leave him there ‘til the train comes, I guess.”
“You’d guess right.”
Charlie opened his mouth one more time, but seemed to think better of prolonging the conversation, considering the direction it was goin’ in. Instead, he sighed, and rummaged in his saddlebag for some jerky; sat there chewing it morosely, staring into the fire, while Jackson studied the way his shoulders were starting to droop. He was in no way close enough to touch Charlie, even if he lunged the rest of the distance between ‘em—not without provoking Charlie further, anyhow, and probably regretting it, in the moment before he took a bullet. Yet his ignorant hands fair itched to do so nonetheless, along with other parts of him.
That was Wade’s fault too, along with so much else—and Christ, but Jackson yearned for the way things were back before he knew exactly what Charlie and his well-beloved “boss” were getting up to. ‘Cause now, like pretty much every damn time he saw Charlie snake-hipping his bow-legged way around, kow-towing to Ben Wade as though the sun shone out that contemptuous hypocrite’s ass, all he could think of was what he’d heard (along with the rest of the gang, though none of ‘em were dumb enough to discuss it with him, afterwards) through the walls at Splitfoot Joe’s that night: Charlie pinned on Wade’s dick, makin’ them noises. Neat, mechanical, cold-hearted little Charlie Prince, yelling out in his fervor like some alley-fucked cat: Oh shit, oh boss, oh Jesus Jesus GOD—
There were queers in this world, all over—Jackson knew that; had for a good long while, seein’ how he was at least as old as Wade, and been off his Daddy’s farm almost since he could keep on a horse at full gallop without fear of fallin’ on any sudden jump. A stint in the army’d helped clarify things for him somewhat in that direction, as well…might’ve for Charlie, too, now he came to think. Some of the best men he’d met had later proved sweet on each other, along with some of the worst—didn’t seem to make no never-mind, ‘specially when there was reddish work to be done. That observation alone was Charlie Prince, in a nutshell.
So, yes: Bible aside—and he’d heard enough of that rigamarole from Wade to discredit it, for sheer repetition—Jackson had no particular beef with queers. He just hadn’t necessarily thought Charlie to be one of ‘em—and maybe he wasn’t overall, except for where Wade was concerned, where he most definitely was. Jackson sure hadn’t ever thought to count himself amongst them, either; not for Charlie, anyhow. Of all damn people.
Half of Wade’s gang’d been with him for years: The odder half, Jackson had to find a suitable word for it—Campos, Nez, Apache Joe, Charlie. All the ones who would never’ve quite fit, anywhere else. The others got hired on at will and by necessity, from job to job…lasted ‘til they left, or got left behind. Or died “in battle”, as Charlie put it; Jackson was one of those, obviously. Came on for a job, did it, did a few more, got paid well, spent it and came back for more. Eventually figured out that Wade was a lyin’ sack of dirt, for all his pretty ways and Bible-talk, though the money certainly did go quite a ways towards makin’ up for that particular drawback. Yet he hadn’t intended on staying much longer, after that particular revelation—not ‘til that night in Splitfoot’s put a sudden, itchy thought in the back of his head. Something he knew damn well, from observation, that he really couldn’t risk scratching, if he wanted to stay alive—but couldn’t let go of, somehow, either. Not completely.
Such a damn discomfitting situation, even before Wade’d gotten himself took up and bound by law over some fresh piece of pussy. And only made all the more so by sitting close-but-not, with the firelight glinting bright off of Charlie’s hair and the wind licking cold up the hollow of Jackson’s back, where the skins didn’t quite cover a split in the lining of his coat; trying like Hell to not remember how he’d already seen Charlie naked, or at least half-so. How even if that had come about the once, at least—with Jackson just shit-faced drunk enough to make the first move, and Charlie just jealousy-sick enough not to kill him over doin’ it—there was no earthly guarantee at all it’d ever come about again, so…
…why in the Hell was he still here, tellin’ Charlie truths he would never want to hear, just so’s he could get pistol-whipped for his trouble? Just on the barest off-chance he’d get to see that vulnerable place where Charlie’s sunburnt throat shaded to white once more, just above his breast-bone’s gold-feathered hollow, set between a pair of nipples like little pink beads? Same place where if you licked it just right, sucked on it just a little, you could feel Charlie’s moan work itself out clear through the skin underneath…
Jackson knew damn well how Wade’d probably done that exact same thing for Charlie Prince, probably much more times’n just that once. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Wade’d actually cared about how much Charlie seemed to like it—not the way Jackson did, anyhow.
