Hunter's Moon

By: Joe Lawson

The wolves are out tonight
Under the hunter's moon.

(Tuesday's Child, by: All About Eve.
In: Scarlet And Other Stories, 1989.)

PART THREE

Chapter Seven

Bandages, carbolic, needle and thread. Check.

Knives and tweezers for operating. Check. Knives for fighting. Check.

Laudanum for the wounded. Check. Whiskey for Larabee. Check.

Nathan frowned. Maybe he should use the laudanum on Chris and drink the whiskey himself. Might make life a lot easier for both of them. Then again, a drugged Larabee might be even harder to handle than a drunk Larabee. The man had a talent for making the worst out of every situation that forced him to deal with emotions.

Not for the first time, the healer wondered how Buck had managed to handle the volatile gunslinger after his family's death. Especially since he must've been half out of his mind with grief himself. Neither man spoke much about Sarah and Adam Larabee, but Nathan had heard Buck cry out for them in his sleep when he'd been down with a fever a couple of weeks before, and he hadn't been able to forget the tormented mixture of loss, love, and yearning in the man's voice ever since. It had made him realize how little he knew about his fellow regulator.

Buck, like Ezra, was a master of making other people see only what they wanted to see. But while Ezra hid behind a smooth poker face, Buck had taken the most likable, most acceptable, part of his personality and forged it into an adaptable, pleasant mask that was incredibly hard to detect, much less see through. The only times he habitually dropped the pretense was during a fight, or when somebody he cared for was in danger. It was the reason why Nathan had never hesitated to trust Buck Wilmington with his life. After the first time he'd gotten a glimpse of the man beneath the Scoundrel while facing overwhelming odds at the Seminole village, he'd known there was more to Buck than he let on.

He'd been puzzling over the weird contradictions combined in the tall gunslinger, trying to understand how the man could be easy-going ladies man *and* deadly focused killer, switching back and forth between the two aspects of his character in the blink of an eye. He'd met one or two men like Buck in his life, but none of them had seemed so perfectly at ease in both roles. They were either a killer pretending to be a friendly rake, or a rascal trying to pass for a gunfighter. Buck was simply Buck.

Considering all this, the revelation that the blue-eyed scoundrel was a shapechanger didn't come asa complete shock. It seemed strangely fitting.

Nathan stopped what he'd been doing, mentally replaying his train of thought. What the . . .? Damn, he'd spent entirely too much time with these crazy gunslingers. He was beginning to think like Josiah. He smiled. There were worse things could happen to a person.

"Penny for your thoughts."

He did *not* squeak. He did, however, jump about a foot, draw his knives while whirling around, and almost nail Buck to the wall. And not in a good way.

Far from being intimidated -- or maybe just too spent to muster the energy a proper response would've demanded -- Buck merely raised an eyebrow at the healer's reaction and lifted his hands in a hey-don't-shoot-me-I'm-harmless gesture. "Stand down, man, it's only me," he drawled, obviously not particularly concerned to find himself facing his friend's knives. "Nervous much?"

"Jesus, Buck!" Nathan cried, quickly sheathing the blades. "Don't do that! I could've killed you!"

Buck blinked at the words, honestly surprised at that statement. "Nah, ya wouldn't have," he said, with such absolute conviction that the healer stood flabbergasted. "You're too good to make a mistake like that."

The scoundrel winked at him, showing his trademark 'seducer's grin' - a lazy, sexy smile that clearly stated that no matter the trouble he might cause, he was worth it. It might've worked with any of the others, but not with Nathan. The healer was too busy noting the more subtle signals of his friend's body language to really notice the smile.

Where most people would've seen Buck leaning indolently against the doorframe, showing definite similarities to a horny tomcat lazily eyeing his game, Nathan saw a man who simply was too weary to stand up straight anymore. Buck's shirt was hanging open, offering a perfect view of his exquisitely sculptured torso, and the first button of his fly was unfastened - a deadly combination even without the low-riding pants. Thank God it was late, or the beautiful bastard would've caused a riot. It was highly unlikely anybody would've understood Buck was probably only fed up with dressing and undressing all the time. Nathan also suspected the gunslinger was rather sore in places that wouldn't take well to tight pants.

So when Buck reached out to his friend, the healer didn't realize the movement was meant as an invitation. All he saw was a plea for help, and he reacted promptly, hurrying over to take the outstretched arm and place it around his shoulders, then gently wrap his own arm around Buck's waist so he could catch him should he stumble.

They were halfway to the emergency cot when the scoundrel finally got over his shock and dug his heels in, bringing them to an abrupt halt. "Nathan, what the devil are you doing?" he barked, balanced precariously on the edge between laughter and irritation. "I'm not hurt, damn it!"

"The hell you ain't," Nathan snapped, remembering how heavily the other man had leaned against him before indignation had struck. "You gotta be sore like hell, as well as exhausted. I'm amazed you're still up and running, but then, you did drink at least six cups of coffee earlier, so I guess you're mainly running on caffeine."

Buck blinked. "That a bad thing?"

