I own nothing, all is owned by HBO and David Milch other than historical characters
who have been fictionalized here
Many thanks to TheBlackPages for beta-reading this!
Old Campaigners, New Campaigns, Infrequent Wins
The town seemed to soften some at twilight. Not that Deadwood was ever "soft", but the dusk dimmed the harsher edges. Men weren't yet as full of drink as they would be in a few hours. It was harder to see the piles of offal by the meat market. The sun painted the sky with rich oranges and pinks behind the black hills. Autumn was in the air, as was the strong scent of fresh lumber as the gentleman in the broad hat and frock coat strolled past the new school. He looked at his new theater and wondered why it didn't bring him more joy.
Jack thought he could manage it if he had about ten more years magically inserted into this point of his life. Why the complicated twists and turns should come at a stage when he might have most of the wisdom, but not the time, to turn things towards a happy outcome was a puzzlement.
He owed Mary for all she had done behind the scenes, and for the calm, undemanding affection she had shown him over the years. He thought he could successfully promote her artwork as she translated her drawings to honest paintings. He knew the quality of the work, had seen her develop her talents over the past years. When he had talked to her about settling down, him retired from the troupe, her able to stay in one place and have a real studio…it always felt like he had years to finish up with his traveling life. Surely he had time to create and develop a permanent theater here, enlarge his troupe, and settle down…later.
Mary had a more realistic view of time than he did. She seemed to know that there was a window of a few years, and if she missed it, she would always be "that quiet lady with the sketchbook". The lady who never got a real art show, who never got effectively promoted to her true potential.
His committing to the theater in Deadwood had been frightening and disappointing to her, but he knew she was trying to adjust to the idea that settling down might mean making a life here. And she had even seen some ways it could work, if he gave her art equal time with his theater.
They could marry, give some legitimacy to his promotion of her painting. She had always had loving feelings for him, and he had great affection for her in return. It was possible that with such affection, coupled with his advancing age, he could come close to "forsaking all others". She could travel with him without subterfuge, without sullying her reputation. Without critics seeing her as a traveling actor type who happened to pick up a paintbrush from time to time.
He looked down the thoroughfare and thought of Mary gaining some fame, him staying in the background, but knowing how much of her success was due to his efforts. It was a nice thought, a nice legacy to leave.
Damn legacies.
Chesterton got to finish out his life seeing that his protégé had made something of a name for himself. Died knowing that he had a hand in creating "The Langrishe Troupe". Was it wrong to seek that for himself?
It was not his fault that Joceanna picked this time to call in her markers on being admitted to real theater work. He had watched her develop her talent at a distance, watching her stumble through Helena's part in Midsummer Night's Dream in her father's parlor, Juliet's soliloquy in his garden. He wasn't sure when encouragement had turned into promises.
Probably the night after she had played Portia's "the quality of mercy" lines flawlessly, in softly accented English, bringing the speech alive with emotion and perfect delivery. That had been on his last trip to Europe, a few days spent in Calais to visit his old friend before crossing back to England and home.
Yes, that night…that had been a good one, he had thought. After the other houseguests had retired, Nicolas had come to him, no great surprise. Settling down and raising his daughter after his wife's death had tamed Nicolas' behavior to a certain extent, but had not extinguished his appetites. He no longer went carousing all night, blaming drink for ending up in an unfamiliar bed. But an old lover abed in his own house…Jack had not even tried to feign sleep, but waited for the doorknob's turning.
After, both sweat-soaked and sticky, mouths sore from each other's use, they had held each other, hating the approaching moment when they'd pull apart and be separate again. Nicolas had looked into Jack's eyes and talked to him of Joceanna's dreams, her potential. Events, he had waved his hand dismissively, might make it difficult for him to oversee his daughter's future, he did not have Jack's expertise in these areas, he had not been successful in getting her an audition with the Comédie-Française. Would Jack promise, for their affection for each other, to take her on as his protégé?
And damn me for a licentious fool, with his lips still on my neck, and the soft stroking unabated, it had seemed so easy to groan "yeses" to promises for some future time…
He had imagined he had plenty of time to make arrangements with people he knew in Paris, time to guide Nicolas in the way of preparing Joceanna's admission into the theater. But Nicolas, so honest in his lust when they were naked and tangled in the four poster bed, had kept secrets: debts, a dalliance with a young Lieutenant that was edging into blackmail, his own declining health.
He had provided Joceanna with a solid education in theater arts over the years, at Jack's direction. He had been less successful at getting her known in the right theatrical circles. In his last letter, Nicolas wrote that he had made tentative arrangements to meet with the administrateur général of the Comédie-Française, but had included little personal news. He thanked Jack profusely for past assistance, and any assistance he might render in the future to his talented Joceanna.
The next letter was from Joceanna herself. Lovely Nicolas, dead from a street robbery. Creditors on the doorstep before he was cold. An angry French Lieutenant, demanding letters and money or her father's reputation would be further savaged.
