
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2692346.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Lone_Ranger_(2013), Jonah_Hex_(2010)
  Relationship:
      Butch_Cavendish/Burke
  Character:
      Butch_Cavendish, Burke_(Jonah_Hex), Frank_(The_Lone_Ranger), Barret_(The
      Lone_Ranger), Ray_(The_Lone_Ranger), Skinny_(The_Lone_Ranger), Jesus_(The
      Lone_Ranger), Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Cannibalism, Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Major_Illness, Past_Abuse,
      Flashbacks, Prostitution, Blizzards_&_Snowstorms, Pampering, First_Time
      Blow_Jobs, Hand_&_Finger_Kink, Anal, Angst, Biting, Vomiting, Touching,
      Breakfast_in_Bed
  Series:
      Part 2 of Of_Beasts_and_Fire
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-30 Completed: 2015-02-04 Chapters: 14/14 Words: 34092
****** Fireflies in the Dark ******
by BloodylocksBathory
Summary
     Butch and Burke meet again the following winter, but get stuck in a
     snowstorm. Even worse, Butch falls ill, and as they try to survive
     the weather and disease, unwelcome ghosts from the past emerge.
***** Bad Business *****
January was cold and bitter as an old maid at a wedding. The wind cut through
the heaviest of winter dress as the Cavendish gang sat waiting in a gorge,
where the current still reached, but did not blow quite so harshly. Only Jésus
stood, perched on a rock above them with a spy glass, keeping an eye out for
their expected company. After half of an hour of waiting, they perked up at his
movement of hurrying to another rock for a better view.
Butch straightened and rushed to where Jésus stood. Most of the others in the
gang prepared their guns, just in case. Frank, who had been preoccupying
himself by stacking stones on top of each other, was jogged from his
concentration just as he was adding the fifteenth tier, and his little tower
fell over.
"Nuts," he grumbled.
"That him?" Butch inquired. Jésus sneere at the speck on the horizon and passed
him the spyglass.
"Yep."
"Is he alone?" Barret asked as he inspected the packed supplies on the horses.
"He's alone," Butch confirmed. "We'll go in casually."
The gang all lifted their guns in glad obedience.
While one of the members remained behind as a long-range shooter, the rest rode
on to meet with their rendezvous, well within a long rifle's range. Their
visitor rode a wagon drawn by two brown mules, though they looked like they
smelled less horrid than their driver. Each member of the band of outlaws hoped
that the grubby man had not reneged on the deal, and that the contents of his
wagon were indeed the other half of the day's trade.
The wind, though harshly cold, did nothing to numb the gang's noses. And their
visitor was upwind of them. Several of the men wished they had volunteered to
stay behind as long-range shooter.
"You got what we asked for?" Butch asked.
"Munitions in hand," the driver said, spitting some chewing tobacco. "Ya got
what I asked fer?"
"See for yourself." Some of the gang led their horses forward. Skins and furs
were piled high.
The driver whistled, impressed. "Damn, you boys bag critters with the best
a'them."
Butch scoffed. "Not all. Plenty of dead Injuns freezin' their rotten balls off
on their funeral towers somewhere..."
The gang laughed.
Lifting the canvas on the wagon, the driver welcomed his temporary business
partners to load and unload possessions. Butch smiled at the outcome.
"I look forward to a repeat of this when spring rolls 'round."
The driver's pleased expression fell like Frank's stone tower, and he cleared
his throat nervously. Butch was not blind to the response. He turned and
marched toward him, shoulders gathered like an animal ready to claw his prey
open.
"Problem with that spring appointment, friend?" He snarled.
The driver gulped, likely ingesting a mouthful of tobacco. "See... the supply I
said I had... this is all I could manage ta get."
Glancing at Ray, who lingered by the wagon, Butch nodded to him, and Ray
promptly drove the butt of his rifle into the driver's temple. The slovenly man
fell to the cold ground with a thud. Dazed, he scuffled about in a vain attempt
to defend himself.
"It ain't my fault!" he insisted, his pleas falling on deaf ears. "The man I
got them munitions from is ditchin' town by then. I won't know where he is!"
"You're missin' the part where that's my problem," Butch said heatedly as he
stomped off by ten paces, removing his revolver and ready to shoot.
"I'd help if I could, I swear!" The driver said. "If it weren't fer that
cheatin' bastard Burke..."
Butch did not hear the rest, not when he was so certain he heard a name not
uttered in nearly a year. The gang fell silent, looking on with anticipation as
their leader strode over to the driver, looking down at him with calm disgust.
"Say that name again."
The driver was shaking, noting that Cavendish had not holstered his gun.
"...Burke?" he managed to respond without stammering.
"An Irishman?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
***** Mr. O'Gill and the Resignation *****
Chapter Summary
     Burke treats a very welcome visitor to his personal brand of
     hospitality and caps it off with his usual flare.
"You! Prosius, whatever the fucking hell yer name is!"
Lifting his head from the focus of his work, the man known by his boss and
fellow workers as Proinsias O'Gill left his station to address the foreman
calling for him. Sweat coated his face, making the tattoos on his jaw and neck
glisten.
"Yer behind on production," the foreman said, pointing an accusatory finger
coated in grime at him.
Burke could hardly be bothered by any shame this supercilious bastard attempted
toward him. As long as those in charge still did not realize how much he had
been pinching from this steel mill, he could take whatever they threw at him.
He attempted his best innocent idiot behavior.
"The machine was jammed, sir," he replied. "I had to clean some nooks and
crannies."
"Well, clean faster." Grubby hands sifted through pages of information
detailing the day's inventory. "Wouldn't be surprised if your own incompetence
jammed it in the first place..."
The foreman looked up at him as though in disbelief. "What the hell are you
still standin' there for! Git back to work!"
"Right-o!" Burke replied, returning to his station in a carefree fashion. After
all, Proinsias O'Gill had no care in the world... though Burke himself could
not wait to one day blow these cow-fucking shoibags to bits.
"Oi, O'Gill," another worker called to him over the noise of the machinery.
"Sum fella downstairs askin' for ye. Looks like trouble."
Burke grinned and descended the staircase to the ground floor.
"I love trouble," he murmured.
Calmly traversing the steps, he was halfway down, in full view of those on the
ground story, when he stopped and loudly addressed the crowds.
"I heard I have a visitor. Who amongst ye bog-rats is callin' me... out..." he
trailed off when he saw a figure in black standing still amongst hustling and
bustling grays and browns. The man's face was obscured by a wide brimmed hat,
but Burke could still see long dark strands of hair dangling beneath, and he
knew the tilt of those hips anywhere.
Butch.
Raising a hand to lift the brim of his hat revealed the scraggly traces of
stubble, then the harelip that his former partner loved, and finally the heavy-
lidded ghostly blue eyes as he looked up at Burke. Though his friend's
expression was unmoving and blank, Burke could not resist the urge to greet him
with the slightest smile.
Butch remained silent as the younger man reached the landing and drew nearer to
him. Still no smile appeared, but Burke could remember the way his friend
looked when angry. So far, this seemed to be a friendly visit.
"Worker housing is just next door," Burke said. "Why don't we find somewhere
private?"
The older outlaw said nothing, only nodding. He stared at details he still
remembered from nearly a year ago, as well as some he had forgotten. Little
bits and pieces most others would not notice, but still features he had missed
since their last (and first) meeting. He willingly followed Burke out the door
and a few paces down the road where the neighboring lodge stood attached to the
factory, trailing close behind like a very hungry shadow.
The state of the building was shabby, obviously built in haste to house the
factory workers. Any creaking from the floors and steps, however, was stifled
by the din of the machinery next door. Burke led Butch up a unsteady set of
stairs to a second floor, a bounce in his step. Butch kept an eye on his fellow
outlaw, mostly due to that bounce. What it did to Burke's backside already
increased a stirring between Cavendish's legs which had been nagging since the
halfway mark of his gang's journey to the mill.
"Come into my office," Burke said as he unlocked the door of his "home" and led
Butch inside. The residence was just as dilapidated as the rest of the
building, though the Irishman's smell improved it by a tiny bit. Sunlight from
the overcast afternoon entered through a solitary window. To Butch's amusement,
a not-at-all inconspicuous bundle sat in a large haversack in the corner.
Burke chuckled a little bashfully, waving at the hole-in-the-wall he currently
called home as he closed the door behind him and locked it.
"Had I known ye were coming, I'd'ave asked the maid to clea"--
He spoke no further, as Butch's mouth latched over his own. As before, Burke
thought for a split second he was about to be feasted on. That feeling of
danger had him instantly overcome. He moaned into the other's mouth, his hands
blindly unfastening Butch's belt and trousers and reaching inside. Butch
instinctively bucked his hips when he felt one of the hands cradle him. His
fingernails dug into the other's back, and for a moment Burke thought his shirt
had been torn through. Removing his hands from the trousers, he unbuttoned a
vest, then shirtsleeves. The entirety of their clothing was off in less than a
minute.
"Oh yeah, I almost forgot." Cavendish said, breaking their embrace. He bent
down, reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a coin, flipping it
in the air. "Call it."
Burke beamed, giving Butch a genuinely affectionate kiss on the end of his
nose. "Ye kept it. Heads."
The coin landed tails up. Burke nearly jokingly lamented the fact that his lamp
was on the other side of the cramped room, but heard the sound of Butch
spitting into his palm. Presently, he had missed their intimacy too much to
care how dry their fucking would be.
Guided to the floor, Burke was turned so that he faced the foot of his ragged
bed, and instinctively he gripped the iron bars of the frame. He listened to
the sound of Butch stroking himself hard until the intrusion of a saliva-coated
finger threw all previous thoughts to the wind. Another finger entered him,
moving like a pair of scissors, and Burke's moan nearly became a whine when the
digits were pulled out. He did not have enough time to properly complain,
however, because when he felt the fingers replaced by a cock, he found himself
unable to breathe. Five seconds passed before he managed a pitiful little
whimper.
He heard a deep chuckle behind him. The voice at his ear had that mixture of
snake venom and cactus nectar that it had when they fucked so many months ago.
"Did you miss me?"
Burke gave a breathy laugh and nodded. Butch reached around, gripped his
lover's hardening organ, and proceeded to thrust.
A sharp groan escaped Burke. His fingers gripped the bed post as though he were
struggling to hold on against a raging current. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he
needed this. As he was plunged into, the grip on his throbbing cock firm and
ruthless, long past prayers from his childhood knocked about in his thoughts.
His want for release steadily became more desperate, but that grip on him
prevented it.
Fingers insinuated their way past Burke's lips, and he unquestioningly opened
his mouth, welcoming the secondary penetration. He sucked and licked as he was
fucked, and he considered biting, but Butch's release on his phallus distracted
him, allowing his climax. Sagging against the bars, he hardly cared about the
way his head bounced off the post over and over again. Finally Butch surged
inside of him, groaning, and collapsed against him. As Burke composed the mess
his brain had momentarily become, he was suddenly glad the machinery muffled
the sounds of their pleasure.
Catching his breath, the Irishman turned so that he could sit against the bed
frame, and Cavendish followed suit, neither minding the hard uneven surface of
the bars. They slumped against each other, limbs sluggishly intertwined. While
Burke languidly drifted fingertips over scarred skin, Butch inhaled the scent
of an illustrated neck, licking beads of sweat from the moko that decorated his
lover's pale flesh.
"Didn't know I'd see ye 'round Christmastime," Burke remarked. "I woulda got ye
something."
Butch lifted an eyebrow. "That was three weeks ago, wasn' it? Also, I ain't got
much use for gifts." He was met with a friendly nuzzle.
"Ye think I'd get ye somethin' useless? Liquor ain't useless."
"Well, shucks." Butch grinned.
Their post-coital bliss was cut short by a loud banging on the door.
"O'Gill!" A voice shouted from the other side. "You left your station, you
spud-eatin' asshole! You git out here right now or you'll be worse than fired!"
Burke sighed, though Butch was candid in his puzzlement.
"O'Gill?"
"It's an alias, luv," Burke replied, getting up to dress himself. Butch did the
same, neither paying much attention to the banging on the door.
"I understand that part," he said, opening the window and looking out. "But
that's a stupid name."
Burke smiled, flipping his bowler hat as he placed it on his head.
"Unrefined brute."
Butch hesitated as he knelt on the window frame, giving his lover a wolfish
grin before he escaped down the wall. Upon leaving, he happened to notice a
dark chord, which led from under the bed, out the window, and into another.
"O'Gill, I swear to God, you git yer green navvy ass out here before I ram this
door down!"
Burke calmly strode over to the door, unlocked and opened it. As the foreman
opened his mouth to unleash another tirade, he was met with a fist that knocked
out both teeth and consciousness. He crashed to the floor, causing the
tumbledown structure of the hall to shake. Burke stood over him, rubbing the
hand used for the blow.
"I quit."
Whistling cheerfully, the Irishman gathered his belongings, knelt at his bed,
and lit a match. His whistling continued as he ignited a fuse and stood back
up, trotting out the apartment, jumping over the unconscious foreman, and
descending the stairs. He did not break his speed as he left the building and
found Butch casually walking down the road.
"I'd pick up the pace," he advised his friend. "But look casual-like."
Shaking his head, Butch did as suggested.
"What the hell brings ya to work in a damn factory anyway?" he asked as they
went on their merry, brisk, and supposedly casual way.
"Oh," Burke shrugged, indifferent to his short-lived profession. "Just killin'
time. Not my idea of fun though..."
Butch could have sworn the earth beneath him moved by an inch when a thunderous
explosion came from the employee housing. He was not surprised, considering
Burke, but the sudden and ear-shattering noise had startled him nonetheless.
Both he and his friend turned to regard the blast which had blown open the
building, and for a few seconds they observed the commotion of onlookers and
wounded alike. Then they turned back around and continued walking away.
"Place was a piece of shite anyway," Burke continued. "Really made more money
in sellin' independently. Sendin' out weaponry to traders... hopin' maybe one
day sommat got to ye."
Another explosion, detonated by the wire which had run from Burke's former
room, went off from within the factory itself. Butch stopped walking for a
moment, and Burke did so as well, looking at the tiny change of expression
which must have meant the older man was impressed.
"Shit, boy, that's a damn good Christmas gift."
Burke laughed, admittedly somewhat bashfully, and they continued to walk
onward. Though they were outside amidst possible prying eyes, the public were
mostly in too much of a panic for Burke to not resist: his hand drifted that of
his friend. Normally even that attempt would likely get him a slap at the very
least, but they had not seen each other for almost a year, and even then only
had a week to bond. A week of gaining trust, betrayal, and nearly getting
killed on several occasions...
Oh dear. There was a thought. Perhaps Butch was here to kill him. Then again,
based on their lovemaking, hopefully Burke was far too satisfying a sexual
partner to kill. Butch had said nothing at the gesture of affection, and his
weathered face, all sharp angles, was not nearly so sour as it could have been.
Even so, Burke remembered a thing or two about how his friend felt concerning
physical contact.
Hopefully he could change that.
*
Further down the road was a town where Cavendish's gang awaited the return of
their leader. The moment the men saw Burke, they welcomed him with open -
albeit stiff - arms. Jésus clapped him on the back a little too hard and Ray
greeted him with a remark that sounded not quite in jest.
"Been a while since we seen this ugly face!"
You're one to talk, Burke thought testily.
Other men in the gang hardly paid him any attention, and Burke wondered just
how much the group knew about that week from months before, just what Butch had
told them about who had been working for whom. If the men were eager for any
vengeance of their own, Burke wondered how far their boss would allow them to
indulge.
"We can't dawdle," Butch announced, jostling his friend by the shoulder.
"Thanks to this genius here, we'll have a load'a angry workers lookin' for
anyone suspicious... what few lived that pretty little performance."
Burke amusedly gave a small bow as mock gratitude. Frank applauded and received
dirty looks from the rest of the gang.
"Guns and ammunition's been got," Cavendish told Burke. "On our way over, we
already hid away a third'a it. Now't we got you, we'll split in half and hide
the rest. But first we get the hell outta this town. Better do it soon, don't
like the looks'a them clouds."
He indicated a cloudy sky which slowly grew darker. Rain or snow, the group was
not yet certain, but in such frigid temperatures, neither was preferable.
Burke was led to a wagon where two of the men were already seated to drive.
Peering underneath the canvas, he saw what looked more like provisions for a
nationwide journey. What space of the wagon free of munitions was loaded with
animal hide and packaged food stores.
"Ye boys don't act the maggot in wintertime," he stated, wondering when the
gang and started the habit of using a wagon.
"We got loads of skins and furs," one of the drivers confirmed.
"Business deal went South," Butch added, mounting his horse before glancing at
Burke. "Get in."
Burke was happy to comply, eager to curl up under some of the furs and curious
about what food had been packed. Just before the gang started the wagon and
horses, the tattooed man picked up a package of what he presumed had to be meat
and inhaled, confirming his suspicions.
"This smells recent," he said. The gang snickered.
"Hope you like mule," he heard amongst them.
***** The Biting Winds *****
Chapter Summary
     Barret has a heart-to-heart with Burke, and plans change as the
     weather gets worse.
The gang was nearly out of town when the wagon rolled over a large stone, onto
which Burke was certain it was intentionally steered. He winced at the way he
was jostled in the carriage, the impact reminding him of the "encounter" that
occurred in his residence not a half hour ago... the very dry encounter.
Hopefully the next coin toss would be in his favor, whenever that would be. He
hoped it would be soon. Holding back a laugh, he shook his head at the thought
of how hard he had fallen for the savage older outlaw, and how he already
wanted to get Butch alone again.
Outside of the town, the group stopped to divide supplies. Burke sat amidst the
provisions, staring into the distance at what appeared to be a carriage heading
towards them and thus the town.
"Hey, Burke," Barret said, grabbing his attention. "Help split the rations? Be
helpful?"
Burke acquiesced, though he kept Butch in his sights, something not exactly
lost on the gang's second in command. They separated the meat into two shares
whilst the Jésus and Ray separated the munitions and Frank and Skinny separated
animal hides. The rest checked their shares of water and anything else
required, while Butch inspected his saddle, constantly looking up at the
foreboding skies.
"Oh, not that one," Barret called out as the Irishman moved to put a smaller
package (peculiarly tied with a stained bit of twine) in with the pile
belonging to the rest of the gang. "That one belongs to Butch."
Burke hesitated before putting it in the proper pile. It smelled no different
from the other packages of meat, but he had a sneaky feeling he knew what was
unique about this pack.
"Come from the same place as the mules?" he muttered with amusement.
"Surprised he wants it," Barret said cryptically. "Its owner stunk worse than a
dead polecat."
"Ahh, that fella! He was a sack of shite, weren't he?" Burke laughed. Looking
up, he could see that the carriage was closer now, and that Butch had caught
sight of it as well. He was watching the coach like a tomcat sizing up a rival.
For a moment, Burke imagined Butch hissing and he laughed again. Things got
quiet for several minutes while they continued to sort the meat, and he thought
back on his concerns from back in the town.
"I dunno what Butch told ye boys about what happened at the Jeffries'
estate..." he began, his tone serious.
"Not much," Barret replied. Burke was not sure if the other was being sarcastic
or not. "But yer still alive, so whatever happened weren't so bad."
The tattooed man was a little surprised at the answer, or rather the
nonchalance of it.
"Don't the boys ever ask about me? What I did before joinin' up with ye..."
"Nope. Way we see it, you're always answerin' all the questions came to mind
before we even say anythin' anyway."
"True." Loading the sorted food into rucksacks, he glanced up again and saw
that on top of the carriage was a pair of men tossing away bundles from their
means of transportation, clearly with no intent of ever retrieving them. He
speculated if the disposal was of contaminated clothing and blankets. If so,
the town the gang had just vacated was in for a hell of a visit.
"Somethin' I noticed," Burke remarked, lowering his voice. "Butch doesn't talk
much anyway, but he talks about himself even less. Or at least certain parts of
himself. Such as his past...?"
Barret gazed at him as though surprised the other man had the nerve.
"It's a real miracle you didn't lose a finger for it." Warily making sure they
had no eavesdroppers, he continued, looking Burke in the eye. "We don't follow
most rules out here, but one we follow real close: Take the measure of a man
for what he is today. We all learned long ago that the distant past stays in
the past, especially with Butch."
Burke nodded, catching the man's point. "I'll keep that in mind."
As Butch walked over to ascertain the division of the food, the carriage
approached them. Assuming the men on top were not complete idiots, Burke paid
them no attention. Butch, however, did. He hurried forward and knocked a pack
of clothes away just as one of the coachmen threw it, with Burke unwittingly in
its path. Wide-eyed, the Irishman watched as Cavendish grabbed up the bundle
and threw it right into the thrower's face.
