Special thanks to the Three Furies (Aithine, Tiriel and xangel) for helping me whip this puppy into shape.
The epilog is based on an actual event, though obviously I'm speculating as to the cause. ;-)

Sequel to Bella Luna.

I.

Chris slouched on the deacon's bench in front of the jail, his hat tugged low and his feet propped up on the porch railing. It was a lazy spring day, the sky that perfect shade of turquoise and not a cloud in sight. A slight breeze kept the heat from being stifling and kicked up dust devils in the street beyond.

He heard the tread of boots on the boardwalk and glanced briefly sideways to see Vin Tanner walking towards him. "You asleep there, cowboy?" Vin asked.

Chris smiled. "Yep."

The bench creaked as Vin settled next to him. "Good weather for it."

"Yep."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the townsfolk go about their daily business. Across the street, J.D. and Casey got into a friendly tussle, the sound of their laughter bright as the afternoon sun. They made Chris tired just looking at them, carrying on like that in this heat.

"Ezra still ain't back," Vin said finally.

"Nope."

"It's been over a week."

"I know."

"Reckon he's gone for good?"

Chris pulled his hat all the way down over his eyes. "Don't reckon I care."

"You sure about that?"

Chris tipped his hat back up and gave Vin a sharp look. "What the hell are you on about?"

Vin shrugged. "Nothin', I guess."

The saloon kitchen turned out another fine meal that night, but Chris was not in the mood to enjoy it. His temper, never a sure thing on the best of days, was walking that fine line between sullen and outright cantankerous. He wanted whiskey in a powerful way but knew if he started he wouldn't stop until somebody's head got broken. Instead he opted to sit quietly at a back table and pick at a plate of red beans and rice that had long gone cold.

"Lookin' pretty grim, cowboy."

Chris shook his head. "Leave me alone, Tanner."

Vin sighed and slid into the chair across from him. "You ain't foolin' nobody," he said. "Whole town knows you and Ezra had a fight right before he lit out."

"Then you don't need to talk to me," Chris said, and continued to mutilate his food.

"Dammit, Larabee, I'm tryin' ta help!"

Chris set his fork down and gave Vin a long look. "What do you know about John Ringo?" he said finally.

Vin gave a low whistle. "There's a name I ain't heard in a while."

"You know him?"

"Met him once or twice back in Texas." His eyes narrowed warily. "What's this got to do with Ezra?"

Chris found he suddenly couldn't meet Vin's gaze. Picking his fork back up, he began rearranging the beans on his plate once more.

"Chris?"

"I saw him comin' out of Ezra's room."

Vin's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Shit. You sure it was Ringo?"

He stabbed a forkful of beans with more enthusiasm than strictly warranted. "Yep."

"Look, that don't mean--"

"Vin, it was five in the morning, and he was buttoning up his shirt."

"All right," Vin said slowly. "All right, maybe it does. Still don't explain why you give a goddamn."

"Who says I do?"

Vin just looked at him.

"All right," Chris conceded. "It bothers me."

"Why?" Vin asked. "Ain't like you didn't know Ezra was contrary."

"Knowin' ain't the same as seeing."

"It really bother you that Ezra's sleepin' with another man? Or just that he's sleepin' with anyone at all?"

Chris slammed the fork down on the table. "What the hell are you implying?"

Tanner smiled thinly. "Ain't implyin' a damned thing. You can't have it both ways, Chris. Can't keep a man at arm's length for two years then get angry when he takes the hint and moves on."

Vin picked up his hat and rose from the table. "You just think on that a while," he said, turned and briskly walked away.

II.

It was unseasonably warm for so early in the spring. Ezra fanned his face with his hat as he peered through the sun-faded drapes to watch the dusty, crowded street below. Two weeks of cold, biting rain and now this. Ezra shook his head. No matter how long he lived in this sun-baked country, he would never become accustomed to the vagaries of nature it inflicted on unsuspecting souls. It was beautiful, yes. But it was a perilous kind of beauty, poised upon the edge of a knife.

The door creaked quietly on its hinges, announcing John's return. Ezra turned away from the window, letting the drapes fall shut again. "Well?" he asked.

"We're checked out," John said, pulling off his hat and running one hand through his hair.

