The thing about being a government agent nobody told you when you signed up, Artemus Gordon decided, was how you ended up leaving a trail of possessions behind you as you traveled the country. Because you often needed to leave town at a moment's notice, for one reason or another, you left things behind, never knowing when or if you'd see them again. Those first few occasions when Artie had been forced to part with something he valued had been hard to tolerate; he tried to insulate himself against that feeling as much as he could.

Given enough money, of course, most things could be replaced. Likewise, given enough money, the majority of landlords could be persuaded to store things for an undefined period of time - usually this was however long it took for their natural sense of avarice to overwhelm their fear of the original owner coming back to reclaim whatever it was they'd left behind.

Or, as a third option, there was always stealth and concealment. Given the right geography, pretty much anything inanimate could be stashed away for future collection, assuming there wasn't fire or flood in the meantime. The odds were usually on the side of the one doing the stashing, in Artemus' experience.

Joining up with James West, the train at their disposal for as long as they continued to work for Uncle Sam, had given him more of a repository for material wealth than Artemus Gordon had enjoyed for longer than he could remember. His previous career, utilising his theatrical success as a cover for information gathering, had led to him being run out of town on a rail more often than he liked to recall. Sometimes the ungrateful locals would follow up his ejection with his worldly goods being thrown at his head and sometimes they wouldn't - in hindsight, Artie wasn't really sure which of the two options he preferred.

Still, he'd taken the opportunity that the Wanderer provided to recover much of the things he'd left behind, one way or another. Whether it had been months or years since he'd last traveled through a particular burg, Artemus could usually remember what he'd done in terms of making arrangements to secrete something or other away - on more than one occasion Jim had watched, eyebrows raised, as his partner came back to the train from some nondescript town with a worn valise or battered-looking trunk he hadn't had before.

There, Artie was glad to see, Jim's interest tended to wane. Once he was satisfied there was nothing dangerous in the item in question of course, nothing slipped inadvertantly into Artie's belongings by a malicious criminal, turning discarded items of clothing and the like into a veritable Trojan Horse. That was not so much paranoia as simple good sense, all things considered.

This particular trunk had started off stored in the corner of Artie's room while it awaited the luxury of time for a closer inspection of its contents, at least till Artie had realised something had spilled inside it, something sticky and viscous with a pungent odor he couldn't initially identify. That had led him to move the trunk into the galley instead, where he was currently kneeling in front of the fire and feeding those papers it had once contained to the flames, amused despite himself at the increasingly rank smell his actions created.

"What the hell are you burning in here?" Jim asked, as he pushed the door open. Jim's expression of disgust, Artie decided in the momentary glance he caught of it before a lick of flame at his fingers drew his interest back to the grate, really was a picture that was worth a thousand words.

"Dr. Jeremiah Stabler's Patented Invigorating Elixir," Artie replied. "Mostly molasses, I'd say."

He couldn't remember buying that particular mixture, though Artie knew he had probably picked it up along the way just in case he needed to change role at some point. Fond as he was of playing the snake oil salesman, with all the opportunities it gave him to really get his teeth into a role, Artie tended to steer clear of the charlatans when he was in some other guise, or none at all., so he certainly wouldn't have purchased it as anything other than a useful prop. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trouser leg, instead reaching into the trunk again in search of more material for the fire.

"Love letters, Artie?"

It was the tone as much as the words that drew Artie's attention, making him turn to look at Jim properly this time. The object of his attention seemed to have settled in for the duration, standing with one hip against the galley counter, arms crossed, as he looked down at where Artie knelt by the grate. There was no easy word for the expression on Jim's face - it seemed to flit between amused and devilish - Artie had to swallow to push back the wave of arousal that those expressions caused. Still, it was always safer to look at Jim's face than it was to look elsewhere, especially from this angle.

The worst part about it all was that Jim was apparently oblivious. That or he expected everyone to be so affected by his presence, one way or another, and therefore paid no attention to the particular effect he had on Artie. For his own part, Artie was uncertain whether this lack of concern was a blessing or a curse. Both, probably.

