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handful_ofdustAnd...here's another one, with at least a bit more content to it--though still not as much direct porn as might be merited, considering where the prompts came from. But at least I'm freeing up my desktop! Enjoy.
Drabble: 3:10 to Yuma, Ben/Charlie (Charlie/Jackson), distracted
When you get what you want, let it be what you need, Charlie Prince’s Mama had sometimes said, in between what most often seemed like an endless procession of chores, barely leavened by the occasional session of desperate prayer—all of it equally gruelling, albeit each part in its very own special way. Which probably explained why he hadn’t been listening too close at the time, and only vaguely recalled it now, when it’d finally started to seem relevant at last.
After all, he’d finally got what he’d thought he always wanted, since he and Ben Wade first crossed paths—the man himself’s ear and elbow, a permanent seat at his right hand, open permission to carry his banner and work his will in all damn things. And what Charlie hadn’t rightly known he’d wanted, too, not in anywhere but in his most secret dreams, ‘til he found it suddenly proffered at the point of a drunken kiss: Ben Wade’s favor, his arms and mouth and otherwise, his wicked tongue set loose on every part of Charlie in darkness, when none but them were ‘round to see. The taste of both being sweet indeed, most-times…except for when it wasn’t.
After that night at Splitfoot’s, where Ben seemed to publicly seal their pact in Fat George Doolin’s blood—even with the rest of the gang back together again, packed in close enough to hang on their every word and move—Charlie’d felt secure enough to fool himself that things were set in stone, as to the boundaries of their new relationship. But by Total Wreck, where they stopped for fresh horses and one final reconoiter before the coach-to-Bisbee job, cracks were already starting to show…spreading fast and primed to bust wide, ‘specially when Ben decided to celebrated by buyin’ ‘em a whore apiece and insisting on Charlie going first, knocking back a half-bottle of whiskey while he sat back and watched, appraisingly...
Granted, the gal was willing enough, and perfectly inoffensive, to boot. But being deep in her—even under Ben’s gaze—was absolutely nothing to Charlie’s memory of Ben deep inside him, so all the whole exercise served to prove was that Ben really had ruined him for anyone else, fully and completely.
One more move, in an endless waiting game: How he spent his life, now, more often than not. Sometimes he looked up to find Ben’s mock-mild eye at rest on him, appraising, and froze stiff in his tracks; other times he just thought he felt it, found himself deluded and colored deep all the same, to his damn ears. As all the while, each and every minute of the livelong day, what they’d already done together came back to him in snatches, quick and sharp like lightning across a blank sky—numbing, burning. Leaving no visible trace in its scorching wake.
His business finished, Charlie paid the fare, tipped his hat and took himself off back to his room, leaving Ben to make his own fun—then ordered up a bath and fell asleep in it, waiting patiently for that same fun to be over. He woke up cold and alone, in a mess of his own dirt; three things which never served to put him in too good a mood, no matter the attendant circumstances. To make matters even more uncomfortable, however, he also opened his eyes to find Ed Goddamn Jackson leaned up against the suite’s door (which Charlie’d thought he’d locked, as well as shut), arms folded, silently contemplating Charlie’s wet nakedness.
Charlie sat up, sloshing. “You mind?” He snapped, grabbing for a towel.
Jackson shrugged. “Not too much. I like lookin’ at you, ‘specially all laid out like that.”
“Well, it’s a Hell of a lot less unexpected when you’ve agreed to let a person do it, first.”
“Don’t tell me you’re shy around me, Charlie.” A pause. “Wade ain’t back yet, huh?”
An angry shrug, flicking water from his eyes: “Looks like not. So…just what the Hell do you want, anyhow, Jackson?”
The big man’s eyes grew hot. “What the Hell you think? Princess.”
“Told you to stop callin’ me that. I look like a girl to you?”
A snort. “Not hardly. You’re pretty, is all—‘specially compared to me. Me, I’m like a Goddamn skinned bear, but you…even your scars are pretty. And don’t try to pretend you don’t know it, either.”
Charlie blushed at this, then found himself immediately blushing even deeper over already having blushed, in the first place. “I don’t sit ‘round thinkin’ on it, if that’s what you mean.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Oh, the Hell you don’t: You’re well aware; look at the way you dress, for Christ’s sake. Not that that's gonna help keep Wade's eye from strayin', mind you, if there's something resembles cunt within easy reachin' distance...”
“Jackson, enlighten me—when was it the boss took a crap in your hat, exactly? Seein’ you can’t go two damn minutes ‘round me without tryin’ to run him down…”
“Wade treats you like a toy, Charlie. Like some little pet he can just off and leave, and it’ll still come runnin’ with its tail a-wag the very next time he sees it. That strike you as fair?”
“That’s my business if it is, and even if it ain’t. Just ‘cause I let you rub up against me the once—“
“Three times.”