The letter had been from New York; Joceanna had already fled Calais with the last of the ready money, one trunk of clothes and costume materials, and a few pieces of her mother's jewelry.
A few telegrams, some evenings dancing for additional monies (or so she said; Jack suspected she might have inherited her father's charm with young moneyed men), and there she was, come Tuesday's Amateur Night at the converted Chez Amis.
Nicolas' daughter, determined and as bold as Nicolas in his youth, had danced up onto Deadwood's first stage, with swirling green fans and her father's chestnut hair. He recalled their later talk in her cheap rented room. Jack thought it spoke well of her that she waited for him to come to her.
She knew about his regard for her potential, and about promises made. Her eyes met his as they both thought of what was left unsaid. She had her father's eyes, his steady confident gaze. Being penniless had never been a barrier to her father getting what he needed. She seemed to have inherited that, as well. Deadwood was a far cry from Paris, but he could put a roof over her head and give her a start.
He sighed as he turned towards the Gem. He'd get no peace this evening from Mary nor the others. Claudia was already furious over Joceanna's mysterious inclusion. Jack had not yet thought of a plausible explanation that would account for his obligations towards Joceanna and his knowledge of her talents without going into his relationship with her father. And any reassurances of her abilities would wound Claudia further. Claudia was a lovely girl, with fine talent for a traveling troupe, but she had aspirations beyond her ability. Joceanna, though…she could be one of the great ones, given the right guidance and support.
He mulled over how to best foster the greatness he saw in two gifted women as he entered the Gem, hailing the boys at the bar. Wondered, as Jonny Burns poured his first shot of whiskey, if Mary would consent to further subterfuge of Joceanna being their own daughter, or a niece, or some other tale that would allow him to keep all of his promises.
So many "ifs".
If he could stomach playing the devoted husband to Mary while promoting her artwork and coordinating her showings.
If he could develop the Deadwood Theater into a permanent fixture and source of income. If he could find time to manage his actors.
If he could put the time, travel, and energy into developing Joceanna into the fine actress he knew she could be.
It felt like an awful lot of "ifs".
"Evening, Jack," a rough voice called from above. Al Swearengen stood back from the railing, toothpick in mouth, cup in his hand, swarthy and solid.
Jack smiled. He could use a good strategist tonight.
"Evening to yourself, young man. Might you be willing to dispense some wisdom from on high, as you stand there, above us poor mortals?"
"Might you be willing to hold back the bullshit, there not bein' a stage in sight?" He nodded back at his office.
"Willing I am, not promising the ability, but I shall give it—"
"Jack. Shut the fuck up and get in here, hmm?"
Jack smiled as he ascended the stairs. He didn't see the subtle gestures between Al and his boys, but Dan knew to hand him a bottle on his way up.
The two men examined Jack's dilemmas from every side they could think of. From every offered solution, two more complications emerged. Al sent for another bottle, glowered at an inquisitive look from Johnny. They sat together on the settee, leaning into each other as the bottle's level dropped. Al rested his arm along the back, his damaged hand on Jack's shoulder.
"You didn't wait too late, Jack. Events unfold as they will, with us having fuck-all to say about the timin'."
"Still, had I an extra few years to spread out the events a bit more evenly, how much simpler this would be."
Al laughed "Did Johnny give you the bottle with the genie in it? Wish up a few extra years of youth for me, while you're at it. And if it's not too much trouble, a new middle finger and an eternally functioning prick."
Jack looked at him, willing some of his old twinkle to his eyes. "Still a bit of…temporary trouble from the young lady's failed technique?" He put his hand on Al's thigh, still familiar, firm and warm.
Al smiled a reckless grin. "Trouble only in times of preoccupation and distress." He moved Jack's hand to his burgeoning hard-on. "Other times.…"
Jack smiled back. "So I see. Oh, lad, that takes me back to old campaigns."
"Yeah, Jack, I remember you fightin' some fucking hard campaigns once upon a time."
Al put a rough hand in Jack's lap. "Looks like you remember it pretty fuckin' well yourself."
Jack leaned into his side. "Al, we were so fuckin' young then, weren't we? "
Al's face turned stony. "In a way, I guess. Some ways, I don't know if I was ever young."
"But there was a time you could act it well enough, though." A soft hand touched Al's weathered cheek.
"I felt it some, with you, feeling young, strong. You made me feel like I could be somebody…that I was somebody." Al laid his hand on top of Jack's. His eyes took on that deeper green that came when his emotions ran true.
Both moved their hands on each other in a barely remembered rhythm, looking into each other's faces, looking for remnants of who they had been back then.
Al was the first to pull back. "Anybody'd think we were a couple of virgins muggin' on each other for the first time."
"Or two horny young lads, one or both playing the virgin as a tease to the other." The twinkle in his eyes was bright with memory.
Al inhaled with an audible sniff and stood, knees creaking a bit. "Jack, do my eyes deceive me, or is there a bottle of the better bourbon in there on my dresser?"