"Hardly," Artie replied, as he turned his attention back to pulling what looked like a wanted poster free from his palm. "More like tools of the trade."

You never knew, after all, when you might want something to set up a persona, or material to support whatever line you were trying to sell this time around. Some days, Artie was surprised he even recognized himself in the mirror, when he considered all the different faces he wore on a regular basis.

"The snake oil I can understand," Jim said. "But what's this?" He'd leaned forward, plucking something from the inside of the trunk. Something that had been stuck there, apparently, but seemed otherwise none the worse for its encounter with Dr. Stabler's Elixir. Jim held up the item in question, turning it carefully in his fingers.

"Give me that," Artie said. In his own ears, his voice sounded like it came from a thousand miles away, thin and pinched by the distance. He would have reached for the piece of paper Jim held, except he wasn't sure he could trust his hand not to shake. "Please."

He'd heard of the Maison Blanche, of course, what traveler to New Orleans hadn't? Even if it wasn't the sort of place talked about in polite society – meaning, of course, those situations where women of good breeding were present - men talked about such establishments among themselves, regardless of what city you might be in.

The building itself wasn't much to look at from the outside, considering the stories, but Artemus Gordon was more than prepared to overlook the obvious trappings of such a place, in search as he was of a little company or some information, ideally both.

The liveried servant positioned by the door was no surprise, nor were the heavily-muscled arms his tailored jacket tried unsuccessfully to hide. It was an open secret that the police didn't raid the Maison Blanche, because they were too afraid of what Mme. Laveau might do in response, it was said, but there was a difference between a planned police raid and the kind of trouble that could be created by a couple of visitors in their cups. No matter what her arrangement with the local law, Mme. Laveau was obviously planning to leave no possibility that her carefully cultivated clientele could be upset in any way, if she or her servants had anything to say on the matter.

The servant in question gave Artie a well-hidden once over as he approached the doorway and Artie was pleased to discover, from the lack of reaction, that he clearly passed muster as one of the clientele. His own outfit was chosen carefully too, its tailoring more skilful when it came to covering the shoulder holster he wore and the weapon it contained, the whole ensemble rich enough to allow him entrance but not so much as to draw undue attention to himself. The last thing any good agent wanted was to be the centre of attention, even if Artie's former way of life hadn't fitted him too well for that reality.

The door swung open, noiselessly, at his approach and Artie stepped into a world whose atmosphere seemed composed mostly of a mixture of cigar smoke and perfume. The room was lit with what seemed a thousand candles, the flickering light they offered softening the faces of the young women whose many-colored dresses drew Artie's eye even as he recognised some of the men on whom they lavished their attention.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, though Artie supposed that he'd frequented whorehouses as often as any man his age, but there was none of the wildness he'd heard muttered about among those inhabitants of New Orleans who only knew of this place by reputation. No naked women, no rutting on the furniture, no abandoned dancing. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to be disappointed.

At the end of the room, on a small dais, a throne-like chair was occupied by an older woman in a long white dress; she was older than all of the other women there, older and much plainer in her dress, but even from a distance Artie could see she bore herself regally. That had to be the notorious Mme. Laveau, holding court over the bacchanalia should it occur. Even as he looked in her direction, Artie saw her beckon to a man standing nearby, who bent his head obediently and listened. After a moment, the man nodded and left her side, heading into the throng of merrymakers. Heading directly, as Artie realized after a moment, towards him.

"Monsieur Gordon?" The voice was a cultured one, his trained ear picking out a genuine French accent unexpectedly. "You have been expected."

Artie considered a variety of responses, but the only polite thing to do was to follow the man, of course. Even if there was no sign of the man he was supposed to be meeting here, one James West.

The telegram requiring his presence had been terse, as all telegrams were, to the point of rudeness. Almost a summons or a demand, in reality, to meet the man who was supposed to have vital information Artie needed in order to complete this particular case. He knew West by reputation, at least – the man had been aide de camp to Grant himself, that appointment giving him the pick of future careers when the general transformed himself into the president.