Ezra nodded. "Then soon we shall be on our merry way."

John cocked his head to one side, studying Ezra through the silky fall of his bangs. "Are you all right?"

"Always."

John shook his head, smiling. "You know better than that."

Ezra sighed. He did know better, but that hadn't stopped him from allowing John Ringo into his life with all the risks that entailed. Sentiment, he decided, truly was a bitch.

John was still waiting patiently for his answer. Ezra sighed again. "I believe my concerns on this matter are well documented."

"We'll be fine."

"You don't know that."

John tossed his head and gave a little huff of breath, reminding Ezra of an exasperated horse. "We'll be fine," he said again, as if repetition would somehow make it true.

"Yes, well, your pardon if I don't share your much vaunted confidence."

He turned back to the window in an attempt to end the discussion before it could escalate into a full-blown row. They would never agree on this point, and he saw no use in discussing it further.

Behind him, he heard John sigh quietly. A hand settled on his shoulder, warm and solid and reassuring. "I'm in this for the long haul, Ezra," John said quietly. "No matter what, we'll be fine."

"You keep saying that," Ezra said, and he couldn't quite keep the annoyance from his voice.

"It's true."

Ezra wanted to believe John's quiet assurances; did, in fact, believe them. To a point. But the wary habits of a lifetime were too deeply ingrained to be ignored, despite having spent the past week under John's watchful eye and loving hands. Tombstone was an anodyne for the soul, but it was a temporary respite at best. Here they could be whomever they wanted--friends, partners, lovers--and there was no-one to gainsay them. Soon they would be back in Four Corners and this fragile new connection would be sorely tested.

"I wish I had your faith," he said, and meant it.

Four Corners looked much the same as always: cramped and dusty and precarious, as if it could not decide whether to expand and become a real town, or collapse in upon itself and return to the desert from which it sprang. Ezra was almost disappointed by the sameness, until he reminded himself how brief his time away had truly been. He was the one who had changed, and he looked over at John with a smile despite the nervous roiling of his gut. "We have arrived," he said far more lightly than he felt.

John nodded, and drew his little piebald mare slightly ahead of Ezra's bay. "You ought to check in with your friends," he said, "let them know you're back. I'll see to the horses."

Ezra nodded slowly, then dismounted and placed Chaucer's reins in John's waiting hand. "I'll meet you in the saloon," he said. "You remember where it is, I trust?"

John gave him a little sideways smile. "It's not that big a town, Ezra."

He chuckled. "Right. Well. I suppose I'll be seein' you later."

Briefly touching two fingers to the curled brim of his hat, Ezra turned on his heel and began walking in the direction of the saloon. It was early, not even an hour past sunset, yet the streets were all but deserted. He missed the bustle and noise of Tombstone, the liveliness of its theatres and gambling houses. Four Corners had always been small, but now it seemed to close in around him, oppressive in its drab silence.

The saloon, at least, had a healthy crowd of customers, mostly farm hands come to dispose of a week's wages on cheap spirits and a little gambling. Ezra noted with a slight pang that his usual poker table in the back was already taken, his usual chair occupied by a burly cowboy with crooked yellow teeth and no neck. Ezra smiled wryly. He'd wanted change and here it was, in all its unwashed, plebian glory.

He spotted Vin standing at the bar and nursing a bottle of whiskey. The tracker looked unusually dour, an expression Ezra was far more used to seeing on Chris Larabee's face than Vin Tanner's, and he altered his course away from the gambling tables and towards the bar. "Mr. Tanner," he said, removing his hat and dropping it on the counter next to Vin's. "And how are you this fine evening?"

Vin looked up, startled. "Ezra! When did you get back?"

"Just now," he said and slapped the shoulder of his jacket for added effect, sending a small plume of trail dust into the already musty air.

Vin did not look happy to see him; in fact, he looked decidedly worried. "Listen, Ezra--" he began.

"Standish!"

Ezra glanced over his shoulder to see Chris bearing down on him like a black-clad tempest. "Oh, hell," he muttered, grabbed Vin's shot glass and downed the contents quickly before forcing a smile to his face and turning around. "Mr. Larabee," he said brightly. "What may I do for you, sir?"

"Where the hell have you been?" Chris demanded.

