Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It had been a slow morning at the post office. No mail had come in since Sunday, no one had come by to send in anything, and there wasn't much else for Allen to do. Sometimes he wished he'd been around for the Pony Express—at least that would have been something he could do. Considering they bankrupted twenty odd years ago because of telegraphs...which Allen was now watching intently as he waited to do absolutely anything for his job...it wasn’t a viable option any longer.

The idea of being able to get out there, on a horse, and travel from city to city delivering mail sounded like a dream. A dream he was far too late for. The telegraph made sure of that.

He supposed he could live vicariously through the guys at Currahee Ranch whenever they came into town to collect their mail. They seemed to get up to a lot more than he did and often, another far away fantasy of Allen's involved working there. At this point, he was sure he'd take any kind of job that didn't involve sitting around and waiting for something to happen. He was sure that they were going on another one of their trail drives too, he'd heard a few of their ranch hands discussing it when they came it the last week to check for any messages. Now he didn't actually know too much about trail drives or what they entailed, but from the stories he'd heard they sounded a hell of a lot more fun then standing around in a post office all day.

More people sent in for telegrams than they did physical letters these days which meant Allen's days were spent sitting idly by, waiting for the telegraph to start transmitting a letter. There'd be the occasional other Easy resident who came by to send a telegram of their own, which he could do. There'd also be the packages sent in...sent out...the mail coach came by every once in a while to deliver and receive...it was all terribly mind-numbing for Allen.

He heard the door slam, which caused him to perk up quite eagerly like a dog when its master returned home, until he realized that it came from a building next to the post office. Slumping yet again, Allen started to fiddle with the stamps on his desk as he waited for something interesting to come along. Earlier in the week he'd already organized all the pigeon-holes and redid their labels (despite having already redone them out of boredom a few months back), serviced the telegraph several times over to make sure it was actually in working order and that the lack of telegrams wasn't because it was broken, and inventoried all the stamps, envelopes, papers, and whatever else...twice.

What did he expect so early in the morning anyways?

As he nudged one of the postmark stamps, the telegraph started up its clacking. Allen scrambled to find an empty sheet of paper and pencil before he started scribbling down the letters as they came. When the bar pulled up to a stop, he leaned back, message completed.

Then, he read the message over. His mind had been focused, frantically, on the task of writing down the code and not so much what it said and who it was to. Call it excitement, finally getting to see some sort of action amidst his otherwise boring day. Allen first saw who the recipient was intended to be. Easy's sheriff. Pulling out a pen and an official form so he could deliver the message in something other than hasty chicken scratch and to elongate the process of having something to do, Allen began to rewrite it.

“Sheriff Sink...“ he mumbled. Then he went to write the sender: a lawman from Laramie. “Okay,” Allen wrote that down too, adding both the addresses and the date. And now, the actual contents of the telegram. “Prisoner transport lost...close to Easy...keep caution.” His pen halted as he put down the period at the end.

It was at times like this when Allen wished he could rehear the messages because...that couldn't be right, surely. That was...that didn't sound good in the slightest. He read over the message once more, both his original, quickly done draft and then the finished copy. There weren't any discrepancies and there was no way he'd messed up listening to the telegraph that badly. Finishing off the last few parts he needed to fill out, Allen stamped the telegram, grabbed hold of the paper, and began to rush over towards the jail.

If this was genuine, it'd be best if the sheriff saw it sooner rather than later.

He had to run down the street to get there, but before he even made it past the post office, he saw Ralph coming out of the clinic.

“Woah.” Ralph came to the middle of the street where Allen had stopped. “Where's the fire?”

The sense of urgency died a little bit, strangely enough, but Allen was careful to make sure he didn't accidentally crush the paper in his hand. “I got this telegram from Laramie for the sheriff.” There was probably some rule in the handbook about disclosing the contents of other people's messages to unaffiliated parties. He'd read enough of it to get the job, but now he was practically his own boss and there was only so much discretion Allen could have.

Ralph whistled. “The sheriff?”

“Yeah,” Allen breathed out with a sharp nod. Bringing up the sheriff ignited that urgency once again and he stared down the street where the jail was. “It's kind of an emergency...I think.”

“Shouldn't be that much of an emergency, the sheriff's not in town anymore.”

“...He's not?”

“There's that whole schedule thing...or whatever. Y'know I never paid too much attention to it.” Allen was unsure of how Ralph had heard of this so-called schedule yet he'd never been aware of it. It didn't really matter either way, but—no, it did matter because Allen really needed to give the message to the sheriff. “Sink's here for a few days then leaves...then he comes back after a few weeks.”

That meant jack shit to him. “So who do I give this to?”

“Probably the marshal. Second in the chain of command?”

“That makes sense.” Enough, at least. If the marshal had the second most authority in Easy, then he should be able to keep a lookout for any danger.

Ralph peered at the telegram in his hand. “What's it about anyways?”

Discretion...actually, Allen didn't really care about it much at the moment, Ralph was a good guy.

“Apparently a transport got lost somewhere in between here and Laramie.”

“Like a tumbleweed wagon?” Is that what they were called? Allen, admittedly, wasn't fully familiar with the colloquialisms out in the West. It had only been a year and some change since he made it into Easy

He shrugged his confirmation.

“I guess that is kind of serious,” Ralph mused. “Then again, they should know that the sheriff isn’t here.”

“So just a bit of caution, then.”

“I wouldn't lose sleep over it.” He smiled thinly with a slight shrug of his own. “Ah, shit, I forgot I was supposed to be doing something. Find you later?”

“Right, see you later, Ralph.” Allen watched for a moment before he remembered that he too had a task at hand. Still, that didn't really stop him from thinking about how Ralph was probably the closest thing he had to a friend in Easy. He'd bring up whatever he did at the clinic, which despite only working the counter and handing out medicine occasionally, sounded so much more entertaining than what Allen did at the post office. It seemed everyone in Easy had something to do except for him.

Allen hardly made it past the general store before he ran into Luz who happened to be exiting it at that moment. Luz and Allen had spoken a few times, another one of those people who actually gave him the time of day even if they talked much less than he and Ralph did. Regardless, Allen had actually aimed to continue past him, intent on delivering the telegram whether it actually went to the sheriff or not. Instead, he found himself stopped once again.

“Vest! What's got you out and about this fine morning?” Luz had a sly look about him for reasons Allen could not discern.

“Mail,” he replied. Was it odd for him to not be at the post office? If that was the case then...maybe he needed to get out more. Well, he actually couldn't. He was his own boss, yes, but he couldn't really abandon his post either. He was the only mail worker in all of Easy. “Telegram for the sheriff...which I'm giving to the marshal.” He didn't need to tell Luz that, he didn't know why he was telling Luz that.

“Oh that might be a bit of trouble,” Luz said with a laugh which, again, Allen didn't understand.

“What? Why?” Allen might just scream. If he had to find someone else to give the message to—

“Dike might be...” he started, grinning mirthfully, before taking a good look at Allen and sighing. “Don't worry about it, Vest. Stupid rumor, I'm sure he's there.” Luz started back down the street, muttering something about those guys...whatever that meant.