The healer groaned and continued on his way to the bed, dragging his reluctant patient with him without further ado. "That's it. Get over there, you stubborn cuss, and let me see what you've done to yourself this time."

Despite his harsh words he lowered his friend onto the bed carefully, only too aware of how gingerly the usually so lively gunslinger moved. Buck put up the expected token protest, but didn't resist when Nathan helped him undress, then started to examine his body with clinical detachment.

"Y'know, you're s'posed t' fuck me, not doctor me," Buck remarked, watching the healer's large hands ghost whisper-soft over the darkening bruises forming on his pelvis.

Nathan ignored the hint, his brow furrowed in concentration. "What happened?" he asked, pointing at the marks.

"Chris' table happened."

The scoundrel grinned at his friend's statement as the healer tried to puzzle out just how that had transpired, then muttered a profanity when he figured it out. Nathan forced himself to banish visions of Chris Larabee fucking Buck bent over the table, slamming his partner against the hard edge repeatedly. He wasn't certain if he'd manage not to punch their glorious leader for his lack of consideration the next time they met.

Needing to focus on something else, he ran a gentle hand over Buck's soft penis, wincing in sympathy when the other man flinched at the touch. "Does it hurt bad?"

The gunslinger shook his head, shifting uneasily to escape the probing fingers. "Just a bit sore," he mumbled. "Some of the guys have a rougher grip than I'm used to."

"Why didn't you say something?" Nathan snapped, then quickly lifted a hand to cut off Buck's reply. "No, lemme guess. You could handle it. Didn't hurt enough to interrupt what you were doing. And anyway, you can deal with feeling a little tender for a while."

"If ya know already, then why're ya askin'?" Buck countered.

"You're hopeless," the healer groaned. "Turn around."

"Why?"

"Because I want to look at your back and ass," Nathan informed him patiently.

"Damn it, Nathan, would ya stop it?" the gunslinger growled, glaring up at him in irritation. "You're a worse mother-hen than I'll ever be! Could ya try to turn off the healer instincts for a while and touch me with something other than concern?"

The healer returned the fierce stare with uneasiness, but he didn't try to look away. "Lemme check your backside," he said softly. "I can't do this when I'm afraid I'll hurt ya."

Buck held his gaze for a moment longer, then obeyed with a sigh, accepting his friend's need to ensure his well-being before taking things any further. He rolled onto his belly and rested his head on his folded arms, silently giving Nathan permission to go ahead.

Nathan was well acquainted with the gunslinger's numerous scars, but his fingers still curled into a fist at the sight of the old, silvery lines left by a whipping. He knew all too well how that must've felt, as he carried similar marks on his own skin. Taking a deep breath, the healer ignored the familiar pattern of scars, and studied the broad back in front of him. The finger-shaped bruises developing at Buck's hips and lower back didn't come as a surprise, but the bite at the crook of his neck did. His fingers hovered over it for a few seconds as he wondered who of the others had produced that mark. He decided he didn't want to know. He'd probably have to slug Chris.

"Don't move," he told the prone man and went to get the healing salve he'd prepared, knowing they'd have to face the pack the next day. Buck turned his head and sniffed. Remembering he was dealing with a Two-Blood, Nathan hesitated before spreading the balm on the wound. "All right?" he asked. If the scent was offending to his friend's sensitive nose, he could still add some herbs to make it easier to bear. He'd never had to take details like that into consideration, but he was willing to adjust.

Buck shot him a look of surprise, then smiled. "It's not too bad." His gaze softened. "Thank you for askin'."

"No problem." Nathan shrugged awkwardly. "No reason ta make it any harder for you than it has to be."

He felt the gunslinger tense when he started to rub the ointment into the abused skin, but soon Buck relaxed under the gentle ministrations. He very nearly melted into the covers when Nathan started to massage his shoulders, locating every single knot of tension and doing his best to dissolve it. The healer's big hands moved with a gentleness that worked its own kind of magic, starting at the base of Buck's skull, then down his spine.

Sometime during the slow, thorough rub-down the atmosphere in the room shifted, as Nathan became increasingly aware of the body stretched out before him. He allowed himself to stop seeing Buck as a patient, or even a friend, and for the first time looked at him as a lover. It was a little weird, but not half as much as he'd expected. It felt right.

He'd slept with other men before and not been particularly unnerved by it, but that had been a long time before. As a slave, he'd been afraid to form emotional attachments, knowing friends and lovers could be torn from his side in a heartbeat at the Master's whim. As a free man, it had been a lot easier and less risky to buy the favors of a whore than to approach one of his acquaintances or occasional traveling companions. And yet . . . since coming to Four Corners and suddenly finding himself with not only one but *six* friends of a caliber he'd never known before, Nathan had become increasingly aware of the ambivalent nature of the bond between the Seven. They were friends, yes, but the potential for more was there all the same. He wondered if maybe they'd sensed that open-mindedness in each other, if that was one of the things that had drawn them together so quickly and easily.

He leaned forward almost dreamily, bending down to plant a gentle kiss on the curved wing of Buck's right shoulder-blade. Buck sighed softly but didn't move, holding still as if he was afraid any sudden movement might spook the healer. Encouraged by the faint sound, Nathan stroked a large hand slowly down his friend's side, marveling at how vulnerable this strong, capable man felt under his touch. The skin stretched taut over muscles and bones was smooth like hot ice, inviting him to pet and caress to his heart's content.

