It was the voice that first made Nathan turn and look at the man. The dust had barely settled from the arrival of the stage, Four Corners now a scheduled stop on the way to Denver. It had become habit among the peacekeepers to look to the passengers who alighted there, scanning faces for signs of trouble. Or, in Ezra's case, for signs of a loaded wallet and lack of common sense where gambling was concerned. "Ezra?" Even with a single word Nathan could tell the newcomer spoke with the kind of accent they didn't hear very often, not way out here in the middle of nowhere, a cultured Eastern accent that seemed utterly out of place on the dusty main street of Four Corners. Fascinated by this meeting of opposites, one soberly-dressed and one flamboyant as usual in his favourite red jacket and pristine white shirt, Nathan watched from the boardwalk as Ezra slowly turned his head towards the voice that spoke his name. "I don't believe it," the man continued. "Ezra Jameson, as I live and breathe." Was this another victim of one of Ezra's cons? That didn't seem likely, since the newcomer appeared pleased to see the gambler. "I fear you have mistaken me." Ezra's voice was low but pitched loud enough to carry across the distance that lay between the two men. It was the expression on Ezra's face that intrigued Nathan more than anything else - over the time Nathan had known him, experience had taught him when the gambler was lying. By now he could tell more often than not, and this was definitely one of those times. Ezra knew this man, whoever he was, though he would have given his right arm to convince the world they'd never met before. "Ezra," the newcomer persisted, taking a step towards where Ezra stood. "This is ridiculous." Nathan saw the way Ezra tensed a little at the movement, as if all his instincts were setting him up for a quick exit should the need arise. His own hand instinctively dropped to his gun at Ezra's reaction. "I couldn't agree more, sir," Ezra said, straightening up from where he'd been leaning on one of the posts that edged the boardwalk. His tone was casual, bored almost, but there was an underlying edge to the words. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I am no longer entertained." Ezra's back was ramrod straight as he whirled on his heel, making as quick an exit as was humanly possible without actually breaking into a run. He didn't look round, so he couldn't have seen what Nathan saw - the puzzled expression on the face of the visitor, as he watched the man he'd called Ezra Jameson disappear from view round the nearest corner. "How much does any of us know about one another?" That was Josiah's voice; he appeared on cat-like feet at Nathan's side even as the tableau came to an end. "Who is that?" Nathan asked, but Josiah didn't answer. He watched the stranger head for the hotel. Nathan noted the way the other man's shoulders slumped slightly as he walked and how he stopped at the edge of the boardwalk on the other side of the street to pick up his valise - he'd abandoned it, clearly without a second thought, when he'd left the stagecoach and spotted Ezra in turn, in his usual place watching the passengers alight. Nathan had never really thought of Ezra as coming from anywhere in particular, but this man seemed to know him, seemed glad to have known him and glad to see him again. Apparently he also knew Ezra Standish as someone else altogether. --------------------- He'd thought himself safe, out here in the middle of nowhere where he could go by any name he chose and the things he'd run from couldn't find him. Out here Ezra could re-invent himself if he chose to, or be the person he'd learned to be at Maude's behest if that suited him better. It was a protective carapace, that persona - the gambler who didn't care about anyone or anything except the clothes on his back and the money in his pocket. It stopped people getting too close, one way or another, and sometimes Ezra didn't even have to work too hard to maintain that distance. That safety for himself and his thoughts, uninvaded by anyone else. People took him at his word, judged him by his appearance, unwitting accomplices in the greatest con of all. And if it was a lonely place to be, at least it was a place of his own choosing. Ezra had watched the others, seen the loneliness in them as well, the things their lives had driven them to and thanked a god he no longer believed in that he was where he was by his own choice. He wasn't Chris, seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle because of all the things he'd lost, too focussed on being what his reputation said to be anything else. Or Buck, going from one bed to another in search of a comfort he'd never find no matter how hard he looked, never satisfied that what he had was enough. Or Vin, always looking over his shoulder for the next man to try and claim the price on his head. He wasn't Josiah, battling his demons even as he tried to serve a god Ezra wasn't convinced was real for him any more. Or JD, struggling to find a niche for himself in a world that didn't value his youth or enthusiasm but cherished how fast someone could draw a gun over those better virtues. Or Nathan... Nathan was a survivor like himself. But he was someone who could never escape the role he played; changing clothes would never be enough, the colour of his skin telling most people all they wanted to know and hiding the true nature of the man inside. --------------------- Ezra wasn't in his usual place; the chair he occupied most of the time he wasn't out on patrol sat empty in the saloon when Nathan looked in at the door. He didn't spend too much time in the saloon himself, leastwise not when there were no other members of the Seven around - liquor and long-standing prejudices didn't make for the best of bedfellows - Nathan had learned long ago that discretion was often the better part of valour. He turned, almost walking into one of his friends as he did so, and his hands instinctively came up to push the newcomer away. "Easy, Nathan," Vin said, taking a step back himself. "Sorry." He was on edge, for no apparent reason. Just the thought of conflict had him twitching, which wasn't usually his way. Must be something in the wind. "You seen Ezra?" Vin shrugged. "Not in there?" "No." "Then maybe he doesn't want to be found," Vin continued. "You know how it is, Nathan. We're all of us running from something or other. Sometimes it's best if what we're running from don't catch us." It would make sense that Ezra had gone to ground. For all Nathan knew he'd even left town, though that was less likely than him keeping a low profile. He wouldn't want to answer any questions about who this newcomer was and how the two of them knew one another. "Come and have a drink with me," Vin said, resting a hand on Nathan's shoulder. Nathan found himself nodding, then he turned to follow Vin into the saloon; he settled into a chair at Vin's side as the tracker chose a seat that kept his back to the wall and eyes to the door, as always. "Thanks," Nathan said, as he downed a mouthful of rotgut. He hadn't realised how much he'd needed that, even though he wasn't much of a drinker. He couldn't afford to be, not when other people's lives - possibly his own too, if it all went wrong - could depend on the steadiness of his hands. When he put the glass back onto the table, Nathan realised that Vin was watching him, studying him. "What do you want from Ezra anyway?" The question took him aback for a moment, before he realised there wasn't anything to it, no innuendo other than that he'd supplied himself. For a moment there Nathan had thought himself discovered, the well hidden truth of his almost-fascination with Ezra Standish laid open for all to see. Instead of which it was an innocent question about his earlier request. "Someone was on the stage today, someone who knows him from way back." Nathan took another swig of liquor. "Under another name." Vin was still watching him, an unspoken question in his eyes. "I was just curious, that's all." "Since when are you curious about Ezra?" That was a reasonable question, he supposed. There had never been much of a relationship between him and the southerner, not that he'd forged particularly strong bonds of friendship with any of the Seven, Josiah excepted. Even with this man, one of the two who'd saved him from a lynching before he even knew who they were, there wasn't all that much they knew about one another. They'd drink together on occasion, like they were doing now, but Nathan could hardly say he knew all that much about Vin Tanner, or that Vin knew a great deal about him. "Don't know," he replied, for some reason feeling a need for honesty, whether because of the liquor's effects or just the fact that Vin had asked him to sit down and drink with him. "It's just Ezra." "Nathan, why are you so interested in Ezra all of a sudden?" Vin said. He pondered that for a moment, finishing his drink to give his hands an excuse to do something while he thought. "Because it's Ezra," he said, finally. "He's not who he wants us to think he is." "Nathan, there ain't a man alive don't have something 'bout him he wouldn't want other folks to know." Vin pushed his chair back from the table and stood, throwing his final words back at Nathan as he walked away. "Why him?" And that was the question, wasn't it? What was it about Ezra Standish - or whatever his name was, since it seemed likely that Standish wasn't the real thing - that got him so uptight? So fascinated and horrified and utterly focussed on whatever the southerner said or did. So full of interest in a man he was starting to discover he hardly even knew. When had he stopped hating Ezra Standish? He'd been carrying that hatred around for a long time, till he hardly noticed the weight of his burden, that much was true. He'd clung to