Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun hangs low over the dusty main streets, casting long shadows across the weathered storefronts and the rough-hewn boardwalk, and Simon Teller sits on the porch of the ramshackle boarding house where he lives, boots propped up on the railing ,his hat pulled low over his eyes, trying desperately to ignore the pounding in his head and the sour taste in his mouth.

It was already late afternoon, and Simon wasn't entirely sure where his day had gone. To his ever-present hangover, mostly. He'd woken up in his narrow bed with a mouth that tasted like old sawdust and a head that felt like it was about to split open like a rotten melon.

He vaguely remembered stumbling back to his bed in the wee hours of the morning. Vague memories were all he could string together anymore - flashes of cheap whiskey burning his throat, the smell of cigar smoke and shit dry rollies hanging in the air, the feel of worn cards beneath his fingers as he played hand after hand, not caring whether he won or lost, not caring who he got into fights with.

It was all a blur, a hazy mess of sensations and impressions that swirled together in his mind like the dregs at the bottom of a bottle. He remembered the working girls sidling up to him, their painted on smiles and low-cut dresses barely concealing their own desperation, eager hands pawing at him as they tried to separate him from his hard earned drinking money. He remembered brushing them off with a grunt and a scowl, not wanting their false affection, or their hollow promises of comfort and release.

But most of all, he remembered chasing the blackness that came at the end of the night, the sweet, blessed oblivion that swallowed him whole and gave him a few precious hours of respite from the memories that still haunted him. In the depths of that darkness, he could almost forget the horrors of the war, the faces of the men he'd killed, the smell of blood and smoke and death that clung to him like a second skin.

It was only a temporary escape though, a fleeting moment of peace in a life that had been nothing but chaos and pain for as long as he could remember. But it was all he had, the only way he knew to keep his past at bay, to keep the ghosts that haunted him from dragging him down with them into the abyss.

He knew it was killing him, slowly but surely. He could feel it in the tremors of his hands, the dull ache in his gut, the weariness that seemed to seep into his bones with every passing day. But he couldn't stop, couldn't give up the one thing that made the world bearable, even if only for a little while.

Grimacing, Simon took a long swallow of the terrible coffee the landlady had left out on the stove. He wasn't even completely sure it could be called coffee anymore - the thin, watery swill was more chicory and road dust than anything else at this point, but it was still better than nothing, and he needed something to help him get vertical.

It was still at least another week until a supply caravan from back East was due to arrive, and until then, he was just going to have to white-knuckle it on rough milled biscuits and almost-coffee and whatever rotgut the saloon liked to pass off as whiskey.

He couldn't really afford to waste this time nursing his shakes, but the thought of facing the bright sunshine and the bustle of the town made his stomach roil and his head throb even harder.

Squinting against the glare, Teller watched the townsfolk go about their business, hoping to be left alone long enough to burn off the rest of his hangover so he could get back to the job of drinking himself to death slowly.

Leadville was little more than a way station on the trail further west, a rough-and-tumble town that had sprung up in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. Few folks saw it as a permanent home - it was just a stopover on the way to somewhere better, a brief respite on the long journey to Oregon or California.

The town was a hodgepodge of clapboard buildings and canvas tents, thrown up in haste and with little thought for comfort or aesthetics. The main street was a muddy quagmire, churned up by the constant traffic of wagons and horses, and the air was thick with the stench of manure and unwashed bodies. The wooden sidewalks were rickety and uneven, and the storefronts were faded and peeling, their paint blistered by the relentless Western sun.

It was a place for prospectors and cowboys, gamblers and grifters, whores and preachers, all looking for something, but few of them staying for long.

Simon understood that better than most. He'd come to Leadville with his own dreams, his own hopes for a better life. He'd told himself that it was just a temporary stop, a place to catch his breath and gather his strength before moving on to greener pastures. But somehow, days had turned into weeks, weeks into months, and now, five long years later, he was still here, stuck in this godforsaken town like a fly in amber.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Simon had always prided himself on his restlessness, on his ability to pick up and move on when the mood struck him. He'd never been one to set down roots, never been one to tie himself to a place or a person. The open road had always called to him, promising freedom and adventure and a chance to outrun the ghosts that haunted him.

But somewhere along the way, he'd lost that spark, that drive that had always kept him moving forward. Maybe it was the whiskey, or the endless grind, or the weight of the memories that he couldn't seem to shake. Whatever the reason, he'd found himself sinking deeper and deeper into the mire of Leadville, until the thought of leaving seemed now like an impossible dream.

Oh, he still talked about it, still made grand plans and bold declarations when the whiskey was flowing and the night was young. He'd tell anyone who would listen about his intentions to head further west, to seek his fortune in the gold fields of California or the lush valleys of Oregon. But as the years passed, those words began to ring hollow, even to his own ears.

The truth was, Simon was afraid. Afraid of what he might find out there on the open road, afraid of the man he might become without the crutch of the bottle and the false comfort of the saloon. Leadville had become his prison, but it was also his sanctuary, a place where he could hide from the world and from himself. It was familiar enough now that Simon barely had to raise his hat to know everything and everybody around him.

There, at one end of the street stood the livery stable, where a group of cowhands were saddling up their mounts, preparing for another long day on the plains. The sound of horses nickering and hooves clopping against packed earth filled the air, mingling with the low murmur of rough voices and the jingle of spurs.

Across the way, a pair of saloon doors swung open, revealing a glimpse of the dimly lit interior. The tinny sound of a piano spilled out into the street, accompanied by the raucous laughter of men in various states of inebriation. A few painted ladies lounged on the balcony above, their brightly colored dresses and coy smiles a beacon for the lonely and the lost.

Further down, a blacksmith's hammer rang out against the anvil, sending up showers of sparks as he worked to shoe a recalcitrant mule. The acrid scent of hot metal and burning hoof mingled with the ever-present odor of shit and sweat, a reminder of the town's lifeblood - the cattle that passed through on their way to the feed lots and slaughterhouses of Chicago and Kansas City.

At the far end of town, where the buildings finally gave way out into open range, a vast herd of longhorns milled restlessly in a makeshift pen. The animals lowed and stomped, kicking up clouds of dust that hung heavy in the still air. A few wranglers perched on the fence rails, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of trouble.

Simon took it all in with a jaundiced eye, the familiar sights and sounds washing over him like a tide. He'd seen a hundred towns just like this one, each one blurring into the next until they all seemed like one endless, dusty nightmare. But this was the life he'd chosen, the only one he knew how to live now.

At thirty-two, Simon was feeling the weight of his years. His once bright copper hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and the lines around his eyes spoke of long days in the saddle and longer nights spent sleeping rough under the stars. He's been a cowboy for damn near a decade now, ever since being discharged from the army.

A wave of bile rose in his throat at the thought. The war. The Union. Even now, years after leaving it all behind him, the memories still hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath and making his heart race. The horrors of the battlefield were every bit as vivid as ever, playing out behind his eyelids in an endless loop of carnage and despair.

He could still hear the roar of the cannons, feel the ground shaking beneath his feet as the shells exploded all around him. He could smell the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood, the sickly sweet odor of death that clung to everything like a shroud. And he could see the faces of the men he'd fought beside, the ones who hadn't been lucky enough to make it out. Their ghosts haunted him still, lurking in the shadows of his mind, waiting to drag him back down at any given moment. He saw them in his dreams, their eyes accusing, their mouths twisted in silent screams. He heard their voices on the wind, whispering his name like a curse.

Some nights, he woke up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding and his sheets tangled around him like a noose. He'd reach for the bottle then, desperate for anything that would dull the pain, blur the edges of the nightmare that was his life.

But even the whiskey couldn't chase away the memories for long, couldn't erase the scars that the war had left on his soul. It was like a poison, eating away at him from the inside out, turning him into a hollow shell of the man he used to be.

He knew he was broken, knew that something inside him had shattered on those bloody battlefields and never quite healed right. Soldier's heart, a sawbones called it, and there was nothing to be done for it. Simon had simply seen too much, done too much, to ever be whole again. And so he drifted, barely more than a ghost himself, haunting the trails and the towns of the West, searching for something he couldn't name.

Maybe that was why he kept coming back to places like this, to the dust and the danger and the endless, open sky. Out here, he could pretend that he was still human. He could lose himself in the rhythm of the ride, in the simple, brutal task of staying alive.

But even that was getting harder, the weight of his demons dragging him down like stones tied to his ankles. He could feel himself slipping away, bit by bit, the man he used to be fading like a half-remembered dream.

Frowning, Simon took another long drink of the bitter coffee, hoping the burn of the liquid would chase away the chill that had settled into his bones. He couldn't keep running forever, knew that someday his ghosts would catch up to him for good, but for now he could at least keep them at bay.

"Boss!" a voice called out, startling Simon from his darkened thoughts. From across the dusty square, Simon could see Bob limping his way slowly and painfully to where Simon sat.

"The fuck happened to you?" Simon asked, though he could make a pretty educated guess. Injuries were a fact of life out here.

Easing himself down onto the bench beside Simon with a pained groan, Bob maneuvered as carefully as he could, but Simon could still see the damage. "Snake on the trail. Dumb-ass horse threw me. Busted my leg up pretty good."

Simon swore under his breath. He and Bob had been partnering on cattle drives for years now, watching each other's backs through stampedes, rustlers, and everything else that could go sideways on the trail. More than that, they'd found some solace in each other on those long, lonely nights under the stars.

"Goddamn it, Hansen. You're getting too old for this shit," Simon growled, trying to mask the worry gnawing at his gut.

Bob snorted, shaking his head. "You're one to talk, Teller. I've seen you after a night of drinking. It ain't the years, it's the mileage. And we both got plenty."

They chuckled together, the sound warm and familiar in the dusty air, but as their laughter faded, a heavy silence settled between them. They'd been riding together for so long, watching each other's backs through every danger the trail could throw at them, the very thought of facing the next drive without Bob at his side left a hollow ache in Simon's chest.

 Almost like he read Simon's mind, Bob broke the silence as he lit himself a smoke. "I ain't gonna be out there this season, Simon. Not with a bum leg. I got on at the Lovelace place though. Less money but a hot meal and a bed every night."

"You just focus on healing up," Simon said, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't quite suppress. "I can handle a drive alone. Been doing this long enough to know how to keep my own ass out of trouble."

Bob huffed a laugh, but there was no real humor in it. "Like hell you do. I've pulled that ass out of the fire more times than I can count."

Simon couldn't help but grin at that. It was true enough. For all his bravado, he knew he'd have been dead a dozen times over if not for Bob's steady presence at his side.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to be extra careful this time around," he said, trying to inject some levity into his voice. "Wouldn't want you to strain that bum leg of yours coming to my rescue."

Bob shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You just make sure you come back in one piece, you hear? I ain't breaking in a new partner at my age."

The words were light, but Simon could hear the real fear beneath them, the unspoken plea to stay safe, to come back whole and unharmed.

"I'll do my best," he said softly, holding Bob's gaze. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to pull the other man into his arms, to hold him close and promise that everything would be alright.

But he couldn't, not here in the open where anyone could see. So instead, he settled for a gentle squeeze of Bob's shoulder, a silent promise that he would do everything in his power to come back to him.

It was as close to a declaration of affection as he could manage, out here where the wrong word could get a man killed. But from the softening of Bob's expression, the way his hand came up to cover Simon's own, he knew the sentiment was understood.

It was a fact of life out here, an unacknowledged truth that every cowboy knew but few would ever admit to. In the long nights under the stars, with nothing but the crackle of the campfire and the soft lowing of the cattle to break the silence, a man might find some softness in the arms of a trusted partner, a moment of peace in a world that offered little in the way of comfort or tenderness.

No one spoke of it in the light of day, of course. To do so would be to invite scorn or worse, to risk being branded as something less than a man. But in the shadows and the quiet places, away from the judgment of the world, those bonds were forged all the same.

Out on the trail, Simon had often found a measure of ease in the company of men who understood, who knew the weight of the secrets he carried, who carried equal weights themselves. With Bob, he had found something more, a connection that ran a little deeper than mere physical comfort.

It wasn't love, not in the romantic sense. What Simon and Bob shared was different, a kind of intimacy born of shared hardships and an unspoken understanding. In this unforgiving world where any moment could be their last, they found succor in each other's presence, a momentary respite from the constant struggle for survival.

It was complex. A blanket woven from trust, loyalty, and a bone-deep familiarity that came from countless nights spent huddled together beneath the vast Western sky. It was a bond that defied easy labels, a partnership that ran deeper than just friendship but stopped well short of the all-consuming passion that poets carried on about.

But even as he drew comfort from their closeness, Simon knew that what they had could never and would never be anything like grand romance. Both he and Bob were too scarred, too jaded by the cruelties of the world to ever give themselves over completely to another person. Their arrangement was one of convenience, a way to stave off the soul-crushing loneliness of the life without having to deal with all of the complications, but Simon knew that their partnership, however meaningful, had its limits. They were both free, bound only by their loyalty to each other and the unwritten code of the West. If the day came when one of them wanted to move on, or found something more, something deeper and truer than the bond they shared, there would be no hard feelings, no sense of betrayal.

It was a bittersweet realization, but one that Simon had come to accept. In a life as uncertain as theirs, you took your comfort where you could find it, and you held on to it for as long as you could. But in the end, you had to be prepared to let it go, to watch as your partner rode off into the sunset in search of their own destiny.

For now, though, Simon would cherish what he and Bob had, this little flicker of light in the darkness. It might not be the stuff of sweeping romances, but it was real and it was theirs. And in a world as cold and pitiless as the one they inhabited, that was no small thing.

Now, with Bob's leg busted up, that light was guttering. Simon felt the familiar dread creeping up his spine, the fear of facing the long nights alone with nothing but a bottle and his demons for company. He'd grown accustomed to the solid presence of Bob beside him, the reassuring touch of calloused hands on his skin.

Simon shook his head, trying to banish his dark thoughts. He couldn't afford to dwell on what he'd be losing. He'd just have to find a way to push through, to bury his desires and his doubts deep down where they couldn't touch him.

He took a deep breath and met Bob's gaze.

"So I'll be riding alone this time," he said, his voice rough with resignation.

Bob shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he adjusted his injured leg. "I dunno about that," he replied slowly, his brow furrowing. "Word is, Kepler's been looking for you."

At the mention of the foreman's name, Simon felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening involuntarily around his mug. "Kepler? What the hell does he want with me?"

Bob shrugged, looking uneasy. "Search me. But you know how he operates. Man's got a nose for desperation. If he's sniffing around, it can only mean one thing."

"A job offer," Simon finished grimly. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of the revelation settle over him like a lead blanket.

Bob shrugged, flinching as the movement jostled his injured leg again. "Heard he's got a big drive coming up. With me out of commission, he probably figures you're in need of work."

Warren Kepler was a name that struck fear into the hearts of even the toughest cowboys. The man had a reputation that stretched from El Paso to St. Louis as a merciless taskmaster, a tyrant who drove his crews to the brink of collapse and beyond. Simon had tangled with him once before, years ago, and had barely escaped with his skin intact.

The thought of working for Kepler again made Simon's blood run cold. But at the same time, he knew he couldn't afford to turn down a paying gig. Not with the way his luck had been running lately.

Simon scowled, his hand tightening on Bob's shoulder. "I don't need anything from that bastard. You know how he operates, working his men to the bone and then acting like he's doing them a favor."

"I know," Bob said, his tone placating.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Simon can feel the rasp of too many days of stubble against his palm.

"Damn it all to hell," he muttered. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Bob's expression was sympathetic, but there was a hard edge of realism in his eyes.

"Not if you want to keep eating," he said bluntly. "Kepler's a bastard, but he pays well, and you can't afford to be picky right now. With the way you've been drinking, I can't imagine you've got more than two dollars to your name."

Simon knew Bob was right, but that didn't make the prospect any more appealing. He could feel the familiar weight of despair settling over him, the sense that he was being backed into a corner with no way out. It was true, he'd been hitting the bottle a little harder than usual lately, but the thought of crawling to Kepler for work, of being beholden to that smug son of a bitch, made Simon's skin crawl.

"I'll figure something out," he said, his jaw tight. "Always do."

Bob sighed, shaking his head. "Don't be a goddamn fool, Teller. You and I both know there's not another outfit in town that'll take you on, not now, not this late in the season already, not with your reputation. Kepler's your only shot at a decent wage."

Simon opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his tongue. As much as he hated to admit it, Bob was right. He'd burned too many bridges, pissed off too many foremen with his reckless behavior and quick temper. If he wanted to stay in the saddle, Kepler was his only option.

"Fine," he bit out, the word tasting like ashes in his mouth. "I'll talk to him. But I ain't making any promises."

"Just hear him out," Bob urged. "And for God's sake, try not to piss him off. Don't poke that bear, you know how he holds a grudge."

Simon grunted, his mind already racing with the possibilities. A cattle drive meant long weeks on the trail, endless hours in the saddle with nothing but his own dark thoughts for company. But it also meant a chance to get out of this godforsaken town, to put some distance between himself and some of the ghosts that haunted him.

"Alright," he said at last, his voice rough with resignation. "I'll play nice with Kepler. But if he tries to screw me over, all bets are off."

Bob chuckled, a knowing glint in his eye. "Wouldn't expect anything less from you, Teller. Just try not to get yourself killed out there."

Simon managed a crooked grin, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "No promises, Hansen. You know me - always looking for trouble."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, each man lost in his own thoughts as they watched the hustle and bustle of the town around them. The sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless sky, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of livestock, sweat, and dust.

A figure emerged from the shimmering haze at the far end of the street, striding purposefully towards them. At first, Simon thought it was just another cowhand or drifter, but as the man drew closer, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

He'd know that tall, broad-shouldered silhouette anywhere. The black hat pulled low over a weather-beaten face, the glint of silver spurs on well-worn boots, the aura of barely-restrained menace that seemed to crackle around him like a gathering storm.

"Teller." Warren Kepler's voice cut through the drowsy afternoon like a whip-crack, sharp and commanding.

Simon tensed, his hand instinctively drifting towards the revolver at his hip. Beside him, Bob straightened up as much as his injured leg would allow, his expression wary. Kepler cut an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like it had been chiseled from granite. He had the rugged good looks of a man who spent his life outdoors, his skin tanned and weathered by the sun and the wind. But there was a hardness to him, a cold, calculating glint in his eye that spoke of a man who was used to getting his way, no matter the cost.

He wore his authority like armor, his every movement radiating a kind of coiled menace that set Simon's teeth on edge. The foreman's black hat was pulled low over his brow, casting his face in shadow, but there was no mistaking the curl of his lip as he regarded Simon with a mixture of disdain and barely concealed hostility.

Kepler had never made any secret of his dislike for Simon, had gone out of his way to make Simon's life a living hell ever since he'd first wandered into Leadville. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in needling him, in pushing him to the brink of violence and then pulling back at the last moment, leaving Simon seething with impotent rage.

"Warren," Simon drawled, his tone dripping with insolence.

Kepler's eyes narrowed, his lips twisting into a sneer. "You can take my good Christian name out of your mouth, Teller."

"And to what do I owe this pleasure, Warren?" Rolling his eyes, Simon simply ignores Kepler's dictates; "Did you get lost on your way  'breaking in' some poor, young, greenhorn? Or did you just run out of kittens to drown?"

Kepler's face darkened, a vein pulsing in his temple. He took a step forward, his hand drifting towards the handle of his whip. "You better watch that smart mouth of yours, boy. It's liable to get you into a world of trouble one of these days."

Simon smirked and took a slow sip of his coffee, completely unintimidated. "I think we both know I'm already there. Trouble and me are old friends. We go way back."

"Oh I'm well aware," Kepler practically purred. "In fact, your little penchant for...trouble is exactly why I'm here."

The fake congeniality dropped from Simon's expression in an instant. "If you're fishing for my help on some suicidal cattle drive, you can forget it. I ain't that hard up. Not yet anyway."

Kepler barked out a harsh laugh. "Come on now, we both know that isn't true. The way I hear tell, you're just about desperate enough to take any job that comes your way. Beggars can't exactly be choosers, can they Teller?"

Simon's back molars ground together hard enough to crack walnut shells. "I don't beg for anything. Especially not from the likes of you."

"The likes of me?" Kepler made a show of looking offended. "And here I thought we were just two old war vets catching up. I'm hurt, truly."

"You want me to salute and call you 'Colonel' too?" Simon asked with a raised brow. "We ain't in the blue anymore, and I ain't gotta answer. I'm all done with the saluting and being saluted to."

Kepler scoffed, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. "Who the fuck was saluting to you?"

Drawing himself up to his full height, Simon held the other man's malevolent stare without so much as blinking. "I was a Sergeant by the time Lee turned tail and the Rebs called it quits."

"Who in the fuck promoted you to Sergeant?" Kepler spat, disbelief and disdain warring in his tone.

Simon shrugged, his grin turning razor-sharp. "Well, you see, all my commanding officers had this real nasty habit of catching minié balls. I was never quite that lucky myself. Reckon the Army was running out of warm bodies to promote towards the end there, and now look at me, here wasting my fine afternoon talking to a snake like you."

Kepler's lip curled back in a contemptuous sneer. "It's a miracle you're still sucking air. If you were my sergeant I'd have put one in you myself just to shut you the fuck up."

"Oh, like you were some well loved big damn hero?" Simon scoffed. "Sitting pretty on your ass in Washington, pushing papers and kissing politician behinds while better men than you'll ever be died in the mud? Some colonel you were."

Rage flashed in Kepler's icy eyes and for a moment, Simon thought the man might actually go for his gun. He let his own hand drift casually towards his belt, ready willing and able to show the foreman exactly how fast he could draw himself if push came to shove.

But after a tense beat, Kepler mastered himself, that urbane mask of cynical amusement slipping back into place. Simon wasn't fooled though. He'd seen the killer lurking behind those pale eyes, just waiting for an excuse to be let off the leash.

"As amusing as this little trip down memory lane has been," Kepler said with exaggerated patience, "I didn't come here to compare war records. I've got a business proposition for you."

"Business?" Simon let himself relax as well, crossing his arms over his chest, his own temper simmering just beneath the surface. "I didn't know you knew the meaning of the word. Figured 'extortion' and 'exploitation' were more your speed."

Kepler flashed a cold grin full of too many teeth. "It's adorable that you think there's a difference."

Simon raised a brow. "And what might this business be?"

Kepler jerked his chin towards Bob, who was watching the exchange with wary eyes. "Got a big drive coming up. Heard Hansen here went and broke himself. Thought you might be interested in the job."

Simon hesitated. He'd been considering hanging up his spurs after this season, maybe taking Bob up on his offer of heading further west, on out to California. They were still pulling gold out of the hills, so he heard, but the lure of the trail, the freedom of the open range, was hard to resist.

"I don't know, Kepler. Might be time for me to move on."

The foreman's smile was sharp. "I'll make it worth your while."

Simon barked out a harsh laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "You must be desperate, Kepler, coming to me for help. What's the matter, all your other boys finally wise up and quit on you?"

Kepler's eyes flashed dangerously, his hand tightening on his gun. "Watch your mouth, Teller. I'm offering you a chance to make some decent money, but if you'd rather sit here and drink yourself stupid, stupider-be my guest."

Simon hesitated, his gaze flicking to Bob. As much as he hated the thought of working for Kepler, he knew he couldn't afford to turn down a paying job. Not with the way his pockets were looking these days.

"What's the pay?" he asked grudgingly, hating the way the words tasted in his mouth.

Kepler smiled, a cold, cruel thing that didn't reach his eyes. "Double your usual rate, plus a bonus if we make good time to Chicago."

Simon's eyebrows shot up in surprise. That was more than he'd expected, especially from a tightfisted bastard like Kepler.

"And the catch?" he asked, his voice heavy with suspicion.

"No catch." Kepler shrugged, a picture of false innocence. "Just a long, hard ride with a bunch of greenhorn boys who don't know their asses from a hole in the ground. But I'm sure a Sergeant like you can handle it."

The mockery in Kepler's tone made Simon's blood boil, his fingers itching to reach for his gun, but beneath the foreman's disdain, there was a grudging acknowledgment of Simon's skills and experience. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to push down the rage that threatened to consume him.

Despite their mutual hatred, Kepler knew that Simon was a damn good drover, one of the few who had managed to survive the brutal demands of the trail into his thirties. In a profession where most men were lucky to make it to twenty five before being crippled or killed, Simon's longevity was a testament to his grit, his savvy, and his sheer, goddamned stubborn refusal to die.

"Fine," Simon bit out, the word like broken glass in his throat. "I'm in. But you'd best keep your end of the bargain, Kepler. I ain't risking my neck for big pile of nothing."

Kepler's smile widened, a shark scenting blood in the water.

"Oh, don't you worry about that, Teller. I always keep my promises." His voice dropped to a menacing purr. "You just make sure you're ready to ride come sunrise. I don't want to see you in that saloon tonight."

Simon cocked an eyebrow, meeting Kepler's gaze with a defiant smirk. "You drink before a ride, there Colonel?" he drawled, putting a mocking emphasis on the rank.

Kepler's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching with barely-suppressed anger. "Of course not," he snapped.

"Then I guess you won't be seeing me at the saloon," Simon replied, his tone dripping with false sincerity. He paused, then added with a wicked grin, "Unless of course you wanted to swing by the devil's sacrament yourself to check."

Kepler's face flushed an ugly red, his fists clenching at his sides. For a moment, Simon thought this time he had pushed too hard and Kepler might actually take a swing at him, but instead, Kepler just shook his head in disgust.

"Fuck you, Teller," he spat, his voice thick with contempt. "Be saddled and at the lot by sunup." He jabbed a finger at Simon's chest, his eyes glinting with malice. "You drink tonight and your hangover is your own goddamned problem."

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, his spurs jingling with each angry step. Simon watched him go, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat.

"Always a pleasure, Warren," he called after the foreman's retreating back. "Give my regards to the missus. Or whoever it is that puts up with your sorry ass these days."

Beside him, Bob let out a low whistle.

"Jesus, Teller," he muttered, shaking his head. "You just can't help yourself, can you? One of these days, that mouth of yours is gonna get you killed."

Simon shrugged, feeling the tension slowly drain from his shoulders. "If it ain't Kepler that does it, it'll be something else," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. "We all gotta die sometime. Might as well go out with a bang."

Bob snorted, but there was no humor in the sound. "Yeah, well, try to hold off on the fireworks for a bit, will you?"

Simon chuckled, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "No promises, Hansen."

They stayed there for a moment, watching as the last of the daylight faded from the sky. The streets were already emptying out, the townsfolk hurrying to get indoors before the chill of the night set in.

Simon knew he ought to be doing the same, knew he needed to get some actual rest before the long ride ahead. But the thought of going back to his lonely room at the boarding house, of facing the long, dark hours alone with nothing but his thoughts, made his stomach twist with dread.

Maybe one drink wouldn't hurt, he told himself. Just a little something to take the edge off, to quiet the demons that whispered in his ear. He'd be fine come morning, hangover or no. He always was.

Even as he turned towards the saloon, he could feel the weight of Bob's gaze on his back, could hear the unspoken worry in his friend's silence. And deep down, in a part of himself he rarely acknowledged, Simon knew that he was playing a losing game, that the bottle would only drag him under.

He just didn't know how to stop, didn't know any other way to keep the ghosts at bay, and so he walked on, his boots scuffing against the dusty street, his heart heavy with the knowledge that someday, somehow, his luck was going to run out for good.

Chapter Text

The first rays of another painful morning and the discordant notes of a rooster's crow pierce through Simon's skull like a rusty railroad spike, dragging him unhappily out of a fitful, whiskey-soaked slumber. Groaning, he rolls over on the lumpy mattress, pulling the scratchy wool blanket over his head in a futile attempt to block out the morning light and that damned bird's relentless reveille for just a few more minutes.

Through no fault of his own, the throbbing in Simon's head was a touch more bearable than usual when the bedeviled rooster his landlady kept went off at dawn. He'd gotten drunk last night, of course he had - that was a given most nights - but he could have easily drank himself into an even deeper stupor had it not been for Kepler's pet Russian dragging him out of the saloon hours before Simon was actually ready to call it quits.

He should have known better. He always promised himself he would only have one drink, just enough to take the edge off, just enough to soften the jagged memories that still haunt him. But that first shot of whiskey always went down so smooth, a devilish temptress in a glass, and he could never resist her siren call for a second round. For luck, he'd say with a bitter chuckle. Then a third and a fourth would follow, the liquor and laughter flowing until the whole saloon was spinning and his vision blurred at the edges, softening the hard lines of reality.

With a resigned sigh, Simon hauls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, cursing under his breath as the change in elevation intensifies the pounding behind his eyes. Running a callused hand over his stubbled jaw, he squints dolefully against the sunlight cutting through the dingy window.

Time to get his shit together, try to settle his stomach with some more of that piss weak, bitter, chicory swill his landlady called coffee, and pray this cattle drive might finally whip him back into some kind of shape. Scratch out a little redemption for all he's done, all he's lost and become. With an effort, Simon levers himself up off the bed, reaching for his denims and spurs. He had a job to do, beasts to wrangle, and his own demons to out-ride. The unforgiving Western sun, a pack of new trail hands and hard, but honest work awaited.

The first hour of Simon's morning is a flurry of activity as he prepares for the months-long journey ahead. He starts by packing his meager belongings into his weather-beaten bedroll. A few extra shirts, a couple of bandannas, some blowsy tobacco, and a small, tarnished locket that he carefully tucks into his breast pocket—these are the sum total of his worldly possessions.

The locket is especially precious, kept safe in a drawer when he's working in town, and secured safely in his pocket when it was time to leave. It held a tiny, faded daguerreotype of a young man with bright eyes and a crooked smile.

Elijah, the boy Simon had loved more than life itself, the one who'd died in his arms on a blood-soaked battlefield. Simon couldn't read well, never had much use for schooling, but he didn't need to read the inscription on the locket to know exactly what it said: Forever yours, E.

He clutches the locket tightly for a moment, feeling the familiar ache in his chest, the weight of the memories threatening to pull him under. Elijah, his beautiful boy, the one bright spot in the hell that was that damnably stupid war. They had been so young when they met, barely more than children playing at being men. Two scared boys clinging to each other amidst the blood and chaos, finding solace in stolen moments, whispered promises, and secret kisses shared in the shadows.

But Simon couldn't let himself get lost in the past; not today. He didn't have the time and he didn't have the whiskey, but he did have a job to do.

Checking one last time he hadn't left anything, he made his way downstairs to settle up with his landlady. She was a stern, no-nonsense woman who ran a tight ship, but Simon knew she had a soft spot for him, despite his frequent late payments and drunken escapades. He counted out the crumpled bills and tarnished coins, grateful that he'd managed to scrape together enough to square his debt.

"You take care now, Mr. Teller," She said as she accepted the money, her sharp blue eyes softening just a touch. "Keep your prayers, and be safe out there"

Simon tipped his hat in thanks, he and god weren't on speaking terms any longer, but his landlady meant well and he could at least promise to do his best to stay out of trouble. He knew it was a promise he might not be able to keep, but he appreciated her concern nonetheless.

His next stop was the kitchen, where he shoveled down a plate of rough biscuits and leftover stew, washing it down with a few cups of strong, bitter 'coffee'. The food sat heavy in his gut, but he knew he'd need some sustenance for the long ride ahead.

Before heading out, Simon double-checked his saddlebags, making sure he had all the essentials: a few tins of beans and salt pork, some hardtack, a box of matches, a few spare horseshoes, and some basic tools for repairs on the trail. He also packed a bottle of whiskey, telling himself it was strictly for medicinal purposes, but knowing deep down that the temptation would be hard to resist in the long, lonely nights on the range.

By the time he stumbled out of the ramshackle boarding house, squinting against the harsh morning light that seemed to stab right through his whiskey-addled brain, Simon was as sobered up as he was going to get. He made his way down the dusty street, dodging the bustling townsfolk starting their day, the clatter of wagon wheels and horses' hooves doing nothing to ease his throbbing headache.

Approaching the livery stable, a familiar whinny catches his ear, and the faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Mariposa, his loyal mare, always just seemed to sense his presence. She is a beautiful dapple gray, with a black mane and tail, and a spirit as wild and untamed as the Colorado frontier itself.

Pushing open the stable door, Simon lets the rich scent of hay, horse, and well-oiled leather envelope him like a comforting embrace. The familiar smells and sounds of the stable seem to dissolve the last of the lingering effects of the previous night's overindulgence, grounding him in the present moment. As he walks down the aisle, the soft whickers and whinnies of the horses greeting the new day filled the air.

Mariposa nickers softly as he approaches her stall, her soft muzzle nuzzling his hand in greeting. The mare has been his constant companion for years now, a steadfast friend through thick and thin. Simon had won her, just a skinny little foal back then, in a card game back in '67, a stroke of luck that had changed his life for the better. From that day forward, they'd been all but inseparable.

"Mornin', girl," he murmurs, running his fingers through her silky mane. "How you doin', beautiful?"

Mariposa bobbed her head as if in response, her warm brown eyes filled with gentle understanding. Simon presses his forehead against her neck, breathing in her comforting scent. In a world that often felt harsh and unforgiving, Mariposa was his anchor, the one constant he could always rely on, probably the only thing left in this world he truly loved.

With a final pat, Simon sets about preparing her for the long journey ahead, starting with a thorough grooming, brushing out her coat until it gleamed like polished silver in the early morning light. He picked out her hooves, checking for any signs of wear or damage, and made sure her mane and tail were free of tangles.

Next, he began the process of saddling her, each step as familiar to him as breathing. The well-worn leather was supple beneath his hands as he placed the saddle blanket and saddle on Mariposa's back, adjusting them with practiced precision. He cinched the girth snugly, knowing that a loose saddle could spell disaster on the long, grueling trail rides ahead.

As he worked, Simon's mind wandered to the vague sense of unease that had settled in his gut. This cattle drive might turn out bad. Real bad. He's older now than ever before, and not in the jokey way that the ancient drunks in the saloon talked about it- Simon could feel the years of ranch handing settling into his bones. He wasn't as quick as he used to be, and without Bob, out there in the wilderness where any number of things could befall a man, Simon was somewhat worried about his chances of making it to the end.

There were just so many things that could go wrong, so many ways a man could meet his end in the untamed wilds of the West. Rattlesnakes coiled in the underbrush, waiting to strike with venomous fangs. Exposure to the elements, with blistering heat by day and bone-chilling cold by night. Bandits lurking in the hills, ready to swoop down on the herd and leave a trail of bodies in their wake.

Hell, even something as simple as a bad bowl of trail chili or a fever that wouldn't break could spell the end for a cowboy, out there where the nearest doctor was often days or even weeks away.

"She's real pretty," a voice called out, shaking Simon from his thoughts.

He glanced over to see a young man standing nearby, watching him with curious eyes. The stranger was dressed in a fresh off the shelves clean shirt and crisp, new jeans that looked like they'd never seen a day's work; his clean-cut appearance made him stick out like a sore thumb in the gritty, dusty livery stable.

Despite his initial annoyance at the interruption, Simon couldn't help but notice the young man's striking features. He had a strong, angular jaw, high cheekbones, and a head of thick, dark hair that gleamed in the morning light. His eyes, a startling shade of blue, seemed to sparkle with intelligence.

Simon feels a fleeting pang of attraction, a sudden spark of interest that catches him off guard. It wasn't that he was a stranger to desire - he and Bob had shared a comfortable intimacy over the years, a bond that blurred the lines between friendship and something more. But this feels different, somehow more intense and immediate than anything he'd experienced in a long time.

Taking a deep breath, Simon tries to shake it off, to steady himself, and find his footing again. When he finally speaks, his voice is a little rougher than usual, but he manages to keep his tone light and even.

"She sure is," he agreed, patting Mariposa's neck. "Best horse in the world."

The young man grins, a flash of white teeth against sun-bronzed skin. "I'll bet. Looks like you two have seen some miles."

"Hey." Brow furrowing, Simon takes a moment to try and work out if that was supposed to sound as mean as it did. "Watch your mouth, kid."

To his credit, the young man did have the good graces to look somewhat chagrined and Simon took the opportunity to size him up with a critical eye, taking note of the way the greenhorn was fumbling with the saddle, trying to get it onto a horse Simon recognized as one of the particularly ornery beasts from Kepler's ranch. The young man's technique was all wrong, and Simon could tell he was about to get himself into trouble, if not hurt badly.

"You're gonna want to watch yourself with that one," Simon drawls, nodding towards the horse. "He's got a mean streak a mile wide and a bite to match. Liable to throw you right off if you don't know what you're doing. Might stomp you for good measure, or just out of pure cussedness."

The stranger bristles at Simon's warning, his face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and irritation.

"I think I can handle a horse, old timer," he retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Been riding since I could walk."

Simon snorts, shaking his head.

"Is that so?" Simon raises an eyebrow as he leans against the stable door. "Could've fooled me, the way you're manhandling that saddle. It looks like it's on backwards from where I'm standin', and I don't see a saddle blanket either. Good way to make an angry horse angrier is to make him uncomfortable while you're ridin' him."

The young man's cheeks flush, but he sets his jaw stubbornly.

"I think I can figure it out," he huffs, blue eyes flashing with a mix of embarrassment and defiance.

Simon chuckles, shaking his head. "If you say so, kid."

"Don't call me kid, and I do say so, thank you," the greenhorn snaps, his voice tight and edged with scorn. He turns back to the horse, yanking on the straps with renewed determination.

Simon just watches him for a moment, amused by his prickly demeanor.

"Where'd you learn to ride, anyway?" he asks, unable to resist needling the young man a bit more. "Some fancy stable back East?"

The stranger's head whips around, his glare so fierce it could bore holes through Simon's skull.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," he bit out, his tone as sharp as a whip crack. "I've been hired on for the cattle drive, same as you. I can handle myself just fine."

Simon holds up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Easy there, tiger," he drawls, his eyes glinting with mischief. He knows he should probably just leave the kid be, but there's something about that fiery temper and those blazing blue eyes that makes him want to keep poking at him, just to see what kind of reaction he can provoke.

"I'm just trying to make friendly conversation," Simon continues,crossing his arms with a casual air that belies the quickening of his pulse. "Seeing as we'll both be on this drive together. Never hurts to know who you're riding with."

The young man's scowl deepens, but there's a flicker of something else in his eyes now - a spark of curiosity, maybe even a grudging interest.

"I don't need your friendship," he says stiffly, but his voice lacks the same bite as before. "And who knows if we'll even see much of each other out there. Trails are long and positions haven't been assigned yet."

"Fair enough," Simon concedes, inclining his head. "But still, it pays to be prepared. The boss man likes his drovers to know their way around a horse and a saddle. Wouldn't want you getting left behind before we even start."

The greenhorn's jaw clenches, his pride clearly stung by the implication. "I won't be left behind," he says firmly, squaring his shoulders. "I can hold my own, no matter where they put me."

Simon studies him for a long moment, taking in the determination etched into every line of the young man's face. Despite his obvious inexperience, there was a grit to him, a core of quiet steel that Simon couldn't help but admire.

"Suit yourself," Simon shrugs, pushing off the stable door and sauntering back over to Mariposa. "But a little advice, from one cowboy to another? You might want to swallow that pride of yours before it gets you thrown in the dirt. The trail has a way of knocking the ego out of ya."

Bristling at Simon's words, the young mans' blue eyes flash with another flare of indignation.

"Oh, well, I surely do appreciate the wisdom, old timer," he replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind while I'm out there showing you how it's done."

Simon pauses, glancing back at the new drover with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. The kid's got a mouth on him, that's for sure. Normally, he wouldn't waste his time on such bravado, but there's something about his fiery spirit that intrigues Simon, even as it frustrates him.

"You do that, kid," Simon retorts, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Just don't you come crying to me when you're picking cactus spines out of your ass."

With a last laugh, Simon just continues walking back to his horse, he didn't have time to waste on cocky, inexperienced boys who thought they knew everything. The trail would teach them soon enough, one way or another.

As he swings up into the saddle, Simon couldn't help but cast one last glance at the new comer, still struggling to get his horse ready. The young man's face was flushed with exertion and frustration, his jaw clenched tight as he yanked on the straps.

"Say. What's your name, kid?" Simon asks, his voice a little rougher than before, a little more intimate. He knows he's pushing his luck, but he can't seem to help himself. There's just something about this prickly, enigmatic stranger that makes him want to dig deeper, to uncover the secrets lurking behind those wary eyes.

The stranger looks back up, a flash of defiance writ across his face. "Don't call me kid."

"Stop acting like one and I'll stop calling you that." Simon chuckles, thoroughly amused by the young man's prickly demeanor. "What should I call you then? Damned jackass? Stubborn fool?"

The greenhorn huffs, blowing a stray lock of dark hair out of his face. He hesitates, his gaze searching Simon's face for a long, charged moment.

"Mark," he says at last, the name falling from his lips like a sigh, a reluctant offering."Mark Midland."

"Well, Mark, Mark Midland," Simon responds, savoring the way the name rolls off his tongue. "You gonna let an old timer help you with that saddle, or you planning on wrestling with it all day?"

Mark's eyes narrow, his pride clearly warring with his need for assistance. After a long moment, he relents, stepping back from the horse with a grudging nod.

Dismounting smoothly, Simon is acutely aware of Mark's gaze on him as he swings his leg over the saddle, the young man's blue eyes tracking his every movement with an intensity that sends a shiver down Simon's spine.

As his feet touch the dirt, Simon can't help but stand a little taller, his shoulders squared and his chin lifted. He knows he cuts an impressive figure, with his lean, rangy build and the easy grace of a man who'd spent his life in the saddle. And if the appreciative gleam in Mark's eye was anything to go by, the kid had definitely noticed.

Simon strides over to Mark's side, trying to ignore the way his heart seems to skip a beat at his proximity. Up close, he could see the faint dusting of freckles across Mark's nose, the way his dark lashes framed those startling blue eyes.

"Here," Simon said gruffly, reaching for the saddle. "Let me show you how it's done."

Their hands brush as Simon takes the reins, a jolt sparking between them. He hears Mark's sharp intake of breath, feels the heat of his gaze on the back of his neck, but can't even begin to think about that now.

Working quickly, Simon adjusts the saddle and cinches the girth, his movements practiced and efficient. He can feel Mark watching him intently, can practically hear the gears turning in the young man's head.

"There," Simon said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "That should hold you."

Mark runs a hand along the horse's flank, his touch gentle despite his earlier frustration.

"Thanks," he mutters, his voice low and begrudging.

Simon shrugs, trying to play off the momentary connection he'd felt. "Ain't nothing. Just don't want you slowing us down out there."

Mark's head snaps up, his eyes flashing with renewed fire. "I won't," he promises, his voice ringing with conviction. "I can keep up with the best of them."

Simon meets his gaze, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I guess we'll see about that, won't we?" He swings himself smoothly back up into Mariposa's saddle, gathering the reins in his deft, calloused hands. "Better mount up, Mark Midland. Trail boss won't wait forever. 'Specially not Kepler. That one's meaner than a two headed snake. I get you think you don't need my advice, but take this one to heart— you'll want to stay out of his bad side."

At the mention of Kepler's name, Mark's reaction is immediate and visceral. His hands, which had been adjusting the stirrups, suddenly fumble and slip, sending a length of leather tumbling to the stable floor.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, stooping to retrieve it with shaking fingers.

As he straightens back up, Simon can't help but notice the sheen of sweat that has broken out across the young man's brow, despite the relative cool of the morning air. Mark's earlier arrogance seems to have evaporated, replaced by a palpable sense of unease that radiates off him in waves.

"Um. Yeah. Yeah, I'll keep that in mind, thanks," Mark stammers, his voice unsteady as he tries to loop the stirrup back into place. His fingers seem clumsy and uncooperative now, as if he'd forgotten how to perform even the most basic tasks.

Simon's brow furrows, his keen eyes studying Mark's sudden change in attitude. It was as if the mere mention of the trail boss had flipped a switch in the young man, transforming him from a cocksure greenhorn to a nervous wreck in the span of a heartbeat.

"You alright there, kid?" Simon asks, his tone a mix of concern and curiosity. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Mark shakes his head, avoiding Simon's gaze as he busies himself with double-checking his saddle.

"I'm fine," he says, but his voice lacks conviction. "Just...just nerves, I guess. First big drive and all."

The kid's jaw is clenched tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he fights to maintain his composure, but there was no mistaking the haunted look that had crept into those blue eyes, or the way his shoulders have hunched forward, as if bracing for an unseen blow.

It's clear that the mention of Kepler has struck a nerve, triggering some kind of intense emotional response that Mark is struggling to control. Simon watches as the young man takes a deep, shuddering breath, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the saddle.

"You sure you're alright?" Simon asks, unable to keep the concern from his voice. "If you're not feeling up to the drive, ain't no shame in saying so. Better to speak up now than to push yourself too hard out there."

Mark's head snaps up, his eyes blazing with a fierce determination even as his face remains pale and drawn.

"I'm fine," he insists, his voice rough with barely suppressed emotion. "Just nervous, is all. But I can handle it. I can. I have to."

There was a note of desperation in those last words, a hint of something deeper and more painful than mere pre-trail jitters. Simon's instincts tell him that there is a story here, a history between Mark and Kepler that has left scars, even if they maybe aren't visible.

But he knows better than to press the issue. Whatever demons Mark was wrestling with, it wasn't Simon's place to pry them out into the light. Not right now, anyway.

"Alright then," he said, swinging Mariposa around in a wide arc. "Let's get moving. Daylight's burning, and we've got a lot of ground to cover. Kepler'll want to head out as soon as positions are settled"

As they ride out of the stable yard, Simon can't resist casting one last glance at Mark, taking in the tense set of his shoulders and the grim determination etched into every line of his face.

They spend the short ride in silence, the only sounds the creaking of leather and the steady clip-clop of hooves on dusty, packed earth. Simon is grateful for the quiet, using it as a chance to slip into the well-worn mask he donned around others. The easy grin, the confident set of his shoulders, the air of unflappable calm - all part of the carefully crafted persona he'd built over years of working the trails and navigating the treacherous waters of human interaction.

It was a mask that served him well, hiding the wounded, broken parts of himself he didn't want, and couldn't bear to let others see. The scars left by the war, by Elijah's death, by the long years of loneliness and hard living - those were burdens he bore in silence, and drowned in whiskey, all hidden behind a façade of quick wit and easy charm.

And so, as they rode into the bustling staging area at the ranch, Simon slipped smoothly into the role of the seasoned cowhand with practiced ease. He greeted familiar faces with nods and grins, his voice carrying over the din of lowing cattle and neighing horses.

Other cowboys called out to him, a mix of camaraderie and good-natured ribbing.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in! Simon Teller, as I live and breath!"

"Heard you had a run of bad luck in Tulsa. 'Bout time things turned around for you!"

"Gettin' long in the tooth for a drive like this Teller!"

These are men he's known, worked and ridden with for years, and Simon meets each greeting with a quip and a laugh, his smile never quite reaching his eyes. It's a performance, a carefully choreographed dance he's perfected over the years. Keep things light, keep them laughing, and no one would ever guess at, or try too hard to pry into, the darkness lurking beneath the surface.

But even as he works the crowd, Simon can't help but notice the way Mark seems to shrink in on himself, all of his earlier bravado all but vanished in the face of the boisterous horde of cowboys. The kid was looking more and more like a spooked colt with each passing minute, his gaze darting nervously from face to face as if searching for a threat.

Sure, there were other newcomers, greenhorns standing out like sore thumbs among the weathered and experienced drovers. Boys who looked barely old enough to shave, their eyes wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation as they took in the controlled chaos of the staging area.

Simon knows he'll end up taking one of them under his wing, would be required to play the role of the wise old hand teaching the next generation of cowboys to any one of these new hands. It was a role he'd filled before, and one that came naturally to him, but his gaze kept straying back to Mark, drawn by some inexplicable force that he couldn't quite name.

Mark looked like he wanted nothing more than to disappear, to melt into the shadows and escape the scrutiny of so many prying eyes. Simon understood that feeling all too well. He knew what it was like to want to hide, to bury your secrets so deep that even you couldn't find them anymore. And while he might not know the specifics of what Mark was running from, he recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one.

So he did what he'd learned to do best - he put on a show. Guiding his horse closer to Mark's, Simon fell into step alongside the young cowboy, his presence a silent bulwark against the curious stares of the other drovers. As they rode through the milling crowd of men on horseback, Simon made a point of introducing Mark to some of the more experienced hands, men he knew would be excellent guides to the young man out on the open range.

"This here's Mark Midland, boys. Green as grass, but got a fire in him that'll serve him well on the trail. Helped him with his tack this morning, and I tell you, he's a quick study. Reckon we got ourselves a real cowboy in the making!"

The lie is audacious, and liable to blow back on Simon. Anyone paired with Mark on this drive would discover soon enough exactly how under prepared the kid was, but he pushed through it, knowing that sometimes a kind fiction was better than a cold truth. And if it helped ease Mark's way, helped shield him from the prying eyes and wagging tongues, well - that was a price Simon was willing to pay.

Before Simon could offer any words of reassurance to Mark though, a hush fell over the assembled cowboys. Kepler had emerged from the ranch house, his weathered face set in a scowl that could curdle milk.

"Listen up, boys," he snarls, his voice cutting through the sudden silence like a knife. "We've got a lot of new faces on this drive, and I ain't got the time or the patience to coddle them. So here's how it's going to work - each greenhorn gets paired with an experienced hand. You old-timers are responsible for showing these young bucks the ropes, but do not think for a second that means you can slack off. I expect this herd to move like a well-oiled machine, no matter how many fresh faces we've got."

A murmur of assent ripples through the crowd, but there is an undercurrent of unease that even the most seasoned drovers couldn't quite hide. Kepler has a reputation, and it isn't for being a kind or lenient man. He demanded the best from his men, and God help anyone who fell short of his expectations.

As Kepler's gaze sweeps over the assembled cowboys, Simon can almost feel Mark tense on his horse beside him, the kid's whole body going rigid with a kind of primal fear. Simon glances over, taking in the ashen pallor of Mark's face, the way his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his reins.

And then Kepler's eyes land on Mark, and it is like watching a hawk spot a wounded rabbit in a field. The trail boss's lip curls in a sneer, his cold, rapacious gaze locking onto the young cowboy like he could see straight through him.

"Well, well," Kepler intones, his voice dripping with a kind of cruel joviality. "And what's your name son?"

"My - my name's Mark. Mark Midland," Mark stammers out, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of Kepler's penetrating stare.

There's a flicker of something in Kepler's expression - recognition, and satisfaction, like a predator who's just caught the scent of a long-sought quarry. His lips curl into a smile, but there's no warmth in it. Only a cold, calculating amusement.

"Is that so?" Kepler drawls, taking a step closer. Mark seems to shrink back involuntarily. "Funny. You look awful familiar. Coulda sworn I knew you by a different name."

The color drains from Mark's face at those words. His jaw clenches, hands balling into fists at his sides. Watching him, Simon feels a prickle of unease skitter down his spine. There's history here, bad blood that runs deep and dark. He can see it in the rigid set of Mark's shoulders, the haunted look that flashes through those blue eyes.

Around them, some of the other men shift in their saddles and mutter, picking up on the tension that crackles like a gathering storm. Kepler ignores them, his attention fixed solely on Mark. He looks up at the kid with a gaze that's almost gentle, but there's something cold and calculating lurking just beneath the surface.

"A man can change his name," Kepler says softly, his fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against the horse's neck, each tap making Mark flinch slightly. "But he can't outrun his past. You ought to know that...Danny boy."

Mark recoils as if he's been struck, his face going chalk-white. For a second, Simon's sure the kid's going to wheel his horse around and bolt, or maybe even lash out at Kepler, consequences be damned. But he just sits there, frozen in the saddle, eyes wide and staring like a animal caught in a trap.

Kepler lets the moment stretch, lets that barbed name hang in the air between them. Then he smiles, sharp and cold, and takes a step back, his hand falling away from Mark's horse.

"But I'm sure I'm mistaken," he says smoothly, gaze flicking over the gathered cowboys. "If you say it's Mark Midland, then Mark Midland it is. Welcome to the outfit, son. Let's see if you have what it takes."

With that, he turns on his heel and stalks back to the front of the assembled cowboys, leaving a stunned silence in his wake, no one quite sure what they had just witnessed.

Kepler climbs atop a weathered wooden crate, even unmounted,his imposing figure casts a long shadow across the gathered men. He surveys the crowd with a critical eye, his gaze lingering on each face as if sizing them up, weighing their worth.

"All right, boys," he barked, his voice carrying easily over the low murmur of conversation. "I've got three thousand head of cattle expected in Chicago in three months, but if we make it in ten weeks, it's an extra fifty dollars in the paycheck of every man here."

A hush fell over the cowboys, followed by a ripple of excited whispers. Fifty dollars was no small sum - for many of them, it represented half a year's wages or more. The prospect of such a windfall was enough to make even the most reluctant among them eager to hit the trail.

"Now, I'm gonna need every one of you to pull your weight and then some," Kepler continued, his tone brooking no argument. "This ain't no pleasure ride. You're here to work, and work hard. Understood?"

A chorus of "yes, sir" and "understood, boss" rang out from the assembled men. They knew Kepler's reputation - the man was a hard taskmaster, but he got results. If he said they could make it to Chicago in ten weeks, then by God, they'd make it.

Kepler nods, a grim smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Good. Now, let's get down to assignments. Hawkins!" He points at a grizzled, weather-beaten cowboy with a salt-and-pepper beard; the only cowboy in town that had more time on the plains than Simon himself. "You're my segundo. Keep 'em in line and don't let me down."

Hawkins touches the brim of his hat in acknowledgment, his face set in a stoic mask. Simon felt a twinge of envy - he'd served as segundo on more than one drive, and he knew the responsibility and respect that came with the position.

"Martinez, you're point." Kepler's finger lands on a lean, dark-eyed cowboy with a reputation for having a cool head and a steady hand. "Nichols and O'Brien, swing and flank. Each of you pick a greenhorn to ride with you. Teach 'em the ropes, but don't baby 'em."

The chosen men nod, already eyeing the nervous-looking newcomers, sizing them up. Simon waits for his own name to be called, his gut tight with anticipation.

But Kepler wasn't finished.

Kepler's gaze swept over the assembled cowboys, his eyes narrowing as he searched for his next target. "Hilbert!" he snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.

A wiry, bald man with heavy brows rode forward, his face an impassive mask. Alexander Hilbert, known among the outfit as "Doc" or simply "the Russian," was a bit of an enigma. He was whip-thin and looked like a stiff breeze might blow him out of the saddle, but there was a rangy strength to him that belied his scrawny frame.

As Hilbert drew closer, Kepler fixed him with a piercing stare. "You're wrangler and medic," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Keep the remuda in line and patch up any idiots who get themselves hurt."

Hilbert merely grunted in acknowledgment, his bushy brows drawing together in a perpetually dour expression. Simon felt a flicker of unease as he watched the exchange. Despite Hilbert's nickname, he had his doubts about the man's medical qualifications.

Rumor was that Hilbert's medical experience consisted entirely of patching up wounded comrades during some long-forgotten war in the old country. Simon had never been able to get a straight answer out of the taciturn Russian about his past, and that air of mystery did little to instill confidence in his abilities as a doctor.

Simon couldn't suppress a shiver as he watched the Russian ride away. There was something unsettling about Hilbert, a darkness that lurked behind those inscrutable eyes. He just hoped that the man's skill with a scalpel was surer than his bedside manner.

Still, Kepler seemed satisfied with Hilbert's response, or lack thereof. The trail boss was moving on, his attention already shifting to his next victim as Hilbert melted back into the crowd of cowboys.

Simon barely registered the names and assignments, his attention focused inward as he waited with growing unease for his own fate to be decided. The knot in his gut tightened with each passing second, a sense of foreboding settling over him like a heavy shroud.

Around him, the other experienced hands were pairing off with the greenhorns, the group of seasoned cowboys gradually dwindling; Garcia, Johnson, Welter, McMurphy - one by one, they were given their marching orders and peeled away, leaving Simon feeling increasingly exposed and alone.

Finally, when it seemed that Kepler had all but forgotten him, the trail boss's gaze landed on Simon. For a long, tense moment, the two men stared each other down, a silent battle of wills playing out between them.

Kepler's eyes were hard and glittering, filled with a kind of cruel amusement that set Simon's teeth on edge. It was the look of a man who held all the cards, who knew he had the power to make or break the lives of those under his command.

Simon met that gaze unflinchingly, his own eyes narrowed and his jaw set in a stubborn line. He refused to be cowed, to show even a flicker of the unease that churned in his gut.

This was a game he knew all too well - the posturing, the power plays, the unspoken challenges that could flare into open conflict at the slightest provocation. He'd seen men like Kepler before, had locked horns with their like on a dozen different trails spanning hundreds of miles.

But there was something different about this confrontation, something that went beyond the usual jockeying for dominance among rough-and-tumble cowhands. There was a personal edge to Kepler's animosity, a sense that the trail boss's disdain for Simon ran deeper than mere professional rivalry.

The seconds stretched out between them, the tension growing thicker with each passing heartbeat. The other cowboys shifted uneasily, sensing the brewing storm but powerless to intervene.

And then, just when it seemed that the standoff might erupt into open hostilities, Kepler's lip curled in a sneer and he broke the silence.

"Teller," he spat, the name dripping with venom. "You're on drag. Try not to let too many strays wander off, if you can manage it."

The words hit Simon like a physical blow, a sucker punch straight to the gut. For a moment, he could only stare at Kepler in shock, his mind reeling as he tried to process the sheer, blatant disrespect of the assignment.

Drag rider. Tail end Charlie. The dust eater. It was the lowest position on a cattle drive, reserved for the greenest of the green and those who had earned the trail boss's disfavor. To be relegated to drag was more than just an insult - it was a debasement, a public shaming in front of his peers.

Around him, Simon could hear the muted snickers and whispers of the other men. They knew what this meant - that Simon Teller, once a respected segundo and top hand, had fallen from grace in Kepler's eyes.

But Simon refused to let his shock and anger show on his face. He simply nodded, his jaw tight, touching the brim of his hat in a mockery of respect.

"Whatever you say, boss," he said evenly, his tone carefully neutral. "I'll do my best to keep the herd together."

As the meeting broke up and the men began to disperse to their assigned tasks, Kepler's voice cracks out once more, stopping Simon in his tracks.

"And I'm not babysitting any drunks out there, Teller," he sneers, his eyes boring into Simon with thinly veiled contempt. "You get left behind, I'll take it out of your hide when we get to Chicago."

Simon bristles at the threat, his fists clenching involuntarily at his sides. It was one thing to be demoted, to be relegated to the lowliest position on the drive. But to be called out in front of the entire outfit, to have his past thrown in his face like a slap...it was almost more than he could bear.

But before he could muster a response, Kepler had already turned his attention elsewhere. His gaze locked onto Mark, and the wolfish gleam in his eyes sends a chill down Simon's spine.

"Midland!" Kepler barks, stalking forward until he was in front of the young cowboy. "You're riding with me, up at the front. I like to keep a close eye on my...special cases."

Mark visibly flinches at the announcement, his face draining of what little color remained. He looked like a man facing the gallows, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he fought to maintain his composure.

Simon feels a surge of protectiveness well up inside him, mingling with the anger and humiliation already simmering in his gut. He didn't know what history lay between Mark and Kepler, but he'd be damned if he'd stand by and watch the kid be tormented by the sadistic bastard.

Without hesitation, Simon urged Mariposa forward, putting himself between Mark and Kepler's malevolent gaze. He met the trail boss's eyes steadily, his own narrowed in challenge.

"Boss," he starts, his voice low and even, belying the tension coiled in every muscle of his body. "The kid's green as they come. Ain't no sense putting him up front where he's liable to make a mistake that could cost us. Why don't you let me take him back on drag, show him the ropes where it's a little less high-stakes?"

Kepler's eyes flash with barely suppressed fury, his jaw clenching so hard Simon could practically hear the man's teeth grinding. For a long, tense moment, the two men stare each other down, the air between them crackling with hostility.

"You questioning my judgment, Teller?" Kepler asks softly, his tone deceptively mild. But there's no mistaking the threat underlying his words, the dangerous glint in his eyes as he takes a step closer to Simon.

Simon forces himself to take a slow, even breath, fighting the urge to back away from the trail boss's looming presence. He knows he's treading on dangerous ground, that challenging Kepler so openly could easily earn him a one-way ticket off the drive - or worse. But he can't - won't - back down. Not when every instinct in his body is screaming at him to get Mark away from whatever twisted game Kepler is playing.

"No, sir," Simon says carefully, keeping his voice steady and respectful even as his heart pounds against his ribs. "Just trying to do what's best for the herd, and for the men. Putting a greenhorn up front, well...it could be asking for trouble."

Kepler's lip curls in a sneer, his eyes narrowing as he regards Simon with open disdain.

"We're all riding double with a tenderfoot, Teller," he snaps, his tone making it clear that he considers the conversation over. "And I want Midland up front with me."

But Simon presses on, unwilling to let the matter drop.

"Sure. Sure," he says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Just don't make sense to have him with a trail boss or a ramrod his first ride. You want him with Martinez or Nichols, that makes sense. Hell - you want him to learn horse care with Hilbert, that makes sense. But putting a raw hand in front? You're asking for trouble."

He takes a breath, steeling himself for his next words. "Look, Abner Watt is coming along this time, and I rode with him to St. Louis last year, so at least he's been out there before, and he's got a good head on his shoulders."

Kepler's face darkens, his eyes flashing with barely contained fury.

"Why do you give a solitary fuck who I double with, Teller?" he snarls, his voice low and dangerous.

Simon meets his gaze unflinchingly, even as a chill runs down his spine.

"I don't - sir," he says evenly. "But if we don't make Chicago in time for that bonus, I also ain't gotta answer to a pack of shitheel cowhands about why the boss is riding with a boy who's stones ain't dropped yet."

For a moment, the two men stare each other down, the tension between them palpable, ozone on the prairie portending lightening on dry grass. Simon can feel the weight of every eye in the outfit on them, can practically hear the collective held breath as they wait to see how this power struggle will play out.

Finally, Kepler's jaw clenches, his eyes glittering with barely suppressed rage.

"Fine," he growls, the word sounding like it's been wrenched from his throat. "But you best keep him in line, Teller. Any trouble he causes is on your head."

With that, Kepler stalks away, leaving Simon and Mark standing in a bubble of uneasy silence amid the milling cowboys. Simon lets out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging with relief even as his mind races with questions.

He doesn't fully understand why he's stuck his neck out for Mark, why he's risking Kepler's wrath to keep the kid out of the trail boss's clutches. It's not just the faint flutter of attraction he feels for the young cowboy, though he can't deny that plays a part.

No, it's something deeper, some instinctive need to shield Mark from harm, to keep him safe from whatever darkness lurks in Kepler. Simon may not know the details of their history, but he knows a predator when he sees one. And he'll be damned if he lets Mark become Kepler's latest victim.

"Thank you," Mark whispers, his voice raw with gratitude. His blue eyes shining with unshed tears as he looks up at Simon, his expression a mix of relief and vulnerability. "I...I don't know what I would've done if..."

"Don't mention it," Simon cuts him off gruffly, feeling a pang in his chest at the naked emotion on the young man's face. He wasn't used to being looked at like that, like he was some kind of savior or hero. It made him uncomfortable, even as a small, traitorous part of him reveled in the kid's obvious admiration.

Clearing his throat, Simon forces himself to look away, to focus on the task at hand.

"We're in this together now," he said, his voice rough with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "So I'm gonna need you to ride fast and listen when I tell you to do things. Can't have you second guessing me, slowing us down or causing trouble."

He reaches over to clap Mark on the shoulder, feeling the tension thrumming through the younger man's frame even through the layers of cloth and leather. The kid was wound tighter than a clock spring, his muscles taut with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. His horse, picking up on its rider's unease, shifted restlessly beneath him, tossing its head and dancing a few steps sideways.

Mark clutches at the pommel, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. For a moment, Simon worries that the kid might actually fall out of the saddle. But Mark takes a deep breath and settles himself, his jaw clenching with determination as he brings his mount back under control.

Simon can't help but feel a flicker of approval at the display of grit. He knows that feeling all too well - the heady rush of fear and excitement that came with the start of a new drive, the knowledge that anything could happen out there on the open range.

"Come on," he said, jerking his head towards the waiting herd. "We've got a long ride ahead of us, and daylight's wasting."

With a gentle nudge of his heels, Simon urges Mariposa forward, the mare responding with her usual smooth gait. Beside him, Mark follows suit, though his movements are stiffer, a bit less certain. He sits his horse like a man who's spent more time on his own two feet than in the saddle, his balance not quite right and his hands a little too tight on the reins.

But there's a determined set to the kid's jaw, a fire in his eyes that tells Simon he's not about to let his inexperience hold him back. Mark is watching him closely now, studying the easy way Simon moves with his horse, the subtle cues and shifts of weight that keep man and beast working in harmony.

And as they ride towards the milling herd, the dust rising in clouds around them and the sun beating down on their backs, Simon can almost feel the kid's focus, his hunger to learn and prove himself.

It's a feeling he recognizes all too well - that burning need to show the world, and yourself, that you've got what it takes to survive in this harsh, unforgiving land. To be relegated to the back of the pack, to the lowliest position on the drive...it stung more than he cared to admit, but Simon was going to grit his teeth and bear it, just as he'd borne every other hardship and indignity the trail had thrown at him. He knows how to swallow his pride, to put his head down and do the job that needed doing. And if that meant eating dust and wrangling strays while the greenhorns up front got all the glory, well...so be it.

At least he had Mark to keep him company, to share in the tedium and the frustration of life at the tail end of the herd. The kid might be green and soft, but there was something about him - a spark of courage, a glimmer of potential - that made Simon think he just might have what it took to make it as a real cowboy.

And if Simon found himself watching the kid a little more closely than he normally would have, if his gaze lingered a little too long on the way the sun glinted off those dark curls or the way those lean muscles moved beneath sweat-damp cloth...well, that was nobody's business but his own.

For now, all that mattered was the herd, the trail, and the long, hard road ahead. Everything else - the strange fluttering in his chest when Mark met his eyes, the way his skin tingled where their hands had brushed - would just have to wait.

The cattle were moving, a sea of brown and white and black stretching out before them like an endless, dusty river. Simon urged Mariposa forward, feeling the familiar rush of exhilaration as the herd began to pick up speed.

And as they fell in behind the line of cattle, the sound of hooves and lowing filling the air around them, Simon couldn't help but feel a flicker of something that might have been hope. Hope that this drive might just be different, that the long miles ahead might hold something more than just sweat and struggle and endless, back-breaking work.

Hope that, just maybe, he'd found something worth holding onto, out here in the wild and untamed vastness of the frontier.

Only time would tell if that hope was nothing more than a fool's dream, a wisp of smoke on the wind. But for now, with Mark riding beside him and the open range stretching out before them, Simon was content to let himself believe - just for a moment - that anything was possible.

Even for a battered old cowboy with a past full of ghosts and a heart that had forgotten how to trust.

Chapter Text

The sun is relentless and Simon keeps his hat low over his eyes as the herd rides out. The plains and the sun and the dust always seem harder the first day or two out of town, it always takes him that long to readjust. Still though, Simon loves it. Loves the vast expanse of the unbroken blue sky, the snow covered Rockies at his back, the sun bleached ocean of grass stretching out in front of him, pale gold and shimmering in the breeze, broken only by the occasional gnarled and twisted juniper tree stubbornly clinging to life in the unforgiving soil.

Simon and Mark ride in uncomfortable silence, the only sounds the creaking of leather and the low, mournful lowing of the cattle. Neither knows what to say, not that there is much to say to one another anyway. The confrontation between Simon and Kepler back in town hangs heavy in the air between them, an unspoken tension that neither man seems particularly eager to acknowledge.

Through the morning, heading into afternoon, Simon finds himself trying to gauge the young man's mood. He could sense Mark's unease, can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off him in waves, but Simon doesn't even begin to know how to broach the subject, doesn't know what to say to ease the awkwardness that has settled over them like a suffocating blanket.

So instead, he focuses on the job at hand, keen grey eyes scanning the herd for any signs of trouble. Occasionally, he spots a stray calf wandering too far from the rest, and points it out to Mark with a clipped command.

"Fetch that stray there, kid," he'd say, his voice gruff and businesslike. Or, "Get up and push 'em on."

And Mark would comply without a word, wheeling his horse and spurring off to follow Simon's brusque instructions. But even as he works, Simon can tell the kid's mind is elsewhere, his movements mechanical and distracted.

Mark rides with the tentative awkwardness of the greenest of greenhorns, clinging white-knuckled to the saddle horn as if afraid of toppling off at the slightest jostle. His unease is palpable in the rigidity of his lanky frame, the hunching of his shoulders against the pummeling sun and grit.

In sharp contrast, Simon sits his horse with the easy confidence of long experience, his posture relaxed, yet alert in the saddle, movements fluid and economical. He keeps a keen eye on the herd even as he divides his attention between watching Mark's fumbling attempts to keep the strays in line and casting glances at the kid whenever he thought Mark wouldn't notice.

Despite the grime and dust coating his brand new clothes and the sheen of sweat glistening on his sun-bronzed skin, Mark cuts a striking figure on horseback. Against all his better judgment, Simon finds his gaze repeatedly drawn to the young man's dark curls and piercing blue eyes, to the flex of lean muscles discernible beneath the plaid flannel shirt as Mark wrestles with his fractious mount.

Irritated at his inability to keep his mind on the job, Simon wrenches his eyes forward, fixing them resolutely on the undulating ocean of longhorn backs. Losing himself in foolish thoughts about his enticing, enigmatic new trail partner was a luxury he couldn't afford out here, not with a thousand miles still to go and Kepler's menacing presence hovering over them like a dark cloud.

But no matter how hard he tries to focus on the monotony of the trail, Simon just can't shake his awareness of Mark riding beside him, can't tamp down the flicker of curiosity and fascination the young cowboy sparks in him. What secrets was Mark hiding? What connection did he share with Kepler, and why had the trail boss been so intent on keeping him close at hand?

Questions without answers, at least for now. With a sigh, Simon tugs his hat lower against the implacable glare and resettles himself astride Mariposa, resigning himself to long, hot days of eating dust, pushing cattle, and trying not to dwell on tantalizing distractions. A man could get lost out here chasing mirages, and Simon suspected pursuing the riddle that was Mark Midland might lead him dangerously astray if he wasn't careful.

Simon can feel Mark's frustration simmering in the air between them, can practically taste the kid's desperate need to prove himself. It was a feeling he knew intimately - that burning desire to be seen as a man, to be taken seriously by the older, more experienced hands.

He'd been there himself, once upon a time. Young and green, but already haunted by the ghosts of the war, the memories of blood and death and screams in the night. He'd come to the trail seeking a new start, a chance to put the horrors of the battlefield behind him and forge a new identity for himself.

But even with the scars of battle still fresh on his soul, Simon had found himself fighting an uphill battle to earn the respect of the seasoned drovers. They looked at him and saw only an injured boy clinging to his soldier history and playing at being a cowboy, a kid with more demons than sense.

And so Simon had pushed himself harder than anyone, had taken on every challenge and every risk, just to prove that he was more than the sum of his past. He'd ridden longer hours, broken the toughest horses and accepted he most dangerous jobs, all in a desperate bid to show the world that he was a man to be reckoned with.

It'd been a hard road, a path paved with blood and sweat and tears, but Simon had persevered, had carved out a place for himself .

Looking at Mark now, he could see that same fire in the kid's eyes, that same stubborn set to his jaw. It was both endearing and infuriating, a reminder of just how far Simon had come.

Only the wind, the creak of saddle leather and the jingle of spurs fill the silence between them, underscored by the distant lowing of the herd. Sweat trickles down Simon's back beneath his dust-caked shirt, and he can feel the grit of sand between his teeth. Just as he is resigning himself to another long stretch of wordless riding, Mark speaks up abruptly.

"I ain't that young," the kid says, his voice slightly mulish and edged with irritation.

Simon blinks, startled out of his brooding thoughts. "What?" he asks, turning to look at Mark with a puzzled frown.

"I said I'm not that young," Mark repeats more fervently, his blue eyes flashing as he meets Simon's gaze. "Back at the ranch, you kept calling me 'kid', and I'm not. I'm twenty-two."

A smile tugs at the corner of Simon's mouth despite himself. The greenhorn has sand, he'd give him that. "You been stewing on that this whole time?" he asks, amusement coloring his tone.

Mark shifts in his saddle, his jaw clenching stubbornly. "Yeah, maybe," he admits, his voice tight. "I don't like people thinking I'm soft just cause of my age or...-"

He trails off, his gaze skittering away from Simon's as if he's suddenly thought better of what he was about to say.

"Or?" Simon prompts, one eyebrow arching in curiosity.

Mark shakes his head, his dark curls bouncing with the motion.

"Nothing. Nevermind," he says quickly, his tone curt. He straightens in his saddle, squaring his shoulders as if bracing for a fight. "But I ain't that young and I ain't no pushover. So I'd like you to keep that in mind going forward."

Simon studies him for a long moment, taking in the determined set of the kid's jaw and the defensive hunch of his shoulders. There is something else there, Simon can tell - some secret Mark is holding close to his chest, some part of himself he isn't ready to reveal. But Simon knows better than to push. Out here on the trail, a man's secrets are his own, and prying too deep too fast is a surefire way to lose trust and respect.

So instead, he just nods, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Sure, sure," he drawls, his tone deliberately casual. "Twenty-two ain't really all that young, but seems I still got a decade and a war on you then, kid."

The last word is said with a teasing lilt, a deliberate provocation that Simon can't quite resist. He knows it will rile Mark up, knows it will needle at that prickly pride the kid wears like a suit of armor. But there is something about the way Mark's eyes flash when he is annoyed, the way his cheeks flush and his lips thin into a stubborn line, that Simon finds strangely endearing.

Mark's jaw clenches, his gloved hands tightening on the reins.

"I am not a child," he bites out, his voice tight with barely contained frustration. "I've been on my own for years now, making my way in the world. I don't need you or anyone else treating me like some helpless babe in the woods."

Simon holds up his hands in a placating gesture, fighting back a grin. "Easy there, tiger," he says, his tone more amused than annoyed. "I didn't mean nothing by it. Just a figure of speech, is all."

Mark's nostrils flare, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Well, it's a figure of speech I could do without," he snaps, his tone sharp as a whip crack. "I've got my place here, same as any man. And I'll thank you to remember that, old timer."

"Alright, alright," Simon agrees, his voice gruff and a little too loud. "You've made your point, Midland. No more 'kid' talk, I promise."

But even as the words leave his mouth, Simon can't help but feel a flicker of something else - a twinge of guilt, maybe, or a hint of unease. Because the truth is, he hasn't been thinking of Mark as a child, not really. Not in any of the ways that matter.

Oh, sure, he was pillow soft and fresh as a daisy when it came to the trail, and he had a lot to learn about the harsh realities of life on the frontier. But there is no denying the man he is becoming - the strength in his wiry frame, the determination in his eyes, the rough-hewn beauty of his features.

It was a realization that leaves Simon feeling off-balance, like he'd suddenly stepped into quicksand and was sinking fast. He's always prided himself on his self-control, on his ability to keep his desires and his duties separate. But something about Mark makes all those carefully constructed walls come tumbling down, leaving him raw and exposed in a way he hadn't felt in years.

And that is dangerous, more dangerous than any stampede or rattlesnake or outlaw on the trail. Because if he lets himself get too close, if he lets himself feel too much... well, there was no telling what kind of trouble that might lead to.

So Simon does what he always does when things get too complicated, too messy. He pushes it down, buries it deep and locks it away where it can't hurt him.

Mark eyes him warily, as if trying to gauge his sincerity. But after a moment, he nods, some of the tension draining from his shoulders.

"Thank you," he says quietly, and there is a wealth of meaning in those two simple words - gratitude and relief and something else, something Simon can't quite put a name to.

They ride on in silence for a while after that, each lost in their own thoughts. But the air between them feels different somehow, charged with a new kind of energy that makes Simon's skin prickle and his heart beat just a little bit faster. With a nod his head so slight you'd miss it if you weren't looking, Simon silently acknowledges the truce they'd just struck. It is a small thing, but out here on the trail, where trust was hard-won and easily lost, it feels like a victory nonetheless.

Simon can feel Mark's gaze on him, can sense the kid's curiosity and hesitation as he struggled to find a way to bridge the gap between them. It's clear that he wants to know more about Simon, but it was equally clear that he wasn't quite sure how to go about it, how to make conversation with someone who seemed to hold himself apart from the rest of the world.

Finally, after several long minutes of awkward silence, Mark clears his throat.

"So, uh...you been riding the trails a long time?" he asked, his tone carefully casual.

Simon glances over at him, one eyebrow raised. "Long enough," he replies, his voice rough but not unkind. "Seen my share of drives. More than I care to count, sometimes."

Mark nods, his eyes never leaving Simon's face. "Must've been hard, starting out," he says quietly. "Learning the ropes, earning your place."

There is a note of understanding in his voice, a hint of empathy that catches Simon off guard. As as if the kid can see right through him, sensing the scars and the struggles that lay beneath the surface.

"It was," Simon admits, surprising himself with his own honesty. "Wasn't easy, being the new tenderfoot. Especially with...well, with everything else I was carrying."

He doesn't elaborate, doesn't mention the war or the nightmares that still haunt him, but something in Mark's expression tells him he doesn't need to, that the kid understands more than he was letting on.

"You fought, didn't you?" Mark asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "In the war, I mean."

Simon feels his shoulders hunch, expecting a blow to land, his hands tightening on the reins. It is a question he's been asked a hundred times before, by curious cowhands and nosy townsfolk alike, and every time, he'd brushed it off with a gruff non-answer or a warning look.

But something about the way Mark asks now, the gentleness and the knowing in his eyes...it makes Simon want to open up, to share a piece of himself he's kept hidden for so long.

Simon grunts, the sound rough and raw in his throat. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tries to force down the sudden lump that has risen up to choke him. When he speaks, his voice is thick and halting, the words seeming to catch and snag on some inner tangle of barbed wire.

"I was seventeen," he manages, the syllables ground out through clenched teeth. "I wasn't old enough officially, but the war already needed more fodder, and I don't think they looked all too hard when I said I was of age."

He pauses, his gaze turning distant and haunted as unbidden memories rise up from the depths - cannon fire and screams, the taste of blood and black powder thick on his tongue.

Simon can feel the weight of those memories pressing down on him, the ghosts of his past clamoring for attention in the suddenly too-small space of his own mind. He tries to push them back, to focus on the present, on the steady rhythm of Mariposa's hooves and Mark's presence beside him.

But it's a losing battle, and he knows it. The war had taken something from him, something vital and irreplaceable, and no amount of time or distance could ever fully heal that wound.

Before, he'd just been a simple farmer's boy; happy, innocent, unburdened by the horrors of the world. He'd never even held a gun, never imagined himself capable of taking another life. But Shiloh had changed all that. That blood-soaked field had stolen everything from him.

"They just put me in a blue uniform," he continues, his voice little more than a rasp now, "taught me how to fire a cannon, and sent me and a regiment full of scared boys down to Tennessee to go shoot at a bunch of different scared boys."

The last words come out in a rush, as if Simon is desperate to expel them before they can fester any longer in his throat. He takes a shuddering breath, blinking hard against the sting of tears that threaten to blur his vision. They stir up all the ghosts Simon usually tries so hard to keep buried - memories of smoke and chaos, of watching friends fall in a hail of lead and shrapnel. And Elijah, always Elijah, with his crooked grin and laughing eyes, the one bright spot in all that darkness.

He can feel the old, familiar hurt rising up in his chest, the hollow place where his losses still throbbed like festering wounds. It is an ache he's tried to drown in solitude and whiskey for a decade now, in long days on the trail and longer nights in saloons.

But it never really went away, not completely. And out here, with nothing but the vast, empty sky and the endless miles ahead, it was harder to keep the memories at bay. Harder to pretend that he hadn't left the best part of himself on that battlefield, buried beneath the blood-soaked earth.

Beside him, Mark is watching with a mixture of concern and understanding, his earlier irritation forgotten in the face of Simon's obvious distress. He doesn't speak, doesn't offer any empty platitudes or hollow comfort. He just sits, a steady presence at Simon's side, and waits for the older man to gather himself.

"I had a brother who fought," he says finally, his voice softer than before. "For the Union, like you. He didn't... he never came home."

Simon glances over at him, surprised by the unexpected offering. There was old pain in Mark's eyes, a grief that still lingered beneath the surface.

"I'm sorry," he gives over, meaning it. "The war... it took a lot of good men. On both sides."

Mark's gaze hardens, a flicker of anger sparking in those blue depths.

"Both sides?" he bites out, his tone sharp and brittle. "Only one side started it, and they got what was coming to them."

Simon sighs, feeling the weight of his own memories pressing down on him like a physical thing. He understands Mark's bitterness, the need to make sense of the senseless violence, to find some kind of moral clarity in the muddy waters of war, the need to lash out at someone, anyone, for the loss of a loved one. But he'd seen too much, lived through too much, to believe that anything in this world was ever that simple.

"It's easy to say that, looking back," he says quietly, his gaze fixed on some distant point on the horizon. "Easy to paint one side as the villains and the other as the heroes. But when you're out there on the battlefield, knee-deep in mud and blood and shit, killing boys no older and no smarter than you, watching your friends die all around you... it's not so clear-cut anymore."

He pauses, his throat tightening as he remembers those long, hellish days of fighting, the screams of the wounded and the stench of death hanging heavy in the air. Even now, years later, the memories are still raw, still painful in a way that goes beyond mere physical hurt.

"You fought though," Mark says, his voice gentle, almost hesitant. It's not quite a question, but there's a note of something like confusion in his tone, as if he can't quite reconcile Simon's words with the man he sees before him.

Simon nods, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I fought because I thought it was the right thing to do," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Because I was young and stupid and full of hope. I believed in the cause, believed that we were fighting for something bigger and better than ourselves. And maybe we were. Maybe it was worth it, in the end."

But even as he says it, Simon knows it rings hollow. Because how can anything be worth the cost of so many lives? How can any cause, no matter how noble, justify the horror and the carnage and the sheer, unrelenting waste of it all?

He shakes his head, feeling the familiar ache of loss and regret settle into his bones. It's a pain he's learned to live with, a constant companion that he carries with him always. But it's not anger, not really. Not anymore.

"I don't know," he says honestly, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't know if anything could ever be worth that kind of sacrifice. That kind of suffering. All I know is that we did what we thought was right, what we believed in. And we paid the price for it. So did they, I guess."

Shaking his head, Simon lets his sorrow leak into his smile. "But I'll tell you this, kid - ain't no glory in war. No honor or nobility or any of that bullshit they try to sell you. It's just a brutal, bloody mess that leaves nothing but broken men in its wake."

Mark stays silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nods, some of the anger draining from his posture. "I'm sorry," he says softly, his voice thick with emotion.

"Nothing to be done for it now."

They fall back into silence, each lost in their own dark thoughts, neither having any idea what to say to the other now. But there is a new understanding between them, a sense of shared grief and shared experience that goes beyond mere words.

Simon finds himself again studying Mark out of the corner of his eye, taking in the tense set of his shoulders and the faraway look in his eyes. He wonders what other secrets the kid is carrying, what other wounds he is nursing beneath that brash exterior.

But he knows better than to pry, knew that some things were better left buried deep. He shared some of his past willfully, if not gladly, and he won't dig into Mark if he wasn't looking to share in return. Out here on the trail, a man's past was his own business, and Simon respects that.

Desperate to find some safer ground, Simon gestures towards a stray calf breaking away from the herd up ahead. "Hey kid, go head off that runaway before it wanders too far, will you?"

Mark shoots him a look, clearly aware of what Simon is doing and trying to decide if he wants to argue the kid any further. But after a beat, he seems to accept the out, wheeling his mount to give chase to the errant calf.

As Simon watches him ride off, he can't help but admire the way Mark moves in the saddle. Sure, there is still a bit of that greenhorn hesitancy, a slight hitch in his rhythm that speaks to his inexperience and unfamiliarity, but beneath that, there is a glimmer of raw potential, an innate grace and balance that hints at a deeper connection between man and beast.

With each passing mile, Mark seems to be finding his stride, settling into the rocking gait of his mount with growing confidence. His long legs hug the horse's flanks with increasing surety, his hips rolling fluidly as he sways in time with the animal's movements.

When Mark deftly cuts off a stray calf and turns it back towards the herd with a whooping cry of triumph, Simon can't fully suppress the flutter of heat that twists through his gut. The kid's a natural, that much is clear. With a little more training and trail dust under his belt, he has the makings of a damn fine cowhand.

Watching the flex of Mark's thighs against denim, the shift of muscle beneath sweat-dampened cloth, Simon finds his thoughts drifting away form a mentor's pride and into decidedly dangerous territory. He imagines how it might feel to have those strong legs wrapped around him, to run his hands over the lean planes of Mark's body and feel the heat of his skin beneath his palms. And if Simon's gaze lingers a bit too long on the graceful line of Mark's back, the enticing curve of his ass in the saddle...well. That's a private indulgence he'll keep to himself, a secret heat to be savored in the quiet moments between dusk and dawn.

In his mind's eye, he could almost picture it - tangled limbs and gasping breaths, the slide of sweat-slicked skin as they moved together. The image sends a bolt of desire racing down his spine, his cock twitching with interest in the confines of his dusty jeans.

Growling under his breath, Simon tears his gaze away, fixing his eyes resolutely on the horizon. This was neither the time nor the place for vulgar thoughts, and he curses himself for his weakness, for allowing the temptation to cloud his judgment.

Still, even as he tries to force his wayward libido back under control, Simon can't quite shake a sense of inevitability that hangs heavy in the air between them. There is a spark of something there, a crackling undercurrent of attraction. Sooner or later, he knew, it was bound to ignite - and god help them both when it did.

If the moment ever is right... well. Then maybe he'll show the kid what it really meant to ride.

The thought sends another pulse of heat racing through Simon's veins, his breath quickening imperceptibly as he watched Mark wheel his horse and start back towards him, the errant calf now firmly back in the fold. His face is flushed with exertion and triumph, eyes bright and alive in a way that makes Simon's heart clench painfully in his chest.

Goddamn, but he was in trouble.

Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to take this chance, to reach out and grab hold of this fragile, fleeting thing between them before it slipped through his fingers like so much dust on the wind. The very idea is too reckless to contemplate, for now, Simon needs to content himself with stolen glances and furtive imaginings, desire tempered by the hard-earned wisdom of a man who'd seen too much of life's cruelties to trust in the fleeting promise of passion.

