Awake now, and alone at last, Ezra stares at the ceiling of the clinic as he does every morning he spends confined therein, somehow comforted by the small noises rising from the stable below as the horses shift restlessly about, awaiting Yosemite and their morning repast. His sleep, what little of it he's acquired, has been shallow and agitated and he has awakened at this ungodly hour with the words of Nathan and Buck's...quarrel... echoing through his thoughts.
No, he thinks, Nathan will not be at all surprised when his flight is discovered.
He wonders, absently, in the way of most early morning thoughts, why that hurts more now than it did only yesterday, then silently chides himself for bothering with it. Nathan has always been the least likely to be convinced of his goodwill, a fact of which he has ever been aware. It is foolish to dwell upon any fact of life, to dwell upon any fact at all, which is so utterly intractable.
God, what he wouldn't give for his flask.
Not that he can't see it there, sitting on the counter with his pocket-watch, a few bits and pieces of ornamental jewelry, his derringer and its rig, as well as his boots and an empty gold money clip. But, that is, unfortunately, over THERE where he is, regrettably, not. Such things hadn't proven sufficient enough a deterrent in the past, when he'd been in similarly dire conditions, yet he knows well enough, by now, to know that Nate would not leave the thing within sight if it had anything worth the effort of getting to it still contained within.
Eyeing the flask, he considers that it would be no great thing to talk Buck into smuggling a bottle of liquor to him, that Buck would indeed welcome the chance to, once again, attempt to work his wiles upon Inez, and that such a request as this would provide a more than adequate excuse to do so. It is a well known fact that she, alone amongst the towns numerous drinking establishments, carries anything he considers even slightly palatable.
While he enjoys the thought of a good, stiff, drink in his hand, Vin's surprise of only a few hours ago has but whetted his appetite, he disregards the idea, knowing full well that he'll never even broach the subject to the ladies man, who is as much aware of the rules and tolerances of the current regime as he himself.
No drinking.
No solids.
No movement.
What will he do, he wonders, once the restrictions are raised? A game of poker, perhaps? A few drinks? No. He has asked himself this question as often as he has awakened to see the very ceiling he is even now contemplating, and knows full well the answer will be the same as it always has been. Yes, he misses the hours he spends at the tables, and God knows he'll not turn down a drink, but the absolute first thing he'll do once released from this interminable confinement is to go for a bath and a shave. It matters not one whit to him that he has taken this same action upon being released after all his previous, and lengthy, visits to the clinic, that, in this if nothing else, he is unabashedly predictable. Nathan does his best, to be sure, though it is Chris, surprise, who has proven the deftest hand with a razor, yet there are limitations to what he'll allow perpetrated against his dignity. A sponge bath from Nathan or indeed from any of his companions, or anyone at all, really, is far beyond said limitations.
Checking his urge to sigh, he begins to tap the fingers of his left hand, which is resting, splayed, upon his bare chest, in an unevenly rhythmic pattern.
He and the Healer do not often get along , Nathan's comments to Buck are not the first of their nature on either part, yet he is grateful for Nathan and his skills, however poor the man believes those skills to be. He's known, in his travels, more than a few 'doctors' who were completely unable to accomplish even half of what Nathan manages in the course of an average day. Perhaps one among those scores of men had been capable of recognizing his own malady, of providing an alternative to the laudanum which would kill him if he were to partake of it, and he only on account of his being present when his ...sensitivity was first discovered.
He is embarrassed by this allergy, though, if asked, would be incapable of explaining why this is so, and, as a result, has rarely if ever spoken of it to anyone, including those doctors who have treated him through the years. He has preferred, instead, to simply thank the doctors for their input and depart, later dealing with his wounds on his own. His skills, if skill you can name it, he has always considered the removing of a bullet to be a crude and brutish thing, a game of catch-as-you-can and no more, are sadly lacking when held against Nate's level of expertise,( he easily comforts himself with the knowledge that there are considerably few who could claim better with any veracity), yet he too, has been trained in the rudimentary arts of a field medic and trusts his own proficiency in such areas far more than that of the vast majority of practicing "doctors". Walking away has always seemed to be the far better choice when he knows for a fact that, in these newly declared days of peace, the primary instrument contained in nearly every medical bag in the country is a bone saw, and there are precious few doctors who will chose a more difficult, less tried, approach over simply applying that damn saw. Coarse though he has always found such thoughts to be when given voice to, he cannot help but wonder on how many of the corpses on such fields as Gettysburg were merely the haphazard joining of the loose-limbs left in the doctor's wake, reassembled for their eternal rest by Battle-fatigued boys too far gone to notice, or in actuality even care, that the body they had so diligently reassembled quite clearly belonged to several different men. Having escaped such gruesome battles he has only heard the tales of what came after second-hand, sometimes not even so close as that, yet he remembers, well enough, how very readily the doctors removed a mans limb and has not the slightest difficulty in picturing fields littered with hundreds upon hundreds of severed body parts. He concedes, and readily enough, that while on the battle-field, in triage, the loss of an arm or a leg might well save a man or woman's life; certainly, should HE ever face such a choice, he knows there will be NO CHOICE involved. He has two arms and two legs and is confident that he could learn to compensate quite nicely for the loss of one of either or both, yet he has but one life, the loss of which he'd find very hard to compensate for indeed. He would not begrudge any Doctor the loss of a limb, not when weighed so unevenly against his very life, yet he has witnessed, far too often, the removal of an arm or leg, or hand or foot, merely for the sake of the Doctors convenience, an act he most certainly would begrudge any Doctor, might well kill a man for. Besides which, he is NOT on a battle field, has only ever come upon such scenes long hours before or after the conflict, and, that being the case, will allow no man or woman to perform any such action against him. Not, at least, while he remains fully capable of affecting a solution far preferable to that which they would recommend or pursue.
Walking away, when faced with battlefield Doctors who would just as soon take the whole limb as search out the bullet, with Doctors who would not hesitate to have men hold you down so they could force a dose of Laudanum down your throat, when he has seen their tools of the trade if not grown rusty, then still caked and crusted with the blood and such-like of their previous clients, has always been the only option he finds at all tolerable.
