1. Ezra Standish frowned at his reflection in the mirror, then pulled the cravat loose once more. Damned thing, wouldn't do what he wanted it to do no matter how hard he concentrated on the intricacies of the folds his usually-agile fingers were attempting to create. "Darling, aren't you ready yet?" As it always did lately, his wife's voice made the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wasn't sure what it was about her voice that set him on edge the way it did - that kind of consideration wasn't something he cared to look at too closely. Anyway, she'd married his fortune, his place in society as one of the owners of Pelham and Standish, manufacturers of fine armaments to the US military, not Ezra himself. His likes or dislikes were immaterial. "Almost," he managed to get out, as the material at last obeyed his fingers. "There," he continued, as much to his own reflection in the mirror as to Emmeline. "Don't you look the very picture of a rising young Congressman." The door opened and Emmeline Standish entered. She reminded Ezra inexorably of his mother, though the last time he'd seen her he had been all of eight years old, his memory of her suitably faded by time. She'd done her best for him however, leaving him with his Pelham cousins in Boston and thus ensuring his future wealth, before disappearing from his life without a trace. Sometimes Ezra wondered what had happened to her, but the melancholy those thoughts produced was something almost alien to his character and rarely lasted long. "Were you still fussing over that thing?" she asked. "Davidson could have tied it for you in a quarter of the time." "Davidson," Ezra said, brushing the faintest piece of lint from the sleeve of his otherwise-impeccable dark blue jacket, "has other things with which to concern himself, my dear, as well you know." He didn't bother to look at her. She had given him only a cursory glance herself; Ezra knew that from the brief period when he'd cared what she thought. Before she'd given up on him and taken a lover, a discreet one fortunately, but another man none the less. He couldn't find it in himself to blame her. There was something missing from his life too, something he couldn't quite define. Sometimes he fantasised. Dreamed of packing his bags and heading west, leaving the company and everything his current lifestyle entailed, just travelling till he found whatever it was he was currently lacking. Whoever it was. "Shall we?" Ezra asked, offering his arm to her. She nodded, all stiff politeness - one gloved hand took a careful hold of the crook of his elbow. Surely there had to be more to life than this, Ezra thought, as they headed down the stairs to greet their guests. 2. He'd become used to the stares by now, the whispered words as the flap of material that comprised his sleeve was visible when he turned. It was only the newcomers to the town who whispered now - the others were inured to his deformity, to the point where Ezra was almost invisible to them all. Those whose children he didn't teach, at least. When he'd had enough to drink to make him reminisce, but not enough to send him into a hopefully-dreamless sleep, he'd wonder what had happened to them all. His comrades in arms, so many of them long forgotten and longer buried. But mostly he remembered the boy. That happened most the nights the stump of his shattered arm ached, when the weather changed or there was a storm brewing. Those nights he wondered if the boy had done the right thing in helping him live. It had been a mistake, of course. Ezra knew that, without a doubt. If the lump of masonry had struck him differently, he could have been left with a dislocation instead of an absence. If the boy who'd mistaken his butternut-coloured tunic covered with the blood from a wound that wouldn't stop for one of their own hadn't held his arm till the bleeding stopped, he could have been six feet under long before now. Even when Ezra had spoken, crying out in an unmistakeable southern accent, the boy hadn't loosened his grip, even as his dark eyes had widened and he'd realised his mistake. "Giving aid and succour to the enemy," Ezra said, bitterly, as he downed another glass of rotgut. The taste made him flinch but it was all he could afford. The words sounded strange to his ears, his accent deepening as he grew more drunk, sounding like someone else's voice now. Someone who'd died on that battlefield. He remembered the feel of the boy's hands, so broad and capable, the strength in that still growing body. Wished those hands on him for quite another reason than keeping body and soul together and cursed himself for all the things he would never have, all the succour he would never know. Tonight, Ezra knew, as he beckoned to the bartender, would be one of the nights he'd just keep on drinking till the memory drowned in cheap liquor. 3. Ezra's fingers tangled in the long hair, pulling the other man closer, directing that obviously willing mouth to give him the maximum amount of pleasure. Discovering Vin Tanner, and his need for a little extra money on top of what his work sweeping floors made for him, had been an unexpected bonus of his time here in town. He couldn't find it in himself to criticise the decisions Tanner had made - Ezra had been there himself, in his younger days, and knew you had to make the most of what you had. Afterwards, Tanner paused at the livery stable door, even as Ezra straightened various items of clothing to his satisfaction in preparation for following him out a few discreet minutes later. "Something's going on," he said. Ezra crossed to stand beside him and peered out, spotting faces that were already familiar to him from the short time he'd spent in Four Corners, as well as some that weren't so familiar. The look of them was, though, as was the noose they carried. The crowd parted for a moment, briefly isolating their intended victim. Another familiar face - Jackson, the healer who'd helped him with his dislocated shoulder, his hands unexpectedly kind considering the way his eyes had said what he thought of Ezra's profession and his heritage. He hated lynch mobs. Ezra checked his guns, more out of habit than need. "I can help you," Tanner said. Ezra turned and eyed him for a moment. "I'm good with a rifle." Ezra went back to where his horse stood, still saddled from the ride he'd taken earlier, before his rendezvous with Tanner. He pulled his Winchester repeating rifle from its holster, holding it out to the other man. Tanner took it from him, handling it like he'd owned it for years. "Don't waste the ammunition." Tanner smiled at him; his mouth quirked and reminded Ezra just what else it was capable of. "You can always take it out in trade later," he said, as they headed from the livery together towards the cemetery. 