He was in hell, there was no other explanation for it. Lucidity came and went, like night followed day, but he was sure there was more to his life than this, more than he was currently allowed. If he'd been asked, he knew he couldn't have told an enquirer his name or where he came from and he could barely recall anything of his former life, but some tiny tendril of hope remained. There had to be something else. Didn't there? ---------------- He'd been held up delivering a baby, but now both mother and child were thriving there was no reason for Nathan to delay his departure for the town of Paradox any longer. He'd tried reasoning with Chris, but that achieved as much as if he'd tried to tell the wind which direction to blow, or the rain not to fall. By now he probably ought to know better - when Chris Larabee made up his mind, nobody could change it for him. It was mid-morning by the time he was ready to leave. Nathan lingered over breakfast, eking out the last cup of coffee for a good half hour in a display of tardiness even Ezra would envy. As he'd swallowed the last lukewarm mouthful Nathan wondered if Ezra would even believe it of him or if he'd smilingly inquire just which of his countless bad habits Nathan planned to emulate next. He couldn't believe he was missing Ezra Standish. Missing him already or even at all. It hardly bore thinking about. And he'd only been gone a week. Ezra had acceded to Chris's orders too readily, agreeing with an almost-hidden smirk that had more effect on Larabee than any words would have done - Nathan could see their leader consider changing his mind about sending Ezra before he decided Ezra was attempting to play him. Like, it had to be said, Ezra usually did; he delighted in pitting his months of experience of how the Larabee mind worked against Chris's determination to have things go his way. There was always the possibility, of course, that this was Ezra working some complex scheme, a convoluted double-bluff of some kind that would leave Chris gasping in the dust. It wouldn't be the first time he'd tried, after all. Nathan had been detailed to accompany Ezra on this particular journey, the two of them ordered to make the few days ride it took to reach the former mining town of Paradox, where they'd pick up a wanted felon who went by the name of One-Eyed Tom Buchanan. A sobriquet, Ezra had joked quietly as they'd walked out of the saloon together, that would at least make it a little more difficult to bring back the wrong man, even for the most inefficient of lawmen in these parts. Mrs. Morgan's labour had put a temporary change to their plans, Ezra leaving town on schedule with strict orders from Chris to wait in Paradox for Nathan to join him. Orders Nathan had no doubt Ezra intended to obey to the letter, as long as there was a man left in that town with money in his pocket and a willingness to gamble. As long as Ezra had managed to stay out of trouble, things should have been fine, Nathan told himself as he tightened his horse's cinch. Somehow that thought didn't reassure him as much as it ought. ---------------- His name was Standish. It seemed like an odd sort of name and it struck no resonance within his memory, but that was the name the doctor had spat at him last time he'd bothered to visit, so it had to be his. He couldn't remember anything else clearly - the discovery of his name didn't spark a torrent of returning memory, like some pulp novel where the hero suffered from amnesia and everything suddenly came flooding back at a convenient moment for the purpose of the plot. If he was the hero, of course, which he'd no way of proving or disproving. Perhaps the doctor had good reason to treat him with such contempt. There were faces in his mind's eye, vaguely recognised, male and female alike, but he had no way of telling who they were to him. They could have been his parents, his friends, his worst enemies; they were just faces, nothing more. They could be people he remembered, people he'd met along the way, but all were anonymous none the less. ---------------- It was rare Nathan travelled alone any more. Once he'd had no choice - there'd been no-one willing or able to accompany him for many of the journeys he'd taken in his earlier life - but since he'd settled in Four Corners so many things had changed for him that travelling with company now seemed to represent normality. Most often it was Josiah, his oldest friend among the seven men and the first white man he'd trusted in a long time. They shared some of the same opinions, differed in some things, though at times Josiah's world was darker than even Nathan's chequered past. Even in the most troubled times he'd had the support and love of his family, while Josiah had lost even that to his father's drunken rages; a childhood without Obadiah Jackson and his brothers and sisters didn't bear thinking about. But travelling alone to Paradox gave him time to think, whether he wanted it or not. When he stopped along the way, lighting a small brush fire to boil water for coffee and resting his horse, Nathan made the unlikely discovery that he felt more at peace than he had for the longest time. Once he'd pinned all his hopes on Rain, but that relationship had withered and died along the way. She'd married another, someone her father preferred over Nathan, someone without ties to the white man's town he wasn't prepared to sever. At first Nathan had been cast down by that discovery, as well as a little angry that Rain would expect him to make a choice. Not that he felt he fitted in among the solid citizens of Four Corners, but he'd made a place for himself there - it was the closest thing to home he'd had in longer than he cared to think about and he wasn't prepared to put that aside, not even for her. Nathan had found family again, with the men who'd chosen to stand beside him when his father had been put on trial for murder, and he couldn't turn his back on them or the people they worked to protect. Rain hadn't understood that; after a few months passed, perspective made Nathan wonder what she would have thought of him if he had agreed to her demands. He was already certain what he'd have thought of himself. They were an unlikely bunch, no matter how you looked at them. Nathan closed his book, a weighty medical tome Judge Travis had sent him some weeks back, frowning at his own inability to concentrate - he crossed to where his horse was tethered, tucking the book carefully back into his saddle bag as he thought about the men he'd left behind. And the one he was going to join. He hadn't thought much of Ezra the first time they'd met. Only time had shown he wasn't quite the shallow and self-serving gambler he tried so hard to convince them all he was. Time and careful observation on Nathan's part, particularly when Ezra Standish wasn't looking. It was still easy to get angry with Ezra, for Nathan to allow the words and the accent they were couched in to evoke some instinctive reaction. Too easy sometimes. Some days he wondered if Ezra knew that; others Nathan was sure he did and used that knowledge to his advantage. But that wasn't all there was to Ezra Standish. It was too easy to look at the surface and miss what was deeper. In truth Nathan wondered whether they'd both been guilty of that in the beginning. He'd lied to himself as well, tried to convince himself that Rain was who and what he wanted, that she was the only one he could possibly be interested in, even when he'd found himself becoming more conscious of Ezra's presence in his life than he cared to think about. It was torment, a small piece of purgatory if Nathan had believed in such a thing, and he had no idea what would happen if Ezra ever discovered. Other than the doubtless lengthy mocking lecture he'd receive, if Ezra didn't just up and shoot him for his impudence off-hand. There was just something about the gambler, though, something that drew Nathan's attention and interest like a moth to the flame. As if he was the antithesis of everything Nathan held dear; living proof that opposites attract. Or a sign that Nathan was plunging headfirst into lunacy. At times he could believe either possibility to be true. He'd first noticed that strange fascination some months previously. Nathan avoided playing cards with Ezra as much as possible, knowing the ready skill with which he'd be separated from his hard-earned wages, but some nights the temptation was too much to bear. And so he'd watched as Ezra's dexterous hands had dealt the cards, watched as those same hands pulled his money from him, and wished for the opportunity to experience those hands in greater intimacy. Of course, it was possible he was just attracted to Ezra because he was the forbidden fruit, more so each time he opened that mouth of his and reminded everyone of his origins. Or perhaps Nathan found himself the subject of some divine joke, driven not only to fall for another man, a white man at that, but someone whose every word reminded him of things about himself he'd much sooner forget. Whatever the truth of it, none of it was Ezra's fault. He hadn't tried to attract Nathan's attention, he just did. And the more Nathan tried to ignore it, the stronger the attraction seemed to grow. ---------------- Sometimes, it was like being deep underwater, a swimmer striving for the surface, lungs bursting as they strained for the light and air they knew was there just waiting. His life, his real life, was up there, so close he could almost touch it but always out of reach - each injection pushed him back where he'd been before, ripping the truth of who he was and where he came from out of his grasping hands. The doctor was his only constant. In his more lucid moments, he reminded himself of who he was, his lips silently forming the name the doctor had given him as he lay with his back to the door. He'd spoken it out loud on one occasion and been overheard - the bruises from that encounter had almost disappeared but not quite. He wondered whether there was anyone who cared where he was, whether he was alive or dead; had he been placed here by someone, abandoned to this purgatory? Or was he alone in the world, despite the evidence of the faces in his memory, even