Out here on the trail, distractions could get a man killed, and he'll be damned if he lets a pretty face and a tight ass be the end of him.

Shaking his head, Simon tries to clear the sudden fog of lust that had descended over him.

The sun is touching the wide edge of the horizon now, painting the vast expanse of the plains in shades of gold and amber, and the two let the hush of creaking leather and the low, mournful mooing of the cattle lull them back into an easy silence.

Simon lets himself slip into the familiar rhythm of the trail, his body swaying in time with Mariposa's steady gait. Out here, with nothing but the endless sky and the dusty herd for company, it's easy to let his mind drift, to get lost in the monotony of the work letting the familiarity of the open range supplant anything else that might crowd his thinking.

But just as he's starting to relax, a figure emerges from the shimmering heat haze, riding towards them at a brisk trot. As the rider draws closer, Simon recognizes the wiry frame and dour expression of Alexander Hilbert, the outfit's resident wrangler and makeshift medic.

Simon tenses, his calm evaporating like mist under the harsh glare of the sun. Hilbert's presence never bodes well, and Simon has a sinking feeling that whatever news the dour Russian brought, it isn't going to be good.

Hilbert reins in his mount alongside Simon, his heavy brows drawn together in a perpetual scowl.

"Boss says making camp soon," he starts without preamble, his thick Russian accent making the words sound harsher than they were. "Wants herd settled before sundown."

Simon simply nods, unsurprised. It had been a long day's ride, and the cattle were starting to flag. On a good day, a single rider on a strong horse might cover thirty miles or more, eating up the distance with tireless strides, but with a herd this size, progress was slower.

Fifteen miles was a more realistic expectation, especially on rough terrain or in foul weather. The cattle needed time to graze and rest, to drink their fill from whatever watering holes or streams they passed. Pushing them too hard risked leaving the weaker animals behind, or worse, inciting a stampede that could scatter the cattle to the four winds.

It was a delicate balance, one that required constant vigilance and a keen understanding of the rhythms of the drive. The trail boss had to weigh the need for speed against the limitations of the herd, the drovers, and the horses that carried them. A miscalculation could spell disaster, leading to lost profits, injured animals, and dead cowboys.

Much as Simon hated to admit it, Kepler was damn good at walking that line. The man might be a bastard and a bully, with a sadistic streak a mile wide, but he knows how to run a drive. He has a keen eye for trouble, an uncanny ability to sense when the herd was on the verge of bolting or when the men were reaching their breaking point.

In the years Simon had been riding the trail, he's seen his share of bad bosses - men who pushed too hard, who cared more about the bottom line than the lives in their charge. He's seen the aftermath of their mistakes, the broken bodies of men and beasts left to rot in the unforgiving sun.

For all his many faults, Kepler wasn't one of those men. Oh, he'd work a cowboy to the bone, drive him to the very limits of his endurance and beyond, but he'd at least do it with a purpose, with a calculated efficiency that wrung every last ounce of effort from man and beast alike and not a drop more.

Today, Simon reckons they've made about twelve miles, maybe thirteen at a stretch. Not a bad showing, considering the greenhorns in their midst and the rolling hills they'd had to navigate. The cattle are tired but docile, their lowing more subdued as the shadows lengthen and the air begins to cool.

"We'll start pushing them towards the river, then," Simon responds, already scanning the horizon for the telltale glint of water.

Hilbert's gaze flickers to Mariposa, and a frown tugs at his lips.

"You need new horse," he grunts, his tone blunt and uncompromising.

Simon bristles, his hand unconsciously tightening on the reins. "Mariposa is good," he retorts, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.

"Is not," Hilbert counters, shaking his head. "You should change mount at least twice today. You did not. Not good for horse."

Simon feels a spark of anger flare in his chest, his jaw clenching tight. He knows Hilbert is right, knew that he's pushed Mariposa too hard, but the thought of leaving her in the Russian's care, even for a short while, makes his skin crawl.

"She's fine," he bites out, his tone sharp and unyielding. "I know my own horse, Hilbert. I don't need you telling me how to handle her."

Hilbert's eyes narrow, a glint of something hard in their dark depths.

"Is not about you," he says, his voice low and intense. "Is about horse. You think you know better, but you do not. I am wrangler, is my job to look after remuda. And I am telling you, your horse needs rest."

Simon could feel his temper rising, his blood heating with each word from the Russian's mouth. It was an old argument, one they'd had countless times before, and it never fails to set his teeth on edge. "And I'm telling you, she's fine," he growls, his voice rough with barely suppressed anger. "I've been riding longer than you've been alive, Hilbert. I think I know a thing or two about taking care of my own goddamned horse."

Beside him, Mark shifts uneasily in his saddle, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden tension crackling between the two men, but Simon barely notices, his attention focused solely on the infuriating figure of the Russian.

Hilbert's gaze flickers to Mark, who had quietly rejoined Simon after corralling the stray calf. A hint of approval crosses the Russian's dark eyes as he takes in Mark's dust-streaked face and the fresh mount he was riding.

"New boy changed horse," Hilbert notes, his tone deceptively casual. He cuts a sidelong glance at Simon, one heavy brow arched in challenge. "Are you saying new hand smarter than you, Teller?"

Simon bristles, his jaw clenching tight. It's a low blow, a deliberate jab at his pride and experience. He knows Hilbert is just trying to get a rise out of him, to needle him into doing what the wrangler wants. But damned if he's going to let the smug bastard get the satisfaction of seeing him riled.

"I'm saying the kid's learning fast," Simon grits out, his tone clipped and even. He meets Hilbert's gaze head-on, his own eyes narrowing in challenge. "But when it comes to Mariposa, I know what I'm doing. I've been riding her for years, and I know her limits better than anyone. So why don't you stick to managing the remuda, and let me worry about my own mount?"

Hilbert's mouth twists into a sneer, a glint of something hard and unyielding in his dark eyes.

"Because, Teller," he says, each word precise and sharp as a knife blade, "when horse go lame, is not just your problem. Is problem for whole outfit. And I am one who has to fix." He leans forward in his saddle, his voice dropping to a low, intense growl. "So when I tell you horse needs rest, you listen. Or you deal with Kepler when drive is delayed because of your stubbornness."

It's a threat, plain and simple, and one that sets Simon's teeth on edge. He knows Hilbert is right, knows that he's putting not just Mariposa, but the whole drive at risk with his bullheaded refusal to switch mounts. But the thought of admitting defeat, of bowing to Hilbert's demands...it galls him in a way he can't quite explain.

"You want a piece of good advice Hilbert...-?

"Good advice, ha!" Cutting him off with a condescending laugh, Hilbert  manages to sound both amused and disdainful in equal measure. "As if you would know good advice if it bit you in the ass."

"I think I know a thing or two about what makes a good horse and a good rider." Simon retorts, his tone sharp and challenging.

Hilbert's face hardens, heavy brows drawing together in a scowl.

"You are stubborn fool," he spits, his accent thickening with his own rising temper. "You think you know everything, but you do not. You push horse too hard, and one day, horse will break. And then where will you be?" He urges his mount closer to Simon, his voice dropping to a low, menacing rumble. "In old country, we have saying: Ne uchi shchuku plavat; Do not teach pike to swim. Means do not tell expert how to do job. And I am telling you- you need new horse."

The words hit Simon like a punch to the gut, a cold, hard truth he didn't want to face. Because deep down, he knew Hilbert was right. He had been pushing Mariposa too hard, relying on her strength and endurance to carry him through the long, grueling days on the trail.

But the thought of leaving her, even for a short while, made something in his chest clench and twist. Mariposa was more than just a horse to him. She was a companion, a friend, the one constant in a life that had been marked by loss and upheaval.

"I'll take care of her," he says finally, his voice rough and low. "I always do."

Hilbert snorted, a sound of pure disgust. "You are blind," he muttered, shaking his head. "Blind and stupid. But fine, is your horse, your choice. But do not come crying to me when she collapses under you."

Simon's temper frays further with each passing second, his patience worn thin by Hilbert's holier-than-thou attitude. It was one thing for the Russian to question his judgment when it came to Mariposa, but the man's condescending tone was really starting to grate on his nerves.

Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Simon fixed Hilbert with a steely glare. "Listen, you pompous son of a bitch," Simon growls, his voice low and dangerous. "I've been riding the trail since before you set foot on American soil. I don't need some self-righteous, beet eating, jackass telling me how to handle my own goddamned horse."

Hilbert's eyes flash with anger, his lips twisting into a sneer.

"And I do not need some maudlin, washed-up, whiskey-soaked cowpoke telling me how to do my job," he retorts.

Simon's vision goes red, his hands balling into fists. It takes every ounce of self-control he possessed not to launch himself out of the saddle and pound the smug bastard's face into the dirt.

"You don't know a damn thing about me" he snarls, his voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. "And you sure as hell don't know anything about Mariposa. So why don't you just ride on back to your precious remuda and leave the real work to the men who actually know what the fuck they're doing?"

For a moment, the two men glare at each other, the air between them crackling with tension. Simon could feel Mark's eyes on him, could sense the kid's growing unease with the situation. But he was too far gone, too consumed by the white-hot fury coursing through his veins to care.

Hilbert, however, seems to have no such compunctions. With a final, disgusted snort, he fixes Simon with a penetrating stare, his dark eyes glinting with a smug disapproval.

"And Kepler said to remind you about the drinking," he added, his tone making it clear that he is relaying an order, not a suggestion. "Said if you can't stay sober, you'll be off drive faster than you can say whiskey."

The words hit Simon like a bucket of ice water, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had come. He feels the flush of shame and humiliation creep up the back of his neck, his stomach churning with a sickening mixture of resentment and self-loathing. It's bad enough that Kepler seemed to have it out for him, but to send Hilbert as his errand boy, to call him out in front of Mark... it is a deliberate mortification, a power play designed to put him in his place.

It's no secret that he had a problem with the bottle, that he relies on whiskey to dull the sharp edges of his memories and chase away the ghosts that haunt his dreams, but to have it thrown in his face like this, to be called out in front of Mark and the rest of the outfit, it's a blow to his pride, a reminder of just how far he had fallen. And coming from Hilbert, of all people - a man he despises on a good day - it's almost more than he can bear.

But Simon knew better than to show his hand, knew that any sign of weakness would only give Kepler more ammunition to use against him. So he simply nodded, his face a careful mask of indifference.

"I hear you," he said evenly, meeting Hilbert's gaze without flinching. "And you can tell the boss that I'll be ready to ride, come dawn. Same as always. Now, if you're done playing errand boy, I've got a herd to push."

Hilbert's lip curls into a sneer, his eyes glinting with a cruel sort of amusement. "You think you are so tough, Teller, so smart" he says, his voice dripping with disdain. "But we both know truth, don't we? Underneath all that bluster, you're just a weak-willed drunk, a pathetic excuse for a cowboy who cannot even care for own mount."

Before Simon can respond, Mark suddenly speaks up, his voice a little uncertain but filled with a fierce, instinctive protectiveness that takes Simon by surprise.

"Hey now," the kid says, frowning at Hilbert. "That ain't right, talking to a man like that. Simon's been nothing but kind since I met him, and he sure as hell don't deserve to be spoken to like some lowdown drunk."

Simon blinks, taken aback by the unexpected defense. He glances over at Mark, sees the earnest indignation in those clear blue eyes, and feels something twist painfully in his chest. He barely knows this kid, has no idea what he's done to earn such loyalty so quickly. But there's no denying the warmth that blooms beneath his ribcage at the sight of Mark standing up for him, even if it is a bit clumsy and naive.

Hilbert, however, looks less than impressed. He raises one bushy eyebrow, his gaze raking over Mark with a cool, assessing disdain.

"Stay out of matters that do not concern you, boy," he says flatly. "You are new, you know nothing of how things work here. When boss speaks, we listen. And when he says a man has problem, it is problem."

Mark flushes, his shoulders tensing with embarrassment and anger. But he doesn't back down, doesn't cower under the weight of Hilbert's disapproval.

"Maybe I am new," he says stubbornly, his chin lifting in defiance. "But I know the measure of a man when I see it."

There's a long, tense moment of silence, the three of them locked in a strange tableau of bristling egos and unspoken challenges. Simon can feel the weight of Mark's words settling over him like a mantle, can feel the kid's newly forged, already unwavering faith in him like a physical thing.

It's a heady feeling, and a humbling one. Because Simon knows he's not the man Mark thinks he is, knows he's got more flaws and vices than any one soul rightly should. But lord, does he want to be. Wants to live up to that pure, shining belief in him, even if he has no earthly idea how to go about it.

Finally, Hilbert just snorts, shaking his head in disgust, his lips thinning into a hard, uncompromising line. For a moment, Simon thinks he might press the issue, might take the opportunity to twist the knife a little deeper.

But in the end, the Russian simply shakes his head, a look of pure contempt etched into every line of his face.

"You are fool, Teller," he says softly "And one day, your stubbornness will be death of you." Hilbert's eyes train on Mark, lifeless and cold and flat "Or maybe death of someone else instead."

With a final, warning sneer, he wheeled his horse and rides off, leaving Simon and Mark alone once more.

It's only when Hilbert is well out of earshot that he turns to look at Mark, his brow furrowed with a mixture of gratitude and exasperation. "Kid, you can't just go around mouthing off to the likes of him," he says gruffly, shaking his head. "Man like that can make your life a living hell out here if he takes a mind to."

He's struggling. Simon knows he doesn't deserve whatever that foolhardy bravery of Mark's was, shouldn't be letting him develop any sort of attachment to him. It wouldn't be right. He's too old, too broken and supposed to be showing this greenhorn the ropes. 

"Simon..." Mark starts, his voice hesitant and unsure.

But Simon cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head, his eyes fixed resolutely on the horizon.

"Not now, kid," he growled, his tone brooking no argument. "We've got work to do."

Mark simply shrugs, a wry half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, seemingly content to let it go for the moment.

"Guess we better get to pushin', then," he said, nodding towards the herd. "Daylight's wastin', and I don't know about you, but I could use a hot meal and a bedroll."

Despite himself, despite the dregs of adrenaline still coursing hot and sick in his blood, Simon feels an answering smile threaten to break through his stony facade. Mark just seemed to have a way of cutting through the bullshit, of getting right to the heart of things. 

"Well, come on then," he said gruffly, spurring Mariposa forward. "Let's get these beeves to water before they drop dead of thirst."

Together, they circle up the rear of the herd, whooping and hollering to get the stragglers moving. The cattle low and bellow as they are urged along, their hooves kicking up clouds of dust that hung in the still, heavy air but they comply, shaggy bovine heads moving in the direction Mark and Simon push them in. As they work, Simon can't help but marvel at the way Mark seems to be taking to the job. For all his inexperience, the kid is finding a natural ease in the saddle, a instinctive understanding of how to read the herd and anticipate their movements.

"Not bad for a greenhorn," Simon calls out, his voice barely audible over the din of the cattle. "You keep this up, you might just make a decent cowhand after all."

Mark just grins, his face flushed with exertion and something like pride.

"High praise, coming from you," he shouts back, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'll do my best not to let it go to my head."

Snorting, Simon just shakes his head in amusement and spurs Mariposa on a little harder, damn kid was too clever for his own good.

Slowly but surely, they manage to get the herd moving in the right direction, steering the cows towards the glimmering promise of water in the distance. By the time they reach the river, the sun is already starting to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold.

As the cattle mill about, drinking their fill and settling in for the night, Simon and Mark ride to the back of the herd, searching for a suitable spot to make camp. They are well away from the rest of the outfit now, the sound of laughter and clinking tin plates little more than echoes in the distance as they pick their way through the sagebrush and scrub grass.

Finally, they come upon a small clearing nestled between two towering cottonwoods, their branches stretching out like gnarled fingers against the darkening sky. The ground is soft and sandy here, perfect for bedding down after a long day in the saddle.

Simon swings down from his horse with a grunt, his boots kicking up a small cloud of dust as he hit the ground. He stretches, feeling the satisfying pop and crack of his spine as he works out the kinks from hours of riding. Every muscle in his body aches, a reminder of just how long it had been since he'd spent this much time in the saddle.

Beside him, Mark dismounted with a little more grace, his movements fluid and easy.

"I'll take care of the horses if you want to go grab us some grub," he offers, already reaching for Mariposa's reins.

Simon hesitates for a moment, a pang of unease twisting in his gut. It feels strange, letting someone else take care of his horse - especially after his argument with Hilbert. But the growling of his stomach and the promise of a hot meal wins out in the end.

"You not coming with?" Simon asks, jerking his thumb towards the main camp. "Good chance for you to talk to some of the old timers like me."

Shifting uneasily, Mark's gaze darts towards the flickering campfires and the shadowy figures moving about in the distance. There is a tension in his shoulders, a wariness in his eyes that seems out of place on his youthful face.

"I don't know," he says slowly, his voice low and hesitant. "Might be better if I just stay here, keep an eye on the horses."

Simon frowns, a flicker of concern sparking in his chest. It isn't like a newbie to pass up a chance at a hot meal, especially after a long day in the saddle, and the way he keeps glancing towards the main camp, as if afraid of what he might find there...

"You sure?" Simon presses gently, trying to keep his tone light and unconcerned. "This early in the drive, Cookie still has meat. Probably real coffee too. It'll be nothing but beans and river water sooner rather than later on a drive."

But Mark only shakes his head, a flash of something like panic crossing his face.

"No, that's okay," he says quickly, his voice a little too high, a little too strained. "I'm not really hungry. You go ahead, I'll take care of the horses and get a fire going."

Simon frowns, studying the kid's face in the fading light. There is something off about Mark's reaction, that hint of fear that seemed out of place. He opens his mouth, ready to argue the point - skipping meals was never a good idea on the trail, especially not this early in the drive when they needed to keep their strength up to push hard and make time while mounts and men were fresh, but something in Mark's expression stops him. Everyone has their secrets out here, their own reasons for wanting to keep to themselves.

If Simon had to guess, he'd lay odds that Mark's has something to do with Kepler.

The trail boss has a reputation, after all - one that isn't entirely savory. There are rumors, whispers passed from cowboy to cowboy about the man's proclivities, about the way he treated the greenhorns who rode under his command.

It was those rumors, more than anything, that fueled Simon's distrust and dislike of the man. He's seen the way Kepler's gaze lingers on the newbies, the way his eyes follow their every move with a hunger that had nothing to do with the drive. And he's seen the hollow, haunted look in the eyes of the boys who'd ridden with Kepler before, the ones who flinched at his every word and cringed away from his touch.

"Suit yourself," Simon shrugs, handing over Mariposa's reins. "Just make sure she gets a good rubdown and some extra feed. She's earned it today."

Mark nods, a solemn look on his face as he took the reins.

"I'll take good care of her," he promises, his voice soft and sincere. "She'll be ready to ride at first light."

"See that she is," Simon says gruffly, trying to ignore the way his heart swoops at the kid's earnest tone. He turns to go, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with a wry grin. "That mare's more valuable to me than any greenhorn wrangler, no matter how pretty he might be."

Mark ducks his head, but not before Simon catches the hint of a blush coloring his cheeks.

"I'll keep that in mind," he mutters, busying himself with unsaddling Mariposa.

Simon allows himself a small, satisfied smirk before turning to head towards the chuck wagon. He's only taken a few steps when Mark's voice stops him in his tracks.

"Hey, Teller?"

Simon glances back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Try not to get into a fight on your way to the chow line," Mark says, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'd hate to have to come break it up."

Rolling his eyes, Simon shrugs in a way that doesn't look nearly as casual as it is meant to.

"Ain't me you need to worry about," he mutters, his mind flashing back to his earlier confrontations with Kepler and Hilbert. Two almost fights in one day, the first day he's ever even met Mark, the kid must already think he's an unstable hothead; "Some folks just don't know when to leave well enough alone."

Mark's smile fades a bit, concern creeping into his expression.

"Just...be careful, alright?" he says quietly, searching Simon's face. "I'm sure you can handle yourself, but..."

Simon feels a surge of warmth in his chest at the protective note in Mark's voice. It's been a long time since anyone cared enough to worry about his well-being, and the feeling is both foreign and strangely comforting.

"I'll be fine," Simon assures him, his voice rough but not unkind. He meets Mark's gaze steadily, trying to project a confidence he doesn't at all feel. "Been dealing with men like that my whole life. Hilbert is all bark and no bite."

Mark's brow furrows, his lips pressing together in a tight line.

"Hilbert's not the one I'm worried about," he says quietly, his eyes darting away from Simon's face.

Simon frowns, a tendril of unease curling in his gut. He had a feeling he knew exactly who Mark was talking about, but he wasn't sure he was ready to confront the implications of that just yet.

"Well, Kepler bites all right," he acknowledges, keeping his tone conspicuously and deliberately light. "But I bite back just as hard."

Mark's head snaps up at that, his expression a mix of surprise and something that might be admiration. For a moment, he just stares at Simon, his blue eyes searching the older man's face as if trying to read the truth behind his words.

Finally, he nods, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't doubt that for a second," he said softly, his voice warm with affection. "Just...be careful, okay? I really would hate to see you get hurt on account of me."

Eager to break the suddenly charged atmosphere, Simon casts about for a change of subject. His gaze lands on the small pile of kindling Mark had started gathering for their fire, and he seizes on it like a lifeline.

"Well, you try and not to burn the whole goddamn prairie down while I'm gone," he warns, injecting a note of mock sternness into his voice. "It's been a dry spell this year."

Rolling his eyes, a hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of Mark's mouth. "Yeah, thanks for the warning, old timer," he drawls sarcastically. "I'll try and remember that fire and dry grass don't mix."

"You know, kid, you ain't good enough by half for a mouth like that on you," Simon fires back, but there's no real heat in his words. If anything, he's finding himself enjoying their little back-and-forth, an easy banter that seems to come naturally to them, and that is so very dangerous.

With a final, warning look that is more playful than serious, Simon turns to stride off towards the distant glow of the chuck wagon. His stomach is growling in earnest now, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since dawn, but even as he walks away, Simon can't resist glancing back over his shoulder one last time. Mark is tending to the horses, his lean frame moving with a newfound confidence as he unsaddles and brushes them down.

As Simon watches, the kid turns his attention to Mariposa, murmuring softly to her as he runs a gentle hand along her flank. The mare whickers in response, nuzzling into Mark's touch with a familiarity that makes Simon's heart ache. There is something about seeing Mark care for his horse, about the way he treats her with such respect and tenderness, that makes Simon's chest tighten with an emotion he can't quite name. It is a vulnerability he rarely allows himself to feel, a softness that has no place in the harsh reality of his life on the trail.

As if sensing his gaze, Mark looks up, catching Simon's eye across the distance between them. For a moment, they just stare at each other, some unspoken understanding passing between them in the fading light.

Then Mark smiles, a soft, genuine curve of his lips that makes Simon's breath catch in his throat. It is a look of gratitude, of appreciation for the small kindnesses Simon has shown him. But there is something else there too, a glimmer of warmth and affection that goes beyond mere thankfulness.

Simon feels his own lips twitch in response, a reflexive answering grin that he can't quite suppress, and finds he doesn't want to suppress. He nods once, a silent acknowledgment of the moment, before turning back towards the chuck wagon and the promise of a hot meal.

Flustered and confused by his own reaction, Simon quickly hurries his steps toward the promise of food and distraction. But even as he walks, he can feel the weight of Mark's gaze on his back, can picture the warmth and affection in those blue eyes.

And despite the chill of the night air, Simon suddenly feels as if he is burning up from the inside out, consumed by a heat that had nothing to do with the crackling campfires dotting the prairie.

As he makes his way towards the chuck wagon, Simon tries to clear his head, to focus on the practical matters at hand. But his thoughts keep circling back to Mark. The kid is getting under his skin in a dozen ways he can't explain, stirring up feelings and desires that Simon had long thought were dead and buried. It is a treacherous thing, this growing infatuation - especially out here on the trail. He can't afford to let his guard down, can't afford to show any weakness or vulnerability in front of the other drovers. And he sure as hell can't afford to put Mark in an uncomfortable position.

No, if anything was going to happen between them - and Simon knows it shouldn't, knows it's a fool's dream at best and a harmful delusion at worst - it would have to be handled with the utmost caution and discretion. This isn't the sort of thing a man could just come right out and ask about, not unless he wanted to risk everything he'd worked so hard to build.

There were no open conversations to be had here, no clear-cut paths to follow or simple solutions to be found. Men like Simon had to learn to communicate in glances and gestures, in the spaces between words, in the silences that spoke louder than any declaration ever could.

And even then, there was no guarantee that the message would be received, that the other person would understand or reciprocate. What Simon saw as hints of shared attraction might be nothing more than wishful thinking on his part, the desperate, foolhardy imaginings of a lonely old cowboy starving for connection and affection.

Mark's admiration, his eagerness to learn and please, could simply be the natural response of a young greenhorn to a seasoned mentor. The lingering looks, the brief touches, the way the kid seemed to gravitate towards Simon's side - it might all just be in his head, a product of his own long-suppressed desires and his aching need for companionship.

After all, Mark was hardly the first fresh-faced cowboy Simon had taken under his wing over the years. He'd doubled up with plenty of youngsters, green as grass and just as eager to prove themselves. He'd shown them the ropes, taught them how to survive out here on the unforgiving plains. But he's never felt this way before, never been so drawn to one of his charges in such a profound and visceral way.

No, this is different. The connection he feels with Mark, this spark that seemed to flare to life whenever their eyes met or their hands brushed... it is unlike anything Simon has experienced in a long, long time. Not since Elijah, if he was being honest with himself.

And that is what scares him the most. Because he remembers all too well the agony of losing Elijah, the searing pain of watching the light fade from those beloved eyes so many years ago. He'd barely survived it then, and has spent the better part of a decade trying to drown that memory in whiskey and regret. The thought of opening himself up to that kind of heartache again, of risking his battered soul on the off-chance that Mark might feel the same way...

And even if there was some truth to it, even if Mark did feel some flicker of interest or attraction... what of it? Simon was hardly a catch, with his scarred body and battered soul, his lifetime of bad habits and worse decisions. He had nothing to offer, nothing but dust and heartache and misery.

It's a gamble Simon isn't sure he's strong enough to take. The stakes were just too high, the potential for ruin too great. Out here on the trail, a man's secrets could be his undoing, could shatter everything he'd worked so hard to build. And Simon had fought too long and too hard to let himself be destroyed now by a pair of blue eyes and a crooked smile, no matter how tempting they might be.

No, the smart thing - the safe thing - would be to keep his distance, to focus on the job at hand and let whatever spark might exist between them fizzle out on its own. It is the only way to protect himself; to protect Mark from the fallout of his own foolish longings. But even as Simon tried to convince himself of the wisdom of this course, he can feel the yearning in his heart, the ache of possibilities that might never be realized. It is a bittersweet feeling, a mixture of hope and resignation that sits heavy in his chest even as he tries to push it aside.

He simply cannot afford to dwell on it now, can't afford to let his mind wander down paths that can only lead to ruin. He has a job to do, a herd to get to market and a payday to collect at the end of the trail. Anything else is a distraction, a danger he can't risk no matter how much he may want to.

With a sigh, Simon squares his shoulders and quickens his pace, determined to put some distance between himself and the tangled web of his own emotions. The chuck wagon is just ahead, promising hot food and welcome distraction from the thoughts that plague him.

He makes his way to where Cookie is doling out hearty portions of beans, biscuits, and thick slices of salt pork. The savory aroma of the food mingles with the scent of wood smoke and horse, a familiar blend that spoke of long nights on the trail and the comforting rhythm of life in the saddle.

"Two plates, Cookie," Simon all but grunts, holding out his tin ware. The grizzled old cook shoots him a questioning look, his gaze darting over to where the tiny light of the drag rider's fire flickers in the distance.

"Feeding strays now, Teller?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow nearly lost in the map of wrinkles on his brow. "Thought you were a lone wolf, not a den mother."

Simon just shrugs, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Kid's gotta eat," he says simply, as if that explains everything. And in a way, it did.

Cookie raises a gnarled eyebrow, his weathered face creasing into a grin. "And he can't saunter over to me his ownself?" he asks, his voice a gravelly drawl. "But I'm so purty and charming. Keepin' his distance like that is gonna make me feel spurned."

Simon just laughs, shaking his head. "Well, Cookie, you ain't half as pretty as my horse, and that's still twice as good looking as your food," he retorts, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

The old cook clutches at his chest in mock offense, his ladle hand going slack.

"Watch it, Teller," he warns, trying and failing to suppress a smile. "We may be friendly, but you're the one holding empty tin and I'm the one holding the ladle."

Simon holds up his hands in surrender, his grin widening.

"Alright, alright," he concedes easily enough. "No need to get your apron in a twist. Just load up those plates, will you? The kid's still feeling a little squirrelly around the whole company, so I figured I'd help him ease in, you know?"

Cookie's expression softens, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He nods, and scoops generous portions onto the proffered tin plates, adding an extra biscuit to each surreptitiously.

"Greenhorns can be a skittish bunch," he agrees, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Skittish or stupid. I remember when you was green. More apt to fight than talk, half the time I was hauling beans to the Doc where you were getting patched up from some fool idea or another."

"Yeah," Simon chuckles ruefully, memories of his own early days on the trail flashing through his mind. He'd been so young then, so full of piss and vinegar and something to prove. Always ready to throw a punch or take a dare, always pushing himself to the limits of his endurance and beyond. "Reckon I gave you and the Doc plenty to worry about back then, didn't I?"

"That you did, boy. That you did." Cookie snorts, shaking his head. "Reckon now you've settled down, it's good he's got someone like you to show him the ropes, help him find his place in the outfit." He pauses, fixing Simon with a knowing look. "But you'll want to be careful, boy," he warned, his eyes glinting with a hint of caution. He fixes Simon with a knowing look, his eyes sharp and appraising. "Them young ones'll latch onto you like a saddle burr if you let 'em. Best not to get too attached."

The words send a stab of guilt into Simon's chest, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thinks about the decidedly unsettled thoughts he's been harboring about Mark.

It's one thing to take the kid under his wing, to guide him through the challenges and pitfalls of life on the trail. But the feelings Simon's been grappling with, the desires he's been trying so hard to suppress; they go far beyond the bounds of a normal mentor-protege relationship. And if he's not careful, if he lets himself get carried away by the intensity of his own emotions...

He could ruin everything. Could destroy the fragile trust and respect he's worked so hard to build, could mark him out as the worst kind of predator, the kind of man who would take advantage of a young greenhorn's innocence and naivety for his own selfish ends.

The thought makes Simon feel sick to his stomach, a wave of self-loathing and disgust washing over him. Letting Mark in close would be taking advantage, and for all his myriad faults, Simon would never want that. He's not like that, not like Kepler and his ilk. His private attraction was shameful, but it was his alone and could be managed, could be pushed down deep and buried under a layer of prairie dust. Friends. They could be friends. It would be better for the kid in the long run.

"Just doing my job, Cookie. Ain't nothing special about that." he calls over his shoulder, his voice carrying across the bustling camp. And he means it too. This was just one more drive, one more new cowboy, nothing special about it.

But even as he said it, Simon knew it wasn't entirely true. There is something special about Mark, something that draws him in and makes him want to protect the kid, to guide him through the challenges and pitfalls of life on the trail.

And so, with a final nod to Cookie, Simon turns and makes his way back to the small fire where Mark is waiting, holding out a tin plate piled high with beans and biscuits. The kid looks up as he approaches, his eyes widening at the sight of the food.

"I know you said you weren't hungry, but I figured you could use some grub anyway," Simon says gruffly, handing over one of the plates. "Can't have you fading away on me out here."

Mark takes the offered food with a grateful nod, his fingers brushing against Simon's in a fleeting moment of contact that sent a jolt of heat racing through his veins. It is a small thing, a barely-there touch that could have meant anything or nothing at all. He's careful not to let his fingers linger against Simon's, despite the sudden urge to chase the warmth of the other man's calloused skin. It's a foolish notion, born of the strange, electric awareness that's been buzzing beneath his skin since their eyes first met across the livery stable this morning.

"Thank you." It's quiet, surprised and grateful and Simon's stomach gives another one of those traitorous lurches at the way Mark is looking up at him.

Mark makes no move to start eating. Instead, he stares out at the herd, a pensive look on his face.

"Eat up," Startled out of his thoughts, Mark watches as Simon settles himself down on a fallen log nearby. "It ain't good, but its better while it's hot."

Tentatively, he takes a bite of the beans, chewing slowly.

"It is good," he says, sounding almost surprised. "Better than I expected, out here on the trail."

Simon chuckles, picking up his own plate again. "Well, don't get too used to it," he warned, only half-joking. "Cookie's not exactly known for his gourmet cooking."

The beans are filling, the biscuit flaky and rich with lard, but Mark barely tastes them. He's hyper-aware of Simon's presence across the flickering flames, the lean solidity of him, the way the firelight plays across the angles of his face. It takes all Mark's willpower to keep his eyes on his plate, to not let his gaze drift to the strong column of the other man's throat as he swallows, the way his lips close around each bite.

It's unsettling, his visceral pull towards the taciturn cowboy. In all his twenty-two years, Mark's never felt anything quite like it. Oh, he's been attracted to men before - has known for a while that his dispositions run contrary to what polite society would deem acceptable. It's part of what drove him out west, seeking a place where he could breathe free from the suffocating weight of others' expectations.

But this...this is different. Stronger, more immediate than anything he's felt before. It's as if some fundamental part of him recognized Simon on sight, slotting into place like a key in a lock. Like some piece of himself he hadn't even known was missing had suddenly, shockingly clicked home.

It's exhilarating. Terrifying. Makes him feel more alive than he has in years, every nerve ending alight and yearning towards this relative stranger who's already starting to feel so dangerously familiar.

Mark chances another glance at the older man from beneath the fringe of his lashes. In the firelight, Simon's hair burns copper, his profile cast in planes of gold and purple shadow. He's beautiful, Mark realizes with a sudden swoop in his stomach. Beautiful and remote, as untouchable as the stars glittering cold and distant overhead.

What is he thinking, entertaining fantasies about a man like this? A seasoned drover with a past as a war hero, who wears his experience and authority as easily as his battered cavalry slouch. Mark's just a green city slicker playing at being a cowboy, still clumsy in the saddle, a liability more than an asset. Simon is forged by hardship, carved out by war and the prairie; he's worlds away from the soft, privileged life of Mark's childhood, the grand old house in Philadelphia with its velvet drapes and gleaming wood.

They're utterly unsuited, in every possible way. Whatever this spark is between them, it's doomed before it's even begun. Mark would be a fool to let it kindle any further, to reach for more than the tenuous partnership they've forged.

But here, cloaked in the quiet intimacy of the night, the future stretching vast and unknowable before them...it's hard to hold onto that truth. Hard to focus on anything but the shape of Simon's hands on his tin cup, the full curve of his lower lip. The steady warmth of him, solid and inviting at Mark's side.

As the last bites of beans and biscuit disappear, Mark sets his plate aside and stands, brushing dirt from his denims.

"I'll take these down to the river to rinse 'em," he offers, reaching for Simon's dish as well. "Least I can do, since you were kind enough to bring me supper."

Simon grunts in acknowledgment, leaning back against the log as he reaches into his saddlebags, searching for his whiskey and his tobacco pouch for his one evening smoke. His brow furrows as his fingers encounter only fabric and the familiar bundle of Elijah's locket wrapped carefully in handkerchiefs - no familiar solid glass of the whiskey bottle he had tucked in before leaving.

Simon frowns, sitting up straighter and patting himself down with rising agitation. He always keeps a bottle on him, especially for nights like this when the ghosts of the past press close. Where the hell is it?

A sudden chill washes over him as realization clicks into place. He surges to his feet, rounding on Mark with fire in his eyes.

"Where is it?" he all but growls, his voice low and harsh. "Where's my bottle?"

Mark meets his gaze steadily. "In my saddlebags," he replies, his tone even.

"The fuck is it there for?" Simon demands, taking a step closer.

"I took it," Mark says simply, lifting his chin.

Simon's eyes narrow dangerously.

"The fuck were you going through my saddlebags for?" he snarls, his fists clenching at his sides.

"I was looking for liniment!" Mark shoots back, refusing to be cowed. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. "Mariposa has a sore leg and I wanted to tend to it. She was limping when I took them down to the water. I wasn't snooping."

Simon scoffs, shaking his head. "Well give it back," he orders, holding out his hand expectantly.

Mark hesitates, concern warring with frustration on his face. "You think you should be drinking? Hilbert said-"

"Fuck Alexander Hilbert," Simon cuts him off harshly. "I can promise you he's already three sheets on potato rotgut himself."

"Then Kepler said the same damn thing!" Mark counters, his voice rising. "And I know Kepler. He's a lot of things, and most of them terrible, but he isn't a liar."

Simon stills at that, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Slowly, he takes another step into Mark's space, his voice dropping to a low, threatening rumble.

"Yeah, I been meanin' to ask," he says softly, his eyes boring into Mark's. "How exactly does a fresh to the plains boy know Kepler anyway?"

Mark flinches as if slapped, color draining from his face. He takes an involuntary step back, dropping his gaze to the ground.

"That's none of your concern," he mutters, his voice suddenly flat and lifeless. Wordlessly, he turns and stalks over to his saddlebags, rummaging inside for a moment before pulling out the whiskey bottle and thrusting it towards Simon.

"Here," he says dully, still not meeting the other man's eyes. "Take it. Do what you want with it."

With that, he grabs his bedroll and stalks off towards the very edge of the camp's circle, leaving Simon standing alone by the dying fire, the bottle dangling forgotten in his hand as he stares after Mark's retreating back.

The silence stretches, broken only by the pop and hiss of the embers and the distant lowing of the cattle. Finally, with a muttered curse, Simon upends the bottle, pouring a healthy slug of whiskey down his throat. It burns going down, but it's a familiar pain, almost welcome in the wake of the unfamiliar ache in his chest.

Damn the kid for getting under his skin like this. Damn him for presuming, for pushing, for making Simon want...making him feel...

Growling to himself, he takes another swig, relishing the numbing warmth spreading through his limbs. He'd deal with this in the morning. For now, all he wanted was the comforting embrace of the bottle, the blessed oblivion it promised.

But even as the whiskey works its dubious magic, Simon can't quite shake the image of Mark's face - the hurt and disappointment, the flicker of something raw and real that had flashed in those blue eyes before the shutters slammed closed.

It's going to be a long night. And an even longer drive ahead, with this unspoken thing sitting heavy and sour between them. Simon can only hope that time and distance will smooth it over, will let them fall back into the easy rhythm they'd been building, the partnership that had felt so natural, so right before it all went sideways.

But deep down, in a place he isn't ready to acknowledge, he knows it won't be that simple. That something fundamental has shifted, cracked open to let in the cold light of day.

And god help him...he has no idea how to put it back together again.

Chapter Text

The chill of the early morning seeps into Mark's bones as he stirs from a fitful sleep, his body aching from the unforgiving ground beneath his bedroll. Slowly, he sits up, squinting against the pale light of the rising sun as it crests the eastern horizon, painting the vast expanse of the prairie in delicate shades of gold and rose.

The campfire is dead, nothing but a circle of cold ash and blackened embers. A quick glance around the makeshift camp reveals that he is alone but for his own horse from the remuda - Simon and Mariposa are nowhere to be seen, the spot where the older cowboy had laid his bedroll empty and undisturbed looking.

With a groan, Mark drags a hand over his face, memories of the previous night's confrontation flooding back in a rush of shame and regret. What had he been thinking, going through Simon's saddlebags like that? It was a breach of trust, an invasion of privacy that he had no right to commit, no matter how well-intentioned his motives might have seemed at the time.

He recalls the flash of betrayal in Simon's eyes, the hurt and anger in his voice as he'd demanded the return of his whiskey. The scolding had stung, even as Mark knew he deserved it. He'd overstepped, pushed too hard and too fast, let his new, but quickly growing feelings for the handsome drover override every last bit of his common sense and respect for the man's boundaries.

And the worst part was, Mark had known better. He'd known from the moment he'd started rummaging through Simon's saddlebags, telling himself he was in search of liniment for Mariposa, that he was crossing a line. That he had no business rifling through another man's belongings, no matter how much he might want to convince himself he was doing it for a noble reason.

But then he'd found the whiskey, and some foolish, impulsive part of him had seized on the idea of taking it. Of hiding it away, as if by doing so he could somehow shield Simon from the demons that haunted him, the pain and grief that drove him to seek solace in the bottle.

It was a naïve, presumptuous thought, born of equal parts arrogance and desperation. Who was he, a mere greenhorn, to think he could save a man like Simon from himself? To believe that his own clumsy, fumbling attempts at intervention could make any difference in the face of such deep-seated suffering?

And now, in the cold light of morning, he's been left alone to reckon with the consequences of his actions. To face the very real possibility that he has irrevocably destroyed the fragile trust and connection he'd been building with Simon.

Even worse than losing Simon's trust though, is the gut-wrenching fear of what might happen if Simon decides to send him away, to banish him from his side and leave him at the mercy of the other drovers. The thought of possibly ending up with Kepler, cruel and merciless, makes Mark's blood run cold, a sickening knot of dread tightening in his stomach.

Simon suspects something about his past, Mark knows it, but other than the barbed question from last night, hasn't pried. In fact he has been a shield, a protector, going well out of his way to keep Mark away from Kepler.

It's a small kindness, but one that speaks volumes about Simon's character, his quiet, steadfast decency and a concern for Mark's safety. But now, with the weight of his own betrayal hanging over him, Mark can't help but wonder if he's thrown it all away, if he's hurt and angered Simon so deeply that the man might go so far as to withdraw his protection, or even send him straight into Kepler's clutches as punishment.

The thought makes bile rise in Mark's throat, a sickening wave of panic and despair that threatens to overwhelm him. He wants to believe it's irrational, wants to believe that Simon is not that kind of man, that he would never intentionally put Mark in harm's way. But the fear is there all the same, gnawing at his insides, whispering insidious doubts in the back of his mind.

What if he's misjudged Simon's character, just as he misjudged his own common sense and ability to help the man overcome his demons? What if the trust and understanding he thought they'd been building was nothing more than a fragile illusion, easily shattered by his one stupid, impulsive act? What if he's already ruined everything?

But even worse than that is the knowledge that he has hurt Simon, wounded him in some deep and fundamental way. That he has taken the tentative trust and respect they'd been building and ground it into the dust with his own careless, grasping hands.

And oh, how he'd wanted that trust, that respect. How he'd come to crave the fleeting moments of warmth and connection between them, the shared glances and gentle touches. How he'd dared to hope, in some secret, hidden corner of his heart, that there might be something that could grow between them, something precious and profound and true.

But now, in the harsh, unforgiving light of day, those hopes seem like nothing more than foolish, childish fantasies. Just the wishful thinking of a naïve boy.

He has to find a way to try and make things right with Simon, to earn back the trust and respect he so carelessly squandered.

It won't be easy, he knows. It will take time, and patience, and a willingness to confront his own shortcomings and insecurities head-on, but he is determined to try, to do whatever it takes to prove to Simon that he is more than just a foolish, impulsive child. That he is a man worthy of trust and regard.

And so, with a heavy heart and a grim sense of resolve, Mark pushes himself to his feet, ready to face whatever consequences the day may bring. It is a daunting prospect, a path fraught with uncertainty and risk.

As Mark finishes packing up his bedroll and meager belongings, he takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the trek to the chuck wagon. His shiny new tin mug feels conspicuous in his hand, a glaring reminder of his greenhorn status. The thought of facing the rest of the company, and of potentially running into Kepler, sends a spike of fear twisting in his gut.

But there's no help for it. Last night's beans and biscuits are long gone, and if he wants to break his fast before another long day in the saddle, he'll have to brave the gauntlet of curious stares and pointed questions that surely await him at the main camp.

Just as he's about to force his leaden feet into motion, a familiar figure catches his eye, loping towards him across the sun-drenched prairie. Simon's lean form is unmistakable, his long strides eating up the distance with an easy, rolling gait that speaks of his time spent in the saddle.

As he draws closer, Mark feels his breath catch in his throat, his heart stumbling over itself as he takes in the sight of the older cowboy. Simon is a vision in the early morning light, his copper hair glinting like a newly minted penny, his tanned, freckled skin seeming to glow with an inner fire. The worn denim of his jeans hugs long, muscular legs. His shirt, a simple cotton work shirt the color of pale dust, stretches taut across the broad expanse of his shoulders, hinting at the rangy  strength and power coiled beneath.

But it's Simon's face that draws Mark's gaze like a lodestone, the rugged planes and angles of his features seeming to hold a whole world of secrets. His jaw is shadowed with a day's worth of stubble, the reddish-gold hairs glinting in the sun. His eyes, usually a piercing, flinty blue grey, are softened by the morning light, the color of a summer sky just before a storm.

There's a set to his mouth, a firm, determined line that speaks of a man who's seen his share of hardship and loss. But there's a kindness there too, a gentleness that shows itself in the way he handles the pretty little Appaloosa mare following placidly behind him on a lead rope.

As Simon approaches, Mark feels a rush of emotion wash over him, a dizzying mix of guilt and a longing so fierce it steals his breath.

As the older drover draws near, Mark can see the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes that speak of a restless night and a heavy heart. But there's a determination there too, a steely resolve that makes Mark's pulse quicken and his throat go dry.

Once he's closer still, Mark realizes that the older cowboy's arms are laden with two precariously balanced tin plates piled high with biscuits and gravy, steam curling invitingly from the hearty fare. In his other hand, he carries two battered tin mugs, the rich aroma of coffee wafting on the breeze.

"Here," Simon says gruffly, his voice rough with an emotion Mark can't quite name. "You need to eat before we head out."

Startled, Mark nearly fumbles the offering, juggling the plate and mug awkwardly as he tries to find his balance. "Simon, look, I really want to apolo...-"

But Simon cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head, his jaw tight.

"Stop. I don't want to hear it. You overstepped your bounds. We said some words. Some unkind things. Ain't none of it matters now. Eat."

There's a gruff finality to Simon's tone that brooks no argument, a weary resignation that tugs at something deep in Mark's chest. But beneath the harsh words, there's a sharp thread of hurt in his eyes, a raw vulnerability that speaks of a deeper wound than mere anger or frustration.

It's a look that sends a fresh wave of guilt crashing over Mark, a sickening twist of shame and regret in the pit of his stomach. He knows he's responsible for putting that look on Simon's face, for causing the man pain.

He wants to protest, to insist on making things right, to beg for forgiveness and understanding. But he can see the stubborn set of Simon's shoulders, the guarded, wary look in his eyes, and he knows that any attempt at reconciliation will be met with resistance, with a wall of hurt and defensiveness that he has no hope of scaling.

So instead, he simply nods, accepting the peace offering for what it is. "Yeah. Uh, thanks."

For a moment, they stand in uncomfortable silence, the weight of all the things left unsaid hanging heavy in the air between them. Then, desperate for something, anything neutral to fill the void, Mark's gaze lands on the pretty Appaloosa mare standing patiently behind Simon.

"That horse is real pretty," he remarks, nodding towards the animal. "Where'd you get her?"

Something flickers in Simon's expression, a hint of chagrin or maybe embarrassment.

"The remuda," he admits, not quite meeting Mark's eyes. "You were right. Mariposa was limping. I couldn't ask her to do another day like yesterday." He pauses, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "I just hope Hilbert takes care of her."

The words send a pang through Mark's chest, a mix of guilt and gratitude and something else, something warm and aching that he doesn't dare put a name to. Simon loves that mare, the bond between the man and his horse runs deep. For him to entrust her to Hilbert's care, to admit - however obliquely - that Mark had been right about her condition...it's no small thing.

"He will," Mark assures him, infusing his voice with a confidence he doesn't entirely feel. "Hilbert seems like a lot of things, but he also seems like he knows his job. He'll get her right as rain in no time."

Simon just grunts, a noncommittal sound that could mean anything. But there's a fractional easing of the tension in his shoulders, a slight softening around his eyes that tells Mark his words have been heard, and in some small, but significant way, appreciated.

They lapse into silence again, but it's a little less strained this time, a little less fraught with unspoken tension. Quietly, they tuck into their breakfast; there's nothing left to say, so they don't say anything at all.

It's not much, this tentative truce, this fragile accord, but it's a start, a foundation on which to build, to hopefully slowly, carefully repair the damage he had done last night.

And as Mark sneaks glances at Simon over the rim of his mug, taking in the clean, strong lines of his profile and the glint of the rising sun in his hair, he feels a flicker of something that might almost be hope kindling in his chest. A sense that maybe, just maybe, they can find their way through this - the strain, the secrets, the unspoken yearning that thrums like a live wire between them.

It won't be easy. It won't be smooth or simple or free of complications. But then, nothing worth having ever is.

For now, though, they have this - a shared meal, a moment of respite before the long, hard day ahead. And as Simon finishes his biscuits and rises to his feet, reaching out a calloused hand to help Mark up, Mark takes it without hesitation, feeling the warm, solid strength of the other man's grip.

It feels like a promise, that touch. A silent vow that whatever else may come, they'll at least face it together.

They mount up and head out to join the herd in silence, the vast expanse of the plains stretching out before them like an unwritten page.

The whole first day on the trail is a study in strained silence and uneasy tension. As they ride out with the herd, the easy rhythm of their partnership is noticeably absent, replaced by a stilted formality that feels foreign and wrong.

Mark finds himself hyper-aware of Simon's presence at his side, the older cowboy's form rigid and unyielding in the saddle. The space between them feels charged, crackling with the weight of unspoken words and barely suppressed emotions.

They move through the motions of the job with a mechanical efficiency, their communication reduced to sparse, clipped commands and terse acknowledgments. Even the cattle seem to sense the discord, the herd restless and prone to sudden, erratic movements that keep both men on high alert.

The sun beats down mercilessly as they ride, the endless expanse of the prairie stretching out before them in a shimmering haze of heat and dust. Mark's throat is parched, his head pounding with each plodding step of his horse. The silence between him and Simon is a tangible thing, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the creak of leather and the distant lowing of the cattle.

Just when he thinks he can't bear it any longer, can't endure another moment of this suffocating tension, Simon guides his horse alongside Mark's, holding out his canteen in a wordless offer. Mark takes it gratefully, his fingers brushing against Simon's in a fleeting moment of contact that sends a jolt of electricity through his veins.

He raises the canteen to his lips, the water is warm and slightly stale, but a blessed relief nonetheless. As he drinks, he can feel Simon's gaze on him, intense and inscrutable, and he hates the way his body responds, the way his pulse quickens and his skin prickles with a heat that has nothing to do with the scorching sun.

He hates the fact that, even now, with the weight of his betrayal hanging between them and the sting of Simon's anger still fresh in his mind, he can't seem to shake the hold that Simon has on him. Can't seem to stop the longing that curls in his gut every time their eyes meet, the ache of wanting something he knows he has no right to.

For a fleeting instant, as he lowers the canteen and meets Simon's gaze, he thinks he sees a flicker of that same longing reflected back at him. A hint of the warmth and understanding that had been blooming like night jasmine between them, the unspoken connection that drew them together from the very start.

But it's gone as quickly as it appears, shuttered behind a wall of hurt and mistrust, and Mark feels the loss like a physical blow. He hands the canteen back with a murmured word of thanks, his fingers careful not to linger, not to betray the trembling that threatens to overtake him.

Simon takes it with a curt nod, his jaw tight and his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. For a moment, Mark thinks he might say something, might break the suffocating silence with a word of acknowledgment or reconciliation.

But then a wayward calf breaks from the herd, jolting them both back to the task at hand, and Simon is spurring his horse forward to head it off, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts and the bitter taste of regret on his tongue.

As he watches Simon ride away, his form tall and proud in the saddle, Mark feels that frustration and guilt curdle in his gut. He hates himself for his weakness, for the way he's let his feelings for Simon cloud his judgment and compromise his integrity. Hates the fact that, even now, with everything that's happened, he still can't seem to let go of the hope that somehow, someway, they might find their way back to where they were before.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of heat and dust and unrelenting motion. They break for a hasty midday meal, wolfing down tough, salt-cured meat and hard tack in the scant shade of a lone tree. Mark tries to catch Simon's eye, to find some way to bridge the yawning chasm between them, but Simon just keeps his gaze fixed resolutely on the horizon and conspicuously off of Mark, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

Finally, when the sun begins its slow descent towards the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, word comes down the line that the herd will be stopping for the night. Mark feels something unwind in him, a curious mix of relief and worry, his muscles aching from the long day in the saddle but his nerves thrumming with the knowledge that the relative isolation he and Simon have had alone at the back of the herd riding drag will now extend into the cold, unforgiving prairie night.

They work side by side to secure the perimeter, Simon's brusque instructions guiding Mark through the process of checking picket lines and hobbles. Despite the personal strain between them, the Simon is still patient in his explanations, his wealth of experience evident in the way he moves through the tasks with practiced ease.

Mark, for his part, is eager to learn, paying close attention to Simon's every word and action. He can feel the weight of the other man's gaze on him as he works, assessing his progress and his aptitude, and Mark is determined not to be found wanting in this area at the very least.

But even as they fall into a rhythm of work and instruction, the silence between them is tense and heavy. What easy camaraderie they had initially found is gone, replaced by this taut, uneasy tension that sets Mark's teeth on edge and makes his heart ache with longing for what he fears he may have lost.

As they finish their tasks and the last of the daylight fades from the sky, Mark finds himself stealing glances at Simon, his pulse quickening at the sight of the other man's strong, capable hands and the way the fading light catches in his hair. He wants to say something, to find some way to bridge this gulf that yawns between them, but the words stick in his throat, trapped behind the lump of guilt and uncertainty.

For a moment, they stand in silence, the crackling of the campfire the only sound in the stillness of the evening. Then Simon clears his throat, his gaze fixed on the flames.

"You'll see to the horses?" he asks gruffly, his voice low and rough with fatigue.

Mark nods quickly, grateful for the chance to put some distance between them, to clear his head and steady his racing heart.

"Of course," he replies, his own voice sounding strange and strained to his ears. "I'll get them settled for the night."

Simon grunts in acknowledgment, already turning towards the main camp and the chuck wagon beyond.

"I'll bring us some grub," he tosses over his shoulder, his tone brusque but not unkind.

Mark watches him go, his chest tight with a mix of emotions he can't quite untangle. Gratitude, for the small kindness of being spared the scrutiny of the other drovers. Guilt, for the burden he knows he's placing on Simon's shoulders. And beneath it all, a longing so sharp and sweet it takes his breath away, a yearning for something more from the wounded, taciturn red headed cowboy.

With a sigh, he turns to the horses, losing himself in the routine of removing saddles and bridles, checking hooves and distributing feed. The work is soothing, a welcome distraction from the turmoil of his thoughts and the ache of his heart.

By the time Simon returns, two tin plates balanced in his hands, Mark has the camp set up and the bedrolls laid out, the horses picketed and content. He takes the offered plate with a murmured word of thanks, settling down by the fire to eat in silence.

The food is simple, the same beans and biscuits and salt pork of the night before, with maybe some added pepper, but to Mark, it just tastes like ash in his mouth, his appetite fled in the face of the tension that sits heavy between them.

He picks at his plate, his gaze darting to Simon's face and away again, searching for some sign of the warmth and understanding that had once flowed so easily between them. But his expression is dark and shuttered, his jaw tight and his eyes distant, lost in thoughts Mark can only begin to guess at.

The silence stretches, broken only by the clink of tin on tin and the pop and hiss of the fire. Mark's mind races, searching for something to say, some way to bridge the chasm that yawns between them. But the words won't come, trapped behind the lump of guilt and uncertainty that sits heavy in his throat.

Finally, he can bear it no longer. Setting his plate aside, he takes a deep breath, forcing himself to meet Simon's gaze head-on.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, the words tumbling from his lips in a rush. "For what I did. For... for everything."

Simon is still for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. Then, slowly, he nods, a jerky bob of his head that seems to cost him some great effort.

"I know," he says quietly, his voice rough with some unknowable emotion. "I know you are. But it ain't that simple, kid. You can't just apologize and expect everything to go back to the way it was."

Mark feels his heart sink, a cold knot of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. "I know," he whispers, his voice cracking on the words. "But Simon, I... I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to make it right."

Simon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I don't either," he admits, his tone weary and resigned.

With that, Simon turns away, his shoulders hunched as he rummages through his saddlebags. Mark watches, his heart in his throat, as the older drover pulls out a familiar bottle, the amber liquid inside sloshing gently against the glass.

Simon's hands shake as he sets the whiskey carefully on the hard-packed dirt beside his bedroll, a tremor that speaks volumes about the internal battle he's fighting. Mark can see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw, and he feels a pang of sympathy mingled with guilt.

He knows that Simon is struggling, that the lure of the bottle is a constant temptation, a way, perhaps the only way he has to dull the sharp edges of the pain and grief that haunt him. And Mark knows that the strain between them, the hurt and betrayal that his actions have caused, only makes that temptation stronger.

Part of him wants to reach out, to offer comfort or support, but he knows just as deeply that any such gesture would be unwelcome, a presumption too far in the face of Simon's proud, stubborn independence. So instead, he simply turns away, busying himself with settling into his own bedroll and trying to ignore the telltale pop of a cork being pulled from a bottle that tells him Simon is opening his whiskey.

He can picture it in his mind's eye, the way the older drover's throat would work as he takes a long, deep pull from the bottle, the way his eyes would flutter closed in a moment of pained relief. The image sends a sudden, unexpected flare of heat through Mark's body, a longing so intense it steals his breath.

For a moment, he's lost in a fantasy of his own making, imagining the way Simon's lips would look wrapped around the neck of the bottle, the way his strong, callused hands would grip the glass. He pictures himself kneeling beside the older drover, reaching out to take the whiskey from him and set it aside, his fingers brushing against Simon's in a lingering caress.

In his mind's eye, he sees Simon turning to him, his eyes dark and hungry, his breath coming fast and shallow. He imagines leaning in, closing the distance between them until he can feel the heat of Simon's body, the rasp of his stubble against his cheek. He pictures the way Simon's mouth would feel against his, hard and demanding, the taste of whiskey on his tongue as he deepens the kiss...-

But the fantasy shatters as quickly as it formed, replaced by a sickening rush of guilt. What is he thinking, indulging in such base, selfish desires at a time like this? When he's the one who's driven Simon to seek solace in the bottle, the one who's shattered the fragile trust between them with his own foolish, impulsive actions?

The knowledge is like a bucket of cold water, dousing the flames of his longing and leaving him hollow and ashamed. He has no right to want Simon, no right to even think about him in that way. Not after what he's done, the hurt he's caused. It's painful, knowing that he's now part of the blame for driving Simon to seek solace in the bottom of a bottle. That the trust and understanding they'd been building has been shattered by his own foolish, impulsive actions.

But there's nothing he can do about it now, no way to take back what's been done or ease the burden that Simon carries. All he can do is try to be better, to prove himself worthy of the second chance he so desperately craves.

And so, with a heavy heart and a silent prayer for strength, Mark closes his eyes and tries to will himself to sleep.

Days pass like this, one week melting into the next,  blurring together in a haze of dust and sweat and endless, rolling miles. The rhythm of the trail settles over them like a second skin, the routine of early mornings and long, grueling hours in the saddle broken only by the brief respite of meals and the welcome oblivion of exhausted sleep.

Through it all, Simon and Mark move around each other like ghosts, trapped in a fragile, tentative dance, their interactions reduced down to the barest necessities of the job at hand.

Each morning, Simon appears at their tiny campfire with two plates of food and steaming mugs of coffee, the offering made in gruff, wordless silence. And each night, Mark tends to the horses and lays out their bedrolls with the same mute efficiency, the only sound the soft nickering of the animals and the crackle of the fire.

They don't talk, not really. Nothing beyond the clipped, functional exchanges required to push the cattle and keep the herd in line. It's as if some unspoken agreement has been reached, a tacit understanding that the weight of all the things left unsaid is too heavy, too fraught with risk and uncertainty to be broached.

So the hush between them stretches, vast and yawning as the plains themselves, broken only by the sparse, pragmatic words necessary to do the job. It's as if their fight that night shattered something delicate and unformed between them, some fragile understanding still in its infancy. Now, neither seems to know how to pick up the pieces, how to bridge the chasm of unspoken hurts and unacknowledged longings.

But even in the silence, there is still a sense of connection however small, of partnership that grows stronger with each passing day. It's there in the way Simon always seems to know when Mark needs a break, wordlessly taking up the slack to give the younger man a chance to rest his aching muscles and catch his breath. It's there in the way Mark anticipates Simon's needs, making sure the older cowboy's canteen is always full and his horse is always well-tended.

And it's there in the small, fleeting moments of shared understanding - a glance across the herd, a nod of acknowledgment, a brush of fingers as a tin plate is passed from hand to hand. Tiny, almost imperceptible gestures that speak volumes in the language of the unspoken, the language of two souls finding their way towards each other across vast, uncharted wildernesses.

But the easy fellowship they had been building at first is gone, replaced by a wary, charged distance that neither knows how to cross. It's as if they're both waiting for the other to make the first move, to find the courage to breach the impasse and speak the words that might begin to mend what's been broken.

As the days stretch into weeks and the miles fall away beneath the relentless rhythm of hooves on dusty earth, Mark finds himself watching Simon more and more, studying the play of sunlight on the planes of his face and the flex of muscle beneath sweat-stained cloth. He memorizes the cadence of the other man's breath, the way his hands gentle a restless horse or coax a stubborn calf back into line.

And sometimes, in the liminal space between waking and sleeping, he imagines he can feel the weight of Simon's gaze on him in turn, a palpable thing that sends shivers racing down his spine and heat coiling low in his belly. In the stillness of the night, he'll hear the rustle of movement, the crunch of boots on dry earth as Simon slips away from the campsite, seeking solitude in the sheltering darkness.

Mark's pulse quickens at the thought of what the older drover might be doing out there, his imagination conjuring images that make his breath catch and his cheeks flush with a heat that has nothing to do with the banked coals of the fire. He pictures strong, callused hands and sweat-slicked skin, bitten-back groans and shuddering gasps muffled against the crook of an arm. The thought is enough to make his own body ache with a need he dares not name, a desire that burns through him like wildfire.

On those nights, he waits with bated breath for the telltale sounds of Simon's return, the soft tread of footsteps and the creaking of worn leather as he settles back into his bedroll. And if there's a new heaviness to the silence between them, a charge to the air that crackles with unspoken want... well, Mark tells himself it's just his own foolish fancy, a trick of the moonlight and the endless, empty miles.

Sometimes, in the darkest hours, when Simon's breathing has evened and deepened into slumber, when the longing has grown too great to bear, Mark finds himself slipping away too, seeking his own moments of stolen pleasure beneath the vast, starlit sky. With shaking hands and hitching breaths, he works himself to a fever pitch, his mind filled with forbidden visions of the man sleeping just a few scant feet away. He imagines the rasp of stubble against his skin, the heat of Simon's mouth on his, the weight of his body pressing him down into the dusty earth. And when release comes, it's with a silent cry and a shuddering gasp, Simon's name a whispered prayer on his lips.

But always, the moment passes, lost to the demands of the trail and the unrelenting press of time. There is no room for softness out here, no place for the yearning that burns like a banked fire in the depths of Mark's chest. The only way forward is to keep moving, to let the miles and the days and the endless, unchanging sky swallow up the ache of all the words he cannot say.

And so they ride, side by side yet worlds apart, two solitary figures moving in sync, but out of step, against the vast, indifferent backdrop of the West. The herd flows around them like a living tide, the lowing of the cattle and the creak of leather and the jingle of spurs weaving together into the timeless melody of the trail.

It's a lonely existence, in many ways. A life stripped down to the barest essentials of survival, to the stark realities of sun and wind and endless, empty miles.

In another one of their endless, quiet days, as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Mark and Simon settle into their evening routine just as wordlessly as they have for the last ten days running. Simon heads toward the chuck-wagon, while Mark sees to the horses, making sure they're fed, watered, and properly picketed for the night.

The hush between them is burdensome, weighed down by the unspoken hurt and tension that has been building, only growing worse by the day. The silence is like a physical thing, a dense fog that hangs heavy in the air between them, muffling sounds and making it hard to breathe.

Mark feels it like an itch beneath his skin, a constant, nagging irritation that sets his teeth on edge and makes his hands clench into fists at his sides. He's tired of this, tired of the awkward, stilted interactions and the way they tiptoe around each other like strangers, like two people who haven't spent countless hours in the saddle together, haven't shared meals and campsites and the bone-deep weariness of the trail.

He misses the easy almost friendship they once shared, he misses the sound of Simon's voice.

Most of all, he misses the sense of connection that was just starting to take root between them, that feeling that he'd found someone who understood him, who saw past the greenhorn exterior to the man he was trying to become. He misses the warmth in Simon's eyes when he looked at him, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, the way his touch would linger just a moment too long.

Now, all of that is gone, replaced by a cold, impersonal distance that feels like a physical ache in Mark's chest. And he knows it's his own fault, knows that he's the one who broke the fragile trust between them with his reckless, impulsive actions. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear, doesn't ease the frustration and the longing that coil like twin snakes in his gut.

As he finishes with the horses and makes his way back to the fire, he can feel the tension ratcheting up with every step, the silence growing thicker and more oppressive until it feels like a weight on his shoulders, dragging him down into the dust.

He finds Simon already there, two tin plates of beans and biscuits balanced on his knees. The older cowboy holds one out to him, his expression inscrutable in the flickering light of the flames.

Mark takes it, a sudden lump forming in his throat at the simple gesture of care. He stares down at the food, his appetite gone, as a wave of guilt and frustration washes over him.

"You know you don't have to bring me food," he says abruptly, breaking the uneasy silence that has stretched between them for days. "You could make me go and get it my own damn self."

Simon glances up from where he's hunkered by the fire, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at the sudden outburst. He studies Mark for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the dancing shadows cast by the flames.

"I'll stop if you want me to. No skin off my nose." His voice is gruff, but there's a hint of something else there, a deep sadness that tugs at Mark's heart.

"No, that's not... I am thankful. I just don't know why you're being so damned nice to me still." Mark's words come out in a rush, tinged with a desperate edge.

Simon is quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. When he speaks, his voice is low and measured, as if he's carefully weighing each word.

"You take care of the horses," he says finally, his tone gruff and uncertain. "You set up the fire. I can bring you some grub. Ain't gotta be more to it than that."

Mark huffs out a frustrated breath, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He knows Simon is trying to brush it off, to downplay the significance of his actions. But Mark can't let it go, can't ignore the gnawing sense of guilt and longing that has been eating at him for days.

"Simon, can we just talk? Please?" Mark asks, a note of desperation creeping into his tone. "I am sorry about before. I shouldn't have done that."

Simon's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he looks away, focusing on the embers smoldering at his feet. There's a long, tense moment of silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the distant lowing of the cattle.

"You were probably right to. I can't control myself with an open bottle," Simon admits, his voice rough and low, tinged with self-loathing.

"No, Simon... that's not-" Mark starts, but Simon cuts him off with a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Not what? Not fair? Not true? Who the hell do you think you are? You don't know a goddamned thing about me." Simon's voice rises, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and pain. "I know who I am, kid. I'm a drunk. A no-good, whiskey-soaked failure who can't even make it through a damn cattle drive without the drink."

"Simon, that's not true," Mark protests, his heart aching at the raw vulnerability and self-recrimination in Simon's words. "You're not-"

"You can go on and have the bottle if you want," Simon mutters, cutting him off again. "I'm not even really drinking now." He pauses, a bitter twist to his mouth. "Not sleeping so great either."

With a start, Mark realizes it's true. He doesn't hear the bottle opened at night, even in the midst of all that strained silence. Simon is terse and cool in the mornings, but clear eyed. Mark takes a step forward, his hand half-outstretched in a placating, pleading  gesture. "Simon... I didn't mean it like-"

But Simon cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head, his eyes flashing in the firelight.

"Nah. You did," he says flatly, his gaze boring into Mark's with an intensity that makes the younger man's breath catch in his throat. "Same as Hilbert. Same as Kepler. Same as half the town. And that's fine."

He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for some painful admission. "I know I've crawled into the bottle," he continues, his voice low and heavy with contempt for himself. "And, well... I was thinkin' maybe I can crawl out of it on this drive."

Mark stares at him, his heart breaking at the pain and self-loathing etched into every line of Simon's face.

Mark stares at him, his heart aching at the raw vulnerability in Simon's tone, the weariness etched into every line of his face. He wants to reach out, to offer comfort or absolution, but he knows instinctively that any such gesture would be unwelcome, a presumption too far in this fragile, tentative moment of honesty.

Instead, he simply nods, a jerky bob of his head that feels wholly inadequate in the face of Simon's confession.

"Okay," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Okay. If that's what you want, then... I'm here. If you need anything."

Simon's gaze flickers to his, a brief flash of gratitude mingled with something darker, more haunted.

"I ain't gonna ask you to fix me, kid," he rasps, a wry, self-deprecating twist to his lips. "That's a job for me and me alone, and I ain't sure I'm up to the task." He shakes his head, a rueful chuckle escaping him. "Besides, I reckon you got enough on your plate without taking on my sorry carcass as a project."

Mark frowns, a flame of defiance sparking in his chest.

"You're not a project," he insists, his voice firmer now, more certain. "And you don't need fixing. You're just... human. Same as the rest of us. We all do stupid things." He takes a deep breath, his gaze holding Simon's steadily. "I know I overstepped before," he continues quietly, a note of apology threading through his words. "And I'm sorry for that. Truly. But I'm not sorry for caring about you. For wanting to help, however I can."

"You went about it in the most damn fool way possible." Simon is silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the shifting shadows. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion, barely above a whisper. "I know I ain't been right. Hiding behind a bottle like some yellow-bellied coward. But dammit, Mark, you had no call to go through my things like that. No call at all." He fixes Mark with a piercing stare, his eyes glinting hard as flint in the firelight. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you on the spot. I've known men to do worse for less."

Mark feels his stomach drop, a cold wash of fear and shame flooding through him. He swallows hard, his mouth gone dry as dust.

"I get it. And I'd understand if you wanted me to go ride double with someone else. Just… not him. Anybody but him."

Simon's expression softens slightly, a flicker of something like understanding in his eyes. "I ain't sending you away, you nitwit. I'm not going to stew on something for more'n a week and then spring it on you." He pauses, his gaze searching Mark's face. "And I don't know what's between you and Kepler-"

At the mention of Kepler's name, Mark flinches, his eyes going wide and his face paling visibly even in the dim firelight. It's a visceral reaction, one that speaks of deep, unspoken pain and fear, and Simon feels a sudden, sharp pang of concern.

"Whoa, whoa," he says quickly, holding up a hand as if to calm a spooked horse. "I ain't asking either, kid. That's your business, not mine." He takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm not the kind of man who would do something for no reason but spite or meanness. Sending you to Kepler would just be cruel. And I may be a lot of things, but I ain't cruel. I still got honor."

Mark nods slowly, swallowing hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. "I know," he manages, his voice rough and unsteady. "I... I appreciate that, Simon. More than I can say."

Simon regards him for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the flickering light of the fire. Then, slowly, he reaches out, clasping Mark's shoulder in a firm, steadying grip.

"You're safe with me, kid," he says quietly, his voice low and intense. "I hope you know that. Whatever else happens, whatever else we need to sort out between us... I got your back."

Mark feels a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion at Simon's words, a complex tangle of gratitude and relief and something deeper, something he doesn't quite dare to name. He blinks rapidly, his eyes stinging with unshed tears, and nods jerkily.

"I do know," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly on the words. "Thank you."

For a moment, they sit in silence, the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of the night filling the space between them. Then, Simon takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something difficult.

"I know you saw it," he says abruptly, the words seeming to burst out of him almost against his will. "The locket. In my saddlebag."

Mark feels his heart stutter in his chest, a sudden rush of heat flooding his face. He swallows hard, his mouth gone dry as dust.

The locket...

The memory of that small, silver filigree oval, the faded photograph within, sends a fresh wave of guilt and longing crashing over Mark. The image of the young soldier, his face alight with hope and promise, his crooked smile forever frozen in time. And the inscription, those three simple words heavy with unspoken history and depths of devotion: Forever yours, E.

It wasn't hard to piece together the implications, to read between the lines of that precious, jealously guarded keepsake.

"What?" Mark manages, his voice strangled and thin.

"Now, don't try and lie about it. Not when I'm here on the verge of forgiving you. It wasn't wrapped back up right, so I know you saw it."

"I... Simon, I-" Mark starts, but Simon cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head, his expression pained and vulnerable in the firelight.

"It's alright," he says quietly, his voice little more than a sigh on the night breeze. "I ain't trying to hide it. Not really. It's just..."

He trails off, his gaze distant and haunted, as if seeing into some far-off past. "It's a part of me," he continues finally, his voice low and rough with emotion. "A part I don't talk about much. Not because I'm ashamed, but because... it hurts. Still. After all these years."

Mark nods slowly, a lump rising in his throat.

"I understand," he whispers, the words feeling wholly inadequate in the face of Simon's quiet anguish. "And I'm sorry. For your loss, and for... for intruding on something so private."

Simon shakes his head, a faint, sad smile playing about his lips.

"Ain't nothing to apologize for," he murmurs, his gaze distant, as if seeing into some far-off past. "It was a long time ago. Another life, almost." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, seeming to come back to himself. "Elijah... he was a good man. The best I ever knew. And what we had... it was real. It was true. It was good and true."

His eyes find Mark's, a sudden intensity in their depths that makes the younger man's heart skip a beat. "I ain't ashamed of loving him," he says quietly, a fierce, defiant note in his voice. "And I won't ever be. No matter what anyone says or thinks."

Mark feels a sudden swell of emotion rising in his chest, a complex tangle of admiration and sympathy and something else, something warm and aching that he doesn't dare put a name to. In that moment, Simon seems to him a figure of impossible courage, a man who has weathered the unimaginable and come through the other side with his heart battered but unbroken, his capacity for love undimmed.

And god, how Mark wants to be worthy of that love. Wants to earn the right to stand beside this extraordinary man, to share in his joys and his sorrows.

But he knows that now is not the time for such declarations, for the outpouring of his own messy, unformed feelings. This moment belongs to Simon, to the memories and the emotions that he has carried alone for so long, and Mark will not cheapen it with his own selfish desires. So instead, he simply reaches out, his hand finding Simon's in the darkness and giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. A silent promise of understanding, of acceptance... of a friendship that could perhaps, one day, blossom into something more.

"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice soft but fervent in the hush of the night. "For telling me. For trusting me with this. With him. I know it's not easy, to share something so... so closely held."

Simon's fingers tighten around his, a brief, almost convulsive pressure that sends a shiver down Mark's spine. For a moment, he thinks the other man might say something more, might give voice to the unspoken currents swirling between them.

The crackling fire casts a warm, flickering light over their small camp, the distant sounds of lowing cattle and the soft whickering of horses fading into the night. Simon and Mark sit side by side, their shoulders almost touching as they gaze out into the gathering darkness.

But in the end, Simon simply nods, a jerky bob of his head that could mean anything or nothing at all. Slowly, like he's rethinking his decision the whole time, Simon pulls his hand away from Mark's, leaving a lingering warmth that makes Mark's skin tingle.

"Could see some real nasty weather this drive," Simon says, his voice low and pensive as he stares at the distant horizon. The last rays of the setting sun leave a dim glow just at the edges, gold fading into the deepest violet of twilight. "Saw a sun dog this evening, hovering right over the sun as she set."

Mark frowns, puzzled by the sudden change in the conversation. He shifts slightly, turning to look at Simon's profile in the dancing firelight. "A sun dog? What's that?"

Simon chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes Mark's heart skip a beat. He glances at Mark, his grey eyes sparkling with amusement. "It's a kind of halo around the sun. Old timers say it's a warning, a sign to brace for heat and drought in the summer, wet and storms in the fall. Late drive this year, we might be in for it."

Mark shakes his head, amazed. He leans back on his hands, the rough wool of his bedroll scratching against his palms. "How do you know all this stuff?"

Simon shrugs, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Age. Experience. Listening to my betters when I was young and stupid like you."

Mark raises an eyebrow, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Your betters, huh?"

Simon snorts, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "Believe me, I needed it. I was dumber n' hell when I was your age."

Mark grins, bumping his shoulder against Simon's. "You're not really... all that old now."

Simon turns to look at him, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his gaze. "I'm old enough, too old...-" he says quietly, his voice rougher than usual.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. Mark feels his breath catch in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs as he loses himself in the clear, piercing grey of Simon's eyes.

The moment stretches, the silence between them growing heavy with possibility and unspoken longing. Mark can feel the heat of Simon's body beside him, can smell the familiar scent of leather and sweat and something uniquely Simon. It's intoxicating, being this close to him, and Mark feels a sudden, reckless urge to lean in, to close the last little bit of distance between them and taste the whiskey on Simon's breath.

But just as the tension becomes almost unbearable, just as Mark is about to throw caution to the wind and give in to the desire coursing through his veins... Simon blinks, clearing his throat and looking away.

"Well, look here," Simon says gruffly, pointing up at the night sky. There's a forced casualness to his tone, a deliberate attempt to steer the conversation back to safer ground. He tilts his head back, his gaze fixed on the star-strewn expanse above them. "You see that big dipper up there?"

Mark follows his gaze, squinting against the glittering array of stars. "The Big Dipper?" he asks, his voice coming out a little breathless.

Simon chuckles, shaking his head. "Yes, fine, smart ass. Everyone knows that one." He leans in closer, his shoulder brushing against Mark's as he points to another cluster of stars. "But you see those three bright ones, lined up in a row? That's Orion's Belt. Easiest thing in the sky to find, apart from the dipper."

Mark nods, his eyes tracing the line of stars. "And what's that one, there?" he asks, pointing to a particularly bright star just below Orion's Belt. "The really bright one?"

"That's Sirius," Simon replies, his voice warm with something like affection. "The dog star. Brightest star in the sky, after the sun. You can always find it by following Orion's Belt down to the left."

He shifts slightly, his face so close to Mark's that Mark can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over his cheek. "Old timers used to say that if you got lost, you could find your way home by following the dog star. It rises in the east and sets in the west, just like the sun. So if you keep it on your left shoulder, you'll be heading more or less south."

Mark nods, barely trusting himself to speak. His skin feels electrified, every nerve ending humming with awareness of Simon's proximity.

"What about that one?" he manages, pointing to another bright star near the horizon. "The one that's kind of pinkish?"

Simon follows his gaze, a slow smile spreading across his face. "That's the evening star," he says, his voice low and steady in the darkness. "Venus. The evening  star some folks call it. You can always spot it just after sunset, shining brighter than anything else in the sky."

"Venus," Mark repeats softly, the name feeling strangely significant on his tongue. "Like the goddess of love."

Simon glances at him, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his gaze. "I wouldn't know anything about that," he says quietly, his voice rougher than usual. "But I reckon there's worse things to be named after than love." He clears his throat, looking back up at the sky. "Anyway, the evening star is a good one to know. It always appears in the west, just after sundown. So if you can find it, you'll always know which way is west."

Mark nods, trying to commit Simon's words to memory. "So that's the dog star to find your way south. North star for north. Evening star for west. How do I figure out which way is east?"

Simon turns to look at him, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Well now, let's see. A sensible man would probably go in the last direction he ain't got a star for."

Mark blinks, then lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head ruefully. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

Simon chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Like a blind man into a saloon door."

They laugh together, the sound ringing out across the quiet prairie, and Mark feels something loosen in his chest. It's the first real moment of levity they've shared in days, the first time the tension between them has eased enough to allow for this kind of easy, teasing banter.

It feels good, feels right in a way that makes Mark's heart ache with a sweet, fierce longing. He's missed this, missed the way they can joke and rib each other without fear or hesitation, the way they seem to fit together like two halves of a whole.

As their laughter fades, Simon leans in closer, his shoulder bumping against Mark's in a gesture that feels both casual and deliberate. "But in all seriousness," he says, his voice low and warm in the darkness, "if you want to find east, just look for the sun. It always rises in the east and sets in the west, no matter where you are in the world."

Mark nods, swallowing hard against the sudden dryness in his throat. Simon is so close, close enough that he can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of their shirts, close enough that he could count every one of the man's eyelashes if he dared.

For one dizzying, suspended moment, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of them, poised on the brink of something momentous and terrifying and wonderful. Mark's gaze drops to Simon's lips, so tantalizingly close, and he feels a surge of longing so intense it makes him ache. It would be so easy to lean in and close the distance between them. To brush his mouth against Simon's and taste him, to lose himself in the heat and the hunger of a kiss that feels inevitable, inescapable. He can imagine it, the rasp of Simon's stubble against his skin, the slide of their lips and the tangle of their tongues. Can almost feel the way Simon's hands would come up to cup his face, to tangle in his hair and pull him closer, deeper.

The air between them is electric, crackling with tension and unspoken desire. Mark's heart is pounding so hard he's sure Simon must be able to hear it, must be able to feel the way his body is thrumming with need and want and desperate, aching hope.

But just as he's about to give in, to surrender to the magnetic pull that's drawing him inexorably towards Simon, the older man is pulling away, clearing his throat and turning to poke at the dying embers of the fire with a stick.

"We should get some sleep," he says gruffly, not quite meeting Mark's eyes. "Dawn comes early out here."

Mark nods, swallowing past the sudden tightness in his throat. He feels cold suddenly, bereft, like he's lost something precious and fleeting, and he bites back on the words that want to rise to his lips, the questions and confessions and declarations that burn like a fever in his blood. He knows that Simon is right, that the demands of the trail wait for no man, and that they both need rest if they're to face the challenges of the day ahead.

But as he settles into his bedroll, the warmth of Simon's touch still lingering on his skin, he can't help but feel that something has shifted between them tonight. That in the shared vulnerability and quiet understanding of this moment, they've taken a step closer to each other, a step towards something real and true and worth fighting for.

It's a fragile hope, a tentative beginning. But it's there, glimmering in the darkness like a star, a guiding light on the long, uncertain road ahead. And for now, that's enough. It has to be.

With a sigh, Mark closes his eyes and lets the sounds of the night - the crackle of the fire, the soft breathing of the horses, the distant yip of a coyote - lull him into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

The first rays of dawn are just cresting the ridge along the eastern horizon when Mark stretches himself out of his bedroll, stiff and aching from yet another night in the cold prairie dirt. For a long moment he just sits and adjusts to being awake while breathing in the crisp, cool air.

The morning is quiet, and Mark can feel the day just beginning to stir to life around him - the distant lowing of the cattle, the trill of a meadowlark greeting the morning, the soft rustling of the tall grass in the breeze.

He turns to wake Simon, only to find him already up and banking up the remains of last night's fire. Mark pauses, stopping to just watch, captivated by the sight of him in the growing light.

There is an ease to Simon's movements this morning, a fluid grace that draws Mark's eye and sends a flutter through his chest. The tension that had held Simon's shoulders rigid over the past days seems to have melted away, leaving him looser, more at peace in his own skin.

As Mark watches, Simon straightens, rolling his neck and stretching out the kinks of a night on the hard ground. The motion pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders, the lean muscles of his back flexing beneath the thin fabric, and Mark feels his mouth go dry, a familiar heat kindling low in his belly.

The golden morning light paints Simon in shades of bronze and honey, gilding the planes of his face and catching in his copper hair. It softens him somehow, smooths away the lines of worry and cynicism that so often crease his brow, and leaves him looking younger, more open.

When Simon turns and catches Mark staring, a smile tugs at his mouth, crinkling the corners of his eyes. There is a warmth in that clear grey gaze as it meets Mark's own, an unguarded tenderness that sends Mark's pulse stuttering and starts a sweet ache blooming behind his ribs.

In that suspended moment, with the promise of a new day stretching ahead of them and the previous night's rediscovered sense of understanding and ease between them, Mark feels a surge of longing so intense it steals his breath. He wants to cross the distance from his bedroll to the fire and trace the curve of that smile with his fingertips, to feel the rasp of stubble against his palm and the heat of Simon's skin beneath his hands.

He wants to lean in and catch the scent of wood smoke and leather he knows clings to Simon, wants to bury his face in the crook of the other man's neck and just breathe him in. Wants to wrap himself in the solid strength of Simon's body and never let go.

But he knows he can't act on these desires, not yet, maybe not ever. Knows that for all the progress they made last night, for all that he thinks he can feel the shape of Simon's own want in every charged glance and brush of shoulders, they still have miles to go. There are still fences to mend and trusts to rebuild, still words that need to be said and choices that need to be made.

And yet... there had been something in the way Simon spoke of Elijah, a raw honesty and quiet defiance that felt weighted with unspoken meaning. In the flickering firelight, with the prairie night vast and secret around them, Simon had looked at Mark and told him, clearly and unflinching, that he wasn't ashamed of loving a man. That he never would be, no matter what anyone thought.

At the time, with his heart in his throat and his pulse pounding in his ears, Mark had thought, had hoped, that maybe it was Simon's way of saying without saying. Of hinting that if Mark were to make his own feelings known, they might not be wholly unwelcome. That the current of electricity that always seems to thrum between them, the magnetic pull he feels towards Simon, might not be as one-sided as he fears.

But now, in the cold light of day, doubt creeps in like a killing frost. Because what could Simon, strong and steady, scarred but unbroken by the cruelties of the world, possibly see in a green, untested boy like Mark? A boy who hides his demons behind a soft smile and a stubborn jaw, a boy whose edges haven't yet been roughed up and weathered by time. Mark feels coltish and awkward next to the solid, self-assured presence of Simon, all elbows and skittish uncertainty.

So Mark just contents himself with letting his gaze linger for just a moment longer, with savoring the unvarnished beauty of Simon in the dawn light. And when Simon quirks an eyebrow at him in silent question, a ghost of that warm smile still playing about his lips, Mark just shakes his head and grins, moving to join him by the fire.

"Morning," he greets softly, bumping his shoulder gently against Simon's as he crouches down beside him.

"Morning," Simon responds quietly, his voice still rough with sleep. He gestures to a battered coffee pot nestled in the embers. "Coffee'll be ready soon."

Mark nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he settles down beside Simon, leaving their shoulders pressed together. The warmth of the fire, the warmth of Simon beside him chases away the lingering chill of the night all the way down to Mark's core.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze flicking to Simon's face and then away again, before taking a deep breath and making an proposition that feels momentous, weighted with unspoken meaning.

"Do you want me to head to the chuck wagon? See if they have breakfast on yet?"

The words come out slightly rushed, a hint of nervousness threading through his tone. It's a small thing on the surface - just an offer to fetch their morning meal, to save Simon the trouble. But they both know it's more than that. It's another apology, an additional pleas for forgiveness. 

