"What makes you think something happened out there?" The question rolls off his tongue as smooth as if he has been practicing it, as if Henry has not caught him off guard and his heart is not in his throat.

Henry arches an eyebrow, his mouth a thin line, and tops up Fahim's whiskey. "Remember Dodge? And the cattleman with the Colt .45? Who was it who pushed you out of the way when," he swallows, voice slightly raspy, "you were distracted by the charms of La Sorelli? Moi. And who was it who pulled you out of Dong Sing's opium den when you thought the world was upside down? Again, moi. And when they thought you were using marked cards? Who clarified the point of contention?"

"You did."

"Exactly. We've been through some times together, Fahim, you and I. I've seen you at your lowest, and you've seen me, well," his lip creases, "when I thought surviving to morning was more than I could manage. But we're here, now. And if you expect me to believe that tinpot story about a captured man getting away from you in a thunderstorm, then you, sir, have had far more of this," he holds up the bottle of whiskey, "than I consider healthy. Now. Tell me what happened."

And under that steady gaze, under those eyes that he has seen so often, in softness and in kindness and in laughter, in illness, shining in pain, filled with gentleness, now looking at him as hard as flint, Fahim buckles. And maybe some of it is the whiskey, like the night when he kissed Erik, and maybe of it is just the desperate, twisting need to talk about Erik, to talk about him not as a fugitive from the law, an escaped murderer, but as someone wholly more than that. As someone he has pressed himself to at night, as arms that have wrapped around him, as a hesitant smile that makes his heart skip to see. And before he can protest any further — however futile that would be, however easily Henry would see through it — the whole story comes spilling out.

How he found him in the saloon. How they shared the hidden bottle of whiskey after the rainfall. How huddling for warmth became cuddling, became kissing, became nights spent as close as they could get though Erik's hands were still bound.

How they parted outside of town with the promise to meet. How he is planning to resign his badge and go.

The whole lot of it, every bit. And by the time he has finished, what was a full bottle is down to the last quarter, which Henry — eyes softened now, suddenly looking so terribly tired — offers him a re-fill from and he takes.

"You care for him quite a bit, don't you?" Henry's words are low, and Fahim has not thought of it in that way, has not thought of Erik much beyond the longing to see him again, but something in the words rings true, and though his thoughts are sluggish, spaced apart, he nods.

"Yes."

"You are really intending to go through with this? To meet him again?"

"Yes."

A look crosses Henry's face, and for a moment, Fahim fears that he is going to try to talk him out of it, going to try to persuade that it is a terrible plan, that Erik was only using him (and the fear has flickered in his own heart already, that how Erik acted toward him might only be a ruse, that even now he is riding hard for Mexico, but he knows it is not like that, he knows) but instead Henry merely nods, and his lip twitches.

"Be careful, won't you?"

"I will, of course."

"Good. I don't—I wouldn't like to see anything happen to you." His slight smile becomes a grin, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Maybe I'll tell Warren to take the Deputy job. It might put him off moving to New Mexico."

Fahim was taking the last sip of his whiskey when Henry said it, and he snorts, the whiskey shooting up his nose. He gags on the sudden burning pain, and Henry giggles, right fist pressed deep into his chest and then the giggle becomes full-blown laughter, and in spite of the pain in his nose, in spite of the fact he's just spilled his heart, Fahim cannot help laughing too and soon they are both in helpless fits, tears running down their cheeks, until Henry is coughing and laughing and gasping, hunched over, arms wrapped tight around his chest, and Fahim is wiping tears from his cheeks, fumbling with the bottle to fill a glass. Henry grimaces and knocks it back, follows it with a second.

"Always forget," he whispers. "Shouldn't laugh. Tears the adhesions."

He sips at a third glass, and for a long time they sit, the silence broken only by Henry's ragged breathing. Eventually he repositions himself, his face a little less waxy than a few minutes ago, and lies back against the pile of pillows.

