(no subject)
Five Ways Justin Won't Stop Working for Al Swearengen (Pop, Deadwood), requested by stubbleglitter
1.
There are more people at the funeral than Joanie thought there’d be. No disrespect to the dead, but the fever’s burying ten, twenty people a week now, with most everyone in the tents, nursing or dying, or else hiding out from the sickness in drink or whoring or prayer. It’s got Jane working till she’s nearly dead on her feet herself, but she made Joanie promise she’d come find her in time to go to the funeral. “And to have a fucking bath first,” Jane had said, not looking at Joanie. Joanie’d known Jane liked Kirkpatrick, but she hadn’t known till then just how much.
Almost all the girls from the Gem are there, and one of the barmen beside them, shuffling his feet and looking awkward with his jacket buttoned to his neck. Mr. Star is there, and the sheriff with his wife, holding her Bible and her prayer book in her hand. And standing on his own, arms crossed over his chest and head up defiantly, is the boy, Jane’s friend. Joanie starts to make her way to him so he won’t have to stand alone, but Jane grabs her sleeve. She’s looking down at the ground, up at the sky, anywhere but at the boy so Joanie whispers, “He’s over there, Justin. Should we - ”
“Let him be,” Jane says, still not looking.
The service is brief and simple, Mrs. Bullock reading in her low soothing voice the words Joanie’s heard too many times in the past few weeks. Joanie can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a curse, the way everyone comes to this in the end. So many people, each different in their luck and their lives, but it all comes to this in the end. She closes her eyes and tries to make the unyielding words bend to fit the dead man, but there’s nothing in what she remembers of him as solemn and serious as this prayer of earth and death and ashes.
“In sure and certain hope of the Resurrection,” Mrs. Bullock says, and Justin laughs, harsh and sharp. Everyone but Jane looks at him and he looks back, staring them all down. In the silence Mrs. Bullock reaches a hand out to Justin but her husband pulls it back gently.
Finally Mrs. Bullock speaks the final Amen and those gathered echo her, all but Justin. He picks up the shovel and starts to fill in the grave. With the fall of the first clod of dirt he flinches, like he wasn’t expecting the sound, and behind her skirt Joanie finds Jane’s hand and holds it tightly. Justin is slow, almost clumsy with the shovel, but when the sheriff tries to take it from him Justin spins and swings the handle into the air as if he’s facing down a thief. When the sheriff steps back Justin turns again to his task, his teeth white against his lip and his face fierce with concentration. She shouldn’t be seeing this, Joanie thinks, none of them should, but it feels wrong to sidle away back to town. So she follows Jane’s lead and looks down at the grave, watches as the light pine is covered by the dark earth.
People surround Justin then, taking their leave while he leans on the shovel like it will support him through their soft words. Jane doesn’t move toward him until everyone else has left.
“You’ll stay with us,” Jane says roughly, her hands twisted together like she’s afraid they’ll fly out and touch him if she doesn’t keep a tight hold on them.
“Got a place,” Justin says.
“You’re right, you want to keep the place fucking safe. I’ll stay there a couple of days,” Jane says, and then, “we will. A couple of fucking days, it’ll be company -“
“I’m staying at the Gem,” Justin says. He looks at Jane and smiles like he’s daring her to do something. “I’ll be staying there now.”
“What the fuck,” Jane says, and then she opens her hands and closes them tight again. When she speaks her voice is slow and heavy with the care she’s taking. “You letting that cocksucker Swearengen turn you out, then, that’s what you think he’d fucking want?”
“He doesn’t fucking want anything now,” Justin says, and Joanie can’t bear to look at his face. Instead she watches Jane’s hands open and close again.
“He’d want you taking care of that place you fucking built -“
“I’d like to tear it down with my own fucking hands,” Justin says, “like to blow it up, like to burn -“ He stops suddenly and Joanie still doesn’t look up. In the quiet she can hear him breathing. “Crumble into fucking dust as far as I’m concerned, that’s what it should fucking do.”
“What the fuck,” Jane says again, and Joanie recognizes the look on her face. It’s Jane’s anger burying her fear and her grief and her desperate desire to fix something she knows she never can. Joanie recognizes the look from the many times it’s been aimed at her. “Fuck, Justin, you think he’d -“
“Let him be,” Joanie says. Jane looks at Joanie and when Joanie nods at her she takes off down toward town, swearing as she goes. Jane’s voice fades and Joanie lifts her head to see Justin looking at her warily.
She’s tempted to say nothing. Justin has dropped the shovel and he’s standing with his hands in his pockets, a sway shivering through him like the weight of a word would drop him to the ground. She recognizes that sway from the many times it’s shaken her own body, but she can’t resist the urge to speak.
“Take care of yourself,” Joanie says. They're words handed down to her by many others, words she'll hand down herself many times, worn smooth and round but still not easy in her mouth. In the hearing those words sound hollow, nothing but a sharp sting of annoyance and worse, Joanie knows, but they get under your skin somehow. They did under hers, at least, and she'd wager she'd a thicker skin than this boy does. The words stayed with her, sunk down deep inside her until one day the memory of them swelled and spoke to her of a comfort she'd never believed in. She'd never let herself believe in it, but one day she'd had need and the words had found her and she'd been glad of it. On the chance that one day this boy will have need, Joanie will say them. “You won’t believe it now, I know, but a day may come you’ll wish you had. A day may come you’ll want yourself again.”
“No,” Justin says, his voice as full as Mrs. Bullock’s prayer. “I won’t.”
2.
“The stuff of fucking science this is not, Johnny,” Al shouts. He’s driven to it by the idiocy around him. He’d once prided himself on not suffering fools, but if he’d kept to that fucking philosophy he’d be the only man left living in this Godforsaken town. “Any fucking child in that school over there could kill smarter than this.” Johnny slinks away out the door, letting it fall open behind him like the clueless cocksucker that he is, and Al sees one of the whores lurking near the door.
“Well don’t fucking skulk out there, come in, come in!” Al says. “Apparently this evening I’m at home to all manner of absurdity. What nonsensical complaint do you come to lay on my doorstep like a fucking cat proud of a mouse he's mauled?”
“None,” the kid says as he walks into Al’s office. Al’s pleased to note he closes the fucking door behind him. He’d been starting to fear that the entire fucking world had forgotten how.
