Oregonal Sin

Yet another morning, yet the same empty spot in the bed to wake up to. It's a little frightening, how quickly Benjamin's grown to expect John to be there, and now each morning brings its small dose of disappointment. Only small. At least John is in the house. At least John isn't running. Only small, but it piles up.

"Do you know, I don't think the house could get any cleaner," he greets him after dressing up and making his way downstairs.

John was really, really nervous after leaving Ben's.

His inclination and instinct was to get on a horse and go. Get the hell out, and not just of Ben's house.

He didn't do it.

He'd been stubborn longer than he'd been scared, and having run before meant that he knew he couldn't do it again.

So, on edge as hell, making himself look more suscpicious than not, he got through the day. Night was harder. A lot harder. He wanted Ben, he was afraid to go to Ben. It felt like he had a target on his back and that he was painting one on Ben, too. It took time for him to get there.

Which was why he knocked on that door at something like 1 a.m. Pleanty late, given that they were up at dawn.

Once upon a time, in the time before the flood, and Noah had had a shed she used on the outskirts of town, for when she didn't want to or feel like going back all the way to the ranch. Then again, once upon a fucking time, Charlie had been alive for them to share the shed.

She hadn't felt like building another one, and ever since the flood, whenever she needed somewhere to sleep, she managed to make her way over to her father's. Ever since the flood, the amount of evenings she spent in the saloon, evenings that became nights that found her too drunk to ride back, had multiplied, and she very often ended up at Benjamin's.

Most of these nights, she curled up on a couch downstairs, or sometimes passed out on the floor in front of the fireplace. But sometimes, she managed to climb up the stairs and crawled into bed with her father. She was always thankful, in the morning, when he acted as if it had not happened. As if he had not held her through the night. As if she were not that lonely, not that needy.

That night was one of those nights. Through the fog in her brain, she paused on the threshold of Benjamin's bedroom, because there was already somebody else in his bed. The two men were asleep, in each other's arms. It took her a few long seconds before the realization fully hit - or as fully as it could after quite that much whisky - and she turned around and went back down the stairs. She went and found one of Benjamin's bottles of good whisky, and brought it back with her to the armchair beside the fireplace. She sat there and drank it until she passed out, cradling the half empty bottle against her through the night.

Noah wasn't a religious person, hadn't been in a good few years now. She was still young enough that 'a good few years' was actually a pretty long time. But there was one ceremony she had set for herself in the past few months. Every time she came to town from the ranch, she stopped by the cemetery, and Charlie's grave. She never said anything, she wasn't good at that stuff. She just stood there for a few minutes, thought about him, and everything she would've told him if he'd still been around, and then she put her hat on, tipped it at the grave, and headed back into the heart of town.

The saloon, for drinks, if it was an evening off. Wherever she needed to buy things for the ranch, if it was a business call.

Tonight, it was an evening off, and she headed for the saloon, looking up from her feet beating the dusty road when someone fell in stride beside her.

His arm still hurt.

Of course it still fucking hurt, it had only been two days since it had had an arrow lodged in the muscle, but his arm, and his ego, still hurt. It was a good thing he could draw just as fast and precisely with either hand, but being only able to correctly draw one gun out of the two slung at his hips was not to Charlie Edwards' liking. At all.

And his arm still fucking hurt. Fucking Indians getting into his business. He'd just gone back, just in case they'd left anything, but the body of his wanted fugitive must have washed down the river. Fucking Indians. Charlie dismounted, tied his horse's tether in front of the saloon, and walked in to have a drink or ten. He was doing his best to hide the fact that his right arm was, for the time being, shot to hell, but he wouldn't be surprised if the rumor had spread anyway. He didn't figure the doc would've said anything, but many a town folk had seen him ride into town with blood seeping down his arm, two days past.

Fucking Indians.

He settled at the counter, waiting for the bartender to have a second to pour him a glass. And not very patiently, at that, although it didn't show much, just in the set of his brow, mostly hidden under his hat.

Ryan didn't go out as much as he used to, even this long after the attack. Whenever it got too cold, his ribs ached in a way that made him feel like he couldn't breathe no more, even if he always could. Sometimes a client said this or did that and he was back there, too, and it was all he could do not to try and get away from them. It happened less and less with time, but still, once in a while.