Simon seems to understand the weight of the offer, the unspoken depths beneath the simple question. His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise and something softer, more tender crossing his face before he schools his features back into their usual inscrutable mask.

"Nah," he says after a beat, his voice still sleep rough but warm and kind. "We're coming up on two weeks out, kid. Chuck wagon will mostly be supper and Sunday meals only now. Cookie has nearly two dozen cowhands to feed and needs those rations to stretch." He leans back on his haunches, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he squints out at the lightening horizon. "God willing and the creek don't rise, we'll make it to Chicago in ten weeks, but twelve is more reasonable. And fourteen or fifteen ain't outside the realm of possibility."

Mark frowns, unease stirring in his gut. "Why would it take that long?"

Simon shrugs, a wry twist to his mouth. "Could be any number of things. Flash flood. Prairie fire. Bandits or rustlers. Stampede scatters the herd and you gotta take the time to gather 'em back up." He gives Mark a sidelong glance, his grey eyes sparkling with a lurid sort of shine. "Hell kid, I heard tell of a drive a few years back that got stuck in some shit hole back water town when the hands all got yellow fever."

"Oh." Mark swallows hard, the reality of the dangers they face out here hitting him all over again. He's suddenly acutely aware of how much he relies on Simon, how absolutely lost he would be out here without the older cowboy's steady presence at his side.

Simon must see some of that realization on his face, because his expression softens, and he reaches out to clasp Mark's shoulder briefly. "So we'll take care of our ownselves most mornings now. Part of the job, part of learning the trail."

Mark nods, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

"Alright. I can handle that." He meets Simon's gaze, holding it steadily. "I'm glad you're here to teach me."

Something flickers in Simon's eyes at that, something warm and wanting that sends a pleasant shiver down Mark's spine.

"I'm glad you're here to learn," he replies quietly, the words hanging between them, heavy with possible meaning.

For a long moment, they just look at each other, the air teeming with all the things still left unsaid. Then Simon clears his throat and looks away, busying himself with pulling the coffee pot from the fire.

"You best get some breakfast going, then," he says gruffly, but it's undercut with more of that blooming warmth. "I don't know about you, but I am powerful hungry."

Mark grins, the knot of tension in his chest easing. "I could eat," he agrees, reaching for the sack of cornmeal.

They work in companionable silence, the awkwardness and strain of the past days just starting to melt away in the simple rituals of the morning. And as Mark stirs the bubbling pot of hominy grits, sneaking glances at Simon in the growing sunlight, he feels the strains of something warm and hopeful kindling in his chest again.

Last night's conversation had shifted something fundamental between them, cracked open the door to a new understanding and a different kind of closeness. There was still so much left unspoken, still wounds and scars they both carried that would need to be navigated with care. But at the very least, the ice had been broken, the first tentative seeds of trust and forgiveness sown back.

As they sit together and eat, the sounds of the herd coming to life around them, Mark feels lighter than he has in weeks - the burden of guilt and uncertainty not gone, but eased somewhat.

"All right kid," Simon says abruptly, dusting off his hands and squinting into the rising sun. "If you want to clean up here and get mounted up, I'll be back in just a tick."

Mark looks up from where he's scraping the last of the cornmeal mush from the pot, a questioning tilt to his head. "Where you headed?"

A slow grin spreads across Simon's face, a glint of mischief dancing in his grey eyes.

"I got a date with the prettiest girl on the prairie," he drawls, winking.

For a moment, Mark's heart stutters in his chest, a sickly twist of jealousy he has no right to feel coiling in his gut before realization dawns. He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head ruefully. "Mariposa. Right."

Simon pauses, something unreadable racing across his face as he takes in Mark's reaction. For a heartbeat, he seems poised on the edge of saying something, his eyes searching Mark's with an intensity that makes the younger man's breath catch.

But then the moment passes, and Simon's expression shutters, a wry half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, Mariposa…-"

Simon suddenly seems unsure of himself, wrong-footed by the unexpected flash of emotion in Mark's eyes.

He clears his throat, looking away as he adjusts his hat. "Anyway. I better get going. She's probably wondering where I am."

"Go on then," Mark mumbles, waving Simon off with an awkward smile he hopes doesn't look as clumsy as it feels. He hadn't meant to let his feelings actually show, to let that traitorous spike of envy slip past his guard. But in that unguarded moment, with the exhaustion and the intimacy of the morning softening his defenses, he hadn't been able to stop it. "Don't keep a lady waiting."

Simon tosses him a jaunty wink and salute and strides off towards the remuda, his lean form quickly swallowed up by the milling herd.

Mark watches him go, a tangle of confusion and chagrin and something far too close to hope knotting beneath his breastbone.

He can almost let himself imagine that it means something more, that the gentle teasing and casual touches carry a promissory weight. That the heat he sometimes catches in Simon's gaze when the older drover thinks he's not looking is more than just a trick of the light.

And now, with the memory of Simon's startled expression seared into his mind, he can't help but wonder... what had that look meant? That fleeting instant of raw, unfiltered reaction before the shutters came down and the easy, well-worn patterns of their interactions reasserted themselves.

Had it been surprise at the depth of emotion in Mark's face, at the unintentional revelation of feelings too strong to be brushed off as mere friendly concern? Discomfort at being the object of such transparent yearning, the kind that can't be laughed away or ignored?

Or... and the thought makes something wild and reckless and untamed bloom hot in Mark's chest... had it been something else entirely? A mirror of his own helpless wanting, a recognition of the live wire of tension that thrums between them, the unspoken pull that seems to draw them inexorably into each other's orbit?

He doesn't know, can't be sure.

But as he turns back to his tasks, his heart racing, he feels the ground shifting beneath his feet, the world rearranging itself into new, complicated and terrifying shapes.

His hands move through the already familiar motions - scraping the dishes clean with sand and dry grass, rolling up the bedrolls, scattering the remains of the fire, and Mark's mind begins to wander. He lets himself slip into his new, hazy but favorite daydream; the wildly improbable imagined future that he has constructed for himself and Simon in stolen moments just like these.

In his mind's eye, he sees a snug little cabin nestled in the foothills of some far western mountain range. A home, just big enough for two, crafted from sturdy logs and sweat and laughter. He pictures a fenced pasture with maybe a cow or two grazing peacefully, a small garden plot bursting with tomatoes and beans, a hen house clucking with fat speckled chickens.

But more than anything, he imagines having a life with Simon at its center. Waking every morning to the warmth of Simon's body curled around his beneath a soft patchwork quilt. Sharing a steaming mug of coffee on the porch as the sun rises, trading slow kisses flavored with the bitter bite of the brew. Working side by side in easy silence, hands roughened by honest labor brushing with casual intimacy as they mend a fence or bring in the cows.

He pictures lazy evenings by the fireplace, Simon whittling away at some small wooden trinket while he reads from a worn book, the two of them nestled together on a rough hewn settee.

The firelight would play across Simon's features, gilding his copper hair and casting his face in planes of light and shadow. Mark would find his gaze drawn to the strong, sure movements of Simon's hands, the flex of tendons in his wrists, and a different kind of heat would kindle low in his belly.

He imagines playful wrestling matches that turn heated, clothes discarded in a trail to the bed where they would come together in a tangle of limbs and gasps and reverent whispers.

In this safe haven of his own making, there are no prying eyes, no judgmental whispers, no need to hide or pretend. There, the only rhythm to their days would be the turning of the seasons; the only hardships, small domestic trials like broken axles and early frosts.

It's an uncomplicated, unvarnished dream, perhaps, but one he cherishes. A dream of safety and simplicity, of love and passion and quiet certainty.

Because in those quiet moments, with the vast plains sky stretching endlessly above him and the reassuring sound of the herd in his ears, Mark can almost believe that it's possible. That someday, when the last steer is sold and the wages are collected, Simon would look at him and he would know and they could simply ride off into the sunset together. They could hang up their spurs and find a new dream to chase, one that belongs only to them.

But even if by some miracle Simon did look on him with favor, even if all Mark's desperate, half-formed hopes proved true... what future could they possibly have? The world is not kind to men like them, to the love they might try to build in stolen moments on the trail. There would be no cozy cabin, no easy affection of a shared life for them, only secrecy and subterfuge, always looking over their shoulders and hiding.

Is it fair of Mark to even wish in his heart of hearts for such a thing, knowing the risks and the hardships it would bring to Simon's door? The man has lost so much already, carries so many burdens on his shoulders. How can Mark, who dreams of being his comfort and his strength, instead ask him to shoulder this too, to take on the weight of Mark's tender, treacherous wanting?

No, he tells himself firmly, trying to banish the stubborn kernel of hope that refuses to be dislodged from his rib cage. Simon's confession last night was not meant as an overture, or an invitation. It was just... Simon. Brave and true, laying himself bare in an act of trust, an olive branch after so much strife between them. To twist that into something else in the depths of his love-drunk mind would be the worst kind of betrayal.

And yet... and yet. Mark can't quite shake the delicate, unfurling thing that took root in the secret soil of his heart the moment those words left Simon's lips. Because now, in a way he never dared before... he knows. Knows that a life like the one he yearns for, a love like the one he feels straining at his seams with every breath... it's possible. For men like him, like them.

And that changes everything, even as it changes absolutely nothing at all. Because the obstacles in their path, both the vast, uncaring ones of a hostile world and the smaller, more painful ones of their own making, loom as large as ever. But armed with this new, fragile knowledge, Mark feels something slotting into place deep in his soul. A bright, precious possibility blossoming with the dawn, gilding the edges of the world with hope.

A whinny and a familiar whistle jolts Mark from his day dreams. He looks up to see Simon approaching with Mariposa in tow, a rakish grin on his face as he takes in Mark's slightly glazed expression.

"You look about a million miles away there, kid," he teases as he draws even with Mark. "See something you like out there on the horizon?"

Mark flushes, hoping the color will be attributed to the rising sun and not his wandering thoughts. If only Simon knew just how far his imagination had carried them beyond that distant horizon...-

"Just wool-gathering, I guess," he mumbles, ducking his head to check the girth on his own horse one last time. "Thinking about the future, maybe. About what comes after the trail."

He risks a glance up at Simon from beneath the brim of his hat, trying to gauge the other man's reaction. But Simon just looks thoughtful, his grey eyes soft and a little wistful as he too stares out across the waking prairie.

"Nothing wrong with a little dreaming," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Lord knows it's what keeps a man going out here sometimes, the thought of something waiting for him at the end of the road."

His gaze turns distant, almost yearning, and for a fleeting moment Mark could swear he sees a reflection of his own longing in those storm-cloud eyes.

"A little patch of land somewhere green and quiet," Simon murmurs, so low Mark almost misses it beneath the gentle rustling of the grass. "A place to hang your hat and rest your bones at the end of the day. Someplace that's yours. Someone to share it with, maybe."

He shakes his head then, a slightly mournful twist to his lips, as if he's said too much, revealed more than he intended. His eyes find Mark's, holding them for a breathless instant before he looks away again, a faint flush staining his cheekbones beneath his weathered tan.

"Listen to me, going on like some starry-eyed kid," he huffs, the moment of raw vulnerability disappearing like a popped bubble.

He swings himself up into the saddle in one smooth motion, gathering the reins in callused hands. But when he glances down at Mark, there's a softness to his expression that belies the gruffness of his words, a glimmer of something unspoken and tender in the curl of his mouth.

"Can't spend too long building castles in the clouds; we don't have the time for filling our heads with maybes and might-bes. Plenty of work to be done right here and now, plenty of cows that need getting to Chicago."

And with that, he clucks to Mariposa and sets off towards the herd, leaving Mark to scramble into his own saddle and follow.

Simon is right, of course. The dream will keep for another day, banked low like campfire embers against the chill of reality. For now, there are miles to cover and cattle to tend.

And if some part of Mark thrills to the unspoken promise in that wistful look, the hint of shared yearning and tentative hope. Well. That too is a warmth he will cherish close, a spark to be nurtured and tended until the time is right for it to blossom into flame.

The morning passes in a blur of dusty miles and endless, flat blue sky, the monotony broken only by the lowing of the cattle and the creak of saddle leather. Mark loses himself in the rhythm of the ride, letting the sway of his horse and the warmth of the sun lull him into a kind of walking meditation.

Beside him, Simon is a steady presence, as solid and unshakable as the earth beneath their feet. They don't speak much beyond the occasional murmured command or observation, but the silence between them is companionable now, easy in a way it hasn't been since the beginning of the drive.

It's well into the afternoon when Simon reins up beside Mark's mount suddenly, his keen gaze fixed on a point in the distance. Mark squints against the glare, trying to make out what has caught the other man's attention, but all he sees is the shimmering heat haze and the endless expanse of grass.

"There," Simon says, pointing off to the west. "See that brush line? How the land dips down just a little bit?"

Mark frowns, scanning the horizon until he spots the faint smudge of darker green, the barely perceptible fold in the landscape that Simon is indicating. He nods, glancing over at the older cowboy curiously.

"I see it. I think I do at least. What about it?"

Simon's mouth quirks in that familiar half-smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "That, kid, is what we call a draw. A little creek bed, probably dry this time of year, but still a place where water collects when it rains."

He urges Mariposa forward, setting off at an angle towards the distant draw. "Come on. I'll show you something."

Intrigued, Mark follows, letting his horse pick its way through the knee-high grass in Simon's wake. As they approach the draw, he begins to see what Simon means - the land does slope downward, forming a shallow depression that cuts a meandering path through the prairie.

When they reach the edge of the gully, Simon swings down from the saddle, ground-tying Mariposa with a practiced motion. He beckons for Mark to do the same, then leads the way down the gentle incline into the draw itself.

The change is immediate and startling. Down here, out of the relentless sun and drying wind, the air is cooler, more still. The grass is thicker, shot through with wildflowers in delicate shades of purple and yellow, and the soft gurgle of water over stones tells Mark that the creek bed isn't as dry as it appears from above.

"Huh " Simon crouches down at the edge of the water, trailing his fingers through the clear, burbling stream. He glances up at Mark, a glint of wonderment in his eyes.

"Something interesting?" Mark asks, intrigued by Simon's sudden focus.

"Yeah, a water hole," Simon explains, his voice low and almost reverent in the hush of the little oasis. "A spring where the water comes up from underground, even in the dry times. It's always good water if you need it. They're few and far between out here, but if you know where to look...-"

He shrugs, bending down to fill their canteens, letting the unfinished thought hang in the shimmering air. He passes one over to Mark, who takes it gratefully, suddenly realizing how parched his throat has become in the interminable heat and dust of the prairie.

Mark raises the canteen to his lips, taking a long, deep pull of the spring water. His eyes widen in surprise as the liquid hits his tongue, and he lowers the canteen slowly, staring at it in wonder.

"It's cold," he murmurs, a note of awe in his voice. "And sweet. Not like the stuff we've been drinking."

Simon chuckles, nodding as he fills his own canteen. "That's the beauty of these springs. The water comes from deep down, where it stays cool and clean. You could drink your fill here and never worry about getting sick."

Mark takes another sip, savoring the crisp, pure taste. It's like nothing he's ever experienced before, a world away from the brackish, stagnant water he's grown accustomed to on the trail.

"I never would have guessed this was here," he admits, looking around at the unassuming landscape, the dry grass and scrubby brush that conceals this hidden oasis. "How did you know where to find it?"

Simon shrugs, a small, enigmatic smile playing about his lips. "Years of experience. You'll learn to read the land too, eventually, see the signs that most folks would miss." He gestures to the surrounding vegetation, the subtle variations in color and texture. "The way the grass grows a little greener here, the types of plants that only take root where there's steady water. It's all there, if you know how to look."

Mark shakes his head, a surge of admiration and affection welling up in his chest. It's moments like these that remind him just how much Simon knows, how deeply attuned he is to the rhythms and secrets of this wild, unforgiving land.

"You're amazing," he says softly, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Simon ducks his head, a faint flush rising on his sun-bronzed cheeks. "It's nothing special," he mutters, scuffing at the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Just a lot of time spent paying attention, is all."

He takes a deep breath, as if shaking off the moment of vulnerability, and scans the surroundings with a sharp, keen eye. Suddenly, he stills, his gaze locking onto something in the distance.

"Hey, kid," he says, his voice low and intent. "How good a shot are you?"

Mark blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "Not bad," he replies hesitantly. "Not great. Why?"

Simon nods towards a patch of brush a few dozen yards away. "There's a jackrabbit over yonder. If you're quick and quiet enough, we could have something better than salt pork tonight."

Mark follows his gaze, squinting against the glare of what sun filters through the thicker brush. At first, he sees nothing but the play of light and shadow on the scrubby vegetation. But then, a flicker of movement catches his eye, and he makes out the distinctive shape of a rabbit's ears poking up from behind a clump of sagebrush.

His heart quickens, a thrill of excitement and trepidation racing through him. He's never been much of a hunter, but the thought of impressing Simon, of proving himself capable and self-sufficient, is a powerful lure.

Slowly, carefully, he eases his rifle from its sling, wincing at the faint creak of leather in the stillness. He brings the weapon to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel as he tries to steady his breathing, to calm the tremor in his hands.

Beside him, Simon is a solid presence, his gaze intent on the distant rabbit. "Take your time," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "Line up your shot, and let your breath out slow and steady before you pull the trigger."

Mark nods, trying to focus past the pounding of his pulse in his ears. He trains his sights on the rabbit, tracking its subtle movements as it noses through the brush. His finger tightens on the trigger, and he takes a deep, steadying breath as he squeezes the trigger.

The crack of the rifle shatters the silence, sending a flock of startled birds wheeling into the sky. Mark lowers the gun, peering through the drifting cordite smoke to see if his shot found its target.

But the rabbit is gone, vanished into the underbrush as if it were never there at all. A pang of disappointment washes through him, sharp and sudden, and he turns to Simon with an apologetic grimace.

"Sorry," he mutters, feeling his cheeks heat with embarrassment. "I guess I'm not as good a shot as I thought."

To his surprise, Simon just chuckles, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it," he says easily. "That was a tough shot, even for an experienced hunter. You did well, keeping your cool and taking your time."

He takes the rifle from Mark's hands, his fingers brushing against Mark's in a brief, electric touch. "Here, let me show you a trick."

He settles the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, his posture relaxed but alert.

"When you're aiming at a small target like that, it's easy to tense up, to hold your breath without realizing it. That's what throws off your shot." He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he sights down the barrel. "The key is to breathe through it. To let your body find its natural rhythm, and to squeeze the trigger on the exhale, like it's just an extension of your breath."

He demonstrates, his finger tightening on the trigger in a smooth, fluid motion. The rifle bucks against his shoulder, and in the distance, a bright yellow wildflower explodes in a puff of petals, cleanly decapitated by the shot.

Mark lets out a low whistle of appreciation, his eyes widening in amazement. "Damn. That was... I mean, I could barely even see that flower from here, let alone hit it."

Simon chuckles, lowering the rifle and turning to Mark with a grin. "Like I said, practice. When you've spent as much time behind a gun as I have, you learn to pick your targets, even the small ones."

He hands the rifle back to Mark, his calloused fingers brushing against Mark's palm in a fleeting touch that sends sparks racing up the younger man's arm.

"Here, let's try again. See that patch of bluebonnets over there, just to the left of that scraggly mesquite tree?"

Mark nods, squinting against the glare of the sun as he tries to spot the tiny blossoms amidst the sea of waving grass.

"Alright, now bring the rifle up, just like before." Simon steps in close behind him, his chest brushing against Mark's back as he reaches around to adjust the younger man's grip on the stock. "Keep your elbow tucked in, and your hand firm but not too tight on the fore-stock."

His breath is warm against the shell of Mark's ear, sending a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with the balmy spring breeze. This close, he can smell the familiar scent of Simon's sweat and leather and tobacco, can feel the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of their shirts.

It's intoxicating, being in such proximity to the man who haunts his every waking thought and midnight dream. Mark has to fight to keep his focus, to remember to breathe as Simon's hands settle on his hips, gently correcting his stance.

"Square up to the target," Simon murmurs, his voice low and intimate, meant for Mark's ears alone. "Feet shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed. You want to be steady, but not rigid."

His palms slide up Mark's sides, feather-light and inexorable, until they come to rest on his shoulders.

"Relax," he breathes, his thumbs digging into the tension at the base of Mark's neck. "Don't hold yourself so stiff. Let your body find its natural alignment."

Mark takes a shuddery breath, willing his racing heart to slow, his jumpy nerves to settle. It's difficult, with Simon's touch igniting flames under his skin, his nearness clouding Mark's head with a heady mix of longing and trepidation.

But gradually, infinitesimally, he feels himself relaxing into Simon's grip, his muscles loosening and his spine lengthening until he's standing tall and easy, the rifle nestled into the pocket of his shoulder like it was made to fit there.

"Good," Simon praises softly, the word barely more than a whispered exhale against Mark's cheek. "Now, take a deep breath in... and let it out slow as you line up your shot. Keep both eyes open, and focus on the front sight."

Mark does as he's told, breathing in the mingled scents of gunmetal and sweat and Simon, letting the rest of the world fall away until there is only the target, the rifle, and the man at his back, anchoring him.

He can feel Simon's heartbeat, steady and strong, as he sights down the barrel, the tiny blue flowers wavering in and out of focus as he tries to still the trembling in his hands.

"Settle," Simon whispers, one hand coming up to cup Mark's elbow, the pad of his thumb stroking softly over the sensitive skin on the inside. "Take your time. Let it come to you."

And slowly, gradually, it does. The tremors ease, the world sharpens, and Mark can feel the shot lining up like the pieces of a puzzle slotting into place. His breathing evens out, syncing with Simon's until they're moving as one creature, one entity poised on the cusp of perfect execution.

"Now," Simon breathes, and it's less a command than it is a benediction, a gentle push over the edge into free-fall.

Mark squeezes the trigger, smooth and even, just like Simon showed him. The rifle bucks against his shoulder, the report echoing off the hillsides like a clap of thunder.

And in the distance, a tiny blue blossom disintegrates, the stem cleanly severed by the force of the bullet.

Mark lets out a whoop of exhilaration, the rush of triumph surging through him like a breaking wave. He twists in Simon's arms, his face splitting into a grin so wide it hurts.

"Did you see that?" he crows, his eyes alight with joy and wonder. "I hit it! I actually hit it!"

Simon's answering smile is soft and proud, his gaze warm with affection as he looks down at Mark.

"I saw," he confirms, giving Mark's shoulders a gentle squeeze. "Knew you had it in you. You're a natural, kid."

The praise washes over Mark like honeyed sunlight, sweet and golden and intoxicating. He feels giddy, drunk on success and Simon's approval, on the electrifying nearness of him, the heat of his body seeping into Mark's own until he feels lit up from the inside out.

For a moment, they just look at each other, the air between them thick and charged, the last few minutes before a storm, crackling with an electricity that makes the hair prickle up on Mark's arms. Then Simon clears his throat, breaking the spell.

"Come on," he says, nodding towards the horses. "We should get back to the herd. Don't want them getting too far ahead of us."

Mark nods, feeling a pang of reluctance even as he falls into step beside Simon. Part of him wants to stay here forever, in this quiet, hidden glade where the rest of the world feels far away and anything seems possible.

But he knows they have a job to do, knows that the trail waits for no man. And so he mounts up, the familiar motion grounding him, bringing him back to the present.

As they ride out, leaving the little oasis behind, Mark can't help but steal glances at Simon, at the strong, sure set of his shoulders and the way the sunlight gilds his hair. Can't help but replay the moment by the spring, the heated glances and lingering touches, the words spoken and those left silent.

He tucks it away inside himself, a secret, cherished thing to be taken out and examined in the quiet moments of long, lonely nights. A reminder that there is more to this journey than dust and sweat and endless miles.

There is beauty, too, and the chance for something rare and precious to take root even in places that seemed hostile. Something that could grow, if given a chance, if tended with care and patience.

The sun dips lower on the horizon as they ride, the shadows lengthening across the undulating sea of grass. The herd moves at a steady pace, the lowing of the cattle and the rhythmic clop of hooves a soothing backdrop to the companionable silence that stretches between the two men.

Mark is lost in thought, his mind still circling the loaded moment back at the spring, when Simon's voice suddenly cuts through his reverie.

"Hey, Mark."

The use of his given name startles Mark out of his musing, and he turns to look at Simon with a raised eyebrow. It's rare for the older man to call him anything but 'kid' or the occasional 'greenhorn', and the change in address sends a little thrill through him.

Simon is pointing at a cow on the fringes of the herd, his gaze fixed on the animal. "That heifer over there, what do you notice about her?"

Mark squints at the cow in question, trying to pick out anything unusual. She's a pretty standard looking Hereford, her coat gleaming in the slanting late afternoon light.

"She's brown?" he ventures, earning a snort of amusement from Simon. "Not really wandering off, but not really with the herd either? I... I don't know?"

Simon nods, a smile that almost looks proud playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah. Good, good. She's been spurring off the last few days now. She look any bigger to you?"

Mark frowns, studying the heifer more intently. Maybe there's a little more roundness to her belly, a slight bulge at her flanks that the other cows don't have. But he can't be sure if it's just his imagination, primed by Simon's questioning.

"I have no idea how to answer that," he admits, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "All these cows look pretty big."

Simon chuckles, the sound warm and rich as molasses tarts.

"She's pregnant, far along too." he says, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

"What?" Mark yelps, nearly dropping his reins in surprise. His mind immediately goes to the bulls they have left back in town. The ones that were supposed to be kept separate to prevent just this sort of situation. "Pregnant? How?"

Simon laughs outright at Mark's gobsmacked expression, shaking his head. "Oh, kid. Don't tell me you're that green. Well, when a lady cow and a bull really like each other...-"

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Mark feels his face flame even as he huffs out a begrudging laugh.

"No, goddammit, I know what pregnant means," he grumbles, shooting Simon a halfhearted glare. "How can you tell?"

Simon's grin softens into something more thoughtful, his gaze returning to the lone heifer.

"A few things," he says, his voice taking on the patient, instructive tone that never fails to make Mark feel simultaneously flustered and eager to learn. "The way she's hanging back from the herd, for one. Cows get more solitary when they're close to calving. And see how her udder is starting to fill out, get a bit swollen? That's a sure sign she's getting ready to drop a calf."

Mark follows Simon's gaze, noticing for the first time the slight bagging at the cow's underbelly. Now that he's looking for it, it does seem obvious, and he feels a flush of chagrin at his own obliviousness.

Simon must notice Mark's embarrassment, because he reaches over to clap him on the shoulder, his touch lingering just a moment longer than strictly necessary.

"Don't beat yourself up," he says kindly. "It takes time to learn to read the signs. Lord knows I didn't just wake up one day with all this knowledge rattling around in my head."

Mark nods, his brow furrowing as he watches the lone cow ambling along the edge of the herd.

"What do we do about it?" he asks, a note of concern creeping into his voice.

Simon sighs, his expression turning somber. "Ain't much to do. Nature tends to have a lot more say in this situation than one old cowhand. We'll watch her. Help her if she needs it and keep an eye on the little one if it makes it."

Mark swallows hard, a sinking feeling settling into the pit of his stomach. "And when we get to Chicago?"

The question hangs heavy in the air between them, weighted with a grim understanding that makes Mark's heart ache. He knows, deep down, what the answer will be.

Simon meets his gaze, his eyes filled with a weary, resigned sort of sorrow that speaks of too many hard truths, too many harsh realities faced head-on.

"It's out of our hands when we get to Chicago," he says quietly, his voice rough. "There's a chance - not a good one, mind, but a chance - if she's young enough, she might end up a dairy cow rather than on the line."

The words hit Mark like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs. He's known, of course, what fate awaits the herd at the end of the trail. Has always known, even if he's done his best not to dwell on it, to push the knowledge to the back of his mind and focus on the day-to-day tasks of the drive.

But hearing it laid out so starkly, so matter-of-factly... it makes it real in a way it hasn't been before, a cold, hard fact that he can no longer ignore or deny.

"And the calf?" he manages to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

Simon's expression twists, a flash of raw, aching empathy that makes Mark's throat tighten and his eyes sting.

"Oh... kid," he sighs, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. It's the job. Maybe the heavens open up and someone happens to be at the lot at the exact time we get there and happens to be looking for a single calf. But then again, maybe I get elected President. Sure, it's a possibility, but it ain't really, you know?"

Mark nods, blinking hard against the sudden blurring of his vision. "Yeah... No. That... That makes sense."

And it does, in a cruel, cold-blooded sort of way. This is the business they're in, the hard, unforgiving reality of the cattle trade.

It's a truth that Mark has always known, on some level. Has always understood, even if he's never quite let himself confront it head-on. But now, faced with the plight of this one expectant mother, this one fragile new life... it hits him like a freight train, a sickening, soul-deep horror that makes him want to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all.

He thinks of the heifer, of the way she'll look at them with those big, brown eyes, so trusting and unknowing. Thinks of the calf, a baby who'll only ever know a hot, long slog to a loud city, likely to be snuffed out before it ever has a chance to get to grow into something more.

It feels like a tragedy, and it makes Mark's very soul ache with the wrongness of it.

Beside him, Simon seems to sense his turmoil, his despair. The older man reaches out, gripping Mark's shoulder in a firm, grounding clasp, his touch a lifeline in the storm of Mark's emotions.

"I know," he says softly, his voice thick with shared grief, with the weight of too many years bearing witness to this same, unending cycle of life and death. "I know it don't seem fair, it don't seem right. But it's the way of things. You can't have beef without cattle, and people ain't gonna stop wanting beef just because we feel bad for the cows. The best we can do... the only thing we can do... is try to make it as easy on them as we can. To show a little kindness, a little mercy, where we're able."

He squeezes Mark's shoulder, a silent offering of comfort, of solidarity in the face of an uncaring world. "It ain't much, in the grand scheme of things. But sometimes... sometimes not much is all we got."

Mark nods, drawing in a shaky breath as he leans into Simon's touch, into the solid, steady strength of him. He knows the other man is right, knows that there's no changing the harsh calculus of the world, the cold equations of supply and demand, of profit and loss that govern their lives out here.

But he also knows that Simon's words, his simple, unflinching compassion- they matter. They make a difference, even if only in this one small, fleeting moment. They're a reminder that even in the midst of so much darkness, so much cruelty and indifference... there is still light. Still the capacity for kindness, for empathy and understanding.

It's the way Simon looks at him now, his gaze soft and sad and achingly tender. The way his hand lingers on Mark's shoulder, a silent promise of support, of shared sorrow and shared strength.

And as they sit there in the fading light, the herd milling around them and the vast, empty sky stretching out above... Mark feels a strange, bittersweet sense of peace settle over him. A quiet acceptance of all the things he cannot change, all the harsh truths he must learn to bear. It is the way of things, and he can carry that with him, try his best to offer kindness and mercy where he can.

From the distance, a cloud of the same dun colored dust that has covered everything for weeks now heralds a rider approaching. Even still a ways out, Mark can see the man is young. A boy, really, fifteen if he was a day, maybe sixteen at a stretch. Too young to be out here at any rate.

As the young greenhorn rides up, Mark can't help but notice how haggard and worn the boy looks, his face gaunt and his eyes haunted beneath the brim of his sweat-stained hat. There's a bruise blooming on his cheekbone, livid against the pallor of his skin, and his clothes hang loose on his thin frame, as if he's lost weight he couldn't afford to lose.

"Mr. Kepler says the herd'll be stopping soon," the kid mumbles, his gaze darting nervously between Mark and Simon. "Sent me back to check on the drag riders, make sure y'all were keeping up. Mr. Kepler said to make sure you weren't drinking none."

At the mention of Kepler's name, Mark feels a cold twist of dread in his gut, a sickening lurch of fear and revulsion that makes his breath catch in his throat. He can feel the blood drain from his face, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists at his sides as he fights the urge to recoil, to put as much distance between himself and anything associated with that man as possible.

Beside him, Simon tenses enough that even Mariposa dances a little, skittish and wary. "Drag is doing fine back here. We've got it handled. You can let Kepler know I know my job just dandy."

"Yessir. Yessir, I'll do that. I'm sure Mr. Kepler will be mighty relieved to hear it."

Simon's eyes narrow as he really takes in the boy's battered appearance.

"You doing alright there, son?" he asks, his voice low and gentle, the way one might speak to a spooked horse. "Kepler ain't been giving you too hard a time, has he?"

The kid flinches, his gaze skittering away like a frightened rabbit.

"N-no, sir," he stammers, the lie obvious in the quaver of his voice. "Just... just a lot to learn, is all. Mr. Kepler, he... he just has real particular ideas about how things oughta be done, is all. You step outta line, and well..." He trails off, his hand coming up unconsciously to ghost over the livid bruise on his cheek.

Simon's eyes follow the movement, his jaw clenching so hard Mark can hear his back teeth grind together. A vein pulses in his temple as he visibly swallows back the tide of fury that threatens to choke him.

Mark himself feels a surge of helpless anger, a bitter, burning rage at the thought of this kid, another innocent, suffering under Kepler's cruel tutelage. He wants to say something, to offer some word of comfort or solidarity... but the words stick in his throat, choked off by the rising tide of his own memories, his own hurts at the hands of the trail boss.

He can feel himself shutting down, a familiar numbness creeping over him like a shroud, blotting out the horror and the fury and the sickening sense of powerlessness. It's a defense of sorts, a way to cope with the things he cannot change, the hurts he cannot heal... but it feels like a betrayal, a cowardice in the face of this boy's silent plea for help.

"Son," Simon says quietly, and the gentleness in his voice only serves to highlight the steel beneath, an implacable resolve. "Ain't no man alive got the right to lay hands on you like that. I don't care if he's the trail boss or the goddamned King of England. It ain't right, and it ain't gonna happen again. Not on my watch."

The kid's eyes widen, something painful and yearning kindling to life in their haunted depths. It's clear no one has ever stood up for him before, ever offered him this kind of unconditional support and protection.

"I... I appreciate that, sir. Truly. But you don't gotta... I mean, I can handle my ownself. Ain't tryin' to make trouble. Not for you or me or anybody."

"It's not trouble," Mark finds himself interjecting, the words heavy and sour on his tongue. "Somebody treating you bad... that's not your fault. You hear me?" His voice cracks on the last word, a splinter of his own unspoken pain lancing through the numbness.

Simon's hand finds his knee, squeezing once in silent solidarity before returning to grip the saddle horn, white-knuckled. "He's right. And son, if it gets to be too much... if you ever feel like you can't take no more... you come find me. Or Segundo Hawkins. He's a good man; he'll do right by you."

"I... thank you, sir. Sirs. Both of you," the boy whispers, something fierce and fragile flaring up behind his eyes - a spark of hope maybe.

Tipping his hat to them, the boy gives a show of his respect and gratitude, before wheeling his horse around and spurring off to melt back in with the main herd, slim shoulders squared against the gathering dark.

In his wake, the silence stretches taut and humming between them, and Mark can feel Simon's gaze on him, heavy with dawning realization and a sorrow so profound it steals his breath.

He braces himself for the inevitable onslaught, the barrage of questions he knows will come. The prying demands for details, for the sordid specifics of his history with Kepler and the pain that haunts his every step.

It's a familiar dance, one he's been through before. The morbid curiosity, the barely concealed revulsion as people try to reconcile the bright, eager façade he presents to the world with the broken, tainted thing that lurks beneath.

He's seen it in the eyes of people who thought they knew him until the truth came spilling out of his throat like poison, corroding every bond and leaving him alone and adrift once more. And each time, it cuts a little deeper, carves another piece out of his already battered heart.

Because no matter how much he tries to brace himself, to steel his defenses against the inevitable blow... it still hurts. Still feels like a betrayal, a confirmation of his deepest, darkest fears.

That maybe he is damaged goods, unworthy of love or respect or even basic human decency. That the stain of what was done to him, what he endured, will never truly wash away.

So he waits, his whole body coiled tight with dread and anticipation. Waits for Simon to turn to him with that all-too-familiar look of pity and disgust, to start probing at the edges of his wounds with clumsy, well-meaning hands.

Waits for the careful distance that always comes when people learn the truth of him, the ugly, broken pieces he tries so hard to hide.

But the inquisition never comes. Instead, Simon just reaches over again to give Mark's shoulder a gentle squeeze, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the tense muscle. When he speaks, his voice is soft, almost casual, as if they're discussing nothing more consequential than the weather.

"You remember how to find a draw?"

Mark blinks, thrown by the non-sequitur. "What?"

Simon's smile is small, but warm and understanding, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You remember how to find a draw? I'm putting you in charge of finding the herd some water and us a place to bed down for tonight."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, for Mark to realize what Simon is offering. Not just a distraction, but a vote of confidence. A chance to prove himself, to focus on something other than the yawning abyss of his own troubled thoughts.

In that moment, Mark feels something crack open inside his chest. Some final, stubborn barrier that he's been holding onto for dear life, a last line of defense against the pain and the vulnerability that threaten to consume him.

"I, uh. Yeah. I think I do," he manages, his voice rough with gratitude and relief. Mark knows what Simon is doing, knows that the man is giving him an out, a way to sidestep the looming specter of his past without dismissing it entirely. It's a small kindness, but one that means more to Mark than he could ever put into words.

Because Simon understands. But he doesn't push, doesn't demand that Mark lay himself bare, expose all his darkest secrets and deepest shames for scrutiny. Instead, he gives Mark the space to breathe. The chance to take back some control, some agency in a world that has robbed him of so much of both.

"All right then." Simon nods, satisfied. "Tell me what you see."

Mark scans the horizon, squinting against the glare of the setting sun.

"Over there?" Unsure and hesitating, Mark points to a spot in the distance, where the grass seems a touch greener, the vegetation a little lusher. "I think, I think that's... some flowers around, a bush of some kind? And it dips down - it's a draw, right?"

Simon's eyes light up with a mixture of approval and pleasant surprise at Mark's observation.

"Good eye," he says, his voice warm with quiet pride. "Those are bluebells and sage brush, if I'm not mistaken. And where you find those growing together, more often than not, there's water not too far below."

He urges his horse forward, guiding them towards the spot Mark pointed out. As they draw closer, Simon's smile widens, his handsome, weathered face creasing with satisfaction.

"Well, I'll be damned," he murmurs, almost to himself. "First try too."

"Yeah?"

Simon swings down from his saddle, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. He kneels by the cluster of vegetation, fingers brushing over the delicate purple blossoms and soft, silvery leaves.

"Yeah, definitely sage. See how the leaves are kind of a fuzzy, gray-green? Dead giveaway." He plucks a sprig, rubbing it between his fingers and holding it out for Mark to smell. The sharp, clean scent fills the air, bracing and medicinal.

"Smudge a little of this on your bandanna when the gnats and flies get bad. Keeps 'em away better than anything," Simon advises with a wink.

Rising, he takes a few steps further into the draw, keen eyes scanning the ground.

"And look here," he calls over his shoulder, pointing to a small depression where the soil darkens, grows visibly damper. "That's a seep spring; means there's fresh water just under the surface, bubbling up from deep down. Won't take more than five, maybe ten minutes digging to get as much fresh water as we can drink"

He glances back at Mark, and the warmth in his gaze sends a pleasant shiver down the younger man's spine. "Mighty fine spot you found us, kid. Mighty fine. We'll water the herd, let 'em graze a bit in that side canyon over there where the grass is still green. Meantime, you and me can scout for a good place to bed down for the night."

Mark ducks his head to hide a pleased smile, warmth blooming in his chest at the open approval in Simon's voice.

"Sounds good," he agrees, swinging down from his own horse. "Lead the way, boss."

They spend the next hour combing the area, Simon pausing frequently to point out useful plants, animal signs, the best spots to place a campfire or picket a horse for the night. Mark soaks up the information like a sponge, filing away each bit of hard-earned wisdom like the precious resource it is.

"See this?" Simon crouches by a scattering of small, oblong pellets, edges already crumbling back into the dirt. He prods one with a blade of grass, considering. "Rabbit, and not too fresh. Probably from early this morning." Squinting at the lengthening shadows, he nods slowly. "They'll likely be out again 'round dusk. Reckon we could try our luck at bagging a couple for the stew pot, if you're game."

"You're not headed to the chuck wagon tonight?"

"Nah. I don't think I could be trusted to control my temper around the Trail Boss currently, and I don't much feel like getting in a fight. I figure we got enough in the saddlebags to make it one night. Plus- maybe rabbit."

He knows what Simon is doing, knows that he's choosing to stay close, to provide a buffer in the wake of Mark's unsettling encounter with his past. It's a gesture that speaks louder than any platitude or prying question ever could.

"Maybe rabbit. " Clearing his throat, Mark nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I reckon I could eat. Been a long day."

Simon returns the smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "That it has. Come on then, let's get settled."

They work together in easy silence, falling into the familiar rhythm of setting up camp. Simon gathers kindling and gets a small fire going while Mark tends to the horses, rubbing them down and making sure they're comfortable for the night.

As he works, Mark lets his mind wander, his thoughts drifting to the events of the day.

The pain and fear on the young cowhand's face, the sickening lurch of memory and empathy in his own gut... those moments still linger, raw and aching. But there were other moments too, bright spots that shine through the darkness like stars in the night sky.

He thinks of the draw, of the quiet peace and unexpected beauty they found there. The way Simon's eyes had lit up as he pointed out the signs of water, the subtle clues that spoke of life and sustenance hidden just beneath the surface.

The patience and care in his voice as he'd guided Mark's hand on the rifle, taught him how to steady his aim and slow his breathing. The electric thrill of his touch, the heat of his body so close, the way the world had narrowed down to just the two of them, suspended in a moment of perfect clarity and connection. It had felt like something was shifting between them then, some unspoken understanding clicking into place. A recognition of the bond growing stronger with every passing day, every shared triumph and quiet moment of comfort.

And then there was the heifer, the miracle of new life nestled amid the dust and danger of the trail. Mark feels a pang of worry as he recalls Simon's words, the grim realities of a cattle drive and the uncertain fate that awaits both mother and calf.

But there's hope there too, a stubborn spark that refuses to be extinguished. Because if there's one thing he's learning out here, it's that life finds a way, even in the harshest of circumstances. That there's always a chance, however slim, for something beautiful to take root and grow, even in the most barren soil.

Just like the delicate blooms Simon had shown him, the tiny oasis of the seep spring... there are pockets of grace to be found, moments of unexpected softness in a world that so often feels hard and unforgiving.

And as he thinks of Simon's strong, gentle hands cupping those fragile petals, the reverence and wonder in his weather-beaten face... Mark feels a swell of something vast and aching in his chest. A yearning, a longing to be held with that same tender care, to be seen and cherished for all that he is, thorns and scars and stubborn, unruly growth.

He wants to sink into the warmth of Simon's embrace, to let himself be sheltered and nourished and coaxed into blooming, wants to twine himself around the solid oak of Simon's strength, to draw from his deep, unshakable roots and reach for the sun, for the wide-open sky of possibility that stretches out before them.

It's a wild, desperate sort of wanting, a hunger that goes soul-deep. But it's threaded through with something softer too, something achingly tender and sweet.

The desire not just to take, but to give. To be a place of rest and refuge for Simon in turn, to soothe his hurts and share his burdens. It's a comfort, a balm to the raw, aching places in his heart. A reminder that he's not alone, that he has someone in his corner, fighting for him, believing in him.

By the time he's finished with the horses and joins Simon by the crackling campfire, he feels a bit steadier, more grounded. The shadows of the past still linger, but they seem less dark, less overwhelming in the light of the flames and the warmth of the man beside him.

Simon hands him a tin cup of coffee, the rich, familiar scent curling invitingly in the cooling evening air. Their fingers brush as Mark takes it, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver racing down his spine.

"Thanks," he murmurs, cradling the cup close to his chest. He hopes Simon knows what he's thanking him for. For the coffee, for the company, for... everything.

Simon just nods, his gaze soft and understanding in the flickering firelight. "Anytime, kid. Anytime."

They sit like that for a long while, sipping their coffee and staring into the flames, the only sound the pop and hiss of the burning wood and the distant lowing of the cattle. It's peaceful, silent but not strained, just them breathing and the world breathing with them..

Mark lets himself sink into it, lets the tension slowly uncoil from his muscles and the tightness ease from his chest. Here, in this moment, with Simon solid and sure at his side... he feels safe. Protected.

Cherished, in a way he's never dared to hope for before.

It's a feeling he wants to hold onto, to tuck away deep inside himself for the hard, lonely nights that he knows will come. A talisman against the darkness, a reminder that he's not alone, that he's worthy of care and kindness and love.

Love.

The word whispers through his mind, unbidden but undeniable. It steals his breath, makes his heart stutter and race in his chest.

Because that's what this is, he realizes with a sudden, dizzying clarity. This warmth, this sense of belonging, of rightness.

It's love, pure and simple. Vast and aching and more real than anything he's ever known.

The revelation sits heavy in his chest and throat and on his tongue, sweet and terrifying and overwhelming in its intensity. He's not ready, not yet, to give it voice, to lay himself bare in the face of such immensity.

But he feels it, down to his bones, his very soul. Feels it in every fiber of his being, every beat of his wild, yearning heart.

And for now, that's enough. More than enough, to carry him through whatever storms may come.

As the night deepens around them and the fire burns low, Mark lets his head drop to Simon's shoulder, a tentative lean that feels dangerous and daring. Simon stiffens for a heartbeat, surprise flashing across his face... but then he relaxes, his arm coming up to wrap around Mark's shoulders, pulling him closer.

It's a simple embrace, chaste and comforting. But to Mark, it feels like coming home, like finding harbor after a lifetime adrift.

In the circle of Simon's arms, the whole world narrows down to this. To the rise and fall of their chests, the mingled scent of wood smoke and leather and something uniquely, indefinably Simon.

To the unspoken promise that hangs between them, shimmering and gossamer-fine in the starlit dark.

Someday, Mark thinks as his eyes drift closed, lulled by the crackle of the dying fire and the steady drum of Simon's heartbeat beneath his cheek.

Chapter Text

Mark wakes slowly, the last tendrils of sleep still clinging to him like early morning mist. For a moment he drifts, content and warm, cocooned in the hazy liminal space between dreams and waking, but as consciousness seeps in, a sense of absence tugs at him.

His eyes flutter open, blinking against the pale dawn light. He's alone, the space beside him empty and cold. For a disorienting second, he can't place why that feels so jarring, so unsettling.

Then memory rushes back in fragments - the crackle of the campfire, the smells of coffee and smoke and salt pork. The solid warmth of Simon's shoulder under his cheek, the weight of a strong arm around him, anchoring him.

He remembers the bone-deep exhaustion, the toll of the day catching up to him all at once as he stared into the hypnotic flames of the campfire. Remembers his head growing heavy, his eyes slipping shut of their own accord. Remembers allowing himself the indulgence to lean into Simon, just a little, seeking comfort and connection. He remembers Simon letting him, and then pulling him closer still.

After that... nothing. A blissful oblivion, just the vague impression of being jostled, of movement, warm gentle hands, and low murmurs. He must have fallen asleep, must have been so dead to the world that he didn't even stir when Simon shifted him off his shoulder and bundled him into his bedroll.

A pang goes through him at the thought, a confusing tangle of emotions. Embarrassment, at having let his guard down so completely, being so vulnerable. Gratitude, that Simon hadn't pushed him away, had understood his need for closeness, for comfort. And an ache, deep and yawning, at waking without him, at the loss of that steady presence at his side.

Mark sits up slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face, trying to physically brush away the cobwebs of sleep and longing that linger. Their camp is quiet around him, only Mariposa and his sturdy little brown mare from the remuda here, both still asleep on their feet. The sky overhead is just beginning to lighten, streaks of pale gold and pink heralding the coming sunrise.

Simon is nowhere to be seen, and for a moment, disappointment lodges bitter in the back of Mark's throat. He tries to shake it off, chiding himself for foolishness. Of course Simon would be up and working already - getting water for the coffee pot, checking the herd, or scouting the route for the day. He's responsible; too dedicated to his duties to laze the morning away just because Mark had been weak the night before.

Still, he can't help but feel the other man's absence like a physical thing, a cold spot at the center of his chest. Can't help but wish, secretly, shamefully, that he'd woken up in the circle of those strong arms, the steady drum of Simon's heartbeat beneath his ear. That he'd had the chance to once- just once, see those grey eyes blink open, hazy with sleep and achingly soft in the early light.

With a sigh, he levers himself to his feet, rolling up his bedding with now practiced motions. There's a long day looming ahead of him, and mooning over impossible things and an improbable man will only make it longer. Better to focus on the work, on putting one foot in front of the other.

But as he secures his gear to his saddle, a sound drifts to Mark's ears over the quiet of the lonely camp. At first he thinks it's just the wind playing tricks, or a lonesome bird calling in the distance. But there's something about the pitch, the urgency of it, that makes him pause.

Cocking his head, Mark listens harder, and tries to focus on figuring out where it's coming from. There it is again - a long, low moan that sets the hair at the back of his neck standing up. It's a sound of distress, of pain, and it's coming from just off the main crush of the herd.

Cold dread settles in his stomach as he remembers the pregnant heifer, the one Simon suspected was close to calving. Close to calving- Mark had no idea that meant today, right now.

Desperately he racks his brains trying to figure out if he knows anything at all about the process of giving birth.

He does not.

The very few women he has known to be with child in his life had simply disappeared in the company of other women, surrounded by midwives and secrecy and then, if all went well, emerged after a day or two with a new baby in tow.

For cows? Mark has no idea how that might go. He remembers Simon's vague warnings about the dangers a cow might face giving birth on the trail, far from help or shelter, but what those dangers were, Simon had not elaborated.

Still, he can't just sit here and do nothing.

Without conscious thought, he's moving, leaving his gear half-tied as he sets off at a near run towards the source of that chilling, pained sound. What possible help can he be? He doesn't know, but he pushes on all the same, his heart in his throat and his blood pounding in his ears. All Mark knows is that he has to try. Has to do something, anything, to ease that suffering, to face this trial head-on instead of turning away.

As he crests a rise, he sees her - the pregnant cow, standing apart from the rest of the herd in a small hollow. Her sides are heaving, her head hanging low as she paws at the ground. Every few seconds, she lets out another of those gut-wrenching moans.

"Easy, girl," he murmurs, slowing his approach and holding out a placating hand. "Easy now. It's gonna be alright."

The words feel hollow, flimsy shields against the gravity of the situation. But he gentles his voice all the same, trying to project a calm he doesn't feel as he draws closer.

She looks worse up close, her coat dull and her eyes glassy with pain. Clear fluid drips from her back end, pooling on the ground behind her. Mark swallows hard, a wave of panic threatening to swamp him. He's never felt so out of his depth, so utterly unequal to the task at hand.

But underneath the terror, a strange sort of calm takes root. A sense of purpose, of resolve. He may be woefully unqualified for this, may be flying blind and half-cocked. But he's here. He's trying. And that has to count for something.

Taking a deep breath, he steps forward, murmuring soothing nonsense as he lays a tentative hand on the cow's flank. She flinches but doesn't shy away, too lost in her labor to worry about his presence.

"Alright, mama," he breathes, running his hand over her side. "Alright. Let's see what we're dealing with."

Slowly, gingerly, he crouches down, trying to get a look at her back end. He's not sure what he's looking for, isn't sure what's normal and what's not. But he knows he has to assess the situation, has to try and determine how far along she is, if there's anything visibly wrong. But, without knowing what's going on or what wrong would even look like, Mark can't really do anything more than stare in mute horror.

The cow strains and heaves, her sides rippling with the force of her contractions, but nothing seems to be happening. No progress, no sign of the calf emerging.

Panic rises like bile in the back of his throat. Something's not right. He knows that much, knows it in his bones, even if he can't put a name to it. But what can he do? He's just a greenhorn, a city boy playing at being a cowhand. He doesn't know the first thing about birthing calves or tending to livestock.

He's been at this for what feels like hours, but in reality can't have been more than five or so minutes, murmuring soothing nonsense and trying desperately to remember anything he might have heard about birthing calves. Nothing. Just more bellows from her, and panicky breathing on his end.

Just as despair threatens to swamp him, he hears footsteps behind him and his head snaps up, another litany of ineffective reassurances dying on his tongue.

Simon is striding towards him, his normally relaxed amble replaced by a purposeful, almost grim determination. He's still in his shirtsleeves, suspenders hanging loose at his hips like he dressed in a hurry. His hair is sleep-tousled, his jaw darkened with stubble, but his eyes are sharp and alert.

"Mark?" he calls, concern and something like dread threading through his voice. "What's going on?"

"Simon!" Relief crashes through Mark at the sight of him, so intense it makes his knees weak. "Where were you?"

Simon comes to a stop beside him, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder as he crouches down to examine the cow. "I got up last night to check on her. She started calving early this morning."

Mark swallows hard, fear and confusion churning in his gut. "I- I don't know what's happening. Is this normal? It doesn't seem..."

He trails off, unable to put words to the growing sense of wrongness, of urgency, clawing at his insides. Simon is silent for a long moment, his touch on Mark's shoulder tightening almost imperceptibly.

When he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled, but Mark can hear the tension in it, the way the fear seems to underline everything he's saying. "No. It's not. This isn't normal. She's breech."

The bottom drops out of Mark's stomach, a cold wave of dread washing through him. He's heard that word before, whispers from a midwife or bandied about by the more experienced hands. He doesn't exactly know what it means, just that it's nothing good.

"What... what does that mean?" he asks, even though he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

Simon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. In the grey pre-dawn light, Mark can see the lines of strain around his eyes, the grim set of his mouth.

"It means the calf is positioned wrong," he explains quietly. "Hind end first, instead of head and front feet like it should be." He shakes his head, something bleak and troubled in his gaze. "Makes for a much harder delivery. More dangerous, too. For the calf and the cow."

Mark feels like he's going to be sick, his head spinning and his pulse roaring in his ears. He clenches his hands into fists, fighting back the urge to panic, to give in to the despair rising like a black tide in his chest.

"What do we do?" he manages to croak, hating the way his voice shakes, the way it cracks on the last word.

Simon is silent for a long moment, his gaze distant and pensive as he stares out over the shadowed haunches of the still sleeping herd. Mark can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, the calculations and contingencies flickering past.

When he finally speaks, his voice is heavy with resignation, edged with something bitter and frustrated. "I went to try and find Hilbert."

He doesn't need to say anything more. Mark knows who he means - the drive's wrangler, the closest thing they have to a doctor for man or beast out here on the trail. If anyone would know what to do in this situation, it would be him.

"And?" Mark prompts when Simon doesn't continue, the dread just coiling tighter in his gut.

Simon's mouth twists, something hard and angry sparking in his eyes.

"He's unavailable," he bites out. "Hungover, in fact. Dead to the world and reeking of rotgut vodka."

There's a wealth of bitterness, of weary resignation in the words. His own battle with the bottle was well known, a weapon wielded by Kepler and others to hurt him as much as anything; to be here, sober and clear eyed and faced with this situation while the wrangler, the man tasked with keeping the remuda and the cattle as healthy as possible lay prone in the dirt nursing a headache must feel like a slap in the face.

A cruel, cosmic joke at Simon's expense.

But to his credit, Simon doesn't seem to be dwelling on it, doesn't let the old hurts pull him under. He just squares his shoulders, something resolute and determined settling over his features as he meets Mark's gaze head-on.

"Looks like it's just you and me, kid," he says grimly. "We're gonna have to handle this ourselves."

Mark feels a surge of panic, a dizzying wave of inadequacy.

"But I don't... I've never done anything like this before," he protests weakly, his stomach churning. "I wouldn't even know where to start."

Simon's expression softens, understanding and something fiercer, more protective, flickering in his eyes.

"I know," he says gently. "I know this is askin' a lot of you, Kid. More than anyone should have to face, first time out."

He takes a deep breath, like he's steeling himself, before he reaches out to grip Mark's forearm. His callused palm is warm and reassuring, his touch grounding.

"But this heifer needs us," he continues quietly. "That calf needs us. And I can't do it alone." His fingers tighten on Mark's arm, his gaze intent and unwavering. "I need you. Need you with me on this one, partner. I need your help."

Mark swallows hard, trying to steady his racing heart as he meets Simon's unwavering gaze. The open trust, the firm belief he sees reflected there takes his breath away. Simon called him partner, stated it like an immutable fact, and that faith bolsters Mark's resolve, helps him find his center amidst the swirling fear and uncertainty.

"Yeah. Of course."

Mark tries to focus on the crisis at hand, on the heaving sides of the laboring cow and the grim set of Simon's jaw. But he can't help the way his eyes are drawn to the other man's lean, work-hewn torso as he strips off his shirt in one smooth motion.

He's transfixed by the play of muscle beneath weathered, sun-bronzed skin, by the shifting topography of Simon's back and shoulders as he moves, by the dusting of sparse russet hair that disappears under the denim sitting low on slim hips. Heat rises unbidden to Mark's cheeks, his mouth going dry at the sudden, visceral reminder of just how strong Simon is, how capable.

Swallowing hard, he wrenches his gaze away, mentally chastising himself. Now is hardly the time to be ogling his trail partner like some moonstruck swain.

Simon, thankfully, seems not to notice his momentary distraction, or at least doesn't say anything if he does. He's already issuing instructions, his voice calm but brooking no argument.

"Okay, we're going to need to turn this baby around," he explains, no hint of his devil may care ease, not a trace of any amusement on his face. "You need to listen to me when I tell you to do things and just do them without argument. Even if it seems like it may be hurtin' her." His expression is grim, but his eyes are kind as they hold Mark's. "Whatever we do is gonna hurt a lot less than her dying out here with her calf. Okay?"

Mark sets his jaw and nods, pushing down the queasy tremor in his stomach. "Okay, yeah. Of course. Just tell me what you need."

He tries not to flinch as Simon reaches inside the laboring cow, sinking his arm in well past the elbow, but Mark can't quite contain the shocked little squeak that escapes him at the sight, his sense of propriety instinctively rearing up. But Simon is too focused on his grisly task to pay any mind, his brow furrowed in concentration as he feels around in the birth canal.

I'm going to need you to push on her flank," Simon grits out after a moment, his arm flexing with effort. "Hard. She ain't gonna like it one bit, so be ready. She'll kick up a mighty fuss."

Mark swallows past the knot of fear lodged in his chest but nods, placing his hands on the cow's side. He can feel the heat of her, the ripple of muscle and sinew beneath her sweat-slicked hide. He thinks he feels her tremble under his fingertips before he realizes the one shaking is him.

"Like this?" he asks, applying tentative pressure.

"Harder," Simon instructs. "You're going to have to put your weight into it. We need to try to shift the calf so I can get a hold of its legs."

Taking a deep breath, Mark pushes in a little more, skittering back a half step when she bellows in pain.

"I said harder, goddamn-it! She ain't made of porcelain. Either you push hard enough to move that calf, or we might as well just stand here and watch 'em both die."

Mark flinches at the harsh rebuke, his stomach churning with a mix of guilt and panic. Simon is right, he needs to set aside his own childish discomfort and squeamishness if they're going to have any hope of saving these lives. But the reality of what's being asked of him, the bloody, visceral, hands-on nature of it, has him faltering.

He takes a shaky breath, trying to calm himself. His palms are slick with sweat where they rest against the heaving flank, and he can feel the desperate, straining pulse of the cow's body beneath his hands. It's a terrifying responsibility, the weight of these two lives resting squarely on his untested shoulders.

But beneath the fear, beneath the doubt and the urge to recoil, there's something else stirring. A flicker of determination, of resolve. The same stubborn grit that had carried him out here in the first place, that kept him pushing forward through every hardship and uncertainty the trail has thrown his way.

He thinks of Simon's unwavering faith in him, the steady confidence in his eyes when he'd said I need you with me on this one, partner. Thinks of the trust implicit in those words, the belief that Mark would, that he could rise to the occasion. Simon just… believed that Mark would find the strength to do what needed to be done.

Slowly, deliberately, he sets his jaw. Squares his shoulders and digs deep, reaching for a core of steel he isn't at all convinced he has.

"Okay," he says, and even if his voice still shakes, there's a new thread of determination running through it. "Okay, I've got this."

He repositions his hands, fingers splaying wide across the cow's side. Takes a deep breath, divorcing himself from the wet heat of her, the knots and whorls of her hide, narrowing his focus down to only the mechanical necessity of the task before him.

Then, with a low grunt of effort, he bears down with all his strength. Throws the entirety of his weight forward, feeling the cow stumble and strain against him, another sharp bellow that sounds like a scream tearing from her throat. He grits his teeth and pushes harder, muscles burning with the effort, his entire world narrowing down to this single, crucial point of contact.

For long, straining moments, there is only this. The dig of his fingers into tough hide, the bunching and flexing of the cow's body as Simon works urgently within her. The harsh rasp of his own breathing and the wild, thunderous pounding of his heart, the taste of salt and copper bright on his tongue as he bites down on the inside of his cheek.

And then, miraculously, he feels something shift. A subtle change in the resistance beneath his hands, somewhere under hide and muscle and bone and blood, something moves. He hears Simon's sharp intake of breath, the note of sudden, disbelieving hope threaded through his voice when he calls out.

"It's working. Steady on. I can feel it moving - don't stop, keep pushing….-"

A wild, giddy surge of adrenaline crashes through Mark's veins, momentarily washing away the burn of overtaxed muscle and straining bone. He redoubles his efforts, throwing every ounce of his strength and stubborn will into the task, a hoarse shout tearing from his throat with the effort.

And slowly, incredibly, the calf begins to turn. Mark can feel the shift of it, the incremental slide and realignment of the impossible weight beneath his straining hands. All he can hear is the cow's angry, painful symphony of low moaning bellows, counterpointed only by his and Simon's ragged breathing. His vision blurs, narrowing down to a tunnel of sweat and dust and the deep, primal reds of blood and muscle, but he doesn't dare relent. Not now, not when they're so close, when every inch of progress is clawed from the jaws of catastrophe by the skin of their teeth.

Time turns elastic, untrustworthy— unspooling in fits and starts. It could be minutes or hours, a handful of heartbeats or a miniature eternity that they labor there together, locked in this desperate, elemental struggle. All Mark knows is the fire in his muscles, the bruising ache of his bones, and the solid, straining presence of Simon at his side, urging him on with a recitation of breathless encouragement.

And then, between one miraculous instant and the next, it is done.

With a guttural sound of triumph, Simon pulls his arm free of the cow in a gush of fluid and ribbons of membrane. In his blood-streaked grip, a single, spindly leg kicks weakly, still half-sheathed in the translucence of the birthing sac.

"I've got it," he pants, his voice raw and thready somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief. "I've got the leg - Mark, we need to pull, now!"

Galvanized, Mark shifts his grip from the cow's flank to the slick, impossibly fragile limb in Simon's grasp. His hands are shaking, his fingers numb and clumsy, but he holds on with grim determination, ready to put the last of his failing strength into this final, crucial effort.

Their eyes meet over the cow's straining back, a moment of perfect, wordless understanding passing between them. Then, as one, they begin to pull, throwing the entirety of their combined will and hard earned trail muscles into dragging this new life into the world.

The cow bellows one last time, her body shuddering with the force of the contractions racking through her. Mark's vision is blurring, black spots dancing at the edges of his sight, but he doesn't let up. He pulls and strains, teeth bared in a wordless snarl of effort, every fiber of his being focused on this single, world-defining task.

And then, like a dam finally giving way, like a long-held breath shuddering out on a sob, it is over.

With a final, almost anticlimactic spurt of fluid and a low, startled moo from the exhausted cow, the calf slides free, spilling out onto the trampled grass in an impossible tangle of limbs and steaming, heaving mess.

For a long, airless moment, the calf lies terribly, perfectly still - and Mark feels his heart seize in his chest, a sharp, lancing dread that perhaps it has all been for naught, that despite their desperate efforts, they have arrived too late.

"Simon?" His voice is a choked, broken thing, barely recognizable to his own ears. He can't tear his eyes away from the motionless form at their feet, can't breathe past the crushing weight of failure, of grief, building like a scream behind his breastbone.

Simon's face is serious, his jaw set in a hard line as he extends a hand towards Mark, palm up.

"Your knife," he says, low and urgent. "Hand it to me, kid."

Mark's stomach lurches, his entire being recoiling from the implications of that outstretched hand, the leaden resignation in Simon's voice. He knows, distantly, that it will be a mercy, Simon gifting a final kindness to end the suffering of a creature beyond hope of saving.

But the idea of it, the image of Simon's steady, work-roughened hands bringing a blade to that fragile throat, what little light there is fading from those wide, frightened, unseeing eyes...

"Simon?" he chokes out again, he can't do this, can't bear witness to this ultimate failure, this gut-wrenching defeat snatched from the very jaws of a hard-fought victory.

But Simon is already shaking his head, something fierce and determined kindling to life in the depths of his gaze.

"It's not what you're thinking," he says roughly. "Just give me your goddamn knife."

Fingers clumsy and numb, Mark fumbles for the blade at his belt, nearly dropping it in his haste to press it into Simon's waiting palm. He watches, barely daring to breathe, as the other man turns back to the calf, his movements sharp and purposeful.

But instead of bringing the blade to the animal's throat, he sets it carefully to the glistening, membranous sac still clinging to its muzzle and face. With a deft, careful slice, he parts the caul, peeling it away from the calf's head with gentle, callused fingers.

"Come on, little one," he murmurs, the words barely audible over the rasp of his own labored breathing. It's a desperate plea, an urgent prayer offered up to the uncaring universe, to any force or magic or god that might be listening. "Come on now, take a breath for me."

And then Simon is rubbing at the calf's chest with the flat of his palm, firm, rhythmic strokes trying to coax a flicker of life back into its still, silent form. His other hand comes up to its muzzle, clearing away the last clinging strands of membrane and tissue, tapping at its cheek with a careful urgency.

"Breathe," he urges, command and entreaty all in one. "That's it, sweetheart. Just breathe."

There's a raw, unguarded desperation in his voice, a hunger that has nothing to do with pride, and Mark feels privileged to witness it, to be granted this glimpse of Simon's true heart, the gold gleaming beneath the gruff exterior. It's a gift, one he knows he will treasure for the rest of his days.

But he also knows that it's not for him. Not for anyone. This is simply who Simon is.

Mark is frozen, barely cognizant of the hot sting of tears on his wind-chapped cheeks. His entire world has narrowed down to the steady, purposeful motion of Simon's hands, the low, urgent rumble of his voice as he pours every ounce of his considerable will into this single, all-important task.

A heartbeat passes, then two, each stretching into a small eternity as Mark's pulse pounds a desperate tattoo against his throat, his ribs. He's barely aware of his own whispering litany, a wordless tide of supplications and hope and broken endearments falling from his lips.

And then, like a miracle, like a benediction from the very heavens...

The calf twitches. Shudders. Draws in a single, shivering breath and releases it on a thin, reedy bleat, spindly limbs thrashing weakly against the trampled grass.

A ragged, disbelieving sob tears itself from Mark's chest. He pitches forward, barely catching himself on trembling arms as relief crashes through him like a breaking wave, the sudden release of a tension he hadn't even realized he'd been harboring.

"There we go," Simon is murmuring, a slow, wondering grin spreading across his face as he gentles the calf through its first moments, hands never ceasing their steady, soothing rhythm. "There's a good girl. Welcome to the world, little lady."

Mark can only watch, something vast and aching swelling behind his breastbone like a sunrise as Simon coaxes the calf to unsteady legs, his touch so careful, so impossibly tender against its still-damp hide. He's crooning to it, a low, sweet encouragement that Mark can feel in his very bones, the notes of it wrapping around his heart like a fist.

He's always known Simon to be a good man, a kind one. Has witnessed firsthand the depths of his patience, his strength, his bedrock decency. But this...

This is something else entirely. Something raw and elemental, a tenderness so fierce it steals the breath from his lungs, sets a sweet, sharp ache blooming in the depths of his chest.

In this moment, streaked in gore and slime, silhouetted against the climbing sun with a newborn calf cradled in his steadfast hands, Simon looks like something out of a myth. Like a figure stepped straight from the pages of the dime novels Mark had devoured by candle light as a boy, all quiet strength and unshakable resolve, a calm port in the heart of any storm.

He is the most beautiful thing Mark has ever seen. The most precious man to have entered his life, and suddenly, with a clarity as bright and piercing as the dawn spilling across the endless sky, Mark knows beyond the shadow of any doubt that he will never love another soul the way he loves this man.

He loves this man.

Loves him with a depth and ferocity that is painful in its intensity, that sets his very soul ablaze.

He will follow Simon to the ends of the earth, to the very edges of the map, and consider it a privilege with every step.

Slowly, unsteadily, he pushes himself upright. Crosses the scant distance between them on legs that tremble with exhaustion, with the sheer, staggering weight of his realization. Simon glances up as he approaches, his grin softening into something small and private, meant for Mark alone.

And Mark- Mark has no words. No clever turn of phrase, no poetic declaration to give shape to the endless, churning sea of feeling crashing like breakers behind his ribs.

He opens his mouth, a thousand confessions hovering on the tip of his tongue, crowding their way up his throat, but in the end, what comes out is a simple, "Hell of a thing."

Something flickers in Simon's eyes, a brief flash of... disappointment, perhaps. As if he'd been waiting, and hoping for something more. But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a warm, steady pride that still feels like it has cracked Mark's ribs wide open.

"Yeah," Simon agrees, reaching out to clap Mark on the shoulder. His hand lingers, squeezing gently. "You done good, kid...-"

He pauses, his thumb sweeping once, twice over the sweat-damp fabric of Mark's shirt. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, almost reverent.

"Mark. You done real good, Mark."

The use of his given name sends a shiver down Mark's spine, a sweet, sharp jolt that has nothing to do with the chill of the early morning air. It feels weighted, significant in a way that Mark can't fully process, isn't exactly sure what to do with.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, the air between them thick with words unspoken, with the sheer, electric potential crackling like a gathering storm. Mark's heart is in his throat, his pulse a wild, reckless thing, and he has the sudden, dizzying sense that they're teetering on the edge of something vast and irrevocable. That if he just leans in, closes the last bit of distance between them...

But then his stomach gives a loud, insistent grumble, shattering the charged silence. Mark flushes, ducking his head as Simon huffs a surprised laugh.

"I know they aren't doing breakfast at the chuck wagon anymore," Mark mumbles, seized by a sudden, desperate need to break the tension, to step back from the precarious ledge they're balanced on. "But I can go see if the cook has something a little more substantial to eat? We didn't do dinner last night. I don't know... maybe?"

He risks a glance up at Simon, half-afraid of what he might find in the other man's face. Disappointment, perhaps. Frustration at Mark's cowardice, his apparent rejection of the fragile, nameless thing building between them.

But Simon is just looking at him with a soft, considering expression, something wondering and open in the depths of his gaze. Like he's seeing Mark anew, puzzle pieces slotting into place behind his eyes.

"Yeah," he says at last, his voice low and slightly rough. "See if Cookie's got any biscuits." He glances down at himself, grimacing at the blood and fluid streaking his clothes, his skin. "I am disgusting. Gonna try and get some of this off me before we all roll out."

It's a dismissal, but a gentle one. An acknowledgment of the moment passed, the opportunity set aside for another time. Mark feels a pang of regret, sharp and fleeting, but he pushes it down. Knows that this isn't a rejection, but a promise. A rain check on the reckoning they both know is coming, barreling towards them like a stampede.

And in the light of all they've shared this morning, all the tiny, crucial ways their orbits have shifted and realigned... Mark finds he's content to wait. To let this thing between them unfold in its own time, to simmer slow and honey-sweet and achingly right.

So he simply nods, mustering up a small, understanding smile. "I'll see what I can rustle up," he promises, taking a step back. "Meet you at the horses in a bit?"

Simon's answering grin is bright and easy, full of all the warmth and affection Mark has come to crave like air. "Sounds good, partner."

With a final, lingering look that sends a shiver down Mark's spine, Simon turns and makes his way towards the watering hole they had dug the previous night. Mark watches him go, admiring the strong, sure set of his shoulders, the easy grace with which he navigates the uneven terrain.

God, but he loves that man. Loves him with a depth and ferocity that punches him in the gut with its intensity and immediacy.

Shaking his head ruefully, Mark forces himself to turn away, to begin the trek towards the main camp. Each step feels weighted, momentous, his body straining back towards Simon as if tethered by an invisible cord.

It's a sweet ache, a delicious torment. This feeling of being pulled in two directions at once, of being so full of yearning he might split clean down the middle.

He wouldn't trade it for anything.

At the watering hole, Simon strips off his soiled clothes with quick, efficient movements. He's still thrumming with the adrenaline of the morning, his muscles twitching and his blood singing in his veins.

But beneath the exhausted elation, and the bone-deep satisfaction of a job well done... there's something else. A restless, aching sort of energy that has him feeling stretched thin and raw, like that newborn calf staggering on untried legs.

He knows what it is, this jittery, electric thing humming just beneath his skin. Knows its shape and flavor, the way it sparks and catches in the pit of his stomach every time he looks at Mark.

It's anticipation, sharp and hot. Heady expectation laced through with a sucker-punch of fear, and of disbelieving wonder.

Because god above, the way that boy had looked at him. Like Simon held the secrets of the universe, like he'd pulled down the very stars and served them up on a platter.

Like Simon was something special. Something to be cherished, to be handled with careful reverence.

No one's looked at him like that for a long time. Like he was worth something, like he mattered any beyond the work he could do.

It's a lot to take in. A lot to process, after so many years of keeping himself held apart, of burying the raw, bruised parts of himself down deep where no one could use them against him. Finding those parts feels painful, feels scary, feels like he's walking on a cliff in the dark, parts of it threatening to crumble off and send him plummeting.

But god, if it doesn't also feel familiar. That aching clench in his chest, the buzz beneath his skin that has him exposed like a raw nerve, vulnerable and electric. It's a feeling he hasn't let himself acknowledge in years, not since...-

Not since Elijah.

The name alone is still enough to steal the breath from his lungs, to send a wave of old, bone-deep longing shuddering through him.

He'd been so young then, barely seventeen and greener than spring grass. Anxious to prove himself, to carve out a place in a world that suddenly seemed so much vaster and more uncertain than the quiet hills of his childhood.

The war had been a crucible, a test of mettle and resolve that left no one unscathed. In the hell of those blood-soaked fields, in the choking press of smoke and screams and the ceaseless rattle of gunfire... Simon had felt himself shatter. Felt the boy he'd been, all piss and vinegar and untested ideals, crack like his mother's fine china and reform into something harder and meaner. Something tempered by horror and grief and the unrelenting reality of death.

But amidst the carnage, the senseless loss... there had been Elijah. Steady, sweet Elijah, with his soft voice and gentle hands and crooked smile and his eyes that saw too much. Who had looked at Simon, really looked, and seen something worth protecting. Worth cherishing, even in the gore-streaked hell of their waking nightmare.

He'd been Simon's anchor, his fixed point in a world gone mad. The one immutable truth that had sustained him through the long, bloody nights and the longer, bloodier days.

And god, how Simon had loved him. Desperately, recklessly, with a passion that eclipsed reason or caution. In shelled-out barns and hastily pitched tents, in the fleeting moments of stillness between the chaos, they had found each other. Had traced shaking fingers over sweat-streaked skin and pressed reverent lips to stuttering pulses, had breathed benedictions and vows into the scant spaces between their bodies.

It had felt holy, somehow. A consecration, a covenant sealed in blood and desperation and the ineffable certainty that this, this, was what truly mattered. That even if they burned the world to ash around them, even if they died choking on the smoke... they would have had this. Would have known, for however brief and shining a moment, the shape of grace, the ineffable rightness of two souls meeting as they were always meant to.

And then...

Then it was over. The war, in all its futile, staggering brutality, and Elijah, his beautiful, soft -hearted Elijah... gone. Snuffed out like a candle flame between one breath and the next, his lifeblood seeping into the uncaring dirt of some torn up stretch of cursed earth in Tennessee.

The rest of the war, Simon had thought he would die with him. That the sheer, staggering immensity of the grief, the yawning emptiness carved into his chest... surely it would consume him. Would drag him down into a darkness from which there could be no return.

But it hadn't. By some cruel trick of fate, some cosmic punchline... he had lived. Had staggered on with Elijah's blood on his hands and his taste on his lips, a walking wound masquerading as a man.

In the days that followed, the long, numb weeks of picking up the pieces, of trying to remember how to breathe around the jagged void in his chest... he had simply locked that part of himself away. Had drowned it in whiskey, buried it deep, deep down where it could never again be touched, be tainted by the cruelty and prejudice of a world that could never understand.

But with Mark...

With Mark, he wants to try again. Wants to unfurl all the secret places inside himself, to lay himself bare in all his flawed, battered glory and trust that this sweet, untested boy might cradle the truth of him close.

It's not that he thinks Mark is unshakable, some paragon of steadfast courage. No, he sees the way the kid's hands tremble, the flicker of uncertainty, of fear, that clouds his too blue eyes in the face of some new trial.

But that's just it, isn't it? For all his greenhorn skittishness, for all the ways the world has clearly battered and bruised him... Mark never backs down. Never shies away from what needs doing, even when Simon can see the terror thrumming under his skin like a wild thing.

Today, he watched Mark steel himself against his own revulsion, his own bone-deep dread, to help the struggling heifer. Simon saw the way he had balked, but then, he took a beat, took a breath and pushed past the panic, the knee-jerk urge to recoil, and simply done what needed to be done. The gentle determination with which he'd fought for that fragile new life, the way he had been so desperate to see it draw breath.

It has knocked Simon for a loop, has set a fire burning behind his ribs that has nothing to do with the adrenaline, the flush of fear and effort. Because in that moment, watching Mark reach down deep and find that core of quiet strength, that bedrock of compassion and resolve...

It was in that minute, that Simon felt himself get lost. Had felt something slot into place in his chest with an almost audible click, a rightness so profound it borders on divine.

Mark isn't just attractive. Isn't just a pretty face or a strong body, isn't just the ordinary tug of lust Simon has long since learned to subdue and channel and set aside.

No, Mark Midland... he's something else entirely. A once in a lifetime sort of person, a marvel of spirit and strength and such a staggering capacity for goodness that it makes Simon's teeth ache, makes something big and bright and awed rearing up behind his ribs until he can scarcely breathe through it.

And god almighty, he wants him. Wants to take him apart with hands and teeth and tongue, wants to map every golden inch of skin until he's written odes to it, until he could trace the roads and valleys of him blind. He's only human, and Mark is lovely down to his bones - the thought of having him, learning him, coaxing sighs and rare, wry laughter from that wild-honey mouth... it's enough to set a molten heat churning low in his gut, his fingers itching with the imagined smoothness, the give of warm skin and lean muscle.

But it's more, so much more than that base hunger. More than the simple animal urge to fuck, to claim and conquer and possess.

He wants... god, Simon aches for it down to the marrow of him, with a intensity that terrifies him... to know this extraordinary creature. To be worthy of him. To learn the workings of that clever, quicksilver mind, the hopes and fears and dreams that flicker behind the morning-glory blue of his gaze. He wants to unravel the mysteries of him, to learn him not just in body but in spirit, in all the secret spaces of heart and mind and soul.

He wants to wake up to him. To blink awake in the thin light of dawn and see that tousled head on the pillow beside him. Wants to come in from a long day of work and sweat and dust to strong arms looped around his waist, to the curve of that smile pressed into the nape of his neck.

He wants a life with him, a future. To build something real, something enduring, a shelter against the harshness of the world crafted of trust and understanding, partnership in its purest form.

It hits him like a lightning strike, like a tumble off the back of a horse. This sudden, staggering knowledge, settling into his bones with a weight and a certainty he's never felt before.

He is falling for this boy. Not just in lust, not just in friendship or the common regard of fellow trail hands.

No, Simon Teller is falling in love with Mark Midland. The kind of love he's only let himself feel once before, a lifetime ago under the pall of blood and gunpowder-smoke. The kind he thought his capacity for died with Elijah on that godforsaken stretch of Tennessee mud.

It's utterly terrifying, the immensity of it. The sudden, brutal certainty that he would bare his very soul if Mark asked it of him, would reach into his own chest and offer up his raw and beating heart without hesitation.

Because if anyone could love him back, really love him... he thinks it might be Mark, with his quietly determined spirit.

The thought alone is enough to send a shudder rippling through Simon, his breath coming short and fast in the chilly air.

But even as the revelation crashes over him, even as his heart pounds a wild tattoo against his ribs and his blood sings with the rightness of it... doubt creeps in like a killing frost.

Because god, look at him. He's no bright-eyed boy, flush with the vigor of youth and untouched by the cruelties of the world. No, he's a man grown, scarred and weathered by the passage of hard years, carved out of grit and steel and the bitter dregs of his own broken dreams.

He's too old, surely. Too rough, the edges of him honed to brittleness by loss and loneliness and the teeth of his own demons. What could he possibly offer someone as fresh and lovely as Mark, as full of promise and potential? What could a bitter old warhorse like him even bring to the table, besides his own battered heart and a lifetime's worth of scars?

He's damaged goods, broken in ways no amount of care or devotion could ever hope to mend. Surely someone as good and pure as Mark... surely he deserves better than Simon.

But that's another problem for another day. Even if by some miracle Mark returned his feelings, even if there was a chance for something real between them... Simon knows damn well he couldn't, wouldn't act on it. Not here, not now, with three thousand head of cattle to get to market and a thousand miles of trail still ahead.

Shaking off his maelstrom of thoughts, Simon sinks back. Lets the cool, clear water welcome him, sluicing the filth and gore from his body, rinsing away the self recrimination and doubts, gentling the fever-buzz beneath his skin .

He tips his head back, letting his eyes slip closed as he surrenders to it. To the delicious glide of it over sore muscles, the soothing lap and play of it against his chest, his throat.

And if he lets his mind wander to sun-bronzed skin and summer-sky eyes, to calloused hands and the hot, slick slide of bodies... well. There's no one here to bear witness. No one to see the way his breath quickens, the flush that steals across his cheeks that has nothing to do with the chill of the water.

He takes his time, savoring' the quiet of the morning. The stillness of this moment, hung between the night's triumphs and the day's duties. And if his hands wander, tracing' the lines of his own body, if his touch turns exploratory, teasing … well, that's his secret to keep.

He imagines Mark's hands on him, rough and sure. Callused fingers tracing the ridges of his ribs, the cut of his hipbones. Palms worn smooth from the reins, gliding' over his chest, his thighs, kindling a fire within. The touch would be firm, demanding, each caress a brand that marks him as taken.

He pictures blue eyes dark with want, lips swollen from his kisses, parted on a gasp. The scrape of stubble against his throat, the bite of teeth at his pulse point. The sensation is raw, primal, sending a jolt straight to his cock.

A voice in his ear, low and rough, achingly familiar. Growling praise, adoration. Urging him on, hotter, harder, with skilled hands and dirty promises. "You're a fucking vision," the voice in his head rasps, "so damn perfect, and all mine."

Heat builds in his belly, his blood turning to liquid fire as the fantasy takes hold. He can almost feel it, the ghost of a hard body pressing against his own. Can almost taste the salt of sweat-slicked skin, hear the ragged breaths, the low moans. The scent of dust and leather, mingled with the musk of their arousal, fills his nostrils, driving him wild.

His own breath is coming faster now, his heart pounding like a herd of wild horses. The cool water laps at his fevered skin, a sharp contrast to the heat burning within him. Each drop feels like a lick of fire, a teasing touch that pushes him closer to the edge.

He lets it sweep him away, loses himself in the dream of it. In the impossible, aching reality of Mark's touch, his kisses. The weight of him, solid and real, yielding to Simon's demands. He can feel the hardness of Mark's body against his own, the desperate buck of his hips, the needy whimpers in his ear.

His movements turn urgent, purposeful. Chasing the heat, the pressure building at the base of his spine. He's close, balancing on the razor's edge of release, his whole body drawn tight as a bowstring. Every nerve ending is alive, every sensation amplified. The world narrows down to this moment, this need, this overwhelming desire.

And then, with a sharp gasp and a shudder that wracks him from head to toe, he lets go. Lets the wave crest and break, washing through him in a rush of heat and blinding, trembling pleasure.

Mark's name falls from his lips, a broken prayer. A secret confession, whispered to the morning air.

For a long moment, he simply floats. Boneless and spent, the last sparks of pleasure chasing themselves beneath his skin.

Slowly, reality filters back in. The cool of the water, the distant lowing of the herd. The ache of well-used muscles, the grit of sand beneath his feet.

He lets it ground him, center him. Bring him back to himself, to the present. With a sigh, he dunks his head beneath the water. Lets it clear the last cobwebs of fantasy from his mind, cooling the fever-heat still pulsing in his blood.

When he emerges, he feels more settled. Calm, despite the riot of emotion still churning in his chest.

He knows it for what it is now, this bone-deep want, this impossible yearning. Understands the shape and heft of it, the way it fills the empty spaces inside him until he feels fit to burst with it.

But first, he has a job to do. A drive to see through.

Simon checks quickly as he climbs out of the watering hole, but with Mark still gone, he just saunters back to his saddlebags naked, rivulets of water tracing paths down his freckled,  sun-bronzed skin. He rummages through his things, finding a clean pair of jeans and a worn but soft blue shirt.

He's just pulling the jeans over his hips, still bare-chested, when he hears footsteps approaching. Glancing up, he sees Mark making his way back from the chuck wagon, two tin plates balanced in his hands and a determined set to his jaw as he navigates the uneven ground.

And trailing behind him, wobbling on unsteady legs...-

A calf. The calf, small and still damp, its coat a patchwork of white and black. It lets out a querulous moo, trotting gamely after Mark like an over sized, ungainly puppy.

Something warm and fond and unbearably tender unfurls behind Simon's ribs at the sight. At this sweet, gentle boy, who couldn't help but open his heart to a creature in need, even in the midst of his own exhaustion and hunger.

Mark looks up then, his eyes finding Simon's across the campsite. For a moment, he seems to freeze, his gaze caught and held by the expanse of bare skin, the play of muscle beneath as Simon shrugs into his shirt.

There's a hunger in that look, a heat that sends a corresponding bolt of warmth lancing through Simon's gut. But there's something else, too. A softness, an aching sort of vulnerability that makes Simon's breath catch in his chest.

Deliberately, holding Mark's gaze, Simon lets his movements slow. Lets his fingers linger on each button, his touch turned teasing, provocative. He cocks an eyebrow, a small, private smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Mark flushes, the red rising high on his cheeks. He ducks his head, but not before Simon catches the answering glimmer in his eye, the way his throat works as he swallows.

There's a crackle in the air between them, a charge like the gathering of lightning before a storm. A sense of something building, swelling, the promise of a breaking hovering just beyond the horizon.

But the moment is broken by a demanding bleat, the calf butting its head impatiently against Mark's knee. Mark startles, nearly upending the plates in his hands, and the spell is broken, the tension dissolving into soft chuckles and rueful head shakes.

