(no subject)
This is, again, for Joan, the only person who probably knows what this is about. It's been years (Lord, don't it make you feel old), but here is more in this verse. It's one of several things I owe you. One day, they will come. Thank you for not hating me.
Only Herself For Company girl!Ben/Charlie, pg, 2000wds
You visit the cashier and swan out of the casino, Charlie one step behind. You skip down the last two steps, hitching up your skirts so your ankles show.
There’s a bullet hole in your leg, the edges of the wound ragged and gaping.
“You gotta stay awake for me,” Charlie says, but you can’t answer him with your leather belt clenched between your teeth. You can feel every inch of the thread being pulled though your skin.
“We’ll go on a holiday after this, hey?” Charlie says, hand gentle where it cups the back of your neck. His other hand presses down on your chest, keeping you still when you arch and convulse. “Just you and me and no bullets,” he says.
The doctor pulls the thread tight, knots it. He washes his hands in already bloody water, little bits of pink flesh floating in it.
“I did what I could - but that’s not silk, that’s just coarse thread. She’s got a higher risk of the stitches breaking and getting infected.” The doctor backs away, hands up. Charlie had put the gun down to hold your hand, but the doctor’s eyes still flick to it before flying up to Charlie’s face again.
Charlie’s gaze goes lizard-flat. “Now, doc,” he drawls, stretching out the vowels like cheap saltwater taffy, “if I hear you’ve been tattling on poor little us, I’m gonna -” but he doesn’t finish because you spit out the belt. You think the marks from your teeth are going to scar the leather; small, broken lines that you’ll wear like notches in a bedpost.
“Pay him,” you say.
“But, boss -”
“Pay him,” you repeat. “He did good work.”
Charlie glares, but you see him give the doctor as much coin as you can spare.
In the end, he must lash you to your horse, or put the both of you on his, because you pass out as soon as he moves you.
~~~~**~~~~
The silk of your dress is light and delicate, brushing against your fingers like fine sand. Lace trims the hem and lines your sleeves. You wear the finest dress in the room, and Charlie tells you so. It’s rare for him to be so tactful, and you smile.
Your hand tucked into his elbow, he leads you to the blackjack table. The dealer looks up from his showy shuffling, but fumbles when you sit down instead of Charlie, and a few cards go scattering. The knave of hearts stares up at you from the chipped wood, and you pick it up and hand it back to the dealer.
“Deal me in,” you say, and smile. The dealer looks first at the wad of cash you lay in front of him, and then looks over your shoulder - probably the owner. The owner must nod because the dealer just slides the money to the side, and starts reshuffling his cards.
Everyone sweats this far south, and when you look around the room, ladies in varying degrees of dress stand beside their men, dabbing their cheeks with handkerchiefs. Men flit around balancing trays in their hands, their skin as dark as the ink printed on the pages of the Good Book. They carry neat tumblers of whiskey for the men, an assortment of fruits for the ladies. This is one high class establishment, the kind you’re not used to seeing the inside of, but you’ve had to travel a long way so you could be sure both you and Charlie wouldn’t be recognized. You’re so used to dry red dust, you feel like you’re swimming through the air. You don’t know if you like New Orleans much.
Charlie hovers over you shoulder, whispering in your ear, a parody of all the ladies blowing on the dice. You venture a guess that a good degree of these girls are bought and paid for, and entertain the thought of asking Charlie to bless your cards. It’s only a fleeting wish, though. He can be so moody.
When your cards hit the table in front of you, you slide them to the very edge, peeling up the corner so you can see what’s underneath.
“Hit me,” you say.
~~~~**~~~~
You start building a tidy pile of small, engraved chips. It’s by no means the largest in the room, and is about equal with the pockmarked rancher sitting opposite you. His eyes keep flitting from your chips to the small swell of flesh below your neck, and then back again.
The first you hear of any commotion is when Charlie shifts behind you, and you hear his sharp, “Hey now, sirs.” That always means trouble.
When you turn, you see Charlie’s got his hand flat against the chest of an older gentlemen who’s trying to grab your shoulder - esteemed, you’d call him, taking in his black suit and neat white beard.
You’re not cheating. If you were, you would have made more money and be across the state line by now, thank you very much. You sniff, and say in your glossiest, most nasal voice,
“What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?” The man has two men flanking him, tall and thick, their suits cheaper and ill-fitting.
The old man clears his voice, looking pointedly at Charlie hand. “We were just wondering if we could offer you a complementary drink in the parlor,” he says, liquid smooth.
“It don’t look so good a woman taking all your money?” you say.
“Now, ma’am,” he starts.
“No,” you interrupt. “We’ll cash in and leave, quiet as you please.”
Charlie scoffs at that. “Boss, we don’t have to be chased out of here like -” but you shake your head and he stops. You stand, gathering your chips and stacking them in small piles, but one of the lackeys steps forward.