And, much to his chagrin, unfortunately unavailable to him while he remains in town. Nate would never allow him to walk away once he'd been made to realize he was injured, a fact well proven during their first few days together. Still, he'd managed, tolerably he feels, to keep the knowledge of his allergy to himself, it is a small pride that even his mother has failed to learn of it, and Nathan himself would still be unawares if he hadn't protested, far too obviously, in a near panic, so violently the first and only time the Healer made an attempt to administer the painkiller, unwilling to attempt the removal of the bullet lodged so comfortably in the flesh of his calf without providing SOME form of respite.
He smiles now, in the near dark of the early morning hour where there is no one to see or comment, no one to deceive but himself, recalling the incident, recalling his own foolish reactions. It is an expression that, while not unkindly, contains nothing of amusement.
Even through the pain he'd known the bullet had missed the bone, was only scraping against it as he moved, and Nathan had, Oh Holy Wonder, agreed with his unvoiced assessment, though he raged for many a day on his refusing to acknowledge the injury until the others took notice of it. He had yet to tell the man, although he had an idea that Nathan guessed at his reasoning accurately enough, that he wouldn't have told him at all if J.D. hadn't noticed the blood, that he'd intended to slip away and remove the bullet on his own as he has done, often enough, in the past.
Impossible, once Nathan had been alerted, the man refused, even, to allow him the dignity of making his way to the clinic unaided, instructing Vin and Buck to assist him, despite his own adamant, thin lipped protests. Then, examining the wound, he'd cursed in such a way as Ezra had never quite anticipated from the man, and reached for his nearly full bottle of laudanum.
It had never really occurred to him until that moment the Nathan might attempt to force the drug on him, knowing, as he does, the Healer's obdurate dislike of all opiates, his understandable distrust of any cure that causes as much harm as such medicines often do
Ezra can remember launching to his feet then, though he has never recalled making a conscious decision to do so, no more than he can recall the comprehension of Nate's intention to administer the opiate, can remember taking several steps toward the door, despite the screams of protest shooting through his leg, and can even distantly recall telling Nathan thank you, but no thank you, I am sure I will be fine.
Your efforts are much appreciated, though quite unnecessary, he had insisted, making his unflinching way to the door, determined to make good his escape, I expect allowing myself a slight respite should be more than adequate. I will apply to Mister Larabee immediately.
Appropriately enough Nathan had gaped at him, caught off guard by such a sudden and surprising action, holding the bottle of Laudanum before him almost as if it were a talisman, for several seconds. Long enough for him to babble, perhaps not that, he has never babbled anything in his life and cannot imagine such a word applying to one such as he, out his excuses and protests. Then, most unlike himself, the former slave had demanded, very nearly at the top of his lungs, to know what he was doing and where, THE HELL, did he think he was going.
Sir, I've made it quite plain, he'd said, thinking to himself, in an odd, off-handed way, that Mister Jackson was obviously reaching his limit. Rarely was he so visibly agitated, and even more rarely did he allow said agitation to effect his actions and reactions.
Until that moment he'd not quite realized how much VLOUME Nathan was capable of projecting.
Drawn by the noise, having stepped outside while Nathan examined the wound, no doubt bracing himself to assist in the rather unpleasant task ahead, Buck had stuck his head in the door then, clearly surprised to see Ezra standing not a foot away with every apparent intention of continuing on out.
Sit yourself down Ezra.
I'd rather not Mister Jackson. As I said, I'm sure a bit of rest will be sufficient to ...
Boy, you ain't walking out this door. And I don't care if I have to get all the others up here to stop you; that bullet's comin out one way or another.
The words had been there, on the tip of his tongue, the simple explanation that his reaction had nothing to do with the wound itself, that the prospect of Nathan foraging for the bullet nestled in his calf phased him no more than had the prospect of performing the task on his own, proportionately less so, come to that, yet there is a greater streak of belligerence in him that blatantly refused to allow him to explain anything at all, let alone this so private and inexplicably shaming thing. Instead he'd faced Buck as if his pant leg, so ruthlessly ruined by Nathan's scissors, was not soaked through with blood, that if the blood had not begun to clot so quickly, as has always been the case for him, then it would not be running down his leg as it had earlier, his boots had been ruined before the bleeding stopped, and conjured the most arrogant and disdainful of his voices to say, Mister Wilmington you CANNONT keep me here against my will.
Wanna bet.
Almost against his will his eyes had been drawn the bottle in Nathan's hands, his mind to the memory of the last time, the only time, the contents of that bottle had been forced upon him. To say he'd been ill, even conceding that he'd been violently ill, would be, perhaps, the grosses misrepresentation of facts that Ezra had ever born witness to. He had not been merely ILL, he had been DYING, had been within an inch of crossing over into simply DEAD.
He could, he decided, live quite happily with a bullet in his leg.
I in no way intend this as a condemnation of your skills Mister Jackson, which are considerable, certainly, yet I will in NO WAY allow you to touch me. Not either one of you.
Now Ez...
Buck,' and they'd both turned to Nathan, who was watching him with an expression that Ezra has never been able to liken to anything but understanding though this is not precisely what it had been, 'get down to the Tavern and get me a bottle or two of Whiskey. Tell Inez I'll pay fer it later.
Clearly confused, obviously aware of the fact that he was being dismissed, Buck had done as asked, no doubt trusting Nathan to calm his agitation, or failing that, to restrain him until reinforcements could be summoned.
It's the laudanum. Ain't it.
No question, nothing more than a statement of the facts as he had understood them, yet he'd resented the Healer greatly for it. For what that self-same streak of belligerence had taken to be an implication of his own inferiority. , You are mistaken.
It's gonna hurt like hell with out it ya know.
Yes he did, his memory was faultless.
In the end Nate had gotten him drunk as only two bottles of the Tavern's finest whiskey could manage, had given him Chris's belt to bite on, and placed Josiah and Buck on either side to restrain him as necessary.