Fahim stands to leave, his knees weak. "Do you want me to get Warren?"

Henry sighs, and nods, his eyes already closed. "Please." And then he swallows, one eye cracking open to regard him. "And Fahim? I won't tell anyone." Implicit, unsaid, are the words, about Erik. "I swear."

"I know."

Fahim does not have to go far to find Warren. He is just walking (though it is more accurate to say stumbling, after so much whiskey in such a short time) down the hall to his own room when he almost bumps into him. Warren steadies him, his eyes knowing.

"Henry in the room?"

Fahim nods. "He had a bad coughing fit, but it seems settled now."

"All right." And just when Fahim thinks he's about to move off, he drops a hand and squeezes Fahim's own. "I'm glad you're back safe." Gone is the teasing from the saloon. "He was worried about you. We both were." With that, he slips away, and Fahim is left to stumble his way to bed, wondering, distantly, where Erik is sleeping tonight.

He sleeps late the next day, his dreams having been mixed up thoughts of Erik lying out under the sun, beckoning him closer, only for everything to shift and him to find himself playing poker with Warren, a cavalry officer, and a dentist from Georgia who's feeding him cards for no discernible reason, until Warren bails out and the cavalry officer loses eight grand and his mare to the dentist. The officer is about to draw on the dentist, when a shot comes from nowhere and drops him. Fahim looks up and sees Erik, coat billowing around him like some avenging spirit, holding a smoking pistol.

He wakes with a headache pounding in the front of his skull, swears off drinking so much whiskey ever again, and does not even attempt to fathom what a dream such as that might be telling him.

Comerford has promised him the day off, after the extended time he was out of town, so he drinks half the pitcher of water that's sitting beside the bed and makes a second attempt at sleep.

He never realized how tired he was, but when he wakes again — this time after a dreamless sleep — the day is heading on for evening, and his headache has cleared up. His stomach is demanding food, so he dresses and combs his hair and resolves to put off getting barbered for another day.

He'll do it in the morning, after he hands in his badge, and before he rides out of town to find Erik.

As it is he still has an evening to fill, and hunger to solve.

He traipses downstairs, and finds that Mrs Cummings has the food issue taken care of. "I knew you'd be famished when you'd wake," she says, dishing out stewed rabbit.

He eats his fill and thanks her, then settles his hat, checks his guns (better to be safe than sorry) and sets out, deciding to sit in on a poker game.

He finds one already in progress in the Arkady, both Henry and Warren playing against a gambler, a cowhand, and a shotgun rider. For some inexplicable reason, Fahim is relieved that there is not a cavalry officer nor a Georgian dentist in sight. The cowhand bails out, and Fahim takes his place, Warren dealing him in.

A body might be forgiven for thinking that Henry and Warren would go easy on each other when it comes to cards, be each inclined to let the other win. But Fahim has known them long enough that he does not suffer under such delusions. Henry treats poker with all of the sacredness of a religion, and a good deal of the passion too. And Warren is not much behind him. It is a treat to watch them play each other, the way Henry brings all of the gravity of a serious surgery, the way Warren's lip will twitch or his eyelid flicker. Henry fleeces five hundred dollars off Warren after the rest of them fold, and then when he loses it to the gambler, Warren wins it back and then some.

What would it be like if Erik were here? Would they be trying to outdo each other? Or working in partnership to take everyone else? He doubts if Erik would let him win, doubts if he himself could let Erik win without giving it his all. But to be able to know. To be able to sit at one side of the table, and see Erik at the other, and to know that if one of them wins then they both have won, really. How would it be, to feel that flutter in his heart? It could only be wonderful.

But then again, Erik did kill three people over faro. His record at cards is not stellar by any meaning of the word. When he meets up with him again they will have to run, will have to ride hard for a border and get out of Texas, and ride further to be sure they are safe. And could he really trust Erik at cards? Trust that he will not crack, will not grow suspicious of everyone around him and start shooting?