its familiarity, to the security it gave him, the constant reminder that he was different. As if he needed that reminder when the mirror told him every day he didn't look like other folks in town, even if the looks of those not used to him weren't mirror enough. If he had a dollar for every time someone refused his aid because of the colour of his skin, Nathan had once figured out he wouldn't need to work for a month or two. When had he lost the ability to see beyond all that, to see the person behind the façade, or had he never had that ability in the first place? Ezra presented the world with a certain appearance, but what if that appearance wasn't truly who he was? Was there more to him that Nathan hated, or was it just the things he thought he knew about the gambler? It was confusing, there was no doubt about that. His instincts had always told him to trust Ezra, even against the evidence of his eyes, the things he'd seen Ezra do. He couldn't forget the other times, those occasions when Ezra had done the unexpected, and it felt as though he was weighing the gambler in some kind of balance - truth on one side, façade on another. Which would prove the greater? And what right did he have to judge Ezra, anyhow? Somewhere along the way, that hatred had turned from fascination to obsession. He'd become so aware of Ezra Standish that he could set his watch by the other man's behaviour, tell just how the gambler was feeling by the coat he wore, read that poker face as if he could get inside Ezra's head. His waking thoughts often turned to the other man; lately his dreams were filled with that voice, those hands. It was disturbing and more than a little frightening, and all Nathan could do was hope it was something that would disappear in time. If he had to find himself infatuated with someone, why did it have to be Ezra? If it had been Josiah, he could have understood it easily - the quiet preacher was the first white man he'd trusted, truly trusted, in a very long time. Instead of which it was the man who was least like Josiah who most attracted him - the one who spoke the most, even though those five-dollar words rarely revealed what he was really thinking, the one who he trusted least. Except that wasn't really true now, was it? Four Corners wasn't that big a place, but he'd an easy excuse, one that the rest of the group would have all accepted, if he'd chosen to avoid Ezra as much as possible. Instead of which he'd pushed himself into their company, all of them, as if scared he'd miss something, pushing himself to spend time with Ezra as well. It hadn't missed his attention that Ezra was the outsider of the Seven, though. That when everyone paired off for patrol or some other task, Ezra was the odd man out. That was a position Nathan had expected to fill, only to find another taking his place. Maybe that was what it was? They were both outsiders, both appearing to be something that they were not. Birds of a feather in more ways than one. If he couldn't ask Ezra, then the next best thing was to ask the stranger himself, he supposed. Except Nathan had no idea how to start that kind of conversation, or any reason to expect he'd be told what he wanted to hear. He found himself watching the front of the hotel anyway, taking a seat across from the entrance and keeping his eye on it for the man who knew Ezra - a man whose own name he didn't even know. That was one problem soon enough fixed. Getting up from the chair, Nathan strolled across to the hotel, half an eye out for trouble as it always was, and finding none. He nodded to the clerk, then spun the register towards him, scanning the list of names in search of one that fit. There. 'David Morrison' was the name he'd put, in a precise hand that looked like it spent a lot of time writing down figures. In the column marked 'address' he had put 'New York', which was something Nathan hadn't expected, even with the accent he'd heard. That was all he needed to know. He had no intention, after all, of making himself a nuisance to Morrison, just of taking whatever chance he had to ask him a few questions about their mutual acquaintance. The afternoon was drawing to a close before Nathan saw him emerge from the hotel entrance, looking up and down the street as if checking to see if Ezra was there. Was he hopeful of this, even after the rebuff he'd received from Ezra first time around? "Mr. Morrison," Nathan said, as he crossed the street to meet him. "Yes?" Morrison had stopped on the boardwalk, clearly puzzled that anyone should know his name. His expression gave nothing away, and for a moment Nathan wondered if he and Ezra were kin of some kind. "What is it?" "You don't know me, sir," Nathan continued. "But we have a mutual friend. He calls himself Ezra Standish." "I'm afraid you're mistaken," Morrison replied. His face was shuttered now, no longer as calm and unreadable as it had been before. He looked like a man who knew a lot of secrets and was good at keeping them. "I don't know anyone of that name." "Perhaps you know him by another name?" Nathan pressed, reluctant to let this man walk on. "You spoke to him this morning." Morrison hesitated before answering, his eyes searching Nathan's face intently. "No, I was mistaken. I'm sorry, I can't help you." He'd turned away from Nathan almost before he'd finished speaking, the movement a silent dismissal. Nathan watched him as he walked away, not hurrying but clearly determined to put some space between himself and Nathan as soon as he could. --------------------- At the end of the day, why should he hide? Ezra took his usual seat, pulling out his cards as he did every night, but found himself alone. Was it so obvious that he didn't want company? He had no appetite for the game anyway, or for the kind of concentration he'd need to give any concerted effort to part the locals from their money, though he could doubtless have summoned up some kind of enthusiasm if the need had arisen. But instead he found himself in solitude once more. He'd had the opportunity to think on that chance encounter with Morrison this morning, to deal with it in his mind and place it with all the other things he didn't really want to think about. The petty subterfuges that made up his life, his past a tapestry of them till they over-ran one another. Deceit piled upon deceit, until he could barely see the truth beneath them. No wonder no-one trusted him. There wasn't a person in Four Corners who would understand - he wasn't sure he understood himself - exactly who he was, so how then could he expect any kind of confidence? His table was an island in the stream of movement, the ebb and flow of people in the saloon washed around him while he remained untouched. Unaffected. Alone. For the first time since almost before he could remember, Ezra found himself wondering if it had to be this way. He concentrated for a moment on the regular movement of the cards. They formed a familiar pattern, one that he could rely on, control utterly, and yet it wasn't enough. But, like the cards, he could control what happened next. Make some kind of effort to change how things were, to bridge the gap that lay between him and the others, to test the waters before fully immersing himself. Would that be so bad? To be able to trust on someone else? To rely on them, have them rely on him. It had been a long time since that had been the case - since David, in fact. He still remembered it all, what there was of it to remember. They'd both been so terribly young, utterly unaware of all the obstacles the rest of the world would put in their way, certain that they could overcome everything if only they were together. Ezra found himself smiling a little at his own naivete, wondering how he could ever have been that other Ezra, the one who believed so easily, trusted so easily. Yet once he had been. Perhaps it was the passage of time, turning his memories into something better than they were, but he found himself yearning for that again. For that sweetness, that trust. Something he'd never realised he missed till now. The Ezra he'd once been hadn't lacked for friends. People had flocked around him like moths to a flame, though he'd always suspected the motivations of some - the lure of money was strong, after all. In the end, all of them had proved faithless. He'd thought David was different, only to discover he was just the same. It was ironic, Ezra decided, that here in Four Corners he'd found people he could rely on and was unprepared to consider them friends. Initially he'd told himself it was purely a business arrangement, something to tide him over till the wanderlust grew too strong and the desire to see what con he could succeed with somewhere over the horizon overwhelmed him. He'd never planned on putting down roots; even the failed saloon enterprise was a way of making money for bigger and better things elsewhere. Except that somewhere along the line he'd grown to appreciate the company of his fellow peacekeepers, the ordered routine of his life an unaccustomed solace to a soul grown weary of being rootless. This was the longest he'd stayed in one place for longer than Ezra cared to think. And now he was craving something more, considering the possibilities and discarding them as if contemplating what variation of the game of poker might best succeed in fleecing the unwary. This was a dangerous enterprise. He would need to tread warily, consider all his options carefully, weigh and judge each possible contender. Ezra signalled to Inez, nodding as her eyes asked whether she should bring over another bottle. She was an option too, of course, but not what he currently craved. Not what Ezra had wanted for a very long time, what desire the appearance of David Morrison had re-ignited in his breast. There was nothing he wanted more than to make a connection. One by one, as he drank