He opens his eyes and turns his head to face the door as the knob begins to turn, not unmindful of the quiet 'snick' to the far side of him as Vin draws back the hammer on his pistol, preparing for whatever might be coming through that door. He's been dosing, off and on, for the last few hours, and had been doing so right up until their unknown guest had started up the stairs. This makes him unsure as to the hour, though he feels rather certain that their visitor is no one more threatening than Inez, who has made a habit of carrying his meals up to him herself.

That, in and of itself, is not an entirely welcome prospect, for, while he is fond of the woman and thoroughly enjoys her culinary skills and company under more congenial circumstances, he has not forgotten that Nathan has yet to allow him solid foods of any kind. Or, indeed, anything more flavorful than the meanest of broths.

Still, he smiles as charmingly as he can without further inflaming the yet tender flesh of his face as Vin moves to open the door, his gun held steadily before him, because he is genuinely fond of Miss Inez Roscillios and SHE is certainly not to blame for his current status.

Yet, if , when Vin moves aside revealing the woman in the door, his smile does not fade, it attains a certain sardonic twist he would never bestow upon the lovely tavern keeper.

"Well, my dear, I must say you are looking quite improved. ," his mother declares, sweeping past Vin with no more notice than she would've given a common footman. Not very wise of her, he thinks, and certainly that is out of character.

He supposes he's glad to know that neither Chris nor any other of his associates has taken it upon himself to simply end her life and thus the problems she presents in so many myriad forms, much in the same way he assumes that the odd sadness tightening his chest and throat mean he is, against all logical and reasonable thought, and his lips twist in an ironic smile at his own silent wording, glad to see her.

In one elegant move she sets the tray she's carrying on the small end-table beside his bed and procures the only chair in the room while doing so.

From behind her Vin catches his gaze, eyebrows raised slightly in question.

Repressing a sigh, and sometimes it seems as if he spends an obscene amount of time performing that particular action, accepting the fact that he is now faced with yet another thing he does not want to do, a situation he'd rather not participate in, he makes a vague shooing gesture with his right hand.

The tracker's eyes shift to his mother and everything about the man tightens; clearly he no more approves of leaving her alone with him than Chris or Buck would, whatever he'd said, or tried to say, earlier. Yet, unlike those notables HE will do so. Ezra cannot say if that would remain true if he himself had not come so very close to dying, yet it hardly matters. If he weren't incapacitated he would have no need of this twenty-four hour guard and his mothers being allowed to seem him would not be in question.

Once more Vin shifts his gaze to meet his own, though if he's trying to say anything by it Ezra is unaware of it, then, giving a gentle shake of his head, steps out into the night.

Listening to his descent, counting steps, he smiles in truth when Vin stops halfway down and goes no further.

Returning his attention to his mother he realizes that she's preparing to spoon him his broth and he regards her incredulously, equally surprised when he hears the sound of his own voice. He had not thought himself capable of directing that much force into it just yet., "What ARE you DOING?!"

"Don't be obtuse Ezra, I'm feeding you."

"Mother I feel quite confident that my own skills for self- nourishment shall be more than adequate.,"While this is technically untrue, for the past two nights it has been Nathan sitting with him when Inez delivered his dinner, Nathan who bullied him in to "eating" the flavored water, patiently ladling the lukewarm liquid into his mouth until not a spoonful remained, he is determined that he will do this thing on his own or die trying. Somehow, and perhaps he'll never be able to give words to the feeling, the indignity of the situation is more bearable when it is kept between himself and those men who have deemed themselves his friends. He cannot, and will not, suffer such humiliation at the hands of his mother.

"Indulge me child."

No. No, he thinks, opening his mouth to say it, but reconsiders before she's noticed. He is weary enough now to actively turn away from such an obvious confrontation in the making, knowing she will inexorably have her way weather he protests or no. He wonders if he's ever suffered so many great and frustrating embarrassments as he has in the course of this day alone.,"Very well then. Though I am sure there are many more entertaining, not to mention lucrative, ways for you to spend your evening."

"Perhaps.," She murmurs, bringing the spoon to his lips.," Nathan says you get surly with him from time to time, I do trust that we can circumvent your bouts of petulance this evening."