At last, Allen finally made it the final twenty or so yards down the main street to the jail. He wasn't sure if he'd ever met the marshal before, not that he'd met the sheriff either, so he had absolutely no clue what to expect. He had some notions, maybe. Boredom had him reading through Eastern dime novels that honestly didn't appear all that accurate to the life he was living. There was more intrigue in the fictional towns, though at some points it just became unrealistic. They painted a somewhat vibrant picture of what a typical marshal looked like at least.

For starters, he was pretty sure he expected someone with more poise. Or, at the very least, looked...gruff? The man he saw seated at the desk, glinting star pinned to his shirt—jacket, actually—was sipping from a tin cup, shoulders almost hunched in a way that gave the impression that he was out out trying to defend himself against Wyoming's cold, February wind instead of next to a small stove inside a decently warm building.

“Excuse me, marshal, sir?” Allen's voice was unsteady, he knew. It was also there that he realized he didn't actually know the marshal's name. The message in his hand was clutched tight, a wrinkle already forming where his fingers were gripping onto the slip of paper.

“Hm?” The marshal's head jerked up as he looked at Allen.

He took a tentative step forward, beginning to explain the somewhat long winded story. “I've got a message for the sheriff—”

“Sheriff's not here,” The marshal very quickly interrupted Allen.

“No, sir I know that, but—”

“He should return in two weeks.”

“Okay, but I think you should read this marshal,” Allen approached the desk, holding up the telegram. The marshal stared at the slip of paper for a moment before taking it. “It's from Laramie, sir. Apparently there's a missing transport wagon...” he went to say more, had wanted to maybe ask what he was considering doing in the sheriff's absence, but the marshal simply placed the telegram onto a pile of papers and returned to drinking from his tin cup. Allen got the distinct idea that he hadn't actually heard what had been said.

“Thank you, postmaster.” That sounded like a dismissal if Allen had ever heard one...also, postmaster? No one had ever called Allen the postmaster in all his time in Easy.

“Did you want me to bring you any other telegrams for the sheriff while he's gone, sir?”

The marshal shook his head. “No, I don't think that will be necessary.”

That didn't make Allen feel any better about the matter, though Ralph had also said not to worry about it. The marshal was the marshal and if he wasn't panicking over the message then Allen shouldn't either.

He supposed, he thought as he exited the jail feeling no less unsettled, that he might have just been hoping the matter would lead to something exciting.

—

“I'm telling you that I'm not doing that!”

It felt like every week they were having the same argument about the same things. Now that David had been convinced to try and look at things from Joe's point of view, it was even more frustrating. When Hoob got back to Easy David aimed to tell him that his idea was wrong and that Joe was not someone that would ever be convinced no matter what David said.

Even while trying to act with grace, it seemed impossible to get through to Joe that he was not there to use Easy for a quick buck. He still didn't even know where that idea came from in the first place.

“Then why are you in Easy, Web?” Joe's voice lowered for the first time since this particular interaction began. He sounded calm, but there was still an underlying lividity simmering in the tone, ready to scald David at any moment once seen fit to do so. Moments like those almost made David feel like he could actually talk to Joe—the irritation was always present, but it made the arguments feel more conversational than just an ever escalating screaming match between them.

“Because I want to write a book.” That never changed, not in all of his months of living in town. David's motivation had wavered considerably in the last few weeks, not because of Joe's constant skepticism and challenges, though the same goal remained.

Joe chuckled, hardly any joy in the sound, before saying, “And there's your problem.”

David closed his eyes, trying to will himself to not instantly have an outburst despite the fact that he was definitely entitled to one at this point. “How?”

“That's easy.” He crossed his arms, turning away from David. The one time David found himself not going anywhere near the barbershop, the most likely place he'd run into Joe and get drawn into a fight, Joe ran into him. It was like fate saw to it that they encountered one another, much to their each individual distaste. They stood on the boardwalk halfway between the jail and an empty, boarded up building, not quite blocking the way.

“If it's so easy then say it,” now he was sure that Joe was stalling for time. Considering that they did have this same exact argument near constantly, David could tell that he was running out of talking points. It was like fighting with David was some kind of defense mechanism that he automatically reverted to whenever they crossed paths.

“You—shit, Web, your book! It's the problem, how many fucking times do I have to tell you?” Joe whirled back around, the words exploding out of him like a powder keg that had gone off.

“Every time, apparently.” David couldn't bite back the rebuttal before he remembered that he was supposed to be the bigger person. See things from his side, David. Joe has a point...somehow...David.

And it obviously wasn't the right thing to say either because Joe's expression turned bitter.

“Your book,” Joe spat the word out, making it explicitly clear that he saw it as anything but, “is melodrama disguised as whatever kind of scholarly bullshit you think your greenhorn buddies want to read.”

Since his arrival in Easy, he'd claimed the same thing about David's book. Very few times had David actually shown someone the contents of his manuscript once he'd actually gotten a start on it. Unfortunately, Joe happened to be one of those people. He'd taken those short few pages where David had somewhat embellished his alighting and practically ran with it. The manuscript had grown only a short bit since then, the thirty pages he had typed up expanding to just over a hundred. Progress had stalled since his conversation with Hoob, though it had been tapering out after his previous conversation with Joe in the barbershop earlier that week.

He was almost convinced that Joe's ideals about the book were tainting his own motivation and it certainly didn't help that Hoob had him doubting himself and his approach to writing. Not once in New York had David felt so put-upon over the skill and ability he knew he had.

“It's not melodrama, Joe.” Melodrama implied fictionalization. “I'm not writing characters, I'm writing lived experiences.”

“Yeah, and you fucking got shot at on your way into town I'm sure.”

David winced at that. It was doubly unfortunate that Joe had read one of his earlier drafts which included a line or two about the sound of gunfire or something similar as his stagecoach approached Easy. However, he quickly struck it from the page after the initial negative reception. He could take criticism.

“You and I both know I got rid of that.”

“But you would have kept it in if someone didn't say something.”

“I—”

“Admit it, Web. You're writing for an audience that looks down on the very people you write about.” Joe leaned against the side of the boarded up building, head turned off to the side and focused on something in the distance. His jaw was clenched and there was a tense rigidity in his stance.

David gaped. Then shut his mouth and tried to act like the very thought wasn't insulting to hear. If he detested Easy so much he wouldn't have stuck around so long. If he detested Easy he would have found another town to stay in—hell, he might not have even bothered leaving school at all! Perhaps he should have heeded his parents and went to Europe instead, at least there he would have had something to write about beyond menial, every day happenings that made little content for a novel intended to be grand in nature.

“That's not true in the slightest.” Then, “You read a few pages months ago. How do you even know what's in it now? How do you know that everything I've written is supposedly fake and made up?”

With a scoff, Joe's eyes slid back over towards him—scrutinizing, apoplectic despite the even tone of voice he spoke in. “Simple, you told me.”

“And what, pray tell, did I say?” David didn't buy it. How could anything he had said lead to that kind of conclusion?