carefully and laid his cards on the table precisely, Ezra considered the rest of the peacekeepers. In the end, it didn't take long to come to a decision. Even if they only ended up as friends, that would be something. A step forward, a major one at that. And it was up to him to lay the foundations for whatever might happen next. In some ways it had the feeling of an uneasy truce, each side eyeing the other as if waiting for them to make the first false step, but even the cessation of hostilities had to start somewhere. Ezra found himself making more of an effort to involve Nathan, asking him on more than one occasion to join him, when before he'd never considered the possibility. Not because of who Nathan was, or had been once, but because that wasn't who *he* was - he just didn't do things like that. He was certain the others were watching him, wondering just what it was that had made him change his ways, talking about his time spent with Nathan behind both their backs, but he couldn't bring himself to mind. He got what he wanted, after all. The beginnings of something with the man he'd thought about most of their company, the one who'd seemed the least likely to even cross the street and spit on him were he on fire. Because of who Ezra was, or at least who he'd pretended to be. Before, Chris had always made a point of keeping the two of them separate, as if forcing them to work together was more than either Ezra or Nathan could cope with. And perhaps, Ezra had to admit to himself as he headed for the livery stable to saddle up his horse, Chris had been right. Nathan had detoured to the clinic to pick up his medical kit, before the two of them headed off in the direction of Greeley so Nathan could go tend the badly broken leg of a local rancher. Ezra had already saddled his own horse and was busy saddling Nathan's when the healer arrived at the livery - Nathan stopped in the stable doorway as if lost for words. Certainly that was the effect his expression gave when Ezra finished tightening the cinch and turned to see what was happening. "You didn't have to do that," Nathan said, coming over to where his horse stood. "I assure you," Ezra said, taking the reins of his own horse and leading the gelding out of the door, the words thrown over his shoulder as he did so, "it was no trouble." Was he going out of the way to disconcert Nathan? He didn't think so, but it was always a possibility that he wasn't doing it consciously. As Ezra swung up into the saddle, he had to consider that he could be pushing Nathan to see how much kindness he'd take, how much different handling he'd accept from Ezra without balking. And it seemed like it was a lot. Small things, an invitation to sit down, saddling Nathan's horse, all calculated and part of a subtle plan or honest gestures of friendship given freely? As Ezra waited outside the livery for Nathan and his horse to emerge, so they could be on their way, he was no longer sure himself. --------------------- If that didn't beat all. That was the last thing he'd expected, walking into the stable to discover Ezra saddling Nathan's horse for him without being asked to. Not that he'd have done it, at least not without a lot of complaining, if he'd been asked, anyway. By the time he'd finished ensuring his medical supplies were safely stowed and joined Ezra outside, the gambler's face was implacable, giving no hint of the motives behind his actions. Could be he was just being thoughtful, if it wasn't for the fact that Nathan couldn't think of a time when he'd ever saddled anyone else's horse for them, that he knew of. "Thanks," he said, getting a non-committal nod in return, even though he knew he didn't have to explain what the thanks were for. Then he put his heels to the horse's flanks and set out, conscious of Ezra following in his wake, more than aware of those perceptive eyes fixed on his back. By the time they reached the Bailey farmstead, Nathan about fit to burst. He was certain Ezra had been paying just as much attention to him as he had been to where they were going. If it hadn't been that Chris had developed a distinct dislike for any member of the Seven travelling anywhere alone, Nathan would have travelled by himself. As it was, he hadn't expected Chris to assign Ezra as his travelling companion - perhaps Chris was testing the reality of this new-found friendship between him and Ezra as well? He didn't understand it himself. Ezra seemed to have taken a shine to him in the last few days, going out of his way to include him in whatever scheme he had cooked up, making Nathan feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not that he didn't appreciate Ezra's kindness, the quiet invitation to join him at the table, saddling his horse for him when he was busy getting his supplies ready, but it was unexpected. Unsettling. He wondered just what Ezra was up to. "Mr. Jackson, I'm so glad you're here." The rancher's wife came running out of the farmhouse, a worried expression on her face. He dismounted, leading his horse to the fence of a small corral and tying him there, out of the way but near a trough of water. "I'm so worried about my husband - I know he thinks he's going to lose his leg." "I won't lie to you, Mrs Bailey," Nathan said, getting his supplies from the saddlebag. "Bad break like your message described, that's always a possibility. Last resort, though." Mrs Bailey nodded, her concerned expression easing a little at Nathan's words. "Come on in," she said. "Both of you." Nathan had almost forgotten Ezra was there with him, until Mrs Bailey included him in her invitation. They crossed to the farmhouse, Nathan more conscious than ever of Ezra following him, particularly as the gambler still said nothing. "He's in here, Mr Jackson." She led the way into a small bedroom, sparsely-furnished but scrupulously clean. Bailey was there on a cot, either asleep or unconscious. "I had the hands put him here when they brought him back." She went over to her husband, bending down to stroke a rebellious lock of hair back from his forehead in a gesture that spoke eloquently of her fondness for him. "I thought being closer to the kitchen would be a help?" Nathan nodded. "That was good thinking. I'll need to examine his leg, clean it up if needs be, and then set the break." With one last look at her husband, Mrs Bailey stepped back, allowing Nathan to take her place. He'd seen the faces of better men than Ezra Standish would ever be turn pale or a sickened green at the sight of a break like this. But, to give him his due, the only reaction from the gambler that Nathan saw to what greeted them was a slight clenching of his jaw and a convulsive swallow. "Don't worry none," Nathan said, feeling some unexpected need to reassure. "These kind of breaks always look bad." He looked down at Bailey's leg again, noting the way the white end of the bone glistened where it pierced the skin, the dirt that had entered the wound. "He was dragged and trampled, you say?" he said over his shoulder to Mrs Bailey. "So the hands tell me." Mrs Bailey's voice was quiet now, as if anything louder than an almost-whisper would somehow imperil her husband's chances of recovery. As he examined the break closer, there were other things that seemed more likely. "He was roping an injured steer, wouldn't let him close enough to doctor it, and it somehow pulled him from his horse." She paused and Nathan could almost imagine her wringing her hands in the apron she wore before she spoke again. "They brought him here as soon as they could." He nodded, noticing as he stood and checked Bailey's pulse the way Ezra was watching him. He wasn't used to being watched, but somehow this was unobtrusive, a scrutiny that didn't make him feel he was being held up for consideration, that the gambler suspected him of plotting something. "You gonna help me set his leg, Ezra?" he said, looking at his companion directly. Ezra nodded, then started to strip off his jacket. "I need some hot water, Mrs Bailey, as hot as you can manage it, and cloths too. Got to clean it before I can put the bone back like it should be." He turned to rummage in his bag for a moment, bringing out the small bottle of ether. "We'd better put him under," Nathan said. "That leg's gonna be mighty painful to mend, so we don't want him thrashing about while we try to splint it." Ezra nodded, as he finished rolling up his shirtsleeves, then Nathan handed him the bottle and a small cloth mask. "Just a few drops should do it. We don't want him so far under we can't bring him back if needs be." There wasn't much for Ezra to do as he cleaned the wound but watch once he'd used the ether - after a few moments Nathan forgot anyone else was there, the amount of dirt sufficient that he needed to concentrate. It had to be clean, or else the wound would fester and Bailey might lose his leg after all. He'd sawn enough limbs off during the war to add another one to the pile. "Nathan," Ezra was shaking his shoulder as he spoke the healer's name. Nathan looked up, blinking a little as he tried to focus on Ezra's face. "You need to rest for a moment. Here." Ezra took the bloodied and dirty cloth from his hand and dropped it in the bowl that lay by the side of the cot, before pressing a cup of coffee into his palm. "Just a minute," Nathan agreed, then took a mouthful of coffee. He frowned as his stomach protested its emptiness. "Five minutes won't matter," Ezra said, taking hold of his sleeve and pulling Nathan to his feet with a strength that his compact frame belied. "And some fresh air will help both you and your patient." He'd manoeuvred Nathan halfway towards the door before Nathan even realised he was moving, one hand resting at the small of the healer's back. He could feel the warmth of it through his shirt, the long fingers he'd always admired so. Outside in the daylight, it