... Over Aces

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

… Over Aces

After staying up too late one night, Ezra woke the next morning with an unexpected ache in his shoulders.

Carefully he pushed himself upright, and stretched out first one arm then the other, feeling a kind of stiffness in his back and shoulders, and a brief flash of pain. Frowning, he tilted his head, and the discomfort radiated up into his neck. When he sat still, however, he discovered that it subsided back into nothing more than a twinge.

I suppose I must have slept wrong, he decided at last. With a cautious shrug, he got up, washing and dressing with a bit more care than usual, trying not to exacerbate the pain. Tying his tie wasn’t bad; pulling on the tailored jacket made it flare slightly.

When he turned away from the mirror, he blinked at the wreck of his bed; quilt and sheet pulled askew and trailing on the floor, pillows pummeled and flattened – one even hiding half under the bed. Apparently I did more than just sleep wrong, he thought in surprise, though I don’t remember any dreams. With a sigh, he put the bed back in order, straightening the quilt over the lot when done. What I won’t do to maintain appearances…

Satisfied that the room looked as neat as ever it did, Ezra departed, locking the door before seeking out whatever associates might be in the saloon at this hour, which, given that it was only just before noon, was likely all of the ones currently in town.

The ache lingered throughout the day, reminding Ezra of its presence occasionally, but without growing any worse. Late that night – so late that it was really the following morning – he arranged the pillows so that his neck and shoulder would be supported, and fell asleep within moments.

The pain had not subsided any when he woke up the next morning. Ezra sat up with a grimace, carefully rolling his shoulders and reaching around to massage the back of his neck. No, indeed, he thought, it’s worse than yesterday. I wonder what I could have done?

While it did hurt more than the day before, the muscles eventually eased, and he was able to rise from his bed with only some discomfort.

The day passed much as the previous, with the exception of the disturbance of some drunken cowhands starting a brawl in the saloon that evening. After breaking it up with Vin’s assistance, he and JD herded them to the jail to sober up again. On the journey across the street, he heard one of them mutter that this was a hell of a way to rob a bank.

Buck was on duty at the jail when they brought the drunks in. While JD secured them in the cells, Ezra relayed that little tidbit of information to Buck, then watched with a satisfied little smile while he roared with laughter. When he left to return to his poker game, Buck slapped him on the back, still laughing. He almost staggered into the dusty street from that hearty blow, but couldn’t begrudge Buck his good humor.

The rest of the night was uneventful save for the game, and he climbed to his room with his pockets significantly heavier.

When he awoke the following morning, he was afraid to move. The hurt seared hot across his shoulders and up the back of his neck even though he was lying still, as if it was daring him to try to get up. Oh, Lord, he moaned silently, this is most unpleasant.

Slowly, gracelessly, Ezra eased himself up until he could lean back against the headboard, before quickly deciding that might not be the wisest course of action. Several long minutes of deep breathing and slow, painful motions made it possible for him to leave the bed. Once he was upright and moving – albeit slowly – the ache started to fade – again, slowly, more slowly than it had the previous two mornings.

Have I pulled a muscle somehow? he wondered, frowning at his reflection in the cheval glass. I don’t remember doing anything within the past few days that would result in something like this…

JD had pulled a muscle some weeks ago after some foolish stunt with Miss Wells, Ezra recalled as he fought with his tie, wary of lifting his arms too high. What had Mister Jackson recommended for that? He paused, thinking hard, but all he could remember was JD saying that he’d never been so clean.

Of course! he realized. A soak in a hot bath. He got his tie settled, smoothed his hands over his shirt before carefully pulling on his vest. And Nathan and Chris are due back sometime today… if they’re not back already. He flipped open his pocket watch to check the time before tucking it into his vest pocket. Later, then. If the bath doesn’t help at all, at least I’ll be able to seek assistance from Mister Jackson afterward. He pulled on his coat with caution, trying not to exacerbate the deep ache still there, then quickly gathered his bathing paraphernalia.

