Archive of Our Own ^beta

To say he is excited is an understatement. A week had been spent south of Kettering, visiting three towns before one was mid-sized enough to be desperate for a newspaper typist. Desperation was a necessity, given it would be a man who looked capable of hard labor, which always paid better on account of the longer hours.

A bleak little office in dim lighting, tucked into the earth-most stained white bricks of a townhouse served as a break in their wandering. Ran by some stuffed-up dog of an owner, who neither of them cared to imagine employing a woman. Hosea had taken it, since he is more acquainted with these things. One or two evenings of long hours may have sufficed, but a week's worth of pay didn't hurt their pockets whatsoever. Dutch wasted a majority of this time feeling not dissimilar from a dog waiting on his master, pawing at the inn room's door or perhaps sulking around the alleyways plucking coins out of purses so he didn't feel useless on top of listless. He replaced the keen sense he was far too lost without his friend with the wonder of whether they may be greedy for soaking up a full paycheck. It would be a much more appealing issue, given it would implicate them both.

This stint of work filled a suitcase with Lisbon Royal Shipping Co. papers: receipts, particularly from a handful of very wealthy railroad pioneers, who neither had ever so much as visited the hometowns of; forged proofs of purchase and of work done on a receiving facility on the east coast, a medium train ride away from western Ohio for all interested investors; a plethora of prospecti featuring a few different ports— which one they would hold at arm's length would depend solely on the buyer's geographical literacy; and business licenses in rusty, Appalachia-tangled Spanish and French that would only convince a fool who barely knows his own English. It could be real, and rather promising, so long as they chose their believers carefully.

Dutch took hours studying these fine details with Hosea, the older man leant over his shoulder with a hand between the blades, listing the reasons as to why name-dropping capitals was important and why, in his lengthy experience, this particular type of crest was convincing of a European origin, no matter how smart a victim was. Most of these advices ended in: so long as he were American. One could get away with anything in that case, even with pretending they spoke Mexican Spanish in Portugal and that Hosea's French was not learned from French Canadians, ex-pat of Quebec. Their hands, after all, were tied by the limitations of their knowledge.

Just as he enjoyed learning, Dutch found it admirable how Hosea knew such a wealth of information so casually. It was one thing to be respectably armed with knowledge, but another to have the words by which to teach it without effort. Dutch was literate, well-read, and he would hope quite smart himself— yet by the end of each session, sat with foreheads together or nearly atop each other in their tiny, shared inn room that housed but a puny breakfast table and one chair, he hadn't the slightest cue where the hell Hamburg was (Germany), who they were meant to be (cross-continental co-founders), or why their buy-in was necessarily foreign, even to them (they were not lying, simply make-believing, which is easier; the best liars hoard the stuff).

Some evening, he found himself thinking in broken Spanish and begged Hosea for mercy. The man laughed and said he'd get him drunk enough to think it fluently, if only he spent half an hour more planning with him. It had worked each night he promised this reward for Dutch's paying attention to his lessons in scam artistry. By their last day in town, he wasn't so sure he knew the difference between himself and this fictional Victor Oliveira. Both wore the same face and — with a poorly contrived excuse of a Portugese accent — spoke the same tongue. That was, if the matter at hand were a simple greeting or befitting of some wayward expression that Hosea had picked up farther south several years ago and likely mangled beyond recognition when relaying it to Dutch.

A real company of the supposed year-old age that Lisbon Royal was meant to be couldn't have answered the questions which they had prepared for meticulously, such was the details to their story. It was their most intensive yet. At a certain point, he believes his friend simply grew bored and began elaborating on logistics simply to make the time go by. Positively neurotic either way, and Dutch feared a touch insensitive.

He would have Hosea no other way.

He had to admit that their last successes were pleasing, but this would be huge. It must be. Further east, in the direction of that fanciful receiving facility, the poor clustered in whole counties abandoned after their mines were scraped clean. Hosea himself admits he hadn't known what prosperity looked like until he had crossed a state border. Day dreams kept him aloft, ones of being good, washing their hands clean of what was done just a stone's toss westward.

They left for Kettering starving mind and body from the overthinking and with stolen cotton suits carefully folded in their cleanest saddlebags. The reasons for the particular cuts, colors, and fabrics was one of the rare lectures that Hosea spared him from, but which Dutch suspects will be coming as they settle into yet another cramped inn room. He has never minded this habit. Hosea has a nice — good, he should say — voice and this fascinating way of telling fiction with hard reality that could make even the most gruesome war recountance a pleasure to Dutch's ears. The importance of the mundane things he shares is not lost on him, either, having heard none of it from his mother. Without realizing it, Hosea has woven himself into his understanding of life as a whole. Heaven knows there were enough holes to fill in that regard.

Down-on-their-luck, hopeful entrepreneurs could not, of course, afford separate rooms. Living the lives they've created for themselves is Hosea's favorite part of these schemes and Dutch's most dreaded. This lodging hosts two beds that ought to fit him fine if he bends his knees every night. Unfortunate, but at least there is two this time. A full-length mirror occupies a dusty corner and a well-worn dresser stands guard between it and a small window, covered in curtains that look handmade for the poor stitching job done on their daisied edges. All of it is drab and dark, the deep wood tones soaking the light of wall sconces and oil lamps right up.

Luxurious yet, compared to canvas walls with not more than a foot of space to spare parting their bedrolls, nor on either side. Dutch hopes they will finally be able to afford a second tent after whatever inevitable charity and celebratory drinking they do with their winnings. Approaching a year together, but always there's something of bigger importance: boots that need skilled repairs, thread for a sewing kit, half-presentable clothing.

As they lay bags around, Hosea starts in on another wardrobe matter. "You ought'a wear them fancy rings you got back in Kentucky. The gold ones." A brown suitcase, old and with fabric torn in the crevices of its metal edges, is popped open on the bed before him as he speaks. Its hinges hiss, arthritic. It is also Kentuckian. Dutch recalls the doctor they stole it from, for his misgivings with the local slum population; he's unsure if their plan was born before or after its interception. "It'll make you look important."

"Thought we's supposed to be common folk today?" Dutch says. He's worrying over his figure in his suit's waistcoat, thinking the deep red was best-suited for mixing the truth with the image they sought. Better than the pale thing he had been wearing for a month now, dirt-stained and creased and badly needing a deep cleaning, but it barely seemed to fit at his chest, an unsightly fold beneath the breast that made it appear tighter than it was. He scowled into the mirror as if it weren't his own fault. Either he was too hopeful at the tailor or too greedy with the canned peaches.

"Common as a couple'a sophisticated young men can look, which isn't our idea of common," Hosea corrects. The rustle of papers as they're organized, made into convenient stacks for each wealthy man they may stumble upon. Something about that was respectable to Dutch, too, how seriously he took keeping their nonsense in order. "'Specially not from Europe. They got different standards there, you know."

Dutch turns to him, then, brows raised. Fingers dance idly on the chain of his pocketwatch, feeling gold swing under callous. "For a feller who's never left American soil, you sure know a lot about over there."