Instead of seeking political office, as many had expected, West had decided he would rather have a promotion and a Secret Service post – rumor had it that Washington was an uncomfortable place for West to spend too long a period of time, given his predilection for the company of the fairer sex, including those of its members who happened to be married to congressmen or senators. The rumors were consistent, Artie knew, as he'd heard a number of them in the short space of time between his own appointment to the agency and his blessed escape to far-flung parts of the United States.

Artie allowed himself to be led, the lightest of touches on his sleeve the only indication that there was any contact at all between himself and the man who was clearly Mme. Laveau's manservant. The crowds parted for them, no word needing to be spoken, until Artie found himself suddenly alone at the side of the dais. His companion had disappeared without a word, leaving Artie to the dark gaze of the woman much of New Orleans believed held terrible powers over both the living and the dead.

"Bon soir," Artie said, sketching as elegant a bow as he could manage, given the circumstances. When he looked up, Mme. Laveau's expression was still unreadable, though he could have sworn that there was the slightest of quirks to her mouth – he hoped that was a good sign, indicating that he was not about to be the victim of those reputed dark powers. "You are Madame Laveau?"

"We have waited for you, cher." One thin hand moved, the glitter of rings drawing Artie's attention to the slight tremorous movement of fingers on the arm of the chair. "I am Laveau, as you say." Her hand moved again; this time the hand clearly beckoned Artie closer and he leaned forward, obedient to the gesture. "We know why you are here," Mme. Laveau continued. "Know that, Monsieur Gordon."

"As you say, Madame," Artie replied, a cold sensation climbing his spine with fingers just as skeletal as those with which Mme. Laveau had gestured. He had been convinced that the telegraph was genuine, of course, to the point where he had not even considered the possibility of a trap. Why would he? There was little he knew of any real worth to a foreign power, so what would be the point of luring him somewhere in this manner? "And do you also know the whereabouts of the man I was meant to meet?"

This time the gesture was designed to direct his gaze, though the hand making it hardly moved at all.

"That one. So difficult. So... angry."

The cold sensation increased, icy tendrils clawing into Artie's innards now, as he considered the import of those words. Not only did Mme. Laveau know who he was, she seemed to also know West and to have given him something of a more chilly reception than Artie himself had received.

Mme. Laveau was looking away from him now, into the heart of the melee. Artie looked in the same direction, at first seeing only what he had seen before – colorful, if a little gaudily dressed, young women who showed a little too much decolletage for polite society, paying court to men of wealth and substance who varied widely in age. He wasn't sure what West looked like. His military background would likely provide some kind of clue, while his reputed prowess with the fairer sex must provide another piece of the puzzle.

"That one," Mme. Laveau continued, her voice so quiet that Artie had to lean closer, despite himself, to catch her muttered words. Were they for him or merely spoken to herself? He could not be sure. "He will see you die three times over before he knows the truth."

Artie followed her gaze once more, turning his attention that way just as the mass of people parted, making way for the progress of a single man in the same way it had earlier parted for him.

West was just as he had expected and yet utterly different. From this perspective, the words of Mme. Laveau still in his ears, he could see the anger the mystic described, banked low as it was beneath the polite fictions of civilised society. He knew how to dress, this one, how to behave like a gentleman should, and yet he was inherently the most dangerous man in the room, in more ways than one. Dangerous both to himself and to others, his single-minded nature a blessing and a curse.

"Mr. West, I presume," Artie said, half-turning from the dais before he caught himself. "If you will excuse us, Madame," he continued, turning his attention back to the woman who currently watched the two of them with unreadable jet-black eyes. The gesture was as minute as before, but clearly one of dismissal none the less. "My thanks." Artie bowed again, certain that he saw the same quirk of the lips as before, though it was gone in less than a heartbeat so he couldn't be sure.

He turned back to the man he assumed was West, who was watching him impassively.

"You are West?"

"Gordon?" West asked, though he must surely have guessed the answer to his question. "I was wondering when you'd get here."

Not the most auspicious of beginnings, in hindsight.

Later, riding out toward the railyard in West's wake and staring at the resolute line of his new acquaintance's back, Artie decided Mme. Laveau's words were the most accurate character description he had ever encountered, far superior to the alienists of New York. They were just beginning to try and detail the intricacies of the human personality and yet, in a handful of words, a barely-literate mystic had captured the heart of the man who rode ahead of him.

