Content:
Slash
Buck/Ezra (sorta), Chris/Vin (implied)
Implied or Graphic Sexual Situations
No Violence
Old West

Rating: R for a guy in a bathtub thinking about another guy, and the fun stuff that generally accompanies such situations

Spoilers: this is set right before the end of 2nd season ep Sins of the Past, so mucho spoilers for that one; Hiram Conklin from 1st season ep One Day Out West makes an appearance as well.

Beta'ed: yes, except for parts of the end, which came to me just about twenty minutes ago; thank you, betas, you are priceless!

Buck Wilmington sank deeply into the warm water until all that showed of him above the surface were his head from the chin up and the bare peaks of his glistening wet knees. The water brimmed up and sloshed over the rim of the long copper tub; Buck let out a deep sigh that chased ripples across the undulating water, and closed his eyes. 

'It's been one hell of a day,' he thought, and tried to let the warm water relax him. Eli Joe was finally out of the picture -- dead, unfortunately for Vin Tanner. Though how Vin thought he could make Eli Joe confess and clear Vin of the charges against him in Tascosa...Buck had only seen the little weasel dead, but he didn't strike him as looking like the kind of man to do anyone a favor. 

If only Eli Joe had died some other way -- if only he hadn't died by a bullet from Chris Larabee's gun. Vin had gambled his last hope on taking that murdering bastard alive; and Buck had seen the look on Vin's face when he realized that not only was Eli Joe dead, but that it was Chris who had killed his only chance to clear his name. 

It wasn't all Chris's fault. Chris had lost his footing on the hotel's sharply peaked roof, recovering only in time to see a knife in Eli Joe's hand plunging toward Vin Tanner's chest. If Chris'd had his balance, he could have shot the knife out of the bastard's hand; as it was, Chris had just shot to hit the killer, and the force of the bullet had tumbled Eli Joe off the roof. If Chris's bullet hadn't killed him, the fall surely would have.

The soothing water loosened the sweat and dirt clinging to Buck's skin, and slowly absorbed the tension out of his muscles. He lazily scrubbed his lightly-furred chest with his fingertips, leaving trails of sensitive skin that tingled in the warm eddies. Melancholy threatened to displace the pleasant drowsiness he was beginning to feel, though; at the moment he was just about as sorry for his oldest friend as he was for Vin.

As hard as it had been for Vin to watch his hopes of clearing his name plummet to the ground, Chris was hurting, too, from having had to choose between keeping Vin alive, or taking the chance that Eli Joe might have aimed true with that knife. Buck knew Chris hated to have killed Vin's best hope for clearing his name, but he also knew that Chris would rather have Vin alive still searching for justice than dead and not needing to worry about his good name any more. 

Buck didn't know if Vin could appreciate that just yet. He would, though. Vin was a sensible man; and if Buck read him right, he put more store in Chris Larabee than he did in risking his life on the off chance Eli Joe would have cleared him. As for Buck, he decided he was plenty happy to have all his friends alive and in one piece. With Eli Joe dead and his gang in jail or scattered, their group of peacekeepers could rest easy for a little while again.

Buck pushed himself up just enough to reach one long arm over the side of the bath and retrieve the bar of Castille soap from the floor. The cool air made his wet skin prickle; water sluiced down his arm and briefly added to the soft chorus of dripping made by the droplets still falling from the edge of the tub. Other than the sounds of his bath and the gentle rumble coming from Josey, the owner of the bathhouse, who had dozed off again at his desk as soon as he got Buck situated, the bathhouse was drowsily quiet. 

Buck settled back into the tub, shivering as the water heated him back up. Eyes half-closed, and the warm water lapping against his chest, Buck scrubbed the soap between his hands under the water to slick it up. Never mind the troubles of the day; the quiet and the water was nice. And he could enjoy it -- he didn't have to worry about little Lucy bursting in on him again.

A tiny ache frissioned through his chest at the thought. Lucy was one hell of a silly girl, and not the type he'd ever want to marry, if he ever even decided he wanted to marry at all. But still, there was that chance he'd almost had, the chance to be a daddy. It wasn't something he'd have done willingly, but when it had seemed like it had happened nonetheless, and he'd had a chance to think about it, it hadn't struck him as being all that bad after all.

He ran the soap up his arm and out of the water to the crest of his shoulder, and scrubbed away the sweat and grime from his neck and chest. He remembered how it had been for Chris, with Adam. That little boy had been the apple of Chris's eye, no two ways about it. Buck had loved him too, but not like Chris had. All Adam had to do was look at his daddy, or light up when he saw the horses in the corral every morning, or sit on the floor playing quietly with the little animals Chris had carved from wood for him -- the boy just had to walk, or talk, or breath, and Chris looked happier than if the sun had been shining from the inside of him. Buck wondered if it would have been like that for him, too. Maybe he'd have had a little golden-haired princess to shower with gifts and take on pony rides, a delicate little thing who would have loved nothing better than to be folded up in her daddy's arms....