though he had no idea who those faces belonged to. Surely someone cared where he was, cared enough to look for him. But as the days passed, he knew that couldn't be true. Perhaps he'd done something, committed some terrible act, and this truly was his punishment. He didn't think he was dangerous; the idea of violence didn't excite him when he thought of it. But maybe his being here was for the best. If nobody cared enough to miss him when he didn't come home, did it really matter anyway? ---------------- "What do you mean, he's not here?" The hotel manager swallowed nervously, seeing the barely-suppressed anger his response evoked. "Then where is he?" The manager licked his lips again before speaking, his eyes casting about the now-deserted foyer, doubtless looking for someone to take his side. Nathan was angry enough not to care that the manager probably didn't think too highly of a colored man just walking into the hotel through the front door, but he'd become used to that kind of attitude early on in his life and he didn't allow it to affect him now. Not when he needed to find Ezra. "Mr. Standish was here," the manager said. "But he only stayed 2 nights." "He checked out?" Nathan couldn't believe it. Ezra might be many things, but he wasn't a man who'd leave a town when anyone was left who might offer him competition in a game of chance, let alone in direct defiance of Chris's orders. And he'd passed the saloon on the way from the livery stable, glancing in at a lively card game in progress - Nathan had stopped for a moment to check Ezra wasn't there, then told himself it was still a little early for the gambler to be out of bed, card game or not. "Without paying." The manager's mouth compressed to a firm line, as if he was accusing Ezra of something even more serious than that. In his mind, running out on the bill was probably at the top of the list of the seven deadly sins. "At least I was able to pawn his things and get my money that way." "Pawn his..." Nathan stopped. "He left something behind?" As unlikely as it was that Ezra would skip town early without the threat of being tarred and feathered in the offing, the idea of him leaving any of his possessions behind was about as likely as his growing wings and perching in a nearby tree. "Where's the pawnshop?" "Down the street on the left," the manager said. "Now, if you'll excuse me..." He let the sentence trail off, half-turning his back on Nathan in an unspoken dismissal. Nathan shook his head, wondering just what kind of mess Ezra had got himself into this time. The first task, of course, would be to find out just what it was Ezra had left behind in his hurry to leave. Nathan was used, of course, to people watching him - even in Four Corners, with the Seminole village nearby and his months of working alongside the townspeople, Nathan knew he was still a novelty. Here, in Paradox, he'd yet to see another face like his and the long second looks people gave him as they passed told him everything he needed to know. Most places didn't give someone different the time of day, let alone the chance to make a home for themselves, and it seemed Paradox was just like most places. It almost made him wish he was back in Four Corners. There, at least, Nathan felt like he fitted in, more than he'd ever felt since he was a child. Even in the war, though he'd helped save the lives of countless soldiers on both sides, he'd been different, the colour of his skin never forgotten. In Four Corners he had some worth, the lives he'd saved and the injuries he'd healed buying him more acceptance than he'd ever expected to find anywhere in the white man's world. But he needed to find Ezra first, before the two of them could get back to what Nathan now considered 'home', with or without the prisoner they'd come to fetch. The pawnshop was as grubby as he'd expected, the store's owner a little less so. Nathan closed the door behind him, feeling eyes on him even before the bell announcing his entrance ceased to echo. "Hotel manager told me you got some things," Nathan said, wanting to take the initiative. "Things a guest left behind, he sold them to you." "And if I do?" the storekeeper asked. The tone wasn't hostile, it was disinterested. Nathan felt he'd been weighed and measured - his exact monetary worth calculated and found wanting. "I'd like to see the things he sold you," Nathan continued. He noticed the store keeper's eyes drop, inadvertantly, to a glass-topped cabinet to the left and headed that way before he could say another word. There, lying on a bed of green velvet faded from years of sunlight, lay Ezra's Remington. Nathan had removed it from Ezra so many times, unbuckling the holster to treat some wound or injury, that he knew it in an instant. "That what you came to see?" "How much?" he asked. That got him a guttural laugh, one that turned into a hacking cough before it ground to a halt. "Don't waste my time." The storekeeper spat into a handkerchief. Even from where he was standing, Nathan could see the dark colour of the sputum. "I don't have that much left." He nodded. There was no way Nathan could buy back Ezra's gun, not with the few coins in his pocket - in that, as well as his own self-diagnosis, the storekeeper had been accurate. There was really only one thing he could do. "Sheriff Watson?" Nathan asked, as he pushed on the half-open wooden door. There was a man inside, his lanky form sat at the desk in front of the small row of cells, where he was midway through cleaning one of his pistols, pieces laying spread before him on the wooden surface. "I'm Watson," the man said, placing one of the parts he was holding carefully down onto the desk as he spoke. Nathan knew the sheriff's other hand had dropped to the revolver's partner and made no sudden move. "And who might you be?" "Nathan Jackson," he said, keeping perfectly still in the doorway. "From Four Corners." He saw Watson relax at that, then get up from his seat. As he crossed to where Nathan stood, he wiped his hand on his pants leg then extended it. That wasn't quite the reaction Nathan expected - Watson didn't seem at all surprised at the colour of Nathan's skin or anything else about him. "I've been expecting you," Watson said, as they shook hands. "But I thought there'd be two of you to take Buchanan?" "That's where I need your help, Sheriff," Nathan said. "Go on." "Does the name Ezra Standish mean anything to you?" he asked. Watson shook his head. "He was staying at the hotel, then he left suddenly, without paying his bill." "Skipped town?" "So the manager says." "But you don't believe it." It was a statement, not a question. "This Standish fella your friend?" "Not exactly," Nathan said. "We work together, and he was supposed to wait here for me so we could travel back together." "With Buchanan? I can see why you'd be worried then," Watson said, frowning. "And his things are in the pawnshop," Nathan continued. "Let's go, then," the sheriff said, as he finished loading the last of the bullets into his now-clean pistol. He stood, sliding the gun into his holster. "Go?" "Maybe we can find some clue concerning your friend," Watson said. "And for that we need to get his things." He followed Watson back out into the late afternoon daylight, squinting a little at the sun as they headed towards the pawnshop. This time round, Nathan noted with little surprise, the pawnbroker was more amenable, allowing Watson to handle the Remington with little discussion. The sheriff turned, handing the gun to Nathan. "This his?" Nathan turned the weapon over in his hand, though he didn't need to do so in order to confirm its identity. He'd seen it in Ezra's possession in a dozen different gunfights; he'd have known that pistol anywhere. He nodded, wondering if this was the last connection he'd have with the missing gambler, or whether, with Watson's help, he'd be able to track Standish down. The thought of losing Ezra to an uncertain fate sent an ache deep inside him, a feeling he hadn't felt for what seemed like a lifetime. "What else?" Watson asked, his eyes on the pawnbroker once more. After a long moment, the man began to assemble a collection of familiar items one by one on the glass counter in front of him. Ezra's derringer and rig, the ring he always wore, his pocket watch, a low-brimmed hat and an all-too-familiar red jacket. Nathan felt his hand tighten on the Remington as each item joined the pile. Wherever Ezra was, someone had stripped him bare like a flock of vultures. The crowded shop suddenly felt too small and Nathan found himself fumbling for the door, breathing deeply of the dry desert air when he made it outside to the boardwalk once more. Watson joined him outside the pawnshop a few moments later and handed him a package, brown paper surrounding what felt like a jacket, Ezra's hat perched on top. "You're worried about him." Nathan's mouth opened to speak the denial, the habit momentarily strong, then reality hit. Ezra wouldn't be parted easily from any of the things that had ended up in the pawnshop, so that meant something bad had happened to him, and he couldn't deny that feeling any longer. "You don't have to like someone to worry for them," Watson continued when Nathan didn't answer. Nathan glanced round at the sheriff, who seemed to be busy watching the street, the occasional nod to a passerby his only movement. "It's not that simple," Nathan said. He didn't want to explain himself to anyone, even if he knew exactly what it was he'd be explaining. "But yes, I'm worried." "It never is," Watson replied. "Come on." ---------------- Perhaps if he tried to concentrate, fix his mind's eye on one face out of the dozens that swirled within his memory, that might do the trick? They slipped from his grasp, like smoke between his fingers, even as he tried to concentrate. "Now, now," a voice said, interrupting his thoughts and bringing him back to what passed for reality with a jolt. "Really, Mr Standish, you must relax and let my elixir work its wiles upon you." He opened his eyes, knowing just what he'd see. The doctor was smiling down at him, his bright eyes filled with a light that bordered on madness, a syringe filled with yellow-green liquid glinting in his hand. "No," he