“I hope you’re not thinking to forestall some fucking complaint against you. Johnny there could use some practice in slitting a throat.”
After a careful second the kid laughs. “You won’t be hearing a complaint about me tonight, I’d put down money on it.”
“Pity,” Al says.
The kid rocks forward on his feet and then stands back against the door. "I been thinking," he says.
"Well, glory be and hallelujah, the Lord has finally answered my fucking prayers." Al throws his hands up in the air and then sits back on the edge of his desk. "A whore's been thinking, let me run get my notebook so I can record each deathless fucking word for posterity."
"About Peterson," the kid says doggedly, and the only reason he's still standing instead of lying in his blood on the floor is there's a small part of Al's got a little respect for a certain type of damn fool stubbornness in the face of certain fucking doom. That, and,
"The job you'll do tonight, and the client's being particular about your pretty cocksucking mouth, are the only things standing between you and a fucking beating. You'll want to rethink the value of wasting any more of my fucking time as laid against the number of fucking bones you'd hope to see go unbroke, once that job's done."
"He's a talker," the kid says, taking a step forward as the words come out like they're racing against Al's fist. "I know, I know I ain't got much from him yet, but I can tell he is. Some of them, they're just dying to tell you, you know? It's like you don't even have to fucking pry their secrets from them, they just can't wait to pour them out even though they know they shouldn't, but the stupid fucks can't help themselves. It's like they think when they stick their cocks in my mouth it shuts my ears up too, and fucking good for us it is they think so, but Peterson, he's not such a fucking fool as the rest. He knows better, he knows how to keep his mouth shut, but -- he wants to talk."
"This will make a thrilling tale in your memoirs," Al says, smiling tightly, "should you live to fucking write them."
"So I was thinking, I was thinking that, you know, he said that thing about the contracts last time, and I thought when he stops for a drink tonight he might, you know, let something drop, see if you pick up on it, so he can see if I told you anything, and you could, when he mentions them you could act like you didn't know, about the contracts, I mean --"
"Please," Al says, picturing the many ways he will fuck this boy up as soon as he's done sucking the congressman's cock, "feel free to assume I have a mild fucking acquaintance with my own fucking business."
"But I thought if you acted like you didn't know and then kind of, you know, tried to follow up on it -- I mean, if you just ignore it or act like it doesn’t matter, he's not an idiot, Peterson, he'll figure you're just waiting to hear whatever I tell you once he leaves. But if you asked around a little, like, subtle, like you didn't know but you wanted to, and then, you know, if when he sees me I'm kind of banged up, like you tried to beat it out of me but couldn't, then maybe he'll --"
The force of Al's hand slams the kid back into the door. He puts both hands flat against it for support, but he doesn't fall. He puts a hand up to his mouth as if he'd wipe away the blood, but doesn't. Al backhands him again, from the other side, and the kid takes a breath and swallows hard but still doesn't fall.
"Do you think that'll be enough," Al says, "to convince your fucking congressman that he can trust you to take a beating for him?"
The kid nods carefully.
"Always a damn sight easier than it should be, convincing a man that a whore's been stupid enough to fall in love with him, although given how like you all are to fall in love with the stupidest fucking option, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. It's the way of the fucking world, and good for us that it's fucking so, isn't it?"
The kid nods again, carefully. Blood drips from his mouth onto the floor.
"Go," Al says, but before the kid can reach for the doorknob he says, "You're not the stupidest cocksucker to walk into this room today." The kid smiles a little and looks down. "Given the usual parade of misfits and miscreants who make their way to my fucking door, that's not much of a fucking compliment, but who would've thought it? By the time the whoring wears you out, there might be a fucking use left in you yet."
"Yeah," the kid says, softly, and he nods and wipes a hand through the blood on his mouth. When he leaves he's still smiling. Once he's gone, Al looks down at the floor where he was standing and reaches for his scrub brush.
3.
It's late when Justin gets in, much later than usual, and it takes all of Chris' fucking patience to refrain from commenting on that fact as Justin slides into bed next to him. There's not enough patience in him to refrain from comment entirely, however, so he contents himself with muttering, "It's cold."
"Warm you up," Justin says, but there's something slow and thick about his voice. It's almost like he's drunk, but Justin doesn't come home drunk nights he's been working. Chris rolls over and lets his hand skim over Justin's face, his mouth, and then sits up and fumbles for the candle.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Chris says, holding Justin's chin in his hand. He doesn't let go when Justin flinches. In the flickering light he turns Justin's head so he can see the purple bruises creeping along his jaw. His lip is cut in a couple of places, blood weeping from the corner. Chris pushes himself up from the bed and bangs around while he looks for a clean cloth, some water. When he turns back Justin is sitting cross-legged and watching him anxiously. Chris wipes at the blood, not as carefully as he should, and Justin winces and says,
"Sorry."
Chris tosses the cloth to him and turns around, like he's looking for more water or another rag or something, anything other than what he is looking for, which is any excuse not to look at Justin. "Think they'd want to protect their fucking investment," he says with his back turned.
"They do," Justin says. "They do, usually there's someone around, they won't let anyone unless they fucking pay …" Chris turns around and Justin lifts the rag to his lip guiltily. "Sorry," he says again.
"Don't," Chris says. He stands up slowly. "Look, this can't -- I can't," he says, and Justin looks up at him quickly. "J, I'm tired," and before Justin can say sorry again Chris says,
"Twice in as many months you've come back with your face fucking busted, and it's -- it's enough. We're making money now, not a fucking lot but some, and we can -- you can tell him you're out. We'll cut him in, however fucking much he wants, I don't fucking care, though you might not want to make that your opening position, but -- you're done. Whatever fucking deal he wants, fine, but it's been enough, J, you can tell him you've paid --"
"I can't tell him that," Justin says. Chris looks away for a moment. There's precious little Justin's afraid of, at least that he's willing to let Chris see.
"I can," Chris says, and Justin says, "No," his voice loud and raw in the quiet room. Chris looks away again.