Hosea gives him a blank look that cracks into a lopsided grin with barely a lick of pressure. Always, he chooses to humor him fast. "Well, I know how to lie about it." He straightens up from where he'd hunched over the suitcase, a hideous pop of his spine followed by a pleasant sigh of relief. Dutch is blushing at his rookie misgiving, and as if reading his mind, Hosea says: "That's why we're scoutin' today and talkin' tomorrow. Our brains aren't worth a dime right now." He closes the suitcase with a definitive snap, pointing at Dutch before he can wallow anymore about being gullible. "Ain't that vest snug on you?"

His face warms further. "I can breathe," he says defensively, a self-conscious hand at the roll under his chest. He feigns greater dismay than he feels, frowning deep. "Are you callin' me fat?"

"Callin' you the brawn of the operation, we'll say," Hosea replies, and chuckles. Dutch laughs alongside him, tips of his ears reddening regardless. It's infectious, that giggly fit he goes into when he knows he's shot off a clever insult, even on a willingly offered shoulder. He's sliding the case beneath his bed and rustling his knapsack for his own, less trail-sodden change of clothes as Dutch ignores him in favor of bumming a cigarette from his pack unannounced.

They charge ten dollars a share going forward. It's a braggable amount, but doesn't demand an entire season's pay. A very happy medium for all involved, if Hosea were to be asked to sell it. He has turned this task onto Dutch for the end of their third week in town, and they celebrate his first lonesome sale with dinner at the same place they've eaten hot meals everyday since coming into town. It's the cheerful spirit that makes it a fine establishment this time. Before it had been the company, or the women. The local barber had been greatly enthused with his pitch, though Dutch slowly lost his accent as he grew more animated; another ten dollars for them, regardless. He is coming to the conclusion that they could lie their way out of any problems, too, as dangerous as it is.

Beans from his satchel would've done Dutch just fine, but this run-through is feeling different from the others. There's a sense of something quite grand coming their way, grand and good, and it doesn't feel like the barreling pressure he often senses when he's grown too hopeful, too happy. Hosea had agreed on this last night while they finished their purchased whiskey, after Dutch failed to fall asleep and Hosea failed to entertain himself without poking at him.

The most grand thing, for now, is the amount of working class men crowded into the saloon this evening. Under the flickering, mellow glow of wall sconces crackling with low quality oil fueling, they all seem sullen and friendly. A mixture between Northern chill and Southern warmth exists within this town, Dutch has noticed. It's a fine place for them, being of both these respective homes, to pull one of their first large-scale schemes. Everything has fallen into place both socially and metaphorically, which is perhaps why Dutch continues to feel good about their payouts despite the sinking sensation in his gut.

Hosea says he ought to chat up a few fellers at the bar counter as they wait on their food. The two-hundred something they have already is excellent, but what's the reason to stop there? He sees a few reasons, most of whom looked very weary after a long days' work. Dutch says he's too tired to be rambling coherent enough bullshit. His rules are understood, but respect is another question entirely.

"S'alright. We've all the time in the world here," Hosea replies, grinning and drawing on his cigarette. He looks a lot more appealing when he isn't scowling, or at least Dutch thinks so once he's smiling.

They both know the luxury of laziness isn't theirs. At most they have less than one week left to squeeze the town's upper class for their last pennies. His willingness to play at the idea is what tells Dutch he's as optimistic as he is. He's hardly the only smoker, cigars and fags lit from one wall to the other, clouding around the poker table to spectate the ongoing game. Cheating would be delightful tonight, but neither of them feels the urge. Nevermind the risk, as their egos wouldn't allow for such a concern. Not now.

Over the din of chatter and the sounds of the kitchen from a door left ajar across the saloon (banging, clanging, laughter), it's hard to make out any useful conversations. Hosea's advice has led to this hyper-vigilance in crowded places, straining to hear talk of payday and railroads and going on a trip as the hunting dog strains for footfalls in soft grass. Full wallets and empty houses, the relaxed quality of a rich man's laugh above the din or scent, from upwind. Dutch tips his barstool so that he can knee the side of Hosea's thigh, then looks pointedly at his smoke. Hosea sighs and fishes for the carton in his pocket as if he does not do the same to Dutch every other day.

"They taste better when they ain't mine," he says pre-emptively. The truth is that they taste better when they're his.

Hosea shakes his head, smoke billowing from his nostrils in an amused huff. "Sure thing," he says, plucking out a cigarette and handing it to Dutch without looking. "You're gettin' the next pack. Damn leech."

Nothing but a grin finds him at the insult. A match follows because he knows Dutch is utterly useless, as he so fondly puts it. Striking it off the edge of the bar counter, Dutch waves the flame out as he inhales the fresh, dark chocolate and crushed leaves taste of the smoke. He tosses it in a nearby ashtray, small and glassy. They really do taste better than his own. Hosea's rolled half of them, tucked the gems in an old store-bought box with the other half being leftovers from the purchased pack. He figures this one is a long waiting unoriginal that he hadn't chosen to smoke yet, based on the stiffness of its flavor. Of course he gave Dutch the store-bought.

Bastard.

He watches him put his things away and look around. The crowd beyond his strong profile is out of focus for him only, it seems. "You see those ladies over there?" Hosea asks, turns to him.

Dutch twitches so that he might appear to have turned his head, too, rather than been staring. He glances around, spots three women in nice, pressed dresses standing and talking by the poker table. "Yessir," he says, expecting some sort of lecture or offer to come of it, but Hosea slides off his barstool, losing half an inch in height.

"Watch this."

He does. Hosea makes his way past a few men, placing polite but firm hands on shoulders and lower backs to excuse himself, and Dutch watches with a sudden distaste as he slinks up to the women, easing into their ranks and earning laughter within a minute. He hasn't a clue what he's doing, thinks idly he may be trying to woo them for an evening together — but good God, three girls? and his hands stay respectfully at his sides instead of reaching like they usually do — as part of Dutch's reward for doing a passable job. It is the sort of raunchy, crude thing he's come to think of when expecting the unexpected from Hosea.

This idea crumbles as he turns to motion in his direction and Dutch sees no inkling of urgency on his face. Only the smooth gesture in his direction, the long line of his legs in dark pants against their brightly colored skirts. He has much distaste for the sight, turns back to the bar counter and studies the knife marks and nail scratches in it, chips and dents, the shifting waves of wood grain in variegated colors of dark brown. All of this is easier to look at while he finishes his cigarette in half-time than Hosea's display of charming.

He brings that damned smugness over with a piece of paper, pale blue with a golden emblem at the top and pen, shakily written but legible, scrawled across its lines. Grinning from ear to ear, hiding his cracked lips and nicotine-streaked teeth from the other bar-sitters with a hand supporting his head at the temple. It feels not dissimilar to flirtation. He slides it across the counter to Dutch, who finds it's a check for twenty-two dollars that was clearly written using Hosea's arm or hand for a table. He nearly burns the paper with ash, moving his cigarette out of his mouth to lean in closer.

"Do you ever rest?" Dutch asks, and Hosea chuckles that giddy laugh he has come to loathe for how sweet it is.