“Ma’am, we must insist that you leave.” He places a hand on your arm. Charlie makes a mongrel sound behind you, coiling like a snake in the grass, but in the time it takes for him to get his hand on the hilt of his knife, you’ve taken in the room, the number of men, the number of projectiles, and the distance to the door.
“Sir,” you say, silky smooth. You’ve spent time in a whorehouse; this is only another form of violence. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just a simple lady,” you press in close, as if he’s your most treasured confidant, “and I’m just here for a simple afternoon of cards and chit-chat. I’ve had a lucky few hands, but the Lord says greed is a sin, and I’m about to have a spell in this heat. You’re not about to begrudge me this, are you?”
He falters, dumb eyes blinking. It’s not his fault; you’d wager they’d make damn sure not to give a paycheck to anyone too smart. It makes it harder to cheat it outta them again.
“I must ask you to leave the premises,” he says, but his hand falls from your arm. They’ve probably even taught niggers it’s bad form to intimidate women.
“Thank you,” you say, close to his ear. You slip one of your flimsy wooden chips into his palm, folding his fingers back over it, intimate like a lover. “Don’t tell,” you say. “It’s our little secret.”
He nods, eyes wide. The chip has already disappeared into his black linen slacks, using you as a shield. Not as dumb as he seems, maybe, or perhaps he possesses a certain instinct for sleight of hand.
You visit the cashier and swan out, Charlie one step behind. You skip down the last two steps, hitching up your skirts so your ankles show.
~~~~**~~~~
You’re camped behind a rocky outcrop at the top of a gorge, waiting for the Pinkertons to gallop by so you and Charlie can double back on your own trail.
You’ve got your little notebook out; your charcoal is blunt, but you’re getting to the last of it and you don’t want to shorten it further by sharpening the tip. Charlie’s trying to teach himself gun tricks; drawing his pistol while twirling it around his thumb and then trying to hit a tree branch, or walking for ten paces and turning and shooting like he’s in an old-style duel.
“Ben! Ben, look at this!” he calls.
He’s taking place on the page. You’ve never been too good at drawing people, their features always emerge slightly mechanical and indistinguishable, and you mostly stick to birds and desert lizards.
When you’re finished, you have to hold it away from your face to look at it, blinking away the blurriness. It’s a disappointing effort; Charlie’s gun is too big, his head and neck too small, and he seems slightly ephemeral, one-dimensional on the page. You sigh, and tell Charlie it’s no use hiding if he’s going to be shooting at things.
~~~~**~~~~
Only Herself For Company girl!Ben/Charlie, pg, 2000wds
You visit the cashier and swan out of the casino, Charlie one step behind. You skip down the last two steps, hitching up your skirts so your ankles show.
There’s a bullet hole in your leg, the edges of the wound ragged and gaping.
“You gotta stay awake for me,” Charlie says, but you can’t answer him with your leather belt clenched between your teeth. You can feel every inch of the thread being pulled though your skin.
“We’ll go on a holiday after this, hey?” Charlie says, hand gentle where it cups the back of your neck. His other hand presses down on your chest, keeping you still when you arch and convulse. “Just you and me and no bullets,” he says.
The doctor pulls the thread tight, knots it. He washes his hands in already bloody water, little bits of pink flesh floating in it.
“I did what I could - but that’s not silk, that’s just coarse thread. She’s got a higher risk of the stitches breaking and getting infected.” The doctor backs away, hands up. Charlie had put the gun down to hold your hand, but the doctor’s eyes still flick to it before flying up to Charlie’s face again.
Charlie’s gaze goes lizard-flat. “Now, doc,” he drawls, stretching out the vowels like cheap saltwater taffy, “if I hear you’ve been tattling on poor little us, I’m gonna -” but he doesn’t finish because you spit out the belt. You think the marks from your teeth are going to scar the leather; small, broken lines that you’ll wear like notches in a bedpost.
“Pay him,” you say.
“But, boss -”
“Pay him,” you repeat. “He did good work.”
Charlie glares, but you see him give the doctor as much coin as you can spare.
In the end, he must lash you to your horse, or put the both of you on his, because you pass out as soon as he moves you.
~~~~**~~~~
The silk of your dress is light and delicate, brushing against your fingers like fine sand. Lace trims the hem and lines your sleeves. You wear the finest dress in the room, and Charlie tells you so. It’s rare for him to be so tactful, and you smile.
Your hand tucked into his elbow, he leads you to the blackjack table. The dealer looks up from his showy shuffling, but fumbles when you sit down instead of Charlie, and a few cards go scattering. The knave of hearts stares up at you from the chipped wood, and you pick it up and hand it back to the dealer.
“Deal me in,” you say, and smile. The dealer looks first at the wad of cash you lay in front of him, and then looks over your shoulder - probably the owner. The owner must nod because the dealer just slides the money to the side, and starts reshuffling his cards.