The water was as hot as he could bear when he stepped into the old tin tub in the bathhouse. It sloshed over the side when he sat down, and Ezra couldn’t contain his hiss; the heat felt like it was scalding his skin. He wriggled himself downward as far as he could, as the warmth started to feel good, his knees poking up out of the water. Finally, he got himself settled, shoulders soaking up the heat of the water. He sighed. That feels better already, he thought, as the tightness in his shoulders eased a little, and closed his eyes.

He lounged in the bath for a little longer than strictly necessary and only got out when he noticed his fingers wrinkling. The air felt quite chill after the warmth of the water, and he shivered as he reached for his towel.

In the midst of buttoning his shirt, he became aware of the sensation of being watched, so he snuck a glance upward from under his lashes.

Chris stood in the opening of the curtained alcove, staring intently.

Ezra grinned slowly. “Mister Larabee,” he drawled, smoothing down his shirt over skin still slightly damp. “Welcome back.”

“Ezra,” Chris replied, his voice slightly gravelly. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Ezra’s fingers.

Never let it be said I didn’t play to my audience, Ezra thought with a smirk, and he tucked the tails of his shirt into his trousers with even more care than he usually took. Then he slowly pulled up his suspenders, as much to keep his shoulders from protesting as to tease Chris. A glance toward Chris told him that the tease was working admirably; Chris’s hands were clenched around the rough cloth of the curtain, and his eyes tracked every movement of Ezra’s hands.

“I’m sure you’re eager to wash away the dust of the trail,” Ezra said, watching out of the corner of his eye as he pulled on his vest. “You needn’t stand there waiting for me to finish.”

Chris dragged his gaze away from Ezra’s hands at last, and his face creased in a grin. “Very gentlemanly of you,” he said, amusement reflected in his voice, and he finally stepped into the alcove, drawing the curtain closed behind him. Instead of moving toward the bench behind the still-steaming second tub, however, he continued to watch as Ezra buttoned up his vest.

“You and Mister Jackson encountered no trouble in delivering the prisoner, I hope?” The proprietor of the bathhouse was still without the curtain, so that disinterested-seeming query was as close as he could get to making sure that Chris was as uninjured as he appeared.

Tension that Ezra hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding simply disappeared as Chris’s smile widened. “Nope, no problems at all.” Spurs jingling, he crossed to the bench, shrugging out of his coat as he did.

“Good,” Ezra answered softly. Pulling on his coat sent another bolt of pain across his shoulder, and he couldn’t stop himself from drawing in a quick breath.

Chris had sat down to pull off his boots, but now his sharp eyes were on Ezra again. “You all right?” he asked quietly.

“Just a kink in my shoulder,” he replied, casually dismissing the agony in which he’d awoken only that morning out of habit. But the way Chris studied him, frowning slightly in something that looked like concern, made him add, “Still a bit painful, but the bath has eased it.”

Chris relaxed a little at his words. “Good.” He began to undo his shirt. “If it’s still botherin’ later…”

“I’ll see Mister Jackson,” Ezra interrupted, repeating a directive he’d long since memorized. With some effort, he pulled his eyes away from Chris’s long capable fingers and wet his lip. “Do you require someone to scrub your back, Mister Larabee?” he asked, eyes wide and his expression as innocent as he could manage.

Shrugging off his shirt, Chris froze, staring at him until Ezra could no longer contain his grin. At the sight, Chris chuckled and shook his head. “No, I think I can do for myself,” he said, then lowered his voice to continue, “Otherwise I’d prob’ly be draggin’ you in with all your clothes on.”

Ezra dampened his lips once more, and forced himself to look away from Chris’s tanned shoulders and arms. “Until later, then, Mister Larabee.” He settled his hat and touched the brim before making his way beyond the curtain.

Later happened to be a good deal later; when Ezra returned to his room above the saloon, having concluded his last game earlier than his norm, Chris was there waiting. As soon as he’d closed the door behind himself, Chris swooped down on him like a hawk on its prey, pressing him up against the wall and capturing his mouth in a demanding kiss.

