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Chapter Text

At first, Al thought it was the man’s eyes that incited such a rage in him.  Mahogany and moss, cold and hard, Seth Bullock’s accusing gaze made him want to punch the man in the face until the fucker couldn’t be recognized anymore.

Those eyes followed him whenever he left the safety of his office for the balcony, burning into him, skewering with some type of hatred he had not seen in such a long while, its source, unfathomable.  He could see Bullock from the corner of his eye taking careful glances of him, always, like he was a wild panther that was gonna spring down suddenly from the veranda and slay all of the townsfolk.

But through various, let’s say, tense interactions with the other man, Al had come to realize that it was, in fact, his lack of respect, that drove him mad.

The younger man strutted across the camp of Deadwood, his camp of Deadwood , like he was the chosen one.  Like he was the goddamned disciple of the now dead and rotting Wild Bill.

From the very first moment they’d met, nothing had ever been more complicated than trading words with Bullock.  He was resolute in every word, mincing nothing, which Al liked, but so fucking cocksure ....it drove Al crazy.

Nobody had the right to be that arrogant in his fucking camp.   Nobody that didn’t wanna be slapped down.

So it had been early that morning, still in his long johns, as he sipped the mug of what passed as coffee that Jewel had deemed to bring him, he smiled.

He took another sip from the steaming cup of shit and cleared his throat, rising to get ready for the day ahead.

It was gonna be a good day.

It was around four that Al called for Dority.

The larger man came into his office and shut the door behind him, and as he turned to face Al, the older man noticed the look of anticipation on his face.  Likely worried about what dastardly deed Al had planned for him to carry out.

“Sit.”  Al gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

Dority sat obediently, his eyes flickering to Al’s patiently, respectfully.   Oh, yes.

Dority was exactly what Al looked for in an employee, and he had never let Al down in terms of carrying out commands; he carried out his orders more efficiently than anyone else that had been under him, and there was a certain kind of affection Al held for the man.   There was that one time with the fucking blockhead child, where he’d let her escape, but that could be overlooked.   Al was, after all, quite forgiving in certain circumstances.

Al lit a cigar, and shook out the match, throwing it into the tin on his desk.  The smoke wafted around and dissipated into the air above them as Al puffed and exhaled.

“I need you to bring me someone tonight, after bar close.”  Al ashed in the tray.

“Who?”

“Bullock.”

There was a moment of silence, and Al watches the confusion spread across Dority's face.

            "My reasons are my fucking own, Dan."

            Dority frowns, but nods.  "Fair 'nuff." There's a look in his employees eye, like as soon as Bullock's name had left his lips, his brain had struggled with answering his own unspoken questions, and upon finding the most likely reason, had come to a swift realization.

            "He's a hell of a quick one, Al."  Dority is scratching his head. Al feels a rising ire, and takes a puff of his cigar, exhaling smooth, calming tobacco.  "He's likely to see me comin' from a mile away. That's even if I can manage to get in quiet-like."

              "You fucking moron."  Al scoffs in disgust. So simple minded.  He would tutor them like fucking children.  "Give the fucking hardware fucks laudanum. Both of 'em.  Slip it in their drinks and wait for the fuckin' stuff to work , and then grab Bullock and bring him here ."

               "But Al, how am I supposed to get anywhere near their personals.  I'm all for you teachin' the bastard a thing or two, but they know my face."

               "Then find someone that can do it, Dority!"  Al rose to his feet, pushing his chair back so it screeched across the floor, and felt slight satisfaction in the way his employee flinched back.  "Make sure it's some cocksucker that's not gonna run his damn mouth! I don't care what you have to do, but I want Bullock in my office after we close, and I want him strung the fuck up, do you hear me?"

               "Yes, Al, I can do that."  Dority is getting to his feet and Al hopes to fucking God the other man can exercise his brain enough to do this without any sort of discovery.  He had enough on his plate for the rest of the day without stopping to wonder if his men really were as incompetent as they sometimes shown themselves to be.            

 "No witnesses."

           "Yes, sir."

"And Dority."  The other man pauses, his hand on the door handle.

"Bring my fucking whip up from storage."

            Dority hesitates, looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't, and turns instead and heads out the door, closing it softly behind him.

              Al sighs roughly, leaning back in his chair to pop his back.  He needed to stretch if he was going to carry out what he had planned.  He stubs out the cigar in the tin and rises from the chair to stare out of his window onto the going ons of the camp below.

Teaching that little fuck respect was all he'd wanted since the man had first set foot in the Gem.

And tonight, he was gonna get it.

Seth Bullock woke slowly.  His head felt like he was pulling himself slowly from the muck of a swamp, and he clawed and climbed to consciousness.  He was dimly aware that he was no longer in his bed, and his shoulders were beginning to ache something fierce.

He groaned as his head throbbed painfully, and tried to bring his hands to clutch at it.  When he found he couldn’t, his eyes snapped open.

“Ah, good, you’re awake.”

Al Swearengen’s voice drifted into his ears with all the welcome of a devil in a church, and Seth managed to snarl a hoarse, “Where the fuck am I?”

He tugged on his wrists and looked up blearily, seeing his wrists bound with rope to the ceiling.  Seth felt his face twist into a scowl, and he blinked to try and clear some of the fog that had settled into his brain.  Tugging at his arms viciously was no use, and he groaned as something in his head throbbed again at the force he’d exerted.  The floor was cold against his bare feet, and the rope binding him was so tight that he dangled on the tips of his toes.

“You should know where we are, Mr. Bullock.  You chose this road a long time ago.”

Al’s face swam into his vision as he circled Seth like a wolf circles prey.   And oh he was prey wasn’t he .  Here he was trussed up like some turkey for a feast.

“How-How did you-”

The older man’s face was infuriating and smug as ever, and something hot and sharp flared under Seth's skin.  The cat that caught the canary. “Laudanum works wonders doesn't it? Dority tells me neither one of you stirred during it all."

"Wheres my fucking partner?"  Seth spat, infuriated.

With a speed that belied his age, Al was grabbing his checks between bony fingers so hard that he was sure it'd bruise.

Seth bared his teeth and glared.

"You don't want to be talking to me like that."  Al's voice was low and deadly, a warning. The older man's grip grew tighter and Seth's head felt like a man with a sledgehammer was working somewhere in his skull.

Al examined him for a minute, the stone cold grey eyes boring into him, and the silence stretching on uncomfortably.  After a moment, Seth's vision darkened and once again he felt like he was simultaneously sinking and floating back down into hazy unconsciousness.

Swearengen flung his face away, and Seth's head rolled back painfully.

"Perhaps he gave you too much, hm?"  He disappeared from Seth's view, and there was a rustling of something from behind.  "Doesn't matter, I suppose. What’s done is done, and there ain’t no goin’ back. Isn’t that right?”

There was the sound of metal on leather and all of Seth’s past experiences had taught him what a knife leaving a sheathe sounded like.  He held his breath as Al approached him from behind and a cold blade was pressed against the nape of his neck.

“Mr. Star-”  Al’s words were punctuated with the slicing of the back of his nightwear, and Bullock involuntarily flinched as his back was suddenly hit by the open air.  “-is currently in his bed, dreaming of fucking his precious Trixie , none the fuckin’ wiser.”

Al tore open the shirt violently, and the fabric fell to hang in tatters around his hips.

“And you just fucking took it upon yourself to fucking bring me here to what, kill me?”

“Mr. Bullock, if I had wanted to kill you, don’t you think you’d be in Woo’s pigpen right about now?”

Another rustling sound from behind.  “Torture then?" It was a struggle to keep his voice from shaking.  He wasn't afraid. He wasn't.

Al chuckled, the sound dark, and Seth swallowed.

"You can call it that."  A sudden whistling sound, followed by an all too familiar crack! caused Seth to nearly jump out of his skin.  A fucking whip. He's out for blood.

"I would much prefer to call it, ah, let's say, reeducation ."  Despite the severity of the situation, Seth felt the spark under his skin enflame until he was infuriated.

He was angry in a state where he could do nothing. Nothing that would be of any benefit to him.

"You piece of shit.  So desperate to be in charge and on top you take to kidnapping others right out of their beds for... reeducation? "  

The punch that landed on the right side of his jaw made him see stars, and he reeled in his bonds and let out a grunt when the headache pounded sharp as ever from the impact.

Despite his words and temper, Seth knew he was completely and utterly fucked here.  Al had likely done his due diligence and left no trace behind, and if his words were anything to he believed, Sol was fast asleep, dead to the world, his system full of enough laudanum to keep him there.

"Mr. Bullock, it seems your brain and mouth don't know how to ever cooperate properly."  Swearengen stated this very matter of factly. "As is such, the reason of your being located on my premises is for a better insight of fucking manners.  Namely, where I am concerned."

"Go fuck yourself."  Seth hissed.

The whistle and crack of the whip sounded, and the first blow of the leather on his shoulder blade was already at the limits of what he felt he could endure.

Seth rocked forward, his feet trying to carry him to safety, but there was none.  His nails dug into his palms as he tried to counterbalance the pain.

Another one came, landing at the small of his back, and Seth rocked again, involuntarily, the leather leaving a burning inferno in its wake.  He was sweating already, the droplets on his forehead running down his face. Christ, he'd only been hit twice.

Seth struggled to hold on to his anger, using the emotion as his resolve as the air was filled with the snaps and cracks of the whip soaring through the air to find its home on his back, but around the tenth strike, he was beginning to falter.

The only sound in the room was the sound of the whip connecting with his flesh, and his own heavy breathing.  His pride would not let a sound of pain past his lips.

Swearengen hadn't said a word since stating Seth's purpose there, and Bullock could only imagine the man's smug look.  Where this had been a source of rage for him initially, this was beginning to become what was breaking him. Al was likely whipping him with a smile on his face, and that thought alone made him shiver.  The man was enjoying his suffering. That was why he was here, wasn't it?

Another crack! and Seth bit his lip to keep the scream from escaping as the whip played across a previously explored spot.

Don't scream, keep your cool, don't let him hear you, don't let him know he's getting to you.

But even as Seth told himself this, he found that he could not withhold the little grunts and flinches and bodily jerks that escaped him as blow after blow rained down like fire upon his musculature.  Nor could he help the sweat-mingled tears that had begun to run down his cheeks, much to his humiliation.

By the twentieth strike, Seth had begun to sag against his arms, his aching shoulders supporting nearly his full weight.  His legs were beginning to give out, and he stumbled as the whip landed yet again.

Seth's vision grew hazy, and he lost count around twenty five.  He had managed not to scream this far, but he was fast approaching that point.  He gave a pained groan, and sucked in a ragged breath as the leather snaked out again and caught him on his left hip.  His head lolled back for a moment, his vision briefly dark, before he snapped awake again. If he passed out here, Al might never let him wake up.

"You still with us, Mr. Bullock?"  Swearengen was panting slightly, but he sounded no less engaged than he had before.  Seth tasted blood, and his head drooped forward, no longer finding the will to be supported.  His disheveled hair hung around his wet visage, the locks limp and seat-slicked.

The older man circled him, stopping to examine his face.  He gripped the younger man's brown hair and yanked it back to inspect Seth.  The blood he was tasting ran down his chin to drip onto the floor, a product of where he'd bit his lip to keep sounds from escaping.

"Atta boy."  The sarcastic encouragement slapped at Seth's pride, and the words leapt to his bloodied lips before he could stop them.  " Fuck...you."  The words were croaked, but to Seth's pleasure, Al's face darkened.  The older man let go of his hair, and Seth's face fell forward to his chest.  He moved out of view.

The rest of his underthings were snatched off so fast that it left Bullock gasping, feeling like his last shred of protection had just been yanked away.

He hung in his bonds, helpless, and finally cried out as Swearengen suddenly draped himself across the litany of cuts across his back, jostling, burning.

"Do you have such a need to be humbled, Mr. Bullock?"  Al's voice was hissing in his ear, velvet smooth and dangerous.  A hand fisted his hair painfully and yanked, pulling his head back, and Al was speaking directly against his ear, his huffs of breath making Seth break out in gooseflesh.

"Well someone enjoyed themselves."  And when Swearengen slipped his other hand down to grasp his bare cock, he was horrified to discover how rock fucking hard he was.

The moan that escaped was both embarrassing and fervent.  He hadn't been aware, hadn't even fucking realized he was so...worked up.

He had disassociated with the pain inflicted, and as the pain had ceased and now with the older man's hand working him lightly now, he was losing the control he worked so hard to keep.

"What the fuck are you doing?"  Seth's voice was so small, it might as well have been a squeak.

Al's hand left him, and despite the burning in his back and the pounding in his head, he could not help the lustful thrust into empty air from the loss of contact.  The hand left his hair, as did the older man's contact with his back.

The sound of a wooden drawer and a metal tin, and Swearengen was back again.

"Thought you knew everything, Bullock.  You said 'fuck you'." The man's hands were on his hips and an anxiety Seth had never felt before welled up inside.  "So I'm going to fuck you."

Panic exploded inside of his chest and Al's fingers were digging at his entrance, poking and prodding with something slick, while Seth struggled to wriggle away, his toes slipping on hardwood.

Swearengen tutted and clutched at his hips again, pulling him back.

"Don't think you're gettin' away.  This has been a long time comin'."

The fingers probing him were swift and business like, and before long, two fingers was three, and then three was four.

A little while of this, and then Swearengen's cock was at his entrance, pushing in.  

Bullock wanted, needed to be anywhere but here, and his mind cast about desperately as Al relentlessly pushed into him.  His body was slow to accommodate, and it burned, but his mind would not let him wander. He was stuck here, in this room, with his assailant drilling into him with a steady, persistent heat.

"Relax, you cocksucker. It'll hurt worse if you tense."

This is a dream.  He thought wildly.   I'll wake up tomorrow and this will have all been a horrible nightmare.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Al was finally settled inside, so deep that Seth felt like his stomach was being pushed aside to make room for the intrusion.  He could feel the older man's balls brushing his entrance. Seth realized his breaths were coming in harsh pants and struggled to reign in his contracting chest.

Swearengen thrust his hips languidly, and with a mocking voice, said, "See, how bad can it be, makin' a noise like that."

With horror, Seth realized the keening moans had been coming from his own throat, and he quickly snapped his mouth shut.

"Oh, don't stop on my account.  The nights not over yet, boy."

And then Swearengen was gripping his hips hard enough to bruise and pistoning in and out of him so deeply that Seth was lifted off of his feet.  He was violent and exact, thrusting viciously and mercilessly so that Seth could scarcely catch his breath. A smack was diverted to his ass that made him yelp, the sound escaping before he could stop it, and Al laughed nastily.

Swearengen pulled out of him completely, and another keening cry escaped him, unbidden, much to his chagrin.  He was losing more and more control.

The other man's hands left his waist and one came to yank at his hair again, making his neck crane back, while the other arm trapped his twitching cock against his stomach and pulled him back towards Al's hips.  Seth's body was bent into a nearly painful arch, and his shoulders ached more than ever, but the delicious friction on his cock...

Then the older man thrust in again, forceful and precise, and suddenly he hit a spot inside Seth that made his hips spasm violently.  His toes curled as he saw stars, and he no longer cared about the strangled shouts that were leaving his mouth as Swearengen proceeded to nail that same spot with every snap of his hips.

Al treated him in this way for a while, and before long, Seth was a shameful, lustful, gibbering wreck.  

Swearengen began to slow his rhythm down, and Seth felt like he was going to come apart at the seams if he didn't go faster.  He thrust his hips futilely. Al had full control.

"What's the hurry for, Bullock?"  Al was whispering huskily in his ear, a devil if there ever was one.  "We have hours until sun-up."

"Please."  Seth whispered brokenly.  He wouldn't last hours before he truly came undone.

"What's that?" He leaned in close, twisting Bullock's neck to gaze in his eyes.   If I bend any further I'm gonna snap in half, he thought deliriously.

"Don't fucking stop."  Seth had never felt so low, so low and fucking needy.  "Please."

"That's more like it."  Al's voice was patient and haughty.

"What are we doing here, Mr. Bullock?"  The question was unexpected, made no sense, and Seth let out a breathless, "What?"

Swearengen hummed, and pulled out completely, leaving Seth gasping at the profound sense of loss.

"No, no, no, don't-", Bullock choked, his muddled brain struggled to look for the answer that was nowhere to be found.  "I don't know-"

"For someone so prideful, you sure are easy to reduce."  The grin in Al's voice sounded positively gleeful. "Why did I bring you here, Mr. Bullock?"

"Because, because…"  his pride was unbending, unwinding in his desperation to come.  "I'm here for... reeducation!"   He practically shouted as Swearengen gave his cock a soft smack.

Swearengen laughed.

Then the grip on his hair and the arm around his hips retreated again to grasp his waist tighter than ever and resume the vigorous pounding he'd been receiving earlier.

Bullock cried out as the pain he was in combated with the unwilling pleasure he was being forced to experience, and he felt his world come apart as he was pushed into a state of euphoria.  He had never felt this way, never been so hard and willing for something so... wrong .  But at this point, he couldn't find it in him to care.  As Swearengen pounded into him from behind, hitting the spot inside of him that was making him babble like some wanton whore, something broke.

The last vestiges of his pride fell away, and he was murmuring, "Please, fuck, please, yeah,", his hips struggling to meet every thrust,  and he was dimly aware of Al talking as he fast came upon his climax.

"These whores here, they're something special, alright, but I'm used to talking quite a bit more during the fucking."  Al's voice was strained, panting, but still in control. "You see, I've been on a bit of a stale kick as of late, and your face right now, and the sounds you're making, brings me more joy than fucking all of the whores in this fucking camp." This was punctuated with a particularly forceful thrust, and Seth cried out, the sound broken and embarrassingly needy.  "And I could fuck you, right here, like this, for hours."

Then Swearengen's hand was gripping his cock and stroking him roughly in time to his thrusts, and Seth was suddenly soaring, flying head first into the biggest climax he'd ever had.  He screamed now, his self-control all but gone, and as he spent his seed all over the floor and Al's hand, he felt his body go completely boneless.

And then, as he felt Swearengen finish himself off with a few more quick thrusts, he fell into the heavy blanket of unconsciousness.

Next morning, Seth groaned as his pounding head was what brought him to.

He raised his hands to clutch at it, and was relieved to find that he could.  It felt like someone with a knife was trying to carve out his eyes.

He was secondly made aware of the comfort of his own cotton bedsheets and that he was laying on his stomach, his tender, throbbing back safely resting underneath a thin white sheet.

He groaned again, and buried his face in the pillow, glad he was finally home.

"You alright there, Seth?"  Sol's voice drifted in from somewhere, and Seth tensed.   Sol was the last person he needed to be checking in right now.

"Seth?"  Sol asked again, and he heard the other man move closer, the floorboards of the upper floor of the hardware store creaking.  Then hands were gripping the bed sheets that covered him and the intake of breath he heard made Bullock stiffen.

"Seth, what-"  The Jewish man began, but quick as a flash, Seth was snatching the blanket out of the others hands and recovering himself.

"S'none of yer fuckin' business, Sol."  He ground out, hoping the other man would leave it alone.

There was a pregnant pause, and Seth held his breath as Sol seemed to contemplate whether or not to push the issue of the whip marks he knew littered his back.

Then the sounds of a heavy exhale, and Sol's retreating footsteps, and Seth let his breath leave his lungs in a relieved sigh.

He was gonna sleep in today.  Sol could handle things without him.

It was mid afternoon when Seth was finally able to exit the hardware store.  His grumbling belly guided his pained effort in pulling on his normal clothes.  It wasn't just his whipped back, he realized, that hurt so bad, but a stiffening in his lower back that belied what had occurred last night.

He flushed as he remembered how wanton he had been, and how uncharacteristically uncontrolled the sounds he'd made were.   Nobody had known, Nobody but Swearengen and Dority.  

As he made his way across the thoroughfare and to the canteen, he couldn't stop himself from glancing up briefly, involuntarily to where Swearengen normally occupied his balcony.  

The older man was there, leaning on his forearms to stare down, his gaze already upon him, watching Seth as he tried to move with as little stiffness as possible.  The older man's expression was inscrutable, and Bullock frowned as he glared up at him from the middle of the street.

But his resolve left him then, remembering how he had been displayed just hours earlier, and he flushed hotly, looking away to focus on crossing the busy street.

He chanced one more glance back, before he entered the building and passed out of sight, and the smug smirk he found on the man's face burned him inside and out.

Fucking asshole.

Chapter Text

Seth Bullock would be hard pressed to find something that occupied his mind more than what had happened a couple of days ago.

As he rose and began to dress for that Monday morning's ritual of setting up shop with Sol, he paused to examine his injuries in the mirror for what must have been the thirtieth time in a span of minutes.

The massive hand-shaped bruises that had originally decorated his hips with a deep purple and blue, had now faded slightly, and was now mingled with a faded, but no less eye-opening yellow and brown.  He'd hid them very well from Sol's concerned gaze, despite persistent staring. The whip marks, however, had been a point of anxious and awkward conversation for the two partners, and as Sol had seemed to struggle with asking him about it, Seth had been equally distressed in telling him about it.

It was clear to Sol that Seth wanted nothing more than to avoid it as a topic of conversation, and it was clear to Seth that Sol would continue to watch him with a veiled worry that made a stone settle deep somewhere in his gut.

Seth didn't need anyone to look after him.  He was just fine on his own, thank you very much.

The morning didn’t get better either, for while Seth had once again struggled to climb down the stairs without exacerbating his back wounds further, he’d gotten impatient with his stubborn body, and in his hurry, had slid backwards on the wooden steps and come crashing down right on the injured flesh.

The screamed curses he'd let out had greatly alarmed Sol, who had rushed out from behind the cash till where he'd been fiddling with something, his hair askew and eyes wide.

The shouting match that occured between the two on the stairs had been legendary; Seth refusing to move from his spot on the steps, his face red and sweaty, and Sol telling him if he didn't see the doctor right now , he was gonna have to find somewhere else to sleep, injuries be damned.

“What is the big deal?”  Sol was yelling. “You know damn well that man has seen much worse than your damn back, so what’s the fuckin' problem?”

And honestly, Seth had no answer for that. No answer that he would share.

“You can’t keep walking around pretending everything’s alright, Seth.  The way you’re walkin’...at least let me get you some laudanum.”

“No fucking laudanum.”  Seth hissed. Not if he could help it, not after…

There was silence for a minute, awkward and full as Sol stared at him.  Seth ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I guess...I guess you can get the Doc over here if it means that much to you.”  He conceded finally, looking up into the other man’s troubled face.

The relief on the older man’s face was palpable.

Sol helped him up from the steps, using his arm as a brace for Seth’s weight, and together they hobbled back into the bedroom.

They walk was short, thankfully, and when they got to Seth’s room, he was deposited on the bed, sitting over the side.  He still hadn’t been able to lay on his back.

“I’ll be right back.”  Sol said, and then he was gone before Seth could reply.  He’d clearly been waiting for this.

Seth hated doctors.  Not for their profession, but simply for the fact that they always seemed to bear bad news.  And they were too nosy. Far too nosy.

After a while, Seth deemed it prudent to undress before the Doc got there.  If he was able to cover up the marks on his hips...maybe he wouldn’t notice.

It was barely fifteen minutes later when Sol and Doc Cochran entered his room.  The much older man’s hair was in no less disarray than when Seth normally saw him, and his eyes regarded Seth’s position on the bed with no small interest.  The spectacles he wore were askew, as was Sol’s hair, once again, inferring that Sol had forced the Doc to hurry.

Seth was lying on his stomach, his abused back bared for scrutiny.  His lower half was covered with his white sheet, the tops of the marks he didn’t want seen tucked carefully under.

There was an awkward silence, in which Doc suddenly cleared his throat, turning to look at Sol.  

“Oh, right,”  he replied awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head.  “I’ll tend to the store, then.” He turned and swiftly exited the room, closing the door behind him.  The floorboards creaked as he made his way down the traitorous stairs.

Doc sighed heavily as he approached Bullock, setting his briefcase down next to the bed.  "I would ask how you are, but I can see from here the answer isn’t good."  

Seth hummed, noncommittal.  This needed to be over as quick as possible.

Doc Cochran sat down on the bed next to the younger man.  "May I?" He gestured to his back and Seth turned his head away, refusing to meet the man's eyes.  

"Do what you gotta do."

"This is from a whip, I'm assuming."  The question was careful.

"Yes."  Seth nearly whispered.

The touch on his back was light, clinical and precise.  Not at all like the hands that had been on him the other night, hands that had grabbed and squeezed, hands that had ...done more than just touch…

Bullock shivered, and the Doc apologized, withdrawing his hands, "I'm sorry. Bullock, I-"

"It's alright.  Just get it done." 

The hands were back, slightly more hesitant than before, and Seth closed his eyes, refusing to move.

"These wounds are healing, but I can leave an ointment behind for a little extra boost."  His fingers traced over a particularly painful mark, somewhere near the center of his back, and Seth winced.  "Some of these need more attention than others, but others are light and have scabbed over entirely, which is good."

"How soon can I get back to moving properly."  If Seth's bluntness surprised the Doc, he gave no hint.

"Should be some soreness for the next couple of days, but you should lose all stiffness around, let's say, a week or two."  Seth frowned at the news. Not soon enough.

He leaned away, and Seth moved his arm down to scratch a sudden itch that had appeared on his left knee, when the blanket shifted down.

The sudden quiet settled heavy on Seth's shoulders, and he casually moved the sheet back, like nothing had happened.  Play it cool.

Doc Cochran moved away, saying nothing, and there was the sound of the zipper of his doctor's bag, likely retrieving the ointment.  Then the zipper was done again.

“My charge is two dollars.”  Doc says suddenly, clearing the silence from the room, and Seth is relieved.  He didn’t see .

“Sol can sort you out downstairs,”  Seth manages. "Can you see your way out?"

His question was met with silence, and Seth twisted around to stare at the quiet doctor.

The older man was standing a few feet away, anxiously turning the jar of ointment in his hands over and over.

"Is there...is there anything else you want me to look at?"  He wouldn't meet Seth's gaze.

Bullock flushed and stared, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.  He had seen, he had seen-

"How-"

"I see to the girls at the saloons, Bullock.  I'm not an idiot." Doc Cochran was cutting him off and turning away from him to place the ointment on a dresser near the door.  "Those bruises you've tried to hide...does Mr. Star know?"

Seth swallowed and shook his head as the doctor turned around to face him again.  "It's nothing. Just an imprint from where they grabbed me."

"You could be...quite badly torn."  The man was persistent. Seth's eyes flicked away to stare out of the window, focusing on some tuft of cloud that had strayed too far along the horizon.  He couldn't stand the sympathy he saw in the other man's face. Sympathy wasn't what he needed.

"That'll be all, Doc."  His own voice was curt, and far rougher than he'd intended.

The older man hesitated, then the zipper of the doctor bag rang out yet again, and the door opened and closed and he was gone.

Seth let out a deep breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Is he gonna be alright?”  Sol’s voice drifted in as if on the wind, and Doc shook his head to clear away the rabble in his head as he descended the stairs to the main floor.

He fixed his gaze on the older of the two partners.  His eyes were worried, his body craning forward as if to glean more information that way.  He’s not ready for that information, and it wasn’t his to give.

“He’ll be fine, Mr. Star.”  

The worry on Sol’s face melted into relief, and it calmed Doc’s swirling blood.  

“That’s good, thank God.”  The younger man sighed and turned to straighten a nearby shovel that had been slightly askew from the rest on their hook.  “I was worried. He’d been unnaturally stubborn and quiet lately. And for him, that’s sayin' something.”

Doc adjusted his bowtie awkwardly, unwilling to say much more, but wanting to comfort the other in some way.

“I think he’s just being broody,”  He stated. “I told him his back injuries should be better in a few days, but some soreness should be expected for the next week or two.  I left an ointment for him on the dresser in his room.”

“Thank you, Doc.”  Sol was already digging in his pocket for money.  “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s free of charge.”  Doc said, and Sol froze, trailing his eyes up to regard the doctor.

“Why?”  the Jewish man sounded understandably suspicious.

"Just consider it a gift."  

"Alright then."

There was an awkward pause.  There seemed to be a lot of those lately.

"I gotta birthday in a couple of days, on Saturday.  Due to the agreement with Mr. Swearengen, we can't have liquor or whiskey in the store so…"

"Why don't you hold it at my place?"  

Sol looked surprised.

"Really?" 

"Sure, it's out of the way enough."  Doc moved past Sol, starting to walk out, before he stopped and turned back.  "As long as nobody goes inside, should be fine."

Sol's elated expression made Doc feel good.  Too often he was delivering bad news to good men that didn't deserve it, and it was consoling to know he was on the other end of good news for a change.

"I'll see you Saturday, then."  Doc smiled at the man and turned to walk away, back to his hut waiting on the edge of the camp.  "Make sure you help him with that ointment." He called over his shoulder.

"Will do!"  Sol yelled back. 

Doc Cochran was not blind.

Seth Bullock had been tortured and then raped, if those horrid bruises on his hips had been anything to go by.  The whip markings were one thing, but he knew what handprints like those were, had seen them plenty enough on the women at the Gem and now, the Bella Union.

The stiffness the other man was feeling was not just the inflammation from the marks on his back, but the pain in his lower...he was recovering from the intrusion.

But who in this camp could get the jump on Bullock?

Who indeed…

The thought came to Doc like an idea struck and he scowled in distaste.

The inane feud between the two men was well-known throughout the camp, and Doc had to wonder, had Al finally gained the upper hand?  

He needed to visit the Gem soon.

Not yet, but soon.

The days crawled by for Seth, who struggled with simple tasks like walking and dressing and feeding himself.  It was mortifying. Not to mention when Sol insisted every night on applying the damned ointment the Doc had left to his back.

He had managed to steer himself far from the Gem Saloon, not going out first thing in the morning when he knew Swearengen would be on his balcony, his eyes burning holes into him.  He'd opted for a later breakfast, despite there being less substantial food when he arrived, and if Sol ever wondered why the sudden change of pace in their mornings, he never stated such thoughts aloud.

Friday came and went, and it was early Saturday morning, when as soon as Seth's eyes were open, he realized he hadn't gotten anything for Sol for his birthday. 

Idiot.

He groaned and rubbed his forehead vigorously, frustrated.

Surely a bottle of whiskey would suffice.

The week for Al Swearengen had been full of one headache after another.

Monday afternoon, Johnny Burns had been told to bury the body of some no name traveler that had been killed by another man in a bar fight.  He had been successful, but upon coming back, he’d been covered in the mud and dirt of the hole he'd dug, and had tracked it everywhere.  Thusly Al had Jewel and Johnny cleaning that night.

Then, on Wednesday, there had been some trouble down in Chinese Alley, and Woo had come to him for help.  What had occured next, in his goddamn office, had been an argument between Dority and Johnny about who got to go help Woo, for some fucking reason.  The argument had then turned violent, as Dority attempted to beat Johnny until the smaller man was physically unable to go.  Al put a stop to it before it had gotten too bad.

Then on Friday night, he had discovered the pianist that Dority had hired only knew three fucking songs .  The limey cocksucker.  By the end of the night, when Al fired the man, he couldn’t tell which song he hated more, “Yellow Rose of Texas’, ‘Oh! Susannah’, or ‘Camptown Races’.  Camptown ladies sing this song, doo-dah, doo-dah.

Early Saturday morning, he was downright ready to tear his hair out and shoot all of them, no remorse.

There was a sudden knock at the office door.

“Go away!”  He answered, and for some reason, the door swung open.

It was E.B., who was soon to be the deceased E.B. Farnum, former owner of the Grand Central Hotel.

E.B.'s face was earnest, like he had news that the President had rode down here and told him that everyone would be paid fifty thousand in gold.

“Does ‘go away’ mean something different where you’re from?”  Al asked, more than a little irritated. He fixed the other man with a withering glare.

“Al, I got something you might want to look at-”

“If you don’t turn your ass right around and march out of that door in three seconds, I’m going to blow a fucking hole through your head.”  Al snatched open the drawer that contained his pistol and before he could even grab it, the door was slammed shut, E.B. nowhere in sight.

Al sighed, relieved.  He stood from behind his desk and strode over to the doors of the veranda, whipping them open with a flourish and striding out to lean against the border overlooking the street, seeking a calm that normally came when he gazed down upon the residents.

Daylight was just peeking over the horizon, and the thoroughfare was already abuzz with prospectors and sellers alike, setting up and getting ready for the day.

Dority had said nothing to him about the event some nights ago, and Al knew he likely never would.  He was probably interested, sure, but the man’s way was such that he’d never open his mouth. He had never questioned what he’d done to Bullock, had likely known all along, and Al had never asked him how he was able to return the man without anyone suspecting a thing.  It was never discussed.

And Al liked it that way.  

The saloon owner reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar, struck a match, and pulled long and full on the tobacco.

That had been a night, hadn’t it.  First the punishment, and then discovering through it all, that Bullock had been hard as a fuckin’ flagpole.   That had certainly put a turn on things.  And definitely not for the worse. He didn’t care that Bullock was a man.  It simply made things more interesting.

He puffed again, and blew the smoke out slowly, reminiscing.  Bullock’s eyes had always driven him crazy, the man’s arrogant stare ruffling his feathers in the worst kind of way.  He oozed control and seemed to crave order. The way his pupils had been blown and his expression desperate that night, the way his body had shook and trembled as Al had worked him, was something the older man was always thinking about.

His cries and moans had been so wanton and expressive, so unlike the Bullock that Al was accustomed to seeing.  Al prided himself for being the one that had pushed him to that point, that he had been able to make the man lose his legendary cool.  Something about the other man’s control made Al crave to upset it, to see the person underneath all of the anger laid bare, and he had gotten a glimpse of it a week or so ago.  Who knew Bullock was such a shameless creature underneath it all?

He had seen him once since that night, crossing the street to get breakfast from the Grand Central Hotel.  His jerky movements were what Al noticed first, the man moving like he had moonlighted as a scarecrow somewhere, and Al had been unable to look away.  

The younger man’s face had been hard as granite, determined, and as Al watched, he glanced in his direction, then froze.  Al watched the myriad of expressions play cross Bullock’s face, first anger, then shame, before he blushed and turned away.

Al smirked.  Good, he remembered everything.

Bullock had looked up at him one more time before he went inside, and with that second glance, Al had known that Bullock was thinking about it just as much as he was.

Al smiled lazily in remembrance and yawned, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, when familiar movement caught his eye.

Speak of the devil…

Seth Bullock was walking on the opposite side of the thoroughfare, his head down and hat low.  Like that made him stand out any less.

His movements were back to their usual grace, his stride smooth, if not a bit hunched, like he was hoping a certain someone wouldn't see him.

Too late.

Al watched him trek to a tent that sold liquor and barter with the man for a while and check out multiple wares.  From his vantage point, Al could see it all.

He lingered for a moment, scanning the labels, before pulling two different ones out and handing the man some money.  The patron thanked him, and Bullock left, heading back to his home above the hardware shop, whiskey bottles in hand.

Al puffed his cigar.  He blew smoke out, and Bullock looked up then, locking brown eyes with his.

The saloon owner thought he looked a bit like a stag caught out in the open, wary of the hunter that watched from the shadows.  Al made no move, and Bullock strode on by, never taking his eyes off Al until he broke line of sight and walked off the street, disappearing into his store.

A crow flew overhead, cawing loudly.  Al watched as it circled the thoroughfare three times and came to nest onto a tree somewhere near the stalls and tents, likely on the lookout for dropped food.

He sighed and walked inside, snubbing his cigar out in the tin on his desk.  The older man straightened the lapels on his shirt, and sat in the reclining chair behind the table, crossing his legs in front of him comfortably.

Then he called for Dority.

The setup for Sol’s party was simple, consisting only of a few tables, several bottles of whiskey and a handful of chairs, which the number of guests far exceeded.

Doc Cochran was there of course, conversing near his porch with Merrick about something that was making the larger man turn an interesting shade of green.  Even Jane was here with Charlie Utter, both of which were currently off to the side, sprawled in the grass, laughing at something Seth didn’t catch.