"J," Chris says again, softer, and when he looks back at Justin he's staring down at the blankets. "You don't -- you see the world only one way, sometimes, and that's -- your life, maybe, that's the way it's been and I'm -- I don't say a word against that, but sometimes there's another way and you can't see it, but I can. He's a businessman, Swearengen, and we got some money coming in now, and you're not the only … I'm not saying he won't drive a fucking hard bargain, but whatever he wants, it'll be fucking worth it. You coming back busted up like that, J, it's enough, and if you just tell him --"
"Who do you think fucking banged me up in the first place?" Justin's eyes are as hard as his voice, and it's not like Chris never knew that hardness was in him, but Justin's always worked hard to keep him from seeing it. The silence in the room grows and grows and Justin's hard eyes don't look away. He's almost shaking, Chris can see, with the effort not to look away, and finally Chris says,
"Sorry," and Justin's face falls.
"Don't be fucking stupid," Justin says, and though the words are harsh his voice isn't. There's something else in his voice, though, something he's never been willing to let Chris see. "You fucking know as well as I do. Some things, you don't get out."
When Chris reaches for him Justin rolls over onto his side. "It's cold," he says, as Chris slides into bed next to him.
4.
Justin's on his third circuit around the rather small room when JC finally says, "You know, you can sit down if you like."
He hides a smile as Justin blushes a little and then sits down in the rocking chair JC brought west with him. It was a pain in the ass to haul and every stagecoach driver had wanted to ditch it by the side of the road, but somehow JC always managed to talk them out of it. He brought most of his things west with him; it might have made more sense to sell them but JC had guessed that he wouldn't be able to replace them in Deadwood. Having his beautiful things around him makes him feel less like he made a horrible, horrible mistake by coming west at all. It isn't like he'd had much choice, after all. And besides, with all his beautiful things, even a small windowless closet like this one feels like a real dressing room, like the one he left behind him back east. It has an air, at any rate.
"It's real pretty," Justin says finally, his hands folded carefully in his lap. The rocker doesn't move at all, the way he's perched in it with his feet braced against the floor. "You made it look real pretty."
"Thank you," JC says. "I'm glad you like it." Justin relaxes as JC smiles at him, and the chair rocks back once and then forward. JC makes sure his voice is casual before he says, "But I know you've seen much prettier rooms. You were in San Francisco, I've heard, and New Orleans?"
The chair stills and Justin says, "Where'd you hear New Orleans?"
"That part I guessed," JC says. "Coming from the South, I just thought that might have been where you started. Your travels, I mean. I've been there once, New Orleans. It's lovely."
"Yeah," Justin says. He stands up and takes another tour around the room. Usually JC doesn't like people handling his things, but Justin is careful. He doesn't paw. What he touches he touches gently with the tip of a finger, almost as if he's testing to see if it's really there. Mostly he just looks at everything, each piece JC has chosen, peering down as if he's seeing something familiar, something he didn't expect to see again.
"But I never made something pretty like this room," Justin says. "I just -- on my own, I never did. Never had the patience, maybe."
"It does take a certain discipline of mind," JC says. "Sit down. You're giving me the fidgets." Justin sits down and JC smiles sweetly at him. "I missed you at the show last night," he says with the same casual tone he'd used before. "You're usually my best audience."
"I had something I had to do," Justin says. He looks right at JC when he says it, like he's daring him to say something. JC has never been a reckless man, but you don't get into his business if there's not part of you that savors a dare.
"Yes, I know," JC says, and lets the casual note drop out of his voice along with the sweetness. "You don't have to do that, you know. You're being very stupid."
"You don't -- you don't --" Justin stands and JC snaps,
"Understand? Of course I do." JC looks at him hard until Justin sits down again. "I don't mean to sound harsh. You're young, of course, and I can see how you might have felt desperate when you first came here, but the Gem -- it's a big step backwards and that's always an error. You'll have to work twice as hard to get yourself out of it, but that's no excuse for not trying."
Justin is studying him as intently as he studied the ornaments displayed around the room. Finally he says, slowly, "You think I can get out of it?"
"The first thing we need to do is talk to that man, Swearengen." Justin starts to say something and JC holds up a hand. "Please, I don't even want to know what kind of foolishness you've already tried on him. Really, just imagining it I almost feel sorry for the man. I'm sure you sounded as desperate as you felt, and, really, Justin, you mustn't think I don't have sympathy. But sympathy buys you nothing, and even on my brief acquaintance with him I know that Mr. Swearengen is a man who cares deeply about buying and selling. He's a simple man, which you'll come to admire if you're wise, and so he must be spoken to simply, and with respect. I'm happy to do it for you."
"What will you say?" Justin's voice has fallen almost to a whisper, and although JC doesn't think anyone could overhear he takes Justin's cue and leans in.
"He's a businessman, after all, and he must understand that there's only so much even a rich man will pay to rut in a pigsty. Of course, if you're doing a volume business, that makes perfect sense, but if you want something a little more exclusive, you need some style, a certain air." JC smiles. "I can't blame the man for not seeing it in you, but I have a strong suspicion that if we wash the mud off you and find some proper clothes, you'll find you haven't missed a step since you were in the city. And between the two of us, well, I don't think it'll be long before we're making city money. Once Mr. Swearengen realizes just how much bigger his cut will be, I really don't think he'll take much convincing. And if he does, well --" JC spreads his hands out -- "I believe there's a newcomer to this town who is renowned for his ability to see a good deal, and perhaps we'll find him more open to an alliance."
Justin pushes himself to his feet again and this time JC follows. "As you said yourself, Justin, this is a very pretty room." He puts a hand on Justin's chin and turns Justin to face him. "And as you know yourself, men are willing to pay quite a bit for pretty things."
Justin takes a step back, one hand on the small table JC keeps his teapot on. "You think -- you think I could -- and Chris, he'll --"
"You're handling him beautifully, I marked it the first time I saw you with him. He's sharp, and that's not an easy thing to manage -- you should be proud. And I'm perfectly willing for you to continue to handle him, or if you prefer I'll help you, whichever you choose. I think you'll find I have a trick or two --"
"I'm not handling him," Justin says, and for a moment JC honestly doesn't know what on earth he's talking about. Then Justin says, his face flushing, "You don't understand -- I'm not, we're not --" and with a rush of fury JC does understand.
"You stupid little boy," he says, "don't tell me, do not tell me you love him."