4. He couldn't help thinking about what it had been like, even though the scar on his stomach was the only remembrance he had of the whole saga. In some ways, Ezra told himself, he'd been incredibly arrogant and had been lucky to live to realise that fact. He'd thought his badge, his office, would be enough to stop a bunch of desperadoes who hadn't cared much for either. Luckily the town's former peacekeepers, the men whose place he'd ostensibly taken, had been willing to back him up. But not before he'd taken a gut wound Ezra had been certain would be his last. He'd been sure of that even as one of them had dragged him to cover, pulling his unresponsive body behind a watering trough even as Ezra watched his own lifeblood seep from between his fingers. "Hold on," his rescuer had said, pulling off the neckerchief he wore and shoving it beneath Ezra's hand. He'd frowned as he'd seen the way it darkened with blood within moments of the gesture, well-meaning as it was. His pleasant face had darkened too and Ezra had seen the knowledge of his own impending death written large there. "Just you hold on," he'd repeated. He'd been certain those blue eyes, full of life and fire, would be the last ones he'd ever see. That he'd die in the dirt there, lying against that trough, unmourned and unmissed. He'd been a fool, an arrogant fool, and this was the price he'd pay for that foolishness. "My name is Ezra," he'd whispered, only certain his rescuer had heard him when he saw the man nod, frown at the blood once more, then press his own hand down hard on Ezra's own. "I know," he'd said. "Now lie easy while we finish this." With those words, he'd launched himself back into the fray. "Ready, Marshall?" Ezra looked up from the scar, buttoning his shirt to hide it even as he smiled at the man who stood in the doorway, the man whose eyes were alight with ever-present mischief. He knew that mischief first hand, the inventive mind behind it equally inventive in other matters. He'd been lucky that they'd found one another, even if their first encounter had looked like being their last. "My name is Ezra," he said. "How many times do I have to remind you, Buck?" 5. The long and the short of it was that he'd got in Chris's face once too often. Ezra had pushed his luck, taken the chance that Chris wouldn't react other than to snarl and scowl at him like he usually did, and this time it hadn't paid off. He hadn't expected to find out this way that the antagonism between them was little more than some form of attempt to establish a pecking order, though he'd long suspected as much. Ezra didn't know much about the animal kingdom but he knew how the leader of a pack acted towards anyone he considered to be challenging his authority. He himself had been the joker in the pack, if metaphors were mixed, pushing that authority every chance he got. Which had ended up with him in the position he now found himself, bent forward across a rickety table in that building Chris laughably called home, while said leader thrust into him. Ezra clutched the table as Chris fucked him roughly, not sure whether the groaning sound came from the abused wood or from himself. He watched his knuckles whiten where they grasped the edge of the battered wood. "Oh god," Chris muttered as he thrust, words barely breathed out loud. "Oh god." Ezra wasn't sure which deity Chris was entreating but the burn and stretch the other man's cock created was more than enough to distract him from giving the matter all that much consideration. Ezra's own erection was cruelly pressed between himself and the battered table, rubbing against the scratched wood in time with their combined movement. He was certain he'd have a fine complement of bruises across the thin skin of his hips once Chris was done with him. One last muttered imprecation from their leader and Chris was shuddering his release into Ezra's ass, fingers finally loosening their death grip on his hips. 'Another set of bruises, no doubt,' Ezra thought as he felt Chris's softened member slip from him. He lay there for a moment, uncertain what to do. Behind him, Ezra could hear movement, rustling sounds that indicated Chris was pulling up his pants, tucking in his shirt. Cool air wafted across his naked flesh; Ezra's heated erection was still pressed between belly and table. No words, no questions, no consideration of anyone else's pleasure but his own. Even as Ezra turned his head, not certain for once of the words he would speak, he heard the door creak open and knew he was now alone. Ezra was already close to the edge, only a few pulls on his abused erection suffficient to effect his own release once the life had returned to his cramped hands. The fact that he was still alone, that by the time he emerged from the cabin Chris had left for town, told him everything he needed to know. He'd hoped for so much more and could not bring himself to settle for less. By the time the sun rose the next morning, Ezra Standish had left Four Corners and was already a couple of miles west of town. He didn't look back. ~fin~

Disclaimer : The Magnificent Seven is owned by a bunch of folks including MGM. In other words, not me! The stories contained on this site are for entertainment purposes only - no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story-lines are the property of the author. These stories are not to be archived elsewhere without permission of the author.