Seth smiled fondly.  He had never seen Charlie laugh like that.  In fact, he couldn't remember seeing him laugh since Bill had died.  Jane’s horrid, drunk as a skunk accent cut through the night, “Twice as big as you were, she was, and nearly three times ‘round!”, and then they were both braying with laughter again, the older man slapping his knee.

To his immediate right, Trixie was whispering something in Sol’s ear from where they stood against the wall, and the older man was smiling softly, his expression distant as he looked off into the darkness. He seemed to be having a pleasant time.

  Now, Seth always drank, but he never drank enough, according to Jane anyway. Normally, his sensibilities wouldn't allow for that.  However, ever year on two days, his birthday and Sol's, he got shitfaced enough to puke his guts out like the common rabble.

Tom Nutall, like the opportunist he was, upon noticing Seth sipping casually on a shot of whiskey had practically leapt at the chance to challenge both he and Ellsworth to a game of 'pennies'.

"You can't beat me, gentlemen!"  He hollered boisterously. And Jane, having a sudden moment of clarity, yelled from her spot on the ground, "Yer alright, Tom, but leave the drinkin' to the professionals, eh?"

Seth smiled indulgently and accepted the invitation, moving to sit across from Ellsworth and next to the exuberant Tom at one of the square tables.

The bar owner had plopped down two bottles of whiskey that he'd brought from his own saloon, and procured three tall shot glasses, placing them in front of each person.

"Does everybody know how to play?"  Both Seth and Ellsworth nodded.

"Good. I'll go first." He pulled a handful of pennies from his pocket and tossed them onto the tabletop, picking one up.  He stuck his tongue out as people often do when they’re concentrating hard on something, and flicked the penny onto the table.  It bounced up and landed right in the shot glass.

“First one, down!”  Tom grins, and takes the penny out, replacing it with the amber liquid of the whiskey.  He slides it across the table to Seth, his face eager. Seth raises an eyebrow at him, half-smiling.  Of course.

Seth takes the shot quickly, almost sputtering at the bitter taste.  It slid down to his stomach like silk, settling into a burning fire in the pit of his belly.

Ellsworth is next, and he flips a penny.  The coin bounces off of the table and lands in the glass.  He gives Tom a smirk, and says, “Drink, my friend.”

It’s Seth’s turn, and he picks up a penny, lines it up, and flicks it.  It bounces off the table and hits the rim before falling back onto the hardwood.  He makes a sour face and it’s Tom’s turn again.

They continue this way, and it’s not long before Seth realizes that he is being made to consume more shots than either one of them.  They were trying to get him drunk.

He tried stepping his game up on the penny flipping, but the concentration required eluded him, and he waved a hand, letting the men know he quit the game.

“I think ‘m done, fellas.”  Seth picked up the bottle they’d managed to empty in the short time they’d been playing and wagged it for emphasis.  How long had passed since he’d sat down with them? He looked around blearily and noticed the only two missing were Doc and Merrick.  Charlie and Jane were in the same spot they’d been in when the game had started, and Sol was currently puffing on his rare annual birthday cigar and passing it on to Trixie.

“Aw, c’mon, Bullock.”  Ellsworth was whining suddenly.  “Stay and play with us a while longer.”  Seth focused on him and realized the man was more intoxicated than he was, somehow.  Didn’t Ellsworth drink daily?

Ellsworth appeared to be enacting what it was like hanging onto the deck of a ship in a maelstrom, and Tom gave a hearty laugh.  “I think Bullock is right. Neither one of you look fit to continue.” Of course Tom could hold his liquor.

Seth went to get up from his chair and nearly fell sideways.  An uncharacteristic giggle escaped his mouth as he caught the back of his chair and righted himself.  He faced Tom and Ellsworth with a smile. “Thanks for the game.”

“Anytime, Bullock!  It was a pleasure.” Tom’s face was slightly red, the only sign of his inebriation.  

Seth’s pushing away from the two men and is suddenly made aware of the pressing need to relieve himself.  The world is tilting slightly and he sways a bit with it. The cool night air feels good on his skin. He meanders unstably past Sol and Trixie, who are both watching him, amused.

"Alright there, Seth?"  Sol calls, his tone playful.  Seth looks to him, feeling the smile creep across his face.

“I’m good.  Need ta’ pee.”  Seth replies.

He wanders off behind the Doc’s house and hears Trixie call out, “Don’t you go fallin’ in!”

“Yeah, yeah.”  He answers, waving their jokes off.

He makes his way down the bank towards Whitewood creek, stopping just short of the water to lean behind the tree and go about his business.

It was quiet out here.

The bubbling of the stream was soft and whispered over weathered rocks, while crickets played small harmonies all around.  He could just barely hear the sound of the get together from where he was if he strained real hard. Seth looked up, and through the scraggly winding branches of the tree, he could see the vast, starlit sky that seemed to swallow up the earth in darkness.  There was a waning moon tonight, and it cast the land in a very low, eerie glow.

He finished up, and had just taken his first step back when a twig snapped somewhere to his left.

Instinct made him look to the sound, and he had just enough time to duck as Dority's fist swept the air exactly where his head had been.  Seth overbalanced and fell on his rear to the ground, making his tailbone smart sharply.

"Goddamnit, Bullock."  Dority was cursing as Seth scrambled hastily backwards.  The meaty man loomed over him, a scowl on his face. "Just come nice 'n easy, 'n nobody has to get hurt."

"Bullshit!"  Bullock snarled, and a great multitude of emotions welled up inside of him.    If Dority was here…"Tell Swearengen he can go fuck himself!"

"Like that's gonna fly with him and you know it."  Dority snatched at Seth, and the younger man punched him hard in the gut, which sent Dority reeling backwards clutching his stomach.

Seth stood with difficulty, his shoes sliding crazily on the dew-slicked grass, lunging towards the direction of the camp, but a hard tug on the collar of his shirt made him jerk backwards, the fabric constricting his airways.  He choked and Dority swung him into the nearby tree.

His forearms dug into the hard white bark hard, scraping the skin raw, and his head bounced off the wood.  He groaned then, his head ringing, and then Dority was on him, turning him around to grab him by his neck with both hands. 

Seth felt as uncoordinated as a colt, cursing his own inebriation. 

"Get off- get off me ."  Seth was choking out, still dazed, and he swung at Dority's face with a wild haymaker, which the other man countered, and then answered it with another swift punch to the head.

Red flowers bloomed behind his eyes from the impact, but he didn't care as he fought against the grip on his throat.  His own hands came up to grip at Dority's, trying to pull his hands away from the shockingly strong and clenched fingers.

He was drowning and there wasn't any water.  He grew dizzy, and his vision began to go black and fuzzy, spots dancing on the peripheral of his vision.  All he could hear was his own heartbeat.

He flailed, his feet kicking wildly, and managed to connect a foot with Dority square in the balls.  The man retracted from him with a bark of pain, his hands going to clutch at the place where he'd been hit, and Seth was finally able to suck in a wheezing breath, coughing harshly.

He turned and practically tore up the earth with the force of his take off, running sloppily as fast as he was able.  He had to get back to Doc's house, had to get back to-

The tackle from behind sent him crashing to the ground, and the almost healed wounds on his back protest in a sharp flare of pain.  He hit the ground with an "Oof!".

"All you had to do was come with me."   Seth barely heard the words.  

Then there was a pain in the back of his head and he was out.

Cold water brought Seth’s mind screaming back into consciousness and he woke, sputtering.  His eyes darted around wildly, seeing but not seeing. He blinked rapidly, shaking his wet hair and water droplets sprayed about in an arc.

Al Swearengen was standing in front of him, his smile wolfish.  Seth was coming to associate him with literal headaches.

“Ah, he awakens.”

When Seth lunged at the man, he was made aware of two things quickly.  One was that has hands were tied behind his back. The second was that he was no longer clothed.

The slap Swearengen delivered to his face sent Seth crashing back to the couch he’d been sitting on.  

“Haven’t learned anything since last time, have you?”  Swearengen mused, examining his hand like it had been the one that had been hurt.  He turned cold grey eyes to Bullock’s and Seth met his eyes, forcing all of his anger and hate into the gaze.

Swearengen just settles into a smirk, and Seth watches him carefully as he moves off to a trunk in the corner, turning his back.  He tells himself that it’s not fear that makes him stay in his spot on the furniture. He draws his legs up to protect at least some of his modesty.

Seth takes in his surroundings quickly with a scan as Swearengen fiddles with the trunk.  The room isn’t that big, and he can tell it’s used for storage. There are boxes and crates everywhere, and to his right, various bottles of liquor line the wall.  The stairs are on the far side of the room, and at the top, Seth can see a white door. Probably locked.  The couch he’s laying on is in the center of the room, and behind him, yet more crates lined the walls.

“I’m not blind to my own imperfections, Seth.  Can I call you Seth? I feel like we know each other well enough to be on a first name basis, you know what I mean?”  Seth just glared, as the question was obviously rhetorical. It didn’t matter what Seth wanted. “To want what I cannot have,”  Al continued, turning back around to dig through the trunk. “Is one of my major flaws. I think it’s important to know your own flaws, don’t you?”

“You have a great many flaws, Swearengen,”  Seth ground out. “And kidnapping seems to be a big point for you.”

“Ah, but see therein lies the weakness.  You. To want what I cannot have...oh but I will have it.”  He turns around to face Seth with a wicked smile. He’s holding a black riding crop in his hands, and he slams the end into his palm with a loud ‘ thwack!’ .

Seth flinches at the sound, the memory of the other night flashing through his head.  He began to rise from the couch, ready to run buck naked, he didn’t know or care where to , he had to get away-

And Al has lunged across the space already, tackling him back to the sofa.  Seth struggles, but with his arms trapped underneath his back it’s useless. Swearengen settles on top of him, and Seth can already feel how hard the other man’s cock is through his pants.  He sucks in a sharp breath, and he begins to feel the stirring of lust deep in his belly. He remembers everything from the last time and his body is responding without his consent.

Al is positioning them so their cocks are rubbing together and realizes he’s already half-hard.

“There, isn’t that better.”  Swearengen says, and Seth has no time to respond before the riding crop is brought across his left pectoral in a broad stroke.

“Fuck!”  Seth yelps, nearly jumping out of his skin. His cock rubbed deliciously against Swearengen’s when he jerked.

“That’s the idea.”  Swearengen replies, excited.

He then rains down a series of blows that leave Seth gasping and twitching, and he found no matter how hard he tried, he could not keep his body from moving against the older man’s.  He can’t believe himself, how he was so hard for something like this. It borders credulity at best, yet here he is, panting and horny like a teenager.  

 A hit connects directly with his right nipple and he thrusts hard into Swearengen, groaning.

“Isn’t that good?”  Swearengen purrs and there’s another hit, this time to his left nipple.  Seth can’t help the cry he lets out.

“What’s in this- ah - for you?”  Seth can’t help but hiss angrily.  He’s trying to hold onto his anger as a means of dignity, but the smacks the bar owner pelts him with makes him gasp.  “Why are you doing this?”

“This.”  He pauses and grasps Seth’s cock firmly and Seth undulates, arching his back into the grip with a somewhat surprised expression, his mouth agape.  So good.   “Seeing you like this, and being the one to do it.”

He’s stroking firmly now, and a low moan bursts from his lips as his hips buck for more friction.  With his other hand, Swearengen is pulling a tin out of his pocket. Seth closes his eyes as the other man fumbles with his belt, and there’s a pause, and then a slick finger is preparing him quickly.  He notices that Al is breathing hard, too.

The finger turns into two, and then Al yanks him around so that he's straddling his cock.  He's pushing into him, and Seth yelps as it feels like it's too much, too fast, but Al slides in steadily, filling him what feels like to the brim with his cock as he comes to a rest against the man's chest.

His breath is ragged, and Al grabs his cock then, pulling it gently and Seth moans fervently, his hips moving.  He's aware that he's working himself on Swearengen's cock, but he can't find it in him to care.

The older man grabs his hair and yanks it back, sinking his teeth into Seth's neck and he cries out, his hips buckling without rhythm.

Swearengen thrusts once, viciously, his mouth still clamped to his neck, hand still in his hair, stroking his cock, and Seth's toes curl and his eyes roll in his head.

Then his cock is released and the man is pounding into him, his movements exact and precise. 

The keening and needy moans that fill the room are his own, Seth is vaguely aware, but it's background information.  Irrelevant.

All he can do is feel right now and Al pulls his head back to whisper in his ear, "I find honesty important, and can honestly say,"  he huffs into Seth's ear for a moment, a low grunt escaping his mouth that sends goosebumps crawling across Seth's shoulder. "That I have never had this much fun fucking."

He pulls out of Seth with a sound that makes the younger man cringe and suddenly he's sent sprawling over the edge of the couch, his face dangling mere inches from the ground.  The blood rushed to his face and he doesn't understand at first...and then Al pushes in from behind it's so horrible, so wonderfully deep that Seth cries, "Oh, fuck!".

"Don't gotta tell me twice."  He can hear the smile in Swearengen's voice, and the snap of his hips makes his cock hit that sweet spot inside, shooting stars through his brain.  Oh my God.

The rough fabric of the couch feels sinful against his own cock, and he cant stop himself from meeting every rough thrust with a cry of, "Fuck, yes, fuck-".  He's chasing his orgasm now, and he's so close-

Al grabs his bound wrists and yanks them back, arching his body almost painfully, and it's impossibly deeper than before and his world shatters as he comes quickly after with a scream, long and hard.  

Al rides him through it, the older man looking after his own need now, and he finds it when he comes with a grunt, deep inside Seth's now boneless body.

Seth is hauled back to the couch by his wrists, and he lays there in a post orgasm daze.

Swearengen has moved away and Seth feels himself begin to doze, when he's hit in the face with heavy fabric.

"Might wanna get dressed before your dear partner comes looking."  Swearengen is warning from somewhere. There's the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards of the stairs, and he yanks the clothes off of his face to stare after the man. 

Swearengen's stormy eyes never leave his as the man makes his way up, and he opens the door, and is gone.

Seth gets dressed quickly, taking the steps two at a time and peeks around the corner.

It's the Gem Saloon's basement, he realizes, as he creeps out from under the stairs that lead up to Al's office. t's nearly empty save for a few passed out patrons.  Seth passes close to the bar and notices Dority there, cleaning a glass with an off-white rag.

He's got an eyebrow raised at him, and Seth marches up to the man.

He gives Dority a glare, but it withers quickly. The circumstances are too...condemning for him to start something here.

"Give me a fuckin' shot."

Chapter Text

Something was up with Seth, but Sol couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

Last night, on his birthday, the other man had disappeared, and Sol had written it off then, thinking maybe Seth had wanted some alone time after all of the socializing.  He’d had his fun with Trixie, and had been surprised when he’d returned home to an empty house.

He awoke the next morning, and went to check Seth’s room, and there he was, sprawled out on top of the covers and fast asleep, still in his clothes.  He’d had a blooming bruise on his right temple, an ugly, mottled, purple thing. Had he gotten into a fist fight?

Seth had slept well past noon that Sunday, and Sol didn’t fault him for it.  They were closed on God's day of rest, after all, and there wasn’t much to do around the store.

So he killed time, fanning through a resupply magazine they’d been issued from a seat behind the cash till, and when Seth finally trudged downstairs around two, he noticed the younger man had a slight limp.

“Mornin’.”  Sol greeted, and took a sip from the glass of water on the counter in front of him.

Seth cleared his throat and replied with an answering, “Mornin.’”.

The bruise looked no less ugly than when he'd spotted it earlier, and Seth appeared to have been run over by a horse last night.

"Water?"  Sol offered, holding up his own glass.

Seth eyed it like a man eyes a well in a desert, and snatched it up, quaffing it quickly.

"Better?"  Sol asked,amused.

"Much."  Was the gravely reply.  Seth sat at the stool to his lift and Sol turned to regard him carefully.

"Where'd you, uh...where'd you go last night?  Charlie asked after you."  

Seth looked at him, and Sol knew from all his years with the man, that whatever was about to come from his mouth would be a lie.

"I went to get a drink."  

"Party didn't have your type?" 

"N-no."  Seth stuttered and looked away, pouring himself another glass of water from the pitcher.

There was an unnatural tint to Seth's cheeks, and with a shock Sol realized the other man was blushing .  

Sol narrowed his eyes.  Oh yeah.  Something was definitely up with him.

It had to be a lady friend.  Seth snuck off to see a lady friend, and maybe he got into a fight with another man who wanted her, which would explain the bruise-

"We need to make a run to Rapid City."  Seth's voice cut through Sol's rapidfire thoughts, and he blinked.

“For what?”

“Well, for starters, the shovels we’ve been getting shipped in from Montana have been getting complaints that the wood is splintering too easy-”

“What?  I haven’t heard-”  Sol began.

“The commodes are coming in flimsy, like there wasn’t enough porcelain in the mold to begin with-”

“Someone did complain about-”

“- and ,”  Seth said with a little more force to cut Sol off.  “The lantern’s are burning out after an hour.”

“After an hour?  But we made sure they were filled with oil!”  Sol cried, indignant.  

“Yeah, and the oil's likely mixed with fucking water, Sol.  We need to find a new supplier.”

Sol ran his hands over his face, frustrated.

The ride to Rapid City would take a day, and if they were lucky, they'd arrive Monday morning, right after they normally opened shop.

What a headache.

"Okay, well I guess let me go...pack some things."  Sol trailed off, getting up from the still and making his way to the steps.

"You're staying here."  Seth's voice made Sol freeze, and he turned around to face the younger man, his eyes narrowed.

"I’m what ?"  

"Someone has to open the store tomorrow, and I'm gonna ask Charlie to go with me."

The hustle and bustle in the thoroughfare was the only sound for a minute as Sol appraised Seth.

"You're serious."  Sol said, stating what he saw.

Seth's face was unapologetic, his brown eyes hard.  "I can't risk it."

"You're expecting trouble"

"I'm not expecting anything.  I'm preparing for it."

Sol swallowed down the hesitance he felt.  Why was this man so hard headed all the time?  "Well, better get a move on, then."  He said finally, though there was no venom in his voice.

Seth rose from his spot at the counter, draining the last of his water in one fluid motion, and passed Sol.

He was almost out of the door when the Jewish man called after him.

"Seth."

The younger man turned to regard him.

"Be careful."

Seth smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

"Aren't I always?"  And then he was gone.

Sol frowned.

Careful was one thing, but trouble seemed to follow Seth Bullock like a fly follows shit.

Gem Saloon wasn’t yet open for the day’s business other than to sell liquor, and as Doc Cochran walked into the establishment, he was greeted by Dority from behind the counter.

“Afternoon, Doc.  Thought you weren’t due to see the girls for a couple days.”  He’s pouring two shots before Doc can ask for it and sliding one across the mahogany wood.  Dority looks like he’s had a late night, and the purple bags under his eyes make him look like he’d received two shiners.

Doc sidles up to the bar and gives Dority a questioning glance, who then says, “It’s on the house.”

Doc Cochran nods his head in thanks and downs the whiskey in one quick grimace. 

"I need to speak with Al."  The doctor says, and Dority frowns at him.

"Think he's sleepin', Doc."  Dority says, and takes his own shot of whiskey.

"At this hour?"  Doc asks, instantly suspicious.

"Maybe."  Dority shrugs, and he's lighting a rolled cigarette.  "Haven't seen him since late last night. You can knock on his door, I guess, if it's important."

"It is."  Doc replies, and begins to climb the stairs.  There’s an uncomfortable ache in his back from the movement that comes with being his age, and he mentally curses his body.

He moves across the upstairs floor to stop in front of Al's door.

Nothing can be heard from within, and the knock he delivers to the door seems to thunder in his ears.

"Come in."  The voice from inside is alert, and Doc opens the door and enters, closing it behind him.

Al is sitting behind his desk, the pen in his hand scribbling furiously across some piece of paper that’s covered in loopy cursive.  He looks intent, but his eyes swivel up to Doc's nonetheless, and he pauses in his writing, his face lightening considerably.

"Ah, the good doctor.  You’ve caught me producing bandied words on fuckin’ paper with our other residential saloon owner...but what can I do for you. "  The smile on the other man's face is friendly enough.  He gestures to the chair in front of him. "Sit, please."

Doc does, and says, "I need to talk to you about Bullock."

Al's eyebrows shoot up nearly to his hairline.  "Our residential hardware operator and knight in shining fucking armor?"

"I was called to his place a week or so ago, and his injuries were consistent with something...despicable."

"Despicable is a big word, Doc."

"Will you take this seriously, Mr. Swearengen?"  Doc hissed. The other man's attitude, as ways, was beginning to get under his skin.  

"Well, I'm trying to, but you come here and for reasons beyond me, want to talk to me about that guy?"

"Well, yes, mainly because I think you were involved."

"Me?"  There's a look in Al's eye.  A look that tells Doc that he's broaching dangerous territory.  The truth.

"It seems he was jumped several nights ago, for reasons unknown.  And the only person I can see doing something like that to Bullock, is you."

Al is lighting a cigar now, leaning back in his chair and eyeing him like he's spinning some tale of magic.

"You think I beat up that little shit?"

"I think you did something." 

There's silence in the office as the bar owner regards him, puffing on the cigar and exhaling it nonchalantly.

"Let's say some misfortune did befall our young Bullock, and let's also say, for conversational purposes, I had a hand in it.  Are you so convinced that he didn't ask for it? "

"Al!"  Doc choked out.  He was aghast. The leer on Swearengen's face was off-putting.

"I mean literally, of course."

"The marks on his back-"

"All a part of the game."

"This isn't some game, Al!"  Doc cried, rising to his feet.  The chair he was sitting in screeched across the floor unpleasantly. The other man merely watched him, all traces of amusement suddenly gone.

"Be careful, Doc."  Al warned his tone grave.  "I need you to see to the whores, but be careful."

"Are you telling me that you're playing with this man?"  Doc hissed, and he felt like he couldn't help himself, couldn't help the words spilling out like sand in an hourglass.  "I've seen you do a lot of horrible things, Al, countless times, and had the stomach for all of it. But this is abhorrent.  What you are doing to this man makes me-"

"Makes you what , Doc? "

Al stands now too, rising slowly, his presence intimidating and eyes cold steel, but the anger Doc feels is justified and he stands his ground.  He cares for all of them, has watched this camp and all of its inhabitants grow. He's tired of seeing the needless pain.

"It makes me sick, Al.  This isn't right."

"And like I told you, he asks for it."

Doc pauses.  "Does he?"

Al gives him a long suffering sigh. "Yes, Doc, in the roundabout way Bullock often asks for things."

There’s silence again as both men breath evenly.  Al’s eyes have never left his.  

Doc suddenly feels extremely awkward and out of depth.  A man struggling to grasp the concepts of the type of relationship that seemed to be going on between the two men who were always so at odds.

“Then this is somewhat awkward.”  Doc relented.

“You understand my feelings on the subject, finally.” 

“I just…”  Doc begins, but falters.  “I was making sure-”

“Yes, Doc, we know,”  Al is cutting him off.  “You’ve been a long fucking time at this camp, and no doubt have seen the benefits reaped of keeping its residents healthy and whatnot-”

“-I care, Al.”

“Yeah, well as do fucking I.”  Al was walking over to the door and opening it, his face like stone.

“Now, if you would be so kind as to save me some fucking face…”  The other man gestures out of the door.  He’s ready for Doc to leave. “I have a letter I need to get to Cy fucking Tolliver.”

“Of course,”  Doc is moving out of the office and past Al, the tobacco from the bar owner’s cigar swirling around him, and as Al practically slams the door behind him, Doc feels lost.  

He feels for the first time, like he doesn’t understand.

Charlie is nursing what looks like the remnants of a hangover when Seth finds him around the livery.

He’s on the ground leaning against the stable, his hat propped up over his eyes and a canteen in his hands.  Off to his right, Jane is sprawled in the grass, snoring loudly, her hat on the ground next to her. Seth can’t help the smile that crosses his face.

“Mornin’, Charlie.”  Seth greets, and there’s a groan from the older man as he lifts his hat up to find the source of the voice.

“Bullock?”  He asks, squinting.

“I’ve got a favor to ask you, and there’s some money in it if you can help me.”

Charlie straightens up immediately.  He puts the canteen on the ground beside him and rises from the ground, using the wall behind him for support.

“I’m always down to make a little money, you know that.”  Charlie says. “What’s the favor?”

“I need an escort to Rapid City.  I need to find a new supplier for our hardware.  Seems the old one's trying to undersell us.”

“Rapid City, huh?”  Charlie scratches his head contemplatively.  “Yeah, I’ll join you.”

Beside them, Jane lets out a loud snort that startles both men.  

“Still drunk, Jane?”  Charlie asks, not unkindly.

“Oh, fuck you, ya cocksucker.”  She says. Jane doesn’t even open her eyes, and Seth can only imagine the pounding headache she likely was trying to cope with.  “At least I still got my damn pants on this time.”

Seth thinks ‘ this time?’ and then Charlie is saying, “Jane, those aren’t your pants.”

The woman sits up then, looking down bearily at her clothes.  “Goddamnit!”

Seth barks out a laugh, because the situation is utterly ridiculous.  “How did she-?”

“I learned to stop asking ‘how’ a long time ago.”  Charlie says, and after readjusting his own clothes and turning to Seth with a faintly exasperated look.  “Let’s go.”

A few hours later, and the two men were on the road to Rapid City, settled into the wagon Seth and Sol had first moved into Deadwood with.  The dusky bay horses that pulled the transport were strong, sturdy animals, and Seth had made sure the wagon axles had been greased with a lacquer before they left to minimize the squeak of the wheels.

The day was windy, tossing the horses manes about in violent snaps, but the sun beat down on them in an unforgiving wave of heat that the wind couldn’t dispel, and Seth wiped away the beads of sweat that threatened to seep slowly into his eyes.

“Where’d you make off to last night?  Me and Jane were lookin’ for ya.” Charlie said from beside him.

“I-uh...had to go see someone.”  Seth answered lamely.

“Same person that gave you that knock upside your head?”

Seth looked at him, but Charlie’s face was indulgent, gentle.  He focused back on the road. “The very same.”

“So a lady friend, then?”  Seth blanched.

He glanced again, and the older man’s suggestive eyebrow wiggle made Seth roll his eyes and look away.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“You gotta make ‘em happy, in my experience.”  Charlie said, and Seth could feel this rising embarrassment, bubbling up from somewhere inside. 

The issue was dropped, thankfully, and they rode on to Rapid City, their progress unhindered.

They arrived at the growing city somewhere around nightfall and Seth was struck by how different it looked from Deadwood.

Rapid City was sprawling, many numerous houses covering a hillside far in the distance, the rest of the town consisting of various businesses and merchant stores.  It was far busier than Deadwood, in any case, and Seth found navigating the crowded streets a source of incredible frustration. 

Everywhere they tried to move someone was crossing the street, or a wagon was stalling, or someone was trying to peddle them something.

He’d finally lost his patience when a man trying to sell them rope stopped directly in front of them, and Seth had nearly leapt down to beat the man bloody that had impeded the horse’s path.  Charlie had stopped him, waving the man on with a “Get out of here, before I put a bullet in your brain.” The man retreated in a manner that in any other circumstance, would be comical.

The store they were looking for was found after an hour of searching the streets, and they told the merchant they'd load up in the morning.  The merchant, who Seth thought reminded him somewhat of the Doc, allowed them to store the horses and wagon in his livery while they stayed the night in the nearby hotel.

Charlie accompanied Seth to the bar nearby, and it was sometime later, after the older man had consumed a vast amount of alcohol, did he speak.

"I miss him."  The voice was so low, that above the buzz of noise from the bar Seth barely heard it.

"Who?"  Seth said, bewildered.

"Bill."  Ah, yes.  

Seth is quiet for a moment, as he contemplated what to say.  

In many ways, Bill had become close to Seth in the short time that he'd known the man.  Their similar ways of thinking would have led to a great many changes throughout the camp.  Seth had beyond a doubt felt he could trust the other man, which was much more than most people he met.  He was like a rock, steadfast and hard.

Seth cleared his throat, and nearly whispered, "I miss him, too."  

"He used to have this fuckin'... thing about thunder,"  Charlie chuckled, swirling the drink in his glass between shaky fingers.  "Was obsessed with it."

Seth nods.  He remembers.

"There was a time, 'bout a decade ago, twas a rainstorm out near Salt Lake City that everyone thought was gonna wash the town away.  The rain was comin' down in sheets so thick you couldn't even see ten feet out." Charlie took a sip from his cup, grimacing faintly.  "The thunder was something awful, spooking the children and the livestock. Sounded like one of them ole' Greek stories about...er… Zeus, or whoever it was.  Striking the old anvil, makin' lightning bolts."

"Couldn't find Bill ‘bout halfway through, thought he'd passed out in the barn drunk somewhere, and was ‘bout to head off the porch to go look when I see him, standing in the rain, his arms outstretched like Jesus on the cross."

Seth is listening with rapt attention, getting a brief glimpse into the mysterious dead man’s past.

Charlie lets out a small laugh.  "He had pneumonia the next morning.  Rain and cold had done him in, but ever since then, he was always on about thunder."

Seth watched the older man for a minute, his face tinged with sorrow.

It was some time later, when Seth was falling asleep in his own bed, did he really contemplate the story Charlie had told him.

Had Wild Bill Hickock, at that point in his life, felt the same lack of direction that he himself now felt?  When he had stood in the rain, had it rooted him, and laid his mind to ease? Was it cathartic?

Was it similar to how he felt when he was with Swearengen?

Early morning saw their business with the merchant complete, and Seth was satisfied with the wares they'd purchased, as he'd inspected everything, including the oil, himself.

Seth and the merchant, he'd found out his name was Jeremy Springs, had established a set routine; resupplying every two weeks from a mail order catalogue that he’d handed Charlie.

They’d thanked him, and guided the horses out of the packed city, much to Seth’s relief.  Almost done.

The ride back was uneventful, and about halfway through, Seth felt like asking Charlie to take over so he could nap before their arrival.

He had just opened his mouth when Charlie twisted violently in his seat, craning his neck behind them.  “Did ya hear that?”

Seth glanced at him nervously.  “Hear what?” He fingered his pistol with his left hand, the other focused on urging the horses faster with flicks of the reins.

Charlie said nothing, and then turned around again, his eyes scanning.

There’s a loud ‘ whoop!’ from a male voice, startlingly close, and now Seth doesn’t know how he didn’t hear it before.  Hoofbeats.

They clear the next hill and when Seth glances behind him again, he can see four riders coming up from behind.

“Charlie!”  Seth cries in warning.

“I know!”  The older man yells back.

Road agents .

The horses are blowing hard, pushed to their max speed by Seth after being loaded with goods, and Seth twists around, pulling out his pistol to take aim.  

The riders are maybe forty yards behind them, and there’s a loud ‘ crack!’ from Charlie’s rifle that makes the horses whinny in alarm.

The closest rider is a black-haired man upon a dusty palomino, and it goes down quick after Charlie’s bullet finds the animal’s heart.  The man is crushed under his fallen horse in a sickening crunch.

An ugly, blonde-haired man is the next closest, and suddenly bullets are flying through the air as they’re fired upon.  Wood explodes from the bench they’re seated on, inches from Seth’s back and he flinches away slightly, returning the shot.  The blonde man’s chestnut charger goes down with a scream, but he manages to jump off before he’s flattened by the rolling animal.

 The man in the back is shot off of his horse by Charlie’s rifle, and Seth fires again, cursing as he misses the last horse. A  returned bullet whizzes past his ear.

There’s a scream from one of the horses pulling the wagon as it goes down from a bullet from the last rider.  Seth pulls them to a careening stop, and the red-haired man on the pinto shoots again, missing Seth’s shoulder by a hair.  

Dust settles in a cloud around them, and Charlie takes aim and shoots back, his rifle finding a home in the paint horse’s coat.  It keeled head over heels, coming down on his rider.

“You okay?”  Charlie is asking.  Seth’s ears are ringing.

“Yeah, I’m okay.  You?”

“Yeah.”  

The two men climb down quickly, and move to cut the dead horse from the harness.

“It’ll be slow moving from here on, but we’re almost there.”  Charlie says, and Seth kneels and focuses on parting leather from sticky, blood-covered horseflesh.

“Can’t believe I didn’t hear them sooner.”  Seth says, self admonishing.  

Then there’s the click of a revolver hammer cocking, and Charlie is rising to his feet, his hands up in mock surrender.  He steps out and the red-haired man is there, his six shooter against the older man’s temple. He’s got a thin stripe of blood running down his left eye, and his face is a deep scowl.

“Don’t you fuckin’ move, unless you want his brains all over the ground.”  The man snarls.

Then Seth is tackled from the side and crashes to the ground in a tangle of limbs, his pistol flying out of his hands. The blonde-haired rider from before is straddling him, his expression mean and malevolent

There’s a shout, and a gun is fired, the sound deafening, and Seth blocks a blow to the face with his forearm.  He throws his hips sideways, managing to throw the other man off, and Seth scrambles away, spotting his gun on the ground a few paces away.  He bobs and weaves across the ground on all fours like a drunk man, trying to get the gun first, and the man is grabbing his leg and yanking him back roughly.

“Get off me, you bastard.”  Seth growls, and punctuates this with a solid kick to the man’s nether regions and the man screams, collapsing onto the ground.  Seth snatched his pistol from the grass.

After the blonde brute was dealt with, Seth turned his pistol on the other road agent; the red-haired man was grappling with Charlie.  Both of their hands were locked on the other’s pistol in a death grip, each trying to throw the other off. Seth couldn’t get a shot.

The sound of a blade leaving a sheathe from behind, and Seth whirled to see the blonde man he’d thought he’d taken care of sprinting towards him, a medieval-looking dagger in his raised hand.

He was closing in, and he swung at Seth, the blade missing his chest by mere inches.  Seth's heart leapt into his throat and he backed up, training his gun hand in front of him to take aim, but the man was too quick, slashing again at his face.  Seth raised his arm to shield himself and the dagger gouged a deep line down his left forearm. Blood sprayed and the pain was needle thin, like he’d cut himself badly with a shaving razor.

Seth gritted his teeth, the pain nothing in his adrenaline, and he raised the pistol again, cocked the hammer-

He saw it coming again; slicing through the air as the sun glinted off of the metal, impossibly slow and yet so fast, so hopelessly fast.  The man wielding it had his teeth bared, muddy eyes flashing with hatred and determination as he bore down on Seth.

The coolness of the knife slid into his gut with the ease of a hot poker through butter, and Seth gasped at the feeling of ice sinking in deep.

There was no pain at first.  As he delivered a brutal jab to the other man's nose, making him shrink back clutching his face, it flared up as he twisted, bright hot agony coming in waves and he fell , grasping at the exit wound.  Blood was pouring from it like fine wine spilt over cloth.

“Bullock!”  Charlie screamed from somewhere, and his blonde aggressor was coming at him again, his ugly face a broken, bloody mess.  Seth was reeling, his body strangely uncooperative, nothing made any sense, and the man loomed over him, casting him in his shadow.  He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything-

Get up, you fucker-GET UP-

The knife was still in the man’s hand, he was brandishing it again, and as Seth watched him in a stupor, he saw his death reflected in the blade.

The knife flashed again, the man diving on him, and again, a deep cold burning as it was buried hilt deep in his abdomen.  Seth howled, the pain was so fierce.

The man left it in and straddled him, his face a grinning, bloody mess, and he wrapped large hands around Seth’s heaving throat. 

‘So this is how it ends,’ he thought dully.  

And then a loud ‘ crack!’ and half the man’s face was suddenly gone, cauliflower and viscera exploding all over Seth.  He closed his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath.

-Seth oh God I got you, fuck i’ve got you-

Charlie’s voice was distant, a whisper behind closed doors, and for the life of him, Seth couldn’t ever remember caring so little.  It was inconsequential, irrelevant what Charlie was saying.

He remembered blinking and shaking his head, and how fucking clear his vision was when he opened his eyes again.  Like someone had taken a veil from in front of him and replaced it with fresh-cut glass.  The clouds were wheeling over his head, and Charlie was leaning down, in his face, his brown eyes crinkled with a panicked expression, brow furrowed.  He was splattered in gore. His lips were moving.