He'd flailed, against his better intentions, managing to clip Josiah but good across the cheek, and Chris's belt still bore the indentations left by the force of his bite.
Yes, his reaction certainly had left much to be desired, yet what he knows to be the truth of the matter he considers to be the greater shame; he'd panicked , not because Nate had reached for the laudanum, but because, if for no more than a heartbeat, he'd been willing to down that poison rather than admit his allergy to the man. He'd been willing to die in that time between breaths and to what effect? To serve his own stubborn pride? To save face in front of a man, a band of men, who believed him no better than the worst kind of scoundrel? He'd panicked, had attempted to run, not in fear of the medicine which would kill him, but in fear of himself, of that part of himself, that wanted it to.
Not too far away, stretched out upon his bed, Nathan mutters something under his breath and shifts in his sleep, drawing his attention from the ceiling and the slightly warped board above him that he is certain is the cause of the leak Nathan can occasionally be heard complaining of, providing excuse enough for him to allow such thoughts and memories to fade from the fore of his mind.
He'll be awake in another twenty minutes, Ezra knows from long experience, running on some internal clock which has often proved more accurate than his own expensive time-piece, and when he does it will be time for yet another potion, time to return to his drug induced rest. Not, of course, that he would object, always supposing Nathan was in the mood to allow him a choice, (he feels confident that this will never be the case), he can bear the steadily increasing pain in his midsection for as long as needs be, yet he knows that by the time Nate rises he will be clenching his teeth against the raging, roaring, pain, knows that his body will be covered in a fine, sticky sweat, and his every muscle stiff with tension.
Truth be told, God forbid such words should ever pass his lips, his whole body is throbbing and aching with the dull and persistent pain that not even Nathan's strongest brews can alter or prevent, with his shoulder and side wound shooting sharp and vivid lances through his body at every breath. He is not at all surprised by the pain, if anything he supposes he had, or rather he would have, expected far worse.
How many steps had separated him from as violent and messy a death as one would expect of any explosion grand enough to completely demolish that barn and the surrounding outbuildings? Five ? Ten ?
Not nearly enough, obviously.
Yet perhaps that's too peevish a view, perhaps it is better to say JUST enough and no more.
Not for the first time the irony of his seeming luck strikes him and he thinks of his first few weeks here, when he'd remained in Four Corners for the sole purpose of acquiring the pardon Judge Travis had so kindly dangled before his eyes. He had been certain in those days that every last scrap of luck he had ever possessed had fled into the night and had been no LESS certain that he must have gone quite mad every time he put himself in the line of fire.
Thinking on it now it occurs to him that this has in no way changed. One would have to be lacking a great many faculties to actually crave the approval of these men, to put oneself through such physical pain to receive it.
Yet he is still, against all odds, very much alive, if not well.
Luck, if luck it be, has a relatively skewed sense of perception. Or, possibly, the word should be humor.
Logically enough his next thought is of J.D., whose own sense of humor leaves much to be desired. Not that the youngster is incapable of relaying an amusing anecdote, he has done so on several noteworthy occasions, though, in an act of naked self-defense, his fellow Peacekeepers have never acknowledged these events. To do so would only further encourage him, something not a single one of them is willing to chance.
After all it takes very little to encourage the youngest member of their assemblage, and so far as he has witnessed, once engaged, J.D. has never faltered in the perusal of his goals, no matter your attempts to discourage him. There is proof enough of that in the simple fact that he is with them now, that he was ever allowed to join them at all. He has, on numerous occasions, found this trait to be, if not admirable, then useful and, even, due to the ensuing antics, amusing.
Until yesterday he had never considered the possibility that it might be hazardous to his own objectives.
Certainly there have been incidents where he found this trait to be an annoyance, he is sure this is true of them all, yet he can see now that he has been no better than a fool for overlooking or dismissing , whichever it might have been, the possibility of J.D., in his nagging persistence, pushing too far.
He has been blinded by these people, he thinks, has allowed their presence to dull instincts which were once impeccable, instincts he can no longer allow himself to rely upon, but which he knows he must, when he is once again on his own.
No, no better than a fool, for all his vaunted disdain and self-importance, for it is J.D. who was to perform those actions necessary for him to remain amongst them, J.D. who had simply asked him why he would leave.
J.D. who asked him to stay.
Words, although he would never admit it in company, can be more than superfluous at times, though he knows well their inherent power, yet it is, as he would later note with Vin, a small uncomplicated thing to say the words. To give something so very cheap as his own word of honor to the boy.
He can feel his stomach clench at the thought, at the acknowledgement of this purposeful misrepresentation of his intentions, in something that is neither guilt, nor anger, nor sadness, but an unsteady, overwhelming combination of the three.
Why this should be he cannot say, what harm, after all, is there in easing J.D's apprehension? He has done the boy a kindness in this altering, in this withholding of facts which would serve no purpose beyond further upsetting him, and never-mind the ultimate devastation he will feel once he has fled.
That, he thinks, would have been felt without the lie, only sooner. And would it not have been far less excusable for him to allow J.D. to agonize over the possibility, the inevitability even, of his departure? Undoubtedly his actions have been the kinder of two equally undesirable options, though he wishes he could turn his thoughts away from these things, wishes he could dismiss them from his psyche as easily as he banished the lingering disquiet of the dream he cannot recall beyond the image of a wall.
There are reasons he dislikes these early, predawn hours, hours in which it is possible to believe you alone exist on all the Earth, hours in which there is nothing to distract you from thinking thoughts you'd much prefer to avoid, that have nothing to do with his sleeping habits and everything to do with those thoughts he'd prefer to avoid. He does not WISH to think of J.D., of his disappointment when he comes to realize he has been mislead, nor does he wish to think on his relationship with Nathan, his allergy to Laudanum and all opiates, the restrictions placed upon him by Nate and his own injuries, his lack of alcoholic beverage , his inability to dress or bathe himself, his intention to leave, or his ability to lie with such unaffected ease and comfort to those who deserved better of him, yet he is awake and alone and cannot turn away from these things as they stare balefully through the shadows of his innermost depths, goaded by the lurking, predatory, thing he has long suspected to be his conscience.
