A/N: Title song is a hit from 1938. It's had many singers, but the version I favour is the one by Orch Bea Wain.
There are select facts which Fahim keeps to the forefront of his mind: it is El Paso where they will be in the next couple of hours; it is El Paso where Erik is waiting for him; Erik has been dealing faro in the El Gran Saloon, therefore the El Gran is where Fahim is most likely to find him, and where, by necessity, his search will need to begin; before he begins looking for Erik, he must check himself into a hotel and acquire a room where he can put his things and hopefully return to later with Erik; he will also need to make certain of the arrangements for the livery where Darius will stay; it is impolite to leave Henry and Warren at the first opportunity after acquiring the hotel room; his last letter from Erik was weeks ago, and he may, even now, be in jail, have escaped from town, or, worst of all, be dead.
These are the select facts that take of all of Fahim's attention as he rides into town, and he cannot pay any heed to his surroundings. If it were not for his great care to keep right behind the wagon, there is every possibility that he would lose it, and, consequently, lose himself in the morass of people.
It is the last of the select facts, pertaining to the worst-case scenario, that weighs the heaviest on Fahim's mind. Suppose something has happened in the weeks since they set out from Fort Griffin? They've been two weeks travelling, it is perfectly within the realm of possibility. Suppose Erik lost his job? Has had to take up new employment? It could take all day and all night to find him. Suppose someone came after Erik? Recognised him from an old poster and saw through the false name? Or someone who held a grudge, whom Erik's actions harmed once upon a time? That, too, is well within the realm of possibility, considering all the things that Erik has done, the reasons that he became notorious in the first place. Suppose he was forced to escape the town? Saddled up in the night and took off with no way of leaving a message? What then? How would Fahim ever know where to find him? Ever know where to even begin looking? Likely any tracks he left are already gone. He would be forced to wait, to wait not knowing, worrying and wondering and silently hoping, until by some miracle Erik might send a coded message in the hope of it reaching him, if Erik was even alive and well enough to send a message. Or what if the worst came to the worst? What if he was arrested? Was strung up and hanged? What if it came to blows, came to guns, and he was badly wounded or killed? He would be too late, he would never find him, never have him, everything they shared and ached desperately to have would be lost and—
And Henry's voice is soft, makes him snap back to himself, and he realises they are at the livery, that they have stopped because Henry has taken the reins, and is looking at him now with gentle eyes. It will be all right, his knitted brow seems to whisper. It will be all right. If he's gone we will help you find out what happened and help you find him. And if we can't find him we'll stay here with you until you know. You won't be alone. You don't have to do this alone. And if the worst has happened, we'll help you get through that too.
So many promises in that one gaze, and Fahim feels the pounding of his heart steady, feels his breath fill his lungs as it should, and he nods at Henry, a silent thank you for helping to ground him, for bringing him back to his senses, and Henry nods back at him, his lips quirking as if they might almost smile, and he pats Darius' neck, and holds him as Fahim swings down.
And then there are things to see to, matters demanding his attention. He settles Darius into a stall, and resolves that no matter what the position is with Erik, he will come here and take him out for a couple of hours each day, ride him to keep him exercised and in readiness, and to help in the building up of his own stamina. Warren makes arrangements for the care of the wagon and his horses until he and Henry are ready to go their own way, and then the three of them go together to find the Cottonwood Hotel, highly recommended for being both cheap and clean. Each item ticked off the list of things that needs to be seen to is one more item that brings him closer to finding Erik, and as they reach the hotel Fahim draws in a deep breath to steady himself, to re-focus. He needs to book a room, needs to bring his things up, then he can think about Erik.
The room he acquires is next door to the one that Henry and Warren take, and Henry is every inch the Southern gentleman as he informs the hotel proprietor that he and his friend intend to split the cost of the room between them, and it is no issue if there is only one bed, they are quite practiced at economising. And then he gives the man a polite smile, and when the man nods, and reaches for a key, Fahim can barely contain his snort at the thought of the two of them pretending to be anything other than what they are. He knows he is not imagining it when he sees Warren's lips twitch.