Chris could be single-minded when he wanted, and being the recipient of all that attention – as well as the lack of it for the week past – made heat flare along all of Ezra’s nerves. He forced some space between them, but only so he could get his fingers on the buttons of Chris’s shirt.

“Been thinkin’ about what you said in the bathhouse,” Chris panted when lack of air forced him to break away. “But it wasn’t my back that wanted scrubbin’.” Ezra felt his tie come loose from around his neck, watched it go flying, and discovered he didn’t very much care where it landed, not when Chris used his momentary distraction to open the first few buttons on his shirt and lay biting kisses down his neck.

Chris’s own shirt gaped open, and naturally Ezra’s fingers continued downward to work on the buttons of his fly. “What else could I have possibly assisted you in washing, Mister Larabee?” he somehow managed; Chris’s mouth kept stealing his breath.

“Got some ideas,” Chris said, a soft rasp in Ezra’s ear. “An’ you definitely woulda ended up in the tub.”

“That doesn’t…” Ezra broke off with a soft gasp as Chris’s tongue swirled around his ear, as his hand started to unbuckle Ezra’s gunbelt. When he continued, his voice was less steady. “That doesn’t sound like much of a deterrent right now…”

Chris pulled back just enough to give him a wicked grin. “I’ll be sure to mention that when you’re complainin’ about your clothes bein’ soakin’ wet…”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Chris just kissed him again and what he was about to say became unimportant.

The thought only resurfaced some time later, when Chris allowed him to regain his breath. “Perhaps,” he said, his words slow and honeyed, “you might be patient enough to allow me to disrobe before pullin’ me into the tub?” His hand drifted lazily down Chris’s side and back up again.

“Mmm.” Chris dropped a light kiss on Ezra’s collarbone. “S’pose I might. Long as you’re quick about it.”

Ezra hummed. Eyes closed, he reached up above his head, blindly searching for one of the pillows he was certain was there; they couldn’t have knocked all of them to the floor. Finding one, he settled it properly under his head, ignoring Chris’s grunt of disapproval at being jostled.

When Chris moved off him, Ezra blinked one eye open. Usually Chris wanted to lay with him, limbs tangled, until they fell asleep.

“Your shoulder still botherin’?” Chris asked, propped up over him on an elbow, his brows creased in a frown.

Ezra sighed. It was – it hadn’t ever really stopped – but he was thinking more about what it would feel like in the morning. “A bit,” he admitted grudgingly.

The frown turned thoughtful, then cleared, and Chris untangled himself enough to sit up. “Roll over,” he ordered.

“Mister Larabee,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling up in a grin, “surely you’ve heard that old saw about how the spirit is willin’ but the flesh…”

Chris’s lips twitched before he slapped at Ezra’s hip. “Don’t be a jackass, Ezra, just do it.” His voice turned husky. “It’ll be worth your while.”

“Then how could I possibly resist?” He maneuvered himself onto his stomach, then groaned as Chris’s fingers dug into the still-aching muscles of his shoulders. Chris’s hands were warm and gentle, soothing away the pain. It was bliss.

Chris leaned forward to whisper, “Told ya.” Then he resumed searching out the tightened spots where Ezra’s pain seemed to be centered.

“Never doubt you again,” Ezra slurred into the pillow.

Chris just chuckled. When he stopped a short while later, Ezra was nearly asleep where he lay. Boneless and sated, he was only aware that Chris stretched to turn down the lamp by the way the bed shifted. He didn’t make more than a token grumble of protest when Chris curled around him, and that was only because Chris’s knee prodded him sharply in the thigh. Chris’s whispered apology was the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him.

He roused briefly when Chris climbed from the bed, but Chris murmured that all was well and he should sleep, so he did.

When he woke again, it was due to the pain. It was back – not nearly as strong as it had been the previous morning, but still disheartening after being pain-free.

And to make matters worse, the day passed most uneventfully. The only time the lingering ache in his back and neck seemed to disappear was when he allowed himself to be distracted by his associates’ conversations.