“Well, Web,” His arms dropped to his sides as he stood up straight. “I seem to remember you telling me that I'm going to live and die here in Easy, the middle of fucking nowhere according to you, regretting that I didn't get some kind of fancy Harvard education like you. That I’ll have done nothing with my life.”

“What?”

“Oh, cut the bullshit. Don't act like you don't remember. Skinny and Tipper seem to be on your side for whatever fucking reason, but I know they'd be able to remember what you said if I asked them.”

There was a sinking feeling in David's stomach, like a ship cutting through choppy water in the midst of a rainstorm with ripped sails and a hole in its stern. He wouldn't have said anything like that, there wasn't any fathomable way that he'd do that...was there? Maybe when he first arrived, not yet acclimated to the people and nay familiar. Skinny and Tipper, though...the last time he could recollect the two of them being nearby during an argument was only two weeks ago.

The last time he and Joe had argued.

Shit.

“Strike a chord?” Joe's lips turned up with a spiteful smile. “I'm not fucking jealous of you, Webster. You can run around Easy all you want, come into my shop and prance around, talking about your book, lie to yourself about it. But I know why you're here. It's all the same to people like you. I'm happy here and I don't need to lie to enjoy my life. You know that the only goal you have is to use this town, suck it for what you think it's worth, write your little book, and once it's done you'll leave and forget. It's means to an end for you, isn't it? An adventure into the lawless west, all expenses paid, until you aren't having fun anymore.”

David was struck with one very poignant and startling thought as he stared at Joe's sneering face.

He needed to go.

It felt like he was proving Joe right, in a way, by leaving in that moment. But some other emotion he couldn't put a word to suddenly plummeted down next to the drowned boat and he couldn't seem to get his thoughts straightened up again.

“Go to hell, Joe.” David didn't think he meant it. No, he definitely didn't even as the words came out of his mouth. He couldn't refute Joe right then, wouldn't have been able to even if he did know what to say because he knew there was no way he'd even be willing to listen to David.

Conflicting ideas were surfacing from those murky depths, bubbling up from the wreckage and into his sight line, begging to be seen to and rescued.

Even Joe reacted with a hint of surprise, like he didn't believe David had said that. Even still, David made his escape.

The hotel, he needed to go back to the hotel.

Only a few hours later did he find himself packed with a ticket headed for New York at the railroad station. There hadn't been anyone to inform except the hotel manager whom he told to save his room because he would return. Eventually. Had Hoob been in Easy maybe, just maybe, would David had paused and rethought the sudden abscondment after a simple conversation with another person, but Hoob wasn't in Easy and there was no one else David considered as he made his hasty departure.

He'd managed to pull a few of those troublesome thoughts to shore for further examination. Some things still lay in the deep though and he feared what they might mean.

As he took his seat in the nearly empty passenger car, David had a heavy heart and far too much to reconcile with during his lone ride home.

—

The wind whistled a sorrowful song as it rushed through the frigid morning air.

Carwood's body felt heavy as he stared out into the field behind the house, soul desperately wanting an escape but his mind fixated on one thing. He'd spent longer than it should have taken to fashion the marker even without putting it off. Its presence there should have been familiar by now, an entire year weathering the wood, yet it was like he was seeing it for the first time.

While his hand had been lightly placed on the doorframe only seconds before, he now gripped tightly onto it—seemingly the only thing keeping him upright.

Only a few steps separated them. A few steps and a few feet down.

He took the first of those few steps; the ever lurking idea of returning to the safety of the house, back to the bedroom to waste away the rest of the day becoming more enticing by the minute.

It was blasphemous, such an idea. To try and abandon her once again.

Carwood had remained by her side until the end.

And then he had to part with her. The burial was necessary.

There was an innate longing to have her hand hold his again, even if it was the cold, brittle hand whose warmth seeped out as the illness grew more and her strength was whittled away, hour by hour. Minute by minute.

A hope had been there at first. A small cold, nothing either of them hadn't faced. Until things got worse.

Another step forward, the gap closed by inches. Only, too many more remained. Or was it that there shouldn't have been any separating them at all?

A week. A week was all it took for his Margaret to be taken away from him. Weeks before their first spring together.

At last, Carwood stood before her grave.

He dropped to his knees in a slow, staggering movement. It was almost unreal to be sitting there knowing that it had been a year since she'd taken her last breaths.

She'd passed in her sleep, a quiet, rattling breath being the last thing Carwood ever got to hear from her. He didn't even know if she'd been awake to listen to his repeated assurances of love. How he kept lying to her, to himself, that she would make it through. The last, hushed I love you that passed through his lips...had she heard it? Would she have heard it amidst her suffering?

The ground was hard.

A shadow fell over the wooden marker.

There was a silent figure beside him, kneeled against the frozen ground. Carwood knew who it was, but he didn't offer a greeting—didn't receive one either. The presence itself was...a comfort. A firmness that made him sit up straight even as it felt like the world was falling to pieces beneath his feet.

Could he have helped her? He should have been able to. If he could go back that year, maybe things would have been different. Maybe she would still be by his side. He should have tried harder.

Frost melted into his pants, sinking deep into his skin.

He closed his eyes and listened to the wind. His hands felt numb as time slipped by, the day's cold air creeping in.

Carwood stood up eventually, a long, lingering stare at the grave as he seared the sight of Margaret's crudely carved name against the wood into his mind. One year had gone by. Just how many more would it take for it to hurt any less?

Later, he would come back. Maybe he would talk to her—let her know what all had gone on in her absence. Not then, though. Not any longer.

His lone companion trailed behind him back into the house, footsteps near silent. Carwood knew he was there, though.

He began to make coffee once stepping inside the kitchen, boiling the water on the stove and heating the lifeless air in the house. Still, no conversation arose.

It wasn't until Carwood had poured the coffee into cups and set them out on the table did he speak.

“Thank you,” he told Speirs. For what? He wondered. For coming to Easy, maybe, or taking the job...perhaps just sitting there and being. Carwood had thought that no one should see him on this day, but the quiet companionship in that moment was of an indescribable nature.

Speirs only nodded.

“Margaret...” Carwood choked the name out, it didn't get easier to say. “My wife. She passed...a year ago. Today. She got sick and...it got bad.” It felt like saying too much and not enough at once. He deserved an explanation though. Speirs never asked and Carwood thought he would never tell, but he needed to. For all he'd done for Carwood, he needed something in return. Shaking hands lifted the cup up as he took a sip. The hot coffee didn't quell the chill he felt in his bones.

“It must be difficult,” Speirs responded quietly, only a faint murmur. It was there that he noticed the fact that he was not wearing his hat. Carwood had become acutely accustomed to seeing him wear it, working around the sometimes limited view he'd get of Speirs' face. The openness was jarring...yet pleasant. The clearness of his eyes made Carwood...

“Yeah—yeah.” He nodded shakily and clasped his hands together, looking down. Guilt flooded in once again as he thought about Margaret and his abandonment of her. 'Til death did them part.

“Would you prefer if I left?”

“No...I think—you can stay, I don't mind. I'd...” like for you to stay. He couldn't say that. Couldn't bring himself to. Pathetic, that's all he could feel.

