He'd climbed these stairs so many times before, under his own steam and with a little help from someone else. For serious things and trivial ones; requests for his shoulder to be put back in place or some wound bandaged, demands that Nathan take his turn at the jail, reminders that it's time to go out on patrol whether they like it or not. They're familiar to him now, these stairs, so much so that Ezra knew which step would creak under his weight, giving Nathan warning he's about to get a visitor, and he instinctively avoided it. All of that even though the stretch required to make the next step was a little uncomfortable. That was why he was here, after all, because he'd hurt his wrist by tripping up the other familiar set of stairs, the ones that led to his own hotel room. He'd stumbled, tried to catch himself, and landed awkwardly - the pain had sobered Ezra up instantly, as it licked its way up his arm from his injured wrist. And so he'd come to Nathan, of course, because where else could he go in a town that didn't boast a proper doctor? He'd sat on his bed for the best part of an hour first, though. A cold cloth had been his first thought, as a plan to avoid consulting with Nathan, but his wrist had soon swelled enough to show that wouldn't be sufficient. Nathan was competent enough, but Ezra hated the idea of showing weakness of any kind, even to one of his fellow peacekeepers. Not that Nathan would take advantage of his injury, though he'd likely get a lecture on the perils of alcohol to go along with his treatment. That was the cost of the tending, after all. Ezra had other reasons to avoid such ministrations, though, ones he didn't want to think too deeply about. It had been easy, in the beginning, to pretend it was all about what Nathan was and leave it at that. A comfortable lie that everyone would believe, Nathan most of all, even if the truth sang an uncomfortable counterpoint alongside the idea of being thought a bigot. Better that than that any of them learn the truth. Safer too, and more acceptable for all concerned. Ezra paused when he reached the top of the stairs, drew in a couple of deep breaths as his stomach roiled. It was the pain, he told himself, nothing more. Certainly not anxiety at the idea of Nathan's hands on him, clinical as their touch was likely to be. Definitely not the light of interest that would be in Nathan's eyes as he bent over Ezra, who would be supine on the bed, willing recipient of whatever ministrations were necessary. It was no shame, after all, to have injured himself and need assistance. His face flamed despite himself and Ezra was momentarily glad of the dusk that surrounded him. That and the oil lamps Nathan used would be sufficient camouflage, hiding the truth of his reaction to the very thought. Even as he went to move, to take the next couple of steps that would bring him to the door of the clinic itself, there was a sound. A low moan, barely vocalised, that froze Ezra to the spot. He hadn't considered the possibility he wouldn't be alone there, that he would have some competition for Nathan's attention, and the idea made him rock like a blow to the face. Ezra listened, trying to ignore the throbbing of his wrist, and the sound came again. It was low, so quiet that it was barely audible through the closed door. He'd heard men in pain - who hadn't, considering the war so many of them had lived through? - that wasn't the sound they made. Closer to the door, moving quietly so that the too-familiar warped boards outside the clinic didn't betray his presence, Ezra stopped once more. There it was again, the same sound but slightly louder now. There were words too, but he couldn't quite make them out and that realisation frustrated him. There was nothing for it, Ezra reasoned, and his uninjured hand took hold of the handle. It turned quietly, and the door swung open easily. The light inside the clinic was the distinctive yellow of oil lamps; two burned, one each side of the room, leaving deep pockets of shadow in the far corners. It was a room Ezra knew as intimately as his own hotel room, though his hours spent here had been far less pleasurable on the whole. His fingers were already responding to the rough blankets that covered the beds, itching a little, and that thought distracted him for a moment. The low moan he'd heard before, louder now he stood within the open door, brought Ezra back to himself and his surroundings. He'd been wrong, though. There was no other patient, since even a casual glance told Ezra the clinic was clearly unoccupied other than by Nathan Jackson himself. The sight that met his gaze made Ezra freeze once more, despite the awkwardness of how