Stairs are still a minor trial, and Warren insists on carrying Fahim's valise so that he doesn't strain himself. It is on the tip of Fahim's tongue to protest that he is more than capable, but Henry gives him a withering glance, and instead of protesting he nods and murmurs a quiet word of gratitude.
They get upstairs, and he opens his room and tells Warren to dump his valise on the floor, intending to deal with it later, after he finds Erik. Every additional minute now is like some terrible form of torture, keeping him away from Erik, making the pain twist deeper in his chest, the anticipation, the longing, the fear that something might have happened, that he might be too late, and he turns to the door, ready to start out straightaway, to find the El Gran and hopefully find Erik, when Henry blocks his path and gives him a stern look.
"If you think I'm going to let you look for your man looking like some cowhand who hasn't seen a bath in longer than he can remember, then you are sorely wrong." He taps Fahim's chin, the stubble that he hasn't shaved in several days, and his frown deepens. "You are going to bathe, and shave, and put on your good suit, and maybe eat something, and then you can look for him."
Fahim is strong enough, more than strong enough, that he can push Henry out of his way and commence his search, but Henry's gaze is unwavering, and Warren is standing behind him, looking equally severe, and knowing he is outnumbered, knowing that what Henry says is only the truth and he really should take the time to clean up, he sighs, and acquiesces.
The wait is interminable, for Henry to declare him satisfactorily tidy (and he is loath to admit just how very refreshed he feels after the bath, and the warm shave, and the trimming of his hair.) It is Henry who sits him down in front of the mirror back at the hotel, and slicks down his hair, fighting the inevitable wave that tries to spring back into it now that it is clean. And it is Henry who fixes his cravat, a soft dove grey to go with his suit, then leans back and studies him critically.
"There's something missing," he murmurs, and Warren comes to stand beside him, frowning too at Fahim. He tilts his head in contemplation, and makes a little noise, then looks at Henry, and smiles.
"Where, may I ask, did you put that emerald stickpin I won in that game in Cheyenne last spring?"
A sudden light comes into Henry's eyes, and a smile twitches at his lips. "I'll be back in just a moment." He's gone before Fahim can even gape, and Warren sighs, and leans back against the mirror, arms folded.
"If he finds it, you can keep it." He nods, and before Fahim can protest adds, "it suits your complexion a great deal more than either of ours." A faint look of horror crosses his face, and Fahim stifles a laugh, fighting the anxiety that is bubbling up afresh now that he is this close to looking for Erik. "Oh, God I sound like Henry."
"Well, I'm sure it was bound to happen eventually." It is a struggle for Fahim to keep his voice level, and Warren breaks into one of his rare smiles that seem to light up his whole face.
"I'm sure it was."
And then Henry is back, holding the stickpin triumphantly, and with infinite care he adds it to Fahim's cravat. He stands back to observe his work, and Warren nods.
"Very handsome."
Fahim's eyes slide to the mirror, and Warren offers his hand, pulls him to his feet. The full effect of himself, in his finest suit, the stickpin glittering under the light, adding a shine to his eyes that he doesn't remember ever seeing before, is enough to make his heart stutter. What will Erik think to see him? Will he even recognise him?
Warren pats his arm, and Henry passes him his hat. "He will never be able to resist you. I'm certain of it."
It is only afterwards, only when Henry has passed him suitably dapper to go out, that it dawns on Fahim that he has no idea where the El Gran Saloon is. How could he have forgotten to find out? It should have been the first thing he checked! It was in fact the first thing he had intended to check and then he got swept up in booking the hotel room and it all slipped his mind. His palms are just beginning to sweat when Warren rolls his eyes.
"Lucky for you, one of us had the foresight to find out where you're supposed to go."