That, at least, he shall always hold against the six of them; that they awakened that nasty, vindictive beast when he had assumed it long dead. They, none of them, have even the slightest concept of what it is to live his life with that thing glaring on, prowling around the edges of his every thought and action, judging him, condemning him. Why, he wonders, must he live the life of a saint while they remain free to do as they will? Why should he continually be excepted to strive toward standards they have never made the slightest effort to attain?
Staring at that warped board, listening to the sounds of the horses shuffling and milling about in their stalls, thinking thoughts he has never intended to acknowledge, he pretends he cannot feel the slow burn of his temper as it ignites and begins to smolder, pretends that he continues to feel naught but sorrow and regret.
!!!
Normally, Billy does his best to toe the line, careful of breaking those few Really Big Rules that will earn him a swift and merciless punishment. Normally, he wouldn't have made sure to leave the parlor windows open just enough for someone sitting outside to hear what was being said inside, and , normally, he would've gone inside without pausing to listen at those windows.
Today isn't normal.
Ten bucks is a lotta money for someone his age, for any age, he start to get dizzy just thinking of all the things he'll be able to buy with that kinda money, and, always assuming he isn't discovered and his mother DOESN'T flay him alive, he intends to do everything in his power to EARN it.
To that effect, with the completely natural reluctance of all little boys to go inside, he looks up and down the street, making sure no one's really paying any attention to him, he supposes Mrs. Potter might if she were out, but he'd made sure before comin over that she was busy at the store, and he doesn't see anyone else who should notice or care what he's doin', then plops himself, gracelessly, into a cross-legged seat beneath the nearest window, pulling out a quarter pencil and small notebook as he goes down.
The notebook itself is dirty and battered and he can't help but think this is only right and proper for anything that goes everywhere a nine year old boy, that is to say everywhere HE, can and does go in a day, and , though she approves of it, his mom no longer even gives it a second look. He thinks, somehow, she might not even really see it anymore, though he can't explain what he means by that. He's also pretty sure, pretty DAMN sure, he thinks with a guilty, giddy, excitement, she's never read it because if she had it'd be in the fire and he'd be grounded to his room for the rest of his natural born life.
He doesn't always need to have it with him, he doesn't REALLY think his mom would read it without his permission, but he's taken to carryin' it around just the same, instinctively understanding that old adage, ( which he's never heard) of familiarity breeding contempt. He figures if people are used to seeing him with it they won't start askin questions that'll lead to him getting grounded every time they see him writing in it.
Like, for instance, he is now.
More, seeing him sitting there, writing, people prob'ly won't stop to think that it's a little bit early to head in without his mama CALLIN' him in.
A good thing too, if they DID stop to wonder they might decide to head over and see what he was up to, no matter that he was sittin on his own porch, and would no doubt come within hearing distance of the conversation in the parlor.
The cat'd sure be outta the bag then.
If he was lucky they'd just send him away, though he wouldn't really call it LUCKY since he'd miss the rest of what was being said inside, and if he WASN'T they'd drag him inside to report their findings to his ma.
Yet if he's learned anything about anything he knows that people never quite SEE kids who aren't causing trouble, so long as they're occupied. There's something about kids being at loose ends that OFFENDS adults, he thinks, more, even, than their misbehaving, that he's not even gonna try to understand beyond what he already does.
Resting his back against the wall he opens the book to a page somewhere in the middle, bare but for three of four lines he'd scribbled so fast that HE almost can't read them. There's a lotta entries like that, mostly the really important ones, and he's a little glad of it. After all HE knows what they say and still can only just decipher his writing , if anyone else ever gets a hold of his book it's a fare bet THEY won't be able to read them at all.
Or so he can hope.
Turning his attention to the conversation floating through the open window, straining to overhear every word, he's careful to bend his head over the pages of his notebook, careful so that it doesn't LOOK as if he's straining to catch every word.
He doesn't have to strain hard, and he thinks his ma must be pretty worked up to raise her voice like that.
"I don't answer to you or anyone else for my actions Mister Larabee, and it's certainly none of YOUR business what I do with my time!"
"Oh no?," Chris's voice is softer than his mom's, but Billy doesn't need to see his face to know he's pretty mad, pretty DAMN mad.," You've made more than a few enemies with your editorials Mary, enemies who don't hesitate when it comes to getting their way. I wouldn't have expected you to forget something like that so quick."
"I hardly think anything would happen to..."
"So I guess you don't remember a certain candidate hiring a man, two men, to kill you.," Billy, who hadn't known anything of the sort, clutches at his stub of a pencil with a white knuckled grip as his throat works and his stomach tightens and heaves, desperate not to lose his lunch, not to be found sitting here, listening in, not to disappoint Mister Ezra, doing his best to ignore the all too familiar image of his Mother lying dead on the floor.," Even if it wasn't organized Mary, if you didn't have enemies across the territory, even if Maude hadn't left a string of angry, cheated people in her wake, there are a lot of men out there who wouldn't have anything to lose by grabbing a pair of pretty women. Drifters Mary, Cowboys, Outlaws, discharged Soldiers and displaced landowners. Two women, all alone; you don't think that might prove to be more temptation than people like that could overlook?"
"Don't pretend," He's never heard that tone of voice before, for which he's grateful, yet, just the same, he thinks you'd have to do something really, really BAD to earn that tone from his Mother, who really is pretty understanding and lenient, and it makes him uneasy, hearing it now because he likes Chris, a lot, and thinks maybe his ma does to. He doesn't wanna be wrong about that. He might be, he knows, if she's talking to him like that then maybe she doesn't like him AT ALL. ," that this has ANYTHING to do with my safety!"
"You know," and he jumps at the unexpected words, so absorbed in his task that he hasn't even heard the Texan walk up, doesn't see him until he speaks and draws Billy's attention , no matter that he's standing right in front of him," some people think it's rude to eavesdrop on private conversations."