Never like that.
*
With Wade calling the shots and footin’ the bill, only made sense for them to ride straight from one whorehouse to another, on the way to Bisbee. The boys split off in every direction, grabbing for ass and booze; Wade in particular was soon drawn upstairs by not one but two whores, equally underaged but neither of ‘em green-eyed, from what little Jackson could see. He found Charlie pouting in a corner, nursing the bottle Wade’d ordered before the doxies caught hold, and slung a sadly ricketty chair in close beside him. “Looks like you need somebody to drink with,” he told him, sitting down.
Charlie shook his head. “Boss’ll be back down in a minute.”
“Yeah, and the South’ll rise again, directly. C’mon, Charlie—he’s off getting’ his wick dipped, and you’re mad as a spittin’ cat you can’t be in there with him, ain’t you?” Snagging a glass, as Charlie gave him that patented I-don’t-know-WHAT-you-mean glare: “Hell, you think we’re all deaf? You and him ain’t been exactly discreet…then again, you did say you didn’t really care who heard, anyhow, as I recall.” Charlie looked down, perhaps not exactly embarrassed so much as simply unsure himself what he might or might not’ve let slip, in the moment’s heat; Jackson drained the first shot in a second flat and forced himself on, a little less cocksure, but determined to make his point. Like so—
“Look, it’s just—you’re just as good as Ben Wade, it comes to most things that matter. This could be your gang tomorrow, you only wanted it that way…”
“I don’t.”
“…and as for the other, well—damn, Charlie! I could fuck you on the regular, that’s what you need to keep you goin’. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
Another stare. Carefully: “Oh, really. Well, thank you, Jackson—mighty nice of you to offer; don’t feel like you got to do me any damn favors, though.” Now it was Jackson’s turn to furl his lip, while Charlie’s voice rose on, steadily gaining in anger: “You amazing Goddamn prick. My damn horse could fuck me, I stood still long enough to let him. But why the Hell would I?”
Jackson flushed. “Hey, no need for that. I know I ain’t pretty—“
“What you ain’t is Ben Wade. That’s all.” Rage abruptly defused, Charlie poured a shot and considered it, before passing it over to Jackson. “Wouldn’t be the same,” he said, finally.
“Might be, you thought to try it.”
“Well, I ain’t gonna. So that’s that with that.”
They kept to drinking—Jackson did, any rate—and Wade still didn’t come down. It was after midnight. “But how d’you know?” Jackson asked, again; “I don’t,” Charlie said. “Just…” He stopped a moment, thought carefully. Then: “It’d be like cheatin’, is all.”
Jackson gave a grand gesture to this, hands flung wide, knocking both their glasses over. “The shit you think he’s doin’ up there, right now?” He demanded.
And: “You know what he’s doin’,” Charlie hissed, face suddenly right up in Jackson’s, like he wasn’t outweighed by near a hundred pounds or more. “Now stop your talkin’ and get the Hell away from me, ‘fore I bite your damn—“
—nose off? Maybe. Didn’t matter; at last, Jackson was drunk enough not to care. Before he even had time to consider what a bad idea this was, he soon found he’d already grabbed Charlie and pulled him off-balance, spilled him bodily forward onto his lap with both arms pinned fast behind his back—had the element of surprise in his favor, apparently, even given their previous topic of discussion.
So: “Bite away, Princess,” Jackson said, recklessly, sticking his tongue between Charlie’s sharp little teeth—and held on, even when Charlie made good on his threat, ‘cause it wasn’t like he’d never tasted his own blood before. They wrestled awhile, Charlie squirming and kicking, ‘til he felt the effect that was having on Jackson first-hand; drew back, then, his voice lowering. Telling him—
“Think you really want to let me go, Jackson, right the Hell damn now…“
“Naw, I really don’t think I do. Don’t even think you really want me to, come to that.”