No. However he turns it, they could never have the easy competitiveness of Henry and Warren. It would not work for them, and not really. And envy flares inside of him, hot, burning envy, to have it as easy as them, as carefree, to look at each other and know.

But they are not carefree, not really, and as soon as the envy flares it dissipates. Henry is dying. Slowly, yes, and he might have years left yet for all any of them know, if he is careful, if he is lucky. But he is dying, and there is no way around it. And someday, Henry and Warren will be just Warren.

And who could be truly carefree in the face of that?

Fahim shakes the thoughts away lest they cloud his game. He has traditionally preferred to lay small bets and bide his time when it comes to poker. He sticks to coffee tonight, leaves the whiskey drinking to the others, and is as surprised as anyone when he plays red aces and eights and wins three thousand dollars.

At least, he lets them think he's surprised. But Warren gives him a knowing look, because Warren has seen him do this before and Henry has too, but Henry is somewhat distracted with his handkerchief.

The cough lasts long enough that Warren persuades him it's time to go up to bed.

"You don't want to overstrain yourself when you're still handling all of the Doc's work."

Henry concedes it is a good point and acquiesces. He buys a bottle of whiskey, and squeezes Fahim's shoulder as he leaves, so much as to say, visit me before you ride out tomorrow.

The shotgun rider, too, cashes out, is replaced by a traveling salesman selling little silver trinkets. Not really Fahim's sort of thing, if he is being honest, but probably something some of the whores would like. La Sorelli used to wear silver bracelets, and rings, and play them across her fingers. It was a dazzling sight.

He goes back to playing small money. It is much safer that way, especially after winning a big pot. Some of that money will help to bankroll he and Erik. It will certainly not go to loss.

He wins two small pots, loses three. The gambler concedes luck is not with him tonight, and departs. Fahim buys a bottle of whiskey, feeling brave enough to face it now, and plays on.

Seven hands later (two to the good, and he folded on three of the others), he, too decides he has had enough. He scrapes all of his winnings towards him, settles them in an inside pocket of his vest, and buys a second bottle of whiskey. He'll give it to Henry in the morning, to make up for all that he drank last night.

The night is still young (ish). Barely past three a.m. If he retires now, he can be up at a reasonable hour. Pack what things he wants, hand in his badge, get barbered, visit Henry and put the rest of his things in his care to send on at a later stage. And be well on his way by the middle of the day. By his calculation, he should arrive at the meeting place a little before sunset if he rides hard enough, and be waiting for Erik.

Erik. Oh, but it will be lovely to see him again. It might be only a day and a half since they parted, but deep down it feels so much longer. And how he aches for his touch, to feel those fingertips on his cheek, or a hand resting hot on his thigh.

His mouth dries at the thought, and he takes a mouthful from the open bottle.

He raises the bottle to his lips, and at that moment catches a flicker of movement from the shadows. His hand falls to his hip, fingers curl around the handle of his revolver. A brief flash. Two whiskey bottles crash to the ground. I'll have to buy Henry another one, he thinks distantly, fingers oddly stiff, uncooperative as his pistol, too, falls away. The numbness washes through him. Somewhere, far away, there is shouting. Must be a fight in a saloon. His knees buckle, pain shooting through him but it is disconnected, is not real, not part of him. And there is one brilliant moment of piercing pain beneath his ribs that robs his breath, the stars are suddenly in front of him, not above. Funny how the world has shifted. Iron and salt on his tongue.

The stars twinkle. The moon shines white. Nice and bright for Erik. Then the stars, too, are gone. And there is darkness. And silence.

A/N: This chapter was named after the song 'Eights and Aces' by Greg Hager, which I did not mention until now because it may be construed as spoilery. Though I played with it a bit because the cards in the song (which is rooted in historical fact re: Wild Bill Hickok) were black.

Also, I am not sorry for the ending, but please do leave a review!