"You don't --"
"Understand? Of course I do. I understand that I thought I was talking to a professional, not a gutter slut who's fool enough to fuck for everyone else's benefit but his own. No wonder you're happy at the Gem -- I'm sure the more degrading it is the more you tell yourself you're sacrificing for love."
Justin picks up the teapot from the table. In his hand it looks small, even more fragile than JC knows it to be. When Justin crushes it, JC will take great pleasure in charging Chris for it. JC had had such high hopes for Justin.
"You think there's anything I've done you haven't?" Justin says.
"I've done what I need to survive and I have no shame in it, but I take care of myself and no one else. That's work enough in this world, believe me."
Justin says, "If that's true I feel sorry for you," and JC laughs.
"Not as sorry as I feel for you. You don't believe me, but I actually mean it. He won't respect you for what you're doing, he'll just remember how willing you are to get on your knees for another man." Justin looks away quickly and JC says, "He won't love you for it. Believe me."
Justin looks back at him. "Like I said," he says finally, "you don't understand."
He puts the teapot down carefully on the table and walks to the door. Just before he leaves he says, "Swearengen finds you turning tricks out of here, he'll cut your face up for a start. And he'll find out. Believe me."
Justin closes the door just before the teapot crashes against it and falls to pieces on the floor. JC lets it lie there as he throws himself down in his chair. He'd had such high hopes for Deadwood.
5.
It's been hot as hell for four days running, not even the nights cooling down enough to give any real relief. There's not a truly comfortable place in the whole fucking town, but Justin's found a hint of a breeze some nights out behind the Gem. He ducks out there to try to catch a little of it before he braves the walk home. At night the heat isn't the thick weight on the skin it is during the day; it's like a snakebite, a sharp sting all over you and then a wildness in the blood. There's music loud and frantic pouring from the saloon, and out by himself Justin lets himself dance a little, in a way he hasn't in a long time. He's not immune to the heat, or the wildness.
A small hand creeps around his waist, a small body presses hot and hard against his back, and Justin stops. "Don't you like me?" a breathless, unfamiliar voice says, and Justin smiles.
"You must be new," he says, "if you're wasting your fucking time on me."
"I am new," the girl says. She's pretty, Justin thinks, not pretty for a whore but pretty like a real girl, as he remembers them. She pushes her long hair out of her face and looks up at him. "To here, anyway."
"I'm Justin," he says, and she smiles at him. It's a real girl's smile, wide and sweet.
"I know," she says. She sits down in the dirt with her knees apart and hikes her skirt up to her thighs. "It's hot," she says when he rolls his eyes, and then laughs. It's dirty and loud, a whore's laugh, and Justin likes it. "Smoke?"
He sits down next to her and she says, "I never been in a house with boys before. I like it."
"I don't live here," he says quickly.
"Yeah? Well, I guess I better take my chances to talk to you when I can fucking get them, then."
"Why would you want to talk to me?" Justin says, picking up her light teasing tone without even meaning to. It's a good whore's trick, that one, making a man feel like you and he have got something, a joke, a secret, something that's just for the two of you. Justin's always been good at it.
"They said, some of the girls, they told me you were in San Francisco before."
"Yeah, where are you from?" Justin says, another good whore's trick, get them talking about themselves instead of you, but this girl isn't falling for it. She knows it herself, probably.
"Nowhere, shitty little town full of shitty little people, no way I was staying there. And I'm not gonna stay here either -- I'm going someplace. You like it, San Francisco?"
"Sure."
"I'm gonna love it, I can tell already. I'm gonna fucking make something of myself. You can't fucking get ahead here, not really, not in a house where they take a fucking dollar before they give you a dime, but I'm working my way there. I don't touch the fucking drugs, I don't gamble, and I sure as hell don't waste my time or money on a man." Justin laughs and she laughs too, a little, and then says seriously, "You'll see, though, I'll get there and I'll find myself a rich man and you won't even fucking recognize me."
Justin stops laughing and the girl says, one hand on his arm, "You miss it there, huh?"
"No," Justin says, and she says, "Liar."
Justin blushes a little and she laughs again. "You got a man here, huh?"
"Sure," Justin says, because there's no point in not answering her, she's just going to roll right over you anyway.
"Rich?" and Justin laughs.
"Hardly." He can see the girl chewing that over and he can't help smiling. Finally she pats his arm again, kindly, and says,
"Well, don't worry, I'm sure you'll get back to San Francisco one day. Hell, maybe we'll run away together, cause you know I'm getting there."
"I'm happy enough here," Justin says, and laughs again at the look she gives him.
"Deadwood?" She spits on the ground next to her. "I guess it must be fucking love, then." There's something guarded in her voice when she says it, like for the first time she's being careful with her words for fear of what she'll let slip. That's a whore's trick, too, and something about it makes Justin say,
"It's not what you think, San Francisco. It wasn't -- it wasn't like I thought it would be." She looks up at him and there's disbelief in her eyes, and beneath that a desire for her dream that's raw and wild and utterly familiar to him. "I don't know," Justin says, looking away, "maybe it's different for girls."
"Most things are," she says, and suddenly, lightly, she kisses him on the cheek. Justin turns just as she does it, out of surprise, mostly, and catches half of it on the side of his mouth. She tastes like smoke and sweat and something sweeter.
"Britney, get your ass inside," Dan yells from the doorway, "you ain't done for the night, not by a fucking long shot." The girl hoists herself to her feet with one hand on Justin's shoulder. She slips past Dan and into the Gem, swinging her hips as she goes.
"This being a fucking place of business, Al's got no desire to see anyone hanging around who isn't buying or selling. So unless you got a hankering to suck another cock or two --"
"I'm leaving, Dan," Justin says, and pushes himself to his feet.
"Yeah, I guess you got that waiting for you at fucking home."
"Good night, Dan," Justin says.
Chris is waiting for him when he gets home, sprawled out across the bed naked with a wet rag over his face. "It's too hot for anything except praying for the sweet fucking release of death," he says, but when Justin slides into bed Chris rolls over to his side and kisses Justin roughly.
Later, as Chris thrashes around trying to find a cool patch of sheet, Justin lies still on his back. "There's a new girl at the Gem," he says.
Chris flips the pillow over and swears when he finds it just as hot this side up. "Well, God help her, whoever she is," he says.
Justin says, "Her name's Britney."