It was not terribly late when the last player in his game folded and stalked away. He glanced down at his winnings – meager as they usually were here – with something like dismay. It appears that the pain has made me a bit more… ruthless than usual, he thought. He collected his money before bidding Buck, JD and Inez good night and climbing to his room.

He was surprised to see that Chris was once again waiting for him, but not as much as he was to find that he’d already taken off his shirt and boots. He lay upon the bed, hands folded beneath his head. The quilt had already been kicked down to the foot, half-draped over the rail and one of the posts.

Chris appeared to be lost in thought; at least, he didn’t seem to have heard Ezra enter, so Ezra took the opportunity to indulge in the fine view of Chris’s body. Long limbs and lean body, touched with gold from the sun, interrupted by striated scars in paler shades. Hair darker than that on his head dusted his arms and chest with a deeper gold. The slim body hid a wiry kind of strength that he’d seen – and felt – more than once, though not as strong as the spirit it housed. He knew the way that skin and those scars felt beneath his fingers, knew the spots that made Chris arch and moan…

He had to swallow before he felt able speak. “It appears you’ve started without me.”

Chris didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice, just tilted his head to see Ezra where he stood near the door, wearing a tiny half-smile. “Stopped before I got too far ahead.”

Ezra pulled off his coat. Long-ingrained habit forced him to hang it in his closet, but his vest didn’t fare as well; it was left in a heap on the floor as he moved toward the bed. Chris rose to meet him, framed his face in both hands to give him a kiss that was surprisingly gentle. Those hands swept down his neck and along his shoulders to push his suspenders down and his shirt off.

As soon as he’d fought free of the shirt, Ezra reached for Chris, arms curling around him tightly. He nudged him back toward the bed, but Chris wouldn’t move.

Instead, he pulled away, though his hands still rested on Ezra’s shoulders, and regarded him thoughtfully. “Got somethin’ to tell you. Nothin’ bad,” he added when Ezra flinched in his hold. “Just a little… shockin’, is all, so I think you should sit down first.”

A sudden disquiet twisted in his stomach as Ezra sat down on the edge of the bed. “Chris…”

“Told ya, it’s nothin’ bad,” Chris repeated, his somber expression doing little to support his words. “But… I know why your back’s been botherin’ you.”

Ezra couldn’t help but stare in confusion. “You do?”

Chris nodded. “Yep. It’s ‘cause you’re growin’ wings.”

A long moment of silence descended. Ezra stared; Chris gazed back calm and steady.

Collecting himself somewhat, Ezra shook his head. “I do apologize, I must have misheard...”

“Nope, you didn’t.”

“Wings.” He couldn’t hide the disbelief in his tone, and didn’t even try.

“Yep.”

He searched for a tell, something that would let him know that Chris was having a joke at his expense – a twitch of the mouth, a glint of humor in his eyes, something. But there was nothing. “Chris, you can’t be serious…”

“Completely serious.” He sighed, muttered something that sounded like “Shoulda done this in the first place,” then, louder, ordered, “Watch.”

Frowning, Ezra did as he was bid, letting his eyes roam freely over Chris. He jumped when he saw the darkness spreading at Chris’s back, wide as his shoulders, then wider, and that darkness was unmistakably in the shape of a pair of wings. He couldn’t look away, could only gape, mouth open slightly in astonishment.

It was less than a minute before Chris had two enormous black wings arching out from his shoulders. He blew out a breath and that seemed to signal the end of the growth, that it was all right for Ezra to move. Standing somehow, knees more than a little shaky, he stepped forward. “Chris… oh.” The wings quivered at the sound of his voice with a faint rustling sound, lifting slightly and coming back to rest again.

They’re real, Ezra thought, as utterly speechless as he’d ever been in his life. He forced his attention away from the wings and back to Chris.

Chris was watching him, smiling slightly. “Never seen you without words before,” he said, and Ezra couldn’t even dredge up mock offence at the teasing tone.

“Well, it’s not every day someone sprouts wings in front of me, either.”

