A/N: God, I've loved the reviews. 'Israel' is a little bit of a block for me right now, and I think this is helping to remedy that, so...

Karina: Wow. You reviewed twice. I'm seriously loving you. You write good reviews too, they're a good inspiration.

Enna Namo: Heh. You'll just have to wait and see about that 2x5. I promise though, no 1x2. I hate 1x2.

He was erethral. The dying sun hit his pale blonde hair and his eyes were light blue and Zechs kept thinking that if Quatre wanted to pass as a woman it wouldn't be hard. He was masculine, he was too lean and too well muscled to not be. But his face was extraordinarily sweet and his voice was so empathic and earnest that he just seemed so perfect. Zechs would be jealous but he couldn't be of someone so kind.

Granted, Quatre was not entirely what he looked like. His eyes were too intelligent for someone who acted like they did for no reason. He had no doubt that Quatre knew what he was doing and the thoughts he was invoking, his words were too carefully chosen for anything else. But his eyes had an honesty to them that couldn't be faked. (And the calculating way he spoke made impressed Zechs. It was relief to know he wasn't just a pretty face.)

His clothes were strange. His shirt was thin cotton and not at all what you could call the latest fashion. It was too roughly sewn to be made in a factory or tailored. His pants, they were a whole other story. They were buckskin and a soft butter color. They moved perfectly with him and Zechs understood then why the Reds wore their leggings. With jeans it took him a month to break them in comfortably and they frayed all too soon, but those looked like they could go through anything and still be workable.

Heero was uncomfortable around him. But Heero was uncomfortable around anyone who talked excessively, so Zechs understood and sat close to him at dinner. They sat around the fire, all six of them held within a strange peace. They were flanked by tall trees and each of them had their own weapons so they seemed to deem their lives safe for the moment.

Zechs probably shouldn't have let his guard down around Trowa so easily, but the man resembled Heero. They were both oddities, both ever wary and intense, and if Zechs had met Trowa before he'd met Heero, he didn't doubt that he'd be a lot more uneasy around him. Especially when one looked at Trowa's arsenal.

Two silver Peacemakers hung from his belt. A Colt was in a holster across his chest with an impressive amount of ammo. Judging by the bulge near his ankle he probably had a derringer, and a Calvary grade army knife was slung in the shoulder holster. And to finish those off he had a beauty of a 12 plait cowhide whip at his side. All of those were over a thick woolen poncho which could probably save a man from death's door.

But Trowa was a trick shooter, and he'd far rather be around a man who knew how to use his weapons than someone who didn't. A professional knew his gun and knew his ability; an amateur did not. He was still intimidating though.

Heero wasn't sure what to do with this man. Zechs wryly noticed that when Heero struck up a small conversation with him that they seemed to get along well, but then the next moment he avoided the mestizo like the plague. People always said that one never liked to see themselves, and it seemed that Heero was the same.

The pout he wore (which one could only pick out from his normal stare if they knew him well) proved to be immensely funny to Zechs. Suddenly the rancher had been forced in with two extroverts and one very similar and he just didn't seem to know what to do. So Zechs decided to help.

"Heero," Zechs took a sip of his water, "how's the herd looking for the drive?" He figured that cattle, if anything would be the ticket to putting Heero at ease. It was the only topic that he ever came close to babbling about.

Sure enough his eyes glossed over and began to talk. "They're all in great shape. A few have some skin conditions, but that's to be predicted after a long wet winter like this year's. All they need is an iodine treatment for a couple of weeks and they'll be good as gold."

Quatre nodded thoughtfully, feigning interest, but even Trowa seemed a little skeptical at Heero's tone. He sounded like a lovesick girl, but Trowa would probably be the same if they got him started talking about guns, so Zechs paid him no mind.

"Well." Duo took a bite of his biscuit before talking, rather uncouth but typical of a hand. "What're y'all gonna do with your pay after we get to Omaha? I'm saving mine. I want to make a wild west show of my own, but that takes some money, so I'm going ta have to wait a while."

Quatre grinned good naturedly, "I know a lot of anxious kids who'd love to get out and see the world. When you get that all together let me know. Just try and keep it respectful." He winced, "I saw one of those shows two months ago and they had my people whooping and wearing these horrible clothes that no one would be stupid enough to wear and it was… bad."

The trickrider saluted smartly, clicking his heels together. They all snickered when Duo realized he'd hooked his spurs together in the process and he thankfully patted Trowa on the back when the mestizo leaned over and started to unhook them and he said affectionately, "Tro already agreed to run it with me. He's gonna be the Spaniard Pompadour, the suave gun totin' man of Latin passion and soul. " Trowa grunted indignantly as Duo caught him in a noogie. He slipped out of the brunette's hold easily but did it a lot more slowly than he could have. Duo grinned at him good naturedly and Trowa gave him a small smile back.

Zechs noticed how Quatre seemed uncomfortable with that. Almost jealous. Question was what he was jealous of. But that wasn't his problem so he just sipped at his coffee and slid his leg closer to Heero's.

The fire died down easy and they were all quick to lay out their sleeping rolls. Wufei set his near the wagon while Quatre chose to lay near the still smoldering embers. Duo and Trowa set theirs underneath a copse of cedar trees, murmuring to each other all the while. Zechs and Heero laid down next to the saddles under the clearest part of the sky. Heero's cattle dogs flocked around them, eager for the heat and comfort of bed.

Their names were Black Eyed Susan and Chicory, and Zechs still found it funny that stoic, hardass Heero would name his tough as nails cattle dogs after wildflowers. Even better, he not only had dogs with those names, but he'd named them that himself. They were good dogs though, smart enough to dodge a cattle's hoof and fast enough to nip the cow for her trouble.

Heero laid the tarp down while Zechs began to untie their bedrolls, easily slipping into the routine of the drive. They didn't even have to speak, each handing the other what they needed when they needed it and their things were laid out with practiced ease.

This was the time that he'd had been dreading. He averted his eyes from Heero when the man'd begun to take off his shirt. Zechs turned around while he slipped off his well worn Levis. He'd even undressed himself quickly and chastely, sliding underneath the covers of his bedroll before even a hint of skin could show.

Zechs had made sure that there was space between their rolls and he was sure Heero knew why. But the brunette still propped himself up onto his elbow and slid his free hand beneath Zechs' covers and drew a calloused palm over his hip. He locked eyes with the cattle boss, wanted to know if despite all they knew about their crew, if they still wanted to follow the rules Zechs'd set.

It hurt to shake his head. It did so badly. Heero's hand was dragging across his hip so beautifully and he wanted to give in. But instead he shook his head, avoided his eyes and said softly, "Not yet. Not till they get used to the idea."

The hand went away. Zechs felt colder, but Heero listened to him. The dogs curled up between the two and made the distance between them seem a mile away.