"It's hot," Chris says, and rolls over on his side to go to sleep.
1.
There are more people at the funeral than Joanie thought there’d be. No disrespect to the dead, but the fever’s burying ten, twenty people a week now, with most everyone in the tents, nursing or dying, or else hiding out from the sickness in drink or whoring or prayer. It’s got Jane working till she’s nearly dead on her feet herself, but she made Joanie promise she’d come find her in time to go to the funeral. “And to have a fucking bath first,” Jane had said, not looking at Joanie. Joanie’d known Jane liked Kirkpatrick, but she hadn’t known till then just how much.
Almost all the girls from the Gem are there, and one of the barmen beside them, shuffling his feet and looking awkward with his jacket buttoned to his neck. Mr. Star is there, and the sheriff with his wife, holding her Bible and her prayer book in her hand. And standing on his own, arms crossed over his chest and head up defiantly, is the boy, Jane’s friend. Joanie starts to make her way to him so he won’t have to stand alone, but Jane grabs her sleeve. She’s looking down at the ground, up at the sky, anywhere but at the boy so Joanie whispers, “He’s over there, Justin. Should we - ”
“Let him be,” Jane says, still not looking.
The service is brief and simple, Mrs. Bullock reading in her low soothing voice the words Joanie’s heard too many times in the past few weeks. Joanie can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a curse, the way everyone comes to this in the end. So many people, each different in their luck and their lives, but it all comes to this in the end. She closes her eyes and tries to make the unyielding words bend to fit the dead man, but there’s nothing in what she remembers of him as solemn and serious as this prayer of earth and death and ashes.
“In sure and certain hope of the Resurrection,” Mrs. Bullock says, and Justin laughs, harsh and sharp. Everyone but Jane looks at him and he looks back, staring them all down. In the silence Mrs. Bullock reaches a hand out to Justin but her husband pulls it back gently.
Finally Mrs. Bullock speaks the final Amen and those gathered echo her, all but Justin. He picks up the shovel and starts to fill in the grave. With the fall of the first clod of dirt he flinches, like he wasn’t expecting the sound, and behind her skirt Joanie finds Jane’s hand and holds it tightly. Justin is slow, almost clumsy with the shovel, but when the sheriff tries to take it from him Justin spins and swings the handle into the air as if he’s facing down a thief. When the sheriff steps back Justin turns again to his task, his teeth white against his lip and his face fierce with concentration. She shouldn’t be seeing this, Joanie thinks, none of them should, but it feels wrong to sidle away back to town. So she follows Jane’s lead and looks down at the grave, watches as the light pine is covered by the dark earth.
People surround Justin then, taking their leave while he leans on the shovel like it will support him through their soft words. Jane doesn’t move toward him until everyone else has left.
“You’ll stay with us,” Jane says roughly, her hands twisted together like she’s afraid they’ll fly out and touch him if she doesn’t keep a tight hold on them.
“Got a place,” Justin says.
“You’re right, you want to keep the place fucking safe. I’ll stay there a couple of days,” Jane says, and then, “we will. A couple of fucking days, it’ll be company -“
“I’m staying at the Gem,” Justin says. He looks at Jane and smiles like he’s daring her to do something. “I’ll be staying there now.”
“What the fuck,” Jane says, and then she opens her hands and closes them tight again. When she speaks her voice is slow and heavy with the care she’s taking. “You letting that cocksucker Swearengen turn you out, then, that’s what you think he’d fucking want?”
“He doesn’t fucking want anything now,” Justin says, and Joanie can’t bear to look at his face. Instead she watches Jane’s hands open and close again.
“He’d want you taking care of that place you fucking built -“
“I’d like to tear it down with my own fucking hands,” Justin says, “like to blow it up, like to burn -“ He stops suddenly and Joanie still doesn’t look up. In the quiet she can hear him breathing. “Crumble into fucking dust as far as I’m concerned, that’s what it should fucking do.”
“What the fuck,” Jane says again, and Joanie recognizes the look on her face. It’s Jane’s anger burying her fear and her grief and her desperate desire to fix something she knows she never can. Joanie recognizes the look from the many times it’s been aimed at her. “Fuck, Justin, you think he’d -“
“Let him be,” Joanie says. Jane looks at Joanie and when Joanie nods at her she takes off down toward town, swearing as she goes. Jane’s voice fades and Joanie lifts her head to see Justin looking at her warily.
She’s tempted to say nothing. Justin has dropped the shovel and he’s standing with his hands in his pockets, a sway shivering through him like the weight of a word would drop him to the ground. She recognizes that sway from the many times it’s shaken her own body, but she can’t resist the urge to speak.
“Take care of yourself,” Joanie says. They're words handed down to her by many others, words she'll hand down herself many times, worn smooth and round but still not easy in her mouth. In the hearing those words sound hollow, nothing but a sharp sting of annoyance and worse, Joanie knows, but they get under your skin somehow. They did under hers, at least, and she'd wager she'd a thicker skin than this boy does. The words stayed with her, sunk down deep inside her until one day the memory of them swelled and spoke to her of a comfort she'd never believed in. She'd never let herself believe in it, but one day she'd had need and the words had found her and she'd been glad of it. On the chance that one day this boy will have need, Joanie will say them. “You won’t believe it now, I know, but a day may come you’ll wish you had. A day may come you’ll want yourself again.”
“No,” Justin says, his voice as full as Mrs. Bullock’s prayer. “I won’t.”
2.
“The stuff of fucking science this is not, Johnny,” Al shouts. He’s driven to it by the idiocy around him. He’d once prided himself on not suffering fools, but if he’d kept to that fucking philosophy he’d be the only man left living in this Godforsaken town. “Any fucking child in that school over there could kill smarter than this.” Johnny slinks away out the door, letting it fall open behind him like the clueless cocksucker that he is, and Al sees one of the whores lurking near the door.
“Well don’t fucking skulk out there, come in, come in!” Al says. “Apparently this evening I’m at home to all manner of absurdity. What nonsensical complaint do you come to lay on my doorstep like a fucking cat proud of a mouse he's mauled?”
“None,” the kid says as he walks into Al’s office. Al’s pleased to note he closes the fucking door behind him. He’d been starting to fear that the entire fucking world had forgotten how.