They lapsed into silence, the clinking of their cups against the table to only noise combating against the wind's whispers outside.

Speirs broke it. “I grew up in Boston.” Carwood looked up at him and didn't dare to interrupt. “Until I was a teenager, nineteen. I ran off because...there were problems.“ Speirs' own gaze darted downwards as the words rushed out, the most composure Carwood was sure he'd ever see him lose. It was humanizing. He didn't see what everyone else saw in Speirs, already saw the man he was, but the action still showed a new, unfamiliar face. “I came out west and found something. Supported myself, by myself, and got into a habit.”

“Do you miss home?”

“Sometimes...I like to believe I do.“ His head turned to face the window, the morning light shone on his face. “Before I came to Easy, only a short while before passing through, I was a wanted man. The things I did in the time leading up to coming here...I understand, Carwood. I understand the shame of it all and...” Speirs trailed off “You can speak to me, if you wish. Any of your troubles—I'll listen.”

Carwood supposed that, deep down, he knew that the rumors held a truth. To hear it out loud...it didn't change what he already thought about Speirs. The two of them were both flawed. Maybe that was why they got along so well against the odds that everyone bet.

“I appreciate that,” he paused, holding his breath before... “Ron. I do. Thank you. I hope you'd be willing to do the same...I'm here if you need someone.”

For the first time in a year, the house buzzed with something other than cold, lonely desolation.

—

Harry was having a bit of a crisis.

Now, he loved being a teacher—couldn't imagine doing anything else in Easy besides that period of time where he dabbled in ranching, but dear God were the kids awful. Harry loved the little shits, and he said that affectionately because he did love them, yet they were also somehow the bane of his existence. He was lucky enough that he got to work with Kitty, his beautiful and intelligent wife, who seemed to have a much better grasp on handling the few kids that they actually had in town.

One thing about Easy is that it was geared towards cattle. That was good for the town's economy, Dick and Nix were great with sharing the wealth, but that also meant it was more of a...bachelor town than anything. Most times he went outside he'd see a pack of rowdy guys from Currahee terrorizing the street over a nice family out having a morning stroll. Again, great for the economy and workforce...not exactly great for child rearing. There weren't that many married couples who could have kids that he knew intimately either, well, besides he and Kitty...and then there was Guarnere and Frannie. They didn't have kids though. And neither did he and Kitty.

Easy had about a dozen kids in total all ranging from six years old to fifteen that went to the schoolhouse. There wasn't really a necessity for the two of them to teach, especially when there weren't that many kids to teach in the first place, but splitting up the work between the two of them just made things simpler.

Kitty had an affinity for teaching the younger ones, especially with the fundamentals, and Harry tried his damnedest to keep the older ones entertained enough to refine those skills. Too many times had he seen reading and writing fall to the wayside as some wanted to jump straight into work instead of taking the time to actually learn. And jeez, don't get him started on arithmetic. Teaching that was a logistical nightmare on its own.

So the crisis.

Some of the kids weren't showing up. Not anymore, at least.

See, Harry knew where they were and it was definitely not in the schoolhouse where their parents paid for them to be.

Of course, it was the older kids posing the problem, the ones that were his responsibility. Kitty's students were practically angels...mostly because they hadn't quite figured out delinquent disobedience yet. Once they got old enough though? He and Kitty had only been in Easy for a few years now which meant that they'd been dealing with the same crop of students. Well, she had been dealing with them until Harry stopped working at Currahee to go and work with her. He knew that the second one of her little ones started to show signs of rebellion it'd break her heart. Which meant it'd break his heart too. Kitty was a strong woman, but sometimes a betrayal like that just couldn't be wiped away.

Right, the missing students. Okay, not so much missing and more like willfully ditching school in favor of...actually, he didn't know. Kicking rocks? Shooting marbles? Whatever it was, it was nothing productive at least because they weren't at school.

Kitty and he split their day up into, what he considered at the very least, manageable chunks: In the morning they would do writing; they'd get a break for recess before lunch; they'd have lunch; part of the afternoon was spent on reading; then another, shorter, break for recess; and finally the day would end with arithmetic. It was easy, all things considered.

So why was it that after taking attendance he'd notice empty seats where his students belonged and then go out during one of their recess breaks and see those very students fucking around on the main street?

Not only was Harry pissed that they were completely disregarding their learning, but also that they were doing a horrible job at hiding it!

It was easy to tell when he had kids missing. Harry only had five students to keep track of and, on a good day, he'd only end up with two. The two that he could count on to be there were good students, they practically taught themselves the material, but the other three? They were decent enough when he first had them, barely even teenagers at that point. As the years passed, though, it seemed they grew disillusioned with the idea of learning.

Harry felt like he'd tried everything, but there was some kind of disconnect which made him feel so much older than he actually was. He was hardly even a decade older than them!

At least he had Kitty there. Like, right there.

“I don't know how to get them interested again, Kitty,” Harry moaned, leaning into her side. They were seated on the bench outside of the schoolhouse, watching as the kids ran around together, playing. One girl was kneeled in front of Kitty, quietly watching her friends as Kitty worked at braiding her hair.

“Not everyone wants to learn,” she responded simply. “You can't force it.”

“I'm sure their parents would love to hear that.”

“Then that's a conversation they need to have with their children, don't you think, Harry?” She raised her eyebrows, turning her focus away from the braiding to look at him.

“Maybe your right, but I want to teach them. Give them a fighting chance, you know?” He didn't like the idea of throwing them out into the world with half-baked skills. Sure, they might be able to get a job here or there, but as time went by they'd be stuck working those same jobs with crap pay and no other skills to offer. Being able to read, write, and do basic sums would open so many more doors for them, yet his students didn't seem to understand that. Teenage rebellion. Always a nightmare.

“And that's admirable.”

“Okay, but being admirable doesn't made me feel any less like a sh...”—Kitty's head snapped over to face him and she pointedly jerked her head down to the child sitting right there—“...shoddy teacher, Kitty.”

“We can only do so much. You nurture them the best you can, teach them the basics, and they jump out of the nest when the right time comes. It may be earlier than you would like, but they know what they need best. If what they think they need is to get a head start on the world than so be it, they'll learn the hard way whether or not that's the right decision, though in the end it's all a learning experience, is it not?” She tied off the end of the braid and patted the girl on her back, causing her to get up and go running towards her friends to join in.

If Harry wasn't already horrendously in love with Kitty and married to her, he was sure he'd propose all over again. Nix found his reverence amusing and Dick seemed similarly entertained, but by God did he love his wife. Nothing would change that fact, not even a bunch of little shits who he really did care about the education and well-being of.

“Kitty, do you know how much I love you?”

“You tell me every day,” she smiled, “I wouldn't mind hearing it again, though.“

He held a hand to his heart, making a show of his coming declaration. “I love you so much, the words I need escape me that further describe how I feel about you.”

“And I love you, Harry,” she giggled.

“You're perfect. Really.”

She put a hand on his bicep and kissed him on the cheek before leaning back to check the time on her pocket watch. He caught a glimpse of where the hands were and saw it was time to get the kids back inside for arithmetic. “You and I make a good team, don't you think?”