“—okay, three—so damn what? You think you know me, think you own me, just ‘cause you wish I was thinkin’ of you when I did it?” He pushed on, not quite letting himself register Jackson’s look of genuine hurt; a looming hulk like that had no earthly right to mope around love-sick, not when he was more’n old enough to’ve known what he was gettin’ into. Snapped: “Still wanna tell yourself you’re doin’ me some kind’a favor?”
Jackson stared at him a moment, struck speechless. Then noted, simply—and with a surprising lack of vitriol—
“You really are a vicious little bastard, aren’t you? Let a man stroke you good ‘n’ hard when you want it, then hove ‘round when he ain’t lookin’, and bite him to the bone. Like a damn curse from God on me, in return for all I done…” A pause. “But then again, I guess you learned that bag of tricks from the best, didn’t you?”
Charlie cleared his throat, which felt suddenly gone all dry. “You got that right,” he managed, at last.
Jackson nodded. “Well, then,” he said, turning. “See you later, maybe. When you’re in a better mood…”
(or not)
“Don’t bet on it,” Charlie called after him—but since Jackson was already gone, his words fell hollow on the door, as it closed behind. Which meant all he could do was sit back in the cold water, shivering…’til Ben came back at last, and they quarrelled (over Jackson, of all damn things). And Charlie got himself so drunk, in his despair, that he proved himself a liar before the night was even halfway out.
So: A few days passed, and then they were in Bisbee at last, where—after tangling with the Pinks, jacking the stage and running across that too-dignified one-leg rancher, with all his airs and graces—Charlie found himself alone yet once more, stuck waiting outside for Ben to be done with his barmaid; leant back against a wall with his hat down over his eyes, shielding himself from sun, sharp eyes and memory alike. Unable to quite keep from recalling that first night, and how bad he wanted another one just like it. Yet still helplessly recalling what he’d seen in Ben’s face, too, the morning after…that morning and every other one since, whenever Ben thought his attention elsewhere: Dry amusement, slight contempt, boredom. Pity, even, Goddamnit.
Thinking: I gave myself away, seems like, and I don’t even know how. Or why. Or what might possibly be done to fix it, to set everything a’right…
Which is why he missed the posse closing in on Ben, in his sad distraction; why he knew it his fault when they walked Ben out in chains—galloping by in a frenzy, screaming helpless threats of arson while doing offhand murder: This town’s gonna burn! Why he’d do anything it took to get Ben back, to prove himself again, be restored to his rightful place: Sink or swim, do or die. Or, if need be—
—die trying.
THE END
Drabble: 3:10 to Yuma, Ben/Charlie (Charlie/Jackson), distracted
When you get what you want, let it be what you need, Charlie Prince’s Mama had sometimes said, in between what most often seemed like an endless procession of chores, barely leavened by the occasional session of desperate prayer—all of it equally gruelling, albeit each part in its very own special way. Which probably explained why he hadn’t been listening too close at the time, and only vaguely recalled it now, when it’d finally started to seem relevant at last.
After all, he’d finally got what he’d thought he always wanted, since he and Ben Wade first crossed paths—the man himself’s ear and elbow, a permanent seat at his right hand, open permission to carry his banner and work his will in all damn things. And what Charlie hadn’t rightly known he’d wanted, too, not in anywhere but in his most secret dreams, ‘til he found it suddenly proffered at the point of a drunken kiss: Ben Wade’s favor, his arms and mouth and otherwise, his wicked tongue set loose on every part of Charlie in darkness, when none but them were ‘round to see. The taste of both being sweet indeed, most-times…except for when it wasn’t.
After that night at Splitfoot’s, where Ben seemed to publicly seal their pact in Fat George Doolin’s blood—even with the rest of the gang back together again, packed in close enough to hang on their every word and move—Charlie’d felt secure enough to fool himself that things were set in stone, as to the boundaries of their new relationship. But by Total Wreck, where they stopped for fresh horses and one final reconoiter before the coach-to-Bisbee job, cracks were already starting to show…spreading fast and primed to bust wide, ‘specially when Ben decided to celebrated by buyin’ ‘em a whore apiece and insisting on Charlie going first, knocking back a half-bottle of whiskey while he sat back and watched, appraisingly...
Granted, the gal was willing enough, and perfectly inoffensive, to boot. But being deep in her—even under Ben’s gaze—was absolutely nothing to Charlie’s memory of Ben deep inside him, so all the whole exercise served to prove was that Ben really had ruined him for anyone else, fully and completely.
One more move, in an endless waiting game: How he spent his life, now, more often than not. Sometimes he looked up to find Ben’s mock-mild eye at rest on him, appraising, and froze stiff in his tracks; other times he just thought he felt it, found himself deluded and colored deep all the same, to his damn ears. As all the while, each and every minute of the livelong day, what they’d already done together came back to him in snatches, quick and sharp like lightning across a blank sky—numbing, burning. Leaving no visible trace in its scorching wake.