-gonna get you home-

“Charlie-”  Seth gasped, but the words he wanted to say died in his throat.  He was trembling uncontrollably and his mouth felt like cotton.

Do you know what thunder sounds like?

Then there was darkness, and yelling, panicked, and a sharp pulling on his insides, and screaming- who the fuck was screaming-

Then he was choking, sputtering as someone was pouring a vile mixture down his throat.  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fucking breathe, where was the fucking air-

-fucking help him doc fucking look at him-

-hold him down, breathe Seth, you gotta breathe-

Listen to the thunder, Montana.

Bill’s face, perfectly frozen in death, the only sign of injury, a small hole in his cheek, Al’s huffing breaths against his ears, Sol’s eyes as Trixie whispered something sweet-

More screaming, his lungs were on fire, throat torn and ragged-he was being cut in half- where was the goddamn air-

- FUCKING BREATHE SETH-

Then...nothing.

Chapter Text

When he comes to awareness, the sounds of voices, banging, whispers, and a faint whistling have mingled into one blatant, jarring cacophony of mindless noise, and he cannot distinguish where one ends and another begins.  His whole body feels like he was run over by a carriage.

He opens his eyes and the blurry outline of Sol is standing over him, his face pinched.  It's bright, far too bright and Seth has to squint.

"Seth, can you hear me?"  Muffled. Like he's talking through a pillow.

Seth wants to answer. Tries to open his mouth, but he feels like he's made of rock and his tongue is made of cotton.

He closes his eyes and falls back into vast depths of blankness, floating, listless, drifting endlessly.  He feels hot, much too hot, and its suffocating him. He briefly wonders how long he’s been asleep, but time is a concept, an idea, has never existed and will never be real.

He opens his eyes again and Swearengen is leaning over, his face tight, and there was a feeling, a smothering, all encompassing blanket of feeling covering Seth.

It takes him some time to realize that what he feels is comfort.

There's something cool and wet pressed to his forehead and his eyes flutter in ecstasy as the raging inferno inside of him is tempered somewhat.  The cloth is crisp and cool, and the water spills down his face to run along his neck.

He begs, the sound broken and raspy, but he doesn't know what he's even asking for, can't articulate the thoughts.

A hand is clasping his and Seth squeezes back weakly, the presence both familiar and strange.

The cloth is back, giving sweet relief, and he moans.  The feeling is exquisite. 

He slips under again.

It’s dark outside when Seth awakens the next time.

He blinks slowly, a deep fog making him feel as if he was going to float straight through the dimly lit ceiling and out into the night air.  He felt as dry and thin as paper. 

The doc was asleep in a chair on his left and when Seth tried to rise, a sharp, stabbing pain in his stomach made him let out a small, strangled cry, and he fell back to the cot.

Doc Cochran woke with a jolt, looking around wildly.

“Doc-”  Seth managed to get out, before coughing harshly.  His throat felt like sandpaper.  

He sunk under the weight of whatever sedative he was on for a brief moment, his sight going black.  ‘ I’m in a dream’, he thought listlessly.

Then his eyes were open again and the doc was kneeling in front of him.  “Don’t talk, Seth. Just go back to-”

“Water, please-”  Seth croaked, interrupting him.  He was going to die if he didn't have water.

Seth blinked, a lifetime, and the Doc had a glass of water in his hand, raising it to his lips and helping him drink.

It felt glorious, and Seth drank until he felt like he was drowning.

Then the water was gone and he was sinking back into cotton filled blackness.

It was the snap of a door closing that brought Seth’s mind slowly to the surface of conscious.  

There was rustling to his right, and the sound of wooden drawers opening, and his eyelids lifted slowly, feeling for all the world like someone had rested weights on them.

His vision was blurry at first, and he blinked rapidly to clear away the sleep.  His forehead felt damp, and Seth raised a hand up to wipe at it when he paused, considering.  His left arm was heavily bandaged from elbow to wrist, and he poked at it, but felt nothing but the cotton under his fingertips.  He lowered his arm back to the cot.

"Glad to see you among the living, finally."  Doc's voice nearly made Seth jump. He'd forgotten anyone was there.  

“Where am I?”

“You’re in Deadwood.”  Doc says, and Seth blinks, looking around him.  “My house, in fact.”

It’s nighttime, Seth realizes, after looking about the cabin, and he tries to sit up.  There’s a faint, growing pain in his abdomen as he twists his back and he looks down, yanking the covers off of his legs.

His middle is bandaged like his arm, and he pushes on the material slightly, wincing.

Oh, right.  I was gutted.

“Where’s Charlie?”  Seth asked with a sudden growing alarm.  The stirrings of panic twisted in his chest.  Had he made it back?  

“Calm down, Mr. Bullock, he’s fine.  No wounds save for a nasty bruise on the side of his head.”  Doc soothes, his hands stretching out to ease Seth back into a normal resting position.  He’d tried to get out of bed, but the traitorous blanket had ensnared his legs like a snake.  “He came back to camp with you in tow, and I’ve been treating you here.”

Seth relaxed, and the Doc moved away, grabbing a nearby glass and filling it with water from a pitcher.  He offered it to Seth and the younger man accepted it, but he did not drink it.

“What day is it?”  He asked. He felt like he’d been asleep for ages.

“It’s Tuesday morning.”  Doc replied. “You’ve been recovering here for eight days.”

Seth felt a cavernous pit open in his stomach.  “Eight days ?

“It was pretty bad, Bullock.”  Doc said gravely, and moved to sit in the chair at the bedside.  “You were brought to me in a severe state of shock, and when I extracted the knife from your stomach, you hemorrhaged.”

Seth was quiet, contemplative.

“I managed to stabilize you, and stitched you up.”  Doc Cochran continued. “But you got such a fever after, that it nearly burned you out.  We all thought you were going to die.”

Seth remembers the burning, the inescapable heat.

“But it broke two days ago.  Had to chase Sol out of here with a broom,”  Seth can’t help the small smile as Doc laughs.  “He wouldn’t leave your side and slept half of his nights here.  Man was worried to death.”

Guilt blooms again, and Seth moves to get up, damn his screaming muscles, he had to see Sol, but Doc is rushing over to him again and pushing him back onto his cot.

“You’re not yet ready to move, Mr.  Bullock.” He was saying. “You need a few more days to make sure your stitches don’t bleed.”

“Surely I can do this from my own bed.”  Seth protested, his hands reaching out to try and bat away Doc’s.  He had been here for far too long, there was so much he needed to take care of.  He hated being fussed over.

“Bullock, just calm down-”

“I will not fucking calm-”

"You're injured- "  Doc's hands were grabbing at him again, trying to keep him still.

"Let me go, right now, Doctor-"  Seth spat, suddenly furious at his lack of capacities.  He snatched the collar of the doctor's shirt and yanked him forward.

The front door exploded inward as someone burst through it, startling both men.  They both froze and looked to the noise.

"Seth!"  Sol's voice was shocked, relieved, and angry, all rolled into one.  His face belayed his mixed emotions, eyes darting between the two of them like he'd caught school children skipping class.  "Let go of the damn doc."

Seth let go of the fistful of fabric and Doc pulled back, straightening his clothes.  He moved away from Seth and out of reach.

Sol strode up to Seth and stood over him with all the demeanor of an angry mother, his eyes flashing and jaw clenched, hands on his hips.  Seth swallowed with a small amount of trepidation. An angry Sol, was a scary Sol.

“Seth Bullock, I don’t believe you,”  Sol started, and Seth shrank back. “Six days- six days- that Doc Cochran sweated over your injured self, and I come here to check up on you and find you threatening the man?  I don’t care how injured you are, I’ll lay you out in the damn bed.”

“I’m sorry, Sol, I-”  Seth began, but Sol cut him off, his eyes flashing.

“Don’t you fuckin’ ‘I’m sorry, Sol’ me.  Do you have any idea of how long it’s been?  We’ve been waiting... I’ve been waiting-”  His voice suddenly hitched, and with growing panic, Seth realized Sol was beginning to cry.  “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Doc said you might not wake up-”

“I-It’s fine, Sol, I’m here, don’t worry-”  

“You were so pale, Seth, so, so pale.  Oh God -”  He was beginning to sob, tears sliding down his cheeks to fall to Seth’s bedspread, and the overwhelming guilt that hit Seth was more than he could handle.

Seth reached a hand out and grabbed Sol’s, who stopped crying briefly and looked at him.

“It’s okay, Sol.  I’m not goin’ anywhere.”  He knew how Sol felt, how anxious and worried he probably had been.  He felt the same way. If he lost Sol...Seth didn’t know what he’d do.  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sol sniffled and wiped his face.  

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again.”

“I won’t.”  

“Next time, I’m goin’ with ya.”

“Okay.”

“You stupid cocksucker.”

"I know."

When Charlie had burst through his door carrying a limp and unconscious Seth, Doc hadn't hesitated to spring into action.

They were both covered in so much blood that he couldn't tell how much of it was coming from either man, but it didn't take a genius to see the knife still jutting out of Seth's lower abdomen.  

Seth had been far too pale, insinuating a great deal of blood loss.  He had two stab wounds, one which was still being occupied by said blade, and another gash across his forearm.  

When they'd pulled the knife out. Seth had seized up.  There had been a choked off sound, like he couldn’t breathe, and then a ragged inhale and he'd screamed, a horrible, gut-wrenching sound that seemed to go on and on, and when Sol had burst through the doors, the situation had gotten worse as the man overreacted to the scene before him.  It was perfectly understandable. Charlie had been forced to calm down the other man as Doc worked on Seth, trying to lull him back into unconsciousness.

It had taken a long time, but he'd managed to sew the now unconscious man up, and he was now deep under the effects of the opium they'd forced down his throat earlier.

They'd waited a day or two, and Seth had slept.  The waiting had been agonizing for everyone.  

Then the fever had hit, and Doc had been sure that Seth was going to die.

Seth had looked so frail, his face flushed and sweat soaking his dark brown hair.  Strands of it clung to his face, and his cheeks were rosy, belaying the heat in his body.  His breathing came in shallow pants as he fought off the fever, groaning and mumbling every so often.

During one of the intervals where Doc had managed to coerce Sol into sleeping in his own bed for the night, Al had stopped by.

His visit had been surprising, to say the least, and he'd lingered over Bullock's sickbed, his face dark and eyes far away.  Charlie was asleep in the next room, and Doc had watched as Al dabbed at Seth’s forehead with a wet cloth, and the unconscious, fever-ridden man had moaned as if it were relief.

The bar owner had asked about the younger man in a quiet voice and Doc had given his honest opinion that it was about a fifty-fifty chance.

He'd left not long after, and Doc had watched him go, a weight settling heavily in his chest.

The fever broke several hours later, and Seth had woken briefly to ask for water, before falling back into more fitful sleep.

Doc had been relieved that he'd been able to take in fluids, and the heavy stone in his heart lifted.  Bullock was going to live.

Charlie had finally left a day later, mumbling something about needing to find Jane, and Doc had told the worried man to get some rest.

He had been afraid Doc realized some time later, on pondering Al’s visit.  That expression on his face...Doc had only seen that veiled worry a handful of times, all of the situations when someone close to him had been grievously wounded.  

When Dan had been stabbed in a bar fight, and needed stitches, when Trixie had miscarried some years earlier.  Hell, even when he’d come to Doc about Jewel falling down the stairs. His face had been dark with the expectation of loss, and Doc couldn’t blame him.  Living was rough, and losing people came daily. But Doc had been able to patch all of them up just fine, their various wounds nonfatal, and the gratitude Al had shown him came in small things, but it was there all the same.

He cared, and Doc’s frown had turned into a small smile as he wondered how Seth Bullock, of all people, had come into Al’s heart in such a way.  Even if the bar owner did not realize it yet.

With enough convincing and persuading and begging on Seth's part, much to his own humiliation, Doc Cochran finally agreed to let Seth recuperate at his own place.  

Sol had helped him there and the progress through the thoroughfare had been far too slow for Seth’s liking.  He felt useless and it burned to know that the whole camp was seeing him like this, regardless of how late the hour might have been.

It was dark out, the moon waning, and the dim glow from the lanterns that bracketed door frames along the street cast shadows about them in snatches of grey and orange flickers.

They limped slowly past the Gem Saloon, and Seth could not control  the way his eyes flicked to the balcony to see if Swearengen was there, watching him in the dark, but he’s not, and there’s a strange pang of disappointment.

Dority is there instead, smoking a cigar.  His eyes light right on Seth’s.

The man’s knowing gaze seems to pierce right through him.  Dan nods at him, and Seth looks away, flushing, focusing on not falling as he leaned heavily on Sol.

Al’s sitting at the desk, another letter to Cy fucking Tolliver in the works - the old fuck never rests, does he- when Dority walks in from the balcony.

“He’s walking home.”

The pen pauses in writing, hovering, and Al's eyes find a small inconsequential spot on the dark mahogany.  He wants to go out on the veranda and look, but that would be too obvious. He feels something deep in his gut, and recognizes it as relief.  How sentimental .  

He opens his mouth to tell Dority he doesn’t care, why the fuck would he care, and to kindly fuck off, but instead all that escapes is an easy, “Good.”

The following morning, Doc stopped by.  He gave Seth tips on how to move and showed him some stretches he could do to help speed up his recovery.  He provided Seth with bandages and showed Sol how to apply them, and then left behind an ointment to apply to the sutures.  

Seth had tried apologizing about the incident in the clinic, where he’d lost his temper, but the doctor would have none of it.  He waved it off with a friendly smile and an explanation of how he got that a lot. It did little to erase Seth's guilt. He needed to learn to control his temper better, something that he was always struggling with.

The older man had insisted on leaving the laudanum, however.  Seth had begun to disagree, but the dull ache in his stomach from the short exercise he'd been made to practice was beginning to get to him.

Fuck it.  If anything I'll take it before bed.

His own reservations with the opium was mainly due to watching others on the street succumb to their dependence on the substance.  That and... 

Seth flushed, and prepared for the rest of his day.

Night came swiftly and uneventfully, the aggressive curtain of darkness washing over the land like water.  Clouds that had lined the sky that afternoon with heavy promises tore open shortly before Seth began to retire for the night, sending billows of windswept rain across the country.

The window in the bathroom gave glimpse to the grey fury that rampaged outside.  Seth stood in front of the glass, watching as the denizens in the thoroughfare ran for cover.  The raindrops lashed against the tin roof, providing a soothing and comfortable ambience. Beside him, steam rose from the bath that had been filled not too long ago.

Seth had felt guilty when he'd asked for Sol's help filling the bath, the same kind of guilt that came when someone used to caring for themselves is forced to rely on another, but Sol had smiled and seemed happy enough to do it.

He’d acquiesced to the laudanum a short while ago.  When he'd tried to climb in the bath at first, the water had scalded his unbandaged wounds, and he'd pondered so long on taking the drug that it was a miracle the bath was still so hot.

The buzz he felt now, as the pain reliever coursed through his veins, loosened his joints, and the short amount he'd consumed made his head swim slightly.

He climbed in, and there was a sharp sting before it faded away, but nothing like the pain from before, and Seth settled back against the porcelain, his legs and half of his torso under the warm blanket of liquid.  He let out a content sigh, and rested the back of his head against the rim of the tub, closing his eyes.

The sound of the rain pounded the roof, drumming a strangely pleasant, forlorn song.  Sol had already gone to bed after drawing Seth's bath, determined to rise early to get some cleaning in the store done.  He was never satisfied with it, even though Seth always thought it looked fine.

He began to drift off slightly, the opium haze and ambience of the storm soothing him into dozing. 

Hands were suddenly on his shoulders, and Seth couldn't tell if it was part of a dream until an all too familiar voice was in his ear, sending gooseflesh racing down his neck and arms, "Be awfully sorry to learn you drowned while high, Bullock."

Seth nearly jumped out of his skin, but the pain of sudden movement and Swearengen's vice-like grip on his shoulders kept him from going far.  He was jerked back against the tub like a child, and the water sloshed over the edges slightly from his thrashing.

"Move again, and I'll fuck you till you scream."  Swearengen's voice made Seth freeze, a heat spreading across his face.  His stomach flipped at the insinuation, and another more primal heat flowered in his lower belly.

"Good boy."

Seth bristled.  "Why are you here?"  He ground out. Genuine anger was elusive.

The older man released Seth's shoulders, but he dared not move, and there was the noise of a cap being twisted and a bucket being moved around over the noise of the rain.

"I'm here to take care of my investment."

Seth nearly rolled his eyes.  "Investment?"

"If I'm investing my time, it makes you an investment, don't you think?"

Seth had no reply for that, and Al's hand was next to him, scooping water out of the bath with a cup.

"What are you doing?"  

Al sighed, as if impatient.  "Must you always ask so many damned questions?"

"Particularly where my person is concerned, yes."  

A sharp tug on the back of his hair, and his head was pulled flush against the porcelain of the tub, exposing his neck.  Grey eyes loomed over him, and Seth watched as he leaned in close and growled, "You don't wanna be getting smart with me right now."  There was another tug at his scalp, making Seth wince, before it was let go.

The water was poured onto his scalp, saturating, and dripped down to drain into the bucket he'd heard from earlier.  He listened as Swearengen rubbed his hands together and then fingers were running through his hair, combing and rubbing with surprising gentleness. 

Al's deft fingers rubbed out the snarls and tangles of the day, leaving behind smooth hair saturated with shampoo.

After a while, Seth finally relaxed as the bar owner massaged his scalp.  He couldn't help it when his eyes slid shut of their own accord. Nobody had ever washed his hair before, and the sensation was unearthly. 

When Al finally rinsed his hair with another cup of water, Seth felt like dozing again, despite the bar owner's presence.

The rain continued to lash at the window, as if trying to break in.  

Then a slick sponge was pressed to his exposed throat.  It ran down to his chest, crisscrossing his pectorals and tracing his collarbone, leaving a trail of soap in its wake.

The sponge drew figure eights around his nipples, never touching, and heat flared again in Seth's belly, as it slipped lower, abandoning them to trace a line down his side to the crease in his thigh.

The sponge circled his cock, ghosting it teasingly, and Seth looked down to watch in anticipation, yearning for a firmer touch.  He was already needful. Jesus.  He thrust up, but the older man avoided the one place Seth needed touched.

His cock rose from the water to painful hardness as Swearengen ran the sponge around and around again, so close, but never touching.  It skimmed over his balls lightly, brushing them gently, and Seth's cock jumped.

It trailed back up and circled his chest again and Seth groaned when it passed over his left nipple lightly, causing the nub to harden, as if seeking attention.  Swearengen hummed and dropped the sponge in the water.

Al's other hand snaked around and those nimble fingers were suddenly pinching the pink peaks, hard, twisting.

Seth gasped and arched into the touch.  Al chuckled against his ear as he released his tight hold and Seth thrust his hips uselessly. Devilish hands traced down his hips, avoiding Seth's wounds with skillful precision.

They landed on the base of his cock and stroked slowly to the tip firmly, Swearengen's hand slick with soap.  Seth moaned and thrust into the grip as he continued to stroke him that way. It wasn't fast enough to bring him to release.

Then the man's hands were leaving the part he wanted touched to twist and flick at his surprisingly sensitive nipples again and Seth writhed.

"Thought you were gonna die, you know."  Al's voice drifted into his ear huskily. He toyed with Seth's body like an instrument.  Teasing and pinching, stroking and stimulating as he wanted.

"Thought we were gonna have a funeral and our dear reverend was going to read fucking bible verses till his throat gave out."

He nipped and licked at Seth's right ear and the younger man squirmed and moaned.  A hand was stroking him slowly again, while another tweaked at a nipple and Seth felt his orgasm fast approaching.  

"I-I'm gonna-"  Seth rasped, and Swearengen chuckled, then to Seth's horror he pulled his hand away from his cock just before his orgasm, leaving him dangling at the precipice.

Seth's whine escaped before he could stop it as he was denied and thrust his hips from the lack of contact.  His cock throbbed unbearably.

His right hand flew to finish the job, but his hand was snatched away quickly and put firmly back under the water.   

“What did I say about moving?”  Al said, releasing his hand to grasp his cock again and Seth jumped.

“You said-”  Seth thrust, but the older man’s hand moved with him, rendering his movement useless.  “You said you would...fuck me...till I-ah!” Seth’s hips convulsed as Swearengen ran a thumb over the head.

“Till you what?”

Seth’s breathing was coming in sharp pants as he came close again.  “Til I-till I- scream .”

And right before he came again, Al pulled his hand away and those hands came to pull and rub his nipples again.  Seth groaned , the sound hoarse and needful.

“I think we can make use of that when your body can take it.”  Al said in his ear and Seth let out a slightly breathless, “But I can’t take it now .”  Moving his hips was pointless, but he couldn’t stop himself.  This was torture.

“You can and you will.”  His voice was unyielding, and Seth knew he’d be forced to remain still or Al would make good on his promise now, injuries notwithstanding.  

For the next undetermined amount of time, Seth’s world narrowed down to his aching cock and nipples as Swearengen made him his plaything.  He would bring Seth so close to coming that he felt like he was climbing an endless mountain for relief that never came.

He never knew his body could be so sensitive, and the sensations that ran to his cock lit his body on fire.

Moans spewed forth from his mouth that gradually turned into embarrassingly high, keening whines and squeals as he chased his orgasm again and again to no avail.

Swearengen seemed to delight in his torment, and when Seth was denied for what seemed like the twentieth time, he dissolved into garbled pleas and curses that had the older man smiling against his neck.

"Please, please,"   Seth gasped as Al pulled sharply again at a bright red nipple.

"Please what?"

"I need to come, please ."  He was beyond being embarrassed.  His need was so great that he doubted anything short of Sol walking through the door would keep him from begging.

"Sounds pretty, coming from your mouth.  Do you think you deserve it?"

"Yes, yes I deserve it, please."

"Please, what?"

Seth didn't know what he meant and his muddled mind cast about wildly for an answer. 

"I don't-"  he began, and cried out when Swearengen grabbed his head and yanked it back harshly so Seth was forced to stare into his grey eyes.

"Please, what ?"  

"Sir-please, sir."  The answer came tumbling out of his lips.

Al hummed and let go of Seth's hair, and began to stroke Seth's cock firmly again, going from base to tip slowly.

"You're going to be the death of me."  The older man muttered in his ear and Seth briefly thought it was the other way around.

Al brought Seth to the point of no return agonizingly slow once more, and for a moment, Seth thought he would deny him again.

Then he was tumbling over, falling into an orgasm that made his brain fall apart.  Hips jerked and his mouth flew open to yell, but Swearengen clamped a hand over it, muffling his screams.

The orgasm seemed to go on and on, and Al stroked him through it, milking him for all he had.

He finally collapsed back against the tub, spent and boneless, and Swearengen rose from behind him.

Seth watched with dazed eyes as the older man regarded him with a lustful look before drying his hands on a towel and moving to the door.

"Get better, you idiot."  He said, his tone fond despite the insult.

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

When Seth had finally recovered well enough some weeks later to abscond from the hardware store, he'd been positively horrified to hear the news that Con Stapleton had been dubbed sheriff.

It was a slight against the very name of justice, and as Seth Bullock watched the lesser man stride about town like a puffed-up peacock, that cursed star pinned to his flabby chest, his skin felt like it would turn inside out.

"How could this happen?"  Seth hissed to Sol, and the older man gave him a dubious sideways glance.

"I reckon cause there was no one to contend with it."

"I can't believe this." 

"Tolliver seemed pretty happy 'bout it."

This didn't surprise Seth.  "I'll bet he fucking did." The older saloon owner had Con Stapleton in his pocket, it was common knowledge.

The whole affair put the familiar and comforting dull ache of anger into his blood.

The wrath had been missing the past month and a half, where usually it simmered just under his skin, waiting for the slightest provocation.  Ever since his late night ‘meetings’ with Swearengen, it had tempered somewhat, allowing him to relax for once.  

And just like that it was back again, waiting for someone to make a wrong move.

Seth dug his fork into his eggs with a little more force than what was necessary, and the metal screeched unpleasantly across the plate, causing a few daring souls to look in their direction.  

The inside of the eatery was packed, and the line seemed to stretch on forever.  It was the first time Seth had felt well enough to go out amongst the people, and he was starting to wish he'd just stayed inside for another day.  It was quickly turning into a headache.

"Bullock."  A familiar voice greeted, and Seth turned to see Charlie approaching their table with a plate in hand.

The older man raised his eyebrows and nodded towards their table in question.  Seth gestured for him to sit down, which Charlie accepted.

"Many thanks for that."  He said, pulling the chair out and plopping himself down in the wooden seat.  "This place is fuller than a henhouse."

"Charlie, you should know by now that you don't even have to ask."  Sol said, before taking a bite of his sausage.

"Yeah, well-"  Charlie began, but Seth cut him off.

"I owe you my life."

Charlie refused to look at them, staring instead at his plate like he was reading a book.

"I did what anyone else would've done."

"Anybody else would have left me there.  I'm in your debt."

There was silence at the table, before Charlie glanced at Seth somewhat timidly and picked up his own fork.

"It was the right thing to do."  He said simply. 

They ate quietly for another moment or two, before Charlie said, "What's your take on that?"  He gestured out of the window to their left, and Seth looked.

Stapleton was striding across the thoroughfare, head held high like a prized show pony.  The clothes he wore now made him seem more in line of a pompous old windbag than an actual sheriff.  The star on his lapel shone in the sun, radiant and undeserving.

He hurried up the street to catch a sallow man that was turning away, Stapleton's face enthusiastic.  No doubt up to something despicable.

Seth decided to look away before he lost his appetite entirely.  

"It's a fucking farce."

"My thoughts exactly."  Charlie pushed his eggs around on his plate with a distracted fork.  "I'm thinkin' Tolliver took advantage of you bein' indisposed and put this fool in your place."

What?

"In my place?"  Seth echoed lamely.

Charlie looked at him as if he were simple.

"Well, sure.  Who else?"

Seth swallowed and put his utensils down, the need for food officially gone.

"I don't want it."

"Why not?"  Charlie pressed and Seth could feel some horrible dread rising from deep within as the man spoke.  "Didn't you say you were Marshall back in Montana? I can't think of anyone better."

"Charlie."  Sol's warning was soft, but Seth was already rising from his chair.  His body moved seemingly of its own, as if on strings as he looked at the older man and felt himself say, "Thanks, Charlie.  I'll see you later."

He left the two men at the table and strode out of the building.

Seth had considered sheriff before.  The camp needed someone to keep order, someone that was undeterred and resolute, and Seth knew he could be both of those things.

But the thought of being responsible for so many once again weighed heavily on his mind.  

In Helena, Seth had chosen Sol as his partner, and had never had doubts.  He had covered his back many a time, and saved Seth's life more than once.  He couldn't ask the same of the man anymore. More and more the older man was talking about settling down, and Seth could see the longing in his eyes whenever Trixie came around.  And yet he didn't trust anyone else to partner with.

It was a dangerous job, keeping order.

I can't think of anyone better.

Charlie's words flashed through his mind and Seth grimaced as he made his way across the thoroughfare. 

Seth felt...dirty.  Undeserving.

The...affair with Swearengen was shaking his foundations, and making him question himself.  It wasn't right. It was disgusting and abhorrent. Homosexuals were persecuted and shunned and lynched.

So why did he like it so much?

He was never one to be ruled by his libido, and sure, he had fucked a couple of girls back in Montana.  But none of them had made him feel so...fulfilled. There was a strange kind of comfort that came with giving up control, and he would loosely apply the term trust with Al Swearengen.

Something hot and thick bubbled up somewhere deep in his stomach, and lust rolled over his shoulders like water as he pondered on their interactions.  Al had kidnapped him to make him suffer, there was no doubt about that. But this went a little further than suffering. It was becoming something he looked forward to.

It both infuriated and excited him, and he was fighting to gain control over himself.

“Mr. Bullock!”  A feminine voice, high and dignified rang out over the bustle of the street and Seth turned, his face lightening considerably as he forced a smile on.

It was Alma Garret.

If there was one thing Trixie knew in all her years of slinging tricks, it was jealousy.  Seeing it reflected in the faces of the various men she fucked, the women she fucked beside, and often enough in her own self, had taught her of the ways that it could enslave whatever it infested.  It was a snake, twisting and snapping, lunging at everything it could reach. Its source was anger and possession, and she knew its tendrils well.

So when she saw it that morning, plastered across the face of Al fucking Swearengen, she realized something, with a kind of wicked fascination.  He wanted something he didn’t have. And Al had everything.

She watched from the shade of the hardware store, clutching her shawl and smoking a stub of a cigarette, clinging to the shadows the sun hadn’t yet reached like a fox waiting for the rabbit to pass by her den.

The older man was leaning over his balcony, a smoldering cigar all but forgotten between limp fingers as his eyes seemed glued to a spot across the thoroughfare.  His hot gaze could incinerate.

Her eyes followed the object of his attention, straining to see what the saloon owner was watching with such blatant avarice, but she could detect nothing out of the ordinary.

Until a part in the bustling crowd allowed her to glimpse Seth Bullock and Alma Garret walking side by side, arm in arm.

No fuckin’ way.   It all suddenly clicked.  Every odd thing she’d observed over the past month fell into place.

They were smiling, and Trixie noticed with some fondness, that the little boxhead girl was following along beside them.  She had no idea how they didn’t notice the dark cloud on the balcony across the street.

They turned the corner as Alma laughed at something Bullock said and disappeared from view.

Al remained where he was for a minute, leaning and staring after them.  And then his lips found the cigar in his hand again, and he straightened up and sauntered back inside, like he hadn’t been openly glaring down death from up on high.

Trixie flicked away the cigarette that had withered down to little more than a few scraps of rolling papers and took off briskly across the street.

Her skirts billowed out behind her as she progressed, mud squishing unpleasantly beneath her shoes.

She passed through the front door of the Gem, which was dimly lit and nearly empty. Both Dan and Johnny watched her approach apprehensively from behind the bar.

“He’s upstairs.”  Johnny offered helpfully. 

“I know.”  She replied flatly, bypassing the bewildered men and climbing the steps.

She threw open the office door to find Al behind his desk, completely unmoved by her sudden entrance.  He was sitting, writing neatly across a nearly blank sheet of paper. She shut the door and plopped down into the seat in front of him, crossing her legs in front of her.

He continued writing, but she had the patience.  He would not wait her out. She knew in dealing with him, he demanded respect, and she would be calm.  She licked her lips.

The silence stretched on and on until finally, when she lit a cigarette, did he raise his eyes to regard her.

“Nigh time for my deathbed when the revered Trixie comes to pay a visit.”  She ignored him.

“What the fuck was that shit on the balcony just now?”

“By whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t play fuckin’ dumb with me.  I seen you glarin’ down like you was gonna cast a spell on the widow Garret and Mr. Bullo ck .”  She enunciated the ‘ck’ in the other man’s name, pleased with the way the sound cracked in her mouth.

"The widow Garret has long escaped from my scope of interest."  He bent down to grab the bottle of whiskey she knew was hidden in his desk and placed it on the desktop.  With one glass. Like she wasn’t even fucking there.

"I ain't talkin' bout the fuckin' widow, and you know it."

He seemed to pay no mind to what she’d said and poured himself a drink.  She felt mild irritation spark into sudden fury at his lack of interest in their conversation, and for a moment, it was so great, she thought she might slap him; but that would get them both nowhere, and Trixie wouldn’t be leaving without a black eye.  The anger trickled away slowly, replacing itself with icy cool confidence.

“I seen you the other night, ya know.  That night with the storm.” His eyes flicked to hers with an outward expression of boredom, but she could spot his tells.  She had spent several years trying to study him, to determine his various moods, and the slight twitch of his mouth threatening to pull into a scowl gave away his growing ire.

“Spying, were you?”  He said lazily, but Trixie knew dangerous ground when she stood on it, and she plowed on, undeterred. 

“Weren’t spyin’ if it was out in the open.  Why’d you go to the hardware store so late, Al?  And in inclement weather, no less. Need a fuckin' hammer ?”

She had seen more of course.  The way his eyes would trail after Bullock on the veranda, much like a man watches a delectable meal being served to a different table; and when he had snuck to the doc's, days after Charlie had brought him in.

“Is my deathbed indeed if you come to me asking for reasons and explanations of my doings.”  

"Did you go to see Bullock?"

He moved so fast she couldn't even gasp before the front of her coverlet was snatched in a tight fist.  He jerked her closer, and her legs banged against the desk painfully, cigarette falling from her fingers as she brought her hands up to jerk at his fisted hands.

She could see the roiling anger in his eyes as he handled her like a child would a doll.

"Who saw?"  He growled, scaring her.

"Al-"

" Who , dammit!"   He shook her.

"Me! Just me."  She swallowed heavily, her heart hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it.

He stared at Trixie for a moment, assessing her.  Then he threw her back and she caught herself on the chair before she fell.  A voice in the back of her mind told her to flee now, but it was small and insignificant and she squashed it out, choosing instead to stand shakily next to the chair rather than sit again within arm's reach.

Al took a long pull from the whiskey bottle, seeming to forget the shot glass, and she stooped quickly to pick up the half of a cigarette that she'd dropped on the floor when he'd grabbed her.  She puffed it eagerly.

"How many times you gotta get hurt before you learn to mind your own fucking business."  His tone was light again, though tired. Fucking mood swings.

"Minding you is my fuckin' business."

"Not anymore, from what I've heard."

Silence.

"He treating you right?"  He asked lowly, and she was so touched by his concern that she almost forgot her voice.

"He's teaching me my numbers."  She replied shyly. Al nodded his approval.

"You staying over there, too?"

"Some."  She answered.  She didn't want him to know she'd slept over at the livery a few nights.  Wasn’t his business. Not anymore.

"Good."  He said, corking the whiskey and putting it back in its place.  "Camp would be remiss without a certain Jewish hardware store owner."

He rose from his chair and strode over to the door beside her, put his hand on the handle, then paused before opening it.  He turned to look at her, his expression grave.

"Not a fucking word about it."

"Al, I don't give enough of a fuck."

He grunted, satisfied, and when he opened the door, she ducked under his arm and escaped from his office.

Alma Garret was, above all things, a refined woman.  

Her purple amethyst earrings dangled and glittered magnificently in the mid-morning sun, along with her flashing smile and sparkling, somewhat sad, pale blue eyes.  Her sapphire dress complemented her pale skin, and the luxurious hat she wore hid expertly woven braids.

“Coffee?”  She offered, her voice was shy and soft.

“I’ve just come from breakfast.”  Seth gestured pathetically at the eatery.

“I only offer as a practicality, Mr. Bullock.”  She beckoned him to the hotel and he followed her, leaving the busy pace of the street to enter the much milder shade of the hotel lobby.  He accompanied her up the stairs with Sophia, bypassing an openly staring Farnum. Nosy bastard.

“I wanted to run a few things by you before I left, seeing as how I’d asked you to reconnoiter my gold claim for me.”  Alma stated, once they’d been finally settled behind closed doors with steaming cups of joe.

Seth reeled in his chair across from her.  She was leaving?

“The man you appointed, Mr. Ellsworth, has agreed to stay on as foreman, to oversee the mining operation.”

“You’re leaving?"  He heard himself say, and she gave him a strange look.

"Yes, I've learnt-”  She stopped herself, and Seth watched as she seemed to try to retract whatever it is she was going to say.  “My father has arrived in town.”  She said it with little endearment and gave Seth a fleeting smile that he instantly saw right through.

“And this is why you’ve come to the decision to move?”  His brow furrowed as he worked it out in his head.

She looked away from him, to gaze out of the open window.  Behind them, Sophia played with her dolls, mimicking movement and making small sounds of broken speech.  She appeared unconcerned. His eyes narrowed as he examined Ms. Garret a little more closely.

She looked well enough, but her eyes were rimmed with red, as if she had been crying earlier.  He frowned at the observation and his blood began to simmer.

“He’s expressed...interest at my recent acquisition in regards to my claim.  He’s also expressed his...remorse at my late husband’s death and wishes to offer his condolences to...to…”  She seemed to be struggling to go on and suddenly he knew what she was going to say.