“Mhm!” Huh, her words really reminded him of something. He couldn't quite put a finger on what.

“Now let's get back inside and teach.”

He nodded and watched as she called for the kids to come gather back inside.

It was as he was counting heads, making sure that everyone who'd come out of the schoolhouse earlier were coming back inside that he had a small epiphany.

That's right, he was going to go get a drink with Nix later. God knew he needed it after dealing with the kids.

—

“Something's been gnawing at you.”

Johnny lifted his head from the counter, the pull of exhaustion weighing on him. A long day was leading into an even longer night and he and Bull were still on rocky ground. That didn't mean they weren't talking though, Bull was seated on the other side of the bar, carefully watching him. For the most part, their argument had reached its peak and conclusion. Johnny refused to think about what it was over because it would only serve to piss him off again and set the whole thing alight once more.

Bull did not seem so keen on letting it pass. Of course he wouldn't—he wanted to settle it when Johnny was much more happy ignoring it. Damn that hick.

“Where're your replacements at?”

“The boys?” Johnny could only manage a tired nod. “They ain't come around tonight. Buck gave 'em a bit of a whooping in darts last week and they've been worried about coming back.”

“And that other one?” He couldn't remember names, at least not with how all around fucking miserable he felt right then, but he was pretty sure only three of them had shown up the last time he'd seen them.

There was a slight pause as Bull tried to gather what he meant. It didn't help that Johnny didn't actually say the other part. “Heffron.”

“Yeah. Heffron, sure,” Johnny muttered as he rested his chin on his hand. He was trying to use the counter for all it was worth, supporting himself on it in what he hoped was a discreet way to stop from standing as much. Two weeks of his knee acting up and it was driving him near insane. There was a likely chance that that was the reason behind his increased snappishness, but there was no way in hell he'd admit that out loud.

“He got an apprenticeship with Bill, started up a few days ago. Those boys from Philly sure do band together,” Bull said with a laugh. Bill getting an apprentice was a long time coming. He brought it up every once in a while, especially after Frannie would get to nagging him about it, and it usually ended there. Until now at least. He'd have to remember to say something to him next time Bill came around, act decent or whatnot, congratulate him for finally listening to his wife.

Bull would miss his replacement, Heffron or whoever, he was sappy like that. Johnny could appreciate that. The closest person he could say he had a soft spot for was Bull. Not that he'd say it.

“Uh-huh.” Someone a few seats down was waving at him, pushing an empty tumbler in a silent demand for a refill. Christ, he couldn't get a break in this place, could he?

He grabbed the bottle of rum he knew that asshole had before and shuffled over the few feet. In return, he was tossed a dime and it took everything in Johnny to bite down the reflexive impulse to throw it right back and ping the fucker in between his eyes with the damn coin.

By the time he returned to stand in front of Bull, he was being scrutinized heavily, a knowing look already on Bull's face. “That knee giving you trouble, Johnny?”

No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, diverting the conversation and whatever other excuses he could throw in the way, it seemed the thread led back to the same topic.

He'd been making his best attempt to avoid thinking about that. Especially when it was the reason why things between he and Bull were tense.

“It always does,” Johnny groused. And God. He'd just wanted to put it out of his mind. The less he thought about it the less it felt like it hurt. But Bull just had to go and bring it up again.

“If you'd take a day off I bet it wouldn't be bothering you so much.”

“Really, now.”

Bull tilted his head down a small bit, taking Johnny's challenge with little more than a grain of salt. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“No, but you're not answering me neither.”

“What's there to answer? I can't up and quit my goddamn job because I hurt a little now and then.”

“I didn't say quit your job.”

“Might as well have.”

“You're not doing yourself any favors working here every night. Please, Johnny. I can come and help out 'round your place for a bit if it'll mean you take some time away from here.”

And he knew that. He didn't need to be told that the long hours on his feet everyday were negatively affecting him because he knew. Not doing anything felt just as bad though. He got the short end of the fucking stick no matter what. But he also couldn't stand the amount of compassion that flooded Bull's words when he said that kind of thing. It just wasn't right.

This time, he couldn't hold back the anger. It'd been building all night, all week really with what their original argument had been over. While he'd thought it subsided, a sudden irateness overtook him in that moment. “I've been living with it, Bull. I think I fucking know what to do. I dealt with it before I met you and I'll deal with it long after you're gone.”

Just like the hurt he'd put on Bull's face the last week, Johnny fucking did it again. Bull was stunned into silence, leaning back on the stool and just...looking at him.

“Hell, Johnny.” Bull shook his head, face dipping down with a shimmering resignation. “I'm not gonna talk to you when you're like this.”

“Good.”

Bull's mouth opened like he was going to say something else, but instead he just shook his head once more and stood, placing down the bits for the drinks he'd had before leaving the saloon.

“Good,” Johnny repeated to himself, quieter, as he watched Bull leave. It wasn't a victory.

He scoffed and went for the back. He could take care of himself, he was doing it right then. Who the fuck cared if he was neglecting the last part of his shift.

When the 506th cleared out an hour later, Johnny limped out of the back room and went to help with closing because he wasn't a complete asshole. Grant was standing there at his own station, counting the money in the till while Christenson sat across from him. They were chatting lightly, looking a hell of a lot more energized than he felt. He set out to clean the glasses that Luz had at least collected from all the tables and set on the bar before returning to his room upstairs and feigned obliviousness to the many obvious glances the two of them sent his way. He just wanted to finish and get the hell out of there.

Apparently Grant couldn't help himself though, because after five minutes he said, “You know he means well, right?”

“What?” Johnny dropped the shot glass he’d been attacking with a rag onto the counter.

“Bull,” Christenson clarified, albeit unnecessarily.

“Is that all the two of you chuckleheads could think about for the last hour?” Getting involved in his business...Johnny picked the shot glass back up with a fervor and resumed wiping it down.

“No, not really.“

“Since you're here now, though...” Christenson shrugged and sipped took a sip his whiskey.

“You know, it's normal to fight over those kinds of things, Martin,” Grant said with a slow nod. “I mean, when Tab and I first got together we didn't, but after the injury, he and I had to start working around it.”

Johnny put his hands up, gesturing for him to stop talking. Not because he didn't want to know what the fuck Grant was getting at, however. “Wait, pause for two fucking seconds.”

Thankfully, Christenson seemed to be equally as confused as Johnny was, head jerking over to face Grant with a similar amount of confusion. “Since when have you and Tab been..?”

“Yeah—when'd that happen?” He saw Grant every week, several times a week. He was pretty damn sure that he'd know if Grant and Talbert were an item. Hell, Christenson worked with Talbert and basically saw him every day, not to mention that he and Grant were also buddies. With the way that Grant was talking though...the injury happened months ago...there was no way that—

“Seriously? I mean, it's been at least a year...a year and a half maybe.” The sudden change in topic also seemed to confuse Grant. Great, now they were all balled up.

“No. No way in hell.” Johnny would have noticed, surely.