"Looks like you made a friend," Simon observes, nodding towards the calf as he finishes buttoning his shirt. His voice is rough, husky with the residue of arousal and the bright, bubbling joy that seems to have taken up permanent residence in his chest.

"What can I say?" Mark shrugs, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "I'm a likable sort."

"That you are," Simon agrees quietly, the words weighted with a significance that makes Mark's eyes widen, his breath stutter in his chest. "That you surely are."

For a moment, they just look at each other, the air heavy with all the words they can't say, all the emotions too vast and tangled to name.

Then Mark clears his throat, hefting the plates in his hands. "I, uh. I brought breakfast. Or. Something like it, anyway."

He crosses the campsite, holding out one of the plates to Simon. Their fingers brush as Simon takes it, a barely-there contact that feels like a brand, like the scoring of a hot iron against his skin.

"It's not much," Mark says apologetically, settling cross-legged on the ground with his own plate balanced on his knee. "Slim pickings, this far into the drive. But there's stew, and biscuits. Cookie even managed to rustle up a few apples, if you'd like one.

"It's perfect," Simon assures him, sinking down to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Mark, the calf wobbling over to nose curiously at their boots. "More than. Thank you, Mark."

"Well. You're welcome." Mark ducks his head, pleased and a little flustered with the way Simon's mouth moves around his name. He busies himself with his food, shoveling a spoonful of stew into his mouth.

They eat in companionable silence, the clank of utensils against tin and the soft grunts and shuffles of the calf the only sounds in the still, golden morning. It's peaceful, domestic in a way that makes something ache fiercely behind Simon's breastbone.

This, he thinks. This is what he wants. These quiet moments, this easy communion. The comfort of Mark's solid presence at his side, the simple joy of sharing space, breath, a life built in the spaces between words.

He lets himself imagine it, just for a moment. Lazy mornings and quiet evenings, the bookends to long, full days spent working side by side. Gentle ribbing and shared laughter, the sizzle of meat in a pan and a crackling campfire to ward off the chill of the night.

Strong hands and a soft mouth, a head on the pillow next to his own. The press of calloused fingers laced with his, the steady drum of a beloved heart beneath his ear.

A future, in all its glorious potential.

Simon waves his spoon at the calf aimlessly nuzzling at Mark's shoulder, trying to derail his own dangerous train of thought. The innocent curiosity and affection from the young animal provides a much-needed distraction from the deluge of fantasies threatening to consume him.

"You know you can't keep her," he says, his tone light but firm. The words are as much a reminder to himself as to Mark - a warning not to get too attached, not to let his heart run away with impossible desires.

Mark sighs, his hand coming up almost unconsciously to stroke the downy softness of the calf's ears.

"I know," he agrees quietly.

"She should be with her mama," Simon presses gently, watching the wistful expression on Mark's face.

"I know," Mark repeats, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Learning how to be a proper cow, not imprinting on a couple of rough-handed cowpokes."

"I know, Simon. It's just... she's so small. So fragile. I guess I just want to protect her, ya know?" Mark looks up then, meeting Simon's eyes with a rueful half-smile. "Guess I'm just a sucker for something in need of a little gentleness."

The words are light, self-deprecating. But there's a weight to them, a significance that settles heavy and warm in the pit of Simon's stomach. Because he knows, with a sudden, blinding certainty, that Mark isn't just talking about the calf.

He's talking about Simon. About the battered, guarded parts of him that cry out for softness, for understanding. The wounded places, scarred over and defensive, that nonetheless yearn to unfurl beneath a loving touch, a steady devotion.

He swallows hard against the swell of emotion, the sheer immensity of it clogging his throat. His fingers itch to reach out, to cup the strong line of Mark's jaw and smooth a thumb over the perfect bow of his lips.

But he restrains himself, reins in the wild impulse. It's not time, not yet. Not with the drive still ahead of them, the demands and dangers of the trail looming large.

So instead, he just nods. Lets his gaze linger, soft and fond, on the sweet tableau of Mark and the calf, the easy communion of innocent beast and gentle boy.

"She needs her mama," he reiterates, his own voice gone husky with suppressed feeling. "And the herd, the wide open spaces. "He meets Mark's eyes, holds them steady. Tries to pour everything he's feeling, everything he cannot yet say, into the look. "There'll be time enough later for keeping." His throat works, his heart a wild drum behind the cage of his ribs. "When the trail is behind us."

It's a promise, a covenant. Sealed in the hush of the morning, in the soft hitch of Mark's breath and the answering leap of the thing between them, the burning filament strung taut and thrumming from chest to chest.

Mark's eyes have gone wide, dark with a wanting so stark it steals the air from Simon's lungs. His lips part, a small, wounded sound escaping him, and god, Simon has never wanted anything the way he wants to taste that sound. To swallow down all Mark's sighs and whimpers, to drink the sweetness of his pleasure straight from the source.

But he holds himself in check, ruthlessly strangling the urge. Instead, he lets one corner of his mouth quirk up, a ghost of his usual wry humor.

"Best get this little lady back where she belongs," he says, nodding at the calf. "Before her mama starts to fret."

It's a deliberate de-escalation, a careful step back from the precipice. He can see the flicker of disappointment in Mark's eyes, chased swiftly by understanding, by a rueful acceptance.

"You're right," Mark concedes, scritching the calf one last time behind the ears before gently shooing her off his lap.

Simon stands, brushing off his jeans. "It's time for us to mount up and get a move on anyway," he remarks, squinting towards the horizon. "Feels like there's a storm a few days behind us. It's gonna be a hot one."

Mark raises an eyebrow, impressed. "How d'you know?" he asks, curious to hear Simon's reasoning."

Well, there's a few signs," Simon explains, tipping his head back to study the sky. "First, feel that breeze? Hardly more than a whisper, but it's coming steady from the south. This time of year, that usually means heat building somewhere behind us."

Mark cocks his head, considering. Simon can practically see the gears turning behind those keen eyes, filing away the information with focused intensity.

"Okay, yeah. That makes sense," Mark agrees after a moment. "What else?",

Simon feels another surge of warmth in his chest at the eager curiosity in Mark's voice, and swallows back on it before it can color his cheeks. Mark is always so ready to learn, soaking up every scrap of knowledge Simon can impart.

"The animals, for one," he says, nodding towards the grazing herd, the milling remuda. "See how restless they are? Tails swishing, hooves stamping? They feel it coming, the charge in the air before a big blow."

Mark's brow furrows as he studies the livestock, a small furrow of concentration appearing between his eyes.

"I see it," he says at last, something like wonder threading through his voice. "It's subtle, but... they're definitely on edge. Like they're waiting for something." He turns to Simon, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Simon returns the smile, but there's a hint of concern in his eyes as he glances down at the small calf still hovering near Mark's feet.

"Not always subtle, kid," he remarks, nodding towards the little one. "Your little hanger-on, she probably showed up because of it."

Mark's grin fades, replaced by a furrow of worry. "What do you mean?"

Simon crouches down, running a gentle hand over the calf's small, knobby head.

"She's awful little, even for a newborn," he explains. "Probably came a bit early. Premature."

He straightens, casting a weathered eye at the horizon. "Animals can sense these things, sometimes. Changes in pressure, in the air. Might be what triggered her mama into labor, her body knowing it needed to get the calf out before the worst hit."

Mark's expression is troubled as he looks down at the calf, a fierce protectiveness flickering in his eyes. "Will she be alright? Being so small, and with the storm coming...?"

Simon's chest tightens at the naked concern in Mark's voice, the depth of care he can't help but show for even the humblest of creatures. It's one of the things he lov- ... admires most about the boy, that inherent gentleness, that instinct to shelter and defend.

"She'll have a harder time of it, for sure," he admits, laying a consoling hand on Mark's shoulder. "But we can keep an eye on her. Keep her safe."

Mark nods, but there's a shadow in his eyes, a knowledge that sits heavy on his young shoulders.

"Until we get to Chicago," he says quietly, the words more statement than question.

Sighing, Simon gives Mark's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Until we get to Chicago," he confirms, his voice rough with understanding, with shared regret for the harsh realities of the life they've chosen.

For a moment, they stand in silence, the weight of the unspoken hanging between them. The knowledge of all the small tragedies, the unavoidable cruelties that come with the territory, the relentless forward motion of the trail.

But dwelling on it won't change a thing, won't make the road any kinder or the losses any less keen. All they can do is face it head-on, with all the grit and grace they can muster.

Simon takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as he steps back.

"Alright, enough jawin'," he says briskly, falling back on gruffness to cover the ache in his chest. "Mount up, let's get a move on. Kepler n 'Hawkins will have seen the same things I'm seeing; they'll be pushing the men and the herd hard the next few days, try and get out in front of this storm."

A shiver rolls through Mark at Kepler's name, his shoulders hunching up towards his ears, but to his credit he takes a deep breath and shakes it off quickly.

"Well then," Mark says, squaring his shoulders with determination. "We'd best get to it."

He pulls away, already throwing himself into breaking camp, rounding up stray cattle and gear. Simon watches him work, a flicker of pride kindling in his chest. Mark takes to this life like he was born to it, meeting challenges head on, with grit and not a whole lot of complaints.

It's a joy for Simon to watch Mark learn, to see him straighten up and find his core, growing into himself out here under the wide open sky. To have a hand in shaping him, passing on the skills and wisdom that will help him carve out a place in this unforgiving world.

Simon knows he'll be a force to be reckoned with, given time. A top hand, steady and sure, with a rare gift for this work, this way, this life. The thought sits warm and satisfying in his chest as he moves to join Mark, falling easily into the familiar rhythms of preparing for the day's ride.

There's a storm brewing on the horizon, sure enough. A big one, if his weather-sense can be trusted. A towering wall of clouds, dark and heavy with the promise of rain, of lightning and howling winds, but Simon has weathered his share of storms, both literal and figurative. He knows the key is to keep a level head, to face the tempest without fear, but also without arrogance. To trust in your own strength, your own ability to endure, but know when it was high past time to turn tail and run.

As he swings up into the saddle, as he feels the familiar rhythm of his horse beneath him... his mind can't help but draw parallels. Can't help but see the similarities between the oncoming storm and this thing growing between him and Mark. The connection, the bond that's taken root, growing like a weed in the brush of hands and the meeting of eyes across a flickering campfire.

It's a force of nature in its own right, this feeling. A whirlwind, a maelstrom threatening to sweep him off his feet, to send him tumbling into the unknown. It's exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, the sheer power of it, the way it fills him up until he feels fit to burst with it. And just like the storm on the horizon... he knows they need to stay ahead of it. Need to keep a tight rein on this wild, untamed thing between them, at least until they reach Chicago. Until the drive is done and the herd is delivered, the job seen through to its end.

Because out here on the trail, with danger at every turn; it's too risky. Too much of a gamble, to let themselves get swept up in the heat of the moment, in the desperation of a feeling too big to be contained.

If they let it consume them, if they give in to this pull between them, the aching need to close the distance and damn the consequences; Simon isn't sure they would make it through unscathed. Isn't sure they wouldn't shatter into a million pieces, broken on the unforgiving anvil of the frontier.

And that... that's just not a risk he's willing to take. Not with Mark, not with this painful, precious, fragile thing just beginning to unfurl its petals in the secret spaces between them.

No, they need to be careful. He needs to be careful. It won't be easy. There will be moments of weakness, of wanting so fierce it steals the breath from his lungs. Times when the yearning, the magnetic pull of Mark's presence, will feel like an impossible weight, a burden too heavy to bear.

But Simon is nothing if not stubborn. Nothing if not practiced in the art of locking away the softer parts of himself, of steeling his heart against temptation. He's spent a lifetime hardening himself against the pull of anything gentle, anything that might crack the armor he's so carefully constructed.

And yet... with Mark, it's different. The walls want to crumble, his defenses want to fall away. It's both thrilling and terrifying, the way this bright-eyed boy- young man has slipped past his barricades, has taken up residence in the guarded chambers of his heart.

Shaking his head, Simon tries to dislodge the unproductive swirl of emotions tangled beneath his ribs. He can't afford to get lost in wistful thoughts, not now. Not with the storm brewing on the horizon and a herd to see safely through.

With a gentle cluck, he urges Mariposa forward, focusing on the task at hand. He drives the scattered cattle back into formation, his eyes constantly scanning for stragglers, for any sign of trouble.

He doesn't say anything to Mark, doesn't trust his voice not to betray him. Doesn't know if he could keep the longing, the aching tenderness, from bleeding through.

Instead, he simply rides. Lets the steady rhythm of hoof beats, the familiar motion of his body in the saddle, ground him in the present. In the immediacy of the work, the demands of the trail.

And all the while, he feels Mark's presence like a physical thing. A warm weight at his side, a tether binding him to something brighter, something better than he's ever known.

He doesn't need to look to know that Mark is there, riding steady and sure beside him. Doesn't need words to feel the connection, the unspoken understanding that flows between them like a current.

It's a foundation, still fresh and drying, still shaky and new, but there and undeniable. A bedrock on which to build something lasting, something real.

But not yet. Not now, with miles to go and a job to finish. Not with the weight of responsibility still so heavy on his shoulders.

For now, he will hold this feeling close. Will tuck it away beside Elijah's locket, like a talisman, a promise of brighter days to come. Will let it warm him from within, a secret flame to light his way through the darkness.

For now, there is only the trail.

That's all there can be, for now.

Chapter Text

There's so much blood. It's everywhere. On his hands, his face, his uniform. Everywhere he whips his head to look. There's just more blood. Seeping into the mud, the earth, the very air he breathes. Simon turns, frantically, but there's no escape. The blood follows, a crimson tide that threatens to drown him.

Screams echo in his ears, mingling with the crack of rifle fire, the boom of cannons. Anguished faces flash before his eyes, friends and foes alike, contorted in pain, in fear, in the final throes of death. Simon tries to look away, but the images are seared into his mind, indelible, inescapable.

The smell is what hits him the hardest. That cloying, metallic scent of blood that clogs his nostrils, coats his tongue. It's all Simon can smell, the tang overwhelming the acrid bite of black powder, the stench of smoke and shit and the sour reek of fear that clings to his wool uniform.

The uniform they sent him to war in. He followed his orders. Marched a thousand fucking miles to Ohio, just to march another five hundred to shore up Grant and his rage in Shiloh.

Simon's feet bled in his shoes, blisters forming and bursting and forming again with every mile. The wool of his uniform chafed, the sweat and grime of the march seeping into every pore. But still, he marched. On and on, through the cold of winter and the first tentative breaths of spring.

Ohio was a blur, a brief respite before the real hell began. And then, Tennessee in April. Shiloh. A name that for Simon, will forever be etched in blood and bone and painful memory.

Tennessee in April, and the bugs, dear God, the bugs. They were everywhere, a constant, buzzing irritation that never seemed to cease. Mosquitoes whined in his ears, their bites leaving itchy, swollen welts that he couldn't resist scratching into open, bleeding sores. Flies swarmed around him, drawn to the dead and the sweat and the stench, their tiny feet crawling across his skin like the prickle of a thousand needles.

And the heat. Simon, a son of New York, was wholly unprepared for the onslaught of a southern spring.

Mornings were a tease, a whisper of coolness that brushed against his skin like a lover's promise. He would wake to a world bathed in dew, the air crisp and fresh, the birds singing their sweet serenade. For a moment, just a moment, he could almost forget where he was, could almost pretend that he was back home, back in a world that made sense.

But then, the sun would rise, and with it, the true face of Tennessee would be revealed. The humidity would creep in, slow and insidious, wrapping around him like a damp, clinging shroud, until each breath became a struggle, the air thick and heavy, laden with moisture that seemed to seep into his very pores and made it difficult to breathe.

It was like trying to breathe soup. Soup that smelled like blood.

People say blood smells like copper, like a warm penny you find in your pocket. But they're wrong, so fucking wrong. What they mean to say is that it smells metallic, but they're too cowardly to say iron. Because iron is the truth, iron is the violence, the brutality that rips through flesh and spills life onto unforgiving ground.

It's that iron scent, hot and heavy like a blacksmith's forge, like a foundry in summer that fills Simon's lungs, that coats his mouth and crawls down his throat, and clings to the itchy, sweat-soaked wool of his uniform as he tries to focus on his grim task.

He has to reach in, has to find the bullet that's buried in Elijah's stomach, that's letting the blood pour out in never-ending crimson rivers. If he can just find it, dig it out with his shaking, slick fingers, he can press down on the wound, try to stem the tide. But he can't see what he's doing, doesn't know what he's doing, and there's so much blood, too much.

It's everywhere, coating his sleeves, soaking his chest. It's hot and sticky on his face, mingling with the salt of tears that Simon can no longer distinguish from the gore.

He's screaming, pleading with Elijah to keep his eyes open, to keep talking, to stay awake and with him, and through it all, Elijah's whispers, telling Simon it's okay, that he needs to find cover, that he loves him, that he can let go. But it's not okay, it's never going to be okay ever again, because how can the world still turn when Elijah's blood is seeping into the uncaring earth?

Simon's hands scrabble over torn flesh; clumsy, desperate, useless. The blood keeps coming, pulsing out with every faltering beat of Elijah's heart. And Simon can't stop it, can't hold it back, can only watch as the light in Elijah's eyes dims and flickers and fades, as his whispers trail off into a silence more deafening than any cannon blast.

There's an explosion somewhere off to his right, and Simon can hear the whine of a bullet whistle past his head and he doesn't even flinch because Elijah is taking one last, wet breath and then going still forever.

The world tilts, spins, and suddenly Simon is falling, tumbling down into a void that smells of iron and tastes of despair. He screams, but the sound is lost in the rush, in the roar of his own heartbeat. He's drowning in it, in the blood, in the nightmare, in the memories that will never let him go.

And then he's awake, gasping, choking on air that doesn't reek of death. He jolts upright, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his skin slick with a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the chill of the night.

For a moment, he's disoriented, still trapped in the twisted landscape of his dreams. He looks around wildly, expecting to see the chaos of the battlefield, the bodies of the fallen, the blood-soaked earth. But instead, all he sees is the familiar contours of the prairie, the softly rolling hills and the endless expanse of stars overhead.

It's a fine, cool night, the kind of night that seems to breathe with a life of its own. Wispy clouds drift across the sky, vanguards to their more dangerous brothers, playing a coy game of hide-and-seek with the stars, revealing and concealing them like a dancer at a burlesque show. The moon hangs low on the horizon, fat and silver, casting its ghostly light across the land.

And beside him, the campfire burns low, its embers glowing a dull red in the darkness. It's been banked carefully, the flames tamped down to prevent any stray sparks from wandering off into the dry grass of the prairie.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the racing of his heart. He's fine. He's safe. He's miles and miles; years and years away from the horrors of Tennessee, from the war, from the blood and the death and the never-ending marches. He's here, now, in this moment, and he's alive.

But even as he tries to convince himself of this, he can feel the nightmare clinging to him like a second skin. It's a tattoo written deeper than his skin, boring past his bones until it is etched into his very soul, a scar that he carries with him always. He can still smell the acrid tang of gunpowder, can still hear the screams of the dying, can still feel the sticky, cloying warmth of blood on his hands.

He looks down at his fingers, half-expecting to see them stained crimson, but they're clean, if dusty, the skin rough and calloused from years of hard work. He flexes them, feeling the familiar ache of old injuries, the stiffness that comes from too many long nights spent huddled around a campfire.

He sees them shake, the tremors starting somewhere inside of him and shuddering down his arms to end in fingers that twitch and judder.

The war is over, has been over for years, but for Simon, it may never truly end. It lives inside him, a monster in his veins, waiting for the chance to drag him back down into the hell he can never really escape.

In the stillness of the night, with the embers of the campfire slowly fading and the distant stars watching impassively, the siren's call of the bottle becomes almost impossible to resist.

Just a nip, maybe. One drink, perhaps two. Just enough for the burn of the whiskey to bloom into a sweet, enveloping warmth. Just enough to quiet his racing mind, to silence the screams and the echoes of gunfire that still ring in his ears.

It's been nearly two full weeks now since he's last had a sip, thirteen nights of white-knuckled, barely maintained resilience keeping the cork firmly in the bottle. Simon tells himself that his decision to stop drinking isn't solely about trying to impress a greenhorn, but he can't deny the truth that whispers in the back of his mind. There have been nights, more than he cares to admit, where he's slipped the whiskey back into his saddlebags for no other reason than the fear of seeing disappointment etched across Mark's face.

He wants to be better, wants to be the kind of man that Mark can look up to, can rely on. He wants to prove to himself, and to Mark, that he's more than just a broken, hollowed-out shell of a man, more than the sum of his scars and his demons.

But now, in the aftermath of the nightmare that's left him shaken to his core, Simon feels that resolve crumbling, feels the old, familiar call of the bottle tugging at his soul. Slowly, humiliatingly, he reaches for his saddlebags, his trembling fingers fumbling with the buckles. He knows he shouldn't, knows that he's been doing so well, that he's fought so hard to break free from the grip of the bottle. But the horror of the nightmare still clings to him, seeping into his bones, and the craving is a physical ache, a hollowness in his gut that begs to be filled.

His hand closes around the cool glass, the familiar shape of it both comforting and damning. He hesitates, his breath coming in shallow, shaky gasps. Just one sip, he tells himself. Just enough to stop the shaking. Just one moment of oblivion, of blessed relief from the demons that haunt him. Surely, after all he's endured, he deserves that much?

But even as he thinks it, he knows it's a lie. One sip will lead to another, and another, until the bottle is empty and he's right back where he started. Drowning in the bottle, in the memories, in the guilt and the self-loathing. He's worked so hard, come too far, to let himself fall now.

And yet, the temptation is so strong, the need so desperate. His fingers tighten around the bottle, the glass slick with condensation, and he feels his resolve wavering, crumbling like a sandcastle before the rising tide.

The craving is a living thing, coiled in his gut like a serpent, hissing its honeyed lies into his ear.

You need this, it whispers, its voice as smooth and seductive as the liquor itself. You've earned it, after all you've been through. One little drink won't hurt. It'll help you relax, help you forget. Don't you want to forget? Just for a little while...

Simon shudders, his grip on the bottle tightening further until his knuckles turn white. He wants to give in, wants it so badly he can taste it, the phantom burn of the whiskey on his tongue, the warmth of it spreading through his veins like liquid sunlight. It would be so easy, so simple, to just let go, to surrender to the siren's call of oblivion.

"Simon?"

The voice cuts through the fog of his thoughts, the press of his own inner turmoil. It's soft and concerned, achingly familiar. Simon starts, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he realizes he's no longer alone.

Mark stands a few feet away, his silhouette outlined by the dying embers of the campfire. His eyes, even in the dim light, are full of worry and unspoken questions.

Simon swallows hard, suddenly acutely aware of the bottle in his hand, the dampness of his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin. Had Mark seen him reaching for the whiskey? Had he witnessed the pathetic display of Simon's weakness, the cracks in the façade of the unflappable, experienced drover he'd tried so hard to maintain?

Shame floods through him, hot and sickening. This is not how he wanted Mark to see him - haunted, shaking, on the verge of shattering. He's supposed to be the strong one, the guide, the mentor. Not this broken shell of a man, enslaved by his own demons.

Simon clears his throat, trying to find his voice.

"Hey," he manages, the word rough and ragged. "What are you doing up? It's late."

Mark takes a step closer, his gaze flicking to the bottle in Simon's hand before meeting his eyes again. "Couldn't sleep," he says softly. "Heard something."

"Sorry if I woke you."

Mark shakes his head, a slight smile on his lips. "No. It's okay. I think I heard a coyote. That's what woke me. Went to check on the herd. Thought I'd check on you too."

Simon nods, swallowing hard.

"Yeah. Well." He can't quite meet Mark's gaze, can't bear to see the soft understanding there. "Just... couldn't sleep either. Bad dreams, you know how it is."

Mark nods, a sad, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I do." He hesitates for a moment, then gestures to the space beside Simon. "Mind if I join you?"

Simon's first instinct is to refuse, to push Mark away, to hide his vulnerability behind a wall of gruff indifference. But something in the younger man's eyes, in the gentle understanding of his voice, makes him pause.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he nods.

"Sure," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

As Mark settles down beside him, close enough that Simon can feel the warmth radiating from his body, Simon feels something inside him crumble, the walls he's built around his heart developing hairline fractures. He's not used to this, to someone caring about his well-being, his struggles. It's both terrifying and exhilarating.

Mark's eyes flick to the bottle still clutched in Simon's hand. "Whiskey, huh?" he asks quietly, no judgment in his tone.

Simon's fingers tighten reflexively around the glass. "Yeah. I thought...-" He trails off, shame flooding through him, hot and sickening.

He's supposed to be the strong one, the experienced drover, the one who guides and protects. And yet here he is, shaking and sweating like a frightened child, reaching for a bottle like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline.

He looks down at his hand, at the bottle clutched so tightly in his fingers. For a long, agonizing moment, he wavers, torn between the desperate need for oblivion and the knowledge of what it will cost him.

But then, slowly, painfully, he forces his fingers to uncurl. He sets the bottle down, the glass clinking softly against the hard-packed earth. It takes every ounce of strength he has, every shred of willpower, but he does it. He lets go.

"Why are you still up, kid?" Simon growls out, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. He doesn't trust himself to say more, doesn't want Mark to hear the way his words would shake. He's never been more glad for a fire burned low to coals; it'll be harder for Mark to see the tears on his cheeks, to see the way his hands and limbs tremble in the low light.

Mark shrugs, a small, understanding smile on his lips. "Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd take a walk, clear my head. Wanted to check on Maisie and Daisy, in case there was a coyote around here."

Simon blinks, momentarily thrown by the unexpected names. "Who in the hell are Maisie and Daisy?" he asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Mark ducks his head, a faint blush coloring his cheeks even in the dim firelight. "Oh, um. The cow... and her calf."

Simon stares at him for a long moment, then shakes his head, a wry, disbelieving chuckle escaping his lips. "Kid, you can't name them. That's not gonna lead to anything but heartbreak."

But Mark just shrugs again, a stubborn set to his jaw. "I'm buying them. When we get to Chicago. My pay'll be enough for a cow and a calf. So I can name them if I want."

Simon snorts, rolling his eyes. "Those are dumb names for cows," he grumbles, but there's no real heat behind his words.

Mark raises an eyebrow, a playful challenge in his eyes. "Yeah? You got any better names for cows?"

Simon hesitates, then shakes his head, a rueful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well no, but that's because I'm not dumb enough to name 'em."

The banter feels good, normal, a brief respite from the turmoil still churning in Simon's gut. But as the silence stretches between them, the weight of the unspoken hangs heavy in the air.

Mark's gaze flicks to the bottle on the ground, then back to Simon's face. There's no judgment in his eyes, only a gentle, probing concern.

"Are you alright, Simon?" he asks, and there's a softness, an understanding in his tone that makes Simon's chest ache.

Simon swallows hard, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach for the whiskey again, to drown the memories and the pain in the familiar burn of alcohol. But he resists, clenching his hand into a fist.

He wants to lie, to brush it off, to pretend that this is nothing. But the nightmare still clings to him, the images of blood and death and Elijah's fading eyes too vivid to ignore.

"It was your cow," he finds himself saying, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. "That goddamned breech calf. Being up to my elbows in blood and guts. It just... brought some things back."

He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. The memory of the difficult birth is still fresh, the feeling of the calf's slick, blood-covered body sliding into his hands, the hot gush of fluid and afterbirth. It had been too similar, too visceral a reminder of the horrors he'd witnessed on the battlefield.

"I saw... I saw things, during the war. Things I can't forget, no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I drink. And sometimes, something will happen, something small, or I'll hear or smell something… and it'll all come rushing back like it was yesterday."

His voice cracks on the last word, and he looks away, blinking hard against the moisture in his eyes. He feels raw, exposed, like a nerve rubbed too harshly against the roughness of the world.

Mark is silent for a long moment, and Simon can almost hear the gears turning in the kid's head. He braces himself for the questions, for the condescending reassurances, for the inevitable loss of respect.

But when Mark speaks, it's free of pity or judgment, there's no attempt to coddle, no blunt try at smoothing it all over.

"I'm sorry," Mark says simply, and there's a world of understanding in those two words. He shifts slightly, turning to face Simon more fully, his eyes searching Simon's face with a gentle intensity that makes Simon's heart clench. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Simon shakes his head, his jaw clenching so hard he can feel his teeth grinding together.

"No." The word comes out harsher than he intends, sharp and jagged like a shard of glass. He sees the flash of hurt in Mark's eyes, the slight flinch at his tone, and feels a sickening twist of guilt in his gut.

Mark nods, his expression soft and sad.

"All right. You don't have to." But there's a wistfulness in his voice, a yearning to understand, to help, that Simon can't ignore.

Simon sighs, running a trembling hand through his sweat-damp hair.

"I don't want to burden nobody with my own shit." The words taste bitter on his tongue, a mixture of shame and stubborn pride that chokes him, makes it hard to breathe.

"A burden shared is a burden halved," Mark says gently, his gaze steady on Simon's face. There's no condescension there, no placating attempt to paper over the horrors into something more palatable, just a quiet, unwavering offer of support that makes Simon's eyes burn.

Simon snorts, a harsh, humorless laugh that scrapes his throat raw.

"Yeah, well, I ain't smart enough for fancy dictums. And I can handle my own burdens." But even as he says it, he knows it's a lie. His hands shake in his lap, his heart pounds against his ribs like a trapped bird, and he feels like he's drowning, like he's being pulled under by a weight he can't escape.

Mark is silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving Simon's face.

"Okay," he says finally, a simple acceptance that cracks Simon's heart wide open.

Simon looks away, his fingers picking restlessly at a loose thread on his bedroll. The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words and tangled emotions. Simon can feel the weight of Mark's gaze on him, can sense the younger man's concern and care like a physical presence, and it's both a comfort and a torment.

"Go on and ask your questions if they're burnin' a hole in you," Simon says abruptly, the words bursting out of him like a gunshot in the stillness of the night. He can't bear the silence any longer, can't stand the gentle understanding in Mark's eyes, the way it makes him feel raw and exposed and desperately, achingly vulnerable.

Mark shakes his head, a sad, knowing smile on his lips. "Simon. I'm not prying. If you don't want to tell, you don't have to."

And that's the crux of it, the thing that breaks Simon apart and puts him back together all at once. Because he does want to tell. He wants to pour out the horror and the pain and the guilt that's been eating him alive for so long, wants to lay it all at Mark's feet and beg him to help carry the load. But the words stick in his throat, choking him, and he doesn't know how to begin.

He's a soldier, a fighter, a man who's seen and done things that no one should ever have to. But he's never been good with words, never known how to ask for help or admit that he's struggling. It goes against everything he's ever been taught, everything he's ever believed about what it means to be a man.

But looking at Mark, at the open, honest concern in his eyes, the way he's waiting patiently, without pushing or prodding or demanding, Simon feels something shatter inside him. The walls he's built around his heart, the armor he's worn for so long, it all crumbles to dust in the face of Mark's quiet, steadfast care.

Simon swallows hard, his throat working as he struggles to find the words.

"I..." he starts, his voice rough and halting, the words sticking in his throat like thorns. "I don't know how to..."

Mark squeezes his hand, his touch gentle but firm.

"You don't have to do anything, don't have to tell anything you don't want," he says softly, his eyes never leaving Simon's face. "Not here. Not with me."

And something in Simon breaks at that, at the quiet, unwavering acceptance in Mark's voice. He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"It was hell," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the dying fire. "The war, the fighting, the... the killing. I saw things, did things, that no man should ever have to see or do."

Simon closes his eyes, the memories washing over him like a tidal wave all over again. The stench of blood and death, the screams of the wounded, the sightless eyes of the fallen staring up at him from the mud.

"I lost... I lost so many friends," he continues, his voice breaking on the last word. "Good men, brave men, who didn't deserve to die like that."

Simon shudders, his hands clenching into fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I watched my friends die, Mark. Boys, really. We were just goddamned boys, playing at being soldiers." His voice rises, trembling with emotion. "I held them as they bled out, as they cried for the doctors, their mothers, for God, for anyone to save them. But there was no saving them. Not from that. It weren't human. It was a machine. Just a machine that ground people up in it."

Mark's eyes widen, his face paling in the flickering light of the dying fire. He reaches out, his hand coming to rest on Simon's knee, a gentle, grounding touch.

"Simon..." he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

But Simon shakes his head, cutting off the words. "I had never even held a gun. Not really. Weren't much call for it." His voice is distant, lost in his memories. "My family, we were just farmers. Had a small spread in New York. Dairy cows, mostly. A few apple trees."

He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes staring sightlessly into the dying embers of the fire. "I was sheltered, I guess you could say. Didn't know much about the world beyond our little corner of it. But I knew right from wrong."

A bitter, humorless laugh escapes his lips. "When the war broke out, when Lincoln called for volunteers, I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing. Thought I was standing up for what I believed in, fighting for a noble cause."

He shakes his head, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. "I had no idea what I was getting into. None of us did. We were just boys, children, most of us. Farm boys, shop boys, boys who'd never been more than a day's ride from home in our lives."

A sob rises in his throat, choking him. "And then... then we were in the middle of hell. The most brutal, bloody conflict... The things I saw, Mark..." He breaks off, his chest heaving with the force of his grief, his guilt. "I had never been away from home for more than a day. Never slept under a roof that wasn't my family's. And then suddenly, I was marching off to war, leaving behind everything I'd ever known. I killed a man before I ever kissed anybody. That ain't right. That ain't natural."

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "It broke something in me, that war. Shattered me into a million pieces, and I've been trying to put myself back together ever since. But some of those pieces... they're lost for good, I think."

And then, like a dam breaking, the tears come. Great, heaving sobs that shake Simon's frame, that tear from his throat like shards of glass. He doubles over, his face in his hands, his whole body trembling with the force of his grief, his guilt, his pain.

It's a release, a catharsis, a purging of poison from a lanced boil, all the emotions he's kept locked away for so long all surfacing at once. Since the war ended, since he lost Elijah, Simon has been running. First with the numbing horror of battle, then by throwing himself into the hard, unforgiving work of droving out west. And always, always with the drink, the bottle becoming both his solace and his prison.

But now, in the darkness of the night, with the memories raging through his mind and Mark's gentle presence beside him, Simon finally lets himself go. He lets himself feel the full weight of his loss, his trauma, his brokenness.

And he realizes, with a sudden, stunning clarity, that he has never truly grieved. Not for Elijah, not for his fallen comrades, not for the boy he used to be, forever lost on those blood-soaked fields of Tennessee.

In an instant, Mark is there, gathering Simon into his arms, holding him close as the sobs wrack his body. He doesn't say a word, doesn't offer any empty platitudes or hollow comforts. He just holds him, one hand rubbing soothing circles on Simon's back, the other cradling his head against his chest.

It's a lifeline, an anchor in the storm of Simon's emotions. Mark's touch, his solid, steady presence, feels like the only real thing in a world that has suddenly gone hazy and insubstantial. Simon clings to him, his fingers fisting in Mark's shirt, his tears soaking through the fabric.

It's a strange sort of comfort, being held like this as the world dissolves around him. Simon can't remember the last time someone touched him with such tenderness, such care. Even through the fog of his pain, he can't help but be aware of the way Mark's body feels against his own, the way they fit together like two halves of a whole.

But more than that, it's the simple act of being seen, of being understood, that breaks Simon apart and puts him back together all at once. Because Mark isn't trying to fix him, isn't trying to make it better. He's just there, a steady presence in the darkness, a safe harbor in the storm of Simon's emotions.

He weeps until he's hollow, until he's emptied himself of every last bit of pain and sorrow and regret. And through it all, Mark just holds him. He absorbs Simon's grief, takes on the weight of it, shares the burden as if it were his own.

It's a gift, a blessing, a balm to Simon's battered, weary spirit. To be seen, to be held, to be accepted in all his broken, jagged glory... it's a kind of healing he never thought possible.

And as the sobs slowly subside, as the shaking eases and his breathing evens out, Simon feels something shift within him. It's not a fixing, not a complete mending of all that's been torn asunder. But it's a start, a loosening of the knots that have been tied around his heart for so long.

In Mark's arms, with the steady beat of Mark's heart beneath his cheek, Simon feels a flicker of something that might almost be hope. A tiny, fragile seedling of a thing, pushing up through the ash and the ruin of his past.

Mark is quiet for a long moment, his cheek still resting on Simon's head. When he speaks, his voice is soft, hesitant. "Is there anything I can do?"

Simon almost laughs at that. What could Mark possibly do to chase away the demons that have made a home in Simon's head? But there's a part of him, a part he's been trying so hard to ignore, that yearns deeply for the comfort Mark is offering.

He looks up, meets Mark's gaze, and sees nothing but sincerity and concern in those clear blue eyes. It's too much, too overwhelming in its gentleness.

"I don't..." he starts, his voice rough and halting, still thick with shed tears. "I don't know. I've never... I've never talked about this before. Not like this. Not with anyone."

Mark nods, his thumb still rubbing small, soothing circles on Simon's back. "That's okay. But Simon... you don't have to carry this alone anymore. I'm here. I'm listening. And I want to help, in any way I can."

Simon stiffens, a sudden, nauseous rush of shame washing over him. What is he doing, falling apart like this? Crying like a child, clinging to Mark like a drowning man to a life raft?

He pulls back abruptly, wiping roughly at his face with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, his voice gruff, his eyes skittering away from Mark's gentle gaze. "I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have... You shouldn't have to deal with this."

He makes to stand, to put some distance between himself and the raw, aching vulnerability he's just exposed. But Mark's hand on his arm stops him, gentle but firm.

"Simon, wait. Please."

Something in Mark's tone, in the earnest plea of his words, makes Simon pause. He looks back, sees the depth of care, of understanding in Mark's eyes.

"You don't have to apologize," Mark says softly. "Not for this."

Simon swallows hard, his throat tight with emotion. He looks away, his jaw clenching as he tries to regain some semblance of control.

"You shouldn't have to carry my weights," he says roughly. "It ain't right, dumping all this on you."

Mark shakes his head, his hand still resting on Simon's arm. "Simon, listen to me. You're not dumping anything on me. I'm here because I want to be, because I care about you." He takes a deep breath, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on Simon's skin. "I know we haven't known each other long, but, you're… important to me."

Simon's chest feels tight, a knot of tangled emotions lodged beneath his breastbone. He's not used to this, to someone wanting to share his burdens, to help him carry the weight.

"I don't... I don't know how to do this," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mark's hand slides down Simon's arm, coming to rest over his hand.

"I know," Mark says softly.

Simon looks down at their joined hands, marveling at the way they fit together. Mark's skin is warm against his, his grip strong and steady.

An anchor, in the churning sea of Simon's grief.

He takes a shaky breath, gathering his courage. "Could you just... could you just stay? Stay, and keep talking to me? About anything. Just... just help me forget, for a little while."

Mark's face softens, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. "Of course. I can do that. You want me to brew some coffee while we're sitting?"

Simon feels a rush of gratitude at the offer, at the easy way Mark accepts his plea without question or judgment.

"Yeah. A coffee would be good." He reaches for his tobacco pouch, his fingers moving on autopilot as he rolls a cigarette, desperate for something to occupy his hands now that Mark has let go.

As he focuses on the familiar motions, the delicate balance of paper and tobacco, he feels some of the tension beginning to drain from his shoulders. It's a small thing, a simple task, but it grounds him, gives him something concrete to focus on beyond the swirling chaos of his thoughts.

Mark watches him for a moment, a curious tilt to his head. "I didn't know you smoked," he remarks, not unkindly.

Simon shrugs, a wry twist to his lips. "I don't really," he admits. "But if I ain't drinking tonight, I need something."

It's a concession, an acknowledgment of the battle he's fighting, both within himself and against the call of the booze. But it's also a choice, a conscious decision to seek a different kind of solace, a different way to steady his nerves.

To his surprise, Mark holds out his hand. "Fair play," he says, a glint of understanding in his eyes. "Roll me one too?"

Simon raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement chasing away some of the shadows in his gaze.

"You smoke?" he asks, even as he reaches for another paper, another pinch of tobacco.

Mark grins, a quick flash of white teeth in the darkness. "I don't really," he echoes, his tone gently teasing. "But if you're offering..."

And just like that, the heaviness between them lifts, just a little. It's not gone, not by a long shot - the weight of Simon's confession, of the raw, aching vulnerability he's just exposed, still hangs in the air like wood smoke.

But there's a lightness too, now, a sense of companionship, of shared experience. Simon hands Mark the rolled cigarette and their fingers brush, a spark of something shivery, fleeting but true passing between them as easily as the smoke.

They smoke in silence for a few moments, the embers of their cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the night. Simon focuses on the taste of the tobacco, the feel of the smoke in his lungs, letting the familiar sensations ground him in the present.

And when Mark stands to brew the coffee, moving around the campfire with a quiet, practiced ease, Simon lets himself watch. He lets his eyes follow the lines of Mark's body, the play of muscle beneath his shirt, the surety and grace of his movements.

This is also a different kind of distraction, a different kind of succor. But it's one that Simon finds himself craving, more and more with each passing day.

Mark settles back down beside him, pressing a warm tin mug into his hands, and Simon feels a rush of that gratitude, that affection.

But he knows, with a sudden, startling forcefulness, that this is exactly what he wants. More moments like this, more quiet understanding, more gentle teasing, more shared comfort beneath the vast expanse of the night sky.

He wants Mark, in all his steadfast, compassionate, infuriatingly attractive glory.

Mark glances over at Simon. "You want to hear a story? I got a couple books with me."

Mark says it casually, like it's the most natural thing in the world to have literature tucked away in your saddlebags on a cattle drive.

Simon bristles, a hot flash of anger and embarrassment surging through him. "You think I can't read?" he snaps, his voice sharp and defensive. "I know how to read. I ain't good with my letters, but I ain't ignorant either."

Mark's eyes widen, surprise and hurt flickering across his face. "What? No, that's not what I meant at all, Simon. I wasn't trying to insult you."

But Simon is already shaking his head, his jaw clenched tight. He's rubbed too raw, flayed too open to not let his defensive reflexes spur him into a snappish, angry response. "Sure sounded like it. Like you think I'm too stupid to appreciate a good book, like I need you to read to me like a child."

"That's not it at all," Mark protests, frustration creeping into his tone. "I just thought... I know how it feels, to be haunted by the past. I thought maybe listening to a story would help take your mind off things for a while. That's all."

Simon scoffs, a bitter, humorless sound. "I don't need your pity, kid. I can handle my own shit just fine."

Mark's eyes flash, a hint of his own pain and anger surfacing. "It's not pity, Simon. It's understanding. You think you're the only one with ghosts? The only one who's seen things, done things, that you can't forget?"

Simon's eyes narrow, his voice turning sharp and accusatory. "Oh, you got a war record too you just ain't been telling me about?"

Mark flinches, as if the words have struck a physical blow.

"More things can hurt you than war, Simon," he says quietly, his voice tight with barely suppressed emotion. "People can be cruel in ways beyond shooting at each other in a field. You don't know the half of it."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I've been through things... things I don't like to talk about. Things that left scars, even if you can't see them."

Simon feels a flicker of shame, of regret for his harsh words. But the anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface.

"Why do you even care?" he asks, his voice rough and challenging.

"Why the fuck wouldn't I?" Mark snaps back, his own temper flaring. "You think I'd just stand by and watch you suffer, watch you tear yourself apart and not do anything about it?"

Simon looks away, his jaw working as he tries to control the swell of emotions rising in his chest.

"No one else seems to give a damn," he mutters, the words bitter on his tongue.

"Well, I'm not anyone else, am I?" Mark says fiercely, taking a step closer. He softens slightly, his anger fading into something gentler, more imploring. "I just... I know how hard it can be, when you're trapped in your own head, when the memories won't let you go. And sometimes, it helps to have a distraction, you know? Something to focus on besides the things that are haunting you."

Simon is silent for a long moment, his eyes searching Mark's face. He sees there's pain there, deep and long lasting, the shadows of old wounds that haven't quite healed. And he feels a sudden, aching need to reach out, to offer comfort, to be the one to chase away the darkness for once.

"I'm sorry," he says at last, the words feeling heavy and awkward on his tongue. "I shouldn't have... I didn't mean to make light of what you've been through. I just... I'm not used to people caring, you know?"

Mark's expression softens, understanding and something deeper, warmer, shining in his eyes. "I know. And I'm sorry too, for pushing. I just want to help, in whatever way I can."

Simon nods, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "I know. And I... I appreciate that, more than I can say."

Something in Mark's voice, in the raw honesty of his words, gets through to Simon. He feels the anger drain out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a hollow ache of regret.

He hesitates for a moment, then, when he speaks again it's so soft as to almost be inaudible. "Maybe... maybe a story wouldn't be so bad, after all. If you're still willing."

Mark smiles, a small, tentative thing that makes Simon's heart ache in a way that's not entirely unpleasant. "I am."

Sighing, Simon runs a hand over his face, weighing out the offer. For a moment, time seems to stand still, and Simon is transported back to another time, another place. To long nights huddled in a tent, Elijah's voice low and soothing as he curled on Simon's chest, pressed tightly against him in a small army cot reading aloud from whatever book he'd managed to scrounge up. It was a ritual, a balm, a way to escape the horror and the bloodshed, if only for a little while.

The memory is bittersweet, a blooming, dull ache behind Simon's ribs. But there's something else there too, a flicker of hope, of possibility. Because here is Mark, offering him that same comfort, that same connection, without even knowing the significance of it.

"You'd do that?" Simon asks, hating the way his voice wavers slightly. "Read to me?"

The words feel heavy on his tongue, weighted with a meaning that goes beyond the simple request. It's an admission of vulnerability, a lowering of defenses. It's Simon saying, without quite saying, that he trusts Mark, that he's willing to let him in, to share this piece of himself that he's kept locked away for so long.

Mark smiles, and it's like the sun breaking through the clouds. "Course I would. Ain't no trouble. Besides, it's a good story."

Looking down, Simon tries to hide the shame and gratitude warring in his chest. "Even after I've been a jackass to you?"

Mark's expression softens, understanding and something deeper, warmer, shining in his eyes. "Even then. Might help take your mind off...well, what's haunting you."

Simon swallows hard, his throat suddenly tight. He doesn't want to fight, not with Mark, and he can see in the other man's face that the feeling is mutual. The night has been harrowing in more ways than one, and they're both raw, both aching from the wounds they've reopened.

But there's a tenderness there too, a quiet, steadfast affection that makes Simon's heart clench in his chest. He looks at Mark, really looks at him, and sees not just the greenhorn kid he's been tasked with guiding, but a man. A man with his own scars, his own demons, his own hard-fought battles.

A man who, despite everything, is still here. Still offering comfort, still reaching out with an open heart and a gentle hand.

Simon takes a deep breath, then nods, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Okay," he says softly.

Mark's smile widens, warm and bright and filled with a quiet kind of joy. He doesn't say anything else, just pours two more tin cups of coffee and settles down next to Simon, their shoulders brushing as he reaches for his saddlebag and pulls out a worn and battered looking book.

He opens it, the pages crackling softly in the stillness of the night, and Simon feels something loosen in his chest. It's not a fix, and it's not a cure, but it's a start. A small, precious moment of connection, of shared vulnerability, of the tentative, fragile beginnings of trust.

Simon leans against Mark, his shoulder pressing into the warmth of the other man's body as he rolls and lights a second rough cigarette. He takes a long drag, the familiar taste of tobacco grounding him in the present moment. Settling in to listen, he focuses on the sound of Mark's voice, the gentle cadence of his words.

"Call me Ishmael..." Mark begins, his voice low and steady.

Simon's brow furrows in confusion. "What?"

Mark glances up from the page, a small, sheepish smile on his face. "Call me Ishmael. It's... it's how the book starts."

"What is this book even?" Simon asks, curious despite the lingering tension still jittering in his veins.

"Oh. Uh. Moby Dick," Mark replies, a faint blush coloring his cheeks in the flickering firelight.

Simon blinks, then barks out a laugh, the sound startling in the quiet of the night.

"Oh, Kid. Thank you, but I don't think a dirty book is gonna make me feel any better."

Mark sputters, his eyes going wide.

"No, no, it's not... it's not that kind of book at all!" he protests, laughter bubbling up in his voice.

Simon leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I mean, believe me, I understand it. Gets lonely out here on the prairie..."

"Oh my God, Simon!" Mark exclaims, shoving him playfully. "It's about a whale. A big, white whale."

Simon chuckles, nudging Mark's shoulder with his own. "A whale, huh? Seems a lot less interestin' than something dirty, but then, I don't know much about fine literature."

Mark rolls his eyes, but he can't hide his amusement. "I promise, it's a classic for a reason. And not because it's filled with scandalous content."

"Aw, and here I thought you were developing a filthy mind out on the trail."

"Must be the company I keep," Mark retorts, his grin widening. "It was bound to rub off on me eventually."

Simon leans in, his breath ghosting across Mark's ear.

"I know you are not impugning my sense of decorum," Simon murmurs, his voice low and suggestive. "I bet I have just as good manners as any city fellow."

Mark flushes, but there's a challenging glint in his eye. "Those are some big words for a cowpoke. Care to put some money where your mouth is?"

Simon leans in closer, his lips barely an inch from Mark's. "Darlin', I'd be more than happy to put my mouth wherever you like."

For a moment, the world seems to stand still. The air between them is electric, charged with a tension that's entirely different from the earlier friction. They're close, so close that Simon can feel the heat of Mark's body, can smell the sweet, intoxicating scent of his skin beneath the smoke and the sweat.

Mark's breath hitches, his eyes darkening with unmistakable desire. His gaze drops to Simon's mouth, lingering there for a long, heated moment. Simon can practically feel the yearning radiating off him, the desperate, aching need to close the distance between them and taste, touch, explore.

And God, Simon wants it too. Wants it so badly he can hardly breathe. It would be so easy to just lean in, to capture Mark's lips with his own, to pour all this pent-up longing and affection and raw, burning want into a searing, soul-deep kiss.

But just as Simon is about to give in, just as he's about to throw caution to the wind and take what he so desperately craves, Mark seems to come back to himself. He blinks, as if waking from a dream, and moves a shaky bit back.

"Easy there, cowboy," he says, a soft, slightly breathless laugh falling from his lips. There's a tremor in his voice, a hint of regret and longing that he can't quite hide.

Simon feels the loss of Mark's nearness like a physical ache. But he knows, deep down, that the kid is right. This isn't the time, isn't the place. Not now, not yet and not here.

So he takes a deep breath, forcing a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Pity," he sighs, his voice dripping with exaggerated woe. "Whales."

Mark shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he exhales another shaky laugh.

"Whales," he agrees, his tone wistful, and longing. "But it's also got some really beautiful writing. The way Melville describes the sea, the whales... it's like poetry, almost."

And just like that, the moment passes. The tension dissipates, fading back into the easy, comfortable camaraderie that's been growing between them since the start of the drive.

Simon raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He takes a final drag from his cigarette, trying to cool the fever in his blood before stubbing it out against the hard-packed earth. "Yeah? Give me an example."

Mark's smile widens, and he flips through the pages, scanning for a passage. The firelight flickers across his face, casting his features in a warm, golden glow. "Okay, here's one: 'There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath...'"

Simon whistles low, impressed despite himself. "That sounds nice. Real nice." He pauses, his gaze turning distant, pensive. "You know, I've never seen the ocean? Marched halfway to hell to fight in Tennessee, never made it the fifty miles from my home to the shore."

Mark looks up, surprise etched across his face. "Really? Never?"

Simon shakes his head, a rueful smile on his lips. "Nope. Always meant to, just... never got around to it, I guess."

"That's sad." Mark nods, a faraway look in his eyes. "I always liked the ocean. Had these romantic notions of being a sailor when I was a kid."

"You're still a kid," Simon points out, nudging Mark's shoulder playfully.

Mark rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. "So you keep telling me, old timer."

"And I ain't wrong exactly," Simon chuckles. He sobers slightly, curiosity sparking in his gaze. "But the ocean, eh?"

Mark nods, a wistful note creeping into his voice. "Yeah, before heading west, I actually went to Boston, tried to join on with a whaling ship. Had all these ideas about the open sea, about adventure and exploration and seeing the world."

Simon sits up straighter, his full attention now fixed on Mark. This is the first real piece of the younger man's history he's heard, the first glimpse into the life that brought him here, to this moment, to this shared space beneath the stars.

"What happened?" he asks softly, gently encouraging.

Mark shrugs, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "Turns out, I get seasick. Violently. Spent one day out on the water and knew it wasn't for me."

Simon winces in sympathy. "That's rough, Kid."

"Yeah, well, it was probably for the best," Mark says, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Can you imagine me as a sailor? I'd probably fall overboard the first time we hit rough seas."

Simon chuckles, shaking his head. "Nah, you're tougher than you give yourself credit for. You would've made it work, if it was what you really wanted."

"Maybe," Mark allows. He looks at Simon then, really looks at him, and there's something soft and warm and infinitely grateful in his eyes. "But I think... I think maybe I ended up right where I was meant to be, in the end."

And he smiles, a small, private thing that makes Simon's heart stutter in his chest.

The words hang between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. Simon swallows hard, his throat suddenly tight. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice rough and low. "Yeah, maybe you did."

There's so much more he wants to say, so many feelings tangled up inside him - love and longing, hope and fear, a desperate, aching need to hold on to this moment, to this connection, to this man, and never let go. But the words stick in his throat, too big and too profound to be spoken aloud.

Instead, he clears his throat, nodding towards the book in Mark's hands. "So. You want to read me this book?"

Mark's smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah, I think I do." He settles back against his bedroll, the battered volume cradled in his lap. "Ready to hear about the great white whale?"

Simon chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that seems to come from deep in his chest. "Reckon I am. Though I still don't know much about this Moby Dick beyond him being a whale."

"Oh, he's more than just a whale," Mark says, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "He's a legend, a force of nature. The whale to end all whales."

Something in Mark's tone, in the reverence with which he speaks, makes Simon's chest tighten. It reminds him, suddenly and achingly, of Elijah. Of the way he used to talk about the books he loved, the stories that had captured his heart and his imagination.

For a moment, the grief rises back up, threatening to pull Simon under. Memories flood his mind, vivid and bittersweet. Elijah's voice, low and warm, reading aloud by the flickering light of a kerosene lantern. The way his eyes would shine as he spoke of far-off lands and daring adventures, the way his hands would gesture expressively, painting pictures in the air.

And afterwards, when the book was set aside and the night drew in close around them... the stolen moments, the gentle exploration of hands and lips, the whispered words of love and longing.

Simon's heart clenches, a sharp, twisting ache beneath his ribs. For a moment, he's lost in the past, drowning in the surge of grief and memory.

But then Mark is opening the book, the pages rustling softly in the quiet of the night, and the wave recedes, just a little. The present reasserts itself, solid and real and achingly precious.

Mark isn't Elijah, and Simon wouldn't want him to be. He's something entirely his own. Unique in a way that has managed to carve out a space in Simon's heart that is entirely and utterly his alone.

Yes, there are similarities. The intelligence, the gentle strength, deep, inherent compassion, the way they both could see straight through to the heart of Simon, to the broken, aching parts of him that he tries so hard to hide. But there are differences, too, a thousand little things that make Mark undeniably, irrefutably himself.

The way he laughs, sudden and bright, like the sun breaking through clouds on a stormy day, bringing warmth and light to everything it touches. The way he moves, with an inborn grace that speaks of a quiet strength. The way he listens, really listens, with his whole being, his eyes locked on Simon's, his attention unwavering, as if there's nothing in the world more important than the words being spoken, the feelings being shared. The way he's too stubborn, too proud to back down from even the things that scare him. Mark takes a breath, thinks about things and then simply refuses to be forced into submission by them. It takes Simon's breath away, makes him want to be braver, stronger, better than he ever thought he could be.

Elijah was Simon's first love, his teenage sweetheart, the one who showed him what it meant to give your heart to another. And that love will always be a part of him, a bittersweet memory etched into his very soul.

But Mark... Mark is something else entirely. He's not a replacement for what was lost. He's not a bandage for the wounds of the past. He's a chance at a new beginning, a chance at a different kind of love, a different kind of life.

"Come on over here," Simon says, his voice gruff with emotion. He pats the space beside him, an invitation. "Lean on me. Might be more comfortable for reading."

Mark looks at him, surprise and something softer, warmer, deeper flickering in his gaze. But he doesn't hesitate, doesn't question the offer. He just scoots closer, settling in against Simon's side.

It's a simple thing, a small gesture of intimacy and trust. But it makes Simon's heart swell, makes his breath catch in his throat.

He leans a little further into Mark, settling in close, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Simon looks at Mark, at the play of firelight across his features, at the gentle curve of his lips as he begins to read. And he feels a swell of emotion, of gratitude, of a love that is both familiar and wholly new.

"Call me Ishmael," Mark begins, and Simon closes his eyes, letting the words wash over him like the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

Mark's voice is low and clear in the stillness of the night, and Simon lets himself get lost in the story, in the comfort of Mark's presence, in the bittersweet memories of another time, another love.

This, he knows, is where he's meant to be. Not chasing ghosts, not trying to recapture a past that can never be regained. But here, in this moment, with this man, listening to him spin out a tale Simon would have never discovered on his own.

As Mark reads on, describing the unlikely friendship between Ishmael and Queequeg, Simon feels a flicker of curiosity, of something that feels a little bit like hope. He shifts slightly, turning to look at Mark more fully.

"So Ishmael and Queequeg," he begins, his voice soft, hesitant. "Were they...?" He trails off, leaving the question unspoken but hanging heavy in the air between them.

Mark pauses, his finger marking his place on the page. He looks up at Simon, and there's something in his eyes, a depth of understanding that makes Simon's breath catch in his throat.

"Actually married? Romantic?" Mark asks, a small, thoughtful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe it's just Melville's way of saying that Queequeg's ideas about friendship are far different from Ishmael's, Melville showing us how foreign he is."

He pauses, his gaze holding Simon's, steady and unwavering. "Maybe it's more. I like to think it's more. That two like souls found each other by divine providence."

Simon feels his heart skip a beat, a sudden, fluttering warmth blooming in his chest. Because there's something in Mark's words, in the gentle conviction of his tone, that feels like more than just literary analysis.

It feels like a confession, like a tentative, unspoken acknowledgment of the thing growing between them, the connection that has been building since the moment they first met.

"Oh," Simon breathes, the word soft, almost reverent. And in that single syllable, in the weight of the silence that follows, he hears everything that Mark isn't saying.

The longing, the hope, the quiet, steadfast belief in the power of love in the unlikeliest of places, of two hearts finding their way to each other despite all the odds.

Mark smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes Simon's heart ache with a sweet, unfamiliar yearning. Then he looks back down at the book, his finger finding his place once more.

And as he begins to read again, his voice low and warm in the stillness of the night, Simon feels something slot into place deep inside him.

Mark's voice continues to weave the tale, and Simon can feels himself drifting, drained by the outpouring of the night, and lulled by the steady cadence of the words and the warmth of the body pressed against his own.

At some point, Mark's voice begins to falter, to slow. The words come further apart, pulled from Mark's lip like taffy at a fair, sweet and slow and heavy with the weight of exhaustion and the lateness of the hour. But still, he reads on, determined to see the tale through to its end.

Simon smiles softly, his heart swelling with a tender, aching fondness. Even in this, in the simple act of reading aloud, Mark shows his stubborn, unwavering commitment. His quiet, steady strength.

Slowly, hesitantly, Simon reaches out, his hand hovering just above Mark's in the darkness. He's unsure, suddenly, if this is the right move, if he's been reading the signals correctly. His heart pounds in his chest, a dizzying mix of longing and fear and desperate, fragile hope.

But then, before he can second-guess himself, before he can pull away, Mark's hand shifts. It's a small movement, barely perceptible, but it's enough. Enough for their fingers to brush, for the warmth of Mark's skin to send a shiver racing down Simon's spine.

Emboldened, Simon lets his hand settle more fully against Mark's, twining their fingers together, and Mark squeezes back, his thumb brushing over Simon's knuckles in a feather-light caress. And in that touch, in that small, simple moment of connection, Simon feels something slot into place deep inside him.

It's a confirmation, a quiet acknowledgment of the thing growing between them, the connection that has been building since the moment they first met. It's a promise, whispered in the language of touch and breath.

Simon lets out a shaky sigh, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he savors the feeling of Mark's hand in his. It feels right, feels like coming home after a long, long journey. Like finding a piece of himself he hadn't even known was missing.

When he opens his eyes again, he finds Mark watching him, a soft, knowing grin playing at the corners of his mouth. And in that smile, in the gentle warmth of Mark's gaze, Simon sees a reflection of his own longing, his own hope. He smiles back, a small, intimate thing that feels like a secret shared between them. And then, with another gentle squeeze of his hand, he settles back against Mark's side, letting the steady rise and fall of his voice wash over him once more.

Simon is not sure when his eyes slip closed, when his head drops to rest on Mark's shoulder. All he knows is that for the first time in longer than he can remember, he feels safe. He feels whole.

Mark's voice is a constant, soothing presence, guiding him through the story like a gentle hand in the darkness. And even as sleep tugs at the edges of his consciousness, Simon clings to the sound of it, to the anchor of Mark's presence.

This, he knows, with a certainty, is right where he belongs. Not in the past, not in the grip of grief and guilt and regret. But here, now, in the present, with Mark by his side and a future stretching out before them like an open road.

The last words of the chapter hang in the air, soft and heavy with the promise of more to come. And as Mark's voice trails off into silence, as the book slips from his fingers to rest on the ground beside them, Simon feels a deep, abiding peace settle over him.

He shifts slightly, his head finding a more comfortable spot on Mark's shoulder. And as he does, he feels Mark's head come to rest atop his own, a warm, solid weight that grounds him, that holds him fast.

They stay like that, entwined in the darkness, as the fire burns low and the stars wheel overhead. They don't speak, don't need to. Everything that needs to be said, everything that matters, is there in the press of their bodies, in the steady rise and fall of their chests, in the gentle twining of their hands.

And sleep sneaks up like a bandit to claim them at last, as they drift off into dreams kinder than memory, and Simon knows that this is just the beginning.

In the quiet of the night, with Mark warm and solid beside him, Simon dreams.

And for once, the dreams are sweet.

Chapter Text

Neither talks about it. Neither is ready, and neither is equipped to talk about stirring awake, leaned against each other, hands still clasped. Neither wants to confront how easy, how natural it felt to have the other be the first thing they saw when they opened their eyes. Neither wants to be the first one to say anything.

They unfold themselves, trying to untangle more than just their fingers as they stretch out backs gone stiff and sore, moving warily to opposite sides of the fire.

Glancing towards the sky, Simon nervously surveys the line of graphite black clouds that have been chasing them for days. This storm has been brewing for what feels like an eternity, a dark, ominous presence on the horizon that seemed to grow larger and more menacing with each passing hour. Simon had first noticed the signs nearly a week ago - the way the air had grown heavy and oppressive, the distant rumble of thunder that seemed to echo across the vast expanse of the plains like the footsteps of an approaching giant.

He had hoped that they might be able to outrun it, to push the herd hard enough and fast enough to stay ahead of the gathering clouds. But the men and the cattle were already exhausted, worn down to the bone by the long, grueling days of driving, and the storm seemed to have a malevolent intelligence of its own, constantly shifting and changing course to bear down on them like a predator stalking its prey.

Now it has caught them, and the very atmosphere seems to be holding it's breath, the air itself as strained as the two men.

The morning is all but silent, tense but not angry as they move around each other like orbiting planets, close but never touching. It's a dance on a razor's edge, a delicate balancing act between the magnetic pull that draws them ever nearer the edge, and the abject fear of the fall. They're teetering on the brink of something vast and unknown, and the vertigo of it leaves them both breathless and unsteady.

For Simon, it's the fear of losing control, of letting himself be swept away by the tide of his own longing. He's spent so long keeping a tight rein on his heart, locking away the parts of himself that might make him vulnerable, that the thought of letting go now terrifies him.

For Mark, it's the uncertainty of uncharted territory, the fear of taking a leap and not knowing where he'll land. He's never felt anything like this before, never been so consumed by the presence of another person, and the intensity of it leaves him reeling.

And yet, they hold their positions, at an impasse, neither willing to be the first to give way. They dance around each other, the choreography of avoidance grown almost comfortable in its familiarity, each small evasion, each retreating step, only adding to the growing charge that crackles between them.

It's a holding pattern, a stalemate of roiling emotions and raging desires, but like any storm, like any force too long contained, the pressure will eventually find its outlet. Sooner or later, something will have to give.

The only question is what will break first - the storm brewing on the horizon or them. And so they hold back, neither quite ready to take the leap, both hyper-aware of the potential for pain, the capacity for destruction that comes with such intense connection. It's a collision course, a trajectory that can only end one way, but for now, they take some comfort in the futile resistance of the inevitable.

The morning unfolds in this charged stillness. They take refuge in routine, in the mundane rituals of the trail. Simon prepares the coffee with deliberate focus, as if the familiar motions might ground him. He watches as Mark shaves, studies the flex of his forearms, the sure movements of his hands, and feels a rush of yearning so acute it steals his breath. Every detail is magnified and startlingly clear - the way Mark's brow furrows slightly in concentration, the bob of his Adam's apple as he tilts his head back, the flex of his wrist as he rinses the razor in a small bowl.

Simon doesn't want to stare, but he can't look away, captivated by the surety of Mark's movements, the steady hand guiding the razor in clean, efficient strokes. There's a grace to it, a quiet confidence that Simon finds impossibly alluring. He watches from the corner of his eye, a strange ache in his chest at the domesticity of it all. It's a scene that could be from any morning on the trail, but the weight of last night hangs heavy in the air imbuing everything with a sense of inescapability.

Last night was too honest by far. Too raw, too achingly, devastatingly real, and neither has any quarter to hide behind; everything they wanted to say to each other, left unaddressed but looming.

The words that need to be said just hang heavy in the air between them like the clouds that gather over them, a palpable presence that neither can ignore. It's as if the very act of speaking them aloud would make them real, would conjure this into existence, would force them to confront this truth that's been growing between them since the first day of the drive.

Finally, Mark can't take it anymore. If he doesn't move, doesn't do something, he feels like he'll burst, unraveling at the seams and leaving them both in a worse position than they're already in. Everything is adding up to a pressure building inside him, pressing on his lungs until it feels like he can't fully breathe.

In a burst of restless energy, he strides over to his saddle, focusing all his attention on the now familiar task of checking straps and adjusting buckles. It's a mindless activity, one he could do in his sleep, but he pours himself into it now, using it as a flimsy shield against the pressure, the deluge of things kept in check by far, far too flimsy barriers.

His shoulders hunch as he works, as if he could physically defend himself against the weight of the unspoken. Each tug of leather, each clink of metal, is a small act of defiance against the tide threatening to sweep him away.

Across the camp, Simon tries to occupy himself as well, cleaning their few morning dishes and securing the last of their gear onto Mariposa with a single-minded focus. But even as he works, he can't resist the pull of Mark's presence, can't stop himself from stealing glances at the other man from beneath his lashes.

What he sees makes his heart clench. Mark looks sad, confused, almost angry; just as unsettled as Simon feels, his brow furrowed, his jaw tight. It's clear that he's grappling with the same poisonous brew of muddled emotions, and the same uncertainty that plagues Simon's own thoughts, but Simon doesn't know how to cross this divide, not without leaving himself defenseless and vulnerable.

For a fleeting instant, their eyes meet across the campsite, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. In that brief connection, Simon can see the same longing, the same desperate desire for understanding, that burns in his own chest.

But the moment passes as quickly as it came, both men looking away, retreating back into the safety of their tasks. So they keep moving, keep doing, trying to lose themselves in the familiar rhythms of breaking camp and preparing for the day ahead. It's a weak defense against the rising tide, but it's all they have, the only way they know how to navigate this.

They're both waiting, though for what, neither could say - maybe for the other to be the brave one, maybe for some sign, some shift in the fabric of the universe that will finally allow them to bridge the gap, to speak the words that hover on the tips of their tongues. But for now, they cling to the familiarity of routine, to the comfort of action over words. It's a temporary solution, a bandage over a wound that runs deep, but it's enough to carry them through, to allow them to face the day ahead with some semblance of normalcy.

Even as they get ready to ride out, it lingers between them, a hole in the center of the world that won't be ignored. But for now, they let it be, each silently vowing to find a way through, to untangle the knots that bind them together and the ones that threaten to tear them apart.

"Okay, Kid. Mount up," Simon says finally, finally breaking the silence, his voice tight with tension. "We didn't get nearly enough ground covered, and we're going to get caught in at least some of this storm. Maybe worse."

They stand on the very brink of the tempest, Simon can feel the electricity crackling in the air, the prickling sensation of impending danger that raises the hair on the back of his neck and sends a shiver down his spine. The sky above them has turned a sickly green-yellow, the clouds roiling and churning like some great beast stirring, ready to unleash its fury upon the world.

Nodding, Mark tries to swallow back on his fear, tries to suppress the litany of questions that he wants to ask. "Simon, can we tal-"

"Not now," Simon cuts him off, more brusquely than he intends. "We need to get a move on. This ain't no ordinary storm we're facing."

"What happens if we get caught?" Mark asks, a note of trepidation in his voice.

Simon shakes his head grimly. "It's not an if, Kid. We're catching this, full force. Ain't no way around it now. And out here, in the open like this..." He trails off, his gaze scanning the horizon, taking in the sheer immensity of the storm bearing down on them.

"We could be in real trouble," he continues, his voice low and serious. "Storms like this, they can spawn tornadoes. Heard about it happening to drives before, back when I was just a greenhorn myself. Twisters so big and so powerful, they ripped trees clean out of the ground and tossed 'em around like matchsticks. Turned a whole herd into scattered, broken carcasses in the blink of an eye."

Mark swallows hard, his face paling at the thought. "Jesus," he whispers, his eyes wide with fear. "What do we do?"

"Pray it's not that bad. If it is? We'll have to try and find some kind of shelter," Simon says, trying to keep his own rising panic out of his voice. "Some way to protect the herd. If we can get them to bunch up, to turn their backs to the wind, they might have a chance. But it's going to be bad, Kid. Real bad. This storm's been building for days, and it's got a powerful head of steam behind it."

Paling, Mark grips his saddle horn tighter, unable to mask his anxiety, and Simon's expression softens. For a moment, he feels the overwhelming urge to reach out, to offer some physical comfort, to bridge the careful distance they've maintained all morning. His hand twitches at his side, a barely perceptible movement, as if fighting against an invisible restraint.

But he holds back, and instead, he tries to pour the reassurance into his words, to offer comfort through the steadiness of his voice.

"Hey," he says, his tone gentler now, a hint of warmth creeping into the gruff cadence. "I won't lie to you, it's going to be rough. But we'll get through it, alright? We'll stick together, watch out for each other and the herd." He looks directly into Mark's eyes, his gaze intense and sincere. "I need you to trust me, Mark. I've been doing this a long time. Trust that I know what I'm doing, that I'll get us through this. Can you do that?"

There's a vulnerability in the question, a softness that belies the gruffness of his earlier words. It's a glimpse of the man beneath the tough exterior, the part of Simon that cares deeply, that feels the weight of responsibility for Mark's safety and well-being.

Mark meets his gaze, a flicker of something unnameable passing between them, a moment of connection that seems to transcend the looming danger, the unspoken tensions. Slowly, he nods, a flicker of determination sparking to life in his eyes.

"I trust you," he says simply, the words heavy with meaning. "Let's do this."

Simon nods, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

"Alright then," he says, his voice rough. "Let's head out, Kid. We've got a storm to outrun."

"What do you need me to do?" Mark asks, his voice steadier now than Simon would have thought possible.

For a moment, Simon just looks at him, even in the face of the oncoming storm, even with the threat of tornadoes looming over them, Mark is ready to face whatever comes.

Something fierce and proud and devastatingly tender swells in Simon's chest, a sudden rush of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. But he pushes it down, focusing on the task at hand. His voice is low and intense as he holds Mark's gaze, his words carrying a weight that goes beyond simple instruction.

"Stay close to me," he says, almost pleading, a barely concealed whisper of the deeper feelings he can't quite give voice to. "Keep your eyes on the herd, and be ready to move fast if things start to go south."

He pauses, swallowing hard, as if steeling himself for what he's about to say next. When he speaks again, his voice is rough, each word heavy with unspoken meaning.

"And if you see a funnel forming, you ride like hell for the nearest ditch or ravine, you hear me? You leave the cows behind, you leave me behind, and you get yourself as low as you can as fast as you can. Don't try to be a hero."

The words hang in the air between them, a stark revelation of Simon's priorities, of the depth of his concern for Mark's safety. It's a moment of raw, unguarded honesty, a glimpse behind the walls he's so carefully constructed.

In this instant, the implication is clear: Mark's life, his well-being, is the most important thing to Simon, more precious than the herd, more valuable than his own safety. It's a declaration, however veiled, of the feelings he can't quite bring himself to express, the truths he can't yet face in the harsh light of day.

Mark stares at him, his eyes wide with surprise and something else, something softer and more profound.

For a moment, the world seems to fall away, the looming storm, the restless herd, everything fading into insignificance in the face of this revelation. In this moment of time, there is only Simon and Mark, two hearts beating in sync, two souls reaching out across the void of unspoken words.

Mark nods slowly, a flicker of understanding, of acknowledgment, crossing his face.

"You got it, boss," he says softly, a silent acceptance of all that Simon is offering, all that he's entrusting to him.

Simon's heart pounds in his chest, a frantic tattoo that echoes the thundering of the hooves beneath him. The words are there, burning on his tongue, searing his throat with their intensity. Three simple words, laden with a lifetime of longing, of fear, of desperate, aching hope.

I love you.

He wants to say them, wants to shout them into the howling wind, to let them pour out of him in a torrent of raw, unbridled emotion. He wants Mark to know, to understand the depth of his feelings, the all-consuming nature of his desire.

But the words remain locked behind his teeth, trapped by his fear. Fear of rejection, of ruining what they already have, of exposing his battered, scarred heart only to have it ripped from him again.

I need you.

It's a truth that resonates down to his marrow, a fundamental certainty that eclipses everything else. He needs Mark like he needs air, like he needs the steady rhythm of his horse beneath him and the vast, open sky above. It's a need that goes beyond simple want, beyond physical desire, to something soul-deep and essential.

I want to be good enough for you.

This one is the worst, the one that sticks in his throat like shards of glass. Simon knows he's broken, shattered by loss and hardened by the cruelties of life. He's got scars on his soul to match the ones on his body, a lifetime of pain etched into every line of his face.

How can he ever be worthy of Mark's light, his goodness, his pure, unblemished heart? How can he offer himself, tarnished and jaded as he is, to someone so incandescent, so untouched by the darkness that has shaped Simon's life?

The answer, he fears, is that he can't. That he'll never be good enough, never be whole enough, to stand at Mark's side as an equal, as a partner in every sense of the word.

So instead of saying anything, he just spurs his horse forward, taking the lead as they set out across the open plain. Mark follows close behind, the unspoken hovering between them as they ride towards the gathering storm.

Now is not the time, he tells himself firmly, even as every fiber of his being aches to give voice to the truth. The storm is bearing down on them, the herd needs them, and he can't afford the luxury of distraction, of vulnerability.

And yet, with each stride of Mariposa, each breath of wind against his face, Simon feels the walls he's so carefully constructed starting to crumble. The foundations of his defenses are shifting, eroding under the constant assault of his own longing, and he knows it's only a matter of time before they give way entirely.

He risks a glance back at Mark, just a quick flicker of his eyes, but it's enough. Even through the gathering gloom, he can see the tension in the younger man's shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on his reins. But there's something else there too, a determination, a resolve that mirrors Simon's own.

In that fleeting moment of connection, Simon feels a surge of something fierce and proud, a rush of affection and admiration that steals his breath. Mark is afraid, he can see that plainly, but he's here, facing the storm head-on, refusing to back down. It's a courage born not of bravado but of quiet strength, and it calls to something deep within Simon, something he's long kept buried.

He wants to tell Mark how much that means to him, how much he values that steadfast presence at his side. He wants to pour out all the words that have been building inside him, to lay bare the truth of his heart.

But before he can draw breath to speak, the moment is shattered by the first fat drops of rain splattering against his face. The storm is upon them, the time for words, for revelations, lost to the howling wind and the driving rain.

With a grim set to his jaw, Simon turns his face into the gale, spurring Mariposa onward. Mark matches his pace, the two of them riding shoulder to shoulder into the teeth of the storm. The wind howls around them, driving the rain into their eyes and stealing the breath from their lungs, but they press on, determined to see the herd through.

Most of that morning is spent in soaking rain and wind that is steadily and constantly rising. It's a miserable slog, the kind of day that saps the strength from man and beast alike. The rain beats down in an unrelenting torrent, plastering their hair to their skulls and running in icy rivulets down their necks.

The wind is worse, a screaming gale that seems to come from every direction at once. It tears at their clothes and forces them to hunch low over their horses' necks to avoid being blown right out of their saddles.

But worst of all is the effect on the herd. The cattle are nervous, skittish, their heads lowered against the driving rain and their tails whipping in the wind. They keep trying to turn away from the storm, to seek shelter in the lee of hills or clumps of scrubby brush.

It's a constant battle to keep them on course, to prevent them from scattering to the four winds. Simon and Mark work tirelessly, criss-crossing the rear of the herd like a pair of border collies, nipping at the heels of stragglers and turning back would-be escapees.

Despite the tension that hangs between them, the unspoken words and unresolved feelings, they still work together seamlessly. It's a testament to their partnership, to the weeks they've spent learning each other's rhythms and anticipating each other's moves.

A glance, a nod, a short, sharp whistle - that's all it takes for one to convey his intentions to the other. They move in perfect sync, as if they're two halves of the same whole, bound together by some invisible thread.

But even their well-honed teamwork can't fully mitigate the exhaustion that begins to set in as the morning wears on. It's a bone-deep kind of weariness, the kind that seeps into the marrow and turns every movement into a herculean effort.

Their clothes are soaked through, heavy and clinging, and the cold seems to penetrate to their very cores. Their hands are numb, their fingers stiff and clumsy on the reins, and their legs ache from the constant pressure of gripping their horses' sides.

Simon squints through the driving rain, his eyes straining to make out the shape of the herd through the gray sheets of water. Mariposa shifts beneath him, her head lowered against the onslaught, and he can feel her exhaustion mirroring his own.

Beside him, Mark is a hunched figure, his shoulders drawn up to his ears and his hat pulled low over his brow. They've been fighting the storm for hours now, trying to keep the cattle together and moving in the right direction, but it's a losing battle.

The wind has risen to a deafening roar, and the rain is coming down in icy sheets that sting their faces and blur their vision. The back of the herd is scattered, small groups of cattle huddled together in the meager shelter of scrubby bushes or low hills.

Simon knows they can't go on like this. The cattle are at risk of injury or worse, and he and Mark are nearing the limits of their own endurance. They need to find shelter, some place to wait out the worst of the storm.

"Round 'em up, Kid," Simon shouts over the roar of the wind, his voice straining to be heard. "I'm calling it."

Mark turns to look at him, his eyes wide and uncertain. He urges his horse closer to Simon's, his knuckles white on the reins.

"Can you do that?" he asks, his voice nearly lost in the howling gale.

Simon sets his jaw, a grim resolve settling over him. He meets Mark's gaze steadily, trying to project a confidence he doesn't really feel.

"I'd like to see anyone stop me," he replies, urging his horse forward.

But Mark persists, his brow furrowed with worry. He pulls up alongside Simon, his horse jostling against the other man's.

"But Kepler...?" he starts again, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

"Can go fuck himself." Simon finishes, reaching out to clap a reassuring hand on Mark's shoulder. "He is doing the same goddamn thing a mile ahead of us if he's got half a lick of sense," he says firmly. "All of 'em will. To try and keep going through this is madness."

Mark hesitates for a moment, chewing on his lower lip as he considers Simon's words. Then he nods, determination and resolve settling over his features.

"Alright," he says, squaring his shoulders. "Where to?"

Simon squints against the driving rain, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of shelter. The flat expanse of the prairie stretches out before them, a vast, featureless sea of grass offering little protection from the raging storm.

But there, in the distance, he spots a glimmer of hope - a small stand of trees huddled along the banks of a winding creek. It's not much, but it's the best chance they have of finding some shelter from the howling winds and pounding rain.

Simon knows they need to act fast. With the storm bearing down on them and the threat of tornadoes looming, every second counts. He's seen the destruction a twister can bring, has witnessed the way it can scatter a herd and reduce a man to nothing more than broken bones and a spray of blood in the blink of an eye.

He turns to Mark, his voice straining to be heard above the roar of the wind. "We need to head for those trees," he shouts, pointing towards the distant creek bed. "It's our best shot at finding some cover. We can try to set up camp there, wait out the worst of it."

Mark follows his gaze, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the small copse of trees. It looks fragile, almost insignificant against the vast expanse of the prairie and the looming menace of the storm clouds.

"You think it'll hold against this?" he asks, doubt coloring his tone. His voice is nearly lost in the howling gale, but Simon can read the uncertainty in his eyes.

Simon shrugs, a hard set to his jaw.

"It'll have to," he replies. "We don't have a choice. We can't stay out here in the open. If a tornado touches down, we'll be sitting ducks."

Mark nods, his eyes wide and serious. "Alright," he says, squaring his shoulders. "Let's do it."

They wheel their horses around, Simon taking the lead as they begin the arduous task of driving the herd towards the copse. It's slow going, the cattle balking and stumbling in the mud, their heads lowered against the pounding rain.

But Simon is relentless, urging them on with shouts and whistles, Mariposa slogging through the muck with dogged determination. Mark follows close behind, his own voice rising in whoops and hollers above the storm as he pushes the stragglers forward.

It takes them far longer than Simon would like, the minutes stretching out into what feels like hours. Simon and Mark guide the herd towards the small stand of trees nestled along the winding creek bed. It's a battle against the elements, the cattle balking and stumbling in the churning mud, the wind and rain lashing at man and beast alike.

But Simon presses on, his voice rising above the howling gale as he urges the herd forward. As they near the creek, Simon spots a place where the bank rises in a small overhang, creating a natural alcove sheltered from the worst of the wind and rain. It's not much, but it's a godsend in the midst of the storm.

"There!" he shouts, pointing towards the overhang. "We'll make for that spot once we try and get the herd settled in the trees nearby."

Mark nods, his face set with his own tenacity as he helps Simon turn the cattle towards the shelter of the trees. It's slow going, the cows milling and lowing in confusion, but eventually, they manage to get them bedded down in the relative calm of the copse.

With the cattle as settled as they can manage, Simon and Mark turn their attention to their own shelter. They lead their horses to the overhang, tying them securely to a sturdy tree at the edge of the alcove. Simon unsaddles Mariposa immediately, knowing she needs rest and relief from the long, hard ride. Needs the chance to find a place to lay down herself away from the wind and the icy rain.

Half blind from the storm, cold and aching, Mark stumbles to the partial cave, hoping for a respite, just a small space to breathe fully in. The space beneath the overhang is cramped, the earthen walls of the bank pressing close, but it's dry and out of the wind. Simon feels a wave of exhaustion wash over him as he steps into the relative calm of the shelter, his body aching from the long hours in the saddle and the constant battle against the elements.

Beside him, Mark sags against the wall of the bank, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They're both drenched to the skin, their clothes clinging to their bodies and their hair plastered to their skulls.

But there's no time to rest. Simon knows they need to get a fire going, to try and ward off the bone-deep chill that threatens to set in. He sets to work gathering what dry tinder he can find, his fingers numb and clumsy with cold. Mark steps in to help, their hands brushing as they work together to nurse the fragile flames to life.

Once the fire is crackling, casting a faint circle of light into the gloom, they turn their attention to the tent. Simon and Mark work side by side to set it up, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of this new task. It's a small comfort, the promise of a dry space amidst the chaos, but it's one they cling to with staunch persistence.

The canvas is heavy and unwieldy, the wind threatening to tear it from their grasp at every turn. But they persevere, their hands working in tandem, their bodies moving in a dance that's become second nature over the long weeks on the trail.

It's a struggle to drive the stakes into the sodden ground, to keep the tent from collapsing under the relentless onslaught of the wind and rain. But inch by stubborn inch, they make progress, until at last the shelter stands, a fragile bulwark against the tempest.

Just as they're tying off the last guy-line, a gust of wind slams into the tent, nearly ripping it from its moorings. At the same moment, a sound pierces through the roar of the storm - a high, panicked bleating, the unmistakable cry of a calf in distress.

Mark's head snaps up, his eyes wide with sudden, renewed fear. "It's Maisie," he says, voice tight with worry. "Simon, it's our calf."

Their calf. The spindly-legged baby they had pulled from her mother just days ago, a tiny, fragile thing that had needed their help to take her first breaths, her first wobbly knees steps. Simon remembers the way Mark's face had lit up as the calf had stumbled to her feet, the relief evident in him when she took that first breath.

Now, from the sound of it, she is alone, separated from the herd and the protection of her mother. In this storm, she doesn't stand a chance.

Mark is already reaching for his hat, and leaving the shelter of the alcove.

"I'm going after her," he says, his voice brooking no argument.

But Simon is faster, grabbing Mark's arm in a grip like iron.

"Like hell you are," he growls, his fear sharpening his words. "This is why you don't name 'em, Kid!"

Mark wrenches his arm free, his jaw set in a stubborn line. "I'm going, Simon. Are you gonna stop me?"

For a moment, they stare at each other, the air between them crackling with tension. Simon can see the determination in Mark's eyes, the stubborn set of his chin. He knows that look, knows that there's no stopping Mark when he gets like this.

But that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"No," he says, his voice sharp with fear. "It's too dangerous. That calf is probably half a mile away, and the storm is only getting worse."

Mark shakes his head, already reaching for his hat. "I don't care. I can't just leave her out there, Simon. She'll die."

"And you might die trying to save her!" The words burst out of Simon in a rush of fear and frustration. "Dammit, Mark, think about what you're doing!"

But even as he says it, Simon knows it's no use. He can see the set of Mark's shoulders, the fierce light in his eyes. He's going to go, no matter what Simon says.

"Are you gonna stop me?" Mark is already moving, shoving his hat back onto his head. "I have to go get her," he says, his voice brooking no argument.

But Simon reaches out, grabbing his arm again, one last ditch effort to get Mark to stay where there's at least a modicum of safety.

"Kid. Mark, no- please."he says, his voice softening, pleading and barely audible over the growing fury of the storm. "It's too dangerous."

Mark shakes his head, pulling away from Simon's grip. "I can't leave her out there, Simon," he says. "She'll die."

