Authors Notes:

Drunk Charlie Prince = my favorite thing to write ever

Warning: Violence and language is introduced in this chapter.

Disclaimer: Characters not mine, nor is any money being made through this publication. Nor does this suggest any sort of relationship between Ben Foster and Russell Crow. (If I found out Foster was unavailable I'd die a little on the inside)

First things first- We found a bar. I made sure it was located in a small, but comfortable, town that had a less-than-adequate sheriff. Charlie lured the sheriff and his force out of area by running into their office, wide-eyed and terrified, shouting maniacally about a group of bandits nearby with murder in their eyes. It was going to take about two hours for the sheriff to make it to the location that Charlie described, another hour of searching around until he came to the conclusion that the bandits had run off, another hour or two of searching nearby areas, and finally, the sheriff would either realize he had been lied to or he would just give up the search. If they rode far enough out, it would take them three to four hours to get back to town again- and at night too. If I knew anything about small town sheriffs (and I happen to know a lot) he would decide to spend the night camping rather than risk the ride across "outlaw infested" lands.

That meant that Charlie and I would be undisturbed tonight.

The saloon cleared out when we walked in. The men probably didn't know who we were, but I guess they sensed an air about us that they didn't like. The woman tending to the bar looked petrified as we approached her. After she poured us our first drinks, I told her that she could go home. It was blatantly obvious that I meant she should go home. She got the hint and scurried out through the back.

I've only seen Charlie rip-roaring drunk once before. (Normally, he can hold his liquor even better than myself.) It was a long time ago- I don't remember an exact date- but it was one of his first times out with my crew. It wasn't the same crew, of course. Charlie's been with me practically since the beginning and he's been the only one to stick with me this long. This was another typical stagecoach grab, something I'd done dozens of times. But this time, one of my new recruits screwed up (at that time, though, all of my recruits were new). Michael, I think his name was, and he was tormenting the stagecoach driver; he'd pulled out his flask and was dousing the man in whiskey. Now Michael had always been fascinated by fear, by people's reactions when they were afraid. He got some sort of sick thrill when he was able to drive a grown man to horrified tears. It wasn't any different this time. After pouring his whiskey onto the driver, he struck a match and squatted down, holding it in front of the man's dripping face. Knowing Michael, I was sure he had no real intention of setting the driver on fire, so I let him be. Stupid. It was a stupid thing to do, letting him carry on like that.

A strong breeze picked up and the match flame flickered and jumped onto the poor man's hair.

We tried to put out the fire. I've never been one for long drawn out deaths; if I kill someone, it's going to be merciful and quick. But we couldn't save him. To this day, I've never heard a scream as gut-wrenchingly hellish as that one. I shot Michael with the man's screams in my ears and the stench of burning flesh polluting my nose. That night the rest of the crew went off to find comfort while Charlie stayed with me and drank.

And drank. And drank. I carried him to bed as he mumbled about thick sickly-sweet air, blistering, blackened skin, and eyes. Eyes surrounded by flames and heat and smoke. Eyes that slowly dulled as the life drained out of them. That was the first time I kissed Charlie. I laid him into bed as he thrashed around, tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes. I held his shoulders down to try and keep him still, but it was the words that were pouring out of his mouth that disturbed me. I didn't love Charlie as I leaned into him. I kissed him to stop the tidal wave of drunken ravings. He kissed me back forcefully, with tongue and teeth and lips. That night a lust, an attraction towards the younger man awoke in me, and over the years managed to twist itself into something much more serious. Love. Passionate, burning, fervid, consuming love.

I watched Charlie again, as for the second time probably in his life, he drank too much. Last time I knew what he was trying to drown in the alcohol. But now, I wasn't so sure. I watched him as he poured glass after glass of whiskey, his eyes staring at the bottles lined up against the bar. It killed me to see him like that. I wanted to tear the glass out of his hand and throw it against the wall and watch it shatter. I wanted to draw him close and whisper into his ear that whatever it was, whatever was bothering him, it would turn out alright. I wanted to kiss him and murmur heatedly into his ear that I loved him and that I wanted to spend an eternity with him. But I couldn't.

I am Ben Wade. Scourge of the southwest, thief, killer, legend.

And I'm Ben Wade. Frightened to admit his feelings to a drunken underling who wasn't going to remember anything in the morning anyway.

I knew Charlie had reached his limits when he started gasping. Whether he was fighting down nausea or tears or he needed to get extra oxygen to his liquor-drowned brain, I didn't know, but it didn't really matter anyway. I grabbed his arm, gently.

"C'mon Charlie. You're done."

He swiveled around to stare me straight in the face, beautiful green eyes flashing drunkenly.

"No. No."

"Yeah, you're done. Let's go. I'm takin' you t' bed."

"Yeah. I bety'are." I could barely understand him, with his words slurring together.

"What d'ya mean by that Charlie?"

He snorted and stumbled off his stool. I caught him before he hit the ground and he dragged himself up my chest until we were eye-level.

"Takin' m'ta bed." He snorted again. "Thas all'm good for, huh? Bosss." The last word was sneered and as cold as the piss drunk man could manage. And I understood.

"I'm not gunna touch ya Charlie. I'm just takin' ya to bed so you can sleep."

His eyes were fixated on mine and they were more probing than I would've thought possible.

"But'ya wanna. Dontcha Boss?" He leered up at me. "Y'ar jus' dyin' t' touch me, arncha?" His eyes suddenly showed pain. "Y-you jus' touch me. It doesn' mean anythin' t'ya. I don' mean anythin' t'ya. G-God." His voice broke and his eyes raced between mine and my hands holding him up. He didn't seem to be able to focus on anything. "F-Fuck boss."

It killed me to see him in such agonizing pain. And it tore me apart to see him fall like that, to see him break into tears. Charlie Prince, second only to me, crying. Sobbing, even. I gathered him into my arms and carried him upstairs and laid him in bed. I turned away, but only momentarily as I heard him whisper,

"What'd I do wrong?"

"What?"

How he managed to pull himself into a sitting position, only God knows.

"Why doncha love me?"

I couldn't say anything, I couldn't breathe; my heart seemed to be obstructing my airway.

"What?" I choked. He didn't hear me. He'd collapsed back onto the bed and was repeating over and over and over, "Don' love me. Don' love me" in a sing-songy, drunken voice. And then he passed out.

Why doncha love me?

I didn't sleep that night. I sat in bed next to him and stroked his hair, his neck, his lips until he stirred in the morning.