"Watch where ya throw yer garbage 'fore I cut you a new shithole!" Cavendish
roared at the stunned men. As the the horse and carriage moved onward, both
Barret and Burke caught a glance through the window of the coach door. The
passengers within looked like death itself hand a grip on their throats,
validating Burke's notions of an illness. The carriage itself did not even
slow, and in fact increased its speed as the infirmed continued its journey
towards the town.
Burke was about to thank his friend, but Butch cut him short.
"Ya got more ink than blood in yer brain?" he snarled, brushing debris off of
his sleeves. "Pay damn attention next time!"
The tattooed outlaw only stared, keeping his mouth shut. Barret, seated front
row for the little debacle which had occurred, gave Burke what appeared to be a
knowing look. He had no time to ask why, because already Cavendish was barking
orders for the gang to saddle up and continue their respective journeys.
"Wind's pickin' up," he fumed, pressing his hat closer to his head. "Barret,
you take Skinny, Jésus, Linton and Alvirez and go East. Take the wagon with ya
and dump it somewhere. The rest, we'll head North."
As he mounted his own horse, it occurred to Burke that whilst everyone else had
taken extra layers of clothing for the inclement weather ahead of them, their
boss had not even bothered, too eager to leave than waste time wrapping up
warm.
"At least put on one of the heavy coats, Butch," he suggested.
"I said hurry up, God blast it!" Butch snapped.
Shaking his head, Burke turned his horse to join his half of the group. He
noticed that while Barret's half was already riding off, the second-in-command
hesitated, looking at the tattooed man for a full ten seconds before joining
the others. The wordless farewell was unsettling to say the least, and as
Butch's half of the gang rode towards their destination, suspicion plagued
Burke's brain. Whether it was the connection between Cavendish and Burke or the
truth about what had happened months ago at the Jeffries estate, Barret clearly
suspected something.
*
Overcast skies made the evening approach even sooner, but the group rode on.
The winds cut like invisible blades, icy and strong. So loud and harsh was the
current that Burke could not even "cheer" the men with one of his songs even if
he so wished. Flurries of snow felt like needles against their faces, but none
of it seemed intent on staying to the ground. It was a comfort, if only a small
one, that their horses were not in danger of pushing through deepening snow, at
least not yet. With the obscured sun making its way toward the horizon, their
original destination was not holding much promise anymore.
Peering out from under his hat at a distinct set of rock formations, Butch
recognized their surroundings and made his decision.
"The rest of the way's too rough for all of us!" he called over the wind.
"Frank, Burke, come with me! The rest'a ya, head back, meet with the others
where it's safer!"
"Don't ya need the extra help?" Ray asked.
"Got all the help in three," Butch replied. "We'll stop at the cabin. Safest
way's the long way."
Burke could not help noticing the way Butch moved in the saddle as he spoke. He
looked uncomfortable, though not just from the lack of proper winter clothing.
Shoulders rotated and elbows flexed as though his very skeleton ached.
Trouble with the elements, old man? Burke considered teasing. But his friend's
behavior caused him worry. Was he getting sick with whatever had inflicted the
bastards in that coach? If so, being stuck out on the middle of nowhere was a
predicament in which they did not want to be.
"Let's go already! This way!"
Shoulders hunched forward as though to muscle his way through the winds, Butch
turned his horse and rode on, the tails of his coat flapping. A very telling
hunk of long dark hair, held together by a scalp, dangled from the material
like the tail of a grotesque kite. Burke kept the swinging trophy in his sight,
maintaining his focus as the three men rode through the wicked invisible tide
that was the wind.
Night was to fall soon. Butch was angrier than a nest full of hornets, and the
ache which was beginning to course through his body with every heart beat was
not improving his mood. If he was sick from jumping in to help Burke, that
potato-eating piece of horse manure was going to be in big trouble. Checking
behind him to ensure his two remaining traveling companions were still present,
he thought about just how prompt he was in sending the others away.
Damn, he thought. They probably left with that heart.
***** The Dark Room *****
Chapter Summary
     Our heroes arrive at the old cabin, but Butch's health seems to be
     getting worse.
Despite the gloomy skies, the night brought a nearly full moon. Every time it
peeked through the fast rolling clouds, the landscape was illuminated, and as
Burke looked around, he realized the group was close to the end of their
journey.
He glanced at Butch, who likely knew they were on the right path as well, but
said nothing to the gang leader. His lover was looking worse than he had some
hours ago. Butch was pitifully slumped over in the saddle, and as Burke rode
closer, he could see the position was not from the cold winds alone; the way
Cavendish stooped suggested he might fall off his horse at any moment.
"Butch," he said, feeling a little foolish with what little distance they had
left to cover. "Perhaps we should stop and rest"--
"We keep movin'!" Butch retorted, jerking toward him as though startled out of
sleep. Burke wondered if his friend had indeed nodded off during the ride.
Looking behind him, Burke saw Frank looking back, sharing what was likely the
same expression of worry the Irishman had on his own face. Taking initiative,
Frank rode on ahead. Not ten minutes later, a light appeared in the blackness.
"There," Butch pointed. "Cabin ain't far. Get a move on." With a snap of the
reigns he rode faster, Burke following close behind. The thought of Cavendish
falling at this speed doggedly nagged at the tattooed man's mind, and he stayed
in pace with his friend.
Butch did not fall from his mount during the remainder of the ride, but seemed
even worse by the time he arrived at the cabin. Leaving the saddle, he lost
balance as his feet touched the ground, but he quickly recovered before he
could make a complete idiot of himself. Burke could not ascertain the other
man's condition under the guiding light of the lamp Frank had left on a hook,
not with that wide-brimmed hat obscuring his features, but the posture alone
was unmistakable as he staggered to the front door. Arms out, Burke kept his
distance from the foul-tempered outlaw, but was prepared to catch him in case
he passed out.
Frank hurried around from the back, feedbag in his trembling hands. He looked
ready to jump in a fire if it meant warming up, but he was ever dutiful.
"I'll put the horses away, Butch," he said. "If ya want, I can start buryin'
the guns..."
"Hurry the hell up!" Cavendish yelled, grabbing onto the frame as he sagged
against the doorway. "We ain't got..." He trailed off, his voice quiet, and he
rubbed at his face with his free hand as though to scrub the exhaustion from
himself. Burke thought he looked either severely ill or in great pain. The
truth was he felt both.
As the sound of a shovel stabbing at frozen ground echoed in the air, Butch
groped for the latch on the door. An inked hand lifted it for him and he felt a
strong arm guide him inside. He snarled, wishing nothing more than to be steady
enough to wheel around and bite his well-meaning friend. Butch did not want
anyone's hands on him, especially not in the condition he was in.
"Git offa me, I don' need yer help!" he growled.
"Of course not," Burke replied patiently, ignoring the other man's venomous
behavior and continuing to lead him. In the months that the cabin was empty,
none else had explored it, as everything still appeared to be unmoved. The
dirty mattress remained where it lay from that fondly remembered night, when
the two men were intimate with one another for the first time. Burke could
remember the way the dust seemed to twinkle in the sunlight as he was awoken by
a fingertip tracing his moko lines. From the state of Butch, such moments would
not be repeating themselves for a while yet.
Disoriented and drained of his strength, Butch lurched toward the mattress and
sat down heavily. When he finally felt Burke's hands release him, he fell onto
his side, ignoring the dust spread from the impact and rolling onto his back.
He felt he could just tumble into the realm of sleep the moment he closed his
eyes... were it not for the pounding soreness of his head. As Burke started a
fire to keep the place warm, the older outlaw turned his head away, the dim
light too much for his headache.
With a deliberately clogged chimney to prevent surprise attacks via explosives,
the cabin did not have an official fireplace. Instead, several planks had been
broken from the wood floor to make room for an improvised hearth. Burke
remembered Butch telling him it was used typically only used for making stew
due to the absence of ventilation, and as tempted as he was to keep it burning
for warmth, the younger man decided death by smoke inhalation was not ideal.
Speaking of stew... there has to be a pot. Burke did not take long in finding
it, filled with cobwebs but still in decent condition, along with an iron
trivet to suspend it over the flames. Wiping both clean, he set them in place
over the little fire.
Hearing the latch lift, Burke raised his head to see Frank enter, quickly
closing the door behind him as though he were being chased. Covered in dirt
from his struggle to dig into the frozen soil, he wiped some sweat from his
efforts off of his brow, leaving behind a large smudge. Hurrying forward to
gain some warmth from the fire, he dragged a rucksack along with him until he
saw the state of his boss, and proceeded more quietly.
"Ray an' the others took all the mule," he whispered, opening the bag, "but we
got some dried meat, if ya want some."
"It'll do." Burke took what was offered and tore the tough portion in half.
Taking care not to startle his friend, he leaned over and gently nudged Butch's
shoulder.
"Care for some, brother?"
"Uhh?" Butch did not seem to have paid attention, perhaps once again nodding
off. He looked at the meat with disinterest in his bleary eyes.
"Ain't hungry. Just need sleep."
Need was the apt word. Perhaps the flickering light of the small fire was
playing tricks on Burke's eyes, but to him the once intimidating cannibal
outlaw was now a mere shadow of himself, pitiable and weak.
"Alright. Good night then," the Irishman said, and were it not for Frank's
presence, he would have let a word like "luv" or "sweetheart" slip into the
statement.
Turning back to face the fire, he and Frank ate their dry food in silence.
Neither spoke to even make small talk, as they were too consumed by worry for
Butch, but in truth they did not know what could be done. Finishing the
impromptu supper, Burke leaned over a second time, expecting some angry demand
from his lover to be left alone. To his surprise, Butch was already asleep.
Curiosity getting the better of him, he lifted a hand to nudge the motionless
form.
"No!" Frank hissed, making him jump. "If he's asleep, let'im sleep! Ya want'im
bitin' yer face off??"
Frowning irritably at his companion, Burke glanced back at Butch, who despite
the noise did not stir. Both Burke and Frank looked at each other
uncomfortably. At this point, Cavendish waking and threatening them with
painful death was preferable.
"We should turn in for the night as well," Burke whispered. Frank nibbled on
his bottom lip and nodded. At times such as these, the Irishman had to wonder
just how young Frank was, but even in his youth, the scrawny man's devotion to
his boss was impressive. Either that or simple fear kept his resolve strong as
steel.
Luckily for them, they still had a generous share of the skins and furs. Butch,
who did not seem remotely cold, was supplied with several blankets nonetheless.
Hoping to use whatever warmth was left in the cabin, they left the small fire
to die on its own as they curled up on the floor, bedrolls beneath them and
hides and clothes above. While Frank faced the front door, Burke passed time
awaiting sleep by keeping Butch in his sight. The occasional twitch would pass
through the restless outlaw, but otherwise Cavendish seemed dead to the world.
Burke did not know what the hell the illness was which had possessed his
friend, but he hoped the signs would make themselves known before things became
much worse, before Butch was beyond helping. Eyelids heavy, he finally closed
them and joined the other men in sleep.
Meanwhile, Butch Cavendish, who barely ever remembered the images his brain
cooked up in his sleep, dreamed. And in his dream, he entered a place he had
managed to avoid for decades, a place that still frightened him.
*
He sat in a dimly lit room, a small lamp and a hastily boarded up window his
only sources of light. The window used to be clear, but he was deprived of the
luxury when he tried to escape (they warned him he wouldn't come away unscathed
the next time he had such cheek). At least two pages lay at his side next to
the lamp. Every once in a while when he could acquire pieces of charcoal, he
practiced his writing. Though he had never cared much for his schooling, having
nothing but the room now seemed to make memorizing letters and words so much
more important. Otherwise, what else could he do while he waited?
Suddenly the door swung open and a man entered, towering over him and stinking
of liquor. The bourbon crawled out from the back of his throat as he leaned
forward to examine Butch, breath hot against his face. Though the words were
forgotten, he could hear the hunger in the man's voice. Filthy fingers held
Butch in a painful grip.
He had enough. He did not want to cooperate, not if this was how things were
going to be. Grabbing the lamp, he shoved it against the man's head as hard as
he could, breaking glass and snuffing the light. A roar of pain and anger
echoed in the room, and the man swung his arms, first to regain balance on his
intoxicated body, then to deal a blow that had Butch on the floor and
struggling to stay conscious.
When the man dealt a shaving razor against him, he was conscious then. His
screams for help and mercy fell on deaf ears until nearly ten hellishly long
minutes of the treatment, when Ms. Marla stormed into the room. Still on the
floor, Butch looked up as the man angrily gave her more money and stormed out.
Butch was determined not to cry, but in the end a few tears would force their
way out despite his efforts; they would for years yet. He was lucky this
evening though; the broken lamp might have left him stuck in the cellar for the
night if his wound had not needed immediate attention. Even so, Ms. Marla was
furious with him for the trouble he caused, on top of the fact that he had
ruined their profits until he was properly healed.
His writing pages had fallen to the floor in all of the commotion, and as he
heard someone uncork a bottle of alcohol, he grabbed fistfuls of the paper and
stuffed them into his mouth, biting down to endure the treatment. His situation
was a hopeless one. He couldn't act out, he couldn't resist, and he couldn't
fight back. He couldn't do anything, because he was just a kid.
*
Butch awoke with a start, still feeling the remnants of the past cling to his
waking moments. Looking around the poorly lit space, however, he realized he
was in one of his hideaways, far away from the dreaded cage of his childhood.
He might have risen from his bedding if he did not feel as though he had been
run over by a train.
Not two feet away in the light of the moon were Burke and Frank, coiled on the
floor under layers of clothes and furs, sound asleep. The blankets which had
been given to him, however, lay at his feet in a pile, kicked off in the throes
of his dream. It was no wonder: his body was so hot that even without the
blankets he was sweating. Removing his boots and shrugging out of his coat and
vest, he lay back down, staring at the ceiling and wiping his damp brow with a
shirtsleeve. His efforts did no good. Pouring with sweat and still exhausted,
he fell back into fitful sleep, where the dreams and the dark room awaited his
return.
***** White Hills and Red Skin *****
Chapter Summary
     Snow falls, Frank tries to be helpful, and Burke worries.
Morning arrived, its light seeming somehow brighter, and when Burke and Frank
looked out the window, they were met with a landscape of pure white. The winds
had brought their own little surprise, which was still falling from the
heavens. Mouth agape, Frank opened the door and stood on the porch in
disbelief, clinging to the furs still wrapped around him. Burke joined him,
removing his knife and sticking it into the snow. The blade of his weapon
disappeared fully by the time it reached solid ground. Standing straight, he
gazed out over the hills of solid white.
"Hmm."
Frank tilted an eyebrow at him. "'Hmm'?"
"That's all," Burke said, turning to go back inside. "Just hmm." Then he
paused. "Be a lad and bring in some snow for the pot, aye?"
Leaving the door open, Burke gathered what little kindling was left indoors and
started up the fire again. He stoked the flames as Frank hurried in and out
with handfuls of snow, dropping it into the pot to melt.
"That'll do," he declared when the pot was half full. "Ye see to the horses,
I'll see to..." he gestured toward the still sleeping form of Butch, who in his
sleep had kicked off his blankets and partially undressed. Frank complied,
giving his boss one final look before heading outside, closing the door behind
him.
With unnecessary company absent, albeit for a short time, Burke turned his
attention toward Cavendish. When he had awoken that morning, he still faced the
mattress, and for a few minutes he simply stared at the half disrobed sight
until he heard Frank wake behind him. Naive as the thought was, he had wished
that somehow his partner's health would have improved during the night.
Instead, as the snow continued to fall outside, Butch looked as though he were
enduring the hottest day in the summer season.
In the corner where he had found the pot and trivet, Burke located several
bowls. One of them he used as a wash basin, pulling a handkerchief from his
pocket and soaking it through. Taking a seat at his friend's "bedside", he
twisted the cloth, deciding the offer of comfort was an easy enough first step
toward recovery.
When Butch finally stirred, he awoke to the sensation of something blissfully
cool and damp against his forehead. His eyes remained closed as he savored the
feeling, though he felt so damned hot that he could have sworn the moisture
evaporated from his skin in less than a second. He finally opened his eyes and
saw Burke sitting at his side. Tattoos stretched as the younger man smiled at
him.
"It snowed," Burke told him, his tone of voice similar to that of an overjoyed
child. Butch tried to move and winced at the stiffness and ache of his joints.
Perhaps he was getting old, he considered.
"Did it?" He rasped. "Couldn't tell."
Burke gave a small chuckle, dunking the cloth a second time, wringing it out,
and replacing it over a burning neck.
"I could likely put ye out in a bank and still ye'd complain about the heat.
Seems ye've run a wee temperature."
Unimpressed, Butch shut his eyes, focusing on the coolness of the cloth.
"It's nothin'. I'll get over it."
I wish I had your confidence, Burke thought. At the sound of footsteps on the
porch, he patted the cloth in the dip of Butch's throat, leaving it there.
"Don't move."
Butch gave him an annoyed look, which he ignored. Rising from the floor and
wrapping himself in a fur, he headed outside.
Frank looked at him anxiously, rubbing his gloved hands together.
"How is he?"
"Utter shite. Still not sure what it is yet."
The youth gave an audible little sigh of despair, reminding Burke of a lady
about to swoon. They gazed over the solid white panorama as the snow continued
to fall.
"With most of the mule meat gone," Frank remarked, "we'll have to ration, but
the food we got'll last for two weeks, I reckon. Maybe three, considerin' Butch
ain't so keen on eatin'... I checked the stable, seems t'be enough firewood for
that long too."
Burke looked up at the clouds, grey and sinister and likely promising even more
snow. Lovely.
"Hopefully we won't be stuck out here any longer," he mused aloud.
Frank looked at him, eyes wide with trepidation. "What if we get snowed in?"
"I hope not," was all Burke could think to say. The situation was not exactly
what he had in mind as far as spending time again with Cavendish, stuck in the
middle of nowhere with a sick lover and a scatterbrained young man during an
oncoming snowstorm.
Then it dawned on him.
"Ye know..." he said as casually as he could manage, "if we do get snowed in,
it'd be a right shame if we ran out of essentials. Where the other boys are,
they're likely doing fine. All warm and plenty of food to be had..."
"Yeah," Frank said forlornly.
"Someone should ride out to a nearby town... restock just in case."
Frank continued to nod until his thought process caught up with the Irishman's
words.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Right! Someone should do that! I can do that!"
He was off like a shot, bundling up properly and retrieving his horse from the
back.
"If I see the boys, I'll let'em know y'all are safe," he stated, climbing into
the saddle.
Burke crossed his arms, less from the cold, more from indifference.
"Do ye know what ye need to bring back?" he asked, feeling like a parent
sending his child to run errands. Frank's brow knitted as he concentrated.
"Food," he thought aloud. "Food, firewood... broth! Broth'd be good.
Medicine... and what else?"
The tattooed man smirked. "That seems to be the thick of it."
"Food, broth, medicine, firewood... got it." Frank's horse hesitated in the
deepening snow, but with a buck of the young man's heels, he spurred it onward.
"Don'tcha worry, Burke! I'll come back with everythin'! Food, broth, medicine,
firewood, food, broth, medicine, firewood..."
Burke could have sworn he could hear the chant carried on the winds even as
Frank soon rode out of sight. He exhaled, his breath visible in the cold.
"Thought he'd never leave," he muttered.
Granted, he did not necessarily hate Frank. In fact, he liked Frank... from a
distance. Most folk Burke engaged with as a means to an end, usually for
personal gain or his own entertainment. And as amusing as Frank could be at
times, he would only be in the way at the cabin. In addition, the young man did
not need to see his leader in his current state, nor did he need to see his
condition get any worse. Butch did not need his own lackeys seeing him in such
a vulnerable position either. Respect between a gang and their boss was
important after all. For these reasons, Burke thought himself best suited to
act as healer. After all, he technically was not a part of the Cavendish gang,
and thus was not Butch's lackey; he was Butch's pain in the arse.
Entering the cabin, the first sight which greeted Burke was his friend
attempting to stand with all the grace of reanimated corpse.
"Hup, told ye not to move," he gently reprimanded, arms out to guide him back
to the mattress. Predictably, Butch wrenched his arm away from the other's
grasp.
"M'fine," he grumbled, though his steps were unsteady and he seemed to be
looking right through Burke's head. Before he could argue any further, his
dizziness sent him back down to the mattress with a plop.
"What can I do, luv?" Burke asked, unsettled by the heat emanating from his
lover's flushed skin. At first he thought Cavendish did not hear him, turning
in his seat and stretching out his arm, until the Irishman realized what was
being pointed at. The bucket he remembered from a year ago still sat in the
shadows several paces away.
"Need..." Butch seemed to be concentrating to speak, as though already falling
back asleep. He sighed, frustrated. "Need t'piss..."
Burke had the pail in his hands and in front of his friend in a matter of
seconds. Undoing his belt and trousers, Butch drowsily aimed and urinated. In
his close proximity to Burke, he gravitated toward him until he was leaning,
shirt soaked with perspiration, against the other man's shoulder. He did not
seem to notice or care when Burke kissed his forehead, less a gesture of
endearment and more an inspection of temperature.