It occurs to him that had he but the strength he might well reach up, take her by the shoulders and shake her like a rag- doll until her neck snapped. He does not now consider, nor has he ever considered, himself to be a violent man, yet the urge is so strong, the image of him doing so, so vivid in his minds eye, that he actually feels himself begin to tense in preparation.

Petulant?!, He wants to demand, Petulant am I? Very well then, let this woman and all the others think what they will. If anything he has been frustrated, and he can think of no one person who would not be when faced with the inability to perform even the most perfunctory of tasks, and now he is mad, but he can give them petulant if that is what they wish of him.

It's a small thought, a fact that in no way escapes him, yet there is an equally small part of him that revels in it.

She is taken aback by the emotion she sees flashing in his eyes, if for no greater reason than because it is so stunningly visible. She has expected him to make his excuses, to reason out and justify his actions to her, to pass the blame on to any one but himself.

Which he won't do, she realizes, seeing that flash which had once been so familiar and beloved in the eyes of his father. We've pushed him, she thinks, much, much further than we should have. I'VE pushed him. She's horrified to realize what she's done, almost unthinkingly, with little more than a thoughtless comment., "No. Ezra I ...," she sighs, forcing the words passed the sudden uncertainty pushing against her will, "I didn't mean that."

He says nothing to this, merely watches her from behind his agitated gaze, and she imagines his silence is an attempt at retaining control of his fraying temper. The inhabitants of this town have never seen, cannot image, the leveling force of that temper, which is all the worse for so rarely being expressed. There is no other sign of her father in his grandson, though she has been made painfully aware of several traits she herself has inherited, only that temper, a black roiling thing she is grateful for having witnessed so rarely, both in her father and the grandson he had thought to punish her with. That temper, should he ever loose the thing, might well make Larabee stand back and reconsider his options.

"Why are you here Mother? I was under the impression that your enterprise in St Louis continues to thrive.," There is nothing of the emotion in his eyes apparent in either his voice or his words, which are neither accusatory nor edged with as many double meanings as she would like to see. His control is very good, superior, perhaps to her own, though such words will never pass her lips, and if not for her knowledge of him and the unmistakable thing in his gaze she might well think him only the most civil of gentlemen. Which he CAN be, she thinks to herself, when the situation or the moment calls for it.

She hates the need for this...confrontation between them, for she is beyond sure that this visitation will end in nothing else, almost as much as she has resented the men he calls his friends and his attachment to them. She would take his anger and his pain, physical and otherwise, upon herself if she but could, though there are precious few who would believe any such thing. Even Josiah, her staunchest supporter in these things, would have a considerable amount of difficulty in finding such a claim of hers in any way credible. And while Ezra might not, most likely WOULD not, laugh out loud at such a thing, he would look at her in that careful way, eyebrows raised, the right arched slightly higher than the left, that would leave no doubt regarding his belief concerning the veracity of ANY declaration falling from her lips, let alone one of such maternal compassion. She thinks it might be better to hear his laugh, an honest laugh and not the bitter, disillusioned thing with which they have both grown too familiar, than to see that expression which has too much of HER father and too much of HIS father and absolutely nothing of herself, which is somehow, simply, Ezra's.

More, there has never been a time when she didn't love the sound of his laugh, though she has heard it but rarely over the years.

"An attack of wanderlust, my dear. It strikes from time to time, as I'm sure you understand," and well he did, though like so many others this thought would not be voiced. ,"I thought a quick trip to visit my only son might satisfy the need."

She sighs and reaches out to take his hand, it is so cold in her grasp," I never thought to find you upon the operating table."

"Mister Jackson is quite accomplished,"he murmurs, and if the anger is gone from his gaze there is another look, an oddly distant and telling look, that reminds her greatly of Larabee and Tanner, which she has never before seen upon his face.," He should be a Doctor."

She is unaware of flinching until she sees the smile, that wretched, bitter, smile, playing at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he does not mean what that smile implies, that he can laugh and joy at her discomfort, and perhaps he does. She's unwilling to comment or inquire, all too aware that he might well answer her with a truth she does not, in anyway, wish to hear for the third time this day. ,"Someday he will be, I'm sure."