said. "No more." He wasn't sure how he'd been able to form the words, and was amazed at their relative coherence. The doctor frowned. "You are in no position to argue," he said. Then one of the orderlies stepped forward, as if appearing from nowhere, and held him to the bed when he tried to move. ---------------- "Take a seat," Watson said, when they got back to the jail. Nathan did as he was bid, half his attention on Watson as he crossed to the stove. One of the cells was occupied, a dark lump unmoving on the cot - that must be Buchanan, Nathan realised. In his concern for Ezra he'd almost forgotten why the two of them had come to Paradox at all. "Thing is," Watson continued, after he'd put water on to boil for coffee, "your friend's not the first person to disappear round here." "Really?" Nathan frowned. "How's that possible in a place so small?" Watson had taken off his hat and was idly turning it in his hands where he sat, his eyes focussed on the rhythmic movement. "Never locals," he said. "Visitors, ones with no family in these parts, nobody to enquire where they went till long after they'd gone." "People who wouldn't be missed?" "Exactly." "How many?" Nathan asked. "Five in the past two years that I know of," Watson said. "Your friend makes six." Enough to make a pattern for anyone who was looking, but not enough to raise a hue and cry, particularly if they had no local links. "Any other pattern?" Watson looked up, puzzled. "Men or women? Old or young?" "Four men and two women." The sheriff paused, as if he intended to say something more, then his gaze dropped to his hat once more. "You know something more," Nathan said. "Don't you?" Watson said nothing, the regular movement of his hands on the hat brim growing more and more infuriating. "What's happening here?" "All I can say," he said, after a long moment's silence had hung between them, "is if you want to find your friend, you need to get yourself some steady work." He looked up, hands stilling just before Nathan's urge to slap the hat from his hands peaked. "I hear the hospital is hiring." That was all he was able to get from Watson. Even after he'd drunk coffee with the man, the sheriff had been tight-lipped over anything that might have the slightest link with Ezra's disappearance, and it seemed he'd made his mind up he'd already said too much. Nathan would have bet every penny he owned that Watson was afraid for his job and that fear made him keep his own counsel. At least he had an idea, Nathan told himself as he crossed the street back towards the livery, where to start, if not why. He remembered seeing a building out to the west of town, some distance away, and since he'd seen nothing more hospital-like in the vicinity he could only assume that was the place Watson meant. He'd stay the night in the livery - there was no chance the hotel manager would let him back in there after the scene he'd caused over Ezra and it wouldn't be the first night he'd slept in a hayloft. And in the morning he'd head over to the telegraph office and wire Four Corners before going out to the hospital to see if they were hiring. ---------------- The voices were louder now despite the further dose of whatever it was the doctor had given him, more insistent on being heard. If he closed his eyes, he'd discovered he could hear them more clearly, could separate one from another and mark the differences in their accents, in the way they spoke to him, their tone of voice. He could assign roles to them, relationships to his imaginary past, but had no way of telling if he was right. A female voice could be his mother or his landlady - a male voice could be his dearest friend or his worst enemy. Assuming he had any friends of course, which his ongoing stay in hell made less and less likely as the days passed. At least they'd undone the restraints, confident he wouldn't be violent any longer - he tried to take solace in that, small gesture as it was. ---------------- It didn't take much effort to recall the persona he'd used when he was a slave, long years of deference towards his owners and their family beaten into him from an early age no matter what he really thought of them all. In some ways, Nathan was concerned at how easy it was to fall back into that, to lower his head and keep from making eye contact, but then he reminded himself it was all an act. Like those travelling actors who'd come through Four Corners a while back, to Ezra's delight. They weren't kings or noblemen in reality, but they'd played their parts with assurance, strutting the makeshift stage as if they owned the whole territory let alone the saloon in which they found themselves by chance. Nathan had seen elements of Ezra in their performance and had found himself studying the gambler watching them with as much interest as he'd studied the actors. "I'm looking for work, sir," Nathan said, staring at the ground, when asked what he wanted. There'd been no sign on the building, no indication of its purpose, but the bars on the windows and the white almost-uniform of the man who greeted him marked him out as an orderly of some kind. "I can do most things," Nathan continued. "I was a stretcher bearer in the war, did my share of patching folks up too." "The doctor does the hiring and firing round here," the orderly said. He turned on his heel, disappearing into the double doors, which swung closed behind him. It was a warm day, even this early, and Nathan could feel the trickle of sweat that slipped between his shoulderblades as he waited. He'd lived through worse, though, toiling in the Georgia sunshine - he made himself stay still, reminding himself of the role he'd chosen to play. There was no mistaking the purpose of this building, even though Watson had called it a hospital. If this wasn't an asylum, Nathan had never seen one. "So," a voice said, "Davidson tells me you're looking for work?" The voice was cultured, with a clipped accent Nathan didn't recognise. If this was the doctor, as he expected it was, he wasn't from around these parts. "Yes, sir." He let his accent deepen as he spoke, hoping that the doctor would be fooled by its strength into thinking he was no more than he seemed - another itinerant ex-slave, long on muscle and short on brains. "I can do most things." He risked a swift glance upwards at the man who stood at the top of the steps. The doctor wasn't particularly tall, his face wasn't memorable, apart from the eyes which radiated a kind of cold life all their own. This wasn't a man he'd want to entrust his well-being to, Nathan decided. If Ezra was here, like Watson thought he was, then somehow Nathan knew he was in a lot of trouble. "I expect you've picked your fair share of cotton in former days?" the doctor asked. Nathan nodded, not knowing what else to say. He wasn't proud of what he'd done, how could he be when he'd been given no choice in the matter? But he'd survived, most of his family had survived, and he couldn't be ashamed of that. "Davidson will find you a uniform and somewhere to sleep," he said. The orderly walked round him, trotting down the steps to where Nathan still stood. He could feel the doctor's cold eyes on him, even as he looked to Davidson for instruction. "Follow me." Nathan did as he was bid, his horse following behind him as he trailed along where Davidson led. He was certain the doctor was still watching him, but he didn't dare turn to check - that wouldn't fit with the part he was playing. Not that Davidson was any friendlier. "You can put your horse in there," he said, gesturing to a run-down looking stall at the end of the barn. "You'll sleep in the hayloft." "This is a hospital, ain't it sir?" Nathan asked. The deferential tone he put into his voice stung him with every word he spoke, even though he understood its necessity. "I've tended sick folks before." Davidson looked him up and down, his dark eyes scornful. "You got experience dealing with lunatics?" he asked. "Ones that'd kill you as soon as look at you?" Watson was wrong. He had to be. At least Nathan hoped he was, if what he'd seen during the war was anything to go by. For Ezra's sake he hoped Watson was wrong, that he wasn't here - Ezra wasn't crazy, not by any stretch of the imagination. "I seen plenty," Nathan said, searching for the right words. The ones to carry on the pretense but give assurance he'd do as he was told. "During the war. Things folks wouldn't believe." Davidson nodded, as if Nathan had passed some kind of test. "You keep your mouth shut and do as I tell you, we'll get along fine," he said. ---------------- He remembered a time like this. There'd been a fever outbreak, sweeping through the county like a hot wind, taking lives left and right. And those were the lucky ones, the ones who succumbed quickly. He remembered that feeling, the dissociation from his body and the inability to move. As if his muscles had turned to water, his bones to lead, so that even turning his head out of an errant ray of sunlight left him exhausted. He remembered much of that time, as if seeing it through a mist. A dark face, hands that bathed his brow with a cool cloth, their touch sure and gentle all at once. A kind face, one he should know, with eyes that shone with concern for his well-being. "Joseph?" he whispered, not knowing whether he really expected an answer. ---------------- Nathan tried not to be impatient, but it wasn't easy. He'd seen the doctor a couple of times since the day before last and still felt the weight of those cold eyes upon him. Davidson seemed to trust him, but he was still left in the public part of the hospital, a locked door between him and what he'd been told was the doctor's private domain. If he could only get into that part of the hospital, before vengeance personified by Chris Larabee and the others swept into Paradox in search of their missing comrades. Somehow he was certain Ezra wouldn't be found unless Nathan found him first, before Chris got here in search of the two of them. That was where Ezra was, if Watson was right and he was anywhere here, since all the rooms this side of the locked door were occupied by assorted patients who seemed to be cared for adequately. At least there was no sign of the abuse Nathan knew