The change in his breathing is warning enough and as soon as he catches it
he reaches for the bottle sitting on the floor. Using his teeth he works
the cork free, then, taking careful aim, launches it into the spittoon
Nathan keeps beside the door. Knowing Nate disapproves (disapproval being
the general state of things with the healer) of tobacco in its every form,
he takes about fifteen seconds to wonder why the man keeps a spittoon in
his clinic. No doubt, he thinks, 'cause he's tired of scrubbin' chewing
tobacco off his floor.
Absently he stops twirling the tin mug in his hand, tipping the bottle and pouring the amber liquid out until the cup is well over half full.
He's been sittin' here, listen'in to the careful, steady rhythm of Ezra's breathing and the sounds of the horses in the stable below, wonderin just what the hell's gonna happen next, for the better part of two hours. They'd backed themselves into a corner today, the whole sorry lot of 'em, and that was all well and good, but now they had to figure a way outta the damn thing and not a one of them seemed to know just how they were 'sposed to do that. They're all so twisted in on themselves now, so busy being angry, at each other, but mostly with themselves, that he's pretty sure if there IS a way outta this they won't be finding it anytime soon. Not even if they use both hands. But there IS a way, he thinks. Ezra, after all, isn't all that dead and he sure as hell ain't goin anywhere just yet, whatever he intends to do when he can saddle Chaucer on his own again.
Vin knows the southerner doesn't want to leave, but he also knows his leaving is a hell of a lot more likely than him making the effort it'll take from him, from all of them, to pull themselves back together. He's distanced himself from them, widened the gap separating them in an attempt to protect himself against their intrusion into his life and the inevitability of his leaving; Vin's not at all sure that he's capable of convincing the oh-so vulnerable and guarded man before him that opening himself back up to that will be worth the risk.
Whatever the outcome though he's tired of waitin' and wonderin' who's gonna start fightin' with or stop talkin' to who next.
He sits the bottle back on the floor just as Ezra gasps, his eyes flying open, and starts to arch his back in an unconscious reaction to the pain there's no doubt he's feelin'. Giving a strangled cry, his face draining of all color, he stops himself mid-action, his left arm automatically clutching to his ribs, clenching both his jaw and his right hand hard enough that Vin can see the furrows his nails are digging into the flesh of his palm.
Without a pause he sets aside the cup, reaches out and gently pushes down on Ezra's chest, a feather-light touch meant more to make him aware of his presence than to restrain him," Easy there Ez, let it pass."
His words are unnecessary and he knows it, the man deals with pain on an instinctual level, like any man who's used to taking on a hurt like this, and he's done it since Vin's known him. Like so many of the things they never brought up it's worked on Vin's mind, this habit, or ability, of his to take a hurt and keep going, no matter that there's a healer within spittin' distance, without so much as pausing to THINK about fixin' it, to disconnect or embrace the pain, without bein' handicapped by doin' so. There aren't many people who think or act like that, so far as he's ever seen, outside the Tribes, it's mostly just soldiers.
Several seconds pass, the sound of Ezra's odd half-breaths filling the clinic.
Reaching out Vin takes up the cup he set aside, his fingers curling around the cool tin surface, and brings it to Ezra's lips.," 'Ere this'll help."
He closes his eyes with an expression that might've been a grimace on a face a little less swollen and bruised and makes a sound that might've been a sigh if it had a little more force behind it," Not another of...Nathan's...noxious brews."
Smiling, genuinely fond and amused, who else would use a word like that when the could barely take in enough air to breathe, he pushes the lip of the cup against Ezra's lips with a ,"Not quite. Now drink up.," tipping the cup until the liquid begins to dribble down the man's chin. They both know that if he doesn't open his mouth and swallow he'll pour the whole damn thing down his face.
Ezra resists for several seconds, Vin would've been more surprised if he didn't, then finally parts his lips enough for the whiskey to spill onto his tongue.
"Well," he answers the surprised question in those usually derisive green eyes," Nate's brews are all right if'in you don't mind sleepin' yer life away, but this should take the edge off without sendin' ya off to dreamland. Thought maybe you might not mind a bit of a break."