As for the rest of the things she had said, Artie decided he'd keep his own counsel on that – maybe one day he'd figure out the remainder of her words and maybe not. There was something to be said in that line of work for a little flim-flam to keep things interesting. If Artie had anything to do with it then he wouldn't be dying once, let alone three times, regardless of the effect it might have on James West.

Still, if he could say nothing else for the man, at least Artie couldn't deny that he had an impeccable sense of direction. They were weaving their way through what seemed a veritable host of engines and carriages and yet West did not hesitate, guiding the two of them to the farther reaches of the yards, to one engine in particular that stood alone. West rode alongside the train, pausing midway down its length, then slipped from the saddle – Artie couldn't help envy the casual ease with which West performed that maneuver, especially given the tightness of the pants the other man wore, pants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Artie?" Jim had turned over the telegram in his hand, going from the familiar succinctness of the message to the scribbled note that Artie had made on its reverse, just hours after Mme. Laveau had uttered those words he had not then understood. "Isn't this a little sentimental, even for you?"

Artie would have bridled at that, if he had not been too busy remembering another place, another time.

She had been right all along, of course, though Artie had not known it until now. The words Mme. Laveau had muttered, those words that had once seemed so obscure in their meaning, were now perfectly clear, an unexpectedly accurate portent. It was difficult for a man of science such as himself to comprehend. Nobody could have anticipated that he and Jim would find themselves embroiled in such ludicrous adventures.

"He will see you die three times over before he knows the truth."

Artie had buried those words in his memory as surely as he had buried the telegram on which he'd noted them, using it first to mark his place in some long-forgotten book, before it had slipped to the bottom of a trunk he'd left behind himself a dozen times since New Orleans.

He wondered if the first time counted, given that Jim knew it wasn’t real. Artie had been in disguise, his death at Jim's hands part of the plan to ingratiate him with the Vasquez gang. Somehow he doubted that the fates, or whatever it was that gave Mme. Laveau her insight, cared much for those sort of details.

Then it had been the fault of Dr. Loveless, Jim's role that of guinea pig before the twisted little genius unleashed his plan to wipe out mankind. Artie hadn't died, not really, but the chemicals Loveless used had twisted Jim's mind so much he was adamant he had gunned Artie down in cold blood. Artie had feared for his partner's sanity, since he was clearly so very near the edge and barely holding on by sheer force of will once the truth was exposed.

Then it was Colonel Vautrain and his twisted plan to set things right, as he saw it, ensuring that history changed and the South was victorious. He had set in motion a plot to kidnap Artie, before imprisoning him in some bizarre device that seemed to send him back in time, making him believe he was Jack Maitland and challenging Jim to a duel. Once again, only days ago, he had died in Jim's arms.

Jim had turned the paper over now, the expression on his face hard to decipher as he took in the hastily-scrawled words that Artie knew by heart. It was stupid sentimentality that had made him keep the telegram, a souvenir of their first encounter in more ways than one, and it would be the ruin of him.

"What's this?"

Artie didn't need to look up to know which side of the telegram he would see, given the chilly tone of Jim's voice. He hated a mystery, particularly if he thought his partner was keeping something from him. Which, of course, Artie was and had been for some time.

"What truth, Artie?" Jim continued, when Artie didn't reply.

The rest of the prophecy was clear then, to both of them. Jim understood it as much as Artie himself, that he had seen Artie die at least three times now and it was time for some sort of denouement.

"Back when we first met," Artie began as he got to his feet, surprised at the steadiness of his voice considering he felt as though he was walking to the gallows with each word, "do you remember?"

Jim's face was impassive; a terse nod was the only response Artie was going to get, it seemed. But even that was enough encouragement, now this helter-skelter rush to honesty had begun.

"The Maison Blanche. I'd heard so much about it and was disappointed not to find it the bacchanal it was rumoured to be." Jim wasn't interrupting, at least, and that heartened Artie somehow. He might get to the end of his tale after all. "And that wasn't the only reputation I'd heard of."

