A/N: This is an imagined prequel to the Al/Trixie pairing, set some years before 1876, the "Deadwood" years. This picks up a few years after "Miseries and Familiars" ends.

I own nothing, all is HBO's, David Milch's , or history's creations. Some fictitious characters are based on composites of historical figures.

Warnings for violence, graphic description of violent facial wounds, pimp/prostitute dynamics, language, implied euthanasia, casual sex (non-explicit), abortion.

Making Their Way

Chapter 7

Street snitches are much the same in one city as in another. Before midnight, Al was two doors up from the saloon hosting the prize fight. Flush with winnings and drink, his target, a tall thin man in a derby hat, did not notice he was being followed as he cut away from his fellows. Al watched him pause under a street lamp to ruffle through his winnings, more gloating than counting.

Al put on his gregarious face, friendly and helpful with a roguish edge. He let himself sway a bit on his feet and slurred his words slightly. Hey, pal, you feel lucky tonight? Inside track on some action over here—high roller rubes, sin for a couple o' swells like us to let 'em keep their money, eh?

He kept thepatter going, offering to buy the man a drink once they got to the table. His target patted his chest lightly as if checking his weapon was still under his coat. Reassured, he followed Al towards a brightly lit door, nodding as Al asked him to hold some of Al's card money in case someone tried to fleece him: I can see sharps would steer clear o' you, pal. You almost got the look of a marshal about you, am I right?

No, no, we can't go in the front. They run a tight game here, gotta go 'round the back, I'll vouch for you, I can tell you're a sport…

Flattery, drink and greed got the man into the alley between the brightly lit door and a dark three story warehouse. Thick walls kept whoever was within the building with the brightly lit door from hearing the thuds and groans and the one high-pitched wail that was suddenly silenced.

Al cleaned his blade on the leg of the man's pants and headed to his rooms in the chill night air. His knife felt hot through the leather sheath. He had one more errand before he was done for the night.

.

.

He paid a street boy two bits to go into Sunny's and ask for Trixie, the blonde whore. Keeping to the shadows to hide any stains, he spooked her when he grabbed her arm from the dark.

"Al, what the hell-?"

"Come on, we're going back to the room."

"Al, a guy in there owes me five dollars. Let me go in and—"

"That's why you get all the money up front. Now, come on."

She let him pull her along as she tried to explain it was her tip, not her fee she was waiting for, and how stupid did he think she was, anyway, while he hustled her along the dark streets. Under a lamp near the hotel, he stopped.

"Look at me."

What?"

"Do you see any blood, anything on me that shouldn't be there?"

Trixie grew still and looked him up and down, carefully. She'd done this before.

"Wipe the top of your left shoe on your pants".

Whatever had been there soaked into his black pants without a trace.

Okay, you're fine."

He held her arm as they went upstairs.

Shutting the door behind them, he looked at her, hollow-eyed.

"Pack. We're headin' out first thing."

Trixie frowned. She had been with Al for ten years now, and was quite sure she'd seen him within hours, sometimes minutes, maybe, of him ending a man. Usually he kept a steely calm, occasionally he acted like it was nothing. But this almost haunted look—this was different. She decided to keep her own counsel for now.

"Trixie."

He had come up behind her as she gathered three dresses and some underthings into a valise. She turned her head back towards him.

"Yeah?"

She started at the touch of his hand on the side of her face. Wary, she stood still, waiting to see what this was about. He turned her towards him, his fingers lightly moving over her cheeks, temples, forehead. He held her face in his hands, his thumbs lightly stroking over her eye brows, down to her jaw line.

"Anybody ever tries to hurt you, you scream bloody murder and you don't stop until me or somebody like me gets there, understand?"

She put a hand on top of his. "Anybody tries to hurt me is gonna be real fucking sorry—I'm tougher than I look, Al. Better armed than I look, too. You know that."

His eyes got shiny as he grabbed a hank of her hair and pulled, hard.

"Ow! Goddamnit, Al, that hurts!"

He gripped her chin with one hard hand, continuing to yank her hair tight with the other. He spoke in a deadly monotone.

"You listen to me, you reckless cunt. Any man tries to hurt you, you get help. You try to take him on your own, so help me God… if you live through it, I'll kill you myself, understand?"

He has the look of a man who's seen his worst nightmare walking, she thought, fighting the urge to grab at his hands.

"Sure, Al, whatever you say. I swear I'll be good." She winced. "Just…could you please let go now, please?"

He looked down at his hand on her jaw, slowly unclenched his grip, then loosened his hold on her hair.

"Get packing. I want us able to leave out as soon as I take care of a bit of business."

She rubbed at her jaw, gently touched her scalp.

"Sure, Al. Just—yeah, I'll be ready, okay?"

.

She finally laid down to get some sleep before sunrise. She watched him sit in the damask chair, shirt unbuttoned and cravat hanging loose, facing the door. His sheathed knife was on his right thigh. Every once in a while, until she fell asleep, she could feel him turn to look at her, then back towards the door.