The color starts seeping back into Ez's face as he polishes off the whiskey, and that's good, but his hand's still clenched in that fist and Vin can see the blood beginning to well up now. Reaching down he brings up the bottle and refills the mug.
"While I am most grateful for...," his fist tightens as he pauses for breath and Vin is hard pressed to say if it's in pain or frustration,"...the libations, I feel honor...honor bound to point..out that Mister..Mister Jackson will not be...pleased ...should he learn of this...transgression."
"I won't tell if you won't."
Still dazed as he is from the pain he is not at all certain of what he sees in the Texan's face, yet he is vaguely grateful that the alcohol will not loosen his tongue with quite so much ease as Nathan's potions. There is, after all, a reason for Vin's going against Nathan's edict and he much prefers having control of his faculties while the man peruses whatever it is that has brought him here. Briefly he wonders weather or not he really wants to know what that reason is, though he knows perfectly well that his wanting to or not is inconsequential.
"Lately it seems to be my policy to keep trust with those who offer it.," it comes out in the same studied, deliberate, pace Ezra always speaks with, as opposed to the breathless rush J.D. might've used, and Vin can appreciate the act of will required to make it so without pausing to take a breath between words.
Ezra himself would be grinding his teeth if doing so wouldn't hurt as much as he knows it would. There is, he feels, more than enough pain coursing through his system, and no need at all to unnecessarily add to it, yet he detests the obvious weakness betrayed by his speaking voice with enough vehemence that he almost does so despite his own good sense. Though he supposes he is grateful enough to get the sentence out without pausing for breath.
"You know what's goin on outside?"
Vin has never been accused of loquaciousness, and Ezra is confident that he never will be though he has a noteworthy gift with words, and has refused from the start to indulge Ezra in the verbal sparring matches with which he is so very comfortable and familiar. It is, he has often thought, the man's most annoying habit and, somehow, quite contrary to his own expectations, he finds it to be the Tracker's most endearing quality.
He turns his mind to Vin's words, considering. Does he know what's going on outside? Not for certain, not by any means, yet there was the fading hand- print across Chris's cheek, J.D.'s stumbling, erstwhile apology, and, of course, the conversation he and Billy had been forced to overhear as it carried through the floorboards. No, he doesn't know what is going on outside these walls, yet he can guess well enough.
It was falling apart.
Almost certainly Chris is pushing it, inadvertently, no doubt, as much a victim of his temper as anyone else caught in its path, yet he has always expected this outcome. They all have, really, though the others have not faced the inevitability of the situation as fully as he himself has.
"Certainly, Mister Tanner."
Vin nods," You know your Ma's in town."
"So J.D. informs me, though I've yet to be graced with her presence."
Something, surprise maybe, or perhaps it's resignation, and haven't things come to a sorry past that he cannot tell one from the other, colors the Tracker's face.," Chris didn't tell you?"
Good Lord, what else could there possibly be? His gaze drifts away from Vin to the ceiling above and he is glad of the swelling that makes it so very difficult for his face to form clear expressions as he asks, "What is it that Mister Larabee has so conveniently failed to impart?"
There is real anger in Vin as he silently curses Chris, hating him for keeping the truth, however small a truth it might be, from his friend, and hating all of them for the simple, unguarded, weariness he hears in Ezra's voice. Whatever gifts he does or doesn't have with words he knows he's not so good at the one on one, or in front of crowds, and he wishes he had Ezra's skill for speech making. Sure, he can form a pretty verse in a pinch, but it's Ezra who can take a few words and make the world right again, Ezra who can reach out with words and stoke your soul with a crafty, shifting ease that most people never even notice, or cut you to pieces with maybe one sentence. Unfortunately it's also Ezra that needs that kinda comfort right now, and, sure he's gonna botch the thing, Vin flounders.
Drawn by the man's silence Ezra's gaze shifts back to Vin, a line of worry forming between his eyes.
"Mister Tanner surely it cannot be so bad as all that? I assure you in the course of this day I have almost certainly faced far worse than that which you are about to reveal. Even if that is not so, is it not better that I hear it from a well meaning friend?"
Count on Ezra to prove his point without even knowing it.
"Perhaps you feel I should brace myself?," there's a glint of humor in his eyes as he releases the fist he's been making, uncurling his fingers with enough caution for Vin to guess they've stiffened and locked, making a small little gesture toward the cup of whiskey he's still holding.