Jesus, it's like he's on fire.
"Don't fret," he finally said, though the smile he offered held little of the
enthusiasm it normally had. "We have nowhere to be. Rest for now, it'll be
fine."
Butch pulled at his shirtsleeves, hands fumbling with the buttons until he was
assisted. Shirt open, he gave a long, heavy sigh.
"Too hot."
"You're not joking," Burke replied. He tried to sound like his usual
lighthearted self, but found doing so difficult. The sight of the exposed chest
seemed unnaturally flush, redder than simple fever. Hopefully his friend was
too tired to notice his worry.
Well, I got my wish, he glumly thought as the other man fell asleep. Indeed, he
was finally alone with Butch.
***** Relentless Flames *****
Chapter Summary
     Burke makes a diagnosis. Butch unwittingly leaves more clues.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Butch slept throughout the day, his body as warm as the weather was cold. Burke
wove in and out of sleep, a peculiar thing for him. On any normal day he could
find sleep even in a barrack with bullets whizzing past and mortars being blown
apart. Worry was a funny thing in that way.
Not wanting to risk waking Butch, Burke went outside to empty his bladder. As
he pissed off of the porch, he was granted a reprieve from his worries by the
sight of his urine dyeing the snow and leaving a yellow hole, but the amusement
was, as expected, fleeting. Evening was approaching, giving the already dark
skies an eerie quality.
Staring at the snow, which had to be almost two feet deep by now, he wracked
his brain for clues as to Butch's condition. Exhaustion, fever, aches all
through his body... that hardly narrowed down the culprits. Cavendish's chest
looked particularly red, but could have been so from the fever alone. The damn
disease coach could have been spreading anything. Burke rubbed at his eyes and
returned indoors.
Butch was awake and sitting up, yanking with aggravation at the remaining
clothes still on his body. Lighting the oil lamp, Burke assisted him, noticing
how he winced at the light, no matter how soft it was. As he peeled the shirt
off of his lover's shoulders, the younger man saw his first real sign of what
Butch was enduring. Decorating his skin was a splotchy rash, radiating outward
from his middle.
Memories from childhood rushed through Burke's mind. Stories told by people
from older generations, describing a fever accompanied by an aversion to light
and aches of the head, limbs, and spine. The rash was the final piece of the
puzzle. Helping Cavendish out of his trousers and undergarments, Burke gathered
the entirety of his friend's attire and rushed outside, tossing the offending
articles in the snow. Butch seemed too disoriented to notice, but he became
fully alert when he felt a pair of hands examining his hair.
"Whut're you doin'??" he asked, flinching under the other's touch and ready to
drive his elbow into the stomach behind him.
"Lookin' for bugs," Burke answered, peering at the strands in the lamplight.
Oh, if only his friend's hair was a lighter color...
Butch rolled his eyes at the answer, turning to look at Burke. "I'm pretty sure
they're in there."
"Hold still." Burke's voice was not so cheerful as it had been the day before,
replaced with stern resolve. "Alla this oil, it likely didn't bite ye in yer
scalp, but I'm checking all the same."
"What bit me?" Cavendish began to get an idea of what was happening.
"Louse or flea. Those were typhus patients headed for the steel town... they'll
likely infect the whole lot of'em."
"Good."
The simple retort was enough to make a quiet little laugh escape Burke's lips.
At least the illness had not drained Butch of his charming personality, not yet
anyway.
"This is what I get for takin' the blow for ya," Cavendish grumbled. Burke was
unfazed.
"Ye can thank me when ye're well again."
"I will."
This time Burke managed to hold back a laugh. Presently he would gladly welcome
a return of his friend's fiery disposition. Butch Cavendish without his fire
and tenacity was a disquieting thing.
"How do you know about putrid fever anyway?" Butch said after about two minutes
of silence. He needed something to get his mind off of the unpleasant
experience that was the pair of hands sifting through his hair. He knew
shearing the mess off would have likely made the search for lice or fleas
easier, but it would be a cold day in hell before he allowed his hair to be
cut.
"It ain't just a sickness of the Americas. Ireland's had his fair share." The
tattooed outlaw finished his search by gently inspecting behind his lover's
ears. "Picked up a thing or two about what it looks like, how to treat it...
sorry to tell ye, but you're in for a helluva few weeks."
"I can take it," Butch replied dismissively, shaking his head like a dog drying
itself once the hands left his scalp. The action made him dizzy. "I seen all
the faces of illness since I was a boy."
"How so?" Burke asked, curiosity piqued.
He received no answer. Leaving his position behind Butch, he saw the other
man's hands had clenched into fists. The marred face stared ahead, expression
dark and unmoving. The barrier of that dangerous thing known as Butch's past
had been crossed, even if by just an inch. Burke knew better than to press the
matter, and he stood up, disrobing and tossing his own clothes out the door for
the sake of safety. The last thing either man needed was yet another case of
typhus from the damn bugs.
Even as he swathed himself in blankets and furs, Burke felt the chill of winter
creep into his shivering body nonetheless. Looking at the naked, sweating body
of his patient did not help him feel any warmer. Briefly he was tempted to
snuggle up against Butch's overheated frame, but suspected he would get a
severe thrashing in return, even from someone this sick. Searching through his
haversack instead, he found his extra set of clothes, not quite as heavy as
what he previously wore, but a welcome additional layer nevertheless.
Butch, who had lain back down, curled up on his side, facing away from the
lamplight. Glancing out the window, Burke concluded the day was late enough for
himself to turn in as well. Blowing out the flame, he joined his lover in
sleep, laying on the floor beside the mattress.
What Burke was unaware of, however, was that Butch was not asleep. Ever since
arriving at the cabin, he had come to dread sleep. Unfortunately he knew he
could not avoid succumbing, and after ten minutes of struggling to resist, he
closed his eyes and let his sickness drag him downward.
*
The next morning, Burke was the first to wake. Yawning, he lit the fire under
the pot again and started on breakfast. As far as he was aware, Butch had not
eaten since before he reunited with Burke at the factory, and if he could not
get the man to eat, he could at the very least make him drink. Without medicine
to treat the worst of the symptoms, little else could be done other than try to
prevent dehydration, and based on how much Cavendish had been sweating, the
risk was likely extremely high.
"No."
"What." At first Burke thought he was being addressed. When he received no
reply, he turned to see Butch was still asleep. He did not twitch, but rather
shivered from head to toe, and as he continued to talk in his unconsciousness,
Burke knew the shaking was not from the cold.
"Nooo..." he whined fearfully. One of his hands swatted at some invisible force
that would not leave him be, bringing his arm to rest behind his head. Burke
edged closer, careful not to wake him but wanting to hear more.
"It hurts..." Butch murmured, writhing. "I'll be good... please... pleeease
don't..." His back arched off of the bedding as he tried to avoid the threat
only he could see in his fever-addled brain. Burke was about to attempt to
provide some form of comfort when a strangled cry broke from the sick man's
throat. His breath heavy, the wail was a disturbing concoction of fear and
lust. One of Butch's hands dove in between his legs and gripped as he curled up
in a fetal position, hiding his face in a pillow and still begging for someone
not to hurt him.
The display left Burke bewildered and more than a little startled. He was not
sure how to even respond to his friend's behavior. In fact he had never seen
Butch look so... helpless. Putting on what he hoped was a convincing attempt at
his usual nonchalant face, he filled two bowls with oatmeal from the pot and
moved to wake the other.
Butch was jolted from his fitful sleep by a gentle nudge into his shoulder, and
already he was prepared to strike at whomever had snuck up on him. Remembering
where he was, he calmed, but only slightly.
"It's alright," Burke automatically whispered, holding out a bowl for him.
"I've made breakfast. Pity we have no milk."
Butch wiped at his face, hunching over as he sat up. Straightening himself was
too painful. The beat of his heart seemed just as rapid as his shivering. How
he wished his shaking was from the cold.
"Ain't hungry," he said groggily.
"I know," Burke replied, almost sounding apologetic. "Ye can't get better on a
empty stomach though, so please. Humor me."
Though he would not concede his lover's point, he knew Burke was right.
Trembling hands taking the bowl, he lifted it to his disfigured lips and ate,
though sluggishly. Burke smiled.
"Good boy," he said jokingly.
Cavendish did not appreciate the choice of words. The supposed term of
affection sounded too familiar, too close to something he would have heard in
his sleep. Still, he kept his thoughts to himself.
"Where's Frank?" he muttered.
"Sent him out for medicine and food," Burke answered. "Also to give ye some
privacy. Hopefully he doesn't get his petticoats stuck in the ice."
Butch wanted to laugh, but he was finding very little funny nowadays.
Finishing only half of the bowl, he stubbornly ate no more and resumed his
place on the mattress. Limbs heavy, he lifted a hand and pointed at the
improvised wash basin. Burke took the hint and removed the soaked handkerchief,
wiping beads of sweat from the unfortunate complexion.
"Leave it," Butch said dully. Burke obeyed, spreading the wet cloth over the
man's chest. The paradise felt by the cool material was brief, but Butch did
not care. Staring at the walls, he drifted the back of his knuckles against
Burke's knee, the part of his lover presently closest to him. Burke nearly took
the hand to hold it, but imagined the feeling of the fever being added to by
any source of warmth.
"Will ye sleep again, dear one?" he asked.
"Mmn." Butch hardly wished to speak. His head and joints were throbbing, and
the wet handkerchief was rapidly matching his own temperature. In addition, the
oatmeal lay in his gut like a hunk of clay, feeling heavier and drier by the
second. He hated to go back to that damn dark room, but he hated staying here
in his sickness as well.
Next time I wake up, he assured himself. I'll be much better next time I wake
up.
He wished he could genuinely believe that.
*
Only a half hour had passed the next time Butch awoke. Burke had been
sharpening one of his knives - partly because he needed to, partly to pass the
time - when Cavendish abruptly rolled over, gagging and frantically reaching
for the wash basin. Burke wasted no time, and he grabbed the nearby bucket and
placed it under his lover just as the oatmeal breakfast rushed upwards and
outwards.
Butch was not exactly a man immune to vomiting, and his gang had seen him
endure a hangover or two in their time, but today was different. Already he
felt like a pathetic weakling in this relentless damn fever, but as he threw up
in front of Burke, he felt like a snake at the mercy of a hawk. Reverberations
of his nightmare world clawed at him, stripping away any sense of control he
had, and he felt a desperate need for Burke to get away from him, to leave the
cabin entirely. He just wanted to be alone, to suffer alone.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a hand reach for his hair, likely to brush
it away from the path of his vomit, but he weakly slapped it away.
"No!" he managed to groan out before his stomach acted up again. No one was
going to touch him. He would kill them first.
He thought he must have blacked out, because suddenly he was on his back again,
his vision hazy and the light from outside overpowering. He rested an arm over
his eyes, breath still heavy from nausea and unease. Something moved in front
of the window, blocking most of the light, and when he opened his eyes he saw
familiar dark markings warped around an equally familiar smile.
Burke observed the way Butch once again seemed to stare right through him, the
way he appeared utterly apathetic to his plight. Dull eyes which once held
ferocity shut, and Burke was uncertain where exactly his friend was between
asleep and awake. A small whisper of a moan left Butch as he swayed in an out
of consciousness.
The Irishman's smile faded, because he could no longer keep up the facade. He
hated what was happening to Butch, but little could be done to set things
right. Until Frank could return with medicine, Burke could only try to provide
as much comfort as possible and wait. Leaning forward, he gingerly placed a
hand beneath the other man's head and lifted, using his other hand to pick up
the wash basin.
"Have some of this, Butch," he whispered as he felt a feeble attempt at
resistance. "Take a wee bit o'that bealin' taste out of your mouth."
To his surprise (and worry), Butch complied sipping the water from the bowl.
Was he awake enough to understand, or too sick to bother defying the physical
contact?
"There's a lad," Burke encouraged him.
When he would take no more to drink, Butch was lowered back onto the pillow,
where he listlessly watched the younger outlaw locate and dip the handkerchief.
Wringing the cloth over the red chest, Burke dutifully wiped his lover's brow
and neck. He did not know how alert Butch was in present circumstances, so he
followed instinct and began to sing.
"I sat within a valley green, I sat me with my true love. My sad heart strove
the two between, the old love and the new love..."
Burke smiled at the irony of his choice of song. The Wind That Shakes the
Barley was not at all a happy song, but it was the only song he could think of.
He continued singing as he felt the body beneath his hand still, chest steadily
rising and falling with sleep.
"And round her grave I wander drear," he came to a close. "Noon, night and
morning early, with breaking heart whene'er I hear the wind that shakes the
barley."
Hoping the drink he had provided would stay in the other outlaw's stomach,
Burke cautiously got off of the mattress and emptied the pail outside, cleaning
the rest of the vomit out with snow. When he returned to Butch's side, he laid
a sheet over him, bundled himself up in blankets and hides and took a seat
against the wall, watching his friend sleep.
This would be a hell of a few weeks, he thought to himself. Things were going
to get much worse before they got any better... if "better" even happened.
Chapter End Notes
     Songs:
     The Wind That Shakes the Barley - Robert Dwyer Joyce
***** Boiling Point *****
Chapter Summary
     Burke has a crisis of personal morals. Butch's dreams reach their
     pinnacle.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Hours passed and Burke found himself nodding off as afternoon became evening.
Though much of his life passed without incident of guilt, he felt tiny traces
of it snagging at his brain while keeping watch of Cavendish. He needed to stay
awake somehow...
Tiptoeing across the cabin, he opened the packs and searched until he found a
particularly indicative small bag. Sure enough, he inhaled the scent and knew
he had found the coffee, already ground. Not much was left, and rationing was
likely, but he would have to make do.
Heating the water in the cauldron once more, Burke went outside, not only to
rejuvenate himself in the chilled air but also to ascertain the weather. Any
chance the snow had to melt had been ruined, because more was falling again.
Though the cabin looked to have withstood the elements for countless years, no
proof existed that the roof would withstand another snowfall. For all he knew,
this season was the building's last before it caved in completely. Even with
the roof intact, the concern about being snowed in was even greater.
A big puff of air emerged visible in front of him as he sighed in frustration.
At least they would have enough food for a while. Coffee, on the other hand...
Should have told Frank to get more, he thought.
Where was Frank anyway? Still riding? Had he arrived at a safe location? As of
present, he would either be unable to make the journey back, or try to do so,
get stuck in a drift somewhere, and be frozen solid. Burke could not decide if
the latter was more tragic or hilarious.
Rather than return indoors, he lingered, staring aimlessly at the snowflakes
which now threatened to overtake the porch. He hated the feeling that raked at
his mind, that left a sheen of sweat on his face, that horrible thing known as
worry. He had been a lad the last time he worried about anything or anyone, and
he hardly wanted to return to that helpless little boy again. That boy actually
bothered to care about people, let alone look after them, and what good did it
do?
Forcing himself to turn toward the door, he hesitated, hand hovering just above
the latch. A thought occurred to Burke as he stood there, brow knitted: what if
he just left? Perhaps if he braved the snows, he would be able to leave, with
not a care in the world. He could go back to the Eastern coast, maybe the
Carolinas. Cavendish's gang would not be able to find him if he left now,
before they knew what had happened. He could go back to the way things were...
before Butch. Anything to get rid of this god-awful feeling.
Burke felt his heart hammering against his ribs, thinking back on his last
adventure with Butch, on the way his life was spared so many times when the
outlaw had likely killed others for far less. He remembered how just a few days
ago, he very well could have been the one with this damnable putrid fever if
Butch had not stepped in.
Biting his bottom lip, he lifted the latch and entered, dousing the fire and
pouring himself some coffee.
After he finished, Burke considered making himself even more, but practiced
some self-restraint. He would need to conserve if he was stuck out here with a
limited supply for however long the storm lasted.
Butch was silent, but the reliable twitches and shudders passed through him.
Burke only hoped the dreams were not as bad as they seemed to have recently
been.
Coffee would not be enough, especially while he was rationing. He needed
something else to do to occupy his time, something that would not rouse Butch
from his rest.
Poring over the objects and sparse decor of the interior, his eyes finally
rested on the window. His and Butch's clothes were still buried in the snow,
and any lice or fleas which may have been on them had been frozen to death days
ago. Thinking over Butch's clothing in particular reminded him of Barret's
warning.
The distant past stayed in the past, especially as far as Butch was concerned.
A wise man would heed that warning. Burke was not always very wise. Sneaking
back outside, he dug through the snow until he found the clothes. Curiosity had
gotten the better of him, and he spread out the articles to get a better look.
Fingers feeling the tattered edges of the dark coat's tails, he turned the
piece over to get a better look at the scalp. Here he discovered not one scalp
but two. The first of which, the darkest, was long and straight, likely from an
Indian. The second however was much fuller and lighter, a mass of red waves.
Burke imagined its owner had been something special to become such a trophy.
Butch's trousers still had the belt, holster, and knife still strapped to them.
Realizing they might rust and rot in the snow, Burke unfastened them from the
material. The gun was nothing special, just a simple Colt .45 that got the job
done. No, the weapon that interested Burke far more was the knife, being fond
of blades himself. This he handled like fine china, as though some unique magic
would be jarred from it if disturbed too roughly. He turned it over in the dim
light, examining every inch. It was a butchery knife of some sort, perhaps for
skinning, based on the curve of the metal. Rather appropriate, considering what
Butch often used the knife for. Burke mused over how it would feel to flatten
the blade over his skin, feel the cool metal on his neck, perhaps even tickle
the surface with its edge until it drew blood.
He shook his head, allowing a small laugh. Any further foolery such as this and
he would have to stick his mickey in the snow. Putting the knife away as
carefully as he had removed it, he proceeded to search the pockets.
A few dollar bills, some coins, though not much, hardly even enough to jingle
with the wearer's steps. Apart from that, the pockets were empty. Should Burke
have been at all surprised? All that the world knew of Butch was what he
presented to it. Even so, the clothes had to have been impressive when they
were first made. Whether acquired brand new or lifted from a previous owner...
they proved Butch had fine taste.
His reverie was not so much broken but shattered when he heard Butch cry out as
though in agony, loud enough to penetrate the cabin wall and startle him.
Grabbing his friend's weapons, he ran to the door and opened it to find Butch
thrashing and writhing in his sleep, fighting against hostile figures present
only in his mind. Burke dropped the knife and revolver, instantly at the other
man's side.
"Butch?" he said with uncertainty. "Butch wake up."
Blue eyes snapped open but saw nothing. Butch was not awake, not remotely, nor
was he living in the present. In his mind, the cabin - and Burke - did not
exist and never did.
He'll hurt himself, Burke thought, and in that exact moment his hands were on
Butch, his hold firm but gentle as he grasped for flailing arms.
This was a bad idea. Butch fought even more violently once he had something
solid against him. Though weakened by the disease, his strength was unexpected.
For a moment Burke thought he might get thrown. Letting go of the straining
wrists, he took Butch's face in his hands, ready to stroke hollow cheeks with
his thumbs, but again he was met with fear and struggling, Cavendish's body
tense and wound tight like a cord near the point of snapping.
Burke was at a loss as he tried everything, patting and caressing every part of
his friend's trembling body that might bestow comfort. He tried cheeks,
shoulders, the chest, the stomach, even the back, but he was rebuffed at every
turn. Butch fought hard against him, at least as hard as his illness would
allow, kicking, clawing and pushing, even attempting to strike at Burke at
least twice with a clumsy fist, but the Irishman would not withdraw.
"Shh, shh," he whispered between the distressed moans. "Don't do that, luv."
Butch's struggling became so panicked he began to attempt crawling away from
the figure who would not let him be. Finally Burke used his bodily weight to
pin the other man against the mattress. He knew Butch would hate it, but he
refused to let go. He refused to leave his lover to face the nightmares alone.
"No, stay here," he cooed.
The tone of his voice did not matter, not matter how soft, because Butch did
not recognize him. Burke's voice was not what he heard in suffocating fog of
his fever.
He could hear the customer above him, gripping him, no, no please, and it was
too dark to see him, couldn't see his face, please stop, but he could see the
shape, so much bigger than him, heard the man above him speaking, with stinking
breath, shushing him with mock gentility, telling him it's alright, no, no,
leave me alone, please, stop, and the hands are so strong that he can barely
move, touching him in all the places they like to touch, I'll be good, stop it,
stop, I don't want, he's so much bigger than him and he can't even get away...
Burke took the flailing arms in his hands again, holding them against the
mattress, above Butch's head, keeping them still.
"Don't fight me, luv, it's alright"--
Butch shut his eyes, knowing what would happen next. It was inevitable, and it
would hurt. He could not fight. He could not do anything, except scream. So he
did.