“He’s blackmailing you for your husband's death.”  Seth stated. And when she dissolved into tears, the monster inside of him reared its ugly head.  

She was all the things he fell for.  Soft, reserved and demure, Alma was the perfect woman.  She held herself with a grace that most others didn't possess, and manners like hers were hard to come by.

She was always sweet to him.  Courteous where she didn't have to be.  She had been through a lot shortly after her arrival, and vulnerability was something that touched him.

If he were a different man, he could have loved her.

Even as his right fist crashed into the ridiculously surprised face of Otis Russel, he knew she was watching from the door.  A great multitude of people were. He should have expected it really, but the anger inside of him burned out the shame that should be there.

The feeling of his knuckles splitting soft, yielding flesh brought him grim satisfaction, and the next blow took the older man to the ground.

Seth was climbing on top of the man before he could recover, and as his fist fell again and again with devastating precision and satisfaction upon Russel's face like a hammer striking an anvil.  The only sound Seth heard was the scumbag's accusations of matricide, ringing in his ears like a call to arms.

His skin felt white hot, and his heart threatened to pump out of his chest.

All he could see was Alma’s face as she cried.  Slam!  The way she tried to hide her tears, as if she had been embarrassed.  Slam!   The injustice of it all.  Slam!

"Seth!"  

Sol's voice.

He threw another vicious punch.  There was a sickening crunch and blood splattered the left side of his face and neck.

"Seth!"  Sol called again, and Seth managed to pull himself back.  Barely.

He scrambled off the man, snarling.  He wasn't done yet.

"Leave this camp. And draw a map for anyone who wants to believe your fuckin' lies. Anyone who wants to put your daughter or her holding in jeopardy, you show 'em how to get here."  He panted, trying to regain his breath. "And you tell 'em...I'll be waiting."

Russel's only reply was to groan and spit out his teeth.  How much of his speech the other man retained, Seth didn't know.  Russel looked a bloody mess, and later, Seth would wonder if he'd killed him.

He turned, remembering Alma standing there watching him beat her father half to death .  She looked concerned, yet afraid, and he struggled to reign in his out of control temper.  The rage still burned hot, and must have showed on his face, for she regarded him with clear apprehension.  The shame came then.

He rose and left as quickly as he'd entered, striding out of the door and past the onlookers with four strides.

He paused on the boardwalk in front of the Bella Union and gazed out at the thoroughfare, glancing around and clenching his now aching fists.  The urge to break and destroy still pounded strongly in his ears, and he desperately needed to distract himself. 

Familiar black movement from the top corner of his eye, and Seth looked up.

Swearengen was there, standing on the balcony, a mug in his hand.  The man stared at him openly, a mischievous smirk on his face, but there was something wrong about his eyes.  They were dark and stormy, hooded.

Seth wiped distractedly at the blood that trickled down his left temple.

"Ah, Bullock!  It behooves me to find you so chivalrous.  Rescuing damsels in distress, they should have made you sheriff!"  He called from his perch, and Seth scowled.  He couldn't deal with this right now. He could do something else regrettable.  

He looked away and stepped out to cross the thoroughfare, his arms stiff at his sides, when Al called again, “Didn’t think it of ya to lose it after some sad eyes and a tearful excuse.  What will the people say, especially after the widow's own recent...manipulations."

Seth froze.  A strange tremor crept up his back and he swiveled around to glare up at the man who suddenly had him at full tilt yet again.

If his eyes could ignite on sight, they would, and Al returned the look, two-fold.

“Seth.”  Sol was at his arm, tugging his sleeve in the opposite direction, trying to get him to leave, but Seth was a statue.  If he moved, he lost.

“Cast your eyes elsewhere, boy , or you won't like what comes next.”  Al’s warning was low and deadly, but sent a strange shock of gooseflesh up Seth's back.

“Seth!”  Sol called again, and Seth snapped his gaze away, catching sight of Dority lingering in the entrance to the Gem, not fifteen feet from him.  The man was leaning against the wall, casually cleaning a knife, but his eyes on Seth told him he would regret anything he did.

Seth turned and let Sol lead him away.  People had stopped to watch the exchange open mouthed and silent, many hovering in the thoroughfare and lingering in doorways, all eyes on Seth as he was led away like a dog.  He felt humiliation and anger at their inaudible judgment. 

“Damnit, Seth.  You’re only a few weeks from being cleared for normal exercise.  You shouldn’t be so fuckin’-”

“Shut up, Sol.”  Seth cut him off.

He needed a fucking bath.  Maybe that would help him wind down.

Dan Dority's loyalty to Al Swearengen could never be swayed or doubted.

He loved Al, in his own way.  He owed the man a great deal, and he was taken care of whenever he performed well.  Al was witty and intelligent, two things which eluded Dan, but he proved himself smart in other ways.  He always got the job done, one way or another.

He had met Al in this very camp, some odd years ago.

Dan had been just passing through, on his way to a job further south, and had decided to try the Gem in terms of fucking and drinking.

Al had stood beside him at the bar, conversing about the gold that had been found in the area a few days ago somewhat amicably.  The older man had stated the likeliness of finding more, once the hills had been dug out, and Dan had been intrigued. If he were to stay in Deadwood and mine the hills, would he make enough to live?  He could always kill someone else and take their gold.

Then his seasoned eyes had spotted a strange man as soon as he'd walked through the door, his brow furrowed and mustache wrinkled in determination.  There was a blade in his right hand, and Dan watched him closing in from behind Al's turned back. It was a pathetic attempt, in all actuality. 

Dan had shoved a surprised Al out of the way, and disarmed the stranger.  The man was shocked at having been found out so easily, and Dan had been able to simply take the knife from a clammy hand, and sink it into the almost-assailant's chest.

The attacker had been a prospective buyer for the saloon plot, Dan had later learned, and Al had bought him out.  The man had been outraged, apparently having regretted the sale.

He'd worked for Al ever since.

Now the business with Bullock...Dan was no fool.  He knew what was going on, could hear the cries and moans of the other man when Al had him at his mercy.  It didn’t bother him, though he did think it a bit strange.

Al’s business was his own.  

The older man seemed different after their interactions.  Like he was...content. He wasn’t brooding anymore, and he actually seemed to be in a better mood than he had in years.  A week ago, he’d even complimented Jewel on her dress for the night.

Bullock himself seemed no worse for wear, coincidentally.  The other man had always had a temper that seemed to be in line with his own, and the feud between Bullock and Al was well known across the camp.  The night that Bullock had staggered up from the basement, Dan had been the one on bar duty. Bullock had looked exhausted, but there was a familiar fire in his eyes that he had seen echoed in Al’s only minutes before.

He had ordered a shot, and Dan had given it to him.  After what Dan had heard from behind the door, he felt like Bullock needed it.

He held no hatred for Bullock.  No ill will whatsoever. He actually rather liked him.  Bullock knew what needed to be done, and did it. He followed the same code they all did. 

Dan merely did as Al commanded, and if Bullock happened to be in the line of fire, then it fucking happened.

So when nightfall came, he wasn’t the least bit surprised when Al called for him to fetch Bullock.

After the display in the Bella Union, and then, the performance in the street, it had been expected.  Al never let impertinence go unchecked.

The Gem was empty.  It was well past midnight, and everybody had been cleared out by himself at the request of Al.

As Dan crossed the thoroughfare and crept along the boardwalk to the hardware store, clinging to the shadows like a cat, a shot rang out, shattering the quiet of the night.  

It sounded as if it came from China Alley, and Dan hurried in the direction, making sure to stay out of sight.

He rounded the first chink's house, and came to a sudden stop as he spotted Bullock, half hiding behind some crates.  Dan ducked back behind the cover of the house, examining the situation.

Bullock was facing away from Dan, and spying on four figures further down the street.  His back was completely unguarded.

Dan squinted, and could make out Con Stapleton and Leon, arguing over what looked like a chink corpse.  The gun was in Leon's hand, who seemed to be unremorseful as he gestured madly with it over the body. Woo was shouting at them both and Stapleton was trying to calm everyone down.

Bullock looked like he was itching to rush forward and involve himself, ever the righteous hero.

Dan crept closer and closer until he was just behind Bullock.  This was going to be easy.

He swung a right hook, crashing into the back of Bullock's head hard, and the other man crumpled, pitching forward.

Dan quickly ducked behind the crates, catching Bullock's body before it crashed to the ground and alerted the squabbling men of their presence.  He knelt down, and slung the man's body over his shoulder, before standing and sprinting quickly back in the direction of the Gem.

No hard feelings, it’s just business.

Al was patient to a fault.  

He ruminated on certain things for sometimes days and months at a time, analyzing every aspect of a situation to determine the best possible outcome.  He had to be sly, had to be careful. Running an organization such as his required cunning and precision, and he operated at his best from his office. His proverbial think tank.

Seth hung there, currently unconscious. 

Al had bade Dan to leave after Bullock had been delivered, upon which Dan had told him of the murder they'd both witnessed in China Alley.

Tolliver was making his fucking move on China Alley.  That alone incited a deep, unabiding rage in his blood.  How dare he.   On Woo's fucking turf, his fucking turf.

Once Dan had left, Al had lashed Bullock in the same position as he'd been when he was whipped their first night together.  His wrists were bound tightly with rope, and fastened to the hook in the ceiling. As he'd divested him of his clothes, his eyes had lingered on the knife wounds in his stomach.  

They were ugly and red, evidence of the healing they were still undertaking, and each was about an inch and a half long.  The wounds were jagged, angry, and Al scowled at the obvious attempt at gutting Seth. He'd heard Charlie Utter had been the one to kill the man who'd done it.  Blown his head to pieces.

Shame he hadn't been the one to do it.

He reached out and pressed a tentative finger to the stitching and Seth sucked in a breath in his sleep, body involuntarily trying to move away.  He didn't go far, of course. Al retracted the finger and Bullock's breath came out in a relieved sigh.

He moved eager hands up the defined abs and chest and shoulders, feeling the soft skin beneath his fingers, exploring appreciatively.

Bullock was here for a reason.  Focused, he had to stay focused.

He traced fingers down the man's back and grabbed Bullock's ass, squeezing it between his hands, enjoying the feeling.

He inhaled sharply, lust and anticipation rolling in like clouded fog.

Oh, yes.  

Disrespect was something he didn't abide.  And he was no fool. If Star hadn't shown up when he had, there would have been trouble.  Bullock would never back down. And Al would have had to teach him his place, townsfolk or no.

Now there's an idea best saved for later.

When Al had seen the crowd gathering at the Bella Union, he'd known, somehow inside, he'd known who was there.  And when Seth had exited out of the whorehouse, eyes wild, hair disheveled, and face and fist and chest covered in a spray of red, Al had felt the familiar lust then, too.  Bullock had looked a goddamned sight.

But the reason...Alma fucking Garret, the fucking widow…

The jealousy, no, the rage he'd felt, still felt, upon seeing the two linked in arms, strutting about like fucking peas in a pod; it had been a long time since he'd felt like that, and it had incited something inside of him that itched to claim what was his.

Al let go of the man and stepped back around so he was face to face with Bullock.

Those damned eyes would be his undoing.  He lived to see the fire and fight in them, the life.  And then the dilated desire as Seth lost the control he held so dear.

He wouldn't tolerate the disrespect tonight.  Bullock's mouth would run away with him, and Al's temper would escape with it.

Perhaps he needed to be gagged…

The slap Al woke Seth with snapped his head to the side and made the man come to with a jerk, his nostrils flaring and eyes wild as he looked about, before settling a hateful glare on his captor.

"Wakey, wakey."  Al couldn't stop the slow grin that crept across his face if he tried.  He had the man right where he wanted him, and he was going to savor it, like he always did.

"You probably know what you're doing here, you're not an idiot, or else you wouldn't be here.  I don't tend to fuck idiots."

Seth's body was rigid, tense and as unyielding as stone when Al laid a hand on him.  He ran a smooth hand up his left thigh, feeling the hard muscles there, before running it over a well-formed hip and tracing fingertips up his love handles and over his ribcage towards his bound arms.  Seth shrank back, his skin twitching, leaning away from the touch and Al couldn't stop the amused smile. Now there was a secret.

"Ticklish, Bullock?"  The ever persistent glare was all he expected, and he wasn't disappointed.

He pinched both nipples suddenly, hard, and Bullock grunted against the cloth in his mouth and arched his back.  Al knew what this did to the other man, how wild this drove him, but Bullock wasn't here for his own pleasure. He was here for Al's.  Al let go and slowly paced around Seth.

This was its own kind of ecstasy for Al, and the way Seth's eyes burned into him as he followed Al's progression out of his line of sight drove Al to nearly take the man right there, to break him right now.  Nobody should look at him with such impunity, nobody.   Bullock's cock had grown hard with the attention, and now jutted out from his body, stabbing the air in front of him.  So eager.  He wouldn't be if he knew what I want to do.

 Al began to circle around him, running hands along the man, feeling and exploring the muscled form.  He lightly scratched his nails down the unblemished skin of Bullock's back, and reveled in the goosebumps that broke out along the man's spine and shoulders.  He reached down to grasp at the firm ass he loved to drive into so much, and Seth tried to move away, but of course he went nowhere.  

It was unreal.  Al had his fair share of lovers.  Hell, he'd fucked a trail up and down the Canadian border.  Probably had a bastard here or there. Shit, he probably had a dozen.  But all that fucking and loving had struggled to fill a gaping hole somewhere in his soul.  There had never been quite enough... fire.   

The markings of the whipping Al had given him some time ago still adorned Seth's back, but they were faint; the most noticeable being the length of a screw and the color of a minor burn.

Al licked a strip up Bullock's back, till he could resist no more and clamped sharp teeth on the man's neck, licking and sucking.  That was gonna leave a mark later Al thought with glee.

Seth's flinch and muffled cry through the gag shot straight to his dick.  Fuck.   He was so fucking responsive.   Al played with the fine hair at the base of the other man's scalp, admiring its softness between his greedy fingers.  

"Already so hard, Seth,"  Al hissed in his ear as he pressed against the man's back, his own erection grinding against Bullock's ass.  "Are you that ready for it?"  

Seth tensed and tried to wrench away, but the bindings held him fast.  Al moved back, going to the desk that held the oil he used for lubricant and retrieved it, moving back to Seth.

He prepped himself quickly after his pants were around his ankles, lube coated hand sliding back and forth over his slick member in a satisfying rhythm.  He moved into position at Seth's entrance and the other man stiffened.

"No need to get nervous now. "  Al rumbled in a low, mocking voice.  He knew what the other man was worried about.  No prepping? Shouldn't be a problem for such a man.

He pushed in quick, burying himself completely in one quick thrust of his hips into the blissful hotness that was Seth's hole.

Seth let out a shout behind the gag tied in his mouth, his legs trying to move away, but Al clasped his hands around the familiarity of toned love handles and began to rapidly thrust in and out, giving Bullock no time to adjust to his girth.

Seth howled and thrashed against Al, against the assault drilling into him from behind.  Interestingly enough, he remained hard all the while, his cock slapping against his stomach with each thrust Al delivered.

" Fuck."  Al hissed.  "You were made for this, Bullock."

The tightness of Seth's ass was all encompassing, so hot and so fucking tight-God… he could squeeze the life right out of his dick.   Al's thrusts were sending Seth off his feet with every push in.

The changing reaction in Seth was fascinating in it's own way.

His protestations and muffled shouts of pain became fewer and more spaced apart until finally, only moans could be heard.  He stopped fighting against Al, and began to rock into him, clearly chasing his own orgasm. Al let him. It gave him a better angle, deeper.

The poor fuck still thinks this has a happy ending.

"You think it's all about you."  Al growled, his left hand snaking up to snatch a handful of the brown hair and yank it back.  Seth reacted with a muffled groan as he was pulled flush against Al's chest. Al loved his hair.  "Are you so self absorbed that you think you're able to intimidate me? Me?"  Al punctuated this with a sharp jerk at the younger man's scalp, and Seth yelped, his neck arching back to accommodate the tight grip.

The moan behind the gag was loud when Al's other hand found its way to Seth's hard cock and pumped in time with the thrusts.  Seth's whole body was moving, writhing, working hard for it, until Al felt the tremor that shook the younger man, the way his hole tightened around Al's own cock, the low, throaty muffled moan.  He seemed to cum for a while, spending rope after rope onto the floor over Al's fist as he shook.

That was fast.  Worked up from today, huh?  Or was he worked up from the widow?

Al let go of Bullock's hair and the man's head fell forward, hair hanging askew, deliciously disheveled.  Al paused his hand motions and thrusts, letting Seth's breath come back through heaving nostrils.

"Feel better?"  Al asked, some kindness in his voice.

Seth, of course, said nothing.

Al's thumb swirled the cum around the head of Seth's softening cock slowly, firmly, and Seth jerked violently, shouting behind the gag.

Bullock squirmed to get away from the unbearable sensitivity, hips spasming uncontrollably, but Al's hips and hands held him in place.

So sensitive, so responsive.   Al relished again in the other man's youth.

Al continued stroking, playing with the slick member and the sounds dissolved into pleading.  Seth seemed unable to hold still, unable to keep from glancing down at the part of him that was causing him so much sensation.

"It's so sensitive isn't it?  Does it hurt, I wonder? Does it drive you crazy to be unable to stop me?"  He taunted, loving the way Seth drove himself unwillingly back and forth on his member.  "You know, we'll be here for some time and I think we have a lot to talk about, hm? Just you, and me, talking about the widow Garret."

Muffled surprise from behind the gag, and Al stopped torturing him with his fingers.

"Do you want to fuck her, Bullock?"  Al asked conversationally, and he felt Seth freeze, felt the anger that flew into him with the tightening of muscles.  "Do you think of sinking that great big cock deep inside of her and making her whole world right?"  

Seth bucked and twisted, furious, Al could see the vein in the side of his temple throbbing, could practically see the way his eyes would be burning-

He grasped Bullock's hips again, overcome with lust and slammed home, bringing a grunt from both him and the other man.

"Don't be fucking stupid. "  He punctuated this with another precise snap of his hips.  "You're mine now. You can't forget these moments, anymore than you can bring yourself to hate this."  He thrust for a few more times leisurely, powerfully, letting his own orgasm build slowly. He wanted to enjoy this for a while.  "You like it, even though you shouldn't, and why not? You deserve something nice, don't you? Something pleasurable. I seem to recall promising I'd fuck you till you scream.  Well, we've got a long night ahead of us." 

Al pounded Seth harder and harder until the man was crying out against each thrust again as Al found that special spot inside, anger forgotten as he strained to meet thrusts in a delirium of feeling as it was assaulted over and over.

He reached around and found Bullock already painfully hard again.  Youth.   "You're mine, and no cooze is gonna change that, you understand?"  There was no immediate reply and Al barked, " Do you understand?"

Seth nodded frantically as his orgasm built again, unwillingly.  Despite the harshness he said it with, he felt reassured by his own words, and Bullock's reaction to them.

A short while after, Bullock came again, screaming and spasming uncontrollably.  Seth moaned brokenly once he was spent, legs trembling.

Al milked Bullock two more times after that, making the younger man scream and curse and buck and beg, all from behind a piece of cloth.  It was all so exquisite.  The power he had over such a man, over Seth Bullock was intoxicating.  The man was like a wildfire. 

Right now though, he was a near boneless wreck.  His left leg seemed unwilling to support his weight, instead letting the rope around his wrists and his shoulders do most of the work.  

He was beautiful and delirious, eyes glazed over, as if he were near unconscious.  His hair was slick with sweat and clumped together from where Al had tangled his hands in it, burying them in its softness.

He looked thoroughly fucked.

Against his better judgement, Al released Seth's wrists from the hook in the ceiling, and the man crumpled unceremoniously to his knees on the hardwood, catching himself with his hands before he face planted.

He looked good on his knees, too.

"Your clothes are in my chair."  Al said as he paced about the room, fastening his clothes back and readjusting himself.  Seth didn't move, almost like he was in a trance. "I think it's important we don't forget our talk here."

He opened the door to his office and strode out, leaving Bullock to collect himself.

Dan was behind the bar, striking a match to light his cigar while Johnny Burns lined up a shot for himself and Dan.

"Deal one out for me."  Al called as he descended the stairs and strode to them.  They both looked to him, Johnny somewhat surprised while Dan just looked unmoved.

Johnny lined up another shot glass, and they all took them together.  The familiar fire that burned down his throat to his belly soothed Al, calmed and relaxed him.

"Have a good night?"  Dan asked tentatively.  

"Well enough."  Al replied. "Yours?"

Dority took a puff of the smoking cigar and ashed in a tin.  "Woo stopped by. Told 'im you were busy."

Al sighed and tapped the bar for another fillup.  Johnny obliged and Al downed it instantly.

"The fucking asshole's makin' a move on China Alley.  He attacks Woo, he attacks us."  

"What's the plan?"  Johnny asked, his face determined.

The door upstairs opened and Bullock stepped out, his face a hard mask.

Al had the good grace not to watch him descend the steps, instead focusing on filling his own glass again, but his two henchmen had no such class.  They stared as Seth approached, watching the walk of shame with barely controlled wariness.

Seth's boots stopped next to the older man and took the shot Al had poured without asking.  Al smirked at the impertinence and swiveled his head lazily to meet Bullock's gaze.  

The younger man flushed slightly, but maintained eye contact.  Almost like a challenge. God, did his fire never go out?

Then he turned and strode out, wobbling only slightly as he disappeared out of the door and out of sight.

Johnny cleared his throat awkwardly, and Dan puffed his cigar again.

"We're gonna fucking take him down, of course."  Al said after a while.

Chapter Text

Waking up the morning after he'd been with Al had been difficult.  His body ached in...places, and his joints seemed too lazy to obey, so Seth figured a lie-in was absolutely admissible.  The still-healing wounds in his midsection were throbbing a bit, and he felt stiff from lack of movement during his sleep.  Sol would understand if he was late to work, though he would be questioned about it later. But that was later, and later wasn't right now, and that's all that really mattered.

He slept until noon, waking restlessly off and on from dreams of Swearengen's torturous hands teasing and inflicting all sorts of delicious agony on his willful body.

Al was the first thought in his head as he came to.  It was how his days began, as of late.

Their interactions preoccupied most of Seth's days.  He would spend hours deliberating and pondering everything going on between them, often on his own, brooding in the dim light of a lantern, like some marble statue.  Not just his own reactions puzzled him, but Al's, too. 

The older man seemed built for this, resolute and a solid rock of granite.  He was shorter than Seth, but the power behind his arms was belittling. Seth had known of Swearengens little trysts with Trixie.  It was an open-aired secret. But it still made no sense, the interest he had taken in Seth, nor the gratification they both felt after.  The older man's satisfaction was clear. Was it control he craved? What they both craved?

Maybe it was just release.  Release from stress, release from anger, release from what the fuck ever, Seth didn't know, but afterwards, he felt good.   And feeling good was hard enough to do these days without questioning where it came from.  But Seth had to know, had to understand, because to understand, was to control, and in this way, Seth was failing.

Either way, the older man was not far from his mind, nor was Seth far from the saloon owner's dark gaze.  

He seemed to be watching Seth wherever he went, and Seth could always feel those eyes burning into him with enough force to make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Seth rose from his bed, sore legs protesting as he carried himself across the floorboards to his dresser on bare feet.

When he saw his neck in the mirror, he frowned.  There was a giant bite mark just below his earlobe.  It was a nice deep purple and red hue, the teeth clearly outlined, and when he touched it, Seth could remember the sensation of Al's hungry jaws sinking in.

Something with a collar today, I think .

Then Seth saw the minor bruising around his wrists from where the rope had chafed him raw and sighed.

And an overcoat.

The next week went by in an enlightening blur.  

General Crook's forces came and provided the camp with much needed...business, and if you could call all the whoring and drinking and gambling business, well then, business was good.

Snatching the sheriff badge from Stapleton's chest and hurling it into the mud after the parade had felt good.  Seeing the look on the older man's face, and Tom Nutall's backing had felt good, too. Grabbing it from the ground and stashing it, only to look up and see Cy Tolliver watching him from across the thoroughfare like he was considering a prized horse had not felt good.

It made him feel...awkward, and Seth Bullock didn't do awkward.  Unless it came to Al Swearengen, apparently, but that was something else entirely from the way he had been regarded in the rival saloon owner's stare.

It had looked...predatory.

The meeting with General Crook had been defining.

"Someone aware of the lack of control over his own faculties, would consider serving his fellow man."

It had caught him off guard, making his boots root to the ground and heart hammer in his chest.  It felt like affirmation of his inkling dread that he would have to assume the role, and cemented the fact that General Crook, despite his namesake, was in fact an honorable man.

He considered it and ruminated on it day and night, long after the cavalry had ridden out, Otis Russel's body strapped to the back of a rather scrawny mare like a slab of meat off to the butcher.

He had nearly killed Ms. Garret's father.  Nearly beat him to death with his bare hands.  The mark of anger was stamped all over Otis Russel, the mark of rage.  The mark of a severe lack of control.

We all have bloody thoughts.

It was true, wasn't it?  Violent thoughts followed violent men, and if Seth Bullock knew anything about himself, he knew that he also suffered from this disease.

Justice could be meted out, tit for tat.  It just took a strong will to do so.

Could he be that person again?  Could he shoulder that burden?

Jimmy Tanner wasn't terribly smart, nor was he a terribly lucky man.  

There had been a string of bad luck lately.  Getting drunk was most of the problem. His damned mouth was the other half.  It had a way of its own. Much like a horse that startles and bolts for no apparent reason, his mouth just got away from him sometimes.

Seth Bullock was nothing to him, another nobody, but Swearengen…

That was a horse of another color.

The knife Dan Dority had shoved in his chest hadn't killed him, but it had come close.  He'd been stitched up in a rush by some amateur surgeon on the way to Rapid City, in a haze of rain and rage and pain.  The healing had been rough, the stitches holding the wound close had itched and pulled like fire ants.

The Gem should have been his, goddammit.  He had been undersold by that upjumped cunt, Swearengen, and nearly lost his life for it.

So he had bid his time watching, waiting for the older man to slip up, and Jimmy would move in again at the opportune moment, when there was no Dan Dority to back him up.

As if a revelation sent to him from God himself, not once but twice, he had just so happened to glimpse Seth Bullock leaving by the backdoor of the saloon in the early dead of the morning.  His clothes had been in disarray, his hair disheveled, as if he had been fucking whores till early morning.

Jimmy had even thought this for a time; that Bullock had simply been in the Gem for a little while, having a go or two at a couple or more of whores, who the fuck cared really , finding his way out of the back door, shamefacedly making his way home.  

That was, until he saw Al sneak off to the doc's when Bullock had reportedly come back in death throes from a guttin' wound.

And again one night while the rain poured its heart out and lightning streaked the sky with forked tongues.  Jimmy had been leaning against an overhang on the boardwalk, just slumming it really, when he'd seen the unmistakable shadowed figure cross the thoroughfare to the hardware store.  A few hours later, Swearengen crossed back again.

He saw more alright, and his mind pieced together some incredibly horrible images.

And oh, the gossip that would sweep up Deadwood.

"Wouldn't that be a shame."  Jimmy muttered under his breath, shifting black hair out of his eyes.  "For someone to fall so far."

He'd have to pay someone to help him, to distract Dority while Jimmy attended to the problem that was Swearengen.

But the man would get his due, one way or another.

The day progressed in a dull, monotonous beat.

Miners and fortune seekers and browsing patrons filtered in and out of the wide open double doors of Star and Bullock Hardware in slow intervals, and there was a few times that the store was completely empty.

It was a slow day, hot and boring.

It gave Seth a lot of time to think.  About a lot of things.

It was a completely strange thing for Seth to admit to himself when he felt out of his depth.

This thing with Al was wearing on him, on his sense of morality.

Everytime he was under Al's control, Seth felt...relaxed and calm.  So very opposite of what he felt the situations called for.

Sure, he was on edge, but after that first time, when Al had whipped him raw, there was a strange kind of comfort.  Like at some point, some invisible line had been drawn and had yet to be crossed. Seth had been sure that Al was going to torture and kill him then.  And it had started out that way .  

"Alright there, Seth?"  Sol asked from across the room.  He was currently straightening the shovels from where they hung on the wall.

"I'm alright."  Seth answered, trying not to sound like his thoughts had been far away.

"Sometimes I wonder about you, ya know?"  Sol said. His back was turned from Seth, but from Seth's seated position behind the teller, he could see the easiness of his partner's shoulders, the lack of confrontational body language.  "I wonder about that lady you rendezvous with."

Seth was mystified.  "Lady?" He echoed, brows drawn.

"Yeah, the one you keep sneaking off to meet late at night?"  Seth's heart skipped a beat. "Everytime you get back, you look like you had to fight a squad of thugs to see her and you sleep in until about noon."

His information was terrible, but the delivery was clear.  Sol knew that he was involved with someone.

What would he do if he knew who it was?

The thought of Sol finding out greatly shamed Seth, and if truth be told, frightened him. 

Would Sol disown him?

He was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Trixie's heels clunking across the hardwood floor into the store.  He didn't know if he would have been able to reply. His tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth.

Seth watched Sol look to the sound, and saw the delight that lit up his partner's face, could read the emotions there.  Sol was in love with Trixie, that much was plain to see.

When Trixie turned to greet Seth, she gave him a mysterious smile that made his stomach lurch unpleasantly.

"Afternoon."  She said politely enough.  "Al's askin' to see you." She pulled out a cigarette that was stuck behind her ear and lit it.

"Swearengen's asking to see me? "

"Well, who the fuck else is sitting over there with ya?"

"Trixie."  Sol's voice was soft as he reached out to take her hand, his quiet voice slightly scolding.

She glanced at Sol, then back at Seth, her eyes knowing.  "Probably best not to keep him waiting." Seth's stomach did another little lurch, this time, though not so unpleasantly.

He rose from his seat behind the tell and moved to leave.

"I'll see you in a bit, then."  Seth said to Sol as he walked by, but Sol said, "Why does Swearengen want to see you?"

Seth froze before he could make it past the threshold of the door, and turned to look at Sol's curious face, a reply fumbling from somewhere-

"Has some concerns about some new arrival in camp.  Seein' as Bullock snatched the star from Stapleton, maybe he's figurin' you're the guy to talk to."

"I'm not the sheriff."  Seth said calmly, though his heart felt like it was beating too fast again.

"Then why you still holdin' that badge?"  She asked smugly, and lit her cigarette, puffing greedily.

Seth clenched his teeth together and stalked out of the door and across the thoroughfare, his black jacket flapping in a sudden gust of wind as he left the hardware store behind.  He'd apologize to Sol later.

The Gem was lively, having already been early into evening, past time to get really good and fucked up without being considered 'too early in the day'.

Patrons lined the bar and lounged at the tables scattered across the floor of the saloon.  Some leaned against the walls, the tables and chairs having been occupied to the point of overcrowding.  Everyone had beers in hand, or shots of whiskey and bottles of the stuff.

Seth threaded his way through the cacophony of bodies, stopping once or twice as a drunk man stumbled past him m, drunken laughter ringing in Seth's ears.

Dority noticed his presence from behind the bar.

He was sweaty, the heat inside from all the bodies likely the culprit, and the cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth slightly muffled the words, but Seth heard, "Awfully early for ya, ain't it, Bullock?" 

Seth flushed.  Damn him.

"Is he in his office?"  It was a struggle to keep his voice level.

"Yeah, just go up and knock."  Dority called back over the noise at the bar.

Seth left him and climbed the thankfully empty stairs, his shoes feeling more like lead boots than leather ones.

He got to the door and knocked.  Was he actually nervous?

There was a pause, then that familiar voice said, "Come in."

Seth opened the door, trepidation in every fiber of his muscles...and relaxed slightly when he saw that Al was sitting at his desk, hand clutching a pen that was moving furiously across the paper.  Silas Adams lingered behind Farnum, and turned to nod at Bullock when he entered, who nodded back in turn. E.B. Farnum sat across from Al, gesturing wildly, his droll voice speaking obnoxiously as his eyes regarded Al with something akin to worship.

"Al, would it not be deemed more prudent to investigate this matter?  I give you my word that it would be with the utmost secrecy and nefarious wordplay on my behalf.  Nobody would suspect a modicum, an amoebic grain of-"

"E.B. how many times do you think a day?"  Al's voice asked as if in honest inquisition.  

Seth shut the door behind him and it closed with a soft click.  Al's pen paused and dark eyes met Seth's. He flicked his eyes up and down Seth's form quickly, taking it in and Seth swallowed, raising his chin slightly.  He didn't find the appraisal disconcerting. Not at all.  Al's eyes fell back to his paper and resumed where he'd left off, Farnum stuttering to keep up with Al's train of thought.

"Well I-I reckon a good number of times. A great number, in fact.  More than most men."

"And do you ever, in your great many musings, think that I am capable of making the wrong assessment?"

"Well, no-"  Farnum began, but Al cut him off.

"And do you think that when I say "no", it means something else?"

"No, but-"

"Get out, E.B."  Al's warning was soft and low.

Farnum rose and went to the door and opened it, not looking at anybody, seemingly chastised.  He bowed stiffly, like a gentleman would, his eyes on the floor, and then stepped out, closing the door behind him.

"Adams, tell me what you think."  

Al's hand dropped his pen and shook the hand out as if sore, letting out an exhausted sigh.  He relaxed back in his chair, and though Adam's eyes were on Al, Al's eyes found Seth's again and locked, making something in Seth's gut squirm.

"I think he's dangerous.  He's quiet, doesn't say much, and what he does say he doesn't mince, but he doesn't move nor talk without purpose.  He knows what he's talking about, and who he represents, and what that means for this place."

"And the people?"  Al asked, his eyes raking down Seth's form.  Seth felt naked under the gaze.

"Most don't know who he is.  On the outside he looks a connoisseur, a rich boy, but the ones who recognize him stay away."

"Good.  Keep watching the fucker."

Adams seemed unsure.  "You don't want me to-"

"I don't want you to do anything else other than watch him.   If he isn't dangerous, then no harm, no foul.  If he is, well, there's gotta be some kind of dust or dirt the cocksucker has that can't be swept under the rug.  And make sure he knows we're the ones that can do the sweeping."

Adams nodded and made his exit, shutting the door behind him.

Seth and Al were suddenly alone.

"Who are you wanting him to watch?"  Seth asked. If Al was sending people out to watch someone, this had the potential to get ugly, whatever it was.

"Sit."  Al gestured to the chair in front of his desk that had been occupied by Farnum.

Now that the older man's dark gaze was leveling full force attention to him, Seth's feet felt rooted to the spot.  

He felt simultaneously apprehensive and defiant of coming any closer to Al willingly, which both confused and irritated him.

"I won't ask again."

Seth hesitated, and then his feet carried himself forward and he sat stiffly, alert.

The man was handsome, yet at the same time a plain, drab sort of fellow.

His eyes were a dull, almost black color, seemingly soulless or joyless.

It gave Jimmy the creeps.

In the glow of a nearby lantern, he looked almost like a Pinkerton, all statuesque and poised.

The meeting spot had been Tolliver's idea, and for that, Jimmy was utterly grateful.  

"So you say this man works against Tolliver's interests, and in extension, to the manner of my own host?"  His voice was light, inquisitive.  

"Oh, yes."  Jimmy breathed, smiling.  This was all going according to plan.

"And what exactly does this... Bullock do with this...this…"

"Swearengen.  Al Swearengen."  Jimmy supplied.

"What exactly is it you are insinuating?"  The man asked. "That Bullock and Swearengen are criminal miscreants who mean my employer and his jurisdiction harm, and also happen to be in secret intimate relations?"

"Yes, exactly."

"And you get what out of this fortuitous revelation?"  The man's halting speech pattern was slightly disconcerting.

"I get the Gem, and all it's belongings."  Jimmy stated.

"Hmm…"  The doubt on the man's face was back again, and Jimmy mentally cursed.

"I'm tellin' you."  Jimmy stated, desperate to convince.  "Swearengen runs things here, not Tolliver.  This fuckin' homo shit between Bullock and Swearengen is the wick to dynamite.  Nobody will want Bullock for sheriff after this. You upset the power balance, and you have the town.  I just want his base of operations."

