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.

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.

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.

Ten days after the flood, John was still in the boarding house and still very much not going anywhere, any time soon.

The cut on his face had healed and the bruises there had faded significantly. The ribs were still painful as hell, but as long as he kept them wrapped and was careful he could deal. Even the nasty break to his collarbone, as long as he kept his arm in a sling, didn't result in more pain than he could ignore.

The headache, nausea and dizziness, on the other hand, were rapidly making his life really miserable, and the alternating hot and cold flashes weren't helping him love the world, either. Actually, the fever was starting to make him wonder just how much longer he was going to be in the world.

He did manage to get downstairs, outside and onto the porch. Not that he'd be there for long or he didn't look like shit, but he wanted fresh air, dammit. What he wanted more, honestly, was just to see people and not be locked up in an upstairs room away from it all.

Even if he wasn't loving the world, he wanted to be part of it.

John was half-drunk, half-conscious, naked to the waist (with a blanket) and in Liz's boarding house. One of the girls had run to find Benjamin while they waited. John was fine with Liz's company until Benjamin got there, but at that point really, really wanted her out.

The bruise on his temple and cheek was becoming more apparent as he warmed up. So were the bigger, darker, bruises along his side. The cut on his cheek wasn't much of an issue. That his collarbone was messily broken, with a fractured end showing through skin, though, was one hell of one.

He was shivering, still filthy, and really just didn't give a shit about much at that point. Except, of course, Not having anyone aroundbto witness anything potentially embarrassing (or humiliating or that would make Benjamin's life (more) miserable forever.

Horses and floods didn't - never have, never would - mix.

That the water wasn't higher, didn't hit harder, was a good thing of course, but it didn't stop the horses from being horses. High strung, spirited, intuitive prey animals that didn't take kindly to being locked in boxes with water coming in and rising around their feet.

To make a long story short the horses, screaming and kicking and panicking, did more damage inside the stable than the water did.

The horses, screaming, kicking and panicking, sure as hell did more damage to John than the water did.

The guest rooms were fine, of course. They were all upstairs, safe and dry. The first floor though... Liz sighed and pushed back her hair. She knew they hadn't taken as much damage as stores and homes closer to the river. They hadn't lost anyone from the house, thank god; she spared a moment to utter a prayer for those who had been taken.

No, it was more as if the flooding had gently crept into the house like a thief in the night. The waters had seeped into corners and curled around furniture legs, sought out the softness of fabric, made itself comfortable wherever it found a low spot, stayed for awhile and then left again, leaving a trail of muck and mud behind it.

Food stores on the floor of the pantry were a complete loss. The rugs... the rugs might be saved if she could get them off the floor and hang them someplace. The problem was that the backyard was more swamp than yard. She tried to go out and sank practically to her ankles in some spots.

Still, she was determined. Liz moved furniture, rolled the sopping fabric as best she could and began to tug and pull the rug from the main parlor toward the front porch. She paused in the doorway to catch her breath before bending and heaving with all her strength.

He knocked firmly on Benjamin's door. No apologize, no muss, no fuss. He just showed up and knocked.

He'd been lucky enough to get himself and the horses into the barn before they'd gotten lost in the storm. He'd been there long enough to get both horses that he'd had with him (the one he was riding and the one he was delivering) into stalls before he heard something thunk against the door. Figuring it was another person looking for shelter he opened the door.

It was Ben.

"Fantastic."

"Coffee," he told Doyle, just like those weren't the first words he'd ever sent Doyle's way. "Before we freeze to death."

He was decidedly feeling better. The fever had dropped, he was coughing much less, and the fact that John was in his house rubbed him every wrong way that existed. He wrapped himself up in a robe and headed out of his room, still tentative, holding out to the banister down the stairs just in case his legs went wobbly again.

He found John in the kitchen, making water boil, and suddenly was at a loss what to say, scathing remarks clear in his mind just a second ago chased well away by the simple sight of John, in his home, making water boil.

