A/N: I'll confess I'm not overly happy with this chapter but I'm also sick of looking at it. so. it'll do.
Chapter named after the song by James Arthur.
When, at last, Warren regains himself, she takes a glass and fills it with whiskey, presses it into his still shaking hand. He drinks it down without hesitation, and she re-fills it, watches as he sips. She would drink some of it herself, but she needs her wits about her now more than ever, with steady, careful Warren in a state of emotional disarray. He is the most held together man she's ever known, and to see him now, cheeks raw and eyes red-rimmed and starry, cuts her right to the core.
She takes his hand and squeezes it, and gives him a smile she does not feel.
"He'll be all right, you know," and it is only when Warren's lips twist that she realises she's said the wrong thing.
"For now." His voice is hoarser than she's ever heard it, as hoarse as Henry's after a coughing fit or when his throat is at him. "Until the next time, or the next time, or the next time. And on and on until—" He swallows, and whispers, "it's always going to be like this. He'll wear himself out, or suffer some setback, or his—or this thing will catch up to him somehow. Or there'll be a haemorrhage, or pneumonia. So many things, and someday they'll wear him down enough that he won't be able to fight them at all, and then—" Tears water in his eyes again. "He'll improve, he'll get better from this, now, but he'll never be well, never be able to say more than a couple of sentences without ending up breathless. He's just going to get iller and iller, and this is as well as he'll ever be again. And I just—I hate seeing him like this. But I can't—I can't not be here either." He stops, and drinks down another glass of whiskey, and falls silent.
For a long time they just sit there like that, her holding his hand, trying to get to grips with all he has said though she knows it is true, waiting for him start talking again, both listening to Henry's breathing, the slight rattle of each inhale, the faint whistle of each exhale.
And he is right. It will only get worse from this.
All at once she has a new appreciation for Warren, for his determination to stick with Henry, for his love for him.
She does not think she could do it.
"I tried not to get close to him," Warren murmurs eventually, "tried not to—not to fall in love with him but—but you know what he's like." And he smiles, ever so slightly, just for a moment. "I couldn't help myself. And then he—and we—and I just—I've always known how it will end. Always known that unless there's some sort of an accident then he'll—but no matter how I try to get used to the notion, the thought of living in this world without him is more than I can take."
He ignores the tears that trickle down his cheeks again, and she eases the glass from his hand lest he drop it. He would not talk like this if he were not so overwrought, so exhausted, she knows that. To hear him saying these things—God, but she would give the world if it were hers to give, to make things easier for them, to make it so they would never know anything but happiness with each other.
But there's nothing she can do, nothing, only sit here and listen to the labour of Henry's breaths, bear witness to Warren's tears, and it's maddening, it's absolutely maddening, to see them suffer like this, to know that they wouldn't be suffering anything like this at all right now if it were not for the man who shot Fahim.
And the longing burns ever deeper inside of her, to find the man who caused this, to make him pay.
Erik, at least, is with her in the cause.
But for now, she pushes the thoughts away, and pats Warren on the back of the hand. There will be time for all of that later. For now, she needs to settle him, and be certain he gets some sleep.
"I'll ask Mrs Cummings to send you up some tea. And you're going to drink it, and then you're going to lie down there beside Henry and get some sleep, all right?" A compromise solution.
She watches him expectantly, and eventually he nods. "All right."
A wave of cold pulls him to wakefulness, and he shivers, the light piercing through his closed eyelids. The pain lances sharp and he whimpers, tries to turn away but the light is still there. And then he is warm again, a barrier over him against the cold, but it is no help against the light, his head pounding in time with his heart.
"Sorry if I disturbed you, Deputy." A voice, low, gentle in his ear. "I was just changing the sheets." A woman's voice, flash of blonde hair, blue eyes, brush of her fingers over his, once a month, cash from him to her. "Do you want some laudanum?"
Laudanum? No. Why—why would he want laudanum? The pain is just in his head and it's a terrible habit to take laudanum for headaches. That way lies dependence, Henry told him once, that set of his jaw that says he's seen it happen. Have some weak tea instead and lie down in a dark room. A simple inexpensive solution.
"Tea," and his throat grates with the single word, a cold hand pressed to his head.
"Tea? There's a cold cup here that that woman," hard edge of disdain, "left behind, if you want to try that."
A nod is all he can manage, throat too sore for words, and then there is an arm slipping under his neck, propping him up, the tea cold on his lips. It tastes of lemon, of honey, and he swallows it, feels it ease his throat. He swallows it greedily, tries not to gag, then the moment passes and he is down again, the cup removed, hands fluttering at his shoulders, tucking.
"I'll just pull the curtains, and leave you in peace. Try to get some sleep."
She is as good as her word. The light dims, the pain in his head eases, and the soft snick of the door whispers that he is alone, but he does not hear it. Sleep has already carried him away.
Soft kisses pressed to his forehead, one to the corner of his lips and he smiles, turns into that kiss. "Go back to sleep," Warren whispers, voice slightly gruff, and Henry sighs, eyes flickering open. Warren is soft, faintly blurry, and he leans into him, the warmth of his body coming through his clothes.