Without comment he brings the cup back to Ezra's lips once more and keeps it there until Ezra empties it.
"Ez, your ma's been here every day since she got to town an' she was the one sittin with you when you woke up. She got Nate to kick the rest of us out, said if she had to sleep then so did we, though Chris didn't go any further than the porch outside."
"Every day, you say?"
He nods, refusing to look away from Ezra's carefully blank face.
"I assume then, that, for the last two days at least, she's only come once she's finished at the Tavern.,"It's not a question and if he doesn't seemed surprised by Vin's revelation more than likely it is because he is not. Other's may underestimate or even dismiss the importance of appearances yet his mother will never number amongst those who do. How would it have looked for her to continue with her regular routine, utterly unconcerned with the very real possibility of her son's death? No matter how little she valued the opinions of the people in this town? Not well, not at all well, and had she acted in any manner other than what Vin has related to him she would have been recast as the villain of the piece. She never has been, not in all his years, not that he can recall, by anyone other than himself and even that has been an infrequent thing.
He can see it all in the gambler's face, can read his thoughts as easily as he could read a coyote's tracks in a muddy river bank, and knows nothing he can say will change his mind, that there aren't words enough in any language to convince this man the concern he'd seen had been a true thing. He can also understand that, in a very real sense, Ezra CAN"T accept what he's trying to tell him, the risk, the pain of an all-too-likely disappointment , is to great a thing for him to allow himself to be swayed.
He tries anyway.
"Ez, you scared the hell outta her, whatever you wanna think 'bout her motives, you scared the hell outta all of us, whatever you think of OUR motives, an' I ain't defendin' 'er, not by any means, but haven't you ever stopped to wonder if just maybe it ain't ALL an act? If just maybe, good as she is, she's gone and fooled you right along with the rest of the world?"
More times than logic or reason should have allowed, he wants to say but does not. By far and away the greater part of his childhood was spent in the struggle for, or, perhaps, in search of, the love his mother is so miserly in bestowing, with precious little result. He knows THAT tangled, twisting path all to well and has no intention of further exploring its ways. Yet there is Vin, trying, in his quiet way, to ease a pain he's never been without, and it is for HIS benefit that he acquiesces. It is a small thing to say the words, after all. "Perhaps, Mister Tanner."
Irritated, knowing Ezra's trying to coddle him, Vin sets his jaw, unconsciously mimicking one of Chris's most familiar expressions. Fine then, he thinks. He's not here to work out Maude and Ezra's problems anyway; he wouldn't have said anything at all if Chris hadn't been so damn small and mean and just told the man his Ma was coming to see him every night.
Seconds pass.
"I love this town you know."
A sad smile playing at the corner of his lips Ezra thinks of how much he'll miss this man whom he has so very rarely passed a kind moment with. They are, despite Vin's very odd, almost painful, fashion choices, very much alike; both solitary and private and guarded, both almost preternaturally aware of the thoughts of those around them, and unwilling to reveal their own thoughts in kind. He thinks he MUST love Vin, as he loves them all, Nathan included, seemingly in spite of his own experience with such things; what other name could there be for this strange and consuming need to forestall the harsh reality of this situation, to defend him against the damage and pain which will so soon descend upon them all? It would be easier if he cold hate him and he selfishly wishes that he DID hate him, that he could look at Vin or Buck or Chris or any and all of them, and feel the simple burn of hate coursing through his blood, obscuring his vision in a violent red haze. He would welcome it, as he once had done, would embrace the simplicity of the emotion with a gratitude that might well shame him under any other circumstances, yet he knows such thoughts are futile. He does not hate Vine nor any of the others, and can think of no act they might perpetrate which would be foul enough to make him do so.,"Yes Mister Tanner, I do."
"But what's that gonna be worth if ya leave? You think it won't matter, we all know it, but yer WRONG. What the hell we gonna do without you sittin' round bitchin 'bout the banality of this place, without that damn persnickety horse of yer's runnin rough-shod over ya, without you an' Buck sittin 'round causin' all the trouble you can thin of in a day? I love this town, but yer' PART of what I love 'bout it. An' stop looking at me like I jest grew two more heads 'er somth'in. You ain't the only one allowed t' think 'er feel like that Ez."