Buck swallowed hard, and tried to push the thought away. He lathered up his hands and ducked his face under the water and then scrubbed it roughly. After all, being that daddy would have meant spending all his life with Lucy -- and only Lucy -- something Buck couldn't even begin to stomach. And there was always the chance that he could have lost that golden-haired baby girl, just like Chris lost Adam....

He growled as the slippery soap abruptly escaped his hand, and got lost somewhere in the tub. He fished around behind his back and between his legs, found it, and sat up a bit to start washing his toes and feet.

What he needed was to get clean and then get a drink. He hadn't had a chance to get back to Ezra Standish's new saloon yet; maybe Ezra would let him have one on the house in his new saloon after he told him his woes. Probably not; Ezra was, Buck reflected with fond amusement, one helluva tightwad. But ol' Ez would probably join Buck in a bottle and take advantage of Buck's state of mind to fleece him in a couple hands of poker. Couldn't ask for a more thorough distraction than that.

Though, Buck thought as he slathered his calves under the water and started scrubbing up his legs, he suspected Ezra might be a bit in need of distraction himself. After all, Maude Standish was in town. And she wasn't just visiting; she was competition.

He wondered how the battle between Ezra's saloon and his mother's hotel was going. Maude had opened up her place for drinking and gambling, and, even though Buck had been pretty distracted by this business with Lucy, he'd got the impression that Maude was casually killing her son's business.

Buck massaged his way slowly up his thighs, feeling a surge of pity for Ezra. It just had to happen that as soon as Ezra had the chance to buy his own saloon, his mother showed up. Ezra had been going on and on about buying that damned saloon for months now. Every watch he and Ezra shared, every game or drink they had together, all Buck heard about was how much closer Ezra was to having the money, and how he always knew he was destined to have his own saloon. It had been quite a sight, watching Ezra shine with smiling when he talked of it. Shining wasn't the most common thing for Ezra to do, any more than it was for Chris since Adam died. 

Going bust on the place now would take away that shine, that was for sure. Of course, Ezra ought to know better than to go up against his mama. A mama's always got an advantage on her kid, and Maude struck Buck as exactly the type to use that advantage to the fullest. It didn't make any sense to even try taking her on. But then again, Buck knew what it was like to want your mama to be proud of you.

Buck just hoped that losing out to Maude didn't convince Ezra that his mother was right, that he could do better someplace other than this one-eyed town and it's "band of uncivilized vigilantes," as he'd heard her call their group of peacekeepers. It'd be a damn shame to lose Ezra. And not, Buck mused as he ran the soap along the curve between his leg and groin, just because Ezra was a good friend and a good man to have on your side in a fight.

From beneath half closed eyelids, he made a languid check of the still-empty bathhouse. He listened through the silence, to the muffled sounds of the early evening passers-by; no one was stopping in. Maybe he'd be alone for a while.... He closed his eyes all the way as he drew the satiny soap through the nest of curls around his flaccid member. He drew himself into his hand along with the soap, sliding the hard bar gently up the length of him, and he felt himself grow firm as he thought of some of the *other* reasons it would be a shame to lose Ezra.

Buck was one that appreciated all kinds of pleasure. He enjoyed the pleasure of riding a powerful horse hell for leather across a stormy prairie; the pleasure of a rip-roaring fight like the ones he and Chris used to get into when the army cut them loose after the war; the pleasure of a soft woman or a hard man -- 

-- but Ezra, Buck imagined, would be an entirely different kind of pleasure than he was used to.

Ezra was handsome and refined, both easy going and carefully indifferent. He was slick and a rogue, but Buck couldn't deny his appeal. Just the thought of those green eyes, that looked right into you and left you sure he knew all about you without you saying a word, sent a ripple of heat through Buck's belly. The way Ezra smelled came back to him, strong and tangible -- that clean scent, with a hint of Mrs. Potter's homemade soap on him; but it wasn't a sissy smell, because it mixed in with the musk of him.

Buck's cock was hard now; he held the rigid bar of soap flush against his length, pressing it up to the swollen, quivering head, then slowly back down. This time, when he conjured up the image of Ezra's sophisticated way of dressing, and the way those finely-tailored pants shaped around his slender hips and firm ass when he moved just right, he didn't have to hide the effect the sight always had on him, didn't have to surreptitiously tug at the bulge that would strain the front of his pants. Now Buck could revel in the image, shuddering as the combination of his hand and the hard soap working him built a heat in his body that had nothing to do with the warm water. He had always liked watching the fabric pull tight across Ezra's thighs and buttocks with movement when Ezra went without his frock coat.... 