"None for the wicked." Hosea takes the check and slips it into the inside pocket of his waistcoat, relaxing on the stool. "And for beautiful ladies?" He half-sneers, as if abhorred by the idea. "My God, man."

His confidence is suffocating and yet Dutch does not look away with anything but reluctance. When their food comes he is glad, both for the first hot meal of the day and for the reprieve from Hosea's general presence that eating provides. Now and then, they share conversation. It moves without friction between them, without strings, either, and most of it stops in dead ends and picks up somewhere else based on vague associations. Dutch mentions his mother and so Hosea mentions where he grew up and so Dutch mentions that he wanted to live somewhere else his whole life, and other things that do not deserve their own talks.

The crowd crescendos and begins to fade nearing ten o'clock. Small town, people turn in early, he supposes. To fill the empty space, someone steps up to man the piano. They must be half drunk from the sound of their playing, but the customers could not care less. Food pushed towards the barkeep and then whisked away, it's merely talking or listening to stilted ragtime that remains, and most of what they need to discuss isn't safe to do so out of privacy. Dutch rolls the suggestion of turning in around, but there's an obvious energy to Hosea that makes it a redundant idea. His leg knocks into his, knee bouncing, heel of his boot hooked on the lowest rung of the stool.

Studying his own fingers twiddling about, how the place seems even darker inside than it had before and how it throws the shadows onto his scars. Hardly a minute goes by before Hosea's knuckles come into his view as he lays his hand on his forearm. His breath smells like tobacco as he speaks, leant in to be heard above the noise.

"You bored?"

Dutch finds the look in his eyes worrying. "Why?" He asks, brows lowering.

Hosea chuckles. "I'm not that bad," he says, pats Dutch's arm and then retracts his hand. It had been warm. He taps the bar counter instead, seemingly adrenalized. "I think we ought'a celebrate. You wanna get a girl?"

Should have seen it coming. Still, Dutch flushes, clearing his throat. "No," he says. Hosea continues to look expectantly at him, so he adds: "Too tired. Think I'll go back to the room. You can..." He motions off into the barroom, as if sending him away. Hosea pats his arm again and is off, but it takes him a moment to pull himself from his seat.

The thought of Hosea's arms is more grotesque without them laying across from him, the sight to blame for haunting him. Muscle flexing beneath the skin by lamp light as mellow and yellow as it is in this room, now, blond hairs on end. Dutch sheds his jacket and waistcoat as he shuts the door behind him, toes off his shoes. He realizes he has yet to be in this room bar Hosea's company, which is funny to think until it begins to feel lonely and somehow drabber than when he is there and, again, ideas of his strength come to him.

The other room had felt this way, too, while he was working at the typist's. Missing him felt womanly then, and now— well, Dutch shan't name whatever this festering thing is. It can't be anything good, considering Hosea is busy laying some saloon girl and he is caught up in thoughts of him from a handful of buildings down the road, ones that he keeps at bay with willpower and worrying the beds of his nails until they grow tender and threaten to bleed. He considers drinking before and after acknowledging that it would make keeping his mind sensible an even harder task. Eventually, he chooses to attempt to maintain some kind of peace with his sobriety.

From there he begins to pace, until he really is too tired to keep himself upright and lays, face-first, in his bed. He moves to slip the check from his pocket and onto the nightstand, but he does not fall asleep.

It had been looming over him last time, too, why he felt so lost by himself and so wonderfully alone with Hosea. Circling images of tan skin leading into pale white at his belly, supplied by river baths he hadn't thought to sexualize in the moment and yet finds himself chased by afterwards— pale skin pressing to whatever sort of woman he finds attractive — dark hair? The ideas try to force their way into his sudden, all-consuming spiral with moderate success. Yes, it's more difficult this time, trying to keep a grip on his sanity.

Dutch presses his face into the pillow, hoping to either abate it or to fall asleep, or to suffocate, and finds no relief on any front. He could swing this into something acceptably invasive if he was thinking of what sort of lady he might've chosen, judging his taste beside his own for comparison, thinking of his words — you wanna get a girl? as if he intended to share — in an economic sense instead of a prying kind of hope. He knows how Hosea speaks, knows that when he means we he says it the way he had.

Oh, he wouldn't know what to do with it if that were true. He considers having a woman between them and bites his tongue until the stinging pain brings him from his head and back to earth.

Dark hair?

It's an hour before Hosea slips into the room, quiet. Dutch strains to listen to the swishing of his pants legs and the rustle of him undressing for sleep as if he might make out words in them. He doesn't know what he'd wish for them to be. The smell of tobacco fills the air and, raising from his shallow grave, Dutch pushes himself onto his elbows to look over at Hosea.

The man was already looking at him. One leg sprawled out, the other crooked and his elbow resting on his knee. "Did you wake up just to bum one off me?" Hosea asks, grinning at him. His voice is hoarse and his hair mussed. He has a feeling his rustled collar was not undone after he stepped back into their room, either.

"Yes," Dutch lies, shoving himself up to sit. It's easier to tuck his feelings into their shameful pocket when the object of them is around. Or, he prays, they come around because he's lonely.

The man from Cinncinati returns as he said he would, and neither of them think anything beyond how fast it was. The saloon is quiet this time of day, this day of the week. A few girls work the sparing tables, betting on men drunk at noon wanting for company after the clinking of silverware has died down. Dutch is focused enough to not wonder, in the moment, which of them had bedded with his friend the night prior, but he tucks the betting game away for after their conversation.

He and Hosea rest, the former self-consciously, at the opposite side of a 4-seater which hardly permits sufficient room for the two of them. The railroad man is a round fellow, red nosed with a flush spreading across the sun-leathered skin of his cheeks and a pocket square that is aggravating Dutch in its crookedness. The frumpiness of his suit jacket communicates what he thinks of them well. Lowly entrepreneurs whose names struck one chord too few back home to warrant his renewed excitement. Hosea offered a cigarette that was turned down for a cigar from a much classier brand, tucked into the mans breast pocket, which may have been the start of Dutch's sudden, personal disliking of him.

Between puffs, he asks: "Remind me again, boys, what exactly you're doing all this way inland?" He lacks the suspicion the question carries under a certain guise, looks as though he couldn't be bothered to remember their last conversation.

Hosea doesn't miss a beat. "The grain shortage back home has driven a few prospectors over here." From his own breast pocket he procures a cigarette — loose? how vile, probably leaves tobacco strung — and his matchbox. "Victor will tell you, it's put the prices up quite high overseas."

"Ah, see," the man begins, then seems to think better of it. Eyes dart past them and out the window, which neither is able to glance toward without raising suspicion. Dutch can feel the air shift, Hosea tensing beside him, and he moves his own hand down to his lap, skimming the hem of his trousers to make a quick jump to his hip if needed. Another cloud of cigar smoke, smell of fruit mixed with dirt, leaves their table and wafts into the open bar. "I s'pose the rest haven't come this far south of New York to sell, then. I'm friends with many important men, you might know— none had heard of this sort of expansion settling down here, not even out in Chicago. I'd say... if it was the great idea you insist on, we'd have Frenchmen storming the place like ants, now, wouldn't we?"