"It's just...did you truly just use the word 'banality', and in it's proper context? I had thought never to hear such a word grace your lips, Sir."
He can see the amusement in Ezra's eyes, and there IS amusement, though not enough to overshadow the simple request the man will not give voice to. Don't make me stay, that look says, Don't do this too me. PLEASE. And Vin can understand that look far better, he thinks, than anyone else in this town. It is the look of a man who wants, desperately, to give in to some overwhelming force, if only cause he's tired and he don't wanna fight it any more, but it's ALSO the look of a man who's been beat down enough times that once more'll do 'im fer the game. He thinks, seein that look, that even Ezra don't know which force is the greater, which side'll deal that last, shattering, blow, the urge to stay or the urge to go. And because he means what he said, because he does love the man, he leaves off. It's plain enough that the choice is tearin' him in two and nothing he can say or do'll ease that now, and, in the end, the choice belongs to Ezra and Ezra alone. Ezra who might not be able to forgive himself fer forgivin' THEM. ,"Well, a man can't hang 'round the likes of you fer more'n a coupl'a days without learnin' something 'bout fancy words . Leastways not without goin off his rocker."
Ezra smirks, and Vin feels a pang, wonderin how many times he'll see that expression again," I was under the impression that you, along with our compatriots, were well on your way to becoming a bedlamite long before I introduced you to the pleasures of civilized conversation."
"I could enjoy a conversation long before you came 'long, ya know. Not that there's always so much worth enjoyin' ."
"All too true.," He started to heave a sigh, then stopped with a slight cringe and a look of disgust,"Still, MUST you butcher the language so?"
"Course. Gotta give you somethin to complain 'bout after all."
"You would dare to claim the mangling of the Kings English in which you constantly indulge is for MY benefit? I take it back Sir, you are not simply ON YOUR WAY to becoming a bedlamite, you ARE a bedlamite."
"Yer'a card Ez."
"Thank you, Vin."
He pauses, knowing he's not talking about the half-hearted insult, feeling the most ridiculous urge to cry, perfectly moved by the sincerity in the southerner's voice. He wants to tell him that thanks aren't nessicary, that they're almost insultin' , considerin', but he doesn't 'cause Ezra don't wanna hear it. Instead he gives him a lopsided grin and nods.
It's enough.
Absently he stops twirling the tin mug in his hand, tipping the bottle and pouring the amber liquid out until the cup is well over half full.
He's been sittin' here, listen'in to the careful, steady rhythm of Ezra's breathing and the sounds of the horses in the stable below, wonderin just what the hell's gonna happen next, for the better part of two hours. They'd backed themselves into a corner today, the whole sorry lot of 'em, and that was all well and good, but now they had to figure a way outta the damn thing and not a one of them seemed to know just how they were 'sposed to do that. They're all so twisted in on themselves now, so busy being angry, at each other, but mostly with themselves, that he's pretty sure if there IS a way outta this they won't be finding it anytime soon. Not even if they use both hands. But there IS a way, he thinks. Ezra, after all, isn't all that dead and he sure as hell ain't goin anywhere just yet, whatever he intends to do when he can saddle Chaucer on his own again.
Vin knows the southerner doesn't want to leave, but he also knows his leaving is a hell of a lot more likely than him making the effort it'll take from him, from all of them, to pull themselves back together. He's distanced himself from them, widened the gap separating them in an attempt to protect himself against their intrusion into his life and the inevitability of his leaving; Vin's not at all sure that he's capable of convincing the oh-so vulnerable and guarded man before him that opening himself back up to that will be worth the risk.
Whatever the outcome though he's tired of waitin' and wonderin' who's gonna start fightin' with or stop talkin' to who next.
He sits the bottle back on the floor just as Ezra gasps, his eyes flying open, and starts to arch his back in an unconscious reaction to the pain there's no doubt he's feelin'. Giving a strangled cry, his face draining of all color, he stops himself mid-action, his left arm automatically clutching to his ribs, clenching both his jaw and his right hand hard enough that Vin can see the furrows his nails are digging into the flesh of his palm.
