Chapter Text
BUCK: What the hell are these?
DON PAULO: The only instruments for a man of honor.
BUCK: Now, you hold on there, fancy pants. Nobody said anything about swords. Now, around these parts, a fight is a gunfight.
DON PAULO: No, Senor. You challenged me. The choice of weapons is mine.
BUCK: Says you. Now, what if I say no?
DON PAULO: If you admit defeat, the woman is mine. I shall take her, and we shall leave.
"No way in hell!" The muttering of the crowd echoed Buck's outburst. Chris heard Vin's agreement, and spat his own curse, quiet, but just as firm. Then he dropped his hand to hang next to the butt of his gun, just in case. There was no way Buck was getting in a swordfight. Just like there was no way that little peacock was taking any woman back to Mexico against her will, thief or no. Buck had at least that much right. "You pull that piece you're wearing," Buck stepped in close, taking full advantage of his height, "or you tuck your tail and head on out of this town and take your friends with you."
"Ahh, senor, I think not." The idiot didn't have the sense to back down. Buck's laugh was full and round, and Chris felt himself smiling along, because Buck's laugh had that affect on him, even in these inappropriate circumstances.
"Well, I sure ain't using this." Buck drove the sword point first into the dusty street where it swayed, mocking the stupid formality of the whole situation. "You can bring whatever you want, whenever you want." He stepped back a couple of paces, to see if the peacock would take the bait. "Yeah, I thought so. I'll be here in the morning. Come armed, or don't come at all." He turned his back on the Mexicans and gave Chris a wink that said as clearly as if he'd spoken aloud, watch them for me won't you? He stepped up onto the sidewalk and pushed through the batwing doors, disappearing into the saloon, just like any other hot day.
The crowd in the street seemed frozen for a minute, not sure just what had happened, but then someone in the back snickered, someone else joined in, and conversations started up again. Folks wandered away in ones and twos; Inez started toward the saloon, but Mary dropped an arm around her waist and led her away. Chris figured they'd be safe enough, long as he and the boys were watching the Mexicans, and he didn't plan on taking eyes off them until they were far out of town. Or dead.
Within minutes, the middle of the street was empty except for the little Don in his fancy clothes, the gunfighter holding the sword box, and one surly-looking sidekick. Chris eyed his own men, spread up and down the boardwalk, and saw silent agreement from all of them. With a nod, he followed Buck into the saloon, glad but not too surprised to see they had the place to themselves.
"Hey, Chris." Buck was leaning back against the bar, and gestured with his half-empty glass to the shot he'd already set up. Chris threw it back, and reached for the bottle to pour himself another. It had a fine label from Kentucky, but the contents had surely been brewed out back a lot less than eighteen years ago. It burned like fire going down, but if you wanted a quick high or a clean wound it would do the job. Chris turned then, resting an elbow on the bar, and still keeping one eye on the street through dusty windows.
"You having fun with all this, Buck?"
"Hell, yeah, pard." Buck smiled near wide enough to split his face in two. "Ain't you?"
He figured Buck was almost right. Chris wasn't sure what made this mess different from any of the dozens or hundreds of fights they'd taken on just for the hell of it from the day they'd met to the barroom brawl between the cowhands from the James and Henderson ranches last Friday night. But it was, damn it, whether he could get Buck to see it or not.
"You even think of just taking Inez out of town 'til this blows over?" Chris offered. "I hear that new hotel in Eagle Bend is pretty fine."
"Aww, Chris." Buck tipped back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the bar, sharp and loud. "You know me better than that." And he did. "He's an evil little man. He'd follow her anywhere I could take her." Buck muttered the rest so low, Chris had to strain to catch it: "If she'd even come."
"You trying to tell me you're doing all this, and you ain't even had her yet?" Chris guessed he shouldn't be surprised. Buck would take this kind of stand for any woman who needed it, and Chris ought to remember that, for chrissake.
"Aww, Chris. You know the pursuit is half the fun!" It was, for Buck. Chris knew that. The sun rose in the east, rivers flowed downhill, and Buck chased skirts. It was the way the world worked, and no amount of Chris's harping made any damn difference. Never had, probably never would. But just lately, in the days and nights between Buck's conquests, there were times, just the two of them, when Buck would fall silent, and a tension—more sweet than uncomfortable—would steal over them. Chris wouldn't have thought after ten (or a dozen years, if Buck was right) that there was anything new to unfold between them. And yet, this warm feeling was fast becoming more precious to Chris than just about anything this side of the grave.
"Ain't gonna be so fun if his pet pistolero decides to take cards." Buck was a damn good shot. Chris wanted Buck at his back in damn near any situation. But he was only passably fast with his handgun in the best of circumstances; when there was a woman involved, what little common sense Buck had tended to evaporate. He'd be no match for the Mexican gunfighter.