Charlie swore a blue streak at this last part, twisting so hard he nearly broke free; Jackson grabbed his wrists again, and got well-scratched for his troubles. He stuck his knee between Charlie’s, let him ride on it a while and humped him up against the wall at the same time, sucking his neck ‘til he suddenly felt all the breath go out of him, in one harsh rush. Jackson stoppered Charlie’s mouth with his own, drank a helpless snarl down like some new kind of liquor; picked him up and half-carried, half-dragged him into the next room, a little alcove hung with curtains that had more bed than floor, where they went down tangled together in a mighty thump (Jackson on top).
“Try to fuck me, without I say you can, and I swear to God I will kill you in your sleep,” Charlie warned, husky. To which Jackson laughed, outright: “Oh, so now we’re gonna be sleepin’ together?”
A blush turned Charlie bright red, from crown to collarbones. “Go to Hell, Jackson.”
“Jesus, Charlie, calm the fuck down, will ya? I ain’t dumb enough to try ‘n’ make you do anything you don’t wanna.”
Hopeless: “You already got me doin’ that, you damn ox.”
Jackson shook his head. Said, muffled—into the side of Charlie’s neck, where his beard started its outward flare—
“Are you kiddin’ me? You’re Charlie Prince, boy; really wanted me off you that bad, I somehow think you’d find a way.”
Charlie made some more noise at that, like he was trying to drown the truth of it out—half-sob, with a deal of snarl mixed in—and arched up one more time, straining stiff in every direction at once, before dropping back limp. “Just go on and do it, then, Goddamn it,” he said, at last, turning his face away.
Jackson felt that same familiar surge of anger, already seeing the face of Wade thrust itself between ‘em. “You better damn well look in my eyes when you make me an offer like that, little man. ’S only common courtesy, y’know.”
A twisted smile, brim-full of bared teeth: “Make me.”
Which Jackson never was quite able to do, in the end—though he certainly had fun trying, and was fairly sure Charlie had fun of a sort, too; stopped trying to get away, at any rate, and that pointed to acceptance, if not complete participation. They clutched and rutted against each other, Jackson freeing his bone-hard cock and aiming it for the tangled crease of Charlie’s thighs, while at the same time rummaging for Charlie’s own weapon; it came free easily, button-printed and sticky-hot, drawing a mutual whine. It was awkward and rudimentary in a way Jackson hadn’t seen since he was maybe twelve, in the dirt behind the barn with his hands up his cousin’s skirt, with neither of ‘em too sure what they were going for—but by the end, he didn’t much care. Too busy pulling Charlie to him, close and closer, struggling hard to crush every last left-over thought of Wade right out of him…for an hour, or maybe only a heartbeat. A second, if nothing else.
After, though, he opened his eyes to see Charlie staring over his shoulder and up at the ceiling above—fixedly, if a bit myopically. Like if he only studied it long enough, at close enough range, he’d be able see exactly what Wade was doing, under that skin of paint and plaster. Like nothing Jackson’d done in the interim had actually been interesting enough—memorable enough—to wipe that underlying impulse away.
*
It hadn’t been intentional, though, and Jackson knew it, then as now. No more’n Charlie’s present silence, or his rage back at the coach; no more’n the handle of his gun connecting with Jackson’s jaw, or the way those bruises still ached. It was nothin’ he hadn’t had before, nothin’ he couldn’t take…and sure not enough to stop him from playing voice of Reason, even if expecting Charlie Prince to ever act reasonably (‘specially when Wade was the subject at hand) remained somewhat like expecting a wolf not to howl, snow to fall upwards, or the Yuma train to make it in on time.
“You actually think Ben Wade’d do the same for you, things were the other way ‘round?” Jackson asked Charlie, as the banked fire started burning down to ashes. “Ride all day and night, to get you out of some shit you’d stepped in? Would he, like Hell. ‘Tommy was weak’, remember that?”