He can lie, he thinks desperately, pretend he doesn't know what the tracker's talking about. It'd be smarter, maybe, to do so, to deny EVERYTHING, as Mister Ezra had once advised him, yet he no more wants to lie to Vin than he would to Chris, or, even, Ezra himself.
Besides, he's been caught red-handed, lying might only make it worse "You gonna tell?"
Instead of answering, the man gives him a lopsided grin and joins him on the ground, lowering himself into a position similar to his own, (close enough to the second window, Billy notes, to do some eavesdropping of his own.) and says,"Well, I guess I won't tell if you don'. "
Well, that's okay, his near hysterical mind thinks, slowly calming itself, he'd been so sure that ten dollars was gone, that Vin would out him and his mom would start talking to him like she was talking to Chris. But people are as used to seein' him with one of the seven as they are to seein' him sitting around scribbling, if anything, there's prob'ly less chance for him to get in trouble so long as Vin's sittin with him. He wonders, though, why VIN, who, next to Buck, is Chris's best friend, and the LAST person he'd imagine spying on Chris, seemed ready to do just that.
Carefully, not a little paranoid, he angles his notebook so that Vin can see the cover, but not the contents.
"RAISE HER SON?! SHE DIDN'T RAISE HER SON!, SHE THREW HIM OFF ON WHICHEVER REALTAION SHE COULD CONVICE TO TAKE HIM!"
Unnerved because he's never heard Chris raise his voice, he starts, then blushes for such a childish reaction, for Vin having seen it.
Then he wonders what he's missed.
Hopefully nothing important, though if Chris has started yellin now it probably was. Beside him he hears Vin, who's, unbeknownst to him, heard every word, mutter something under his breath. He can't be sure, but he thinks it sounds somethin' like "Aw hell...," .
"How would you know anything about it?! About how hard it is to be alone and to have to take care of yourself and your child?! To FEED them and CLOTH them, and to give them EVERYTHING you can, knowing it's never going to be enough?! How could you EVER know what it's like to sacrifice your child's LOVE for your child's WELFARE?!," she pauses, hesitates, long enough for him to wish he hadn't seen Chris come over from the jail, to wish he hadn't followed him.
When he'd started doing this for Mister Ezra he'd thought it was fun, in a sneaky, forbidden way, thought it was all some Grand Adventure, and though, for the most part, the things he's heard have sorta taken the fun outta things ,he's never felt as guilty and ill as he does now, listening to the two of them yelling at each other, hearing that odd thickening of the voice that he knows means he ma's near tears. She's never cried in front of him, not even when she 'd come home that night his dad died, but he's learned to recognize the signs. She'd sounded like she does now all through the months after his dad's death, when she'd told him he was gonna go stay with his grandma and grandpa for a while, when she sends him back to his grandparents for the school year, and when she meets him at the stage when he comes home for the summer.
Unconsciously he shifts closer to Vin, barely noticing as the man slips an arm around his shoulders, as his mom continues.
"You don't know a damn thing about Maude Standish!," Don't say it, he silently begs, not knowing what exactly he's trying to prevent, but almost sure of what she's about to say, No ma, please. NO.,"Or me."
Silence.
A horrible sound. Ahorrible implication.
He holds his breath.
"Mary..."
"If you'll excuse me Mister Larabee," She's dismissing him. Even if he intends to apologize, and Billy thinks he does, it doesn't matter, she won't hear it. No, he thinks. NO! He tenses, preparing to run inside and beg them not to fight, to beg his mom to listen to Chris, to beg Chris to apologize, to do something , anything but let it end here. It's Vin presence at his side that stops him. Vin who's still sitting there, his arm draped comfortingly over his shoulders, quite and still and completely unaffected by what he's just heard. He takes a deep breath, unaware of locking his jaw and setting his chin, and remains where he is. ,"I have to get dinner started."
Another pause, another tense and distressing silence, relived, at last, when he hears the thump of Chris's boots and the ring of his spurs as he leaves the room.
He very nearly panics then, thinking Chris might not leave through the office, might come out and find the two of them sitting here, beneath and between the open windows, clearly misbehaving, yet the sounds fades in the opposite direction and he wilts against the wall, made weak by his relief.
Numbly, almost completely unaware of doing so, he closes the notebook.
"Funny thing 'bout eveasdroppin', you don' always hear what you think yer gonna.."
Obviously.
"How much's Ezra payin' ya Billy?"
Miserable, caught off guard, not only by the older man's abrupt change of topic, but by the surety behind the question as well, he answers without thinking.,"Ten bucks.," then, realizing what Vin has to be thinking, remembering the things he heard yesterday, unwilling to make the situation worse, he hurries on," But he didn't ask me to spy and I never told him that's what I was doin. I... I thought he'd tell me to stop if he found out about it, everyone else would. Will."
"Why'd he ask you to do it?"
He shrugs, thinking Vin should know the answer to that, that anyone who spent anytime with Mister Ezra should know the answer., "Cause he wants to know what's goin on in town while he's in the clinic. Wants to know the things you guys aren't gonna tell him."
"Like what people 're sayin' 'bout 'im?'
"If it comes up."
"He knows why we don' tell 'im these things," he gives him a look so calm it's nearly blank," do you?"
Again he shrugs, not really caring why the adults in his life make the mistakes they do.
"Some of the things goin on , some of the things bein' said...they might upset 'im more than Nate thinks would be a good idea. If'n he gets too upset he might well tear his stitches and make everything worse in the doin' of it."
"He'll get more upset if he doesn't know.,'He mumbles, thinking of the talks they've had over the last few months, thinking of the things the Gambler's said to him without really meaning to.," He'd rather know what people are sayin' than be made a fool of. Says it hurts a lot less when you know it's comin'."