He was a bloody idiot.

John walked outside the stable and to the square. There was a horse following him the entire way. Not on his heels but from a distance of about four feet. It stopped when he stopped and when John turned to look at it, it looked away.

"Why," he asked, voice extremely rough, "Do I bother getting out of bed?"

It was a bit of humor at the situation but over all extremely gentle.

It seemed that the flu had finally caught up with the Doctor. There were still patients to treat, however, flu patients he did not risk to contaminate, and he was coming back from checking on one of them, face flushed and sweaty, pulling on his necktie to try and get more air. It might be cold outside, but the fever he ran was making him feel far too hot.

He only needed to get to his house. Right after having that thought was exactly when the dizziness kicked in.

Late evening John rapped sharply on Benjamin's door. He was carrying a tea pot, tea, and a plate that he'd covered. There was steam coming from the plate and they smelled, frankly, of scones. There was also a really, really determined look on his face.

John was just leading a horse out of the stables when he caught a glimpse of a decidedly interesting character. He handed the horse over to its owner rather hastily and took his pay without bothering to check and see exactly how much it was.

As soon as he could he walked away from the person he'd just reunited with their horse and moved to catch up to Montana.

'Coffee?' he asked, albeit silently.

He'd come from New York. He missed people who were different. Different was, in his book, a god damn good sign.

The impulse was completely irrational and utterly childish. He didn't care.

He was pissed off. He was hurt. His head was throbbing and his throat felt like he'd been gargling broken glass. He couldn't stop coughing. It wasn't helping his throat, but it was giving him an excuse for the tears in his eyes.

He should have stopped and taken a cough syrup or drank tea or *something*, but for no good reason at all (and still all the reason he needed) was flatly reserving. He slammed into the bar, still coughing and crying (well, with tears thanks to the cough, at least).

And found someone looking at him rather more closely than he would have wanted.

He didn't even have time to think before he snapped out a very rough, a very angry, and a decidedly resentful, "What do you want?"

He sounded like Benjamin. It did not improve his mood.

Cranky was as contagious as the flu, apparently.

John didn't do cranky anymore than he talked.

John gave it a few days-- he wanted Benjamin to have a chance to calm down and he wanted to regain some of his own physical strength for what was sure to be an exciting encounter.

Then he went looking. It wasn't hard to find the man, really. Someone died and he knew in his gut that Benjamin would be there. Maybe not close, but he'd be there. Overseeing his charges, or his duty, or maybe just using his failure to flog himself, but whatever it was he was doing he'd be there.

And he was.

John didn't say a word, just stopped beside the doctor and looked in the same direction. Watching someone being put in the ground, covered with dirt and their existence on this planet being covered up. He didn't 'cry but the lump in his throat temporarily prevented him from speaking.

If misery truly loved company then John would have been happy to see the Doctor -- or even really be aware that he was there. Apparently this was the exception (or company, or misery) that made the rule, because his response to opening his eyes and seeing the doctor's face above him was to groan, deeply and with feeling.

"Anyone die yet?" he asked, and yeah he was really worried about the apparent plague that had stricken the town. His voice sounded rougher than usual and he was short of breath as hell because a damaged throat, plus a red and swollen throat with inflammed tonsils, tended to make things a bit... wheezy, as well as ragged.

The stable doors were ajar.

From inside, timed perfectly with someone passing in front of them, came a dull thump followed by absolutely unholy and inhuman sound. Rough, broken, strangled, and unmistakable though mangled, the words: "Mother fucking son of a bitch."

He'd run out of eggs, and that simply wouldn't do. No Englishman worthy to be called such would hold on very long without eggs, or at least that was his view on the matter.

Benjamin buttoned up his vest and strode out of his home, only just avoiding a collision with someone... passing by, or coming up, he could not tell.

"Please tell me you're in no need of my services," he prayed out loud, a longsuffering look on his face.