At that, Chris’s smile widened. “No, guess not.” Carefully, wings tucked in close to his body, he turned around. “Can touch ‘em if you want,” he offered over his shoulder.

Immediately, Ezra stroked lightly down the leading edge of the wing, from the joint where it emerged from Chris’s back, up over the crest, as far as he could reach. Chris sucked in a soft breath, and Ezra pulled his hand away as if he’d been burnt. “I didn’t…”

“Didn’t hurt,” Chris assured him, though he sounded a little shaken himself. “Just… felt kinda surprisin’, is all.”

A little more confidently, Ezra explored the wing joints. They ran from the shoulder blades to just above the waist of Chris’s trousers, seemingly more heavily anchored at the top. Soft downy feathers puffed against his fingers when he brushed the wings, as well as the longer, more pointed flight feathers, each one as black as night.

He stepped away, and cast his eye over Chris. The lean back was familiar but strange, the wings a definite contrast to the gold of his skin and hair.

But Chris’s wings weren’t just black; even in the lamplight, they had a sheen reminiscent of pearls or opals, and for a moment, Ezra allowed himself to imagine what they might look like in the blaze of the sun, a shimmer of blue or green giving the blackness hidden depths.

Ezra only had a moment to admire, however, before it felt like a knife lodged itself in each of his shoulder blades. He gasped at the sudden spike of pain and felt every muscle in his body tighten in response.

“Ezra? Damn!” Chris’s hands were warm and almost soothing where they touched him, and his muscles loosened very slightly. “They’re comin’ now,” Chris said, bending close to speak softly in his ear; Ezra could feel the brush of his lips. “Gonna hurt like a bitch,” he went on, and Ezra couldn’t even find the words to tell him that wasn’t especially comforting. “Sit down.”

The backs of his legs hit the bed and he sat down quickly. “Chris… what…?”

“Your wings’re comin’.” The featherbed dipped beside him as Chris sat down. A hand combed through his hair, and he leaned into the touch. “It’s gonna hurt, but it’ll only be a few minutes, I promise.”

Then his back was on fire, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. Chris’s hands were a warm weight on his arms, anchoring him, his low voice murmuring encouragement and approval.

The agony peaked, and he could no longer contain a soft moan. With a shudder, he swayed forward, trusting that Chris would catch him. He rested his forehead on Chris’s shoulder, trying to hold back the whimper that wanted to escape.

The pain started to fade, but it had been so intense that Ezra could do nothing other than pant and tremble a little in reaction. Chris’s hand was gentle as it stroked the back of his neck, soothing him. Chris’s other arm was a strong band low on his back, holding him tightly. His every breath was scented with Chris, warm and earthy and familiar and slowly, Ezra relaxed.

Something tickled his back, and he flinched in remembered suffering.

“Won’t ever hurt like that again,” Chris said softly in his ear, still petting his nape.

“I should certainly hope not, Mister Larabee,” Ezra managed, his tone dry, but still a little thin, even muffled as it was into Chris’s shoulder. “Once was quite enough.”

Chris pressed his lips against Ezra’s temple and pulled away, his hand sliding along the line of Ezra’s jaw to lift his face. “You did good,” he said quietly, and Ezra could see his honesty in his clear hazel eyes. “Buck, now… Buck hollered like I’d taken a brandin’ iron to him, and JD bawled like a little lost calf lookin’ for its mama.”

Ezra smirked at the images Chris’s words created, as he knew he was meant to. After a moment, though, his next thought chased that smile away. “Am I to understand, then,” he began, unable to keep his hesitance from his tone, “that all of our associates have already gone through this… this metamorphosis? That I am the last?”

Chris’s eyes were steady. “Yes.” His fingers tightened around Ezra’s chin when he tried to glance away. “Hey. Last don’t mean least. Yeah, it took you a bit longer, but that don’t mean nothin’ but it took longer. You got here.” One corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “I knew you would.”

Ezra had to swallow before he could speak again. “Your faith in me is… reassuring,” he said, voice low. “I simply hope it is not misplaced.”