was the middle of the afternoon. Nathan stretched, feeling the pull of muscles that complained of hours spent crouched over the ruined mass of another man's leg. This was no way to make a living. Unless he could save the leg, turn the tragedy of an accident into something good, something that further cemented his place in this community. The Baileys had come to him for help and he wouldn't let them down. "Is your task almost completed?" Ezra asked, as he took the empty cup from him. The two of them had crossed to where their horses were tied, both moving in that direction in unspoken alliance. "Almost," Nathan agreed. "Reckon the wound is as clean as it's gonna be, so now we need to put that bone back straight." This was the part he always hated most, since it involved further hurt to set the foundation for healing. "Ain't gonna be pretty." "Will he lose it?" Ezra asked. He'd moved round to his horse's head, one hand casually stroking the chestnut's neck as he spoke; his words were still clear though his back was to Nathan. "Hope not." Nathan sighed. "If the wound's clean enough, there'll be no infection and the leg'll heal right. If not..." He didn't need to say it. Neither of them did. Ezra had been in the war, just like he was, even if the uniform he'd worn had been a different colour - wounds like that didn't care whether you wore blue or gray. "I'm sure Mr Bailey has every confidence in you. As would I in the same situation." Ezra's voice was still quiet, but it held an unexpected conviction in its tone, a trust that Nathan had never expected to hear from the gambler and hardly knew how to deal with. "Well," Nathan said. "Let's hope it never comes to that." He took another breath of clean air, then turned back towards the farmhouse, more conscious than he'd ever been of the unsettling presence of Ezra Standish at his back. --------------------- Having been the subject of Nathan's endeavours on more than one occasion, Ezra now considered himself a connoisseur of doctoring. Not that this meant he took it lightly; he took his place at Bailey's head reluctantly, knowing that even the right amount of ether might not keep their patient under long enough to splint such a bad break. He had faith in Nathan though, even though the very concept he could trust someone enough to allow them to doctor him had come as a surprise. It was so different from their first medical encounter, Nathan almost sneaking the treatment of his dislocated shoulder on him, so certain he'd be rejected. Ezra still wasn't quite sure what he would have done if Nathan hadn't taken the matter into his own hands. He'd fixed his own shoulder before, but it was unpleasant to say the least, and he'd always passed out from the self-inflicted pain involved. Bailey seemed to be under, even as Nathan gathered the materials he needed. Ezra put the bottle of ether down, placing it safely under the cot where it couldn't be kicked over, and took his position, hands resting on Bailey's shoulders in case he was needed. At least the farmer wasn't a big man, otherwise the two of them might have some trouble - dealing with someone the size of Buck, or Nathan himself, would have been much more difficult. Bailey, on the other hand, was wiry and lean, the strong muscles he'd developed over years of hard work warm under Ezra's palms. In the end, though, it was an anti-climax, as Bailey barely twitched. Nathan worked quickly, the glistening end of bone disappearing back into the leg, which was bandaged and splinted before the farmer even began to stir. "Thank you, Mr Jackson," Mrs Bailey said from the doorway, as Nathan pulled the blankets back over her husband. "Keep an eye on him, Mrs Bailey," Nathan said. "He'll run a fever, so I've left some willow bark tea, but if the wound starts to fester send one of the hands for me." She nodded, her face serious. It wasn't long before the two of them were headed back to town, Mrs Bailey's further thanks still ringing in their ears. As he watched Nathan out of the corner of his eye, Ezra wondered just what it was like to be on the receiving end of that kind of gratitude. It wasn't an experience he was ever likely to share, after all - he didn't save lives, didn't doctor the sick. "What?" Nathan asked, suddenly, after they'd travelled about a mile. "You learned to do that in the war?" He wasn't sure if that was what he really wanted to ask, but Ezra knew he needed to ask something. He couldn't just watch someone else without reason, and the kind of scrutiny he'd been giving Nathan needed a good excuse. "And a lot of other things." Ezra nodded. War had a way of teaching you lots of stuff you never really wanted to know, both about yourself and about other people. He still wasn't totally sure why he'd ignored his mother's scathing comments on the stupidity of soldiering and joined up - it hadn't been patriotism, or the belief in a cause, it had just been the thing he'd felt he needed to do. "What name did you use when you enlisted, Ezra?" Nathan asked, half- turning in his saddle as he did so. His gaze was direct, like Ezra was a bug he aimed to pin to a board, and it was all he could do not to squirm under it. "'Cause I know Standish ain't your real name." "I think you know enough," he said, looking down at where his hands held the reins. Perhaps he should pack his bags after all. "More than you ought to." More than anyone ought to be interested in him, beyond accepting the front he presented to them. Somehow, though, it intrigued and pleased him that Nathan apparently cared enough to even ask. --------------------- He sat down at Ezra's table, without an invitation this time, close enough that the gambler didn't have to speak above a quiet murmur and share his secrets with everyone, if he'd be inclined to share them with Nathan. It wasn't till he'd taken that seat that Nathan wondered if he expected too much from that brief sense of companionship they'd shared before. Quiet moments passed with no other sound from Ezra than the rustle of pasteboard as card was placed upon card. "It was mother's idea, to change our names," Ezra said, after a little while. It was clear he was concentrating on the slow turn of the cards, their careful placement on the complicated picture of the solitaire he was playing. Red queen on black king. He seemed to prefer this to looking at Nathan, but for once that didn't rile him. "She thought it made us sound more genteel and that our original accent - mine at least - led people to the wrong impression. For us to share her southern accent as well, she felt, gave us a certain air that we were otherwise lacking." Black seven on red eight. Red six on black seven. "Who are you, Ezra? Is that even your name?" Nathan watched Ezra's hands, his attention drawn to them against his will as it always was, mesmerised by them. Black knave on red queen. Red four on black five. "The only true thing about me," Ezra said, pausing for a moment. "Other than that I am utterly an invention." He reached out then, taking the remainder of the cards from Ezra's hand, almost amazed at both his boldness and the discovery that Ezra didn't resist. The gambler didn't look up as Nathan did so, almost as if he hadn't realised the interruption had even happened. The pasteboard was warm, smoothed by continual use and the passage of fingers over their surface. "Who are you?" he said again, amazing himself once more with his desire to know. To know the real Ezra Standish, to see behind the mask that he presented to the world, that glimpse of reality he found himself craving. The obsession focussed in a single question. "And who is Morrison? Please, Ezra. I need to know." Ezra looked up at the plea, an unfamiliar look of uncertainty on his face. That expression was probably a mirror of his own, Nathan decided, even as his hand tightened a little on the stolen cards. "I was born in Pennsylvania," Ezra said, his face more open than Nathan had seen it for a while, other than when taken utterly by surprise. "My father's family had lived there for generations." He laughed, the sound low and reassuring. "They were Quakers." "Quakers?" Nathan echoed. He wondered if, like his earlier uncertainty, his face now showed the surprise he felt. "You mean your folks never owned slaves?" "Never." Ezra smiled. "My father was a fervent abolitionist, or so I've gathered from the derogatory comments Maude made about him from time to time." What could he say to that? He remembered the anger he'd felt, walking in on Ezra schooling those prostitutes, when he'd been thinking only of the similarities between their experience and his own, never thinking that Ezra wasn't the child of some slave-owning dynasty. Thinking that Ezra was just like those who'd caused his family so much pain, that he came from generations of the same, when nothing else could be further from the truth. "You made me think.." "A lot of things, I'm sure," Ezra said, then held out his hand. "My cards, if you please." So, was the conversation over? Nathan looked down at his hand, flipping over the top card in the pile to reveal its face - the ace of spades. "Your card," he said, holding it out to Ezra. Ezra nodded. "Fitting, I guess." Ezra took the card, glancing at it for a moment before that rarely- glimpsed smile appeared once more. The expression warmed something deep inside Nathan - he'd seen the way Ezra grinned, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse, but this was something different. Something genuine. "I guess so," he said. Ezra reached to take the rest of the cards from Nathan's hand, long fingers brushing Nathan's palm in the most elusive of touches. "I don't understand," Nathan said, curling his fingers in as if to hold that fleeting contact to himself. "Why pretend this way?" "I fail to understand this fascination you've developed with the minutiae of my