"There's always a first in any great expenditure," Dutch says. Hosea taps his ankle with his foot and he sits up a little straighter, offering a better reply that follows more of his past instructions. Actionable, it must be actionable. Ask questions. "We planned to go towards Cleveland. You know where that is, don't you?" Words playing at a sense of low confidence, tone as even and kind as he can keep it.

Beady eyes narrow, but the humor stays put on his face. "Born and raised in this country. Ought to."

Dutch disregards the intended jab. Easier, given that it hasn't got anywhere to land, though it still irritates him for his persona's sake. "We plan to use a port up by the lake," he says, gesturing vaguely in a direction that could have been northeast. "It'll get things moving towards New York, 'n' out it goes with half the cost in transporting goods to the port."

The man moves to tap the ash of his cigar onto the wooden floor of the saloon. "I don't believe that would work out," he says, letting them feign hanging on his ever-important words as he sucks another cloud of smoke for tasting. There is the keen sense of moment-before-disaster, the air tight and their interest in what he has to say near genuine for how fervently they await the unknown yet inevitable. Expelling it, the hammer drops: "Maybe for Luis 'n' Victor it could. I'm beginnin' to doubt that's who I'm speakin' to." Accusatory, his gaze lingers on Hosea.

He does not flinch. "Pray tell, what's that supposed to mean?" He asks flatly. Damned if he is offended, damned if he isn't.

This is the worst place they could have found themselves.

Dutch's hand slides further up his thigh, intending to reach for his pistol in a fairly visible manner, but the sight of a recognizable blue uniform shirt from the corner of his eye leads him to adjust his waistcoat instead. Damn rich filth, and goddamn pigs. Damn them all. The sheriff sidled in at some point, whether by coincidence or not, and leans himself onto the bar counter. In profile, he looks much less spry than he had the few times they'd passed him in the street, although he's still a hulking thing.

He keeps his focus, as it would appear, on the scarred-up saloon table before him in the brief silence that follows. Glazed over in the beginnings of alertness, but ahead. Unpleasantly, there's the rustling of papers and then the wood grain is replaced by two familiar headshot ink sketches on aged, torn-edge papers. Those awful drawings they did before Kentucky, where they gave him the most godawful expression and made Hosea's face so square it hardly held a resemblance. Dutch, unsure if he should relent so easily or if Hosea may have preferred he try to lie himself out of the fact the moles aligned perfectly, looks to his partner who seems a touch pale in the afternoon sunlight coming through the window pane. All this despite the even set of his jaw and the casual, almost cocksure glance he tosses Dutch's way. Eyes flit past him, quick, and must see for his own what Dutch had. Perhaps he would've preferred lying himself, if he hadn't spotted the muttonshunter up front.

"Means I weren't the only fellow bringin' news of you two to poker that evening." He lays his cigar on the table, then thinks better of it and taps the ash off onto the rendition of Hosea's face. Whatever information he was thrown, his friend must have a particular grudge against him. In a way, Dutch's ego bristles and he feels somewhat jealous. "Care to explain yourselves?"

"I think you'll find an explanation quite pointless," Hosea replies. It is the most honest he's been with anyone in this town. He licks his lips, thinking. "Might an expensive man like yourself find money more useful?"

Dutch bites the inside of his cheek. Flattery is Hosea-like enough, but bribery has never quite been his taste. It's a poor look for him, and he knows at once that this dread slowly settling into his stomach is an infectious sort if he's resorting to it first thing. Granted, it's clear that there are not many ways out of this situation that wouldn't hurt. Usually, he is always resting easy, knowing — trusting — that Hosea is more than equipped to pull them out of anything, but Dutch begins to examine it himself, contemplates how many shards of glass might get stuck in him if they threw themselves out the window. It seems the only real escape route they've got.

The man considers. "How much?"

All parties are desperate, then.

"Your investment plus one-hundred."

There's a pause. He holds his breath. In a moment, the man is looking to his right and Dutch knows they are set to lose almost double what was just offered alongside their dignity. Hosea follows the reach of a soft hand and sees, then, the uniform at the bar that it's motioning for. Quickly, he slips something from his pocket, palms it into his waistband, and retucks his shirt.

"Plus two-hundred." Dutch says quietly, staring at the old dog in front of him as if his intensity might buy them time now that boots are coming in hot. The man from Cincinnati sneers, and Hosea kicks Dutch beneath the table.

Cigarettes. The parade of arrest, especially in a busy bar which Dutch, for his part, had spent all that energy spreading his word in, was embarrassing. The sheriff, Carmichael, as he so graciously introduced himself while yanking Dutch's arm from its socket for nothing but pompous flare, took his sweet time once they were in handcuffs. A deputy half the man's size and confidence held Hosea's bound wrists, hissing when he shifted uncomfortably from the stretch in his arms. Two well-dressed men being cuffed caught plenty of attention on their own, but it appeared every eye in town found them at some point in the pitiful march to the jail.

Absurdity.

And here, Dutch had hoped that whatever Hosea had tucked into his waistband might — in an admittedly boyish way — release them.

Cigarettes. He saved his cigarettes. Dutch knows because he noticed Hosea leaning back too far in the deputy's hold, unthinking, and it pressed the carton to the fabric of his vest, leaving a ghostly impression. Hosea is lucky that Carmichael lingers in front of their cell, droning about three-hundred dollars, you greedy cads and more in fines, you know, hope you know, do you know? long enough that Dutch hasn't got the chance to slam his big, dumb head into the wall. As hulking as he had looked at the bar counter, he is verging on taller than him and built just as solid.

Reactionary anger. It's not meant for Hosea. Dutch disassociates as the sheriff talks because he is, frankly, ashamed to have been caught. Their faces are familiar, he guesses, from those posters; he wonders if he'd be taking so much joy out of a petty lecture if he knew they'd done far worse in their time on the road. The idea gives him equal amounts of excitement, suspecting their real danger is unexpected, and guilt.

Tail between his legs, he sits on the cot and hunches over his lap, hands hanging between his knees. The sheriff continues, but it is a formless stream of words, now. Consequences never feel good for the pride, and the self-esteem takes a healthy bruising, too. Reminds him too much of childhood, studying the stitching of his mother's skirts while enduring a scolding for something he knew was wrong, but simply thought he could slink away with. You're sorry you got caught. Certainly doesn't sweeten his demeanor to have his faith in this job being crushed under a heavy, self-righteous boot, pockmarked by dust and dirt. The sole is peeling off at the heel, he notices as Carmichael walks the short hall of the cells, back towards his desk.

Talking springs up down the hall. Casual conversation between two new friends, Carmichael's deep voice and the deputy's snivel exchanging words on life that lack any real definition, fine and same-same and as well as it can be. He watches Hosea untuck his shirt and produce a cigarette, his hips lifted off the ground to keep from cutting the box's corner into his stomach and— Dutch looks away from where he sits on the floor. It softens him a little to realize how Hosea it is. Animal comfort, may as well enjoy sliding one under The Man's nose before they're finally snatched away, the smell of tobacco undeniable and impossible to hide in the open air from merely popping the lid. He fumbles a match from his carton, uncaring for the sound of cardboard and wood scraping together that will surely be audible up front. As comforting as his nonsense is, it stresses Dutch out.

