Stuck in the Present

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

He’d laughed, because it’d struck him funny the way Ezra had asked. Ezra and money, he’d thought, can’t separate ‘em for long.

But that night, Chris woke up all in a sweat. He’d been thinkin’ in what ifs for years, so it wasn’t too hard to think about ‘em this time. What if Ezra hadn’t seen Stutz in the crowd? What if he’d just rode away anyway?

What if Ezra hadn’t blocked the damn shot with his damn body?

What if he hadn’t had the money in his coat?

He swiped a hand over his face. It wasn’t funny anymore.

***

It shouldn’t matter. They didn’t have to bury either one of ‘em. Mary was fine, and soon enough Ezra would be, too.

But Chris kept seein’ a different endin’ every night, one that made him wake up suddenly into pitch-dark and fumble with the lamp until he could convince himself it was only a dream, even if he couldn’t quite remember what he’d seen.

He started watchin’ ‘em both real close, hopin’ that would stop the dreams. Mary made excuses to talk with Ezra, walk with him in the street, arm in arm; made anger burn hot in his chest.

***

He was tryin’ to convince himself they were both all right, worryin’ about one of ‘em dyin’, and they were courtin’. It was enough to drive a man to drink. So he did, and watched.

Ezra snuck his way out of the sling, shufflin’ with a wince he couldn’t quite hide. Mary’s earnest concern slowly faded into bright smiles. Seein’ that, knowin’ what it meant made him snarly with everyone – them in particular. Mary’s smiles turned frosty when she saw him, and Ezra treated him cool, so he drank more to warm up inside.

But drinkin’ didn’t stop the dreams.

***

After all the years he’d known Buck, it was easy to ignore him askin’ what the hell’d put the burr under his saddle. He just drank until Buck threw up his hands, stomped away.

For all his quiet, Chris couldn’t ignore Vin. Vin sat with him for an hour, listening to the silences between them, before standing, chair scraping loudly. “Whatever’s wrong,” he said, voice low, “ya better deal with it.” Then he pushed through the saloon doors.

From his lonely table, Ezra was studyin’ him, lookin’ wary. Mary wasn’t about. Chris let out a breath. Time to start dealin’.

***

He swallowed the rest of his drink, tellin’ himself it wasn’t for courage, and stood. Ezra’s expression went still as he approached, though he kept movin’ the cards.

“Gotta talk to you,” Chris said quietly.

Ezra arched one cool eyebrow. “If you’re simply goin’ to continue snappin’ and snarlin’, I’ll forego the pleasure.”

Chris knew himself, his capacity for anger and alcohol; for a second he wasn’t sure he’d drunk enough for this. Then he remembered those what ifs, steadied. “No,” and he sounded almost contrite, “just wanna ask you somethin’.”

Ezra rose, face set, like he already knew what.

***

Ezra’s room – “I would prefer this conversation to be private,” he said, face blank – wasn’t as neat as Chris expected; bed unmade, dresser cluttered. Ezra headed for the small table and the bottle of whiskey there, poured himself a shot.

He didn’t offer Chris any.

“Nathan said you ain’t…”

“I believe I’ll require the fortification,” Ezra interrupted, tone sharp, setting the empty glass down. He kept his back to Chris, arm pressed against his wounded side. “Now… your question, Mister Larabee.”

This was his fault, Chris knew; he’d earned Ezra’s distance with his anger, and now he couldn’t bridge it.

***

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve gone silent,” Ezra said when Chris didn’t – couldn’t – speak. “After all, you have had rather more than normal to say of recent. Let me make it easier for you – I shall ask and answer the question, and then you may depart.” His accent thickened, coated his words like honey. “Why have I been so much in the company of Miz Travis? Not only is she both charming and intelligent, she does feel some gratitude for my actions in that… regrettable affair.” He poured another shot. “And I find I… care for her deeply.”

***

Chris sank onto the rumpled bed, staring at Ezra’s back. What were you expectin’? he thought dully. Ain’t like you got any claim.

Ezra’s shoulders stiffened as the bed rustled and creaked. He tossed back the whiskey. “You have your answer, Mister Larabee,” he said, voice tight. “You may depart.”

“No.” He said it softly, almost against his will.

“No?” Ezra turned at last, eyebrows raised.

A sense of loss, familiar from bloody, violent dreams half-remembered, settled in his gut. “Ain’t what I meant to ask, but it raises another interestin’ point… what’re your intentions?”

“My…” He started to laugh.

***

Chris frowned, anger stirring at Ezra’s laughter. “What’s so damn funny?”

Except it clearly wasn’t; Ezra was anythin’ but amused. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Mister Larabee… you are mistaken.”

“Am I? You care about Mary enough to take a bullet… it mighta killed you!” That was the question he wanted to ask; he could see Ezra knew it. Why?

Sobering, Ezra glanced away. “I did what I had to… because she’s my sister.”

Chris blinked, stunned.

“I doubt you’ve noticed, but Mary and I have the same eyes.” Those eyes bored into Chris. “Perhaps I should ask your intentions?”

***

Chris nearly missed Ezra’s question in the riot of feelings flooding him: shock, confusion, then relief. Ezra sayin’ Mary was his sister – whether it was true or not – meant that he…

Feeling Ezra’s gaze, he looked up.

Ezra wore his poker face, but somehow seemed… resigned. “Your intentions regardin’ my sister, Mister Larabee?”

Instead of answering, Chris rose. Ezra’s expression was guarded as he approached, melted into disbelief as he leaned closer still. “Got no intentions regardin’ your sister,” Chris whispered, intimate as a kiss.

Finally, he understood; in his dreams… it hadn’t been Mary dyin’ that scared him so.