He paused for only a moment before he stood up and undressed, and he never took his gaze off Buck, afraid he'd lose his nerve if he did. The gunslinger scooted aside a bit so Nathan could sit down comfortably beside him, but he didn't turn his head or try to roll around. For a man who was used to courting death on a regular basis he seemed amazingly relaxed, showing no sign of unease at his exposed position. He was breathing evenly, presenting his friend with his back without so much as a twitch of doubt. The amount of trust evident in that simple gesture was staggering. It was also strangely liberating.

This time when Nathan touched Buck, every last trace of uncertainty was gone. He gave himself over to the delight of exploring the hard body, running just the tips of his fingers over the rise and swell of solid muscles and along the gentle curve of the man's spine, following the indentation to the crevice of a damn near perfect ass. Buck obligingly lifted his hips when Nathan parted his cheeks, his breathing quickening at the intimate caress that followed.

Still, the healer felt the return of tension and knew instinctively it wasn't caused by pleasure. He was getting too good at reading his stubborn friends to be fooled by the contented moan that was supposed to mask the pain.

"Shhh," he murmured, reaching for the jar with salve he'd put on the floor beside the bed. After all, he'd expected something like that. "Don't worry, we're not goin' to stop. Just slowing down a li'l."

"You don't have to- "

"Buck." Only one word, but Nathan filled it with all the warning and threat he could muster.

Buck startled, then admitted defeat with a good-natured chuckle. "All right. We do it your way." He grabbed the pillow and stuffed it under his hips, making access easier. "I'm all yours."

"And don't you forget it," Nathan agreed smugly, grinning at the disgruntled little rumble his statement provoked.

He dipped his fingers into the ointment, scooping up a generous amount of the creamy substance and warming it in his hand. Partly to distract Buck, partly because he wanted to take some of the old hurt away, Nathan bent down again and started to kiss the scars on his lover's back. He felt a shiver race through the gunslinger's tall frame, then the proud head bowed deeper and powerful muscles rippled and flexed, bringing the abused skin closer to the healer's lips.

Supporting himself with one hand on the mattress, Nathan continued to lovingly kiss the ivory colored marks, flicking his tongue out again and again like an animal trying to clean a wound. The fingers of his other hand were circling the sore opening, massaging the healing balm into the irritated skin, occasionally breaching the sensitive barrier to spread the liniment into the narrow passage beyond. He could feel Buck's heartbeat fluttering beneath his lips and throbbing around his fingers. So strong and yet so goddamn fragile, like all living creatures.

Arousal sneaked up on him, increasing gradually until he couldn't ignore his pulsing hard-on anymore. He went for the jar again, coating his fingers with the salve, then lubricated his shaft and moved between Buck's thighs. "Try to relax," he whispered, his hands stroking soothingly up and down his lover's quivering flanks.

"I am relaxed," Buck grumbled, not half as bothered by the possibility of a little pain as was Nathan. "Hell, if I relaxed any more, I'd melt into a puddle of happy goo."

Nathan's startled laugh spoiled his aim, causing his cock to bump against a firm mound of flesh instead of slipping into the well greased hole. "Buck!" he complained.

The scoundrel's body shook with muffled laughter, which didn't really help. It took him a minute to collect himself, then he resumed position. "Sorry," he offered, ruining the effect with the total lack of remorse coloring his reply.

"Yeah, sho'," Nathan muttered, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. It wasn't easy. Leave it to Buck to disarm a possibly embarrassing situation without a hitch. "Hold still now," he warned. "I mean it. I don't wanna hurt ya."

Buck nodded docilely and didn't move when his friend started to push into him carefully. Nathan tried to make it as easy for his lover as he could, but his sheer size made a painless entry nearly impossible. For the first time in his life he actually wished he wasn't so well endowed. The gunfighter didn't make a sound, never tried to escape the invasion, but every involuntary tensing of his body cut right through the healer's gentle heart.

By the time he was fully sheathed, Nathan was almost ready to call it quits. He could feel the tiny muscle spasms rippling around his cock, knew that though they felt great to him, increasing his level of arousal to almost painful intensity, the affair was a lot less pleasurable for his friend.

Buck seemed to sense his dismay and reacted in typical Buck-fashion. "Don't you dare stop now," he breathed, shooting a blue-eyed glare over one shoulder. "I'm not made of glass, y'know? I can take whatever you dish out and then some. So stop fretting and move!"

The healer felt his cock jump in complete agreement with the scoundrel, but he still held back, even though he thought it might just kill him. "I don't want to- "

"*Move*!"

Nathan's body jolted forward like an excited racehorse, only too happy to comply with the barked order. He almost sobbed in relief, finally giving in and allowing himself to lose himself in the heat and welcoming presence of Buck Wilmington. God help him, but it felt so good! Buck wasn't much smaller than he, and they fit together like they'd been made for each other. It took all his self-control to keep from forgetting about the man's sore ass and ram into him in blind, raw urgency.