His business finished, Charlie paid the fare, tipped his hat and took himself off back to his room, leaving Ben to make his own fun—then ordered up a bath and fell asleep in it, waiting patiently for that same fun to be over. He woke up cold and alone, in a mess of his own dirt; three things which never served to put him in too good a mood, no matter the attendant circumstances. To make matters even more uncomfortable, however, he also opened his eyes to find Ed Goddamn Jackson leaned up against the suite’s door (which Charlie’d thought he’d locked, as well as shut), arms folded, silently contemplating Charlie’s wet nakedness.
Charlie sat up, sloshing. “You mind?” He snapped, grabbing for a towel.
Jackson shrugged. “Not too much. I like lookin’ at you, ‘specially all laid out like that.”
“Well, it’s a Hell of a lot less unexpected when you’ve agreed to let a person do it, first.”
“Don’t tell me you’re shy around me, Charlie.” A pause. “Wade ain’t back yet, huh?”
An angry shrug, flicking water from his eyes: “Looks like not. So…just what the Hell do you want, anyhow, Jackson?”
The big man’s eyes grew hot. “What the Hell you think? Princess.”
“Told you to stop callin’ me that. I look like a girl to you?”
A snort. “Not hardly. You’re pretty, is all—‘specially compared to me. Me, I’m like a Goddamn skinned bear, but you…even your scars are pretty. And don’t try to pretend you don’t know it, either.”
Charlie blushed at this, then found himself immediately blushing even deeper over already having blushed, in the first place. “I don’t sit ‘round thinkin’ on it, if that’s what you mean.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Oh, the Hell you don’t: You’re well aware; look at the way you dress, for Christ’s sake. Not that that's gonna help keep Wade's eye from strayin', mind you, if there's something resembles cunt within easy reachin' distance...”
“Jackson, enlighten me—when was it the boss took a crap in your hat, exactly? Seein’ you can’t go two damn minutes ‘round me without tryin’ to run him down…”
“Wade treats you like a toy, Charlie. Like some little pet he can just off and leave, and it’ll still come runnin’ with its tail a-wag the very next time he sees it. That strike you as fair?”
“That’s my business if it is, and even if it ain’t. Just ‘cause I let you rub up against me the once—“
“Three times.”
“—okay, three—so damn what? You think you know me, think you own me, just ‘cause you wish I was thinkin’ of you when I did it?” He pushed on, not quite letting himself register Jackson’s look of genuine hurt; a looming hulk like that had no earthly right to mope around love-sick, not when he was more’n old enough to’ve known what he was gettin’ into. Snapped: “Still wanna tell yourself you’re doin’ me some kind’a favor?”
Jackson stared at him a moment, struck speechless. Then noted, simply—and with a surprising lack of vitriol—
“You really are a vicious little bastard, aren’t you? Let a man stroke you good ‘n’ hard when you want it, then hove ‘round when he ain’t lookin’, and bite him to the bone. Like a damn curse from God on me, in return for all I done…” A pause. “But then again, I guess you learned that bag of tricks from the best, didn’t you?”
Charlie cleared his throat, which felt suddenly gone all dry. “You got that right,” he managed, at last.
Jackson nodded. “Well, then,” he said, turning. “See you later, maybe. When you’re in a better mood…”
(or not)
“Don’t bet on it,” Charlie called after him—but since Jackson was already gone, his words fell hollow on the door, as it closed behind. Which meant all he could do was sit back in the cold water, shivering…’til Ben came back at last, and they quarrelled (over Jackson, of all damn things). And Charlie got himself so drunk, in his despair, that he proved himself a liar before the night was even halfway out.
So: A few days passed, and then they were in Bisbee at last, where—after tangling with the Pinks, jacking the stage and running across that too-dignified one-leg rancher, with all his airs and graces—Charlie found himself alone yet once more, stuck waiting outside for Ben to be done with his barmaid; leant back against a wall with his hat down over his eyes, shielding himself from sun, sharp eyes and memory alike. Unable to quite keep from recalling that first night, and how bad he wanted another one just like it. Yet still helplessly recalling what he’d seen in Ben’s face, too, the morning after…that morning and every other one since, whenever Ben thought his attention elsewhere: Dry amusement, slight contempt, boredom. Pity, even, Goddamnit.
Thinking: I gave myself away, seems like, and I don’t even know how. Or why. Or what might possibly be done to fix it, to set everything a’right…
Which is why he missed the posse closing in on Ben, in his sad distraction; why he knew it his fault when they walked Ben out in chains—galloping by in a frenzy, screaming helpless threats of arson while doing offhand murder: This town’s gonna burn! Why he’d do anything it took to get Ben back, to prove himself again, be restored to his rightful place: Sink or swim, do or die. Or, if need be—
—die trying.
THE END