identity, Mr. Jackson," Ezra said, sitting a little more upright in his chair as if drawing his armour around himself. So, it was over, the brief lull in hostilites was at an end. Except that this time he didn't believe in it as easily as before. It was only as Nathan was leaving the saloon he realised how neatly Ezra had side-stepped one question - he'd managed to avoid any kind of comment about Morrison at all. --------------------- Of all the people he'd expected to make some kind of overture, to enquire about the encounter between him and Morrison, Nathan had been the last he'd ever have expected. Even though his own overtures towards Nathan had been in the nature of bridge building between them, Ezra hadn't thought things far enough advanced to make that possibility real. But there he'd been, sitting down at the table with him without so much as a by your leave, comfortable there as if generations of their kin had sat down together in amity. And he'd found himself speaking truth, or as near to truth as he could ever manage. For some reason, Ezra had been unable to fabricate, or embellish, or downright manufacture some tale that would send Nathan into fits of righteous indignation and send him spinning away. Back to where he'd been before, back to a safe distance where Ezra didn't have to deal with him, didn't have to think about him, didn't have to consider the things he wanted. Things that would have been wrong even if he hadn't spent the majority of his life pretending to be everything that Nathan was born to hate. He'd felt the connection between them, the elusive brush of Nathan's talented fingers across his palm as he took the cards, and everything had seemed to shut down. Like he'd suddenly lost his senses, muffled in layers of cloth until he couldn't react to the world any more, stunned by what he thought he'd experienced but knew could never be true. Even if Nathan's eyes, when he looked at them, told a different story completely. It was too dangerous. A ridiculous idea, one that would never be spoken, far too risky to even contemplate the possibility. Except that now that seed had taken root, sending shoots of imagination through him, all the sinful possibilities playing out inside his mind. This was what he wanted, what he'd hoped for when he started this enterprise but that didn't mean Ezra wasn't surprised by this turn of events. He'd hardly led a sheltered life, even after leaving Pennsylvania and the pleasant experiences he'd had there with David - the money he'd won and lost along the way had paid for a variety of pleasures as he'd experimented with them all. Those things Maude didn't know about were best left undiscussed and she'd never asked for an accounting. He'd seen things in his travels that would make even Buck Wilmington blush, Ezra was certain of that. And his imagination was a vivid one at the best of times. How could it not be, with the books he read and the hours spent dreaming up scams and cons? He'd thought of other things as well, things that would have scandalised Maude if only she'd known of them - desires kept well out of sight and paid for in strange cities where no-one would know his name, or care as long as he could pay for what he needed. Damn it all, this could never work. Sighing, Ezra reached for the ever-present bottle of whisky and proceeded to drink. By the time he left the saloon, he was more than a little intoxicated. Ezra wasn't completely sure where he was going, just that he needed somewhere safe, somewhere nobody would expect to find him, in order to try and drown the thoughts about Nathan that currently rampaged through his brain. It wasn't often he allowed himself to get this much out of control; most of the time he'd pretend to allow himself to become intoxicated, that theatrical streak that ran through him being something he preferred to exercise rather than lose control in this way. But this time he couldn't bear the fiction, needed the reality of it all, regardless of the penalty he knew he'd pay tomorrow. "Ezra?" He groaned, then regretted the sound as it allowed Nathan to pinpoint his position. He'd been hiding out in the loft of the livery stables, ignoring for once the effect on his clothing as he took the opportunity of the solitude that location provided to get roaring drunk in melancholy solitude. "Ezra, you up there?" Nathan was climbing the ladder now, his head finally emerging above the level of the straw. "You're drunk," he continued. "You missed your calling, Mr. Jackson," Ezra said, making an effort to enunciate the words. He could imagine Nathan's frown, imagine exactly what the other man thought of him, in the unlikely event it wasn't about to be detailed for him in a tone lined with steel. "You should have been a soothsayer." For some reason Ezra seemed to find that thought amusing, even as Nathan's steady gaze proved he was alone in his amusement. "How the hell am I supposed to get you down from here in one piece, Ezra?" Nathan asked. "'m fine," Ezra said, taking another swig from the bottle. He looked at Nathan, saw the measuring gaze and looked down once more. "Honestly." "Drinking yourself into a stupor somewhere you can fall down a ladder and break your fool neck is not fine." Ezra snorted. He knew exactly what Nathan thought of him - he'd heard it, the long version or the edited one, often enough to know it by heart. And the worst of it was that, for the most part, Nathan was right. He was shiftless, thoughtless at times, and utterly mercenary. Not worth the trouble Nathan took to patch him up on the occasions he needed the healer's assistance. The peace was well and truly over between them once more. "I guess there's only one thing I can do," Nathan continued, before clambering over into the loft alongside Ezra, a few stray pieces of straw kicked from the edge to flutter into the darkness as he joined the gambler. It was rare the two of them were in such close proximity. Rare enough that Ezra could count on the fingers of one hand how often it had happened before. If it wasn't for all the things he knew Nathan had thought about him, he might have wondered at that - Nathan seemed happy to associate with the others, Josiah most of all, which was understandable. If Nathan could have crossed the road and walked on the other side from Ezra, he wouldn't have held it against him. Real or imagined, the differences between them seemed more insurmountable than ever, a barrier that could never be breached. Yet here Nathan was, taking up much more room than Ezra imagined he would, a warm and comforting presence in the semi-darkness of the hayloft. He'd stretched himself out, a human barrier between Ezra and the edge. If he was bolder, or slightly more drunk, Ezra could reach out and touch him, reassure himself this wasn't a figment of his more- than-capable imagination, something he'd dreamed of more often than he cared to admit to himself. "Nathan?" He wasn't sure what it was he wanted to ask. The words weren't there, a rare occurrence indeed, even if he was almost too drunk to have enunciated them anyway, were they anything but the most commonplace. "You just finish that bottle," Nathan said. "Then try and get yourself some sleep." --------------------- It hadn't taken all that long before Ezra had done as he was bid, two or three more mouthfuls all the liquor he had left anyway. He'd seemed about to ask something, but Nathan had interrupted him. He didn't want some drunken reasoning, even if it was likely to be closer to the truth than a sober Ezra could ever manage, those five- dollar words of his a constant barrier between the gambler and the plain unvarnished truth. But the words were part of him, even if sometimes he had to think on them for a while to figure out just what it was that Ezra meant. Could he get what he wanted to hear from Ezra stone cold sober? Only time would tell. It didn't take long for him to fall asleep, and Nathan listened to the way Ezra's breath evened out to a slow regular sound. The empty bottle fell from his hand, as those long fingers Nathan had been fascinated by for so long relaxed and lost their grip on the slick glass. It settled soundlessly into the straw, before Nathan picked it up and placed it out of the way. The last thing Ezra needed was to roll onto it while he slept. The sound of Ezra breathing was reassuring, more soothing than he'd expected it to be. It wasn't often they were this close, it wasn't often Nathan was this close to anyone any more - he'd had years of not being able to turn in his sleep without jostling someone, first on the plantation and then in the war, so he'd long ago learned to sleep just about anywhere without moving a great deal. In some ways he'd missed that feeling of being part of something; the first few nights he'd been expected to sleep utterly alone had been restless ones. He could feel the warmth of Ezra's body now, as the gambler rolled from his back onto his side, bringing the two of them even closer than before. Ezra was lying with his face to Nathan now, his face in shadow, but he could imagine the expression on the gambler's face - he'd seen it often enough when they'd been sleeping out, after all. It was oddly innocent, so different from what he'd always expected of Ezra somehow - perhaps it was that which had started him wondering just who this man who called himself Ezra Standish really was? --------------------- When Ezra woke he was alone, and he would have almost believed he was still asleep if it wasn't for the insistent pounding in his head. He rolled onto his back, one arm coming up to cover his eyes from the light, and he regretted even that movement, as he wondered whether he'd imagined Nathan being there with him. Just the idea of Nathan watching over him, lying alongside him while he slept with the sole purpose of keeping him safe, puzzled him greatly. It was