characterised some asylums - he could only hope Ezra was being treated kindly. But the memory of the coldness of the doctor's gaze thwarted that hope even before it was born and the existence of a locked ward made it seem even less likely. He was pushing a broom at the moment, working his way down the corridor to the door which separated public from private, all the while waiting for Davidson's voice asking him what the hell he thought he was doing. When the voice didn't come, Nathan was able to listen at the door, but no sound came from beyond it. Still, that didn't mean Ezra wasn't in there. Pushing a broom gave him time to think, more time than he'd ever wanted to have. There were no words for what he was, for the things he wanted to do with Ezra, or if there were, he didn't know them. Maybe Ezra could teach him some, if he ever managed to find him, if the gambler wasn't repelled by the idea that Nathan could care for him more than he'd thought possible. He heard the footsteps rushing down the corridor, even through the wooden barrier and took a couple of hasty steps back, turning his attention back to his battle with the ever-present dust. The door slammed open, two orderlies he didn't recognise coming through it at speed, one half-carrying the other, blood trickling down his face from a deep gash across his forehead. More blood dripped down his arm, drops hitting the floor from his hanging fingers. "Help me!" Nathan acted without thought, dropping his broom and then grabbing the half-conscious orderly's other arm and draping it across his shoulder. "What happened?" he asked. The other orderly, the one who'd demanded his assistance, shook his head. "Help me get him to the doctor," he said. "You want to carry on working here, you'll learn not to ask questions." Nathan half-turned his head, looking for the source of the blood from the orderly's arm. The sleeve of his uniform had ridden up, revealing a semi-circular mark, the skin broken and torn, as if it had been worried by an animal. Except that the bitemark, for that was what it certainly was, looked distinctly human. 'What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Ezra?' he thought. ---------------- He was alone again. If Joseph had ever been there, which he doubted, he was long since departed. He couldn't remember exactly who Joseph was, or where they'd last encountered one another, but he couldn't bring himself to wish this fate upon any he called friend. And he remembered the light of friendship in Joseph's dark eyes. Along with the promise of something more, something to be shared when he was well again. Something elusive, slipping through his fingers. The room spun once more, lazily. ---------------- The door of the doctor's public office had been slammed in his face, Davidson appearing out of nowhere to order him back to work - the door between the public and private parts of the hospital was securely locked once more when Nathan returned to his discarded broom. Only the drops of blood, trailing across the wooden floor, showed that particular scene had ever been acted there. He'd finished sweeping up and was checking the restraints on one of the more violent patients when Davidson appeared in the doorway. "Come with me," he said, turning on his heel even before the words had registered. Nathan felt his heart start to hammer in his chest. This summons was either very good, giving him access to the private part of the hospital and hopefully Ezra with it, or very bad, a sign that his true identity had been discovered. Davidson was waiting in the corridor. "Looks like you got a promotion," he said. "Now we'll see if what you told me was all talk." ---------------- "Joseph?" He could barely croak out the name, hoping for an answer but dreading the fact that he was alone. No answer came. He should be used to being alone. There was something that told him he was accustomed to it, whether he liked it or not, that it was somehow more his natural state than sociability. Was that good or bad? He had no way of telling any more. All he knew was that, at this very moment, he'd have given whatever it was he might possess for a kind word or a gentle touch. ---------------- They were through the locked door, entering the private section of the hospital at last, and all Nathan could do was hope Ezra was there. If not, if Sheriff Watson's suspicions had been unfounded, he had no idea where else to look. Of course, it was equally possible Ezra was lying injured somewhere, or even dead, but Nathan's instincts told him his missing friend was here in the hospital. He had to believe his instincts were correct; any other possibility was unthinkable. The public part of the hospital had been light and airy in comparison to these rooms - they ranged down one side of a shadowed corridor, each door widely spaced. If he'd not known of the existence of another section, Nathan might have almost considered the treatment the patients received to be enlightened. These rooms, however, had solid wood doors, each one punctuated with a small metal grill to allow the patient inside to be observed in safety. He paused, letting Davidson get a few paces further away, glancing into the first room he came to. Empty. "Come on," Davidson snapped. "Nothing to see there." The next door approached - that was empty too. "Disappointed?" "No, sir," Nathan replied. "Just curious is all." They'd reached the third door along the corridor by now, and Nathan didn't need to look through the grill to know this room wasn't empty. He recognised that sound, he'd heard it over and over during the war. The sound of a distressed mind, pushed to the brink and beyond. That couldn't be... No, he couldn't believe that was Ezra. "Watch out for this one," Davidson said. "She bites." Sure enough, the face now pressed to the metal grill was a female one, eyes full of despair. "You saw what she did to Harrison?" Nathan nodded. The image of the desolation in the woman's eyes stayed with Nathan even as they continued down the corridor, to the next door. No sound emerged from this one, and a glance through the grill showed that although the room was occupied, its occupant was lying still on a pallet, back to the door. "Who's he?" "Nobody," Davidson said. "Some gambler that made a fool of the doctor a while back, not knowing what he was risking." He spat onto the floor, narrowly missing Nathan's foot - Nathan jerked back, hoping that the movement gave him a chance to disguise the emotions he was sure were written clearly on his face. "Guess he's the fool now." It took every ounce of self-control that Nathan possessed to follow Davidson away from the door. Now he knew where Ezra was, if not why he was here, then at least he could do something about the situation. And at least he knew that Ezra was alive. ---------------- He heard the movement, heard the voices outside the door but paid them no mind. As long as they didn't enter the room, did they really exist? And if they did, if they hauled him upright or bared his arm for an injection, how could he be sure they existed even then? The prick of the needle could just be part of his imaginings, part of his insanity. One of the voices in the corridor was familiar. "Joseph?" he asked quietly, without turning over. If it was Joseph, he'd respond - wouldn't he? He couldn't be sure any more. Perhaps he'd done something, caused a rift between them with his thoughtlessness, shattered whatever trust they'd once had. ---------------- At the end of the corridor, they'd found themselves at the door to the doctor's private office. In contrast to the rough-hewn planks of the doors they'd passed or the relative plainness of the other end of the hospital, the door to this room was carved oak, with a heavy brass handle. "I brought him like you asked," Davidson said as he opened the door, then stepped aside to allow Nathan to enter first. The room was oppressive, furnished with heavy dark furniture, a massive desk occupying the pride of place. The doctor sat behind it, waving Nathan to stop on the rug that covered the majority of the floor. Nathan let his gaze drop to his boots, remembering the role he was there to play, his eyes tracing the intricate patterns of red, bronze and black that twined beneath his feet. "Your duties," the doctor said, "are very simple. Do as I tell you, or Davidson does. Nothing more." Nathan nodded. "Thank you, sir," he said, not looking up. They were actually asking him to tend to Ezra? This was working out better than he could have planned, even if he still had no idea what the doctor was up to. "I'll do my best." "See to it that you do." "Follow me," Davidson said brusquely, and Nathan turned to follow the other man out of the office. Outside in the corridor once more, the heavy wooden door closed behind him, Davidson looked him up and down once more. "You'll look after Dolores and the gambler. Both lunatics, both dangerous. Remember that." "Yes, sir." He couldn't wait. All the days of worry about Ezra were congealed into a knot of ice below Nathan's breastbone, one that felt as though it would choke his breath if it continued to grow. ---------------- He had no way of telling how much time had passed. Day and night meant nothing here, wherever here was, and he had ceased to even try to judge the passage of time. Careful hands eased him over onto his back. His eyelids felt like they'd been made of lead, as he tried to focus the face that loomed over him, a face he felt he should know. A face he did know, the first tangible link between past and present he could remember, a lifeline to who he really was that he grasped with both hands. "Joseph?" ---------------- In the end it had been too easy. Davidson had shoved a tin plate of food into his hand and told him to go feed the gambler. Nathan pushed down the wave of anger that threatened to overwhelm him at that - had they even bothered to learn Ezra's name? Had they thought no one would miss him, that no one would care if he disappeared? Perhaps a year or more ago that would have been true, he knew that, and the thought of it had the growing anger replaced with sadness. Ezra was pale, his once-pristine shirt stained with food and dirt, lying on his side with his face to