Until now, Burke had only ever heard Butch shout, even roar in anger, but he
had never once heard him scream. It was an awful, heart-rending sound that he
never wanted to hear again, and to hear it from someone who never seemed to
show fear until this horrible illness made Burke's blood run cold. The
temptation to slap Butch awake, to somehow drag him out of the realm of dreams,
was quickly denied. He remembered the clues left by the previous nightmare and
knew the same terrible figure (figures? he silently asked) would have struck
him. The suspicion grew ever stronger in Burke's mind that this figure was no
mere invention of Butch's own imagination. It was someone from his past, a very
real human-skinned monster who had hurt him, and likely hit him countless
times.
But what would grant Butch some comfort? Everywhere Burke touched seemed to
have been ruined by some soulless bastard who had treated him like a thing.
What on God's wretched Earth could possibly calm his suffering friend?
Then he remembered. He remembered images from so many years ago, faces and
voices. His mother's voice as she sat at his sister's bedside, and the barely
hidden worry on her face. As a lad, Burke sometimes peeked in through the
doorway, watching what seemed to have become a ritual for his ma. She had sung
to the girl countless times, an act likely useless with someone who did not
seem to hear Burke's words of reassurance. But she had done something else...
Taking care not to release the other's straining arms, Burke removed one of his
own and flattened his palm against Butch's forehead. Prepared for the worst, he
added his other hand, releasing hands which immediately hit and slapped at his
back, although ineffectively. Butch was exhausting himself, and he was not only
frightened but confused. He sobbed as his attempts at defiance grew weaker.
Burke was not certain, but his heart felt like it might be breaking at the
sound.
"It's alright." Burke thought he might be reassuring not only Butch but
himself. He gently caressed his lover's forehead and temples, wary not to touch
or tug at the hair, and Butch, moaning, stopped resisting. Breathing which was
once rapid and fearful slowed, and his struggles were reduced to meager
shivers. He gave one more frustrated cry, but Burke was not discouraged.
"It's alright," he whispered sweetly. "Shh... it's alright."
Finally quiet, Cavendish's body continued to tremble for a minute more, though
the heat of his brow still proved the fever was not relenting. If he continued
to dream, he did not communicate such.
Making certain his patient was in a deep sleep, Burke finally rested his
forehead against Butch's own, continuing to stroke perspiring temples. He could
sleep like this atop Cavendish, but after the display he had just been sole
witness to, he doubted the fellow outlaw would appreciate waking up to such a
discovery. How strange, not to mention unexpected, that his wish to someday get
physically closer to his friend had to come true in such a way, when Butch was
in such a dreadful state as this. In the short time they had known one another,
Burke never expected the two of them to be in this state of affairs. He had
never expected to one day act as this man's caregiver, or for Butch to become
so vulnerable, to reveal what he had revealed in his infirmity.
The little house where his mother sat tending to his sister reappeared in his
mind, reminding him that caring for others had been a thing left to the past.
Still, as little as he had troubled himself over others in the years after he
left his boyhood home, a new desire blossomed in his mind, and it came to full
bloom as he cautiously eased himself off of the still body beneath him: it was
the desire to find whomever had hurt Butch and torture that bastard. Slowly.
Chapter End Notes
     On a historical accuracy note, according to my research, the Colt .45
     revolver did not exist until the early 1870s, but this was the model
     used in the Lone Ranger film.
***** Home Remedy *****
Chapter Summary
     The situation gets dire, and a desperate Burke tries something
     unusual.
Burke was beginning to feel like his brains had been replaced with lead and his
spine with broken glass. Another day had passed and he needed sleep badly, but
he refused to give in to the urge. The longest he could manage were in moments
where his head might fall backwards and hit the wall behind him. He refused to
lay down, gripped by the dreadful notion that the moment he was fast asleep,
something might happen.
A few times Butch would wake for a piss and stay alert just long enough that
Burke could also get him to nibble on some food and more importantly, drink
water. Otherwise he remained in the realm of sleep, somewhat safer from his
physical discomfort but easy prey to his cruel dreams.
A day had passed since that worrying display where Butch had fought and
screamed in his sleep, and though he had not repeated that brand of torment,
his nightmares still made themselves known. Twice he had moaned in his sleep,
muttered some plea for mercy, and shivered in terror, and during the first of
the two he actually swung his fist at Burke when comfort was offered. Both
times Burke performed what had worked the previous day, and to his
gratification, the attempt ended both times in success. With gentle caresses to
his friend's brow and temples, Butch eventually quieted, and his shaking
subsided.
However, the silence had become worrying. Gone were the twitches and kicks, and
his muttering, though cause for concern, at least proved he had some spirit
left in him. Were it not for slow, near imperceptible rising and falling of his
chest, Butch looked dead. Would he slip away at any moment? The fear that
notion caused felt like the only thing keeping the other man awake.
Burke was at a loss. Without medicine to quiet his brutal symptoms, Butch was
in danger of expiring just from enduring the typhus on his own. The Irishman
fiddled with his knife as he wracked his brain, desperate to remember something
else, anything that might help ease his friend's suffering.
Butch, coated with sweat and his limbs spread in an unconscious - as well as
fruitless - effort to keep himself cool, left his arms off of the mattress, one
of which turned so that the underside of the wrist was visible. Burke stared at
the veins just under the surface of the skin, blue and ghostly. As a boy, he
remembered the town doctor bleeding patients, especially his sister, and he
cringed, the image of her frail arm held out as the red liquid poured so
brightly from her white skin. At the time, he had imagined her shriveling up
like a dead leaf from the bloodletting. No, with Butch already losing so much
fluid, getting rid of anymore, blood or sweat, sounded too risky.
He had to be forgetting something; there had to be more! And he had to stay
awake!
Frustrated, he slowly pressed the tip of his knife into his thumb in an attempt
to keep himself alert. Predictably, the skin broke, and blood welled up around
the blade. But fleeting pain did little to stave off the insufferable fog that
was his exhaustion. About to suck on the tiny wound, a movement to his right
caught his eye.
Butch was still asleep, but he had moved. His head turned toward Burke, and he
sniffed at the air. Eyes wide in disbelief, Burke glanced back and forth
between his hand and his sick friend. He leaned closer, holding out his injured
hand, and for a moment he imagined Butch leaping onto him, strength regained
and hunger ravenous, but the unconscious man stayed put. However, he did lick
his chapped lips at the smell of the blood.
Burke was speechless at the notion, thinking he might be imagining what was
happening. Perhaps he was asleep after all. No, his thumb still hurt from the
pricking of the skin. Hearing Cavendish mutter something unintelligible, he
looked down at his friend's flushed visage. A tattooed hand cupped the other
man's burning, hollow cheek.
He had tried everything else, and he did not want Butch to die. Perhaps he was
the one that needed to be bled in order to heal his lover. Readying the tip of
his knife at the junction between hand and wrist, he pressed again, wincing.
"Ye better not drain me dry, ye wee flesh eater," he muttered with a joyless
laugh.
Patting a perspiring forehead, Burke lowered his arm over Butch's parted lips.
Blood dripped steadily, and even unconscious, Butch eagerly drank. Burke had to
admit to himself that the scene he now played a part in looked like something
from a dark folktale. Even he felt slightly unnerved by what he had done in
desperation, but as long as the older outlaw did not latch onto him like a
leech, he would gladly endure. A soft moan followed less than a minute later,
and Butch turned his head away, having had his fill. His Irish friend pulled
back his hand, sucking at the superficial wounds and tasting the copper of his
blood. It did not taste dreadful, but Burke still could not fathom the idea of
living off of it, much less another person's flesh.
Sitting back with his worries swimming about in his head like fish in a feeding
frenzy, he caught himself nodding off not ten minutes later. Hovering over his
patient to ascertain any changes in health, he noted with some guarded
satisfaction that Butch did not look any worse. In fact, though he was not
quite sure in this dim light, Butch already seemed to look better, his overly
ruddy complexion apparently faded. Lifting the damp sheet, Burke thought the
rash on Cavendish's body might have been starting to dissipate. Drifting his
knuckles against his lover's brow, he smiled when he felt Butch weakly lean
into the touch.
Settling back on his haunches, Burke sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He did not
want to get his hopes up only to have them dashed. He needed to stay vigilant.
Opening the package of coffee, he poured the lot down his gullet. He would
likely end up regretting it, but presently could have cared less.
A whispering breath of a moan turned his attention back to Butch, who squirmed,
trembled for three seconds, then stilled. Burke wondered, what if his friend
dreamed despite his stillness, trapped wherever his memories took him and still
lost in his pain and horror? And they were memories, Burke had no doubt about
that. If the first signs had not been enough, the previous day had confirmed
it. What the hell had happened to him, or rather who? His father, possibly? The
tattooed outlaw wondered if Butch would ever bring himself to explain, if he
lived through his fever.
Maybe the coffee was taking effect and making him giddy, but Burke was starting
to feel his old self coming back, the cheery obnoxious Burke that insisted his
fellow outlaw would indeed survive. If so, Butch was a bloody tough old
bastard.
Shaking his head, Burke sat back at his usual post, pondering what had
transpired. If Butch's health was improving, was it because of the blood, or
was it mere coincidence? Brought back to memories of old fairytales in his
country of birth, he mused the entertaining notion that his friend's
cannibalism brought him certain facilities, gave him the power to heal himself.
If so... Burke thought he might just deal with being sick instead.
*
Another day passed quietly, though not to the point of being disquieting, as it
had previously. Butch continued to sleep, though not deep enough to suggest
death, and whenever his nightmares intruded outside of his head, Burke easily
soothed him.
As expected, swallowing the remainder of the coffee grounds ended regretfully.
For the first ten hours or so after ingesting, Burke felt something beyond
awareness, jumping at the sound of melting snow falling off the roof, only to
feel his exhaustion return with the impact of a speeding train. And with no
more coffee left to keep his brains from shutting down completely, he was
unable to fight the urge. Though further falling snow jolted him awake at least
twice, he felt himself slipping until darkness overtook him and he felt nothing
else.
By the time he awoke, the sun was already approaching the horizon. Still
drowsy, he nearly went back to sleep when he happened to glance toward Butch,
who was still alive. He could tell because the man was shaking. Curled up on
his side in as tight a ball as possible, Butch shivered from head to foot.
Instantly Burke was at his side, ready to draw him out of the worst of his
dreams again.
Placing a hand on Butch's forehead, Burke pulled away just as quickly. He
expected the skin to be hot, as it had been for a week, but now it was simply
warm. Butch was not dreaming. He was cold; he was practically hacking teeth.
His fever had abated.
"There," Burke whispered, grinning as he caressed the other's brow. "There's a
lad."
Grabbing the blankets that had been kicked aside a week ago, he gingerly lay
them over Butch, whose tense form seemed to immediately unravel and relax.
Burke felt a little more keen on relaxing as well, and though his optimism was
more cautious, he had a feeling Butch was on his way to recovery.
Rather than return to his seat against the wall, Burke leaned back and lay at
Butch's side, using the mattress as a pillow for his head. He smiled as he felt
the body near him become still, his shivering breaths turning calm and steady.
Near his head, a hand twitched through the blankets, and were his lover awake,
the tattooed man might have taken it in his own. Instead, he nuzzled into it,
taking a deep breath and exhaling before he joined Cavendish in sleep.
*
Dark. Everything was dark.
Too dark for the room where he was usually kept. Was he in the cellar? He tried
to remember what the hell he had done this time to put him there, could think
of nothing, and decided to look for a way out instead.
This time, he thought. This time I'll get away.
The slightest sliver of light caught his blurred vision. A door outside? He
reached for it, ready to attempt an escape, when he noticed the size of his
raised hand, the size of an adult's hand.
Wait. That's right.
Blinking, he looked around, eyes straining in the dark, and confirmed he was in
neither a cellar or that awful room. Lifting his head, he looked around the
interior of the cabin, silent and dark, except for the sliver of light out the
window. Either the sun was going down or coming up, though he could not tell
which yet.
Squirming on the mattress, Butch thought about how strange he felt covered in
three blankets. In spite of what little he could remember of the few moments he
had been awake, his memory beyond that was perfectly sound, and he distinctly
remembered being too hot to withstand even the winter temperatures. As he
removed his arms from under the covers, he was faintly surprised at the chill
he felt on his exposed skin.
His eyesight fully adjusted, he saw the sleeping figure at his side, dark
curving lines visible on the other's jaw. Butch placed a hand on the nearby
head, touching his friend's cheek. Not surprisingly, Burke did not even move.
So Butch lifted his hand and slapped him.
"Mn..." Eyebrows reached for hairline as Burke slowly awoke. As his sleep-
addled brain processed what had just happened, he became fully alert, moving
from on his back to kneeling over Butch in the blink of an eye.
"Hullo, sweet'eart," he said, beaming. He had good reason to smile. For the
first time in over a week, Butch looked clear-headed.
"How long was I out?"
Burke nearly put a hand against his friend's cheek, forgetting himself in the
joy he felt. "All in all? About a week."
Butch looked up at the ceiling, not exactly in disbelief but faintly surprised.
"I don't think I've slept so much in my whole life."
Dragging his elbows behind him, he lifted himself to sit up, but already an
illustrated hand was gently grasping his shoulder.
"Ah-ah!" Burke rose to his feet, guiding a bewildered Cavendish back to the
mattress. "Stay still. I'm still lookin' after ye." And then he was off to the
pot.
And Butch did stay still, at least for the time being. After having slept for a
week in the haze of a hellish fever, he was not exactly in the mood to resist
and start fights. Even attempting to sit up made him feel dizzy. Also, though
he would not admit it, he found himself liking the idea of Burke taking care of
him. Rubbing at his face, still coated in perspiration, he excused the thought
as the remnants of his illness talking. After all, the dreaded Butch Cavendish
did not need anyone looking after him, not even when he felt... a little faint.
"Here," Burke returned with a now full bowl, more giving water than offering.
He placed a hand beneath Butch's shoulders, tenderly lifting so that the other
man could drink without having to sit up. Butch held back a smirk. He thought
he might get used to this sort of treatment.
As he slowly continued to drink, he felt Burke pointedly lean an inky cheek
against his forehead, a strangely affectionate gesture. Once he was finished
with the water, he felt the cheek replaced by a hand.
"Sound as a bell, luv. Or at least more so than before."
Butch said nothing as the bowl was returned to the floor. The palm against his
brow brought images to his mind instantly, images which could not be from his
dreams. Most of his delirious state was a blur to him, and what he could
remember since waking he had dismissed as nightmares and hallucinations brought
on by the fever. Yet the contact between them brought on a vision of Burke with
a damp cloth, wiping the older outlaw's brow and singing one of his songs. He
remembered the feeling of hands caressing his temples and the sound of a gentle
voice. But he remembered other things as well. Troubling things.
Burke was about to step away from the bedside when Butch grabbed him by the
wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong for a sick man, and the Irishman winced
under the hold. Green, confused eyes met fierce blue as they stared at one
another for a handful of uncertain seconds, one less certain than the other.
Butch looked at the younger man's hand - what the hell was that wound at
Burke's wrist? - then back at Burke.
"What did I say?" he asked. Burke did not have to ask to what his friend
referred.
"Not much," he replied. The grip tightened, urging him to elaborate. "Ye begged
someone to stop."
"Stop what?" Butch rasped, sitting straight up.
Burke recognized the tone all too well, but the look in his friend's eyes
revealed more than just anger. Fear flickered there, proving the other's
speculation. The dreams were not simply dreams, but memories, and Butch was
ashamed of them.
"Dunno," Burke replied. "But ye sounded like ye were in pain."
Something passed over Butch's expression for barely a second, more than just
fear: helplessness. His arm still held in a steel grip, Burke thought it best
to change the subject.
"Snow's stopped fallin'. Melted a little too from the sound of it. At this
rate, maybe Frank's not become a scrawny snowman..."
Butch did not seem to care about Frank or the snow, letting go of Burke and
looking everywhere but his direction.
"I remember your voice," he muttered.
"Hopefully I didn't keep ye wakeful." Burke lit the fire under the trivet,
prepared to add more snow to the dwindling water supply.
"You sang one of your damn songs."
"Sorry."
"It put me to sleep."
Burke chuckled, not to make light of the answer, but to express his relief.
"I'm glad of it. Not every song I sing is to annoy ye." He returned to Butch's
side, raising a hand but not yet touching him. "Can we see if the skin's
cleared up?"
Though slumped forward and quiet, Butch remained seated, allowing his skin to
be inspected for the rash of his typhus infection. He mostly ignored his
friend's ministrations, too caught up in his own thoughts. Part of him would
have rather withstood putrid fever alone, even if it meant dying, so that the
past remained with him. He had never told anyone about his childhood, and as
far as anyone else was concerned, Butch Cavendish as a child never existed.
That child would have still been hidden in the past if he had not been too sick
to control his stupid mouth.
As much as he regretted his weakness, he knew this could not easily be swept
under the rug. Burke's curiosity had been awoken. And vague clues revealed in
Butch's sleep would not be enough for someone as stubborn and inexorable as
Burke.
So what could he do? Cavendish's first thought was to kill him.
"Rash is clearin' brill'intly," Burke said, knocking Butch from his trance. He
put a reassuring hand on a slouching shoulder, wanting to touch hair instead
but knowing the response would likely make him regret being so impudent.
"When this is all over, we should find a nice hotel," he suggested, sitting
down in front of his friend. "Get a good long bath. A hot one." He winked.
Butch was not swayed by the other's usual charisma. He finally looked at Burke,
eyes darting to a certain wound.
"What's that spot on your arm?" he asked. "That knick."
Burke looked down at his wrist, absent-mindedly twisting his hand as he gave an
awkward laugh. He lifted his hand as he tried to think of a way to explain. If
his attempt to heal Butch had felt strange before, it would feel even more so
describing it.
"I uh..." He cleared his throat, a poor attempt at stalling for time. "I didn't
know what else to do. And ye seemed eager for it..."
"Eager for what?" Butch's voice was harder. He was in no mood to wait through
this nonsense. Burke shut his eyes, knowing he should just spit out his
confession.
"I fed ye some of my blood."
Butch stared at him. Whatever he had thought Burke might say, this was not what
he had expected. His brain, still in a haze from illness and sleep, tried to
manage what it had just heard.
"What?"
Burke kept his friendly smile, but as he rambled on, his expression looked less
charming and more comically forced.
"I mean I know how ye love that on a good day, and I wanted to help, and..."
He shut his mouth when his wrist was once again taken in Butch's own hands. The
older man spread out the pale fingers, inspecting his lover's palm, looking
closely at the red mark where a knife had entered. Burke could hardly guess
what went on in Cavendish's brain, and in moments such as these, he knew asking
would reward him with utter silence, if not a threat or violent attack, so he
simply let Butch do as he pleased. This was beyond certain boundaries that
Burke had by now become familiar with, and based on all that he had heard and
seen within the past week, he could see why those boundaries had been set.
Butch stared at the wound almost a full minute until he quietly sighed. Burke
thought it was a strangely sad sound, at least to have come from a man such as
this. Hard edges disappeared from the other's expression and he leaned forward,
placing his weight onto Burke. Their foreheads met, a gesture initiated by
Butch, and they remained this way for a few seconds. Temptation combined with
anticipation, and Burke took what he perceived (hoped anyway) was a need for
reassurance and slowly, carefully acted on it. He tilted his face upward and
lips met one another.
His assumption turned out to be correct. Butch allowed the kiss, even parting
his lips, though he also ended it five seconds later, licking his malformed
lips as though to save the remnants of the other's taste. Neither spoke at
first, until Burke could no longer bare the discomfited silence.
"Still a wee too warm for my tastes," he declared with a smile. "Ye should eat
something now that ye're doing better."
"Later," Butch settled back onto the mattress, pulling the blankets back onto
himself. "I'm gonna sleep some more. Then we can eat."
"At least have some more water...?"
Butch turned onto his side and looked at the Irishman, lifting an eyebrow.
Perhaps if he complied, he would be pampered just a little longer. He
considered playing weaker than he really was so that he might be hand-fed
again, smirked, and picked the bowl up by himself instead, drinking whatever
was left. Burke smiled and stood up to head outside for more snow for the pot.
Before his companion was out of sight, something occurred to Butch and he spoke
up.
"Where'r my clothes?"
"In the snow," Burke calmly replied, striding just as casually out the door.
Butch looked up at the ceiling once more and, deciding he was too tired to want
to know yet, curled up into the blankets. He was asleep within minutes.
***** Snow and Soup *****
Chapter Summary
     The welcome(?) return of a dear friend.
The next two days passed relatively peacefully. Butch's fever did not return to
its worst temperatures, but Burke continued to keep him in bed, and the older
outlaw only humored him to further enjoy being waited on, hand and foot. Burke
felt secure in his friend's condition to the point of resuming a somewhat
normal schedule of sleep, though he still insisted on doing everything for
Butch, including holding the bucket whenever the need to urinate arrived.
On the afternoon of the second day, Burke was watching Butch sleep when he
heard the distant, muffled sounds of a horse approaching through the snow.