The man watched Jimmy for a few moments, adding to the strange sense of unease.

"Fine."  The man said finally, his lips tilting into a small smile.  "We will back you."

Relief, sharp and glorious.  "Thank you, you won't regret-"

"We get thirty percent of profits,  and an additional ten percent will go to my employer's own pockets."

This was generous, Jimmy Tanner was all too aware.  Now to close the deal.

He spit in his left hand and held it outright.  "Shake on it."

The man wrinkled his nose in distaste, but spit in his own hand nonetheless, and offered it out for shaking.

They never touched.

As Jimmy reached, the knife glinted up out from beneath the man's traveling cloak, flashing quickly and silently forward to bury itself to the hilt in Jimmy's ribs.

The moan of pain that escaped his mouth was more of a sigh as he slid to his knees in the dirt, staring at the knife protruding from his chest with dull, uncomprehending shock. His left hand went to the object, fumbling at it with numb fingers.

What...happened?  How did this get there?

He was still wondering when he collapsed onto his back, hardly feeling the dirt beneath him, nor the morning dew that saturated his clothes.  The other man stood over him, dark eyes watching. 

Jimmy could see the glow of the lantern on the outer back walls of the Bella Union, could faintly hear the small talk and wagon wheels in the thoroughfare as people carried on, oblivious, but he could not call out, and voices seemed to stray farther and farther until they seemed to drift on the wind.

He could see the man's small smile as he watched red liquid pool beneath Jimmy's grey jacket, almost like a fountain pen had burst in his inner pockets.

He could see the stars, twinkling in black nothing that seemed to scream down at him.

He could see-

"What brings you to my office so early in the evening, Bullock."  Al asked, striking a match to light the cigar he pulled out of the tin in front of him.

He couldn't help but admit to himself that he was pleased Bullock was in his office at present.  However, nowadays he preferred the younger man helpless to his wantings, and of course, naked.

Seth's eyes narrowed.  "You asked for me. Sent Trixie."

The intelligent conniving cunt thinks to distract me.

"And here I thought you had been here of your own free will, in light of recent events, of course."  Seth flushed a pretty color. His brown eyes had that familiar spark of resistance Al loved to tear down so viciously, and his cock twinged, a squirming in his gut.

"Watch your mouth."  Bullock warned.

"Oh, I do."  Al promised. Tapping his own neck, right where he knew Bullock's neck marking was.

Al could see by the way his chest was beginning to rise and fall that Seth was getting worked up.

Good.

"I never called for you."  Al admits, and Seth just stared at him, his jaw clenching and unclenching.  Al ashed his cigar in the marble ashtray on his desk. It was a fine thing, expensive black and white patterns playing across the smooth surface.  "What, struck dumb by the thought of lying women? It's not the cunt you can't trust, it's the mind."

"But why would she lie?  There was no purpose." Bullock's eyes were drawn together as he tried to puzzle it out.  He always looked so...innocent, even when Al knew he wasn't.  

"No purpose?"  A hoarse laugh escapes his throat.  This was Trixie.   She always had fucking purpose.   "Suppose it was to further her own exclusivity with your resident Jewish partner.  Suppose it was to please him , to get her alone.  And suppose it was to please me , who without my crew and staff, would have more secrets than you know."

"If this gets out…"  Seth trailed off, his voice trembling.

"It ain't gettin' out."  Al replied firmly.  

"How can you possibly know that?"  Seth asked.

"Cause it ain't fuckin' gettin' out!"  Al shouted, his temper flaring as he rose to his feet making his chair screech.

Seth flinched back, the movement slight, but it was there, and Al felt that familiar surge of satisfaction at the movement.  He never failed to strike intimidation into others, but to strike it into Seth Bullock was just so-

Al sighed.  "I apologize."  He said suddenly, his mood shift as erratic as ever.  He took his seat again, reclining back and giving the cigar another relieving puff.  "I shouldn't have raised my voice."

Seth watched him, warily.  He looks like he needs breaking in, like a frightened colt.

Al let the silence between them prevail for a while as Bullock's gaze slid to the desk, staring at it, unseeing in thought.

The noise of the saloon downstairs was a soothing din of background ambience to Al; it meant that money was being made and the future was being secured.

There was an audible click as Seth swallowed, and Al watched his Adam's apple bob up and down.

"I feel like…"  Seth trailed off, his voice failing him and he started again.  "I feel lost. Like I don't...know myself anymore."

His dark brown eyes flicked to Al's nervously and then back to the desk, as if reading the weather in Al's face, and the vulnerability Al glimpsed in that gaze gave him such a hunger .

"You haven't changed at all."  

"You really think that."  It was a statement, not a question, almost like Seth couldn't believe it.

"No, I don't fuckin' think that.  I know it."  You're the same, self-righteous, angry immovable prick you've always been.  It's your views that have changed, and you seem quick to condemn those easy enough."

Seth's eyes were on his again.

"It's wrong."  

"Says who, your head or somebody else?"

" Everyone else."

"Nah, not everyone.  You're letting your conscious cloud you."

"How could you think that?"  Seth asked him, his expression incredulous.  "You've seen the way people like..like us are treated.  Strung up and beaten, tarred and feathered...it's...frowned upon-"

"You seem to like getting fucked well enough to forget it at the time of."  Al said, and delighted in the way Seth's face colored.

"It's...it's…"  Seth glanced about the room away from Al, like the words he wanted to say could be found written on the wall somewhere.

Poor boy.  I've fuckin' fried his brain.

"Look at the facts.  For one, you're still here,"  Al stated, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk while he tapped the ash from his cigar in the marble again.  "You could have left at any point after finding about the whore's deceiving information, but you stayed, and then you confided, so you want something out of this as do fucking I."

"And what is that?"

"Some fucking relief."  Al puffed his cigar, exhaled.  "It's a hard fucking world, and we all find comfort where we can.  I've never been ashamed of where I find it, why should you?"

Seth said nothing and looked away, the vulnerable look crept back into his face, that far away look that Al couldn't decide if he liked on Bullock or not.

"If I bind your arms behind you, will you struggle?"

Seth froze for a moment his eyes finding Al's, but again, Al could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his breathing sped up as the choice was laid before him.  

This was a defining moment, the moment of truth, the moment where Bullock decided to lay himself bare to Al, or leave, and walk away from this tryst between them.

Seth's eyes were like mahogany fire, and his look of vulnerability changed to something akin to defiance as he raised his chin slightly and said, "No."

Al put the cigar out and rose from the chair, unfastening his belt as he did so.  Seth stared at it apprehensively until Al put it on the back of the chair, and Al smiled.

"I mean to use your tie, Mr. Bullock, would you be so kind as to undo it yourself?"

Al watched as Seth undid his tie with mechanical fingers and pulled it off.

"Bring it here."  

Seth paused for a moment, deliberating whether or not to obey, no doubt, but surprisingly just gave in after only the brief pause.

The younger man rose and came to Al, his boots clunking across the floor until he came to a stop before him, his hand outstretched, his posture unsure.  

Al took the tie from Seth's hand.

"Turn around and take off your shirt."

Seth did as asked, again, without protestation nor vocalization.

This was turning into a boring evening, if Bullock was going to be so...obedient.  Huh, imagine me, not knowing what exactly I want.  All I know is that I want him, utterly unbound.

He waited for Seth to remove his hat and shirt calmly enough, enjoying the show of skin and rippling muscle as his arms rose and fell to discard the fabric.  Seth truly was fucking exquisite.  

He had fully healed from the whipping, only bearing trace amounts of wrinkled skin in small centimeters of two or three areas.  An observant and experienced eye would wonder at the marks, but Al thought of them as his marks, his doings.

The gut wounds were taking their sweet time to heal, it seemed, Al had seen them as Seth had twisted out of his shirt, but they didn't look near as angry as they had when Al had seen Seth shirtless last.

When Seth was divested of his shirt and jacket, he dropped them to the ground at his feet, still facing away from Al.

"What do you want me to-"  Seth began, but Al cut him off.

"Cross your wrists behind."  Al said, stepping forward to secure the man's hands.

Seth did so and Al bound him with his own, solid black tie.  He threaded it between and wrapped it around, over and under both wrists several times, tugging on it every so often to make sure it was snug, but not constricting.  He pulled on it to further enforce the feeling of bondage to Bullock, to make him really feel the ties he was subjecting himself to.

Once he was done, Al retrieved the rope from his desk that he typically kept for when Bullock had arrived before in less...conscious conditions.

He looped it around Seth's wrists, tying it tightly over the clothed areas that the tie covered, and then looped the end of it around Bullock's neck in a kind of noose.

Seth jerked, pulling a bit at the tightening around his neck.

He struggled a little, stepping forward to get away, but Al jerked him back by his arms.  "What are you-" 

"Shhh…"  Al soothed mockingly.  He tightened the knot a bit, threading the long rope through carefully, until Seth's wrists were forced to go higher and higher, and his head bent further and further back, as far as they could go without causing Seth too much discomfort.  

Al tied the rope there.

"Do you know how delicious you look?"  Al asked rhetorically.  Seth blushed prettily at the praise.

The effect was that Bullock could not relax his arms or shoulders, lest his wish was to strangle himself.  The rope around his neck was pulled taut, and caused his head to be strained backwards, so that the longest of his hair touched his back, also baring his front for helpless stimulation.

"Does it grieve your wounds?"  Al asked.

"N-no."  Seth gasped out.

Al backed away for a moment to lock the door.  Then he appraised the deliciously bound Bullock, who still faced away from him, though his measured breathing could now be heard.

"Does the bondage help you?"  Al asked, approaching the man from behind to wrap his hands around Seth's slender hips, his voice gruff in a vulnerable ear, sending gooseflesh down the bound man's arms and back.  "Does it help you to relax? To give in? To let it all go out of your control?"

Al ghosted fingertips up hips and tight, outer ab muscles, remembering with relish that Bullock was ticklish as the man squirmed when Al reached his ribcage.

"I'd like an answer, you know."  Al growled into Seth's ear. He pinched the man's right nipple cruelly, and Seth yelped, trying to move away, but Al pulled him back by his hips.

"It's- ah!-"   Seth gasped out, as Al's left hand pinched the left nipple.  "It's...therapeutic…"

"Oh, so it's therapy, you need?"  Al pinched Bullock's now hardening right nipple again, fiercely, and Seth jerked, choking himself slightly with the noose.

"I don't know."  Seth ground out, helplessly.  "It- fuck!- it feels... good!"   The next  alternating pinch made Bullock try to pull away again, but Al grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him back, chuckling darkly.

Al guided the man to his desk and backed him up against it, pushing Seth so that he was practically laying on it, nearly crushing his arms.  He was bent backward, neck wrenched back to accommodate his stretched arms, exposed utterly to whatever Al wanted.  

Al would be gentle, this time.  Seth had come to him , consented to him.   This was cause for celebration, cause for reward.  But even rewards earned, must be earned in earnest, and in this, Al would teach Seth what Al liked.

"I think you enjoy this, this wanton helplessness you seem to find yourself in time and time again in my place of business, my place of living."  Al undid Bullock's gun belt, and the thing fell to the floor with a hard thunk .  Al kicked it away.  Next were his pants, and Al opened the fly and slid them down to the younger man's ankles, exposing long, pale legs thick with muscle.  "I think you have longed to be handled as such.  To be stripped and used, to be left unable to stop someone from just taking what they wanted."

Then he did the same thing with the younger man's breeches, but slowly, teasingly.

Seth was already hard, making Al smirk, pleased.

He's such a whore for this.  His body knows itself better than he does.

"You do something to me, did you know that?"  Al admitted. He crept spider fingertips across the bones of his hips up the sides and ribcage, making Seth shiver.  "I'm not usually a giving lover, but the way you squirm and beg for it drives me absolutely fucking wild."

Al found Seth's nipples, encircling without touching, and the sound of the sharp inhale from Seth's mouth shot straight to Al's dick.  

"I think you like to feel someone like me doing this to someone like you."  Al continued. His fingers weaved in and out, not touching where it was needed, avoiding with skillful precision.  "Someone not quite living below the law, taking advantage of someone like you, corrupting someone like you. You have a masochistic side, I think, Seth.  You beg for it, and re-live it day after day, don't you? Do you often think of me? Buried deep inside of you while you scream and scream?"

Seth tried to arch into a touch, but his crude bondage didn't allow him to move his upper body much at all without cutting off his air, and Al moved forward, untucking his over shirt from his pants so that it hung loose around his hips.  He straddled Bullock's legs, letting the hem of his shirt brush Seth's slowly rising cock with every movement, and resumed playing with the area around Seth's nipples.

He circled lazily, yet attentively, avoiding touch with Seth's hardening nubs.  He traced circles closer and closer to the nipples, but before he could touch them, Al widened the circle again, starting over again.

Al's minimal movement caused his shirt to sway and flutter across Seth's cock, who seemed to have a life of its own.

As it was teased by the fabric, it grew and grew until it looked to be throbbing, and Seth's cock began to twitch with each whisper of touch.

A small needy sound escaped Seth, and Al ground his own hard cock against the other man's leg greedily.

"I think you just want me to do this forever.  Could I tease you forever? Do you think you could cum this way?  Untouched? We could try if you want to. I have all night."

Seth didn't reply, but his eyes and mouth were clenched tight, and Al could see the slight twitching of his hips.

He tortured Seth in this way for a bit, enjoying the squirming, toned body beneath him.  Seth was a sight, and the bitten back moans and huffs of breath were getting stronger and louder.

Finally, Seth opened his mouth and ground out a pathetic, "Please."

"Please?"  Al asked, enjoying this game.  Bullock got him going, every time.  "What is it you want, Seth?"

"Just…"  Another piteous groan as Al traced a hand dangerously close to touching the younger man's hard cock, before sliding back up to his chest again.  "Touch me, please."

"Are you saying that I'm not touching you?"

Seth's next groan was frustration and lust.  

"Al, if you don't touch me… ah! - I'm gonna... die- "

"Die, huh?"  Al mused.

He obliged the other man, deciding more torture at this point would be overrated, and rolled his palms across the hardened nipples in slow circles, teasing them with the hard flesh of this palms.

Seth groaned , and thrust his hips futilely, seeking something stronger than the hem of Al's shirt, but touched nothing.

Al flicked and rolled and pinched the hard nubs, making Seth arch and writhe and buck his hips with what little movement he was allowed, seeking friction, seeking completion.

Al pulled away suddenly, and Seth bit back a choked whine.

"Why are you-"  He began, but shut his mouth when Al pulled him to his feet, only to shove him to his knees.  Seth's erection bobbed. Must be painful, being that hard.

"You're gonna learn today."  Al stated, reveling in the way Seth's hair was mussed, in the way his face was red and perspiring slightly.  Al began to unbuckle his own pants. "For now, class is in session."  

Seth was at the perfect height, the way his neck was strained would allow his cock to slide down his throat perfectly, and the thought of that mouth on his cock… 

Al pulled his hardness out and lined up.

"Open wide, Bullock."  Al commanded, thinking that Seth looked simply fuckable when he was nervous.

"I...I'm-"  Was all Seth got out before Al shoved his dick in between those parted lips.

The younger man gagged a few times before his throat allowed the intrusion unimpeded, and Al's eyes nearly rolled at the hot, wet heat that consumed his needful organ.

He grabbed onto Seth's dark brown hair, burying his hands in its softness.

Seth's eyes were closed, probably concentrating on breathing through his nose and not gagging.  "Look at me." Al growled.

Seth's eyes opened, and Al could see the tears gathering at the corners from where he'd gagged at Al's cock.  But there was defiance in those eyes as well, like he was to overcome a challenge before him and he would not balk.

Beautiful.

Then Al grabbed Seth's hair and face fucked him.

"There's someone-hmmm...in camp.  Someone needs watching. Someone you're to stay away from."  Bullock tried to pull away, but his own bondage, and Al's hands in his hair kept him in place.  "This person does not involve you, nor you them, do you understand?" I don't want-did I tell you to look away from me?- I don't want you to get...hurt."

Bullock grumbled something unintelligible that made Al's cock vibrate deliciously.  "Don't talk with your mouth full." Al snapped, driving in so deep with his next thrust he heard Bullock choke.

"There's a game being played right now, right fucking now as I fucking use your mouth.  They think I don't know about it, but I do, and I've got -you look at me when I'm talkin', I'm not gonna tell you again."  Al's hand tightened around Bullock's hair and the other man's eyes narrowed in pain, staring back at him furiously.

From the grip on his hair, and the noose around his neck, Seth was angled perfectly for Al to watch Seth watching him.  It was a game, a mind game, a show of Al's power over him. Seth was looking up at him, his eyes locked on Al's, breathing hard through his nose as his throat struggled to accommodate Al's girth.

Below them, Al could see that Seth's boner hadn't flagged whatsoever.

"That's better.  I've got machinations of my own, you know.  Of course you fucking know.  Tolliver can't win this and he knows it, the cocksucker, so he thinks to head it off with kind words and luxurious sentiments. "

Al slowed his tempo a bit, moving much slower, and let Seth regain his breath a little.

He was thrusting into the younger man's mouth lazily now, and Seth's fiery eyes were still on him, watching him like the good little boy he was.

There was a tickle on Al's cock head that trailed down his shaft, a wet tickle, unpredictable, and Al shuddered, thrusting in with a groan.  Seth's tongue was playing with him inside his mouth.  

Ever the interesting man, Bullock.

Al let Seth play with him for a bit, delighting at the other's participation, before he grew too worked up and began thrusting in and out viciously again, making the other man choke.

When Seth began to gag in earnest at Al's cock, the contracting sensation initiated the rapid spiral into orgasm and Al pulled out fast before he could spend himself.

Seth coughed, falling back onto his knees as much as the bondage would allow, his chest heaving and tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Up, stand up."  Al fumbled for the words as his orgasm receded and he pulled Seth to his feet by his elbow.  When had his own breathing got so ragged?

"Don't think..I've ever gotten that much satisfaction out of...gettin' my cock sucked before."  Al panted out as he pushed Seth back against the desk again.

Seth was so hard that his cock was weeping.

Al reached beside him and fumbled the tin of oil.

"Liked it that much, huh?"  Al teased as he stuck his fingers in the stuff, got a good gob of it, and then began slathering copious amounts on his member, which was still wet from Seth's mouth.  "That get you off, Bullock? Choking on my cock?"

"Shut up."  Seth managed, his voice hoarse.

Al lined up and entered without preparation, burying himself to the balls in Seth's insides.

Seth's groan sounded more pleasure than pain, and Al returned the sentiment, unable to help himself.

" Fuuuck ."  Seth groaned, though whether in pain of pleasure it was unclear.  The younger man's body was slick with sweat, and Al moved greedy hands to clutch at his hips.

"Don't gotta tell me twice."

Al hammered into Seth so hard that his desk shook with the force of his thrusts.  The younger man's body was so hot and tight and perfect, it nearly took Al's breath away.

Seth's cries filled the room with each thrust, and Al slapped a hand over it to muffle the sounds.

His other hand found Seth's weeping cock and stroked rapidly, milking it with a firm grip.

Seth undulated, trying to meet his thrusts, likely choking himself with the noose.  His cries were embarrassingly wanton under Al's hand. He's so lost to me.

Al couldn't see Seth's face from his position, but he could see the red tint of his neck and chest due to lack of oxygen.

And I to fuckin' him, God help me.

With a strangled shout, Seth came, his seed spilling from him onto his stomach in clear ropes.  He tightened involuntarily, his muscles spasming, and Al's eyes rolled up briefly at the clamping feeling around his cock.

Al followed came after a few more thrusts, nearly seeing stars.  He'd needed this, whatever this was between them.  

He pulled out of Seth and wiped himself off with an offhand rag from his desk, his heart beating like he'd just run a mile.

Always think I'm gonna have a heart attack after this.

The knife he pulled from his drawer cut the ropes around Seth's neck with careful precision.

The other man sucked in a long, deep breath, and when the rope fell away, Al could tell there would be bruising.  A bright red line looked seared into his flesh, wrapping around the circumference of his neck.

"Do you mind?"

Seth was looking at him, an eyebrow raised.

Al turned Seth to the side and cut away the ropes around his wrists, then did for the tie as well.

Once both men were decently cleaned up and dressed, there was a brief moment of awkward pause.

"Should I leave first?"  Seth's expression was uncharacteristically shy, as if he felt extremely out of place at the moment.  The term 'cute' could be applied very loosely.  

Al deliberated.  

"Probably for the best."  He said finally. "I'll be down soon after."

It felt like the walk of shame from some nights ago, all over again.

Only this time, the Gem was still packed and the night was still early, though dark had fallen outside.

Dority greeted Seth as he approached the bar with a nod and a raised eyebrow.

"Meeting went well?"  The cigar in his fingers smoldered as he took a hit from it.

"Just pour me a whisky."  Seth sighed, running a hand across the back of his neck.

The bigger man obliged, pulling out a shot glass and filling it to the brim with amber liquid, then slid it across to Seth. 

Seth took it, letting out the sour breath in a long exhale.

Someone whooped loudly in the crowd somewhere, and a woman shrieked in laughter from somewhere else, but Seth didn't care.  He felt boneless and tired, practically ready for bed already. He wanted to talk to Al one last time before he left, however.  

He needed to know more about the man Al had been following.

"He comin' down?"  Dority asked, pouring Seth another shot.  

"Yeah, he's coming down in a bit."  Seth gave the other man a pointed look, which Dority must have read, for he didn't push the subject anymore.

"Need to ask him a question about-"

"Mr. Bullock."  Seth turned to see who had addressed him.

The man was tall, taller than Seth by a couple of inches.

His presence was not particularly intimidating, and his eyes were a dark abyss of thought, but the man permeated quiet power.  

"Can I help you?"  Seth asked, slightly confused as to how this man knew his name.

"Yes, I was hoping you could."  The man said, his voice calm. "I had heard that you had picked up a position of power as the new local sheriff."

The room was suddenly too hot.

"Your source is wrong.  I've done no such thing."

"Then this town has no sheriff?  No law to call upon when there is trouble?"  The man asked. His question was innocent enough, yet his tone seemed...questioning, condemning, even.

"It would seem that way."  Seth ground out.

"That's rather savage isn't it?"

"What business is it of yours?"  Dority asked gruffly from behind the bar.

"Not my business, sir.  My employer's. He's got concerns of security and order about the camp.  Safety is a great concern for him."

"Well, you best tell 'your employer', to hustle on down the fuckin' road if he's got such fuckin' concerns ."

"I would not deem that course of action prudent nor allocated."  The man replied, seeming completely unperturbed. "If you, Mr. Bullock, are not the sheriff, may I ask after the sheriff's badge you carry on your person?"

"Who are you?"  Seth asked, ready to pummel this man into the beer soaked floorboards.  How had he known?

The man gave Seth a small smile, like he was indulging someone.  "My name, is Francis Wolcott."

Chapter Text

"You have the look of both predator and prey, Mr. Bullock.  Has anyone ever told you that?"  This man… Wolcott , was eyeing Seth without trepidation, his eyes hungry and lean.  His dark gaze trailed down Seth's throat, and Seth knew his own collar hid the markings from the rope that had choked him just moments ago, but under this stranger's examinings, he felt exposed, naked.

Adams's voice in the quiet room , 'I think he's dangerous.'

"Don't believe it's ever come up in civilized conversation, no."  Seth said, his fingers tightening around the empty shot glass he still held in his right hand.  He briefly weighed the option of breaking it against the gentleman's face.  

How good would it feel to see it shatter against his skull?

"I wouldn't have guessed you'd had many civilized conversations,"  Wolcott glanced pointedly at Seth's damaged and bruised knuckles, then back at his face, his eyes shining.

"Maybe you'd like to find out?"  Seth suggested with a snarl, turning to face Wolcott fully, shot glass in hand.

"Get out."  

Swearengen's voice cut through the red cloud, filling it up with vindication instead.  He looked back at the stairs, they all did, and the older man was climbing down the landing, prowling like an old tom coming to school the smaller strays.

Al's expression was neutral, like he hadn't seen Dority's hand slide under the bar to grip the sawed off slugger hidden there. 

"You heard 'im."  Dority growled, furious eyes on Wolcott.  "Git."

"I was talking to Bullock."

The slow approach of the bar owner was tall, dignified, and when Seth opened his mouth to argue, the look in Al's eyes made him shut it again.

Seth tried not to let the hurt show, just shoved it somewhere deep down underneath all the rapidly rising anger and whirled about, his cloak snapping.  

Seth could feel their eyes burning upon his back, but he was striding away from the potential catastrophe, outdistancing the rowdy patrons, the bawdy piano, and most importantly, the owner and the newcomer.

The thoroughfare was crowded, mostly with drunkards and returning mining groups.

Seth moved mechanically, putting one foot in front of the other, weaving in and out of foot traffic as his mind worked.

The man...Wolcott...he was someone important.  Or rather, he worked for someone important.

This messenger was important enough for Al to have Adams tail him, and Wolcott seemed to be confident enough in his own position in the face of danger to be downright insulting.

Asking about the sheriff badge...who does he think he is?

Something was happening here, and Al was trying to keep it from him.  The thought infuriated him; confused him. 

When he reached the hardware store Seth called out, checking to see if Sol was there, if he would answer, but there was no reply.  A lantern was burning low on the table closest to the door, enticing dim shadows to come out and dance away from the flickering flame.

Sol was seemingly gone for the evening, probably out with Trixie, and an image of Al flashed through his mind.

Rage bubbled up, rage at being dismissed, at being in the dark, at his loss of control, and he punched the wood in front of him hard enough to split his knuckles.

"What are you doing here?"

And why are you interrupting my time with the Sheriff in denial?

"I'm here to get a general sense of the place."  Wolcott answered, looking around at the inside of Al's saloon.

The bar was full, patrons and miners alike, drinking and laughing.  The piano man, a bawdy fellow by the name of Buck who could be called anything but handsome, was playing 'The Ring Dang Doo' , and a man on the right side of the monstrous musical instrument was swinging his mug side to side in rhythm, spilling his beer everywhere.

Wolcott seemed unimpressed as his eyes came to rest back on Al's.  "Tolliver said that you were 'competition'.  I wanted to see what the competitor had to offer that the Bella Union didn't."

"Cheaper whores, and cheaper whisky,"  Al said.  He gestured to Dan.  "And the finest bartender a man could ask for."

"Cheap or low?  Bartender or thug?"  Wolcott said; it was not a question, more of a ponderous thought said aloud.

"Why not both?"  Al asked, one eyebrow raised, allowing an accommodating smile to mask the growing ire inside. 

Cocksucker's needling.

"It seems to me a man needs both these days."  Wolcott replied, eyeing Dan with casual nonchalance.

"Al."  A familiar voice said from his left, and Al turned.  Johnny fuckin' Burns.

"Do you mind?"  Al asked in an admonishing tone.  "I'm trying to have a fucking conversation here."  

Johnny's eyes flicked to Wolcott, who was studying his glass, then back to Al.

"It's about our talk from earlier.  Ya know...with Adams."

"Alright,"  Al sighed.  "What is it?"  

Johnny leaned forward and murmured into Al's ear.

It was a struggle to keep his expression neutral as Johnny's lips moved, and not to laugh and point at Wolcott and say, 'Ha!  I knew it!  You're everything I was warned about, you cocksucker!' .

Al motioned to Dan with a flick of his fingers, and the man grumbled a bit before pulling out the good stuff he kept behind the bar for special occasions.  Johnny moved away, his eyes reluctantly reading the weather on Al's face before he fled out of sight down the hall.

"Everything alright?"  Wolcott asked.  His tone was innocent, but Al knew fishing when he heard it.

"Just some friend from a long ways back has finally found his way into town again."  Al divulged.  No sense in lying, not really.  "I'll see him soon, I imagine."

"It's always nice to see old friends."  Wolcott gave Al a small smile, almost lazy with its obstinance given what Al now knew.

"Mountain Howitzer."  Wolcott read aloud, seeing the red painted label of the whisky Dan had put down.  "Is it local?"

"Local enough."

Shitheel.

Dan doled out the shots, and both men took one, Al's hand on the glass a little tighter than necessary.

"You seem a bit put out, Mr. Swearengen.  Have I done something to offend you?"  Wolcott was looking at his drink rather than Al.  

Al swallowed the shot, knocking it back with a quick, easy motion and watched the other man do the same as fire ran down into his gut.

"No, Mr. Wolcott, you have done nothing of the kind.  In fact I'm honestly worried it's me who has offended you.  You and your... employer."

"With what, pray tell?"

"Not being more wary of past friends, nor more protective of future ones."

When Wolcott only stared, Al said, "I received word you had been accosted by one Jimmy Tanner."

"Was that his name?"  Wolcott asked, seemingly unperturbed at being caught out.  "I admit that I was stopped by a rather rugged sort of fellow further down by China Alley.  He seemed confused as to what his purpose here was.  I helped him in that regard."

"His purpose?"  Al asked, nonplussed.

"His purpose was to usurp your position as head of this...establishment, through perceived past wrongs."

"This is fuckin' news to me."  Al muttered and motioned for another round.

Dan poured obediently, and moved down the bar to serve a group of others, his eyes glancing back suspiciously every now and then.

"I have to say, you don't seem too upset at the recent news having been laid in your lap."  Wolcott stated, studying Al with those unnerving, endless eyes of his.

"Worry seems to do a fellow no good when his problems are solved without his meddlin'."  Al replied.

Wolcott seemed to accept this answer, and poured for the two of them again from the bottle.  "How do you find yourself getting along at our fine little camp?"

Wolcott sniffed, moving to finger his glass, pensive.  "It isn't quite there yet.  It lacks a certain refinement, but it is not without its own... charm ."  The word was almost purred, leaving Al to only guess at what the hidden joke was.

"And what would you say it was lacking, Mr. Wolcott?"  Humor me, you creepy fucking asshole.

"Discipline."

Days passed uneventfully; no news reported, no drama unfolding.

For Seth, they passed slowly.

The sheriff badge he kept sequestered away in his inner right pocket hung as heavy as a rock, and as things seemed to be at some sort of a standstill in camp, the subject of when he-- no longer an 'if '--would step up and play his role weighed heavily in his mind.

Sol seemed to understand, and was giving him space, but the air was thick with unnamed tension and Seth began patrolling late at night, walking aimlessly to clear his head.

'It was necessary', was the lie he told himself to ease the weight of the sheriff's badge; his burden, his curse.

Swearengen was an ever-dark cloud when he stood atop his terrace, brooding and staring down at them all.

His deep gaze would always find Seth, and Seth would flush, both at memories and the recent anger of being brushed off as if he were a child.

His wrath had kept him away from the Gem lately, away from Al's whispered eroticism in a locked office, away from their uneasy truce.

It was anger, mainly.  Perhaps a small dose of pride, as well.

'It was necessary', was the lie that seemed to be on repeat.

Whatever the case, Al's mood seemed to envelope the camp with the arrival of the mysterious Wolcott, who since their encounter in the Gem days ago, Seth had seen very little of.

When he had seen the man, he'd always been in the company of Tolliver, the other man's disconcerting stare already upon Seth.

It gave Seth the creeps.

This morning had opened up gray and dismal, thunderbolts threatening violence, and Seth thought if it rained much more here, it'd flush all the filth and vermin downstream and away.

Perhaps for the better.

"Alright there, Mr. Bullock?"

Charlie's friendly voice drifted into his ear from the right.

"Alright enough."  Seth's reply felt natural, relaxed.

Charlie was a comforting presence, something tangible there that he had never quite been able to bring into words.

"Don't look so alright, 'scuse my meanin'."

Seth snorted.

The other man came to stand beside him as Seth leaned against the wall of the hardware store, one foot propped against the wall to make it comfortable.

Passerbys ignored the two as they shuffled past through the mud and muck, the small din of rain almost muffling the sound of their footsteps and wagon wheels.

Al's perch above the Gem was blessedly empty, the rain likely keeping him inside.

"Is it the new arrival?"

"Wolcott?"  Seth asked in a dull voice.

"Yeah, the wolf in sheepskin."

Seth grinned a little, glancing at Charlie, then back out at the foot traffic.  "I take it you don't like him too much?"

"He's a creep, that's for sure."  Charlie muttered, then, "I've heard stories about him from a certain lady friend, works over there at that new joint, the Chez Ami."

Seth frowned in disgust.  "Charlie, I don't wanna hear about his-"

"It's not like that."  The older man waved a flippant hand.  "It's more disturbing than sexual, from what I've heard.  He likes to...abuse his women."

Seth's eyes narrowed.  "How so?"

"Hits them, berates them, among other things."

"Unless someone puts in a complaint, nobody can do anything about what he does with a woman after he's paid for her."

"I've heard other stories, some about San Francisco and things he's done there -".

Seth turned to face Charlie now, and the man's look was weathered and worn.

"There ain't a sheriff, Charlie."  Seth said, and as he spoke, the badge seemed to heat up, as though it was burning in his pocket.  "And unless there's some kind of poll, there won't be one."

"Why can't you just put it on?"  Charlie said, and his words were like gunfire in Seth's ears.  "You already do everything the sheriff would do."

"I-I'm not...it's not for-"  Seth trailed off, unsure of what to say.  Charlie met his eyes.

"You are the right person."

"No."  Seth looked away, watching the rain puddle on the thoroughfare. 

"You saw how that fiasco with Stapleton went.  Who else is there?"

"You."  Seth managed.  "You could do it with...Jane."

Charlie barked out a laugh.  " Jane?   We know the same Jane, right?"

Thunder sounded close, booming in a sharp crack and making a nearby horse whinny in distress.

"I'd be your partner."  Charlie suggested after some time, and Seth's eyes snapped to his.  "If'n you was thinkin' about goin' down that road."

Seth pondered this, seeming to take Charlie in for the first time, seeing him as more for this first time.

He'd saved Seth's life on the highway.  He wasn't about to forget something like that.

"I'll think about it."

Jane came wandering across the thoroughfare, splattering great gouts of water and mud in all directions as she came stomping in.  A few people passing by gave her disgusted looks, but she seemed not to notice.

There was a bottle of whisky in her left hand, and her right was extended outwards like she could pull on the wind to adjust herself.

"There you are, Charlie."  She slurred.  She didn't come in from the rain, instead staying out of the shelter of the porch and standing in a rather impressive puddle.

"Jane, come in from out there, it's pouring out."  Charlie admonished, looking exasperated.

"Ain't nothing pourin' but this whiskey, you downer asshole.  Quit tellin' me how to live my life.  If I's wantin' a nanny, I'd goddamned get one."

"Maybe if you weren't so filthy, you could sleep somewhere other than the livery."

"I don't need nowhere else ta sleep."  Jane crowed.  "I got all the comforts a beautiful southern Belle such as myself would ever need with them mules."

A man was approaching from the left, shoulders hunched against the rain and choosing his steps carefully.  His face was obscured by the shadow of his hat, and Seth watched warily.

"Mr. Bullock."  The man's voice was familiar, soft, and cut through the din of noise.

Everyone's attention swiveled to the approaching stranger, and as he stepped under the porch and moved into the light, Seth recognized him.

Trepidation creeped in like a stranger, making his stomach cramp.

"Mr. Wolcott."  Seth managed politely.

Charlie nodded his head in greeting as well.

"Who the fucks this pansy?'  Jane blurted out, and Seth's face twitched with the effort to hide his smile.

"Alright, Jane."  Charlie said, and moved forward into the rain to take her in arm.  She let him, although she hissed and spat like a crazed cat as she was tugged away down the thoroughfare.

Wolcott watched them go, but Seth studied the dark haired man, tension roiling in his arms.

Al's words to stay away rang faintly in his ears, but he was heedless in his curiosity. 

"You have a quaint town here, Mr. Bullock."

The water dripped from Wolcott's coat to pool onto the wooden porch of the hardware store.

"It's nice enough."  Seth stated carefully.  

"It seems to me the town is directionless, however.  Floundering in the mud.  Bloated, swollen and teeming with character ."  Wolcott looks out on the thoroughfare as he talks, faint disgust evident by a slight sneer.