the wall as if he'd given up. Nathan glanced over his shoulder, but the heavy wooden door was still pulled almost-closed and nobody stood by the barred window. He placed the battered plate down by the side of the pallet and reached out, amazed at the steadiness of his hand as he grasped Ezra's shoulder. Automatically he catalogued the warmth of Ezra's arm through the thin shirt, both relieved that he seemed not to be running a fever and reassured that they might stand a chance of getting out of here because he wasn't. "Ezra?" he whispered. Nathan didn't trust Davidson not to be eavesdropping, or the chance he would suddenly stop by to check up on his newest assistant. Ezra blinked fitfully at him, as if woken from a deep sleep. "Joseph?" Ezra asked quietly, his voice cracking a little on the name. Nathan thumbed one of Ezra's eyelids, forcing him to keep the eye open, and examined the other man's pupil. He was clearly under the influence of something, some substance meant to keep him calm and subdued. "Joseph? Is that you?" There was an edge of distress lacing the words now, a tenor to them that Nathan didn't like. He had no idea what Ezra had been given, or how getting agitated would affect him; the last thing he needed was Davidson coming in to give him more of whatever he'd been given. "Shh," he whispered, his hand sliding up from Ezra's wrist to push his dirty sleeve up the arm. As he'd suspected, there were injection marks in the crook of his elbow. "Rest easy, Ezra." Was it the tone of his voice or the use of Ezra's name that calmed the other man? Which ever it was, he'd closed his eyes in response to the words, the slightest of smiles quirking his lips as he did so. "I knew you'd come," Ezra muttered, the words so quiet Nathan had to lean closer to be sure he'd heard them right. Who had this 'Joseph' been that the reticent gambler had such unshakeable trust in him? It wasn't true, though, was it? Where was 'Joseph' now? "Need you to sit up," Nathan said. "You need food." He was used to manhandling half-aware bodies, one swift and sure movement pulling and half-turning Ezra to a sitting position, his back against the wall. Ezra had opened his eyes again but the green gaze remained unfocussed; Nathan wasn't completely sure Ezra realised he wasn't alone. He didn't protest when Nathan began to feed him either, passively accepting each spoonful as it was pressed against his lips, then swallowing with the same apparent lack of interest. There wasn't much food on the plate and it was finished quickly, but Ezra didn't seem to expect more. It was the lack of response, the lack of that stubborn streak Nathan knew so well from tending Ezra sick and wounded, that struck him to the core. Ezra was vulnerable, something he never usually was even when his lifeblood was pouring out. Nathan wasn't sure whether to be angrier at the doctor for doing this, at Ezra for pulling some damn-fool stunt that made him the target of this twisted vengeance, or at himself for delaying his departure from Four Corners. He should have told Chris they needed to travel together, that Ezra should wait till he got back to town before leaving. Though there was no way Ezra would have listened and even Chris might have had difficulty getting Ezra to pay him any heed if Ezra thought there was a chance of turning a profit in Paradox while he waited for Nathan to arrive. But they could have spared him this living hell if either of them had tried. "I've missed you, Joseph," Ezra said suddenly, his voice still a rasping whisper. Nathan glanced up at him from where he knelt at Ezra's feet. Somehow the unfocussed gaze told him Ezra was nowhere near knowing who he was. "I'm here," he said, looking to reassure him anyway. Nathan rested his hand on Ezra's leg above the knee, hoping the touch would comfort him, even if Ezra had no idea who was really there with him. Ezra's dextrous fingers moved lightly over the back of Nathan's hand, then curled, insinuating themselves between Nathan's palm and his own thigh. "It's been so long. You know what I want," Ezra said, the small smile that had lingered on his face growing a little. "Please." His fingers tightened on Nathan's hand, pulling it from where it had been resting in a comforting manner, upwards towards his groin. Nathan glanced over his shoulder at the door once more, even as he tried to figure out whether Ezra was really asking for what he thought he was. He couldn't be, could he? And if he was, was this Nathan's dream come true or a tormenting nightmare? "Can't do that," Nathan said, as he tried to free his hand from Ezra's. For someone who didn't know which way was up, someone who disdained menial labour, he had an unexpectedly strong grip. Ezra's face fell at his words, the smile dropping from his face in a heartbeat. It was replaced by such a look of utter desolation that Nathan felt his stomach twist. Whatever it was the doctor had given him, it made Ezra's emotions as visible as writing on a chalkboard, whether he realised it or not. It was such a change for the usually-guarded gambler, for one whose poker face was both his living and his constant companion. "You said you cared for me," Ezra whispered, letting go of Nathan's hand and turning his face away as far as he could. Ezra's voice, all the things the quiet words implied, were the siren's song to Nathan. They pulled at him, promising a taste of the forbidden fruit if he was prepared to take the risk. He could have it now, an opportunity that might never come again, intimacy with Ezra without consequence for either of them. If Ezra remembered anything it could be blamed on the medication, ascribed to the fantasies of a mind out of balance. He didn't want to consider just who this Joseph was, what he and Ezra had been to one another, the possible complications of doing what he was considering and the price he might pay in terms of his own conscience. Nathan rested his hand on Ezra's thigh once more, feeling the solid warmth beneath his palm; a deceptive strength hidden beneath fine clothes and finer words. "You know I care for you, Ezra." The words slipped out, bitter truth and self-serving lie mingled together. He could do this, even if he was damned for it - Nathan turned a deaf ear on the small voice that cried out at the back of his mind. What choice did he have? His hand slid higher, its slow passage asking permission. Ezra didn't move, didn't even open his eyes as Nathan's hand sought the entrance to his pants. "Joseph," Ezra breathed, the name softer than a sigh across his lips. Nathan closed his eyes, concentrating on taking the place of another, of stealing what should have been another man's memories for his own. Ezra's quiescent member was warm and heavy in his hand, responding in an instant to Nathan's touch even as his fingers curled around it. Ezra caught his breath, eyes still closed, that same small smile returning to his lips once more. It made him look years younger, almost wiped away the layer of fatigue that covered him. He could do this, for both of them. Nathan turned his attention to bringing Ezra to arousal, using the strokes he used on himself, thumb tracing the heavy vein on the underside as he did so. Ezra's breath shuddered out of him, his hand reaching out for Nathan's sleeve and grasping it tightly, abraded skin across his knuckles tightening as he gasped his way to climax. "Sleep now, Ezra," Nathan said, as he tucked Ezra carefully back into his pants. Ezra mumbled something but he couldn't make out the words, allowing Nathan to lie him down once more, the smile still on his face. At least, Nathan thought as he looked down at his sleeping friend, Ezra didn't look so despairing now, now that he believed someone was there for him. If only he could find that kind of peace somehow. ---------------- He'd expected the rattle of gunfire to be the first warning he got that the rest of his comrades had arrived at the hospital. As it was, Nathan was sweeping the corridor and standing guard over a still-sleeping Ezra, one eye on the cell door and an ear cocked for Davidson. The door between the two parts of the hospital crashed open, framing Chris Larabee in the doorway like the angel of death come to earth. "Is he here?" Chris asked, crossing to Nathan's side in a couple of steps and handing him a rifle in place of his broom. "In there," Nathan said, nodding towards Ezra's cell. "The doctor's been dosing him up with something, he doesn't know which way is up." Larabee's face darkened even more. "Where's this doctor?" he asked. "I feel like I need some medical advice." Nathan cocked the rifle he'd been given, looking significantly over his shoulder at the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. "You stay here and watch Ezra," Chris continued. The sound of running footsteps coming closer made them turn, then both relaxed when they saw it was JD. "Ezra?" he asked, as he skidded to a halt in the doorway. JD's eyes widened at the way the two of them had turned towards him - he was still young enough to be impressed by what was merely a well-honed survival instinct, one he'd gain soon if he lived long enough. "Go get Buck," Chris said. "Then help Nathan get Ezra out of here." With that he turned towards the doctor's office, pulling his revolver from its holster as he did so. Not for the first time since they'd been working together, Nathan was glad he was someone Chris Larabee considered a friend. ---------------- Chris rejoined them outside the hospital. There'd been no sounds of gunfire from inside so Nathan could only assume Chris and the doctor had not encountered one another. The short ride back to town was accomplished mostly in silence, with Ezra riding slumped in front of Nathan, still half-asleep and half-drowsy because of the medication he'd been given. They burst through the hotel's double doors, making them slam back against the wall with the force of their entrance. "We want a room," Chris snarled at the hotel keeper, not giving the man a chance to protest. "Now," he continued, his hand dropping to the butt of his holstered pistol when the man hesitated. "Of course," he said, turning quickly to snag a key from the board and then back to offer it with a shaking