"I don't believe that's any of your concern," Ezra said, keeping his voice mild even though his hands were shaking.

"The hell it isn't! We're responsible for the people of this town, in case you forgot. You can't just ride off for a week whenever it suits your fancy."

"Why not?" Ezra said coolly. "You do."

He took some small satisfaction in the way Chris's mouth snapped shut, and pressed the advantage while he had it. "The fact Mr. Tanner frequently disappears into the woods for days at a time elicits hardly a comment," he said with icy calmness. "The same can be said for Mr. Sanchez's spiritual retreats and Mr. Jackson's visits to his dusky Seminole maiden. Mr. Wilmington enjoys extended jamborees with the sporting ladies and even Mr. Dunne has been known to take the odd fishing trip. One is forced to wonder why I am not accorded the same privileges that the rest of you so clearly enjoy."

"Maybe I don't like the company you're keeping," Chris said, and his voice was dangerously soft.

"Well maybe," said a new voice, "that's just too damned bad."

The saloon had grown deadly quiet, everyone's attention focused on their little tableau. John moved to stand behind Ezra, one hand resting in the small of Ezra's back, long fingers splayed to brush the swell of his ass in an obvious gesture of possession. "If there's going to be a row," John said, placing his gun on the bar with a menacing thunk, "I'd like to be in on it."

Ezra held himself perfectly still, feeling like a prize bone trapped between two snapping, snarling wolves. He could feel the tension in John's body, see the answering anger sparking in Chris's eyes. Vin had taken a step back when John arrived. Now he moved in closer, catching Ezra's eye before flicking a brief glance at Chris. The meaning was clear: if things went to hell, Vin would handle Larabee, leaving Ezra to deal with John.

Of course, it would be better for all concerned if things did not go to hell. Ezra reached out and covered John's hand with his own, pinning it and the gun to the bar. "That won't be necessary, John," he said, and was gratified to feel John's fingers twine with his. "Mr. Larabee was just leaving."

Chris stared at their joined hands and Ezra could see the corded muscles of Larabee's neck jumping as he made a visible effort to rein in his temper. "We'll finish this later," Chris said through gritted teeth. "Without the chaperone." Giving John one last glare, he turned and stalked out of the saloon.

Ezra let himself sag back against John's chest. "My, that certainly went well," he said dryly.

Vin handed him the whiskey bottle. "Yer all still breathin'," he pointed out.

"Thank Heaven for small mercies," Ezra said, taking a long pull before offering the bottle to John who declined with a politely murmured no.

Vin looked mildly surprised at this, then shrugged and took the bottle back. "Ain't seen you in a coon's age, Ringo."

Ezra blinked in surprise. "You two know each other?"

"Kinda." Vin smiled. "I arrested John once, back when I was still taking bounties."

"I escaped," said John.

Vin's smile widened. "Well, I wasn't tryin' too hard to keep ya, if'n you recall."

"I remember," John said quietly.

Ezra looked from Vin to John and back to Vin. "There's a story here, I think."

"It was a long time ago," John said in that same quiet voice. He stroked his free hand down the side of Ezra's hip, though whether for his own comfort or for Ezra's was uncertain. "Some things are better left in the past."

Ezra nodded, and tightened his grip on John's fingers. "In pace requiescat," he said softly.

III.

They stayed a little while at the bar before retiring to Ezra's room, just talking with Vin and catching up on such news as Four Corners had to offer. Not much had happened in the handful of days Ezra had been gone, though there was a whisper of Apaches gathering to the north. Raids were rare but not unheard of in these parts and the peacekeepers were mounting extra patrols at night, which explained part of Larabee's ire at being one man short, though Ezra knew it was not the whole reason.

And now John knew as well, which was far more worrisome. Ezra had never thought to mention his attraction to Chris because nothing had ever come of it. It was simply there between them, always present but never acknowledged. At least, not until recently, though Ezra doubted Chris would ever admit the root of his anger lay in jealousy.

John closed the door behind them and leaned against the jamb. "Are you going to tell me?" he asked.

"About what?"

"You and Larabee." John gave a ghost of a smile. "Would have been nice to know you two had a history before I rode into town and put my neck on the block."