“Yes? It was after I got hurt. I—look, we're getting off topic. Yes, Tab and I are together, but like I was saying,” he eyed both of them, making sure he wouldn't get interrupted again, “he wouldn't leave me alone those first few days after I woke up. It was annoying, I was hurting and some things were different and he was just there. We were driving each other crazy, but the thing was—Tab was worried. I could have died and there wasn't anything he could have done about it, so he was doing what he thought was best to help me out. So we talked about it because that's the best way to maintain a good relationship.”

“Okay, okay I get it. I get it, Grant.” Johnny rubbed at his face with a sluggish hand before he braced against the counter, leaning more weight on it than before, staring down at the wooden grain of the countertop. What he was really looking forward to was going home and sleeping for the next ten to twelve hours if it meant he'd be knocked out from the world and his shitty knee problems. If he'd been allowed to, he would have put a stool back behind the bar long ago. It wouldn't exactly be productive when he'd have to get up to serve drinks, but for the slow hours of the night he'd appreciate having at least five minutes to get off of his feet even if it did little to alleviate the pain. “You and Talbert have your couple issues and you talk them out like adults, got it. You're saying it like it's the same for me and Bull—we aren't together. That doesn't apply.”

And Johnny must have really been more exhausted than he thought because when he raised his head, Grant and Christenson were looking at him like he'd started speaking another language.

“What?”

“You and...” Grant cocked his head to the side, eyebrows drawn together.

Christenson's mouth dropped open the slightest bit. “The two of you aren't...”

If he were any less tired, not still pissed about his conversation with Bull, and didn't have a shitty knee that seemed intent on making his life hell, Johnny might just have picked up better on what they were so buffaloed over. But, with the combination of all three of those exact factors, Johnny could only bring himself to shake his head in annoyance and say, “I still can't believe you didn't fucking say anything about Talbert.” No mind to the fact that apparently neither he nor Christenson had noticed...and it was likely a great deal of others hadn't either. Johnny saw plenty at the 506th and was considerably more on the uptake about things. The guys who, being honest—were goneys half the time, were less likely than him to know about whether or not Talbert and Grant were sparking than he was.

It took a long stretch of silence before Grant stopped staring at him in bafflement before he actually responded. “We...just figured people knew. It's not like we needed to announce that kind of thing.” Then, after another beat. “Actually, I thought it was kind of obvious. Martin, you know that he stays with me on the weekends.”

“Yeah, because he has the time off.”

“And you've been friends for years,” Christenson added.

“He stayed with me near constantly after I got injured.”

“Again, friends for years.”

“Trigger lives with me.”

“Because he can't live on the ranch. Both of you have said that.”

“No, I said it wouldn't make sense for Trigger to live on the ranch,” he argued before then turning an accusatory glare towards Johnny. “You walked in on us kissing one time!”

Johnny rolled his eyes. He was pretty sure he remembered what conspired that particular day and could sort of picture the incident Grant mentioned. He actually hadn't been focused on them though, far more concentrated on taking however long of a nap he could manage during his shift on the bench in the back where Talbert and Grant just so happened to be...apparently necking while Grant was also on the clock. “Okay, Christ, we don't pay attention! Congratulations and whatever the fuck else, Grant. Real happy for you.” And he was happy even if it was a year late.

“Thanks...” Grant's face was still kind of screwed up, confusion rife in the expression as he stared at Johnny.

Christenson mumbled out, “Jesus, can't believe I didn't know. Sorry, Chuck.”

Grant sent him a small look that said it was fine before the saloon fell into an eerie sort of silence. It was weird.

“All of that aside,” Grant finally said. “You're gonna talk things out with Bull, right?”

“Sure I'll fucking talk to him when that hayseed figures out that I'm capable of handling my own goddamn self.” He didn't need someone in his ear telling him shit he already knew. Bull was smart, smarter than half the fucking idiots in town, but he didn't seem to know to keep his mouth shut about matters that didn't concern him in the slightest. That kind of care and talk and offers for help were...they just weren't for someone like Johnny. They were wasted on him, that's what it was.

And until Bull told him that, Johnny didn't plan on talking things out.

—

Bill wasn't lying when he'd said he'd get things figured out with Winters for Babe.

By Sunday afternoon he'd had his things packed and a short going-away conversation with Hashey, Garcia, and Miller before he headed into town. It wasn't like he would never see his friends again, it just wouldn't be every day. His new room though? Hell of an improvement. Sure, it was kind of cramped considering its location in the back of the smithy and he figured that sleeping near the furnace would probably be miserable come summer, but when it was still cold? Jesus his own personal heater felt like a dream come true. Not to mention that he didn't have to worry about some guy snoring too loud in the bunk next to him, rolling off the top of the bed, or any of that other nonsense because he was all by himself.

The work itself was nice too, not at all dull or tedious like the stuff he'd been doing at the ranch was. It was still basic, but he was just getting started! Most of this blacksmith stuff was new to him and Babe had probably burnt, hit, and cut his hands more times than he had fingers to count in the last few days. That didn’t matter too much to him considering he was having fun at least.

And fortunately, the clinic was right across the street...seriously. If he looked outside of the smithy, standing right in the front door, he could see it right there without even having to squint or look to the side.

Real convenient for him, being only a few steps away from a quick fix, but Babe was starting to get the feeling that his appearance every evening was about to give Gene a heart attack.

Babe had heard about the actual doctors that served Easy, though every time he ended up in the clinic he always found himself getting helped out by Gene. Somehow, Gene had told him the day before, the other doctors were always held up in some other business that required the both of them. By the muted exasperated expression that crossed his face, Babe got the idea that he didn't believe that to be the entire truth.

He wasn't much of a talkative guy, Gene, though Babe figured out that if he got a conversation going, he'd steadily get more and more responses out of him. Over the course of the day he'd been rather fortunate...unfortunately; for once since the week began he had yet to accidentally hurt himself. It was strange, to think that it was a bad thing to not get hurt, but Babe liked talking to—

“Ay, Babe, get your head outta the fuckin' clouds!” Bill cuffed the back of his head playfully, and Babe jerked back to reality. Shit, he was still working. Kind of. If he could call hammering steel into tiny little rods work.

“Not to sound like I'm complainin', Bill, but when do I get to do more than make tacks 'n shit?” He preferred the hammering to the sweeping and cleaning, fuck that was boring. Better than the ranch, he had to remind himself. Better than the ranch.

Bill picked up the square nail Babe had been beating with a hammer for the last ten minutes and squinted over at him. “When I can tell that big head of yours ain't gonna float up off your shoulders. What's the rush for anyways? Your ass just started here,” he tossed the nail back down onto the anvil, “and that's gettin' you nowhere, kid.”

Babe stared at the nail with a frown. It was a little misshapen...uneven...a bit bent too. He huffed, “I said I wasn't complaining, Bill!”

“Well you sure ain't workin' either.“

“I'm working! I'm working, look!” Babe brought the hammer down onto the nail with a loud clang. It also happened to go down on his thumb. “Shit!”