Fingers tracing the edges of his revolver, he rose from the floor, peered out
the window at the oncoming silhouette, and crept toward the door as he
continued to listen. He hoped the visitor would be Frank, but was careful all
the same. The weather meant less of a chance of travelers in the area, though
any who were indeed outside would eagerly take shelter in this cabin if they
happened by it.
Ear pressed against the door, Burke heard the horse stop, followed by the
crunching sound of the rider's feet landing in the snow. After some clumsy
shuffling, as well as some muttered curses, Burke recognized his visitor and
smiled. Just as he heard footsteps on the porch, his hand went from gun to
knife, and he swung open the door, blade out.
The sound Frank produced as the weapon rested just under his nose was akin to
the squeak of a kitten.
"I got the provisions," he managed to get out. Crammed under his arms were
several bundles and in one hand was a dead chicken, hanging by its legs.
Burke smiled, keeping his knife out.
"Didn' ye just leave?" he asked slyly. "Put away your horse. I'll see to your
groceries."
Hands and fingers barely able to move from the cold, Frank hurried in
tethering, feeding, and watering the horses, rushing inside the moment he was
done. As he stumbled through the door, Burke wordlessly hushed him, finger to
lips, while pointing at the mattress where Butch slept.
"Couldn't get no opium," Frank whispered, "but I got other stuff. Willow bark,
camphor..."
"Coffee?" Burke questioned, adding some kindling to the little fire.
"We should have some left in one of the..." the scrawny man trailed off,
turning to point at the rucksacks, and saw Burke holding an empty packet where
ground coffee was once stored. His face fell like a child who was told his
birthday celebration had been canceled.
"Damn."
"Well, that broth won't make itself. Dress the chicken, won't ye?" Burke
paused, then winked. "And I don't mean put it in a pretty gown."
Frank scowled.
As soon as the soup was ready, Burke extinguished the flames, much to Frank's
discontent.
"I saw the rest of the gang," he said, watching the Irishman stir the pot.
"They've been stayin' on the outskirts of the steel town. Turns out the whole
place was run through with putrid fever."
"Ah," Burke replied casually. "Izzat a fact?"
Frank stared at the pot, nibbling on his bottom lip. He clearly had more to say
but was hesitant. Burke suspected this was how Butch had felt two days prior.
"Spit it out already, Frank." Burke produced three bowls to fill with the soup.
Two of which received genuine pieces of chicken, while the other was filled
with only broth.
"They were worried about leavin' the two a'you alone in the storm," Frank
confessed. "Most especially you. Said you might just cut n'run with the pelts
and munitions."
"They hurt me'heart," Burke stated in false disappointment. "After all the
times we've shared..."
"Also," Frank swallowed, timidly taking the bowl offered to him. "They wouldn't
say it, but I will... they're worried about Butch, him bein' sick. We all are."
"Ain't no reason t'be worried."
Frank seemed to nearly jump out of his skin when he heard his leader's voice,
but his fear quickly transformed into relieved joy.
"Butch!" he cried. "Yer alive!"
"A'course I'm alive," Butch sneered as he sat up, grabbing the nearby bucket
and urinating where he sat. With his back turned to the two, skin exposed, very
little of the rash presented itself.
"I'll empty that," Burke offered, hand out as he leaned over Butch. At this
angle he was able to better see his friend's skin, and he would have attempted
a kiss at the sight of completely clear skin if Frank was not present. The rash
was fully gone.
"You should see the town, Butch," Frank said, eagerly holding the bowl of broth
out for his boss to take. "Most'a them are gone, either sick or scared shitless
to stick around. We've been waitin', wanted to ask ya if we could take it over,
maybe for a little holiday celebration..."
Burke heard Frank's voice ramble on as he dumped the urine outside and was
perplexed that anyone could speak for so long without having to take a new
breath. In the short time he had left the cabin and returned, he could see that
already Butch had regretted making his wakefulness known. Sitting cross-legged
with the blankets enveloping him, Butch held the bowl steady in his hands as he
slowly drank the broth. Frank yammered on and on, but his leader did not seem
to pay him any attention.
"Yer soup's gettin' cold, pet," Burke said, poking the youth in the side. His
treatment of Frank reminded Butch of some dutiful parent, and Frank's obedient
response only further perpetuated that notion. The tattooed man's interruption
did Butch a favor though: it shut their compatriot's mouth, if only for a short
while. Both cannibal and arsonist took the opportunity to enjoy their meal in
silence.
Shortly after their dinner, Burke noticed the fading sunlight and decided to
retrieve his and Butch's clothes. In the worst of his friend's illness, he had
completely forgotten about them, and at present he resolved to dry them for the
group's eventual departure.
"Want summore, Butch?" he heard as he left the cabin. By the time he had
uncovered the wet articles and returned, he was surprised that Frank was not
wearing his bowl and suffering burns from spilled broth.
"We'll hang these by the fire as long as possible," he announced, finding the
rickety old hat rack he remembered from a year ago and spreading the clothing
over it. "Whatever took a nibble on ye's been long dead now."
Perhaps once you're back to your grumpy old self, you can have a nibble on me,
he happily thought.
Butch, having had his fill, left his empty bowl on the floor and adjusted the
blankets wrapped around him. Knees drawn up to his chest, only his head - and
the occasional hand - were visible in the bundle. Burke would not say it out
loud, but he thought Butch looked damn endearing this way. His expression was
not missed by the recovering man.
"What the hell're you grinnin' at?" he grumbled.
Burke's smile did not fade. "I'm glad your fever's gone."
***** The Birth of Butch Cavendish *****
Chapter Summary
     Butch and Burke finally have a long due conversation.
With Frank's perilous journey and Butch still not fully recovered, bedtime
arrived shortly after the sun had fully set. Though most of his symptoms had
calmed, the eldest outlaw's bowl was filled a second time with broth (as well
as a combination of the acquired medicines), and Burke shoved the serving into
his hands. Giving his friend an annoyed look, Cavendish hardly felt sick enough
to need medicine anymore, but drank the broth anyway. With the clues he had
stupidly revealed in his fever dreams, he did not want to take his chances.
Sleeping arrangements had changed since the day the three outlaws had set foot
in the cabin. Rather than sleep on the floor with Frank and leave the mattress
entirely to Butch, Burke joined the gang's leader on the bedding.
"Need to stay warm, mate," Burke declared, laying the blankets over the both of
them as he settled in. Butch seemed to ignore him, eyes shut and attempting to
sleep. Burke turned his head to regard Frank, who sat amidst furs and blankets,
staring at him.
"We won't need so much to keep us warm this way, brother," the Irishman said.
"More for you. Ye can wrap yourself in the rest and curl up like a butterfly in
a cocoon."
Frank hesitated, glancing at the remaining skins, then at Burke, his expression
looking a little suspicious for a moment.
"I like butterflies," he finally muttered, grasping his generous sharing of
bedclothes and bundling up before laying down. Eyes shut, he rocked left and
right for a few seconds as though imagining himself as a big caterpillar. Burke
grinned. For someone crazy enough to run alongside the likes of Butch, Frank
could be fairly damn adorable.
Butch opened an eye and watched as the youth relaxed on the floor and eased
into slumber. If Frank found anything peculiar about his boss allowing Burke
into bed with him, he did not indicate such. Likely because he knew better.
Turning over and curling into a tighter ball, Butch inched away from Burke on
the small space of the mattress. Though he appreciated the additional warmth,
he was tempted to shove the other man onto the floor. He did not need any
comfort or reassurance, especially not when he had surpassed the worst of the
typhus, and he hardly wanted to see or hear anything of someone who had heard
his past blabbered out in his sleep.
Still... he had survived this entire week thanks to Burke. Not to mention Burke
gave up his own blood to make things right. He supposed the ink-laden fool
could stay... despite the annoying suspicion that he was being gawked at.
Burke spent the next half hour staring at the back of Butch's head as he lay
beside him. He wished he could better warm his friend, hold him from behind,
maybe stroke the long strands of hair, but he knew the consequences of going
down that perilous path, even if such a risk only tempted him further. He
raised a hand, paused, and decided against it. Closing his eyes, he sighed and
focused on finding sleep.
*
He was not a man. He was a child. He knew he was in his home before he could
properly see his surroundings. The hallway where he stood was as dark and
sinister as the clouds outside the nearby window. The voices of his parents,
angry and accusing, were twisted and warped in a room at one end of the hall,
while his sister lay sleeping in a room at the other end. If ma and da did not
stop fighting, they'd wake her. She'd been having one of her bad times again,
and she needed the rest.
Then he heard her cry out. His parents had heard it too, and they went rushing
past him, his little legs not fast enough to keep up. By the time he joined
them at her bedside, he could see she was in great distress. Something unseen
seemed to be pinning her to the bed.
But it wasn't her. It was Butch.
Suddenly the unseen figure atop of him appeared, a figure all black, enormous
and billowing, as though the storm clouds had descended from the sky to attack
Butch. As it turned to look at him with its faceless head, Burke heard his
sister's scream echo through the house.
*
Drifting awake, Burke felt relief wash over him as he realized he had only been
dreaming. Dawn was approaching, entering the window and filling the cabin with
a faint blue glow. Butch still lay motionless in front of him on the mattress,
back to his usual twitches and kicks, and Burke thought back on just how
terrible the older outlaw's nightmares must have been in comparison.
As though being watched was enough to wake him, Butch stirred, yawned, and
turned over to face the other. Both knew something had to be discussed. Burke
had questions, and Butch had to decide if he would answer them. Someone needed
to start this, and Burke decided that someone would be him.
"It's good to see ye well again," he said, voice low so as not to wake Frank.
Butch huffed. "Yer just glad I was sick, 'steada you."
"No," Burke smiled. "I'd be glad to take it over you any day."
Butch inspected the tattooed face for any hint of dishonesty, but Burke's
response seemed genuine. The scarred outlaw rolled his eyes. Sentimental
bastard...
"Yer too damned soft. In the head."
Burke chuckled, undeterred as ever. Glancing behind him and determining the
third in their party to still be asleep, he moved on to the inevitable.
"Somethin' like typhus... that doesn't just stall the digger. Ye had it
before?"
Butch averted his eyes, silent as he considered how he should answer.
"I tole ya," he finally said. "I been around enough sickness, likely been
around that too."
"As a boy, if I remember your words." Burke shifted in place, resting his head
on his hand. "What brings a wee lad to be so close to that?"
Butch looked back at him, and something dangerous glinted in his ghostly blue
eyes.
"You ask a'awful lot about me," he said, his tone accusatory. "I still don't
know much about you."
This time, Burke avoided his gaze, and the hand he rested against rubbed at the
back of his neck, grinning bashfully. "Not much to know."
Irritated, Butch narrowed his eyes, a wordless warning that he not be trifled
with.
"Ya got no right to close up when yer the one always wantin' to know about my
past."
Grimacing, Burke conceded his lover had a point. However, he would have rather
simply retreated back into his usual facade, that dauntless charm and affinity
for trouble everyone else knew. He liked thinking about his past just as much
as Butch did. Frank was still snoring behind them, which was a comfort.
Hopefully the little runt would stay asleep long enough for Cavendish to give
up some of his own secrets by the end of their talk.
"What d'ye want to know?"
"Who's Aoife?"
The question might as well have been a slap in the face. Burke was speechless
at first, which prompted Butch to explain.
"You said the name not less'n an hour ago." He gave a terse, joyless laugh.
"Seems I ain't the only one givin' up secrets in my sleep."
Head returning to rest on his hand, Burke cleared his throat, evidently shaken
but regaining some of his relaxed exterior. "She was my sister."
"Was?"
"Died when I was eleven," he replied, looking away. "Always sick with somethin'
or other. I suppose minding you dug up old memories for me too."
"Was it quick? Did she die slow?"
Burke sniffed crossly, but he knew what Butch was doing. The old bastard did
not want to discuss his own past, nor did he want to be the only one feeling
humiliated. He answered nonetheless.
"I don't know. Me ma screamed one day and I ran in and saw her dead. We'd been
doing chores... rather I'd been skirtin' chores. For all I know it was slow."
Butch asked no more questions, apparently satisfied with the response. Now it
was Burke's turn.
"What did ye dream of?"
Cavendish shut his eyes for a moment, as though to answer was painful. Burke
decided to approach the subject from a different angle, though he knew he was
heading into dangerous territory. For all he knew, he was about to be tossed
into the snow with his throat cut.
"What happened to the man that hurt ye?" Part of Burke hoped whomever had
treated Butch like garbage was somehow still alive after all these years, just
so that he could personally hunt down the bastard and eviscerate him. Perhaps
then stuff the body with dynamite and light a fuse.
At first he thought Butch had shut himself off from him completely. Then marred
lips opened and gave an answer far worse.
"Men."
Burke felt a sinking sensation in his gut. He hoped the sadness that might have
appeared in his eyes was not interpreted as pity. The last thing Butch needed
or wanted was pity.
"How many men?" he asked.
"Never counted."
The emptiness of the words in Butch's answer was incredibly sad. Burke had a
feeling the other outlaw had indeed counted and knew the number, but did not
wish to disclose. What was truly unexpected was that Butch had been revealing
as much as he was.
"When did"--
"Don't fuckin' interrupt, lemme just get this out." Looking over Burke's
shoulder at the still snoring form on the floor, he took a deep breath,
preparing himself. Butch lay very still against his bedding, like a cornered
animal ready to spring and latch onto its pursuer.
"Just for the briefest moment, I can see it and smell it again, like it's all
right there in front of me."
Burke eased himself completely onto the mattress, laying parallel to Butch
under the covers. His full attention belonged to his friend.
"Men on a wagon picked me up when I was just a boy. Said I'd be good for a job.
I'd have food, money, roof over my head." He glanced away, his expression
bitter - at his childhood naiveté?
"What did I know, I was eight. I went with'em. They sold it real good to me,
told me all I had to do was follow the rules." He seemed to shrink within the
bedcovers for a few seconds, a return to his formerly sick state. "Stay put,
stay quiet... and let the customers do whatever pleased'em."
So... that's where he went when he slept. Upon first meeting with the notorious
cannibal outlaw, Burke might have guessed all manner of legend-worthy
explanations that might illustrate Butch Cavendish's past. But being raised as
a whore since childhood was not one of them. A lump formed in Burke's throat
that he could not quite swallow down.
Moments from those appalling years brought a distant look to Butch's
expression. Burke knew he was not allowed to interrupt, but when the silence
went on for more than half a minute, he felt he had to do something. Of course
Butch would not welcome being touched, not in a time such as this, but
remaining stuck in his own dark memories did him no good either. As gently as
possible, Burke rubbed one of his feet against his friend's shin. Butch
blinked, returning to the present.
"I weren't about to stick around when I realized what was happening," he
continued. "I tried to leave, told myself they couldn' keep me there more'n a
day. But I was a damn kid, what the hell could I do? You act out, try to
escape, you get punished. Some days it meant no food, other days... they liked
to see how far you can last. Under pain."
Burke thought about the missing toes. He watched as Butch's eyes squeezed shut,
and wondered just how vivid the memories were when forced to relive them.
"I got more clientele than they expected. Maybe it was that missing tooth, they
liked how it felt. Maybe they just liked the idea of a boy. Funny thing is...
all those years later, they thought they had me good. Thought I was theirs 'til
the day I died. But they never broke me." Cavendish gave a cynical smirk.
"Broke them instead. One night I decided I had enough. I had a customer with
me."
The suspense was terrible. Burke could not resist asking:
"What happened?"
"I bit off his cock."
The surprised laughter which bubbled up from his tattooed throat was such that
Burke shoved his face into the pillow beneath him, muffling his voice so that
he would not wake Frank. Butch only waited for him to stop. Frank continued to
sleep.
"M'sorry," the Irishman said, regaining control of himself. "I just can't think
of anythin' more fittin'."
"I ate him after that. Parts of him. First time I ever done it." The hint of a
smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought back on his first real
triumph, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
"How old were ye?" Burke asked.
"Sixteen." He arched his back, a failed attempt to remove a kink from his
spine, then settled. "Didn't much care what would happen when they ran in and
saw what I'd done."
That was only a partial truth. What happened to him mattered little after he
closed his jaws, but the act itself was everything to him. Only then when he
sank his teeth into that repulsive, rank man did he no longer feel like a
child. Only when he had torn away strips of stinking flesh, and felt the hot
blood stream down his throat, when he had swallowed pieces of him and stood
facing Ms. Marla and her brutes did he feel that thrill he wanted to feel over
and over again. When he saw the fear in their eyes at the horrible, demonic
sight of him, he felt strong. He felt reborn.
"But ye got away, right?" Burke asked, captivated like a child being told a
fairytale. Butch smirked.
"I got a hold of the bastard's Colt and knife. First time I ever fired a gun."
The smirk became a grin, and Burke knew the feeling behind that grin; he had
felt the same way when he first pulled a trigger himself.
"Managed to get out through a window. They didn't chase me. House of sin makin'
it known they had a worker killin' customers and all... Told patrons I died."
He chuckled. "You can probably picture their surprise when I paid them a little
visit."
Burke was practically over the moon. This was the version of Butch he knew and
loved.
"Ye hunted them down?"
"Every one of 'em. Ten years, give or take a year, I tracked 'em all. Woulda
taken longer, but I found connections."
"Connections," Burke echoed, hoping for elaboration. He was rewarded with none.
Even so, the story was coming easier to tell, once the worst of it was out of
the way.
"Each and every sorry bastard, I did the same to them as I done to the first."
Butch continued. "I thought it seemed fittin'."
The thought of each kill brought a smile to his scarred face. One man he
ambushed in an alleyway, another in the dead of night while friends slept
nearby, none the wiser until morning when they found their comrade staring into
space with his guts and privates strewn out and eaten by insects. One of them
had been waiting in bed in a brothel for another whore, and Butch saw it
appropriate to take on a disguise. In the dimly lit room, the wretched bastard
felt the woman he had been awaiting climb onto the bed with him, and he reached
down to take a fistful of her auburn curls, only for the hair to come away in
his hand. What he thought was a waif of a female revealed itself to be a
vengeful young man with silver in his teeth where a gap once lay. Butch tore
off the man's face after that and ran off with a new meal of improvised
sirloin.
"At first, eatin'em, I did it because that's what I did with the first one. And
they couldn't just die like any other bastard out there. They had to die
slow... knowin' who it was killed'em, knowin' I took somethin' from them for
what they did to me."
Burke could only imagine the level of grotesquery dealt to these men by his
lover, and the pleased expression on Butch's face was beginning to please him
in an entirely different fashion. He doubted the other outlaw was in the same
mood for such attention, however.
"Turned out I got a taste for it. Weren't the worst thing to happen." His grin
faded. "What weren't so great... I killed every goddamned one of them, but it
don't undo what they did. Got my revenge alright, but you saw just a few days
ago it's still hidin' away there in my brain."
He blinked and the distant look in his eyes vanished, his usual swagger
starting to return once more. "Don't mean I wouldn't do it all over again."
Burke beamed. "... and thus the magnificent beast known as Butch Cavendish was
born," he added. "Striking fear in all the manky scum of the world. Save for
one handsome, charismatic, utterly irresistible rogue, who was beaten and shot
and a wee bit of a bastard..."
Butch managed a small smile at the latter remark.
"... and went on to keep his restless beloved awake with silly songs." Burke
paused, his expression and tone turning slightly apologetic. "And remind him of
unwelcome nightmares."
"Only when the fever was bad," Butch shrugged. "That ain't what I've been
dreaming of lately."
"So what do you dream of?"
Butch's expression screwed up in thought, brow knitted at the curious truth.
"Fireflies."
Burke grinned, amused by the notion that any outlaw half as coarse as Butch
could dream something so innocent. Then again, his split-lipped friend was
likely dreaming of smashing them; Burke knew he would have.
"Are ye cold?" he asked when he saw the other man squirm. Butch grunted an
affirmative and allowed Burke to inch closer, sharing his own warmth but
minding where his hands came to rest. The pair lay facing one another, Butch
staring at Burke - always searching for signs of deceit or betrayal, even in
those he trusted most - and Burke staring back, simply because he was being
stared at. The only sounds which accompanied them where the gusts of wind
howling outside and the mild snores of a human-sized caterpillar.
In the end, Butch was the first to close his eyes, his strength still not what
it should have been thanks to putrid fever. Yet Burke continued to stare,
watching the way severe features softened and became peaceful, and he could
pinpoint the exact moment where Butch was sound asleep. The scarred outlaw sank
under the covers as the sun began to rise over the horizon.
The tattooed outlaw settled onto his back, listening to Butch's steady breaths
beyond the outside winds and nearby snores. More had been revealed to him
tonight than he had expected, and as far as he could determine, Cavendish had
been telling him the truth. He still wondered what connections his friend
referred to, but he could wait. He could be patient if necessary; he owed Butch
that much, considering how much he had been told without losing a limb.