Ezra shrugged out of his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. It needed to be brushed before it could go in the wardrobe but he was simply not in the mood. "We don't have a history," he said flatly. "Outside our peacekeeping duties, we're barely even friends."

"Right. That's why he all but whipped out his dick and pissed on your leg to mark his territory."

Ezra winced, both at the crudity of the language and the underlying pain in John's voice. "Need I remind you it was your idea to come back here? I was perfectly content to remain in Tombstone and send for my belongings later." He sighed. "We both have pasts, John, and not everything in them is pleasant."

"Yes, but yours might get me a bullet between the eyes."

"Then we'll leave," Ezra said. "Now. Pack our bags and head back to Tombstone before more damage is done."

John shook his head. "The horses are done in."

"Tomorrow, then."

John crossed the room to stand in front of him, and Ezra was suddenly reminded of their first night together. "You'd do that," John said. "You'd just leave this place and your friends without a backwards glance."

Ezra found he was shaking. "Yes," he said recklessly. "Yes, I would."

John took his face between both hands and kissed him softly, almost reverently. "God, I love you," he whispered.

Chris sat in his customary sprawl on the bench in front of the jail, smoking a cheroot and watching in grim silence as Ezra and Ringo stowed the gambler's belongings in the back of a rented buckboard. Every so often Ringo glanced warily in the direction of the jail, keeping a weather eye on Chris and the five men ranged in a loose semi-circle about him.

"Ezra really is goin'," Nathan said.

"Looks that way," replied Josiah.

"Who is this Ringo guy, anyway?" J.D. asked. "I mean, why's he so special?"

"Way I hear it, he used to be a cattleman back in Texas," Buck said. "Got caught up in a range war, found he had a talent for killin' and been a gunslinger ever since."

J.D. shook his head. "So, what's Ezra doing with him?"

"Polishin' his gun," Buck said.

There were a few quiet sniggers. Chris chewed on the end of his cheroot and pushed himself off the bench. "Gonna talk to Ezra," he said.

Vin caught his arm before he'd taken a step. "Ringo's fast," he said quietly. "Maybe even faster'n you."

Chris smiled though there was little humor in it. "I know."

Tanner let go of his arm and he walked across the street, keeping his jacket closed and his hand well clear of his gun. Even so, Ringo stilled at his approach, hovering at Ezra's shoulder like a thin, dark shadow. "What do you want, Larabee?" he asked.

Chris ignored him, focusing instead on Ezra. There was a vivid red mark beneath the gambler's ear and another just above the crisp white collar of his shirt. Love bites, and Chris found his own teeth grinding in frustration. "Got a minute?" he gritted out.

Ezra shook his head. "I believe we've said all there is to say to one another."

Chris took a deep breath and let it out gradually. "Please," he said.

That was a close to begging as he ever got. Ezra understood this and was silent for a long moment before nodding slowly. "John," he said, "Mr. Larabee and I are going to step into the saloon. I won'^TMt be long."

Ringo clearly did not like the idea, but he made no move to stop Ezra as he climbed down from the back of the buckboard. "After you," Ezra said, and gestured for Chris to precede him into the saloon.

The place was deserted this early in morning, which was just as well. He nodded to Inez who seemed to sense that the two of them wanted privacy and found some pressing business to attend to back in the kitchen. Ezra picked up the glass she had been polishing and helped himself to a healthy dose of whiskey. "You have one minute," he said.

Now that the time had come, Chris found he hadn't the faintest idea what to say. He settled for the obvious. "Don'^TMt go."

Ezra laughed quietly against the rim of his glass. "Whyever not?"

The words lodged thickly in his throat and refused to budge. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the scuffed toes of his boots and shrugged helplessly.

"Chris."

The sound of his given name brought his head up fast. Ezra watched him closely, face blank and unreadable. "Tell me why you want me to stay," he said, low and soft.

"I'd miss you," Chris replied simply.

Ezra took a step towards him. "Do better."

"Ezra--"

Another step. "You have to say it, Chris."

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I want you."

Ezra stopped moving. He cocked his head to one side, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "Do you now?" he murmured. "Funny way you have of showing it. Most peculiar, indeed."

Chris sighed. "You ain't exactly the easiest person to approach."