Vin's eyes widen, his lips part, and he gives him a disbelieving, shocked look. It's a very adult expression and he can't help feeling a little bit jealous of his friends who won't understand what a look like that can mean for years to come. For his part, he knows, without having to be told, that Vin's looking at him like that because he said Ezra'd actually TOLD him something like that. That he'd actually admitted that someone else could hurt him just by what they were saying about him, and he thinks if he could he'd kick himself for tacking it on. He hadn't meant to, wouldn't have, not anymore than he'd've admit to spyin on people, if he hadn't just heard his ma and Chris shouting at each other.
"How long's he had ya doin this fer him?"
Not wanting to answer he ducks his head," A while."
"How long a while?"
He looks away from his boots and the frayed cuffs of his trousers, thinking he's already said more than he wanted to, thinking that he's not gonna say anything else that'll get Mister Ezra into even more trouble.
"Billy?, "It doesn't matter how much he likes Vin or how much he trusts Vin or, even, how kind Vin sounds as he tries to push him into saying something he doesn't want to, because Ezra trusts him and everyone who's ever mattered anything to him has taught him that when someone gives you their trust you do everything in your power to earn, keep, and DISSERVE that act of faith.
He shifts his gaze back to the older man, meets his unsmiling eyes head on, and shakes his head, slowly, from side to side.
No.
To his surprise, no kid expects to stand up to an adult, to flatly refuse to answer an adult, without SOME repercussion, Vin gives him the same, stiff, single, nod he's seen the Seven share among themselves countless times. It's an expression of acknowledgement and acceptance and Billy understands that after giving it Vin won't ask him again.
As he somehow understands that with Vin's acceptance of his refusal some line has been crossed, some border breeched, some great change from which he'll never recover brought to pass.
Abruptly he rises to his feet, unceremoniously shoving both pencil and notebook into his back pocket, feeling tired and sick and sad. He's heard too much, learned too many things he did not need to and does not WANT to know since yesterday afternoon, seen that the people he'd thought perfect are only human after all.
"Billy?," Vin's already on his feet as he repeats himself, almost like he'd known he was gonna stand up, like he knows how upset he really is, and though he reaches out to catch his arm Billy steps away from the gesture.
He doesn't want to be patted on the head (or the arm) and told everything's okay, it's not and he's not, and he's sick to death(a favorite saying of his Mother, which he's never understood well enough to use until now)of people pretending it is.
He shoots a look at the Texan, moving toward the street, wary of the man's stillness. ,"I gotta go. I promised Mister Ezra I'd bring up somethin' from ...," he'd been about to say the boarding house, where he could always beg something off the cook, but he let it trail off, remembering too late that Ezra's not s'possed to have the kinda food he brings him. He bites the inside of his cheek, takes a deep breath,"I gotta go."
He doesn't wait for a reply before breaking into a run.
!!!
He's sitting on the stairs outside the Church, hands dangling over his knees, worrying his bottom lip, a distant, far off look in his eyes, when she finds him, and she wonders why he hasn't joined Josiah, who has returned to the roof for a second day, before noticing that the jarring ring of the Preacher's hammer, a background sound she's been steadily ignoring all day, has ceased it's incessant clanging, and the doors to the church have been closed where they usually stand open.
"He's sittin' in with Mrs. Carmichael right now Ma'am, "Nathan offers, shaking his head a little, as if to dislodge whatever thoughts had held his attention, unsurprisingly making the assumption that she's come to see Josiah," 'An I doubt he'll be much in the way fer company once their done."
Smiling, confident that the expression appears more sincere than it truly is, she chooses her words carefully, understanding that of the Seven Peacekeepers Nathan is by far the most suspicious among them. Others might think Ezra holds that distinction, yet Ezra rarely suspects anyone of anything; quite often he knows what a person is about long before they do themselves. ,"I was wondering if I might have a private word with YOU, Mister Jackson?"
His eyes cloud, as she knew they would.
She hasn't forgotten that he spoke nearly the exact same words to her when seeking to invest in her lodging establishment, and her repeating the wording now is no accident or coincidence; it's necessary that he be in a particular frame of mind, which isn't to say that he need be drowning in his own guilt, if what she intends is to come to fruition.
"Here Ma'am?," There is no reluctance in his voice, merely a polite reservation which is no less obvious than reluctance might've been.
Her smile does not falter, "Please, walk with me."
He rises to his feet, his own smile no less polite than the tone of his voice, though clearly more sincere than her own, and offers his arm to her.
She takes it without a word, thinking of the courtly manners the man displays from time to time and the life his father had described to her in as much detail as he'd been willing to share. Unlike Obadiah Nathan had never worked the cotton fields, never been subject to that gross and terrible labor, yet his life, for all that a great part of it was spent in the relative comforts of the main house, had been no less difficult, and, to her mind, horrorifing. He'd been their Master's pet slave, his favorite among the younger ranks, and he had the courtly manners she remembered with such fondness from the days before the war because it had amused the man to have a "Gentleman" Slave, no less than it had amused him to use naked blades in his sparring matches against the untrained boy, or to use the child to gain the mother's compliance.
No, don't think of that. Not that and not Maggie and the girls, not your father and his fortune. Don't think of Katie or Mama Bee, you didn't know what it was like, how could you?
Maggie knew, she thinks, and died to make it right.
"Mrs. Standish?," There's worry on his voice, yet also a wariness she's grown used to with these men, though there is and always will be a part of her that is caught off guard every time she hears it.
When she speaks her voice is clear and precise and decisive in a way it hasn't been in many years , "You judge my son for his heritage, resent him for being a southerner, more, a southern man of apparent breeding and wealth, yet is there anything you know of him Mister Jackson, anything beyond what you and the others have learned of him in the last two years?
"Ma'am?"