What a hellish ride this had been. Burke remembered his remark concerning them
staying at a nice hotel once they were able to brave the snow. The more he
thought about it, the more he liked the idea. If the town had emptied out as
Frank said, perhaps the gang could truly exploit its hospitality. And if so,
Burke was going to treat Butch to a very special night. As he got comfortable
beside his savage sweetheart, a plan began to form in his head as to the future
night's details. As he joined Butch in sleep, he decided his plan would be
enacted, and he wondered how he could be so bloody brilliant.
***** Special Treatment *****
Chapter Summary
     Finally well enough to travel, Butch reunites with his gang and
     enjoys himself in town, especially the surprise Burke has in store
     for him.
Another day passed where Burke liked neither the depth of the snow or Butch's
condition, despite Butch's fervent grumbling and complaining. Butch especially
did not like being told what to do in front of one of his own men. If word
spread that he was being bossed around by a man hardly even a part of his own
gang, so many decades of building his reputation would have been all for
complete horse shit. He would have to kill the whole gang and start from
scratch.
"I'm just making sure ye stay fit before we return," Burke reasoned as they ate
their dinner. Frank had finished ahead of them and excused himself to tend to
the horses, leaving the two to share a private moment together, however brief.
Burke leaned in, not for a kiss, but for simple intimate attention.
"I've got yer back, remember?" he murmured. Butch glared at him from behind his
bowl as he continued to sip his potion of medicine and broth, stopping just
long enough to speak.
"When we get to town, the fuckin' better be real goddamn amazing."
"Snow's meltin' quick out there," Frank proclaimed as he entered the cabin. The
stomping of his boots to shake away trailing snow made Butch cringe, his head
aching from remnants of illness and his foul mood.
"The horses?" Butch inquired.
"All three still good. They could last us the ride back into town." Frank's
tone was not subtle, much to Burke's annoyance. Two or so days and already the
little pipsqueak had cabin fever? If he started complaining outright, Burke was
going to slap him in the mouth, adorable or not.
"Could they," the Irishman said dully. He turned to regard Butch, who sat
cross-legged in not but his underthings, trousers and suspenders. His bowl was
empty.
"Well, Butch, ye look fit to ride tomorrow. What say ye?"
Butch was in no mood for his companion's making light. Next thing he knew, the
gang was going to start looking to Burke for leadership.
"First thing tomorrow," he muttered.
Smiling his usual stupid smile, Burke gave Butch a little nudge with his elbow.
Butch shoved him away, sending him rolling. The tattooed man only laughed, much
to his friend's aggravation. Frank grinned smugly at the coarse treatment
anyway.
His subordinate's response was a comfort to Butch, however slight. He hated
looking weak, and he most hated looking weak in front of those from which he
had garnered both fear and respect. This included any sign of affection between
himself and Burke. As far as the gang was concerned, Burke was only an
occasional trusted member of the group, at worst an annoyance who proved
himself helpful enough that their boss had not killed him. A friend, perhaps,
but not a lover. Butch Cavendish did not dally with queer folk, and the only
physical satisfaction he felt came from savagery. This was how others knew him,
and he was determined to keep it that way.
Burke was not allowed on the mattress that night.
*
The next morning, Butch was first to wake, a sign he was returning to his old
self. He seemed fully recovered as he clothed himself and loaded the group's
gear, though Burke was doubtful. He only hoped that the fiery old devil did not
overwork himself just as his health was improving.
"Eat up," he snapped in his usual voice of grit and gravel as he tossed a pack
of dried meat to each man. Frank may not have been voicing his cabin fever now,
but Butch definitely was with the withering expression he shot at them. Being
stuck on one's back for over a weak could do that to a person, Burke reasoned.
Frank shoveled in his food, eager to obey his leader's command and barely
chewing. Burke thought about how surprised he might be if the youth did not
vomit during or after their looming journey due to a stomach full of poorly
digested dry meat bouncing up and down on horseback. If he did, Burke would
point and laugh at him without stopping, leaving Frank behind to color the snow
with half-chewed jerky.
After the rushed breakfast, they joined Butch outside in the slowly melting
snow and prepared their horses. Butch's torn lip twisted as he watched Burke
tie his own horse - loaded with most of the provisions - to Frank's mount but
said nothing, mounting his own animal. Unlike his first journey, this time he
wore a heavy coat over his original clothes. He scowled when he felt Burke
effortlessly climb up behind him on the saddle.
"M'alright," he insisted, adjusting himself where he sat.
"Just t'be on the safe side," an Irish whisper filled his ear.
Butch might have shoved the inky bastard off if the act would not arouse
suspicion. Presently Frank did not seem to notice anything awry with the
situation, not with Burke's horse holding carrying the essentials and Butch
himself having been direly ill only days ago. Butch was no invalid though, not
anymore, and he no longer needed anyone's help. So what if Burke was concerned
for him for whatever soft-hearted, water-brained reason? Was the supposedly
guiltless little weasel actually feeling shame for getting his lover sick? Did
Burke feel pity? Stewing in his own thoughts, Butch was getting angry to the
point of ignoring discretion and nearly elbowing the gangly mongrel off the
horse right then and there.
"Butch?" came Frank's uncertain voice, jogging him from his inner ranting.
"What's yer call?"
Cavendish looked over the expanse of white before them, glanced at the sky for
a moment, then back to the hills. Burke's arms thankfully did not touch him in
the saddle. Finally he bucked his heels into his horse.
"Hyah!" He urged the animal into a gallop, and Frank followed, bringing the
third horse with him. Only then did Burke grab onto Butch, hands firmly resting
on collar of the coat, nimble fingers wrapped around the curves of his
shoulders. Butch could have sworn he felt the warmth of the other man's limbs
through the thick material.
Could be worse, he thought. Could've put his arms around me.
Halfway back, though the winds did not cut as harshly as they had over a week
ago, Butch was beginning to regret the journey. Already he wanted to lay his
head down and go back to sleep. He and his band of outlaws should have been so
lucky to be arriving in a town near fully evacuated. Yet his heart rate
increased at the prospect of any stragglers who might still be sick lingering
in the forsaken place, secretly anxious after what he had personally gone
through.
If he saw anyone with so much as a stuffy nose, he was shooting them into
oblivion.
*
Unfortunately for Burke, Frank did not throw up, though he did look slightly
green by the time the three dismounted at an outcrop of boulders a mile or so
from the town. Barret and Jésus were the first to walk into view from beyond
the rocks, soon followed by the rest of the gang, most of them shivering
despite their heavy clothes. One of the lot, a burly ape of a man named Sy
Mundy, greeted the trio with open arms.
"Butch, if you ain't a sight for sore eyes..." he said, boisterous and jovial,
but his boss cut him off without hesitation.
"Don't lie," Butch snapped. "Ya do a shit job of hidin' yer disappointment that
I ain't dead."
Burke heard Skinny giggle at Mundy's failed greeting. Cavendish ascended one of
the rock formations and held out a hand. A spyglass was promptly given to him
and he took a closer look at the town in the distance.
"Don't look so lively, does it?" he stated.
"Town's got little concern for troublemakers at the moment," Barret replied,
joining his side. "What with disease and weather. All the better for us...?"
Butch grunted in agreement, sliding the glass shut with a snap.
"I'm in the mood for a holiday," he announced, turning toward the gang. "How
about y'all?"
The gang cheered. One of them elbowed Barret, wrapped parcel in hand.
"Oh, right," Barret took the package and presented it to their boss. It was
bound in a familiar bit of twine. "We've been holdin' onto somethin' you didn't
get to take with you. Good thing it kept in the snow."
Recognition in his eyes, Butch took the offering, held it under his nose, and
inhaled as though the packet was really a finely perfumed lady. He smiled in
anticipation.
"Ought to be tough chewin', but it'll go down fine all the same."
In Burke's memory, his friend's reaction to the saved heart was the first time
he had seen a genuine smile on Butch's face since before the gang had left the
distant town. If the plans he was to carry out this evening were successful, we
would see several more.
*
In fact the town did little in response to the appearance of the Cavendish
gang, mostly because few were left to witness their arrival. They almost missed
the usual welcome.
More fun for us, Burke thought dismissively.
Tethering their horses in front of a hotel, they entered to find only a
bartender inhabiting the establishment. He stared at the crew for a handful of
seconds, then shrugged in defeat, likely accepting whatever hell was about to
unfold.
"Ease up there, friend," Barret addressed him, heavy in the sarcasm on the word
friend. "We'd just like some rooms and hospitality, if you'd be so kind."
Butch, who silently lingered in the back, glancing warily outside, appreciated
the initiative from his second-in-command. The less attention paid to the
gang's leader, the better. He needed no hassle tonight, not with past week or
so he had been enduring.
The bartender did not verbally acquiesce, but he did not refuse their entry
either, and the gang took his silence with pleasure, making themselves at home.
Butch took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink while others put up their feet
on the tables, enjoying their own alcohol and playing cards. Ray sat at the
saloon's upright piano, bottle of liquor resting on the top board, and
proceeded to play a jaunty melody, which sounded all the quirkier with the
instrument being out of tune. Burke, already feeling looser in his first
helpings of whiskey, found himself laughing at the discovery of the scarred
man's unexpected talent, and he decided this music-making was tragically bereft
of his voice.
"What songs do ye know?" he asked Ray, who didn't look up from his progress.
"Likely none'a your shitty ones."
Burke grimaced, swallowing a mouthful of his drink. "Oh, that's a tragedy."
Meanwhile, the begrudging bartender held a captivated audience in Jésus, Frank,
and Skinny, explaining the destruction and despair which the typhus outbreak
had brought. As the ruffians sat drinking and intently listening to his
telling, he had reached a point in his recollections where he felt most
haunted, the fate of the town's children.
"After a few days the small coffins started to outnumber the big."
Seconds later, Frank was laughing, which caused his compatriots to laugh,
shaking their heads at his amusement.
"Baby coffins! This is the bee's knees," he guffawed, then turned to the
others, who ignored his invitation: "hey fellas, come listen to this!"
By the time Burke had finished one song at Ray's side (Kathleen Mavourneen, the
only tune both of them knew), Mundy had jerked the Irishman around by the arm,
shoving another glass of whiskey into his etched hand. Without question, Burke
nearly poured the entire contents down his gullet when he happened to look in
the direction of the bar, where Cavendish remained by himself at the far end.
Burke thought it best to step in and enact his plans. Though far out of danger
now, his friend's health was still not fully returned, and the ride back to
town had taken its toll on him. Even across the room, he could see Butch was
already beginning to wilt in his seat. Crossing the saloon, the tattooed outlaw
leaned against the bar, his voice low as he spoke to the older man.
"Let's take our drinks upstairs, yeah?"
He half expected Butch to snap at him to be left alone. Instead, Cavendish
sluggishly rose from the stool and headed for the stairs. Burke wasted no time
in following, guiding the exhausted man down the walkway until they reached a
room which looked more prestigious than the rest.
Whilst his friend lightly dozed on the large bed in their self-reserved suite,
Burke set to work in the bathroom. He wobbled a few times as he hurried back
and forth with water, but otherwise had the tub filled and heated in less than
twenty minutes.
Butch jolted as he was awoken, his head reeling from fatigue and alcohol, and
in the first two seconds of being conscious he was in unfamiliar territory. The
sight of Burke, however, restored his memories immediately.
"Whatta ya want?" he retorted.
"I have a surprise for ye," Burke answered, undaunted. "Should do ye well after
bein' out in the cold so long."
Butch doubted that. From the typhus and the weather combined, his bones felt
permanently frozen. He groaned as he sat up, the stiffness of his limbs and
back making him feel decades older, but allowed himself to be guided by Burke
all the same.
"What was wrong with me just sleepin' again?" he complained.
"Come along," Burke encouraged him, hardly dispirited. Butch obeyed, hoping
this promised surprise involved fucking the cocksure little pest right through
a wall. Led into the bathroom, he dazedly watched the steam curl off of the
water which awaited him. Several soaps and oils had been placed on the floor,
surrounding the tub, and a nearby table held what looked to be clean towels.
"... oh," he managed to say as he gazed over the presentation. Illustrated
hands which had guided him by the shoulders squeezed tenderly.
"I think it's high time we treated ourselves, yeah?" Burke cooed into his ear,
gently tugging on the sleeve of the black coat. Parting from him, the Irish
outlaw peeled away his own clothes with a mockingly coy smile, removing each
layer with the care and presentation of a professional peep show girl. Burke
found that revealing the permanent patterns as he stripped seemed to win Butch
over. Taking a breath and looking around as though unimpressed, the older man
finally undressed as well, though his movements were still lethargic.
Burke was first to enter the tub, guiding his partner in. The moment Butch was
seated, he went limp, the tension seeping out of him with a long exhale.
Grinning, Burke nudged at him under the water with his foot.
"Better?"
Butch groaned, though not in pain but rather pleasure. Already he felt warmth
returning to the icicles that his bones had become. He could have slept there
if he did not risk drowning himself.
Green eyes resting on his lover, Burke lifted two jars from the floor, pouring
contents both powdered and oil-based into the water. The fragrance was unusual
to their senses, all the more so to Butch, who practically lived out in the
desert at times. Being clean was going to feel tremendously peculiar.
"Turn 'round and I'll scrub yer back," Burke said, bringing Cavendish out of
his reverie. Opening his eyes, he saw a scrubbing brush in his lover's hand,
casually stirring the water and bringing the powder and oil concoction to a
lather. His limbs heavy, Butch awkwardly turned over, resting against the edge
of the tub. He first felt hands, bringing suds onto his back, then the brush.
Almost immediately, he was wet clay in Burke's hands. Each and every knot which
had tightened his sore body was undone in minutes, and he sagged against the
curved interior of the tub, arms dangling over the rim. Burke smiled at the
sight in front of him, pleased to have been the one to bring Butch to such a
relaxed state. To Burke, he looked like a sleeping cat.
"Unnhhhh..." Butch's groaning was beginning to sound beyond peaceful or
relaxed. But if his arousal would be getting any further, he would need to get
out of the tub first. Burke decided to move on.
"Almost done, lift up yer pretty little backside, will ye?" He nearly expected
Butch to be unable to, but the other outlaw, seemingly lost in bliss, placed
his feet on the bottom of the tub and straightened his legs, allowing the bath
to continue.
Before the typhus, Burke had never viewed his friend's scars with anything more
than vague interest, dismissing them as the same marks any outlaw would garner
in his miserable life. Now, every scar seemed to speak of some tragic story
from the past. He questioned the origins of each one. Which of them came from
wounds sustained in the brothel, he wondered. One in particular, long and
jagged, started at the left buttock and ended at the beginning of Butch's outer
thigh. In the lamplight, Burke saw pale lines he had not been able to see a
year ago in the dark cabin, and he realized that some of Butch's physical scars
ran deeper than others. Burke felt a chill run through him which even the heat
of the water could not drive away.
His fingertips met the dip of his friend's spine, starting at the small of
Butch's back and journeying upward and ending between the shoulder blades.
Butch gave another satisfied moan at the gentle pressure and proceeded to bend
his legs, sinking beneath the surface. Burke initially thought he should
worried until he saw hands lathering the long unkempt hair. Determining his
hair was clean enough, the scarred man finally emerged, his sighing audible as
he pushed the long wet locks behind him. Burke continued to scrub until he had
washed nearly every inch of Cavendish. 'Nearly' being the key word...
"Shall I take care of business down below?" he asked slyly.
Butch reached below the surface, cleaning his groin by himself.
"If you do it, I'd likely end this evening early," the other man replied. He
showed what he meant as he slowly stood up, turning to face his partner. His
cock, at eye level with Burke, was already coming to life. Smiling, Burke took
a finger and lightly pressed down, chuckling when the shaft bounced back up. A
pleased thrumming sounded from Butch's throat, as though he might start
purring.
Removing himself from the tub, Burke grabbed a towel and helped his lover to
dry, leaning in close to him and speaking barely above a whisper.
"Put yer arms around my shoulders?"
Tilting an eyebrow, Butch complied, curious to see where this was headed. Like
a gentleman taking his betrothed across the threshold, Burke scooped Butch up
into a bridal carry and escorted him to a nearby chaise-lounge, whistling
Wagner's matrimonial chorus as he did. Butch laughed at the silliness of it
all, and Burke deduced that the liquor and bath had been a fitting palliative
for the cannibal's mood.
"I could get used to this special treatment," Butch declared as he was placed
on the chaise. He watched Burke slip back into the bath to hurriedly clean
himself. "Get the boys to just carry me 'round on a platform like a king..."
"Or a queen," Burke teased, pointedly turning his back towards the man to show
off his white hindquarters. Butch's eyes narrowed. That backside needed to be
much closer, within biting reach. He pointed at the Irishman.
"You." Turning his hand, he bent his finger, beckoning. "Git over here and be
my loyal subject."
"Just a moment..." Burke called back, singing his response playfully. He
grabbed a handful of the soap lather and reached between his legs far enough to
dip his fingers into the cleave of his rump. Butch's erection was at half-mast.
Hastily drying himself, Burke slipped on the wet floor as he rushed across the
room. He tossed his towel aside, grabbed his waistcoat, and settled himself
into Butch's lap, leaning forward for a kiss as his lover's arms closed around
him, as did teeth. One bite was harder than the others, and Burke cried out.
The marks would likely be visible tomorrow.
Parting themselves, Burke was able to search his vest until he found their
coin. Cavendish took the coin and flipped it.
"Here it comes," he announced.
"Tails," Burke proclaimed.
The coin landed in his favor and he rose to his feet. Butch looked up at him
with reserved anticipation, spreading his legs and leaning against the back
rest of the chaise. His erect cock seemed to bob up and down with every breath.
Burke smiled, an idea forming in his mind. "I wanna do somethin' different."
"You won the toss," Butch replied with a shrug, too affected by the alcohol and
soothing bath to be his usual irritable self. He shifted into a comfortable
position on the chaise-longue, feeling kisses trail down his neck and onto his
chest. Burke kissed each nipple before swiping his tongue over them, and Butch
shivered, moaning. He shut his eyes and savored the feeling of the buds
hardening in the chill brought on by his Irish lover's saliva, then moaned a
second time when Burke's thumbs rubbed over them.
Had he not felt so relaxed, Butch might have become impatient, demanding them
to fuck right on the spot, but thus far this experience was proving to be more
satisfying than he would have expected. Perhaps the whiskey was doing the
talking, but Butch reasoned that their previous interactions had been good,
thus tonight would be no different. Besides, Burke seemed to have gotten a
grasp on boundaries.
Then he felt something warm and wet against his genitalia that was indisputably
Burke's mouth, and he jolted backwards in his seat. Instantly he was dragged
back to the dark room, but the sights and sounds of the past left his mind
nearly as soon as they had manifested themselves. He was no longer in the
brothel, let alone the dark room or the cellar, and he was back in the hotel
room with a startled Burke kneeling beside him.
An inked hand reached up and caressed his disoriented lover's cheek, but Butch
was no longer in the mood for Burke's games. The thought of the younger man
trying a second time forced images into Cavendish's brain of what he had been
forced to do all those years ago. The memory alone inspired him to push Burke
away.
"What'r you doin'?" he growled, sitting forward and denying the other man
access. He was done with this. Burke had pushed his luck.
"As ye said, I won the toss," Burke said, his voice gentle and quiet as he
attempted reason, "and I have an idea of what we can do. I think it'll help ye.
I think ye might like it."
Butch shook his head. This was not a matter of weakness, he tried telling
himself; he was not weak. Butch had been able to surpass certain things
throughout his adulthood. Penetration had been the first, an act he was more
than eager to deal against others. Though it had shamed him to, he had also
come to enjoy being penetrated, though he comforted himself in his early adult
years with the notion that he still had the control, partly because he was the
one who decided whether or not he would be entered, partly because he always
killed the men after they had fucked him. But this... he couldn't. If he were
to ever orally please a man, the act would end with him either gagging or
clenching his jaws and carrying on with his cannibalistic inclinations.
He did not want to go back to that goddamned room.
Burke looked up at his lover sadly. Butch was hard, not in the way of his cock,
which had flagged, but in his muscle. The body beneath him felt hard as rock,
as though he were about to make love to a construct of a man instead of
something real. Arching his neck, Burke kissed his solemn lover's brow. Butch
seemed to be ignoring him, but he would not give up. He moved until he could
make eye contact with the older man.
"Ye got past so many stony hills ever since ye broke free," he said. "What's
one more?"
Butch seemed at a loss for words, his eyes expressing the countless thoughts
rushing through his mind despite his silence. Hoping to quiet his troubled
brain, Burke moved to comfort him, heedful of overwhelming him. He nudged his
forehead against a scruffy chin.
"I won't steer ye wrong," he softly uttered. "Never."