"And you're just going to kill yourself trying to save her?!" Simon snaps, his fear boiling over into anger. "It's not worth it, Mark. One calf, against your life? It's not even a question."

But even as he says the words, Simon knows they're futile. For a moment, Simon is tempted to physically stop him, to tackle him to the ground and sit on him until the storm passes. But he knows that would only make things worse, would only drive a wedge between them that might never heal.

"I have to try," Mark says, and then he's gone, swinging back into his saddle with an ease that's been hard won, disappearing back into the squall.

For a moment, Simon stands frozen, his heart seizing in his chest. The storm rages around him, the wind howling like a wounded beast, but he barely notices. All he can see is the empty space where Mark had been, the muddy foot prints already filling with water.

A memory flashes through his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Another man, another loss. The pain of that had nearly destroyed him, had made him lock his heart away behind walls of stone and steel.

Until Mark. Mark, with his easy smile and his stubborn courage, his books and his gentle hands and his fierce loyalty. Mark, who had slipped past Simon's defenses like a thief in the night, who had made him feel things he thought he'd never feel again.

The thought of losing him, of watching him ride away and never come back, of never having told him how he feels … it is a vice around Simon's heart, squeezing the breath from his lungs. For a moment, he's back on that blood-soaked field, cradling Elijah's lifeless body in his arms, screaming his grief to the uncaring sky.

But then, through the haze of fear and memory, something new surges to the fore. Resolve, hot and fierce, burning away his panic like mist in the sun. He can't lose Mark, won't lose him, not like this. Not without a fight.

A noise tears itself out of Simon's chest, something raw and pained. He's moving before he even realizes it, shoving his hat back on his head and plunging into the storm.

The rain lashes at Simon's face, the wind tearing at his clothes, but he barely feels it. All he can think about is Mark, out there somewhere in this chaos, alone and in danger. His heart pounds in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of fear and desperation.

He scrambles for Mariposa, his limbs clumsy and uncoordinated with cold and urgency. There's no time to saddle her properly, no time for anything but the most basic of preparations. With shaking hands, he throws a sodden saddle blanket over her back, praying it will be enough.

Mariposa shifts beside him, her ears flicking back and forth, her eyes rolling with the tension in the air. She's never been one to tolerate a rider without a saddle, but Simon just knows she can sense his fear, his need. He murmurs to her softly, his hands running over her neck, trying to soothe her even as his own heart races.

"Please, baby girl," he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. "I need you now, more than ever. He needs us."

For a moment, Mariposa stands mostly still, dancing and quivering with nervous energy. Then, almost like she understands the gravity of the situation, like she understands what Simon is asking of her, gives a soft snort, her head bobbing in acquiescence.

Simon swings himself onto her back, his hands tangling in her mane. It's a precarious position, without the security of a saddle, but he doesn't hesitate.

Urging Mariposa forward, Simon plunges both of them back into the screaming maw of the storm. The wind howls around them, the rain driving into their faces like icy needles. Simon hunches low over Mariposa's neck, trying to shield himself from the worst of it, but it's a losing battle.

The world has been reduced to an indistinct haze of water and wind, the prairie a featureless expanse of mud and churning water, lit only by stark white flashes. Simon can barely see, the rain forming a solid wall of gray that seems to press in from all sides and he can only hope he's heading in the right direction.

But he pushes on, relentless, dauntless, his eyes straining for any sign of Mark, any flicker of movement in the gloom. His mind races with all the things that could have happened, all the ways this could go wrong. He pictures Mark thrown from his horse, lying injured in the mud. He imagines him swept away by a flash flood, dragged under by the roiling water.

The thought of losing him, of being too late, is a sickening weight in Simon's gut. He can't bear it, can't even contemplate it. Mark has become too important to him, the one bright spot in a life that has been marked by loss and loneliness. To lose him now, just when they've found each other, just when they've begun to build something real and lasting...it's unthinkable.

Simon urges Mariposa forward, his heels digging into her sides, his voice lost to the howling wind. The storm rages around them, a maelstrom of wind and water that threatens to tear them apart. The rain lashes at Simon's face, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision, and he can feel Mariposa struggling beneath him, her hooves slipping and sliding in the churning mud.

A sudden gust of wind catches them broadside, and Mariposa staggers, her back legs nearly going out from under her. Simon clings to her neck, his heart in his throat, as she fights to regain her balance. For a terrifying moment, he's sure they're going to go down, that they'll be lost in the storm, just two more victims of the prairie's merciless fury.

But Mariposa is a fighter, damn near as stubborn as Simon is, and with a snort of defiance, she digs in her hooves, pushing forward through the muck. Simon can feel the power in her muscles, the determination that drives her onward, and he leans low over her neck, urging her on with every fiber of his being.

The wind roars around them like a living thing, a monstrous beast that seeks to devour them whole. It tears at Simon's clothes, and he can feel the primal terror of a creature caught in the teeth of something much larger and more powerful than itself.

But beneath the roar of the wind, another sound reaches Simon's ears, a noise that sends a spike of pure, sickening dread straight through his core. It's a low, continuous rumble, like the sound of a distant freight train, growing louder and more ominous with each passing second.

Simon knows that sound, has heard it described by those lucky enough to survive an encounter with nature's most violent storm. It's the unmistakable herald of a tornado, the telltale sign that somewhere out there, a funnel is forming, gathering strength and speed as it barrels across the prairie.

For a moment, the sheer panic of it nearly paralyzes him, his mind flashing with images of uprooted trees and shattered buildings, of lives destroyed in the blink of an eye. He knows the power of a tornado, knows that to be caught in its path is almost certain death.

But then, through the haze of fear, Mark's face swims before his eyes. Mark, out there somewhere in this pandemonium, alone and in danger. The thought of losing him, of never seeing his smile again or hearing his laugh, is a pain greater than any Simon has ever known.

With a surge of renewed, desperate drive, Simon leans forward, his lips close to Mariposa's ear.

"That's it, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a rough rasp lost to the screaming wind anyway. "You're doing so good. Just a little further."

He doesn't know if it's true, doesn't know how far they've come or how far they have to go. All he knows is that he can't stop, can't give up. Not until he finds Mark, not until he's safe.

The minutes drag by, each one an eternity of fear and uncertainty. Simon's body is numb with cold, his fingers stiff and clumsy on Mariposa's mane. He can feel the exhaustion dragging at him, the adrenaline that has been fueling him starting to ebb, giving way to a tired that can't be beaten back by sheer will alone.

But he pushes through it, gritting his teeth against the pain and the fatigue. He calls out Mark's name, his voice swallowed by the roar of the wind. He strains his eyes against the driving rain, searching for any sign, any hint of the man he loves.

All the while, the sound of the approaching tornado grows louder, the rumble building to a deafening roar. Simon can feel the vibration in his bones, the primal sense of imminent destruction setting his nerves alight with terror.

And then, just when he's about to give in to despair, just when he's about to let the storm claim them both, he sees it. A flash of movement in the distance, a silhouette that he would know anywhere.

His heart surges with relief, with a wild, disconsolate hope. He urges Mariposa forward, his heels digging into her sides, his voice rising in a hoarse shout.

"Mark! Stay right there, you idiot! Mark, I'm coming!"

The figure wheels his mount, and even through the rain and the gloom, Simon can see the shock on Mark's face, the disbelief and the joy. He's cradling something in his arms, a small, wet bundle that can only be Maisie, his blasted calf. Mark's face splits into a proud, ecstatic grin, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face, that makes Simon's heart skip a beat in his chest.

For a single, shining moment, everything is fine. Mark is soaked through, but safe and whole, he's found Maisie, and the look of pure, unbridled happiness on his face is the most beautiful thing Simon has ever seen. He feels a sob building in his throat, a release of all the fear and the tension that has been raging inside him.

But even as he starts to heave a sigh of relief, Simon hears the sound that turns his blood to ice in his veins. Closer now it's the roar, a deafening, earth-shattering bellow that seems to come from everywhere at once, and then in the space of a single heartbeat, the world disintegrates.

A blinding flash of light splits the sky, so bright that it sears Simon's eyes, leaving him blinking away spots. For a second, he thinks he's gone blind, that the lightning has struck him dead where he stands. But then the roar of thunder hits, a thunderous boom that shakes the very earth beneath his feet, and the storm-tossed prairie rematerializes around him.

The bolt strikes a nearby tree, a lonely thing that stood watch over the grasslands. The force of the impact is tremendous, the trunk exploding into a shower of sparks and splinters that rain down from above. The smell of ozone and charred wood fills the air, acrid and sharp, and the hair on the back of Simon's neck stands on end, his whole body tingling with the residual static of the strike.

But it's not the tree that holds Simon's attention, not the ringing in his ears or the spots dancing before his eyes not even the start of a funnel reaching out from the sky just off to the south. It's Mark, and the horse that rears up beneath him, its eyes rolling in terror, its hooves lashing at the air.

The animal was already on edge, already half-wild with fear from the storm and the chaos. The roar of the approaching twister and lightning strike prove too much, the final straw that snaps its tenuous hold on sanity. It bucks and kicks and rears, its body twisting in a furious, desperate attempt to rid itself of the source of its terror.

And Mark, caught off guard and struggling to maintain his hold on the calf, is thrown from the saddle like a rag doll, his body limp and unresisting as it hurtles through the air. He hits the ground hard, a sickening thud that Simon thinks he can hear even over the clamor that is the world, a hit he feels in his bones, in the very marrow of his being.

For a horrifying moment, Mark lies still, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, his face turned away from Simon. The calf, still cradled in his arms, lets out a plaintive bleat, a sound of pure, animal distress that cuts through the roar of the storm like a knife.

Simon's heart stops, but then, as if a switch has been flipped, he's moving, spurring Mariposa forward with a desperate kick of his heels. He leaps from her back before she's even come to a full stop, his boots hitting the ground with a splash.

He races to Mark's side, his blood pounding in his ears, his mind a litany of desperate prayers.

Simon looks up, his eyes widening in horror as he sees the funnel touch down on the outer edge of his vision. A mile away maybe if they're very very lucky, a massive, swirling vortex of wind and debris. It's close, too close, the sheer force of it threatening to lift him off his feet and hurl him into the storm.

Without a second thought, Simon throws himself over Mark and the calf, using his own body as a shield against the raging winds. He gathers Mark into his arms, cradling him against his chest like something unspeakably precious, unspeakably fragile.

Simon bows his head over Mark's, his own body curving around him in a posture of instinctive protection. In this moment, Simon is everyone who has ever held their beloved dead or dying, who has offered their own flesh and blood as a final, desperate shield against the cruelty of the world.Distantly, Simon can feel the tug of the tornado, the way it threatens to rip them apart, to scatter them across the prairie like so many blades of grass.

Simon can't tell if Mark is breathing, can't feel a heartbeat over the pounding of his own blood in his ears and the clamor of the wind. There's too much happening, too many dangers to contend with, for him to focus on anything but the immediate need to protect, to shelter, to safeguard the person most precious to him.

So he holds on, his body a living barrier between Mark and the maelstrom, his arms an anchor keeping them both tethered to the earth. He presses his forehead against the top of Mark's head, his lips moving in a silent prayer, a desperate plea to any power that might be listening.

"Stay with me," he whispers, his words lost to the wind. "Please, Mark, stay with me."

The tornado roars and rages, the wind screaming in Simon's ears, the debris and hailstones pelting his back with bruising force. But he doesn't move, doesn't flinch, his entire being focused on the man in his arms, on the tiny, fragile life they're both trying to protect.

It feels like an eternity, like the world has narrowed down to nothing but the three of them, huddled together in the midst of nature's fury.

In his head, in his heart, Simon cries out to a god he has not believed in for many years now.

Not the god of his father, the stern disciplinarian who would wipe a world clean for no reason but pride. No, in this moment of demoralized panic, Simon reaches for the god of his mother. The softer god, the one who cradles lambs and sinners alike in his bosom.

Please, get us through this; he thinks, nothing more than a jumble of frantic pleas and half-remembered scripture. Please let him be alive. Please don't take him from me.

Images flash through his mind - his mother's gentle smile as she taught him to pray, the worn pages of her Bible, the way the light filtered through the stained glass windows of their little church. He hasn't thought of those things in years, hasn't felt the need for belief.

Now he reaches for that old, neglected faith like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline, his soul crying out for mercy, for grace, for a miracle.

Lord, he prays, his lips moving soundlessly in the rain. Please, if you're listening, if you're there at all...don't take him from me. Not like this, not now.

Memories flood his mind, the pain of that first loss still sharp and cutting after all these years. He remembers the way the light had faded from Elijah's eyes, the way his blood had stained the ground crimson.

He remembers the way his devotion had shattered, the way he'd cursed God for His cruelty, for His indifference. Any God who could bear witness to that horror was no deity Simon would have any dealing with.

Simon just knows, knows down to his marrow, he can't go through this again, can't bear the thought of losing Mark the same way. It will break him; fragment him into a million pieces that could never be put back together.

Even as the storm rages around them, even as the wind howls and the debris flies, Simon remains curled over Mark and the calf, his body a living shield against the fury of the elements. He doesn't flinch, doesn't waver, even as the tornado delivers a final, battering blow, as if trying to rip them apart with one last, vicious twist.

Simon holds fast, his arms locked tight, his face buried in Mark's hair. He can feel the calf squirming between them, its tiny heart beating frantically against his chest. But he doesn't let go, doesn't loosen his grip, determined to protect them both, to keep them safe no matter the cost.

Please, he begs, his throat tight with unshed tears. Please, not again. I'll do anything. Just don't take him from me.

He doesn't know if his words are heard, if there is even anyone or anything out there to listen. But he pours his heart into the prayer anyway, lets the words spill from his lips in a desperate, fervent plea.

Finally, mercifully, the winds begin to die down, the roar fading to a distant rumble as the tornado moves off, deciding by some vagary of weather or divine intervention to veer off and away, leaving only devastation in its wake.

But Simon doesn't move, doesn't relax his protective embrace. He stays curled over Mark and the calf, his body shaking with exhaustion and emotion, unwilling to let them go, to expose them to even the slightest hint of danger.

It's only when the last echoes of the storm have faded, when the only sound is the sound of rain on the ravaged earth, that Simon slowly, cautiously lifts his head. He blinks away the water and the grit, his gaze immediately seeking out Mark's face, his heart in his throat as he searches for any sign of life, any hint of hope.

Simon's hands shake as he reaches out to touch him. Mark's face is pale, his skin a waxy, almost translucent sheen in the eerie, shifting light of the storm. His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted, and for a terrifying moment, Simon can't tell if he's breathing.

The grief hits him like a hammer to the chest, a physical blow that drives the air from his lungs. He feels like he's drowning, like the world is closing in around him, cold and dark and suffocating.

This is what dying must feel like. Simon has never even seen the ocean, but for a moment imagines this must be what it feels like to be swept out to sea. There is a curious buoyancy, a feeling like floating, disconnected and distant while the weight of all that cold and terrible dark water presses in on you.

But he won't give in to it, can't let himself be swallowed by the despair. He has to do something, has to try.

"Mark?" he calls, his voice raw and desperate, barely audible over the dying of the wind. "Mark, Kid... I need you to wake up."

He shakes him, gently at first, then with increasing urgency. But there's no response, no flicker of life in those still, pale features.

Simon cups Mark's face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over the cold, wet skin of his cheeks. He stares into that beloved face, searching for any sign, any hint that Mark is still with him.

"Please," he whispers, his forehead pressing against Mark's, his tears mingling with the rain on Mark's skin. "Please."

But still, there's nothing. Just the howling of the wind and the pounding of the rain, and the terrible, yawning silence where Mark's voice should be.

In desperation, Simon lays his head on Mark's chest, his ear pressed against the soaked fabric of his shirt. For a moment, there's nothing, just the stillness and the cold.

But then, faint and thready, he hears it. The steady thump of Mark's heartbeat, weak but unmistakable.

A sob tears itself from Simon's throat, a sound of pure, raw relief. Mark is alive.

With renewed fervor, Simon tilts Mark's head back, pinches his nose and seals his mouth over Mark's cold, still lips. He breathes into him, once, twice, a desperate attempt to force air into Mark's lungs, to bring him back from the brink.

It's a moment that feels intimate, sacred in its tragedy. The press of Simon's lips against Mark's, the mingling of their breath, the way their bodies are entwined, is a facsimile of desperate, passionate love.

But there's nothing romantic about it, not really. It's a crude, clumsy attempt at resuscitation, born of desperation and a half-remembered snippet of information gleaned who knows where. He can't even be sure if this is right, if this is helping.

And yet, even in the midst of his fear and his frantic attempts to bring Mark back, Simon finds himself committing every detail to memory. The shape of Mark's lips, the taste of rain on his skin, the way Mark's body feels, heavy and still in his arms.

He doesn't want to think of this as their first kiss, doesn't want this moment of anguish to be the only memory he has of the touch of Mark's lips on his own. But he can't help but savor it anyway, can't help but try to etch every sensation into his mind, just in case it's the only chance he ever gets.

Because the thought of losing Mark, of never getting to hold him, to kiss him, to tell him all the things that have been burning unsaid in his heart, is a pain too great to bear. It's a yawning chasm of grief and longing that threatens to swallow Simon whole, that makes every breath feel like a knife in his lungs.

And so he breathes for Mark, pouring everything he has, everything he is, into each desperate press of his lips. He wills Mark to come back to him, to open his eyes and draw breath and be alive.

"Please," Simon murmurs against Mark's mouth, his voice a broken whisper. "Please, Mark. Come back to me. I need you. I love you."

The words slip out unbidden, a confession dredged up from the depths of his soul. He's never said them out loud before, not to anyone, certainly never dared to put a name to the feelings that have been growing between them, the bond that has been forged through shared hardship and unexpected tenderness.

But now, with Mark lying still and cold in his arms, Simon knows that he may never get another chance. And he can't bear the thought of Mark slipping away without ever knowing the truth of his heart.

So he says it again, his lips brushing Mark's with each word. "I love you, Mark. I love you. Please, don't leave me."

And he keeps breathing, keeps pouring his own life into Mark's lungs, until the world narrows down to nothing but the two of them, locked together in this dance of desperation and devotion.

"Please," he whispers, his voice cracking on the word. "Please, Mark, come back to me."

The seconds tick by, each one an eternity of dread and desperate hope. Simon's eyes are fixed on Mark's face, searching for any flicker of life, any sign that he's still there, still fighting.

And then, just when Simon thinks he can't bear it a moment longer, he sees it. A twitch of the eyelids, a faint furrow of the brow. It's small, almost imperceptible, but to Simon, in this moment it is everything.

"That's it," he breathes, his heart slamming against his ribs. "That's it, Mark, come on. Open your eyes for me."

Slowly, painfully, Mark's eyelids flutter, then crack open. His gaze is hazy, unfocused, but it's the most beautiful thing Simon has ever seen.

"Simon?" His name is little more than a rasp, a barely-there whisper of sound. But it's enough to shatter the last of Simon's composure, to send the tears streaming down his face in earnest.

"Yeah," he manages, his voice thick with emotion. "Yeah, it's me. You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

Mark blinks up at him, confusion and pain warring in his expression. "What... what happened?"

For a moment, Simon can't speak, his throat too tight, his heart too full. There are so many things he wants to say, so many emotions clamoring for release. But he swallows them back, forces himself to focus on the immediate, the necessary.

"You took a bad fall," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "Got thrown from your horse. But you're alright now. We're both alright."

He glances around, taking stock of their surroundings. The storm has passed, leaving devastation in its wake, but the immediate danger seems to have subsided. Still, Simon knows they can't stay here, exposed and vulnerable on the open prairie.

"We need to get you back to camp," he says, shifting to slide an arm beneath Mark's shoulders. "Get you out of this rain and into some dry clothes. Can you stand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

But as they struggle to their feet, Simon quickly realizes that Mark is in no condition to walk. He's swaying on his feet, his face pale and drawn with pain and exhaustion. Without a word, Simon wraps an arm around Mark's waist, pulling him close and taking most of his weight.

"Easy there," he murmurs, his voice soft with concern. "I've got you."

"I'm sorry " Mark leans into him, his head resting heavily on Simon's shoulder. "Simon," he whispers, his voice thin and strained. "I don't think I can..."

"Shh," Simon soothes, hitching Mark a little higher on his hip, taking a little more of his weight. "You don't have to. We'll take Mariposa."

Simon gently guides Mark to where Mariposa stands, her ears flicking back and forth, her hooves dancing nervously on the churned-up ground. She's unsettled, her coat dark with rain and her eyes wide, but she stands her ground as they approach.

"Easy, girl," Simon murmurs, running a soothing hand down her neck. "Easy now."

He clucks softly, a gentle sound of reassurance, as he maneuvers Mark closer. Getting Mariposa to accept one rider bareback was always a bit of a gamble, but two? It might be more than even Simon could ask of her.

But to his surprise, Mariposa lowers her head, her nose brushing against Mark's chest in a gesture of surprising gentleness. Mark sways on his feet, his hand coming up to stroke her muzzle.

"She's so pretty, Simon," he mumbles, his words slightly slurred. "She's the prettiest girl on the prairie."

Simon frowns, a flicker of concern sparking in his chest. He reaches out, cupping Mark's chin and tilting his face up to the light.

"Kid, I need you to tell me if you hit your head," he says, his voice sharp with worry.

Mark blinks at him, his eyes slightly unfocused. But then he shakes his head, wincing at the movement.

"I'm fine," he insists, though his voice is thin and strained. "Bruised, sore, but fine."

Cupping Mark's face, Simon snorts, a sound that's equal parts relief and exasperation.

"You're a damn fool," he growls, even as his thumb strokes gently over Mark's cheekbone. "And you're lucky your idiot ass didn't get carried off by the tornado."

Mark's brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. "There was a tornado?"

Despite himself, Simon feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, affection and exasperation in equal measure.

"There was," he confirms, shaking his head. "But you're lucky enough to still be here." His gaze softens, his hand sliding down to rest on Mark's shoulder. "And lucky enough that Mariposa seems to like you, too."

As if to confirm his words, Mariposa nickers softly, butting her head against Mark's chest. Mark smiles, a tiny, pained thing, but a smile nonetheless.

"See?" he says, his words still a little fuzzy around the edges. "Told you she was the best girl."

Simon chuckles, a sound that's half amusement, half bone-deep relief.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, moving to help Mark mount up. "Just don't go getting any ideas. She's still my horse."

As if understanding the situation, Mariposa takes a step closer, lowering herself to the ground in a graceful, folding motion, and Simon helps Mark onto her back, his hands gentle but firm as he guides him into position. Mark sways a little, his balance still off-kilter, and Simon steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Easy there," he murmurs, his voice gruff but laced with concern. "I've got you."

As if sensing the gravity of the situation, Mariposa stands perfectly still, her ears flicking back as if to check on her riders. Simon pats her neck in silent gratitude before swinging up behind Mark.

He settles in close, his chest pressed to Mark's back, one arm wrapping securely around the younger man's waist. He can feel Mark trembling against him, his body wracked with shivers that have his teeth chattering.

"You're alright," Simon soothes, his voice a low murmur in Mark's ear. "I've got you, and we're gonna get you warmed up real soon."

Mark nods, leaning back into Simon's solid presence. "Thank you," he manages, the words stuttering out between shivers.

Simon tightens his hold, pulling Mark even closer.

"Yeah, well, don't go making a habit of it," he grumbles, but there's no real heat in his words. "Just glad you're not too bad off."

He clucks his tongue, urging Mariposa forward. She starts off at a gentle walk, her gait smooth and even, mindful of her precarious passengers.

As they ride, Simon hunches over Mark, trying to shield him from the worst of the rain and wind. It's a futile effort, but the instinct to protect, to shelter, is too strong to ignore.

His mind keeps replaying those horrifying moments - the lightning, the tornado, Mark lying so still on the ground. The fear is still there, lodged in his throat like a physical thing, making it hard to breathe. Simon can feel it in the way his heart is still racing, in the almost painful grip he has on Mark's waist.

He knows he should loosen his hold, should give Mark some space, but he can't bring himself to let go. Not yet. Not when the memory of Mark lying so still on the ground is still so fresh, so raw.

Instead, he pulls Mark even closer, until there's not an inch of space between them. Mark doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he practically melts into Simon's embrace, his head falling back to rest on the older man's shoulder. It's a gesture of trust, of surrender, and it makes something fierce and protective twist in Simon's chest.

"I've got you," he murmurs again, his lips brushing the shell of Mark's ear.

Mark shivers, and this time, Simon knows it's not just from the cold. He can feel the reaction in the way Mark's breath hitches, in the way his fingers tighten on Simon's wrist.

"Simon," he breathes, and there's a world of meaning in that single word, a depth of emotion that makes Simon's heart clench.

He knows they should talk about this, should put words to the thing that's growing between them. But right now, with the storm still raging and Mark hurt and exhausted in his arms, it doesn't feel like the right time.

So instead, he simply holds on, letting his body say what his voice cannot. He presses his face into the crook of Mark's neck, breathing him in, reassuring himself with the steady thrum of Mark's pulse against his cheek.

Mark's free hand comes up to tangle in Simon's hair, his fingers carding through the wet strands in a gesture that's both soothing and deeply intimate. Simon can't suppress the shudder that runs through him, the way his grip on Mark's waist tightens convulsively.

It's almost too much, this sudden closeness, this raw, unguarded affection. It feels like a dam breaking, like a floodgate opening to release a torrent of pent-up emotion. Simon is drowning in it, swept away by the sheer force of his feelings for this man, this stubborn, brave, beautiful man.

And from the way Mark is pressing back against him, the way his fingers are trembling slightly in Simon's hair, he knows he's not alone in this. Knows that whatever this is between them, it's mutual, it's real, it's powerful enough to leave them both shaken and reeling.

By the time they reach the camp, Simon's heart is pounding for an entirely different reason. His skin feels too tight, his nerves alight with a restless, desperate energy.

He slides off Mariposa's back, his hands lingering on Mark's hips as he helps him down. Mark sways into him, his hands coming up to clutch at Simon's shoulders, and for a moment, they simply stand there, clinging to each other in the pouring rain.

It's a charged moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken words and barely restrained desires. Simon can feel the heat of Mark's breath on his face, can see the way his pupils are blown wide in the dim light.

It would be so easy to close the distance, to lean in and claim the kiss he's been dreaming of for longer than he cares to admit. But something holds him back, some last shred of restraint, of caution.

"Come on," he says instead, his voice rough and low. "Let's get you inside, get you warmed up."

Mark nods, a flicker of something that might be disappointment crossing his face. But he doesn't argue, just lets Simon guide him towards the tent, his arm around Simon's waist, Simon's arm around his shoulders.

Tomorrow, they'll talk. Really talk. Tomorrow, they'll put words to this thing between them.

But tonight, all that matters is that they're alive, and they're together.

Chapter Text

The wind howls across the prairie, driving sheets of icy rain that sting like needles as Simon half-carries, half-drags Mark into the meager shelter of the tent; settling him as close to the struggling campfire at the entrance as he dares. Mark huddles miserably, soaked clothes clinging to his battered body, violent shivers wracking his frame as his teeth chatter uncontrollably.

"You stay put," Simon orders gruffly, already shifting back towards the tent flap. "Gotta see if I can't find that damned horse of yours."

Simon knows that it's not just concern for the animal that's driving him back out into the storm. It's the fear, the raw, gut-wrenching terror that had gripped him when he saw Mark thrown from his horse, when he thought for one horrifying moment that he might have lost him.

It's a feeling that Simon doesn't know how to deal with, an emotion so powerful and all-consuming that it threatens to overwhelm him. He needs space, needs air, needs a moment to collect himself and regain his composure. Simon needs this time to himself, to try and make sense of the feelings raging inside him. He's never been good with emotions, and it has been a very long time since he was comfortable with vulnerability or intimacy. But with Mark... it's different. Everything is different. His expression softens slightly, that lingering fear writ plainly in his storm-gray eyes as he takes in Mark's bedraggled state.

"Try to get warm," he says, his voice gentler now, tender and reassuring. "I'll be back soon as I'm able."

With that, he ducks back out into the maelstrom, leaving Mark alone with the wind's mournful keening and the spitting hiss of rain meeting flame. The cold seeps into his bones, the deep ache of bruises and strained muscles making themselves known as the adrenaline fades. Darkness encroaches at the edges of his vision, exhaustion dragging at his limbs.

But even as his body clamors for rest, Mark's mind is swimming with images of Simon. The sight of him riding up bareback on his horse, drenched to the skin and eyes wild with fear, is seared into Mark's memory. In that moment, with the storm whipping around them and death snapping at their heels, Simon had looked like some ancient warrior, fierce and terrible and heart achingly beautiful.

It was, Mark thinks with a giddy sort of thrill, quite possibly the most erotic thing he's ever seen in his life. The raw power of Simon's body, the fluid grace with which he moved, the sheer, unadulterated masculinity of him... it had taken Mark's breath away, and thinking about it now kindles a heat low in his belly that has nothing to do with the meager warmth of the fire.

He vaguely remembers there had been a boom, resounding and all encompassing and then the world had gone dark, snuffed out like a candle in high wind. But even in the depths of that oblivion, Mark had felt the strong, steady beat of Simon's heart against his ear, had known he was safe in the surety of those arms cradling him close.

Coming back to awareness in Simon's embrace, his face pressed into the crook of the other man's neck and the scent of leather and sweat and something uniquely Simon filling his lungs... it was like coming home. Like finding a piece of himself that he hadn't even known was missing until that moment.

Because that's what Simon is to him, Mark realizes with a sudden, dizzying clarity. He's home. He's safety and comfort and belonging, the one person in all the world who makes Mark feel whole, complete in a way he's never been before.

It's a revelation that steals the breath from him, that makes his heart swell with a longing so intense it borders on pain. Because Mark knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that he is irrevocably, utterly in love with this man. This brave, stubborn, beautiful man who would ride into the teeth of a storm to save him, who would cradle him close and keep him safe and never, ever let him go.

The thought is at once terrifying and exhilarating, a dizzy rush that makes Mark's head spin and his pulse race. He knows that this love, this wild, reckless, kind of love, is the kind that changes a person. The kind that rewrites the very fabric of your being, that alters the course of your life in ways you can never come back from.

But Mark also knows, with a startling clarity, that he doesn't want to come back. Doesn't want to go back to a life without Simon in it.

He wants this, wants him, with an intensity that startles him. Wants to wake up every morning to the sight of Simon's face, wants to fall asleep every night with the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Wants to build a life with him, to grow old and gray by his side.

It's a future that seems at once impossibly distant and achingly close, a dream that hovers just out of reach. Mark sits there, his body battered but his heart whole, and he makes a silent vow to himself. A promise to fight for this, to never let it go.

Because Simon is worth it. Worth every risk, every sacrifice, every moment of uncertainty and fear. And Mark will spend the rest of his life proving it to him, if that's what it takes.

Startled from his daydreaming , Mark jolts upright as the tent flap flies open, admitting a gust of frigid air and a dripping, wild-eyed Simon.

Simon ducks into the shelter beside him, concern etched on his handsome, weather-worn face. Even in the close quarters of the tent, he has to raise his voice to be heard over the howling gale.

"You're a goddamned fool, you know that?" he growls, his words sharp but his eyes soft with worry.

Mark huddles closer to the fire, his teeth chattering as he tries to formulate a response.

"Did you find the horse?" he manages, his voice weak and thready.

Simon nods. "I did. And she's fine. Spooked but fine," he reports, his gaze sweeping over Mark's trembling form.

A faint smile tugs at Mark's blue-tinged lips. "Goes for me too," he croaks out. "Thank you, Simon."

Falling to his knees beside Mark, Simon's hands immediately go to the younger man's shoulders, checking him over for injury even as he mutters curses under his breath. But for all the ire in his voice, his touch is unbearably tender, achingly gentle as his fingers skim over Mark's chilled skin, seeking out any injuries hidden beneath the sodden fabric.

Simon starts at Mark's head, fingers carding through wet hair to feel for any bumps or cuts on his scalp. They trail down to his face, thumbs brushing over Mark's cheekbones, his jaw, with a gentleness that makes Mark's breath stutter in his chest. Simon's eyes are intense, focused entirely on his task, but there's a gentleness in them too, a depth of concern that makes Mark's stomach swoop like he's fallen off a very high place.

Those hands move lower, skimming over Mark's neck, feeling for any swelling. They linger at his pulse point, reassuring themselves with the steady thrum of life beneath the skin. Then they're moving again, tracing the line of Mark's collarbones, the curve of his shoulders, searching for any sign of injury.

Simon's touch is sure and steady as he runs his hands down Mark's arms, feeling for breaks or sprains. He takes each of Mark's hands in his own, rubbing warmth back into numb fingers, checking for cuts or scrapes. It's a simple gesture, but one filled with such care, such attentiveness, that it makes Mark's eyes sting with barely held back tears.

But Simon isn't finished. His hands return to Mark's torso, skimming over his ribs, his stomach, feeling for areas of pain that might indicate injuries beneath the skin, hurts that go too deep for him to possibly handle. The touch is clinical, assessing, but there's an undercurrent of something else, a tension that simmers just beneath the surface. Mark is acutely aware of every brush of Simon's fingers, every press of his palms, even through the barrier of wet fabric.

Mark bites his lip hard, fighting back a whimper as Simon's fingers graze a particularly sensitive spot. The older man pauses, worry etching deep lines into his brow.

"Damn it, Mark," Simon growls, his brow furrowed with concentration as he feels for the tell tale crunch of a fractured rib while Mark breathes. "Hurt?"

Mark manages a jerky nod, not trusting himself to speak right now, and Simon gentles his touch even further, the pads of his fingers ghosting over the area with a delicacy that borders on devout.

Simon's hands reach Mark's waist, skim down his thighs. They're so close, the heat of Simon's body seeping into Mark's own, chasing away the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Mark can feel the warmth of Simon's breath, the brush of his hair against his cheek as he leans in close, intent on his examination.

And then those hands are on his back, fingers splaying wide as they feel along the length of his spine, searching for any misalignment. The touch is firm but gentle, a steady pressure that seems to sink into Mark's very core. He can't suppress a shiver as Simon's hands sweep lower, over the dip of his lower back, the curve of his hips.

There's an intimacy to it, a raw vulnerability that steals Mark's breath and sends heat coiling low in his belly. He's acutely aware of every point of contact, every shiver and hitch of breath as Simon's hands roam over him with focused intensity.

It's not sexual, not exactly; Simon's attention is solely on ensuring Mark's well-being, on assessing his injuries. But his fingers linger, like they are trying to memorize the angles of Mark, there's a reverence in his touch, a tenderness that speaks volumes.

"Just bruised, I reckon," Simon murmurs, relief and the remaining worry warring in his tone as he seems to decide Mark is whole and not too terribly damaged. "But you ought to be dead after a stunt like that."

Mark manages a weak grin that's trying to be cocky, though the effect is somewhat spoiled by another wracking shiver that rolls through his body.

"But I'm not, Simon. I'm still here."

"Pert near not!" Simon grumbles. He retrieves a tin cup of steaming coffee from the fire, it smells like real coffee, probably the last grounds that Simon had in his saddlebags. "Drink this. It'll warm your bones. You'll be lucky not to freeze solid overnight."

Mark accepts the cup gratefully, ignoring how it burns his chapped hands. He blinks, surprise flickering across his face as the sharp bite of whiskey hits his tongue. Taking a long sip, Mark lets the hot liquid sear down his throat and spread blessed warmth through his core. The whiskey kick sends some strength back into his limbs.

He lowers the cup, eyeing Simon thoughtfully. "Is this whiskey?"

Simon nods, something unreadable in his expression. "Yeah. What of it?"

A sudden realization dawns and Mark's eyes widen. "You still have some left?"

The implication hangs heavy in the air between them. Simon has been fighting tooth and nail against the siren call of the bottle for weeks now, determined to kick the habit that has haunted him since the war. That he still has any whiskey left at all is a testament to his iron will and commitment to his newly found sobriety.

A wry, self-deprecating smile twists Simon's lips. "I have most of it left. I told you I weren't drinking no more. And good thing too. I got enough to get you through tonight."

There's a wealth of meaning in those words, a quiet acknowledgment of how far Simon has come and the strength of his resolve. That he's willing to dip into his dwindling reserves of whiskey and coffee for Mark's sake, to ease his pain and warm his bones against the chill... it says more than any pretty speech ever could.

Emotion swells in Mark's chest, gratitude and affection and soul-deep admiration tangling together until he can scarcely breathe around it.

"Simon...—" he starts, voice rough with it all.

But Simon just waves him off, ducking his head, abashed by the naked sincerity in Mark's tone. "Yeah, yeah. Shut up and drink your coffee."

Mark obeys, taking another fortifying sip to cover the sudden tightness in his throat. The whiskey burns going down, but it's nothing compared to the warmth kindling behind his ribs, the glow of knowing that Simon cares for him, would put Mark's needs before his own vices and demons.

He clutches the cup between his palms, savoring the heat seeping into his chilled fingers. His gaze darts to Simon's face, taking in the lines of exhaustion and concern etched into Simon's weathered skin.

"Thank you," he says softly, pouring all the gratitude and affection he can muster into the words. "For this. For everything."

Simon turns his face away, but not before Mark catches the telltale shine in his eyes, the bob of his throat as he swallows hard. "'Course. You'd do the same for me."

And he would, without any hesitation. Mark would walk through fire for this man, straight into Hell and face down the devil himself, if it meant keeping Simon safe and whole.

The realization is staggering, world-tilting in its intensity. It lodges beneath his breastbone, sharp and bright as a star, and suddenly the cold, the aches, the bone-deep weariness all fade away. All that matters is Simon, and this precious, hard-won affection between them.

He wants to hold onto it with both hands, to cherish it and watch it grow. But more than that, he wants to be worthy of it in return. Of Simon's care, his steadfast loyalty, the quiet strength of him.

Slowly, Mark reaches out and covers Simon's hand with his own. Rough knuckles and cracked skin, scars and calluses earned through grit and struggle. With a reverence that borders on devotion, Mark traces the contours of Simon's hand, his fingertips ghosting over each ridge and valley, each mark and blemish.

Simon's breath hitches, but he doesn't pull away; just watches Mark with eyes gone soft and dark, an unspoken question in their depths.

Mark draws in a shaky breath, gathering his courage to meet that searching gaze head on.

"I couldn't just let her drown," he rasps out, willing Simon to understand, begging him to forgive him his foolhardy stunt. "I had to try. I couldn't..." His voice cracks, frays like old rope. He swallows hard against the sudden thickness in his throat. "I couldn't bear for something innocent to die. Not when I could do something about it."

"Fuck the cow, Mark." Something flashes in Simon's eyes then, hot and fierce as a branding iron."No, I'm serious. Fuck the cow. It would've been sad, yes. I know you've got notions of buying her. She's a sweet creature, a beautiful baby from good stock, but we ain't marching a thousand miles over God's most bedeviled dust flats with three thousand head of 'em to be sold as pets in Chicago."

He leans in close, voice low and intense, his breath ghosting over Mark's face. Mark startles at his intensity, caught in the gravity of Simon's gaze, the sheer force of his presence.

"This is our job, kid. Sure, sure. You want to treat 'em good. Treat 'em with kindness and respect, keep 'em hale and hearty and just as happy as cows can be. But at the end of all that? We take them to the butcher. It's the way of the world. The way it's always been. Three thousand left Leadville, and how many you reckon are gonna make it all the way to Chicago? Sure as shit ain't all of them."

There's no judgment in Simon's tone, no censure, but there's an urgency, a burning need to make Mark understand. To make him see the bigger picture beyond one lost calf, one act of reckless heroism.

Slowly, deliberately, Simon grips Mark's knee. His hand is large and work-rough, the heat of it searing even through the damp layers of Mark's trousers. "And if you ask me to choose between a cow and a cowboy? I know what choice I'm making. Every single time."

He pauses, swallows hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is low and raw, almost aching in its intensity.

"If it was any other fella out there, risking his fool neck for a calf? I'd still choose him over the cow. That's just the way of it out here. We look out for our own."

Simon's fingers tighten on Mark's knee, almost convulsively. His gaze bores into Mark's, burning with something that steals the breath from Mark's lungs.

"But you, Mark? You ain't just any other cowboy. Not to me. If it comes down to you or anything else on God's green earth... I'll choose you. Every time. No hesitation, no regrets."

The words shudder out of him, low and fervent as a prayer, and Mark forgets how to breathe. They have all the weight of a confession, the declaration that Simon can't quite bring himself to say to Mark.

But there's no mistaking the message beneath, the truth laid bare in the tremor of Simon's fingers, the unflinching steadiness of his gaze.

In that moment, Mark sees himself through Simon's eyes. Not just a tender-footed greenhorn praying he makes it through the drive. But someone valued. Someone cherished. Someone worth risking life and limb for, again and again, without hesitation or regret.

Someone loved, in defiance of everything the frontier can throw at them.

It steals the strength from his limbs, and leaves him shaking like a newborn foal. He wants to surge forward, to bury his face in the crook of Simon's neck and just breathe him in, to pour out all the wild, desperate things clawing at his throat in a messy tangle of lips and teeth and tongue.

This thing between them, this bone-deep connection that's built over endless miles of trail and starlit nights... it's big. Momentous. Life-altering in a way that scares him witless.

Lacking the words to tell Simon any of that, Mark just covers Simon's hand with his own. Lets his rough, dirt-stained fingers lace through Simon's battered ones, and squeezes with all the strength he can muster. "I'm sorry if I scared you."

Simon huffs, turning his face away again. "Yeah, well. Don't make a habit of it."

But he turns his hand over and squeezes back anyway, palm to palm, heartbeat to heartbeat. A silent acknowledgment of everything still unspoken between them.

Mark's pulse jumps, skin tingling at the contact. In that moment, he wants nothing more than to close the distance between them, to sink into Simon's arms and never let go.

But the night is cold and he's still shivering and there are miles yet to go. So he simply tightens his grip on Simon's hand, thumb stroking over his knuckles, and lets that point of connection anchor him.

A sudden shudder wracks through Mark's frame, his teeth chattering audibly. The adrenaline is all but gone now, leaving exhaustion and bone-deep cold in its wake.

"Christ, I'm freezing," he mumbles, hunching in on himself. "Can't feel my damn toes."

Simon frowns, concern etching deeper lines into his weathered face. He releases Mark's hand, reaching up to cup his cheek instead. His palm is warm, callused, and achingly gentle as his thumb sweeps over the arch of Mark's cheekbone.

"You're like ice," he murmurs, voice pitched low and intimate in the close confines of the shelter. "We need to get you warmed up before you die of cold."

Mark leans into the touch helplessly, eyes fluttering shut as he savors the heat and the feel of Simon's skin against his own.

"Might not be the worst thing," he jokes weakly, trying for levity. "Least I wouldn't be cold anymore."

"Hush," Simon admonishes, but there's no real bite to it. Just a desperate sort of tenderness that makes Mark feel jittery. "I'm not losing you to the weather. Not after everything."

Simon pulls back, holding Mark's gaze as he comes to some sort of decision. "Right. Get your ass out of those wet clothes. I've got spare long johns in my pack. We'll bundle you up good and tight."

Mark's heart kicks into double-time as the implications sink in. Simon's clothes. Simon's warmth, his scent, wrapped around him like an embrace.

Nodding, he begins to pull at the sodden fabric encasing him as chill air raises goosebumps on his fevered skin and he shivers violently, teeth clacking like castanets. His cold-numbed fingers fumble clumsily with the buttons of his shirt, aching and uncooperative.

Frustration claws at his throat, hot and prickling. But before it can boil over, Simon's hand covers his own, stilling their ineffectual scrabbling.

"Easy there," Simon murmurs. "Let me."

Mark's breath catches hard in his chest. Simon is close, so close Mark can feel the heat of him, the whisper of his exhale against his throat. He's acutely aware of the conspicuousness of his feelings, the vulnerability of it. Of Simon's nearness, the work-roughened fingers brushing his own.

It's too much. Not enough. Mark is reeling with it.

Deftly, Simon undoes the stubborn buttons. His fingers are gentle but sure as he helps Mark shimmy the cold, clammy fabric down his shoulders and off his hips. Mark can't quite suppress a hiss as the movement pulls at sore muscles and jars half-formed bruises, the remnants of his tumble from a spooked horse.

Simon makes a low, concerned sound in the back of his throat, his hands soothing as they move slowly and methodically over Mark's skin. He eases the dripping garment past Mark's knees with infinite care, mindful of every flinch and hitch of breath that betrays the younger man's discomfort.

And it undoes something in Mark. The care in that touch, the unthinking tenderness. It lodges like a hot coal against organs made of kindling, threatens to catch them into a blaze, tightens like a fist around his throat.

He blinks rapidly, grateful that he's turned away, that Simon can't see the stark want and gratitude and confusion that must be writ across his face. Can't see the way his cheeks are flushed with more than just the returning warmth, the way his breath comes a little faster at the brush of Simon's fingers against his bare skin.

Silently, and just as carefully, Simon begins to help Mark into the dry clothes. His hands are gentle as he guides the soft fabric over Mark's chilled skin, fingertips grazing goose-pimpled flesh with each deliberate movement. If he notices the way Mark shivers at the contact, the way his pulse leaps and stutters, he gives no sign.

He starts with the long johns, kneeling before Mark holding them open for him to step into. Mark's hand finds Simon's shoulder, bracing himself as he lifts first one foot, then the other. Simon is warm beneath his palm, muscles firm and solid. Grounding.

As Simon begins to draw the garment up, his knuckles brush the inside of Mark's calf. The touch is fleeting, almost accidental, but it sends a shiver racing up Mark's spine. Simon pauses, glancing up through his lashes, a question in his eyes.

There's something else there too, a heat that has nothing to do with the crackling fire, a hunger that makes Mark's mouth go dry. He swallows hard and nods, not trusting his voice, and sees an answering flare of want in Simon's gaze before the older man lowers his eyes once more.

Permission granted, Simon continues his slow, careful progress. His hands skim over Mark's skin as he raises the warm woolens over his legs. Each graze, each whisper of skin on skin, is a small revelation. A mapping of uncharted territory, a claiming of sorts.

When Simon reaches the soft skin at the backs of Mark's knees, he ghosts his thumbs over the delicate flesh there, tracing the thin silvery lines of old scars. Mark's breath hitches, his eyes fluttering shut at the raw tenderness in that touch, the unspoken reverence. A soft gasp escapes his parted lips, almost a moan, and he feels his cock begin to stir and thicken, awakened by Simon's careful treatment.

Simon continues, moving higher still, tugging the fabric over the lean muscles of Mark's thighs. The long johns are snug, clinging to every curve and plane, and Simon's hands follow their contours almost religiously. Like he's learning every dip and swell, every mark and blemish. Committing Mark's body to memory, a landscape to be studied and cherished.

Mark bites his lip, fighting back a whimper as Simon's knuckles brush the crease where thigh meets groin. When Simon's fingers find a mottled bruise, courtesy of the unforgiving rocks, he gentles his touch even further. Skates around the edges of the purpling flesh, soothing, apologetic.

Mark's heart clenches behind his ribs, a lump forming in his throat. He can't remember the last time anyone touched him like this. Can't remember ever being handled with such care, such ardent consideration.

It steals his breath, makes his head swim and his knees go weak. He's achingly hard now, his cock rising eagerly to attention, seeking the heat and pressure of Simon's touch. A flush crawls up his neck, heat pooling in his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he prays Simon won't notice the effect his proximity is having.

But it's a futile hope, because how could Simon not notice? Mark is standing bare before him, his desire impossible to miss, his body's response to Simon's touch on unabashed display. Shame and want war within him, twisting his guts into knots even as liquid heat courses through his veins.

He risks a glance down at Simon, half-afraid of what he'll see. But there's no disgust in Simon's eyes, no revulsion or ridicule. Only a mirror of Mark's own longing, a hunger that makes the older man's hands tremble where they rest on Mark's hips.

For a moment, everything goes still and quiet. Suspended on a precipice, caught between the familiar and the unknown. The air crackles with potential, with barely leashed yearning, and Mark is abruptly, painfully aware of his nakedness. Of Simon's proximity, the heat of his body, the slow rasp of his breathing.

It would be so easy to let himself fall. To thread his fingers through Simon's hair and draw him close, to bring those work-roughened hands to the fever-hot skin of his waist, his ribs. To imagine Simon's mouth on him, those full lips wrapping around his cock, the wet heat of his tongue tracing the length of him. To let the banked embers between them kindle into an inferno and damn the consequences.

And then, breaking the spell, Simon is urging the fabric higher, over the sharp jut of Mark's hipbones. His thumbs slot into the creases of Mark's thighs, palms molding to the curves of his hips, his ass, and Mark can't contain the soft sound that escapes his throat. Can't quell the full-body shudder, the instinctive arch into Simon's hands.

But even as his body sings with the rightness of it, even as every fiber of his being longs to surrender to the heat of Simon's touch, Mark hesitates. There's a flicker of uncertainty in Simon's eyes, a hint of the same nervous energy that thrums through Mark's own veins. It's a reminder that this thing between them, this unspoken bond, is as new and fragile for Simon as it is for Mark.

So instead, he contents himself with a touch that's at once fleeting and devoted. Lets his fingers trail up the corded length of Simon's neck, savoring the rasp of stubble and the throb of his pulse beneath the skin.

When he reaches the strong line of Simon's jaw, he pauses, his palm molding to the curve of the older man's cheek. It's a touch that lingers, a caress that speaks volumes in the charged silence of the tent.

Gratitude and longing, permission and trust and unspoken promises, all condensed into this single point of contact. A silent plea for more.

Mark's thumb sweeps over the arch of Simon's cheekbone, marveling at the contrast of smooth skin and rough beard. He feels the hitch in Simon's breath, the way he leans almost imperceptibly into the touch, as if helpless to resist the pull of Mark's hands, the call of his want.

And oh, how Mark wants. Wants to touch and be touched, wants map the planes and angles of Simon's face with fingers and lips and tongue. Wants to lose himself in the heat of Simon's body, the urgent press of skin against skin.

But more than that, he needs Simon to know that he's sure. That this isn't some fleeting impulse born of adrenaline and near-death, but a truth that's been etched into his heart, his bones, from almost the very first moment their paths crossed.

Beneath his hand, Simon goes still. Breath catching, muscles tensing. For a suspended moment, the entire world hangs in the balance. Crystallized and razor-edged with potential.

And Simon wants. Wants to turn his head and press his lips to Mark's wrist. To draw him down and in, to chart the geography of him with hands and teeth, until he's trembling apart in Simon's arms.

And yet, above that, a call more certain and more clear than even the longing; Simon needs. Needs there to be no space left between them for secrets or uncertainties. Needs their connection to be absolute, transparent—a sanctuary where nothing remains unspoken.

It would be so easy. As natural as breathing, as right as the turn of the world. All he has to do is reach out. Take hold. Let himself fall and trust that Mark will catch him.

But something tethers him. A heavy anchor of doubt, his own deep-rooted insecurity dragging him away.

Because what does he have to offer, in the end? What is he, compared to the bright flame of the man before him, all courage and cleverness and quicksilver grace? How could his battered, blood-stained hands ever hope to hold something so precious without breaking it?

So Simon tamps down on the hunger thrumming through his veins. Focuses on the task at hand, on chasing the chill from Mark's too-pale skin. He settles the waistband of the long johns over the sharp cuts of Mark's hipbones, smooths the fabric with hands that tremble only slightly.

Then Simon is shifting, helping Mark ease his arms into the sleeves of a butter soft shirt with careful motions. Simon guides it over Mark's head, mindful of the bruises blooming along his ribs. As Mark's face emerges from the collar, hair mussed and eyes wide, Simon pauses. His gaze rakes over Mark's features, drinking him in like a man long-parched, and the air between them crackles with the want.

His hands smooth over Mark's shoulders, trail down his back, leaving tingles in their wake.

Each touch is electric, igniting sparks beneath Mark's skin. But there's a deeper comfort there too. A sense of being cared for, watched over. It's a feeling Mark has seldom known, and it urges that fragile flame in his core higher.

By the time Simon is fastening the final button at Mark's throat, fingertips grazing his collarbone in a touch that feels unbearably intimate, Mark is vibrating with anticipation, every nerve alive and aware.

"Hell, Kid," Simon rasps, voice cracking like mud in a drought, holding back the truth of them with a tenuous grasp. "You're gonna be one big bruise come morning."

He reaches out, hand hovering uncertainly in the charged air between them. Slowly, tentatively, he brushes the pad of his thumb over a reddening patch on Mark's collarbone, feather-light and achingly gentle.

Mark's eyes flutter shut, a shaky exhale stuttering past his lips as he leans into that touch, to chasing the rough warmth of Simon's skin on his.

"I'm okay," he manages, barely recognizing his own voice. "Just a little banged up is all."

Simon makes a disbelieving sound, but he doesn't push. Just lets his hand linger a moment longer, calluses rasping on the delicate skin of Mark's throat before securing the last button.

It feels like a blessing. Like absolution.

"There," he says roughly, voice gravelly with some emotion Mark can't quite parse. "That should at least keep the chill off."

"Thank you," Mark murmurs.

This moment feels like standing at the edge of something profound, something that demands more than just physical connection. Mark wants to reach out, to pull Simon close, to burrow into his warmth and strength. But the weight of what lies between them leaves him uncertain. How do you begin to claim something so fragile, so absolute? How do you touch something this raw without shattering it?

He wants to say more. Wants to bridge the space between them. But the words catch in his throat, too precious to be carelessly spoken, too significant to be cheapened by casual utterance.

Mark keeps his eyes closed against the swell of it all, struggling to marshal his racing thoughts. Distantly, he registers the sound of wet denim as Simon strips off his own ruined trousers. The heavy thud of sodden fabric on packed earth.

Steeling himself, he opens his eyes. And promptly forgets how to breathe again.

Simon is resplendent. Firelight dances over bare skin, limning his lean, hard muscle in gold. In the flickering light, Simon's skin gleams like polished marble. It highlights the constellation of freckles dusting his shoulders, the puckered silver of old scars. Mark's fingers itch with the urge to trace them, to map out the history of this man in touch and breath.

Mark's gaze is inevitably drawn lower, tracing the lines of Simon's arms, the swell of his biceps, the taut, flat expanse of his stomach.

Despite the chill air, heat builds low in Mark's belly as his gaze dips lower still. The soft thatch of copper hair below Simon's navel beckons, drawing the eye down to his cock. Even at rest, it's impressive, nestled amid wiry curls a shade darker than the hair on Simon's head.

Mark swallows hard, aching to reach out, to learn the weight and shape and texture of Simon. Wants to trace the sharp cut of his hipbones, to nuzzle into the crease of his thigh and breathe in the musk of him.

His hair, usually a burnished copper, is slicked near-black with rain and sweat, curling damply at his nape. In nothing at all, he's a study in contrasts; pale skin and dark ink, granite strength and hard earned grace.

Sensing the weight of Mark's gaze, Simon glances up. Their eyes lock, the air between them suddenly even thicker with tension. Simon's pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He takes a half-step forward, swaying into Mark's space like he can't quite help himself, like he's drawn to Mark by something as implacable and undeniable as gravity.

For a suspended moment, everything hangs in the balance. Mark's breath catches in his throat, his heartbeat a deafening drum in his ears. Simon's gaze drops to his mouth, catching on the swell of his bottom lip.

Slowly, deliberately, Mark's lips part under the look, his tongue darting out to wet them. He doesn't miss the way Simon's gaze tracks the subtle movement of his tongue, his eyes darkening with an unmistakable desire, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

The moment stretches, taut and trembling with potential. All Mark would have to do is lean in, close the scant distance between them. Tilt his head and part his lips and finally, finally taste the hunger simmering in those stormy gray eyes.

Abruptly, Simon clears his throat and steps back, breaking the charged moment. He busies himself wringing out their soaked clothes, draping them over the lean-to's cross supports as close to the fire as he dares.

Mark shivers at the loss of his body heat, at the sudden distance yawning between them. He watches the flex and pull of Simon's back, the ripple of scars across freckled skin, and wants with a ferocity that terrifies him.

When Simon finishes with their clothes, he shakes out their bedrolls with efficient, economical movements. Lays them atop each other, creating a thicker barrier against the cold, hard ground.

"Get in," he says gruffly, nodding at the nest of blankets. "Need to get you warmed up 'fore you catch your death."

Mark doesn't need to be told twice. He crawls into the welcoming cocoon, hyper-aware of Simon's eyes on him, tracking his every move. The wool is rough against his skin, his borrowed clothes, but it smells like Simon, sage and leather; smoke and horse, and that makes something dangerously close to a purr rumble through his chest. He curls onto his side, trying to conserve what little of his body heat remains.

"I'm gonna get in with you, if that's okay." Simon says softly. "Keep you warm." His voice is a low rumble, careful. Checking.

There's a question in his words. Making sure Mark is comfortable, that this closeness is wanted.

"Yeah," Mark breathes, something in his chest winding tighter at the thought of Simon's nearness, even as another part of him unfurls, relaxes at the caution in Simon's voice.

It's a strange opposition, the way his body and heart seem to be pulling in two directions at once. The thrill of anticipation, of longing at war with the fear of what might happen when he gives in to it.

A gust of frigid air heralds Simon's approach. His movements are deliberate, careful. Strong arms settle around Mark's middle, not pulling, but offering; a question, not a demand.

"Is this alright?" he murmurs, breath hot against Mark's nape.

"Yeah. It's good." Slowly, Mark unwinds, melting back into Simon's embrace, soaking in his warmth, the solid strength of him. It feels unimaginably good to be held like this, anchored and safe. Like coming home after a long, weary journey.

Simon's arms are a steady weight around him, cradling him close. His chest rises and falls in a soothing rhythm against Mark's back, each breath ruffling the fine hairs on his neck. The scent of him, the heat of him, envelops Mark like a blanket, easing the shivering ache in his bones.

In the close confines of this shared bedroll, every inch of them is pressed together, curves and planes slotting into place like two halves of a whole. Mark can feel the thud of Simon's heartbeat, the flex of his thighs, the brush of knuckles against his stomach.

It's overwhelming in the best way, a full body immersion that short-circuits Mark's brain until all he can focus on is the glorious heat of Simon's skin, the gentle rasp of his stubble, the soft puff of his breath.

"Mmm," Mark hums drowsily, burrowing deeper into the circle of Simon's arms. "S'nice. You're so warm."

He feels more than hears Simon's chuckle, a pleasant rumble that vibrates through his chest. "And you're still colder than a well-digger's ass. C'mere."

Simon's hand splays across Mark's stomach, large and calloused and infinitely gentle. He pulls Mark impossibly closer, until there's not a whisper of space left between them. The casual strength in that grip, the easy intimacy of it, sends another wave of heat washing through Mark's core that has nothing to do with the shared body warmth.

Tentatively, Simon's thumb starts rubbing slow, soothing circles against Mark's belly. Even through the barrier of the long johns, his touch sears like a brand. Mark's breath hitches, a shiver rippling down his spine.

"This okay?" Simon asks softly. His hand stills, thumb poised just above Mark's navel. There's a hesitance in his voice, a quiet uncertainty that clenches around Mark's heart.

Mark swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat. He knows what Simon is offering with that simple question, an out, a chance to set a boundary, a fence line- he's leaving it Mark's decision to keep this newfound closeness where it is or let it spill over.

And that means more than Mark can put into words, that care. That respect for his comfort, even in a moment as charged and vulnerable as this.

But the thing is...Mark doesn't want distance. Not anymore.

Slowly, deliberately, Mark covers Simon's hand with his own, lacing their fingers together. He squeezes gently, a silent, urgent plea echoing through his touch. Mark's heart pounds in his chest, his breath catching as Simon's breath stutters in response, his hand flexing instinctively against Mark's stomach.

Mark doesn't stop there. He applies just a little pressure, guiding Simon's hand lower, encouraging him to explore further, signaling his need.

"Yeah," Mark manages, mouth gone dry. He licks his lips, pulse jumping as Simon gasps quietly. "More'n okay."

Simon makes a sound like he's been gut-punched, raw and desperate. He buries his face in the crook of Mark's neck, just breathing him in. His nose is cold, but his lips are warm where they graze against Mark's racing pulse, sending sparks skittering down Mark's spine.

"Mark," he rasps, and there's a world of emotion in that single word. Longing and devotion, tenderness and barely restrained desire. It's a plea and a psalm, a confession and a question all in one.

Mark's heart flips over in his chest, a heavy, aching thing too full of love to be contained. He squeezes Simon's hand, thumb stroking over scarred knuckles in a soothing sweep.

"I know," he whispers. "Me too."

It's not the confession burning on his tongue, the words that threaten to burst out of him in a rush of pent-up adoration. But it's an acknowledgment, a matching of Simon's openness with his own. Presenting his battered, hopeful heart, laid bare and trembling between them.

Outside, the storm rages on, wind howling like a lost soul and rain lashing against the canvas. But it feels distant, muted, like the whole world has narrowed down to this fragile, liminal space. This cocoon of shared warmth and tentative revelations, of hearts offered up, and defenses lowered.

There's a weight to it, a sense of standing on the cusp of something profound. The next few moments stretch out before them, ripe with possibility, heavy with the promise of transformation. It's exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, the knowledge that they're teetering on the edge of a line that can never be uncrossed.

But beneath the trepidation, the buzzing, trembling awareness of the immensity of this moment...there's certainty. Bone-deep and unshakable, a tether against the roiling sea of emotion threatening to sweep them away.

Because this, this impossible, beautiful, incandescent thing unfurling between them...it's right. Inevitable as the turning of the earth, as the ceaseless crash of waves on the shore. They've been hurtling towards this moment since the beginning, drawn together by some inexorable force that feels like destiny.

Mark loses himself in the sensation of Simon's arms around him, the rise and fall of his chest against Mark's back. He can feel the thump of Simon's heartbeat, strong and steady as a drum. It anchors him, reminds him that this is real, that they're both here, both wanting.

And god, does he want. It thrums beneath his skin like a second pulse, urging him to arch into the solid heat of Simon, to tilt his head back and bare his throat in wordless offering. He wants to be consumed, subsumed, until he can't tell where he ends and Simon begins.

But more than that, he wants to savor this. To memorize the rasp of Simon's stubble against his neck, the tickle of warm breath over his ear. To catalog each callus on the hand entwined with his own, evidence of a life of hard work and grit and determination.

He breathes deep, letting Simon's scent wash over him. Beneath the tang of sweat, horses and leather, there's something deeper, richer. Something that is pure Simon, that calls to Mark on a primal level. It's intoxicating, headier than any whiskey he's ever tasted.

Almost unconsciously, he squeezes Simon's hand tighter, pressing it more firmly against his stomach. He relishes the hitch in Simon's breathing, the flex of those strong fingers against his own.

"Mark." It's barely more than an exhalation, ghosting over the shell of Mark's ear. But it's laden with promise, with barely restrained craving.

Slowly, carefully, giving Mark time to object, Simon presses a kiss to the hinge of Mark's jaw. His lips are chapped but still soft, flaring heat along Mark's nerve endings. When Mark doesn't pull away, he does it again, and again, trailing feather-light kisses down the line of his throat.

Mark's breath stutters out of him, his free hand fisting in the rough wool of the bedroll. It's too much and not enough all at once, the aching tenderness of it, the quiet adoration in each brush of Simon's lips.

Every nerve ending feels alight, every inch of his body acutely aware of Simon's proximity, of the heat and solidity of him pressed along Mark's back. It's a sensation that's at once comforting and electrifying, soothing and maddening.

Patient as a saint, Simon takes a shuddering breath, his chest expanding against Mark's shoulder blades. Carefully, he unwinds their tangled fingers, bringing his hand to rest on the sharp jut of Mark's hipbone.

Mark makes a bereft sound at the loss of contact, but it catches in his throat as Simon's thumb starts rubbing soothing circles into the hollow, his fingers brushing the taut skin of Mark's lower abdomen.

The touch is innocent enough, but it sends sparks skittering across Mark's flesh, makes heat pool low in his belly. He can't help the way his hips twitch, the involuntary arch of his body into the contact.

"This okay?" Simon checks, voice strained.

"God, yes," Mark breathes, arching into the touch. "Please, don't stop."

Permission granted, Simon shifts slightly, sliding his arm under Mark's head to cradle him closer, to better allow him to explore the planes of Mark's body with slow, reverent hands. His palm skates up Mark's side, over the ridges of his ribs, mapping the terrain of him through the thin barrier of cloth. Mark's breath comes faster, little hitching gasps escaping unbidden as Simon charts a path of fire across his skin.

When curious fingers brush over the peaked nub of Mark's nipple, he can't quite bite back the whimper that escapes his throat. Simon freezes, hand hovering uncertainly.

"Still okay?" he checks again, cautious, considerate.

"More than," Mark manages, the words little more than a rasp. He can feel the evidence of Simon's hard cock pressing insistently against his backside and it makes him dizzy with want, desperate for more of that delicious friction. "Please, Simon..."

Groaning, Simon obeys. He tweaks and rolls the sensitive bud between his fingers, wringing broken sounds of pleasure from Mark's throat. His hips start up a slow, tortuous grind, the thick line of his cock nestling perfectly in the cleft of Mark's ass.

The slow burn of arousal blazes into an inferno, desire pooling molten in Mark's groin. He rocks back into Simon's steady thrusts, craving more, harder, faster. The layers of clothing between them are a torment, a tease, and Mark yearns to feel the hot drag of skin on skin.

"Tell me to stop," Simon murmurs, nosing behind Mark's ear. His stubble scratching deliciously against the sensitive skin. "Tell me now, or by god I ain't gonna be able to."

"Simon," he breathes, head tipping back onto a strong shoulder. "Whatever you do, don't stop."

Making a rough sound, Simon's arms tighten almost convulsively around Mark's waist. His lips find Mark's temple, his cheekbone, painting promises with each reverent brush.

Trembling with anticipation, Mark shifts his hips, pressing back against Simon's growing hardness.

As if reading his mind, Simon's hand starts to move down. He spans Mark's hip, kneading into the taut muscle, before sliding to palm the trembling flesh of his inner thigh.

Mark throws his head back on a gasp, shamelessly spreading his legs further in silent invitation. He's achingly hard, leaking and throbbing in the tight confines of his long johns, and he needs...he needs...

"Simon," he keens, a broken plea. His hand scrabbles behind him, seeking purchase on bare skin.

Whatever he was going to say dissolves into a choked moan as Simon's hand cups him through the fabric, a delicious pressure that borders on painful. Hips bucking, Mark ruts wantonly into that perfect grip, mindless with pleasure.

"I've got you," Simon vows, low and fervent. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just let me take care of you."

Simon's mouth finds the curve of Mark's shoulder, his teeth grazing what tender skin he can find beneath the collar and Mark shudders, his body arching back into the solid warmth of Simon's chest.

Mark's voice is rough, wanting. "I want to feel you, Simon."

Simon groans, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his cock pressing against Mark's ass, even through the layers of cloth between them.

Simon's hand resumes its exploration, mapping the planes of Mark's chest, his fingers circling and teasing the hard nubs of his nipples. Whimpering, Mark's body convulses at the touch, his breath coming in ragged pants. The dual sensations of Simon's hand on him and his cock moving against his ass send waves of pleasure crashing through him.

Mark pushes back against Simon, meeting his thrusts, urging him on.

"More," he pants. "God, Simon, more. I want to feel you. I want to feel all of you."

Swallowing hard, Mark reaches back, tangling his fingers in Simon's hair, and twisting his shoulders to catch his mouth in a searing kiss. Simon groans against his lips, opening to him immediately. The kiss is messy and desperate, and brimming with unspoken need.

They break apart, panting. Simon's eyes are blown black, only a thin ring of stormy gray blue remaining.

"Mark," he says again, voice cracking. "Darlin'"

"Don't stop," Mark all but commands. He rolls his hips back pointedly, reveling in the hard press of Simon's arousal against his backside. "Don't you dare stop."

Simon's breath hitches, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. His forehead rests against the nape of Mark's neck, his voice a low, strained growl.

"Mark, you're killing me. You know I can't just—"

"You can." Mark interrupts him, his voice a ragged plea. "I need more, Simon. I need to feel you inside me. I need you to fuck me."

Simon freezes, shaking with the effort of his restraint. "You're in no shape for that, Mark," he murmurs, his voice rough with concern.

"I want you to." Mark insists, his voice barely a whisper.

Simon's hand presses slightly harder, a silent reassurance. and Mark moans at the sensation.

"You're banged up, half-frozen. When I fuck you, I want you at full health. I want you to feel every damn thing I do to you."

Swallowing hard, Mark's voice shakes at the promise held in those words. "W-what do you want to do to me?"

Simon's voice drops to a low, heated growl. His hand trails across Mark's chest, teasing his nipples through the fabric of his shirt, making Mark gasp and arch into the touch.

"I want to take my time with you, Mark. I want to spread you out on a real bed, explore every inch of you."

Mark's breath hitches, his body already responding to the vivid image Simon is painting. Simon's hand traces the lines of Mark's abdomen, his fingers just barely dipping beneath the waistband of his long johns, teasing the sensitive skin there.

"I want to taste you, Mark. I want to take your cock in my mouth, feel you hit the back of my throat. I want to swallow you down, make you fuck my mouth until you're begging me to come."

Mark whimpers, his body trembling with urgency, his breath coming in ragged gasps as Simon's hand finally moves lower again, cupping Mark's length through the fabric, stroking him firmly.

"I'm going to flip you over, spread you wide, and use my tongue on you, Mark, make you feel me inside you, make you writhe and beg for more. I want to feel you push back against my face, until you're desperate for it."

Mark's body jerks, his cock throbbing at the mental image. Simon's hand continues to stroke him, the friction of the fabric adding to the intensity of the sensation.

"And even when you're good and ready, I'm still gonna take my time, Mark. Gonna use my fingers, slick with oil, to open you up slowly. Gonna massage that sweet spot inside you until you're begging for more, until you're so ready for me you can't stand it anymore."

Moaning a long, loud keen, Mark's body presses further back into Simon's touch.

"I want to feel you stretch around me, Mark. Want to hear the noises you make as I slide into you, inch by inch. Want to make you feel every damn thing I do to you."

Simon's hand continues its relentless motion, stroking Mark firmly through the fabric of his long johns, while he whispers filthy things into his ear. Gasping and writhing under Simon's touch, Mark cannot contain the way he trembles with the need. Simon's other hand stays splayed across Mark's chest, keeping him close, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath.

"I want you like I have never wanted anyone. Want to claim you, mark you, make you mine."

Simon's voice is a low, heated murmur, filled with promise and desire. His hand continues to tease Mark's nipples through the fabric of his shirt, winding him ever higher.

"I want to fuck you on your back, looking into your eyes as I make you come undone. I want to fuck you on your hands and knees, deep and fast and hard, until you're screaming my name. I want you to ride me, taking every inch of me inside you, feeling me fill you up completely. I want to fuck you against a wall, your legs wrapped around me, my cock buried in you as far as it'll go."

Mark is shaking now, his breath coming in short, desperate pants as Simon's obscene litany rolls over him. "God, Simon, please..."

Simon's voice is a low growl, barely restrained. "But not like this, Mark.Not when you're hurt and cold. When I fuck you, I want you to be ready. I want you to be begging for it. I want you to be mine, completely."

Whining in frustration, Mark rolls his hips back against the hard length of Simon in invitation.

"Then touch me," he begs, a ragged plea. "God, Simon, I need to feel you. I need more."

Simon moans in response, a low rumble of need and acquiescence. His hand, already cupping Mark through his long johns, tightens its grip, stroking him more firmly through the fabric.

"I can do that," he rasps , his voice thick with desire. He nips at Mark's jaw, his teeth grazing the stubble-roughened skin, sending another wave of molten heat through his core, like a prairie fire racing across the plains. "Like this?"His thumb circles the sensitive tip of Mark's cock through the fabric, making Mark cry out, his hips twitching with increased urgency.

"Yes," Mark pants, his hand covering Simon's, pressing him closer. "God, yes, Simon. More. I need more."

Simon's hand moves with more purpose, stroking Mark firmly, the friction of the fabric adding to the intensity of the sensation.

"I want to feel you, Mark," Simon murmurs, his voice a low snarl against Mark's ear. "Want to feel you hot and hard in my hand. Want to hear you moan as I stroke you, as I make you come."

Mark whimpers, his body writhing under Simon's touch, his cock throbbing with anticipation. Simon's words whip him into a fervor, driving him to the very brink, his need for more almost unbearable.

"Please, Simon," Mark begs, his voice desperate. "I need to feel you. I need your skin on mine."

With a swift tug, Simon pulls down Mark's long johns just enough to free his cock, exposing his ass cheeks to the cool air. Mark shivers, his body trembling with anticipation. Simon spits into his palm, using the saliva to slick his cock before nestling it snugly between Mark's ass cheeks. The sensation is intense, the heat and hardness of Simon's cock pressing against Mark's sensitive skin.

And then those clever, callused fingers are finally wrapping around Mark's aching flesh. Simon takes his time, his touch gentle yet firm, as he begins to explore Mark's cock with deliberate, tantalizing strokes.

"Fuck, Mark," Simon groans into Mark's neck, his hand stroking slowly, his grip slick with spit and pre-come. "You feel so goddamn good."

"Simon," Mark gasps, his voice ragged. "God, Simon, that feels... so fucking good. Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

Simon's fingers ripple along the shaft, tracing the veins and ridges, learning every inch of Mark's cock. He takes his time, his strokes slow and measured.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," Simon gasps, his voice hoarse and strained. "How many nights I've lain awake, aching for you. Wanting you like this."

Whimpering, Mark is restless,practically vibrating under Simon's touch. Simon's fingers continue their exploration, teasing and stroking, building the tension to an almost unbearable level.

"I've imagined this so many times, Mark," Simon murmurs, his voice a low rumble against Mark's ear. "Lying there in the dark, picturing you next to me, your body warm and willing. I've thought about how it would feel to finally touch you, to taste you, to feel your skin against mine, to hear your breath catch as I explore every inch of you."

Simon's grip tightens, his strokes becoming faster, more urgent. He kisses Mark's neck, his teeth grazing the tender skin. His hand on Mark's splayed against Mark's chest holds him steady as he rocks against him, their bodies moving in sync.

"You feel so good, Mark," Simon murmurs. "So fucking perfect in my hand. I want to make you feel everything. I want to make you come."

Simon's hips move faster, his cock rubbing against Mark with desperate speed as his hand works Mark, his strokes firm and steady, driving him higher and higher. The sound of their ragged breathing fills the lean-to, mingling with the distant howl of the wind outside.

Mark's body responds to every touch, every whispered word, his hips bucking against Simon's hand. The sensation of Simon's cock sliding against him, the heat of his body, the raw hunger in his voice—it's all too much, and yet not enough. He can feel the tension building, the coil of pleasure tightening in his core, ready to snap at any moment.

"Simon," Mark gasps, his voice a breathless plea. "I'm close. So close."

Simon's grip tightens, his strokes becoming faster, more urgent.

"Let go, Mark," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "Let me feel you come, I want to hear my name on your lips when you let go."

Mark's body tenses, and then convulses, as waves of pleasure crash over him. A raw, primal cry escapes his lips, his cock throbbing in Simon's firm grip. His release surges, coating Simon's fingers and spilling onto the bedroll beneath them. The sound of his ecstasy merges with the wind's relentless howl outside their makeshift shelter, creating a symphony of wild abandon.

"Simon! Fuck, Simon…" Mark screams, his voice hoarse with it, his body quaking with the force of his climax. Each wave seems to crest higher than the last, leaving him breathless and overwhelmed.

Simon's own release follows swiftly, hips bucking against Mark's ass with a few last, desperate erratic movements. A deep, guttural groan escapes him as he comes, his cock pulsing with each wave of pleasure. His hot come spills onto Mark's lower back and ass, marking him with their shared desire.

"Fuck, Mark," Simon groans, his voice a ragged whisper, his body trembling with the force of his orgasm.

Through the convulsive waves of their shared ecstasy, Simon's voice remains a steady anchor, a low, heated murmur in Mark's ear.

"That's it, sweetheart," he coos, his breath hot against Mark's skin. His hand continues to stroke Mark, guiding him through each peak, his touch both firm and tender. "Feel that."

Simon's movements are deliberate, his grip adjusting to the rhythm of Mark's body, drawing out every last shudder of ecstasy. He whispers words of encouragement and adoration, his voice a soothing balm that wraps around them both, binding them together.

Mark's body shakes, each stroke sending another jolt of pleasure through him. But as the intensity of his climax begins to ebb, Simon's touch becomes almost too much. Mark's breath hitches, his body tensing in a different way, signaling the shift from pleasure to pained overstimulation.

Sensing the change, Simon slows his movements, his strokes becoming gentler, more soothing. He presses soft kisses to Mark's shoulder, his neck, his touch easing back, comforting now rather than intended to drive him further.

"Easy, " he murmurs, voice a soft rumble. "I've got you."

Mark's body melts into Simon's embrace, his breathing gradually returning to a steady rhythm. The aftershocks slowly ebb away, leaving a warm, languid sensation in their wake. Simon's arms are wrapped tightly around him, his face nestled in the crook of Mark's neck, their bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle. Mark can feel Simon's heartbeat against his back, the rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath.

As their breathing synchronizes, Simon shifts slightly, his hand still loosely wrapped around Mark's softening cock. Slowly and deliberately, he brings that hand to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the remnants of Mark's release from his fingers, as his eyes lock onto Mark's.

Simon takes his time, his tongue swirling around each finger, savoring the taste of Mark's come. He sucks each digit into his mouth, cleaning them thoroughly, his eyes never leaving Mark's. The gesture is both intimate and filthy, a promise of more to come, a testament to his dedication to Mark's pleasure.

Mark watches, transfixed, his breath knotting in his chest at the sight. A wave of renewed desire courses through him, ignited by the raw, unapologetic want in Simon's eyes. With a soft groan, he turns his head, his body twisting to capture Simon's mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. Their lips meet in a clash of need and passion, Mark's tongue sweeping into Simon's mouth, tasting himself on Simon's lips. The salty remnants of him mingle with the sweetness of Simon's mouth, it's messy and it's perfect.

Simon groans into the kiss, his arms tightening around Mark, pulling him impossibly closer. Mark's hand reaches up to cup Simon's cheek, holding him just as closely, deepening the kiss.

When they finally break apart, their faces remain close, sharing the same breath, lips barely a whisper apart. Simon's eyes are dark with promise, his gaze locked onto Mark's, their connection unbroken.

"When you're good and healed up, Mark," Simon murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down Mark's spine. His lips brush against Mark's with each word, stolen kisses punctuating his promise. "I'm gonna take you to a real bed. Gonna spread you out and worship every inch of you."

Mark shudders, a full-body tremor that speaks to the embers still smoldering under his skin. He lets Simon's words wash over him, fanning the flames of his desire.

"And I'm gonna let you," Mark breathes, the words little more than a sigh against Simon's lips. His eyes flutter closed as he leans into Simon's touch, surrendering to the moment. "Gonna let you do whatever you want to me, Simon. Gonna let you take control, make me yours, have me however you want."

Simon makes a broken sound, something between a growl and a whimper. He seals their mouths together again, hot and deep, like he's trying to crawl inside Mark and make a home there.

"God, I don't know what I'm going to do with you," he pants when they surface for air, foreheads pressed together as they share shaky breaths.

Mark nuzzles into him, a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his well kissed mouth. "You want to start with holding me tonight?"

It's phrased as a question, but there's no uncertainty in it anymore. No hesitation or doubt, just a bone-deep contentment, an unshakable rightness.

Simon's expression softens, going tender in a way that makes Mark's heart flutter behind his ribs.

"I reckon that can be arranged," Simon hums contentedly. He shifts, guiding Mark to roll back onto his side before curling himself around the younger man's back, molding their bodies together in a perfect spoon.

He nuzzles into the damp curls at Mark's nape, looping his arms securely around Mark's waist and pulling him snugly back into the circle of his embrace. His fingers trace idle patterns on the sweat-cooling skin of Mark's belly, each point of contact grounding, affirming, a silent reassurance of connection.

"You're incredible, you know that?" Simon murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to the juncture of Mark's neck and shoulder. "Never felt like that before."

Mark shivers, a pleasant tingle chasing down his spine at the rasp of Simon's stubble, the heat of his breath. He catches Simon's wandering hand, bringing it up to his lips to brush a reverent kiss across the knuckles.

"I know what you mean," he says softly, wonder threaded through his voice. "It's never been like that for me either. We fit together real nice, don't we?"

Simon huffs a laugh, warm and fond against the hinge of Mark's jaw. "We surely do." His arms tighten around Mark, a shuddering exhale gusting over the younger man's shoulder. "We surely do..."

He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words. Instead, he busies himself mapping the curve of Mark's neck, the line of his jaw, with slow, open-mouthed kisses that make Mark's toes curl.

Eyes fluttering shut, Mark lets himself get lost in the sensation. In the slide of Simon's lips, the warm wetness of his tongue, the gentle graze of teeth. Each touch is a benediction, a promise, branding Mark down to his marrow with a sense of belonging.

Simon falls quiet for a moment, fingers tracing patterns on Mark's skin as he gathers his thoughts. There's a heaviness to the silence, a weight of unspoken emotion that makes Mark's heart kick behind his ribs.

When Simon speaks again, his voice is quiet and rough, scraped raw with honesty. "You're special, Mark. To me. I haven't felt this way about anyone in a long time. Not since...— Just a real, real long time."

It's as close as he can get to the three words clamoring in his throat, the ones burning in his gut, the ones that feel too big, too momentous to voice just yet.

Mark's heart clenches, hearing them anyway, a sweet ache blooming behind his ribs. He shifts in Simon's arms, rolling over until they're nose to nose, sharing breath in the scant space between them.

Gently, he reaches up to cup Simon's stubbled cheek, thumb playing over the lovely arch of his cheekbone.

"I feel the same," he whispers, holding Simon's gaze steady. "Like this was meant to be. Like everything I've been through was just leading me to you."

Simon's breath stutters, his eyes going soft and bright with some nameless emotion. "I ain't nothing special, Mark. Just a rough old cowhand with more scars than sense."

But Mark shakes his head, a fierce conviction burning in his chest.

"You are special, Simon. To me. Don't you see? I finally found where I belong." He leans in, brushing a feather-light kiss over Simon's lips. "Right here. This is where I'm meant to be."

Simon makes a sound, something caught between a laugh and a sob. He turns his head, pressing fervent kisses to Mark's palm.

"I never thought I'd get another chance at this," he murmurs against the skin. "For a chance at being happy. Never thought I'd get so lucky, find someone so perfect."

The words settle into Mark's bones, his blood, his marrow. Warming him from the inside out, filling up the empty spaces carved out by years of loneliness. He surges forward, claiming Simon's mouth in a deep, searching kiss. Trying to pour all the love, all the gratitude and devotion, into the press of lips and slide of tongues.

When they finally part, they're both breathing hard. Simon's hand comes up to cradle the back of Mark's head, fingers carding through the sweat-damp strands.

"We should get some shut eye," he says reluctantly. "Dawn'll be here before we know it. Big day tomorrow, rounding up strays and finding our way back to the herd."

Mark just hums his agreement, eyes already drifting shut as the heavy pull of satisfaction and bone-deep weariness tug him towards slumber. He burrows back into Simon's chest, tucking his head beneath the other man's chin.

"Stay close?" he mumbles, words muffled against warm skin.

"Mark, darlin'," Simon rumbles, a smile in his voice as he draws Mark impossibly closer, "I ain't plannin' on letting go anytime soon."

As slumber rises up to claim him, Mark thinks muzzily that maybe for the first time in his life, he is exactly where he's meant to be.

Held safe and cherished in the arms of the man he loves.

No more running, no more hiding.

Just this. Just them. And on the cusp of dreams, he feels the shape of forever take root in his chest.

Chapter Text

The first threads of dawn seep through the canvas of the tent, turning the rough fabric into a soft, glowing shelter. Simon stirs awake first, his own natural clock already set to the ebb and flow of days. He blinks awake slowly, momentarily disoriented by the warm weight in his arms, the soft puffs of breath against his collarbone.

Then memory returns in a rush; the storm, the lightning, the desperate confessions whispered in the dark. The heat that had simmered between them for so long boiling over, the slide of hands over rain-chilled skin, the crush of desperate mouths. The feeling of finally, finally crossing that line, giving in to the longing that had consumed them both for so long.

Last night had been about celebrating being alive, about holding each other close and reveling in the fact that they were both still here, still breathing, but even in the heat of the moment, Simon had been careful, so very careful. His hands had roamed and his lips had tasted, but he'd held back, mindful of Mark's bruises, the exhaustion that had weighed heavy on them both. He'd wanted, god how he'd wanted, but he'd tempered that desire, focusing instead on simply holding Mark close, reassuring himself with the warmth and heartbeat and breath of him.

There would be time for more later, when they were both rested and recovered. When he could take his time worshiping every inch of Mark's body, learning him inside and out. But it had been enough, more than enough, to shake Simon to his very core. To make him realize that this thing between them, went so much deeper than simple want or need. It was love, pure and simple. True, unshakable and life-altering.

With Mark nestled safe and sound against his chest, Simon feels that love swell inside him, filling up all the broken, empty spaces he'd thought long beyond repair. He lies there, listening to the steady rhythm of Mark's breathing, and Simon finds his thoughts drifting to the future. It's not something he's allowed himself even think about in a long, long time. He's spent so many years running, from his past, from his pain, from anything that might tie him down or leave him vulnerable to another devastating loss.

But with Mark...it's different. For the first time in his life, Simon finds himself yearning for more than just the next sunrise, the next job, the next drink. He imagines lazy mornings like this one, waking up tangled together, trading sleepy kisses and gentle touches. He pictures long days in the saddle, working the herd side by side, easy and in sync like they were born to it. Nights around the campfire, swapping stories, Mark's head on his shoulder and his heart in his hands.

And maybe, someday, a place to call their own. Just a little patch of land, a few horses, a cozy cabin with a porch big enough for two rocking chairs. A home.

It should terrify him, the thought of being tied down, of putting roots in the ground and his heart on the line. But somehow, impossibly, it doesn't. Because he knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that Mark would never clip his wings, never try to cage or change him.

No, loving Mark...it's not a shackle or a snare. It's a gift, precious and freely given.

He tightens his arms around Mark, as emotion wells up in his throat, thick and choking. Mark murmurs something unintelligible, burrowing deeper into Simon's embrace, and Simon just holds him closer, marveling at the way they fit together, easy as breathing. Two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.

Taking in the sight of Mark in the diffused morning light, Simon lets it all rush over him, the love and the affection and the slow dissipation of the fear from yesterday.