“I hope you’re not thinking to forestall some fucking complaint against you. Johnny there could use some practice in slitting a throat.”
After a careful second the kid laughs. “You won’t be hearing a complaint about me tonight, I’d put down money on it.”
“Pity,” Al says.
The kid rocks forward on his feet and then stands back against the door. "I been thinking," he says.
"Well, glory be and hallelujah, the Lord has finally answered my fucking prayers." Al throws his hands up in the air and then sits back on the edge of his desk. "A whore's been thinking, let me run get my notebook so I can record each deathless fucking word for posterity."
"About Peterson," the kid says doggedly, and the only reason he's still standing instead of lying in his blood on the floor is there's a small part of Al's got a little respect for a certain type of damn fool stubbornness in the face of certain fucking doom. That, and,
"The job you'll do tonight, and the client's being particular about your pretty cocksucking mouth, are the only things standing between you and a fucking beating. You'll want to rethink the value of wasting any more of my fucking time as laid against the number of fucking bones you'd hope to see go unbroke, once that job's done."
"He's a talker," the kid says, taking a step forward as the words come out like they're racing against Al's fist. "I know, I know I ain't got much from him yet, but I can tell he is. Some of them, they're just dying to tell you, you know? It's like you don't even have to fucking pry their secrets from them, they just can't wait to pour them out even though they know they shouldn't, but the stupid fucks can't help themselves. It's like they think when they stick their cocks in my mouth it shuts my ears up too, and fucking good for us it is they think so, but Peterson, he's not such a fucking fool as the rest. He knows better, he knows how to keep his mouth shut, but -- he wants to talk."
"This will make a thrilling tale in your memoirs," Al says, smiling tightly, "should you live to fucking write them."
"So I was thinking, I was thinking that, you know, he said that thing about the contracts last time, and I thought when he stops for a drink tonight he might, you know, let something drop, see if you pick up on it, so he can see if I told you anything, and you could, when he mentions them you could act like you didn't know, about the contracts, I mean --"
"Please," Al says, picturing the many ways he will fuck this boy up as soon as he's done sucking the congressman's cock, "feel free to assume I have a mild fucking acquaintance with my own fucking business."
"But I thought if you acted like you didn't know and then kind of, you know, tried to follow up on it -- I mean, if you just ignore it or act like it doesn’t matter, he's not an idiot, Peterson, he'll figure you're just waiting to hear whatever I tell you once he leaves. But if you asked around a little, like, subtle, like you didn't know but you wanted to, and then, you know, if when he sees me I'm kind of banged up, like you tried to beat it out of me but couldn't, then maybe he'll --"
The force of Al's hand slams the kid back into the door. He puts both hands flat against it for support, but he doesn't fall. He puts a hand up to his mouth as if he'd wipe away the blood, but doesn't. Al backhands him again, from the other side, and the kid takes a breath and swallows hard but still doesn't fall.
"Do you think that'll be enough," Al says, "to convince your fucking congressman that he can trust you to take a beating for him?"
The kid nods carefully.
"Always a damn sight easier than it should be, convincing a man that a whore's been stupid enough to fall in love with him, although given how like you all are to fall in love with the stupidest fucking option, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. It's the way of the fucking world, and good for us that it's fucking so, isn't it?"
The kid nods again, carefully. Blood drips from his mouth onto the floor.
"Go," Al says, but before the kid can reach for the doorknob he says, "You're not the stupidest cocksucker to walk into this room today." The kid smiles a little and looks down. "Given the usual parade of misfits and miscreants who make their way to my fucking door, that's not much of a fucking compliment, but who would've thought it? By the time the whoring wears you out, there might be a fucking use left in you yet."
"Yeah," the kid says, softly, and he nods and wipes a hand through the blood on his mouth. When he leaves he's still smiling. Once he's gone, Al looks down at the floor where he was standing and reaches for his scrub brush.
3.
It's late when Justin gets in, much later than usual, and it takes all of Chris' fucking patience to refrain from commenting on that fact as Justin slides into bed next to him. There's not enough patience in him to refrain from comment entirely, however, so he contents himself with muttering, "It's cold."
"Warm you up," Justin says, but there's something slow and thick about his voice. It's almost like he's drunk, but Justin doesn't come home drunk nights he's been working. Chris rolls over and lets his hand skim over Justin's face, his mouth, and then sits up and fumbles for the candle.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Chris says, holding Justin's chin in his hand. He doesn't let go when Justin flinches. In the flickering light he turns Justin's head so he can see the purple bruises creeping along his jaw. His lip is cut in a couple of places, blood weeping from the corner. Chris pushes himself up from the bed and bangs around while he looks for a clean cloth, some water. When he turns back Justin is sitting cross-legged and watching him anxiously. Chris wipes at the blood, not as carefully as he should, and Justin winces and says,
"Sorry."
Chris tosses the cloth to him and turns around, like he's looking for more water or another rag or something, anything other than what he is looking for, which is any excuse not to look at Justin. "Think they'd want to protect their fucking investment," he says with his back turned.
"They do," Justin says. "They do, usually there's someone around, they won't let anyone unless they fucking pay …" Chris turns around and Justin lifts the rag to his lip guiltily. "Sorry," he says again.
"Don't," Chris says. He stands up slowly. "Look, this can't -- I can't," he says, and Justin looks up at him quickly. "J, I'm tired," and before Justin can say sorry again Chris says,
"Twice in as many months you've come back with your face fucking busted, and it's -- it's enough. We're making money now, not a fucking lot but some, and we can -- you can tell him you're out. We'll cut him in, however fucking much he wants, I don't fucking care, though you might not want to make that your opening position, but -- you're done. Whatever fucking deal he wants, fine, but it's been enough, J, you can tell him you've paid --"
"I can't tell him that," Justin says. Chris looks away for a moment. There's precious little Justin's afraid of, at least that he's willing to let Chris see.
"I can," Chris says, and Justin says, "No," his voice loud and raw in the quiet room. Chris looks away again.