Charlie shrugged, fast and hard, a horse flicking off flies. Snapping: “Tommy WAS weak. Tommy WAS stupid. Ben Wade’s Ben damn Wade!”
“Ben Wade does for Ben Wade, Charlie. That’s the truth. Only reason he’d ever do this for you—or anybody else, for that matter—was if not doin’ it put him to even worse inconvenience.”
“…it don’t matter, what he does or don’t. I’m goin’ to Contention. And that’s all.”
‘Sides which: Who in the Hell do you think I am to you, Jackson? And who in the Hell do you think YOU are, to me? You really think we got some grand claim on each other, just ‘cause you rubbed up against me once in a dark corner—think I won’t throw you or anybody else over in a second, the instant Ben Wade makes like he’s fixin’ to smile at me? Are you just that dumb?
Well. Apparently, yes; apparently, it was something they both shared—one thing, amongst a thousand others they didn’t. This idiot loyalty to people who didn’t give a damn if they lived or died, yet somehow made their own lives worth the living, just by occasionally makin’ themselves handy: Charlie, to Wade. Jackson, to Charlie.
And: “Contention,” Charlie repeated, one more time. “Go there alone, if I have to.” He met Jackson’s eyes, the last of the firelight giving them a prairie predator shine. Asking, quietly: “Do I have to, Jackson?”
Jackson blinked against the blaze of it, held it for just a moment longer than necessary. Thought: That fake-preacher bastard does us—does YOU—like I suspect he will, if it suits him, be very sure I’m going to see he really DOES get on that train, Charlie. Over both our bodies, it turns out I have to.
But there was no way to say that to Charlie which wouldn’t end with a bullet. So he just shook his head, shuddering slightly. Confirming:
“…no, Charlie. You don’t.”
A dubious claim, yet Charlie must’ve found it good enough to trust; he closed his eyes, curled up next to where his horse had been grazing earlier and now lingered, asleep on its feet. And when the sun came up, it found Jackson was still sitting there, dozing only slightly—a living windbreak, lower half drifted with light snow, while his shadow stretched over Charlie’s sleeping face in a dark, impermanent touch.
Faithless love, he thought, Same ’s in the song. But that ain’t us, is it? We’re the faithful ones here, you ‘n’ me…
Just not to each other. And that, much like Tommy Darden’s death, a mere day or so before, was just—in the immortal words of one Mister Charlie Prince—too bad.
(For them.)
THE END
By Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Pairing: Charlie Prince/Jackson
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After Bisbee, before Contention. Unrequited whatever’s a bitch.
Notes: Blame baggyeyes for figuring out that Jackson might not have died in the final shoot-out, and making me take another look at the coach scene. For the rest, blame me.;)
Eventually, they had to stop for the night—even Charlie Prince wasn’t crazy enough to keep riding once the sun went down, thank Christ. After Apache Joe and Nez made a pit-fire, Campos started cooking; Kinter fed the horses, gave ‘em what extra water could be spared, as the others laid their bedrolls up against the canyon wall and piled brush as a wind-break, to try and stave off the coming drift of snow. Meanwhile, Charlie and his own red horse (the same color as those fantastical chaps of his) moved just far enough away to say “don’t come ‘round thinkin’ to talk to me”, while at the same time all but shouting “I can still see you, so don’t think ‘bout runnin’, either”—just sat there checking and cleaning his guns with a scowl on his face, one at a careful time, like only doing it slow enough might at last calm him down, let him get some much-needed sleep.
Personally, Jackson had no intention at all of trying to desert Charlie in the middle of the night, or otherwise. For one thing, his jaw already hurt enough. For the other, he knew full well that running would only mean turning his back on the Princess—never a good idea, ‘specially if you’d given him good reason to want to shoot you in it. So he sat near the fire picking away at Campos’ chili, close enough so the flames made his skins uncomfortably hot, and thought equally uncomfortable thoughts until everyone else seemed fed enough to drift off, before drifting over towards Charlie in his turn.
Charlie’d been staring up at the stars with those icy wall-eyes of his, lost in dreams—of that high-toned motherfucker Ben Wade, probably—but sure swiveled them back fast enough when he heard Jackson’s tread behind him, one hand going to whatever Schofield was nearest. “Gonna shoot me now, that it, on top of the rest?” Jackson asked, spreading his own hands wide, to show how empty they were.