he stood, how he found himself gripping the door handle tightly to stop the door slamming back against the wall behind it. Nathan was sprawled on one of the beds Ezra knew so well, one long leg stretched out and measuring its length, back against the wall behind the head of it. His head was resting back against the wall too, eyes closed and what could only be described as an expression of bliss on his too-often impassive face. Nathan's other leg was bent at the knee, booted foot firmly planted on the wooden floor beside the cot. Ezra felt his mouth drop open as he took in the final touches of how Nathan sat - the fact that his pants were undone, their fly spread open as one dark hand wrapped itself around a sizeable erection. The moans Ezra had heard, there outside the clinic, had been Nathan's own. He was mesmerised by the sight, lost to the unexpected vision that lay before him. Even in his wildest imaginings, some of which had featured the man currently pleasuring himself in front of him, Ezra had never quite conjured up this image. The breathy moan that escaped Nathan's mouth as Ezra stared at him, transfixed, made his own cock react, stiffening in response. He couldn't just stand there, watching this, yet it seemed as though he'd lost all control of his extremities and was powerless to move. The movement of Nathan's hand, half-suggestion in the relative gloom of the clinic, was mesmerising in itself - the sounds Nathan Jackson made were what pushed Ezra Standish over the edge into madness. "Oh god," Ezra whispered, then bit his lip as he realised he'd spoken aloud. Nathan's hand faltered in its rhythm, then resumed once more. When Ezra looked up, the break in cadence seeming to release him from the spell those movements cast, Nathan's eyes were open and fixed on him. There was no condemnation there, no surprise either, just heat and an invitation Ezra could read clearly even from across the room. He was across to the cot in a matter of moments, then on his knees between the cot and Nathan's foot before he knew it. It seemed the right thing to do, somehow, though Ezra couldn't have said why - perhaps there was an intimacy to it, a closeness that he craved as much as he craved to share in what Nathan was doing, as much as the other man would allow. Nathan's eyes were still on him, that same heated look burning there, as a slight quirk of amusement played round his mouth. Ezra felt himself relax a little at the sight of both. This was real, no mockery or trick to lead him astray. Real, as real as the arousal he could smell now, the mingled smell of sweat and sex and all the things he associated with Nathan Jackson. Nathan's hand had slowed now, the strokes leisurely and long, as he held Ezra's gaze. "Let me," Ezra began, hardly knowing how he managed to speak at all. "Please." Those were all the words he could say, all he could think to say now that he was so close, close enough to feel his own reaction to Nathan's warmth, his own arousal desperate for that same touch. "Nathan..." Ezra leaned forward, resting his injured wrist on Nathan's thigh, his other hand taking its place over Nathan's own, moving with the rhythm he employed. He couldn't look at Nathan now, not if he wanted to maintain any element of self-control. Ezra was too close, in more ways than one, and the last thing he wanted was to spend himself like a lovestruck teenager. Nathan's hand moved beneath his own, fingers uncurling as he allowed Ezra's to curl around his erection. The angle was a little awkward, and for a moment Ezra was tempted to use his mouth instead, but that was presuming a little too much. Nathan moved his hand, sliding it up Ezra's jacket sleeve and across his shoulder, the grasp almost too light to feel if it wasn't for the heat of his skin through the material. Then his fingers, those long dexterous fingers that Ezra loved so much, skimmed across the skin of his neck, curling round to pull Ezra that little bit closer. Nathan's thumb traced the line of Ezra's jaw, turning his head slightly as he shifted towards the touch, then dipped into the hollow beneath his ear, tracing small circles there. "Look at me," Nathan said, the first words he'd spoken since Ezra had entered the room. "Goddammit Ezra, look at me." There was no anger in the words; instead they were heavily laced with concern. "What the hell did you do to your wrist?" It took a moment for the words to sink in, for Ezra to take them in since he was concentrating so much on the feel of Nathan's erection in his hand, the movements of his palm across the heated flesh. "It's nothing," he said, after Nathan tipped his face upwards a little and it was clear that an answer