He cries sometimes, after he goes to sleep. Quiet- like, with his head tucked into his arm, but I can hear him. I see his shoulders shaking, feel the way his whole body trembles against mine, and sometimes he talks too. He says 'mother' or 'papa' and sometimes, 'Chris', like his heart's been blown to bits in front of his eyes.

I want to kill something then. Anything, just anything that has the bad luck to get in my way. That was stupid enough to hurt this man. Hurt him so much he can't cry out loud, in the daylight, so much that he denies the very ability to cry. I can't just blame his ma, though I sure as hell do, but it seems like there's so many people to be angry at when it comes to Ezra. So many people and so much pain.

I know about pain; the kind that scours a man's insides like steel wool and leaves him broken and bleeding and cold, so very cold. I turned to drink and a six-gun. He turned to cards and a devil-take-you attitude towards the rest of the world. He sees people, reads them like a book, and knows just what to say to get 'em all riled up. We both have our death wishes, his is just more subtle.

I get Ezra, I do. You wouldn't think a man with chameleon eyes and a shark's smile could be understood by a gunslinger like me. You'd be right usually 'cept . . . I've seen Ezra perform card tricks for Indian children and walk into certain death carrying only two rifles and a gold-toothed grin and this crazy gleam in his eyes. It was like a cannon blast went off in my head. I knew this man, knew him better than he thought anybody did. That's why I knew he'd burn before leaving us again like that. That's why I didn't kill him where he stood in that stolen soldier's coat.

I run the tips of my fingers down his arm and Ezra snuffles in his sleep and presses closer to my chest. I don't even think he knows he does that. If he did, he turned eight shades of red and that clever mouth of his would open and close and nonsense would stumble out. That picture alone might be worth tellin' him, but it also might make him stop so . . . best left alone.

He's beautiful, y'know. But not pretty, there's nothin' pretty about Ezra Standish 'cept his clothes and even those still have this feel about them. This plain ol' Ezra feel to 'em that makes them beautiful. That first time, that beginning of things, I took great care with his clothes. I wanted to savor him, all of him, and with Ez that means his 'attire' and his cards and the fact that underneath the dandified junk is a stone-cold-blooded killer, like me. And underneath that is a man. My man.

Ezra suddenly tenses and goes still, perfectly still, but I can feel his tension, the quivering of his muscles underneath the blanket. The tendons in his neck are standin' out a foot away and his hands are clenched into fists, veins poppin' out along his arms. Then he goes limp, sinks down into the mattress, and whimpers, whispers broken babble in tones that sound more like sobs. I grab his arm and shake. "Ez? Ezra?" He buries his head and shakes. "Standish!" I bark and he jerks awake like a shot, sits up in bed and stares around the room, one hand already pointing his derringer in the general direction of the door. He looks down at me wide-eyed, "What?" he rasps. I can still see tear tracks down his face in the moonlight but I don't mention them. He never mentions mine.

I shrug. "Missed ya."

He slowly lowers the gun and puts it in his lap. "You wake me out of a sound, and much appreciated might I add, sleep because you missed me?"

I nod. "Sounds about right."

He looks down at his lap and I figure he must be weighing the odds toward him shooting me and getting out of town fast enough. Finally he sighs and slips the gun back under his pillow. His eyes narrow and he licks his lips. I shiver. "I see," he says. "I'll have to see to that problem, won't I?" He lunges forward and latches on to my mouth, plunging his tongue deep and sliding it against mine, rubbing the muscle around my gums and teeth and tickling the top of my mouth. I moan and wrap my arms around him, crushing him to my chest.

His hands, God those hands, a man could be hung-, slid along my skin and tangle in my hair, holding my against his mouth as he slips a thigh between my legs. He hooks an ankle around mine and jerks, forcing my legs wider apart and begins to slowly, so slowly, skin his leg up and down, up and down, in time with his tongue in my mouth.

He pulls my head back sharply and holds it against the bed, plants a final kiss on my lips and holding my lower lip with his teeth before leaning down . . . uuhhh I arch my neck and he rewards me with a lick and a bite on my jugular before settling down to feasting on my neck, teasing and nipping and sucking my collarbone until I'm pretty sure I'm making enough noise that they can hear me in Purgatorio and I don't care 'cause I have this man, this confusing, contradicting man, kissing his way down my chest, teasing my nipples into hard points and sticking his fingers in my mouth for me to suck on.

He pulls his fingers out of my mouth with a pop and moves back up to replace them with his tongue. A hand leaves my side and then I can feel a clay pot against my knee. He leans back and stares into my eyes. I nod jerkily. Yes, oh yes, now That slight smile comes to his face, that half-amazed little smile that I see every time he asks and I accept, like he can't believe I'd agree to this. Agree to him doing this. I reach up and attach myself to his body, kissing every part in reach until, with a shudder, Ezra pushes me back down to the bed and picks up the small pot of oil he keeps stealing from Nathan.

I spread my legs wider and play with the top of his head as he bends down over me. He responds with a quick swipe of his tongue against my cock. My hips thrust upwards but he stills them before dipping his fingers in the pot. I close my eyes as I feel a careful finger probing into me, then two, and then three all the way inside, scissoring against the ring of muscle and thrusting in and rubbing, oh rubbing right there, right there, yeah, oh God yes, oh oh I push back onto the fingers desperately. I want him in me, deep as he can go, deeper, until he's there forever . . .and then the fingers are gone and I let out a whimper of my own. "Shh, shh," I hear and then hands are slipping along my cock and I feel something hot and hard and big push into me slowly, too slowly. I wrap my legs around his waist and shove him all the way inside with a groan that answers his. And oh it's perfect, it's the greatest thing, and the only thing, and then he's starts to move inside me, slipping in and out faster and faster and harder with each stroke until I think I'm gonna split in two and shatter into little tiny pieces and his mouth is on mine, timing each stroke with a thrust of his tongue and a hand on my cock.

I grab the sides of his head and hold him there, forcing my tongue into his mouth and making him moan and cry out deep in his throat, crushing our chests together. Friction against the nipples he worked over so careful before, thrusting and moving together and oh it should always be like this and it always is and I don't understand how I went without this man for so long. I don't understand how I breathed without him by me and in me and surrounding me and Lord that hand and the other is raking down my back, making long red welts with its well-manicured nails and then there's a jerk and a shout and a warm gush inside me and outside. Ribbons of white splattering against his chest and Ezra collapses on top of me and pulls out, no matter how much I try to keep him in, but he doesn't get off and I just know we're gonna be stuck together in the morning but I don't care because he's here and he's with me and I'm never gonna give him a reason to cry in the night and mean it. Ever.

He shifts and kisses my jaw sleepily. "Feeling better now, Mr. Larabee?"

I chuckle and pull him close. "Yeah, much. Sorry I woke ya."

"Think nothing of it. Good night."

"Night, Ezra."

He tightens his grip and falls asleep on my shoulder. And it's quiet again, for now.