Somehow he managed to rein in his instincts, tumbling towards orgasm with maddening slowness. His world narrowed down to the sweet, building ache in his cock and the desire rolling hotter and wilder through his veins with every thrust. When he let go at last and surrendered to his body's demands, a wave of bliss crashed down on him, sweeping him along until he couldn't even remember his own name. He thought he heard a deafening roar and for once didn't give a damn. The only thing that counted was the incomparable pleasure of release.

He barely succeeded in not simply pitching forward and squashing Buck under his weight when it was over. Tapping into his reserves he managed to ease his spent cock out of his lover's body inch by sated inch and then dropped like a stone onto the covers beside Buck. "Please tell me I didn't scream," he mumbled, burying his face against a hard shoulder.

Buck turned to his side so he could kiss the healer's nose. "Nah. Not out loud, anyway." He grinned. "Well? That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

Nathan forced one eye open. "It was all right," he said laconically, trying his best to copy Ezra's best poker face.

The reaction was immediate and expected. "All right? *All right*?!" The scoundrel propped himself up on one elbow and glared down at his lover. "Ya came so hard it's a miracle your head didn't explode! Now, I'm th' first to admit I'm not exactly in top condition at th' moment and that it probably wasn't as good as it could've been, but I'd bet my underwear it was the best damn sex you've had in ages." He stopped, thought about it; winked. "Though I admit that doesn't say much, considerin' your sex-life. Or th' lack thereof."

The healer briefly considered feeling insulted, but he felt too good to make the effort. "Not everybody has your energy," he noted sedately. "Thank God. If I led the kind of life you do, I'd be dead within a week."

He sighed and stretched, resigned to the fact that falling asleep with Buck in his arms wouldn't happen. The gunslinger seemed to have gotten his second wind. He looked disgustingly awake. Probably best to send him on his way now, while he was still alert.

Getting out of the bed turned out to be easier said than done with Buck trying to steal kisses every time he moved. And, hot damn, the man could kiss! It was enough to turn any person's brain to mush. Actually, that explained a lot . . .

Finally, Nathan made it into an upright position. He wasn't quite sure if that was an improvement or not, seeing as he would've preferred to stay right where he was, but Buck still had one more to go before he could rest, and he needed some sleep. So the healer went to get a basin with tepid water and a towel, then returned to the cot to gently wipe sweat and semen from his lover's body. Buck lay quietly, his eyes half closed, visibly enjoying the ministrations. He hissed sharply when Nathan rubbed some more salve on his abused pucker, but didn't protest.

"Do you need help dressing?" the healer asked softly.

Buck immediately rolled out of bed, snatching his pants from Nathan's hand. "I'm fine." Noting the look of blatant disbelief on his friend's face, he grinned. "You really hate that phrase, don't'cha?"

"With every fiber of my being," the healer confirmed.

The scoundrel laughed, but didn't promise not to use the words again. While he tried to sort out his clothing, Nathan put on his pants and went to prepare a smaller jar of the balm. He also wrote a quick note for Chris that he stuffed into a small bag with the ointment. Studying the pouch for a second, he lengthened the straps so Buck could carry it comfortably over his shoulder, then finished dressing. He'd better accompany the bruised and worn out gunslinger to the livery and see him off, or he'd never be able to rest easy.

They were almost down the stairs before the healer noticed his companion was barefoot as well as unarmed, and he stopped their descent. "Damn it, Buck, where's your boots and gun?" he asked, visions of his friend stepping on a rusty nail and developing an infection warring with visions of him being gunned down by some trigger-happy Chris-Larabee-wannabe.

Buck shrugged, clearly unconcerned with those hazards. "Left my gun with Chris and my hat 'n boots at the church," he said, then, seeing Nathan's agitation, spread his hands reassuringly. "I can see pretty well in th' dark," he hastened to explain. "And won't nobody get close enough t' do me harm with all those Two-Bloods around."

Nathan felt his jaw drop, but was unable to prevent it. "You trust *them* with your back?!"

"Uhm . . . yeah." Buck seemed confused by the question. "They do consider me fam'ly, remember? That I don't share their opinion doesn't mean they'll let anybody threaten me." He grimaced. "Bad blood's still blood."

This was decidedly weird. "But- You've hardly slept any since they've come t' town," Nathan argued, trying to understand. "You've been keeping an eye on them the whole time, twitchy like a nun in Purgatory. Didn't look like you trusted them at all. More like you was just waitin' for 'em to make their move."

"I said I trusted them with *my* life, not with *yours*," the gunslinger corrected him. "Before I declared y'all pack, you were fair game. And even though you can be quite an irritating bunch, I kinda like y'all with yer heads firmly attached and your entrails where they belong."

Nathan shuddered at the all too graphic image, remembering with icy clarity what Buck had told them about his mother's death. //Did he tell you how he killed her? How he dug the fingers of one hand into her beautiful long hair and held her up, then sliced her open from throat to pubic bone?// He'd seen people who'd been gutted during the war. It wasn't a sight you ever forgot. It wasn't a death you'd wish on your worst enemy, let alone your friends.