Butch sighed, frustrated and desperate to shove the past back into its cage
where it belonged. Burke's reasoning, unexpectedly, had been rather compelling,
as much as Cavendish was annoyed to admit it. He did not have to give, only
receive. And as obnoxious and insufferable as Burke could be at times... Butch
trusted him. He glanced back at their empty glasses of whiskey, considering if
he should go into this scenario completely drunk, if he could better endure
this way. A bad idea, he decided. He was the one in control. He was the one
getting pleasured, and he wanted to be able to remember this in the morning to
come.
Once he was sure he was not about to be thrown across the room or bludgeoned,
Burke kissed Butch, first licking the split lip, then inserting his tongue into
his lover's mouth. The tip traced a long groove on the roof of Butch's mouth
which led to the place currently taken up by the silver tooth. Butch moaned
into him and blindly grabbed for one of the younger outlaw's hands, leading it
back to his cock. Encouraged, Burke teased at the foreskin with his fingertip
before giving the shaft a quick tug, feeling the organ become hard once more.
When they parted, Butch hesitated, then lay back, spreading his legs again.
Burke had better make good on his word, he thought.
Licking his lips as though to preserve the taste of his friend, Burke then
repeated his previous treatment of Butch's nipples, then trailed kisses down
the man's front. His lips brought a tingle to the other outlaw's skin as he
traveled along the gentle indentation of Cavendish's lean belly. He loved the
tremble against his lips, specifically when his kisses stopped at the space
below the navel where the hair began to thicken.
Looking upward, he was saddened by the sight before him. Butch seemed
determined now to carry through this encounter, but his body betrayed his
trepidation, back stiffly arched and fists clenched. Before he continued any
further, Burke reached up and took one of Butch's hands in his own.
Butch opened his eyes and looked down. Keeping his eyes shut in an attempt to
concentrate only brought images vivid and terrible to his mind, the smug faces
of his tormentors leering down at him. He focused instead on Burke, whose own
eyes were closed as he nuzzled between the other's legs. Watching the Irishman
pay attention to his groin gave him no time to linger on old memories. He
observed with heavy breaths as Burke worshipped him, and he nearly laughed at
the thought of being treated like a king after all. When the tattooed outlaw
finally took the head of the shaft into his mouth, he looked pretty damn silly,
but Butch was aroused all the same.
Maybe this will work. Butch squeezed the hand in his, signaling Burke to
continue.
The ink-inscribed mouth closed fully over the throbbing member and sucked.
Moaning sharply, Butch placed Burke's white hands against his hips. Burke's
thumbs stroked at abrupt lines where hip bones lay just beneath the surface.
Butch stubbornly continued watching his lover stimulate him, the sight alone
enough to send a satisfying shudder through his naked frame. God damn, Burke
was incredible at this. He might as well have taken up a career in a sideshow
as a sword-swallower. Butch began to wonder where the inky bastard had learned
how to do this so damn well until another shudder, much more powerful than the
last, drove all rational thought out of him.
Butch's entire body tightened, though not out of fear, quite the opposite.
Tilting his head backward as he curved his spine, he instinctively thrust into
Burke's mouth. The laugh which reverberated around his cock was pure ecstasy.
Unable to see Burke, he imagined how the Irishman must have looked based upon
the sensations to which he was being subjected and instinctively thrust his
hips into the other's throat.
One hand frantically grasped for something to hold onto and found his lover's
hair. Burke winced as the grip tightened and twisted, yanking him deeper around
the hard cock. Perhaps he was holding on a little too strongly, but Butch was
enjoying this too damn much to care what else he did in the throes of passion.
He closed his legs around Burke, who wriggled in place as he momentarily felt
smothered against his friend's groin. When he managed to tilt his head and
expose his nostrils, he considered his predicament as he regained his breath.
This needed to end soon, not only for Butch's sake, but for Burke to avoid
getting his (likely balder) head popped off like the meal of a praying mantis.
One of his hands interlocked with Butch's once more, while the other insinuated
itself between the halves of Butch's arse, diddling the puckered ring within.
Already vocal, Butch climaxed loudly. His vision blackened and he saw stars.
His seed splashed hot into Burke's mouth and onto the floor as the Irishman
backed away. Wiping himself with the back of his hand, he smiled proudly at his
achievement, and as though rewarding his lover, kissed the base of the spent
organ. It twitched, an echo of the powerful release, but did nothing else.
Butch felt as though his brain had been shattered and was putting itself back
together. His chest rose and fell as he slowly regained his breath, body
boneless and shining with sweat. He looked and felt as though he had been
brought back from death.
A blue-inked hand flattened over the hammering in his chest, and he felt
playful kisses on his throat as he was affectionately nuzzled. When he opened
his eyes, familiar teeth marks entered his line of vision, and he acted on
instinct, lifting his head and opening his jaws.
"OWWW, oh shite!" Burke yelled as he was bitten. That bruise would definitely
show in the morning. He put his fingers to the wound to check for blood, but
found none.
Butch snickered, pleased with himself. "Ain't no better way to end it."
Smirking, Burke stood up, holding out an arm. "Time for bed?"
The other man groaned. "M'fine here."
"I can warm ye better in the bed," Burke offered.
Opening one eye, he scrutinized the furniture in question, considered, then sat
up, taking his friend's hand. "No lullabies this time."
He moved lethargically, now completely drained, and all but collapsed onto the
bed. Burke was slightly surprised that by the time he took his own place on the
mattress his companion had not already fallen asleep. Would it be harder to
wake him this time, he wondered.
"I hope my singing didn't brown ye too much," the Irishman said apologetically
as he sank under the covers.
Cavendish shrugged as he listlessly joined him under the bedclothes. "It
brought me back outta the past a few times." Burke was did not know if he had
ever seen his friend in such an agreeable state. Limply laying next to his
tattooed bedfellow, eyes shut and breathing slowly, Butch was quite the pussy
cat. But cats had claws, and this peaceful mood could shift at any time, so
Burke enjoyed the moment while it lasted.
When he thought Butch had fallen asleep, Burke carefully lifted himself to
extinguish the lamp. This proved tricky, as the table was on Butch's side of
the bed. Taking care as he leaned over the motionless figure, he blew out the
flame. A set of teeth bit his nipple and he yelped in surprise and pain.
"Curse'a Jaysus!"
Butch chuckled.
***** Raw Eggs and Red Kings *****
Chapter Summary
     Hangovers, breakfast, and the subject of names.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Butch woke up with a headache, not that he was surprised.
Opening his eyes, he turned his head to regard his bedfellow. Burke lay in a
position which looked rather uncomfortable, his head propped against two
pillows at an awkward angle. A line of spittle was trailing out of his open
mouth. Hopefully his headache would be worse thanks to the slant of his neck.
What an idiot, Butch thought. The notion was not out of malice, not presently
anyway. He could remember the events of the previous night, especially the fact
that he had enjoyed what Burke had treated him to. Being against the act for so
many years, the fact that he finally experienced it felt strange... but he had
not regretted it. The act itself had been absurdly easy. All he had to do was
sit there while Burke did all the work. Upon further consideration, he had been
foolish not to try it sooner. Receiving such a bequest had been phenomenal; one
day he would have to try it while sober. Giving, however, was still a different
matter entirely. Hopefully he would not have to knock that boundary into
Burke's thick skull too often.
He looked a second time at Burke, still motionless as a stone and dead to the
world. Butch had lost count of all the times he wished he knew what the hell
went on in that paddy head.
The sun had recently come up over the horizon, not yet reaching the window.
Some breakfast would do, Butch decided. His head throbbed again as he stood up,
hung-over, though thankfully not blindingly so. Throwing on his trousers and
shirt, he made his way downstairs, not bothering to slip his suspenders over
his shoulders, nor button the crotch of his pants.
The saloon was a mess, though not as big a mess as he expected. Most of the
gang had taken up rooms of their own to sleep off the consequences of their
gluttonous drinking. One of the gang remained, Alvirez, who slept on one of the
card tables. Butch might have tipped the improvised bed over if the resulting
crash would not worsen his headache.
The bartender, asleep at the bar and drooling on the countertop, must have
remained at his post for the entire night, clearly wary of the town's latest
villagers. Taking a nearby shot glass, he slung it down the bar, watching it
slide down the counter and bounce off the old man's face. The barkeep jerked
awake with a loud snort.
Butch let the man shiver with apprehension over what might unfold for a few
seconds before finally speaking.
"Breakfast?"
The bartender blinked, realizing he was not about to be blown away, and
scurried off to the kitchen.
"Two shots of prairie oysters while yer at it!" Butch called after him.
As he waited, he turned at the sound of someone shuffling down the stairs.
Frank was naked save for a transparent ladies' dressing gown, ruffles
accentuating the trim. He rubbed at one of his eyes as ungracefully descended
to the ground floor.
"Where'r the tomatuhs?" he muttered, taking a seat at the bar and promptly
laying his head down. He was out within seconds. Butch shook his head.
"Food's on its way," the barkeep announced, returning to the bar with fresh
eggs. He cracked them into two glasses and added water. "By the way, if you
don't mind my asking..."
I do, Butch thought.
"... exactly how long were you planning to stay?"
Butch slid his tongue over a silver tooth, snatching one of the glasses fast
enough to make the bartender flinch.
"Long enough."
Swallowing the raw egg concoction in one gulp, he slammed the glass onto the
bar. Frank jolted awake with a yelp and Alvirez fell off of the table. Smiling
despite his headache, he waited for the completion of his meal, took the
remaining glass and frying pan, and returned upstairs. Before closing the door
to the suite behind him, he heard Frank ask again for tomatoes.
Burke had been known to find time to nap even with shots firing around him, and
an explosion would sound like a lullaby to his ears, but Butch did not need to
make noise to wake him. He simply held the frying pan above him, letting the
scent waft. He resisted the urge to pour the contents onto the inky face
beneath, though it would definitely wake him faster.
The smell of grease and eggs (both cooked and raw) entered Burke's nostrils and
he reacted within seconds. Though the light filling the room did not help his
headache, he opened his eyes nonetheless, beaming at the prospect of...
"Streaky bacon."
He winced as he sat up, and a glass full of egg yolk was unceremoniously shoved
into his hands. Staring at the offering as though trying to make sense of what
to do with it, he finally shrugged and swallowed the remedy. He grimaced at the
taste, then removed himself from the bedcovers, eager for the greasy meal
within the pan.
"Were we in Ireland, I'd just be put up to my neck in river sand. Don't suppose
there's a river nearby...?"
"Afraid not," Butch replied, placing the frying pan between them as they sat
facing one another on the bed. "It's either this or rabbit shit tea."
Burke nearly choked on a strip of bacon. "Ara cod, is that a true thing??"
He continued to speak in between mouthfuls, grease occasionally dribbling down
his tattooed chin.
"When I was a lad, ye couldn' get me to come inside, 'less ye mention food,"
reminisced. "Me ma, she'd not even call my name, just open the window and let
the smell invite me in."
Butch only reacted by dismissively shaking his head, continuing to eat until a
thought occurred to him.
"What is yer name anyway?" he asked. Burke paused, taking the time to chew his
mouthful properly, obviously stalling for time before he faced the unavoidable.
"My name... has been a mystery to all in this ugly Yank land. Except you," he
declared, then looked up from the pan to lock green eyes with blue. "It's
Ruadhri. Dense idiots can never get it right when they see it spelled, so they
changed it to something their clotty brains could manage."
"What then?" Butch asked, his own mouth full as he asked. Burke might have
mentioned he thought Cavendish and his scarred lip looked endearing when he
chewed, but he would get slapped for it, either for delaying his answer or for
being too sentimental. He took a breath and finally spoke.
"Rory."
Fragments of food sprayed as Butch laughed. Even funnier to him was the blush
which spread so vividly on his friend's white face. Though annoyed, Burke
remembered the sound of Butch laughing was a rare thing, and it was a sound he
loved.
"How's that spelt?" the older outlaw asked after he had swallowed the mouthful.
"Yer first name, how's it spelt?"
Burke hesitated, but he climbed off of the bed to rummage through a bedside
table. When he found stationary and a bit of charcoal, he returned to his seat,
jotting down the name in his crude hand. Picking up the page, Butch frowned,
turned it sideways, then very closely inspected the name, putting the paper
inches away from his nose.
"Maybe Rory was a good idea after all." He laughed again, even heartier.
"Not that funny," Burke muttered. Clearly in high spirits, Butch scooped up
some of the grease off the pan with his finger and eased it between the
Irishman's parted lips. Burke obediently sucked, flicking his sly tongue over
the tip.
"Don't be sore," the older man gently chided, removing his finger. "We can't
all be lucky not to be born with humiliating names."
Burke cocked an eyebrow. "'Butch' ain't such a humiliating name."
"No, it ain't." The other's voice was strangely quiet. Burke continued eating,
considered the answer for a second or two, then finished his share of
breakfast.
"That's not really yer name is it?" he asked casually.
"It is," Butch replied tersely, "it's just the short version."
Tilting his head, Burke looked at his partner with anticipation. Butch pursed
his lips.
"Well g'wan, what is it?"
Butch opened his mouth, and rather than speak, he shoved the last of the eggs
into his mouth, muttering something indecipherable.
"What?"
"Bartholomew!" he snapped, then jabbed a barbecue fork in Burke's direction.
"An' if you tell anyone, I'll knock out yer teeth and shove'em up yer pecker
hole."
Initially Burke was surprised by his friend's birth name, but his thoughts soon
turned toward the ensuing threat. His tattoo spread as he smiled, taking some
grease onto his own finger to offer to his lover.
"That's the Butch Cavendish I know," he said.
Butch took the finger into his mouth, suckled, then bit. Yanking his hand away,
Burke laughed despite the new teeth marks.
"Surely feeling better?"
"Mmn," Butch grunted an affirmative. He spied the coin resting on the bedside
table and picked it up. Burke licked his lips as he also looked at the coin,
the way it dully reflected the light of the sun.
"Now where were we?"
"Tails."
It landed in Butch's favor. Their subsequent kiss tasted of eggs and bacon. As
his scarred lover settled onto his back against the mattress, Burke leaned back
to the foot of the bed where their hats were hanging on the posts. Grabbing
Butch's black, wide-brimmed article, he put it on his own head, it feeling odd
compared to his bowler. He returned to Butch, straddling his powerful legs, and
placed his fingers in the pan, greasing them. Cavendish gave a satisfied sigh
as the slick hand lubricated his cock, tugging and twisting it to life.
"Hopefully this won't tempt me into gettin' a taste for ye like ye likely done
for me," Burke said, taking his hand from the stiff organ and touching his
lips. When he leaned forward, their kiss was a wet one, Butch's tongue licking
away the grease before nibbling on Burke's lips.
Ruadhri's lips, he reminded himself. He grinned as he watched the other outlaw
lubricate himself. The mischievous aspect of him wanted to get a rise out of
Burke by calling him Rory during their interaction, but he knew Burke would do
something to retaliate, likely in front of others. Also... Rory truly was a
silly as hell name.
Butch groaned sharply as his cock easily slid into Burke, who giggled at the
sensation within himself. The tattooed little rascal was pliant, and Butch
wondered how many years the younger outlaw had been devoting to the company of
men to be so experienced. Not that the notion of Burke getting around was so
scandalous, the insatiable brat.
Thumbs flicked over Cavendish's nipples and hardened them within seconds. Burke
began slowly, but soon picked up the pace to ride him faster. He was
practically bouncing on the rock-hard erection. The speed and angle must have
been enough for Burke, as he touched Butch more than himself. Only when he was
close to his climax did the Irishman finally give himself a few swift tugs,
spurting his seed onto Butch's stomach. He only stopped bouncing when he felt
Butch come inside him, slumping forward during the aftermath and catching his
breath along with his partner.
Their breathing reached a steady unanimous rhythm and Burke looked down at the
peaceful sight beneath him. That scarred face had to have intimidated and
horrified countless victims of his cruelty, but Burke might as well have been
looking at an angel.
Burke had been enticed to ride Butch like a wild stallion, his lover's black
hat in his hand as he bounced, but it stayed on his head for the entire act. He
reached back toward the bedpost once more, taking his bowler and handing it to
Butch, who reflexively took it. Butch looked at the hat for a few seconds,
then, deciding to play along, placed it over his head. He tipped the brim
forward over his eyes as though about to go back to sleep. Smiling, Burke lay
down on top of him, their chests and stomachs pressed against one another.
Butch tensed a little under the man's weight, but only for a moment. He was not
certain if he could ever fully overcome the crawling feeling under his skin of
someone resting on top of him, but with Burke, he felt a little less...
defenseless.
Not nearly as defenseless as he had felt in the cabin, he considered. At least
his nightmares were gone. After the strange dream with the fireflies, he had
returned to the usual routine of forgetting whatever happened in his head
during sleep. Still, the imagery his mind had concocted on those last few days
of illness somehow struck him as something right, something good. He smirked as
a thought occurred to him, and he spoke his thoughts as he traced a pattern on
Burke's arm with his index finger.
"Yer my firefly in the dark. I don't always see you. But I'll always snatch you
up every time I do."
He felt Burke's smile against his skin. Lifting his head, the Irish outlaw
rested his chin on a steadily rising and falling chest. He carefully reached
forward, hoping he would not be bitten if he were careful enough - if he did
not pull any hair - and found the rattlesnake's tail tied amidst the locks.
Teeth did not close on his hand, so he cautiously twirled the rattle, doing no
more and no less. The chest beneath him lifted, paused, then lowered as Butch
exhaled, and Burke was not certain if his lover was enjoying the treatment or
not.
The finger tracing at the tattoos on the arm moved to those on Burke's face,
and there in the bed they lay for the rest of the morning, gentle touches
soothing both into a state of uninterrupted silence.
Chapter End Notes
     And now you all know where the title comes from, ohhhh snap, son.
***** A Matter of Trust *****
Chapter Summary
     Decisions are made for departure. Burke pushes his luck, and Butch's
     patience can only stretch so far.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
As Butch stirred in response to the rising sun's light reaching his face, he
became aware of arms loosely draped over him. In the split second of waking,
instincts caused him to jump, prepared to fight back or escape. But the fear
was gone as quickly as it arrived. The arms around him were not those of a
customer. Yawning, he shrugged out of Burke's hold. Burke hardly responded, not
even to snore.
The second day in the "plague town," as the gang had begun to call it passed
peacefully to the point of boredom. With a sheriff amongst the many dead from
typhus and a mayor abandoning his own town to avoid the outbreak, the place was
safe... excruciatingly insipidly safe. Butch was starting to miss the risk of
being caught or executed. He partly hoped that an angry mob of remaining
townsfolk would form and try to kill them.
After ascertaining supplies and essentials, the gang had convened to discuss
their next plan of action. Heading West would have been the easiest terrain for
them, but also for anyone planning on following them from town. East would be
the most difficult to travel, but it would ward off said townspeople. South was
out of the question, as it was where the main road of town led, the same
direction both the disease came from and retreated to. North led to the cabin,
but Butch hardly wanted one of his hideaways to be discovered by any pursuing
vigilantes. East it was.
When dinnertime arrived, the specially preserved package was finally opened and
cooked. As expected the meat had gone tough, no longer fresh, but he enjoyed it
all the same. He ate it in a corner of the saloon, left alone by his men, even
Burke, who let him savor the meal. The evening had been as before, with merry-
making and drinking, with Butch ignoring the commotion and drinking by himself.
This time, he left the saloon and retired to his room on his own. Burke
followed nearly an hour later and considered inciting another roll in the
sheets, but found himself simply staring at the peaceful, quiescent sight. He
put his arms around his sleepy lover and fell asleep enjoying the mere fact
that their worries of Butch's sickness was far behind him.
*
Rubbing at the back of his neck, Butch sat on the edge of the bed, watching the
square of light creeping downward off of him as the sun climbed the heavens. He
considered retrieving breakfast again, but his belly still felt full from the
heart the previous night. Turning to look upon his Irish friend, he made a
nearly inaudible chuckle at the way Burke's tattoos were warped by his chin
sinking into his neck, his head at another awkward angle.
They had ended the previous night uneventfully. Butch was determined to rectify
that.
Burke was roused from his sleep by the feeling of a mouth against his neck,
though he would have refused to fully wake had he not felt teeth sink into his
throat. His skin was not broken, but the previous bite from two nights before
would definitely not be the only mark visible on this neck.
"Good morning," he greeted the other man. Butch grinned, following a curve of
the tattoo on Burke's neck with a fingernail. Burke shivered at the touch and
returned his own favor placing his thumb into the dip of Butch's neck where the
throat met the collarbone, stroking gently. When he spoke, his voice had taken
on that wonderfully familiar husky quality.
"You and me..." he said, nipping random places on the surface of his lover's
chest between every few words. "We got unfinished business... needs attending
to... wouldn'tcha say?"