"J," Chris says again, softer, and when he looks back at Justin he's staring down at the blankets. "You don't -- you see the world only one way, sometimes, and that's -- your life, maybe, that's the way it's been and I'm -- I don't say a word against that, but sometimes there's another way and you can't see it, but I can. He's a businessman, Swearengen, and we got some money coming in now, and you're not the only … I'm not saying he won't drive a fucking hard bargain, but whatever he wants, it'll be fucking worth it. You coming back busted up like that, J, it's enough, and if you just tell him --"
"Who do you think fucking banged me up in the first place?" Justin's eyes are as hard as his voice, and it's not like Chris never knew that hardness was in him, but Justin's always worked hard to keep him from seeing it. The silence in the room grows and grows and Justin's hard eyes don't look away. He's almost shaking, Chris can see, with the effort not to look away, and finally Chris says,
"Sorry," and Justin's face falls.
"Don't be fucking stupid," Justin says, and though the words are harsh his voice isn't. There's something else in his voice, though, something he's never been willing to let Chris see. "You fucking know as well as I do. Some things, you don't get out."
When Chris reaches for him Justin rolls over onto his side. "It's cold," he says, as Chris slides into bed next to him.
4.
Justin's on his third circuit around the rather small room when JC finally says, "You know, you can sit down if you like."
He hides a smile as Justin blushes a little and then sits down in the rocking chair JC brought west with him. It was a pain in the ass to haul and every stagecoach driver had wanted to ditch it by the side of the road, but somehow JC always managed to talk them out of it. He brought most of his things west with him; it might have made more sense to sell them but JC had guessed that he wouldn't be able to replace them in Deadwood. Having his beautiful things around him makes him feel less like he made a horrible, horrible mistake by coming west at all. It isn't like he'd had much choice, after all. And besides, with all his beautiful things, even a small windowless closet like this one feels like a real dressing room, like the one he left behind him back east. It has an air, at any rate.
"It's real pretty," Justin says finally, his hands folded carefully in his lap. The rocker doesn't move at all, the way he's perched in it with his feet braced against the floor. "You made it look real pretty."
"Thank you," JC says. "I'm glad you like it." Justin relaxes as JC smiles at him, and the chair rocks back once and then forward. JC makes sure his voice is casual before he says, "But I know you've seen much prettier rooms. You were in San Francisco, I've heard, and New Orleans?"
The chair stills and Justin says, "Where'd you hear New Orleans?"
"That part I guessed," JC says. "Coming from the South, I just thought that might have been where you started. Your travels, I mean. I've been there once, New Orleans. It's lovely."
"Yeah," Justin says. He stands up and takes another tour around the room. Usually JC doesn't like people handling his things, but Justin is careful. He doesn't paw. What he touches he touches gently with the tip of a finger, almost as if he's testing to see if it's really there. Mostly he just looks at everything, each piece JC has chosen, peering down as if he's seeing something familiar, something he didn't expect to see again.
"But I never made something pretty like this room," Justin says. "I just -- on my own, I never did. Never had the patience, maybe."
"It does take a certain discipline of mind," JC says. "Sit down. You're giving me the fidgets." Justin sits down and JC smiles sweetly at him. "I missed you at the show last night," he says with the same casual tone he'd used before. "You're usually my best audience."
"I had something I had to do," Justin says. He looks right at JC when he says it, like he's daring him to say something. JC has never been a reckless man, but you don't get into his business if there's not part of you that savors a dare.
"Yes, I know," JC says, and lets the casual note drop out of his voice along with the sweetness. "You don't have to do that, you know. You're being very stupid."
"You don't -- you don't --" Justin stands and JC snaps,
"Understand? Of course I do." JC looks at him hard until Justin sits down again. "I don't mean to sound harsh. You're young, of course, and I can see how you might have felt desperate when you first came here, but the Gem -- it's a big step backwards and that's always an error. You'll have to work twice as hard to get yourself out of it, but that's no excuse for not trying."
Justin is studying him as intently as he studied the ornaments displayed around the room. Finally he says, slowly, "You think I can get out of it?"
"The first thing we need to do is talk to that man, Swearengen." Justin starts to say something and JC holds up a hand. "Please, I don't even want to know what kind of foolishness you've already tried on him. Really, just imagining it I almost feel sorry for the man. I'm sure you sounded as desperate as you felt, and, really, Justin, you mustn't think I don't have sympathy. But sympathy buys you nothing, and even on my brief acquaintance with him I know that Mr. Swearengen is a man who cares deeply about buying and selling. He's a simple man, which you'll come to admire if you're wise, and so he must be spoken to simply, and with respect. I'm happy to do it for you."
"What will you say?" Justin's voice has fallen almost to a whisper, and although JC doesn't think anyone could overhear he takes Justin's cue and leans in.
"He's a businessman, after all, and he must understand that there's only so much even a rich man will pay to rut in a pigsty. Of course, if you're doing a volume business, that makes perfect sense, but if you want something a little more exclusive, you need some style, a certain air." JC smiles. "I can't blame the man for not seeing it in you, but I have a strong suspicion that if we wash the mud off you and find some proper clothes, you'll find you haven't missed a step since you were in the city. And between the two of us, well, I don't think it'll be long before we're making city money. Once Mr. Swearengen realizes just how much bigger his cut will be, I really don't think he'll take much convincing. And if he does, well --" JC spreads his hands out -- "I believe there's a newcomer to this town who is renowned for his ability to see a good deal, and perhaps we'll find him more open to an alliance."
Justin pushes himself to his feet again and this time JC follows. "As you said yourself, Justin, this is a very pretty room." He puts a hand on Justin's chin and turns Justin to face him. "And as you know yourself, men are willing to pay quite a bit for pretty things."
Justin takes a step back, one hand on the small table JC keeps his teapot on. "You think -- you think I could -- and Chris, he'll --"
"You're handling him beautifully, I marked it the first time I saw you with him. He's sharp, and that's not an easy thing to manage -- you should be proud. And I'm perfectly willing for you to continue to handle him, or if you prefer I'll help you, whichever you choose. I think you'll find I have a trick or two --"
"I'm not handling him," Justin says, and for a moment JC honestly doesn't know what on earth he's talking about. Then Justin says, his face flushing, "You don't understand -- I'm not, we're not --" and with a rush of fury JC does understand.
"You stupid little boy," he says, "don't tell me, do not tell me you love him."
"You don't --"
"Understand? Of course I do. I understand that I thought I was talking to a professional, not a gutter slut who's fool enough to fuck for everyone else's benefit but his own. No wonder you're happy at the Gem -- I'm sure the more degrading it is the more you tell yourself you're sacrificing for love."