“I should’ve already, back there at the coach. Put it down to mercy.”
Jackson snorted. “’Mercy’’s Wade’s bullshit pose to strike, Charlie. You ain’t got enough Bible-learnin’ to support it, without makin’ yourself look ridiculous.”
“Jackson,” Charlie said, “I damn near broke your jaw today; that’d’ve been enough, for most idjits. But if you let slip one more word against Ben Wade to me, I’ll—“
That Goddamn name! It lit a fire in Jackson’s belly, made him trample ill-advisedly over the rest without listening with more’n half an ear: Probably some variation on —shoot you where you stand, most-like, as though he couldn’t figure that one out for himself. Barking, instead:
“Wasn’t Ben Wade I was insultin’ there, you crazy sumbitch—it was you, yourself, Charlie friggin’ Prince. S’pose you can’t even tell the difference anymore, though, huh?”
At that, Charlie finally drew and cocked, in one single motion; Jackson froze stiff at the sound, thinking how he really might’ve gone too far, ‘til he heard the back-shift a second later, and knew Charlie’d finally got himself even-keeled enough to re-think killing another of Wade’s men—not without askin’ him first, anyhow.
And: “Fuck you, Jackson,” Charlie said, at last, without any real heat. “Just lucky I need as many men as’ll come with me, I want to get the boss back outta Contention alive.”
Jackson nodded, turning his repressed shiver into a shrug, and sat down, keeping a respectful distance. “Yeah, fuck me.” A pause, then: “You thought much on that one, since? Got yourself some sort of plan?”
“I might, at that. Yours’d probably be to just leave him there ‘til the train comes, I guess.”
“You’d guess right.”
Charlie opened his mouth one more time, but seemed to think better of prolonging the conversation, considering the direction it was goin’ in. Instead, he sighed, and rummaged in his saddlebag for some jerky; sat there chewing it morosely, staring into the fire, while Jackson studied the way his shoulders were starting to droop. He was in no way close enough to touch Charlie, even if he lunged the rest of the distance between ‘em—not without provoking Charlie further, anyhow, and probably regretting it, in the moment before he took a bullet. Yet his ignorant hands fair itched to do so nonetheless, along with other parts of him.
That was Wade’s fault too, along with so much else—and Christ, but Jackson yearned for the way things were back before he knew exactly what Charlie and his well-beloved “boss” were getting up to. ‘Cause now, like pretty much every damn time he saw Charlie snake-hipping his bow-legged way around, kow-towing to Ben Wade as though the sun shone out that contemptuous hypocrite’s ass, all he could think of was what he’d heard (along with the rest of the gang, though none of ‘em were dumb enough to discuss it with him, afterwards) through the walls at Splitfoot Joe’s that night: Charlie pinned on Wade’s dick, makin’ them noises. Neat, mechanical, cold-hearted little Charlie Prince, yelling out in his fervor like some alley-fucked cat: Oh shit, oh boss, oh Jesus Jesus GOD—
There were queers in this world, all over—Jackson knew that; had for a good long while, seein’ how he was at least as old as Wade, and been off his Daddy’s farm almost since he could keep on a horse at full gallop without fear of fallin’ on any sudden jump. A stint in the army’d helped clarify things for him somewhat in that direction, as well…might’ve for Charlie, too, now he came to think. Some of the best men he’d met had later proved sweet on each other, along with some of the worst—didn’t seem to make no never-mind, ‘specially when there was reddish work to be done. That observation alone was Charlie Prince, in a nutshell.
So, yes: Bible aside—and he’d heard enough of that rigamarole from Wade to discredit it, for sheer repetition—Jackson had no particular beef with queers. He just hadn’t necessarily thought Charlie to be one of ‘em—and maybe he wasn’t overall, except for where Wade was concerned, where he most definitely was. Jackson sure hadn’t ever thought to count himself amongst them, either; not for Charlie, anyhow. Of all damn people.