Buck smiled sweetly. "That's why I got you. Right, pard?"
Chris grunted, disgusted at the truth of it. "I reckon." He reached for the bottle and topped up both their glasses. Hell, if they were lucky, Don Paulo would be dumb enough to try and lay hands on Inez tonight, and Vin would take care of the whole mess for them. Chris felt his lips twist in a grin, and tossed back the harsh whiskey. "If you're counting on my help tomorrow, maybe you ought to stand me to a steak dinner tonight."
Buck laughed, that damn, infectious laugh. "If you're so damn worried, you ought to buy me supper." He draped a long arm around Chris' shoulders. "Condemned man and all. "
"Not likely." The heat of Buck all down his left side, hotter even than the afternoon sun, raised a flush of sweat, but Chris didn't move away, just let it seep into him. Until finally Buck slapped his back and then shoved him toward the door.
"C'mon, pard. Whoever ends up paying, I don't want to keep that steak waiting."
It was early for supper, with the sun barely touching the horizon, but Missus Martell had her door propped open, inviting. Chris paused in the doorway to scan the street. Josiah was lounging on the steps of the church, apparently at ease, but for the rifle laid easily to hand. Nathan nodded from the balcony outside his rooms, touching the brim of his hat in a silent salute. Safe enough then. Chris stepped outside, and Buck fell into step next to him.
"Thanks, ma," he teased, offering Josiah a jaunty wave. "You gonna stick by me 'til this thing's done?"
Hell, yeah he was. "Might," he offered. "Depends."
"On what?" Buck sounded both amused and affronted.
"On how big a steak you buy me." He bumped Buck's shoulder, steering him across the street and into the restaurant.
Darkness slid down the street as Buck and Chris lingered over the generous meal. Missus Martell was fussing over Buck, like most womenfolk did, offering him extra helpings and an extra dessert. In the end, she wouldn't let either one of them pay, so Chris figured he was on the hook for watching Buck's back. As if anything could have pried him away.
Their friends wandered through, seeming to take turns to offer Buck best wishes (Josiah and JD), warnings (Nathan), ribald teasing (Vin), or an analysis of the latest odds (Ezra). There was also a steady update on the Mexicans that had them first at the livery, then in the hotel, and finally at the saloon next door to the boarding house. Inez and Mary were being cautious, for once, and had let Vin escort them from the newspaper office to Mary's house for the evening.
"C'mon, stud," Chris finally pushed back from the table. "If you eat any more, we'll have to roll you out in the street tomorrow."
"Aww, Chris," Buck patted his slightly rounded stomach lightly. "You know it wouldn't be polite to turn down Missus Martell's kindness. Besides—"
"Don't—" Chris didn't want to hear any more talk of last meals, no matter how much a joke it was to Buck. He pushed upright, scraping the chair hard on the floor. "You comin'?"
"All right. I'm comin'." Buck pushed upright, but headed back for the kitchen instead of toward the front door. "Just give me a minute." Sure, why not. It wasn't like they had anywhere to be before the morning. Chris sighed, watching as Buck caught the cook up into a big, spinning hug, and planted a kiss on her cheek before setting her back on her feet. She swayed a little, dizzy, and then pushed Buck away, but the flush on her cheeks reminded Chris a little of Sarah, and the times Buck had put a similar smile on her face. Feeling came so easy to Buck: saying it and showing it. Chris didn't think he'd ever had that knack, wondered if it were something he could learn from Buck. If they had the time.
When Buck turned back, he was smiling and flushed, too, and his eyes met Chris's, all a-sparkle with amusement. With life. Chris felt a flush of his own, just under his collar, and had to hope it didn't rise right up to his scalp like Missus Martell's. He turned away sharply. Maybe Buck wouldn't notice.
He turned right out of the restaurant, toward the sheriff office and jail. His boots scuffed lightly along the boards, but the jingle of his spurs sounded sharp, loud.
"Uh, Chris?" Buck wasn't following, had stopped right outside the restaurant. Chris paused but didn't turn. "Saloon's that way." Chris could imagine the easy gesture of Buck's hand, didn't need to see it. "So's the boarding house."
"So are the Mexicans," he countered, and started walking again. He hadn't gone three steps before Buck followed, and in two more long strides they were moving along, side by side. "Figure the office is safer." Sturdy locks, more weapons, and it was more centrally located, too.
"Anyone ever tell you you're a little bit loco?"
"No one who lived to tell about it," he growled.
Buck just laughed, low, and slapped Chris easily across the back. "You go on tellin' yourself that."