"Do not," he won't look at her though he does it so carefully that it seems nothing at all like the avoidance it is ,"play the ignorant houseboy with me Nathan, you're not and to pretend as if you are is beneath the both of us.," He turns a wide eyed look of hurt and surprise and anger to her which she meets with a cool indifference she does not feel. The words, the accusation, are Obadiah's, a remembered comment from their days on the plantation before father and son were separated
"My son is positively desperate for human contact. For whatever you would name that connection to another soul, never doubt that he is starving for affection and approva, that he strives and stretches for it, yearning always, looking to find it around every corner he turns. He has never known anything but disappointment, in these things he desires. Disappointment and disillusionment and disapproval.," there are others on the board walk, men and woman who watch their passing with a blatant, almost vulgar curiosity, and she tells herself it is impossible to hear the sounds of their whispers above the noises of the busy town, yet hear them she does , scratching away at her thoughts and her patience, their whispers and their titters and their snickers, with their curious, callous, stares boring like nails between her shoulder blades. ," And you, you men, whom he esteems so highly, dislike and distrust him and will, no matter what he may do. Yet you know nothing of him, or, if I am very mistaken, then what you know is barely a shadow of the man."
"You think you know him better?"
Her eyes snap to him, to the anger and the guilt in his expression, and seeing it, seeing so much of what she herself has felt over the course of the last three days mirrored there, she gives him what she could not give to Chris, or even Ezra himself," No, not in the least. Yet I know OF him, know of those things which have shaped the man he is. Do you? Or did you assume he was born as he is now, that the world has had no part in the forming of his character and morals, that I have had no part?"
They're passing the mercantile now, and she allows herself to be distracted enough to return Gloria Potter's greeting, appreciating both the sympathy and the kindness displayed therein. When she asks, both she and Nathan assure her Ezra is much improved that he would welcome a visit from her.
Soon enough a customer calls to her and she leaves them to continue their stroll.
"What do you want me to do?"
She stops, forcing him to stop as well, releasing his arm and turning to face him fully ,"Ask him. About any of it, about all of it. About the war.," her voice cracks on the last word, as she'd intended it to do, needing him to believe the choice, once he makes it, has been his own.," About his part in it and all that he gave, all that was lost to his cause."
!!!
When she leaves him Nathan heads to the clinic, though not on account of Maude's words. He goes to check Ezra's bandages and mix his next dosage and reaching the top of the stairs he tells himself he's not gonna bring it up.
The man's sick and hurtin and maybe someday he'll ask, but now clearly aint the time.
Though he'll have to remember to tell Chris and the others that Mary and Maude must've headed out to the Seminole village yesterday. So Maude could talk to his daddy. He supposes he can guess at why she might wanna talk to him, but he'd never imagined, not once, that he might talk back. What could they possibly have to say to one another, an ex-slave and the daughter of one of the richest Southern families? What could possibly bring his father to share some of the more painful facts of their life as he'd obviously done?
Besides the fact that he'd spent nearly his entire life , a snide, mean spirited voice asks, a voice he recognizes but cannot accept as any part of himself, bowing and scraping and answering to people who projected the same air of wealth and assurance and authority, people with the same manners and haughty, eloquence as Maude Standish?
Shut up, he thinks at the voice, irritated and angry , shoving it and his emotions to the back of his mind, locking them away with the iron control he'd developed both before and during the war. It goes, and quietly enough, but there remains in its wake a sense of smug, callous amusement, and Nathan thinks that nothing that would amuse that voice could be anything but harmful.
Confident that he has himself, that voice, and his emotions on a tight rein he opens the door, hesitating as the conversation stops, dead in the air, and Billy swivels in his seat to give him a look of wary, watchful, anger.
It's Ezra, with that careful, urbane charm that's always pricked at his skin like nettles, who breaks the moment, carrying them over his own surprise and Billy's hostility as if they hadn't even happened. " Prompt as always .," he gives a wry, twisted smile, "Still, is it truly necessary that we go through this so very often?"
"Yes.," It would be easy for him to explain, once again, the dangers and consequences of gangrene, but he likes giving the southerner short, inelegant replies, knows it irritates and frustrates the man as much as his longwinded speeches do himself.
He sighs, then winces, and mutters," You , sir, take far too much pleasure in my discomfort."
"Not at all.," Moving to the wash basin he pretends that he can't feel Billy's eyes following him across the room, that he can't feel the anger and the outrage comin off him in waves. What the hell could he have possibly done to earn that? Whatever the boys' problem he can't let the him stay for this, "Billy, I need you to wait outside fer a minute. I'll call you back in when we're done."Mary would never forgive him if he let 'im stay and he really doesn't think Billy needs to see the wreck of Ezra's flesh.
He doesn't miss the sight of the boy settin' his chin and balling his fists at his side like he's expecting a fight, the blatant distrust that's painted across his features, nor does he miss the way Ezra reaches out, brushing his fine-boned, almost delicate, fingers against the boys shoulder. What he says when Billy angels his head toward him Nathan pretends not to hear, though he can't help his curiosity, "There is no more to be done Master Travis, not by any one of us. It is all right."
"But..."
"Go," he's surprised by the authority, the command, in the southerner's voice, something he's never before heard from the man," there is no need for you to observe this."
"Mister Ezra..."
"Go."
Drying his hands he watches from the corner of his eye as Billy shoots him a slanted, narrow eyed look, his mouth set into a grim, uncompromising line, and is in no small part surprised when the boy actually does leave. He knows belligerence when he sees it.
Still in all, Billy's his mother's son and there's nothing of docile obedience in either one of them; he reaches the door, opens it, then turns back, refusing to go without one final parting shot. Or maybe it's meant to be some kinda reassurance, he can't say, with the mood the boy's currently in, could be either, or both, always depending on which of them he's aimin' it at.," I'll be RIGHT outside."
Ezra smiles at him and something, something he can't name or pin down, makes him blink and look again, but it's gone when his vision refocuses.
The door closes.
Well, slams.
Moving about the room, mixing up the poultice he uses to stave off further infection, he half expects Ezra to explain Billy's behavior, or at the very least, to offer some opinion of it. He usually does. USUALLY it's all you can do to shut him up. But he doesn't, and when Nathan turns to him, scissors in hand, he sees, beneath that careful civility, the same set, determined, look Billy'd given him. He tenses, preparing for yet another argument over the man's health.
Yet Ezra continues saying nothing at all.