"As am I.," Pointedly he shifts his gaze to the spoon in her grasp, which she has forgotten, then back to her face. The eyebrow climbs.

She will not be bullied nor intimidated by a man whose diapers she once changed.,"Open."

Petulance, as he has long understood the thing to be, is an indulgence he has rarely allowed himself and one he thinks he could TRULY come to enjoy. Yet there is the subject of his continued health, the strength he must regain before making his departure. He smirks while doing it, but he does open his mouth to receive the broth.

As he swallows she seizes what may well be her only chance to open the conversation she'd come here to have, "It's not been easy for you here," his expression does not change, he continues to regard her with a cold and distant contempt," my efforts not withstanding, and while I don't expect you to answer, if you do, make it honest."

His anger burns into her as he gives her a twisted smile, his voice cool and dismissive as he says, "I'll do you the justice of assuming you're not unaware of the hypocrisy of your demand. I myself find it almost laughable that you, of all people Mother, should order me to honesty. Still...If I am to be truthful or..otherwise you must first make your inquiry."

There is that yes. She is not fooled by the tone of his voice, he'd spoken in much the same manner when he'd compared her mothering skills to that of a mother cat, though he'd seemed more amused than angry during that particular confrontation when she'd demanded to know why he continued to remain in Four Corners, all but whoring himself as a public servant . She'd dismissed his words then, assuming he was in the grip of what she'd always thought of as "snits"; if she could take anything back, she'd take that careless disregard, take whatever it was about herself that kept her from seeing her son's very real pain. Oh God she can see it now though and almost, as selfish as she knows it is, as shameful and ill as it makes her feel, wishes she could take THAT back. Wishes she hadn't sent Chris and the others way before Ezra'd awakened, that she'd never heard him call for his friends and not herself as she is almost certain he has always done before this place.

Her heart thumps painfully against her ribcage, her chest tightens as she fights to take careful, even breaths, her mouth and throat suddenly dry up; she's afraid, she thinks, of her own son. Of what lies between them in this room, and of what she's about to do. What she's about to learn. , "What is it about these men that you find so dear?"

If he is surprised he doesn't show it, though his eyes narrow to dangerous slits and she understands that if he believes her sincerity in this it will be the closest she's ever come to witnessing a miracle. Also, fallowing the same instincts which have always driven her, she understands that if he is to believe her it must be on account of something inside of him that she would not recognize and cannot name; should she fall into the familiar patterns of their relationship and wax eloquent, should she lead him to doubt her earnestness for even one moment, what dim and shallow hope they have of coming out of this together, or righting anything at all, will be dead. Josiah may well believe in resurrection, she, does not.

There is a time, a space between heartbeats, during which he cannot breath, cannot think, and in it he sees his mother as clearly as he ever has. She is old to his sight now, and it occurs to him for the first time that she is well over twenty years his senior, and if her edges have grown harder over the years her life has not been an easy one; she is no different than Chris or himself. She is afraid of him, afraid of the pain he could cause her, however inadvertently, and her attempts at driving him away from Four Corners have been a result of that fear. He is all she has, all she HAS had since his father's death; everything about that scares her.

"Whatever good there is in me... they are the heart of it."

Her eyes search his face, a jaded, veiled look that he has never been able to decipher, and she sighs at whatever it is she finds in his expression or lack-thereof, then nods, as if he has done nothing more than confirm what she has already assumed.,"Then I'm going to tell you something your father told me the night I met him. I think, actually, that it was the first thing he ever said to me and I think it opened the way for me to love him.," Seeing his doubt she adds," I DO love him Ezra, despite the obstacles and trials we were put through, despite his death. I've never questioned that.," She sighs," I wish you wouldn't either."

What can he say to that? What is there TO say to that? He has few if any memories of his father, none of which concern his mother, and only the impressions she's given him over the years to go on. Rarely has she spoken of the man she now claims to love, even more rarely has she allowed him to be spoken of at all in her presence. He has the ring his aunt Maggie gave him when he'd lived with her during his tenth year, the wedding ring his mother had hawked away to the woman to settle the debts between them. Until this moment his mother has never spoken directly of the man, accordingly he has assumed their attachment to be no more remarkable than any other of her relationships and subsequent marriages, with himself an unfortunate result.