"The people get by alright."  Seth said, disturbed.  His eyes haven't left the man as Wolcott turns back to face him.  "If it gets larger, it will need some sort of government official, but I don't think it's quite there yet."

"And what about the crime?  What is your opinion on that? "  Wolcott asked in a soft voice, and Seth loathed the way the man's eyes darted to the pocket in Seth's jacket before flickering up to meet Seth's eyes, faint amusement etched into the crinkle of his eyebrows, a slight smirk on his thin lips.

"The people.  Get by.  Alright."  Seth growled, though he knew the truth, and it only burned him worse.

"Is that so?"  Wolcott asked.  "Just the other night I found myself accosted by someone who sought to ruin the reputation of someone we both know.  He thought to bribe me."

Seth's muscles went rigid at the implication.

Who all had Wolcott met?  Who could have accosted him, and what had been the bribe?  Why ruin someone they knew?

"Wanna tell me a little more about this?"  Seth asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Wolcott hummed as if there was some joke, a small smile on his lips.

"Why would that be your business?"  He asked, and Seth felt fire ripple up his back and across his neck to his scalp, making him break out into a sweat, despite the cool temperature.  "That's not for someone like you.  That would be a task for the sheriff, which you are not."

Wolcott's voice had gone soft, and Seth's shakes with barely restrained fury when he grinds out, "Who do you think you are?"

"A representative."

"Of who?"

"George Hearst."

This could mean a whole lot of things.

Thunder cracked in the distance, fat droplets of metal against the tin roof above them, and Seth could feel the weight of the dark haired man's stare, the mocking delight barely masked, but all he can think about is how Al had tried to keep this from him.

"Does this new information find you speechless, Mr. Bullock?"

A gust of wind blew Seth's duster back, making the fabric seem to vibrate against his skin.

"That name means nothing to me."

Wolcott smiled, a smile meant for children and slow-minded folk.  "Are you so ill informed?  My, my, and here I thought you were helping settle this town."  He tipped his hat, mocking.  "Give my regards to Mr. Swearengen, would you?  I hear you two are quite close."

The soft insinuation burned even as Wolcott twisted, dismissing Seth as a threat as he turned his back, his trenchant fanning out behind him, far more luxurious than an obvious slimeball like him deserved.

Seth moved without thinking.

He lunged, what little self control he held snapping like elastic over fire and he grabbed Wolcott's shoulder to turn him for the right hook.

Instead of turning the way Seth had planned however, Wolcott pivoted to the left, twisting faster than Seth had thought him capable, and a knife flashed from beneath his jacket, a left handed lightning quick swipe from down low towards Seth's stomach.

The blade was short but sharp as its point glinted off lantern light.  Seth moved back slightly and snatched the man's wrist, having had enough of being stabbed to last a lifetime.  He jammed the hand against his thigh, rendering it useless.

Wolcott went with a right handed blow, which Seth blocked with his forearm as they went to grapple one handed, Wolcott struggling to free his knife hand all the while.

The look in Wolcott's eyes was not one of fear, or even determination.

There was simply nothing there.

His eyes were black and soulless, his face wiped clean of any semblance of emotion save the clenching of his brow from strain on his muscles.

Seth would never admit it, would never say the words aloud, but this man frightened him.

He reared his head back and slammed his forehead into the other man's nose.

Blood sprayed, and with it, something like triumph.

The knife clattered to the porch floor and Wolcott shrank back, one hand coming up to clutch at his streaming nose, the other holding a defensive arm in front of him.

Seth advanced, ready to beat this man into the mud of the thoroughfare, fuck him for being so fucking—

There was a loud bang from the thoroughfare, and Seth hesitated.  Both men's heads turned to look up at the source of the sound.

Al stood on the balcony, a deep scowl across his face as the rain lashed him.  The terrace doors were blown open, no doubt causing the loud noise.

A small pit formed in Seth's stomach.

'This person does not involve you, nor you them, do you understand?'

Some of Seth's anger drained away in the wake of the memory and the look on Al's face.

He glanced back at Wolcott's bloody face, and the small smile he saw on those lips made Bullock take two strides forward, intent on wiping it off his face.

"Bullock!"  Al's voice made him freeze, his boots stomping harshly as he came to a stop.

Seth couldn't help glancing up at the balcony, livid at being called to heel like he was some dog.

Al's face was downright scary with promise and Seth swallowed back whatever he was going to say.

He looked back at the slimeball on his porch and his stomach bottomed out at the smile on Wolcott's face as he gazed at Seth with a sort of wonder, as if he realized something important, as if he had connected the dots between some great revelation.

"Mr. Bullock, your master seems to be reigning you in."  Wolcott called in that soft tone of his.  Despite the way he was staunching the flow of blood from his nose with one hand, Wolcott managed to look condescending.  "Better do as he says, lest you get the lash."

Seth started forward again, his own heart pounding in his ears, heedless of Al's warning that rang out again.

He strode forward, feeling the fire fill up his arm and lower back, making him break out in a light sweat.

Wolcott watched him approach, his face faintly smug, standing brazen and open.

Seth reared his fist back, but someone grabbed his arm from behind, stopping the motion before it could be completed, and a familiar voice called, "Seth."

Seth looked back, feeling slightly wild and uncontrolled to see Sol standing there, a pleading look on his face.

"He's not worth it, and you know it."  Sol murmured so only Seth could hear.  "He's trying to get to you and you're letting him."

"Sol, you need to get away from me."  Seth managed between clenched teeth.  He was shaking in the other man's grasp, his breath coming fast.

"Seth, you'd do a disservice to all of us, not just him."

Seth stared into Sol's concerned eyes, knowing his partner meant well, knowing he needed to stop.

He ripped his arm out of Sol's grip, and instead of continuing his assault on the Wolcott cocksucker, he turned and marched out of the shelter of the porch and into the pouring rain.

He was aware of the staring, of the people that had stopped to look, despite the weather.  Of the eyes of three men on his back.

He should've been embarrassed, should've been concerned for the way it made him look, but all he could see were Wolcott's eyes, sparkling with some forbidden discovery.

'I hear you two are quite close.'

What did that mean?  Had it been a threat?

Did he know?

He turned a corner, vanishing from their line of sight and strode down China Alley, passing foreigners working in the rain and livestock milling about as their owners collected various things.

He marched straight past several  buildings and stepped into an abandoned alley, sagging against a wall once he was out of view from strangers.

He stared up at the sky, cold rain lashing against his fevered skin, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Then he grit his teeth, stood, and drove his fists into the wooden wall in front of him, over and over and over.  

The knuckles of his hands split, blood smearing the timber until he couldn't feel anything anymore.

The rain subsided the following night, leaving gray clouds hovering overhead as if tempting to drown them in even more misery.

The crickets sang their last autumn song outside of her window, and as Joanie reapplied the Rouge she kept in her vanity, there came a knock at her door.

She continued what she was doing, and pursed her lips, moving her head from side to side to examine her work.

Perfect.

A woman had to look as good as her price, and she was the master here.  Priceless.

She returned the Rouge to its spot and stood, her skirts whirling about her as she maneuvered around it and making sure her outfit was straight.

Then she turned and opened the door.

Maddie stood wreathed in the lantern light, a cat with the canary smile on her face.

"He's here again."

Joanie cocked her head.  "So soon?"

Maddie smirked.  "Seems he can't get enough of her."

"Of her ."  Joanie all but snarled.

Maddie raised one eyebrow.  "Such emotions look dour on pretty faces, dear.  It wouldn't do to ruin such a visage so soon."

Joanie schooled her expression, letting the anger flow away and down some hole inside of her.

Wolcott thought he was untouchable, and as their benefactor he was, in a manner of speaking.  

Maddie would be cross should her prize bull suddenly up and die on her, but Joanie wouldn't think twice.  She already had the space she needed, free of Cy's meddling claws and elegant as it was, it seemed to be exactly the way she'd dreamed it.

What did she need him for?

And why did he rile her up so bad?

"Has he seen to her?"

"He's doing as such now."

Joanie frowned.  "Has she spoken of any sort of…grievances?"

Maddie pursed her lips.  "Such as?"

"A broken bra strap, or a candle burn, anything that might have aroused her concern?" 

She doesn't seem to have any cause for complaint."  Maddie smiled tightly.  "At least, not from what I've heard in passing.  Although, she has commented that he seems to be quite… reserved. "

Joanie hummed, and strode past the older woman into the main room, where everyone was currently facing the wall, which made her eyes roll.

"Back to your rooms."  Joanie ordered.  "Come out when he's gone."

The girls moved to do so, collecting themselves from where their noses had been buried in the wall, their backs stiff and rigid with indignation.  

She felt she could sympathize.  She never was good at being ordered around herself.  

Each of the courtesans' doors closed once they'd all gathered the remainder of their clothing, and Joanie turned back around to gather loose blankets and re fluff pillows that had been creased by body weight.

If someone were to walk in now, she might snap.

The door behind her opened, and she turned in time to see the star of the show herself, leaving the bedroom fully clothed. 

Joanie noticed her face seemed a bit flushed when she turned to close the door behind her.

She twisted, and upon seeing Joanie standing there let out a brief gasp of fright while clutching her chest.

How dramatic.

"Landsakes, Miss Joanie, givin' me the scare like that."

"He still in there?"  Joanie asked, unable to help herself.

"He's collecting himself now."  She glanced at the door while she hurried over, and in a low voice, whispered, "He's always been a quick one.  But this time…something got him riled up before.  He was already randy."

Joanie felt something akin to triumph rush through her.  "Was he?"  She heard herself say distantly.

"Yes, although he wouldn't look me in the eyes.  Must've been thinkin' of someone else.  It's happened before."  Carrie sighed and combed her bangs with her fingers.  "Maybe it's about time I finally moved on."

Joanie's breath hitched.  "I don't think–"

She cut herself off at Maddie clearing her throat behind them and then the door opened, and the dark haired bastard strode out, examining the room as if he expected to find the other women still idling about for him.

He was well dressed as always, although his nose seemed to have taken a punch at some point in the last day or so.

Good for them.

"Mr. W, are you finding your visit satisfactory?"  Maddie called, her voice professional and polite.

"Oh yes, very much so."  His eyes swept around the room and found Joanie's, the hidden malice in them making her suppress a shiver.  

Then he looked at Carrie and his gaze softened a bit.

He strode forward and took her hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing it like a gentleman, even though all Joanie saw was a snake in a suit.

He smiled at Carrie.  "Until next time, dear."

He turned about, not so much as acknowledging the two others in the room, and left, the door swinging shut behind his boots with a soft chime.

"What a detestable man."  Joanie muttered.

Carrie hummed beside her.  "Something's off."

The night was frustrating. 

Something was going on here and he knew it.  Could smell the blood in the air like a shark in water, like a fly can smell the stink of shit.

The only question was where it was going to come from.

On one hand he had Tolliver in obvious league with this Wolcott cocksucker.  That pair was the kindling for disaster, the recipe for his own fucking downfall and he was gonna make damn sure that nothing came of it.  

They were taking over Chink Alley, moving in, acquiring property, hustling fucking Chinese out of their own homes and businesses.  Fucking up the general order of things, and that he couldn't abide.

On another road he had these Yankton cocksuckers to worry about, moving to discredit everything every fucker here has worked for since the beginning, everything he had worked for since the beginning.

The fight spoiling between Bullock and Wolcott night before last was a train wreck.  If not for the respect he'd earned privately, Al was sure it would have led to far worse.  The look in Seth's eyes had been positively murderous, a look Al had thought had only ever been reserved for himself.

Seth Bullock.

Al would be lying to himself if he said the man was just a good fuck.  

It made him frown.

What had the Wolcott bastard said to him?  Bullock wasn't normally hard pressed to snap patience, but something had lit this particular fire early on.  A previous run-in, perhaps?  

He hadn't seen the younger man since the incident had occurred.

Around his cigar, Al cursed, blowing out puffs of smoke.

This was turning into an absolute nightmare.  

The best view comes after the hardest climb, or so he'd heard once but fuck the climb and fuck the damn view.

He wanted what was his dammit.  Nothing more and he would never accept any less.

He'd have to punish Bullock when he got his hands on him next.  He'd warned the cocksucker to stay away from the man.  A broken rule deserved swift punishment, much as he'd deliberated as to how to bring the young sheriff to be in for said action.

The man had all but disappeared.

Adams continued to bring reports on Wolcott, which presented no current angles of action.  The guy was clean as a whistle.  For now.

Al was dead in the water, doomed to wait on another event he could circumvent and twist to his own benefit.

And he fucking hated it.

He puffed his cigar as his thinking slowed.

Dority, however, could always be relied on to make a good stir of things.

It was night when Seth arrived back at the hardware store.

The past two days had been hard.

Since he'd gotten into the scuffle with Wolcott, he'd distanced himself from everyone.  Only doing the bare minimum for the hardware store, not patrolling as was his want, ducking Al's gaze from the Gem when he had to.

He was still furious.  Still seething with anger that seemed so deep he wouldn't be rid of it.  It pulsed under his veins like some live thing, ready to bite at anyone that drew too close.

Wolcott's smugness.  Al's dismissal.  The way the other man had hinted at… things .

There were answers to these things, answers like his fists or a knife in the gut, but if he turned himself loose, wouldn't that make him less than they?  

So he confined himself, only to come out under express necessity.

The badge he kept on his dresser next to his bed, the better to look at it and remind himself how he wasn't worth it.

He needed to let loose.  He needed to-

No.

He wouldn't.

Al had dismissed him.

He wouldn't let himself run back to him like some…some woman.

He held onto his anger through the night, lying in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, until he finally sat up and wrenched the covers off.

The wood was cold underfoot, but he slipped into a thin white shirt and donned his pants and boots with his gun belt and hat.

He didn't really feel up to keeping quiet on his way down the stairs, his boots clunking on the wooden steps, until he opened the side door, and twisted the lock behind him.

The night was dark.  

Judging by the moon it was nigh on midnight, and many people were already sequestered away in their own tents and beds.

Seth stole away into the night like a shadow, just walking to tire his mind, to try and soothe the wrath that seemed so keen on making him destroy his fists and some unfortunate's face.

He had just passed Charlie's new freight and postal business when he heard his name being called and mud squelched behind him.

He glanced back, and seeing Dority running to keep up, turned back around to face forward and kept marching.

"Bullock, wait up,"  the barkeep groaned.  "I got somethin' to tell you."

"Like what,"  Seth replied.  "No, wait. Lemme guess…Swearengen wants me in his office."

Dority caught up, his breath huffing only slightly.  "Uh, yeah.  Maybe throw a guy a bone and make it easy this time?"

Seth gave him a sideways glance as he marched.  Dority returned it with a slightly pleading look.  "Much as I enjoy hauling your body all over the camp, it makes for poor fuckin' decor or some shit."

Seth frowned, but came to a stop as he stared at the muddy tracks in the thoroughfare.

Now Al wanted to see him.

Did Seth want to see Al, though?  The way he was feeling, he wasn't exactly feeling up for submission .

"What did he want?"  Seth managed, his teeth seeming intent on wanting to lock up.

Dority shrugged his big shoulders.  "Something about someone big comin' to the camp.  Saw you out and about and figured you wouldn't wanna be left in the dark."

Seth's eyes flicked up and stared at the man, his thoughts racing, trying to figure out if this was some kind of trap.

"And that's it?"  Seth questioned.

Dority raised an insolent eyebrow.  "Well he did have some prospects on the man Adams was tailing.  That Wolcott fella."  

Seth couldn't help the snarl that leapt to his face.  

"That cocksucker's gonna get what's coming to him."  Seth growled, baring his teeth.  "If he crosses me again-"

"That's part of what Al wants to talk about as well I reckon."  Dority admits.  "None of us like the bastard anymore than you do.  Al wants him gone.  'Specially since he's in Tolliver's pocket."

Seth sighed, then scratched the back of his head and threw out an exasperated arm.  "Fine.  Fuckin' lead the way, I suppose."

The Gem wasn't crowded but there were some stragglers here and there.

A couple of whores who seemed as laden with drink as their male customer counterparts sat at a square table.  Nobody was playing the piano for once since the damn thing had been put in, and the silence was filled with clinking cups where Johnny Burns was washing up.

The man tipped his head as they walked in, that perpetual fool's smile on his face.

Seth glared as he walked by, silently daring the man to stare any longer, and the younger man looked away, shame faced.

Dority followed him up the stairs and down the landing, both of their boots a seeming cacophony of noise on the otherwise quiet second floor.

When he reached the door, Seth knocked bruised knuckles upon it, and heard the familiar, "Come in."

Seth swung the door open, his face struggling to become a mask, to not let anything inside show as he stepped into the office.

Al was at his desk, seated and reading over what looked to be the day's paper.  A shot glass and a bottle of whisky sat on the corner of the desk to his right 

He looked good, and dressed as he was in his dark suit, the man looked about as put out as Seth felt.

He glanced up as the two of them stepped inside, and gestured for Dority to close the door, then waved a hand for Seth to take a seat in front of him.

Seth glanced at Dority, suspicious, but sat himself nonetheless.

Al resumed reading, and Seth let out a short breath as irritation bubbled up.

He counted to thirty in his head, and when nothing was said, began to drum his fingertips across his thigh.

Patience was not something he was good at.

"You had your man fetch me."  Seth began, tilting his head.

Al ignored him, his eyes moving back and forth across the newspaper like nothing had been said. 

Seth's jaw clenched, but he held his tongue.

He glanced about the room, fingers moving all the while in a rhythmic pattern.  He examined everything, from the double doors that led to a bedroom down to the wood that had been used to build the place.

The blood stain that used to reside on the floor where he sat now had all but faded away, no doubt thanks to diligent scrubbing and the shoes of visitors.

"I do believe we had some things to discuss, you and I."  Al said finally, after an indeterminable amount of time.

"About that fucker from San Francisco?"

"Among other things."

"What other things?"  Seth frowned even deeper.

"You."  He looked up from his paper, meeting Seth's eyes for the first time and he was startled to see the rage there, how his gray eyes were nearly black with concealed violence.

Then he glanced behind Seth, and there was the sound of a floorboard creaking.

Before he could turn around, Seth's right temple exploded with agony.

Somehow he found himself on his hands and knees, hat knocked off and panting.  It was a miracle his head missed the desk corner.

His vision swam, bleeding in stripes of black and color, and he managed to spit, "You fucking- "

And then a fist crashed into the back of his head and he went down.

He awoke some time later, swimming up from black, his head pounding.

He sucked in a sharp breath and opened his eyes slowly, squinting around the room.  After a few moments his eyes adjusted to the lighting and he blinked as he realized he was still in Al's office.

He seemed to be almost upside down, his head tilting at an odd angle.  His head was resting on some kind of soft surface that smelled of Al, likely a pillow, but he was standing, that much he was sure of.  

He struggled, realizing his arms were bound apart down in front of him, fingers brushing the floor, and his ankles were tied in place, unmoveable.

'I'm draped over the back of a chair.' , he realized, flushing at his exposure.  His back, rear and legs were completely prostrate, forced to stretch to accommodate the position.

His clothes were gone, and he was exposed to the night air, though the room seemed quite warm so he didn't find himself shivering. 

A floorboard creaking behind him made him start.

"Finally, you're awake.  Thought Dan might have put you in a coma.  Bullock, I still find you wanting, and as for such I can't make any great claims as to why other than my own failure."  Seth turned his head to locate the source of Swearengen's voice from behind, but could see nothing.

"Let me go, you sadistic fu- ah!"   Something stinging laid across his exposed behind, and he jolted forward in more surprise than anything.

"How many times have I had to tell you to watch your mouth, boy, hm?"  Al's voice was low and threatening, though seeming flat and devoid of actual emotion.  "Seems you're a slow learner, is that another lesson we need to learn here as well?"

"Fuck you, you cocksucker."  Another hit from the object –Seth guessed it was the riding crop--but he was ready for it this time and didn't allow himself to flinch.

"Cocksucker, no that'd be you I believe."

Fingertips traced the outline of the marks on his ass, and Seth grit his teeth when nails dug in, dragging along the forming welts.

"So good at it, too."  Seth could feel his ears burn.  "Maybe I'll give you the chance, though I hardly think you've earned it."

Al leaned in, his shadow falling over Seth and a hot hand ran along the curvature of his back, petting and caressing, Seth struggled, trying to shake off the wandering fingers, not at all in the mood for Al's games.  Seth could see the man out of the corner of his eye once he turned his head to the right.

The older man's expression was positively mean.

"We've got two things to learn tonight, Seth.  And it's gonna be a hell of a lesson."  Al smirked down at him.

"Best get on with it then."  Seth snarled back as best he could from his position.

"If you only knew…"  Swearengen whispered in a tone that promised pain.

He stepped back and Seth didn't hear anything for some time.

Then, "Lesson number one, watch your fucking mouth around me."

The strike came as soon as he was done speaking, a thick hard whap across where Al had hit previously and Seth hissed in a breath.

The stinging wasn't intolerable, but he knew the pain would build as the blows rained down.  It was about taking the pain, relaxing, accepting it.  He'd done this before, he could do it again.

The office was quiet, save for the sound of the crop striking on his exposed flesh.

Al made sure to get his legs too; the tops of the thighs and the crease of his buttocks were given special treatment, and all Seth could do was clench his teeth and fists as the rage and pain built and built.

The steady pace of the whip seemed to drive all else from his mind, and he began to flinch just before each hit as it progressed. The stinging turned into a burning, the burning into a dull fire.

He would not let this break him.  He was stronger than this schoolboy punishment.

He lost count around thirty strikes, forgetting what number he was on and cursing inwardly.  

Slap!

Slap!

Slap!

He growled when Swearengen hit a particularly sore spot, and irritation rose at Al, himself, the crop, the man Wolcott, everything.

He struggled wildly, thrashing in his bondage, but all he managed to do was rock the chair a little.  It held him fast.  

Al waited for him to finish, and when Seth lay prone again against the chair, panting, he began the blows again.

Countless smacks followed, and Seth was unable to keep himself from squirming, the burning becoming too much for him to hold still.

Seth bit his lip, and then flinched when a sore spot on his left thigh was hit.

Then the spot was hit again and he had to draw blood to keep the scream from escaping.

His resolve began to waver when he felt hot tears slide down his cheeks.

The humiliation of it all burned almost as bad as his backside.

"Damn you,"  Seth muttered, his teeth still clenched.  His voice came out shaky despite himself.  "Damn you, you-you–"

"Finish that sentence, Bullock and you get to learn what a real punishment feels like."  Al's voice wasn't even tired at this point as he stopped.

And damned if Seth wasn't always the one to rise to a challenge.  "You f-fucking cocksucker."  He spat.

The next blow was so quick and hard that it momentarily took his breath away.

It was laid right across both cheeks, amidst a litany of other forming welts and bruises.  The weight of it was unlike all the ones before it; heavy handed, as if he'd been hit with a thorn bush rather than a riding crop.

His body jerked, and Seth tried to suck in a breath but it felt far away.

When he regained it, Swearengen was speaking.

"-finally get your attention.  And don't it break my fuckin' back to do so."  

The next landed in the same spot and Seth howled, his voice loud in the quietness of the office, pride shredded.

"Listen to that ."  The satisfaction in his voice was more than Seth could bear as Swearengen chuckled darkly.

The hit came again, this time across one of his thighs and Seth's breath caught on the sound he made, making it come out strangled.

"Think you can take five of those?"

Seth squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to answer, and another devastating smack hit him in the crease of the left buttock.  Seth howled again, squirming, the pain briefly short circuiting his brain.

"Or how about ten?"  Al suggested.  And Seth groaned in despair.

The crop tapped lightly against his ass and Seth jolted as if he'd been struck and cried, "Five!"

"Five, huh?"  There was a pause.  "Count 'em or they never happened."

The first hit when it came was already too much, and Seth bit his lip to hold down on the scream. 

"What was that?"  Al prompted.  "Didn't quite catch that."

There was a brief pause, as if Al was waiting for something, then the whistling of the crop, and another heavy smack had Seth crying out, "One!"

The saloon owner gave a hum of satisfaction.

The next three blows that Seth counted made him taste blood.

He could no longer hold himself back, couldn't find it in him to reign in his reactions.

"It come to you now?  Talking back ain't abided, Bullock, least not where I'm concerned."  

"Yes."  Seth breathed.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

Another hum of approval.  "Here comes the last one.  Count it with me now."

Seth couldn't help but tense as the sound of the crop whistled in the air.

When it hit, Seth's remaining pride tore free.  "Five!"  It came out as an embarrassing sob, high and broken.

He collapsed against the chair and his shoulders shook as tears streamed down his face.  He buried his face in the pillow and sobbed in his misery and his breaking.  His back end was on fire, his mind riding high on pain.

Something touched the marks on his ass and he yelped and jerked forward, bracing himself.

"Shhh, there there,"  Al soothed.  "You know we have another lesson, Seth."  

"No,"  Seth begged, his voice muffled by the pillow.  "No, please.  I'll be good.  I'll be good."

"Hush now."  Al commanded softly.

The desk drawer opening sounded far away, and Seth in his misery didn't understand until he could feel the cold oil against his entrance and sucked in a sharp breath.

"What did you learn already?"  Al asked.

At the breach of the first finger, Seth gasped at how easily it slid in, like his body was welcoming it.

"To…to watch my mouth…with you."  Seth twisted his head to the side, unable to sit still as the digit pushed in.  He squirmed, his fists opening and closing as a second was added.

"Good boy."  Al murmured like he was a dog, and Seth flushed at the praise.

The pair of fingers brushed against that nub inside of him and Seth cried out and bucked, his cock throbbing below him.

Oh, he was so very hard.

"Think you'll be forgetting anytime soon?"  

Seth bit his lower lip, a last ditch effort to retain control, and a sharp smack on his abused flesh made him shriek, tightening around the fingers inside of him.

"No!  No, no I'll remember, I'll remember."  Seth babbled, shame welling up.

Al hummed in satisfaction, moving his two fingers slowly in and out.

Every thrust brushed against his prostate, and before too long he was moving back against Al's hand, wanting more, needing more.

Desperate, embarrassing sounds left his lips and Al chuckled.

"Oh, Bullock,"  Al's voice sounded strained.  "If you could only see yourself now."

Seth had a sudden flash of his predicament from overhead; helpless and bound, struggling in his bonds, his legs and ass whipped raw, and bucking back against two single fingers that were driving him crazy.  He moaned.

Then the fingers retracted with a slightly cringing wet sound, and he whined, high and reedy.

"Patience is a virtue, Seth."  Al whispered, leaning in close.  His hot breath fanned over Seth's raw flesh.  "Lesson number two, is obey me."

Something hot and wet pressed against his hole, something strange and hot and flexible and-

Oh.

It breached him, passing through as easily as the oiled fingers had and he twitched.

"Fuck!"  Seth cried out at the sensation, and then yelped at the smack he received in response.  "Watch your fucking mouth."  Al growled.

Hands pulled his cheeks farther apart, and then the tongue was back, dipping in, tasting him, and Seth squirmed; it felt so wrong , so very wrong and yet so…so…

The tongue pushed in further, thrusting in and out and Seth balled his hands helplessly as the sensation assailed him and turned his brain to oatmeal.

The tongue brushed his prostate and he spasmed, vocalizing a helpless, erotic sound.

Seth's eyes rolled in his head and he grunted with every stroke against his prostate.  He couldn't recall a time he'd ever been this lost in arousal.  He bucked and ground and squirmed, seeking more, needing more, his body begging in an open display of lust. 

His cock was leaking, he could feel it as it ground against the chair below him, and his mind spiraled down, down, down as he danced in his bindings, squirming and aching and needing more.

"Oh my god…oh my god…"  Seth's lips were moving of their own accord.  "Please…please.."

The action was so slow, so languid, so unhurried and sure.

Al's tongue in his ass erased all thought when he began thrusting in and out, stabbing against the bundle of nerves inside.

"Hah,"  Seth breathed, his lungs expanding and contracting rapidly.  "Oh- fuck."

Al smacked his ass again and Seth moaned, high on endorphins.

Al pulled his tongue out and Seth whined.

The sound of a belt buckle, then pants hitting the floor, and Al was suddenly pushing into him fully, in one hard thrust.

Seth groaned, low and guttural.

He stood there then, buried to the hilt so deep, Seth could feel the pressure in his belly.  He could hear harsh breaths over him as hands came to rest on his untouched lower back.

"You were made for this, made to take it for me, you realize this now, don't you."  Al's voice was like gravel.  "My way has always been a hard one, and were it in me, I'd keep you up here all day, away from the world, my little toy to take out and play with whenever I wanted."

Al made one sharp snap of his hips and Seth gasped.

A hand wandered between Seth's stomach and the chair, and when it closed around his aching prick, Seth saw stars.

"Will you obey?"  

"Yes!  Anything, please, please! "

"So agreeable now.  I'm wondering at your temperament in the next week."

"I'll be good, I'll be good."  Seth promised.  Anything, anything.

Al thrust in and out slowly while his hand worked Seth's cock in a tight grip.

"The man, Wolcott. Is not to be touched, do you hear me?"

" Yes ."  Seth moaned.

"What are you going to do?"

"S-stay away."

"Good boy."

Al became more forceful, driving in and out of Seth so hard the chair began to move in time and Seth lost himself in sensation.

He was arching to meet the thrusts, squirming and gasping and moaning so loud he was sure downstairs would hear.

He exploded not long after, his world shaking apart in a silent tremor, and his vision darkened, the force at which he spent himself nearly making him pass out.

Swearengen thrust a few more times and emptied himself inside with a drawn out groan that made Seth blush, despite himself.

He untied Seth, and the blood seemed to rush back to his head when he was right side up again.  

"Better?"  Al asked. And Seth looked at him, feeling dazed but relaxed.

He felt his lips twitch into a small grin, and Swearengen gave him one in return.

"Halle-fucking-lujah."

"He's ain't the type to be with two women."  Joanie accused, her voice loud in the quiet of the Chez Ami.

It infuriated her the way Maddie sat there, her composure near breaking, and replied, "I never took his full history."

Joanie leaned in, trying to impress the importance of the situation.  "I'm saying he aint."

The way Maddie looked at her, she knew Maddie knew, they both knew, that someone was dying tonight or they all were.

That psychopath would murder them all if he thought it would keep his secret.

Joanie stood, her skirts whirling as she did.

"I'm goin' in."  She stated.  Her insides were doing strange flip flops when she reached her desk and pulled it open to find…nothing.

"Your gun isn't there."  Maddie said. Her voice wavering slightly.

Joanie looked up slowly to see the older mistress standing, her own pistol pointed at her with a shaking hand.

"I've got it."

Joanie moved around her desk slowly, moving towards the door, Maddie's arm trained on her all the while.

Was she going to kill him herself?  Extortion?  She was dead, Joanie knew it.  The coldness in Wolcott's dark eyes would allow nobody to live after this, and she recognized the attempt to save her life even with the gun pointed at her.

"Go on, get out!"  Maddie snarled and Joanie opened the door, and vanished behind it.

She turned and stumbled, her feet refusing to cooperate as her mind raced.

Cy.  She had to get Cy.  He would fix it.  He always knew what to do.

She hurried down the darkened thoroughfare, hands holding up her skirts so she wouldn't trip, grateful of the late hour, grateful of the lack of pedestrians.

She rounded the corner and Bella Union came into view.

Tears streamed down her face, occluding her vision and she sniffled as snot threatened to run out of her nose.

She looked behind her, making sure Wolcott wasn't right behind her and in her haste, collided directly into what felt like a brick wall.

She stumbled back, nearly falling into the muck, but a hand grabbed her arm and stopped her.

She clutched at it and looked up, her chest heaving.

Seth Bullock.

He was quite handsome up close.

He wasn't wearing his usual duster, and there was the beginnings of a nasty bruise on his right temple, but he looked wary as he corrected her.

"Evening, ma'am?"  He said, and with a start she realized he didn't even know her.

"Trouble."  Was all she managed, her throat thick.  "My place, there's trouble."

His brown eyes narrowed as he frowned.

"Where?"

Chez Ami was bright when he reached the door.

He could determine nothing from the outside, couldn't see past the curtains to ascertain anything of what kind of trouble the woman had been speaking of.

He drew one of his guns and fingering the door handle, swung it open gently while he peered inside, using the doors movement as cover.

"Put the gun down, Mr. Bullock."  Wolcott's voice was soft in the quiet.

Seth's head snapped to the sound, and he regarded the dark haired man with a snarl.

Wolcott was in the middle of the room with a woman.  He was holding her against him with one lean arm, a knife under her chin.  

In his left hand, was a small pistol, the kind whores usually carried concealed.  Her face seemed pale, while Wolcott's was deathly seriousness.

Both of their eyes were trained on him; her's large and frightened, his cold and amused.

Seth stepped further into the room, and Wolcott made a disapproving sound, leveling the pistol at his chest.

"I regret the circumstances with which we meet again,"  Wolcott stated, as calm as if this were small talk.  "But if you don't put your gun down, I'm afraid this woman's life will be at an end all too soon."

He jostled the woman and she whimpered when a thin line of blood appeared on her neck.

"Okay, just calm down.  Easy."  Seth soothed, he held both hands up, and gently set his gun on the nearest arm chair.

His eyes flickered about the room, but he could see nor hear anybody else.

Wolcott shifted, pulling the woman closer when Seth straightened up again.

"Your gun belt.  On the floor."

Seth obliged, moving slowly as he undid the belt.

This wasn't good.

He thought about how fast he could pull his gun out, how fast he could take aim and down the man before the woman would get hurt.

"I wouldn't."  Wolcott's voice rang out, and Seth looked back up at him.  "You'd be surprised how fast a knife can be.  One slip, and she's gone."

Seth let the gunbelt drop to the floor with a loud thunk!

Stay away from him.

Seth sneered.  "And I suppose you're just going to walk out of here?"  

"Why no, Mr. Bullock.  I seem to find myself in a sort of conundrum."  Wolcott admitted, his eyes softening somewhat.  "This woman here, meant to kill me, or at least blackmail, so I grabbed her, and now I find you, sans probability, here, where you shouldn't be."

"It's my-"

"Job?"  The word was said with derision.  "Where's your badge, Bullock?"

"None of your business."  Seth hissed.

Wolcott chuckled, a low sound that made the hair on the back of Seth's neck stand on end.

"Isn't that just precious."  He bent down and whispered something in the woman's ear, not taking his eyes off Seth, and she squeezed her eyes shut with a whimper.

"Come here, Bullock."  Wolcott commanded.  "I wish to show you something."

"Put the knife down."  Seth replied.  

"Don't… do that."  Wolcott frowned, his amusement fading.  "Don't act like you have control here.  Now be a good boy and come here."

I'll be good.

Anger pulsed in Seth's blood but he moved slowly, his arms still up as he took two steps forward.

"Closer."  Wolcott instructed.

Seth grit his teeth and took another two steps forward.  He was now within arms reach of them.

He was close enough that he could see the age lines around her eyes and mouth.  Her throat bobbed under the glint of the metal pressed to it.

In one smooth, swift movement, the knife flashed as Wolcott moved.

All Seth saw was the woman's eyes widen in surprise, her mouth forming a small 'o' as she made a strange gurgling sound.

Her hot blood sprayed across Seth's face from her neck, and before he could move, Wolcott was on him, tackling him to the ground.

Seth's brain struggled to keep up; the shock of seeing the woman dispatched so casually before him, the blood he could taste on his lips, and only when Wolcott's hands found his throat did he recognize the danger.

The man's hands squeezed and Seth gasped, his legs flailing crazily.  He reached up to grab at Wolcott's face, but the man dodged his attempts.

Digging thumbs found the hollow of his throat, long fingers securing around the back of his neck. His air rapidly dwindling, Seth scratched at the man's arms, trying to find purchase, but the smooth, seamless jacket repelled his attacks.

Wolcott jerked Seth's head forward and slammed it back, bashing it against the floor. Black washed across Seth's vision.

The man's face was awash with determined greed, dark glee and avarice shining in his narrowed eyes.

Then he slammed Seth's head against the floor again and black claimed him in one vicious burst.

Chapter Text

Cy Tolliver was not a man of action. Rather, he was the type to make the action happen, through gentle suggestions to nearby associates.