Without a pause he sets aside the cup, reaches out and gently pushes down on Ezra's chest, a feather-light touch meant more to make him aware of his presence than to restrain him," Easy there Ez, let it pass."
His words are unnecessary and he knows it, the man deals with pain on an instinctual level, like any man who's used to taking on a hurt like this, and he's done it since Vin's known him. Like so many of the things they never brought up it's worked on Vin's mind, this habit, or ability, of his to take a hurt and keep going, no matter that there's a healer within spittin' distance, without so much as pausing to THINK about fixin' it, to disconnect or embrace the pain, without bein' handicapped by doin' so. There aren't many people who think or act like that, so far as he's ever seen, outside the Tribes, it's mostly just soldiers.
Several seconds pass, the sound of Ezra's odd half-breaths filling the clinic.
Reaching out Vin takes up the cup he set aside, his fingers curling around the cool tin surface, and brings it to Ezra's lips.," 'Ere this'll help."
He closes his eyes with an expression that might've been a grimace on a face a little less swollen and bruised and makes a sound that might've been a sigh if it had a little more force behind it," Not another of...Nathan's...noxious brews."
Smiling, genuinely fond and amused, who else would use a word like that when the could barely take in enough air to breathe, he pushes the lip of the cup against Ezra's lips with a ,"Not quite. Now drink up.," tipping the cup until the liquid begins to dribble down the man's chin. They both know that if he doesn't open his mouth and swallow he'll pour the whole damn thing down his face.
Ezra resists for several seconds, Vin would've been more surprised if he didn't, then finally parts his lips enough for the whiskey to spill onto his tongue.
"Well," he answers the surprised question in those usually derisive green eyes," Nate's brews are all right if'in you don't mind sleepin' yer life away, but this should take the edge off without sendin' ya off to dreamland. Thought maybe you might not mind a bit of a break."
The color starts seeping back into Ez's face as he polishes off the whiskey, and that's good, but his hand's still clenched in that fist and Vin can see the blood beginning to well up now. Reaching down he brings up the bottle and refills the mug.
"While I am most grateful for...," his fist tightens as he pauses for breath and Vin is hard pressed to say if it's in pain or frustration,"...the libations, I feel honor...honor bound to point..out that Mister..Mister Jackson will not be...pleased ...should he learn of this...transgression."
"I won't tell if you won't."
Still dazed as he is from the pain he is not at all certain of what he sees in the Texan's face, yet he is vaguely grateful that the alcohol will not loosen his tongue with quite so much ease as Nathan's potions. There is, after all, a reason for Vin's going against Nathan's edict and he much prefers having control of his faculties while the man peruses whatever it is that has brought him here. Briefly he wonders weather or not he really wants to know what that reason is, though he knows perfectly well that his wanting to or not is inconsequential.
"Lately it seems to be my policy to keep trust with those who offer it.," it comes out in the same studied, deliberate, pace Ezra always speaks with, as opposed to the breathless rush J.D. might've used, and Vin can appreciate the act of will required to make it so without pausing to take a breath between words.
Ezra himself would be grinding his teeth if doing so wouldn't hurt as much as he knows it would. There is, he feels, more than enough pain coursing through his system, and no need at all to unnecessarily add to it, yet he detests the obvious weakness betrayed by his speaking voice with enough vehemence that he almost does so despite his own good sense. Though he supposes he is grateful enough to get the sentence out without pausing for breath.
"You know what's goin on outside?"
Vin has never been accused of loquaciousness, and Ezra is confident that he never will be though he has a noteworthy gift with words, and has refused from the start to indulge Ezra in the verbal sparring matches with which he is so very comfortable and familiar. It is, he has often thought, the man's most annoying habit and, somehow, quite contrary to his own expectations, he finds it to be the Tracker's most endearing quality.
He turns his mind to Vin's words, considering. Does he know what's going on outside? Not for certain, not by any means, yet there was the fading hand- print across Chris's cheek, J.D.'s stumbling, erstwhile apology, and, of course, the conversation he and Billy had been forced to overhear as it carried through the floorboards. No, he doesn't know what is going on outside these walls, yet he can guess well enough.
It was falling apart.
Almost certainly Chris is pushing it, inadvertently, no doubt, as much a victim of his temper as anyone else caught in its path, yet he has always expected this outcome. They all have, really, though the others have not faced the inevitability of the situation as fully as he himself has.