Jack stood as well, grimacing for a second. Fuckin hip goin' bad, he thought. "Ah, my eyes are shit these days, lad. Best we go take a closer look."
Once the folding doors were closed, Al pressed the older man against the wall with his body. "Remember this?" He rubbed Jack's prick, their thighs hard against each other, hand reaching under the back of the vest to feel heat and thudding heart.
Jack rubbed in turn, eyes closed. 'The back alley behind the rooming house on River Street. Someone was too impatient to get to a more comfortable location."
A whiskey-scented nip at his neck, a rumbling laugh. "Oh, it's "someone" now, is it?
Jack grabbed a handful of black oily hair. "All right, I suppose it was me." The jocular tone left his voice. He was grinding against Al's tight hand as best he was able, squeezing, stroking the other man's prick. Years fell away in the darkness. The light from the oil lamp in the other room filtered through the louvers, illuminating eyes, mouths, hands.
He pulled Al's head back slightly, studying his face, looked into his eyes. "I called you "my beauty boy". God, you were that. I'd look at that shock of black curls falling over those green eyes, those fuckin' sculpted cheeks, all flushed, and holy hell, that mouth—" He pulled harder on Al's hair as his orgasm trembled though him, then sighed and laid his head on Al's shoulder.
"Don't you fade on me, goddamnit!" He fucked against Jack's hand with his old familiar grind. "This was your fuckin' area of expertise, you fuckin' mick boy-loving stage-sharp." He rubbed his cheek against Jack's, half-remembered play-taunts running through his mind, fingers gripping into a broad-shouldered back.
"That fuckin' mouth of yours—"Jack pulled him in for a deep kiss, hand going faster now on rough fabric. He remembered kisses before the moustache, before the lips grew thin and hard. Before the constant whiskey taste. He felt Al's prick in his hand, moving faster, hips pushing, bruising against him.
Al broke the kiss and leaned on Jack's shoulder, teeth gritted as he groaned. Jack braced against the wall and took Al's weight as he slumped, his shivery orgasm weakening his legs for a second.
They held each other for a minute, still leaning against the wall, both breathing hard, gasping out who they used to be.
"My beauty boy."
"My man-Jack."
"Some things never change." Jack said with a smile. They stepped apart in the dark, slowly returning to 1879.
"Bullshit. Thirty years ago, we'd both have to be stealing trousers off a line before being seen in the street."
Al opened the louvered door, allowing enough light in to show that neither man had soaked their pants through. Both unbuttoned enough to clean up their minimal spills.
"Yes, I do seem to remember you being somewhat more...copious."
"I believe at the time, you put my excess of volume down to my relative youth." Al grabbed up his toothpick.
"And you remain the younger man," Jack smiled.
"Only in comparison, Jack, for all the good that does me."
"Now let's take the air a minute, let any "flushed cheeks of passion" fade before showing our faces, hmm?"
Sarcastic devil, Jack thought as the stepped out to the balcony. As if any temporary flush could get past the ruddiness from drink and age.
"You know what doesn't fuckin' change, Jack?" Al leaned on the railing. "Eyes. Your eyes look just like they did back then."
"Well, I would have said "ass" based on you, but then retracted after considering myself".
Al rolled his eyes as Jack continued, now seriously, "Your eyes haven't changed either, my boy. Maybe that's one of the places our youth goes, when it flees us."
"Anyways…." Al looked out over the camp.
"Indeed."
"I still have several messes to sort out. I still feel as if I need an extra ten years to do everything I need to do." He turned to Al. "But that little sojourn back to the past gives me hope, although I couldn't tell you why, or by what means."
Al looked away. "Jack, best not let this become a habit."
"No, I am no more interested in fleeing a warrant now than I ever was, and much less able to do so."
Al chuckled at the thought of Bullock trying to charge him with sodomy. Almost be worth a warrant to see the look on his face.
The two men went back inside, both tired and ready for rest, but in fine spirits and increased hope.
Across the thoroughfare, a curtain twitched closed in a hotel room facing the street. Perhaps Jack could still muster enough belly for a sham marriage, but not in this camp. And it appeared he had more reason than ever to stay. Memories of deep green eyes in Virginia City made her imagine she could see them glowing across the way.
She hadn't the stomach anymore for explanations and arguments. Joceanna, she was sure, had never harbored longing, hopeful feelings towards Jack. Joceanna wouldn't weep at night over well-intentioned but reluctant love-making, or the repeated excuse of age. If she could have had a little of his attention, as they had managed adequately in the past, she could have lived on that.
But she knew she couldn't compete with green eyes that held memories of his youth. She'd had something of a win once, when fleeing was the other's only option. She knew that would not happen a second time. The green-eyed devil was here to stay, as was Jack.
Mary packed, and though of living near the ocean. Something will work out, she thought. She held her sketchbook out at the last. Maybe she could capture dawn breaking over Deadwood before she left.