A/N: More of a project imagining a 4th season of Deadwood

Spoilers for Season 3

Language is Deadwood language (expect bad language)

All characters belong to HBO and David Milch. No money being made off this. Liberal liberties have been taken with historical figures.

Pairing: Al/Alma, no sex here

Set after "Rumors and Truths"

Offering and Acceptance

Part 1

He heard the heels of her boots tap-tapping on the boardwalk several seconds before she came in the door. That's a pissed-off walk, Dan thought.

"Afternoon, Miz Ellsworth."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dority. Is Mr. Swearengen in?"

"Uh, I'll go see." He came around the bar and went upstairs. She looked in some kind of state but nothing jumped out as a reason why.
Alma accepted a cup of tea from Jewel as she waited, foot tapping.

.

"For how long?" Dan looked uncertain, needing information but not wanting to presume.

"I don't know for how long, Dan. Just don't disturb me unless we're burning down again."

""Me" meaning you and the widow."

"Yeah, Dan. Me and the widow. Will hearing that the door may be locked make you throw your skirts over your head and flee in fright?"

"Locked." Dan looked at Al, making sure he heard right.

"Is there a problem?"

"Well, she's been sweet as she can be…I mean, for her…but you did, y'know…take care of her first husband. Or had him taken care of, so to speak."

"An incident of which facts, though never actually proven, I believe she is quite aware. Includin' your part in the business. She go around slanderin' your name, glaring at you or the like?"

He thought for a minute. For that type woman, she'd been nothing but nice, didn't seem to be holding no grudge. Did have an edge to her, but Al knew more about women than him, he figured. He hoped that was holdin', anyway, Al's ability to head off trouble.

He shrugged. "Okay, boss."

Dan walked to the stairs paused, and then came back.

"You do remember you got a houseful of whores that'd do anything you wanted, without you having to lock the goddamn door."

"I remember. And you got a suspicious turn of mind."

"Humph." Dan huffed as he went down to escort Alma upstairs.

She still seemed as tight as a fiddle string. He hoped to hell Al knew what he was doing.

.

.

Al took a few minutes to order the room and his person. The pitcher of water near his washbasin was full and fresh. Light muslin curtains let the afternoon sun filter in without glare; no need to light the lamps yet. Pillows were arranged to his particular satisfaction over the rich red and saffron bedding that would have befitted a high-end San Francisco brothel.

He looked at the small assortment of pomades and cologne on his dresser, picked up on his trip to Rapid City. Most were scents and oils he had used for years, restocking for his barber's and his own use. His hand moved past those to an unfamiliar bottle that looked out of place with its silver-topped stopper.

Something new, he thought. New for new beginnings. He poured a few drops of Trumper's Wellington scent onto his comb, raking it through his hair. A mild scent of lemons and orange filled the air, with a warm cedar accord behind it, mixing with the smell of sun-heated skin. Just out in London last year, the clerk had said. A gentleman's fragrance.

He was fairly sure it would take more than a bottle of scent to raise him to that status, but it reminded him of parlors, fine wood furniture polished with lemon oil, and lazy sweat drying on clean skin. Those were pleasant enough memories. He recalled an image of himself back then, looking past the craggy lines to the fresh-faced Albert of twenty-five, clean-shaven and rakish appearance.

He reached for the bottle again, remembering grooming rituals of days past. For old times' sake, he dabbed just a drop on his skin under his clothes, at the juncture of leg and body. If anyone noticed, he figured, they'd already be in a position to have their mind on other things besides why he would scent himself at a whore's pulse points.

.