Even in the tent's dim interior, the strange post-storm light seems to find him, casting his features in a gentle glow.

In sleep, Mark's face is relaxed and untroubled, the usual furrow between his brows smoothed out. His lashes, impossibly long and dark, fan out against cheekbones still just slightly pinked, like watercolor on silk.

He's breathtaking. The most beautiful thing Simon has ever seen.

Simon's gaze traces the delicate curve of Mark's jaw, the fullness of his slightly parted lips. He catalogs every detail like a man starved; the arch of a brow, the jut of a stubborn chin, the faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of a nose.

Asleep like this, he looks impossibly young; innocent and untouched by the hardships of life. It makes something fierce and protective rear up in Simon's chest, a primal urge to shelter and cherish.

He never thought he would have this again. Didn't think he even could. Simon thought he had lost his chance, and simply locked that part of himself away, buried it deep with the rest of the things too painful to contemplate. He'd thrown himself into the work of soldiering, and later the trail, drank enough to sleep, and told himself it was enough. He had the wide open prairie and his own company and he was content with his solitary existence, his self-imposed isolation.

But now, with Mark warm and vital in his arms, all of those old walls are crumbling. The ice around his heart is thawing, spreading cracks with each drowsy mumble, each sweet, sleep-soft sigh. It's terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, this feeling of coming alive again. Of rediscovering a piece of himself he thought long lost.

They had crossed a threshold last night, he and Mark, stepped off the edge of the map into uncharted territory. The future is vast and uncertain, but here in the hushed stillness of dawn, Simon has never been more sure of anything in his life.

But first, they have to face today.

Pressing a lingering kiss to Mark's temple, Simon begins the delicate process of untangling their limbs.

"Rise and shine, Kid," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Mark's ear. "Day don't wait for none of us."

Mark grumbles and wiggle himself further into Simon's embrace, reluctant to face the day just yet. He throws a leg over Simon's hip and an arm across his chest, clinging like a limpet.

"Five more minutes," he mumbles into the hollow of Simon's throat, voice rough with sleep. His breath is warm and damp against Simon's skin, sending a pleasant shiver down the older man's spine.

Simon chuckles, low and fond, and tightens his arms around Mark's warm, pliant form. "Ain't you supposed to be the young one? Up at the crack of dawn?"

Mark huffs, nipping at Simon's collarbone in protest, face scrunching adorably as he tries to escape the intrusion of the waking world. "Don't wanna. Everything hurts. Parts of me I didn't even know I had hurt."

"Bet they do," Simon agrees, sympathy and amusement in equal measure in his tone. His hand finds a particularly tense spot in Mark's shoulder, thumb working gently at the knot there. "Being thrown's no picnic. Probably gonna feel a lot worse before it feels better, truth be told."

Mark makes a pitiful groaning sound that has Simon fighting back a fond smile. "That's not encouraging."

"Poor thing," Simon teases softly, but his touch remains gentle as he continues to work at Mark's sore muscles. "Tell you what; we'll take it slow and easy this morning. Storm's past, and we got things that need doin', but we've got time enough to get you moving proper."

He brushes a lock of hair from Mark's forehead, fingertips lingering on the sleep-warmed skin. "Need to check on the horses first, make sure they weathered the night alright. And the cows that got stranded with us, 'specially the little one that started this whole mess."

His voice softens further, something tender and achingly vulnerable creeping in around the edges. "We'll get some hot coffee in you, maybe see if I can't scrounge up something a little better than trail biscuits for breakfast. Get some color back in those cheeks."

He punctuates his words with a playful tap to the tip of Mark's nose, chuckling when it wrinkles in response. But beneath the levity, there's a current of genuine care, of unwavering devotion.

Mark blinks up at him, a slow, wondering smile spreading across his face. "You're being awfully sweet to me this morning," he notes, voice still rough with sleep but threaded through with affection.

Simon feels his cheeks heat, a sudden shyness overtaking him. It's one thing to feel these things, to let his walls down in the quietude of his own mind. It's another entirely to let them show, to lay his soul bare in the light of day.

But Mark is looking at him with such open adoration, such unguarded hope, that he finds himself speaking before he can think better of it.

"Seems to me you earned a bit of sweetness," he murmurs, thumb stroking over the arch of Mark's cheekbone. He hesitates, heart thundering against his ribs, then takes a shaky breath and forges ahead. "'Sides, can't a man be sweet to his sweetheart?"

The word hangs between them, fragile and precious as spun sugar. Mark's breath catches, his fingers tightening where they're still wrapped around Simon's hip.

"Sweetheart?" he whispers, and there's so much longing, so much cautious joy in that single word that it makes Simon's chest ache.

He swallows hard, fighting the instinctive urge to backpedal, to play it off as a joke. Because this is anything but. This is real and raw and terrifying in its intensity.

But it's also right. More right than anything Simon's ever felt in his life.

So he takes a deep breath, meets Mark's gaze head-on, and lets himself be seen. Wholly and completely, no more barriers, no more hiding.

"I reckon so. Yeah." Simon's voice is almost shy, but he holds Mark's gaze steady, letting him see the truth of it in his eyes. Everything he can't quite say yet, but feels down to his bones. "Yeah," he says, quiet but sure. "Sweetheart. My sweetheart."

He stretches to brush a feather-light kiss over Mark's parted lips. Then he clears his throat, shifting slightly and pulling just a fraction away. "Course, being sweet don't change the fact we need to find our way back to the herd. Can't leave those boys on their own for too long. Liable to mutiny and ride for the hills."

Mark recognizes the retreat for what it is, accepts it with a gentle squeeze and a world-weary sigh, the dramatic effect somewhat undermined by the way he nuzzles into the hollow of Simon's throat.

"I know, I know. Just...five more minutes though? I'm comfortable," he murmurs, voice muffled against warm skin.

And god if that plaintive note, that sweet, sleep-rough pleading, doesn't do dangerous things to Simon's insides. He is helpless to resist it, would give Mark the whole world on a string if he could.

"Five minutes," Simon agrees, relaxing back into their nest of blankets and drawing Mark more snugly against him, broad hands splaying across the smooth expanse of Mark's back. "Then it's time to get up and get moving, y'hear?"

Mark hums contentedly, pressing a lazy kiss to Simon's collarbone.

"Mmhm. Work later. This now," he sighs, fingers tracing idle patterns on Simon's chest. "This is better."

And honestly, who is Simon to argue with that impeccable logic? He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest, and drops a kiss to the crown of Mark's head.

"This is better. Miles better," Simon confirms.

"So you agree," Mark murmurs, stretching like a contented cat against Simon's side. "We can just stay in bed."

"For five minutes," Simon allows, "But just five."

Mark makes a soft sound of victory, settling back into Simon's arms with a pleased smile curving his lips. Simon knows full well those five minutes will stretch into ten, then fifteen, but somehow, he can't bring himself to mind. For now, he's content to simply bask in this perfect moment, in the warm weight of Mark draped over him like a living blanket, the gentle rasp of his breathing against his skin, the thump of his heartbeat steady and strong echoing through Simon's own chest.

They just lie there, basking in the simple pleasure of being close, of being together. No demands, no expectations, just the two of them and the cocoon of rough wool blankets and the golden haze of morning light.

Simon feels himself starting to drift, lulled by the warmth of being together and the drowsy sounds of the prairie waking up around them. But then Mark is shifting, propping himself up on an elbow to gaze down at Simon, and suddenly Simon is wide awake, every nerve ending alight with awareness.

Because the look in Mark's eyes...it steals the breath from Simon's lungs. It's soft and open, filled with a tenderness that makes Simon's heart ache in the best possible way.

"I dreamed about this, you know," Mark confesses, fingertips ghosting along the line of Simon's jaw, the curve of his cheek. "Waking up with you. Seeing you first thing."

"Is it everything you hoped?" Simon asks, scarcely daring to breathe as he reaches up to smooth a wayward cowlick, fingers lingering in Mark's silky strands.

A slow, sweet smile blooms across Mark's face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Maybe better, actually," he murmurs, turning to press a kiss to Simon's palm where it's come to rest against his cheek.

Warmth suffuses Simon's chest, so much happiness he feels like he might burst with it. He slides his hand further into Mark's hair, gently working through the tangles as he draws him back down into a slow, deep kiss. Mark melts into it with a soft sigh, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, as Simon pours everything he's feeling, all the love and gratitude and incandescent joy, into the slide of their mouths, the gentle nip of teeth and soothing swipe of tongue.

When they finally part, foreheads pressed together as they catch their breath, Simon can't help but huff a quiet laugh.

"Mornin', sunshine," he murmurs, thumbing at the crease on Mark's cheek.

Simon wants to keep him like this forever, to shield him from every hardship and sorrow. But he knows that is a child's fantasy. The frontier is a harsh mistress, and she suffers no fools. The only way to survive was to work, and work hard, and much as he may want to stay in this perfect bubble, the prairie waited for them.

So he contents himself with one last brush of lips over Mark's forehead before reluctantly disentangling himself from their embrace. He rolls out of the bedroll and to his feet, stretching the kinks from his spine as he surveys the dawn-kissed landscape.

Mark himself stretches languidly, shamelessly ogling Simon's nude body as he stands silhouetted against the sun through the tent flap. He lets his gaze roam over the strong planes of Simon's back, the flex of muscle under tanned skin as he stretches his arms overhead, down to the tight curve of his ass and powerful thighs.

"Mmm, now that's a sight I could get used to waking up to," he drawls, propping himself up on an elbow to better enjoy the view.

Simon glances over his shoulder, one brow arched, lips twitching with poorly suppressed amusement. "See something you like, Kid?"

"I see a lot of things I like," Mark purrs, making a show of licking his lips. His gaze drags over Simon's body, slow and appreciative, lingering on the flex of muscle, the sun-bronzed skin marked with scars and fading bruises.

Simon huffs a laugh, even as a pleasant shiver runs down his spine. He turns to face Mark fully, cocking a hip and preening a little under the blatant admiration in those blue eyes. It's a heady feeling, being looked at like that. Like he's something rare and precious, something to be savored and cherished.

He's not used to it, being the focus of such open desire. Oh, he's had his share of tumbles, nameless and fleeting encounters snatched between drives, but nothing like this. Nothing that made him feel seen, appreciated beyond a means to a quick, mutual release.

But the way Mark looks at him, the hunger and awe and sheer reverence in his gaze...it makes Simon feel powerful. Desirable in a way he's never experienced before.

So he takes a moment to bask in it, to let the heat of Mark's appreciation warm him from the inside out. He stretches, slow and indulgent, flexing and shifting in a shameless display. The low, needy sound Mark makes in response, the way his eyes darken and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, sends a bolt of pure want straight to Simon's core.

He's never been one for blushing, but he swears he can feel his cheeks heating under the intensity of Mark's stare. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, like standing too close to a bonfire, the heat of it licking over his skin.

Part of him wants to preen and pose, to give Mark a real show. To stoke the flames of his desire until they're both burning with it, until the rest of the world fades away and there's nothing but the two of them, lost in the slick slide of skin on skin, the perfect union of bodies and hearts.

But the more sensible part, the part not currently thinking with his dick, knows they don't have time for that. Not now, with the sun climbing steadily higher and a whole day's work ahead of them.

So with a rueful grin and a deliberate flexing of muscle that draws another appreciative noise from Mark, Simon turns to rummage for his clothes. He feels the weight of Mark's gaze on him the whole time, hot and heavy, trailing over his skin like a physical caress as he shimmies into his trousers and tugs his shirt over his head.

"Alright, alright," Simon sighs, but his eyes are warm as he offers Mark a hand. "Show's over now. Time to get up and get at 'em."

Mark grumbles but takes the proffered hand, allowing Simon to haul him upright and into the circle of his arms for one last lingering kiss.

Eventually, they part, setting about the tasks of the morning. Their clothing, stiff and dirty from being soaked in the storm, is at least wearable and dry. Simon fusses over Mark as he dresses, gentle fingers ghosting over bruises and scrapes, each touch a wordless apology for hurts he couldn't prevent. Mark endures the mother henning with fond exasperation, stealing kisses between each careful touch, each murmured reassurance.

"This one looks nasty," Simon murmurs, hand brushing carefully over a darkening bruise on Mark's ribs. His other hand steadies Mark's waist, thumb stroking absently over his hip.

"Just sore," Mark assures him, leaning into the touch. "Nothing broken."

Once satisfied that Mark is whole and hale, if a bit battered, Simon steers him towards the banked embers of last night's fire. "You get that goin' again and see about some sort of breakfast. I'll check on the horses and the cattle, make sure they weathered the night alright."

"I ain't that hurt, Simon. I can help with it." Mark protests, but he's already sinking down by the fire, betraying how stiff and sore he really is.

"Sure you can." Simon's voice is soft with affection as he drapes his own jacket over Mark's shoulders. "Or you can make us some breakfast and let me give you a little longer to rest up. Let me take care of you." He presses a kiss to Mark's brow, murmuring against his skin, "Maybe I like taking care of you."

With a last appreciative squeeze and a jaunty wave, Simon sets off to go see about what animals they have left, leaving Mark to coax the fire back to life. It's a simple task, one made simpler by the provision of mostly good kindling and wood Simon had the foresight to stash in the tent to dry out some. A few minutes of careful tending rewards him with a fair sized blaze, the cheerful crackle and pop a soothing backdrop to his thoughts.

As he sets the battered coffee pot to heat, Mark can't help but be struck by the easy domesticity of it all, the seamless way he and Simon move around each other, anticipating needs and offering support almost without conscious thought. Like how Mark has already learned exactly how strong Simon likes his coffee- black as night and strong enough to strip paint, and how easily Simon had been able to tell exactly how much coddling Mark would allow before it became overbearing. Little things, ordinary things, that somehow feel extraordinary in their rightness.

Mark finds himself imagining mornings like this stretching out before them - not on the trail, but somewhere permanent. A cabin maybe, somewhere far from suffocating society. Somewhere they could build something that's truly theirs. He can almost see it: brewed coffee and thick bacon sizzling away on a stove instead of a campfire, actual chairs and a real bed rather than saddles and hard ground.

A home.

The thought should terrify him. He'd fled across the country to escape being tied down. But this feels different. This feels like freedom, like choosing his own chains and finding they're not really chains at all, but anchor lines to everything he never even knew he wanted.

This, he realizes with a sudden, breathless clarity, is what coming home should feel like.

By the time Simon returns, Mark has been lost in his dreams of their future long enough for the coffee to brew properly, the scent wafting on the crisp morning air. He's also warmed some salt pork, the fatty aroma mingling with the smoke from the crackling fire. It's a meager breakfast, but all they have separated from the rest of the drive,

He looks up at the sound of Simon's approach, a smile already tugging at his lips. But the expression freezes, morphing into one of surprised delight as he catches sight of what Simon is carrying.

"Is that..wait...are those fish?" he asks, scrambling to his feet, the coffee momentarily forgotten.

Simon grins, holding up his prizes; two plump, gleaming trout, their scales flashing silver in the morning light.

"Sure are. Storm left us a gift; there's a deep pool formed up where that creek bent. Water's collected there, clear as glass. Found these fellows practically begging to be caught."

Mark laughs, the sound bright and joyful in the still air. He closes the distance between them in a few eager strides, reaching out to touch the smooth, cool skin of the fish, marveling at their size.

"This is incredible!"

Simon ducks his head, pleased and a little shy in the face of Mark's open admiration. "Well, figured we could use a bit of good luck after last night."

Impulsively, Mark leans in, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to Simon's cheek. "Thank you," he murmurs, the words soft but fervent.

Simon turns, catching Mark's lips in a proper kiss, the trout momentarily forgotten. It's a kiss that feels like a promise, like a vow renewed with every brush of lips and slide of tongues.

When they finally part, slightly breathless and grinning like fools, Simon gives Mark a gentle nudge with his shoulder. "

"C'mon, let's get these cooked up. I'm starving, and that coffee smells real fine."

Together, they settle by the fire, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee. Simon expertly cleans and guts the fish while Mark pours the coffee, the simplicity of the moment wrapping around them like a warm blanket.

For a few blissful minutes, there's no storm, no scattered herd, no uncertain future. There's just this - the crackle of the fire, the sizzle of fish in the pan, the comforting weight of Simon's thigh pressed against his own.

But as much as Mark wants to linger in this pocket of peace, he knows they can't ignore reality forever.

Cradling his mug between his palms, he takes a fortifying sip before broaching the subject they've both been avoiding. "So...how are we looking?"

Simon sighs, some of the lightness fading from his expression as he pokes at the frying trout with a stick.

"Not terrible," he says after a moment, "but not great either. Horses are fine, thank God. Sacked out, but not limping, though I just walked 'em- no idea what they'll look like in a canter or trot. We've only got about twenty of them, but the cows seem fine too, mostly - they're all spooked, but seem to be intact."

Mark's brow furrows, concern etching lines around his mouth. He absently stirs the sizzling pork, gaze distant. "And Maisie?" he asks quietly.

Simon's expression softens as he rolls his eyes with a wry twist to his lips.

"Your calf is fine, skittish and scared from last night, glued to the side of her mama, but fine." he assures, bumping Mark's shoulder gently with his own. Then he shakes his head, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration in his tone. "But you're still a damned fool for saving her."

Mark ducks his head, a flush crawling up his neck. "I couldn't just let her drown," he mumbles, defensive.

Simon sighs, setting aside his mug and turning to face Mark fully. He reaches out, callused fingers tipping Mark's chin up until their eyes meet.

"I know," Simon says simply, ducking his head. "I know you couldn't do anything else. It's one of the things I lov- admire about you."

He stumbles over the word, the admission sticking in his throat. A lifetime of caution, of keeping his heart close-guarded, makes that vulnerability difficult. But from the way Mark's breath hitches, the way his eyes go wide and wondering, he hears the unspoken sentiment anyway.

"I love you too, Simon." Mark's voice is soft but certain, unwavering. He reaches out, twining their fingers together, grounding Simon with his touch. "Have for a bit now."

Simon's cheeks flush, a rosy glow that has nothing to do with the heat of the fire. Warmth blooms in his chest, a giddy, disbelieving joy that this beautiful man could love him, weather-beaten and world-weary as he is. He raises their joined hands, pressing a kiss to Mark's knuckles, lips lingering over each ridge and scar.

"Mark, I..." He swallows hard, struggling to form the words. "You gotta know that I...that you're..."

"Shh, it's alright," Mark soothes, cupping Simon's cheek with his free hand. "I know. You don't have to say it."

"I want to say it." Sighing, Simon presses his lips against the sensitive skin of Mark's wrist, feeling the thrum of his life beneath them. "I'm gonna say it, as soon as I ain't so much of a coward." he murmurs, determination pulsing through him. "You deserve to hear it."

"Well, I won't argue with that," Mark says with a slight grin. Simon huffs a laugh, leaning in to brush a kiss over that impish smile. As he does, the memory of the day before washes over him, the fear, the helplessness, the sick swoop of his stomach as he watched Mark vanish over that cliff edge. He pulls back with a shaky exhale, reaching up to stroke a thumb over the fading bruise on Mark's cheekbone.

"Just...try not to make a habit of scaring me like that, alright? Nearly gave me a heart attack, watching you charge into that storm like a man possessed. Thought I'd lost you."

He tries for a light, teasing tone, but it isn't convincing even to himself. The memory of that moment, the sheer terror of seeing Mark fly off the back of that horse, of seeing him lie there so still and cold, is still too raw, too close to the surface.

Mark's expression softens, understanding and apology mingling in his gaze. He tips forward until their foreheads meet, one hand coming up to curl around the nape of Simon's neck.

"I'll try," he promises softly, thumb brushing through the short hairs at Simon's nape. "And I am sorry for scaring you."

Simon swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat. He leans into Mark, just a little, savoring the solid warmth of him.

"I know," he says roughly. "I know that. I just..." He trails off, gaze distant, haunted. "I don't think I could do it again. I don't think I'd survive it, Mark."

Mark is quiet for a long moment, studying Simon's profile in the golden morning light. He thinks of the locket, hidden away in Simon's saddlebags. The one wrapped in a silk handkerchief, faded and worn soft with age, Forever Yours,E.

"Tell me about him," he says softly, shifting closer.

Simon's head jerks up, surprise and something like old pain flickering across his face.

"You jealous, Kid?" he asks, trying for a teasing tone. It falls flat, the words heavy with unspoken history. His hands fidget with his coffee cup, a nervous tell.

Mark shakes his head, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on Simon's thigh.

"No," he assures. "Not jealous."

"You don't want to hear about all of that. It's ancient history." Simon's voice is rough, defensive, but he doesn't pull away from Mark's touch.

"I do, though," Mark says softly. "And it's not ancient history to you, is it? Not really."

Simon is quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "No. Reckon it's not. He's always with me, in a way. Like a ghost I carry around."

Mark's heart aches at the pain in Simon's voice, the weight of unresolved grief that hangs heavy on every word. Slowly, giving Simon time to pull away if he needs to, he slides his hand up to cover Simon's where it grips the coffee mug, twining their fingers together.

"So tell me about him," he urges gently. "Not the sad parts, not the end. Tell me about the good times, the happy memories. The things that made you love him."

He feels Simon's hand tremble beneath his own, sees the way his throat works as he swallows hard. For a moment, Mark thinks he might refuse, might pull away and retreat back behind the solitary walls of his own pain.

But then Simon takes a shuddering breath, his fingers tightening around Mark's. When he begins to speak, his voice is low and rough, scraped raw.

"We met our first week in the army," Simon starts hesitantly, his gaze distant. "I was green as grass, just a kid. Christ, I was barely old enough to shave. The other men, they were men. Rough, hardened. But Elijah, he was different."

"Different how?" Mark prompts softly when Simon falls silent.

"He was delicate. Bookish. He shouldn't have ever even been on that battlefield. He should have been in a classroom. He was supposed to go to that fancy college, the one in Boston?"

"Harvard?" Mark supplies gently.

"Yeah, that's the one." Simon nods, something wistful and aching in his expression. His fingers trace patterns in the dirt, lost in memories. "You remind me of him, in some ways. Too smart, too kind, too handsome for the likes of me."

"How'd he end up in the army, then?"

"Family tradition." Simon's lips twist in a bitter smile. "His father, and his grandfather and his great grandfather served, one of 'em in every generation all the way back to fighting red coats. Elijah just had the rotten luck of only having sisters."

"What did he look like?" Mark asks softly as he settles in to listen. This feels more like confession than conversation now, and Mark just hopes Simon can unburden himself of some of the weight he's been carrying.

"Lord, he was beautiful." Simon's voice takes on a dreamy quality. "All sandy curls and big brown eyes behind these wire-rimmed spectacles that were always sliding down his nose. He had this way of pushing them up with his knuckle when he was reading, which was just about always." His lips curve in a fond smile. "He was this skinny little thing when we first met, all elbows and knees like a newborn colt, but there was so much life in him. Such brightness." Simon pauses, like he's trying to catch the memory properly. "Yeah. He was bright. His eyes would just light up when he talked about books or poetry or any of those fancy things I'd never heard of. Sometimes I wonder if..." He trails off, shaking his head slightly. "Memory's a funny thing. Maybe he didn't really glow like that. Maybe it was just being young and in love that made everything seem so... but no, I think he really did have that way about him. Like he was lit up from the inside."

His voice grows softer, more vulnerable. "He used to read to me at night, when neither of us could sleep. Would curl up on my chest, nag at me for smoking and then read to me anyway." Simon's hand tightens around his coffee cup. "He was my first... Well, everything. First person I ever kissed. First person who ever saw me, really saw me. Made me feel like maybe I wasn't broken or wrong for wanting what I wanted."

Mark makes a soft sound of understanding, of shared pain. He reaches out, laying a gentle hand on Simon's knee, a silent offer of comfort.

Simon clears his throat, trying for a lighter tone. "And god, we were insatiable. Like tomcats in spring. Found every hidden corner of that camp, every secluded spot in the woods."

His attempt at levity cracks slightly. "Neither of us knew what the hell we were doing, mind you. Just fumbling our way through it together. We sure were dedicated to figuring it out though, and the way he'd look at me after... like I'd given him the whole world, and not just fooled around behind some trees." A soft, shy smile touches his lips.

His fingers fidget, restless, searching for work or drink to keep them occupied, to stop Simon from digging into this painful place, "We'd volunteer for watch duty together, not that we were watching for much. Find excuses to scout ahead. Steal moments wherever we could. Everything felt so urgent then, like the world might end if we couldn't touch each other for even a day." A rueful smile. "Sometimes just the brush of his hand against mine felt like it might kill me. Everything was so new, so intense. Guess when you're seventeen, everything feels that big."

"We thought we were being so clever, so careful. But looking back..." He shakes his head, fond exasperation in his voice. "God, we must've been obvious as hell. But everyone just turned a blind eye; guess they figured we all deserved whatever comfort we could find out there. And Elijah..." Simon's voice grows tender. "He'd get this look in his eyes sometimes, like he couldn't believe his luck. Like I was something precious. Like I was worth something. No one had ever looked at me like that before."

His hands twist in the fabric of his pants. "Used to write me these little notes. Bits of poetry, little endearments, silly things." A flush creeps up his neck. "Real soppy stuff that would've mortified me if anyone else had tried it. But from him... well, it meant everything. I kept every single one of them, even though I could barely read half of what he wrote."

Simon's voice softens further. "He was teaching me, you know? Said I had a good mind for letters, just needed practice. He was the first person who ever made me feel like maybe I could be more than just some dumb farm boy. I kept those pieces of paper til they fell apart. It felt like the last of him I had, you know?"

He takes a shaky breath. "Elijah, he...he had a bright future ahead of him. Big dreams, big mind, bigger heart. Coulda changed the world. Was gonna be a teacher, wanted to open a school for freed children after the war. Had it all planned out." The pride in his voice mingles with the old pain.

He falls silent, jaw working as he stares sightlessly into the distance, lost in memory. Mark waits, scarcely daring to breathe. He knows that Simon needs this, needs to relieve himself of this long-held grief. Needs an ear to listen, a heart to hold the hurt.

Simon takes another shaky breath, knuckles white around his coffee cup. "He used to make plans for us, too. For after the war. Nothing solid, just... dreams really. About how maybe I could help him with the school. How he'd keep teaching me to read proper. How we'd have our own place, together. We were so young, we thought..." His voice cracks. "We thought we had all the time in the world."

Mark doesn't speak, just shifts closer, as Simon wrestles with memories he's kept locked away for so long.

"He had all these ideas. He'd get so excited talking about it, his hands would flit around like little birds, knocking his spectacles crooked..." Simon's voice trails off, the ghost of a smile touching his lips before fading. "But then, well..." He clears his throat, blinking rapidly. "I guess the war had other plans."

The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken grief. Simon stares into his now-cold coffee like it might hold answers to questions he's carried for years.

Mark waits, patient, his hand still covering Simon's. He can feel the slight tremor in Simon's fingers, see the way his throat works as he swallows back emotions too big for words.

When Simon finally speaks again, his voice is barely more than a whisper. "You know what the worst part of it all is? Sometimes I can't quite remember what his voice sounded like anymore. Or the exact way he laughed. It's like... like trying to hold onto smoke. The harder I try to grab those memories, the faster they slip away."

He draws a shuddering breath. "But other things... other things I remember so clear it hurts. The way his spectacles would fog up in the morning cold. How he'd fall asleep reading, book open on his chest. The way he'd drum his fingers when he was thinking; always in the same pattern, like some song only he could hear. How he couldn't whistle worth a damn but would try anyway." Simon's voice catches. "The ink stains on his fingers, and how he had this one crooked tooth that made his smile just a little bit sideways. There was this one little spot behind his left ear that would make him shiver when I'd kiss it. The way he'd scrunch up his nose when he was trying not to laugh at my dirty jokes..."

He stops, throat working. "The last letter he was writing home, he never got to finish it. It's the stupid little things that stick with you, you know? The things that made him... him."

Simon's voice breaks on the last words. Mark squeezes his hand gently, offering what comfort he can. They sit together in the growing morning light, Simon's grief as fresh as a new wound, Mark's heart aching for the boy Simon had been, for the man he became. Without conscious thought, he's moving, swinging a leg over Simon's lap to straddle his thighs, arms coming up to wrap around broad shoulders. Simon stiffens for a moment, startled, before melting into the embrace, hands coming to rest on Mark's hips, face tucking into the crook of his neck.

They sit like that for a long moment, Mark carding gentle fingers through Simon's hair, Simon's hitching breaths warming the hollow of Mark's throat. Eventually, Simon speaks again, the words muffled against Mark's skin.

"He was s'posed to stay behind me. I told him to stay behind me. I was s'posed to protect him. That bullet...it was meant for me. It should've been me."

"No," Mark says fiercely, tightening his hold. "No, Simon. Don't say that. Don't even think it." He pulls back just far enough to cup Simon's face in his hands, thumbs sweeping over the arch of his cheekbones, gathering the moisture there. "Losing you...Simon, it surely would've broken him, same as losing him nearly broke you."

Simon's breath shudders out of him, forehead dropping to rest against Mark's collarbone.

"I miss him," he confesses, voice small and lost in a way Mark's never heard. "I miss him so goddamn much."

"I'm sorry," Mark soothes, rocking them gently. "I'm so sorry, Simon. He sounds like he was really special."

Simon nods jerkily, tears still leaking into the fabric of Mark's flannel shirt. "He was," he agrees hoarsely.

"The best man I ever knew. Until you." His arms tighten around Mark suddenly, almost desperately. "And the thought of losing you like that—" His voice breaks, and he has to swallow hard before continuing. "God, Mark, I can't. I can't. I don't want to think about what I'd remember—what little things about you would haunt me."

He pulls back, eyes red-rimmed but fierce as they search Mark's face, as if memorizing every detail. "The way your eyes crinkle before you actually smile. How you mouth the words when you're readin' your book to yourself. The little hum you make when you're thinking. Your hands—" His voice catches. "I don't want to have to remember these things, Mark. I want to have them. I don't want to lie awake at night trying to recall exactly how your laugh sounds or the precise shade of your eyes in morning light."

Simon's fingers dig into Mark's sides, grounding himself. "I'm not strong enough to go through that again. To only have another set of memories to hold onto while the real thing is taken away."

"I'm right here. Not going anywhere" Mark presses a kiss to Simon's temple, lingering there as he breathes his next words into the silver-threaded copper of his hair. "And I am so lucky you got enough love for the both of us, Simon Teller."

Simon's arms tighten around him, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, breath hot and damp against the side of Mark's neck. They cling to each other as the moment stretches, seconds slipping into minutes, the rest of the world falling away until there is only the two of them, the crackling fire, and the gentle hand of dawn, brushing light across the planes of their faces.

"I love you," Simon says after an eternity, pulling back to meet Mark's gaze head-on. His eyes are red-rimmed but clear, shining with a love so vast and deep it steals the breath from Mark's lungs.

Mark's heart swells, a sudden lump rising in his throat. He reaches up, cradles Simon's face in his palms like he's holding the whole world.

"I love you too," he whispers fiercely.

And he does, god, he does. Loves this man with every fiber of his being, every beat of his heart. Loves him in a way he never thought himself capable of, never dared to dream he could have.

They stay like that for a long moment more, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air. Eventually, the world begins to filter back in— the pop and crackle of the fire, the morning birds, their small herd of cattle lowing in the distance. Life going on, as it always does.

Simon draws a deep breath, his hands sliding up Mark's back in a gentle caress.

"Should probably think about getting back to it, got work to get on with." he says softly, though he makes no move to let go.

Mark hums in agreement, fingers still carding through Simon's hair. "Probably should."

Simon is quiet for a moment, considering. His body feels heavy, wrung out from last twenty four hours. The familiar itch crawls under his skin, that old urge to find a bottle and crawl inside it until the pain goes numb. But Mark's weight in his lap anchors him, those gentle fingers in his hair offering a different kind of comfort. A better kind.

The thought of pushing on today, it feels like too much to contemplate, but instead of reaching for whiskey, he finds himself pulling Mark closer, choosing warmth over numbness.

"You know," he says finally, a hint of conspiratorial tone in his voice; "the horses could probably use another day's rest after that storm. No point rushing off half-cocked when we don't even know which way the drive would've gone."

Mark pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, hope flickering across his features. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Simon's hands settle more firmly on Mark's hips, needing the steady contact. "Reckon we've earned ourselves one day. Just one." His voice softens, raw with honesty. "One day to just... be."

"Just be?"

"Sure, why not? If I were a gambling man, I'd say the rest of the outfit will take at least a day to regroup after that storm. Kepler'll want to take a headcount. Hilbert will be busy patching up one or two of them." Simon's thumb traces idle patterns on Mark's hip, like he's reassuring himself of Mark's solid presence. "And it shouldn't be too hard to find three thousand cows - they'll leave a trail a blind man could follow."

Mark's eyes light up, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"A whole day off," he muses, something like wonder in his voice. "Can't remember the last time I had one of those."

Simon chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Well, now don't be gettin' your hopes too far up, Kid. Ain't really such a thing as a 'whole day off' out here."

He shifts, settling Mark more comfortably in his lap. "We'll want to see to the horses, for starters. Take 'em for a quick trot, make sure they're sound after yesterday's excitement."

His hands smooth up Mark's back, kneading gently at the base of his neck. "And it wouldn't hurt to do some hunting, either. Scare up a couple rabbits, maybe even a wild turkey if we're lucky. Somethin' to supplement our rations."

Mark leans into the touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

"Look at you, always thinking ahead," he teases gently, admiration shining in his eyes. "What else?"

Simon grins, something steadier entering his gaze as he visibly pulls himself back together. "Well, we oughta do a proper survey of this valley," he says, fingers tracing idle patterns on Mark's lower back. "Get the lay of the land, see if we can spot any signs of which direction the herd might've gone."

He clears his throat, voice finding strength in purpose. "Also while we're out there, I can show you a few tracking tricks, if you'd like. How to spot signs of game, identify different animal tracks, read the weather from the clouds. Things that might..." He hesitates, then continues more softly, "Things that might keep you safe out here. The plains don't forgive mistakes, and I'd rest easier knowin' you could find your way if—" He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

Mark reaches up, touches Simon's face gently. "If we got separated," he finishes for him.

Simon nods, eyes grateful. "Yeah. That."

Mark smiles, gentle understanding in his eyes. "I'd like that."

"Good," Simon says, relief evident in the set of his shoulders as he presses a quick kiss to Mark's palm. "You're too smart to be at the mercy of this country. And besides," he adds, a hint of his usual playfulness returning, "Might come in handy, havin' a city boy who knows his way around the wilderness. Never know when I might need to send you out to bag us some dinner."

Mark's expression softens, a gentle understanding passing between them. "I'd like that," he says quietly. "Learning how to be as good as you out here." He pauses, then adds with genuine sincerity, "Thank you for wanting to teach me."

Simon catches Mark's hand, expression turning serious again. "It ain't just about teachin'," he says, voice rough with emotion. "It's about—" He stops, searching for words. "I need to know you've got every chance out here. That if something happened and I wasn't..." He swallows hard. "This country takes people, Mark. I can't bear the thought of it takin' you too."

Mark's smile softens, understanding the weight behind Simon's words. "Then teach me everything," he says. "I'm all yours."

Simon's breath catches, and for a moment the vulnerability is back in his eyes. "Are you?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper. "All mine?"

Mark holds his gaze steadily. "All yours, Simon. For as long as you'll have me."

Chapter Text

Even taking their time, Mark and Simon's morning had been long and grueling. They'd started by constructing a makeshift pen—nothing more than fallen branches and storm tossed brush stacked criss- cross like a settlers cabin to contain the few cattle they'd managed to keep track of through the storm.

The flimsy barrier wouldn't stop any animal truly determined to escape, nor would it deter any opportunistic rustlers looking for easy pickings in the aftermath of the storm, but it would at the very least allow them to ride out searching for strays without losing what they already had.

They'd worked side by side in companionable silence, Simon's hands quick and sure as he lashed branches together with lengths of rope. He'd been quieter than usual, still carrying the weight of his memories, but there was a peace about him now—a serenity that hadn't been there before, as if sharing his burden had in fact lightened it some. And when he would catch Mark's eye with an instruction or a piece of quiet praise, his smile would light up his whole face in a way that made Mark's breath catch every time.

Once the pen was finished, they'd taken their time with the horses, checking them over for any injuries from the storm. Simon had run his hands down each of Mariposa's legs, murmuring praise to the dappled gray mare as he checked for heat or swelling in her joints. He'd been especially gentle with her right foreleg, where an old injury sometimes troubled her in damp weather.

"That's my girl," he'd said softly, pressing his forehead briefly against her neck when he'd finished. The mare had nickered softly in response, nudging Simon's shoulder with unmistakable affection.

Mark had watched the exchange from where he was checking his own mount, a sturdy bay gelding that lacked Mariposa's grace but made up for it in steady reliability. There was something about the way Simon handled his horse, the quiet respect and genuine care, that made Mark's chest tighten to witness it.

Horses attended to, they'd saddled up and ridden out in widening circles, scanning the horizon for any sign of their scattered herd. The prairie stretched endless around them, the tall grass still bent and flattened in the direction the storm had traveled. They'd found three strays by midday—two cows in the shelter of a small rise, and a young steer that had managed to get himself half-stuck in a water-filled ditch.

Simon's shirt was still caked with mud from wrestling that stubborn steer out of the ditch. He'd slid down into the muck without hesitation to secure a rope around the animal's chest while Mark kept the beast calm with low, soothing words and gentle hands on its neck. Working together like they'd been doing it for years, not just weeks.

Even then, the work didn't end there. Each recovered animal needed thorough checking—hooves examined for stones and splits, hides inspected for cuts that could fester, tails and flanks cleared of burrs picked up during their panicked flight. Mark's hands grew raw from rope burns, his shoulders protesting as yesterday's bruises made themselves known with each movement. Still, he matched Simon's pace, holding the stubborn calves steady while Simon worked his way over each animal with practiced efficiency.

When the young steer thrashed and bellowed even after they'd pulled him from the mud, Mark gritted his teeth against the pain in his pulled muscles and held firm. When they'd finally secured the animal, Simon was at his side in an instant, one hand sliding warm and possessive to the small of Mark's back, the other squeezing his shoulder.

"Good work, Kid," Simon murmured, his voice pitched low and intimate, meant just for Mark's ears. His eyes raked over Mark with open appreciation, taking in the mud-splattered shirt now clinging to his chest. "Could watch you work all day and never tire of the view." The pride in his voice was unmistakable, but so was the heat. He leaned in closer than strictly necessary, his breath warm against Mark's ear. "Damn fine cowboy you're becoming. And all mine."

That praise, the possessive edge to Simon's words, and the barely-disguised hunger in his eyes somehow made every ache in Mark's body worth enduring. Mark leaned into the touch, allowing himself the small luxury of Simon's warmth before they had to return to the task at hand.

After securing the last of the cattle, Simon's hand found the small of Mark's back again, lingering there as they walked their horses back toward camp. "Been thinking," he said, his voice still carrying that intimate tone that made Mark's skin tingle despite his exhaustion. "We ought to celebrate getting through that storm in one piece."

"What did you have in mind?" Mark had asked, unable to keep a smile from his lips as Simon's fingers traced small circles against his spine.

"How about some proper food?" Simon reached for his rifle, checking it with practiced ease while somehow managing to keep Mark close. "Reckon we've earned something better than trail beans. And I saw signs of game on our ride out." His eyes met Mark's, warm with affection and just a hint of challenge. "Fancy joining me?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Mark replied, even as his muscles protested. The way Simon looked at him—like Mark was something precious, something worth savoring—made him willing to follow the man just about anywhere.

The hunting had proven to be just as hard as the cattle wrangling, though in different ways. Where cattle were all brute strength and stubborn will, hunting required patience and precision—neither of which Mark seemed to have available today. His first shot at a fat grouse had gone wide, sending a flurry of feathers and alarmed squawking across the clearing as the bird escaped unharmed. The rabbits proved even more frustrating, their zigzagging paths through the brush making them nearly impossible for Mark to track, let alone hit.

Loosen your grip a bit, Simon had advised after Mark's third miss, stepping close to adjust his stance with gentle hands. You're still anticipating the kick too much. That hesitation is missing your shot. His voice dropped lower, rumbling against Mark's ear as his hands slid from Mark's shoulders down his arms, fingers wrapping around his wrists to guide his hold on the rifle. Breathe through it and squeeze slowly.

The warmth of Simon's chest stayed pressed deliberately against Mark's back, his thighs bracketing Mark's stance. This time, there was nothing hurried about the way he lingered there, no pretense that this was purely instructional. When Simon's thumb stroked the inside of Mark's wrist, right over his racing pulse, Mark nearly forgot they were supposed to be hunting at all.

"There," Simon murmured, pointing to movement in the brush about forty yards away. "See that rabbit? Just take your time."

Mark forced himself to focus, to feel the weight of the rifle and Simon's steadying presence rather than the distracting heat between them. He drew in a slow breath, let half of it out, and squeezed the trigger just as Simon had taught him. The crack of the shot echoed across the prairie, and to Mark's surprise, the rabbit dropped.

"Would you look at that," he breathed, genuine shock and pleasure warming his voice.

Simon's hand squeezed his shoulder, pride evident in his touch. "Knew you had it in you." The smile he gave Mark then was incandescent. This was how Simon loved—not just with grand declarations, but with these small moments of genuine pride, with patient teaching and an unwavering faith in Mark's abilities. Every time Simon looked at him like that, like he'd hung the moon and stars, Mark felt something inside his chest grow a little stronger, a little steadier. "Quick learner, when you want to be."

Simon, on the other hand, moved through the prairie grass like he'd been born to it, each step deliberate and silent. When he raised his rifle, there was a fluid grace to the motion, a certainty that Mark couldn't help but admire. Two clean shots had brought down a pair of rabbits, and a third had felled a grouse that would make their dinner a proper feast. He'd smiled at Mark afterward, not a hint of superiority, just pride and relief that they had a decent dinner waiting for them now.

By mid afternoon, they reeked of their labor—layers of stench built up throughout the day. The distinct mix of wet cattle hide and manure formed the base notes, but it mingled with the sharp tang of their own dried sweat, mud-crusted boots, and clothing that had absorbed every foul odor they'd encountered. The sun beat down mercilessly as they guided the last stray back to their makeshift pen, both men moving with the slow, deliberate steps of those who've earned their exhaustion honestly.

Eventually, Simon was the one to call it. "Reckon we've done about all we can today," he said, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve and only managing to smear dirt across his forehead. "Anything else we can possibly do, can wait till tomorrow."

Unhooking his canteen, Simon takes a long pull before passing it to Mark, who accepts it gratefully.

"God, I must smell like one of those cows." Taking a long draft from the canteen, Mark wrinkles his nose, plucking disconsolately at his sweat-stained shirt.

"It is mighty powerful." Chuckling, Simon loops his arms around Mark's waist from behind, resting his chin on Mark's shoulder. "Though I reckon I ain't much better. Been a long day already."

His chest rumbles against Mark's back, and despite the heat and the smell, Mark can't help but lean into the embrace. Simon's warmth seeps through their sweat-damp shirts, steady and solid like the man himself. Mark lets his head fall back slightly, resting against Simon's shoulder as the older man's thumb traces small circles against his side—one of those unconscious gestures of affection that Simon seems to do without thinking. The afternoon sun wraps around them both, and for a moment, everything else falls away—the ache in his muscles, the cattle waiting in their makeshift pen, the long ride still ahead. There's just this: Simon's steady breath against his neck, the gentle pressure of arms, the quiet contentment of simply being together.

"Don't suppose there happens to be a secret bathtub waiting back at camp?" Mark asks, voice wistful. "Hot water and everything?"

"No real bathtube, no" Simon admits with a soft laugh. "I am afraid we are still living rough for a while."

"At least you found those rabbits, didn't you?" Gesturing toward where their dinner spits over the small fire, Mark sighs deeply. "We'd have starved if it were up to me..."

"Hunting can be tough. Takes practice. You're getting better at it." Simon's tone is gentle, and encouraging as his lips brush against the sensitive spot just below Mark's ear; "That was a fine shot you made."

"Hmm." Mark's skepticism could probably be heard in the next county. "One rabbit doesn't exactly make me Daniel Boone."

"Wasn't born knowing how to shoot either," Simon reminds him. "First time I picked up a rifle in the army, my sergeant laughed so hard he damn near fell over. Couldn't hit a barn from the inside, he said."

"You?" Mark sounds genuinely surprised at this revelation. Twisting slightly in Simon's arms, he raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "The way you handle that rifle, I'd have thought you were born with a gun in your hand."

"You can sound disbelieving all you want, I'm right." Simon tightens his arms around Mark's waist as he puts on an exaggerated air of sagely wisdom. "And one day you'll look back at this and think, 'Oh, Simon, I should have listened to you; you're so full of knowledge and wisdom...'"

"Certainly full of something." Mark elbows him lightly in the ribs.

"I am wounded." Simon staggers dramatically without releasing his hold, making Mark stumble with him. "Cut right to the core. And here I am, trying to teach you my ways, share my expertise—"

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

"—and you mock me. The disrespect. The ingratitude." But Simon's laughing, his face buried in the crook of Mark's neck. "Just for that, I might not tell you where that pool I found this morning is."

"You're the one that has to sleep in the tent with me tonight." Mark tips his head back against Simon's shoulder, grinning. "Smelling like this."

"I could always send you to sleep with the cows." Simon's teeth graze Mark's ear lightly. "Though I reckon you might get lonely out there without me."

"And you'd get awful lonely in that tent all by yourself," Twisting in Simon's arms to face him, Mark darts in to catch Simon's mouth for a kiss.

Simon returns the kiss with interest before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Mighty persuasive argument you've got there."

"I thought so." Mark's fingers play with the buttons of Simon's shirt. "Now about this mysterious pool of yours..."

"Better yet—" Simon steps back, rummaging through his saddlebag with deliberate casualness. Soap and some clean clothes emerge. "I'll show you."

Mark nods, then turns to his own saddlebag, grabbing something to wear that isn't as dirty, and then before he can second guess himself,  he lets his fingers find his tin of saddle oil. He slips that into his pocket without fanfare or comment, a private decision that sends a pleasant shiver through his core.

Before he can turn back around, Simon moves with that fluid grace that still catches Mark off guard. In one swift motion, he steps forward and hefts Mark over his shoulder like a sack of flour, one arm wrapped securely around Mark's thighs.

"Simon!" Mark yelps, but he's laughing. His protest is cut short by a light smack to his upturned ass.

"What was that?" Simon's voice is all innocence, though his hand lingers. "Couldn't quite hear you from up there."

Mark's stomach does a pleasant flip at the casual display of strength, even though he makes a show of squirming. "I can walk, you know."

"Sure you can." Simon adjusts his grip, seemingly unbothered by Mark's weight, the bundle of supplies tucked securely under his arm. His palm slides appreciatively over the curve of Mark's backside. "But why should you have to?"

The walk isn't far, and Mark finds himself enjoying the steady rhythm of Simon's stride, the warm strength of the arm wrapped around his thighs. From his vantage point, he watches the prairie grass sway past, all golden in the afternoon haze. A meadowlark calls somewhere in the distance, answered by another.

"You really going to carry me the whole way?"

"You complaining?" Simon's chest rumbles with amusement, punctuating his question with another playful swat.

"Just wondering if maybe you're showing off a little."

"Maybe I am." Simon loosens his grip just enough that Mark starts to slide, making him yelp and grab for Simon's belt. "Maybe I like showing off for you."

The sound of running water reaches them before they round an outcropping of rocks. The storm-created basin is beautiful; clear water reflecting the sky, deep enough in the middle that the bottom fades to darkness.

Simon lets out a low whistle as he lowers Mark to the ground gently.

"Even nicer than I remembered." He's already shrugging out of his shirt, movements quick and purposeful, sunlight catching on the smooth planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his shoulders. "Deeper too."

Mark sets their clean clothes and soap on a convenient rock, his motions slowing as he turns to watch Simon. There's something magnetic about the way Simon moves, the casual grace as he kicks off his boots, the flex of muscle as he stretches. When Simon grins at him, there's something almost boyish in it, a lightness Mark hasn't seen for a few days now. But there's heat there too, a knowing glint in his eye that makes Mark's breath catch.

"Watch this," Simon says, already backing up a few steps, giving Mark an unobstructed view of long, lean muscle and well freckled, sun-bronzed skin. Before Mark can properly appreciate the sight, Simon takes a running start and launches himself into the air, tucking his knees to his chest.

The splash is impressive, sending water arcing high enough to catch rainbows in the sunlight. Mark can't help but laugh, even as he shields their dry clothes from the spray.

Simon surfaces with a gasp, shaking water from his hair like a dog.

"Come on in, water's fine." Water sluices down his chest, drops catching in his eyelashes as he grins up at Mark.

"Water is not fine, you lying bastard. Water is cold as hell!" Mark calls back, already stripping off his own boots. He can feel Simon's eyes on him as he undresses, taking his time now, aware of how the morning sun warms his skin.

"Well it is storm runoff." Simon treads water, making no attempt to hide his appreciation as Mark reveals more of himself. His voice has gone a touch deeper, rougher. "The view is mighty fine from here, though."

"I ain't never gonna get warm again," Mark grumbles, but he's smiling as he wades in, gasping at the chill. Before he can acclimate, a splash of water hits him square in the chest. "Simon!"

Simon's laugh rings out across the water, bright and unguarded.

Just helping you get used to it faster." He darts away as Mark lunges for him, moving with easy grace through the water. The sun catches on his wet skin, turning droplets to gold as they trace paths down the defined muscles of his chest and shoulders.

"Oh, that's how it is?" Mark gives chase, both of them laughing now as they splash and dodge around each other. Simon moves like he was born to the water, but Mark's quick too, nearly catching him more than once. Their hands slip on wet skin, grasp and release, each touch lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary. The cold is all but forgotten in the heat building between them, the electric thrill of pursuit and the promise in Simon's eyes each time he glances back.

"Almost had me that time," Simon taunts, dancing just out of reach. His voice drops lower, rougher. "But you gotta be quicker than that, Kid."

His eyes are bright with something more than just play now, face flushed as his gaze sweeps appreciatively over Mark's body through the clear water. He looks younger like this, Mark realizes—the weight of old grief lifted from his shoulders, replaced by a hungry sort of delight.

Simon lets himself be caught eventually, slowing just enough to let Mark's arms wrap around him from behind. Mark's chest presses against the warm expanse of Simon's back, his fingers splaying possessively across Simon's stomach.

"Got you," Mark declares triumphantly, lips brushing the sensitive skin where Simon's neck meets his shoulder. The contact draws a sharp intake of breath from Simon, and Mark can feel the shiver that runs through him despite the water's chill. He has just enough time to register Simon's wolfish grin over his shoulder—a promise more than a warning—before Simon drops suddenly, taking them both under.

They surface together, sputtering and laughing. Water streams down their faces as Simon turns in Mark's arms, pulling him close. The laughter fades into something softer as they float there, wrapped around each other, legs tangling beneath the surface. Mark can't remember ever seeing Simon so light, so free with his happiness. The afternoon sun catches droplets of water in Simon's eyelashes, makes his copper hair glow like fire on the horizon. There's something holy about this moment—the clean light, the cool water, and Simon's joy written so clearly across his face.

"Still cold?" Simon's voice has gone soft, intimate, his hands trailing warm paths along Mark's sides beneath the water.

"Better now." Mark leans into the touch, savoring the contrast between the cold water and Simon's warm skin.

"Well come here and let me warm you up fully" Simon purrs, swimming them toward shallower, warmer water where they can both stand. His eyes are dark with promise as he reaches for the soap. "Turn around for me, sweetheart. Let me take care of you."

Mark shivers, and this time not from the cold, as Simon's hands start working rough lye soap into his hair. The touch is reverent, thorough—strong fingers working from Mark's temples to the nape of his neck, each stroke deliberate and soothing, making even the harsh soap feel like luxury.

"God, that feels good," Mark whispers, a soft moan escaping as Simon's fingers find a particularly sensitive spot behind his ear. Water trickles down his back, cold where Simon pours it to rinse the soap away, the chill chased away by Simon's warm hands. " I like your hands on me…-"

"When we get somewhere nice," Simon murmurs, fingers massaging Mark's scalp, "I'm gonna get you a real bath. A proper one. With hot water and everything. None of this cold creek water and lye soap business."

"Mmm, keep talking," Mark encourages, tilting his head back into Simon's touch.

Simon's voice drops lower, intimate as a secret. "Gonna find us one of them fancy hotels with proper bathing rooms. The kind with the big copper tubs you can stretch out in." His hands slide to Mark's shoulders, thumbs working at the knots there with knowing pressure.

Mark's breath catches as Simon finds a particularly tight spot. "I like the sound of that," he says, voice gone soft with both pleasure and the unexpected intimacy of Simon's vision.

"Get you some of that sweet-smelling soap they keep in the mercantile windows. The kind that comes wrapped in paper, all the way from back East. Maybe even that lavender stuff they say comes from France."

"You've thought about this," Mark says with wonder in his voice. He reaches up to cover one of Simon's hands with his own, squeezing gently.

Those strong, calloused hands—hands that can break horses and mend fences and shoot with deadly accuracy—move down Mark's back with unexpected tenderness.

"Then I'm gonna dry you off with clean towels, soft as clouds. Not some barely clean flannel that's been hanging off a saddle. Take you to bed—a real bed, mind you, with a proper mattress that don't have a single rock under it and sheets so clean they crackle."

"Simon..." Mark's voice catches, moved by the care in each detail, the future Simon is painting for them both.

"Ain't just talk neither. Gonna give you all of it. Every damn thing you deserve." There's fierceness in his voice now, a promise that burns hotter than desire.

Mark turns his head just enough to catch Simon's eye, his expression open and vulnerable.

"Never had anyone care about me the way you do." The admission slips out before he can catch it.

Simon's lips brush the curve of Mark's shoulder, lingering there. "Just you and me, warm and clean and soft. All the time in the world."

The way he says it—like a vow, like something sacred—makes Mark's chest ache more than any heated touch could. This man who's spent his life under open skies and sleeping on hard ground is dreaming of softness, of luxury and comfort, not for himself but to give to Mark.

"That a promise?" Mark asks, leaning back into Simon's arms. His eyes drift closed, surrendering completely to Simon's gentle caressing.

"Mmhmm. Gonna spoil you proper." Simon's hands slide lower, working the tension from Mark's back, thumbs pressing into knots Mark hadn't even realized were there. "You deserve nothing less than the best of everything."

"Sweet talker," Mark teases, but his breath stutters as Simon's fingers find a particularly tight spot, working it loose with careful pressure.

"Just telling truths." Simon's voice remains quiet as he works his way down Mark's back, each touch both practical care and tender worship. The soap makes his hands glide smooth over Mark's skin, cleaning away the day's sweat and dust.

"You're awfully good at this," Mark murmurs, letting his head fall forward as Simon's fingers work magic on his tired muscles.

"Had plenty of practice with horses," Simon says with a low chuckle. "Though I gotta say, this is a whole lot more enjoyable."

When he reaches Mark's lower back, his touch gentles further, becoming almost reverent. The water ripples around them, catching the light in scattered diamonds in the water. "Ain't never seen anything as pretty as you in this light."

The words sink into Mark's skin like the warmth of the sun. He's never been touched like this—like he's something precious, something worth taking time over. A shiver runs through him, unbidden, as Simon's thumbs trace the curve at the base of his spine.

Simon's hands return to his shoulders, drawing him back against that broad chest, and Mark goes willingly, his head rolling back onto Simon's shoulder. The shivers that run through him at Simon's touch have nothing to do with cold.

"You're trembling," Simon observes, his voice a low, concerned rumble against Mark's ear as he presses a kiss to his temple.

"Good trembling," Mark manages, "Don't stop, please."

A soft sound escapes Mark as Simon's fingers find a particularly sensitive spot, a whimper that fades into a soft moan. His body responds with a will of its own, pressing back against Simon's chest, seeking more contact. The gentle washing has kindled something deeper, something he's been wanting since they first met.

"Just like that," Simon confirms, voice gone husky. "You make the prettiest sounds when I get it right."

His touch shifts, becoming more deliberate as he finds the bruised muscles along Mark's ribs where he'd hit the ground yesterday. The pressure is careful—testing, assessing—before his fingers begin to work the stiffness out with gentle but firm circles.

"Still hurting here?" Simon asks, his breath warm against Mark's ear.

"Not so much now," Mark admits, surprised to find it true. Simon's hands are working magic, the pain receding under his careful caressing. "Though you should probably keep doing that, just to be sure."

Simon's low chuckle rumbles against Mark's back.

"That so?" His thumbs press into a knot at the base of Mark's spine, drawing another involuntary sound from him. "This spot's been bothering you all day. Could see it in the way you sat your horse."

Mark tips his head back against Simon's shoulder, amazed at how Simon had noticed, had been watching him so carefully. "You noticed that?"

"When it comes to you?" Simon's voice drops lower, intimate. "Can't help but notice every little thing." His hands slide up and down Mark's spine, working at the tension there with a touch that's both healing and something more. "The way you favor your left side. The way your breath catches when something pains you." His lips brush Mark's temple, gentle as a promise. "Want to know every part of you."

The tenderness in Simon's words, in his careful touch, makes Mark's heart swell even as his body responds to the skillful hands mapping his skin. No one has ever paid such careful attention to him before, never cared enough to memorize his pains and pleasures with equal devotion.

"Simon..." Mark whispers, unable to find words for all the things unfurling in his chest.

Turning in Simon's arms to face him, Mark claims Simon's mouth in a kiss that's nothing like any of their previous ones—not gentle, hesitant exploration or playful affection, but raw hunger barely contained. When he finally pulls back, just enough to meet Simon's darkened eyes, there's no hesitation in his gaze, only certainty.

"I'm not hurt, Simon," he says, voice low and deliberate. His hands slide up Simon's chest, feeling the thundering heartbeat beneath his palms. "Not so much that we need to stop. Not like last night."

Simon's breath catches, his eyes widening slightly at Mark's directness. For a moment, he seems almost startled by this new, demanding side of Mark; as if he hadn't expected such naked want.

"Mark, I—" His voice comes out rougher than intended, and he swallows hard, regaining his composure even as his hands tighten reflexively on Mark's hips. "Wasn't holding back just because of your tumble from that horse, kid."

"No?" Mark presses closer, eliminating what little space remained between them, his need evident. His fingers trace the line of Simon's jaw, holding his gaze steady.

"Wanted to do right by you," Simon admits roughly, but his grip tightens reflexively. "Still do."

"You are," Mark murmurs, his gaze never leaving Simon's. "Always have." His thumb brushes Simon's cheek, the touch reverent but tinged with something deeper, hungrier. "But I ain't made of glass, and I know exactly what I want." A pause, his breath warm against Simon's lips. "Who I want..." He doesn't finish the sentence, doesn't need to. The slight arch of his body against Simon's speaks volumes more than words ever could.

Something shifts in Simon's eyes as understanding dawns—that this isn't just Mark responding to his touch, but Mark actively choosing, pursuing, wanting him.

"I've been thinking I ought to wait," he murmurs, one hand coming up to cup Mark's cheek. "Find us a real bed somewhere. Walls. A door. You deserve better than just..." He struggles to put it into words, his eyes searching Mark's face.

"What I want is you," Mark says, pressing into Simon's touch, heart thundering against his ribs.

Simon lets his thumb trace Mark's lower lip, his expression solemn despite the desire darkening his eyes.

"Want to make it special for you. This ain't just about wanting, Mark. What's between us—" His voice catches slightly. "It matters. You matter. You're not just some quick tumble to scratch an itch. Want to give you something worthy of what I feel."

"I know that," Mark says softly, "I know you. That's why I'm sure. And I don't want to wait. Don't need a fancy hotel room or clean sheets. Here, anywhere—don't care where as long as it's you." His hand covers Simon's where it rests against his cheek. "Don't need anything else. Never have. Just need you."

"You've got me," Simon assures him, voice rough. "Have since that first day, if I'm being honest."

"Then show me," Mark challenges gently, leaning in until their lips nearly touch. "I want all of you, Simon. Right here, right now."

"God, Mark, when you look at me like that—" Simon's hands tighten on his hips. "Ain't a question of wanting you. Never has been." His voice goes rough as he draws Mark closer. "At least let me do this as right as I can? Let me take my time with you? Make it good for you?"

Mark answers by pulling him into a deep kiss that leaves them both breathless. When he finally pulls back, his voice is steady with certainty. "For as long as you'd like."

The words have barely left Mark's lips before Simon is lifting him from the water, holding him close, cradled against his chest. Water streams down their bodies, catching golden in the late afternoon light. The breeze whispers across wet skin as Simon carries him toward a patch of thick grass, sheltered by a gentle rise in the earth. Out here, with nothing but prairie and sky stretching endless around them, it feels like they're the only two people in the world.

Simon lays him down with infinite care in the sweet-scented grass. The sun has warmed the earth beneath them, and the grass is soft against Mark's back, tickling his shoulders. Above him, water droplets catch in Simon's eyelashes, throwing sparks of light. When Simon bends to kiss him, he tastes like sunlight and clean water and possibility.

"Beautiful," Simon breathes against his mouth. "Look at you, laid out in the grass like this." His hand traces down Mark's side, reverent. "Damn near takes my breath away. It's like a dream, one of the good ones that always is gone when you wake up."

"This is real," Mark arches into the touch, one hand sliding into Simon's damp hair to pull him down for another kiss. "Ain't dreaming no more. Been wanting this too damn long."

Simon makes a rough sound in his throat, deepening the kiss before pulling back, his eyes dark as he looks down at Mark.

"Hell, never figured we'd end up here," he admits, voice rough around the edges. "That first day in the stables, you were so—"

"Arrogant? Difficult?" Mark offers with a crooked smile.

"Was gonna say scared," Simon corrects, thumb brushing across Mark's cheekbone. "Hiding it behind all that bluster. Pretending you knew a damn thing about tacking up a horse." His voice softens with the memory. "I'm not sure you could tell a stirrup from a cinch.

"Christ, I was awful to you." Mark's expression softens, his hands sliding up Simon's arms, feeling the strength there. "And you just kept being patient. Even when I was being stubborn. Overstepping my place"

"Worth every minute of it," Simon murmurs, lips trailing along Mark's jaw. "Every goddamn minute."

The tenderness in Simon's voice makes Mark's chest ache, even as heat pools low in his belly. He turns his head, catching Simon's thumb between his teeth. His tongue slides deliberately against the pad of Simon's thumb before drawing it deeper into the wet heat of his mouth, eyes never leaving Simon's face as he watches the other man's reaction.

Simon's entire body goes rigid, a strangled sound catching in his throat. His pupils dilate until there's barely any color left, and his breathing turns ragged, uneven.

"Christ almighty, Mark—" The words come out like they've been dragged across gravel, his other hand clenching hard enough on Mark's hip to leave marks. When Mark releases his thumb with one final, deliberate stroke of his tongue and a wet pop, Simon looks utterly undone, like a man who's just seen salvation and damnation in the same moment, in the same man.

Mark can only marvel at how they've come to this point.

"You're looking at me like I'm something special," he whispers.

"You are," Simon answers without hesitation, the simple certainty in his voice stealing Mark's breath. "Have been from the start."

Mark's throat tightens at those words, at the raw honesty in Simon's eyes.

"Make me feel it," he breathes, fingers digging into Simon's shoulders as he pulls him down. "Want to feel special under your hands."

Simon makes a sound deep in his throat, almost a growl, before capturing Mark's mouth in a kiss that's all heat and claiming. His hand slides into Mark's hair, still damp from the pool, tipping his head back to deepen the kiss. When he finally pulls back, they're both breathing hard.

"Going to taste every inch of you," Simon promises against Mark's throat, his voice a dangerous growl that vibrates against Mark's skin. "Until you're trembling and desperate." His teeth graze the sensitive skin where Mark's neck meets his shoulder before sucking hard enough to leave a shadow. "Want to drag my tongue across places you've never been touched." His hand slides down Mark's side with possessive heat, fingers digging into his thigh as he shifts between Mark's legs. "Want to hear every sound you can make—your gasps—" he nips at Mark's collarbone, "your moans—" his hand slides higher, "and when I'm done with you, darlin', I want to hear you beg."

Mark arches beneath him, one hand tangling in Simon's hair, a groan tearing from his throat as Simon's mouth continues its heated path downward. Simon wasn't just making promises—he was laying claim.

"Already begging," Mark manages to choke out, voice gone rough and needy. The sun-warmed grass tickles his bare skin as he moves, and Simon's weight above him feels like an anchor, like coming home. "Please, Simon. Need your hands on me. Need—"

"Shh," Simon soothes, though his own voice is gravelly with want. "I've got you. Gonna give you everything you need." His mouth trails lower, mapping Mark's collarbone, his chest. "Gonna take such good care of you."

His hands follow the path of his lips, warm and sure against Mark's skin.

"Simon..." Mark's voice breaks on his name as clever fingers find sensitive spots. The breeze whispers cool across his heated skin, chilly in the wake of the burning trail of Simon's touch. Above them, the endless prairie sky stretches blue and vast, but Mark's whole world has narrowed to this: the soft grass beneath him, the weight of Simon's body, the knowing touch of his hands.

"So beautiful," Simon murmurs against his skin. "The way you move for me." His mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot that makes Mark gasp and writhe. "The sounds you make." His hand slides lower, proprietary, possessive. "Want to hear every sound you've got for me, darlin'."

"I'm all yours," Mark gasps, his breathing ragged as that wicked mouth moves lower. His fingers tighten in Simon's hair, guiding him. "Simon, fuck me. Take what's yours."

Simon lifts his head suddenly, conflict flashing across his desire-darkened eyes.

"Christ, I want to. But we can't—" His hand stills on Mark's thigh. "Spit ain't enough to make this good for you, to keep from hurting you—"

Mark's laugh is breathless, triumphant. "My jeans. Front pocket." When Simon's eyebrow raises in question, Mark's flush deepens. "Saddle oil. Brought it with me."

Simon pulls back slightly, genuine shock flashing across his features. His eyes search Mark's face. "You knew to—" He doesn't finish the thought, something shifting in his expression as understanding dawns. "You planned this."

"Wanted it. Hoped for it," Mark admits, meeting his gaze steadily despite the heat spreading across his chest. "Never been more sure of anything."

Simon makes a sound like he's been struck, surging up to claim Mark's mouth in a bruising kiss.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he breathes against Mark's lips. His hand reaches for Mark's discarded jeans, finding the tin with fumbling fingers.

When Simon returns, his eyes are darker than Mark's ever seen them. He settles back between Mark's thighs, the tin clutched in one hand as his other slides possessively up Mark's side.

"Been thinking about how you'd feel," Simon confesses, voice dropped to a rough growl that sends heat straight through Mark's body. "How you'd sound." His fingers work the tin open with practiced ease. "How tight you'd be around me."

Mark's breath catches, his body responding instantly to Simon's words. "Show me," he challenges, lifting his hips in invitation. "Stop talking about it and show me what you've been thinking about all this time."

Heat flares in Simon's eyes at the challenge, but there's something tender in them too as he slides his hands up Mark's thighs.

"Oh, I will," he promises, voice strained with want. "Been dreaming about making you fall apart beneath me." His touch gentles as he bends to press a kiss to Mark's collarbone. "Gonna make it so good for you."

"I know you will," Mark breathes, pulling Simon closer, bodies aligned perfectly. His voice drops to something more vulnerable, more honest than he's ever allowed himself to be. "I trust you. Completely."

That admission—perhaps more intimate than anything else they've shared—makes Simon's breath stop entirely. For a moment, raw emotion overtakes desire in his expression, and then he's taking Mark's mouth in a kiss that's somehow both fierce and reverent.

When he breaks away, that hunger returns full force. Simon makes a whimpery sound as his mouth trails down Mark's throat.

"Love how you want this," he breathes against Mark's heated skin. "How you want me." His hands move with deliberate intent now, no longer just exploring but claiming, each touch promising more to come. "Gonna learn every inch of you.

"Always wanted you," Mark manages, his voice failing him as Simon's mouth finds the hollow of his throat. The grass beneath them releases its sweet scent with each movement, tickling his heated skin. Evening sunlight filters through Simon's hair, turning it to glowing copper as he moves lower. "God, Simon, that feels so good..."

"I've got you." Simon's voice has gone impossibly tender even as his touch grows more insistent. He lifts his head just enough to meet Mark's eyes, a promise burning in his gaze. "And this is just the beginning. Let me show you how good it can be."

The words hit Mark like lightning. He'd expected hunger—and God, there's plenty of that in Simon's darkened eyes—but he hadn't expected this absolute devotion to his pleasure, this careful cataloging of his every response. Each touch feels like a question and an answer all at once.

"Yes," Mark breathes, reaching up to trace the rough stubble along Simon's jaw. "Please, yes." His voice breaks as Simon finds a spot beneath his ribs that makes him shiver. The discovery seems to delight Simon, who returns to it with deliberate attention.

"That's it," Simon murmurs, his breath warm against Mark's skin. "Let me hear you. Want to know everything that makes you feel like this." His calloused hands slide along Mark's sides with surprising gentleness. "Want to learn you like I learned the stars."

Mark hadn't known it could be like this—someone finding such joy in his pleasure, someone treating his body like something to be cherished rather than just used. The tenderness of it all threatens to overwhelm him completely, winding him higher than any touch alone could achieve.

"Simon," he gasps, back arching as clever fingers trace patterns across his hip bones. The wind whispers across the prairie, cooling his heated skin, a counterpoint to the warmth of Simon's touch.

"Right here, darlin'." Simon's sounds like he's barely restraining himself, but his movements remain careful, deliberate. "Just feel. Let me take care of you."

Mark can barely breathe through the intensity of it all. Everything narrows to sensation—the tickle of grass against his back, the heat of Simon's hands and mouth on him, the way each touch seems designed to unravel him completely.

"Please," he manages, though he's not even sure what he's begging for anymore. His fingers tangle in Simon's hair as that knowing mouth travels lower, trailing fire across his stomach. "Simon, I need—"

"I know exactly what you need." Simon's voice drops even lower, to a growl that vibrates against Mark's skin. He lifts his head to meet Mark's gaze, eyes dark as a storm-swept sky. "Just trust me a little longer."

Simon's mouth continues its deliberate journey downward, each kiss a promise. Mark's fingers clench in Simon's hair, anchoring himself against the rising tide of sensation.

"Never known anyone like you," Simon murmurs, pressing his words into Mark's skin between kisses, genuine wonder in his voice. His hand slides lower, proprietary, possessive along Mark's thigh. "Want to hear you say my name like that again."

Mark gasps as Simon's clever fingers and mouth find their target in perfect unison. "Simon—"

The sound of his name on Mark's lips spurs Simon on, his kisses growing bolder as he works his way down Mark's body. Each press of his lips leaves a trail of fire that cools in the prairie breeze, only to be rekindled by the next touch.

"That sound," Simon groans against Mark's heated skin. "Could live on just hearing you say my name like that." He continues his slow descent, lips tracing the dip of Mark's navel, the jut of his hipbone. "Wonder what sort of sounds you'll make when I'm inside you."

The bold promise sends heat surging through Mark's veins. The grass beneath him feels impossibly soft against his bare back, the earth sun-warmed and yielding. Above them, a hawk circles lazily in the endless blue sky, the whole world continuing while theirs narrows to this patch of hidden meadow, this moment between them.

"Want that," Mark admits, voice thick with need as Simon's hand slides up his inner thigh. "Want to feel you everywhere."

Something primal flashes in the depths of Simon's eyes, but his touch remains reverent and caring. "Gonna give you that." His thumb traces the crease where thigh meets hip, purposeful but still teasing. "But first, I want to taste you properly."

Before Mark can respond, Simon lowers his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of his thigh. His hands slide beneath Mark, lifting his hips slightly. Mark feels the gentle rasp of Simon's stubble against his skin, followed by the hot press of his mouth.

"Been thinking about this," Simon murmurs against his heated skin, "since that first night by the fire. Watching you laugh." He glances up, something soft tempering the hunger in his eyes. "The way the light caught your face. Made me wonder how you'd look just like this."

The admission—the knowledge that Simon has been watching him, wanting him for so long—sends a wave of desire whipping through Mark's veins. 

Mark's breath goes thin and reedy in his chest as Simon's mouth moves with deliberate intent, sliding ever closer to where he wants it.

"Is it everything you hoped?" he manages to ask, voice breaking on the last word as pleasure courses through him.

Simon lifts his head just enough to meet Mark's gaze, his eyes dark with hunger and something deeper.

"It is so much better," he breathes, before lowering his head again with renewed purpose.

A broken sound escapes Mark's throat as Simon's mouth finds him again, more insistent now, teeth grazing his inner thigh. His head falls back against the grass, fingers tightening in Simon's hair.

"God—Simon—" The words fragment and dissolve as sensation overwhelms him.

"That's it," Simon murmurs as Mark arches into his touch, his breath a warm caress against sensitive skin. His hands grip Mark's hips, steadying him as he trembles.

Mark's fingers tangle deeper in Simon's hair, gentle but urgent.

"Nobody's ever treated me this good," he whispers, voice rough with vulnerability and want. His eyes, heavy-lidded but unwavering, meet Simon's. "Like I'm something worth savoring."

"You are. And I want to be the one to savor you," Simon murmurs, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that sends a shiver of anticipation down Mark's spine. Simon's eyes lock onto Mark's, holding his gaze as his tongue darts out, tracing a slow, deliberate path up the length of Mark's cock, the wet heat of it sending a jolt of pleasure through Mark's core.

Mark's moan is loud and sudden, his body tensing at the first touch. Simon's tongue is a revelation, swirling and exploring with a skill that leaves Mark reeling. He takes his time, savoring every inch, his tongue painting a path of fire along Mark's sensitive skin. Each lick is deliberate, a tease that builds the anticipation for more, making Mark twitch and writhe with every pass.

Simon's mouth hovers over the tip of Mark's cock, his breath hot and Mark's fingers curl in Simon's hair; just on the verge of pulling, desperate for a solid anchor, his body taut with expectation. Simon's lips brush against him, a soft, barely-there touch that has Mark's hips lifting again, seeking more.

Then, with agonizing slowness, Simon closes his lips around the head of Mark's cock, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip. The sensation is overwhelming, a rush of pleasure that has Mark's breath catching in his throat. Simon takes his time, his lips moving inch by inch, enveloping Mark in the heat of his mouth.

Mark's hips buck upward, chasing the sensation, his body twisting beneath Simon's touch. A loud moan escapes his lips, raw and unfiltered, screaming out the pleasure coursing through him. Simon's mouth is relentless, his lips creating a perfect seal as he begins to suck in earnest. His tongue never stops moving, flicking and swirling around the sensitive underside of Mark's cock, tracing the veins, and teasing the tip with each deliberate stroke.

Each time Simon's mouth descends, it sends a wave of ecstasy rushing through Mark, building and cresting, only to start all over again as Simon's head bobs slowly. His pace is deliberate and maddening, designed to draw out every ounce of pleasure. The suction is intense, Simon's cheeks hollowing as he takes Mark deeper, the wet heat of his mouth enveloping him completely.

Mark's body is a live wire, every nerve ending alight with sensation. His hips move in rhythm with Simon's mouth, lifting and grinding, seeking more of the exquisite torture. The world around them fades away, leaving only the intense connection between them, the raw, primal need that binds them together in this moment.

Mark's moans grow louder, more insistent, filling the air and mingling with the slick, wet noises of Simon's mouth working him. His body is taut, every muscle tensed with the effort to hold back, to enjoy this for just a little longer.

But it is almost too much to bear, intense and all-consuming. Mark's body writhes, his hips lifting to meet Simon's mouth, his breath coming in short, desperate pants. Simon's focus is unwavering, his every movement designed to draw out louder moans from Mark.

"Oh, christ, that is so fucking good," Mark gasps, his voice choked with pleasure.

Simon pauses briefly, a playful glint in his eyes as he looks up at Mark.

"You can just call me Simon," he quips, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Though I appreciate the enthusiasm."

Before Mark can even groan at Simon's smart-assed response, Simon's mouth is back on him, his lips wrapping tightly back around Mark's cock. The heat and suction are overwhelming, sending waves of ecstasy crashing through Mark. S

Simon's fingers, now slick with saddle oil, begin to tease Mark's entrance, the coolness of the oil a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. The sensation sends shivers of delight coursing through Mark, his body instinctively opening up to the pleasure. He lifts one leg, draping it over Simon's shoulder, giving him even more access, a silent plea for more.

Simon takes his time, his fingers circling the sensitive rim with a feather-light touch, teasing him with the promise of what's to come. Each gentle press against Mark's entrance sends a jolt of anticipation through him, his hips bucking slightly, eager for more. Simon's touch is deliberate and controlled, a slow dance designed to build the tension, to make Mark ache with need.

"Feel that?" Simon murmurs. "Gonna take such good care of you."

He presses a little firmer, the tip of his finger just breaching the tight ring of muscle, and Mark's breath hitches at the intrusion. Simon pauses, allowing Mark to adjust to the sensation, his eyes locked onto Mark's, gauging his every reaction. The intimacy of the moment is profound, a silent conversation passing between them.

Mark's body trembles as Simon's finger slowly slides deeper, the oil easing the way. The sensation is exquisite, a mix of pressure and pleasure that has Mark's nerves alight with sensation. Simon's finger moves with deliberate slowness, curling gently inside Mark, seeking that spot that will make him see stars.

"Fuck, yes," Mark gasps, his hips moving in small, desperate circles, chasing the sensation. Simon hums in response, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through Mark. Simon's finger begins a steady rhythm, sliding in and out with a deliberate pace.

Simon's mouth and fingers work in tandem, each touch skilled and knowing, pushing Mark higher and higher. He adds a second finger, scissoring and stretching Mark gently but with purpose, his movements slow. He takes his time, allowing Mark to adjust to the sensation before adding a third, preparing him thoroughly for what's to come. Each gasp, each moan, each hitch of breath is a roadmap, guiding Simon to the spots that bring Mark the most pleasure.

Mark's body is a live wire, every nerve ending alight with need. He's desperate not to pull at Simon's hair, his fingers flexing and releasing in the thick strands as he struggles to control his reactions. His other hand grips the grass, tearing at the blades as he tries to ground himself in the whirlwind of sensation. His body writhes, torn between the dual pleasures of Simon's mouth and fingers, each touch sending jolts of ecstasy through him.

"Please, Simon," Mark begs, his voice raw with need. "I need you. Want to feel you inside me." His hips buck upward, seeking more contact, more friction, more of everything Simon is giving him. The plea in his voice is urgent, a testament to the intensity of his desire.

"Yeah?" Simon looks up at Mark through his lashes, eyes dark and wanting. "You ready for me, darlin'?"

Mark nods eagerly, his breath coming in short, desperate pants. "Yes, god, yes. Please, Simon."

Simon withdraws his fingers slowly, pulling a final gasp from Mark, the sensation leaving him feeling both empty and eager for more. With a gentle tug, Simon guides Mark upward, helping him shift positions. Simon leans back onto the grass, his movements fluid and confident, never breaking eye contact with Mark.

Mark follows Simon's lead, moving with him until he's straddling Simon's hips. The position feels natural, and  Mark's hands fall to rest on Simon's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm, grounding him in the moment.

"Gonna let you set the pace," Simon murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down Mark's spine. "Want you to ride me, darlin'. I want to see you chase your pleasure, I want to be the one who gives it to you." His touch is gentle and helps, ground Mark in the moment.

Mark's eyes meet Simon's, heavy-lidded and hazy, but unwavering, as he reaches back, his fingers wrapping around Simon's length, guiding him to his entrance. The sensation of Simon's hard cock against him sends a shiver of delight through Mark, his body aching with need and anticipation.

Simon's hands move to Mark's hips, his grip firm yet gentle, offering support and reassurance. "That's it, darlin'," Simon murmurs, his voice a low rumble of encouragement. "Take your time. Feel me right here with you."

Mark begins to lower himself slowly, the initial stretch intense and overwhelming, he had not expected Simon to be this big and his breath hitches as his body opens for Simon, the sensation of being filled so completely exhilarating. Simon's gaze stays locked onto Mark's face, watching for any pain, reading every flicker of emotion, every hitch of breath, adjusting his grip to provide support.

"Fuck, Mark," Simon breathes, overwhelmed as Mark takes his time, sinking down inch by inch, savoring the stretch and slight burn, the immaculate feeling of being so full as he brings them flush.

Simon's hands on his hips are a steady presence, guiding him, encouraging him, but never rushing him. Each slight movement sends waves of pleasure coursing through Mark, his body trembling with the intensity of it all.

"God, Simon," Mark gasps, his voice choked with pleasure. "You're so big. Feels so fucking good."

Simon's eyes darken with desire, a primal satisfaction gleaming in their depths.

"And you feel like heaven, darlin'," he responds, his voice thick with emotion, strained with the effort of holding himself back

The sun beats down on them, warming their skin, as they move together, their bodies joined as they roll and surge together in the soft grass. Mark's hands find their way back to Simon's chest, his fingers splayed wide, using him for leverage as he begins to move. His hips roll and lift, finding a rhythm that is slow and steady, each downstroke hitting the perfect spot.

Simon's focus is unwavering, his eyes never leaving Mark's face, drinking in every reaction, every gasp, every moan. His hands roam over Mark's thighs, his hips, his sides, touching, caressing, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach.

"That's it, " Simon encourages, his voice a deep rumble. "Take what you need. Anything you need from me, sweetheart"

Mark's movements become more confident, more insistent, as Simon's hips lift to meet Mark's descent, their bodies moving in sync, each thrust drawing them closer to the edge.

"Simon," Mark moans, his voice filled with need and desperation. "Feels so good. Don't stop."

"Never, darlin'," Simon promises, his voice a low, husky rumble. "I'm right here with you. Take everything you need."

Simon's gaze is locked onto Mark, his eyes dark with desire as he watches Mark move above him. He drinks in the sight of Mark finding his own pleasure, the way his body rolls and lifts with a fluid, sensual rhythm. Mark's throws his head back, his eyes closed in ecstasy, the flush of his skin a testament to the heat coursing through him. bracing his arms on Simon's thighs, he uses them for leverage as he rides Simon with abandon, snapping his hips, moving faster and faster working himself into a froth chasing that sharp edge that is rising up to meet him.

Mark's moans fill the air, rolling loudly across the empty stretch of grassland and sending shivers down Simon's spine. Mark's body is a masterpiece in motion, every roll of his hips, every lift of his body a work of art.

"Fuck, Simon," Mark groans, his voice raw and desperate. "You feel so fucking good. Don't stop... please, don't stop." His breath comes in ragged gasps, each exhale punctuated by a moan or a plea for more. His words are barely coherent, a stream of consciousness that flows from him unfiltered, driven by the overwhelming pleasure.

Simon's hands roam over Mark's body, tracing the lines of his thighs, his hips, his chest, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach as he fucks up into him, matching each of Mark's downstrokes with a buck up of his own hips. He can feel the tremors of pleasure coursing through Mark, his body taut and trembling with the effort of holding back. The sight of Mark lost in ecstasy is intoxicating, a vision that Simon can't look away from.

Mark's movements become more urgent, his hips rolling faster, chasing the pleasure that hovers just out of reach. His moans grow louder, more frenzied , as he babbles incoherently, lost in the sensations overwhelming him. The connection between them is electric, a dance of give and take, of pleasure shared and amplified.

Simon's gaze remains locked onto Mark, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and desire. He watches as Mark's body tenses, his muscles clenching as he nears the edge. The sight of Mark so close to the brink, the sounds of his want filling the air, drives Simon's own

"You're so beautiful like this," Simon growls. "Seeing you take my cock, riding me like this... it's fucking incredible."

His hands grip deeper into Mark's hips, hard enough that it might bruise, but Mark just snaps his hips down harder, his breath hitching as he fucks Simon with wild abandon. The pleasure builds to an almost unbearable intensity, his body slick with sweat, muscles taut with the effort. But he needs more—he needs Simon to take control, to drive them both over the edge.

"Harder, please god, Simon," Mark begs, his voice raw with desire. "Need you to fuck me properly. Want to feel you deeper."

With a swift, powerful movement, Simon wraps his arms around Mark and rolls them over, reversing their positions. Mark's back hits the soft grass as Simon hovers above him, his body caging Mark in. The sudden change sends a thrill through Mark, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Simon lifts one of Mark's legs over his shoulder, the new angle allowing him to drive even deeper while Mark wraps his other leg around Simon's hips, pulling him closer. The sensation is overwhelming, each thrust hitting that spot inside Mark that sends waves of pleasure coursing through him. Simon's gaze is locked onto Mark's face, reading every flicker of emotion, every gasp, every moan.

"Like this, darlin'?" Simon growls, as he drives his hips forward, burying himself deeper inside Mark, the angle allowing him to hit that spot that makes Mark go white behind his eyes. "You're so fucking perfect."

Mark's cry of pleasure is raw and unrestrained, his fingers digging into Simon's back, urging him on. "Yes, god, yes," he gasps, his body arching to meet each powerful thrust.

Simon's rhythm is relentless, his hips moving with a fierce intensity that has them both spiraling towards the edge. He reaches between them, wrapping his hand around Mark's cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations send Mark soaring, his body tensing as his orgasm builds.

"That's it, sweetheart," Simon praises. "You feel so good around me. Love seeing you take every inch of my cock. You're doing so well, darlin'."

Mark’s body responds to Simon’s words, his whole body clenching as he throws his head back, lost to the pleasure. But it’s more than just the physical—it’s the way Simon’s voice wraps around him, steady and sure, pulling him deeper into the moment. The praise fuels him, not just his arousal but the ache in his chest, the need to be seen, to be known. He doesn’t try to hide it, doesn’t want to. With Simon, he can let go, can let the ecstasy roll over him, raw and unfiltered, thrashing beneath him, desperate for more.

Simon’s gaze is locked onto Mark’s face, but it’s not just the sounds or the movements that consume him—it’s the trust, the way Mark gives himself over so completely, so recklessly. Simon feels it, hot and electric under his skin, the weight of it, the way it binds them together, tighter and more urgent with every passing second. His love for Mark isn’t just in the words he murmurs or the touches he gives; it’s in the way he can’t look away, the way he’s captivated by every flicker of emotion that crosses Mark’s face. Even here, even like this, Simon is undone by him—by the way Mark’s breath hitches, by the way his body arches, by the way he lets Simon see him, all of him, without reservation.