They stared at each other for a moment, Buck's eyes shadowed with the resounding echo of crippling fear, Nathan's glazed with the sudden realization of how dangerous their situation had been. Then the Two-Blood shook himself and forcibly shoved the memories back into the nether regions of his mind. "Let's go," he said gruffly.

That sounded like a sound plan.

And if the two men seemed to almost flee down the stairs and into the livery after that, then they were certainly just in a bit of a hurry; because everybody knows you can't outrun your ghosts.

Chapter Eight

Coffee. He needed more coffee.

And a smoke.

Oh, to hell with it. What he needed was a drink. Better make that a couple of drinks. Where was that bottle of Red Eye he'd bought for Vin's birthday? He knew he'd hidden it here somewhere so Buck didn't find it. Of course, knowing what he did now, that move had been for damn all. If Buck had wanted that bottle, he probably could've found it with his eyes closed. Damn. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about that anymore. Where was that goddamn whiskey?

Cupboard. Closet. Bed. Under the bed. He'd stashed the bottle under the bed, knowing it'd be safe there between the dust bunnies. He stared at the piece of furniture in question, strangely reluctant to come near it. //You're the leader. You're the beginning and the end. We'll do it, then I'll go find the others, an' afterwards I'll come back here and lie with you again.// No, don't go there. He wouldn't think about that either. Wouldn't think about how it made him feel. Or didn't make him feel.

He shouldn't be looking forward to this. Not even a little bit. He'd promised himself after his family's death he'd never love again. Of course, he'd also promised himself he'd follow Sarah and Adam first chance he got, and Buck had ruined that plan, too. Damn stubborn bastard. The man was simply too loyal for his own good. He should've taken off the first time Chris had beaten him up. Then Larabee would be dead now, not staring at his own bed like a hypnotized chicken and trying to digest the realization that he'd just agreed to practically adopt a new family. And not a normal family, no, not him. Instead of doing what he suspected half the town expected him to do - namely marry Mary Travis and raise her son as his -- he had to go for six headstrong, trouble-prone gunslingers.

He should've run while he still had the chance. He never should've come to Four Corners in the first place. He never should've allowed himself to get to know that band of misfits, to get attached to them. It was too late, of course. He was stuck with them. Thanks to Buck, his brief flirtation with friendship had become a permanent job.

Leader of the pack.

Oh God. He needed that drink. Immediately.

Seven hours later the black-clad gunslinger was sitting on the porch, smoking a cheroot and staring grimly into the same glass of whiskey. Damn them. Damn them all to hell. He should've been thoroughly plastered by now, past caring and worrying. This was all Buck's fault. Larabee would've cheerfully explored the bottom of a bottle, if not for that cursed vulnerability his friend had shown earlier. Chris knew he was a mean drunk. It had never bothered him before, but at the moment Buck was in no shape to deal with this less than charming aspect of his friend's personality.

So his intended binge had turned into an extended brooding session that left him with a headache the size of Texas and in an extraordinarily foul mood. He wasn't used to consider Buck's needs. Buck was the one who took care of others, not Chris. Buck dealt with the emotional stuff, Chris shot people. It was that simple. Or rather, it had been that simple. Everything had been fine until the arrival of Buck's past had shot their carefully established balance to hell.

He didn't even want to think how much things would change now, not only between Buck and him, but between all of them. Buck seemed so sure it was going to be a good change, a growing into something bigger and more powerful than what they had now. What if he was wrong? Chris didn't think he could survive the loss of another family. Hell, the thought of losing only one of them was enough to make him break out in cold sweat. It took all the fun out of threatening to shoot them.

Oh, well. He'd just have to content himself with maiming them.

He was busily listing every non-lethal shot he could inflict on his irksome companions when he noticed the big gray horse detaching itself from the darkness like some ancient fairy tale creature. Finally. The unpleasantly sober gunslinger rose to his feet, wincing a bit as his muscles complained at the sudden movement. He didn't mind. As he stepped down from the porch and approached the lone rider, his lips curled into an anticipatory smile. He was looking forward to giving Buck a piece of his mind. It was time to make sure the damn scoundrel knew the score. Chris was in control here. He called the shots. He decided when and what-

His train of thought derailed with a screech when he realized Buck was swaying precariously. Steele, thanks to years of experience and training, slowed down to a snail's pace but kept moving towards the cabin. As long as his rider was still on his back, the horse would keep on walking, until he either found help or was too exhausted to go on. Larabee met the gelding halfway, stopping him with a light tug on the reins, then instantly focused on his friend. "Buck?"

The younger man's eyes blinked open, reflecting the glimmer of light from the half-smoked cheroot. The sight was unnerving enough for Chris to drop the cigar and quickly stomp it out in the dust. When he looked back up again, Buck hadn't moved, held upright only by his usual obstinacy and force of habit. "Chris . . .?"

"What in tarnation did you do now?" the gunslinger demanded angrily, already reaching out to steady the scoundrel. "Did you get into a fight?" Cold dread stabbed through him, only to be replaced by the first tendrils of choking terror when another thought hit him. "Anybody hurt?"