When he used to go out, before, he knew people were looking at him, staring sometimes, saying stuff behind his back, sometimes to his face. It hadn't ever mattered. Now he was paranoid, and he always walked fast through the streets, and kept checking over his shoulder that there wasn't nobody following him.

That was what he did that morning, until he got to the edge of town, and kept on walking 'til he hit the forest. Trees looked dead in the winter, but that was okay. They were still good to climb, and there were some pines here and there kept their needles, so he picked one of those, so he could feel as if he was hidden from the world up there in its branches.

When he heard steps coming his way, he peered down through the branches and needles, heart thudding hard in his chest, trying to see who it might be.

Benjamin did not remember the last time a day had seemed to drag quite so much. There was nothing particularly odd about it. In fact, it was routine. But he had barely slept half an hour and had had his evening - their evening - in mind all day long, so that each patient seemed to drag by slowly.

By the time he was done for the day, night had fallen, and he was on edge in a way he very rarely was. He knocked before walking into John's home, put his bag down, walked over to him, and kissed him, thankful that they were in a spot that could not easily be seen through the windows.

The end of another long night - which, in practicality, meant the sun was already rising as Beth headed down into the cathouse barroom, wrapping an old shawl closer around her shoulders against the dawn chill. Slightly sore, definitely tired, but still smiling as she collapsed onto a chair, careful to get the shawl under her arm before she leaned on the polished table.

Not alone. The barroom was rarely empty, but the dawn meant tired girls heading to bed, and someone in the corner. Someone, that morning, who wasn't Gemma.

Beth straightened up, tucking her shawl in more firmly and lifting her head as she glanced across at Jax. "Gemma sleeping already?"

Having the chess-set at his place made things much, much - easier for John. It's presence, when combined with Ben being willing to play with him, meant that there was something they could do. There was a reasonably safe way for them to spend time together - without one of them being half-dead or completely miserable.

Quite the opposite: It was fun, and it was, in a very real, sense of the word, play. It overrode the winter's affect on John's throat, it overrode boredom and worry and the deep seated but unexamined awareness that if Ben had been less restrained, John would have been more so. It was... easily the best present John had ever gotten.

So, when Ben showed up to check on him, give him more cough syrup - the chess set was out, the lamp was lit, and there was tea going. Made it easy as heck to pour a couple of mugs, hand Ben his and settle down at the table and make that first, ridiculously bold, move. In response, of course, to Benjamin's restraint.

It may very well be a trend that continued. Or not. Who-the hell knew. Either way? It was going to be a night.

Left on John's table, while he slept: a very finely crafted chess game. A white pawn has been moved forward two squares in a clear invitation to play.

Doyle was careful. Still so very, very careful. People understood drinking, at least. But he couldn't be too drunk. Didn't want to be drunk at school or too hung over. So he spent very little time at the saloon during the week.

But these days, he had a stool that he spent most of Saturday night on. Sipping whiskey was still his favored drink, more expensive but worth it. He had one at the moment, only half drunk as he stared off into the middle distance. Not drunk yet. Not enough, at least. He blinked as someone took the seat next to him, picking up his glass. "Sorry. Do you need me to move?"

Early evening in the cathouse, and there was no booking for Ryan for a couple of hours. Even after all this time, ever since the church potluck, he preferred to stay in the cathouse rather than venture into the saloon. He couldn't get away with it all the time, needed to advertize and everything, but he still did it as much as possible. It felt safer here, and he was less likely to see Doyle on his booze-oriented nights. Nothing he could do against seeing him on his girl-oriented nights.

As it was, he was on a stool by the counter, feet swinging idly in the air, and checked the door each time it was pushed open, always hoping it might be somebody for him.

There was something appropriately wrong -and annoying, and frustrating, and just damn aggravating - about Ben being The Doctor. Because Ben being The Doctor meant that avoiding him was only possible for so long, unless John wanted to die. Not because John was in danger of death, but because if he pushed seeing him off too long, Ben would kill him.

All of it made perfect sense in John's head. Disturbingly.

He was in pain - aching, deep, constant, not going away with alcohol and tea pain. There was a limit to what Ben could do, too, but if nothing else the man was the gateway to more effective painkillers, and there was a limit to how much John was willing to suffer in the name of stubbornness.

Which was why, absolutely, John's horse was tied up and John was on Ben's doorstep giving him a very pointed look.