Half of Wade’s gang’d been with him for years: The odder half, Jackson had to find a suitable word for it—Campos, Nez, Apache Joe, Charlie. All the ones who would never’ve quite fit, anywhere else. The others got hired on at will and by necessity, from job to job…lasted ‘til they left, or got left behind. Or died “in battle”, as Charlie put it; Jackson was one of those, obviously. Came on for a job, did it, did a few more, got paid well, spent it and came back for more. Eventually figured out that Wade was a lyin’ sack of dirt, for all his pretty ways and Bible-talk, though the money certainly did go quite a ways towards makin’ up for that particular drawback. Yet he hadn’t intended on staying much longer, after that particular revelation—not ‘til that night in Splitfoot’s put a sudden, itchy thought in the back of his head. Something he knew damn well, from observation, that he really couldn’t risk scratching, if he wanted to stay alive—but couldn’t let go of, somehow, either. Not completely.
Such a damn discomfitting situation, even before Wade’d gotten himself took up and bound by law over some fresh piece of pussy. And only made all the more so by sitting close-but-not, with the firelight glinting bright off of Charlie’s hair and the wind licking cold up the hollow of Jackson’s back, where the skins didn’t quite cover a split in the lining of his coat; trying like Hell to not remember how he’d already seen Charlie naked, or at least half-so. How even if that had come about the once, at least—with Jackson just shit-faced drunk enough to make the first move, and Charlie just jealousy-sick enough not to kill him over doin’ it—there was no earthly guarantee at all it’d ever come about again, so…
…why in the Hell was he still here, tellin’ Charlie truths he would never want to hear, just so’s he could get pistol-whipped for his trouble? Just on the barest off-chance he’d get to see that vulnerable place where Charlie’s sunburnt throat shaded to white once more, just above his breast-bone’s gold-feathered hollow, set between a pair of nipples like little pink beads? Same place where if you licked it just right, sucked on it just a little, you could feel Charlie’s moan work itself out clear through the skin underneath…
Jackson knew damn well how Wade’d probably done that exact same thing for Charlie Prince, probably much more times’n just that once. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Wade’d actually cared about how much Charlie seemed to like it—not the way Jackson did, anyhow.
Never like that.
*
With Wade calling the shots and footin’ the bill, only made sense for them to ride straight from one whorehouse to another, on the way to Bisbee. The boys split off in every direction, grabbing for ass and booze; Wade in particular was soon drawn upstairs by not one but two whores, equally underaged but neither of ‘em green-eyed, from what little Jackson could see. He found Charlie pouting in a corner, nursing the bottle Wade’d ordered before the doxies caught hold, and slung a sadly ricketty chair in close beside him. “Looks like you need somebody to drink with,” he told him, sitting down.
Charlie shook his head. “Boss’ll be back down in a minute.”
“Yeah, and the South’ll rise again, directly. C’mon, Charlie—he’s off getting’ his wick dipped, and you’re mad as a spittin’ cat you can’t be in there with him, ain’t you?” Snagging a glass, as Charlie gave him that patented I-don’t-know-WHAT-you-mean glare: “Hell, you think we’re all deaf? You and him ain’t been exactly discreet…then again, you did say you didn’t really care who heard, anyhow, as I recall.” Charlie looked down, perhaps not exactly embarrassed so much as simply unsure himself what he might or might not’ve let slip, in the moment’s heat; Jackson drained the first shot in a second flat and forced himself on, a little less cocksure, but determined to make his point. Like so—
“Look, it’s just—you’re just as good as Ben Wade, it comes to most things that matter. This could be your gang tomorrow, you only wanted it that way…”
“I don’t.”
“…and as for the other, well—damn, Charlie! I could fuck you on the regular, that’s what you need to keep you goin’. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
Another stare. Carefully: “Oh, really. Well, thank you, Jackson—mighty nice of you to offer; don’t feel like you got to do me any damn favors, though.” Now it was Jackson’s turn to furl his lip, while Charlie’s voice rose on, steadily gaining in anger: “You amazing Goddamn prick. My damn horse could fuck me, I stood still long enough to let him. But why the Hell would I?”