Buck reacted instinctively to the sharp tone in Larabee's voice, shaking off his fatigue to reassure his friend. "Everybody's fine." He eased the death grip he'd had on Steele's mane and slowly and awkwardly started to dismount. "I'm just a bit . . . uh . . . tired."

Chris caught him when he slid down to the ground and almost fell. "No shit," the gunslinger remarked mildly, feeling the slight trembling of Buck's muscles and unconsciously tightening his hold. "How 'bout we get you inside and to bed then?"

"Still gotta claim me," Buck reminded him, absently patting Steele's neck when Larabee got them moving towards the cabin.

The man in black grunted a curse. "Can't that wait 'til tomorrow?" he snapped. "You can barely walk, and a couple of hours can't make much of a difference." He knew it was a lost cause the moment the words left his mouth, but he couldn't not suggest it.

"No can do, pard." The scoundrel straightened, drawing away from Larabee's support. "I'm takin' no chances with this one."

As if to prove he was perfectly all right, he took the two steps onto the porch in one, but the movement was so far from his usual energetic bounce he only succeeded in adding to Chris' concern. As was so often the case, concern translated into irritation, then anger when it became clear that Buck wouldn't give in. "Goddammit, Bucklin," Larabee seethed, staring up at his uncooperative friend. "Are you *trying* to make me mad?"

The tall man looked startled for a moment, then he leaned against the wall with a sigh. "Back to that, are we?"

It was the patient, resigned tone of voice that made Chris' hackles rise. It made him feel like a petulant adolescent. Chris Larabee didn't like feeling like a petulant adolescent. He hadn't liked the feeling when he still *had been* a petulant adolescent. It didn't help any that the cause for his unease was a man who seemed about as mature as an over-excited teenager at times. No matter that Buck was the only one except for Vin who could reach past his barriers and get close enough to touch him like that. Lashing out had become second nature to Larabee, and he did it without thinking, slipping back into the familiar pattern of provocation and retaliation with something akin to relief.

"Yes, we're back to that," he ground out, his eyes narrowing in anger. "And we'll get back to that again and again and again, until you stop deliberately annoying me and start behaving like a responsible adult! I've about had it with your antics!"

He glared at the dark figure of his friend, waiting for the inevitable argument. However, Buck only looked at him for a long minute, before slowly sliding down along the wall until he sat on the porch. "Hell, Chris, you think I ain't scared?" he asked softly.

Larabee, who'd started forward when he'd seen his friend's legs give out, froze. "What are you talkin' about?"

An alarmingly humorless chuckle drifted from the shadows. "This whole pack business has you damn near in a blind panic," Buck said, without a hint of mockery. "You've had about seven hours ta think about it, and ya used every minute t' cook up all kinds 'a scenarios of how this can go wrong."

That was a bit too close to truth for comfort. He'd forgotten how easily his old friend could read him. "I'm not afraid," he growled, trying to convince himself as well as Buck.

"The hell you are," the tall gunslinger told him amiably. "I could smell your fear a mile from here. Smells like whiskey." He raised the bottle of Red Eye Chris had taken with him to the porch. It was still mostly full. "One of your favorite ways of dealing with fear. Or pain. Or any other feelin' ya can't get a handle on right away."

"Go to hell, Buck."

"No. Not yet." Buck opened the bottle, took a deep swallow, then threw it at his companion. Larabee caught it with one hand, but didn't drink. "Can't say I blame ya." The dark-haired man sighed, tilting his head back until it rested against the wooden planks. "Everybody's got a different way of handling their nightmares. You drown 'em. I bury 'em. Doesn't make 'em go away, mind you, but it keeps them at bay for a while."

Chris kept silent. He wouldn't have, normally, but nothing was normal that night.

"This could be the worst mistake any of us ever made," Buck stated soberly. "I know that. I know you're all human, and I'm not. I'm not so stupid as to believe that couldn't become a problem. You think you've thought of all th' ways this could go wrong? I bet I hatched a few you wouldn't even dream about. And every single one of 'em was my fault. This could kill us all. It could do worse to me. But you know what?" The painful ghost of a voice hardened, cutting through the night like a razor. "We will not fail because of me. If I have to carry you through this one by one, I will. If I have to fight every damn Two-Blood this side of the Mississippi, I will. And if I have to renounce the ways of my kind to save what I have with you, that's what I'll do. But I will not, under any circumstance, give in without a fight, y' hear me, Chris? I will not throw away this chance just because I'm afraid. And neither will you."

They stared at each other in silence for a while, for once dropping the walls of pain and guilt between them, and really looking at each other. Buck was tired and hurt, but determined. Chris was wired and scared, but resolute. It wasn't in his nature to back down from a challenge.

"If you think I'll fuck you on the porch, think again," he said roughly.

Buck smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it." He tried to stand up, winced, held out a hand. "How 'bout some assistance here?"

Larabee's hand closed around his forearm in a firm warrior's grip, pulling him to his feet easily. "C'mon, big dog," the gunfighter sighed. "Let's finish this."

"Sounds like a plan."