Richard hadn't only just arrived. He'd waited, ordered a drink, taken a table on his own with his back to the corner to watch Alec for a while, observe the people around, watch the game. When he saw the telltale drop of a hand under the table Alec was playing at, he stood, walked over with apparent casualness, and set his untouched whiskey on the table in front of Alec.

One hand on Alec's shoulder, the other keeping his coat clear of his draw, his eyes steady on the man across the table. "Reconsider. Now."

It had been four weeks since the flood. Four weeks of sweat, dirt, tears, aching muscles and aching hearts. There was still work to be done, and everyone was worried about supplies and rations, but the town was slowly getting back on its feet.

This afternoon there was a bit more reason to smile. The last of the major buildings ruined by the flood -- the warehouse -- was being raised again. The whole community had been invited to help out and a few soldiers with local roots had shown up to give a hand. The older folk who'd done this sort of thing before got tasked with being crew chiefs while anyone who could swing a hammer or hoist a beam was asked to. The women and girls saw to providing what water and food they could and younger boys were used to fetch parts and tools.

After all was said and done, everyone was given a chance to go home and clean up before coming back to celebrate under the new roof. Food was sparse but music was plentiful and the warehouse floor made a fine place to dance. The weather had cooperated as well and small groups clustered here and there outside to talk under clear, starry skies.

Liz walked into town with a worried expression on her face. She'd just finished visiting her father, and it had left her with concerns. It had been a pleasant afternoon, but Liz could tell that the older gentleman wasn't feeling well and with all the sicknesses that could come after a flood, well, it made her nervous.

She stopped in the square to look in a store window, unconsciously toying with her necklace as she stared unseeingly at the display.

Nearly three weeks after the flood and Harry's shelves were still pretty bare. They would continue to be until a ferry came or a supply wagon or, well, any sort of outside source. He locked the shop at the end of the day with a sigh, leaned briefly on the door frame, then straightened out and headed across the saloon.

He stopped as he entered, getting used to the difference in light, then sought out a familiar face. A tired smile and he headed over to Ryan.

"Hello there," he said quietly.

When Adelaide hadn't been pitching in around town, she'd be sending out almost-daily bulletins (in addition to the weekly paper) filled with information about how the town recovery was going. She'd started a barter column for the residents -- people could put a snippet in about things they needed and what they had that they were willing to trade in return. She was also, sadly, running a lot of death notices.

She'd just finished inking the next edition when she heard her bell door door jangle as someone pushed it open. She wiped her hands on her already stained apron and came out to greet her visitor. Cutter had done the initial welcome; his tail was wagging as he stood just a few feet from the door.

"Cutter, let them in!" Adelaide said firmly. The dog looked at her, woofed softly, but then padded away and flopped down behind her desk. "Sorry about that," she said.

Noah was shoveling away on the grounds the churchyard had now extended to. She didn't need a proper burial for him, she'd just damn well do it herself. She was damn sure he wouldn't have minded. She'd finally found his corpse, which was a small favor in itself. She'd almost lost hope.

It was a grim task, digging a grave, all the more so with his body wrapped up in a bedsheet right beside it. It stank, but that was the least of her concerns. She hadn't lost it yet, hands only gaining a faint tremble as she kept digging, tears falling silently down her cheeks as she determinedly went on.

She didn't hear the footsteps until the last minute, and was fairly certain that had been done on purpose. She didn't stop digging, earth in a pretty big pile beside the grave already, and didn't turn around either. "What do you want?"

Aiden was still finding mud and debris in corners of his shop. He'd been able to salvage more than a lot of the shopkeepers, purely because a good portion of his goods were made of metal. But there was still a lot to make up for. He was trying to keep his prices low, to give the townspeople a chance to get back on their feet, but he was really just scraping enough to get by.  Same as most.

Still he had a lot to be thankful for. He still had the roof over his head, and a lot of his personal possessions had been in his rooms above the shop. He also had his life, which a lot of poor unfortunates didn't, although he was finding he had an ongoing hacking cough that just wouldn't shift since the flood.

He was outside on a day that looked slightly better than it had mostly been since then. Tacks in his mouth, apron on and hammer in hand, he was busy replacing some timbers and signage on the front shelter of his building that had rotted away with the waters. It felt good to be fixing things again, physical work when the end was in sight did his heart good. 

Someone caught his eye at the edge of his sight, and he instinctively turned to greet them, if only with a smile around the tacks and a nod.