The exclamation immediately had Bill bark out a laugh as Babe stuck his finger in his mouth. It unfortunately did little to make it stop hurting. “Ah, get over it. That'll happen to you plenty—and that's why you ain't doin' any more and won't get to touchin' any of my good tools ‘til you don't do that anymore.”

“Some mentor you are, laughin' at me after I get hurt,” Babe pouted, pulling his thumb from his mouth when the throbbing didn't cease.

“You'se gotta learn somehow,” Bill shrugged, taking the hammer from Babe's other hand. “You gotta get them sutures out, don't ya? Go ahead and take the rest of the day, bet you'll get a loyalty discount with how much you've been in the clinic.”

“It's six in the evenin', not much day left, is there?”

“Then you won't mind working 'til that sun comes back up instead then, huh?” He scowled at Babe.

“Woah! I never said I didn't wanna leave, look, packin' my stuff up right now, real grateful for all of this, Bill. Real grateful.” Babe brushed off his apron and stood up quickly, swiping all of the other failed and bent tacks and square nails off the side table he'd put them on and into his hand.

He let Babe sweat for a moment longer, in both senses because the furnace was right there, before he grinned. “Just messin' with ya, Babe.” Babe's shoulder slumped in relief, thank God. “I got dinner with Frannie and Hall and I ain't tryna miss that.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. What's wrong with me havin' dinner with my wife?”

“No—no, Bill. I meant Hall, he's comin' over to your place again?” Bill had finally told Babe more about that friend of his he kept bringing to the clinic, Hall. If Babe was counting right, that was the third time since Sunday that he'd invited the guy over to his house to have dinner. It was only Thursday. He'd heard about Hall and the accident from some of the other hands the previous week, he hadn't even known that someone new moved into the bunkhouse until he was watching Popeye and Alley pack up Hall's things after Babe had come back from the clinic himself.

Bill turned around from where he stood, hanging up his own apron on the hook beside the anvil. “Why's it matter to you who I invite over to my house? Here I was thinkin' I'd get you to come over and meet Frannie one of these days.”

“I never said it was a problem!” Babe protested. “Just thought about how he's known you the same amount of time as I have and yet he's gotten more invitations than me.” It didn't actually bother him, Bill's business was his own, but Babe could make observations.

“You gotta concussion and no place to stay?”

“Well, no, but I gotta cut up hand and burnt arm.” To emphasize his point, he held up his still bandaged hand, now dirtied by the day's work. Gene would probably throw a fit at the sight of it, but Babe was still making sure to clean the actual hand every day. Though, by now it should have been healed up enough. Babe figured he'd find out once he went across the street.

“So you can still work,” Bill said, crossing his arms. “And you've got friends in Easy anyways, Babe. Poor Hall's outta job and moved out here with jack, so what if I'm tryna give him a bit of hospitality?”

“Jesus, you know that's not what I meant.”

Babe ducked out of the way as Bill tried to put a hand on his head. “Then quit talkin' stupid.”

“I still got a chance of comin' over for a nice Guarnere family dinner?” He smiled, hoping he looked like the picture of innocence. The idea of getting a home cooked meal made by someone who wasn't one of the guys with shit prowess at making chuck sounded heavenly. Maybe he was a little jealous of this Hall for getting to have so many of those meals while Babe got zip.

Bill just laughed and waved him away. “Get the fuck outta here, I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

He wasted no time in cleaning the rest of his mess up before running across the street. It was routine at this point, or as much of a routine as a few days less than a week could be. Babe stepped inside and saw the pretty blonde doctor talking to Ralph behind the counter. Both of them glanced his way as the door clicked shut behind him, and he could have sworn he saw the two share wry grins with one another before the doctor lady ducked into the back.

Only a few moments later did Gene return in her place, noticeably suppressing a sigh as he saw who it was.

“C'mon Heffron, let's get you worked on.” Babe dutifully followed him back to the room he was getting quite acquainted with at this point.

“Ya know, you oughta name this room after me or somethin', seems like I'm gettin' the most use out of it,” he commented brightly, trying to start up the conversation as he sat down in the familiar chair, already holding out his hand.

Gene's eyes peeked up Babe's way for a fraction of a second before he began to unwrap the bandage. Shit, he didn't even say anything. By now, Babe was sure he would have laughed at it...or, kind of laughed. Maybe a slight exhale that showed what he said was just a little humorous. Nothing. And he still didn't say anything even as he discarded the dirty bandage with a barely disguised grimace.

“Uh, how's your day been?” Maybe if he went for the basics. There wasn't any way that could go wrong, was there? Now that Babe was getting a good look at Gene, all hunched over as he worked at pulling out each of the sutures in Babe's hand, he could tell that something was the matter. There were faint lines on his face and a greyish tint overall to his appearance—some scary looking eye bags too. Shit, Gene must be stressed or something.

“'s been fine, Heffron.”

Babe couldn't stop himself before his mouth went ahead and asked, “You sure?” He could have slapped himself right there. The sheer audacity he had, questioning a man he hardly knew and kept bugging with his injuries. Bill was right, he was talking stupid. “Fuck, don't answer that if you don't wanna.”

The hands working on him stilled and Gene looked up at him once again. His mouth was pressed into a thin line and there was a definite unsureness to it all. “Freight wagon's not comin' on time like it should.”

“The what?”

“Brings in all our supplies we use here.”

“And it's late?”

Gene nodded shortly. “Comes every month—or it should be. Lately it's been comin' 'round late. First it was a day, now it's a week.”

“Oh. Not good.” Babe was a little stunned at the sudden openness. He'd expected a dismissal or even a brusque reply, not a long one. Or, long by the standards he had for Gene.

“No, Heffron. Not good.” Gene gripped his hand now that all of the sutures were out, then he pulled it closer and held it up, inspecting it. “What happened there?“ He was looking at the thumb.

“Ah...yeah.” Babe just attempted a smile. Gene did not accept that and frowned. “Hit it with a hammer.”

With a sharp inhale, Gene shook his head. “You've gotta be the most accident prone man I've ever known, Heffron.”

“...Thanks?”

And that is what got a huff of amusement out of Gene. It only made Babe's attempted smile stretch out into a full grin.

“If you got it good, then it's gonna bruise. Come 'n let me know if it starts botherin' you.”

“You got it!”

“Gimme that arm, lets see if that burn is healed up yet.” Babe obeyed and retracted his hand while offering out the other arm for Gene. As he looked it over, mumbling to himself, Babe got an idea.

“You wanna come to the smithy for lunch tomorrow?” Bill had been giving him about an hour to go and scrounge up something to eat, so he decided that maybe inviting along someone to join him wouldn't be such a bad idea. Now that he didn't have his usual friends around come lunch, Babe was bored.

“Pardon?”

“Lunch...across the street? I work there...or I'm an apprentice there, at least.”

“I know that, I've seen you walkin' over here,” Gene replied. “You want me to have lunch with you?”

“You not get a lunch break?” Babe didn't think that sounded right. “I mean, you could always call it an appointment or whatever. I’m sure I'll probably have bumped into somethin' by then, you can check me over.”

Gene didn't answer. Not for a bit at least. It had Babe really thinking that he didn't get a chance to eat during the day at all. Jesus that sounded miserable.