"Certainly, Mister Tanner."
Vin nods," You know your Ma's in town."
"So J.D. informs me, though I've yet to be graced with her presence."
Something, surprise maybe, or perhaps it's resignation, and haven't things come to a sorry past that he cannot tell one from the other, colors the Tracker's face.," Chris didn't tell you?"
Good Lord, what else could there possibly be? His gaze drifts away from Vin to the ceiling above and he is glad of the swelling that makes it so very difficult for his face to form clear expressions as he asks, "What is it that Mister Larabee has so conveniently failed to impart?"
There is real anger in Vin as he silently curses Chris, hating him for keeping the truth, however small a truth it might be, from his friend, and hating all of them for the simple, unguarded, weariness he hears in Ezra's voice. Whatever gifts he does or doesn't have with words he knows he's not so good at the one on one, or in front of crowds, and he wishes he had Ezra's skill for speech making. Sure, he can form a pretty verse in a pinch, but it's Ezra who can take a few words and make the world right again, Ezra who can reach out with words and stoke your soul with a crafty, shifting ease that most people never even notice, or cut you to pieces with maybe one sentence. Unfortunately it's also Ezra that needs that kinda comfort right now, and, sure he's gonna botch the thing, Vin flounders.
Drawn by the man's silence Ezra's gaze shifts back to Vin, a line of worry forming between his eyes.
"Mister Tanner surely it cannot be so bad as all that? I assure you in the course of this day I have almost certainly faced far worse than that which you are about to reveal. Even if that is not so, is it not better that I hear it from a well meaning friend?"
Count on Ezra to prove his point without even knowing it.
"Perhaps you feel I should brace myself?," there's a glint of humor in his eyes as he releases the fist he's been making, uncurling his fingers with enough caution for Vin to guess they've stiffened and locked, making a small little gesture toward the cup of whiskey he's still holding.
Without comment he brings the cup back to Ezra's lips once more and keeps it there until Ezra empties it.
"Ez, your ma's been here every day since she got to town an' she was the one sittin with you when you woke up. She got Nate to kick the rest of us out, said if she had to sleep then so did we, though Chris didn't go any further than the porch outside."
"Every day, you say?"
He nods, refusing to look away from Ezra's carefully blank face.
"I assume then, that, for the last two days at least, she's only come once she's finished at the Tavern.,"It's not a question and if he doesn't seemed surprised by Vin's revelation more than likely it is because he is not. Other's may underestimate or even dismiss the importance of appearances yet his mother will never number amongst those who do. How would it have looked for her to continue with her regular routine, utterly unconcerned with the very real possibility of her son's death? No matter how little she valued the opinions of the people in this town? Not well, not at all well, and had she acted in any manner other than what Vin has related to him she would have been recast as the villain of the piece. She never has been, not in all his years, not that he can recall, by anyone other than himself and even that has been an infrequent thing.
He can see it all in the gambler's face, can read his thoughts as easily as he could read a coyote's tracks in a muddy river bank, and knows nothing he can say will change his mind, that there aren't words enough in any language to convince this man the concern he'd seen had been a true thing. He can also understand that, in a very real sense, Ezra CAN"T accept what he's trying to tell him, the risk, the pain of an all-too-likely disappointment , is to great a thing for him to allow himself to be swayed.
He tries anyway.
"Ez, you scared the hell outta her, whatever you wanna think 'bout her motives, you scared the hell outta all of us, whatever you think of OUR motives, an' I ain't defendin' 'er, not by any means, but haven't you ever stopped to wonder if just maybe it ain't ALL an act? If just maybe, good as she is, she's gone and fooled you right along with the rest of the world?"
More times than logic or reason should have allowed, he wants to say but does not. By far and away the greater part of his childhood was spent in the struggle for, or, perhaps, in search of, the love his mother is so miserly in bestowing, with precious little result. He knows THAT tangled, twisting path all to well and has no intention of further exploring its ways. Yet there is Vin, trying, in his quiet way, to ease a pain he's never been without, and it is for HIS benefit that he acquiesces. It is a small thing to say the words, after all. "Perhaps, Mister Tanner."