hand. JD nipped around between the two of them, stifling a grin even Nathan could see from where he and Buck supported a half-aware Ezra, and took the key, leading the way up the stairs. Ezra was quiet, the height of the people carrying him ensuring that his sock-clad toes barely brushed the carpet of the hallway. "This is it," JD said, turning the key and pushing the door open. He stepped back, letting Buck and Nathan pass. "Put him on the bed," Nathan said. "Is he gonna be okay?" JD asked, from the doorway. Nathan glanced up at where the young sheriff stood. "He'll be fine once whatever he was given is out of his system," Nathan said. A thought came to him, the protective instincts he'd been feeling towards Ezra and the need to hide what he'd done mixing and mingling together seamlessly. "He might say all sorts of crazy stuff, but you pay him no mind." "Come on, JD," Buck said, as he cast one last look over Ezra's quiet form on the bed. "We need to go care for the horses." Nathan didn't even hear them leave, he was too busy making Ezra comfortable, rolling the insensible man over onto his side so he could pull the bedspread over him. "He is going to be okay?" Chris asked. Nathan nodded. He couldn't take his eyes off Ezra's unnaturally pale face, even to answer Chris - all he could hope was that it would be mistaken for concern about his health, nothing more. "What was he doing in that place?" "I think," Nathan said, "he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." "I'm going to talk Sheriff Watson and then I'll wire Travis," Chris said. "He needs to send someone to clean up this town, someone to find out if those folks are really crazy or not, now that doctor's disappeared." He was gone then, the door closing behind him more quietly than Nathan expected, with none of the usual dramatic swirl of a black duster. The silence seemed odd, the absence of the men he'd come to consider as family now as tangible, it seemed, as their presence. And he was left alone with Ezra, for the first time since they'd been together in his cell. Nathan rubbed the palms of his hands, suddenly damp, on the legs of his pants as he looked at the sleeping man. Ezra was ashen; he still looked closer to a corpse than a living being. If it wasn't for the regular movement of his chest and the tiny flickering movements of Ezra's eyes beneath his eyelids as he slept Nathan would think they'd been too late. He'd taken advantage of Ezra, used the weakness from which he was suffering, used Ezra's lack of awareness against him to indulge himself and his own desires in a shameful manner. Now all that remained to be seen was what would happen next - would Ezra remember any of it, or would Nathan be the only one who knew, left alone to carry the guilt he now felt. What the hell had he been thinking? Nathan turned to the window, unseeing. He was lying to himself again - he knew exactly what he'd been thinking. He'd been thinking how much he wanted Ezra, how much he needed to know who Ezra really was. Making an assumptions about who Ezra was, about what this 'Joseph' was to him. For all his public bravado, Ezra was an intensely private man, keeping his cards close to his chest in every way imaginable. That moment, that unimaginable moment with his hand wrapped around Ezra's flesh, had been both more and much less than he'd ever thought it could be, though he was certain it would fuel his fantasies for a long time to come. Normally Nathan prided himself on being someone who considered every angle before he acted, but this time he'd done nothing of the sort. And so he'd destroyed any chance of something honest existing between them. Even if Ezra didn't remember, it would always be there in the back of Nathan's mind, or like one of Josiah's crows, perched somewhere near enough to be noticed. For now, all he could do was watch Ezra sleep and pray he didn't remember. The hours passed slowly, only punctuated by the regular appearance of others of their number. Buck had turned up a while back with a tray of food, the smell of which reminded Nathan it had been a long time since he'd eaten. They'd get something for Ezra when he woke - for now he needed to sleep more than he needed food, or so it seemed. After he'd eaten, Nathan continued to sit vigil. It was what the others would expect of him, regardless of the guilt he felt about what he'd done. He'd no excuse, after all, for not behaving like this was just another illness to be nursed, another wound to be tended. Except this time Nathan wasn't sure which of the two of them had ultimately been injured the most and who was least likely to be healed from the hurt inflicted. And his own wound had been self-inflicted. Every so often he'd rise from his seat, walk to the window and look out, watching the people of the town of Paradox go about their daily business. The others stopped by every so often as well, bringing coffee or food, staying to speak briefly about Ezra, before leaving the two of them alone again. Nathan was standing by the window when he heard a noise from the bed. Half-turning, he saw Ezra was awake, some of the colour he'd lost returned to his face, his eyes still fever-bright. "Where..?" he asked, struggling to push himself up to a sitting position. Nathan felt his hands curl to fists, fingers pressing tightly into each palm, as he struggled not to go to Ezra's assistance. He couldn't do it, though, he couldn't touch Ezra again without giving everything away. "Mr. Jackson," Ezra said, quietly, as he squinted against the light from the window. Nathan turned back to the window, pulling the shade down a little as an excuse not to reach out, not to move to Ezra's bedside as he knew he ought. "Better?" he asked, hardly trusting himself to say more. "Much," Ezra replied. "My thanks." There was silence in the room then, an almost palpable presence between them, an unusual occurrence when Ezra was well enough to form any kind of coherent sentence. "I apologise, Mr Jackson," Ezra said, though he had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could form the words. "If I have said or done anything in the past few days that was in any way untoward." Nathan turned from the window, watching Ezra silently as he spoke. Ezra didn't look up, his eyes fixed on where his fingers currently played with the edge of the bedspread that covered him, as if losing sight of those digits would leave him cast adrift once more. "You were sick, Ezra," Nathan said, as he found himself swept with a wave of compassion, a level of concern towards Ezra that only weeks before he might have found hard to comprehend. All of which made his guilt an even heavier burden to bear. "I've heard all sorts from sick folks before." He was giving Ezra a way out and part of him cavilled at it. Part of Nathan wanted to press the point, to remind Ezra what he'd said and the conclusions Nathan had drawn from those words. But that would require him to brush aside what he'd done and take advantage of the other man's weakness even more. Hadn't he done that enough already? "Still," Ezra continued, "I feel the need to apologise for any offence I may have caused." "Enough, Ezra." Nathan took a seat on the side of Ezra's bed, one hand coming to rest on Ezra's, the span of his own comfortably covering both of the other man's and forcing them to stillness. They shook slightly under his palm, tiny tremors that could only be exhaustion, the after-effects of the doctor's drugs and perhaps a little uncertainty thrown in for good measure. "You got nothing to apologise for." Nathan found himself staring at Ezra's bowed head, willing him to look up. There was silence between them for the longest of moments, the only sound the whistling of the desert wind around the hotel, before Ezra moved again. He still seemed hesitant, a shadow of his former self, as if the real Ezra was still left behind in that hospital awaiting rescue. "You had me worried," Nathan said, some demon within pushing him closer to the truth than he'd initially planned to get. "You didn't know who I was, thought I was someone else I figure..." Someone Ezra cared for, if he'd admit it. Someone Nathan found himself infinitely jealous of, even though that someone wasn't here right now and he was. Someone he'd once have killed to be, but never could now because of what he'd done. "It was a long time ago," Ezra began, his voice so quiet at first that Nathan had to strain to make out the words, even sitting as close as he was. "Another lifetime. Before the war." He knew how that felt. The war had seen changes for most folks, not all bad; few families had been left untouched. Nathan's own family had been scattered and partly-destroyed even as he'd found refuge and a new vocation as a stretcher bearer, tending to broken men who'd experienced things that even now made him wake in a cold sweat. "Who was he?" Ezra paused again. When he began to speak, this time his voice was stronger, a small smile curving his lips as he looked back in time and saw another face. "His name was Joseph," he said. "He was my closest confidant for a time, the most loyal friend a man could wish for." Nathan felt the jealousy begin to drain away as the guilt grew apace, even as Ezra's words spoke of how much he'd cared for someone else. The expression on Ezra's face made it impossible to envy that other man, regardless of what he felt for Ezra now. "What happened to him?" Nathan asked. Somehow he knew it couldn't be anything good. "Was it the war?" "No. He died before the war, of yellow fever. It swept through the town, then carried on out to the plantation, cutting hundreds down before it. Joseph was one of the ones who died." Nathan saw that Ezra's eyes were dry, the grief one he'd long carried, long enough that he could talk about what he'd lost. "I didn't even manage to get back for his funeral." ---------------- It had taken a long time before Ezra had been able to even think about Joseph, let alone talk about him this way. Not that there had been anyone to talk about him with, not before he came to this place. Mother had never understood, had never wanted to take the time to understand how two people so different could become closer than brothers, and he considered that