so much at odds with what he knew of Nathan's opinion of him, except that he'd seen the healer watching him recently. Since David Morrison had come to town and told everyone that he wasn't Ezra Standish after all. Since the two of them had tried to make peace, since he'd tried not trying so hard to be the person Maude had helped make him. Was Nathan waiting for the next revelation? For some further snippet of information that would confirm he was right, confirm that no matter what he called himself, Ezra was not to be trusted. And then they'd had that odd conversation in the saloon. In hindsight, he wondered just what it was that Morrison had said when Nathan confronted him, but knew he'd never take the chance of asking. And then he himself had told Nathan far more than he ever planned to tell anyone. As though he couldn't keep things to himself any longer, not when Nathan so clearly wanted to know - not for any underhanded reason but because of ordinary curiosity and concern. An odd mix from the most unlikely of sources. He'd spent so much time being Ezra Standish that he'd almost forgotten the person he used to be. Before Maude took him away from all of that, from the stifling expectations of the Jameson family, from their desires to make him just like them, to what at the time he'd thought was a greater freedom than he'd ever experience in Pennsylvania. Only to discover that it was a worse kind of slavery than the type his father had campaigned so hard against. He'd become trapped inside the person Maude had made him, no more able to escape it than Nathan could escape his own skin. The things he'd learned about Maude hadn't helped with that. When they'd left, Ezra had thought his mother free-spirited and admired her for her courage, only to discover that what he'd taken for freedom was a fear of needing anyone. A desperate desire to be the one in charge of everything was the strongest emotion that drove Maude Standish, that and the search for money to fund the lifestyle she'd chosen. As time had passed, the novelty had worn off, but by then Ezra had nothing to go back to. So he'd carried on, trying to turn himself into his mother, trying to take on her personality and supress his own, and for the most part he'd been successful. Until Four Corners and an unlikely bunch of associates all working for a dollar a day plus board. Until Nathan Jackson. It had been a long time since Ezra had admitted to himself that he needed the affirmation of anyone. Maude had beaten that emotion out of him with her petty subterfuges and sly machinations until he'd learned that the only mark to measure himself against was the amount of cash in his possession. But that was before he'd seen the disappointment in Nathan's eyes and learned that he'd never really changed at all. Of all the Seven, Nathan's approval would be the hardest to gain, the chasm that lay between them the most difficult to bridge, but when had Ezra Standish ever backed down from a challenge? Was that why he'd chosen Nathan? Of all the possibilities he'd ever considered, all the scenarios he'd turned his mind to while his hands were occupied with cards or reins, he had to admit that the last one that crossed his mind had been one where Nathan Jackson gave a damn about him. If he couldn't have what he truly wanted, the law and Nathan's own experiences combined to make an unscaleable wall between them, then Ezra knew without a doubt that he'd take what he could. Friendship with Nathan Jackson, even the most tentatively offered acquaintance if he hadn't wrecked even that possibility, would have to be enough. --------------------- He hadn't slept much, leaving Ezra curled up in the hay when dawn broke, and heading back to the clinic alone. Was that a mark of cowardice? He didn't know how Ezra would respond to his presence, sober rather than drunk, even though the gambler had seemed more than accepting of him the night before. He had to take into account the fact that liquor makes some men friends to all, and he'd never seen Ezra drunk before so had no way of telling if he was one. Nathan occupied himself with tidying the small room. He rearranged the contents of his shelf full of medicines, anything to avoid thinking about Ezra. "If I were a dog," a voice drawled from the doorway. Nathan whirled to see Ezra standing there, as if his thoughts had conjured him up from the air. "You'd be doing me a mercy by putting a bullet through my head." Nathan smiled to himself, recognising that the gambler was experiencing just what he'd expected. "If you were a dog," he said, reaching up to where he kept the willow bark, "you wouldn't have got yourself liquored up, Ezra." Ezra nodded, then looked as though he regretted even that small movement. "I'm fully confident, however, that you possess some foul-tasting elixir to make me human once more," he said, tentatively taking a seat on the end of Nathan's cot. Nathan felt Ezra's gaze on him as he headed towards the stove - he opened it to prod some life and heat from the wood inside. He was glad of the methodical nature of brewing willow bark tea, glad that it gave him an excuse for forgetting he was alone with Ezra, for forgetting all the things he wanted to know and didn't know where to begin asking. "Of course," Ezra continued quietly, as if realising Nathan was unsettled, "some might say that was too great a task." "Hmm?" He thought back over Ezra's words, as he often had to do, lulled as usual by the accent he both loved and hated in equal measure. "You're plenty human, Ezra," he replied, when he'd figured out what the gambler meant. "Never had no reason to doubt it." "Really." A statement, not a question. "I was under the impression you had." There was little he could do now, except wait for the water to boil. Nathan turned, moving away from the stove to lean against the wall nearby, using the need to watch the kettle as an excuse for not closing the space between him and Ezra. "'Human' covers a multitude of sins, Ezra." He studied the gambler for a moment, noting all the signs of a hangover much less severe than he'd expected to see. "We both know that." Ezra nodded once more, the movement even more subtle than before, then looked away. His eyes fixed on the rough wooden door to the clinic and for a moment Nathan thought he resembled nothing more than some wild animal, cornered and wanting to bolt, to make a break for freedom. But that was ridiculous. "Not long now," he said. It was strange - he'd rarely found the need to reassure Ezra in any way before, all those times he'd patched the gambler up, removed bullets from him, or otherwise tended him when he ailed. Nathan thought about that for a moment - what kind of healer did it make him if he didn't look to settle the mind as well as heal the body? Except he'd always let who Ezra was, or who he'd thought he was, get in between him and what he did. Not that Ezra made the best of patients anyway, always being eager to get the hell out of there and back to his feather bed, but that hardly excused how he'd treated him at times. He made the tea, his mind working over these odd thoughts even as he did so. He'd been right before - he'd lost the ability to see beyond the façade Ezra presented, if he'd ever even tried to, and he regretted that now. Still, as his father had always said, while folks are still alive it's never too late to mend fences. "Here," he said, handing the battered cup to Ezra, who took it with a small nod of thanks. "Mind that, it's hot." Fascinated, as always, by the dexterity of Ezra's hands, Nathan watched his long fingers curl hesitantly around the cup, even as he took the only chair in the clinic. "I'll thank you now," Ezra said, "in appreciation for the imminent effects of this noxious potion, though not for its doubtless awful taste." Nathan shrugged. "Best medicine always tastes worst," he said. "Leastwise that's what I was always told." He found himself smiling at Ezra's grimace when he took the first mouthful of the bitter tea. "You want to feel human again, you need the whole cup, Ezra." His smile grew as Ezra saluted him with the battered cup, before throwing back the remainder of its contents with one gulp. "You going to answer my question?" Nathan asked. Ezra looked at him, confusion on his face. "Last night, I asked you 'bout Morrison, you didn't answer me." He felt bad about taking advantage of Ezra this way, using how poorly he felt as an opportunity to push for information, but how else was he going to get the answer he needed? Ezra hadn't moved, anyway, which he took as a good sign - if the gambler truly didn't want to talk about it, then all he had to do was leave. Instead, he was now examining the bottom of the cup he held, as if he expected to find the answers there, or some other way out. "You knew each other when you were young?" Nathan prompted, feeling the knife edge of trust they both stood on and also a need to help Ezra with this, which puzzled him even more. "I only wish that were not the case," Ezra said, looking up as he spoke. "I have little experience in veracity, Nathan." Nathan nodded. "Reckon you were just waiting for the right person to trust," he said, hoping that this was the correct response. He didn't know what Ezra was looking for, what those perceptive eyes were searching for in his own expression, but Ezra seemed satisfied by whatever it was he saw. "David Morrison and I were.." Ezra hesitated, his gaze wavering, before he pressed on. "We were intimate." "But I thought.." "Exactly what I wanted you all to think," Ezra interrupted. "While I may enjoy the company of the fairer sex, and have in my time indulged myself there, I much prefer the company of men. As you can imagine, this is hardly something I would advertise to all and sundry, particularly here in our fair township." "Guess not," Nathan said. He didn't know what