Chris traded a nod with Nathan, now seated outside the livery stable, and waved at Vin where he was perched up on the roof across the way. He couldn't see the others, but knew they'd be out. Probably none of them would sleep tonight. None but maybe Buck, if Chris could get him to take one of the cots in the cells. His own night would be long and watchful.
Chris swung the door open, ushering Buck in and locking it behind them, then moved to check that the windows were closed and locked, the burlap sacks that passed for curtains pulled across to hide them from the street.
"Loco," Buck muttered, dropping heavily into the chair behind the big desk. "Pure loco."
"Shut up, and hand me my tools, will you?" Chris pulled up the second chair, straddling the back and reaching across to take the leather roll from Buck's hand. "Oil, too." Buck sighed, and then bent over again, rooting around before coming up with the bottle of oil they used to clean their guns. "Give me your gun."
Buck sighed, but offered the gun across the desk, and took Chris's in return. "What, you think that after wandering around the town all day, all of a sudden they're going to come busting through that door in the next ten minutes?"
Chris didn't answer, just pulled the hammer back to half-cock and dumped the cartridges out of the cylinder one by one. The gun showed signs of the work Buck had put it through this morning, but it would be clean and smooth before Chris gave it back. He untied the lace around the tool pouch and rolled it out flat on the desk between them.
"I think I can clean my own gun, Chris."
"Uh, huh." He could, but between now and tomorrow, this was one thing Chris could do, too. The actions were as natural as shaving: sliding out the base pin, pulling the cylinder, and then reaching for the wire brush and oil. His hands followed the well-known tasks, but it wasn't enough to keep his mind occupied. "You ever think about filing down the sight just a bit?"
"Nope." Buck grinned, smug. "I always say, it's not how quick you draw, it's how deadly you shoot."
"Ain't no one says you can't do both," Chris pointed out. He had a file, he could do it right now, maybe give Buck an extra half-second's edge. He reached for the tool, only to have his hand slapped away. He hissed, frustrated.
"Don't you go messing with my gun, damn it!" Buck reached for it, and Chris pulled back.
"Okay, okay. I won't." He reached for a soft cloth and started to wipe away the dust that clung to the old oil on the frame. "Don't be such a worrier."
"Seems like I ain't the one that's worried in this party." But he leaned back again, and let Chris go on with the cleaning. It didn't take long, really. Chris was sliding the last bits together, wiping away a little extra oil with a soft cloth, and then carefully reloading the gun. He offered it back to Buck, took his in return, and started the process all over again. He hadn't fired his gun today, and had cleaned it last night after the set-to with the Mexicans out by his cabin. But it was something to do with his hands, something to pass the time, and it couldn't hurt.
Soon enough, though both guns were clean and re-holstered, Chris had checked the windows again, and had a quick conversation with Vin through the locked door. Seemed like the Mexicans had retired, but Chris wasn't in the mood to take any chances.
Leaning back against the locked door, Chris tried to relax, but it wasn't coming. "Why don't you get some rest, Buck?" he offered, nodding toward the cot. "The sheets are clean for once." Better than clean, actually. They were brand new, since the last prisoner they'd had had gone and bled all over them, and no amount of scrubbing had gotten the stains out.
"Ain't tired."
He didn't look it, either. But Chris figured he needed his rest. And besides, if Buck would just stop looking at him, maybe Chris could figure out what to do about these damned feelings. "I don't really care."
"You ain't my ma, Chris. She was a lot prettier than you, and even she stopped telling me when to go to bed when I weren't more than ten."
"Shut up, Buck." Chris sighed, and then dropped back into his chair, feeling it sway under him.
"You can't be planning to watch over me all night long." Buck looked at him, probing. Chris shifted his gaze away, but not fast enough. "You are! You think you're gonna protect me?" Chris didn't answer, but his silence was as clear as spoken words. "I ain't no kid, and I ain't no girl, Chris." Surprise slid over into anger. "And I sure don't need my ma or my big brother to watch out for me." He pushed upright, settling his gun in his holster more firmly. He made it two steps toward the door, then ran smack-dab into Chris's chest where he stood now, blocking the way.
"Stay." He'd meant harder, the kind of stern order that even Buck followed most days. But it came out a little sad, a little pleading, and Chris snapped his mouth shut before he could give anything else away. Up this close he had to tilt his head back to look into Buck's face, and once again, Buck's heat was soaking through both their clothes, heating Chris like a blazing campfire. He stepped back fast, still blocking the path to the door, but not fast enough. Buck had seen, this time for sure.
"Chris?" The anger was gone as quick as it had flared, but Chris would almost rather have anger than this quiet concern. Gentleness was more than he could handle right now.