The last bite was around a pale nipple, and he felt Burke wince under the
teeth. Butch held on for a few seconds, his tongue flicking against the
hardening bud. Unlatching his jaws, he glanced at the bedside table and
retrieved the coin. He locked eyes with Burke and flipped.
"Heads," the Irishman said. The coin bounced on his chest and finally landed
heads up. Burke grinned wickedly.
Finally.
He caressed his lover's neck, rubbing at the stubbly skin with the back of his
finger as Butch shut his eyes, savoring the feeling.
"What to do, what to do..." he mused aloud, considering what their moment of
fun might entail. He thought of how he had enjoyed bringing Butch to such a
devastating climax a few nights ago, but wanted his own satisfaction as well.
"I have it."
"Mmn." Butch made the noise to voice his curiosity, and was rewarded with a
hand guiding his own to Burke's sex. The two men kissed as Butch tugged and
twisted his lover's member to life, and once he was fully erect, Burke eased
his fingers around the back of the older outlaw's neck... and began to guide
his head downward.
Butch stiffened and pulled away, knocking the tattooed arm off of him.
"No," he growled. Hands reached for him again, perhaps as a gesture of comfort,
based on Burke's apologetic expression, but he backed completely off of the
bed, stumbling to his feet on the floorboards.
"No," he repeated.
"Butch..." the other began, uncertain of how to continue. The mood, once so
arousing and inviting, shifted in less than a second, and the room suddenly
felt cold, reminding him of the weather outside. Cavendish stood still as a
statue, refusing to face him.
"I should have just asked," Burke said quietly then gave a soft, joyless laugh.
"Ye loved receiving, I thought perhaps ye might also love giving. After all,
we've come so far..."
Butch shook his head, hardly interested in any explanations.
"Don'tcha wanna give it a try?" The Irishman asked. "We could get ye some more
whiskey, let it settle ye, maybe you'll come 'round to..."
"No, I said!" the other snapped. He refused to listen to reason on the matter.
Letting Burke please him orally had been one thing, but the concept of doing so
for another filled his mind with memories he would have rather forgotten. The
smell of all manner of unwashed men, the sound of their revolting groans, the
taste - God almighty, the taste. He would be sick if he ever tried to do it
again, and if not, instincts would drive him to close his jaws and annihilate
the offending organ as he had when he first broke free as a boy.
"I ain't doin' it," he muttered, fists clenched. "It brings back too much."
He did not care what argument Burke supplied. The subject was not up for
discussion. He would not assent, and no gentility or guidance would ever
convince him otherwise.
Burke gazed at the naked scarred back before him and sighed ruefully. He
crossed the short distance to where his partner stood and, with the caution of
a deer drinking at a clearing, placed a hand on Butch's shoulder, then his
cheek when he was not greeted with hostility. Butch ignored him, unmoving and
unspeaking, as though no one else were in the room with him. His eyes stared
into nothing, his thoughts far and away, nowhere near the present.
"Butch, I'm sorry," the younger outlaw said, fingers once again caressing a
shaggy jaw and neck long due for a shave. "I didn't mean anythin' untoward."
When Butch finally turned his attention toward him, Burke reached in for the
gentlest of kisses, his lips touching the corner of a jagged mouth. The kiss
was not returned. When he pulled away, he watched as Butch turned a critical
eye toward him.
"You never apologize," Butch stated. "Why should I believe you now?"
He was rewarded with a beatific smile. "Because I have a real reason to make a
apology."
"To fuck me?" the older outlaw countered.
The ink-etched smile only grew wider, mischievous but somehow still amiable.
Damn that Burke, he really could charm his way out of any situation.
"We'll do somethin' else," Burke offered. "I demanded enough from ye already."
His gentle touches trailed down the scruffy neck, his thumb resting just under
the Adam's apple.
Butch huffed, and he considered denying any sort of physical intimacy this
morning, but he wanted it far too badly. He ached for it. Burke's audacity from
just a minute ago tempted the scarred outlaw to break the rules of the coin and
take charge. After all, it was a stupid coin, and he was the boss here... but
damn him, he desired the exact opposite. He despised the way it made him feel,
but he wanted it nevertheless.
Burke, curse his rotten soul, could easily detect the temptation in his
friend's expression, and kissed him again, this time on the scraggly tuft of
beard at his chin.
"Let me help ye feel incredible, darlin'?" he whispered.
Sighing, Butch looked into Burke's eyes, his features softening. "Alright...
Rory."
Burke's lips thinned and only then did Butch return to the easygoing, hungry
mood he had been jarred from earlier. He smiled and shoved the Irish outlaw to
the bed, watching him bounce a little from the impact before pouncing onto his
illustrated frame. Crooked teeth sank into delicious white shoulders, and Burke
squealed out a shrill giggle, the very sound startling his lover as they rolled
about in the mattress. Their kisses became savage within seconds, skin bitten
and raked by teeth and nails as they made mad love to one another.
"On yer back, luv," Burke cooed into a naked chest, and Butch did so, curious
to see where this circumstance was headed. Knuckles drifted softly against his
inner thighs signaling him to spread his legs.
"That's it," the Irishman said in encouragement, backing off of the bed. "I'm
gonna slick you up, handsome."
Butch nearly presumed the endearment to be condescending, but it did not sound
as such. In fact, every one of Burke's sweet nothings sounded indisputable. His
curiosity had waned now that the possibility of being pleased orally was
contradicted by the inclusion of oil. Even so, after the rude proposal just
minutes before, he was no so enthused about getting sucked whatsoever, despite
the successful night from their first evening in the hotel.
His stride casual and hands slick with lamp oil, Burke returned to the bed and
climbed onto the mattress, settling between the spread legs. Using his
fingertips to caress a hardening shaft, he grinned at the noises his lover made
in response to the treatment and proceeded to the delicate sac beneath. Butch's
breath became heavy as he continued to moan, nuzzling the folds of blankets
around him, and he moaned louder when the fingers went ever lower, circling the
sensitive pucker of skin. Finally they eased their way inside him, first one,
then two. His chest rose and fell at an uneven pace and his vision blackened
for less than a second when the fingers pressed into his sweet spot.
"Mmm..." he groaned. "Ooh..."
Burke kissed Butch's stomach, keeping his mouth pressed against the skin so
that he could enjoy the tremors of his friend's pleasure. He licked the dip of
the man's navel and gave a quiet laugh at the shiver he received.
"Ye ready?" he inquired.
"Do it!" Butch demanded impatiently. "Yeah, I'm ready, just fuckin' do it!"
"Alright, alright." Pulling his fingers free, Burke slathered his cock and
stroked himself hard before entering. Butch thought he could feel the other
man's endowment throbbing inside him, and it caused an ache that left him
squirming. Burke playfully wiggled his hips whilst inside, eliciting a strained
laugh from his panting lover. Reaching upward and wrapping his arms around the
Irishman's neck, Butch encircled Burke's waist with his legs. Were he any
closer, he would be a part of Burke.
"Do it," he repeated, breath heavy.
His grip around Burke was vice-like as his was thrust into at a quick, solid
pace. So caught up in the satisfaction was he that he squeezed as hard as he
could, hoping the grip would help him to be penetrated even deeper. Fingers
hooked into a wiry white back, and Burke responded by thrusting harder. Both
men grunted and groaned with the abandon of wild animals as they rutted. As he
climaxed, Butch felt a tongue against the split of his lip. At first biting
into the folds of blanket again, he remembered himself and bit into the fresh
bruise on his lover's neck, smiling as he did. Burke cried out both in pain and
ecstasy, and the sound was music to his lover's ears. The tattooed man came
less than two minutes later, his seed shooting hot inside Butch and warming him
in a way the bedclothes could not.
Their breaths loud and weary, they fully collapsed onto the mattress, Burke
rolling onto his side and kissing a shoulder, the arm attached to it, and
whatever else of Butch that was within reach.
"Now is it a good morning?" Burke asked.
Butch glanced his way, expression blank.
"I gotta piss."
Burke laughed, then paused. "Me too." Butch joined him in laughing.
*
While Butch descended the steps to the saloon, Burke took his approximation of
the short way, being that he launched himself off of the walkway and landed on
his feet one floor down. He sauntered over as though nothing unusual had
happened and ordered breakfast, smiling politely at the rest of the gang as
they stared. Someone awkwardly cleared his throat amidst the group, causing
Butch to turn in the man's direction: Barret.
"The bunch'a us were wonderin'," he said. "How much longer we were gonna be
stayin' in town. Not that we ain't enjoyin' this little vacation..."
The rest of the gang made confirmatory noises.
Butch glanced behind himself at the bartender, who nearly lost grip on a glass
he was drying.
"Git," he ordered, sending the barkeep scurrying into the back. He heard the
sound of scrubbing and hoped the old bastard was hard of hearing. The gang did
not need locals catching wind of their exact time of departure and interrupting
with certain unpleasant farewells.
Crossing his arms and leaning against the counter, Butch considered the subject
of leaving. Sooner was safer, and normally a town this quiet was unsettling, as
though it were too quiet, but he had not yet felt threatened by the peace of
the town. Just bored. Also despite the brief disagreement he had with Burke
when they first woke, he was in a particularly good mood thanks to their little
interlude minutes later. He was feeling far more forgiving and unperturbed.
"First thing tomorrow," he finally stated, his voice low so that only his men
heard him. "One more evenin', long as nothin' or nobody rears their heads on
us."
He glanced back to the doorway where the unseen barkeep still made himself busy
and scoffed. Any faster at scrubbing and the old man might just work himself
into a heart attack.
"Where's the breakfast in this shithole?" Butch shouted. Something clattered to
the floor, causing the rest of the gang to laugh.
Breakfast commenced for those who had not already eaten, cigarettes were lit,
and drinks were imbibed. The gang was in the middle of discussing whether or
not any supplies needed to restocked before the upcoming morning when Ray
noticed something on their Irish friend.
"What's that mark on your neck, Burke?" he asked, drawing everyone's attention.
Burke casually inspected himself in a nearby mirror and raised his eyebrows as
though seeing the bruise for the first time.
"Oh, some wild animal," he replied. "From the looks of it, I think it must've
liked the taste a'me."
He caught a glimpse of Butch, whose nostrils were flaring as he narrowed his
eyes. Thankfully Burke seemed to be the only one who noticed.
Butch ate by himself in a corner once more, what little of his serving he
actually touched. Burke could tell he was miffed by the remark about the
bruises, but reasoned such cheek was justified after that little "Rory" remark
in bed.
Let him be cross, he thought, then turned his attention back to his eggs and
sausage, thinking no further of the barb.
*
That night, Butch waited until long after Burke had turned in before he
returned to the suite himself. As planned, Burke was asleep and likely not to
wake until morning. Had the order of whomever retired been reversed, Butch
would have easily been roused from sleep by his partner's arrival, and Burke
knew this. The silence and lack of attention was exactly what Butch wanted.
Undressing and sinking under the covers, Butch lay staring at the wall,
listening to the even breaths of the man behind him. Burke's obnoxious teasing
had always been present from day one, but his impudence was becoming even
bolder within the past few days in the town, and the behavior was gnawing at
Butch's nerves even more so than usual. Regardless of how good the sex was, by
all rights he should teach Burke a lesson for being so daring.
Had he gone soft?
He licked his lips, tongue lingering on the scar as he mulled over his stay in
the town and Burke's behavior. The remark about the bites repeated itself over
and over in his mind. Butch had never exactly discussed secrecy of their
relationship outright, but he had surmised the Irishman was smart enough to
figure out on his own that they had to be discreet. Smart enough, but not
humble enough, not nearly.
The risk of their relationship being discovered was getting far too high for
his liking, and already they had been skirting the line enough as it was. Frank
had seen the way they interacted in the cabin, not to mention the fact that
Burke seemed to hold such control, and though he was occasionally an idiot,
Frank also had moments of clarity. Butch knew that if one of the gang got wise
to what was going on, the rest would soon follow, and if word spread that Butch
Cavendish was some sister-boy queer, he would be ruined.
And how damned loud must he have been the first night they took the suite? He
rubbed a hand over his face in frustration. That night when he was pleasured by
Burke's skillful tongue, he had carried on like a cat in heat. He must have
sounded like...
Like a whore.
It took Butch a long time to fall asleep that night.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Uh oh...
***** Parting Ways *****
Chapter Summary
     The gang leaves town and goodbyes are said.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Burke drifted into consciousness the next morning, stretching his arms and
stopping himself just before he could accidentally bump into his motionless
friend. Smiling, he turned over so that he could properly regard the creature
in front of him. The only movement or sound in Butch's resting form was from
his breathing.
Assuming him to be awake (he always was), Burke lifted a hand and touched the
other's shoulder. He was duly surprised when a jolt passed through Butch's
body, the scare of a sudden waking. Butch began to rise and, remembering where
he was, returned to his side, back facing his bedfellow. Burke rested his head
in his hand, elbow propped against the mattress. He could not quite see Butch's
expression, but he could see him staring ahead at the wall.
"Today's the day," he declared softly. "Time to do a legger and find other
pastures."
Butch did not reply.
"Are we to still head East?" Burke asked, keen for some sort of response.
"We are," Butch finally replied. "Me and the gang. Not you."
Burke was about to reply but stopped himself, taken aback by the answer. He was
not sure what to say or think. His first thought was that he was either being
left behind or killed. He better not.
"Meaning...?"
"Meanin' we've had plenty time with each other for now."
Burke might have laughed at the sudden and baffling nature of the announcement
if he thought it wouldn't worsen the tense mood which now lay over the room
like a fog.
"I wouldn't have thought so," he contended, hoping his tone sounded innocent
and unassuming enough. "Most of the time we've shared, you were asleep. I don't
have to leave, don't ye worry..."
"No, I want you to leave."
Again, Burke hardly knew what to say. He had a feeling his usual charm would do
nothing to sway Butch, and he was not certain he wanted to try. Rather than
ride on to new dreadful adventures and wonderful misdeeds, Butch wanted to cut
their time together short. And here Burke thought they had been doing so well.
"What's botherin' ye?" he urged. "Can't ye tell me?"
Butch remained silent. Something had happened, at least in that cannibal head
of his, that had shifted their connection dramatically from the previous
morning. Burke wracked his brain to try to remember what said event might have
been. The remark about his neck the previous morning hadn't pissed him off that
much, had it?
He did not understand. But Butch had endured a hell of a time within the past
two weeks. Much of his past had been revealed, mostly against his own will.
Perhaps next time they reunited Burke could find out even more, but for now,
Butch had received more than his fair share of wretchedness.
"Alright," Burke finally said softly. "It's fine."
He drifted a finger up and down Cavendish's arm, a hopeful attempt to provide
some comfort, even draw the faintest of amused reactions out of Butch, but the
older outlaw moved away. He seemed to prefer practically teetering on the edge
of the mattress than come into contact with his companion. Something had
frightened him out of the trust between them.
Less than a minute later, Butch arose from the bed and got dressed. Burke
watched him with sadness and confusion before grabbing his own clothes and
doing the same. How ironic that much of their time together had involved him
naked and yet for half of it sex had been the last thing on either of their
minds.
*
"What's that smell?"
Burke glanced up questioningly at Skinny, who was presently leaning towards him
and taking a whiff as they exited the hotel. He nearly said he had no idea when
he realized the younger man was also beginning to sniff towards Butch.
"It's soap, ya great idiot," he finally answered. "Perhaps we shoulda taken
some with us so the rest of ye can get acquainted."
As the Cavendish gang filed out onto the main road, they all noticed the
deathly silence which still hung in the air ever since their arrival. Very few
signs of life had made themselves known in the town throughout the gang's stay,
apart from the bartender, but as they mounted their horses and packed, every
now and then they would catch the parting of a curtain in their peripheral
vision.
"Maybe we'll still have a chance to shoot down some heroes yet," Jésus remarked
with a smirk. As they departed, some looked back in case of followers and spied
a small crowd forming in the main road.
"Butch," Alvirez alerted their boss. Turning in his saddle, Butch saw that
several in the group were holding gardening tools and rifles. He scoffed.
"Pretty brave now that we're a hund'erd feet away from'em," he muttered. He
might have been more amused by their cowardice if he had not been in such a
god-awful mood from the unpleasant morning. With the furthest behind of his
gang keeping their revolvers at the ready in case of anything untoward from the
locals, he and his men moved on, heading East the moment they were able.
When the gang had overcome the worst of the rough terrain, Burke knew his
remaining time was short. Neither he or Butch had spoken for the length of the
ride, a little over a half hour. He would have loved to have stayed longer with
Butch, but he also knew arguing or defiance would ruin what few minutes they
had left between them, and he did not want to part from him with either man in
a sour mood.
As the snowy landscape opened up to clearer ground, Butch slowed his horse, and
Burke, taking the hint, followed his example. Soon they were far behind the
other men. He rode ever closer to his friend's side until he could easily touch
him, and thus did so, interlocking his fingers with those of Cavendish. Butch
did not look at him, but he also did not react negatively, allowing the holding
of his hand.
"Hopefully this time we won't take ages to return to each other," Burke
offered. "I'll miss ye."
For a full minute Butch remained silent. Burke felt discouraged until his
partner finally muttered out a response.
"I guess I'll be glad to see yer scribbled ass again. One day."
The vague assurance made Burke smile, and he let go of the other's hand as they
continued to ride.
An hour later the gang arrived at a long patch of snow-covered ground which was
likely a road, based on the absence of vegetation. Burke glanced at Butch
before dismounting.
"Well, lads," he announced, "I've enjoyed yer hospitality long enough. Anyone
who wants to give goodbye kisses better speak up now."
"Aww," Frank whined. "Ya gotta go already?"
"Fraid so, pet," Burke replied with an amused grin.
Though some of the gang were hardly bothered by their sometime teammate's
leaving, others were not so unmoved, clapping Burke on the shoulder and
teasingly shoving him as they said their farewells. Jésus told Burke to stay
gone this time, though his smile seemed to communicate otherwise. Barret
personally thanked him for looking after their leader during his illness. Frank
made a point of wishing him luck on his journey, looking a little crushed to
see him leave the group.
"You boys g'wan ahead," Butch ordered, waving in the direction beyond his gang.
"I'll see this sonuvabitch off."
Burke watched the gang ride off, noting that they came to a stop at a
desiccated pine tree about a hundred feet away. Butch, who remained on his
horse, removed the coin from his pocket.
"Here," he said, flipping it towards Burke, who caught it with ease. He smirked
as he looked at it, and was about to make a joke about how both men would miss
all of the fucking when his fellow outlaw spoke up again.
"I don't make a habit of thankin' people." Silver blue eyes stared solemnly
down at Burke as he spoke. "What you did... both times..."
Burke smiled sincerely, believing the legitimacy of his lover's gratitude. At
the last moment, his usual playfulness insinuated itself into his expression.
"Don't worry. I won't cheapen the moment."
He turned his head to observe the waiting gang in the distance. Some were
watching, including Frank. He considered suggesting that the sandy-haired youth
might have been onto them, but before he could speak, Butch bucked his heels
and rode off, causing the Irishman to jump back. Mounting his own horse, Burke
watched as the man who had become his secret beloved met with his gang.
"If ye look back, it means ye love me," he murmured, watching with barely
contained anticipation as though playing out a superstitious ritual. "If ye
look back, just once."
Butch's horse slowed to a halt as he reunited with his men, and after what
seemed like a hesitation, he turned his head to look at Burke one last time. He
could have sworn he saw every damn tooth as he watched the younger man's
tattooed face break into a wide grin. Burke then rode off, as did Butch, who
shook his head at the silly bastard's behavior.
Reaching a rock formation, Burke spied distant black dots making their way
further East over the snow. He sighed, thinking of Butch. As he had expected,
he missed him already. This problem, however, was easily fixed. His conclusion
was indisputable: this time, their separation would last far shorter, and he
would find a way to do so.
Alternately, Butch's thoughts dwelt on Burke as he rode onward. The cold wind
stinging his eyes, he meditated on the idea of Burke riding away and resisted
the urge to smile in the slightest, reminded of a saying.
I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave.
Though their parting was a chilly one befitting the weather, Butch could not
entirely think back on his and Burke's time with utter malice or regret.
Revealing his past had been difficult, but he wondered if never confessing his
past after having left such blatant clues in his sickness would have been
worse. Perhaps his confession had been somehow therapeutic. Ultimately Burke
had helped him, not just in his illness but in the moments of their first night
in the suite, where he lay exposed and vulnerable to any breed of treatment,
tender or cruel. The Irish outlaw's presence had been good... it felt right. As
someone who claimed he trusted no one, he did trust Burke, and though Butch had
wanted them to separate, he also wanted to one day reunite with him.
Ruadhri Burke. "Rory" Burke. Much to the confusion of his men, Butch found
himself laughing.
 
END
Chapter End Notes
     I wanted to thank my new readers who have been along for the ride and
     enjoying the series. It means a lot to me. Stay tuned for part three,
     which incorporates the supernatural elements of the franchises,
     ooooooooh.
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