Archive of Our Own

“There’s something all wrong about this,” Chris said.

He’d kept his counsel thus far, but now he let a small breath steal out. The exhalation loosened the tension round his ribs a notch, but only that much.

Ezra seemed to disagree. “Believe me, there’s something all right about this.”

Chris edged a look at him, leaning insouciant with his back against the door. He glanced down at the key he still held in his hand. Ezra had produced it from who knew where as they’d walked in from the street to what looked like a saloon. He’d passed it over, laughed aggravatingly at all Chris’s suspicious questions, encouraged him upstairs in that damned beguiling manner of his, and here they were.

It smelled of lavender and beeswax. Of care and welcome, as you’d hope from any hotel worth the name. The room was shrouded in early evening shadows, the only light source at present the glow from a low-burning fire. There was something altogether peaceful about that, an encouragement to relax, but at the same time Chris was sharply bothered by a thumping sound coming from a piano one floor below, the muffled but raucous sound of men’s voices in the bar room they’d passed on the way up the stairs. And always, always, the discordant hurly-burly on the street outside the windows - the relentless sound of the city - where Chris didn’t think he belonged.

Ezra pushed himself out of his lean, and walked forward. He wafted a theatrical hand as he moved, indicating the shining bath tub by a screen in one corner, the comfortable pair of wingback armchairs in front of the low-burning fire, the bottle of liquor and two stumpy tumblers set on a small table, and finally, with meaningful hesitation, the huge bedstead. Chris swallowed, following the hand movement. He’d been avoiding looking at the bed up to now, but once he allowed his eyes to rest on it he suddenly couldn’t drag them away.

“Yes,” Ezra said in a pleased drawl, looking at his face. “Isn’t it.”

Chris just shook his head. It was about the biggest bed he’d ever laid eyes on, dressed in sheets so clean and white it hurt your eyes, the old-fashioned carved headboard half obscured by fat pillows, the whole covered in a purple bedspread weighted by large tassels on all four corners - as if some king and queen were going to sleep here. Hell, Vin would laugh his socks off to see it.

“Ezra, I’m not stupid.” He battled to keep his voice level for it was being wrung by a mass of conflicting emotions. “This place isn’t a hotel. It may look like one, and a damned fancy one at that, but... it isn’t.”

It was a whorehouse plain and simple, no matter how it was dressed up. And whorehouses meant trouble.

Ezra sighed. He wandered to the bed and pressed both hands down on it, raising his brows in approval. Chris was still wary, watching him saunter over to take in the view from the windows as if he was a curious vacationer checking out his accommodations.

“So it’s not listed in the tourist brochures,” Ezra said, voice amused. “Might be a little off the beaten track.” He turned to Chris, grinning.

“And it might get raided by the police.”

“Well yes, that too.” Ezra patted his gun but the grin didn’t fade. Instead he walked back to Chris across the carpet. He plucked the door key from his hand and strode to the door, fitting it in the lock and turning it with a satisfying scrape.

Chris slouched on one hip. “But let me get this straight - all that shouldn’t bother us?”

Ezra’s eyes were gleaming as he turned, and Chris couldn’t help but like that.

“All you need to get straight is that this is ours - for tonight at any rate, and maybe tomorrow night too. Nobody minds what we do in here. Think about it, Chris. Nobody will tell anybody else that we’re in here together. We can raise the roof, take a bath, sleep... hell, we can sit by the damned fireplace smoking pipes and reading pornography to each other if we want... although in my view that would be a sorry waste of an opportunity for other activities.”

Ezra passed him on his way back to the closet, unbuckling his gun-belt and hanging it over the back of one of the fireside chairs as he went, and then shrugging off his tailored jacket. He seemed quite at home already. Which, of course, was always a problem in itself.

A tingle ran up Chris’s spine though, despite his misgivings. True enough, this was a private, undisturbed room. Not the style of room he cared for, or in a place he wanted to be. But it was, apparently, theirs, with no curfew, and nobody to pass judgement or make a discovery. Buck and Vin and the others were six hundred miles away from being able to walk in on them by mistake (or design) and there wasn’t even any record they were here. They hadn’t exactly signed a Guest Register down in the lobby, or even stopped long enough to be observed coming up in the first place.

Ezra fingered the ribbon tie he was wearing and then managed to unfasten it one-handed. He flicked the top button of his shirt loose, fished a hanger from the rail inside the closet. The jangling sound grated on Chris’s still-tender nerves. There had to be a price to pay, surely. He and Ezra weren’t part of a world of freedom to do what they wanted... be what they wanted.

“And your ma really did arrange this, out of the goodness of her heart?”

“Well, that might be going a little far.” Ezra was dry. “Extravagant gestures from Mother normally have ulterior motives. I just don’t know what they are yet. Of course, in general she’d far rather I’d found myself a not-too-pretty but substantially fertile Mrs. Standish to woo instead of you... but well, it’s as good as we’ll get from her.”

Chris fought off his impatience at the thought of Maude and who she’d really like Ezra to woo. “And it was Lydia’s idea?”

“So I hear.” Ezra hung his jacket and vest, and now came back across the room, unlooping his suspenders. “She wanted us to have a safe place. Hell, what that woman wouldn’t do to get inside your pants.” His eyes were warm. “Although I can hardly blame her for that.”

He came close and slid his hands inside the black traveling coat. When he leaned in and touched his lips against Chris’s, it set off a whole succession of tingles. The hair prickled on the back of his neck.

A bath.

A bed.

Oh God.

A whole night, at least, in a big bed where they could do whatever they liked.

Safe. He hardly dared admit to the word, it was so damned dangerous in itself.

Ezra slid his hands up and over his shoulders, teasing the coat back.

“You’re quick off the mark,” Chris said, still wondering if he should be resisting. If he should be grumpy, like he sometimes was when Ezra was blasé, didn’t look out for himself properly. The garment rolled down his arms and sank to the floor behind him with a flumping sound.

“Well, stop me if you must, but in my view there’s no sense wasting one precious minute. Lydia said she’d send up hot water in a few hours, so I suggest you divest yourself of your weapon and other obstructions and we make ourselves suitably dirty in preparation.”

Chris found himself almost laughing then, the luxury of it for the likes of them seemed so preposterous.

“We’re guests.” Ezra’s eyes twinkled at him, seductive, but reassuring too. “Honored guests of the working sisterhood, and believe me, that’s not an accolade many men can claim, and a gift that shouldn’t be refused lightly.” He slid the tips of his fingers through the placket of Chris’s shirt, working loose the button so he could ease his whole hand under the cotton. For a second Chris held back the familiar groan of reaction that bubbled up, keeping it locked in the back of his throat, and then he realized with a giddy flush that... well, he didn’t have to. The pure feeling of liberation, along with the warm play of Ezra’s palm across his skin, made his chest hurt with the wonder of it.

“Oh God,” he said.

“Yes,” Ezra murmured, lips brushing his cheek with utter devotion. “Precisely.”