For Ellie, just because.

Author's Note: I tend to date Magnificent 7 somewhere between 1875-1877. As such, this story takes place several years before the events depicted in the film "Tombstone."

John Ringo did not, in fact, arrive in Arizona until 1879. I have chosen to ignore this for the sake of the plot in much the same way the filmmakers of "Tombstone" ignored the fact that John Henry "Doc" Holliday was actually in a sanitarium in Denver, CO on the day Ringo died. While both Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp did indeed make statements claiming they had killed Ringo, the plain truth of the matter is neither man was anywhere near the Chiricahua mountains at the time of Ringo's death. Today, most scholars agree that John Peters Ringo took his own life on or about 13 July, 1882. He was 32.

The saloon was almost empty. At the bar, Inez wiped down the countertop with a scrap of rag, while a pair of drunken cowhands straggled out the batwing doors and into the cold, blowing night beyond. Ezra leaned back in his chair and watched them go, glad the evening was finally drawing to a close. It was late, he was tired and his winnings tonight were distressingly slim. It was enough to make a grown man weep, or reach for a bottle of whiskey; and since Ezra was too proud for the former and too poor for the latter, he opted instead to mutter curses at his cards before giving them one last shuffle and tucking them away inside his coat.

A glass filled with dark amber liquid thunked down on the table in front of him. Startled, Ezra looked up to find himself staring into the deep green eyes of the saloon's only other remaining patron. "Looks like you could use it," the man said, and slid into the chair across from him with remarkably sinuous grace.

Uncertain of the motivation behind the gesture but not wishing to seem rude, Ezra accepted the glass with politely murmured thanks and took a cautious sip, raising an eyebrow in surprise when it turned out to be finely blended scotch rather than the paint thinner that usually passed for whiskey in these parts. "Thank you," he said again, and meant it this time.

His benefactor inclined his head a polite degree. "You're welcome. Name's John," he added. "John Ringo."

"Ezra Standish."

Ezra took another slow sip from his glass, savoring the warm golden burn it kindled deep in his chest as he studied his companion from beneath discreetly lowered lashes. John was young, mid-twenties at a guess, with the sleek, hungry look of a professional shootist and an almost palpable air of danger. When taken with the straight dark hair, firm jaw and those lovely, lovely green eyes, it was quite a potent combination. Ezra allowed himself a small appreciative sigh and raised the glass to his lips once more. "Mellitos oculos tuos," he murmured, "si quis me sinat usque basiare, usque ad milia basiem trecenta nec numquam uidear satur futurus." (1)

John blinked, and a slow grin spread across his face. "Glad I decided to buy you a drink, then," he said.

Ezra choked on the last of his very good scotch. "Dear lord, you speak Latin?" he gasped between coughs.

The grin grew wider. "And Greek. Found them both very-instructive."

Ezra chuckled. "Ah, the benefits of a classical education. You're familiar with Catullus, I take it?" he asked, staring mournfully at his empty glass.

John uncorked the bottle and poured him another few fingers of scotch. "Yes, but it's been a while. Don't suppose you have a copy you could loan me? Be nice to have something to read while I wait for the storm to pass."

Ezra sipped his drink, considering. "I do believe I have one in my room," he said thoughtfully, "though I warn you, it may take a while to find."

John leaned back in his chair and slowly stroked one long finger across his mustache. "I could help you look," he offered.

Ezra flashed him a dazzling smile. "I was hopin' you'd say that."

Ezra's hand trembled slightly as he lit the bedside lamp and then carefully replaced the glass chimney. It had been far too long since he'd last brought a man to his room and he was nervous. There was still so much that could go wrong, so many ways this could end badly.

It certainly did not help that John Ringo was gloriously handsome in that mad, bad and dangerous to know kind of way that simply drove Ezra to distraction. Men like that were his undoing, the one weakness he could not purge no matter how hard he tried. They made him do stunningly foolish things, like invite a total stranger into his inner sanctum under the pretense of reading poetry.

Or take a job as a peacekeeper for one dollar a day.

Lord. No wonder he vexed his mother so. He was a blithering idiot.

John stood in front of the dresser, pouring over the neat row of books that lined its top. Ezra took a moment to admire the strong, clean line of his back; the slim waist; the long, elegant legs in their tight-fitting black trousers.

His cock gave a hopeful twitch. He desperately willed it to behave. "Did you find the Catullus?"

"No," John said, running a knuckle down the spine of a carriage edition of Shakespeare's sonnets. "You have a nice collection."

"Dreadful," he said, "but my occupation doesn't precisely lend itself to building a library."

John turned and gave him a wry smile. "Neither does mine."

Ezra dropped his gaze to the Colt .45 holstered on John's hip. "No," he said quietly, "I don't imagine that it would."

John crossed the room to stand in front of him, close enough that Ezra could feel the heat of the gunslinger's body, smell the lingering scent of tobacco, sweat and leather that clung to his clothes. "Want you," he murmured, breath ghosting warmly across Ezra's skin.

Ezra did not reply, just tilted his chin up and kissed John softly on the mouth.

John left with the morning sun. Ezra had expected that. He had not expected John to wake him first, to cover his face and neck with kisses and whisper a soft goodbye into his ear before heading out the door.

Ezra soon drifted back to sleep. When he woke the second time, the room was empty and the blankets cold. This was well within the scope of his experience, and he gave a leisurely stretch, feeling tired and sore and sated. All in all, a profitable evening, he decided, yawned mightily and then rolled out of bed.

He found the note while he was getting dressed, a small scrap of thin rag paper, folded in half and tucked beneath his shaving razor where he could not possibly miss it. It contained only a single sentence written in a heavy, bold hand:

I hear there's always good work for a faro dealer in Tombstone.

Beneath that was what looked like a series of bizarre doodles. It took Ezra's barely-conscious brain a moment to realize they were Greek characters and longer still to fully translate the few brief lines into English:

If you will come
I shall put out
New pillows for
You to rest on. (2)

Ezra stared at the note for a long breathless moment, then folded it into thirds and tucked it carefully into the inside pocket of his coat, next to his deck of cards. This was-something he would have to think about, preferably when he was fully awake and alert and capable of making a rational decision.

Even so, as he finished dressing, a small bubble of joy began to form deep inside his chest, making him feel lightheaded and giddy, as though he had drunk too much scotch. A smile rose unbidden to his lips; and by the time he headed downstairs to greet the day, he was grinning like a love-struck fool.

FIN.

(1) "[I]f I were always allowed to kiss your honey-sweet eyes, I might kiss you three hundred thousand times, and never be sated." --Catullus

(2) Sappho