to have been her loss. He saw the dawning understanding in Nathan's eyes, the realisation of just who and what Joseph had been to him. "You remind me of him at times, Mr. Jackson," he said, feeling bolder now. Nathan hadn't moved, his broad capable hand still resting comfortably over Ezra's own, as if he'd forgotten the gesture and the intimacy it implied. That had to be reassuring, didn't it? At least Nathan wasn't appalled by what he'd implied, by the relationship between himself and Joseph that Ezra had hinted at so heavily. And that had to be a good thing - he'd never wanted to have to try and explain to anyone what that relationship had meant, to both of them, even if he could put it into words that made any sense. "It didn't help that there was a resemblance," Ezra continued, uncertain where the words were coming from. He felt a certain recklessness, a lack of concern for the consequences of his actions, which had to be an after-effect of the doctor's vile elixir, didn't it? Ezra thought back over the past days, the time his unshaven face argued had disappeared since the last thing he remembered clearly - a series of winning hands at a saloon in Paradox soon after his arrival in that town. The rest was faces and voices all mingled together, emotions similarly tangled, dreams and reality blurred. He'd thought... but that was impossible, Joseph was long dead, mourned by all who'd known him, Ezra was sure of that. He hadn't been there, in Ezra's nightmares, no matter that it had clearly been his fondest wish. If anyone had been there, Nathan's presence here and now argued that he had been the one instead. If any of what he believed had happened had been truth, not imagining. "The others?" "Josiah and Vin stayed behind in town," Nathan said. "Chris, Buck and JD are here. I wired them as soon as I discovered you'd disappeared." "I see." Ezra was silent for a moment, trying to fit the pieces together, to reconstruct the memories and dreams into something approaching coherence. ---------------- That should have been the end of that, Nathan told himself. He'd satisfied his curiosity where Ezra's past was concerned, discovering that his suspicions about this Joseph were right on the nail. He'd even been strong enough to tell Ezra that none of it mattered, that none of the things he'd said meant anything more than the drug-induced ramblings of someone more sick than well. And it had all been a lie. All of it, every single word that had issued from his mouth had been false, even as he'd wanted to pretend he believed them. Because he couldn't stop thinking about Ezra, thinking about the feel of Ezra's arousal beneath his hands. Nathan couldn't help wondering now what a younger version of Ezra had looked like, slighter perhaps and without that damn self-confidence that made Nathan unsure whether he wanted to punch him or not. If their paths had crossed before, if he'd been in Joseph's place, would he have done the same? Taken the same risks Joseph had apparently taken, crossed the line between friend and lover with the same ease his long-dead rival seemed to have managed, despite everything that should have made that final step an impossibility? Nathan couldn't help but think of Joseph like that, no matter how long he'd been in the ground. He was as much a rival for Ezra's affections in the here and now as if he still lived and breathed, that much was certain. The hours that followed that particular realisation were a torment. Nathan found himself watching Ezra even more closely, his attention focussed on the other man even if his eyes weren't, not wanting to give himself away to anyone. Ezra looked better hour upon hour, and he gave no sign of remembering anything much about his ordeal, changing the subject whenever one of the others alluded to it. He seemed unfazed by it all, publically at least, though Nathan was sure he'd seen a thoughtful expression slide across Ezra's face and vanish before any of their number could remark on it. Because it wouldn't do for Ezra to play any other role, would it? He'd assigned himself the role of conman, the role of trickster, and he had to play that role to the end, true or false. ---------------- Ezra had grown accustomed to the idea of being under scrutiny, placing his trust in the poker face so carefully maintained, hiding in plain sight as he watched the swirl and flow of people around him. An island, untouched, that was who he was. Who he had been since Joseph, planning never to allow himself that intimacy with another, never to allow himself that kind of pain. But that didn't mean he had to like being watched. It seemed as though Nathan watched him constantly now. Even as he dozed fitfully, he'd wake and find Nathan's dark expressive eyes on him, watching him as if Ezra's face held the mysteries of the universe or the secret of alchemy. On those occasions, he'd roll over in the bed, presenting his back to the other man; Ezra was certain he could still feel Nathan's gaze between his shoulderblades. As he slept, regaining his strength, sleep punctuated by the regular appearance of one or other of their number with a trayful of food that he was forced to consume, Ezra was certain he was beginning to put the pieces together in his mind. He'd taken the opportunity of following Chris's orders to the letter to get himself some time in Paradox before Nathan arrived and he was forced to once again put his shoulder to the wheel. He'd taken a room in this very hotel, which seemed clean and respectable enough, then crossed the street to the saloon in search of prey. Ezra remembered a previous visit to Paradox with some fondness, encountering a doctor who was rather prouder of his ability to play poker than he should have been. Other than that, one dusty small town was very much like the next, without much to tell them apart. He'd heard the doctor call him every name under the sun, the experience of coming across a sore loser nothing new, and had dismissed his words as little more than hot air. Which, when he'd awoken strapped to a bed, had proved to be an almost-fatal mistake. After that, he wasn't completely sure what was reality and what was not. The vengeful doctor had injected some noxious medicine into his arm and it was then that things became a little muddled. Ezra knew he hadn't been aware of who he was, or where, but that was the extent of what he was sure of. The past and present swirled fitfully together, merging into a sea of unfamiliar faces and voices, until he hardly knew which way was up. At which point, Joseph had arrived to... no, that wasn't right. It hadn't been Joseph, that would have been impossible, even though he hadn't remembered at the time that Joseph was long dead. Except he was certain he'd felt... Ezra squeezed his eyes tight shut at those thoughts, willing away the pricking sensation. The uncertainty he'd felt, the confusion, made the grief seem real and fresh-minted, rather than a dozen years away from the here and now like it truly was. "Ezra?" He heard Nathan get up from his seat hurriedly, haste causing the chair legs to scrape across the thin carpet. "You okay?" He nodded, not trusting his voice. Ezra was sure if he opened his eyes he'd see Nathan watching him more carefully and closely than he could bear, so he tried to concentrate on his breathing, on pushing the betraying emotions back under control. After a few moments he heard Nathan move away, heard the chair creak as the other man sat down again. It had seemed so real. As implausible as it was, as impossible as he knew it to be now, Ezra knew he'd been convinced Joseph was there with him. That he'd felt the touch of those capable hands once more, caressing him as no other had done, bringing him to the brink and beyond with a knowing touch. Except Joseph couldn't have been there, could he? A cold feeling, like a ball of ice, began to settle in the pit of Ezra's stomach. Joseph hadn't been there, couldn't possibly have been there, yet someone had. Someone had touched him that way, not roughly but with care and consideration, which eliminated any of his captors. That fact, and the impossible memory of Joseph's presence, meant there was only one possible candidate - someone who had been there in the hospital, had tracked him down and helped rescue him from a fate half-deserved and half-unmerited. Ezra opened his eyes and looked at Nathan for a long moment, then began to push himself up to a sitting position once more. This was one conversation he didn't want to have lying down. Nathan was half out of his seat, clearly intent on helping, before a well-aimed glare from Ezra made him sit back down once more. "Don't you think you've touched me enough?" Ezra asked. "What're you talking about?" Nathan seemed puzzled, which intrigued Ezra even more - he knew Nathan wasn't all that good an actor, since he couldn't hold back on the righteous indignation he usually felt. "For all your pompous proclamations at times, Mr. Jackson, I never quite figured you for that much of a hypocrite." He watched Nathan carefully, waiting for the words to sink in, for their meaning to become apparent. "What was that, Mr. Jackson? I don't recall sexual favors being part of your usual treatment program." There, the blow had struck home at last. Nathan's immediate reaction was shock, then guilt, followed by a parade of other emotions in quick succession. "You were half out of your mind with that drug, Ezra." The expression on Nathan's face was a picture, clear evidence he had no poker face to speak of, and Ezra found himself watching the varied emotions with fascination. "You didn't know who you were, who I was..." "And so you took advantage of my weakened state?" Ezra snapped. What was that, guilt? "What on earth were you thinking to lay hands on me in that way?" "That I'd never get the chance again." The words, blurted out so suddenly, before Nathan got up from his seat and crossed to the window, his face hidden from where Ezra sat. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't trust me any more." Ezra took a few moments to digest that revelation in silence. Of all the possible motives he'd considered, that one had failed to make the list. He was still angry with Nathan, angry at all the subterfuge involved, but that anger was diminishing by the moment. It was replaced with a very real curiosity about just what it was Nathan had been hiding, more successfully than Ezra had ever suspected possible, all this time. There had always been something about Nathan that had alternately attracted and repelled him; the memories he had of Joseph and their time together were obviously more of a part of that than Ezra had realised. He'd always considered Nathan to be unavailable, his obvious attraction to Rain making him appear even more unassailable than before. Ezra had no wish to ostracise himself further; he'd discovered the comforts of having somewhere to call home though it was still an unfamiliar sensation, and making any sort of advances to one of his compatriots would have done just that. Ezra couldn't help wishing they were back in Four Corners. There, at least, he could have plied Nathan with drink, maybe found a way to get him alone in the clinic and get whatever information he could out of the man when his defenses were down. Here there was the constant threat of interruption, one or other of their comrades could appear at any time, destroying any semblance of privacy as they did so. "I wish I'd known," Ezra said, quietly, after the silence between them had hung heavy for long enough. "Otherwise you'll think me a hypocrite, I'm certain, allowing your touch when I believed you to be another man." How different would things have been between them if he'd allowed himself to comprehend what he'd truly wanted? Ezra prided himself on being a good judge of character, on his ability to see beneath the façade presented by the people he met, straight to their weaknesses and vulnerabilities. But where Nathan was concerned, he hadn't seen that particular aspect of his character. Or he hadn't wanted to see it, preferring to remain in blissful ignorance. Ezra wasn't sure which possibility rankled with him the most. Whatever the truth, he had to regain control of the situation - he needed to test this out, discover whether Nathan had made a foolish decision he now regretted or whether there was a possibility of something here. Something tangible and utterly unexpected. "I ain't him," Nathan said, his gaze still resolutely out of the window. "I know that." "I can't be him." Nathan's spine was rigid as he spoke, the tenseness of his back illustration of the awkwardness of this moment and the guilt he clearly carried. As well he should. "I know that too," Ezra said. "And I would not wish you to be anything or anyone other than you are." He let the words hang in the silent room for a moment, allowing Nathan time to digest his meaning. "Like you said, Ezra. I took advantage." How soon the roles were reversed, the tables turned. "No matter what I was feeling, I shouldn't have done that." He needed to see Nathan's face, needed to be able to read the emotions there like he had moments before, desperately needed that confirmation that all of this was real and not some fever dream like before. And he had an idea, a surefire way of reasserting his control over the situation and assuaging some of Nathan's guilt, if only Nathan would go along with it. "Lock the door, Nathan," Ezra said, as he swung his legs over onto the floor, feeling the cool wood solid beneath his feet for the first time in what seemed an eternity. "What're you doing?" Nathan asked, moving to hover over him. "You're in no state to get up." "The door," Ezra repeated. He looked up at Nathan, seeing the guilt and concern warring for dominance in those dark eyes. "Please." Nathan nodded, then crossed to the door and did as he was bid. "Now come here," Ezra continued, gesturing with a peremptory hand for Nathan to return to where he'd stood before. "What is this?" "You had your pleasure, Mr. Jackson," Ezra said. "Would you deny me mine?" He saw the puzzled expression on Nathan's face, the curiosity that made him such a determined healer taking over for once. Perhaps this would work after all, swinging the balance of power back towards the middle, at least for now. In time, back in Four Corners, they could investigate this equilibrium at their leisure. "Though I am immodest enough," he continued, "to believe it will be a pleasing experience for us both. Have you never imagined me on my knees before you, Mr. Jackson?" Ezra demonstrated, tucking his feet under the bed and sliding to his knees with practised ease - inwardly he was pleased not to find himself on his face as a result of his actions. The muscles of his legs quaked a little before he steadied. Nathan's hands had curled into fists at his sides, as if he wanted to fight the desire Ezra could see so clearly in his eyes. "I don't..." "Your poker face needs work," Ezra said. He reached out slowly, one hand extended to brush lightly over the bulge already appearing at Nathan's groin; he stifled the smile he felt emerging at the slight hiss from Nathan at his touch. "Haven't you dreamed of this?" "Did you..." Nathan licked his lips, swallowing as he tried to form the words. "Did you do this for Joseph?" "This," Ezra said, dexterous fingers working at Nathan's fly. "And more. Much more." Released, Nathan's erection was all he'd expected it to be, and Ezra examined it for a long moment with a conoisseur's eye. "Ezra, this is a bad idea." Ezra glanced up as Nathan spoke, having caught the tone of quiet desperation within the words. "You owe me, Nathan," Ezra replied, before he turned his attention back to Nathan's erection. He reached out, taking hold of Nathan's trouser leg to pull him a little closer, glad of the support as the muscles in his legs began to quiver in disapproval. Ezra let his stubbled cheek brush against the tip of Nathan's erection, smiling as it jerked at the stimulation. "And I intend to collect in full." It had been a long time since he'd done this, Ezra reminded himself, even as he closed his mouth over the tip; it looked likely that neither of them would last very long. Nathan groaned as the heat of Ezra's mouth touched his erection, the sound richocheting through him to strike an answering chord in his own groin. If he wasn't so tired... By the time Nathan groaned again, this time in warning before his emission flooded Ezra's mouth, his grip on Nathan's trouser leg was all that was keeping him upright. "Ezra, I..." Nathan was looking down at him now, his expression saying that he knew just how tired Ezra was and not to even think of arguing the case. "Help me back into bed," Ezra said, knowing Nathan couldn't resist, that all his instincts wouldn't allow him to resist such a blatant appeal to his nurturing side, the side that made him so good at stitching them all up and putting them back together. Hesitantly, Nathan reached down, his face as good a canvas for his emotions as Ezra had expected it would be. "Sit down," Ezra said, when he'd been settled back into the all-encompassing embrace of the sagging mattress. "Please." Nathan did as he was bid, though his eyes were anywhere but on Ezra, apparently finding the worn-out pattern on the threadbare carpet a source of great fascination. Ezra sighed - this wasn't going to be easy. "I plan to say this only once," he began, half an ear alert for the possible sudden appearance of another of their number, in which case he had no plans on even thinking about broaching this particular topic again before their return to Four Corners and a greater privacy. "If you'd asked me." He raised a hand to stop Nathan speaking, the slightest movement somehow enough. "I would have agreed," he continued, when Nathan had subsided back into the chair. "I'm not him." "I don't want you to be." Ezra took another deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so. He didn't want to see Nathan's face, didn't need to see the vulnerability of it, needed not to see that when he relied so much on Nathan's predictability. "I just need you to be yourself." There. "Nathan." He kept his eyes closed as Nathan thought on that in silence. "Then what just happened..." The worry was still there, the guilt too, though they seemed to be less dominant. "You know I always have an angle," Ezra said. If his every muscle didn't feel like he'd been wrung out and hung up to dry, he knew he'd have been out of the bed by now, across to where Nathan sat. But the truth was Ezra would be flat on his face if he tried that, so words were all he had - his stock in trade, never so important as now. If he was less fatigued, he'd give Nathan something else to think about. He took a long, shuddering breath. Whatever that was the doctor had been shooting into his veins, that and his more recent exertions had turned his muscles to water and made him as weak as a day-old kitten. "I..." Whatever it was Nathan was about to say, some ill-chosen and sentimental words no doubt, they were interrupted by a sudden rattling of the door handle, closely followed by someone hammering on the hotel room door. Nathan got up and unlocked the door, Ezra's own Remington appearing in his hand from somewhere as he did so. The door opened to the usual whirlwind appearance of JD. "The buckboard's ready, Nathan. Wow, Ezra, you look much better, how do you feel? Chris says we need to get going, otherwise we'll lose most of the daylight." "Go tell Chris we'll be down shortly," Nathan said, interrupting the flow of words even as Ezra felt himself sliding further down into the bed as if in retreat from JD's volubility. When he was well, he could deal with their young sheriff's eagerness, but today it was all a little too much. The door closed, leaving the two of them alone again. "We'll talk when we get back to Four Corners, Ezra," Nathan continued, his voice still somewhat subdued. "Now let me help you up." Ezra smiled to himself. He couldn't help considering that offer to touch him a victory, of sorts. His agile mind was already considering the possibilities, the information he'd already been given enough to let him ponder just how he could get Nathan to unbend a little more. And once they were on familiar territory Ezra had every intention of pressing whatever advantages he now had where Nathan Jackson was concerned.

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