Before he can make any sort of reply, can thank Warren for anticipating his oversight, Warren has taken his left arm, and Henry has presented him with his cane, and the two of them have marched him out the door.
Out the door and down the stairs into the street.
His heart is pounding fast with nervous anticipation, with anxiety and fear and excitement and longing and a thousand different things that leave him faintly lightheaded, and he is grateful for Warren's strong grip on his arm, grateful for Henry beside him. He is in too much of a daze to pay much attention to where they are going, only knows that it isn't far because next thing they have stopped before a building.
The sun dipping below the horizon in the distance lights the sign up golden.
El Gran Saloon.
His heart is in throat and his mouth is dry, his stomach doing somersaults, as he pushes the door open.
And for a long minute he is overwhelmed by the size of the crowd. Warren's hand disappears from his arm, Henry vanishes from his side, and he leans heavy on his cane to get his breath, eyes combing that crowd for something, anything, some sign that might be just vaguely familiar enough to whisper of Erik.
There is a throng of people by the bar, but none of them are anywhere near tall enough to be him. And he can't pick him out at any of the tables. Over in the back corner the crowd is especially dense, and Fahim's heart skips. A dense crowd means gambling, and gambling means faro, and faro means Erik.
All at once it slots into place, and the world tilts around him, his cane almost falling away.
Erik.
He swallows, and before he has time to think about it, he's pushing his way through, murmuring apologies and hissing when an elbow catches his ribs. A hand steadies him, and he catches sight of Henry, sees a smile of encouragement and a nod. And then he is there, before the table, the cards all laid out, and a pair of eyes raise to meet his, a question half-caught on twisted lips.
A pair of gold-hazel eyes, shining bright with the gold brocade in a burgundy waistcoat.
And as he looks down at Erik, Fahim's eyes water, and the fear that has lived in his heart for weeks dies away, is replaced with relief that leaves him weak.
He smiles.
Afterwards, when they are away from the crowd, when they have retreated back to Fahim's room, they will kiss. They will kiss and cry and hold each other, and whisper softly in the darkness in between. "I wasn't sure you'd come." "I wasn't sure you'd still be here." They will breathe of news, queries, promises, relief, the feeling of dreaming now that they are finally together, and their lips will meet as they lie together, swallowing words, swallowing sighs, swallowing the taste of each other, each of them seeking comfort in their bodies pressed together, in skin on skin, though they will be too wrung out for anything more, satisfied in simply having each other, here, now, in the soft glow of the gaslight.
And Fahim will cradle Erik's head, and Erik will kiss the silver ring on Fahim's finger, and they will worm their way under the sheets, will leave the light on, neither willing to disentangle himself for the bare minute to turn it off. And there, the light filtering through the white, they will have each other, a cocoon just for themselves, safe from the gazes of the rest of the world.
But now is not the time for that. All of it will have to wait until they are away from prying eyes, away from the crowd. And when the smile curves Fahim's lips, Erik smiles back at him, and nudges the cards on the table, all part of his act.
"What's your bet, sir?"
And in those simple words, the future unfolds.
A/N: And so it is done. I started this back in March thinking it would probably be only 10 or 12 short chapters tops, something in the flow-y style of Flashes of a Lifetime Together and not too taxing. Then Fahim decided to get shot and the rest is history.
Anyway, while it may be done, there is a huge amount of lore for this 'verse that I've thought about, both pre-canon stuff and events that take place more than 40 years in the future. I'm surprisingly attached to this set of characters, and while I haven't decided yet if I will or will not write more in the 'verse (or save some of those thoughts for original pieces) I am more than willing to talk about this stuff and would love it if it people dropped into my Tumblr inbox to ask me. Ahem
In the meantime, please do review! I hope you have all enjoyed this as much as I have, and please stay tuned for the other stuff I will be posting, including a backlog of ficlets on my laptop, some Tinder Date stuff, and some post-canon scenes from the Wraiths of Wandering 'verse.
And thank you all for reading!