was required. Ezra opened his eyes, not knowing what expression he'd see on Nathan's face. He tightened his grip a little, amused at the momentary flicker of lust that skimmed across Nathan's expression even as he tried to scowl his concern. "There's time for that," he continued. "Haven't you always wanted this?" It took a moment for the words to sink in, but he saw when they did, when their meaning hit Nathan right between the eyes as Ezra had meant them to. He felt it too, felt Nathan's hips jerk and felt him spend himself then, Ezra's fingers still wrapped around him as he climaxed, eyes closing for a moment. It was an awkward tableau, if he'd given it any thought, and Ezra tried to ignore exactly where he was and focus on the expression on Nathan's face right now. Before everything fell apart, as it doubtless would once Nathan opened his eyes again and found a man he seemed to barely tolerate at times kneeling at his feet, one hand still wrapped around his now-quiescent length. He was hard too, the temptation to shift his weight and rub that hardness against the edge of the cot almost too much to bear but he bore it somehow. Too much to lose by breaking the spell, too much for Ezra to risk if he moved first and shattered everything. "Now are you gonna tell me if I ask?" Nathan said, without opening his eyes. "I know you didn't come here for this." Ezra moved his fingers tentatively from what was left of Nathan's erection, suddenly too conscious of the mess they'd both made of Nathan's pants. He'd reacted without thinking, known just what to say to send Nathan over the edge whether he'd planned it or not, and for once in his life no snappy line came to mind. Nathan's hand still rested comfortably round the nape of Ezra's neck, thumb still lazily moving despite the stillness of the rest of his body, then they tightened a little as if Nathan had sensed he'd move. Move? Hell, he'd be on his horse and out of town in a matter of minutes if he could. "Ain't mad with you," Nathan continued. His eyes were open again, and if he looked anything, he looked a little worried. "Myself, maybe, but not you." He chuckled, the sound low and dark and reminding Ezra of the moans he'd heard. "You just did what I didn't have the stones to ask for." "I hurt my wrist," Ezra said, as much for something to say as intending a plea for assistance. "Let me help you with that, Ezra." Nathan's thumb moved again, back to Ezra's jawline and he felt himself shift, turning into the touch without thinking, wanting it to mean how it felt. He shifted his weight a little as he knelt there, hoping the shadows hid his arousal, a combination of the darkness of his own pants and the shadow cast by Nathan's leg. Nathan moved his hand then, slowly and seemingly reluctant, and Ezra felt the loss of its warmth against his skin. He had to move though, relinquishing his place on the bed to Ezra even as Ezra stood up, pushing himself up with his uninjured arm. "Take a seat," Nathan said, seeming to loom over him even more than usual for a moment as Ezra sat, all too aware of the tenting of his pants. Nathan had to see it too, know what it meant, even if he didn't say anything. He hadn't seen Nathan pull his pants together, or do up the buttons, but by the time he was seated the other man was fully dressed. Nathan's hands were sure as always, fingers pressing gently into Ezra's wrist, an apologetic expression on his face when once he pressed too hard and Ezra jerked in response. "Not broken," Nathan said, finally. "But you shouldn't use it too much till the bruising's gone." "I'll try not to," Ezra said, then words failed him again. This was happening with increasing regularity where Nathan Jackson was concerned and he wasn't sure he liked it all that much. "Good thing you can deal with both hands," Nathan said, not moving from where he sat alongside the cot. "I guess you can do other things just as easily with either," he continued. Ezra studied him for a moment, the light from the oil lamps not helping much with that. "But there's stuff I could help you with too... I may not be a real doctor, but I can deal with that other ache you got just as good..." "Well, you did say I should rest that hand." Ezra tipped his head back a little, feeling the solidity of the wall behind himself, the rough wood against the back of his head. There was something right about this, he decided, and hadn't he always thought there was more to doctoring than just patching up the wounded? "I guess we could call it doctor's orders..." he continued, as he felt Nathan's hands, sure and dexterous as ever, on the buttons of his fly. ~fin~

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