Match strikes on leather boot-side. The flame sparks out of the corner of his vision and there comes the earthen, heavy smell. Hosea sighs as he leans his head back against the wall, and there's a moment of thinking before either of them speaks. Dutch studies, then, the lines of his own knuckles and the scars ringing each finger from the times they have played Five Finger Filet together. Some fresh and purple, some white. How could anyone believe the people they claim to be? They are covered in evidence, no matter their smooth talk.

"They shouldn't've put us in the same cell," Hosea says. An attempt is made to keep his volume low, but there's no hushed, nervous quality to it. That stresses Dutch out more.

He looks up from his palms. "Why's that, friend?"

Hosea looks at him, blank and then grinning. He raises without grace from the floor, knees crackling and a plume of smoke falling from his mouth alongside a grunt, to sit beside Dutch on the cot. It hardly depresses under his weight, strung tight to the frame. Filter passes from lips to fingers. Hip to hip, feeling naked without gun belts between them. Hosea hooks an arm around Dutch's shoulders while he is busy wondering why, every time he sits, the man has a habit of hiking up his pants legs like a woman twice his age might.

"Because," Hosea begins, offering Dutch the cigarette by flexing the wrist hanging comfortably on his shoulder. He smells strongly of cologne this close. Through whatever odd feeling of dread is blooming in his gut, Dutch plucks the smoke from his fingers to take a drag, sucking hard. There's the shift of clothing and then the press of chest to his arm, Hosea's breath fanning hot over his cheek as he leans in to speak into an ear: "Whisperin' makes schemin' easier."

At once Dutch fears being charged with sodomy. He pushes the smoke into Hosea's fingers but his arm doesn't move and there's no recourse against the proximity, even if it's making his heart race. Hosea retreating a hair's length does not change the fire in his veins. He doesn't think it's grave enough to justify shoving Hosea off of him, but he could easily disguise his discomfort as mere touchiness from hysteria if he were not hesitant to use his words. Couldn't he?

Charged with sodomy, it's possible. Dutch takes in the cell, which seems large and barren with the two of them sewn together on the dinky cot, the gray stone floor and wooden wall, scratched up bars that have seen claws and ashing and knives and gunshots, surely, taunting him for feeling discontent when he — in a good world — will never meet the same fate. Liar, thief, cold-blooded killer. Does he want invert on his name, too? How many men have sat here awaiting their christening under that title? Hubris, he doesn't believe that they will die here, but if they did? It unsettles him. Hosea's arm is very heavy. They'd be hung, and in a tiny, shithole town in Ohio, no less. That's what bothers him, of course, the hanging and that it's here, in such an inglorious place. It's a terrible death, choking by the long arm of the law.

Sensing, preternaturally, that he has squeezed Dutch's heart of all its distaste, Hosea pushes himself up with a grunt. He begins pacing the length of their cell. He is only thirty-something, Dutch has never cared to remember given he thinks his own age is quite irrelevant, the way all young men do, but planning ages him. Brows drawn tight, a frown deepening the creases made by snark and snideness, dark eyes shadowing further as they retreat into thought. Wisdom likely has something to do with it. Dutch feels the air loosen as he works it open with his caged-animal walking around, puffing. Must be smoking up front themselves, can't smell the difference. Dutch would give anything to know what Hosea is thinking of.

The whine and soft latching of an aged door sounds down the hall. Silence follows. The both of them perk up, Hosea holding cigarette out behind him to keep the cloud at bay as he goes out to the bars, presses hard into them to see past the corner. A lightness comes to his expression, and Dutch knows that before he begins talking, he has already decided everything for the both of them.

"Nobody's home," Hosea says, turns to him. Pivots, more like, and then continues his leisurely march back and forth, back and forth, back and— Christ, is this the way Hosea feels when Dutch thinks too loud? It's obnoxious and distracting. He waits a moment, both of them straining for signs of an eavesdropper. None come. "We have to figure out what his weaknesses are. What did you notice when he arrested us?"

Dutch has yet to have a lesson in swindling that's so direct or, despite his confidence in the two of them, potentially fatal. The prospect excites him enough to stop studying Hosea's legs. Recalling the arrest and the walk of shame, Dutch tries to re-examine it in his mind's eye, to pull out an observation that will impress. He sits up straight, hands on his knees, scrunching and letting go of his trousers' material, scrunching, letting go. Shuffle of boots on dirt road, kicking of dust, the tugging on his handcuffs as if the sheriff needed to remind himself who was leading.

"He's no older than you," he begins, unable to find anything more interesting. Carmichael looks haggard but young, some uncanniness about him that is captivating, if not for his badge. "Strong, though. Built like a Ford. A farm boy?"

Hosea tilts his head in thought. "Good. But what did you notice when he arrested you?" He repeats.

Back-tracking. Clearly, he has missed something that intrigues his mentor. Dutch feels the cold metal on his wrists, hard lines pressing into flexed tendons and threatening to cut the circulation off to his hands, arm hair caught and pulling in the mechanism with no hope of adjustment; meaty hands on his shoulders, holding steady and fast, as if Carmichael were showing him off while he conversed with the railroad man. He latches onto that train, mistaken. "That rat-bastard set us up ahead of time. Must be what he was looking at outside the window."

"Yes." Hosea draws on his smoke. Apparently, that wasn't what he was searching for.

"Carmichael seemed very..." He scrunches his face, as if pulling for a proper word with his mind. "Happy, s'pose."

"Yes," Hosea says again, emphatically. "Watched him smilin' like he caught a legendary fish. So, what's that tell you?"

Dutch feels childish, again, or as the patient on a psychologist's couch baring his dreams for analyzing, but they've found this push-pull works the best for him. He continues to worry his pants legs without realizing. Overestimating things in both good and bad directions comes too easily to him without Hosea guiding him closely along the path. Really, that's true of all parts of life. He licks his lips. "He must enjoy the authority." He pauses. "No, the power." Although he's surer of his answer now, he doesn't see where this branch will extend to.

Blessedly, Hosea pauses in his pacing. He shrugs his agreement, as if the answer is correct but disappointing. "What do men who enjoy power also enjoy, Dutch?" He asks.

"Money?" It comes easy enough.

"True." Smoldering fag aiming his way. "And?"

Dutch stares at him blankly. Hosea returns it as he sees it, and so he takes the stupid look off of his face, clearing his throat. He looks at his hands while he thinks, can feel Hosea following his gaze. "Uh. Women?"

The pacing resumes. He's going to drive Dutch to shoving him onto the cot pretty soon. "Right track."

"Shit, I don't know," Dutch says. Power, women— "Prostitutes?"

"Close."

Dutch withholds a sigh. "I trust you've got a plan here," he says. He does, though it's slightly less than usual and, in the perimeter of his mind, he suspects it's a plan he will not like. "But I'm havin' trouble seein' what this has to do with anything."

A smile fades as Hosea turns around, continuing his pattern, but he catches the tail-end of it. More dread blooms in his gut. "Just keep thinking."

He doesn't need to, given how narrow the scope's become. Still feels like taking a potshot. "Sex?"