This led to many friendships, many allies, and inevitably, many enemies.

Sure, people had crossed him. They'd paid for it in the end, everyone of them.

And yet…

Swearengen hadn't crossed him. Not yet, not openly.

His own absorption of Chinese Alley was moving fast thanks to Lee, and the man could actually speak English, for Christ's sake.

Swerengen's move would come soon, there was no doubt, but Cy had snagged the real breadwinner, the real ticket into the big time.

And yet…

Bullock beating Otis Russel on the floors of the Bella Union had been an event that felt almost like a message. And it seemed the man had been on the war path that day, causing a stir left and right.

Cy wondered where the sheriff badge was now. He'd not seen the man wear it, though he was sure he'd seen him grab it.

The problem was that the original joke of a sheriff had just so happened to be in his own pocket.

Now what makes a man like Bullock tick?

Pure righteousness seemed to be in his genetics. A troubled past, possibly? A horrible mother, maybe an abusive father, who unknowingly shaped his own son to be a fountain of the exact opposite of himself?

Someone could do a study on the man and have it published.

Wolcott as of late had seemed preternaturally interested in the man, asking ridiculous questions about his background and social standing.

It had all seemed too much, too…maladjusted.

So when his little birdie Joanie came running in late that night, Cy knew immediately what had happened based on the few words she'd said.

Wolcott was up to his old tricks at Joanie's cozy new brothel. Seth Bullock, through pure circumstance, appeared to be there as well.

The scene he walked in on, left him speechless for a time.  

Wolcott was in the corner of the room, revolver in one hand and blood-covered knife in another. He was slumped into a velvet-lined armchair, his eyes on the body at his feet, which happened to be Seth Bullock. Unconscious or dead, he couldn't be sure, the man was on his back, eyes closed, and next to him was Joanie's scheming mistress-friend Maddie, clearly drowned in a pool of her own blood.

Cy sighed, pulling a handkerchief out and rubbing at his nose with it to try and rid the smell of distaste. He grabbed a simple wooden chair, moving it across the floor and closer to Wolcott and the bodies.

"Chief fact is, no witnesses are extant." He stated, trying to soothe the waters. He turned the chair backwards and straddled it, leaning forward against the backing.

Wolcott gave him a sideways glance, saying, "The other madam was here. Once when I came out. Uh…Joanie Stubbs."

"Before you did this?" Cy waved his handkerchief about the bodies.

"Yes. When I came back out she was gone."

Oh, Joanie, Joanie. "Was she ever in the bedroom?"

"No."

There was silence for a moment. "Don't worry about the other madam." Wolcott looked at him.

"Go to the hotel. Eat, if you can stomach the food." Cy finished. "This will all be took care of."

Wolcott looked at him, mouth slightly parted. Not past surprise, clearly.

"I told you, Mr. Wolcott. All's I can't provide is the cliff."

They both looked down at Bullock.

"You kill him?" Cy didn't know how he'd feel about the answer, no matter what it was.

"I wanted him." Wolcott said softly, and when Cy looked at him he noticed how far away the man's gaze seemed. "I couldn't kill him."

"Wanted him?" Cy pressed. Interesting development.

"I wanted to keep this man." Wolcott said again. "I want him."

"To what purpose?" Cy asked, brow furrowing.

Wolcott looked back at him then, his face strangely determined. "My own purposes, Tolliver. Will you assist me with this, or do you prefer to sit around parroting words?"

Cy ignored the slight, moving to rub his chin. "I've got a plot in Chink Alley, hasn't been rented out yet. Perhaps we could work something out."

Wolcott hummed, noncommittal. "A man such as he might need…help with keeping himself under control."

Cy smiled then, wide and proud. "I've got just the thing."

The man was beautiful, he decided, though not in the ordinary sense of the word.

"What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god." Wolcott said aloud, though nobody was able to hear him.

Rather, he was built in all the right places, muscle clinging to his arms, legs and thighs in small vascular ropes. His hair was a pleasing brown, lighter than his own and so very full.

He was still clothed, sans his boots and socks. Francis wanted to save that for when he was awake. He wanted to see the man's eyes when he was manhandled, wanted to see the anger he'd shown on the porch.

He'd tied his wrists together to the headboard and made sure to use good knots with good rope. He'd heard stories about Bullock, and he wasn't about to let his guard down.

Cy had left him here, in this makeshift home. It was clearly designed with someone else in mind. The furnishings were unconventional; rich dark mahogany that seemed to be imported from somewhere else, but the windows were discreet and the bedroom was hidden away, much to his pleasure. Francis quite liked his privacy.

The dope Tolliver had supplied would last them quite a while, and he'd made sure to give Bullock a dose just before the Chinese had moved him.

A low groan came from the unconscious man's mouth, and a long leg shifted in the sheets, slow and languid.

Francis licked his lips, and waited.

It was some time later that the man stirred to wakefulness, his breath slow and then faster as he seemed to realize he was bound to a bed.

"Al?" Bullock breathed, barely audible, and Francis felt himself smirk.

So it was true then, what Jimmy Tanner had told him.

Francis wondered what 'playtime' would consist of with a man like Swearengen. He imagined the older man liked it rough, possibly dominating his lovers.

Francis could relate with that, could appreciate it.

"Hmmmnnhh." Bullock breathed out again, a low hum as his long eyelashes fluttered open and closed.  

He pulled against his bindings again, and Francis heard his breath hitch. He mumbled something unintelligible, and finally opened his eyes.

Francis watched in the low dim lighting as Bullock licked his lips and tried to sit up, with no success.

The laudanum was making him slow and ungainly, something Francis doubted he was used to. Bullock seemed like a man that craved control.

He watched as Bullock took in his surroundings with wild eyes, his face twisted in a deep frown.

"Whuh-where?" His voice was unnaturally raspy and slurred, likely both from laudanum and the way Francis had choked him just hours earlier. "What…?" He trailed off.

Francis drank the man in with greedy eyes, unable to look away as Bullock squirmed, rubbing against the sheets, making small confused noises.

"I do-don't…understand. I was…I was good."

Francis smiled and cocked his head, perplexed.

Be a good boy and come here.

His own words.

Was this something to do with Swearengen?

"What do you mean?" Francis prompted, and Bullock froze, his unfocused eyes finally finding Francis in the dark.

The change that undertook his expression made Francis wonder at it; it was almost as if Bullock had completely forgotten their interaction in Chez Ami, and was only just now remembering it.

Then the man's breath sped up, coming loud and harsh, and he yelled, making Francis startle.

"Help! Help me, I–mmph!"

Francis was quick, darting to the bedside so fast his chair screeched across the floor. He slapped a hand over the man's face, smothering the sound to a muffled shout.

"None of that, now." Francis soothed. He ran a hand over the soft hair on Bullock's scalp, delighting in its softness. "If you scream again, I'll break one of your fingers."

Bullock stiffened and his eyes briefly widened, before hardening, making him seem more lucid.

For the first time, Francis took in the man's scent. Woodsy, with an undertone he couldn't identify. So unlike the way his ladies of the evening usually smelled.

"Can I take my hand away?" Francis murmured, his gaze trailing down the white shirt and suspenders, then back up. "Are you going to be good?"

Hate brimmed in Bullock's brown eyes. He studied Francis's face, as if looking for genuity, and then finally nodded. Francis retracted his hand and continued petting the man's hair, enjoying the feel.

"Don't fucking touch me." Bullock ground out, his nostrils flaring and face hard despite the amount of dope coursing through his veins.

"I don't think you're in a position to give orders." Francis said, his voice deathly soft as he carded his fingers through the brown tresses. "I have you now, Bullock. You're mine."

Bullock bucked, legs kicking and thrashing his head to throw him off and Francis straddled him in one swift movement, leaping across the man's hips as if he were a wild stallion.

"You fucking–cocksucker!!" He yelled, his hoarse voice filling the room and Francis reached into a back pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. He leaned forward and grabbed a fisftul of the back of Bullock's head, yanking back on it hard, making the man yell again, and with his mouth open, he stuffed the handkerchief inside.

Bullock's yell cut off and he coughed through the makeshift gag, his feet still kicking out. Francis leaned over and retrieved a bandanna from the bedside table. While Bullock struggled to spit the gag out, he manhandled the man's head while he wrapped the bandanna around his mouth, trapping the handkerchief inside once he'd tied it off.

Bullock glared at him, breathing hard through his nose while Francis held his forehead pressed down to the pillows.

Francis looked into his angry eyes, and then reached up to the headboard, found one of Seth's fingers, and with ease, wrenched it back with such force it broke with an audible snap!

Bullock screamed into the gag, his eyes bulging while he tried to buck Francis off. His attempts were weak, however; feeble movements compared to the man's normal strength.

"I warned you," Francis chided. "I don't want to have to tie your legs, but I will if you keep up this ridiculous dance."

Bullock regained control over himself, and Francis smiled as he quieted down. Bullock's face was a sweaty mess, his complexion ashen as his arms trembled.

"I've been…troubled by my own reactions as of late," Francis admitted. "I seem drawn to you, though I can't say why. I find myself unable to keep you from my mind and these past few visits with Carrie felt completely underwhelming."

Seth stared at him, his nostrils flaring as his chest heaved. His eyes were narrowed, though in pain or anger, Francis couldn't say.

Francis glanced up and noticed the finger he'd broken had been a ring finger on his right hand. How fitting.

"I feel your coming to Chez Ami tonight was preordained, Bullock, and I found myself thinking I should have a prize for coming to this filthy place." Francis smiled down at him. His hands moved to undo the suspender buckles at Bullock's waist, and once done, he slid them up and above the man's shoulders.

 "I cannot describe to you how…exciting it was to see you come through that door. You, of all people." He began unbuttoning Bullock's shirt from the top, noticing bruises forming around his neck.

'My marks.' He thought gleefully. 'I made those.'

Bullock's curse was audible, muffled as it was, and Francis paused and slapped him. The blow rocked Bullock's head to the left, where he didn't move to look back at Francis, instead keeping his angry face pointed at the wall. He seemed to sag into the bed, temporarily, albeit angrily, giving in.

That was fine. Francis would let him sulk.

He moved down the buttons, his eyes hungrily eating up the expanse of skin it unveiled before him. His toned abs were something Francis hadn't dreamed of seeing, and yet here he was, so perfect, and all for his viewing. 

Near the base of his abdomen were two, inch-wide scars, not even fully healed yet, discernable only by the pink flesh surrounding the wounds.

Somebody had tried to gut this man.

His own knife flashed out, pulled from a sheathe across his lower back and he felt Bullock go rigid, his head snapping back to nervously follow the metal.

So he would have experience tasting a blade.

There was plenty of time for that later.

Francis used the blade to tear Bullock's shirt free from his body, throwing the now tattered thing to the floor.

He spread his hands across the expanse of skin in front of him, reveling in the warmth and the feel of the soft flesh.

Bullock quivered, his stomach and muscles twitching as Francis roamed his hands over the skin.

He slid down, sitting on Bullock's legs now, and his hands dipped lower, resting on the pant fly and Bullock let out a loud mmph of protest.

Francis grinned up at him and undid it, pulling it down halfway before needing to reposition to remove them completely.

Once he did, Bullock began kicking again, trying to connect with some part of Francis. His attempts missed, but Francis leaned in from the bedside and whispered, "Would breaking one of your legs help?"

Bullock stilled, his eyes not leaving Francis. The bound man watched him move as warily as if he were a snake, and Francis hummed as he moved to remove Bullock's pants.

The man's face, neck and chest turned an interesting shade of red, and he looked away, back at his favored wall.

Francis removed his underwear as well, marveling at the cock it unveiled.

He was so perfect, so beautiful.  

He was going to enjoy this much more than those fragile girls he was used to dealing with. They broke too easily, cried, whined, screamed. This man could take a lot more. He knew that. This man could fulfill his desires more easily than those whores.

Francis grabbed both hips in hand and kneaded the flesh there, savoring the feel of it under his fingertips.

He rolled Bullock over, ignoring the muffled outrage from the gag and frowned.

Swearengen's marks, he guessed.

The thrashing Bullock had received looked fresh. The wounds were perfect and raised, bright red, as if they had only been made a couple of hours earlier.

Imagine he came from being whipped straight to me. Imagine that.

It made Francis smile again and he ran a hand over the welts, ignoring Bullock's protest and squirming, loving the feel of the abused skin.

He slapped a hand against one cheek, hard, and Bullock howled, his ass dancing in apparent agony.

What a gift this was. Already warmed up for me.

Unable to help himself he delivered another five hard smacks and Bullock hollered into the gag, shifting to try and get away.

He felt himself growing hard.

"Shh, shh…" Francis soothed, and rolled Bullock onto his back again. His face was beet red and sweaty, but he looked fired up. He tugged at his restraints in futility, his eyes narrowed. He cursed at him from beneath the gag.

Francis's smile dropped. "I think it's time to go to sleep. It's gotten very late."

He moved from the bedside and retrieved the needle he'd kept for the injections from the bathroom along with the bottle of dope.

He brought it back into the bedroom, taking care to move into Bullock's line of vision as he filled the needle.

At the sight of the needle, Bullock began kicking again, and Francis sighed, feeling a bit irritated.

He set the needle down and moved for the rope by the bedside. He picked it up, gracefully moving over to where Bullock's left leg was thrashing about and seized it easily. He looped the rope around one ankle, making sure he tied it snug. Then he looped the end around the bed post and pulled until the long leg was stretched as taut as it could go, pulling Bullock out until his face scrunched in discomfort. He tied it then, and left the right leg free.

Francis then returned to the needle, having finished filling it and made for Bullock's left side, squirting out any of the potentially trapped air bubbles.

The man began thrashing, his free leg kicking out wildly and his arms shaking with the effort to pull hard enough to break free. The restraints held, however, and as Francis drew near him and reached for an arm, unmistakable pleading sounds emerged from the gag, his eyes big and desperate. Adorable.

Francis smiled at him, and jammed the needle in Bullock's arm, releasing the plunger just a bit.

Almost immediately the change came over Bullock, and he sagged against the bed with a faint moan.

"There. Isn't that better?" Francis cooed. "Goodnight, Bullock."

The man's eyes fluttered shut and remained that way.

'Today is the day,' Sol told himself. 'Today's the day I ask Seth what the fuck is goin' on.'

The man's behavior had been troubling Sol for far too long, and he needed answers now. It didn't help that Trixie seemed to be in on it. She was always steering him away, or making wild excuses at Seth's behavior that didn't sit right with him. She knew something, and he knew she would never say what.

So his plan was to wait for Seth to come downstairs in whatever stupor he'd been in the past three days, and he was going to hound the man until he got some answers.

He waited until about nine o'clock and opened the store. At about eleven thirty, Trixie came over and they had lunch, sandwiches he'd made with leftover venison Seth had shot the week prior and some lettuce he'd gotten from a food stall. She remarked on the lack of Seth's presence, and he suggested he stayed up late.

He was just sleeping in.

Which he never did.

Trixie left soon after and he reopened until about two o clock. Around the fifteen minute mark he began to grow worried.

This wasn't like Seth. Had he taken ill? Was he bedridden?  

Sol glanced around the store, a peculiar panic settling deep in his gut as he eyed the two customers milling about the store, their eyes moving back and forth as they browsed.

He could just run up and check real quick. If someone made off with a commode or some such it was no real problem. They'd already more than made up for cost.

Sol moved up the stairs unhurried, and stood in front of Seth's door. He exhaled, and then knocked with a clenched fist.

He waited, but heard nothing, no stir of movement, no creaking of the floorboards.

"Seth?" Sol called through the door. He heard nothing and said, "I'm comin' in."

He swung the door open and his eyes immediately found the made bed.

He'd already left was what he told himself. He'd had some sort of business that made him rise before Sol.

'And he wasn't back yet?' Sol's mind suggested, traitorous anxiety worming its way into his consciousness.

Sol frowned, but closed the door and made his way back down the stairs.

Where could he be?

"How much for this pickaxe?" The remaining patron asked as Sol cleared the landing. The other customer had clearly left.

"Six dollars, sir." Sol replied, forcing a friendly smile on his face that felt out of place with his beating heart. "And may I say you're in luck as its the last."

The day dragged on until night fell, but Sol heard neither hide nor head of the hot-headed man he'd come to know like a brother, and his stress came full force when night fell again.

Trixie showed up as he was closing up shop, and the first words out of her mouth were, "Seen your partner? My boss is looking for him."

"Me and him both, Trixie, I ain't seen him all day." Sol replied.

She frowned. "You check his room?"

"Course I fucking checked his room, what do I look like, some idiot?" Sol snapped before he could help himself.

The look Trixie leveled at him was enough to make him feel a little guilty. He ran a hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry, Trixie, I'm just…worried. Ain't like him to leave and not tell me."

"His horse here?" She asked, ignoring the apology.

Sol pursed his lips. "No, I haven't made it out to the livery yet."

"Best check there first. Know if he left town or not."

"He wouldn't leave town without letting me know." Sol protested.

"You got another option?" Trixie asked, her tone impudent. "I gotta go run to my boss and tell 'em he can't be found. Maybe Al will know where to look."

"He always seems to know everything." Sol said slowly, and Trixie's face hardened.

"He wouldn't have nothin' to do with this, Sol Star." She nearly snarled. "He needs him just as much as you do."

"Does he?"  

Trixie whirled about, her face tight set and angry. She stormed out of the doors and marched back across the muddy thoroughfare, her blonde hair whipping smartly in the wind.

Sol couldn't help but think she knew more than she was letting on.

Al sighed, putting his pen down and rubbed at his nasal bone in irritation.

George fucking Hearst was inbound.

No doubt with this Wolcott cocksucker taken under wing by Tolliver, Hearst would find himself better acquainted with the Bella Union, and there's no way to know what kind of dumb fucking stories the man would be telling him.

"Running circles around hoopleheads since day fuckin one makes a man dizzy." He muttered under his breath.

Tolliver was dangerous, though only in the amount of money and women he dealt in. Al was dangerous as well of course, for his own fucking reasons, but he couldn't strike Tolliver down like he could any old cocksucker.

There came a knock at the door.

"Come in." He ordered, his voice ringing inside the office.

The door swung open and Trixie stepped in, shutting it behind her. She didn't move from the door, leaning against it like she wanted to bolt just as quick.

"He's missing." She stated, and Al cocked an eyebrow.

"Tolliver?" He asked, confused.

"Bullock." Trixie's brow furrowed. "Why would you say Tolliver?"

Al waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. Bullock's missin'? Says who? Your new Jew man?"

Trixie drew herself up, "I think you might wanna do somethin', Al. He's important to you, I know he is."

Al frowned. "Since when did I give a shit about whether the whore was a man or woman?"

Trixie strode forward and slammed her hands on the table, something she would have never done if they had still been gallivanting together. "Dammit, Al, cut the shit! You know as well as I do that you…that you–"

"Careful," Al cut her off, his voice deathly quiet. "Think what comes out of your whore mouth before you say it."

She stared into his eyes, blue fire lighting her from within. "Lie all you want, I know you feel close to Bullock. I know you enjoy time with him and I know you say fucked up things sometimes, but he's missin', Al. Sol ain't seen him since last night."

Al didn't reply at first, meeting her gaze instead as she glared at him.

"I saw him last night. He was fine." Al managed. "But there's no telling what trouble the cocksucker could find on the way back to his own fucking bed."

"Get Dan on it Al." Trixie told him. "Get him out there lookin' for him."

"What's it to you whether or not Bullock's missing?" Al asked, his eyes narrowing.

She flushed and drew away, turning her back to him as she made her way back to the door. "I just…want to see everyone happy."

Then she opened the door and disappeared behind it, the latch closing with a soft click!

Al stared where she'd been, unseeing.

Bullock was missing. Seth was missing.

He could feel his old heart thumping away madly, as if it were trying to escape and he rose suddenly, shoving his chair back, the room feeling too hot and too small.

He wandered over to the veranda, flinging open the doors and striding out onto the balcony, gazing down at all the people coming and going.  

His eyes scanned the crowd, both hoping and not that he'd see the familiar stalking figure of Seth, maneuvering his way down the thoroughfare.

He saw no such vision of course, and his eyes wandered over to the plot that was now Bullock & Star Hardware.

The lights were off in the interior, signaling they were closed for the night. His eyes flickered up to the window he knew belonged to Seth, gauging the darkness there.

Seth was missing.

A thousand 'where's' darted in and out of Al's mind, each more outrageous than the last. It made no sense. He would have had to disappear right after leaving the Gem.

He caught movement on the edge of his sight and looked to see the snake, Wolcott, crossing the thoroughfare. He appeared to be heading towards Doc's.

As Al watched, the man glanced up, then did a double take at seeing Al standing there.

And then he smirked, as if they shared a private joke.

"And what would you say it's lacking, Mr. Wolcott?"

"Discipline."

Al felt a growing pit, a metaphysical cave growing in his stomach.

Al didn't smile back, watching as the man looked away, still grinning, and turned out of sight.

Al's frown deepened, and when he stepped back into his office he called for Dority.

Seth's hands hurt.  

The right hand, the one that had the broken finger, felt like it was pulsing in time to his heartbeat. The digit itself was stiff and he could wiggle it only slightly, though any type of movement sent a dull ache down his arms, and it made him bite down on the gag in his mouth as he wrenched at the ties on his wrists.

He'd woken some time ago, floating up from a hazy sleep full of lidless dreams, and found that Wolcott was absent, for which he was thankful.

He couldn't be sure how badly he'd torn his wrists trying to get free. He had to crane his neck to see, and what he could see didn't look good. He had felt the hot blood drip down earlier, the substance drying and becoming sticky and cloying on his arms.

His nudity bothered him, really bothered him, but he couldn't maneuver the sheets around him to cover himself.

He had screamed himself hoarse, trying to get someone's attention, for anyone to hear him, but nobody came, nor could he hear anything from the outside world. The gag muffled almost all of his sounds, and it felt like his lips had cracked at the open position it had been forced into for too long.

'Where am I?', he'd thought more than once.  

He sagged against his bindings. He needed water badly. He needed medicine for his wrists and his finger needed reset. Nobody knew he was here. Nobody.

A pit began to grow in his stomach.

The time passed slowly, and Seth found himself counting the nails in the ceiling above him, before that too bored him too much to continue.

He could see the needle and the dope bottle on the dresser near the foot of the bed and he stared at it, willing it to go away, willing it to shatter into a thousand pieces.  

He remembered the look in the older mistress's eyes when her throat had been cut. She had been so shocked, as had he. Why had he frozen up like that? He was no stranger to violence, so why had he hesitated?

What were Wolcott's designs for him?

He thought about the way Wolcott had straddled him, leaning in with a whispered, "You're mine," and Seth shuddered.

He was dozing when the door opened, but he perked up immediately at the sound, steeling himself for whatever was about to happen.

There was noise from somewhere behind him, another room, and Seth watched as Wolcott strode into view.

There was a bottle of something in his hands, but his face seemed cast in disappointment as he beheld Seth.

"What have you done to your wrists?" He tutted, and Seth glared, fury rising inside of him. "That's going to scar, you know."

He wanted to curse him, to demand his release but all that came out were muffled angry sounds and Wolcott smiled.

"I see the dope has worn off. Want another dose?"

Seth went rigid, stopping his tirade. No way did he want that needle anywhere near him.

The man smiled. "I thought not."

Wolcott retrieved a white cloth from his pocket and shook it out, before moving towards the bedside.

Panicking slightly, Seth wriggled, trying to get away, and Wolcott tutted again, his face a mask of concern.

"If you move like that much more you might get hurt."  

Seth ignored him and thrashed, his free leg flailing to try and dislodge something, anything.

When Wolcott came near, the man reached out and casually slapped him across the face, making his head rock back against the sheets.

The slap stung, but it pissed him off more than it hurt.

"Don't struggle, or we'll see what else we can break." Seth continued to stare at the wall to his right.

There was a sloshing sound, and the contents of whatever Wolcott had brought with him was poured over his wrists, causing dull fire to rise in the wounds.

Seth groaned and shifted as Wolcott dabbed at the sores, then moved down his arms wiping up the clotted blood.

Then a hand was on his chin gripping with bruising force, turning his head and forcing him to look back into Wolcott's dark eyes.

"You don't strike me as an idiot, Bullock." Seth's nostrils flared as he exhaled. "I'm going to remove that handkerchief in your mouth, and you're not going to yell, is that understood?"

There was a pause as Seth contemplated ignoring the demand, then he thought of his broken finger and nodded.

"Good."

The bandanna was pulled down to his neck and the handkerchief was pulled out of his mouth. Wolcott moved away once done, placing the bottle of stuff on the dresser next to the laudanum.

Seth stretched his aching jaw and wet his chapped lips. "Water." He croaked, his voice ragged.

Wolcott nodded and moved out of the room. He wasn't gone long, and when he came back he held a glass of water. The dark haired man moved to his bedside and said, "I'm going to help you drink."

Seth grit his teeth.

No way.  No fucking way.

"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

"What's the hard way, you bastard?"

Wolcott paused, his eyes unreadable, and then turned and placed the glass down on the bedside table.

Seth watched, apprehension rising rapidly as Wolcott reached over and grabbed his right ankle, his free ankle, and could only gape in outrage when Wolcott bodily hauled him forward, causing him to flip over on his stomach.

"What're you-"

The slap to his ass was hard and brutal, and Seth let a yelp escape before he was able to stop himself. He tried to yank his ankle back, but the man's grip was like iron and as such he was helpless before him.

What followed next was one of the most brutal punishments he's ever had. He couldn't ever remember getting whooped this bad, even as a child, and it was a struggle to keep the sounds in. The humilation of it all. The injustice of it.

Once Wolcott finished some time later, Seth sagged back against the bed, his breath coming fast and shallow as he struggled not to let the tears fall. He smeared his face on the sheets below him.

Wolcott rolled him back over. He looked to be flushed, and Seth worried that the man had enjoyed it a bit too much.

"Will you be good, Seth?"  

The use of his name in such a familiar way made his skin crawl.

"Don't say that." Seth grit out.

"Whyever not? I think it perfectly appropriate."

Seth pressed his lips together and refused to answer.

"No matter. I suggest you open up, or next time you refuse you won't get any at all and we can continue on with the rest of the night."

Wolcott retrieved the water and moved to help Seth drink it, rolling him back over and bringing the cup to his lips, tilting it gently. As if he hadn't just beaten Seth not minutes ago.

Seth opened his mouth obediently and allowed the liquid in, nearly crying in relief as the cool water ran over his parched throat.

He couldn't meet Wolcott's eyes as he watched him closely, choosing instead to stare straight ahead at the dresser that held the needle.

Once done, Wolcott moved away towards the dresser, and Seth breathed a little easier.

Until he saw the man move back towards him, the needle in hand. "No, no don't." His voice climbed in pitch, but he was unable to stop himself from yelling, "Someone! Hel-!"

Wolcott was on him fast, hand covering his mouth and the needle jabbed into the soft flesh of his bicep.

Seth howled beneath him, raging in frustration, and then the fog washed over his mind and he slowly went boneless as the drug took in. His arms relaxed, but he wanted Wolcott off of him, wanted to be free, wanted-

"Are you going to be good, Seth?" Wolcott asked again, and Seth squeezed his eyes shut, hating him saying Al's words, hated him saying his name.

He nodded jerkily, and Wolcott moved his hand away.

"Why," Seth croaked after he'd opened his eyes. He squinted up at the man who had abducted him, who had kept him like some…slave. "Why're you…doing this?"

"Because I find you quite interesting," He carded a hand through Seth's hair and Seth squirmed, trying to pull away. "Quite…amusing."

Seth looked into Wolcott's eyes, seeing the absolute truth, and it terrified him.  This was only for this man's enjoyment.

"I need you to do something for me, Seth." Wolcott said softly, he moved away and turned his back, fiddling with something in the dresser.

"What would you possibly want me to do?"

Wolcott turned around, and in his hands was a knife.

Seth's already hammering heart seemed to leap into his throat.

Wolcott's eyes were dark, almost black. "I need you to not scream. I don't want to have to break another one of your lovely fingers."

Seth found himself unable to speak as Wolcott climbed the bed, straddling his hips. The weight was unwelcome and burdensome, and Seth squirmed.

"No, no," He slurred, his tongue thick and ungainly. "Don't touch me, get off, you sonofabitch, get off."

"Did you know that recently, several mummies have been found in Egypt." He leaned in close and buried his face into Seth's neck, ignoring his protests. Hot breath tickled the hair on the side of Seth's face and he shuddered in disgust. "All of them female. Each one with tattoos. Isn't that marvelous? They were thought to be prostitutes–the tattoos are said to be in suggestive areas–but I like to think that they represent something else. Like childbirth. Wouldn't that make sense? They were found in a temple after all. Who buries whores at a temple?"

Wolcott brandished the knife and Seth struggled not to flinch as he traced Seth's cheek with the backside of it, the sharp point a deadly reminder against his skin.

"I was thinking I'd like to make my own…tattoos on you. What do you think of that?"

"I think you're fucking crazy." Seth gasped as the knife traced a path down to his neck.

Wolcott hummed and sat up straight again, his left hand grabbing and pressing Seth's forehead firmly against the sheets.

"Maybe so." Wolcott murmured. And then he smiled. "But I do so enjoy it."

The knife dug into Seth's collarbone, slipping below the first few layers of skin like they were butter and it took everything inside of Bullock not to scream right then from the sheer shock of it.

And then it moved, tracing a line of fire down towards his chest and he thrashed, his free leg flailing, his arms trembling, and he screamed, loud and long, the sound bouncing around the house.

Wolcott stopped and frowned, his dark eyes shining in the lantern light down at Seth..

Seth focused on catching his breath as it came in sharp jerks, almost like it wanted to stay in his throat.

Then Wolcott moved for his bound hands and Seth blurted, "No, no…don't–"

There was a loud snap and Seth howled, agony shooting up his right hand and arm before remembering he wasn't supposed to yell and clamped his mouth shut on the sound. Tears sprang into his eyes as he writhed helplessly below the man.

Wolcott eyed him, his face a mask.

"Let's get back to it."

The knife flashed again, and Seth grit his teeth, yet found he was unable to control himself once the knife started carving into his chest again.

'I think he's dangerous.' His brain flashed crazily, Adams voice echoing as if he was in the room next to him.

Throughout it Wolcott spoke to him, his voice a steady flow of inane information about tattooing and how far back the practice went in some cultures. Seth only heard half of it, his brain blocking out everything save the knife and his skin.

Can you feel the thunder, Montana?

His brain went somewhere for a time, unable to take the agony of lying still and experiencing it without doing anything. White noise filled his ears, drowning out the sympathtic cooing and information vomit that spilled from his captor's lips.

In the end, Wolcott had every finger on his right hand broken save his thumb. Seth found himself unable to bite down on the screams, his resolve fleeing before the knife like birds escaping danger.  

His chest was a litany of slashes, blood running down his side to pool onto the bed beneath him. His skin was on fire, his chest heaving and left hand opening and closing weakly.

Wolcott tapped him lightly across the face a few times, and Seth blinked up at him, his eyes struggling to focus on the figure above him.

"You still with me, Seth?" Wolcott's voice was distant, in another room.

"I…" Seth panted, his breath coming in shallow pants. "I don't…"

He trailed off as the fog rushed in to claim him, his vision flickering.

A harsh slap against his face had him reeling and sputtering. When he licked his lips he tasted blood.

The knife's point sliced into his stomach then, aggravating the wounds that he'd received on the highway and the pain accumulated into an explosive tide of agony he couldn't stand against.

The last thing he thought of before he passed out was Al's face as he grinned at him in his office, white teeth shining in the gloom.

Chapter Text

"Go see the doc.  Find out what he gave the Wolcott cocksucker.  Then follow him.  Figure out what makes him so fucking smug."

Al's instructions had been low, a quiet rage behind every word.  Dan recognized the underlying emotion for what it was, having known Al for too long.

Bullock was missing.  Holy shitfuck.

This wasn't good.

Dan knew Al's feelings.  Hell, he felt he knew the man better than he knew himself, and if it would stop Al from doing something rash and unfixable, he'd carry out whatever dirty deed he could and then some.

Bullock meant a lot to Al for some  reason.  He wasn't about to question his boss or dictate what was and wasn't.  And now that meant he had to look out for Bullock, too, much as the man seemed to attract trouble.

Doc Cochran's was lit from the inside that evening.  When he knocked on the door the man answered it a few moments later, looking a bit disheveled and sweaty despite the cool air outside.  He was decked in a black and grey top shirt.  His dirty gray apron appeared stained with some sort of ash residue.

"Dan?"  Doc questioned, his voice apprehensive, as if ready for bad news.  "Something wrong?"

"Can I come inside, Doc?"  Dan asked, glancing around behind him at the busy passerbys.  "Too much business without half the camp overhearin'."

Doc hesitated, glancing at the space where he knew Dan kept his knife hidden, then nodded and opened his door.  "Yeah, alright come in.  I was just…cleaning up a bit."

Dan moved inside, closing the door behind him and Doc moved towards the center of the room underneath his assortment of hanging herbs and poultices.  It was hot inside, way hotter than the atmosphere tended to be, and there was a peculiar smell in the air.

"You, uh, cookin' somethin', Doc?"  Dan wrinkled his nose.  "Don't think you caught somethin' on the raw end of a sewer for dinner?"

Doc Cochran rolled his eyes, and said, "For your information, Dan, I'm experimenting with an aerial inhalant using boiling chamomile and wild sage.  Trying to see if it might cure a sore throat."

"Gettin' sick are ya?"  Dan edged away from the older man a little.

"Just a throat thing, I should be fine in a day or two."  He waved his hand flippantly.  "Now tell me whatever the hell it is that's got you so encroachin' on my private time."

"I'm here on favor to Al,"  Dan began as Doc turned to face him.  "Bullock's been missin' since last night and he wants him found.  Has suspicions on that snake Wolcott.  Sent me to ask you what he visited you for."

Doc's eyes widened and he ran a hand through his wild white mane, smoothing it down.  "Bullock's missing, huh?"  He fidgeted with the buttons at his neck, loosening them and said, "Wolcott came in here about an hour ago looking for antiseptic for a cut he'd received."

Oh Christ.  The maniac's probably killed Bullock.

"Did you see this mysterious cut?"  Dan asked disparagingly.

"I didn't see anything on him, though of course he was covered in his daily things.  I asked to see the cut and he declined, mentioning he could take care of himself."

"You didn't think that was odd, Doc?"  Dan narrowed his eyes.  

"I thought it odd, but I didn't think to question him.  He paid for the medicine, what reason have I to insist upon seeing said wound?"

"He could've been fuckin' lying about said wound!"  Dan snapped, exasperated.  "Where did he fuckin' go, did he tell you that much?"

Doc Cochran shook his head, his eyes never leaving Dan.  "Are you saying you think this man had something to do with Bullock's disappearance?"

"I'm sayin' Al wants me to tail him for a reason.  That reason likely bein' he's the one that fuckin' did it!"

"Did what, exactly?"  Doc pressed and Dan threw his arms up in the air and cried, "I don't fuckin' know, Doc!  But I know it ain't fuckin' good!"

Absolutely done with this conversation, Dan practically tore out of Doc's place, nearly slip-sliding in the mud as his quick steps carried him down the thoroughfare.

He searched high and low, ran into a ton of people and asked a load of questions, and nobody had seen a man that looked like Wolcott.

The long night drifted into a grey morning, casting the town in cloud covered gloom.  The camp had not yet woken, and as such most was quiet and woozy in its sleepiness.

Al stood and stretched when he heard the first bit of movement from down below, a dull thunk, thunk.   Likely Jewel doing chores with her new fucking brace.

He had appreciated that she'd gone to such lengths to get it to stop giving him a headache.  He hated that he wasn't able to reach out to her like he wanted, to tell her she didn't have to do it, but it just wasn't in him.

He was going fucking soft.  Ever since he'd met those two-piece of shit hardware store owners, ever since he'd taken the young fucking sheriff to be under his wing.

He saw connections with people where he shouldn't, and he felt…he felt…

Al cursed, and began pacing back and forth in front of the veranda doors.