he felt any more - Ezra's revelation was unexpected, something that opened up a world of possibilities. "You're not surprised?" "I was in the war, Ezra," Nathan said. "Not much surprises me any more." In truth, however, he didn't know how he felt. Nathan had lived so long with the idea that his thoughts about Ezra were odd and unnatural that the possibility of them coming true in any way left him unbalanced. The idea that Ezra trusted him, trusted anyone, enough to admit to being different that way was a heady concept too. "Ezra, I.." Nathan paused. He'd never been so conscious of the importance of his words, never felt the weight of someone's gaze the way he felt Ezra watching him. "I understand perfectly," Ezra said, getting up from where he'd been sitting. "My thanks for your expertise, but I believe I'll take my leave." That expression was back on Ezra's face, the one Nathan hated more than any other. The expression he'd put there, by his hesitation, like he'd put it there before with his hasty and ill-tempered words on previous occasions. "Don't go," he said. Ezra was almost at the door before he was able to say what he thought, warmth flooding through him at the fact the gambler paused, gave him the chance to redeem this situation. If he could. "You didn't let me finish." "What is there to say?" Ezra had turned and Nathan was reminded of a wild cat he'd seen once on patrol with Vin, injured and cornered by the two of them so the tracker could put it out of its misery. The gambler had the same expression on his face, the same look of desperation in his eyes. "That I understand." Ezra was smiling now, the falseness of it obvious to anyone who knew him. "Your kindness is unnecessary, my friend." "Ain't kindness," Nathan said. It looked like straight talking was the way forward - all Ezra's fancy words had done was get the two of them so messed up they couldn't see straight. "You're not the only one, you know?" He really needed to work on that poker face. Nathan saw the thought form, watched the conclusions Ezra drew and then waited for the response. "Surely you jest." "It's not the kind of thing you joke about," Nathan said. "No." "But thank you, Ezra." Ezra's hand was on the door again, though Nathan wasn't sure he knew he'd even moved. "For trusting me." Ezra nodded, almost absent-mindedly, then he was gone. --------------------- Ezra wasn't completely sure how he'd made it back from Nathan's clinic to his hotel room, his head buzzing with enough ideas and possibilities that he travelled that familiar path without a second thought. Trusting Nathan and giving him an utterly honest answer to his question had been something he hadn't planned to do. In truth it was something that could have backfired on him, destroyed any chance he had of a normal life there in Four Corners - all it would have taken was Nathan to be horrified by his revelation and he would have needed to pack his bags. Not that he hadn't had lots of practice in the past at making a quick getaway, but Four Corners was the first place in a long time that felt like home. Possibly the first place since he and Maude had left Pennsylvania all those years before. And then Nathan had surprised him, almost felling him with his own disclosure, setting everything he thought he knew about the man on its head. Nathan had always seemed someone with such strong beliefs, someone who wouldn't compromise on anything, and it had been Ezra's experience that people like that were often rigid in their thinking. Unable to accept anything even a little out of the ordinary, let alone someone so different as himself. But in another way, should he have expected this? It was odd enough that Nathan stayed here, making a life for himself in ways that many places would frown on - by the use of gun and knife. Perhaps, after all, Nathan was just as much a misfit as he was, and that was where they might find some common ground. It had been a long time since he'd fitted in anywhere. Even back home, back when he and David had tentatively experimented with their own desires and discovered something fascinating in the forbidden, Ezra had never felt like he belonged. He was too clever, but lazy with it - his tutors despaired of him at times, as he'd turned his mind to what he chose to, those subjects rarely being those that would earn him an honest day's pay. He'd never been able to imagine himself a banker, like his father, or a factory owner, like his grandpa. Those kinds of labour, even though they required the moving of paper, not wood or steel, were as alien to him as manual labour itself. "You wouldn't put a racehorse to the plough," he'd once heard his mother say, after a particular diatribe from his father on Ezra's all round laziness and lack of interest in getting ahead. And he'd taken that to heart, but also taken it to mean that Maude understood, when all along all she had understood was the need to get ahead in a completely different way. He'd burned his bridges there, Ezra reminded himself, as he took off his jacket. He frowned at the marks on it, plucking one recalcitrant piece of straw from the collar. Once he could have had all the fancy jackets he wanted, and had, but at a price - they were the payment for being a good son, for doing what was expected of a Jameson, whether it fit with who he was or not. And in the end it was a price he hadn't been able to pay. There was no going back to Pennsylvania. Once, early on in their exodus, Ezra had considered it. He'd even told Maude he would return to their family home, on his hands and knees if he needed to, and she'd laughed in his face. After the business with David, she'd told him, his father had changed his will, written Ezra out of it completely, as if he were dead. She'd only kept this from him, Maude had said, out of kindness - now he knew she'd kept that information as a trump card, saving it for the chance to bind the two of them closer together, as it had. Everyone who'd ever meant something to him had wanted something from him, and Maude had turned out to be no different from the rest. So what was different now? What would prevent Four Corners from being the scene of Ezra Standish's latest humiliation? If nothing else, he was determined that this time he would be the one who called the shots. --------------------- He heard the sound of movement from somewhere in the darkness before he saw anyone, the slight scuff of boots across the rough wooden floor even as he closed the clinic door behind himself. Nathan's hand dropped to his gun, pulling it from its holster in a move that was instinctive now, after all this time. "Don't shoot," Ezra's voice said quietly. Nathan felt the relief flood over him. He'd seen Ezra leave the table only minutes earlier, watched him slip silently up the stairs towards his room, and never realised that the gambler was heading here. Possibilities rushed through his mind now, confusion replacing the tension of finding a stranger in his place. "Ezra, what're you doing here?" Did he expect an honest answer? He wasn't sure, even as the question formed in his mind. What right did he have to expect the truth from Ezra anyway? "I wanted to discuss something," Ezra said. "I'd prefer it if you didn't light the lantern." "Sure," Nathan said, finding his way to a chair in the darkness, the clinic as familiar to him at night as it was in daylight. "What you got to say?" There was silence for a moment, and even without light Nathan thought he could imagine what he'd see on Ezra's face right now. He was considering whether this was a mistake, considering whether to trust. "Ezra?" he prompted. "This afternoon," Ezra began, finally. "I told you something about myself that no-one else here knows. I trusted you and you likewise informed me of your own predelictions in that area." "That I like men as well?" Nathan asked, lost in the morass of Ezra's vocabulary. "What 'bout it?" "I..." Ezra paused, then seemed to summon up courage, his words rushing out in a relentless tumble. "I would very much like to associate myself with you in a carnal manner, Mr. Jackson." There was silence for a moment after Ezra finished speaking, the only sound the distant shout of drunk cowboys from the saloon down the street. "If I have misjudged the situation, Nathan," Ezra said, as hastily as he'd spoken before. "I apologise." "Shoot, Ezra, you never give a man time to get his thoughts all lined up before you go and decide what he's bound and determined to say." Ezra laughed at that, a sharp bark of amusement that sounded distinctly odd coming from the darkness. Nathan's eyes were adjusting themselves a little now to the lack of light and he could see the shape of the gambler, a dark mass sitting on the edge of the bed. "You looking for some kind of arrangement?" he asked, feeling the words stick like grit in his throat. He wasn't sure that was what he wanted, but maybe this compromise was the best he was going to get. "You of all people, a healer," Ezra replied, "knows a man has certain... needs." He couldn't deny that. He spent half his time dosing up cowboys who lived in constant fear of the clap, yet threw themselves and any money they earned at the next pox-raddled whore who passed by. "So you're thinking maybe we could meet those needs..." "In a mutually agreed arrangement," Ezra said, smoothly finishing Nathan's thoughts for him. "Starting immediately." --------------------- Well, at least Nathan hadn't laughed at him, had allowed him the luxury of sitting in darkness while they discussed this like gentlemen. Which neither of them were, of course, though he had once been considered one because of his birth. That way, with no light to betray him, he could remain in charge of this situation, his face not betraying the strength of his need, relying on the steadiness of his voice to persuade Nathan they were both equal partners in this. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He'd taken his evening meal with the others, as was their custom, those who weren't out on patrol taking time to sit together and just socialise. And all the time he'd hardly been able to take his eyes off Nathan's hands, watching them as they deftly manoeuvred food into his mouth, mesmerised as Nathan licked the last specks of gravy from his lip. He'd left before he could betray himself, before he'd advertised to anyone within hearing distance that he longed for the feel of those fingers on his skin, that mouth wrapped around him till he begged for whatever Nathan would give him. It wasn't right. Not just because of the colour of Nathan's skin - there were doubtless men who'd hang them both for their perversities regardless of that factor - but because he'd never felt this way. Not since David, and look what had happened with that, the faithlessness that David had exhibited in the end. He'd trusted David and been betrayed; he wouldn't put his neck on the block once more for someone who might barely consider himself a friend. By the time he was halfway up the stairs to his room, the plan was already there in his mind, fully-formed. Ezra had slipped down the back stairs of the hotel, heading through the alleyway in darkness to Nathan's clinic to wait, in quiet and darkness, for the healer to arrive. Knowing he was risking being shot, but thinking that risk worth taking for the possibility of what they could have. What he could get, from Nathan, if he possibly could. --------------------- Once Ezra had spoken the words, the idea of it overwhelmed him, striking sparks from his imagination till he hardly knew what was happening. Nathan felt a response, felt hardness form, even as he contemplated the possibilities Ezra was offering. He was over by the bed, on his knees before Ezra, almost before he knew it. If he'd given himself a chance to think, Nathan knew he would talk himself out of this, even though this, whatever it was, was probably what he needed. What he'd always needed and had been too afraid to admit to himself or anyone else, and had finally found the courage to admit to a man he didn't even like half the time. But a man, Ezra Standish, if that was his name, who fascinated him all the same. This should feel wrong, he decided, as he slid his hands up Ezra's thighs, feeling the muscles tense under his exploring palms. For someone who disdained manual labour, Ezra was compact, sturdy. "Nathan, I.." the words were whispered, the darkness forcing a kind of confidence neither of them would have managed even in lamplight. "Together, you said?" he asked, one hand taking hold of Ezra's hand and guiding it from where it had laid to the hardness in his pants. He heard and felt the hiss of breath as Ezra's palm brushed his erection, his other hand reaching the partner to it in Ezra's pants even as the breath was expelled. "Like this?" He let go of Ezra's hand, smiling to himself when it stayed, cupping his erection through the rough material of his pants, returning his attentions to the flies of Ezra's. Nathan hissed himself when Ezra tightened his grip a little; he could imagine what he'd see on Ezra's face right now, that familiar fleeting look of mischief. "Less you want this to be over now," Nathan said, "you better not do that." Ezra's hand relaxed obediently, even as Nathan managed to free his erection from its cloth confines. "You sure we can't have the lamp lit?" He wanted to see this, wanted to believe it was real, to see his own dark fingers wrapped around Ezra's hardness and those talented hands of Ezra's pale against his own excited flesh. "Perhaps next time," Ezra replied, even though Nathan knew it for the lie it was. The gambler might never agree to that, it would make this all too real for him. But it was enough for now, for Nathan at least, it had to be. His imagination would have to be enough then, enough for both of them. He'd seen Ezra's face when he was excited, knew what the gambler looked like unclothed from the times he'd tended his wounds, so those pieces would need to be made into a whole, supplying him with the images he needed. Those and the reality of Ezra's hot flesh in his hand, his deft fingers cupped around Nathan's own need. "I need to..." Ezra spoke quietly - Nathan shifted his grip a little, a leisurely stroke or two of his hand bringing Ezra's erection further hardness even as he felt the gambler's fingers open his fly. As if he could have denied Ezra anything right now, as if this hadn't been exactly what he wanted all along, what he'd take under any conditions Ezra wanted to impose and thank his lucky stars to get the chance of it. It was over sooner than he'd expected, Ezra's deft touch bringing him to the edge of oblivion with sure and certain grace, even as he tried to concentrate on giving Ezra equal pleasure too. Enough so the gambler would want more, need more from him next time round. Like he wanted more, needed it like he needed his next breath. --------------------- It was everything he'd expected it to be and more. The darkness made it seem like he was in control, even though Ezra knew that for the lie it was. He'd lost control the moment he'd decided to come here, the moment he'd trusted Nathan, trusted anyone to give him what he couldn't buy anywhere within a hundred miles of this place. He'd delivered himself into Nathan's hands in more ways than one, Ezra reminded himself as he took the cloth Nathan offered him and tried to make himself presentable. The lamplight flickered low from the corner now, its minimal light a grudging concession to the need to keep up appearances. It wouldn't do for Ezra to be seen leaving the clinic looking like he'd just been given the best handjob he'd had in months by their resident healer. That wouldn't do either of their reputations any good, not if they both wanted to keep on living in Four Corners. There were no words for this moment, even though Ezra usually had a ready supply. A glib comment could open up the possibility of this experience being used against him, even if that casual attitude had been reality. The fact that it wasn't, that a small part of his mind was already wondering when he and Nathan could meet again, told Ezra he was setting his foot on a dangerous path. But to show his hand too early was also a mistake, giving Nathan leverage over him he'd never anticipated anyone possessing. It was a novel dilemma and not one that Ezra relished. "You better get back before anyone misses you," Nathan said, crossing to the lantern and blowing it out once more. The darkness was easier, allowing Ezra to dissemble, to speak without fear of his face betraying him. "This cannot happen again." He'd expected his voice to shake, having concentrated so on getting his tone just right, that perfect mix of casual dismissal and lack of concern he knew would send a spike straight through Nathan's heart. The darkness hid Nathan's reaction too, a double benefit. "Sure," Nathan said, his voice emerging from the darkness unexpectedly close to Ezra's ear, his breath warming the side of Ezra's face as he spoke. "I know that." He took a step away from Nathan, towards where he hoped he'd find the door. "People would talk," Ezra continued. "You of all people should know the rapidity of gossip in these small municipalities." His hand hit the wall, fingers scraping unexpectedly across the rough planking in search of the door. Damn it, where was it? "You're right, Ezra," Nathan agreed. Even as Ezra's questing palm hit the door handle, he felt the warmth of Nathan's body, too close, much too close. He found himself grabbing at the handle, his fingers wrapping round it as if offered sanctuary. Too slow. Nathan was there. "What would people think?" Nathan continued, the words a husky whisper. He was trapped now, pressed between Nathan's body and the door, his traitorous instincts sending all the wrong signals as his own body responded to that closeness once more. Remembered sensations, the intimacy of moments before ran through his mind, along with the mental image of the two of them entwined. With effort, Ezra bit back a moan that threatened to erupt. "And they'd be right," Nathan said, "wouldn't they?" "Right?" How he'd managed to even speak was beyond him. "Right about what?" There was silence for a moment, the only sound in the clinic the rasp of their breathing, though Ezra was certain Nathan had to be able to hear his heart beating, since it seemed to be trying to pound its way out of his chest. Nathan laughed, a low chuckle that made the hairs on the back of Ezra's neck stand on end, that sent a shiver of anticipation and desire arcing through him. That laugh promised much, almost as much as the hand that had come to rest over his own on the door handle, fingers entwining with his own. "That there's something going on," Nathan replied. "That something's not quite what it seems." Who was there who had more experience of that, Ezra wondered, than him? It was what he was most familiar with, the creation of pretense until that pretense seemed more real than the truth. Hiding behind a mask of his own creation, Ezra had watched as others forged their own realities, as others tried to pretend they were something other than they truly were. "I should go," Ezra said. In truth, it was the last thing he wanted to do, but what choice did he have? "This... this won't happen again." Nathan moved away, back into the darkness. The sudden lack of pressure, lack of warmth, left him feeling oddly bereft. Him, Ezra Standish, the man who didn't need anyone, the man who'd created a new world for himself. "You keep on telling yourself that, Ezra," Nathan said quietly, as he opened the door. "And I'll be here when you see that for the lie it is." ~fin~

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