Everyone sweats this far south, and when you look around the room, ladies in varying degrees of dress stand beside their men, dabbing their cheeks with handkerchiefs. Men flit around balancing trays in their hands, their skin as dark as the ink printed on the pages of the Good Book. They carry neat tumblers of whiskey for the men, an assortment of fruits for the ladies. This is one high class establishment, the kind you’re not used to seeing the inside of, but you’ve had to travel a long way so you could be sure both you and Charlie wouldn’t be recognized. You’re so used to dry red dust, you feel like you’re swimming through the air. You don’t know if you like New Orleans much.
Charlie hovers over you shoulder, whispering in your ear, a parody of all the ladies blowing on the dice. You venture a guess that a good degree of these girls are bought and paid for, and entertain the thought of asking Charlie to bless your cards. It’s only a fleeting wish, though. He can be so moody.
When your cards hit the table in front of you, you slide them to the very edge, peeling up the corner so you can see what’s underneath.
“Hit me,” you say.
~~~~**~~~~
You start building a tidy pile of small, engraved chips. It’s by no means the largest in the room, and is about equal with the pockmarked rancher sitting opposite you. His eyes keep flitting from your chips to the small swell of flesh below your neck, and then back again.
The first you hear of any commotion is when Charlie shifts behind you, and you hear his sharp, “Hey now, sirs.” That always means trouble.
When you turn, you see Charlie’s got his hand flat against the chest of an older gentlemen who’s trying to grab your shoulder - esteemed, you’d call him, taking in his black suit and neat white beard.
You’re not cheating. If you were, you would have made more money and be across the state line by now, thank you very much. You sniff, and say in your glossiest, most nasal voice,
“What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?” The man has two men flanking him, tall and thick, their suits cheaper and ill-fitting.
The old man clears his voice, looking pointedly at Charlie hand. “We were just wondering if we could offer you a complementary drink in the parlor,” he says, liquid smooth.
“It don’t look so good a woman taking all your money?” you say.
“Now, ma’am,” he starts.
“No,” you interrupt. “We’ll cash in and leave, quiet as you please.”
Charlie scoffs at that. “Boss, we don’t have to be chased out of here like -” but you shake your head and he stops. You stand, gathering your chips and stacking them in small piles, but one of the lackeys steps forward.
“Ma’am, we must insist that you leave.” He places a hand on your arm. Charlie makes a mongrel sound behind you, coiling like a snake in the grass, but in the time it takes for him to get his hand on the hilt of his knife, you’ve taken in the room, the number of men, the number of projectiles, and the distance to the door.
“Sir,” you say, silky smooth. You’ve spent time in a whorehouse; this is only another form of violence. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just a simple lady,” you press in close, as if he’s your most treasured confidant, “and I’m just here for a simple afternoon of cards and chit-chat. I’ve had a lucky few hands, but the Lord says greed is a sin, and I’m about to have a spell in this heat. You’re not about to begrudge me this, are you?”
He falters, dumb eyes blinking. It’s not his fault; you’d wager they’d make damn sure not to give a paycheck to anyone too smart. It makes it harder to cheat it outta them again.
“I must ask you to leave the premises,” he says, but his hand falls from your arm. They’ve probably even taught niggers it’s bad form to intimidate women.
“Thank you,” you say, close to his ear. You slip one of your flimsy wooden chips into his palm, folding his fingers back over it, intimate like a lover. “Don’t tell,” you say. “It’s our little secret.”
He nods, eyes wide. The chip has already disappeared into his black linen slacks, using you as a shield. Not as dumb as he seems, maybe, or perhaps he possesses a certain instinct for sleight of hand.
You visit the cashier and swan out, Charlie one step behind. You skip down the last two steps, hitching up your skirts so your ankles show.
~~~~**~~~~
You’re camped behind a rocky outcrop at the top of a gorge, waiting for the Pinkertons to gallop by so you and Charlie can double back on your own trail.
You’ve got your little notebook out; your charcoal is blunt, but you’re getting to the last of it and you don’t want to shorten it further by sharpening the tip. Charlie’s trying to teach himself gun tricks; drawing his pistol while twirling it around his thumb and then trying to hit a tree branch, or walking for ten paces and turning and shooting like he’s in an old-style duel.
“Ben! Ben, look at this!” he calls.
He’s taking place on the page. You’ve never been too good at drawing people, their features always emerge slightly mechanical and indistinguishable, and you mostly stick to birds and desert lizards.
When you’re finished, you have to hold it away from your face to look at it, blinking away the blurriness. It’s a disappointing effort; Charlie’s gun is too big, his head and neck too small, and he seems slightly ephemeral, one-dimensional on the page. You sigh, and tell Charlie it’s no use hiding if he’s going to be shooting at things.
~~~~**~~~~