Buck stifled a soft moan as the soap slipped from his hand, tumbling down through the water and brushing against his sensitive balls on the way. He didn't want to break the spell to search for the soap; all he could do was use the layer of slickness left on his hand to caress himself.

After all, all he could do about Ezra was spend his time enjoying him without laying a hand on him. The occasional flight of fancy in an empty bathhouse was as close as he'd ever get to savoring the many delights Buck imagined the smooth, refined gambler had to offer.

He ran his hand down his shaft, thinking of the way Ezra's strong, elegant fingers easily manipulated his deck of cards -- cutting, shuffling, fanning -- trying to imagine his hand was Ezra's. But he couldn't imagine that, because Ezra's hand wouldn't be so rough and callused as Buck's. It would be smooth, and it would be smaller, wrapping tightly around Buck's width. He tried not to gasp out loud; he couldn't stop his hips from bucking slightly beneath the water, plunging his shaft up through the tight ring of his fingers as a tremor started to overtake him. Ezra's hand, that immaculate hand, and those agile fingers, would be now gentle, now firm, teasing from the swollen, weeping crown, down to the pulsing root of him, cupping and tickling his balls, moving back over that hard, sensitive ridge to Buck's quivering entrance --

An explosion of sound jackknifed Buck out of his reverie. He floundered in the water, splashing and sputtering, trying to get his body, which was trembling from the nearness of release, to cooperate. The reverberation from the impact of a hand against wood faded, and was replaced by the insistent whine of an older man's voice. 

"Mr. Walsh! You are here to serve the citizens of this town, not to laze in your cups all day!" The quavering voice was unmistakable. Buck, panting convulsively, forced himself to hold his breath, sinking into the water so that only his eyes peeped out over the edge of the tub. He saw Josey rub the sleep out of his eyes and stow a nearly empty bottle of Red Eye under his desk beneath the disapproving eye of Mr. Conklin, the town troublemaker. 

Buck groaned to himself, fighting the urge to dunk completely under the water and drown himself along with his frustration; his body was still begging for release, but he curled his hand around his throbbing shaft and desperately willed it to subside. There were some things worse than holding off a man's needs -- one of them was the idea of taking care of those needs with Hiram Conklin nearby, bare nekkid in a hip bath and *watching* him do it.

As Mr. Conklin collected a towel and bar of soap and waited for Josey to fill a tub for him, he saw Buck, and his beady eyes took on a gleam of interest. Then the old man quickly affected a disinterested sneer. "Mr. Wilmington. Good to know that the so-called law around here has at least some interest in maintaining a proper standard of cleanliness."

Buck sat up slightly, ran a dripping hand through his half-wet hair and forced a polite smile. Clean; Buck could think of at least one other local lawman that was nearly always clean. Luxuriously, meticulously clean, from his snug-fitting, finely tailored clothes, to his silky, chestnut hair and smooth, lightly-tanned skin that demanded to be explored and caressed and reverently devoured by lips and hands.... 

Buck sank, submerging his head completely under the water. An explosion of fat bubbles rolled up around his face as he let out a silent howl. He was definitely ready for that drink now. As he came up for air, he fumbled around at the bottom of the tub for the soap. He lathered up the soap and then vigorously scrubbed the suds into his hair. Yep, time to head on over the saloon, stop wasting the day shriveling up in the tub. He'd much rather spend the evening drinking with his pards that sitting in the bathhouse doing...other things. Things that he'd enjoy much more later on in the privacy of his own room, after a few hours spent listening to a certain honeyed drawl, watching the flash and twinkle of a certain pair of sultry green eyes....

It occurred to Buck that Conklin was talking again. Buck paused his hair-washing and looked up through the water beading his eyelashes at the scrawny figure which had at some point become parked right next to Buck's tub.

"-- shame to lose such a fine lady, if you ask me. Most people of her ilk are shiftless and lazy, but there's no denying what she's done for this town, fixing up the hotel so nicely. Now that she's bought out her son's place, we should have a pair of handsome establishments --"

It took a confused moment for Buck to work out the meaning of that fragment of sanctimonious gossip, but when he did a twinge of gloominess made him droop. Ignoring Conklin's monologue, he bent forward and dunked his head, swishing the soap from his hair, and knew that if anyone would be in need of a drink at the moment, it would be Ezra. About the only thing worse than Maude arriving was Maude leaving, because she had a way of layin' a whammy on her boy on the way out. Or a double whammy, as in this case. Ruined Ezra and then bought the place out from under him. That was one helluva a lady, that could do that to her kid.