"Only if you join me." His throat tears with the effort, but Warren smiles against him and makes it worth it.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you and Etta were in league."
In spite of the pain rough in his chest, he chuckles, and Warren strokes back his hair. "We'd make…a great team."
"A double act. She'd lure in the men and you'd woo them."
"How do you think I caught you?"
Warren snorts and nuzzles into his hair. "I didn't need those tactics." The edge of sadness in his voice twists at Henry's heart, but he will not let sadness touch them now, not this time. He will not let it come between them, will not let it disturb these moments of peace.
"I loved you too much to…let the moment slip by." He would say the opportunity, but it's too big of a word to try and say when he's still breathless. "I still do." I always will.
A faint hitch in Warren's breath, and his arms tighten their hold on him. "I thought I was dreaming when you asked me to kiss you. Or else that it was lack of sleep that made me imagine it."
"I thought you might…think me de…lirious."
"I almost thought you were." He twines his fingers with Henry's own, and kisses him again, and the lurking anguish dissipates, all right in their little world.
(As right as it can be, for now. But all will be well soon enough. He just needs some time.)
The most fruitful thing that came from her visit with Warren and Henry – other than vague descriptions of the gambler and shotgun rider, and before everything turned emotional (which she is resolutely not thinking about now because it has no place taking up space in her brain when she needs to focus on finding who caused this, though she will buy a bottle of whiskey for Warren, which he will probably give to Henry ) – is the information that the poker game took place in the Arkady as opposed to the Enola. Why she assumed it was in the Enola is beyond her. Possibly because it's the biggest saloon in town, but it was always the Arkady that saw the more exciting poker games. It appears that fact continues to hold true, even now.
Not that there is any guarantee that the individuals she is after will be in the Arkady again tonight, but most players tend to frequent the same spots in her experience, unless they get wind of a high-stakes game somewhere else. And she has already checked. There are no high-stakes games tonight. The last one almost cost Fahim his life.
The gambler was blond and had a limp. She's asked a few questions but has yet to turn up a name, only that he is known as the Colonel. Her inquiries about the shotgun rider, however, have proven more successful. Andrew Lyons.
And he is out of town.
A game of one step forward, two steps back. Her only hope is that the gambler might chance to come in here tonight. Otherwise, she'll keep her ear to the ground and come in here tomorrow night, and the night after, and the night after, and every night until he does turn up. So she can size him up and pin him with questions. Unless Lyons, who's on a stage run, comes back into town in the meantime and satisfies her curiosity.
She's already sized up the poker games in here tonight, and there are none of much interest. She could buck the tiger playing faro, but that's only a fool's errand. The odds all lie with the house, and the only real money to be made is on the other side of the table, dealing.
To think of Warren dealing. It's almost laughable to picture him, but needs must, she supposes.
He's probably lost that job thanks to his absences lately, his unreliability with Henry needing him. And despite her best efforts, sadness twinges inside of her again, and she sips her glass of whiskey to try and numb it. But the fact remains, if Henry doesn't improve soon, they could easily end up short of money.
Hopefully Warren has a good stake built up. Hopefully.
Fahim, at least, cannot be too badly off, considering the existence of that three thousand. And considering how frugal he can be at the best of times, he likely has a nice bit more. The god of pa'simony, Henry called him one night, when he was rambling half-gone on laudanum for his chest pain and not inclined to pronounce his 'r's. And of course, Fahim has Erik now, who by all accounts is not too badly off.
Erik. The silent partner in her mission.
"I believe you were looking for me, sir." The voice is soft, slightly flat in that north-eastern way, and Etta looks up from contemplating her glass of whiskey. She finds a man standing across the table from her, tall, blond, faintly crinkled features, leaning heavily on a cane.
Blond. A cane.
His gaze meets hers, lips twitching ever so slightly as he takes off his hat. "Ma'am." His bearing is military, his face faintly familiar, and she stands, gestures for him to sit. He inclines his head and acquiesces, stretching out his left leg as he sinks into the chair. She settles back into her own seat, tilts the bottle of whiskey towards him in a silent question, and he nods, plucks a silver cup from his pocket.
"To whom do I owe the pleasure?" His politeness is almost grating, and it is natural for her to fall back on being cryptic.
She purses her lips. "You may call me Etta. And who, may I ask, are you?"
He smiles, stretches his hand across the table. "Philippe De Chagny. Bust most," and his grip is surprisingly strong, "just call me the Colonel."
A/N: And so on that bombshell, I'd like to say that the next few chapters are giving me a headache and I can't say whether there will be an update next Saturday or not, but if not I'm sure I'll find something exciting to post. And maybe my brain will come unclogged in the next day or two and there will be an update after all. We'll see.
I'd also like to appeal to you to please please please review. Reviews help my brain come unclogged faster (shocking, I know), make me excited, will earn you my undying love, and give me something to read other than first-hand accounts of life in the trenches. In other words, reviews are the thing I live for right now.