Jim had to know he had been the talk of the Secret Service, one way or another – for people who traded in secrets, the community of agents seemed to have great difficulty sometimes in keeping a run of the mill confidence.

"The great James West," Artie continued, gesturing at the man himself, who still stood impassive against the counter. "Paragon of all that the Secret Service holds dear, favourite of President Grant himself."

What had he expected? Jim's reputation had been larger than life, impossible for any one man to live up to, and yet it wasn't so utterly far from the truth. Not when you knew the man behind the reputation as well as Artie had come to, over the years they'd been partnered. But that knowledge had been one-sided, as Artie had always held something back, as if somehow knowing this day would come and that revelations would come with it.

"What truth, Artie?" Jim asked again. "You know I don’t believe in all this hocus pocus."

"Even after all the things we've seen?" Artie could hear the disbelief in his tone, try as he might to temper it. "Surely even you must admit that there are more things in heaven and earth…"

"Spare me the soliloquy," Jim interrupted. "After all this time, I'd say I know it by heart."

"That doesn’t make it any less true," Artie said. "Or Mme. Laveau's words any less accurate, no matter how much you might deny it."

He'd leave, push past Jim to the galley door, if only to gain the little freedom that the rest of the Wanderer presented as it raced the long stretch of track that curved through this part of Nevada, but that wouldn’t take any of these words back. Nothing that had been said could be unsaid, so what was the point of pretending any longer?

"I don’t," Jim said, moving before Artie could predict his actions.

Jim took a step forward, dropping the telegram onto the counter; he caught Artie just as he rose from his crouch, his strong hands pinioning Artie's shoulders as Jim pulled him up to his full height. Artie didn’t have time to react, to think that he was being assaulted in some way, to protect himself in the slightest before Jim had him pressed back against the galley wall, the weight of his compact torso holding him in place as Jim kissed him expertly.

Years worth of expertise underpinned every action, Artie guessed, years he was now benefiting from, for however long this experience would last or it would take for James West to recover his senses. The thought of this coming to a premature end made Artie raise his own hands, gripping the material of Jim's shirt as tightly as he could, to make it as difficult for the two of them to separate as he possibly could. He was proud of himself for this level of forward planning, given that Jim seemed to be single-minded in the pursuit of driving Artie to the edge of distraction and beyond.

When Jim finally pulled back, face flushed and eyes even brighter with mischief than usual, Artie could have sworn that the whimper he made came from somewhere else, even as the quirk of Jim's mouth told him its true source.

"Is that the truth you were thinking of?"

"I guess so," Artie said, unable to even respond to the smugness of Jim's tone. He had the right to be smug, of course, having just kissed him to the edge of distraction and then beyond. "How long have you known?"

Jim didn’t answer him, that smug expression growing even more infuriating by the second.

"I didn’t realize I was that obvious," Artie continued, when Jim didn’t speak. It was, after all, hardly a plaudit where Artie's acting abilities were concerned.

"You weren't," Jim said, just as Artie was thinking once more about pushing past him and out of the galley. "Not to anyone who doesn’t know you, at least."

That was something. Or at least the only thing Artie could currently hang onto, to give his actor's ego the slightest respite.

"Anyone who wasn't of similar inclination, you mean," Artie pressed.

He was unwilling to let the matter drop, despite the small voice in his head that was telling him he was treading on dangerous ground. Jim's hands tightened a little on his shoulders at the words and then relaxed as he tried to smile. Somehow Artie wasn’t all that convinced by the expression.

"I'm not so sure about that." Jim's words were curt, feeding the anxiety that roiled in Artie's stomach at their tone. Was this some kind of game to the other man after all? "I only know I want to do this," he continued, pulling Artie towards him and kissing him again, his mouth less bruising this time around. "And keep on doing it till you stop looking at me that way."

Jim's hands loosened, so that all that tied the two of them together now was the death grip Artie had on his shirt, the material doubtless now irreparably rumpled by the tightness of Artie's hands. He was unwilling to let go, certain that allowing Jim to leave would be the biggest mistake Artie had ever made in his life, and equally certain he couldn’t keep the man here if he truly wanted to leave.