There’s no quiet reverence here, no stillness. Simon’s love is fierce, hungry, and he’s breathless with it, enthralled by the way Mark falls apart beneath him, by the way he comes alive in his hands. It’s more than just the moment—it’s everything. It’s the way Mark’s vulnerability makes Simon feel invincible, the way his desire makes Simon burn. He wants to memorize this moment, etch it into his soul and hold onto it forever, but more than that, he wants to lose himself in it, to drown in the heat of Mark’s body and the depth of his trust. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and Simon doesn’t ever want to come up for air.

"Come for me," Simon demands, his voice filled in equal measure with desire and admiration. "Want to feel you come undone around me. You're so fucking beautiful."

Mark responds almost immediately to Simon's command, arching up as his orgasm crashes over him with a blinding force. His body convulses with the intensity of his release. It is all-consuming, a rush of heat and ecstasy that burns through him, leaving him breathless and trembling. His cock pulses in Simon's grip, spilling hot and thick over Simon's hand and onto his own stomach, each wave of his climax drawing another gasp from his lips.

"Fuck," Mark cries out, lost in the overwhelming tide of pleasure. His fingers dig into the earth beneath him, holding on like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet. The force of his orgasm leaves him hollow and shaking.

As the waves of his climax begin to ebb, Mark's eyes flutter open, meeting Simon's gaze. Still trembling from the aftershocks, he struggles to wrench himself back from the whiteout force of his orgasm, scrabbling to find his voice, barely coherent but driven by an urgent need.

"Please, Simon," Mark begs. "Want to feel you come inside me. Fill me up... leave me dripping with you... make me whole."

Simon makes a noise that is barely human hearing that and he drives deeper into Mark. "You feel so fucking good, gonna give you everything you need."

The sight and sounds of Mark beneath him, writhing and moaning, push Simon closer to the edge. He quickens his pace, hips moving with fierce intensity, each thrust slamming deeper into Mark. Their bodies move in sync, the slap of skin against skin filling the air.

"Take it all," Simon commands, breathless and demanding, as he thrusts into Mark with renewed vigor, earning another fractured, enthralled groan. "Want you to feel me deep in you. You're so fucking tight, so perfect."

Mark matches Simon's increased pace, bucking up into every stroke that shakes him to his core. His moans grow louder, more insistent, as he's pushed to the brink and beyond, shaking with the over-stimulation.

"God, yes, Simon," he gasps, his voice choked with pleasure. "Just like that. Don't stop. God, don't stop."

"You feel so incredible," Simon's voice drops to a low, feral growl as he plunges deeper into Mark's tight, willing body. "So perfect, so hot and eager for me. You're all mine—every gasp, every moan belongs to me."

"All for you." Mark's eyes roll back in his head, overloaded with it. ""Only for you, Simon. Fuck me harder, make me feel you tomorrow. I'm yours. All yours, Simon."

"That's right." Simon's pace becomes relentless, his hips slamming into Mark with a primal urgency. "You're mine, Mark. Mine to love, mine to fuck. Want you to remember this every time you move tomorrow. You're mine. Every inch of you."

Mark's body arches, meeting each of Simon's thrusts with equal fervor. "Yes, Simon. Yours. Always yours. Fuck me like you mean it."

With a final, deep, screaming thrust, Simon's orgasm hits him like a train, an animalistic howl tearing from his throat.

"Fuck, Mark," Groaning, he buries himself to the hilt inside Mark, his cock pulsing as he spills into him, filling him completely. The sensation of Simon coming inside him sends another wave of pleasure trembling through Mark, his body clenching around Simon, milking every last drop from him.

In the aftermath, they remain still for several heartbeats, Simon's forehead resting against Mark's calf, his breath warm against the sensitive skin. He trails gentle kisses along Mark's ankle, neither of them quite ready to separate completely.

It's only when Mark finally makes a soft sound of discomfort that Simon eases out of him with gentle care. He lowers Mark's leg slowly to the grass, brushing his lips reverently against Mark's inner thigh. His hand lingers there, stroking the trembling muscle in small, soothing circles, unwilling to break contact just yet.

For a long time , neither speaks, too overwhelmed, too airless. The only sounds are their slowing breaths and the whisper of prairie grass stirring in the afternoon breeze. Simon moves to stretch out alongside Mark, his movements careful, protective as he gathers Mark close against his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns across cooling skin.

"You still with me?" Simon finally murmurs, pressing a kiss to Mark's temple. His voice is deeper than usual, stripped bare of any pretense.

Mark makes a soft sound that might be a laugh, though he lacks the energy or air for more.

"Not sure," he admits, voice muffled against Simon's chest. "Think I might've left my body for a minute there."

Simon's arm tightens around him, pulling him closer. His hand shakes a little as it settles against Mark's back. "Christ," he breathes. "That was..." He trails off, unable to find anything like the right words.

"Yeah," Mark agrees, understanding completely. He lifts his head just enough to meet Simon's eyes, finding them soft with wonder. "It was."

They lie like that as their breathing steadies, hearts slowing by measures until they match each other's rhythm. Simon's fingers trace across Mark's back, neither of them ready for actual conversation yet, content to simply bask in the afterglow and the soft comfort of being together. The prairie breeze cools their heated skin as the late afternoon sun bathes them in golden light.

Eventually, Mark shifts, molding himself more firmly against Simon's side, stealing a kiss from his shoulder before settling in with a contented hum as calloused fingers continue to trail up and down his spine.

"This is nice," Mark murmurs, tilting his face up to brush his lips against Simon's jaw, smiling at the slight rasp of stubble against his mouth.

"Is indeed," Simon agrees, as he turns his head to catch Mark's wandering lips with his own, lingering there for a sweet moment.

"Today has been so nice." Mark traces nonsense shapes across Simon's bare chest, pressing occasional kisses to the sun-warmed skin beneath his fingers. "We should just stay. Just forget about the drive and stay here, forever."

"You reckon?" Simon's hand slides up to cup the back of Mark's neck. "And what, pray tell, will we eat? "

"I dunno." Mark props himself up on one elbow, grinning down at Simon, droplets of water from his damp hair falling onto Simon's chest. He leans down to kiss them away. "I could get better at rabbit hunting. We got all those cows over there."

"Those ain't our cows, Kid," Simon reminds him as he reaches up to brush a wet strand of hair from Mark's forehead, letting his fingers trail down his cheek.

"Nah, but there's a good chance everybody thinks those cows and us are dead anyway." Mark's eyes light up with mischief, turning his head to nuzzle into Simon's palm. "They'll just write off the cows as being carried off by the twister and say a few sad words over a couple of wooden crosses over empty graves for us, and we could just abscond with the cattle."

"Abscond?" Simon raises an eyebrow, then catches Mark's mouth in a deep, consuming kiss that leaves them both breathless. When he finally pulls back, his voice is rough. "Just like that, eh? Become cattle rustlers and walk off into the sunset with our ill-gotten bovines?"

"Sure. Why not?" Mark flops onto his back, throwing his arms wide against the soft grass. His chest is still heaving, lips swollen and red, a flush spreading down his neck. "We could head down to Mexico. Or maybe go north to Canada. Somewhere nobody knows us or could ever find us." He turns his head, a dreamy smile playing on his lips. "We could change our names and no one would even know. I could be Bill. I look like a Bill."

Simon rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand to gaze down at Mark with undisguised adoration. He traces the fading marks he'd left along Mark's collarbone.

"You don't look like a Bill. You're too pretty to be a Bill." His fingers drift lower. "Jack maybe."

"I could be a Jack." Mark rolls the name around in his mouth, testing it, then reaches up to trace Simon's lower lip with his thumb. "Jack the cattle rustler. Has a certain outlaw ring to it." His eyes soften as they hold Simon's gaze. "I like Jack. And you?"

"Hmm." Simon considers it, catching Mark's thumb between his teeth in a playful nip before kissing his fingertips. "Roy?"

"Ugh." Mark's nose wrinkles in disgust, though his eyes go dark as he watches Simon's mouth. "We're planning our grand escape and that's the name you choose? We'd be the famous outlaw Jack and his partner... Roy." He snorts with laughter. "Hardly strikes fear into the hearts of men."

"Hey now." Simon pokes him in the ribs, then soothes the spot with a caress. "Roy Abbot was the man who taught me damn near everything I know about cowboying. He was a fine man."

"Terrible name though." Mark catches Simon's hand, threading their fingers together against his chest, bringing them to his lips for a kiss. "You're not a Roy. What about Douglas? I could call you Doug."

"You think Roy is a bad name, but would want to call me Doug?" Simon shakes his head in mock despair, unable to resist stealing another kiss. Now that he's kissed Mark, he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to resist again. The prairie breeze raises goosebumps on their cooling skin, and Simon pulls Mark closer, sharing warmth.

"Doug is a perfectly respectable name," Mark protests through his laughter as Simon fixes him with an incredulous look. "Fine, fine. Not Doug." He stretches languidly, every muscle loose and satisfied, then presses himself deeper into Simon's embrace. "James? Jamie? No, you're definitely not a Jamie."

"If we're planning to disappear to Mexico" Simon muses, his fingers tracing slow circles on Mark's chest, circling a nipple and delighting at the way it peaks at his touch, "I could be... Santiago. Has a nice ring to it."

Mark laughs against Simon's shoulder, tugging playfully at a particularly bright strand of hair. "How many ginger Santiagos do you think there are down in Mexico? With this hair, you'd stand out like a bonfire at midnight."

"Gotta be at least a few," Simon argues, leaning into Mark's touch like a cat being petted. "Not all Mexicans have dark hair. Rode with a man named Alejandro a few years back—best roper I ever saw. Hair light as wheat, and his daddy was from Sonora. Man could track a ghost through sand." He smiles at the memory, and Mark is struck all over again with how much experience Simon has behind him.

"Santiago and Jack, stealing cattle on the lam." Mark's fingers continue their exploration, tracing the curve of Simon's ear where the hair curls slightly. "What a pair we'd make."

Simon catches him close, one hand sliding down to rest in the dip of Mark's lower back. "You seem mighty invested in this naming business." His tone is teasing, but there's a hint of curiosity there too.

"Just thinking about possibilities." Mark nuzzles into the crook of Simon's neck, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed skin and prairie grass. For a moment, his playfulness falters, something wistful and sad crossing his features. His eyes grow distant, haunted, and his body tenses almost imperceptibly against Simon's side. A memory—of another name he'd abandoned, another life he'd fled—flickers across his face like a shadow.

Simon notices, his hand stilling briefly on Mark's back, but he doesn't press.

Mark recovers quickly, blinking away the darkness and pressing a kiss to Simon's throat. "I suppose you could keep Simon, though. It suits you." His voice goes soft and thoughtful, deliberately lighter. "Strong. Steady. Like you."

"Now you're just sweet-talking me," Simon murmurs, but his arms tighten around Mark.

A comfortable silence settles between them, broken only by the distant lowing of cattle and the whisper of wind through the grass. Simon's hand spreads out wide and flat on Mark's back, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath as his breathing slows further, his body growing heavier against Simon's side. For several minutes, it seems Mark has drifted off into a contented doze, his face tucked against Simon's shoulder.

Simon simply holds him, watching the clouds drift across the vast prairie sky, savoring the weight and warmth of Mark's body against his own.

Suddenly, Mark stirs. "Matthew," he says clearly, as if they'd been continuing this conversation all along.

Simon chuckles, startled by the abrupt return to their naming game. "Are you still at it? Thought you'd fallen asleep on me."

"Just thinking," Mark murmurs, more alert now. He traces the line of Simon's collarbone with a finger, following the path with his lips. "Matthew's a good name. Biblical. Proper." He grins against Simon's skin. "Could make you respectable."

"Oh, Kid. Ain't nothing gonna make me respectable or proper after the way I just had you moaning in this grass," Simon drawls, and Mark's laughter bubbles up bright and free. Simon drinks in the sound, his hand wandering up to card through Mark's still-damp hair. "Besides, seems to me you like me just fine as I am."

"Might do," Mark agrees, propping his chin on Simon's chest to meet his eyes. The late afternoon sun catches flecks of green in the blue depths of them, making them spark like river stones. "Even if you do have terrible taste in names."

"Says the man who suggested Doug." Simon tugs playfully at Mark's hair, then soothes the spot with gentle fingers. His expression softens as he studies Mark's face, taking in the flush still high on his cheeks, the way his lips are slightly swollen from kisses. "You know, for all your fancy suggestions, you never said what you think of Mark."

Something flickers in Mark's eyes again, another shadow of a cloud racing across the prairie, but his smile doesn't falter.

"It works, I suppose." He captures Simon's mouth again in a slow, deep kiss that makes them both forget about names for a little bit.

The kiss lingers, sweet and sugar sticky, until Simon finally pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together and share the same air. His fingers trace the landscape of Mark's skin, learning it, mapping the lean muscles of him, the slight ridge of an old scar.

"Just works, hm?" Simon's voice is gentle, curious. "Not exactly a ringing endorsement for your own name."

Mark shifts slightly, hiding his face in Simon's neck. "It's a name," he murmurs against Simon's skin. "Does what it needs to."

Simon can feel the slight tension creeping into Mark's shoulders under his hands, feel the way his breathing has gone just a touch more measured. It strikes Simon suddenly how little he actually knows about Mark's past, despite how deeply he's come to care for him. This man who reads highbrow literature by firelight, who laughs with his whole body, who wouldn't back down from a challenge if he were dragged away, who fits against Simon like he was made to be there—he's still a mystery in so many ways.

But Simon recognizes walls when he sees them. God knows he's built enough of his own over the years. And he understands the need for them sometimes, understands that trust is earned slowly, especially out here where everyone's running from something. So before he can decide whether to press or let it lie, Mark lifts his head with a grin that's almost convincing.

"Could be worse," Mark says lightly, dropping a quick kiss to the corner of Simon's mouth. "Could be Roy."

Simon allows the deflection, for now. Instead, he rolls them both so Mark is beneath him, braced on his elbows to look down at the man he's coming to realize he knows both completely and yet not at all. The setting sun paints Mark's skin in fiery pinks, catches in his eyes, and for a moment Simon's chest feels too tight with everything he feels for him.

"Well, I like Mark just fine," Simon says softly, bending to press his lips to the hollow of Mark's throat. "Suits you better than Bill, anyway."

Mark's laugh catches slightly in his throat as Simon's mouth wanders to his collarbone. "Yeah?" His fingers thread through Simon's hair, encouraging. "How do you figure?"

"Mark's honest," Simon murmurs against his skin. "Straightforward." Another kiss, tracing the line of his collarbone. "Like you."

The fingers in Simon's hair tighten almost imperceptibly, and he feels more than hears Mark's sharp intake of breath. When he glances up, Mark's expression is hidden in the shadows of the falling dusk, but his voice is steady enough when he speaks.

"Careful there," he says, gently tugging Simon back up to meet his eyes. "A man might start thinking you're fond of him."

Simon shifts, bracing himself on his forearms above Mark, their faces close. "Maybe I am pretty fond of him."

"What if you don't even know him?"

Something in Mark's tone makes Simon pause, just for a heartbeat. His eyes search Mark's face, catching something there that doesn't quite match the lightness of their talk. But before he can decide whether to pursue it, Mark arcs beneath him with a soft sound, one hand sliding from Simon's hair to drag down his spine while his hips roll upward in a way that scatters Simon's thoughts entirely.

With a low hum of appreciation, Simon drops his head to catch Mark's mouth again, momentarily forgetting the shadow he'd glimpsed in Mark's eyes before resuming his slow trail of teasing kisses and nips down Mark's body.

"Seems like I know him pretty well. Know how to conjure all manner of pretty noises from him." Simon's voice is playful as he dips his head, pressing another kiss to Mark's sternum. "Know how he takes his coffee. Know he talks in his sleep sometimes, mostly nonsense. Know he's got a scar right here—" A kiss to a silvery line, jagged as a lightning bolt under the arch of a rib. "—from falling off a fence when he was twelve."

Mark goes still beneath him. The scar story was a lie, one of many small ones he'd scattered like breadcrumbs behind him, building a house of cards past that wasn't entirely his.

He'd learned early that silence bred questions, that people got suspicious of a man who never talked about where he came from or how he grew up. So he'd grown used to doling out little lies. Barely worse than white lies. Ivory lies, he liked to think of them; just a little bit dirty. A childhood tumble from a fence here, a piece of fiction about his mama's apple pie there, always careful to keep the details vague enough that they wouldn't tangle later.

But with Simon, each new lie had settled heavier in his gut. Because Simon didn't just listen to his stories—he remembered them, treasured them, wove them into a fabric of who he thought Mark was. And now here Simon was, mapping his skin with such devotion, such care, reciting back these false memories like they were precious things, and Mark felt sick with the weight of every untruth between them.

Simon's mouth trails lower, each kiss punctuated by another observation. "Know he carries a battered copy of Moby Dick in his saddlebags." A kiss just below Mark's ribs. "Know he couldn't shoot straight if his life depended on it, but he's got the gentlest hands I've ever seen with a spooked cow." His lips brush the soft skin of Mark's belly. "Know he'd risk his fool neck for a premature calf."

Each revelation is a knife twisting in Mark's gut. Because Simon's right—he does know Mark. Knows the man Mark has worked so hard to become out here under the vast prairie sky. But that scar wasn't from a fence, and all these little pieces of truth Simon does know are wrapped in so many layers of lies that Mark can barely breathe under their weight.

Simon's mouth continues its path down Mark's stomach, his intentions clear as his kisses drift past Mark's navel and skate off toward his hips. And God, Mark wants it—wants Simon's mouth, his hands, wants to lose himself in this and forget everything else. But the weight of lies between them suddenly feels suffocating, and he can't let Simon continue to worship a body wrapped in untruths.

Mark's fingers find their way back into Simon's hair, but instead of urging him on, they gently tug upward.

"Simon, wait," he whispers, voice catching. "I need to tell you something."

Simon lifts his head immediately, concern replacing desire in his eyes. Something in Mark's tone draws him back up, and he shifts to stretch out alongside him, propping himself up on one elbow. His other hand remains splayed warm and steady across Mark's ribs.

"What is it?" He sounds so gentle, so patient it nearly undoes Mark's resolve right there.

Mark's eyes dart away, then back, like a spooked horse. His hands slide to rest against Simon's chest, as if preparing to push him away, but instead just rest there, feeling Simon's steady heartbeat against his palms.

"I..." He swallows hard. "About what you said. About me being honest. I'm not."

Simon doesn't rush to fill the silence that follows. Instead, his expression softens further, a quiet steadiness emanating from him as he waits for Mark to find his words. His thumb traces small, soothing circles against Mark's skin, a silent reassurance that he isn't going anywhere, not for as long as Mark needs.

"I haven't been." Mark's voice comes out barely above a whisper. "Not entirely. And I—" His breath catches. "I don't want to lie to you anymore. But I'm scared that once I tell you..." He trails off, unable to finish the thought.

Dipping his head, Simon brings their foreheads together in a gesture of profound love.

"Hey," he says softly, his breath warm against Mark's face. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."

Mark makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren't so bitter.

"You say that now." He presses his face into Simon's shoulder for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of him, as if trying to memorize it. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "Mark isn't... it's not my name. My real one. And leaving everything behind, starting fresh somewhere else? I've done it before. More than once."

Simon's brow furrows, concern creasing the corners of his eyes. But he doesn't pull away from where he's stretched out against Mark's side as his eyes search Mark's face with patient concern, steady and unwavering.

Mark takes a deep breath, holds it for a long moment before letting it shudder out. "It's about...about who I was. Before all this." His hand gestures vaguely upward at the darkening sky, at the vast prairie stretching out around them, before falling back to trace nervous patterns on Simon's shoulder.

"Okay," Simon says simply, openly. "You ain't the first man I've known out here who's taken a new name. Not the first man on the prairie on the run from something," he adds gently. "The law?"

Mark licks his lips, mouth gone dry. The words that have lived in his chest for weeks now feel like stones, heavy and sharp. He shakes his head, a mirthless laugh bubbling up his throat. fingers tightening involuntarily on Simon's arms.

"Worse. Family," he corrects, the word so heavy he can barely push it past his lips.

Simon nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Seen my share of that too. Men running from wives and children. Ain't noble, but it happens."

"Mmm, little bit different for me I think."

"Oh, really?" Simon's eyebrows lift, but he still doesn't seem particularly surprised. He just keeps holding Mark steady, a rock in the churning sea of his nerves. "What is your real name, then?"

"I was born Daniel," he reveals, each word a struggle. His eyes search Simon's face, looking for... he's not even sure what. Disappointment? Anger? But he finds only curiosity.

"Daniel," Simon repeats, testing the shape of it in his mouth. A slow smile spreads across his face, warm and wondering. "It suits you."

Mark's breath catches. He could stop here. Could let Simon think he's just another disappointment who fled west. It would be so easy to let that be enough truth for now. But the weight of everything unsaid presses against his chest, and he can't stand keeping anything back, not from Simon.

"Daniel Jacobi."

Simon's eyes widen, shock and recognition flaring in their depths. His hand stills against Mark's ribs.

"Funny," he murmurs, a hint of wry amusement curling his lip. "Jacobi, I got some—"

"Bullets with that name on 'em?" Mark finishes, a sardonic twist to his mouth. His fingers trace the curve of Simon's bicep, unable to meet his eyes now. "Yeah, that's dear old Grandad's claim to fame. Arms manufacturing. Rifles, pistols, ammunition... if it shoots or explodes, Jacobi Firearms probably makes it."

Silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft whisper of the prairie grass in the breeze. Mark feels Simon's breathing change, feels the subtle shift in his body, and braces for the inevitable questions, the judgment, the anger. He waits for Simon to pull away, to put distance between them now that Mark has revealed his lies, the careful pretense their entire relationship has been built on.

Instead, Simon's hand moves to cup his cheek, turning Mark's face until he has no choice but to meet his gaze.

"So you're a Jacobi" Simon says quietly, no accusation or even awe in his voice, just a gentle understanding. "Running from all that."

"Yeah, I had to." Mark admits, the words coming easier now that the hardest part is out. "My father had... expectations. After Thomas, my brother... Well, all those Jacobi expectations landed squarely on me. The only son left. Expectations that didn't include—" He gestures vaguely between them, at their naked bodies still pressed together in the grass.

Simon shifts beside Mark, his hand lightly brushing a strand of hair from Mark's forehead. "Must've been hard, leaving all that behind. That kind of money, that name."

A short, harsh laugh escapes Mark. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? All that money, those fancy houses, servants at your beck and call." His voice grows quieter. "But it was like living in a cage. " He shakes his head. "Even the air felt different there—heavier somehow, like you could never quite fill your lungs properly."

He rolls onto his back, eyes fixed on the darkening sky, he can just see the faintest speck where the dog star will light up. "I know how it sounds. Poor little rich boy complaining about silk sheets and silver spoons." His gaze returns to Simon's, sad and vulnerable but honest. "But wealth like that—it's not freedom. It's a prison. Every minute of every day planned out. Who to talk to, who to avoid. How to stand, how to speak, how to think. Which fork to use with which course. What opinions to have on politics, on business, on other people."

Simon's hand comes to rest lightly on Mark's chest, just above his heart, a quiet gesture of understanding that requires no words.

"From the moment I was born, I wasn't really a person to them. I was a chess piece. A second son to make deals with. Once Thomas died, I became an investment. A continuation of the bloodline. The next in line to run Jacobi Firearms." Mark's voice hardens. "Just another bullet in my father's chamber."

He turns toward Simon again, their faces close in the fading light. "Had my future wife picked out by the time I was fourteen. Junior debutante Margaret Astor. Good family, better portfolio. I'd marry her at twenty-two, have my first son by twenty-four, take over the company by thirty."

Simon's hand moves to the nape of Mark's neck, a solid, grounding touch. "Not a single choice in any of it," he says quietly, the first time he's said anything during Mark's telling.

Mark nods, grateful for the understanding. "Not a single bit of it was up to me. And God help me if I showed any outward signs of being..." he pauses, swallowing hard, "you know."

Nodding, Simon runs soothing fingers along the base of Mark's skull. "Hard choice, leaving."

"Not as hard as staying would have been." Mark's voice drops to almost a whisper. "I tried, Simon. For years, I tried to be who they wanted. Thought maybe I could just... lock away this part of myself. Get married, have children, keep my head down, run the company." He meets Simon's eyes directly now. "But I couldn't breathe. Every day felt like drowning."

He takes a shaky breath. "Then my father caught me with the gardener's son. Nothing serious, just a kiss behind a rosebush, but..." His voice falters. "He gave me a choice; put my... 'deviant tendencies' behind me. Or—" his voice breaks, "—or be committed to an asylum for 'treatment.'"

Simon's body goes rigid beside him, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His eyes darken with a cold fury that transforms his entire face. The hand at Mark's nape tightens briefly before he consciously forces himself to relax it, not wanting Mark to think any of that wrath was directed at him.

"Those goddamned..." Simon's voice is low and dangerous, trailing off as he struggles to contain his rage. He takes a deliberate breath, his expression softening as he looks back at Mark. "So you ran."

"So I ran." Mark confirms quietly. "Changed my name. Kept moving west." He searches Simon's face uncertain of what he'll find there. "You're not... you don't seem surprised. Or disgusted."

"About which part?" Simon asks gently, his hand still warm against Mark's cheek, eyes holding nothing but acceptance.

"Any of it. All of it." Mark's voice wavers slightly. "Lying to you. Running like a coward. The things I did to run."

Simon's thumb traces small circles against Mark's skin, his eyes never leaving Mark's face. "When you wake up in the morning, you wake up as Mark or as Daniel?"

The question catches Mark off guard. He blinks, considering. "I'm Mark, now." he says finally, with growing certainty. "Built him myself."

"Then you didn't lie to me, did you?" Simon's voice is steady, grounding. "Mark, Daniel, Jebediah, I don't care what you call yourself. Didn't fall in love with a name."

"Oh." The word comes out barely audible as Mark's heart thunders in his chest.

"As for the rest of it." Simon shifts, pulling Mark closer against his side, his arm a solid weight across Mark's shoulders. "Ain't my place to call another man a coward. Running from something that would've destroyed you isn't cowardice. It's survival." He presses a kiss to Mark's temple. "And whatever you did to get here, to this moment, I can't find it in me to be sorry for it."

"You don't know half of what I did."

"And none of it matters to me, Mark. Did you lie? Steal? Get your hands dirty? Life ain't clean. I've killed men. Got their blood on my hands, their deaths on my conscience. Does it matter I did it wearing a uniform? Your past is done with."

Mark shifts slightly, putting just enough distance between them to see Simon's face clearly. "What if it isn't, Simon? What if part of my past is still here?" His voice drops lower, holding a tremor he can't quite disguise.

Simon's expression shifts, concern overtaking the tenderness. "Mark—darlin', you gotta tell me what trouble you're in, else I can't do nothin' to help."

"I don't know if you can help." Mark's gaze drops to focus on a point on Simon's chest. "I left with someone. An older man who promised to help me get away."

Simon nods, waiting patiently.

"He was... charming. Confident. Everything I wasn't." Mark's voice grows distant, remembering. "Said he knew the West. Said he could teach me everything I needed to know to survive out here." His fingers curl against Simon's chest. "At first, it was good. Or I thought it was. I thought I loved him. He protected me, taught me things."

"What changed?" Simon asks quietly.

"He did. Or maybe he was always that way and I just couldn't see it." Mark swallows hard. "He started controlling everything. Where we went, who I talked to. What I wore, what I ate. Said it was for my protection, but..." He shakes his head. "It wasn't protection. It was possession."

Mark's gaze drifts away, fixing on some distant point beyond the prairie grass. "At night, he'd..." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "He'd take what he wanted. Didn't matter if I said no. Didn't matter if it hurt. The pain was the point for him, I think. My pain." His fingers unconsciously tighten against Simon's skin. "I fought back at first, 'course I did. But I learned quick that my resistance just... excited him more. Like breaking a particularly stubborn horse."

His voice goes flat, reciting something he'd thought about for too long. "The more I struggled, the more he enjoyed it. So I stopped struggling. Stopped fighting. Just... went somewhere else in my head while he did what he wanted." Mark's breathing has gone shallow, the memory still raw. "Sometimes I think he only wanted me because I was something he could break."

Simon's jaw tightens, a muscle working in his cheek, but he remains silent, giving Mark space to continue, though his barely restrained fury is evident in every line of his body. Suddenly, realization dawns in his eyes, and he pulls back slightly, horror washing over his features.

"Christ, Mark, I—" His voice catches, guilt replacing the anger. "What we just did..." He rakes a hand through his hair. "You deserved better than that. Better than a quick fuck in a field. I ain't like him, I swear to God, but I never stopped to think that maybe you—"

"No, Simon. No." Mark reaches for him, gripping his arm fiercely. "Don't you dare compare yourself to him. Not ever." His voice grows stronger, more certain than it's been throughout this entire confession. "What we did together was nothing like what he did to me."

His eyes lock with Simon's, a depth of feeling Simon can't even begin to fathom shimmering in their blue depths. "You asked before you touched. You stopped when I hesitated. You looked at me like—" his voice catches, "—like I was something precious." His hand slides up to cup Simon's face.

Simon catches Mark's hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. His eyes never leave Mark's face, searching for any hint of doubt or pain. "You're sure? You would tell me, wouldn't you? If anything we did—"

"Simon," Mark interrupts gently, "For the first time in my life, I felt like I was choosing something. Someone. And I'd choose you again, right now, if you asked." The conviction in his voice leaves no room for doubt. "With you, I feel... safe. Like I can ask for what I want. Like what I want matters."

Simon's expression softens, though concern still lingers at the edges. "It does matter. You matter." His thumb traces the line of Mark's jaw. "Can't stand the thought of anyone hurting you like that."

"I ran from him too, eventually. Changed my name again. Kept moving." Mark's voice drops, shame coloring his words. "Ain't exactly brave, is it? Always running."

Simon shakes his head firmly. "Don't you say that. Takes a special kind of courage to remake yourself, to survive what you've survived." His voice grows fierce with conviction. Taking Mark's hand, he presses it against his heart and it feels like a vow. "That strength—that refusal to be beaten down—that's one of the things I love most about you."

Mark's expression shifts, vulnerability replacing shame. "I'm afraid, Simon. Afraid my past will catch up to me. Has caught up to me." He swallows hard. "I don't want you tangled up in my troubles. You deserve better than that."

"You just let me decide what I deserve, Kid" Simon says gently. "Whatever you're carrying, we can face it together."

Mark takes a deep breath, the moment of truth hovering between them "Simon, the man I traveled with, the one who—" His voice falters. "It was Kepler."

Simon goes utterly still beside him, only the sudden flare of his nostrils betraying his shock. "Kepler" he says finally, voice dangerously quiet.

"He's why I'm on this drive at all. Ran into him in a saloon, a few days before the drive was set to leave. I was planning to head north to Montana." He laughs bitterly. "He recognized me right away. Pulled me aside, said if I didn't sign on, he'd send word back to my father about where to find his wayward son."

"Son of a bitch," Simon breathes, anger burning in his eyes. "I'll kill him."

"No! Simon I don't want you hurt over him. We could just run. You and me." Mark's fingers tighten on Simon's arm, voice urgent and hopeful. "Let him think I'm dead. Then it's done. He won't ever look for me again. I'll be free."

Simon shakes his head, cupping Mark's face gently, cradling it like it's the most important thing in the world.

"No you won't, Kid. Rest of your life, you'll be looking over your shoulder, jumping at shadows, seeing Kepler's face in every stranger. That ain't freedom." His thumb traces Mark's cheekbone. "And you deserve to be free. Really free."

"What if he tells?" Mark's voice drops to barely a whisper. "What if he writes to my father?"

"What if he does? What did you say to me that very first day? You ain't that young? You're a grown man, no one can just drag you off without your say so." Simon's gaze holds steady, grounding. "Your father can't force you back, not legally. And he sure as hell can't do it with me standing beside you."

"You'd... you'd stay with me? Even with all this?" Mark searches Simon's face, barely daring to hope.

"Course I would. Plannin' on it if you're amenable." There's steel under his words, a simple, primal conviction that steals Mark's breath.

"I'm amenable. Real amenable." Mark hesitates, fingers twisting nervously against Simon's chest. "But what about Kepler? What about my family?"

"Let me worry about Kepler." Simon covers Mark's restless hand with his own. "He'll be lucky I don't put one between his eyebrows next I see him. As for your family... I don't care how much money or power or influence they think they got. None of that matters to me, none of that matters out here."

Mark's expression flickers with uncertainty. "You say that now, but—"

"Do you love me? Trust me?" Simon's voice gentles, yet there's something fierce in his eyes.

Mark doesn't hesitate. "Simon, yes. Of course. Entirely."

"Then believe me when I say this." Simon's fingers interlace with Mark's. "I ain't in the habit of letting go of what matters to me. And you, Mark Midland or Daniel Jacobi or Jack the fearsome cattle rustler, or whoever you want to be tomorrow—you matter."

Mark's throat tightens at the simple conviction in Simon's voice. "What happens after the drive? Kepler won't just let this go."

"We stay out of his way. We finish this job proper," Simon says. "Take our pay, every last damned red cent we've earned. Then we walk away clean." His mouth curves into a small smile. "Been thinking about heading further west for years now. Oregon, maybe. Or California. Somewhere we can breathe."

"The Pacific?" Mark asks, something like wonder in his voice.

"I do want to see the ocean," Simon admits, a boyish excitement flickering across his weathered features. "See if it's really as big as they say. We could find good land out there. Places where folks mind their own business and let a man be." His eyes meet Mark's, serious now. "Could build something that's ours. Just ours."

"West" Mark repeats, something like wonder in his voice. "Far enough that no one would think to look."

"Far enough, but not running." Simon pulls him closer. "Just moving on. Starting fresh. Together."

"Together," Mark echoes, and for the first time since he started this confession, his smile reaches his eyes. "I like the sound of that."

"Together and honest." Simon lifts his head, brushing his nose against Mark's barely whispering. "And I want to make my life with you as honest as I possibly can."

"Life?" Mark's voice catches on the word, his fingers stilling against Simon's skin.

"Much of it as I have left," Simon confirms, no hesitation in his voice." His thumb brushes away a tear Mark hadn't even realized was creeping down his cheek. "Been half-alive for so long. Since the war, maybe before. Just going through the motions. Then you walked into that stable, all tight jeans and city manners; sarcasm and stubborn pride, and something in me woke up."

Mark tries to speak, but all of it feels stuck in his throat, making words impossible.

"I can't give you fancy living," Simon continues, voice rough with feeling. "All I got is me, but I can give you every bit of it. Every last piece of me is yours if you want it. I'm all yours if you're all mine." His eyes hold Mark's, unflinching and honest. "And I'll protect what's mine, come hell or high water."

Mark catches Simon's hand, pressing it against his heart. "I never wanted any of those things." His voice strengthens with his certainty. "I want this. You. Us." He smiles through tears that shine in the fading light. "Just us, Simon. That's enough. That's everything."

Simon's answering smile is soft, tender in a way few people have ever seen.

"Us," Simon agrees, seeming to taste the concept, rolling it around to get the shape of it. The word settles between them, precious and new.

They lie together a moment longer, reluctant to break the spell, until Simon glances at the darkening sky. "Though we ought to get dressed soon and head back to camp. Sun's starting to sink, and we need to find that drive. Get some proper rest before we head out at first light."

Mark follows his gaze to the horizon, where the last of the sun is sinking behind the distant hills, a few more stars starting to appear in the deepening twilight.

"Might be chilly tonight," he observes, pushing in a little closer to the warmth of Simon's chest.

"Might be," Simon agrees, catching Mark's meaning.

"Could keep our bedrolls together." Mark's fingers trace idle patterns on Simon's chest. "For warmth."

"Could do that." Simon's voice drops lower, a smile playing at his lips.

"You wouldn't need all too many clothes then, would you?" Mark's tone is innocent, but the look he gives Simon is decidedly not.

Simon's laugh is low and promising as he pulls Mark closer for a kiss. "Reckon I wouldn't at that."

Chapter Text

Dawn breaks cold and damp over the prairie, the sky a sullen, lead gray that seems to leach all color from the world. Simon and Mark emerge from their small tent, both bare as the day they were born, their skin pebbling in the chill air. It's the kind of morning that makes them want to turn back around and burrow deeper into their shared bedroll, to cling to the warm cocoon of tangled limbs and shared heat for just a few moments longer.

But then Mark stretches, and Simon's world narrows down to the play of muscle under skin, the sinuous grace of Mark's body.

He watches, transfixed, as Mark arches his back, his arms reaching towards the sky. Caught in a perfect, early sunbeam, the pale morning light casts him in shades of gold and shadow, highlighting the marks Simon had left on him the night before, a trail of bite shaped stains from neck to hip, a map of possession.

The sight sends a rush of heat through Simon's veins, a flood of memories. The taste of Mark's skin, the sound of his moans, the feel of him, hot and hard and perfect in Simon's arms. It's a wave of desire, irresistible and all-consuming, and Simon is helpless against its pull.

As if sensing his thoughts, Mark turns, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. His eyes rake over Simon's naked body, dark and shaded with want.

He steps closer, right into Simon's space, his hands coming to rest on Simon's hips.

"Enjoying the view?" he murmurs, his voice still rough from sleep and other activities.

Simon lets out a low, appreciative whistle, his own hands skimming up Mark's sides, mapping the planes and angles of his body.

"I definitely am," he says, his hands coming to rest on Mark's waist. "But, much as I like you in naught but your nethers; we've got to get a move on."

Mark pouts playfully, pressing closer. "You sure we can't spare a couple more minutes? Might help ward off the chill."

Simon shivers, and it has nothing to do with the cool morning air. Mark's touch ignites a fire in him, a soul-deep sort of hunger. He chuckles, the sound rich and warm in the stillness of the dawn as he gently captures Mark's wandering hands, bringing them up to his lips to press a kiss to each palm.

"Tempting, truly tempting," he murmurs against Mark's skin. "But it'll take me more than a couple of minutes with you for what I want." Another kiss, this one to the inside of Mark's wrist, where his pulse flutters wildly. "And duty calls, darlin'. We can't be more than a day behind the others, maybe less; and I'd like to catch up sooner rather than later."

Mark sighs ruefully, but nods, understanding. He steals one more quick kiss before pulling away, tugging jeans over his hips as he surveys what in camp he'll need to attend to next.

"You really think we'll catch up with them today?" he asks over his shoulder.

"We'll find 'em. If not today, tomorrow surely" Simon affirms. There's a confidence in his voice, a surety that comes from years on the trail. "They can't be far."

Mark pauses, turning back to face Simon fully. There's a hesitance in his stance, a vulnerability that wasn't there before. His eyes are shadowed, and haunted by memories.

"And when we get back... Kepler..." He trails off, unable to finish the thought, his voice cracking on that hated name.

A shadow passes over Simon's face, as a surge of rage rises in his throat, hot and bitter. The thought of anyone laying a hand on Mark, let alone someone who was supposed to protect him, suppose to care for him... it makes Simon see red, makes his hands itch for the weight of his gun, the satisfying kick of a trigger.

"Will stay at the front of the drive, and we'll stay at the back, and he won't ever need to worry about me throttling him in his sleep like he deserves," he growls.

"Simon," Mark says softly, stepping closer, placing a hand over Simon's heart. Simon realizes his breathing has gone ragged, his pulse pounding with the force of his anger. "I don't want you getting hurt or in trouble on my account."

Simon covers Mark's hand with his own, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles.

"You're worth the trouble, Mark. And more than that, you're worth fighting for." His other hand comes up to cup Mark's cheek, his touch infinitely gentle. "What he did to you... It ain't right. It ain't something you should just let slide."

Mark leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. "I know. I just... I don't want to lose you. Not when I just found you."

"You won't," Simon promises fiercely. "I'm not going anywhere, darlin'. Not without you."

He holds Mark close, feels the shudder that runs through him, the hitch in his breathing that might be a sob or a sigh of relief. They stay like that for a long moment, just breathing each other in, drawing strength from the solid warmth of the other's body.

"We'll get through this," Simon murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Mark's ear. "Together. And when it's over, when the drive and the prairie and Kepler are nothing but old, bad memories... I'm gonna take you away from here. Somewhere safe, somewhere just for us."

Mark pulls back slightly, his eyes searching Simon's face.

"Oregon?" he asks, fragile and hopeful.

Simon nods, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah," he confirms, his thumb stroking over Mark's cheekbone. "Oregon. We'll go see the ocean."

He seals the vow with a kiss, deep and tender, pouring all his love, all his devotion, all his hopes for the future into the press of his lips. Mark clings to him, kissing back desperately, almost frantic, as if he's trying to memorize every detail, every sensation. When they finally part, they're both breathless, foreheads resting together.

For a moment, they just stand there, holding each other, letting the sweet promise of the future wash over them. But gradually, Simon feels the weight of the present start to settle back on his shoulders, the responsibilities and dangers of the trail reasserting themselves.

He sighs, pulling back just enough to meet Mark's eyes. "But before we can get to Oregon, we've got to get through this drive. And right now, with just the two of us out here..."

He trails off, his gaze drifting to the horizon, to the vast, empty expanse of the prairie around them. The cattle low softly, a reminder of their charge, their duty.

"We'll be alright," Simon murmurs, but there's an anxiety in his voice that belies his words. "Long as we find the rest of the drive. Ain't safe for just the two of us to be out here with these cattle and no one else to back us."

Mark searches Simon's face. There's a furrow between his brows, a flicker of fear in his eyes that sends a chill running down Mark's spine. "Is that... is that a concern?"

Simon's jaw tightens, his gaze turning distant as it scans the horizon, seeing threats that Mark can only imagine. "It is. After a big storm like that? Good time for bandits to ply their trade. Herds get scattered, men are too busy patching up homesteads or themselves to be on their guard. Easy for a group of cowards to take what ain't theirs."

The words settle heavy in Mark's gut, cold with the weight of his dread. He's heard stories, whispers around the campfire, but he's never been this far out, this exposed. The vastness of the prairie suddenly feels more threatening than beautiful, the fog rolling in, a sinister cloak for unnamed dangers.

"What do you mean?" he asks, hating the tremor in his voice but needing to know, needing to hear it spoken aloud to understand the shadow that's fallen over Simon.

Simon's eyes meet his, and there's something raw and pained in their depths.

"Cowardly men are dangerous men," he says, each word precise and weighted. "They'll dance at the end of a rope just as easy for rustling as they will for shooting a man, so ain't nothing keeping 'em from doing both."

"Simon..." Mark's voice breaks on his name, fear and confusion and the desperate need for reassurance warring in his chest.

But Simon just grips his shoulder, his touch firm, grounding. There's an apology in his eyes, but also a steely resolve, a determination that helps steady the wild beating of Mark's heart.

"We'll get saddled up, get a move on; get back to some safety." he says, and it's not quite a promise, but it's close. " But until we do..." He holds Mark's gaze, making sure his next words land. "I want you to keep your rifle loaded, close and ready. Never know what might be lurking out there."

Mark nods, a shaky exhale escaping his lips. He understands what Simon's doing, recognizes the careful balance he's striking; warning without terrifying, preparing without overwhelming. It's a reminder, but also a reassurance, a silent vow that Simon will be there, that he'll guide and guard and protect as much as he possibly can.

And Mark trusts him, trusts him with his life and his heart and his future. If Simon says he needs to be wary, needs to be ready, then that's just what he'll do.

They break camp with practiced efficiency, their movements smooth and coordinated, honed by weeks of mornings on the trail together. Simon kicks dirt over the remnants of their fire while Mark packs up their bedrolls, each anticipating the other's needs without a word spoken.

As they saddle their horses, they trade bites of the rabbit jerky they smoked, hands brushing as they pass the tough strips of meat back and forth, fleeting touches that say more than words ever could. Even in the midst of urgency, they find moments to connect, a smile here, a steadying hand in the small of a back there, little things that makes the work easier.

The cattle mill about restlessly as Mark and Simon work, their lowing echoing through the gathering mist as if they too are eager to rejoin the herd, to find safety in numbers.

Within the hour, they're mounted up and ready to ride, their packs secured, pistols and rifles within easy reach, cattle trundling before them. As they urge their horses forward out onto the open expanse and away from their sheltered little haven, Simon keeps his eyes on the ground, reading the signs left in the muddy earth like a story written just for him.

They ride for hours, the sun barely a pale, hazy presence above, unable to burn through the growing fog. The vastness of the prairie stretches out around them, an endless sea of gray and shadow. But Simon never loses focus, never stops scanning the ground for clues.

Every so often, he pulls up his horse, pointing out a sign to Mark. A hoof print here, a broken branch there, a patch of flattened grass that could only have been made by the passage of many animals.

"See here," he says, as they pause by a particularly clear set of tracks. "These are fresh, no more than a day old. And see how they're all heading in the same direction? That's a good sign, means the herd mostly stayed together through the storm."

Mark leans over in his saddle, squinting at the marks. It's not the first time Simon has stopped to show him something, but each time, he finds himself more intrigued, hopeful to learn.

"How can you tell they're fresh?" he asks, genuinely curious.

Simon grins, always eager to share his knowledge. "It's all in the details," he explains "See the edges? They're still sharp, haven't been washed away by rain or wind yet. And look at that grass..." He gestures to a patch of prairie grass bent at an odd angle. "See how it's flattened? That happens when a large group of animals passes through. If it were just a few strays, the grass would spring back up, but with a whole herd... it stays down for a while."

Mark nods, absorbing the information, wanting to learn everything Simon has to teach.

"What about that?" Mark asks, pointing to a broken branch on a nearby scrubby, solitary tree. "Is that something?"

Simon pulls up his horse, squinting at the branch. He's silent for a moment, considering, then swings down from the saddle.

"Could be," he allows, walking over to the tree. "Or it could just be from the storm. That's the tricky part, separating the clues from the noise."

Mark follows suit, dismounting to join Simon. He watches as the older cowboy examines the break, running his fingers over the splintered wood. "Well, how do you tell?"

Simon shrugs, straightening up and stretching out saddle weary limbs. "It's a little bit time, just being out here long enough to get a feel for it all. You start to develop a sense for what's normal, what fits into patterns."

He points to the base of the tree, where the earth is scuffed and churned. "See there? Those marks are from hooves, and not our cattle. Horses, most like. Could be other cowboys, could be strays from another herd, hell, it could be some local homesteader out here for some fool reason. Can't say for sure."

Mark crouches down, studying the marks. "So how do you know what to follow?"

"It's a little bit luck, sometimes you sort of stumble onto the right trail without meaning to. But really, it's mostly about looking at everything, piecing it all together like a puzzle."

He claps Mark on the shoulder, his touch reassuring. "The more you do it, the easier it gets. You start to see the patterns, the stories the land is trying to tell you. Just got to keep your eyes open and your mind sharp."

Mark nods, taking a deep breath, thinking again about the breadth of knowledge Simon has, the years of experience that have honed his instincts to a razor's edge. It's both comforting and intimidating, knowing the depth of wisdom his partner possesses.

As they mount back up and continue on, the morning mist that had been clinging to the ground starts to thicken, slowly obscuring the horizon. It creeps in around them, cool and clammy against their skin, muffling the sound of their horses' hooves.

Simon frowns, his eyes narrowing as he scans the fog-shrouded prairie. "Stay close," he murmurs, his hand resting on the horn of his saddle, close to his rifle. "This mist will make tracking a sight harder. We'll need to rely on other signs, other senses."

Mark nods, edging his horse closer to Simon's. The fog seems to press in around them, a physical presence that's almost suffocating in its density.

Simon frowns, his eyes narrowing as he scans the fog-shrouded prairie. "I mean it, Kid. Stay close," he murmurs, his hand drifting to the gun at his hip. "And keep your rifle ready. If there is trouble out there, this mist will give them cover."

Mark nods, edging his horse closer to Simon's and slipping his rifle from its scabbard. The fog seems to press in around them, a physical presence that's almost suffocating in its density.

Still, they press on, even as it thickens further, rising up to meet them like a wall of white. Simon reins in his horse, frowning and Mark pulls up short next to him.

"Fog's gonna slow us down," he mutters. "Best keep the cattle close. Don't want to lose any."

They ride on, urging the cattle forward into the mist. Within minutes, the world vanishes, swallowed up by an impenetrable blanket of gray. It's like riding into a cloud, the fog so dense it muffles every sound, every breath. The cattle are little more than shadows ahead of them, ghostly silhouettes that fade in and out of view. The vastness of the prairie, so open and expansive just moments before, now feels small and choking.

They stay close, drawing comfort from each other's nearness in the eerie stillness. The isolation is unsettling, like they've crossed into another realm where the normal rules don't apply. Mark shivers, and it's not just from the damp chill seeping into his bones. He's never seen a fog like this, never felt so cut off from the world.

"Simon, do you think we should stop? Wait for this to clear?" Mark's voice is hushed, almost swallowed by the pressing grayness. He hates the twinge of fear in his tone, but he can't shake the feeling that they're riding blind, that anything could be waiting in the mist.

Simon pulls up his horse, turning to look at Mark. His brow is furrowed, his eyes dark with an unease that does nothing to calm Mark's nerves.

"Maybe," he allows, his gaze drifting back to the barely visible trail. "But you see that?"

He points to the ground directly in front of them, to a hoofprint half-filled with water, the edges still sharp. "That's fresh. Real fresh. Can't be more than a few hours old."

Mark leans forward in his saddle, peering at the print. Simon's right, it's crisp and clear, not yet blurred by time or the elements. A thrill runs through him, equal parts excitement and apprehension. They're close, so close he can almost hear the distant lowing of the herd, the shouts of the other cowboys.

But in this fog, in this strange, muffled world, it feels like those sounds are coming from another lifetime, another reality. Like they're chasing ghosts instead of cattle.

"What do you think?" Mark asks, hating the uncertainty in his voice. "Do we keep going, or play it safe?"

Simon is silent for a long moment, the only sound the soft snorting of their horses and the muted stomp and shuffle of the few cattle with them. When he speaks, his words are measured, careful.

"We keep going, but slow. No rushing, no risks. We stick close, keep our eyes and ears open." He reaches over, clasps Mark's shoulder. His grip is firm and reassuring, though it barely lessens Mark's hesitation. "We're close, I can feel it. But this fog... it changes things. We have to be smart, have to be cautious. One step at a time, yeah?"

Mark nods, drawing strength from Simon's touch, from the calm certainty in his voice. "Yeah," he agrees, taking a deep breath. "One step at a time."

They urge their horses forward, following the trail of hoof prints that weaves in and out of visibility. It's slow going, each step a measured, deliberate choice. The fog seems to muffle even the sound of their own breathing, creating a world that's both intimate and isolating.

Mark's nerves are strung tight as a bowstring, every sense straining for any hint of the herd, of other riders, of anything that might pierce this suffocating grayness. Beside him, he can feel Simon's tension, see it in the set of his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw.

But there's a steadiness there too, a steely resolve that helps calm Mark's own racing heart. Together, they press on, as the hoof prints lead them deeper into the fog, each one a breadcrumb trail to an uncertain destination.

The only sounds are the creak of damp saddle leather, the soft squelch of hooves in the mud, and the low, mournful lowing of the cows, eerily muffled by the heavy blanket of fog. Even the jingle of the horses' bridles seems strangely distant, as if coming from another world entirely.

It's unsettling, this thick, cloying gloom. It plays tricks on the mind, makes the vast expanse of the prairie feel claustrophobic, oppressive. The chill of it seeps into bones, damp and clinging, and the air is so thick it feels like drowning on dry land.

"Spooky," Mark mutters, his voice little more than a whisper, and it seems to come from far away, swallowed up by the fog almost before it leaves his lips.

"Scared of some haints, Kid?" Simon teases gently, the words curling out of him on a wisp of vapor. The nickname had started out slightly mocking, a bit of good-natured ribbing for the greenhorn who'd come out on his first cattle drive. But somewhere along the way, it had shifted, softened. Now it's something fonder, more intimate - a silent wink, a shared secret, an acknowledgment of everything that has changed between them on this long, strange journey.

The fog swirls around them, a living thing, cold and clammy against their skin, but Simon's determined not to let it get to him, not to let it get to Mark. He forces a grin, a little too wide to be entirely genuine, but the effort counts for something.

"C'mon, don't tell me a little fog's got you spooked. Thought you were tougher than that."

"No. No of course not." But there is a slight waver in Mark's tone, a hitch that suggests it might be a lie, or at least a hopeful exaggeration.

Simon can't blame him. The fog is disorienting, making it impossible to tell direction or distance. It seems to swallow even sounds, leaving the calm of the prairie eerie and unnaturally silent.

They can only hope they are still heading the right way to reunite with the herd. He reaches out, his hand finding Mark's thigh and resting there. A wordless reassurance.

Mark's hand covers his, squeezing briefly. The connection feels like an anchor, something solid in this smothering brume. For a moment, the world narrows to that single point of contact, a spark of warmth against the damp chill.

"Then again, maybe you should be scared," Simon continues, an exaggerated dreadful timbre to his voice. "Old timers and the natives around here tell some blood curdling stories."

Simon clears his throat dramatically, his voice taking on a low, gravelly tone that sends shivers down Mark's spine. "Legend has it, on foggy mornings just like this, the ghost of a long-dead cowboy roams these parts. They call him The Whisperin' Man, on account of the way his voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, like a whisper on the wind."

He pauses, letting the eerie silence of the fog add weight to his words. "Folks say he was a drover, just like us. Good man, honest and true. But one night, out on a drive just like this, he ran afoul of some rustlers. Mean sort, with no respect for life or property."

Simon's voice drops even lower, almost a growl. "They ambushed him, in a fog so thick you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. He fought like a demon, they say, but there were too many of 'em. They shot him down, left him to bleed out on the prairie, all alone."

He leans in closer, his breath warm against Mark's ear. "But now, he don't rest easy. How could he, with his killers still out there, still preying on innocent folk? So he rose up, even as his body grew cold. Rose up as a spirit, a vengeful shade bound to the mists that took his life."

Simon's voice is barely a whisper now, but it seems to fill the world, to drown out everything but the pounding of Mark's heart. "They say he's still out there, still wandering. You can hear him sometimes, when the fog's real thick. The jingle of his spurs, the creak of his ghostly saddle. And if you're unlucky enough to cross his path..."

He trails off, letting the silence stretch, letting Mark's imagination fill in the terrible blanks. Then, just when the tension becomes almost unbearable, he finishes with a sudden, sharp burst: "...he'll drag you off to join him in the eternal herd of the damned!"

Mark yelps, nearly jumping out of his saddle. For a second, he looks genuinely terrified, his eyes wide and his face pale. But then he sees the grin spreading across Simon's face, the mischievous glint in his eye, and realization dawns.

"You asshole!" he exclaims, torn between laughter and exasperation.

Simon just laughs with him, unrepentant. "Been called worse in my time. The point is, it really can be spooky out here." His tone softens, becomes more sincere. "But there ain't nothin' but fog and stories. Stick close to me, and eventually this will all burn off."

"How are we going to find the rest of the outfit, Simon?" Mark asks, sobering. The worry is back in his voice, the fog seeming to press in closer at the reminder of their situation. "What if we lose the trail in the fog?"

Simon squeezes his hand again, a steady, reassuring pressure. "We'll find them," he says with a confidence he doesn't entirely feel. "We've got the sun at our backs, and the breeze in our face. That's east. We keep riding that way, we'll hit them sooner or later."

"And if we don't?"

"Then we'll make for the nearest town, telegraph on ahead to Chicago. The herd will get there eventually, with or without us. But hey," Simon nudges his knee against Mark's, "have a little faith, Kid. I am a very smart cowboy and I have been doing this a very long time. You're in good hands"

Mark rolls his eyes, but he's smiling again, the tension easing from his shoulders.

"I know," he allows. "Lead on then, oh great and mighty Simon. Let's hope your sense of direction is better than your storytelling."

Simon chuckles, warmth and affection clear in his voice. "Oh, I'll get us there, don't you worry. And when we're done with this drive, you and me Kid, we're getting off the plains. Just the two of us."

Mark's eyebrows shoot up, interest piqued. "Yeah? You'd really want to give up the life? The trail, the cattle, all of it?""

Simon's gaze softens, his smile turning gentle, almost reverent. "Yeah. With you? I think I would. I think I'd go just about anywhere, as long as it was with you."

Mark feels a flush creep up his neck, a warmth that has nothing to do with the muggy air.

"Oregon," he says, the word a whisper, a promise.

Oregon," Simon confirms, his smile widening. "Yeah. a little cabin. Go see the ocean. Something to look forward to, for after all this. But first we gotta get out of this fog, find out where we're headin'." He squints into the mist, then curses under his breath. "Damn, is that Maisie wandering off again?"

Mark follows his gaze, spotting the wayward calf drifting away from the herd, her pale coat almost ghostly in the swirling fog. "Looks like it. Want me to go after her?"

Simon shakes his head. "Nah, I got it. You hold the rear, keep the rest of 'em together. I'll be back as soon as I wrangle her."

With that, he spurs his horse forward, disappearing into the fog with a flash of a grin and a wink.

Sighing wistfully, Mark turns his attention back to the small number of cattle they're droving blindly through the thick fog. As they ride on, the mist seems to swallow everything, wrapping around them like a damp, chill blanket. The cattle are restless, snorting and lowing nervously. Even the horses seem on edge, ears flicking back and forth, steps hesitant on the uneven ground.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Simon emerges from the mist, Maisie trotting contentedly ahead of him. He falls back into place beside Mark, close enough that their knees brush with every sway of their horses.

"She's getting too bold for her own good," he remarks, but there's a fond note in his voice. He knows how much the little calf means to Mark.

Mark hums in agreement, but his attention is only half on Maisie, the rest trying to focus on the task at hand, on keeping the herd together despite the poor visibility. But his mind keeps wandering, drifting, he's so lost in thought, so lulled by the rhythmic sway of his horse and the muffled sounds of the herd, that at first he doesn't notice the change in the cattle. It's subtle, a gradual shift in the cadence of their movements, the pitch of their lowing.

But Simon, always attuned to the moods of the herd, senses it immediately.

"Mark." His voice is sharp, cutting through the fog and Mark's reverie alike. "Something's off."

Mark blinks, shaking off his daydreams, suddenly alert. He looks around, trying to peer through the swirling mist. At first, he sees nothing out of the ordinary, just the shadowy shapes of cattle and the pale blur of Simon beside him.

But then he feels it — a prickle on the back of his neck, a whisper of unease that has nothing to do with the chill of the fog.

The cattle are bunched closer together, their movements jerky and agitated. The lowing has taken on a different quality, a nervous quality that sets Mark's teeth on edge.

And the fog... the fog seems to press in around them, thick and heavy, like a physical weight on their shoulders.

"What is it?" Mark asks, his own voice hushed, as if he's afraid to disturb the eerie stillness.

Simon's jaw tightens. "Not sure, but something's wrong," Simon mutters, his voice low and tense, barely audible over the creaking of saddle leather. "The cattle, they're too quiet. And look at that lead steer, the way he's tossing his head."

Mark frowns, squinting through the mist. The lead steer paws at the ground, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling white. "They've been spooked all morning," he points out, but there's a question in his tone, a silent request for reassurance.

Simon doesn't provide it. "Nah," he says, shaking his head. "This is different. Got a different texture to it."

"The fog?" Mark suggests, but as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows he's wrong, a prickle of unease running down his spine. The air feels too still, the silence too heavy. Like the whole world is holding its breath.

"No," Simon says, and there's a finality in his voice that sends a chill through Mark's veins. "It's more than that. They sense something we don't. Something bad."

Simon's chin lifts suddenly, nostrils flaring like the cattle he's spent his life reading. His shoulders tense as his hand casually shifts to rest on his revolver.

"The ground's wrong," he mutters, voice barely audible over the nervous lowing of the cattle. "Feel it?"

And now that Mark is paying attention, he does feel it—a subtle vibration through his saddle, too rhythmic to be natural, too deliberate to be the wind or their own herd's movement.

"Hoof beats," Simon continues, eyes scanning the impenetrable wall of fog. "Coming diagonal to our trail. Too steady for wild horses, too coordinated for a lost group."

Mark strains to hear, but Simon's time on the prairie has given him senses beyond what most men possess. Then he notices how Simon's gaze is fixed on their own cattle—specifically the way the animals are all facing in one direction, ears pricked forward, alert but not yet panicking.

"The cattle are pointing like compass needles," Simon whispers. "Eight, maybe ten riders, moving slow. Trying not to be heard."

A sound carries through the fog then—the soft clink of metal on metal. A spur, a bit, or worse, the loading of a rifle.

He turns to Mark, and there's a fierce urgency in his eyes that Mark has never seen before. "I need you to get behind me, Kid."

"Simon, what-"

"Now, Mark." Almost angry, Simon's tone brooks no argument, sharp with an edge of desperation. "Get behind me. I won't ask you again."

There's a part of Mark that wants to protest, to demand an explanation. But the look on Simon's face, the barely restrained panic, the way his hand hovers near his gun; it stops the words in his throat. He's never seen Simon like this.

For a single stretched second, he can almost feel Elijah's ghost with them. A slender figure in a tattered uniform, a shock of pale hair, a crooked, knowing smile. He's there in the tense set of Simon's shoulders, in the white-knuckled grip on his reins.

A reminder of what Simon has lost. What he could lose again.

So Mark obeys, urging his horse back, placing himself behind Simon's shoulders. His hand tightens on the reins, the other dropping to the rifle at his side. He understands —some scars never truly heal, and Simon carries the weight of one boy who didn't listen. Mark won't add to that burden.

Simon nods, a brief, tense acknowledgment, then turns forward again, squinting into the fog. He edges Mariposa out, angling for a better look at the herd. Mark follows, his heart beating a frantic tattoo against his ribs.

And then he hears it.

A soft, rhythmic sound, barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears. The ghostly patter of a trotting horse, somewhere off to his left.

He whips his head around, trying to peer through the swirling mist. But there's nothing, just the endless, impenetrable gray.

Until suddenly, there's a flash of movement, a darker shadow against the pale fog. A horse and rider, just for an instant, there and gone again like a phantasm.

One of the cows lets out a panicked moo, loud in the eerie stillness. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the dark shape vanishes, swallowed up by the mist.

Silence falls again, thick and heavy, broken only by the uneasy shuffling of the cattle and the harsh rasp of Mark's own breathing.

Mark looks to Simon, seeking comfort or reassurance or explanation, a question forming on his lips, but the words die when he sees his partner's face. Simon has gone milk pale, his jaw clenched so tight Mark fears he might crack a tooth. His eyes are hard, the eyes of a man who's seen too much, lost too much.

The eyes of a man ready to kill to prevent losing anything else.

"Simon," Mark whispers, and it comes out small, scared in a way he hasn't been since he was a child. "What was that?"

Simon doesn't answer. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, his hand white-knuckled on his gun.

Waiting. Watching.

Then, without warning, all hell breaks loose.

A shot cracks out, the sound unnaturally loud in the fog-muffled air.

For a split second, Mark is confused, uncomprehending, but Simon—Simon knows that sound, knows it in his bones, it echoes in his blood. He reacts instantly, training and instinct taking over.

"Get down!" he barks, and it's not the voice of Mark's lover, but of a soldier, a commander. His left hand shoots out, yanking Mark's reins, pulling him low over his horse's neck. His right hand is already drawing his gun, the motion smooth and swift, almost blurring.

There's a coldness in his eyes, the gray gone hard and flat. It's a look that promises pain, that promises death, a look that Mark has never seen before. This is a different Simon, a Simon forged in the crucible of war, tempered by blood and loss and the bitter edge of survival.

He doesn't hesitate. His gun comes up, and he fires, the report cracking through the fog like thunder. A cry rings out, a thud as a body hits the ground. But Simon is already moving, Mariposa wheeling beneath him with practiced precision, responding to the slightest pressure of his knees as if they share one mind. He places himself between Mark and the unseen attackers, Mariposa dancing sideways, never still, never an easy target.

"Stay low," he commands, and his voice is ice, sharp and brittle. "Use your horse as cover. Shoot if you get a clear shot, but don't take any chances."

He's not the gentle, teasing Simon that Mark knows. Not the Simon who holds him like he's something precious, who kisses him with a tenderness that makes Mark's heart ache. Not the Simon whose touch is always careful, always reverent, even in the heat of passion.

No, this Simon is hard, cold, a being of pure instinct and lethal intent. His eyes, usually so warm, so full of love and laughter, are now flat, empty of everything but the need to survive, to protect.

Mark's palms sweat against the leather reins as his horse shifts nervously beneath him. She senses the danger, ears flicking back and forth, muscles bunched and ready to run, but Mariposa stands steady beneath Simon, not a war horse by breeding but bound to her rider by something deeper than training. Her nostrils flare, but she remains unflinching as another shot whistles past, trusting Simon as she has since she was a gangly foal under his care.

Simon reaches down without looking, patting her neck with a calming hand even as his eyes scan the fog for threats.

"Easy, girl," he murmurs, the words meant for the horse but somehow steadying Mark too. The mare responds to his touch, pivoting at the slightest shift of his body, anticipating his needs before he can even signal them.

A flash of movement catches Mark's eye—a shape in the fog, there and gone. But Simon has already seen it, his body twisting in the saddle, gun tracking the movement with uncanny precision. Two shots in rapid succession, and a scream tears through the mist, followed by the panicked whinny of a riderless horse galloping away.

"Two down," Simon mutters, more to himself than to Mark. He reloads with hands that don't shake, fingers working the chambers with practiced efficiency even as his eyes never stop scanning the fog. There's a rhythm to his movements that speaks of countless battles, of muscle memory etched by survival.

Mark has seen Simon gentle an agitated cow, seen him coax trembling mounts with infinite patience, but he's never witnessed this—the way man and horse move as one weapon, the animal responding to signals so subtle Mark can barely perceive them. Simon shifts his weight slightly, and Mariposa sidesteps a heartbeat before a bullet kicks up dirt where they'd been standing.

"Simon!" Mark gasps, but Simon doesn't even flinch. Instead, he fires twice more in the direction of the shot, then urges his horse forward in a sudden charge, bursting through the fog only to wheel sharply and fire again from an unexpected angle.

A startled cry confirms his hit, followed by a crash of undergrowth as another bandit falls.

When Simon emerges from the mist again, there's a thin line of blood across his cheekbone where a bullet grazed him. He doesn't seem to notice or care. His focus is absolute, his awareness extending beyond the limits of ordinary senses. He cocks his head, listening to something Mark can't hear, then suddenly wheels Mariposa and charges in a new direction.

Mark watches, both terrified and awestruck. This is the man who has trembled in the night in his arms reliving memories of war, who still sometimes wakes gasping from nightmares he refuses to describe. The man who talks to his horse like an old trusted friend.

This is the same Simon who just yesterday had Mark doubled over with laughter, telling outrageously dirty jokes while they brushed down the horses and tended to wayward cattle. The Simon who taught Mark to shoot with endless patience, never once showing frustration at his clumsiness. Who can carry a hay bale under each arm without breaking a sweat, yet touches Mark with such gentleness it's like being handled by someone who fears he might break. The Simon who hums off-key while he cooks, who sings just as off key to Mariposa when he thinks no one is paying attention, but this—this deadly efficiency, this calm in the face of chaos—this is also Simon.

The pieces are fitting together now, completing the puzzle of the man Mark loves. Because even in this violence, even with blood on his face and death in his hands, Simon's every move is about protection. About keeping Mark safe. About ensuring they both live to see another sunrise.

More shots ring out, the flashes of the muzzles like lightning in the mist. Simon returns fire almost immediately, gun swinging towards the sound, his aim true despite the poor visibility. He's counting shots, Mark realizes, keeping track of the attackers by the number of rounds they've fired.

But it's not easy. The fog distorts sound, makes it hard to pinpoint the location of the shooters. They could be anywhere, everywhere, ghosts in the gray.

A bullet whizzes past Mark's ear, close enough that he feels the air displacement. His horse rears, nearly unseating him, and for a terrifying moment he's exposed, vulnerable.

Simon sees it happen, and something changes in his expression—a flash of naked fear breaking through the soldier's mask. "Mark!" he roars, and the single word contains volumes: terror, love, desperation.

In that instant, the two versions of Simon—the gentle lover and the hardened warrior—merge into one, and Mark understands with sudden clarity that they were never truly separate.

A volley of shots erupts from multiple directions at once. One catches a steer square in the flank, and the animal bellows in pain, crashing through the tight circle of cattle. The sound is like a match to kindling—panic spreads through the herd in an instant. The animals scatter in all directions, trampling through the fog with blind terror, hooves thundering against the prairie soil.

"The herd!" Mark shouts, watching their livelihood dissolve into the mist.

But Simon doesn't even look at the fleeing cattle. His eyes are fixed solely on Mark, his gun tracking methodically from one threat to the next. "Let 'em go," he says, his voice rough-edged and final. "Not worth you getting shot over."

The fierceness of Simon's protection comes from the same place as the tenderness of his love. They are opposite faces of the same coin, different expressions of the same soul.

Simon is fighting for him, ready to kill for him, to die for him if need be. He's putting himself between Mark and danger without a second thought, shielding him with his own body and soul.

It's a love so fierce, so primal, that it takes Mark's breath away. A love that's written in blood and bullets, in the grim set of Simon's jaw and the unwavering steadiness of his aim.

In this moment, Simon is more than just a man. He's a force of nature, an avenging angel wreathed in gun smoke. He's everything dark and dangerous and beautiful, and he's Mark's, wholly and completely.

The thought sends a rush of heat through Mark's veins, a surge of emotion so strong it almost overwhelms the fear. He loves this man, loves every part of him, the light and the dark, the gentle and the ruthless.

And he knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his bones, that he would follow this Simon anywhere, into any battle, any hell.

But right now, hell has come to them, and Mark is terrified. His hands are shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He's never been in a firefight before, never felt the cold kiss of mortal fear quite like this.

But beneath the terror, there's resolve, a determination born of desperation and love. He won't let Simon fight alone, can't let him face this nightmare without help.

So Mark reaches down deep, past the fear, past the doubt, to that core of strength and courage that Simon has always seen in him.

His shots may not ever have Simon's precision, his lethal efficiency, but they don't need to. All they need to do is buy Simon time, keep the attackers off balance, distracted.

Rifle stock fitted into shoulder, don't anticipate the kickback, deep breath, take aim, don't pull but squeeze. The first of Mark's shots fires towards a shadow in the middle distance and is rewarded with a pained holler.

"Fuck, I'm hit!" a voice cries out from the fog, raw with pain and shock.

"Damn it, there's two of them," another voice snarls, closer this time.

"So? There's more of us," a third voice chimes in, harsh and mocking. "And they're just a couple of cowboys. We can take 'em."

The voices seem to come from all around, disembodied and eerie in the swirling mist. Mark can't get a fix on their location, can only aim at the muzzle flashes, the darting shadows.

Beside him, Simon is a blur of motion, his gun barking out a measured rhythm of retorts. "Mark!" he calls over the din of gunfire. "You alright?"

"I'm fine!" Mark shouts back, though his voice shakes. "Just keep shooting!"

The fog shifts, tendrils parting like a curtain being drawn back. A single figure emerges, taller than the others, sitting high in his saddle. The man's face is half-hidden behind a bandanna, but his eyes are visible—cold, calculating, unafraid. He holds his gun loosely, almost casually, like a man who's never had to hurry with a kill.

A rough laugh echoes through the fog, chilling Mark to the bone. It comes from this man, the stillness of his posture a stark contrast to the chaos around them.

"You boys might as well give up now," the man calls out, his voice carrying a note of authority the others lack. The leader, Mark realizes. "There's no way out of this. We got the cattle now. Ride away and we'll let you live. There's only the two of you."

"Two's been plenty so far," Simon retorts, his voice filled with a bravado that Mark knows is at least partly a front. "Seems like your boys aren't much for a fair fight."

The leader tilts his head slightly, a gesture almost contemplative. In the silence that follows, Mark becomes aware of every sound—the nervous breathing of his horse, the distant lowing of scattered cattle, the soft creak of leather as Simon shifts in his saddle.

"Fair?" the leader scoffs finally, breaking the tension. "Ain't nothing fair about this, cowboy. This is business. And you're bad for business."

Through the swirling mist, Mark catches glimpses of other riders. Five, maybe six men, circling them like wolves. The leader remains motionless, a fixed point in the shifting gray world.

"Yeah, well, your business is about to take a turn for the worse," Simon says, and there's a grim humor in his tone that makes Mark's heart clench.

He risks a glance over at his partner, sees him reaching for his ammunition pouch. With a jolt, Mark realizes the situation—Simon's revolver is empty, and while he could reload with his usual fluid efficiency, doing so would mean taking his eyes off the leader, even if just for seconds. A dangerous gamble with so many guns trained on them.

Simon catches his eye, gives him a tiny nod. A message, clear as day: Keep him talking. Buy me time.

The air grows still, heavy with anticipation. Even the fog seems to pause, hanging suspended between them and the bandits as if nature itself is holding its breath.

Mark swallows hard, then raises his voice. "You really think you can take us?" he calls out, hoping his voice doesn't betray his fear. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

The leader's eyes narrow, as he studies Simon with a new intensity, as if seeing him properly for the first time.

"That stance," he says slowly, his voice changing, growing curious. "The way you handle that gun... You've got the look of a man who's seen war, and not just any skirmish—the War."

Simon's hands pause for just a fraction of a second in their practiced loading.

"Easy on. Wasn't asking for your life story," the leader continues, his voice hardening. "Just making an observation. Cavalry, was it? Or infantry?" His eyes flick briefly to the old burn scars visible on Simon's forearm. "Artillery, maybe?"

Simon says nothing, but the slight stiffening of his shoulders tells Mark the leader has struck a nerve.

The leader shifts in his saddle, his posture changing subtly. There's something familiar in it—the same watchful readiness Simon carries. "Did ya wear blue or gray, boy? Not that it much matters. We all bled red in the end."

Simon's jaw tightens. "Union," he says finally, voice clipped. "4th Artillery. And you?"

A knowing look appears in the leader's eyes above his bandanna. "Hardee's Corps. 6th Arkansas." He taps a finger against his chest. "Shiloh. April '62."

Simon goes utterly still, and Mark can feel the change in him—a sudden, electric tension.

"You were there too?" the leader says, and it's not a question but a statement. "At Shiloh Church."

"I was," Simon answers, his voice stripped of emotion.

"What a fuckin coincidence." The leader laughs again, harsh and mocking, but there's something else there now—a twisted recognition, the brutal kinship of survivors who faced each other across the same blood-soaked field. "Been what, damn near fifteen years now? And here you are, still jumping at shadows, still quick on the trigger. Can't wash that Tennessee mud off, can you? I respect that. Tried the honest route myself for a spell." His voice drops lower. "Didn't take."

His gaze shifts to Mark, eyes raking over him with undisguised contempt. "But this one? This boy hasn't seen a thing in his life. Look at those hands—never seen a day's real trouble. Never seen men turn into a red mist beside him. Never had to eat horse meat three weeks running." He spits to the side. "You're out here playing cowboys with a child, Soldier."

Mark feels the heat rise in his face, the humiliation of being dismissed so completely.

"War's over," Simon says quietly, but with steel in his voice. "Has been for more'n a decade now."

"Is it now?" The leader's eyes hold a dangerous gleam. "Maybe for the winners. The rest of us... well, we're still fighting. Different battlefield is all." He gestures around at the fog-shrouded prairie. "And you've wandered right into it with your soft young friend. Way out of your depth, both of you."

"Look." The leader straightens, dropping the wistful tone for something harder. "Here's how I see it. You're a soldier— and I respect that. So I'll give you a soldier's choice. Ride away now with your boy, or die here. Don't much matter to me, but I'm taking those cattle either way."

"You sure about that?" Simon asks, his voice steady and cool. Mark can see him from the corner of his eye, sliding bullets into the chambers with a speed and surety that speaks of long practice.

"I am." The leader gestures with his chin toward the scattered herd. "Already took 'em far as I can see. While you been here jawing with me, couple of my boys already herded most of 'em up."

Simon's eyes never leave the leader's. "Funny thing about them cattle," he says conversationally, thumbing the last bullet into place. "I don't much care about them right now."

The leader's posture shifts, something in Simon's tone putting him on alert. "That so?"

"That's so." Simon closes the cylinder with a decisive click. "See, the moment you took a shot at him—" he tilts his head slightly toward Mark, "—this stopped being about cattle."

The leader's eyes narrow, reassessing the situation. "Sounds personal."

"Is now." Simon's voice drops to something cold and unfamiliar. "Hardee's boys always did have trouble knowing when they were beaten. Guess I'll have to teach you that lesson again."

"Shut yer mouth, cowboy," another voice snarls from the fog, rougher and less controlled than the leader. "Y'all almost out ammunition and ya know it. You fire six more rounds and that shiny pea shooter's nothing but a classy club. Then what'll ya do? Hide behind yer pretty boy there?" A harsh, grating laugh follows the taunt. "Maybe we'll keep him after we're done with you. He looks soft enough to…-"

Mark's heart seizes at the threat implicit there, but Simon just cuts him off with a laugh, a sound of pure, reckless defiance.

"Six rounds?" he says, and there's an untamed, fey note in his voice now—he's enjoying this. Enjoying the freedom of the hunt, the wildness that thrums beneath his skin, letting his blood run hot and feral. "Hell, I only need one."

Time seems to slow. The leader's eyes widen slightly, recognizing something in Simon's face—the look of a man who doesn't bluff.

Simon's head turns slightly toward the source of that taunting voice and without even seeming to aim, he brings his gun up in one fluid motion.

The shot rings out, clear and sharp. The taunting voice cuts off mid-laugh with a startled gasp that turns into a wet gurgle, followed by the distinctive sound of a body crumpling to the ground.

"Goddammit, Wiley!" someone shouts from the fog. "That was Cole! That son of a bitch shot Cole!"

The leader doesn't flinch, doesn't even turn to look at his fallen man, but a muscle twitches in his jaw.

"Should've kept his filthy mouth shut, then," he mutters, eyes never leaving Simon's. "Ain't your concern no more, Dawson."

A stunned silence follows, broken only by the nervous shifting of the horses and the distant, muffled curses of the remaining bandits.

The leader's eyes narrow, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly. There's calculation in his gaze now, a cold reassessment. "You'll pay for that," he says, voice steady and deliberate. Not a threat, but a statement of fact.

"Come and collect, then," Simon taunts, and now Mark can see his plan, can see the deadly cunning behind the wild bravado.

The air between Simon and the leader seems to crackle with electricity like ozone before lightning burns it off. Two predators sizing each other up, calculating odds, measuring distances.

"Your move," Simon says softly, his voice carrying in the stillness.

The leader's eyes narrow to slits as the moment stretches, taut as a bowstring.

He's goading them, drawing them in. Making them angry, reckless. More likely to make mistakes.

More likely to give him clear shots.

Something shifts in Simon's posture then—almost imperceptible, but Mark catches it. A subtle resignation in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers curl a fraction tighter around his revolver. It's the look of a man who's calculated the odds and doesn't like what he's found. A man preparing for his last stand.

Simon keeps his eyes locked on the leader but addresses Mark, his voice deceptively casual.

"Mark, son. These boys here said they'd let us go if we go. I want you to canter your horse real slow and careful on away from here. You remember how to look for hoof prints? How to keep heading east? You'll find the rest of the crew soon."

The desperate plea beneath the calm words is unmistakable. One last gambit to save the one thing that matters to him.

Mark's head whips toward Simon, disbelief etched across his features. "Simon…I ain't—" His voice cracks with emotion, hands tightening on his reins.

The leader chuckles, a deep sound that rolls through the fog like distant thunder. He shifts his weight in the saddle, leather creaking beneath him.

"Yeah, I'm gonna have to agree with the young buck here." His gun barrel gestures lazily between them. "He ain't. Time for leaving is over." A cold smile reaches his eyes above his bandanna. "And it's real sweet like, you trying to protect him, but that ship has sailed."

His voice drops lower, more intimate. "You know how this works, friend. You heard my name. Your boy there heard it too. Heard Dawson. Heard Cole." Each name falls like a nail in a coffin. "Too many names for comfort. Too many faces that could be recognized."

The unspoken truth hangs between them: there will be no witnesses left alive.

Simon's body tenses almost imperceptibly, a man accepting the inevitable but determined to extract a heavy price in return.

"Ain't your friend," Simon says, the words barely out of his mouth before his hand moves.

Wiley sees it coming.

"Now!" he barks, wheeling his horse sharply backward into the fog as his men surge forward.

The first shot cracks through the fog like lightning splitting the sky. A bandit to Simon's right jerks backward, a dark stain blooming across his chest before he topples from his saddle.

Simon's second shot follows a heartbeat later, finding another target—a man who'd been creeping closer through the mist on Wiley's command. The bandit screams, clutching his throat, dropping uselessly to the ground.

Simon moves like a ghost, like a creature born of the mist itself. His gun is an extension of his arm, his will given deadly form. Each shot finds its mark, each bullet a messenger of death.

The fog erupts with gunfire, muzzle flashes illuminating the swirling gray like fireflies. Simon wheels Mariposa with his knees alone, hands busy with his revolver and staying seated, firing with lethal precision at shadows and sounds.

"Get down, Mark!" he roars over the cacophony, but Mark can only stare, transfixed by the deadly ballet unfolding before him.

A third bandit falls, then a fourth. Simon moves like a man possessed, like something wild and savage, death personified in the saddle. His face is splattered with blood—his own or someone else's, Mark can't tell.

Through the chaos, Mark catches glimpses of Wiley circling, stalking, waiting for his chance. The leader weaves through the fog like a predator, patient and calculating while his men fall one by one.

The fog parts for just an instant, and Mark sees everything with crystalline clarity: Simon's empty chambers, his fingers reaching for his belt as the last of Wiley's men crashes to the ground. The leader, who has been waiting for precisely this moment, emerges suddenly from the mist behind Simon, shoulders squared, arm extended, the barrel of his Colt aimed with lethal intention.

Time stretches, elastic and terrible.

"Simon!" Mark's warning tears from his throat.

Simon's head snaps up, eyes widening as he registers the danger—too late, too late.

The leader's finger tightens on the trigger with deliberate certainty. The gun bucking in his hand seems to happen in slow motion, the muzzle flash blooming like a deadly flower in the mist.

The sound isn't just a shot—it's the rending of Mark's world. A thunderclap that splits the air and his heart in equal measure.

Simon's body jerks violently, as if struck by an invisible fist. His face transforms—surprise, disbelief, then agony washing over his features in terrible succession. His mouth opens in a silent gasp as the force of the bullet punches him back in the saddle.

For one horrible moment, he seems to hang there, suspended between staying upright and falling. Blood blooms across his shirt, unfurling with terrifying speed. His hand presses against the wound, fingers splaying wide as if trying to hold something vital inside.

When he pulls it away, his palm is slick with red—too much red, gleaming wetly in the diffuse light. His gaze drops to it with a strange detachment, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

Then his eyes lift to find Mark's, and in them is something worse than pain—apology, regret, fear. Not fear for himself, but fear for what will happen to Mark now. In that single, suspended moment, Simon's gaze says everything words cannot—a lifetime of unspoken promises, of futures now bleeding away, of desperate, aching love. A silent goodbye.

"No!"

The word explodes from Mark's throat, but it's more than just a word—it's a howl torn from the very marrow of his bones, the sound a soul makes when it's being ripped in half. It starts low in his chest and claws its way up, shredding everything in its path until it bursts from him, raw and feral and anguished. A sound he didn't know he was capable of making.

The noise echoes across the prairie, scattering birds from distant trees, silencing even the wind itself for one terrible heartbeat. In that sound is everything—denial, rage, terror, love. It is the sound of something fundamental breaking inside him, not just lost but violently torn away.

His world narrows to a single point—the leader's smug eyes above his bandanna, the gun still trained on Simon's slumping form. Something cold and certain and terrible crystallizes in Mark's chest, a fury he's never known before. It fills him completely, washing away hesitation, washing away thought, washing away everything but the need to destroy the man who has taken Simon from him.

His rifle comes up without conscious thought. No time for careful aim, no time for Simon's patient lessons about breathing and squeezing and steadiness. Just blind, desperate rage and the need to protect what he loves, to avenge what he may have already lost. His vision tunnels, the edges going black until all he can see is Wiley's face, all he can feel is the stock against his shoulder and the trigger beneath his finger.

Mark pulls the trigger.

The rifle bucks against him with savage force, but he barely feels it. The world slows to a crawl as Wiley's head snaps back, a crimson spray erupting behind him, catching the diffuse light through the fog like scattered rubies. A look of genuine surprise freezes in his eyes as the bullet catches him square between them—the last thing he'll ever feel. For a suspended moment, he remains upright in his saddle, a puppet with cut strings. Then he collapses, sliding boneless to the ground with a heavy finality.

The silence that follows is absolute, broken only by the hollow thud of the leader's body hitting the earth.

"Jesus Christ," someone whispers from the fog. "The kid shot Wiley. Shot him clean through the face."

Another voice, tight with fear: "Fuck this. I ain't dying for cattle."

Mark swings his rifle toward the voices, a wild, unfamiliar sound tearing from his throat—something between a sob and a battle cry. He fires again, blindly, into the fog.

The remaining bandits break, courage evaporating with their leader's blood. They scatter in all directions in their haste to escape. Hoof beats thunder away through the mist, panicked shouts fading into the distance.

"He's fucking crazy!" one yells as they flee.

"Just go!" another shouts. 

In moments, they're gone, melted away into the fog like ghosts at dawn, leaving nothing but the smell of gunpowder and the grotesque stillness of their fallen companions.

Mark remains frozen, rifle still raised, trembling violently as the rage begins to ebb, leaving horrified realization in its wake. He's killed a man. Shot him through the head without hesitation, without mercy.

The thought barely has time to form before it's swept away by something far more urgent—Simon. Simon bleeding. Simon dying.

"Simon!" The name tears from his throat as his rifle falls forgotten to the ground. Mark is off his horse before he realizes he's moved, scrambling through mud and blood to reach his partner. Simon lists dangerously in his saddle, one hand pressed to his side, face gone pale beneath the grime of battle.

"I'm here, I'm here," Mark babbles, reaching up to steady him. His hands flutter uselessly, wanting to help but afraid to cause more damage. "Let me see, Simon, let me see how bad it is."

Simon grimaces, pain etched into every line of his face. "Ain't... ain't as bad as it looks," Simon manages, though the lie is transparent as blood continues to pour between his fingers, soaking his shirt and vest with alarming speed.

Mark reaches up, arms outstretched. "Come on, let me help you down. Easy now."

With agonizing slowness, Simon slides from Mariposa's back into Mark's waiting arms. His weight nearly takes them both to the ground, but Mark braces, refusing to let him fall. Simon cries out despite himself, a raw sound of pure agony that he tries to bite back too late. His breath comes in wet, labored gasps against Mark's neck, his body shuddering with shock and pain.