'And listen to ol' Conklin,' Buck thought as he lifted his head and rubbed the water from his eyes. 'Goin' on like Maude's some kind of angel in disguise -- sneaky lady probably bought him a drink and told him he was a fine lookin' feller or some such bullshit. Sucker.'

Then, as he peered up at Conklin, feeling the water dripping from his soaked hair and seeing Conklin's eyes conspicuously attempt *not* to probe the sudsy water of Buck's bath, an inspiration came to him. Grasping the sides of the tub, Buck lifted himself slightly out of the water and shook like a dog, whipping the water out of his hair and showering Conklin with it. The old man's howl of protest was choked off suddenly, though, as Buck finished gyrating, and proceeded to rise gracefully out of the water -- slowly, magnificently, to his full, naked, glistening wet height.

"Whoops, did I get ya wet, there? Sorry about that." He stepped out of the tub and bent to retrieve his towel from the floor. He used the somewhat tattered, relatively small length of terry cloth to scrub himself dry, rubbing the water from his hair and face and then moving downward, paying special attention to his admittedly broad chest, muscular stomach, as well as to cozily-nested (and well-endowed, even in repose) little Buck. As he did so, he pretended not to notice Conklin's flushed complexion and dropped jaw, saying, "Yes indeed, Mrs. Standish is one helluva lady."

He dropped the towel casually to the floor and stepped forward -- well into Conklin's personal space -- to retrieve his clothes from a little bench nearby. He hadn't bothered to wear his long johns over to the bathhouse; he tugged his canvas pants on over his still-damp legs, leaving the fly unbuttoned until he could shrug on his shirt and tuck it in. He noted Conklin's dilated eyes following his movements as he stretched his arms luxuriantly over his head to pull on his shirt; but then the old man's sudden shift from flushed to pale had Buck wondering if he'd overdone it. He didn't care for the snippy ol' fart, but he didn't want him to keel over dead right there, either.

He shoved the tails of his shirt into his waistband and buttoned up his fly, and shrugged. "Yeah, we oughta thank her for swindlin' that fine hotel from that poor fella what owned it for the last -- what was it? Three years?" He slipped his suspenders up over his shoulders; now that he was fully clothed, Conklin's mouth had closed and he seemed to be rediscovering the ability to swallow. Buck settled his gun belt over his hips then and scooped up his neckerchief and hat. He moved to go, then paused. "'Course, it's too bad the hotel got all shot up when her son and the rest of us was savin' the town from a crazy killer and his gang."

He brushed past Conklin and headed toward the door. As he nudged the door open with his shoulder, he waved at Josey, who was laboring in from the back with a pair of steaming buckets. Mr. Conklin, Buck noticed, hadn't moved yet. Buck chuckled to himself, and stepped out into the late afternoon sun.

Time for that drink. He sighed, the satisfaction that had come from tormenting Conklin fading a bit as Ezra's troubles again came to mind. If what Conklin had said was true, Ezra could probably stand for some friendly company. 

He stuffed his hat on his head and started toward the saloon, trudging pensively down the boardwalk. No doubt Ezra would already have started to treat his misery with a dose of his personal brandy supply, but a sympathetic ear never hurt. Buck was more than willing to do what he could; and he'd do his best to put aside the usual reactions his body had to being near Ezra. After all, if what Ezra needed right now was a friend, that was what Buck would be for him...never mind the fact that when Ezra was half-drunk he had the captivating habit of gazing soulfully at his shot glass, and caressing it's rim like it was a lover's tender lips.... 

Buck couldn't quite quench the warm little tremor that ran through him, and he slowed as he neared the batwing doors of the former Standish Tavern. Of course, Buck had to allow for the possibility that Ezra might -- just might -- want a little something more. In which case, Buck would certainly be there for him. What were friends for, after all? 

And after the lousy couple of days he'd all had, maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe, instead of having to settle for alone-time in the bathhouse or his boarding house room, he'd finally get some hands-on experience. 

Hands on Ezra, to be exact. Buck grinned, then wiped the grin off his face and stepped up to the batwing doors and peered inside. 

The saloon was nearly empty. A pair of scruffy cowboys were irritating a fetching Mexican gal who cleaned the glasses behind the bar. Buck scanned the rest of the place, until his blue eyes lit on a table tucked into a dim corner of the room. Ezra sat there, gazing soulfully into a full shot glass, the tip of one elegant finger resting on its rim. And, as luck would have it, he was alone.

THE END