"I can't help needing to be convinced, Jim," Artie said, "all things considered." He shifted his weight a little and leaned forward till Jim's thigh slid between his legs, the muscled curve of it brushing against Artie's erection. "But I think it's working." He'd tried for a wondering tone and the answering quirk of Jim's mouth told Artie he'd hit the bulls eye. "Well, fancy that…"

Artie took the initiative then; eyes open as if he was throwing himself off some unfamiliar cliff into the river sweeping below, the same sense of possible disaster looming at his shoulder. Jim had kissed him, demonstrating a hard-won expertise that knew no difference between man and woman, and Artie was determined to return the favour. To his credit, Jim didn’t whimper or even flinch as Artie pressed him back against the galley cupboards, his mouth hot and alive under Artie's own.

Jim was flushed and breathing a little harder when he pulled back, Artie was glad to note – it made him feel like this was a little less one-sided than he had previously feared to be the case. Though that was more and more unlikely the longer this encounter continued, given that they had both crossed the line of acceptable behaviour even for the closest of platonic friends.

"Your place or mine?" Artie asked, before he could stop the words escaping from his mouth.

"Mine," Jim said, the first thing he'd said for a while, the tone more proprietary than Artie had expected.

Well, if that was Jim's game, then Artie was pleased to play along for now – he wasn’t too bothered who did what as long as everyone had fun and there was plenty of chance to repeat the experience in other combinations.

Artie paused in the doorway, enraptured by the curve of James West's back as he pulled off his pants, those tight-fitting marvels that showcased their contents so splendidly. Another time, he thought, he'd like to take his time removing them himself, inch by tantalizing inch as Jim writhed beneath him, hard and needy. Just the thought of it was enough to make Artie harden further, till he envied Jim the opportunity to disrobe as he watched the other man's erection come free.

This time Artie was more than happy to settle for the voyeur's role; Jim's body wasn't unfamiliar to him from the mutual doctoring that their roles required, but now he was seeing the other man in the guise of a lover rather than a patient. Jim certainly had nothing to be ashamed of, from any perspective.

The room was as familiar to him as his own, but from the perspective of a man about to commit all sorts of carnalities, it seemed as alien as any terra incognita might be. Every one of its trappings spoke to Jim's character, the straight lines and military precision of each item a relic of his partner's past.

"You planning to just stand there and watch?" Jim asked, as his carefully folded pants hit the chair by his bed.

What Jim wore beneath them, miracle that it was he could fit any material beneath the tightness of those trousers, hid nothing from the imagination – the white cotton was tented by his erection, the opened shirt letting Artie see the lines of muscle and skin, the smattering of hair that led downwards. His mouth was suddenly dry, the enormity of his situation real at last, it overwhelmed any bravado Artie might previously have felt.

This was real, this was all real and he wasn't going to wake up alone and discover it had all been some frustrating dream. Not this time, and possibly never again, if Mrs Gordon's little boy had anything to say about the matter.

"I had intended to play a more active part," Artie admitted, taking a step closer, his hand sliding beneath Jim's open shirt so that his fingers splayed across Jim's side, marvelling at the warm velvet of his skin. "But when the view is so pleasing..."

Jim smiled at that, taking the compliment as his due, deft fingers taking on the work of freeing Artie's belt, with the occasional stray caress of fingertips across a hardness that matched his own. As Jim worked, Artie let his hand slide around Jim's waist, feeling the curve of hard-earned muscle smooth beneath his palm, the brush of material against the back of his hand when fingers slipped beneath the skin-warmed cotton.

"I'm glad it meets with your approval." Jim's voice, barely above a whisper, warmed Artie's ear - he could hear the amusement in its tone, the arousal too, both evident to anyone who knew the man. Nobody else did, of course, and that was a source of pride. "Given how long it's taken to get to this."

"Worth the wait, James my boy," Artie said, as the train hit the beginning of a long curve and the jostling of the carriages toppled the two of them onto Jim's bed. "Worth the wait and worth the price, three times over."