"Yes," he says, with that inkling of pride that fulfills itself when Dutch's gotten his point. Despite how lost he is, the scrap is enough to peak his interest again, quells a touch of his anxiety. "Men in power love exerting that power during sex."

"What's that have to do with anything, Hosea?" Dutch asks again. It's hardly the first time he has completely dumbfounded him, but it may well be the worst. There is, too, a sense of being talked down to that has surpassed what it normally does and twisted into not displeasure, but uneasiness. "You got a hooker in your pocket?"

Hosea chuffs. "No." He takes another drag, flicks the ash off and watches the rest of the tobacco leaves spring out from the wedge it'd become and land on the ground, smoking. He stubs them out, watching his own shoe. "I've got you, though."

It takes a long moment to register. Dutch flushes, fearing his silence came across as acceptance— then is uncertain what he'd be accepting to start with. Black boot, fresh polished to look at least somewhat presentable despite its wear and age, smears soot an inch over the stone floor. "Oh, be straight with me, man," he sighs, a nervous twinge to it.

He feels Hosea's eyes on him before he meets them. There's a graveness to his face, at once too stark to be serious and yet too genuine to not be. The urgency in his voice is inspires greater worry, same as the general store keeper leaping at the opportunity to accuse them of being foreign. "I know how a man looks at another man when he wants him, Dutch." Hand stays curled by his mouth, as if longing for another hand-roll that he won't reach for.

Dutch moves his sights to that instead. The caging of his jaw, the uptick of his heart; feeling spotlighted in this indescribable way is all too simple to pass off as a nervous burst of anger. It's too great, hauls him to his feet before he can think of how puny he must seem, writhing underneath a fist that has threatened but not struck. There is still time for friendly declinations, chances to give that Hosea will not take because he is, after all, himself— I don't pretend to know what you mean, Dutch can taste the words on his tongue and they beg to be said in place of acting out, but the toes of his shoes are an inch from Hosea's and he realizes that he really is angry, seeing the easy expression on his face once he's gotten the confidence about him to look.

"I ain't no goddamn queer." He manages an even tone, hushed, as if there might be someone he must hide it from. The chance that he was not the one being accused does not cross his mind until the words leave his mouth.

Hosea doesn't flinch. Dutch knew he wouldn't, would have stayed put and silent if he had any control over himself and feels his face flood red, unable to stave off the mortification of squaring up to a man who does not react. Smaller than him, too. Pathetic.

His gaze flicks up and down him, bored. "Since when have we been honest with these sheepfuckers?" He says.

Unaddressed remains the secondary, much worse implication of his words that Dutch supposes lit some fire in him. It's a grace that he barely deserves. His gut lurches and he feels himself insulted in place of called out. "We'll be crowned inverts and hung," he says, unable to shake it now that it's been spoken. "Did you think of that?"

"I'll go on 'n' pretend you didn't imply I'm a fool, Dutch." Hand on his chest as he brushes past him, Hosea goes to sit down on the cot. Student follows with his eyes. He is not tired, no, by the twitching of his hands and how his leg bounces, stops, bounces Hosea's energized. He knows better than to think he has or will ever be intimidated by him, but Dutch is coming to believe that his heated attempts thrill him more than anything else he does.

He spends a moment facing the wall, after that. Head hung, hands seeking his trousers to appear less like the sopping-wet rag he feels akin to. He worries the sides of the cotton, feeling at fraying threads and a hole wearing into the front pocket, right at the top. Perhaps the most insulting part of all of this is gallivanting around in these tailored outfits, looking as gay as the dimwits they proved to be, in the end. In his fit, he wishes to reject all that he has been playing pretend as over the last weeks, even where it bleeds into his true personality.

He dispels the thought. Brown bores into his back, seeking to sear the muscles of his shoulder blades until they completely unravel, it seems. Dutch sighs heavily before turning. Silently, he does the expected shuffle to the cot, drops onto it. The metal bolting it to the wall squeals under his weight being hefted onto it.

"How would I even do it?" He asks, defeated.

"Offer yourself." Hosea reaches into his waistband, shirt remaining untucked as he flips his carton open and plucks a smoke out to hold towards him.

Well trained, he takes it. Hosea looks as though he's about to elaborate, once more in a way that Dutch will very much dislike, before the creaking front door sounds from the other end of the sheriff's office and he pauses, fishing for a matchstick. A jolt makes him shove the cigarette back at Hosea, hand pressed into his palm, even though he notices it's a hand-roll and remembers that he misses the taste of them. Carmichael's voice speaks to someone unfamiliar, laughing. His nerves are already fried, boy pawning proof off to his friend before they are caught. Whatever was about to be said is closed around a filter, hand holding his propped-up ankle as a match borrows a strike off of Dutch's boot.

Whomever Carmichael entertained himself with left and doomed the man to the terrible reality of work. An hour passed in silence. Then he, whistling with glee at the realization, must have remembered he had two men who could not, in fact, leave him mid-provocation. As Hosea lit his first cigarette of the hour and somewhere near the fifth of the day, boot falls came heavy past where wooden flooring led into masonry. He did not discard it but rather faster, as if intending to enjoy at least a pinch of it before it was ruined by an unsightly blemish against the lovely scenery of the adjacent, empty cell.

Carmichael's interest in Hosea is questionable at best and nonexistent at worse. Now that the idea has nestled in his brain, though he hasn't asked who Hosea was meaning to label, Dutch notices how the man stops — quieting the whistle, slurring to himself something he cannot make out — only as far as Dutch lays in the cell, his head leant against the cot's side and his legs outstretched in front of him, toes of shoes together, toes apart, toes together, toes apart. If he weren't thinking of how often he harasses Hosea, then the sheriff's disturbance would be a welcome thing amidst all the boredom.

He understands, now, what exactly poisoning the minds of the youth might entail; what Hosea's done to him, surely. He's been offered no reprieve from his plight of rolling the whole of their last conversation around in his head, worrying it with neuroticism, and has given no excuse for Hosea's sudden silence save for their talks not being as private as he'd like. Whatever that meant, considering.

Why did the idea frighten him, now that he knew he may have been suspected?

The muttonshunter rocks on his heels, hands on his hips. Dutch follows half of his instructions, a tad sour on the rest of them, and at least looks at him: cocksure grin on his face with some underlaying, sneering quality that reminds him of school teachers dragging unruly pupils to the corner. He's focused on the cloud that curls out from under Hosea's hung head.

"Hosea Matthews," Carmichael says, emphasizing his given name, as if he couldn't think of a better insult. "Where did you get that from?"

Hosea, once again slumped against the wall, rolled his attention up, languid. "A place I'm sure you'd love to search."

It seems to please Carmichael that he's handed him an opportunity to strike back. Dutch tosses and turns in his grave— or, mind.

"Ain't'chu pleasant." He's terse. "You mind givin' those over?"

"Mind it a lot, in fact." Hosea gives Dutch a look which he recognizes. That joy of opportunity is fleeting enough to pass as a mere casualty on Hosea's way to glaring at Carmichael. "If you want these, you're gonna have to come and take 'em." Another, taunting drag, hardly enjoyed. He shuts down any further negotiation to better set his trap: "I ain't going towards the bars unless I'm dragged."