"Don't you ever shut up?" Chris muttered. He leaned, back to the door, and looked down, then over at the rack of rifles, and across to the flickering lantern, anywhere but in Buck's eyes. And didn't it just figure that for once Buck would do what he asked, just stand there quietly. The quiet between them was the source of all of it. Times like this, when they were alone, and quiet, and it seemed like there was no one else in the world.
"Chris?" Buck's hand was gentle, too, trying to turn Chris's face up, but Chris wasn't a girl either, to be cosseted this way. He jerked his chin away, then forced his eyes up to meet Buck's, looking for something, a sign, a flicker, that would give him some clue how to go forward, or else how to back away from what suddenly felt like a precipice.
But this was Buck. Good old Buck, his best friend who could always see through Chris's pride, who'd been reading his signs and signals from practically the moment they'd met. It was a wonder it had taken him this long to cotton on. "Well, hell, Chris. Why didn't you say so?"
Chris wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, or have said, and then he couldn't say anything anyway, because Buck's mouth was on his, lips dry and cracked, soft brush of moustache across his cheek, and then tangling in his own stubble. He stood there, caught for just a moment, and then the reaction struck, and his own mouth was open, inviting exploration, exploring in return. Buck's hands, bigger than any woman's, mapped his shoulders, his spine, slid down to cup his ass and pull him in closer. Chris's own hands were tangled in Buck's hair, in his collar, holding their mouths together, until they finally broke apart. Panting, he pressed his face into Buck's shoulder, felt long arms tighten around him, and wrapped his own arms into a hug both familiar and strange.
Chris wanted to ask a dozen questions: what to do next, whether Buck had done this before, when, and why hadn't he mentioned it in the hundreds of stories he'd shared in the last decade topped the list. But questions faded faster than he could form them, and the soft amusement in Buck's eyes had given way to passion. Chris recognized it, even if it had never been turned his way before. But it was now, focused, intent, and it awakened something Chris had thought long dead and buried.
He loved Buck. Hell if that didn't beat all. He loved this crazy, womanizing fool who had a better than fair chance of getting himself killed come morning. "Shit!" Chris pushed, and then pushed again, until Buck stumbled back against the desk. "Damn fool." Chris wasn't sure if he meant Buck or himself, but it really didn't matter, now. He pressed forward, between Buck's legs, and now that Buck was seated they were more of a height, and he didn't have to crane his neck to lean in, to trace his lips along Buck's jaw, up to one ear, and then back across stubble that was fast becoming familiar to the wide, warm mouth.
Buck opened to him, this time, let Chris's tongue delve in, left his hands draped easily on Chris's hips while Chris framed Buck's face with hands more used to tools, and guns, than making love. It was barely and inch, to lean forward, to press his loins to Buck's, to feel the hard bar of Buck's desire. Desire for him, and his for Buck, so clear and sudden that it felt unreal. A dream, maybe.
Buck groaned, low and harsh, and that was familiar, too, heard through a dozen walls, and sometimes closer. It was a sign Buck was near breaking. "Wait!" Chris panted, groping for the fly of Buck's trousers and then further inside, for the opening to the union suit.
"Chris!" Buck's gasp was like a rasp on Chris's nerves, his hand clenched harder than he meant , and then Buck was shuddering, his dick rocking hard into Chris's hand, again both familiar and strange. Big hands, Buck's hands, pulled Chris in closer, nails traced hard up and down his back, sharp pain even through layers of fabric, and then Chris was coming too. Surging forward, thrusting hard against Buck's hip, spending his seed in his trousers as Buck's gushed over his hand and then slowed. After a time, they were both still, spent, only upright thanks to the desk, and Buck's firm hold on Chris.
"Damn." Chris should have known the silence wouldn't last. But he could have wished for a few moments more to gather himself. "Chris Larabee, you surely are a mystery. In all the years I've know you…."
"Shut up, Buck." Chris eased back onto his feet, testing his balance, and then extracted his hands from Buck's clothes, carefully wiping his hand on the tail of Buck's shirt. Buck slapped his hand away, but not fast enough. He figured it wouldn't last long; it never did. But if he could put the conversation off for just a bit, he might find his way out of this. If not, at least he might find the words that could make Buck understand. Or one or both of them could wind up dead, and the whole thing would be moot. "Shut up, and go to bed."
"You coming with me?" Buck's smile was seductive, playful. But Chris wasn't going back down that road again.
"Nope." He turned away to adjust his trousers, now damp and uncomfortable, and got to listen to Buck's snicker. Yeah, it was ridiculous, but… "Get some sleep if you can. I'll be here." It was the truth, and for once Buck didn't fight him, Chris heard the cell door creak open, and waited until the sheets were done rustling before turning back to the room. "Night, Buck," he offered, moving to turn the lamp wick down.
The only response was a grating snore.