Irritated, knowing Ezra's trying to coddle him, Vin sets his jaw, unconsciously mimicking one of Chris's most familiar expressions. Fine then, he thinks. He's not here to work out Maude and Ezra's problems anyway; he wouldn't have said anything at all if Chris hadn't been so damn small and mean and just told the man his Ma was coming to see him every night.
Seconds pass.
"I love this town you know."
A sad smile playing at the corner of his lips Ezra thinks of how much he'll miss this man whom he has so very rarely passed a kind moment with. They are, despite Vin's very odd, almost painful, fashion choices, very much alike; both solitary and private and guarded, both almost preternaturally aware of the thoughts of those around them, and unwilling to reveal their own thoughts in kind. He thinks he MUST love Vin, as he loves them all, Nathan included, seemingly in spite of his own experience with such things; what other name could there be for this strange and consuming need to forestall the harsh reality of this situation, to defend him against the damage and pain which will so soon descend upon them all? It would be easier if he cold hate him and he selfishly wishes that he DID hate him, that he could look at Vin or Buck or Chris or any and all of them, and feel the simple burn of hate coursing through his blood, obscuring his vision in a violent red haze. He would welcome it, as he once had done, would embrace the simplicity of the emotion with a gratitude that might well shame him under any other circumstances, yet he knows such thoughts are futile. He does not hate Vine nor any of the others, and can think of no act they might perpetrate which would be foul enough to make him do so.,"Yes Mister Tanner, I do."
"But what's that gonna be worth if ya leave? You think it won't matter, we all know it, but yer WRONG. What the hell we gonna do without you sittin' round bitchin 'bout the banality of this place, without that damn persnickety horse of yer's runnin rough-shod over ya, without you an' Buck sittin 'round causin' all the trouble you can thin of in a day? I love this town, but yer' PART of what I love 'bout it. An' stop looking at me like I jest grew two more heads 'er somth'in. You ain't the only one allowed t' think 'er feel like that Ez."
"It's just...did you truly just use the word 'banality', and in it's proper context? I had thought never to hear such a word grace your lips, Sir."
He can see the amusement in Ezra's eyes, and there IS amusement, though not enough to overshadow the simple request the man will not give voice to. Don't make me stay, that look says, Don't do this too me. PLEASE. And Vin can understand that look far better, he thinks, than anyone else in this town. It is the look of a man who wants, desperately, to give in to some overwhelming force, if only cause he's tired and he don't wanna fight it any more, but it's ALSO the look of a man who's been beat down enough times that once more'll do 'im fer the game. He thinks, seein that look, that even Ezra don't know which force is the greater, which side'll deal that last, shattering, blow, the urge to stay or the urge to go. And because he means what he said, because he does love the man, he leaves off. It's plain enough that the choice is tearin' him in two and nothing he can say or do'll ease that now, and, in the end, the choice belongs to Ezra and Ezra alone. Ezra who might not be able to forgive himself fer forgivin' THEM. ,"Well, a man can't hang 'round the likes of you fer more'n a coupl'a days without learnin' something 'bout fancy words . Leastways not without goin off his rocker."
Ezra smirks, and Vin feels a pang, wonderin how many times he'll see that expression again," I was under the impression that you, along with our compatriots, were well on your way to becoming a bedlamite long before I introduced you to the pleasures of civilized conversation."
"I could enjoy a conversation long before you came 'long, ya know. Not that there's always so much worth enjoyin' ."
"All too true.," He started to heave a sigh, then stopped with a slight cringe and a look of disgust,"Still, MUST you butcher the language so?"
"Course. Gotta give you somethin to complain 'bout after all."
"You would dare to claim the mangling of the Kings English in which you constantly indulge is for MY benefit? I take it back Sir, you are not simply ON YOUR WAY to becoming a bedlamite, you ARE a bedlamite."
"Yer'a card Ez."
"Thank you, Vin."
He pauses, knowing he's not talking about the half-hearted insult, feeling the most ridiculous urge to cry, perfectly moved by the sincerity in the southerner's voice. He wants to tell him that thanks aren't nessicary, that they're almost insultin' , considerin', but he doesn't 'cause Ezra don't wanna hear it. Instead he gives him a lopsided grin and nods.
It's enough.