In an instant, Dutch feels eyes on him. Against his own preference, he returns them. He wonders if it has ever been this difficult for women to look at him, knowing that he wants them in the way he does; if they think of what could come and feel as though they were electrocuted, just as he does. Good or bad, he cannot decide. Is this terrible, flighty sensation always what happens when you are the first to be desired? Or maybe it's only because it's not pretend, now, he thinks, and he doesn't have time to mourn what that means.

"Dutch," Carmichael says. No last name. It makes him want to scrape his skin off with his own fingernails, but he knows he has a role to play here. "Will you be a good boy, and—?"

"I know exactly what kind'a wild bastard he is," Dutch interjects. The nerves which have suddenly struck him, being under this attention, do well to make him sound anxious of his cellmate. He can imagine Hosea laughing about it already, hand clawing at his shoulder as he wheezes. The thought spurs him.

"You sure he ain't lied about all of it?" He says, unimpressed. Cocked brow, as if questioning Dutch's ability to tell fact from fiction when he is one of the men at fault himself. The separation from Hosea, even in theory, is strange and alarming.

And, it pisses him off. "I seen it," he bites.

Carmichael sighs. "We'll do this the hard way, then." As if he is a benevolent god, wishing only to do as much harm as necessary.

Dutch must press his nails into his palms, letting the sting be his relief as he watches the man. Worse than knowing he is — he believes everything that comes out of Hosea's mouth, knowing full-well that he shouldn't take a lick of it seriously — sought after is knowing that in any other situation, Carmichael is a tall, dark, handsome sort of asshole. He lets himself have the solace of resting his sights on Hosea as keys jingle, the bars sliding open with the scrape of rocks dragging on one another. He looks too well, too. Dutch turns his eyes to his palms turning white, now red, where he presses them.

They must resemble bison stupidly returning to the flow after a brother's been shot amongst the herd, neither flinching, neither considering making a run before the cell slides closed, albeit unlocked, behind Carmichael. In actuality, Dutch cannot imagine a move more idiotic than jumping up. He takes some offense, really, given that it must seem to the sheriff the two of them are mere con artists with no real brawn and, as it stands, no means to best him. The man with a gun wins every time, he is thinking to himself, as he stands proud and snide in his lonesome, colorless corner. Although Dutch detests how this is shaking out, he must admit he feels an inkling of that very joy he had prior to setting out for Kettering: the joy of the upperhand. An honest man never considers how a liar thinks.

"I'll ask you two more times," Carmichael says.

"Is three your lucky number?" Hosea flicks ash towards where he stands. Believing, probably, that they aren't watching him twitch his foot away from it. In the silence that passes, he readjusts the key ring to his belt and likely hopes the two take more note of the iron on his hip.

When he speaks, he uses the tone that must get the town drunks shivering. "Hand me the cigarettes, or I will add a sodomy charge." He gestures vaguely at Hosea. "For that little joke y'made."

"And what are you doin' to us as it is?" Hosea asks, goading in that familiar push-pull way. Dutch is happier to see where this path goes. "Our punishment, I mean?"

"Considerin' I'm waiting on word from Kentucky on what you was wanted for down there," — pausing, like the two might have forgotten just what they had done, might tremble in fear that another soul knows of it but them — "I think you're lookin' at the state pen. If you's lucky."

"I'd rather hang for bein' a sodomite," Hosea says, blase as he might disregard a dinner suggestion.

Carmichael blanches. "And what'll you do before God, then, once you hang?" He retorts, stepping forward but keeping a healthy distance between them.

Visible is the biting back of an argument in favor of a quip, audible in the waver of his chuckle. "If God ain't got a better sense of humor than you, I'll enjoy my time in Hell plenty." Hosea flicks another smudge of ash towards him, but it's hardly collected enough soot to warrant a flinch.

"Alright."

And Dutch's view is interrupted by steel, the barrel of Carmichael's revolver staring between his eyes. Approximately, anyways, he won't give him as much credit as a good aim. Half-way through the insult, Hosea becomes a flick of sandy colors crashing into the darkness of Carmichael's legs. Dutch rolls instinctively out of the way, dodging a blindfire that doesn't come. The grunting and rustling of a struggle echos off the floor, loud clatter of metal ringing out as Hosea slaps the gun from his hand unceremoniously and then the crack of skin-on-skin.

It skitters towards Dutch and he shoves himself off the ground to meet it before Hosea barks: "Come keep him down." He's fighting to keep the man's wrists in his grip, strong but it's hardly a fair fight in the awkward sprawl they've gotten into and when Carmichael looks like he's been hauling feed sacks twice Hosea's weight since boyhood. If they let him up, he could run and fetch one of their own guns to shoot them down with. The chance of composing themselves enough to aim true with the revolver, some feet between them, is too low.

He gets to his feet and then collapses atop them both, Hosea slipping away as Dutch drives his knee hard into the sheriff's stomach to keep him down. Hot air fans over his face as he sinks his weight against him, bars a forearm over his chest. "You can make this easy for both of us," Dutch manages.

Carmichael is unlistening, grabs for his shoulders, his throat. "Invert filth," he spits.

"We can't shoot him," Hosea is saying. He's— somewhere, Dutch can't locate him, knee sliding off of Carmichael's gut and to his side. "You need to knock him out."

He leans into his arm hard, risks moving his hips up and releasing Carmichael's middle in favor of pinning his chest. It distributes his weight badly, but he manages to shove away his hand and grab into the man's short hair enough to slam his head against the ground. His struggling doesn't stop, and the thud of his skull on the stone is all too satisfying after having felt akin to a steak in front of a starved dog — even if only imagining — and Dutch finds himself slamming his fist into his nose once, twice, just as relieved by the crack of the bone breaking. Where his hands grab his forearms they fall slack and run down his thighs to the floor. Carmichael stops resisting. He's glad to have someone more composed giving him orders. He would've drawn this out, if left to his lonesome.

Blood trickles from the man's left nostril. Dutch realizes Hosea is talking after his ears stop ringing, but he cannot make out the words just yet through the din of his rushing blood. Dizzy, he watches with gaze half-raised as Hosea's pants move and disappear down the hall through the cell door, running. Swallowing, he stares as the red bleeds into the dipping corner of Carmichael's lips, colors the cracks, bloodwater over thirsty rocks. He readjusts himself in his trousers before Hosea returns. Does God have a sense of humor? Guilt seeps into his adrenaline-cracked veins. He hadn't even been all that anxious until— well. Hosea would be disappointed he let such a meaningless idea as religion get to him, but he's unsure if he hadn't already allowed it to worm its way into his black heart.

Stumbling as he raises, Dutch smooths a hand over his front and pretends that the fitted dress pants he wears do anything to hide his shame. His legs feel unsteady beneath him. The real funny thing ought to be how he follows Hosea's orders without thinking, ought to be just why he's sold his pride to a man who seems to have an excess of it already. He cannot take his eyes off of Carmichael, thinks that a body in repose is a body in repose but it's purifying, really, that his arousal has come from violence rather than—

"You alright?" Hosea stands behind the bars, looking in. Dutch blinks, feels pale.