Irritated by his silence, not knowing why and all the more irritated on account, he sets to work removing the bandages he'd so carefully wrapped only that morning, careful as ever of the flesh beneath his scissors.
You'd think he'd be grateful for the silence, glad and grateful the man is, at last, keeping his annoying little smartass comments to himself. God knows he's wished he would often enough.
But, he thinks, they aint always annoying. He's laughed often enough with the man, though not as often or as easily as he does with the others, and watchin' him turn that mouth of his on the S.O.B's who sometimes drifted into town, or any of the numerous folk who thought it might be fun or funny to get mouthy with the fancy-dressed man, or J.D., or Buck, or Vin,... or himself,( his mind skitters away from the thought while his conscience snickers in the background, pleased with this small bit of revenge for being ignored and shunted aside on this matter), was one of the better pleasures of his days. And it didn't matter that most of the people didn't even understand half of what he was sayin to them, or callin' them, because they always tried to ACT like they did and that just made it all the better.
Leastways 'til they decided they didn't need to understand the words to know they were getting insulted by a man with frills on his shirt and lace at his collar.
Which meant more work for him, always.
Almost every time the man opens his mouth he causes some kind of ruckus, if not physical then verbal, and if he used both hands and all his toes he wouldn't be able to count how many times he wished he'd just shut up.
To say there is no one more surprised than himself when he breaks the silence is as close as you could come to it, yet it still doesn't quite match up to what he feels as he hears the words roll off his tongue," Tell be 'bout the War Ezra."
There is no hesitation in his reply, no compromise, " No."
He doesn't look up from the path of his scissors, he won't see anything in his face that Ezra don't want him to anyway, "It's that bad huh?"
It would be easy to replace that board, he thinks to himself, taking careful, even, breaths, and more to the point doing so would force Nathan to find something else to bitch about, which certainly recommends doing so, despite the damage to his own personal expenses.
"Ezra?"
That bad? Perhaps this man would never think it so, not with the atrocities he's survived, not after having lived first as a slave then, later, as a battle-field medic, yet he can think of nothing worse than that which he witnessed at the end, that which finally drove him to retreat. ," I would prefer to talk of something else Mister Jackson."
"Yeah well I wanna talk about the war."
Don't think of it, he admonishes himself, beating back the memories trying to force themselves past his will, images he has spent every day since the end attempting to erase.," Here, I'd been lead to assume your first priority was in keeping me calm and still."
"Priorities change. Tell me about the war Ezra."
"I will not.," more annoyed by, than regretful of, the anger which make itself so plain in his voice, the sharp snap of his refusal to talk of these things, he continues ruthlessly ahead," Perhaps, since she is so very free with her information, you should inquire further of my mother," For who else could've lead the man to asking these questions when he has never before displayed the urge to question him at all considering his past, finding it far easier to make and accept his own stereotypical assumptions?, " and leave me in the peace you so adamantly insist I need.,"
When the blade of the scissors slips biting into flesh of his side, drawing blood, he inhales sharply, unable to repress the reaction, but refuses to so much as wince as Nathan swears and jerks away, whipping his head around until their gazes meet .
Recrimination , accusation, smug satisfaction, all these and more he expects to see in the gambler's expression, but what he actually finds is far, far worse.
Acceptance.
As if he'd expected no more and no less of him than retaliation, as if the idea that he would purposefully cut him for not giving him what he wants is no new idea to his mind.
He hadn't meant to...he would NEVER...
But he can't say that he didn't. Can't keep looking Ezra in the eye and tell him that it was only an accident, that the SCISSORS slipped and not his hand.
Not his temper.
And Ezra watches him, calm and accepting of what has happened, what will happen, giving not the slightest clue to the temper which continues to simmer beneath the façade. Nathan's actions, his treatment of him, have been shameful, yet who will ever say it? See it, even? It shouldn't matter to him that Nathan has assumed his refusal to speak is due to his own shameful actions. Has, yet again, assumed only the worst of him.
It almost doesn't.
!!!
"So anyway, Lilly reaches up and..."
"Buck."
One word. Oh shit he thinks.," Yeah Ez?"
The southerner lay there, pale and sweaty from the heat which always seemed to gather in the clinic, a grave but calm look on his battered face, and it was the calm, along with the single one word address that made him wanna keep talkin' about Lilly Hancock and her many charms as fast and as loud as necessary to overwhelm the man's voice and intentions. He doesn't though, and knows that as much as he wants to he never would," Yeah?"
"Is it simply that you cannot bring yourself to ask the question, or have I been grossly mistaken about your motives all along?"
He feels the weight settle over him again, the heavy burdensome understanding that he's losing another friend and can do nothing about it. As before he's watched it happening, understands and accepts the necessity of it, such as it is, but that doesn't mean he wants to talk about it, to beat his head against a wall he has no hope of breaking through. He looks away from the figure on the bed, then back again, answering because he knows it's not Ezra's way to bring such things out into the open, knows the conscious effort it must have taken him to do it, "They aint ever gonna be happy with you Ez, and it aint right to expect you to sit here and let them push and push and push.,"He pauses., "I'd leave too. Might be I'd have done so even sooner."
"I...Thank you Buck. I hope...you'd not take it amiss if I were to say you are the best and most selfless friend I have ever known."
"You'd be surprised how often I get that.," What has he had to go through, to expect his first real expression of friendship to be dashed against the rocks?
" I truly think I would not."
"It's not gonna be the same without ya though," and he smiles, thinking of what they've been through together, the way their efforts always come together, whether in work or play, seamlessly, effortlessly, " not at all."
"Is this how you said goodbye to Mister Larabee, when last you two parted ways?," It's a gentle question, one Buck thinks Ezra hadn't even meant to ask, wouldn't have asked if he'd taken the time to consider it.
He shakes his head, a little sad, his natural enthusiasm visibly dimmed, "Chris don't say goodbye Ezra. When he gets it in his head to go...to go for good...you just look up and he's gone."
!!!!
Viola! There you have it, chapter nine in all its glory! Such as it happens to be. Let me know what you think, eh? I really do love reviews!