“It ain’t,” Chris replied, smile widening. “Never has been.” His thumb brushed over Ezra’s lips once before he took his hand away. “Now, you wanna see how pretty you are with those wings?”

With an indignant glare that was mostly feigned, Ezra drew himself up. “Women are pretty, sir. I have never been pretty; men are handsome.”

Chris laughed and rose to his feet, wings shifting and rustling as he moved. He pulled Ezra upright with easy strength. “Guess you’re right about that,” he replied, then added, his tone teasing and low, “Pretty ain’t the right word for you at all.”

Unaccountably, Ezra felt his face heat. Instead of answering, he turned to the cheval glass, positioning it until he could see the reflection of his wings.

Where the feathers of Chris’s wings seemed to be one solid color, Ezra’s feathers were banded. They were a pearly grey color, lighter near the quill end, with dark red bands starting about halfway up the shaft, shading to a dark red at the tip. Layered feather upon feather in his wings, the coloration made them look striped in red, with grey along the crest, which he suspected would look white in bright sunlight.

Fascinated, Ezra watched as the wings – his wings! – folded and extended, moved with the merest thought. Amazing, he thought, then caught Chris’s gaze in the mirror. Chris observed him, wearing a smile that could only be described as indulgent. Or perhaps smug, he thought.

He turned without thinking and both felt and heard his near wing sweep something from the top of his dresser to the floor before he managed to stop. It fell with a clatter of metal, and he winced, both at the sound and at Chris’s laughter.

It was a moment before Chris caught sight of Ezra’s scowl and arched eyebrow and was able to stop. “You can put ‘em away just by thinkin’ ‘em gone,” he managed, lips twitching.

“That might have been helpful to know before,” Ezra retorted sharply. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the wings being gone, and just like that, they were no longer there. The drag on his back and shoulders from their weight disappeared; he hadn’t even been really aware of it until it was gone.

He glanced at Chris, and discovered him as wingless as he was now himself. He leant back against his dresser, suddenly very weary. “Perhaps this is a foolish question, considering all of tonight’s goings on, but why do we have wings?”

Chris just shrugged. “Don’t have the first idea.”

Ezra sighed, sagging back further, but he couldn’t quite let it go yet. “Chris, we don’t suddenly just have wings for no reason at all…”

“Josiah reckons it’s fate, somehow, that we were all brought together by somethin’ outside ourselves. Well, he’s thinkin’ this might be part of that destiny.” Chris trailed his fingers down Ezra’s cheek. “I don’t know. Reckon we’ll find out sooner or later.”

Ezra’s eyes fluttered closed at the touch of Chris’s hand, and he nodded.

Chris’s hand slipped around his shoulders, tugged him forward a step. “C’mon,” he murmured. “Think it’s time for some sleep. It’s been a tirin’ evenin’.”

Eyes still closed, Ezra let Chris lead him toward the bed, felt him strip off his remaining clothes and settle him under the quilt. He was asleep before Chris returned from snuffing the lamp.

***

Ezra woke with a start. Everything was very dark and still; there were no sounds from the saloon below, nothing from the street, and for a bleary moment, he wondered what had awakened him.

The warm body next to him shifted restlessly, as if Chris sensed he was awake. He pressed himself more closely along Chris’s back, let one arm drape over him. With another soft sound, Chris settled back into slumber, breathing slow and deep.

Ezra relaxed with him, his nose against Chris’s neck. Sleep still hovered, and whatever it was that woke him clearly wasn’t more important than more rest.

An image flitted across his eyelids, of Chris wearing only his tight black pants and great black wings spreading from his shoulders…

Eyes closed, he frowned. That’s not possible. Chris doesn’t have wings. If he did, I’d be drownin’ in feathers… Since there were no feathers, black or otherwise, no wings of any size sprouting from Chris’s back, he dismissed the image. I suppose it must have been a dream, he thought. A lazy smile curved his mouth. A very nice one…

He followed Chris back down into sleep, never noticing the black feather that lay on the pillow above their heads, shimmering even without moonlight.