They staggered into the cabin side by side, careful not to let the other see how anxious they still were. Chris steered his friend towards the bed and dumped him there unceremoniously, then went to rebuild the fire. He contemplated making another pot of coffee, but decided against it. They'd had enough of the stuff already. When he turned back to the cot, Buck was just struggling out of his shirt. He wasn't being very successful.

Larabee watched his friend battle the willful garment and shook his head. It was pitiful. Heaving a greatly put-upon sigh he strode over to where the Two-Blood was trying to figure out how his buttons worked. "Let me," he ordered. "This is pathetic."

The tall gunslinger obediently dropped his hands into his lap and spread his thighs so Chris could kneel in front of him and open his shirt with quick, economic movements. "Much obliged," he mumbled when Larabee was done with his shirt and started on his pants.

"You've been talking to Ezra again," Chris teased, desperately fighting against the strangely protective feelings rising in his soul at the sight of this drowsy, uncommonly pliant Buck. It was hard to reconcile the docile young man blinking owlishly at him with the exuberant, infuriating scoundrel who was driving him up the wall in regular intervals.

Buck graced him with a decidedly watered-down version of his infamous suggestive leer. "We didn't really do that much *talkin'*, if you get my drift."

Larabee quickly raised a hand. "I don't want to know," he barked. Bad enough that his mind was conjuring up all kinds of mental pictures about what might've happened between his oldest friend and the rest of the Seven, he didn't need any more fuel to his already overactive imagination. "Lift your ass."

The change of topic was obviously too much for Buck's overtaxed brain. "Why?"

"So I can get those damn pants off."

"Oh." The Two-Blood chuckled, then shook off the weariness clouding his thoughts and got up, stepping out of the pants on his own. "Sorry. It was a long night."

Chris grinned. "I bet it was." Looking up he found himself staring directly at his friend's cock and impulsively leaned forward to press a light kiss against the soft member. "Lay down and relax," he said gruffly. "I'll take care of the rest. Just try not to fall asleep in the middle of it, all right? I'd hate to have to kill you after investing so much time and bullets in your well-being."

"Can't have that," Buck agreed. "D'you want me on my back or stomach?"

The gunslinger shrugged. "Whatever you're more comfortable with." He stood up and started to shed his clothes, feeling slightly guilty because he hadn't even dropped his pants the first time he'd taken his friend. While his fingers worked on the buttons, he watched Buck test the bed, searching for a satisfactory position. It would've been funny how he grumpily shifted about, all but turning in circles like a dog preparing to lie down, but Chris' smile faded when he realized how tender the man had to be to keep scooting around like that. Looked like six lovers in one night was a bit much even for Buck Wilmington.

"There's something for you in that bag over there," the Two-Blood said, nodding towards the heap of clothes beside the bed. "Nathan sends his regards, you're supposed to use that balm as a lubricant. And there's a letter."

A letter? Surprised and not a little curious, Larabee threw his folded garments onto the nearest chair and returned to the cot, grabbing the bag and unearthing its content. He sniffed at the jar with the salve, happy to notice the concoction had only a faint, herbal scent. It was a nice change from the foul odor most of the healer's teas and potions exuded. "Nice, ain't it?" Buck commented, eyes twinkling even as he gave up lying on his side and shifted position again.

"Could be worse," the gunfighter conceded. He put the ointment aside and opened the letter. It was more of a note, short and to the point.

********************

Chris,

Buck's sore, so use the balm and be gentle. Don't let him fool you into believing he's fine. He's exhausted and bruised and in no condition to take any rough handling. Take it slow. No horseplay. And no biting.

Nathan

PS: Make sure he drinks afterwards, so he doesn't dehydrate.

*******************

"What's it say?" Buck asked, giving up his attempts at getting comfortable and sitting up on his haunches.

"It says you're a pain in the ass and I should drill you through the mattress."

"I'm not debating th' pain in the ass thing," the scoundrel muttered. He glared at Larabee. "But if you try to 'drill' me through anything, you'd better be prepared t' lose yer lower brain."

Larabee winced at the mental image that threat produced. "Don't even joke about something like that," he warned. "Are you finally done findin' a cozy spot?"

"Yep. Or rather, no. Didn't find one. I'll just stay on my hands 'n knees. Ya can't go wrong with the classics," Buck said and took up the position, looking at Chris expectantly. "You ready?"

The gunfighter took a deep breath and climbed onto the bed, kneeling behind his friend. He looked at the beautiful body laid open before him, shimmering softly in the firelight, and he wanted to mount him and make slow and tender love to him. He'd been waiting for this. He'd had fantasies about this. His fingers moved over Buck's ass admiringly, prepared the inviting hole carefully. Buck gave a low moan of anticipation. Unfortunately, Little Chris didn't do more than twitch lazily. Larabee's libido seemed to have decided to call it a day.

"Chris?" Buck inquired, trying not to sound impatient.

"Gimme a moment," the blond growled.

He concentrated, trying to will his reluctant manhood to work, but his penis was as stubborn as the rest of him - when threatened or pushed, it refused to move. Maybe it was the sudden decrease of tension that came with knowing the Seven were safe now, the ritual almost finished. Maybe it was the staggering weight of Buck's expectations in him. Maybe he wasn't quite as young as he used to be. Whatever the reason, he just didn't seem able to get in the mood.