“Sure. I'll come and eat with ya, Heffron.”

—

There really was nothing better than throwing back a cold one at the end of a rough day.

The last week hadn't been exceptionally hectic or rough per se, but Lewis wasn't going to give up an excuse to go to the saloon and drink either. Really, everyday was rough and therefore required a drink at the end. Also, he had plans to meet with Harry, so...another excuse, why not?

He'd invited Dick because he was sure Harry wouldn't mind the extra company, but as expected, Dick declined. Lewis knew he wasn't the biggest fan of their hangouts at the 506th, though he was sure the drive had something to do with it too. They'd been working on it and Lewis was taking it a bit more seriously now, though their actual progress was considerably lesser than either of them would have liked.

Already were they nearly halfway through the month and they were no closer than figuring out the crew. Lewis was starting to see why Dick was getting so antsy about it.

That was why the saloon was a welcome distraction after another day of toiling away at not only the crew roster, but also his other responsibilities. Payday was tomorrow which meant he still had to recheck that everyone was receiving what they needed to...Lewis could faintly remember that they lost another one of their hands which meant he needed to make sure that he crossed that name off the ledger.

He got a pitcher of beer for the table and a few shots of whiskey for himself while he waited for Harry to show up.

By the time he did come through the doors of the saloon and sat down, Lewis had already made it through all the shots and a quarter of the beer. It was going to be a late night, that was definite.

“Nix! Good to see you again,” Harry wasted no time in pouring a drink for himself.

“It's only been what, a week? Can't have missed me that badly.”

Harry grinned and shrugged. “Eh, maybe you're right. Drinks on you?”

“When are they not,” he asked. Lewis didn't actually mind paying, even if it was near every time. They made enough money at the ranch and then there was everything that came from his family. He wasn't strapped for cash in the slightest. Then, he noticed the way Harry practically gulped down half the glass in an instant. “Did something happen to you?”

Exhaling as he slammed down the beer, Harry's eyes widened, enervated. “The kids, Nix. The kids here are awful.”

“Oh yeah?” If Lewis thought wrangling a bunch of twenty somethings around a ranch was tiresome, he couldn't imagine what dealing with a lot of other people's children would be like. And even then, he didn't do the wrangling. That was either Dick or one of the foremen's job before it was ever his.

“It's like, the parents pay for their kids to come and learn...and then they don't come at all!“ Harry rested his head on his hands.

“Terrible,” he commented. Even after all his time in Wyoming, and the west in general, Lewis still didn't quite understand having to pay to go to school. Pay for a non-private school that was. It was still surprising that education was considered an option.

Harry continued on, “And I guess I've made my peace with that...sort of. But then, I'm letting everyone out of the schoolhouse for the day, only to see the three of my students that are never there are doing who knows what right outside!” He groaned and downed the rest of the glass. “What's the point of skipping if you're gonna end up near the school anyways? It's like they're taunting me, Nix, I swear.”

“I mean, it's not really your business what they decide to do with their parents money.”

“Kitty said that to me today.”

“Well she's right.”

“Of course she's right!” Lewis snorted and refilled their glasses. Never get in between Harry and Kitty, that was for certain. “Still, I don't need a mob of angry parents coming to our door because they're paying for an empty seat.”

“So don't tell them, I doubt the kids are dying to share that they're skipping out on school.”

“Jesus, Nix. You make it sound easy.“

They spoke for a few minutes longer about Harry's teaching woes before Lewis got up to get another pitcher and another few shots.

When he got situated, Harry sat up and asked, “You make any more progress on that roster? I remember you and Dick talking about it last time we got together.”

“Uh...yeah. Some.” And by some, it just meant they were throwing the same few names around that they already knew would be going in the first place. Lewis took a long pull from his drink at that thought. The days really were ticking away. Though it wouldn't be until the middle of March when they left Easy to head down south, both he and Dick knew it would be of benefit to know the crew at least a week or two beforehand so they could properly prepare everyone—especially if some of the hands going hadn't ever been on a drive before.

“I'm sure it'll be fine, Nix. I mean, you guys are a great team—like me and Kitty!” Harry said. Optimism, gross. Lewis got onto Dick for his pessimism, but that didn't mean he couldn't be pessimistic too. Dick was the one that needed to keep strong in this situation, he didn't need to worry about things and he definitely didn't need to keep agonizing over shit that shouldn't be worrisome in the first place. So, Lewis would try to take the brunt of it.

“Thanks, Harry.”

Then Harry leaned back, staring up and off at something distant with a dreamy sort of expression. “I always thought that married couples work better together than regular people.”

Lewis was going to laugh and probably make fun of Harry for being a hopeless romantic until he registered what he said. Did...Harry mean to imply that he and Dick were...married? Did Harry think that they were?

They'd never actually talked about it, him and Dick. Marriage. Their whole...relationship, he guessed. There was something between them, something romantic, at least. But they didn't talk about it. It'd always just kind of lingered ever since they met, friends...lovers...the dynamic was there but the waters were muddied.

He could think about how much he loved Dick, and he was sure Dick felt something similar, but now that he was actually thinking about it...

Had either of them actually said anything? Not once in recent memory had the word love ever been shared between them in any sort of conversation.

Lewis could see himself being married to Dick. Could Dick? Had he misinterpreted the entire thing? They didn't sleep in the same bedroom and didn't really do anything that betrayed any romantic feelings. That's just how things were between them, though.

“Nix?”

He was still talking to Harry. Great. “You would think that, wouldn't you?” was what he wound up saying, attempting to disguise the sudden spiral he'd been put into at the innocuous comment. Harry didn't even know what he'd set off.

That sent Harry off onto a rant about how he was basically an expert in that kind of thing and after a few more drinks between the two of them that assured they were both sufficiently slewed, Lewis knew he had to get back to the ranch. He was distracted and didn't think he could hold up a conversation any longer.

At least Harry was understanding and said it'd be for the best if he also went home. It wasn't the best idea for a teacher to show up to school terribly hung-over and Kitty would likely send him to the doghouse if he were to anyways.

So, they parted ways and Lewis took to long trip back to Currahee. Home.

There were a few hands still milling about when he entered through the main gate. Lewis paused and just...watched. They really did have a great group of guys and...well, he supposed if did that—watched, that was—he might be able to glean some better information about the whole kit and caboodle that was plaguing their lives.

As anticipated, once he got inside the house, their office door was slightly ajar and Dick was working away in the manner Lewis had become accustomed to in the last couple of weeks.

He nudged the door open, hinges squeaking and making his presence known “Lew?”

“I'm back,” Lewis stated. “What's the work today?” It felt weird to actually be invested in knowing whatever paperwork he was in the middle of filling out. But, if there was anyone Lewis would choose to sit down and do paperwork with, no matter how boring, it would have to be Dick.

Dick shuffled through some of the papers and began to detail what it was while Lewis dragged his desk chair over to be next to Dick's. As he listened and nodded along, taking a few of the pages for himself to fill out, Lewis came to a resolution of his own.

He should just propose to Dick and get it all figured out that way.