He waits for her to continue.

When it appears as if she won't he prompts," Have you decided not to impart these astounding, na,y profound, words of wisdom after all then?"

It's harder than you think, she wants to say, but doesn't because she has a feeling that a great many things in her son's life have been harder than she would've thought at the time.," Your uncle Louis brought him from university to celebrate the Holidays with us. He didn't have any family of his own you see, they'd perished some time before, and in any case there was no bother to the family. We gave a ball every Christmas season, the house was full to over-flowing with guests, one more was hardly worth noticing.," But that's a lie. Even without meeting and speaking to one another he'd affected her in ways no other had before or since. To say she'd noticed him would be like comparing Noah's flood to a spring rain. She'd been entranced by his very presence. ,"The day of the ball, perhaps a day after he and Louis had arrived, and shortly before the festivities were to begin, he happened to overhear a rather violent and unpleasant confrontation between myself and my best friend, Abigail Harcourt. When it was over, he approached me and said, with no more inflection than if he were commenting upon the weather,' Your best friends are going to hurt you from time to time, you must forgive them that.," She takes a deep breath," Whatever eventually came of that meeting in that moment I was outraged and stunned and embarrassed, and, as a result, shot off some scathing retort or another. I can't recall now exactly what.," Another lie, there is not one moment of time spent with the man that is not as clear and fresh in her memory as if she'd just lived it., "But he was right Ezra. Your friends WILL hurt you, it's inevitable, really, between people who are as close as friends must be, and you MUST forgive them that. How can you not?"

There is nothing in either his expression or his gaze for her to read, he has shut himself completely away from his emotions and knows that he does himself few favors by this saving of face. Yet the NEED to do just that, to save face, to retain his pride intact, is too great for him to react in any other way. Whatever emotion or reaction he might have had he regards her with suspicion instead, and even that is a distant, puny, thing. But the doubts, the questions and assumptions, swirl through his mind, one on top of the other, nearly too muddled and too rapid for him to process. He understands what she is trying to say, what it SEEMS as if she's trying to say, yet he cannot comprehend such a thing from this woman. Why, now, his mind shouts, when the goal she has so strived to attain is at last within reach, when he is but a hairs-breath from leaving Four Corners, has she said this thing? Why has she, IS she, attempting to reconcile his relationship with the others when she has never purported to do anything but tear it apart? It CANNOT be an act of goodwill, or even an act of contrition, something of which he believes his mother incapable, yet he can discern no personal gain on her part, should he remain with these people, in this place. Should he indeed forgive them yet again. Unless...unless there is something she can gain only through the goodwill of his companions, or one in particular. Certainly it is not Josiah, whom she holds in the palm of her hand, nor would it be Nathan, who would clearly be something less than delighted by his continued presence. Could it be Chris? But what would the man have that could, in any way, interest his mother? What is it she hopes to gain?

When he speaks his voice is quiet, measured, and gives not the slightest evidence to the havoc running around behind his eyes.," Why are you doing this?"

She laughs, a sound full of self-mockery and very little else," Because you need these people Ezra. With them...with them you're the person no one else has ever allowed you to be. The person you REALLY are and always have been, though I must say you do put on quite the convincing show. And I know you want to stay. God Ezra, don't make that mistake. Don't give up just because the way's grown difficult. You're stronger than that, strong enough to push this through to the end, strong enough..."

'Giving up," He interrupts, his voice cold and edged," doesn't always mean you are weak, Madame. Sometimes, it means that you are strong enough to let go."

!!!

Weak and trembling Ezra stumbles a bit as he comes around the bend, catching his foot on a protruding rock. He has no idea where he is nor of how long he's been walking, but he knows beyond any doubt that he'll not go a step further. Thus resolved he doesn't even bother to glance about him in search of something to sit upon, or perhaps a shaded area out of the way, but lets his legs collapse beneath him. He comes down hard on the heels of his hands and his knees, the rough gravel of the path digging deep into his flesh, drawing blood.

Again time slips from him and when he raises his head to view his surroundings he has no concept of how great or small a span of moments has passed. It might well have been days since he allowed himself to fall, it might only have been seconds. Such knowledge is beyond him. He has no particular interest in it in any case; for his part his lungs no longer burn and the hole in his side, a constant, wrenching, pain he thinks he might carry until he dies, is once again bearable and this is enough.