And Buck, damn his perceptiveness, read his friend's stillness correctly. "Don't tell me you can't get it up."

"Shut up, Buck."

"You never had trouble getting hard with me before."

"Shut up, Buck." Chris felt himself blush and hated it. What the devil was wrong? Everything had been fine earlier, when he'd first taken Buck. Of course, that had been before he spent seven hours fretting . . . Damn it! He should've gotten drunk. "I need a drink."

"Oh, for the love of- !" his partner snarled, snaking out a long arm and grabbing the first part of the mortified gunslinger he got hold of. Larabee yelped when strong fingers wrapped around his untypically reticent cock, his instinct of self-preservation making him freeze instantly. Buck glared at him over his shoulder. "You're not getting drunk. We'll only end up arguing and I've got enough bruises already. And stop it with the embarrassment. It happens. Your timing sucks, but we'll deal with it."

Larabee glared back at him angrily. "So what do you suggest?"

"If I let you go, will you stay where you are and behave?"

"If you *don't* let me go, *bruises* will be the least of your problems," Chris growled, but he didn't move away when Buck took that as a 'Yes' and released his shaft.

The scoundrel winked at him, then bowed his head again, thinking for a moment. "Lean against me," he instructed finally. The gunslinger obeyed warily. "Now close yer eyes."

"Now wait a minute!" Larabee protested. "I don't see why I should- "

"Humor me," Buck snapped. "Close your eyes."

He didn't want to do it. God help him, but he didn't want to feel so vulnerable, not even with Buck. Intellectually, he knew his friend wouldn't hurt him or make fun of his situation, but trust didn't come easy to Chris Larabee. Deeply ingrained reflexes were hard to override. It took all his not insignificant self-control to comply with Buck's wish and close his eyes. "All right," he breathed. "Now what?"

He heard the soft sigh of a breath being released, then that dark cinnamon and honey voice was back, soothing his raw nerves. "Relax. Just breathe. Try ta let go of the tension." Almost against his will, Chris felt himself unwind. His grip on Buck's hips eased. "Yeah, that's better, isn't it?" the Two-Blood purred. "Now, I want you to think of Vin."

"What?!" Green eyes opened with a start. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Eyes shut," Buck barked. "I know what I'm doing."

"Even on your best days you don't know what you're doing!" Larabee complained, but he did as he was told. "Why Vin?"

"Just do it. Jeez, Chris, work with me here, all right?" The tall gunslinger sighed deeply. "Do you see him?"

Chris silently cursed his companion for his tenaciousness, but tried to envision the tracker. Eyes, blue as the summer sky, laughing at him from beneath the brim of a dusty old cavalry hat. Slender, clever fingers stealing his whiskey from right under his nose. A generous mouth curling into an impish grin at his resultant indignation. A shadow in tanned buckskin following him with a faith and understanding that seemed the most natural thing in the world, yet kept astounding him with its depth and intensity. "Yeah," he whispered. "I see him."

"Good," his partner murmured. "Now imagine him naked."

Much to Chris' chagrin and Buck's amusement, that did the trick.

"I can't believe this," Larabee groaned, embedding his suddenly remarkably cooperative cock in the waiting heat of his friend's ass.

Buck hissed, his fingers digging into the bedding as he tried to get the burning pain under control. "Whatever works," he ground out, pushing back to encourage the gunslinger. "Just do it."

So Larabee did. With a tenderness that would've surprised even his friends, he stroked and teased Buck's exhausted body if not to burning desire, so at least to a pleasantly aroused state. It took all of his self-discipline, but he managed to keep it slow, even when his own body was screaming at him to go harder, faster, deeper.

When he finally allowed himself to fall over the edge, he did so silently, only the shudder wreaking his wiry frame and the liquid warmth filling Buck's insides betraying his climax.

He caught the scoundrel when the man's arms gave out, withdrawing carefully, then easing his friend down until he lay curled up on the covers. Blue eyes smiled at him from under thick lashes, then blinked shut as Buck let go, entrusting himself into Chris' care and falling asleep.

The blond gunslinger climbed off the bed tiredly. He padded across the room to wash, determined to deal with his questions and worries the next morning, then returned to the bed to coax some water into the worn out Two-Blood. Buck drank obediently, immediately slipping back into sleep when Larabee let go of him. He didn't so much as twitch while his friend cleaned him and maneuvered him under the covers, tucking him in with gentle hands.

Chris stood silently for a moment, looking down at the dark shock of hair that was the only part of Buck visible under the blanket. Twelve years, and he'd never known. "Damn you, Bucklin," he breathed. "You can't do anything th' easy way, can ya?"

Buck, of course, didn't answer. After a long minute, Larabee gave up on trying to figure out his friend, and joined him on the bed.

He fell asleep with Buck's living heat warming him to the bones, Buck's strong heartbeat thrumming through his body, and Buck's familiar, musky scent enveloping him.

He dreamed of his families. Both of them.

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