Jackson flushed. “Hey, no need for that. I know I ain’t pretty—“
“What you ain’t is Ben Wade. That’s all.” Rage abruptly defused, Charlie poured a shot and considered it, before passing it over to Jackson. “Wouldn’t be the same,” he said, finally.
“Might be, you thought to try it.”
“Well, I ain’t gonna. So that’s that with that.”
They kept to drinking—Jackson did, any rate—and Wade still didn’t come down. It was after midnight. “But how d’you know?” Jackson asked, again; “I don’t,” Charlie said. “Just…” He stopped a moment, thought carefully. Then: “It’d be like cheatin’, is all.”
Jackson gave a grand gesture to this, hands flung wide, knocking both their glasses over. “The shit you think he’s doin’ up there, right now?” He demanded.
And: “You know what he’s doin’,” Charlie hissed, face suddenly right up in Jackson’s, like he wasn’t outweighed by near a hundred pounds or more. “Now stop your talkin’ and get the Hell away from me, ‘fore I bite your damn—“
—nose off? Maybe. Didn’t matter; at last, Jackson was drunk enough not to care. Before he even had time to consider what a bad idea this was, he soon found he’d already grabbed Charlie and pulled him off-balance, spilled him bodily forward onto his lap with both arms pinned fast behind his back—had the element of surprise in his favor, apparently, even given their previous topic of discussion.
So: “Bite away, Princess,” Jackson said, recklessly, sticking his tongue between Charlie’s sharp little teeth—and held on, even when Charlie made good on his threat, ‘cause it wasn’t like he’d never tasted his own blood before. They wrestled awhile, Charlie squirming and kicking, ‘til he felt the effect that was having on Jackson first-hand; drew back, then, his voice lowering. Telling him—
“Think you really want to let me go, Jackson, right the Hell damn now…“
“Naw, I really don’t think I do. Don’t even think you really want me to, come to that.”
Charlie swore a blue streak at this last part, twisting so hard he nearly broke free; Jackson grabbed his wrists again, and got well-scratched for his troubles. He stuck his knee between Charlie’s, let him ride on it a while and humped him up against the wall at the same time, sucking his neck ‘til he suddenly felt all the breath go out of him, in one harsh rush. Jackson stoppered Charlie’s mouth with his own, drank a helpless snarl down like some new kind of liquor; picked him up and half-carried, half-dragged him into the next room, a little alcove hung with curtains that had more bed than floor, where they went down tangled together in a mighty thump (Jackson on top).
“Try to fuck me, without I say you can, and I swear to God I will kill you in your sleep,” Charlie warned, husky. To which Jackson laughed, outright: “Oh, so now we’re gonna be sleepin’ together?”
A blush turned Charlie bright red, from crown to collarbones. “Go to Hell, Jackson.”
“Jesus, Charlie, calm the fuck down, will ya? I ain’t dumb enough to try ‘n’ make you do anything you don’t wanna.”
Hopeless: “You already got me doin’ that, you damn ox.”
Jackson shook his head. Said, muffled—into the side of Charlie’s neck, where his beard started its outward flare—
“Are you kiddin’ me? You’re Charlie Prince, boy; really wanted me off you that bad, I somehow think you’d find a way.”
Charlie made some more noise at that, like he was trying to drown the truth of it out—half-sob, with a deal of snarl mixed in—and arched up one more time, straining stiff in every direction at once, before dropping back limp. “Just go on and do it, then, Goddamn it,” he said, at last, turning his face away.
Jackson felt that same familiar surge of anger, already seeing the face of Wade thrust itself between ‘em. “You better damn well look in my eyes when you make me an offer like that, little man. ’S only common courtesy, y’know.”
A twisted smile, brim-full of bared teeth: “Make me.”