Slowly, with no small difficulty, he makes it back to his feet, fully concentrating on each and every step necessary to accomplish this, lest he once again stumble and plummet to the rough and unfriendly ground.

Once he is again standing erect he allows his gaze to further pursue his surrounds, though this makes him dizzy and he finds himself staring at one spot for several seconds, every so often, and does not try to curb this action which seems to relive the lightheadedness and stave of the nausea he can feel easing along behind it.

Wherever he is it's not where he started, his first glance, taken from the vantage of his hands and knees, was enough to tell him this, though he'd not taken in the detail he could now claim. Behind him, before him, on either side of him, there is not but lush and verdant growth, and, of course, the path he'd (presumably) fallowed here. Few of the plants, none of which he can put a name to, (though this, at least, is in no way surprising, horticulture has never been an interest of his), have bloomed, he can see their blossoms still tight, and somehow resolute, in their buds. Those few that have are well away from his path and, but for a flash of color in the distance, screened from his sight.

Noting these things without pause he accepts the reality of some odd mischief being set afoot and in doing so negates any urge he might have to dwell on the many foibles of the situation. Instead he turns his attention to the path he'd been walking , to the direction he'd been traveling.

There is a fence, some ten yards distant, much abused and actually broken down in one place. The area around that singular opening is slightly worn and damaged, yet whoever has trespassed hasn't ventured much past the fence itself and he has no idea how he feels about that. Or why he should feel that he ought to feel anything at all. Looking again to the "fence", which stretches as far as the eye can see in both directions with no apparent indication of what it is keeping in or out or, come to that, apart, he wonders why he didn't think "wall". The structure is several feet taller than he, if he were to hold his arms straight above his head his fingers would not reach the top of it, and constructed of weather worn red bricks. Somehow this fence, or wall, he thinks, gives the impression, not of age but of endurance; as if it has born the inevitable erosion of its mortar and brick as stoically as it might, yet expects that still more will be asked of it.

He could fix it, he thinks, though should the others ever hear of it he will be forced to endure the remarks on his own aversion to manual labor until the trumpets sound. Something tells him they'll never hear of it though and he accepts this because there is much he knows which they do not. Things he sees which they have overlooked.

It surprises him to realize how very much he wants to do this thing , to rebuild this much abused "fence" with his own two, well cared for, hands. Much more than a want, the urge to rebuild is something close to a need, something he can only think to describe, even to himself, as an itch. He has never NEEDED to do anything so much in his entire life.

Yet, at the same time, he cannot lift his foot and take a step, cannot make himself begin this endeavor. There is a reluctance, an odd, shy little bit of it, hiding somewhere in his mind, and he finds that he is not so terribly sure about this manual labor as he thinks he is.

The idea of leaving that hole bare, of leaving the rest of the masonry to crumble and erode near terrifies him, a reaction in and of itself not wholly comfortable, yet the idea of sealing it and reinforcing the structure, making any further incursions impossible, leaves him feeling empty and weary and terribly, bitterly, disappointed.

All of which he dismisses, as easily as one such as he dismisses anything he'd rather not acknowledge or think of, that is to say quite easily and with only the simplest of logic. He cannot, after all, remain where he is, it is only logical that he do SOMETHING and rebuilding that "wall or "fence" or what-have-you is as good a way to occupy himself as any.

As good a way as any, he repeats to himself.

!!!

Author's Note: I don't know if anyone really cares, but I am TRULY sorry for the delay. My Muse and I don't seem to be getting along as well as we used to, she's stopped answering my calls and sends back my bribes..er..GIFTS unopened. Oh, well. She'll forgive me soon enough. She usually does.

Disclaimer: Blah, Blah, Blah, Don't own nothin'...Blah, Blah, Blah, Don't make no profit....Blah, Blah, Blah, If I did do yah think I'd be writing Fan fiction?...Blah, Blah, ect...

Ah, yes, almost forgot, I have no Beta. I'm lazy. I have a minor, (but it's there! She shrieks) case of dyslexia. Translation: The mistakes are there folks and AAALLLLLL mine :)