Justin picks up the teapot from the table. In his hand it looks small, even more fragile than JC knows it to be. When Justin crushes it, JC will take great pleasure in charging Chris for it. JC had had such high hopes for Justin.
"You think there's anything I've done you haven't?" Justin says.
"I've done what I need to survive and I have no shame in it, but I take care of myself and no one else. That's work enough in this world, believe me."
Justin says, "If that's true I feel sorry for you," and JC laughs.
"Not as sorry as I feel for you. You don't believe me, but I actually mean it. He won't respect you for what you're doing, he'll just remember how willing you are to get on your knees for another man." Justin looks away quickly and JC says, "He won't love you for it. Believe me."
Justin looks back at him. "Like I said," he says finally, "you don't understand."
He puts the teapot down carefully on the table and walks to the door. Just before he leaves he says, "Swearengen finds you turning tricks out of here, he'll cut your face up for a start. And he'll find out. Believe me."
Justin closes the door just before the teapot crashes against it and falls to pieces on the floor. JC lets it lie there as he throws himself down in his chair. He'd had such high hopes for Deadwood.
5.
It's been hot as hell for four days running, not even the nights cooling down enough to give any real relief. There's not a truly comfortable place in the whole fucking town, but Justin's found a hint of a breeze some nights out behind the Gem. He ducks out there to try to catch a little of it before he braves the walk home. At night the heat isn't the thick weight on the skin it is during the day; it's like a snakebite, a sharp sting all over you and then a wildness in the blood. There's music loud and frantic pouring from the saloon, and out by himself Justin lets himself dance a little, in a way he hasn't in a long time. He's not immune to the heat, or the wildness.
A small hand creeps around his waist, a small body presses hot and hard against his back, and Justin stops. "Don't you like me?" a breathless, unfamiliar voice says, and Justin smiles.
"You must be new," he says, "if you're wasting your fucking time on me."
"I am new," the girl says. She's pretty, Justin thinks, not pretty for a whore but pretty like a real girl, as he remembers them. She pushes her long hair out of her face and looks up at him. "To here, anyway."
"I'm Justin," he says, and she smiles at him. It's a real girl's smile, wide and sweet.
"I know," she says. She sits down in the dirt with her knees apart and hikes her skirt up to her thighs. "It's hot," she says when he rolls his eyes, and then laughs. It's dirty and loud, a whore's laugh, and Justin likes it. "Smoke?"
He sits down next to her and she says, "I never been in a house with boys before. I like it."
"I don't live here," he says quickly.
"Yeah? Well, I guess I better take my chances to talk to you when I can fucking get them, then."
"Why would you want to talk to me?" Justin says, picking up her light teasing tone without even meaning to. It's a good whore's trick, that one, making a man feel like you and he have got something, a joke, a secret, something that's just for the two of you. Justin's always been good at it.
"They said, some of the girls, they told me you were in San Francisco before."
"Yeah, where are you from?" Justin says, another good whore's trick, get them talking about themselves instead of you, but this girl isn't falling for it. She knows it herself, probably.
"Nowhere, shitty little town full of shitty little people, no way I was staying there. And I'm not gonna stay here either -- I'm going someplace. You like it, San Francisco?"
"Sure."
"I'm gonna love it, I can tell already. I'm gonna fucking make something of myself. You can't fucking get ahead here, not really, not in a house where they take a fucking dollar before they give you a dime, but I'm working my way there. I don't touch the fucking drugs, I don't gamble, and I sure as hell don't waste my time or money on a man." Justin laughs and she laughs too, a little, and then says seriously, "You'll see, though, I'll get there and I'll find myself a rich man and you won't even fucking recognize me."
Justin stops laughing and the girl says, one hand on his arm, "You miss it there, huh?"
"No," Justin says, and she says, "Liar."
Justin blushes a little and she laughs again. "You got a man here, huh?"
"Sure," Justin says, because there's no point in not answering her, she's just going to roll right over you anyway.
"Rich?" and Justin laughs.
"Hardly." He can see the girl chewing that over and he can't help smiling. Finally she pats his arm again, kindly, and says,
"Well, don't worry, I'm sure you'll get back to San Francisco one day. Hell, maybe we'll run away together, cause you know I'm getting there."
"I'm happy enough here," Justin says, and laughs again at the look she gives him.
"Deadwood?" She spits on the ground next to her. "I guess it must be fucking love, then." There's something guarded in her voice when she says it, like for the first time she's being careful with her words for fear of what she'll let slip. That's a whore's trick, too, and something about it makes Justin say,
"It's not what you think, San Francisco. It wasn't -- it wasn't like I thought it would be." She looks up at him and there's disbelief in her eyes, and beneath that a desire for her dream that's raw and wild and utterly familiar to him. "I don't know," Justin says, looking away, "maybe it's different for girls."
"Most things are," she says, and suddenly, lightly, she kisses him on the cheek. Justin turns just as she does it, out of surprise, mostly, and catches half of it on the side of his mouth. She tastes like smoke and sweat and something sweeter.
"Britney, get your ass inside," Dan yells from the doorway, "you ain't done for the night, not by a fucking long shot." The girl hoists herself to her feet with one hand on Justin's shoulder. She slips past Dan and into the Gem, swinging her hips as she goes.
"This being a fucking place of business, Al's got no desire to see anyone hanging around who isn't buying or selling. So unless you got a hankering to suck another cock or two --"
"I'm leaving, Dan," Justin says, and pushes himself to his feet.
"Yeah, I guess you got that waiting for you at fucking home."
"Good night, Dan," Justin says.
Chris is waiting for him when he gets home, sprawled out across the bed naked with a wet rag over his face. "It's too hot for anything except praying for the sweet fucking release of death," he says, but when Justin slides into bed Chris rolls over to his side and kisses Justin roughly.
Later, as Chris thrashes around trying to find a cool patch of sheet, Justin lies still on his back. "There's a new girl at the Gem," he says.
Chris flips the pillow over and swears when he finds it just as hot this side up. "Well, God help her, whoever she is," he says.
Justin says, "Her name's Britney."
"It's hot," Chris says, and rolls over on his side to go to sleep.