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Despite being a man of the cloth, whose kind seem to relish in early morning sermons, the good Reverend Mason is the furthest thing from a morning person that Clayton’s had the dubious pleasure of meeting. It takes the man a full hour to become a fully functioning human being. Little less with a strong cup of coffee in him, but even then it takes a fair bit for him to warm up to being among the living.
The man sleeps like a rock too. Deep and without interruption, even when said interruption might be external and aiming to rip his throat out. It’s a trait that Clayton envies a little but is mostly horrified by. The thought of not snapping awake the moment a board creaked wrong in his room, missing a potential threat to his life, sends an icy shudder up his spine. There’s been a time or two where sleeping with one eye open is the only thing that’s saved Clayton’s life.
Mason obviously has no such concerns even when their business takes them away from the relative safety of Deadwood. When there’s no getting around setting up camp out in the middle of the wilderness despite everyone’s preferences. The Reverend will drop off to sleep within seconds of laying down and will not wake up for anything less than a shot being fired.
Or a pot being banged next to his head provided it’s hit hard enough.
“Hwut!?” Mason jerks up, eyes open wide but bleary as he flails out for the shotgun Arabella had carefully moved before the wake up call. “Wassit!?”
“Breakfast, darlin’!” Miriam calls calmly from the fire where she’s working her magic with the pot of coffee. “I’ll have some coffee ready in a bit for you. Does anyone else want a nip of whiskey in theirs?”
Aly and Arabella answer, likely in the affirmative, but Clayton pays the talk no mind. Focused instead on Mason as he fumbles his way out of his blanket. His hair is mussed more than a single night on the ground can account for and his dark eyes blink blearily at the whole world. Seemingly puzzled by the way the blankets tangle around his legs, the rock he trips over, and the way he slides off the log they dragged over to sit on.
He lists to the side slowly until he’s leaning on Arabella, eyes not quite focused and drifting shut every other blink. Left alone, he’ll fall right back asleep which is why Arabella keeps hold of the long spoon she has and pokes him in the side every few moments. He startles upright every time with a loud snort and slightly wider eyes, but it doesn’t last long before he’s sliding again.
It’s comical even as Clayton feels like it’s the reason for every bit of gray he’s found on his head lately. Keeping an eye out for the group has become something he’s resigned himself to and Mason requires it more than most. Last time they’d ended up outside he’d nearly broken a leg stopping the man from stumbling into a pit of snakes that might or might not have been the normal kind.
Clayton counts four jabs before Arabella gets tired of it and shoulder bumps the priest hard enough he lists the other way. Clayton grunts as the full weight of Mason comes down on his right shoulder and stays there. An arm wraps loosely around him and Mason mumbles something that’s either about being warm or leaving an arm behind. Mason’s breath fans out hot and moist against Clayton’s neck causing him to shiver and shift so the man’s head angles away from it.
It makes Aly snort a into his cup. His dark eyes laughing at Clayton over the rim despite the glare he sends back. “Fuck off.”
Aly doesn’t bother responding with words and it gets the both of them a look from Miriam who reaches over him to hand Arabella a cup.
From experience, Clayton knows that he’s got a handful of minutes before his arm starts going numb under the weight of Mason. He doesn’t move to shake him off though. Just hooks his arm around the man in return and accepts the cup Miriam passes his way, already laced with the right amount of whiskey. The second cup is placed by his feet until Mason becomes coherent enough to coordinate drinking without spilling anything on himself. Which will be a while still from the way he’s not moving.
Far as Clayton’s concerned, it’s not worth throwing a shit fit over a man who won’t remember a damn thing he’s done in the next hour. He’s learned to just roll with it when the Father uses him as a resting post and not take anything too personal from his sleepy behavior.
Not even when a part of him --that he buries real fucking deep-- wants to.
Fingers somehow manage to worm in through all Clayton’s layers to rest on skin. His head slips to the side again as Mason nuzzles into his neck. Saying something too low to pick up beyond the feeling of it vibrating against his skin.
Clayton takes a drink and holds it in his mouth. The burn of the coffee and the whiskey feel good as he just lets the world go on around him. Miriam and Arabella discussing how much of the goods they’ve recovered they want to take back to Swearengen, Aly tossing in his own opinion in between giving Clayton significant looks that can fuck right off, and Mason making himself at home at Clayton’s side.
It’s a rather peaceful start to the morning that Clayton is unashamed to allow himself to enjoy for as long as it’ll last.