That got him an amused snort. "Pot, meet kettle."

Chris smiled wryly. "Never claimed to be perfect."

"I should think not."

Ezra turned back towards the bar. Chris caught his arm and held fast. "Give me a chance, Ezra," he said.

"Chris--"

"Once chance. That's all I'm askin'."

Before the man could utter a word of protest, Chris stepped forward and pressed their mouths together. Ezra gave a startled gasp and Chris took full advantage, sliding his tongue past the slightly parted lips and pushing deeper, silently willing Ezra to open for him.

One heartbeat passed, then another.

He was about to let go and step away when Ezra moaned low in his throat and flicked the very tip of his tongue against Chris's. It was all the encouragement he needed, and he pushed Ezra backwards until the gambler's back fetched up against the bar, swallowing the quiet oof of breath with a hot, demanding mouth.

The next thing he knew, he was being spun around and a heavy fist crashed into the side of his jaw, hard enough to make him see stars and send him sprawling to the dust covered floor. He lay there in a daze while Ringo stood over him, face white and eyes blazing, right hand balled tight and ready to go again.

Ezra stood frozen at the bar, looking every bit as stunned as Chris felt. Ringo closed his eyes and shook his head, then turned and began walking towards the door. The action seemed to bring Ezra out of his shocked state and he chased after the retreating figure. "John, wait!"

Ringo stopped him with a raised hand. "When you decide what you want," he said wearily, "You know where I'll be."

A small crowd had gathered at the door. They parted hastily as Ringo walked through. Chris didn't blame them one bit.

Vin walked over and dropped down to crouch by his elbow. "Reckon you deserved that," he said softly.

Chris spat out a mouthful of blood and was completely unsurprised when a molar went with it. "Yep," he said, and rubbed gingerly at his swelling jaw. "Worth it, though."

EPILOG

Safford, Arizona

The saloon was hot and crowded. John sat at a back table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey cradled at his side. No-one bothered him, which was just as well. He was not in the mood for civilized conversation tonight.

The pathetic excuse for a pianist launched into a set of Stephen Foster twiddles and soon had half the crowd singing unsteadily along. When they got to "Hard Times Come Again No More", John laughed bitterly and debated pulling out his gun and opening fire. He hated Stephen Foster.

A flash of red caught his eye. Red now, he liked red. Rising shakily to his feet, John followed that bright splash of color like a will-o-wisp through the mix of giggling hostesses, dust-covered cowboys and drunken townsfolk until it led him to the bar where a young man in a crimson shirt was trying ineffectually to get the bartender's attention.

John slammed the whiskey bottle down on the bar. "Here," he said to the man in the nice red shirt. "Have a drink on me."

The man looked up, startled. He glanced at the bottle and then at John and took a small step away. "No, thank you," he said politely. "I prefer beer."

The anger that had been steadily building since he left Four Corners peaked suddenly. "I said have a fucking drink!" he shouted, pulled out his gun and struck the idiot on the side of the head.

There was a loud bang and then the young man was lying on the floor, clutching the side of his neck as bright red blood welled through his fingers. "You shot me," he said with a mix of surprise, shock and pain. "You son of a bitch, you shot me!"

"Shit," John muttered and stumbled towards the door.

No-one tried to stop him and he reeled out into the street, gun still clutched in his hand. A few more steps and his foot caught on something, twisting his ankle and sending him face first into the dirt. "GodDAMN it!" he shouted and struggled upward, only to fall down again when his ankle refused to support his weight.

"Easy there, son," said an amused voice, and then a strong pair of hands were on his waist, helping him rise to his feet. "You just lean on me, everything's gonna be fine."

John flung an arm around his erstwhile Samaritan's shoulders and let himself be guided down the street to another saloon, this one smaller and darker and without the maudlin strains of Stephen Foster tormenting his ears. He was tucked into a quiet corner, his injured foot propped up on a broken-backed chair and a fresh bottle of whiskey pressed into his hand. "There," the man said cheerfully, "that should do the trick. Nothin' like a little red-eye to take away the pain."

"Can it cure a broken heart?" John asked morosely.

"Heartbreak, huh." The man scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, don't know about that. Still, why don't you just sit there and have a drink and tell Curly Bill all about it."

FIN