"You think me susceptible to childish whims, I shit you not, I will not be made to heel like some goddamned dog, oh no.  You, with your big sense of self respect and your naivety, comin' in here like some fucking justiciary.  I meant to break you that night with the whip.  I wanted to hear you scream and cry, I wanted to hear you debase yourself and beg.  Oh, but you somehow turned that to your advantage, too, what with your sinful fucking eyes and your sinful fucking cock."

Al grumbled a bit.

"A little fucking fondlin' and your comin' undone like a virgin, and in all my fucking years I have never been so fucking fucked as I was that night, right here in this fucking office.  If this San Francisco cocksucker got to you, I will fucking come up there and spit on your grave myself.  You hear me you possibly dead fucking prick?  You fucking coward, you fucking slut ."

Al's voice broke on the last word, and he abruptly shut his mouth, stopping his traveling feet to stare out of the window at the lightening clouds.

He brought up a hand and rubbed at his face tiredly, frowning when it came away wet.

Fucking soft .

He straightened the suit he hadn't taken off since the previous day, wiped his face with both hands and finger combed his hair back, making himself seem more put together.

"You better not be fucking dead, Seth."

He stepped out of his office, closing the door behind him and made his way downstairs.

As he foresaw, Jewel was moving about the place, tidying up and collecting piles of dust and refuse with her unhelpful straw broom.

"Ya-you know, talkin' to yours-self means you're g-gettin' old."  Wit was ever quick with this one.

He eyed her, feeling heavy.  "There coffee?"

She twisted to look at him, her eyes lighting up.  "O-on the bar."  She flung an overenthusiastic arm towards it.

He nodded and moved over to help himself, pouring it into his mug until it was near brimming over.

And then he leaned forward, elbows digging into the wood as he sipped at the black stuff.  It tasted as it always did.  Like shit.  

He drank it anyway.

A door closed from down the hall and Dan came wandering out, holding his head.

He ambled over to where Al stood, his face pale and eyes red rimmed from drinking all night.

"Report."  The one word had an effect on Dan, making him look hesitantly up at Al, his expression sullen and guilty.

"Wolcott bought antiseptic from Doc.  Didn't know where he was and I couldn't find the man."  

Al hummed and sipped at his coffee again.  

"Did you even sleep, Al, your eyes are all-"

"Shutup, Dan."

They were quiet for a long minute as Al gazed at the wood beneath his hands, thinking of Seth's eyes, the way he'd smiled easily for him for the first time not two days past.

That smile had certainly been something; the way his teeth and eyes had shone, like he was something shy and innocent.

He wondered how often Seth actually smiled.  The man always seemed so serious, always regarding Al with a look like he couldn't quite figure out if he liked or disliked the man.

"You fucking follow him tonite, Dan."  Al growled out, and Dan looked up to meet his eyes.  "You fucking find him, and you fucking handle it."

Seth woke slowly, feeling like he was swimming in quicksand.

His mouth felt dry and sore, like it was ripped from all the times he'd bitten himself or where Wolcott had slapped him.  He could no longer feel his hand, it had gone numb, and he didn't know whether or not that was a good thing or a bad one.

He breathed deep, and with that breath came pain, the kind that nearly pulled him under again.  A small wounded sound escaped his mouth as he shifted.  His entire front felt like someone had made sausage out of it, like someone had tenderized and ground it until it had shredded into a thousand pieces.

He wanted to touch his chest and stomach, to see how it felt, to see if it was okay, to access all the damage he knew was there.  He was too afraid to look down.  Too afraid to see if he'd been marked as Wolcott had said.

He moved his left arm, tentatively shifting it down to touch his chest, his eyes fluttering open as he realized he could move .

He jerked suddenly, adrenaline filling him, but his limbs felt heavier than rocks when he tried to sit up, almost like some invisible weight was pinning him down.

He could move his arms and legs, but they felt uncoordinated and clumsy.  His wrists looked like raw ragged things, ripped and oozing blood, while his right hand looked to be turning a slight shade of blue.

His eyes moved lower and he saw redredred–

Seth tore his gaze up with a gasp, his vision blurring around the edges.  He panted, trying to calm himself as he stared up at the ceiling, struggling to regain control over his racing heart. 

God he was fucked up.

His eyes darted wildly around the interior of the room, but he could see no source of the man that had tortured him however long ago.

He thinks of dark eyes and a vicious smile; a silver knife slicing through ribbons of flesh as unwanted kisses are plastered to his neck and something inside of him lurches unpleasantly, bile climbing up his throat.  He barely has time to roll over onto his damaged front as vomit comes rushing out, splattering across the side of the bed and onto the floor.

He retches for a few minutes, trying to bring himself to stop, his slashed chest aching with the movements, but he can't stop hearing, 'I've got you now, Seth, be a good boy', and he vomits until all that comes up is stringy saliva and stomach lining.

He hasn't eaten in so long , and his stomach gurgles at the violent force of his contractions, of its emptiness.

He pants, regaining his breath, and gazes down at his mess, seeing it with unfocused eyes

Seth heaved himself over the edge of the bed, his bare feet finding the floor, but his legs shake so bad he has to grab onto a nearby wall to hold himself up as someone bangs a hammer inside of his skull.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment and he stands there, swaying, willing himself not to pass out again.

Have to get out…have to escape…

He opens his eyes again and gazes down at his broken hand, the purple flesh making him stare at it for a moment.

Doc could fix it.  Doc could help…

He stumbled to the door frame, his left hand on the wall helping him stay grounded, and realized that the bedroom opened into a sort of living area, complete with a kitchen.

Dim light could be glimpsed through a corner of one of the windows, and Seth realized the windows had been covered with some sort of black fabric, blocking out the light and granting privacy.

He moved forward, nearly falling into the room as he clutched at the wall.

Escape…need to escape…

He needed clothes, pants at the very least, couldn't go walking through Deadwood as he was, and his eyes darted around the interior, looking for something, anything when he spotted his things in the corner by a basin full of water.

He stumbled over to them, his left hand trembling as he grabbed his jeans.  It was a struggle to get in them, and he had to take it much slower than he would've liked.  Every bending of his body caused agony to radiate throughout his torso, and it was harder than usual to pull up his pants with one hand.  Panic slowly crawled up his throat, feeling like every second was a footstep closer to discovery.

By the time he'd gotten his pants situated, he was out of breath from exertion and a sweat had crawled across his skin.

Now get out, Seth.  Get the fuck out!

He turned and froze as he laid eyes upon Wolcott, standing in the doorway, having clearly just entered the room from outside as he still had his hat on.  Seth's heart leapt into his throat.

'How did I not hear him?'  Seth thought in despair.

The man's eyes were near black, his visage imperceptibly calm.  His hands hung loosely at his sides and Seth had no clue what was about to happen, why Wolcott would have left him untied and unmonitored.

"I see you found your way around just fine."  The man's voice made Seth swallow back a lump that had formed in his throat.  "Had to let your wrists heal up a bit.  They looked to be getting infected."

Seth didn't reply, and as he clutched his right arm close to his chest he realized he was trembling.  He swayed against the counter, and slowly backed into the corner.

"Come now, let's get you back to bed.  You must be exhausted."

" No. "

He wasn't going back there.

Wolcott's eyes seemed to shine as excitement overtook his placid expression.  "You really want to push your luck, Seth?"

"I'm not going back in there."  Seth's raspy voice came out small and meek.

His eyes darted about the room, looking for something to use as a weapon, but the kitchen was clean.

"Se-eth…"  Wolcott called in a sing-song voice.

" Stop calling me-"

Wolcott rushed forward, his arms outstretched and Seth readied himself.

When Wolcott came in close enough, Seth balled up his left fist and swung, but Wolcott dodged, and Seth's momentum carried him forward, shambling on dead legs.

Wolcott caught him as easily as a father catches a wayward child.

Seth failed, thrashing his left arm and his broken hand, squirming like a madman to get free, but Wolcott pulled him in close and crushed him against his body, smearing blood all over his suit.  Fingers wrapped around him and dug into the carnage on his chest and Seth let out a small shriek as the tender flesh was abused, bright red clouding his mind.

Seth was wrenched around and slammed bodily into the floor, his face and left arm taking the brunt of the move.  He groaned, momentarily dazed, and then Wolcott was on him, hands pressing into his neck, the bulk of the man's weight against his back, grinding his face into the wooden floorboards.

"What did you think to do Seth?"  Wolcott asked huskily as he leaned in close enough for his breath to invade Seth's ear.  "Did you think you would overwhelm me?"  

A tongue dipped in and Seth yelped and tried to move away, but Wolcott held him close, grabbing his neck like one would grab a misbehaving puppy.

"You're not right…you're not right ."  Seth babbled as nausea threatened to make him empty his stomach once again.

"And what you and Al Swearengen do is?"

Seth froze, his spine feeling as if it might snap and he hissed, "How do you know about that?"

Wolcott hummed, "I'm not sure I care to say.  I know that he's using you.  Using you in the same way I use whores."  

Seth twitched.  "He's not.  He's…he…"

"Loves you?"  Wolcott leaned back and laughed, a razor sharp edge to it that bit deep.  "How unexpectedly sentimental.  You're just the means to an end, can't you see that?  Every major advancement has an expensive face backing it, Bullock.  Don't you know that by now?"

Seth stared into the whorls of wood beneath him and in a shaky voice asked, "What do you mean?"

A hand slithered down to fondle at his backside and Seth twisted away but a harsh slap was delivered to his ass and he stilled with a flinch.  

"Swearengen has got the whole encampment behind him, his only opposition is Tolliver."  The wandering hand followed the curve of his ass and drifted under and Seth squeezed his eyes shut as the hand groped his cock.  "But then he acquired you.  You, who can beat justice straight into other men with nothing but your bare fists, who's sense of justice is so strong, that you seek fights in broad daylight with impunity.  And you fell right into his lap .  How could he resist making you his bitch?"

Seth groaned in pain as the man enunciated the last word with a particularly vicious squeeze to his member.

His words sank in deep, dampening and saturating some part of Seth that had always made him wonder exactly what he was doing with Al, what the other man got out of it.  Wolcott stated things as if it should have been obvious, as if Al was just using him like one of his whores.

"I find myself unable to keep from being too quick sometimes, so I think here, we shall take it slow."  The words were so soft that Seth almost missed them.  Then a bit louder, "But first, I think we need to take care of something."

Wolcott was a slippery one.  The man seemed able to disappear in and out of crowds almost as well as Adams, losing himself in throngs of like-looking men and all but vanishing.

He'd lost him a few times, but Dan had a knack for pursuit and he'd never lose him for longer than a minute.

Ducking down China Alley was something Dan had expected, had been ready for.  He and Johnny Burns used to run things back here, used to be top dogs out on Al's orders so he knew the place like the back of his hand.  He wouldn't be shaken off so easily.

The house Wolcott disappeared into was new.  The area had been just a plot some months before, and he'd seen construction on the area but had never seen the product of it.

He ducked into an alleyway that bordered the house, searching for a back door or loose window and couldn't stop the small sound of triumph that escaped him when he spotted his entry point.

The door was small, obviously something meant as an exit should something like a fire take place versus a real entry point.

The lock was difficult, so he shoved his knife in the space between the latch and the door and jimmied it open.

It swung inward without a sound.

Outside sound seemed deafened as he took a cautious step inside, pulling his knife out from its hiding place at his hip.

He could hear heavy breathing and a soft voice from another room, the sounds audible in the quiet of the interior.  He appeared to be in some sort of bedroom, and his pulse jumped when he spotted the dark blood in the white sheets.  There was too much of it, and it looked as if it had congealed, turning almost black in its thickness.  Bindings encircled the headboard, and Dan could see the dried blood on them from where he stood.

Fuck.

His eyes scanned the room, taking in the dope bottle and medicine on a nearby dresser, a half-filled needle sitting next to it.

"No, no, no…"   A voice sobbed, and Dan recognized it as Bullock's.

A softer voice shushed him, and Dan could make out Wolcott's voice saying, "Seth, I've told you, you only have to be a good boy.  You want to please me, don't you?  Then be good."

Dan's stomach churned unpleasantly.

A trail of blood made a path out of the bedroom and into another room; smeared handprints and streaks of red marking the walls, as if Bullock had rested against them trying to escape.  Dan took a peek around the corner, his heart beginning to hammer.

Wolcott's back was to him, pressing Bullock face first into the ground with a boot on his neck while pale white hands were twisting his left arm up and behind him as if the Wolcott cocksucker meant to break it.  Both men were breathing as if they'd run a race.

Bullock was clad in only jeans, but there were red streaks everywhere, as if the two had wrestled about.

Dan crept out from his hiding place and snuck forward, his knife at the ready and leapt at Wolcott when he got close, his blade aimed at gutting the man in the kidneys.

He must've made some sort of sound, for Wolcott twisted at the last moment, and the knife went sailing harmlessly past.  They collided in a tangle of limbs.

An elbow connected with his face and Dan was knocked backwards, near sprawling at the shock of the pain.  The knife clattered to the floor.  He rubbed at his mouth with the back of his wrist as the blood gushed down past his lips to soak his shirt and managed to stay on his feet.  The guy lunged at Dan, his own knife flashing out from behind his back as he came in close, slashing and jabbing as a man possessed.

Dan lurched back as Wolcott closed, struggling to keep a distance between him and the knife but the man was fast and the layout was unfamiliar.  He nearly tripped over his feet as he backed up and then nearly took a dive over an end table he hadn't seen, stumbling over the thing like a man that had never done knife work.

Wolcott lunged in and stabbed at his chest, but Dan brought a defensive arm up and the knife sank in.

Dan hollered, a burst of anger surfacing with the pain and he began pushing the man back and back until he had backed Wolcott into the corner.  He had almost succeeded in putting him against the wall when the man ducked around and used Dan's own momentum to ram him into the very wall he'd been trying for.

Christ, the man was fast.

Dan bounced off of it, the force practically nothing, and whirled in time to see Wolcott had snatched a cast iron candelabra from one of the nearby tables.  He swung faster than Dan could move and it connected with the side of his head, sending him stumbling backwards, collapsing against an end table.

He blinked and the world tilted alarmingly as he struggled to lurch to his feet.

Move-move-move-

Wolcott swung again and Dan went down, sprawling on his side with such force that papers and ink bottles rained down over him, the black mixing with the red.  He felt slow and far away, the world spinning crazily.

He blinked blearily at Seth, watching him crawl across the floor. 

Seth had almost reached the knife, had been steadily moving for it since he'd seen it kicked out of the way by one of the men's boots as they struggled back and forth.

His useful arm, the left one, felt on fire at the joint and he figured it had been dislocated.  That was nothing next to the way the wood felt against his chest but he stomached it as he crawled towards his prize.

Dan went down with a crash and Seth's fingers brushed the hilt.

His left hand stretched and stretched-

The shock of the blade as it embedded itself in his hand was what made him shout.  The pain came a second later in harsh jagged agonizing lines up his arm.

His harsh pained breaths were loud in the quiet of the house.

"Now, now, Seth,"  Wolcott leaned in and grasped him by the chin roughly with one hand and forced eye contact, shaking his head as he spoke.  "Don't go reaching for things you shouldn't."

Wolcott was slightly out of breath, his eyes wild and crazed.  Seth recognized those eyes, had seen those very same eyes on his father many years ago.  The connection shook him.

Wolcott shoved him down with a ghoulish grin and turned on Dority, who was making a strange, low groaning wheeze.  He palmed the candelabra, swinging it in a small circle.

Seth eyed the knife pinning his hand to the ground, instinct more than sense taking over.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced."  Wolcott stated softly.  "You're the bartender at the Gem.  Seems our mutual friend wants his property back."

Seth grit his teeth as he tried to grasp the hilt of the blade with his broken fingers, unwilling to let any sound escape that might give him away as Wolcott's back was turned.

There was a thud and a groan, the sound of boot connecting with flesh and Seth's muscles ached as he fought to free his hand, pulling up on the knife with all the strength in his left arm.

"Hired muscle, all of you."  There was another kick, another moan of pain.  "Swearengen's reconnoitering is a complete and utter failure."  This was punctuated with another vicious kick.

Seth's eyes nearly rolled as his hand slid further up the blade towards the hilt, the metal slicing him open as easily as if he were a filet.

Seth glanced at Wolcott to see him brandishing the candelabra as if to bring it down on Dority's skull and alarm shot through him.

"You are all of you, beneath me."  Wolcott hissed, and brought the candle holder high up in the air.

Seth tore his hand free of the floor, the knife still skewered in his palm like a bizarre pincushion, and dashed forward, roaring.

Wolcott spun, still brandishing the candelabra, and upon seeing him coming, swung it sideways, changing its trajectory.

Seth twisted and his abused right arm came up to meet it in defence; the heavy object splintered his bone like kindling.

Seth screamed, and with a final lunge, closed the distance between him and Wolcott, his left hand swooping down on his neck as he sandwiched the candelabra between them.

Wolcott tried to dodge, but Seth's lunge was too quick, and the knife sank deep into the left side of his neck as Seth clapped a hand over it, almost like a good pal gesture.  Seth's momentum carried them forward and Wolcott toppled over backwards, Seth haphazardly tackling him.  

Seth was close enough to see the shock and awareness fading from those horrible black eyes, the way red rivulets ran from beneath Seth's already gory hand, the sound of his death rattle as he choked on his own blood.

His own breaths were heavy and hoarse and he grit his teeth and shifted closer, enjoying the feel of absolution, the convulsing of the chest beneath him, the feeling that he was the one that was taking a life, that he was the victor, not Wolcott.

He felt primal as he watched the life drain from the man's eyes, that detestable mouth opening and closing like a fish.

" Die you fucking bastard."  Seth snarled into his gaping face, and wrenched himself away, rolling over onto his back, not wanting to touch the man any longer than he had to.  He jarred his arm in the movement, and pain landed up it in great waves.

His breaths came fast, and he stared up at the ceiling as he struggled to catch it.

He hurt.   All over.

A few seconds later, Wolcott's choked gasps ceased.  

Dority's wheezing breaths reached him as his own calmed, and Seth slowly sat up, doing his best to brace himself with his fucked up left hand.

Dan was on his side, facing Seth, his eyes unfocused and gazing at the floor, his face bright red as his breath rattled.

"Dority,"  Seth called, concerned.  "Dority, can you-"

The front door burst open and slammed against the opposite wall so violently that Seth startled, and in it stepped a five foot tall chinaman.  

Seth blinked at him, wary, and the man blinked back, doing a once over of Seth, before turning to where Dority lay.

Upon seeing the man on the ground, the chinaman began leaping up and down, exclaiming in Chinese and clutching his head, repeating only one thing Seth could understand.

"Swedgin!"

Johnny Burns came by with word that Seth had been found, and both he and Dan were now being treated at Doc's, their conditions unclear.

Al had shooed him out of his office and sat at his desk for a while, picking at his teeth, ruffling his papers, organizing his desk contents.

He took a swig of booze and began pacing up and down the space of his office, going over the coming elections, the current problem of Wu and the taller chink, the upcoming Hearst visit, but he found himself distracted, his mind returning again and again to a small cabin on the edge of the encampment.

"Wouldn't fuckin' needed to have help if you could stand on your own two feet, could ya?"  Al cursed and swiveled, stomping over to the window overlooking the balcony.  "It does make a man wonder how another man can live his life so cocksure but afraid, so goddamned righteous but so goddamned clueless.  Knows a killer as soon as he casts eyes on him, but you would bide your fucking time with me, huh?  And then when I'm right and buttered up, you'd stab me in the back and call it vengeance .  And the fucked up thing is, I'd fucking let you! "

Al turned and wiped everything off the surface of his desk to the floor.  An ink bottle shattered when it landed, and the black liquid splattered up the side of his desk, gravity already forcing it down in grim droplets.

Al eyed it, then resumed pacing in front of the doors, his hands folded behind his back.

"Have I grown so fucking soft?   It behooves me to distance myself, to run like a coward for the hills and yet, here I am, finding myself as a cock over his chicks."  Al stopped pacing and gazed out of the window, towards the direction he knew Doc's was.  "You don't even fucking know what it is that makes you do the things you do.  You just do it.  No planning, no plotting or scheming, you just march your happy ass right out of wherever it is the fuck you're at and go about your business, regret later, action now.  I like that kind of confidence.  It makes me jealous that someone can act so honestly.  You're feelings are written all over your fucking face for the world to see, fuck who cares."

Al turned, and a peculiar feeling came over him, making his heart ache.

"Fuck who cares."

He strode over to his door and whipped it open before closing it and locking it behind him.

Johnny was tending bar when he descended the steps, his gaze and movements as forlorn as if there were to be a funeral despite the amount of patrons milling about.

"Johnny!"  Swearengen belted out and the man startled, his rag moving vigorously as if he hadn't just been caught slacking on the job.  "Chin the fuck up, we got happy paying customers here, huh?"

Johnny forced on the tackiest smile Al had ever seen and greeted a man that looked as if he'd been prospecting since he was in his mother's womb.

"I'm goin' out for a bit,"  He tossed at Adams as he walked by.  "Watch the place, make sure it don't burn to the ground."  

He didn't wait for acknowledgement, choosing to move right past them all and head into the thoroughfare, whistling his own rendition of Camptown Races.

When Al entered the Doc's house, he was greeted with the well-used sound of Seth arguing, his voice angry and rising, along with Doc's attempts at placation.  

He closed his eyes and relief flooded through him.  If the cocksucker was well enough to argue, he wasn't going to die anytime soon.

Further walking into the cabin yielded  Dan was currently fast asleep on a couch pulled to the side, his chest in a sort of plaster mold, insinuating broken ribs.  A thin strip of pristine bandage circled his head, buried amidst his black hair.  His face was smooth and untroubled, and Al was sure he was flying high on the dope Doc bought from him for such occasions.

Sol occupied a seat facing the door and nodded at Al as he entered, his face lined with both stress and amusement.  Al nodded back and turned his attention to Seth and Doc, the former being situated on a makeshift cot.

Seth wasn't wearing a shirt but he was wrapped in bandages from neck to navel, white soft linen covering freckled and tanned skin making him look like an invalid.  His head was also bandaged making his brown hair stick out crazily from between the linen.

His right arm was at his side and set in a cast.  Both hands were bandaged tight, though looking closer at the right arm cast, he could see each finger was individually splinted.

'My broken boys…'  Al thought grimly, his eyes lingering on the obviously broken fingers.

Doc was currently facing Seth, one arm in a placating gesture the other holding a needle full of liquid with questionable origins.

"I told you, I don't fucking want any of it."  Seth snarled, his left hand shot forward and fisted deep into Doc's lapels, pulling him close.  "If you stick me with that, Doc, so help me-"

"My, my, Bullock,"  Al projected loudly, and noticed the way Seth's spine seemed to go rigid.  "Hassling the doctor here to care for you, what will the commons say?"

Seth's face slowly turned, and Al saw how vulnerable and young that face looked.  Seth's eyes looked raw and open, fear cutting lines into his face.

"Oh, he's always hated bein' fussed over."  Sol supplied from his chair off to the side.

"Doc, drop the needle, huh?"  Al suggested.  "He obviously don't want it, alright?  Save some more for the rest of us.  What is that anyway, dope?"

Seth let go of the Doc as the older man backed off, one hand rubbing at his throat.  He glanced up at Al, his face tight.  "It's laudanum."  He glared down at Seth like the unruly patient he was.  "A person's pain threshold is only so high, Bullock.  Why trouble yourself needlessly when the solution is right here?"

Seth returned his attention to Doc Cochran and spat, "I've had enough of being doped, you bastard, how many times do I have to fucking say it?"

The cocksucker kept him pliant with dope, now the man has an aversion to it.

"Leave off, Doc."  Al commanded.  "If he says no, then it's a no."

Doc Cochran threw his arms up, frustration written all over his sweaty face, "Not my nervous system anyway."  

Seth seemed to relax, his posture sagging into the cotton sheets and Al moved forward into the room, striding past the put out men and leaning in to examine Dan.

"He took a few blows to the head,"  Doc commented as he put the bottle of dope and needle away.  "And he's got some fractured ribs along with a stab wound to his forearm, but nothing that can't be mended in a fortnight or so.  He's sleeping off the needle right now."

Al hummed, his eyes watching the way Dan's eyes fluttered beneath his eyelids while he dreamt.

He straightened, then spun around to view Seth, who had quieted down and was watching him warily, like a kicked pup waiting for scolding.

Al scanned the man's torso, trying to discern the damage there, but couldn't glimpse anything through the bandages.  He looked up into those brown eyes, and saw how red Seth's face had gone under the scrutiny.

"How bad're you?"  Al asked, his voice sounding only half interested.  

Seth opened his mouth, but Doc beat him to it.  "Most of the fingers on his right hand have been broken, and his right arm's been fractured by a blow from something heavy,-"

"-it was a candelabra-"  Seth interjected, sounding sullen.

"-his left hand has a puncture wound from a knife going clean through, and he's got multiple lacerations crossing his chest and stomach that need time to heal. "  The Doc leaned into Seth's face when he said this last bit, obviously trying to impress the importance of a lack of work in the near future.

Seth rolled his eyes, but Star spoke up and said. "I'll make sure he gets plenty of rest, Doc."

"Tis a feat rendered impossible, one might say."  Al jibed.

"Hear, hear."  Doc echoed and Star barked a laugh.

"Talkin' about me like I'm not even here."  Seth muttered, his nose wrinkled.  Cute.

Seth was sick of all the fussing.  It had been five days, five fucking days , since he'd been released from the Doc's to his own quarters above the hardware store and he was just about done with everyone's questions and getting rid of well wishers.

Sol had been a constant mother hen; hovering over him like he was going to fall down and break if he took five steps without him.

"Doc Cochran said to take it easy, Seth."  

Seth was fucking sick of it.

He honestly debated running off with Jane, the way she talked sometimes, seems like she always just did what she wanted when she wanted, though he hardly thought it would make Sol happy.  The man might actually kick his ass this time if he were to come back any more wounded than he already was.

God, his fingers and arm itched.

He had taken to scratching between the plaster with whatever he could find, poking pencils or bits of metal inside in an attempt to quell the maddening feeling of hundreds of ants crawling around, but it almost seemed to make it worse.  

The pain was very much there, but manageable.  Sure the laudanum would've helped, but if Seth never saw it again it would be too soon, so he weathered it, despite how sometimes the ache in his bones and torso made him clench his teeth and break out into a sweat.

Boredom stretched his minutes into hours and he found himself milling about the hardware store, unable to help do anything other than look over Trixie's sums.

The woman was still practicing her numbers, never having needed it before save to count the money she was due in whoring, and he found that he actually enjoyed her company, which surprised him.

Trixie had always been a little bit too much for him.  He wasn't used to women being as sharp or as quick to temper as she, but he saw the defence mechanism for what it was and he couldn't fault her for it.  She was smart as a whip and learned fast, and her love for Sol was so obvious in the way she kept stealing glances at him while he helped customers with what they needed to find.

She made Seth laugh more than a few times, at which Sol's gaze would snap to the pair of them and he'd watch them as if they were birds that might spook at any fast movement.

He knew she reported back to Al, knew it with the way she would ask him personal questions like was he okay, how's the healing coming, any problems with his lacerations and the like.

He wasn't quite able to leave the hardware store yet.  Physically he could move about without too much fatigue.  Mentally was a different story.

Sol had suggested yesterday morning that they go get breakfast at Farnum's hotel, and Seth had felt a peculiar fear steal over him, like he'd been caught out in the open on a shooting range or something.  He couldn't put a finger on it.

He'd refused, feeling slightly out of breath and Sol had looked a bit forlorn before he'd shaken it off with a smile and left to meet up with Charlie Utter.

The feeling had utterly baffled him.

The nights were the hardest.  

He kept seeing things in the corner of his eye; shadows moving just beyond his sight, a blade that didn't exist glinting off of a stray moonbeam in the dark.  He'd once mistaken the coat rack for a figure, his own hat atop of it making him startle and trip over his feet before he realized what it was. 

When he tried to shut his eyes he'd hear a dark laugh and equally dark eyes, white teeth smiling down at him in a lascivious grin as he hurthurthurt , and he'd wake up in a cold sweat, the ghost of a scream scratching his throat.

Over the course of the week he began to long for the sun to rise, to chase away the darkness in both his room and his mind, cursing himself for his weakness and irrational fear.

He had killed Wolcott himself, he knew that, had felt the blood drain right out of his neck, and yet…

He began pacing the store at night, unable to bring himself to patrol the camp as he used to, too afraid of hands snatching him from the darkness.  He strode up and down the steps, back and forth in his room, making the circle in the store a hundred times, his mind unable to calm.

By the end of the week, Seth felt more fatigued than he had at the start of the week.

Late one Monday night, he found himself unable to sleep yet again, laying in his bed, staring up at the hardwood ceiling, the sheets practically glued to his skin.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He felt like he was waiting for Wolcott to come back, like any minute he was going to slide out from under the bed or behind a door with his needle full of drugs and his knife-

Seth rose from the bed and donned his boots, not even bothering to change into jeans, simply content with his night wear.

He made his way down the stairs and grabbed the duster he hadn't worn in a week and a half and stepped out of the front door of the hardware store, letting the lock slide into place behind him.

He stood there for a moment, his heart racing, breath frosting in the night air and glanced about him.

Barely any activity profaned the thoroughfare.  Judging by the position of the moon it was around midnight, and taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he stepped out onto the mud encrusted ground and crossed over to the Gem, his eyes wary and surveying his surroundings.

He crossed the threshold of the doorway, and noticed that there were several people inside, the piano playing loud and bawdy tunes as patrons milled about with ladies of the evening.

Johnny was tending bar, Dan likely laid up recovering in some room in the back, and the younger man nodded at him, his face becoming oddly strained

"Bullock."  The man greeted him as he slid up.  He eyed the cast around his right arm, before rising up to meet Seth's eyes again.

"He upstairs?"  Seth asked, weary.

Johnny shook his head.  "Went over to the Be–"  Here Johnny coughed, covering up what was likely about to be a breach of private information.  "I mean, he went out.  He's not in.  Somethin' I can…help you with?"

Seth stared for a minute, trying to discern whether or not Johnny was poking fun at him, then turned towards the stairs.

"I'm going up regardless."  Seth managed, moving away.  "Tell him I'm waiting for him when he gets back."

Johnny splattered.  "You can't--he's not….he doesn't like it when people go into his office when he's not there."

Seth rolled his eyes, moving out of the way of a redhead woman and an elderly looking miner that chased her as she ran past laughing.  "I'm not too worried about that right now.  Just tell him I'm waiting."

Al's office was unlocked, and this surprised him.  He himself was so diligent with getting robbed he figured Al would be too.  Then again, he had others to look out for him, othera that would make sure nobody went where they weren't needing to be.

He entered the room and shut the door behind him, a dim lantern on Al's desk casting fractures of light about the room.

Al really wasn't here.

His eyes found the bed Al slept in, and he trudged over to it, sitting himself upon it, feeling almost shy.  He'd never been over here before.  Even after all the things they'd done he'd never so much as touched Al's bed.

He toed off his boots, and relaxed backwards into the sheets, the unfamiliar setting somehow calming his racing thoughts.

He rolled over and lifted the sheets over him, being overly careful of his torso and arm.  The sheets smelled like Al.  Like smoke and whiskey and something a bit harder, something a bit more wild.

Seth inhaled deeply, the smell of the man filling his lungs and he let his eyes drift shut as he snuggled into the cotton embrace of the sheets, his mind blessedly clear.

"One would best avoid certain accusations.  They make a man seem…unseemly in their wrongness."  Tolliver's reply was about as cryptic as what happened to Brom Garret and Al smoothed a hand over his mustache as he fiddled with his glass of whisky.

"Unseemly or not, tinkering with a man's possessions is frowned upon lest someone bring undue cause down on oneself.  I would think, Tolliver, what with your proclivity for being accosted by less than savory characters that you would avoid making deals with people against your interests."

Tolliver smiled, a slimy slow slide of his lips.  "Whether or not deals were made is beside the issue.  Does it keep you up late at night, I wonder?  Trying to run things to your whims?  Does it cost you sleep, Mr. Swearengen?"

Al's ire grew, but his face remained as impassive as ever, years of schooling his expression making it easy to hide his anger.  "I find my sleep undisturbed, Tolliver, thanks for asking, though I do wonder about your precious girl, Joanie, and how it might make a woman's skin crawl after learning how her own financer was in on a certain set of unfortunate events."  Al took the shot of whisky Tolliver had provided, knocking it back in one smooth motion.  "I feel Hearst inbound has put you at somewhat of a disadvantage, what with having lost his chief geologist to acts of depravity."

Tolliver's face darkened.  "It's something I'm wondering if Hearst himself would like to know, perhaps a finger pointed in the right direction, a gentle… nudge of intuition."

Al rose from his chair feeling smug and satisfied as he straightened his suit.  Tolliver's skin wasn't as thick as he pretended, and he delighted in pricking his hide.  "By all means, write a letter, Tolliver.  Don't let your wondering stop you from doing."

Al left the table, the heat of Tolliver's anger at his back and strode out of the Bella Union, his face a mask of indifference.

He wondered at Hearst, and how the man would react.  He wasn't afraid of some upjumped businessman from the west, some man that sought his fortune out in the hills rather than in drink and pussy.  Men like that didn't scare him; he knew what they wanted.

Passing into the Gem he noticed Johnny at the bar, a semi-clean rag worrying away at a dirty glass that had seen better days and he strolled up, giving pause at the guilty look Johnny shot him.

"What did you do?"  Al asked, not ready for anymore shit tonight.

Johnny's eyes flicked up to him then away.  "Bullock came by.  Asked for you.  Told him you weren't here and he went on up to your office.  Said I should tell you he was there.  Now, I told him, Al, that you don't like people up there when you're not around but he ignored me, and I ain't up to stopping a man like that, broken arm or not."

Al stared at the man.  He hadn't seen Seth in about a week.  Likely the man had been recovering at the hardware store, not wanting the public eye to see such extenuating injuries.

"You did good, Johnny."  Al turned and climbed the stairs, wondering if Seth had come for nefarious, certain reasons being his needy cock.

He opened the door, and was about to launch into a long winded speech about people going where they shouldn't, had in fact already opened his mouth to do so, when he realized nobody was seated at his desk.

He closed the door behind him and turned his head, scanning the room and found the man, fast asleep in his bed.

Al watched him for a moment, the shock of it moving him to speechlessness.

Bullock looked so at ease, so peaceful that at first Al didn't recognize him without the trademark scowl and fire.  The man was on his side under the cotton sheets, curled up into a ball, only his head peeking out from under the covers.

Not wanting to wake him, Al moved to his dresser and began pulling off his things, leaving only his white night suit and bare feet, making sure to be extra quiet as he did so.

Not one to roll over, Al wasn't used to catering to others, but he found the act not as difficult as he'd imagined where Seth Bullock was involved.

He blew the lantern out and the room was cast in semi-darkness, the only source of light coming in from the moonbeams of the veranda windows.

Seth's breath stuttered as Al climbed into bed with him, reorganizing the sheets for both of them.  Seth shifted slightly, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, and then his even breathing resumed, fast asleep.

Al watched him doze, finding himself strangely fascinated with how open Seth's face looked while asleep, how young he seemed.

His eyes roved down a freckled neck and traced over the bandages under his shirt.  He wanted to know what Wolcott had done.  Doc's wording made it seem as if he'd carved Seth's chest open, and he feared what permanent injury it had done.

He couldn't help the hand that reached out to run through his hair anymore than he could help the feeling bubbling up inside of him.

'You fucking destroy me, boy.  And you aren't even aware of it.'

Seth hummed, and one eye cracked open, unfocused.  It found Al, and a small, strange smile crept across his lips when he closed it again.

Al's heart fluttered.

"Couldn't sleep in my own bed."  Seth murmured, his voice thick with sleep.  "Came here."

"I noticed.  The night aggrieved you that much, hm?"

Seth didn't reply.

Al continued carding his fingers through Seth's hair as the man fell back asleep, and Al's chest thrummed as thought about the future and all the places it might hold surprise.