"Fine." He says. He glances at his arms and sees only some scratches that will close in a few hours' time, though they begin to sting slightly now that he's taken account of them. Whatever is in his blood is different than anything he's felt before, isn't dissimilar to the static buzz a taste too much of cocaine gum gives him. "What's the plan?"

Hosea walks towards Carmichael's head, toes his temple with his boot as if inspecting a considerable pile of animal droppings, and purses his lips. There is a long stretch where Dutch worries he went too far and Hosea will be disappointed. A shorter one, also, where he worries Hosea will notice the state of him. He pulls at the leg of his pants self-consciously.

"Don't know," he finally says, but he is moving slow enough that Dutch thinks he does. "What do you think?"

"Leave."

"That ain't no fun," Hosea dismisses. As he steps over the sprawled-out body, Dutch focuses and realizes he's got their guns in his hands. Dutch takes his offered pistol and, without a holster, shoves it in his waistband for safekeeping. It untucks him. Hosea does the same, studying the body before them. He throws his head back and laughs, then, like he's the funniest thing come to mind. Turning to Dutch, hand reaching out, grabbing his bicep and squeezing; he returns the grin with considerable fear, face tight. "You know what would really embarrass him?"

Christ only knows, Dutch thinks.

"I ain't playin' that goddamn game again, man," he says.

Hosea snickers, open-mouthed. His dimples crease his cheeks. "You should strip him," he says, punches Dutch's arm and moves to bend beside him with a hand gripping his forearm for stability, grabbing up Carmichael's lost revolver.

Dutch gawks at him. He could care less about being used like a railing, is well-acquainted with Hosea's habit of treating him more like a stage prop than a person. "What?"

"Y'heard me. Strip him." He rights himself, letting go of his friend to inspect the weapon. Hosea misses the way Dutch steps back, squinting, and Dutch misses the fact that it's a brand new, fancy looking gun. "Wouldn't it be embarrassing? He gets into the cell with us like some fool, and who knows what he's intendin' to do with or what he did with us," — gesturing with the gun and then slapping it to Dutch's chest, inviting him to look at the engraving on the side which he could not give less of a damn about with Hosea staring at him, faux-innocent — "And then he finds himself naked 'n' alone in his own cell with his deputy sayin' what the hell? above him." Hosea laughs again, turns to look at the man on the ground with his hands on his hips. "Ought'a take any money they got in here, too. Get us west a little. Michigan won't touch a case from here." He looks over his shoulder at Dutch. "Tensions, you know."

If he's lying, Dutch doesn't care. He can't find the words regardless of what they might be.

As if remembering himself in the awkward pause, Hosea jolts. "I'm gettin' ahead of myself," he says, but he sounds all too overjoyed to say it, throwing a finger at Dutch. "You need to wear his uniform out. Less eyes that way."

"You could've opened with that," Dutch says. Nevermind that his abhorrence was uncalled for, anyways, that on any other occasion he would have laughed just as hard as Hosea at the idea he presented so boldly. They are both beyond pretending, really. Something has shifted. Still, he questions if Hosea isn't in need of faking, if maybe misreading the implication was all his own fault.

Hosea goes to leave the cell again. "I'm gonna find somethin' to restrain him. You get decent, and do it fast." Whether or not his eyes fall below his waist is an issue that Dutch doesn't address for the sake of his sanity.

He stares at the sheriff longer than he should and then, dropping the revolver onto the cot to be forgotten alongside its gunslinger when they leave, he kneels and grabs his hair. If he knows anything, it's that men do not stay unconscious as long as he would hope they do, and if Carmichael wakes up soon, he thinks he might take his gun and blow his own head wide open. Another, somewhat concerningly sharp hit of his skull off the ground doesn't hurt Dutch none, either. Why being personally offended washes his hands of guilt, he cannot explain and does not consider.

With his wrists bound to be tied, he begins with the shirt. It's a vibrant blue color, and while he's certain Hosea would know of a reason for it in his endless wisdom, Dutch wishes it weren't so loud. There is the keen sense of wanting to be buried in a hole, perhaps, where not even Hosea would ever see him again. He cannot place why. This suggestion is entirely natural, though it is unfortunate. Hiding in plain sight, banking on passerby seeing a similarly large feller in the sheriff's uniform and discrediting whatever he is doing— it's the best bet they have, seeing as their horses are more likely than not still stabled where they'd been for the last weeks. They'll need to run, but a whole lot less. Dutch glances outside the small window, barred, that hangs well overhead on the cell wall; he can only hope that shade of crystal outside is close enough to lunchtime to let them slip into the building unnoticed and alone while the locals dine.

It's an issue for the version of Dutch who will live through it, in about the next twenty minutes. For now, he is staring down an unfamiliar man's torso, bothered again by the idea that Carmichael is handsome. Well built physique, though it feels ludicrous to be noting any of it when there is no motivation behind tugging the union suit off his torso but mischief. Hair covers his chest and not much more. A mole on his belly. Dutch finds the idea of undressing himself more horrific as Hosea's footfalls come again.

"Jesus, Dutch, you tryn'a treat him like a lady?" He scolds. He works his way into the cell, stepping halfway onto Carmichael's forearm with opened handcuffs dangling from his fist. Dutch yanks the opened shirt from the man's arms and out from underneath him, head clearing some, and gets on with it. "No idea when someone'll be back. We best hurry."

So, it becomes we. Quicker work is made with Hosea's presence to distract him, the two working in silence to tear at his boots and jeans and union suit, hands bumping in the effort to roll the block of a man onto his side and cuff his arms behind his back. Dutch feels brown eyes burning into his temple and he ignores them. His desire to perform in front of him outweighs whatever has been coming over him, as of late. Hosea is probably beside himself with glee, having found some way to torment Dutch that will give and give and give— he will bring this up, months into the future, and watch his face turn red with as much satisfaction as he watches it now.

Why his ears burn, Dutch doesn't know. A pecker is a pecker is a pecker, he's got one, why, for the love of Christ, does it seem to matter? But he knows better, knows why bathing in the same river as Hosea is not the same as walking in on him changing drawers in the tent. They knocks knuckles over another man's cock, and that's part of why it's different. Whether he should feel the intimacy he does in slipping the socks off of Carmichael at Hosea's behest, who's snickering about the inanity of leaving them on when he is otherwise bare— Dutch disregards that thought in favor of the wave of relief when they wrestle him onto his stomach and the worst part of him is out of sight.

Hosea stands first, pushing himself up by driving a hand into Dutch's shoulder. He moves forward and catches himself before he gets a face-full of Carmichael's hind end. "You change." Patting his back. "I'm gonna search out front."

Dutch had forgotten the point, by then. Hosea's slick attempt to offer him some grace goes entirely unnoticed unappreciated. "Right," he says. He knows better than to think his knees will allow him to stand. Only part of it is the roughness of the ground on the joints having stiffed them up. Eyes trained on the cracks of it, the grout that's been chipped away and worn down between the blocks, Dutch sheds his skin to wear another's, still warm.