Which Jackson never was quite able to do, in the end—though he certainly had fun trying, and was fairly sure Charlie had fun of a sort, too; stopped trying to get away, at any rate, and that pointed to acceptance, if not complete participation. They clutched and rutted against each other, Jackson freeing his bone-hard cock and aiming it for the tangled crease of Charlie’s thighs, while at the same time rummaging for Charlie’s own weapon; it came free easily, button-printed and sticky-hot, drawing a mutual whine. It was awkward and rudimentary in a way Jackson hadn’t seen since he was maybe twelve, in the dirt behind the barn with his hands up his cousin’s skirt, with neither of ‘em too sure what they were going for—but by the end, he didn’t much care. Too busy pulling Charlie to him, close and closer, struggling hard to crush every last left-over thought of Wade right out of him…for an hour, or maybe only a heartbeat. A second, if nothing else.
After, though, he opened his eyes to see Charlie staring over his shoulder and up at the ceiling above—fixedly, if a bit myopically. Like if he only studied it long enough, at close enough range, he’d be able see exactly what Wade was doing, under that skin of paint and plaster. Like nothing Jackson’d done in the interim had actually been interesting enough—memorable enough—to wipe that underlying impulse away.
*
It hadn’t been intentional, though, and Jackson knew it, then as now. No more’n Charlie’s present silence, or his rage back at the coach; no more’n the handle of his gun connecting with Jackson’s jaw, or the way those bruises still ached. It was nothin’ he hadn’t had before, nothin’ he couldn’t take…and sure not enough to stop him from playing voice of Reason, even if expecting Charlie Prince to ever act reasonably (‘specially when Wade was the subject at hand) remained somewhat like expecting a wolf not to howl, snow to fall upwards, or the Yuma train to make it in on time.
“You actually think Ben Wade’d do the same for you, things were the other way ‘round?” Jackson asked Charlie, as the banked fire started burning down to ashes. “Ride all day and night, to get you out of some shit you’d stepped in? Would he, like Hell. ‘Tommy was weak’, remember that?”
Charlie shrugged, fast and hard, a horse flicking off flies. Snapping: “Tommy WAS weak. Tommy WAS stupid. Ben Wade’s Ben damn Wade!”
“Ben Wade does for Ben Wade, Charlie. That’s the truth. Only reason he’d ever do this for you—or anybody else, for that matter—was if not doin’ it put him to even worse inconvenience.”
“…it don’t matter, what he does or don’t. I’m goin’ to Contention. And that’s all.”
‘Sides which: Who in the Hell do you think I am to you, Jackson? And who in the Hell do you think YOU are, to me? You really think we got some grand claim on each other, just ‘cause you rubbed up against me once in a dark corner—think I won’t throw you or anybody else over in a second, the instant Ben Wade makes like he’s fixin’ to smile at me? Are you just that dumb?
Well. Apparently, yes; apparently, it was something they both shared—one thing, amongst a thousand others they didn’t. This idiot loyalty to people who didn’t give a damn if they lived or died, yet somehow made their own lives worth the living, just by occasionally makin’ themselves handy: Charlie, to Wade. Jackson, to Charlie.
And: “Contention,” Charlie repeated, one more time. “Go there alone, if I have to.” He met Jackson’s eyes, the last of the firelight giving them a prairie predator shine. Asking, quietly: “Do I have to, Jackson?”
Jackson blinked against the blaze of it, held it for just a moment longer than necessary. Thought: That fake-preacher bastard does us—does YOU—like I suspect he will, if it suits him, be very sure I’m going to see he really DOES get on that train, Charlie. Over both our bodies, it turns out I have to.
But there was no way to say that to Charlie which wouldn’t end with a bullet. So he just shook his head, shuddering slightly. Confirming:
“…no, Charlie. You don’t.”
A dubious claim, yet Charlie must’ve found it good enough to trust; he closed his eyes, curled up next to where his horse had been grazing earlier and now lingered, asleep on its feet. And when the sun came up, it found Jackson was still sitting there, dozing only slightly—a living windbreak, lower half drifted with light snow, while his shadow stretched over Charlie’s sleeping face in a dark, impermanent touch.
Faithless love, he thought, Same ’s in the song. But that ain’t us, is it? We’re the faithful ones here, you ‘n’ me…
Just not to each other. And that, much like Tommy Darden’s death, a mere day or so before, was just—in the immortal words of one Mister Charlie Prince—too bad.
(For them.)
THE END
