Fallout

Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to MGM, Mirisch and Trilogy. Not mine, no money.

Fallout

The confrontation, when it comes, is both too soon and not soon enough.

Chris grabs two fistfuls of his coat, slams him hard against the wall behind the saloon. “What in hell were you thinkin’?” he growls low; Ezra can practically taste the whiskey on his breath. “Takin’ such a damnfool chance…”

Ezra meets that heated gaze, smiles his most infuriating smile. “I was thinkin’, Mister Larabee, that they had armor,” he drawls, “an’ we needed them out to prevail.” He relaxes, as if it’s his choice Chris is pinning him. “An’ who better than the most expendable among us?”

***

Again, Chris thumps him against the wall. Rage and whiskey burn hot through him, a deadly combination fueled by some strange fear. He knows Ezra’s right, the rest of them would have been cut down eventually, but those words, the bitter twist to that grin fan the flames.

His mouth covers Ezra’s, swallowing his surprise, drinking in his breath. Ezra folds against him, fingers clenching his serape, and Chris curls a hand at his nape, pulling him closer. The rightness sears away the fear.

“Ain’t nobody expendable,” he whispers when he’s able, watching Ezra’s eyes widen. “Least of all you.”