"I got you," Mark whispers fiercely, lowering him to sit propped against a nearby rock. "I got you, Simon. You're gonna be alright."

His fingers work quickly, pulling aside Simon's bloodied shirt to reveal the wound—and Mark's heart seizes at what he sees. The bullet has torn through flesh and muscle, lodging somewhere deep inside. Blood pulses from the ragged hole with each beat of Simon's heart, dark and relentless. This isn't a graze or a flesh wound—this is the kind of injury men die from.

"Jesus, Simon," Mark breathes, pressing his hands over the wound, trying to stem the tide of crimson that threatens to carry Simon's life away with it. The blood is hot and slick between his fingers, so much blood.

Simon's face has gone gray beneath his tan, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. His eyes focus and unfocus, struggling to stay present. "That bad, huh?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"No," Mark lies, desperation making his voice crack. "No, it's—you're gonna be fine. Just fine." He tears off his bandanna, folding it into a pad and pressing it against the wound. It soaks through almost immediately, turning from blue to purple to black.

Simon's hand comes up to cover Mark's, his grip weaker than it should be.

"Mark," he says, his voice steadier than it has any right to be. "Mark, listen to me. If I don't...-"

"Don't you dare," Mark interrupts fiercely, tears blurring his vision. "Don't you dare say it. You're not dying. Not here, not like this."

Simon's eyes find his, surprisingly clear despite the pain clouding them. "The bullet's still in there," he says, each word seeming to cost him. "Gotta... gotta get it out." He coughs, and there's a new wetness at the corner of his mouth that makes Mark's stomach turn to ice.

"I know," Mark says, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I know, and I will. But first we need to stop this bleeding." He looks around frantically, as if the fog might suddenly yield bandages and medicine. "We need to get you somewhere safe. Somewhere I can..." The words trail off as the enormity of what he'll need to do crashes over him.

Simon's hand squeezes his weakly. "You can do it," he murmurs, eyes drifting closed for a moment too long before snapping open again. "Always said... you had steady hands..."

The blood continues to seep between Mark's fingers, unstoppable as the tide. Simon's breathing grows more labored, his skin colder to the touch. The bullet is in there, somewhere in the mess of flesh and muscle, and Mark knows with bone-deep certainty that they can't stay here, exposed in the fog with some of the bandits potentially still lurking.

"Simon, listen to me," Mark says, voice steadying as determination floods him. "We just need to get you back to the drive. Hilbert is there. He can help you."

Simon's eyes focus on him with effort. "Don't think... I can ride..." Each word seems to cost him precious strength.

"You don't have to. I'll help you onto my horse. I'll keep you steady," Mark says, mind racing through the logistics. "I'm going to get you up now. It's going to hurt, but I need you to hold on. Just hold on for me."

Simon nods weakly, preparing himself. Mark secures the makeshift bandage as best he can, tying it tight with his belt. Then, with as much care as haste allows, he helps Simon to his feet. The older man's legs buckle immediately, a strangled cry escaping him as the movement jars his wound.

"I've got you," Mark promises, bearing almost all of Simon's weight. With monumental effort, Mark manages to get Simon onto his horse, mounting behind him to hold Simon's slumping form upright against his chest. Simon's head lolls back against Mark's shoulder, his breathing shallow and uneven.

"Mark," Simon rasps, each word a struggle, "If I don't make it back—"

"Fuck you," Mark cuts him off fiercely, voice breaking. "You're not saying goodbyes. You're not dying today, Simon Teller. I won't let you."

"Ain't really up to you, Kid." Simon turns his head slightly, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth as he tries to focus on Mark's face. Something like wonder flickers in his pain-glazed eyes. "You're a goddamned miracle, you know that?" he whispers, the words barely audible over the pounding of Mark's heart. "You saved me. Already saved me... long before today."

Mark swallows hard against the lump in his throat, tears streaming unchecked down his face. "And I'm going to keep saving you," he promises, one arm wrapped protectively around Simon's waist, careful to avoid the wound. His hand still comes away slick with fresh blood. Too much blood. "So don't you dare give up."

Simon's fingers fumble weakly for Mark's hand, finding it with effort. His grip is terrifyingly feeble. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs, each breath a little shallower than the last. "We didn't get enough time." His eyes drift closed, then open with visible effort. "I wanted... to have more with you. More time." A cough wracks his body, bringing a fresh wave of crimson to his lips. "I was looking forward to seeing the ocean with you."

"And you will," Mark insists, the words a desperate prayer. His tears fall onto Simon's face, mingling with the blood there. "Oregon, remember? You promised me. After all this we're going to Oregon." His voice cracks completely. "So don't you dare give up on me, Simon. You hear me? That's an order."

A ghost of a smile touches Simon's bloodless lips, his eyes finding Mark's one more time.

"You're real cute when you're bossy."

The simple, unexpected tenderness of it—this small attempt at normalcy when death looms so close—hits Mark like a physical blow. A sob tears from his throat, raw and agonized. This is Simon, his Simon, still trying to ease Mark's pain even as his own life ebbs away. Still trying to comfort, to protect, to love—even now, at what might be the end.

"Just stay with me," Mark begs, pressing his forehead against Simon's. "Just stay."

Without conscious thought, his body shifts, taking the reins firmly in one hand while the other secures Simon against his chest. The fog that has shrouded them all morning begins to lift as they move, as if even nature conspires against them now. Mark barely registers it, his entire being focused on the wounded man in his arms and the desperate race ahead.

He turns his horse eastward with a confidence that would have been unimaginable weeks ago when he couldn't even tighten a cinch properly. The direction is instinctively clear to him now. All those hours watching Simon, listening to his patient explanations about reading the land—they've settled into his bones, become part of him. The sun's position, the gentle slope of the terrain, the way certain grasses bend in the breeze—all of it speaks to him now in Simon's voice.

Mariposa follows beside them without guidance, her intelligent eyes fixed on her wounded master with what Mark could swear is concern. The clearing mist reveals the full tableau of their battle—bodies of fallen bandits scattered across the churned earth, dark stains seeping into the prairie soil. The ground bears witness to the chaos—deep hoof prints where the cattle had panicked and bolted, a distinct trail leading northwest where the rustlers had driven their stolen herd.

Mark's eyes follow that trail, automatically noting the depth of the prints, the pattern of the droppings, the bent grasses revealing direction and numbers—all details he wouldn't have even noticed just months ago when he'd first joined the drive, city-soft and clueless. Now he catalogs them with a cowboy's practiced eye, committing everything to memory even as his hands tighten on the reins. Another time. Another day. When Simon is safe.

"Hold on," Mark murmurs against Simon's ear, feeling the unnatural heat beginning to radiate from the man's skin. Fever setting in already. Not good.

With a decisive movement, he wheels his horse eastward and kicks into a gallop, one arm locked around Simon to keep him secure. Mariposa matches their pace perfectly, staying close as if standing guard.

"Stay with me, Simon," Mark urges as they ride hard across the open prairie, each hoof beat carrying them closer to help—or so he can only desperately hope. The words become his breath, his heartbeat, his prayer. "Just stay with me."

Chapter Text

Time warps and stretches in strange ways—seconds feel like hours, but still rush by all the same. The frantic ride is nothing more than a blur of motion and dread, a nightmare landscape where hope and terror loop, tied together intrinsically with each beat of hooves against prairie soil, each beat of Simon's faltering heart.

What Mark can register of the desperate journey comes in stuttering flashes, jumbled and disjointed like fragments of a mirror dashed on the ground. Simon, ghostly pale and barely conscious as Mark hauls him onto the saddle, the older man's body surprisingly light, as if death has already begun tearing away pieces of him. Mariposa, running alongside them, untethered and unbidden, her eyes wild with a fear that matches Mark's own—drawn by some primal, animal devotion to stay near her wounded master even as the scent of his blood fills the air.

Simon slumps against Mark's chest, a dead weight growing heavier with each passing mile. His blood soaks through Mark's shirt, hot and thick and relentless, the metallic tang mixing with the sour stench of sweat and fear until Mark can taste it on his tongue with every ragged breath. Simon's head lolls against Mark's shoulder, his lips move, forming words that are little more than broken whispers lost to the wind—fragments of prayers, perhaps, or goodbyes Mark simply refuses to hear.

"Stay with me, Simon," Mark pleads, his voice cracking like the parched earth they thunder across. "Stay with me, you bastard. Don't you dare leave me out here alone."

But Simon is drifting, his consciousness flickering like a candle flame in a storm, his mind wandering the hazy borderlands between life and death. One moment lucid enough to clutch at Mark's arm with surprising strength, his eyes suddenly clear and desperate as he gasps Mark's name; the next gone again, sunken into some dark place, murmuring Elijah's name, his tone tender and broken. A ghost of a smile flickering across his lips, as if in his delirium, he is seeing his long-lost love riding beside them, beckoning Simon to join him in that hazy horizon.

And then there are the moments, the terrifying, gut-wrenching moments, when Simon falls silent entirely. When he goes utterly still in Mark's arms, his eyes staring blankly ahead, seeing nothing, responding to nothing. In those moments, he seems to be in a world beyond reach, beyond the living, slipping further and further away with each labored breath.

Mark feels a cold, sinking dread in the pit of his stomach, a yawning abyss of despair that threatens to swallow him whole. He can feel Simon fading, can feel the life leaching out of Simon with every passing second, every hard won mile, every stuttering heartbeat. The warmth of Simon's blood, stark against the pallor of his skin, is a terrifying reminder of all he stands to lose, of the precious, fragile thing that is slipping through his fingers like sand.

"Simon, please," Mark chokes out, his voice raw and desperate, barely recognizable as his own. "Please, stay with me. Don't go where I can't follow."

He tightens his grip on Simon, clutching him to his chest as if he can physically anchor him to this world, as if he can hold death itself at bay by the sheer force of his love, his anguish. Digging his spurs further into the horse's flanks, Mark urges her on; harder, faster, pushing her past the point of exhaustion, past the limits of what any creature should endure.

He has no idea where he is going, no real sense of direction beyond a desperate, all-consuming need to find help, to find someone, anyone who can save Simon. The landscape blurs around him, a smear of browning prairie grass and dull gray sky, meaningless, insignificant. All that matters is the fading warmth of Simon in his arms, the thready pulse beneath his fingertips.

Tears stream down his face, blurring his vision, mixing with the sweat and the grime. His heart pounds in his ears, a frantic, terrified rhythm that seems to echo the hoof beats of the horse, the ragged gasps of Simon's breathing.

He prays, he begs, he bargains with every god he's ever heard of and a few he invents on the spot, promising anything, everything, if only they will spare Simon, if only they will grant him this one miracle.

Just let him live, he pleads silently, his breath hitching on a sob. Please, please let him live. I can't do this without him.

He bows his head, pressing his face into Simon's hair, breathing in the scent of him beneath the blood and the sweat. He tries to memorize it, to imprint it on his soul, etch it into his bones, to hold on to it like a talisman against the dark. He knows, with a sickening certainty, that this might be the last time. The last time he holds Simon in his arms, the last time he breathes him in, the last time he feels the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart.

"Stay with me," he whispers, his voice cracking, barely audible over the pounding of the horse's hooves. "Stay with me, Simon. Don't you leave me. Don't you dare."

It's a plea, a prayer, a command born of love and terror.

I'll do anything, he vows silently, fiercely. Anything at all. Just let him live. Let him stay with me.

Please.

When the first few cattle appear in the distance, Mark thinks he's hallucinating, thinks that the desperation and the grief have finally driven him mad. He blinks, shakes his head, blinks again, hardly daring to hope. But they're still there, grazing on the sparse grass, and beyond them, shimmering in the heat-haze like a mirage, like a fever dream, is the remuda wagon.

A sob tears from Mark's throat, raw and ragged, half disbelief, half fantastical hope. He urges the horse forward even harder til she is lathered and straining, whispering broken encouragement, promising her anything if she could just get them there.

His world narrows to that single point, that solitary flash of white in the distance. It is the only thing that matters, the only thing that exists.

It's Simon's only chance, and Mark would move heaven and earth, would ride through the fires of hell itself, to reach it.

The white canvas seems lit up in the dim sun like a beacon, like a promise. It grows larger, clearer, more real with every pounding hoof beat, every gasping breath. The camp resolves around it, tents and wagons and milling figures, the mundane details of a cattle drive suddenly cast in sharp relief, suddenly imbued with a desperate, vital significance.

Nearly there. Nearly to help, to hope, to the slim, fragile chance of salvation. Mark leans forward, his body molded to the straining lines of the horse, his heart pounding in time with her laboring strides. He whispers to her, to Simon, to himself, a breathless litany of encouragement, of prayer, of sheer, stubborn will.

Almost there. Almost there. Just a little further. Just a little faster. Just hold on. Just stay with me.

And then without Mark really registering how, they burst into the heart of the camp, the horse's hooves thundering against the hard-packed earth, Mark's desperate cries shattering the calm of a drive on pause.

"Hilbert!" he screams, his voice cracking, the words torn from a throat wound too tight with panic and exhaustion. He hauls on the reins, the horse skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust, her sides heaving, her head hanging low. But Mark hardly notices, hardly cares. "I need Hilbert now! I need a doctor! He's been shot!"

All his attention, all his desperate focus, is on the man in his arms, on the precious, fading life he cradles against his chest.

"Help," he gasps, the word half sob, half demand. "Please. Someone help him."

Cowhands emerge from all directions, drawn by the commotion. They crowd around the exhausted horses, eyes widening as they take in Simon's blood-soaked form slumped against Mark's chest.

"Fuck, is that Teller?" one of the older cowboys murmurs, weather-beaten face creased with shock and concern. He reaches out, his hands gentle as he tries to ease Simon down from the saddle.

But Mark's grip only tightens, a strangled sound escaping his throat. He knows, logically, distantly, that they're trying to help, that they need to get Simon to the medical wagon. but a primal, terrified part of him rebels against the idea of letting go, of surrendering Simon to anyone else.

"Easy, son," another cowhand says, his voice low and soothing. "We've got him."

Slowly, gently, they pry Mark's fingers loose, untangling him from Simon with a careful but firm insistence. Mark feels like he's being torn in two, like they're ripping away a part of his very soul. But he forces himself to let go, to let them lift Simon from the saddle and carry him towards Hilbert's tent.

He stumbles after them, barely feeling the supportive hands on his shoulders, the murmured words of comfort and encouragement. 

The men move with a somber reverence, their usual boisterous chatter replaced by a heavy silence broken only by the scuff of boots on dirt and the labored rasp of Simon's breathing. There's a gentleness in their touch, a care in their steps, that speaks volumes. This is one of their own, a man they respect and admire, and seeing him brought so low by such unexpected violence hits them all hard.

The way they handle Simon, the soft murmurs of encouragement and the steady, supportive grip of their hands; there's an unspoken acknowledgement of the  realities of their lives. Each man knows, on a bone-deep level, that it could just as easily be him being borne towards a doctor, that the line between life and death out here is thin and fragile and so easily crossed.

So they treat Simon as they would hope to be treated, with a tenderness and a reverence that goes beyond mere respect. It's a silent promise, a covenant between them all - that no matter what happens, no matter who falls, they will be there for each other, will carry each other through.

They understand, too, the terror and desperation that's driving Mark. They've all faced loss out here, all known the gut-wrenching fear of watching a friend, a brother, a partner, bleeding out in front of them. So they don't try to pull Mark away, don't try to separate him from Simon.

Mark staggers along beside them, his hand tangled in Simon's shirt, his eyes never leaving Simon's face. He's barely aware of his surroundings.

Someone presses a canteen into his hand, urging him to drink, but Mark pushes it away. Water is the last thing on his mind, his entire being focused on Simon, on the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his pulse beneath his sweat-soaked skin.

As they near the tent, Hilbert emerges. His expression grave as he takes in the scene before him, keen eyes assessing the severity of the situation in an instant. He barks out orders, his voice sharp and authoritative, cutting through the haze of Mark's panic.

"Bring him in, quickly," Hilbert commands, stepping aside to allow the men to carry Simon into the wagon. As they disappear inside, he turns to Mark, his gaze intense, demanding answers. "What happened?"

Mark swallows hard, forcing the words past the constriction in his throat. "Bandits," he manages to croak out. "They came out of nowhere. Nine, ten of them; more maybe... out of the fog. Took the cattle. Simon... he tried to stop them. He saved me. Got shot." His voice breaks on the last word, the reality of it hitting him all over again, the horror and the fear threatening to overwhelm him.

Hilbert nods grimly, a flicker of something like sympathy crossing his usually stern features. He rests a hand briefly on Mark's shoulder, a fleeting gesture of support, of understanding. But then, in the space of a heartbeat, he's all business again.

He strides towards the tent, his voice cracking out like a whip across the camp.

"You," he points to an older cowboy hovering nearby, "tell Cookie to boil me a pot of water. And you," he gestures at a young, scared-looking cowhand, "find me clean towels and a bottle of whiskey."

Then he's gone, disappearing into the wagon, leaving Mark standing alone, his heart pounding, his hands shaking at his sides. Around him, the camp erupts into activity, men rushing to follow Hilbert's orders, a sense of urgency buzzing through the air.

But Mark can't focus on any of it and hesitates, frozen in his confusion and misery. 

A hand falls on his shoulder, startling him. It's one of the other cowboys, his face lined with concern.

"You alright there, son?" he asks, his voice gruff but kind. "That's a lot of blood. Maybe you oughta sit down for a spell."

Mark shakes his head, barely hearing the words. "I'm fine," he mumbles, his eyes never leaving the flap at the back of Hilbert's wagon. "I need to... I should be with him."

The man exchanges a glance with another cowboy, a silent communication passing between them.

"Alright," he says gently, soothing. "Alright. But you just holler if you need anything, you hear? Anything at all."

Mark nods, the gesture automatic, unconscious. He's already moving, the fear propelling him towards the wagon as if pulled by an invisible force.

He takes a step forward, then another, his feet carrying him forwards. Fear claws at the space behind his ribs, uncertainty churning in his gut. He doesn't know what awaits him inside, doesn't know if he even has the strength to face it.

Mark reaches the wagon, his hand shaking so badly he can barely grasp the flap. For a moment, he hesitates, the rough canvas beneath his fingertips feeling like the boundary between the world he knows and a nightmarish, unknowable future.

Steeling himself, he pushes through, blinking as his eyes struggle to adjust to the dim, flickering light inside. The air hits him like a physical blow, thick and heavy with the cloying, copper-bright scent of blood, the sour stench of sweat and vomit, the sharp, astringent bite of cheap whiskey. It's the smell of pain, of fear, of bodies pushed beyond their limits. It's a smell Mark knows he'll never forget, no matter how long he lives.

Hilbert stands hunched over a makeshift table, his back to Mark, bald head gleaming with sweat in the lamplight, the angles of his skull thrown into sharp relief. He doesn't look up as Mark enters, his attention focused on the array of instruments laid out before him.

They're a far cry from the clean, precise tools of a city doctor. These are cruder, more brutal — knives and saws and long, wicked-looking needles, some still stained with the blood and viscera of past patients. They look more like the tools of a butcher than a healer, and the sight of them makes Mark's stomach twist, bile rising in his throat.

But then his gaze is drawn inevitably to the figure on the table, and everything else fades away. Simon lies there, his body looking strangely small and vulnerable against the blood-soaked wood. His skin is ashen beneath the grime and gore, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps.

Hilbert takes a pair of shears, the blades flashing dully in the lamplight, and begins to cut away Simon's shirt. The once soft, faded blue fabric is now stiff and black with blood. As it falls away, it reveals the ruin beneath, and Mark feels his world tilt, his vision tunneling.

He catches himself on the edge of the cot, his fingers slipping in the blood, splinters biting into his palms. He wants to scream, to weep, to beg whatever gods might be listening to undo this, to wake him from this nightmare.

But he can't. He can only stand there, frozen and helpless, as Hilbert begins to lay out his tools, as the dim light glints off the blades and the needles, as Simon's blood drips slowly, inexorably, onto the floor below.

Mark can't fully reconcile the sight before him with his memories, with the Simon he knows and loves.

Just last night, he'd fallen asleep with his head on Simon's chest, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He'd traced his fingers over warm, freckled skin, connecting the dots of those little marks like he was mapping out constellations, learning the stars of Simon's body as they talked about nonsense. He'd followed the scars that marked Simon's skin, he'd lost himself in the warmth of him, the scent of him, the steady thump of his heart beneath his cheek.

They'd swapped stories from their childhoods, laughing at the antics that only the very young or very foolish could survive. Simon spoke of long summer days spent exploring the woods and fields around his family's farm, of the time he'd nearly given his mother a heart attack by bringing home a wild fox kit as a pet. Mark, in turn, shared tales of sneaking out of his family's grand Philadelphia home, of getting lost in the city's winding streets and discovering a whole world beyond the stifling confines of his father's expectations.

From there, they'd spun wild dreams for the future, painting pictures of a life together that seemed almost too good to be true. A little cabin in Oregon, with room to breathe and space to roam. A couple of good horses, strong and steady, a few head of cattle, maybe even a small orchard, to provide for their needs and keep them rooted to the land.

They'd talked of long, slow mornings tangled in each other's arms, of quiet evenings by a fireplace, trading stories and songs and soft, sweet kisses. Of a life built on hard work and simple pleasures.

And through it all, they'd touched and explored, hands roaming over scars and muscles, lips tracing the lines and angles of jaw and collarbone. Every caress, every kiss, was a promise, a vow, a wordless declaration.

When Simon had finally claimed Mark's mouth with his own, the kiss had been slow and deep and full of promise. It had felt like forever.

Now, that same body lies bare and vulnerable, ripped open by violence and heaving with each shallow, labored breath.

It's a nightmare. The coppery scent of blood, the wet, sucking sound of Simon's labored breathing, the bone-deep chill of dread in Mark's own veins... it all combines into a terrifying, visceral reality. But this is real. This is happening. Simon, his Simon, has been reduced to this broken, shuddering wreck.

The realization crashes over Mark like a frigid wave, the fear and despair flaring tenfold. He's going to lose him. After everything, after all they've been through, all they've fought for, he's going to lose Simon here, in this dirty, blood-soaked wagon. He's going to have to watch the light fade from those brilliant gray eyes, going to have to feel that strong, loving heart stutter and stop beneath his desperate, useless hands.

No. The denial rises in him, fierce and primal. No, he simply won't let that happen. He won't let Simon go, won't let death claim him. Not now, not when they've finally found each other. Simon is his, and he is Simon's, and no force is going to tear them apart.

"Get out." Hilbert's voice is low and gruff, his heavy brows drawn together in a scowl as he inspects a particularly menacing-looking blade.

"No." The word is out of Mark's mouth before he can think, his voice rough and choked.

Hilbert stiffens, his shoulders tensing under his sweat-stained shirt. He turns slowly, dark eyes glinting in the lamplight as they bore into Mark's.

"No?" he repeats, his tone low and dangerous. "What makes you think you can say 'no' to me?"

Mark swallows hard, his throat tight and dry. But he doesn't back down. He meets Hilbert's gaze head-on, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

"I am not leaving him," he rasps out, each word clear and clipped and heavy with resolve.

For a long moment, Hilbert simply stares at him, his expression inscrutable. Then, slowly, something shifts in his eyes, a flicker of understanding, of grudging respect. He sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is gruff but not unkind.

"Go find Boss," he says, turning back to his instruments. "Kepler will want to know what happened here."

But Mark doesn't move. He stands his ground, his eyes locked on Simon's pallid face, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. His time with Kepler flickers through his mind; a brief, dark shadow, memories of fear and pain and helplessness, but for once, that fear doesn't control him. For once, Kepler's hold on him pales in comparison to something else, something stronger, something more vital.

Simon. Lying there broken and bleeding, needing him.

In this moment, Kepler doesn't matter. The bandits don't matter. The lost cattle don't matter. Nothing matters but Simon, and Mark's desperate, all-consuming need to be there for him, to help him, to hold onto him with everything he has.

"Kepler can goddamn wait," he says, his voice raw with barely contained anguish but firm, brooking no arguments.

Hilbert raises an eyebrow. "Kepler does not 'wait' for young trail hand to decide is good time to see him," he replies, his tone stern. "If Kepler wants to see you, you go."

"I don't give a fuck what Kepler wants," Mark snaps, his gaze finally whipping to meet Hilbert's. "I ain't leaving Simon. Not like this."

"Have you ever seen bullet removed from man's gut?" Hilbert asks, his words harsh and uncompromising. "Is not pretty sight. Is not easy thing. Man screams, begs for mercy, for end to pain. And sometimes, despite all efforts, man dies anyway."

Mark feels like he's been punched in the stomach, the air rushing out of his lungs. He wants to vomit, to scream, to cry, but he swallows it all down, forcing himself to hold Hilbert's gaze.

Hilbert is already moving around the makeshift operating table, preparing his tools.

"I don't care," Mark says, his voice shaking but determined. "I'm not running away from this. Not from him."

Hilbert pauses, looking up at Mark. He studies him for a long moment, something like respect flickering in his eyes.

"Oh?" he says, sudden understanding dawning on his face. "...Oh. I see. Well then. Da. You can stay." He gestures to a chair near the head of the table. "Sit there. Out of my way, but close enough to assist if needed."

"Thank you," Mark manages, the words feeling inadequate as he moves to the indicated chair.

Hilbert shrugs, turning back to his preparations. "Will you hold him down if I tell you to? Even if he fights you? Even if he pleads with you to let him go, to make it stop?"

Mark feels a cold sweat break out on his skin, but he nods.

"Yes," he answers, the word feeling like broken glass in his throat.

"Even if he screams himself hoarse? Even if he calls you every foul name under sun? Tells you he hates you?" Hilbert presses, his eyes boring into Mark's.

"Will it help him? Will it give him a better chance?" Mark asks, dreading the answer but needing to know.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Hilbert admits with a grim set to his mouth. "But without surgery, he will surely die."

Mark draws in a shuddering breath, squaring his shoulders. "Then I'll do whatever I have to."

Hilbert grunts, something almost like begrudging approval in the sound.

"Is your choice," he says, moving to Simon's side. "But do not say I did not warn you."

Mark settles into the chair, his knuckles white as he grips the armrests. His heart races, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as he watches Hilbert prepare. The wagon flap opens, and two cowboys enter, bearing the items Hilbert had sent them for; a pot of steaming water, a stack of towels that could generously be described as clean-ish, and a bottle of whiskey.

Hilbert takes the items with a grunt of acknowledgment, setting them on a small table beside the operating bed. He unstoppers the whiskey, taking a long pull directly from the bottle before splashing some liberally over his hands and instruments. The sharp scent fills the tent, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the sour stench of sweat and fear.

"Is he awake?" Hilbert asks, not looking up from his grim task.

Before Mark can answer, Simon stirs on the bed, a low moan escaping his lips. His eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused, soft gray like a winter sky against his ashen skin.

"He is," Simon rasps, his voice thin and strained, "and has been listening to the two of you talk about him like he's already dead."

Mark starts, leaning forward to take Simon's hand in his. Simon's fingers are cold and clammy, but they grip Mark's with surprising strength.

"Hey, Kid," Simon manages, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You done good, but you don't want to be here for this."

Mark shakes his head vehemently, blinking back the tears that sting his eyes.

"You're gonna be okay, Simon," he insists, as much to convince himself as Simon. "You're gonna be just fine."

Simon's smile turns sad, his eyes clouding with pain and fear.

"Maybe not," he whispers. "I've seen bullets dug out of men before... I don't want you to see me like that."

Mark's heart clenches, a physical pain in his chest. He knows what Simon is trying to do, trying to protect him even now, even as he lies bleeding and broken. But Mark won't let him, won't leave him to face this alone.

"I ain't going nowhere," he says fiercely, gripping Simon's hand tighter. "I'm staying right here, with you. No matter what."

Simon looks at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Mark's face. Then, slowly, he nods.

"Damned fool," he murmurs, but there's a warmth in his voice, a depth of affection that belies the words.

"Yes, yes. This is all so very touching." Behind them, Hilbert clears his throat. "If you are quite finished," he says dryly, "I am ready to begin."

Mark takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He meets Simon's gaze, trying to pour all his love, all his strength, into that one look.

Simon just nods to Hilbert, a short, sharp jerk of his chin.

"Do it," he says, his voice hardly more than a whisper now.

Leaning over Simon, Hilbert's eyes narrow as he examines the wound. He takes a towel, dipping it in the steaming pot of boiled water, and begins to wipe away the caked and oozing blood. Simon hisses at the burning shock, his body tensing.

Hilbert ignores him, his fingers probing the edges of the wound, conjuring another sharp gasp of pain from Simon's lips.

"Hold him still," Hilbert directs at Mark, not looking up from his grim work. "I cannot see what I am doing on man who move."

Mark moves immediately, positioning himself at Simon's shoulders, using his weight to hold him steady against the cot. Simon reaches back, groping blindly until he finds Mark's arm, gripping it like a lifeline.

"Okay, Doc," Mark says, his voice strained but determined. "I got him."

Hilbert grunts in acknowledgment, his brow furrowed in concentration as he continues his examination.

"Bullet's still in there," he mutters, his tone grim. "Must come out, and soon."

He straightens up, reaching for the whiskey bottle again, taking another quick swig himself before holding it out to Simon.

"Here," he says, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Drink this. Good long drink."

Simon stares at the bottle, his eyes fever-bright and haunted. For a long, tense moment, he doesn't move, just stares at the amber liquid as if it might rear up and bite him.

Mark watches, hardly daring to breathe. He knows Simon's demons, knows the battle he's been fighting. He wants to tell him it's okay, that no one would blame him for needing the whiskey's numbing effects now. But he also knows it's not his choice to make.

With a sudden, jerky movement, Simon pushes the bottle away.

"No," he rasps, voice barely audible. "No whiskey. I ain't drinking no more."

Hilbert's eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across his weathered face. He looks at Simon for a long moment, something like respect kindling in his eyes.

"Noble. Stupid." he says, each word clipped and precise. "Teller, is no secret I do not like you. Is no secret you do not trust me. But be very assured- I am very good at job. Pain can be as damaging as the injury that causes it. Drink, do not drink; makes no difference to me, but you should know what you agree to. And time is short."

"Don't want it."

Hilbert just shakes his head, muttering under his breath in Russian, "Upryamyy kak osyol."

Simon just shakes his head again, jaw set in a stubborn line.

"Been trying to get sober," he grits out, leaving the rest unsaid.

Hilbert throws up his hands in a gesture of frustration. "Fine. Your choice." He sets the bottle aside, turning back to his instruments and picking up a wicked-looking knife from his tray, the metal gleaming dully in the lamplight. . "But do not say I did not warn you. This will be... unpleasant. Last chance to change mind."

"Rather die clear-headed than drunk again." Simon grits out, each word an effort.

"I'm here," Mark whispers, leaning close to Simon's ear. "I'm right here with you."

"I know," Simon murmurs, his voice thready and weak, but filled with a love so profound it makes Mark's heart ache. "I know you are, Kid."

His hand finds Mark's, his fingers cold and clammy, but still strong, still holding on.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" he whispers, a single tear slipping down his ashen cheek.

Mark shakes his head, blinking back his own tears. "Don't," he says, his voice cracking. "Don't you apologize. Don't you dare say goodbye."

"Again, is very sweet," Hilbert interjects, his tone dry but not unkind. "Is also wasting time. Would you like me to try and save life?"

Simon looks at Hilbert, then back at Mark. He nods, just once, his jaw tight with resolve. Then he turns his face back to Hilbert's.

"Do what you gotta do, Doc," he says, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. "I'm ready."

Mark takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to prepare himself for what's to come. His heart is pounding, his stomach twisting with dread and fear, but he knows he has to be strong now. For Simon. For both of them.

He moves to the head of the cot, positioning himself so that he can lean over and meet Simon's eyes. Gently, so gently, he slides his hands under Simon's shoulders, feeling the heat of the fever radiating off his skin, the tremors that wrack his weakened body.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice low and intense, meant only for Simon's ears. "I'm right here, darlin'. I'm not going anywhere."

Simon's eyes flutter open and shut, fading and glassy with pain and fever, that soft, stormy grey so achingly familiar. They lock onto Mark's, and in that gaze, Mark sees everything.

He sees a future, bright and beautiful, one that was achingly possible, and he knows, from the wistful longing in Simon's eyes, the bittersweet curve of his mouth, that he sees it too. That he's dreamed of it, in the secret corners of his heart, just as Mark has.

A dream that feels like it's slipping away, bleeding out onto this dirty cot in this makeshift medical wagon.

"Mark..." Simon's voice is a ragged whisper, barely audible over the pounding of Mark's own heart. "Mark, I want you to know... if I don't..."

"Shh." Mark leans down, resting his forehead against Simon's, heedless of the sweat and grime. "Don't try to talk. Just hold on to me, alright?"

Hilbert grunts, picking up a filthy leather strap.

"Bite on this," Hilbert instructs, placing the belt between Simon's teeth. "Will help."

Simon bites down, the muscles in his jaw bunching, his teeth grinding against the leather. Then he lies back, his body tense and braced, a sheen of sweat already glistening on his ashen skin.

Hilbert adjusts the small lantern, the flickering light casting grotesque shadows on the wagon's walls. It's a paltry amount of illumination, but it's enough to highlight the reality of Simon's wound, the slowly seeping blood, the ragged edges of torn flesh.

"Hold him down," Hilbert commands, his voice cold and clinical. "This will hurt."

Mark braces himself, braces Simon, his grip tightening until his knuckles turn white. And then Hilbert leans in, his knife glinting in the lamplight, and the real nightmare begins.

The moment the blade pierces Simon's flesh, his body goes rigid, a violent spasm that nearly throws Mark off. A muffled scream tears from Simon's throat, a sound of pure, primal agony that Mark feels in his very bones.

Blood wells, dark and viscous, as Hilbert cuts deeper, his face a mask of grim concentration. The wet, sucking noises of knife parting flesh, the grate of metal on bone, the slick, sickening squelch of blood... each sound is magnified, echoing in the wagon, drilling into Mark's ears, into his brain.

Simon writhes beneath him, his muscles straining against the restraints, against the white-hot agony searing through his body. His skin is slick with sweat, feverishly hot, as if the pain is burning him up from the inside.

"Hold him, goddamnit!" Hilbert barks, his voice sharp as the blade in his hand. "Keep him still!"

Mark throws his weight forward, fighting to keep Simon pinned, to keep him from thrashing and tearing the wound further.

"I've got you," he pants, his voice cracking with the strain, his own sweat stinging his eyes, his tears carving tracks through the grime on his face but he doesn't dare take his hands off Simon to wipe them away. "I've got you, Simon. Just hold on. Please, please hold on."

But Simon is beyond hearing, beyond any awareness but the white-hot agony consuming him. His eyes are wide and unseeing, his pupils barely pinpricks, as he convulses in Mark's hold. He writhes in agony, his body instinctively trying to escape the source of the pain, even as his mind retreats, fleeing to some distant place where the torment can't reach.

"The bullet's deep," Hilbert grunts, his brow furrowed in concentration, his hands slick with blood as his clumsy fingers root around inside of Simon's wound. "Lodged against the bone. I need to... ah, there it is."

He makes a sudden, twisting motion, and Simon's scream reaches a new pitch, animal and desperate, reverberating off the fabric of the wagon's makeshift walls, clawing at Mark's eardrums. The sound tears at his heart, at his very soul, and he feels hot tears streaming down his face, the salt of them bitter on his lips.

"Please," he whispers, a desperate prayer to any god that might be listening, his words barely audible over the pounding of his own heart, the rasp of Simon's breath. "Please, not like this."

Beneath his hands, Simon shudders, his body going suddenly, terrifyingly limp. For a moment, the tent is silent, the silence more deafening than any scream. Mark's heart stops, a yawning chasm of terror opening in his chest, a cold, sickening emptiness. But then he sees the shallow rise and fall of Simon's chest, feels the faint, thready pulse still beating at his throat.

Alive. He's still alive. Still fighting.

"Almost got it," Hilbert says, his voice tight with strain, his face gray with exhaustion. "Just a little more..."

And then, with a sickening, sucking pop, it's over. Hilbert straightens, holding up a blood-slick piece of metal, the dim light glinting off its wicked edges.

"The bullet," he says, dropping it into a tin bowl with a clank that seems to echo in the sudden stillness. "Now we close the wound, pray for no infection."

Mark hardly hears him. He leans down, pressing his forehead to Simon's, heedless of the blood and sweat.

"You did it," he whispers, his voice raw with emotion.

Simon doesn't respond, his eyes closed, his body limp and drained. But he's breathing, his heart is beating, and for right now, for this moment, that's enough.

As Hilbert begins to stitch the gaping wound closed, Simon's body stays slack, the pain and blood loss finally dragging him down into the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness. His hand goes limp in Mark's, his head lolling to the side, his face pale and still as death.

For a moment, another surge of panic rushes through Mark, cold and sharp, but then he can still see the rise and fall of Simon's chest, can still feel his steady, if weak pulse under his fingers. He's alive. Broken, battered, but alive.

It has to be enough.

Mark watches, numb and exhausted, as Hilbert works, his needle flashing in and out of Simon's flesh, drawing the ragged edges of the wound together. The stitches are neat, precise, but they look so fragile, so inadequate against the ruin of Simon's side.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Hilbert ties off the last stitch and straightens, his face drawn and weary.

"All I can do," he says, wiping his hands on a bloody rag.

Mark nods, barely hearing him. His eyes are fixed on Simon's face, on the pallor of his skin, the dark circles beneath his closed eyes.

Almost without thinking, he reaches for a clean cloth, dipping it into the basin of hot water near the cot. Gently, tenderly, he begins to wipe away the blood from Simon's chest, his hands shaking but his touch soft and reverent.

It feels important, this small act of cleansing, of care. As if by washing away the evidence of the violence, the trauma, he can somehow make it less real, less permanent. As if by tending to Simon's body with love and gentleness, he can call his spirit back, can tie him more firmly to this world.

Mark looks up at Hilbert, feeling lost, adrift.

"What else can I...?" His voice cracks, the question hanging unfinished in the air.

Hilbert regards him for a long moment, something almost like sympathy in his usually stern gaze.

"All you can do for now, too." he says. "Go. Get food, rest. He will be here. We will see."

Mark shakes his head, a fierce, instinctive denial. The very thought of leaving Simon in this moment is anathema, a physical pain in his chest.

"I can't," he whispers. "I can't leave him."

Sighing, Hilbert runs a hand over his face. "Vy ne mozhete nalit' iz pustogo v porozhnee," he says, his mother tongue coming to mind first.

"What?" Mark asks, confusion momentarily overriding his anguish.

"You cannot pour from empty into empty. You are no good to him dead yourself," Hilbert says bluntly. "He will need you strong, when he wakes. If he wakes."

The words hit Mark like a blow, driving the air from his lungs. If. If he wakes. That possibility, the terrible, unthinkable possibility, hangs in the air between them.

But no. No, he won't accept that. He can't. Simon will wake up. He has to. Any other outcome is too unbearable, utterly unimaginable.

Slowly, feeling like he's moving through water, through some thick, clinging nightmare, Mark rises to his feet. He leans down, pressing a gentle, reverent kiss to Simon's forehead, not caring what Hilbert sees, what he thinks.

"I'll be back," he whispers, the words a vow. "I'll be right back, darlin'. You just rest now."

With a last, lingering look, he turns and stumbles outside, into the cool, clear night. The stars are bright overhead; cold and distant, and all Mark can do is wait. Hope. Pray.

He takes a shuddering breath, tilting his head back to look at the sky. His eyes automatically seeking out the constellations Simon has shown him, the ones they've traced together on countless nights, huddled close beneath the vast expanse of the heavens. Those bright, faraway pinpricks of light have always filled him with wonder, with a sense of possibility, of a future stretching out before them.

Now, they seem to mock him, distant and unreachable, like the life he fears is slipping away from him.

He feels empty and hollow, all his insides scooped out and scattered to the winds. Even the fear that had consumed him, that had driven him to ride like the devil himself was on his heels, has receded, leaving behind only a numb, aching void.

He looks down at his hands, at the blood still streaking them, caked under his nails, stiffening his clothes. Simon's blood. The physical proof of how close he came to losing everything, of how fragile and fleeting life is.

Distantly, he wonders when the guilt will wash over him, when the reality of what he's done will sink in. He killed a man today, ended a life with his own hands. He knows he should feel something, remorse or regret or even grim satisfaction.

But there's nothing. Just a blank, yawning emptiness where his emotions used to be.

Maybe it's the shock, the exhaustion, the sheer, overwhelming toll of the last few hours. Or maybe it's something deeper, something fundamental that's shifted inside him, a line that's been crossed and can never be uncrossed.

He doesn't know. He can't think, can't process, can't do anything but stand there, staring up at the stars, waiting for a sign, for an answer, for anything that might tell him that Simon will be alright, that they'll be alright.

"Teller ever tell you about all the other times he nearly died?"

The voice startles Mark, and he whirls around, instinctively reaching for a gun that isn't there. He sees an older cowboy, weathered and grizzled, leaning against the wagon smoking. It takes a moment for recognition to set in.

"What?" Mark asks, his voice hoarse.

The cowboy pushes off from the wagon, ambling closer.

"Simon Teller is either the bravest, the luckiest or the stupidest sonofabitch out on these plains. Maybe all three." he says, his tone almost conversational. "I personally have been witness to him being on the brink of death no fewer than six times."

Mark stares at him, shock and disbelief warring on his face. "What?!"

The cowboy takes a long drag on his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the darkness. "I've seen that man face down a stampeding herd, standing his ground like a damn fool while a thousand head of cattle bore down on him. Somehow, he managed to turn 'em, but not before getting trampled half to hell. Broke damn near every rib, but he was back in the saddle within a week, wrapped up and wincing."

He shakes his head, a rueful chuckle escaping his lips, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. "I've seen him thrown by more horses than I can count. The fact he's not been gored to death by an angry bull is a minor miracle. We've fished him out of rivers, rescued him from behind firebreaks, he's been dragged, rolled and kicked by cattle and horses alike. One winter, he broke through the ice on Miller's pond doing some fool thing or another."

Recognition finally clicks into place. "You're... Hawkins, right?" Mark asks,

"Ayuh," Hawkins confirms with a nod.

Mark frowns, confusion and wariness creeping into his exhaustion. "And you're telling me this because...?"

Hawkins shrugs, but there's a glint of something in his eye, something knowing. "Because I don't know if he's pissed off God or the Devil or both, but neither seems to want him. Man should be dead eight ways to Sunday."

He fixes Mark with a steady gaze, his eyes glinting with something like approval. "All I'm saying is, don't count him out just yet. If the Reaper himself couldn't take him, I doubt some two-bit bandit's gonna be the one to do it."

Mark feels something loosen in his chest, a tiny spark of hope kindling amidst the fear and the dread.

"Thank you," he says softly, and he means it.

"Ayuh," Hawkins says again, and there's a wealth of understanding in that single word. He reaches out, clapping a hand on Mark's shoulder, the gesture rough but comforting. "And you don't have to be a stranger 'round the main fire," he says, his tone casual but his meaning clear. "Especially now, with Teller all laid up. Boys could do with a friendly face, someone new to swap stories with." He pauses, his eyes meeting Mark's, conveying a message his words only hint at. "I know you two have been keeping to yourselves, and ain't nobody blames you for that. But you don't have to shoulder this alone, y'hear? We're all here for you. For both of you."

The flush creeps further up Mark's neck, a mixture of embarrassment and appreciation. He knows what Hawkins is offering, what he's acknowledging without saying outright.

"I... I'll try," he manages, his voice rough. "Thank you."

He claps a hand on Mark's shoulder, the gesture brief but comforting. "Get some rest, son. Go see Cookie, get some food. Tell him Hawkins said you get extra if you want it tonight. Teller's gonna need you strong when he wakes up."

Mark nods, feeling a surge of immeasurable gratitude for the older cowboy's kindness. It's a reminder that he's not alone in this, that there are others who care about Simon, who are rooting for him to pull through.

"I'm gonna be there," he says, his voice rough. Then a thought occurs to him, and he blanches. "Oh, shit. The horses... I rode so hard to get here. I didn't even think..."

Hawkins waves a hand, cutting him off. "We already took care of them girls, son. The moment you came tearing in here, we knew something was wrong. We could see how lathered and exhausted they were, how hard you must've pushed them."

He takes a drag on his cigarette, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Soon as we got Teller settled, me and the boys, we set to work. Rubbed 'em down real good, curried 'em till they shone. All of us kicked in what oats we still had, and Cookie even found a few wrinkled up apples in the back of the chuck wagon."

A slow grin spreads across his weathered face. "Right now, those are the most spoiled horses on the plains. They're resting easy, being tended to like little princesses."

Mark feels a lump in his throat, a rush of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. "Thank you," he manages, the words feeling inadequate. "I should've... I didn't even think..."

Hawkins just shakes his head. "Ain't nothing to thank us for." He leans forward, his expression turning serious. "Few years back, we were driving a herd through a particularly nasty stretch of terrain. Flash flood hit, middle of the night. Chaos. Absolute pandemonium. Cattle scattering, men thrown from their horses, gear swept away."

Mark feels a chill run down his spine, his grip tightening on the edge of the wagon.

"In the middle of all that, one of the younger cowhands got caught in the current, swept downstream. Most of us were just trying to stay alive, stay on our feet. But not Teller. He just threw himself into that raging water. Fought his way to the kid, grabbed hold of him. Managed to get them both to the bank, God only knows how." He shakes his head, a mixture of exasperation and grudging respect in his weathered features. "That's the thing about Teller. He don't leave a man behind. Don't matter the odds, don't matter the risk. We take care of our own out here. And Simon, he's one of ours. And so are you now. Remember that."

Something loosens in Mark's chest as he listens, a tiny easing of the knot of fear and dread that's been lodged there since he saw Simon fall. Hawkins' stories, are enough to kindle a spark of hope in the darkness.

As Mark leans back against the wagon, breathing deeply, Hawkins pulls out a pouch of tobacco and a packet of rolling papers, his weathered hands moving with the easy skill of long practice as he begins to roll another cigarette.

Mark watches, fascinated despite himself. There's something soothing about watching the deft, precise movements. A sense of normality, of continuity, in the midst of the chaos.

Almost without realizing it, he finds himself craving that same comfort, that same steadying rhythm.

"Hey," he says, his voice still rough with unshed tears, "you don't think I could get one of those, do you?"

Hawkins looks up, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. Then he chuckles, a low, raspy sound that holds no judgment, only understanding.

"'Pose you could, ayuh," he says, already reaching for another paper. "Reckon you've earned it, and then some."

He pulls out another paper and a pinch of tobacco, rolling a second cigarette with the same fluid motions. When it's done, he hands it to Mark, then produces a match, striking it off the heel of his boot in a single, practiced motion. He holds the flame steady as Mark leans in, puffing until the end of the cigarette glows red.

Mark takes a deep drag, the smoke filling his lungs. He's not much of a smoker, only indulging when he needs something to occupy his hands and quiet his mind and right now he could use both.

He exhales, watching the smoke dissipate into the night air, and tries to make sense of the day, to find some order in it all... it all swirls in his head, a maelstrom that threatens to overwhelm him.

But out here, in the stillness of the night, with the solid presence of Hawkins beside him and the comforting ritual of the cigarette, he feels a slight easing of the tension, a small measure of calm amidst the storm.

It's all too much to think about right now, so Mark just keeps smoking, letting the familiar vice soothe his frayed nerves. For a moment it is enough. Enough to just breathe the smoke deeply into his lungs and let the faint tobacco buzz fill up all the empty space in his head.

He's just taking another deep drag when a young cowhand comes running up, flagging his attention. Mark vaguely recognizes him, a kid barely old enough to shave.

"You're the one what rode in with that dead fella, ain't ya?" the kid asks, his tone almost excited, as if he's discussing some grand adventure rather than a man's life hanging by a thread. "Heard he was gut-shot somethin' fierce. Reckon he won't make it through the night."

Mark feels a surge of anger, hot and sharp, rising up to burn away the numbness. "He ain't dead," he snaps, his voice harsh with barely contained fury. "And he's gonna be just fine, you hear?"

The kid takes a step back, his eyes widening at the vehemence in Mark's tone. "Sure, mister," he says quickly, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Didn't mean nothin' by it. Just ain't never seen nobody shot up that bad before."

Mark takes a deep breath, struggling to rein in his temper. It's not the kid's fault, he reminds himself. He's young, green, probably never seen real violence before. He doesn't understand what it's like, watching the man you love bleed out in your arms.

"What do you want?" Mark asks, his voice still rough but no longer openly hostile.

The kid swallows, seeming to remember his original purpose. "Boss wants to see you," he says, a note of trepidation creeping into his voice. "In his tent. Told me to fetch you, quick as I could."

The words hit Mark like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs. Kepler. In the chaos and terror of the last few hours, he'd almost forgotten about the trail boss, the man who held so much power over him, over his future with the drive.

A chill runs down his spine, a sickening twist of dread and memory. He can almost feel Kepler's hands on him, the bruising grip, the searing touch. Can almost hear that low, mocking voice, whispering poison in his ear.

He thought he'd escaped that, thought he'd left it behind him, but now, with Simon's life in the balance, with the weight of Kepler's summons hanging over him... it feels like he's being dragged back, like all the progress he's made, all the healing, is being ripped away.

But he can't refuse. Can't risk drawing Kepler's ire, not now, not with so much at stake. Whatever the man wants, whatever cruel game he's playing... Mark will have to endure it. For Simon's sake, if nothing else.

"Tell him I'll be there shortly," Mark says, his voice steadier than he feels. "I need to check on Simon first."

The kid shifts uncomfortably. "Boss said right away. Said it weren't a request."

Of course he did. Mark looks back at the medical wagon, torn between his need to stay near Simon and the danger of defying Kepler. The trail boss could make things difficult for both of them if he wanted to, especially now. 

With Simon fighting for his life, Mark can't afford to take that risk.

"Fine," he says, the word bitter on his tongue. "Lead the way."

Mark takes a moment though, just a moment, to compose himself. He closes his eyes, picturing Simon's face, the warmth of his smile, the love in his eyes. Draws strength from that.

Then, with a last, longing glance toward the medical wagon, he turns and strides towards Kepler's tent, his heart heavy with dread but his spine straight with resolve.

He'll face this, like he's faced everything else. He'll weather Kepler.

And he'll come out the other side.

Chapter Text

The walk to Kepler's tent feels like a trip to the gallows. Every step carries Mark further from where he needs to be, at Simon's side. His boots drag through the prairie dust as the summons burns in his ears, the casual power of sending a proxy to fetch him like a wayward calf while he's still soaked in Simon's blood rankling someplace deep inside him.

The camp hushes as he passes, conversations dropping to whispers, eyes following his progress with a mixture of sympathy and gossipy, morbid curiosity. They all heard Simon's screams as Hilbert worked to remove the bullet, and saw Mark emerge hours later, shirt sodden and hands still stained with blood not his own.

Everything in Mark begs him to turn back, to simply ignore the summons and return to Simon's side. But Kepler's boy had left no room for misunderstanding—the trail boss wanted him immediately, and what Kepler wanted, Kepler usually got.

Kepler has raised his tent apart from the others, pitched on a small rise overlooking the camp.

Isolated. Deliberate.

Mark's fingers curl into fists as he approaches, nails biting into his palms. The pain keeps him present, keeps the memories from drowning him completely. He pauses, drawing in a deep breath before reaching for the flap. Inside waits the man who once possessed him completely; while outside, across the camp, the man who truly holds his heart fights alone for his life.

The tent is a calculated display of status that has no place on the trail. A small rug covers part of the packed earth floor, the wool clearly too fine for practical use. A proper chair instead of camp stools. Crystal decanters catching lamplight. An actual lantern with cut glass panels casting steady illumination instead of the flickering shadows the other men live by. Books with unmarred leather bindings. Each item an unnecessary reminder of the gulf between boss and worker—weight in the wagons that could have been medicine or food.

Mark fully steps in, and the scent hits him first—bespoke cologne and expensive scotch. The fragrance ambushes him, bypassing conscious thought and striking directly at the core of his memory. His stomach lurches, throat constricting as if the scent itself were a physical weight. For a moment, the years collapse into dust—he's sixteen again, pulse racing as Kepler's cologne-scented hand cups his cheek, thumb roughly tracing his lower lip before pressing insistently into his mouth, forcing submission with the casual confidence of someone who never questioned his right to take whatever he wanted. All while promising freedom from his father's house, promising the understanding no one else offered. The way that scent filled his lungs when Kepler's weight pinned him to the mattress, when his breath came hot against Mark's ear, whispering things that made him feel both special and small in the same heartbeat.

The same cologne that lingered on the sheets after brutal nights, that masked the metallic scent of blood from bites too hard and grips too tight. The same scent that clung to his own skin for days after Kepler deemed him worthy of attention, marking him as surely as the bruises hidden beneath his collar.

Kepler sits behind a folding desk, pouring amber liquid into a crystal tumbler that has no business being on a cattle drive. Despite Mark's entrance, he doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge him at all—just continues to pour with practiced precision, the liquid catching the lamplight as it flows. The silence stretches between them, a deliberate tactic Mark recognizes all too well. Kepler waits, making him stand there covered in Simon's blood, forcing him to speak first, to ask for permission to exist in this carefully constructed space.

The silence is just another form of control. Another test. Mark remembers how he once would have filled it desperately, scrambling for approval. Not anymore.

Six years ago, these small displays of refinement had impressed Mark deeply. He'd been so young, so desperate for approval that he'd mistaken this peacocking for sophistication. The crystal decanters, the leather-bound books, the imported tobacco—all of it had seemed like evidence of a superior mind, a cultured soul who could recognize Mark's worth when his own family couldn't.

Now he recognized it for what it was—a man desperate to convince himself and others of his importance, dragging the trappings of civilization where they didn't belong, like a child clutching a security blanket, pretending to be brave.

"You wanted to see me." Not a question. Mark remains standing, refusing the implied invitation to take the stool opposite the desk.

Only then does Kepler look up, satisfaction flickering briefly across his features at having forced Mark to break first. His eyes travel deliberately over Mark's appearance—the dried blood stiffening his shirt front, the rusty stains crusted under his fingernails, the spatters that reached as high as his neck. The corners of his mouth lift in that same predatory smile that had once made Mark's heart stutter, but now just fill him with a nameless sort of dread.

"Daniel," Kepler says, his voice rich as aged whiskey. "You look... road-worn." The deliberate understatement hangs in the air between them, a mockery of the life-and-death struggle Mark had just left behind.

Mark bristles at the name, even as part of him responds instinctively to the familiar tone. He hates how easily his body remembers, even while his mind recoils. Back then, Kepler had actually listened when he talked about poetry and philosophy, nodding along with what had seemed like genuine interest when Mark's own family had dismissed him. That attention had been so intoxicating for a young man whose opinions had never been taken seriously.

As much as he hates it, Mark can't deny the unwelcome flutter in his stomach, like a muscle memory of desire he thought he'd excised long ago. The sharp intelligence in those keen eyes. The focused attention that had once made him feel like the only person in the world. The elegant hands moving deliberately across the desk—hands that had both hurt and healed him, sometimes in the same night.

What he'd believed was passion had only been calculation, a game of seduction. What he'd thought was love had only been Kepler's thrill of conquest. Standing here now, Mark feels the dual pull of revulsion and unwanted deference—Kepler is still the trail boss, still the man who holds Simon's fate in his hands, and every instinct honed during those formative years with him, warns Mark to tread carefully, to bend without breaking completely.

"It's been a long day," Mark says finally, his tone consciously neutral, neither challenging nor submissive. A careful balance—the new Mark standing his ground while acknowledging the reality of power that could make or break Simon's chances of survival.

Kepler nods slowly, eyes never leaving Mark's face, reading every flicker of emotion there like leafing through a familiar book. He takes his time pouring himself another measure of scotch, and the crystal decanter makes an almost musical clink against the desk when he sets it down—a sound designed to draw attention to its value, to the fact that it costs more than most cowboys make in a month.

"So I have heard." Kepler's dismissive tone betrays no concern whatsoever for Simon's condition. "One of the men mentioned something about Teller getting himself shot." He waves his hand as if brushing away an insignificant insect. "Unfortunate timing. We're already behind schedule."

Mark's jaw tightens, a muscle pulsing along his temple. The casual disregard for Simon's life sinks like a poisoned stone in his stomach. He knows exactly what Kepler is doing—provoking him, trying to make him lose his careful composure, to reveal how much Simon means to him. To expose a weakness that can be exploited.

His fingernails dig deeper into his palms, the sharp pain grounding him. He swallows the rage rising in his throat, forcing his face to remain neutral despite the roaring in his ears. He won't give Kepler the satisfaction of seeing him react, won't let him use Simon as a weapon.

Kepler studies him for a long moment, disappointment flashing briefly across his features at Mark's restraint. When his calculated provocation fails, he shifts tactics abruptly.

"Mr. Jacobi. Sit."

The surname hits Mark like a physical blow, draining the color from his face as the tent suddenly tilts around him. His father's study flashes before his eyes—leather-bound books, hunting trophies, disappointment thick as cigar smoke—phantom sensations overwhelming him: silver cuff links heavy at his wrists, starched collars choking his throat, the crushing weight of generations of high minded Jacobi expectations pressing down on him. The taste of copper floods his mouth as he bites deeply into his tongue, shoulders curling inward involuntarily, all the carefully constructed walls between Mark Midland and Daniel Jacobi cracking with hairline fractures. Each breath becomes a conscious effort, his lungs constricting under the assault of that name—far, far worse than hearing "Daniel" in Kepler's honeyed voice.

This wasn't just about reclaiming the boy he'd been, but dragging him back to everything he'd fled.

Mark inhales deeply, deliberately uncurling his fingers from their defensive fists. With conscious effort, he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin, spine straightening inch by inch until he stands at his full height. He plants his feet wider, a cattleman's stance—solid, unmovable, rooted to the earth in a way the boy Kepler knew could never have been. His hands come to rest at his belt, thumbs hooked through the loops in the casual, confident posture he's watched Simon take a hundred times.

It's nothing like the stiff, formal posture his father had demanded, nothing like the submissive stance Kepler had once trained into him. In this moment, rather than let himself be cowed; Mark borrows Simon's quiet strength, wearing it like armor against the man who once stripped away everything that made him himself.

"Midland." The name comes out like a stone from a sling, hard and aimed to hurt. The first volley in what they both know will be a war of wills.

"What?" Kepler's eyebrow arches, his head tilting slightly—the precise, calculated gesture of a schoolmaster confronting an impertinent student. The affected confusion doesn't reach his eyes, which remain cold and assessing.

"It's Midland." The words scrape from Mark's throat, rougher than he intended. "My name is Mark Midland." Each syllable carries the weight of the identity he'd built, mile by painful mile, as he'd put distance between himself and everything Kepler and that name represented.

"Midland." Kepler rolls the name around his mouth like he's tasting the scotch, lips curling slightly at the edges. His fingers tap a slow rhythm on the desk—once, twice, three times. "Where'd you come up with that one?"

Heat rises along Mark's neck. "First town I stayed in once I finally got away from you." He hadn't meant to volunteer the information, but something in him burns to make Kepler understand the desperation, how he would have claimed any name, any identity to escape.

"I wondered where you had gotten off to. Texas." Kepler's voice remains casual, but his knuckles whiten slightly around his glass. He says it like discussing a missing pocket watch rather than a human being who had fled from him.

"Really? How long did it take you to start looking?" Mark leans forward, imperceptible to anyone who wasn't looking for it, but a clear signal to Kepler of his gaining confidence. The question hangs between them, challenging Kepler's carefully constructed narrative.

Kepler's smile falters for just a fraction of a second. He sets his glass down with a precision that betrays tension, the crystal meeting the desk with slightly more force than necessary.

"Damn near the moment you left, of course." His voice drops lower, intimate and threatening at once. "I know when my things go missing, Daniel."

Something cold slithers down Mark's spine at the word 'things,' but a flicker of triumph warms his chest as he catches the lie. Kepler's eyes dart away for just an instant—to the left, where his tells always were. Mark holds his gaze when it returns, unblinking.

"But you didn't come after me." Mark's voice is low, certain. The blood is pounding in his ears now, anger building like a summer storm. "You knew I was gone, but you didn't chase me."

Kepler's expression shifts, the controlled mask slipping to reveal something uglier beneath. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the smooth skin. "I didn't need to." The words come out sharper than before, his control fraying at the edges.

Mark's eyes narrow. "You thought I'd come back on my own, didn't you?"

"Exactly Why would I waste my time?" Kepler leans back, regaining some composure. "I assumed you'd come to your senses eventually. Come crawling back when you realized what you'd given up." A cruel smile plays on his lips. "And then when you didn't, well... there are always eager young men looking for opportunity. More grateful ones, too." He gestures vaguely toward the camp. "As you've noticed."

The implication lands like a punch to the gut, confirming Mark's suspicions about the bruised young cowboy. Something shifts in Mark's chest—a lock breaking, a chain falling away. His breath comes easier, shoulders straightening just a little further. The phantom grip of Kepler's hands on his soul loosens another notch. All those nights he'd lain awake, terrified Kepler would find him, drag him back—they dissolved like morning mist. Kepler had known he was gone but hadn't cared enough to give chase. He hadn't been special enough to pursue. He'd just been... there. Replaceable. The next in a line. The realization sits strangely in his stomach, bitter yet freeing.

"I didn't come back because there was nothing to come back for," Mark says, finding strength in the truth of it. "Nothing real, anyway."

Kepler's expression flickers, another hairline fracture in his composure. His eyes harden, not with anger but with something more possessive.

"Nothing real?" he repeats, voice dangerously soft. "Is that what you've been telling yourself? That what we had wasn't real?" He leans forward, something darkening in his gaze. "You can lie to yourself all you want, Daniel, but we both know the truth."

Mark holds his ground despite the churning in his stomach. "The truth is you replaced me the minute I was gone. Found someone younger, more pliable."

Kepler's jaw tightens at the accusation. Without another word, he pushes away from the desk and walks to a wooden trunk beside his cot, retrieving a brass framed daguerreotype from inside. The deliberate movement carries a weight of purpose that makes Mark's skin prickle with unease.

"You misunderstand," he says, studying the photograph with unsettling intensity. "We were never concluded. Not by a long shot." He tosses the picture onto the desk between them.

Mark refuses to look down at first, but his curiosity eventually betrays him. It is a picture of himself—shockingly, painfully young, with rounded cheeks and eyes too large for his face. The boy in the image is almost a stranger to him now, soft in all the places life had since hardened, hair longer, eyes empty—standing stiffly beside one of Kepler's horses. The stark evidence of his youth hits Mark like a physical blow. Sixteen. Christ, he'd been barely sixteen—a child trying to play at being a man.

He remembers that day clearly. Kepler had insisted, arranged for the photographer, told him precisely how to stand. Despite the long seconds of required stillness, Mark hadn't been able to arrange his features into anything but what he was: a sad, haunted boy trying desperately to please the person he thought he loved. The sight of his former self curdles something in him—disgust, not at himself but at the man who had seen this child and wanted to possess him, control him, shape him.

The photo isn't faded or worn. It looks polished, preserved—like something taken out and examined regularly. The realization sends a chill down Mark's spine. Others might have come after him, but Kepler has kept this memento close, a token of unfinished business. Not a cherished memory but a marker of stolen property, a ledger entry that remains unsettled.

"You've changed," Kepler observes, returning to his chair. "Harder now. Leaner." His eyes sweep over Mark with clinical detachment, then shift, becoming something hungrier. "Looks real fine on you, Daniel." His tongue darts briefly across his lower lip, the gesture both purposeful and predatory. "Like you've finally grown into what I always saw you could be. What I made you."

The words fall between them, weighted with possession. Mark's mouth goes dry as the truth crystallizes for him. The photograph, preserved and pristine. The way Kepler's fingers touched its edge with familiar intimacy. The hunger in his eyes that isn't just lust but something darker—the look of a collector spotting a prized piece that had so far escaped his cabinet.

Mark takes an involuntary half-step back, his spine hitting the tent pole with a jolt that sends memories flooding through him. His lungs constrict, the scent of Kepler's cologne suddenly overwhelming. The tent walls seem to shrink inward, and for a moment he's sixteen again, trapped in Kepler's room, the older man circling him, evaluating him like a prize stallion.

His hands tremble at his sides. Six years of running, new calluses from rope and reins, six years of picking up the fragments and putting himself back together, finding a cold comfort in his hard-won strength, and still his body betrays him with this weakness. Kepler knows exactly which nerves to press, which old wounds to reopen. The man mapped every vulnerability in Mark's soul years ago, and despite all the time and distance, those maps remain eerily accurate.

"You don't get to say that to me." His voice comes out thinner than he intends, a betrayal of the boy he'd been rather than the man he's become. He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing visibly, hating himself for the unmistakable crack in his armor.

"No?" Kepler's eyebrow raises, a gesture Mark had once found endearing. Now it just looks avaricious. "I've always had the right to speak the truth about what's mine, Daniel."

"I'm not yours. I never was. And if you summoned me just to reminisce about old times, I need to get back to Simon. He's—" Mark stops himself, realizing too late he's revealed so much more than he intended.

Kepler's eyes narrow, catching the slip like a predator spotting movement in the brush.

"You seem awfully concerned about Simon Teller." He tilts his head, studying Mark with calculated interest, a new calculation forming behind his eyes. "A man willing to take a bullet for another... that suggests a certain kind of devotion, doesn't it?"

The mention of Simon's name in Kepler's mouth feels like a violation, like watching someone handle a precious heirloom with filthy hands. Mark's jaw tightens as he forces himself to breathe slowly through his nose, counting each inhale the way Simon had taught him when aiming his rifle—steady, measured, in control. Center yourself. Don't let him see his barbs find their targets.

"Fuck you, Warren. You don't know what you're talking about." The words come out raw and unfiltered—the voice of the cowboy he's become mingling with the wounded boy he'd been.

"Oh, Daniel." Kepler chuckles, reclaiming his scotch and swirling it in the glass. His smile twists into something uglier. "Let's not, shall we? Don't tell me you've gone and fallen for another man who just wants to use that pretty mouth of yours. What does Teller have you doing for him out there behind the herd? Same things you used to beg to do for me?"

Mark swallows hard, fighting to stay upright, to not rock back on his heels and give in the way he always had when Kepler used that condescending tone. He's spent so long untangling himself from Kepler's web, separating the parts of himself that are truly his from the pieces Kepler had crafted, but now, with exhaustion and grief weighing on every bone in his body, Mark feels those old instincts surfacing—to placate, to agree, to vanish inside himself where it was safer, easier.

But he refuses to. Refuses to be cowed and ground down by Kepler. Not with Simon's blood still caked under his nails, not when Simon lays in a wagon just a few steps away needing him.

Heat rises in Mark's chest, burning away the last traces of cold fear. Simon's face flashes through his mind—bloody, bruised, yet so gentle even in pain. The contrast between the man who loves him and the man who had only claimed to is stark as a lightning strike against the prairie sky.

Something shifts in Mark's stance—subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders square back up, chin lifting a fraction. The tremor in his hands stills as the thought of Simon's love settles over him like a balm; his laugh, his gentle teasing that never had vitriol behind it. All those nights around the campfire when Simon would bump their shoulders together and say "you're too smart for your own good, Kid" with a smile that made Mark feel seen and cherished.

With Simon, Mark had learned what it meant to be both vulnerable and respected—a combination he'd never thought possible. It was Simon's unwavering trust in him that had finally allowed Mark to trust in himself again.

When he speaks, his voice carries an edge of steel that wasn't there before, forged in the fire of all he's endured since leaving this man behind, tempered by the gentle strength of what he'd found with Simon.

"And what is that, sir ?" The honorific drips with such blatant contempt that it transforms into its opposite. His lips curve into a mirthless smile, no longer attempting to hide his disdain.

Kepler's fingers pause mid-swirl, the amber liquid in his glass catching the light. For the briefest moment, uncertainty flickers across his features—the look of a card player who suddenly realizes his opponent might be holding a better hand than expected.

"A cat can have kittens in the oven, but that don't make 'em biscuits." Kepler stands, his cultured accent slipping as he circles the desk, his refined façade cracking under the pressure of losing control. "And a soft-handed, rich boy, playing dress-up like you, can ride a horse and rope a bull and call himself a cowboy, but that don't make it true. You can let Teller fuck you in the dirt till kingdom come, but that don't make you anything but what you've always been – mine."

Wincing back, Mark's lip curls as the insult—one of Kepler's favorites—lands like a slap. But unlike before, it doesn't send him cowering. Instead, it fueled something dangerous, something reckless in him.

Kepler approaches, close enough now that Mark can smell the expensive scotch on his breath.

"Just Teller whispering those sweet nothings in your ear now?" He shrugs, a casual gesture made monstrous by its implications. "Funny thing about bullet wounds—so unpredictable. Infection sets in. Fever rises. Sometimes a man pulls through. Sometimes..." He pauses, voice softening ominously. "Sometimes the trail boss has to make hard decisions about who to leave behind when the drive moves on. Can't risk the whole herd for one man."

The threat hangs in the air between them, clear as a knife's edge glittering in sunlight. Mark's throat constricts, his breathing shallow as the full meaning settles in his chest. Kepler could—and would—leave Simon to die in some backwater town if it suited him.

"You know," Kepler continues, voice dropping to that intimate tone that once preceded his worst moments of cruelty, "things could be so much easier for you out here. For Teller too." His fingers brush against Mark's sleeve, then travel upward, tracing the line of his collar before coming to rest at the nape of his neck—a covetous touch that makes Mark's skin crawl beneath his shirt.

"Nobody needs to know about your... past indiscretions. Or your family name." Kepler's eyes sparkle in the lamplight, hungry and calculating. "Simon could get the best medical care. Wouldn't have to ride drag anymore either—both of you could have more... comfortable positions." His thumb presses against Mark's pulse point, feeling the stutter of his heartbeat. "All it would take is a little... arrangement. Like we had before. Just between us."

Mark's jaw tightens until his teeth ache. He remembers all too clearly before. Six years ago, when Kepler had first found him; young, terrified of his family, and desperate for someone who understood—he'd mistaken power for protection, manipulation for affection. He'd genuinely believed himself in love with the older man, had clung to what seemed like a lifeline when Kepler had shown him what it meant to be with another man in a world that condemned them both. How could he have known then what love truly was? How slowly the tendrils of control would wrap around him, how the gentle words would fade into cruelty once he was already ensnared? It had taken everything he had to break free, to believe for himself that he deserved something better.

"Say it plain, Warren." His voice is steady despite the churning in his gut, despite the vile touch still burning against his skin. "What exactly are you asking for?"

Kepler's smile widens. He steps closer, his grip on Mark's neck tightening slightly. Then, with slow deliberation, he brings his other hand up to straighten Mark's collar—both hands now on him, one at his throat and one at his chest, boxing him in completely. The gesture is simultaneously intimate and threatening, the physical embodiment of how Kepler has always operated: affection and danger inseparable, indistinguishable.

"I think you know exactly what I'm asking for, Daniel. Your... particular talents." His voice drops lower, breath hot against Mark's ear. "You always did know when to fall to your knees, when to submit so beautifully." His fingertips trace the line of Mark's jaw, each touch a claim staked. "In exchange for my discretion, of course. And Teller's continued... health."

His hands linger at Mark's throat and collar, a reminder of all the ways he'd once had power over him. Mark feels his pulse thundering beneath Kepler's fingers, hatred and revulsion building to a breaking point inside of him. Any other man would shrink away, would submit rather than risk what might happen next.

"Bold of you to make those sorts of threats, Warren." Mark's eyes narrow, voice dropping to match Kepler's intimate tone but laced with venom. "Especially when you're drinking scotch that costs more than most men's salary. What would your trail hands think, seeing you play at being a gentleman rancher by day and—" he gestures vaguely, contempt dripping from every word, "—whatever this is by night?"

Kepler's smile falters, his eyes hardening to flint. His fingers tighten fractionally around Mark's throat before he catches himself. "You forget yourself, Daniel."

"No," Mark says, his voice steadier than it has ever been in Kepler's presence. He doesn't flinch away from the pressure at his throat, doesn't lower his gaze. Something fundamental has shifted between them—the boy who once trembled under this man's touch is gone. "For the first time, I think I remember exactly who I am."

"And who exactly is that, Daniel?" Kepler's voice is dangerously soft.

"Mark Midland, one of your drag riders." He states it simply, the period at the end of a sentence six years in the writing.

Something shifts in Kepler's expression—calculation replacing desire. He steps back, retreating behind his desk like a general reassessing the battlefield.

"But only one of them," he says, dropping the seductive act entirely. "The other one's dying with a bullet in his gut." His fist comes down hard on the desk, making the crystal decanter jump. "You want to tell me exactly what the ever loving fuck happened? Why I've got to rearrange my drovers six weeks into a drive?"

The sudden shift catches Mark off guard. This is Kepler's other face—the businessman, cold and precise when his first approach fails. In some ways, more dangerous than the predator.

"He's not dying. He's going to pull through." Mark finds himself on the defensive, hating how easily Kepler can still manipulate the conversation.

"I don't give a single solitary fuck." Kepler's voice rises, his cultured accent abandoned entirely now, raw anger replacing the practiced seduction. "Not if that drunk lives or dies or or we leave him in the next two bit town we roll by or if he gets to go back to slipping you his cock in secret. I care that I'm down a goddamned drag rider and I'm missing thirty cows because of you two idiots and I'm losing more every godforsaken day we sit here not moving. Every day we're not moving is money lost. Money I have to account for. And what am I supposed to tell them in Chicago? That I let their cattle get stolen because my drag rider was too busy bending over for his partner to do his job?"

Mark recognizes the tactic—shifting blame, making him defend himself instead of standing his ground. The obscenities hurled about him and Simon weren't just vulgar; they were calculated to remind Mark how vulnerable they both are, how easily Kepler could destroy them with a few choice words to the right ears. He straightens his shoulders, refusing to be cowed.

"That's not what happened," he says, voice remarkably level despite the rage building behind his ribs. "And you know it."

"Then please, by all means." Kepler spreads his hands in mock invitation. "Explain it to me. And use small words since you seem to think I am an idiot, too."

Mark inhales slowly through his nose, letting the condescension wash over him without landing.

"The tornado separated us from the drive," Mark says evenly, taking a deliberate step forward rather than back. The movement is subtle but significant—prey doesn't approach predator. "We were bringing the strays back when the bandits hit us. Came out of the fog, like ghosts."

He rests his hands on Kepler's desk, leaning in slightly, invading the man's carefully constructed sanctuary. His blood-stained fingers leave faint rusty smudges on the polished wood—Simon's blood marking Kepler's pristine domain.

"So you lost my cattle," Kepler says flatly, eyes following the blood smears with distaste. "Thirty head gone."

"Simon took a bullet protecting your precious cattle. I know where they headed. I can find them. Their camp can't be more than a days' ride from here. Those cattle can still be recovered."

Kepler's expression shifts to open derision, a sneering laugh escaping him.

"Two men against a gang of cattle thieves? And I'm supposed to believe you miraculously escaped when Teller's bleeding out in my medical wagon?" He leans forward, voice dripping with disdain. "Let me make sure I understand this clearly—you want me to believe you not only survived an encounter that nearly killed a seasoned cowboy, but you also had time for reconnaissance? And now what—you expect me to send more men after your phantom bandits, chasing cattle that are probably halfway to Mexico by now?"

Mark holds his gaze, unflinching. Where once Kepler's scorn would have made him fold, now it only steels him.

"Mock all you want," he says, voice low and controlled. "But we did more than just 'get away.' While you've been sitting here in your little palace, drinking your fancy scotch, we took out half the gang." Mark's voice drops even lower, steady as a blade. "I shot the leader myself. Man named Wiley."

Kepler's hand freezes halfway to his glass. "The hell you did."

"I did." No embellishment, no defensive explanation. Just certainty.

"There is no way in the fucking world that you got the drop on John goddamned Wiley." Kepler's composure cracks completely, his voice rising with each word. "The U.S. fucking Marshals haven't been able to catch John Wiley!"

"Well, it'll be a lot easier for them now." Mark's lips curve into a grim smile, a hardness in his eyes Kepler has never seen before. "He's laying in a pool of his own blood about six miles back west with a bullet through his skull."

The silence that follows stretches between them, taut as a wire. Kepler stares at Mark, searching for the lie, for the bluff, finding neither. The revelation shifts something fundamental between them—the balance of power tilting imperceptibly but undeniably. The soft boy Kepler remembers wouldn't have had the nerve or the skill to even think about shooting another man, let alone a notorious outlaw. The realization that this Mark—this stranger wearing Daniel's face—might be capable of things Kepler never imagined ripples across his features like a stone dropped in still water.

Kepler's eyes really take in Mark's appearance for the first time since he'd entered the tent—the dried blood caking his shirt front, the tremor in his hands that he can't quite control, the thousand-yard stare of a man who'd killed one and carried another through miles of scrub land, expecting him to die with every step. For a brief, unguarded moment, something almost like fear flashes through Kepler's eyes.

"Look at you," Kepler says, his voice dripping with contempt to try and mask his unease. He forces a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "Covered in his blood like a grieving widow." He circles back around the desk, looming closer, trying to reclaim a measure of the physical dominance he's losing in the conversation. "One less troublemaker to deal with if he doesn't make it."

Mark's hands curl into fists, but he doesn't retreat an inch. The old Mark would have shrunk away, eyes downcast. But Simon's blood is still under his fingernails, Simon's labored breathing still echoing in his ears. This time, he's the one who steps forward, eliminating the space Kepler tried to create between them. The sudden advance forces Kepler to stop mid-stride, a momentary flash of surprise crossing his features.

"Simon will pull through." It isn't hope in Mark's voice—it's conviction, solid as bedrock.

Kepler's jaw tightens, unused to being countered. A vein pulses at his temple as he reassesses the man before him. This isn't proceeding as he'd expected. The realization that he can no longer simply intimidate Mark with his presence unbalances him, driving him to harsher tactics.

"I don't care if he does or doesn't." Kepler's face hardens, anger replacing calculation. His hands flex at his sides, a predator unsure whether to strike or retreat. The carefully maintained veneer of civilization slips further with each word. "What I care about is that I need every able body moving cattle tomorrow at first light. Including you."

Something in his tone makes it clear—this isn't just about the drive anymore. It's about breaking Mark's newfound resistance, about forcing him to choose between Simon and obedience. A test to see if the old patterns can be reestablished.

"I need to be with Simon when—" Mark begins, his voice steady but eyes flashing with a dangerous light that would have been unimaginable in the boy Kepler once knew.

"You need to do what I tell you to do." Kepler grabs Mark's arm, fingers digging into the same spot that had once carried bruises that lasted weeks. The gesture is desperate now, a man clutching at the last vestiges of control. "Or have you forgotten how this works?"

The touch sends a jolt through Mark's body—not fear this time, but rage, pure and clarifying. He looks down at Kepler's hand, then back up at his face.

"Take your hand off me." Each word comes out like a bullet.

Instead, Kepler's grip only tightens. "I thought I taught you better about obeying orders, Daniel." His voice drops to a whisper, meant for Mark's ears alone. "Don't you remember what happens to boys who don't listen?"

Mark holds Kepler's gaze, the moment stretching between them like a wire about to snap. Then, deliberately, he pulls his arm free.

"I'm not a boy anymore."

Kepler's face flushes with rage. He steps back, straightening his vest with sharp, jerky movements. "Fine. You want to play it that way? Let's see how the men react when I tell them we're losing time and money because Midland here is too busy crying over his special friend." The insinuation drips like poison from his tongue. "How long do you think you'll last on this drive once they know what you really are? What you two do together?"

"Go ahead," Mark interrupts, his voice steady. "Tell them whatever you want."

Kepler pauses, studying Mark with narrowed eyes. "Where's all this confidence coming from?"

"Same place yours does." Mark leans forward slightly, dropping his voice to match Kepler's conspiratorial tone. "Met the boy you're riding double with. He was sporting a pretty noticeable shiner." He watches Kepler's expression carefully, noting the momentary freeze in his features. "And yeah. The prairie is dangerous. Lotta ways to get hurt out here. But there are some bruises you don't get from cows. Fingerprint sized ones." His voice hardens. "How much you want to bet we could find some of those on that boy's hips? His thighs?"

The color drains from Kepler's face, replaced by something dark and dangerous. "The fuck are you saying to me?"

The shift is instantaneous—this is Kepler pushed to his limit, at his most dangerous, the man Mark had glimpsed only in his very worst moments six years ago. The man who could leave marks that took months to fade.

"You want to start throwing accusations around?" Mark continues, ice in his veins where fear used to be. "Go right ahead. But remember, I've got my own stories to tell."

"At least I don't take my pleasures with a man old enough to be my father," Kepler hisses, leaning in close enough that his breath hits Mark's face. "Teller's what—thirty-five? Pathetic you're still looking for a daddy who'll love you. He tell you you're a good boy when he's buried in you? Does he make you call him 'sir' like your dear old father never deserved?" His voice drops to a poisonous whisper.

Mark's teeth grind, a slow rasp he can hear, but he holds Kepler's gaze unflinching.

"And your boy? He's what, Warren—fifteen? Sixteen? Even younger than that?" Mark's lip curls in disgust. "You sure do have a type, don't ya?" He stands firm, refusing to be intimidated. "I may be ruined if you talk, but I'll make damn sure I'm not ruined alone. Far as I can tell, cattlemen don't much care what a man does in his private time, but they do care about scandal. They care about their good name being dragged through the mud."

Leaning closer, Mark's voice drops to match Kepler's venom. "And they especially care about risking their investment with a man who preys on children. That what gets your blood up, Warren? Knowing they can't fight back? Knowing they're too terrified to say no? I should've saved that bullet to put in you instead of Wiley." The last words are barely audible, but charged with genuine intent.

Kepler moves with unexpected speed, closing the last vestiges of distance between them. His hand darts out, not to grab this time, but to press a single finger against Mark's chest—a restrained violence more frightening than an outright blow.

"You're making a very dangerous mistake here, Daniel."

"It's Mark." He holds his ground, even as every instinct screams at him to retreat. "And I've made my peace with the consequences. Have you?"

He's struck a nerve—deeper than he anticipated. The momentary triumph of turning the tables is already fading, replaced by the realization that he's poked a bear that won't be easily contained. Kepler's eyes hold a promise of retribution that makes Mark's blood run cold despite his newfound courage.

A shout from outside the tent interrupts them. The tent flap opens, and Hawkins pokes his head in.

"Boss." His eyes flick between them, registering something in their stance. "Son." Hawkins nods at Mark, concern evident in the weathered lines of his face.

"Mr. Hawkins." Mark straightens slightly, grateful for the interruption.

"Hawkins." Kepler's voice shifts, all business now, as if Mark has suddenly ceased to exist, the genteel mask of civility slipping back in place over his anger. "We're rolling out tomorrow at first light."

"We are not." The statement falls between them, simple and unyielding as a stone.

"Excuse me?" Kepler's eyebrows rise, the challenge in his tone unmistakable.

Hawkins steps fully into the tent, his bulk filling the doorway. Unlike most of the men who cower under Kepler's gaze, he has twenty years and a thousand miles of trail dust behind him.

"Sir; I appreciate you ain't spent as much time out here as some of us," he says, his tone carefully measured, placating "but you don't just 'roll out' three thousand head of cattle and thirty men two days after a tornado like that. We're still countin' em. We got at least sixty head unaccounted for, not including what Mr. Midland here says was took by bandits. We're still checkin' em for injury—got at least a dozen with cuts that need watching for infection. We got horses to re-shoe, and the farrier ain't done near all of em yet. Cookie needs to make a full inventory of what we got and what we ain't."

Kepler's jaw works beneath his skin. "The Maxwell ranch is less than a week's ride. We were always scheduled for a resupply stop there anyway."

"And how are we supposed to adequately resupply if we ain't know what we actually got?" Hawkins doesn't raise his voice, doesn't need to. "We push these men and animals before they're ready, we risk losing more than just time."

"And how long exactly am I supposed to allot for you layabouts to do your fucking jobs?" Kepler's composure slips further, the confrontation with Mark having already frayed his nerves.

"We need another four, maybe five days." Hawkins crosses his arms, settling in like a man prepared to hold his ground till winter if necessary.

"Do it in three." Kepler snaps, a concession masked as an order.

"Sir, we got an injured man in Doc's wagon." Glancing back at Mark, there's something like apology in Hawkins' eyes for discussing Simon as a logistical matter. "Hilbert says he ain't fit to travel hard for at least that long."

"And he can ride along in that wagon like a Persian fucking princess if he isn't back in the saddle when we leave." Kepler's lip curls. "We can revisit his... employment when we get to Maxwell's ranch."

The threat hangs in the air, deliberately aimed at Mark while addressed to Hawkins. Mark's throat tightens, understanding the implication: Simon could be left behind at the ranch if he's not recovered enough. A convenient way to separate them.

"Mr. Hawkins," Mark interjects, voice steadier than he feels. "Was there... is there news about Simon?"

Hawkins turns to him, grateful for the chance to shift the conversation. "Ayuh. Doc says Teller's fever's spiking. He's worried he'll open some stitches if we don't get him sleeping harder. Needs to know where you're keeping the morphine."

"We don't have any," Kepler says flatly, still staring at Mark. His eyes never leave Mark's face, watching for the impact of his words.

Hawkins' weathered face creases with confusion. He plants his feet wider, shifting his weight as if preparing for resistance. Unlike most of the men who worked under Kepler, Hawkins no longer had the time, nor the patience for politicking.

"Kepler? Sir? We left Leadville with three bottles. Haven't had any significant injuries til this one either." Hawkins' tone suggests this isn't a question but a statement of fact.

Something calculating flickers in Kepler's eyes as he glances between Hawkins and Mark. The corner of his mouth twitches upward—the barest hint of cruel satisfaction at having found a new pressure point.

"I'm sorry. I misspoke." His tone makes it abundantly clear he isn't sorry at all. Each word deliberately chosen, precisely aimed. "Tell Hilbert we don't have any for Teller." He emphasizes the name while holding Mark's gaze, the message unmistakable: this is the price of defiance.

"You can't—" Hawkins stops himself, his mouth working beneath his beard.

"Can't what, Mr. Hawkins?" Kepler's voice is dangerously soft, the hush of a blade being drawn from its sheath. "Last I checked, I'm the one who pays for the supplies on this drive. I'm the one who decides how they're allocated."

"Supplies we need for the men," Hawkins counters.

"For the men, yes." Kepler leans forward, steepling his fingers. "But surely you wouldn't suggest giving powerful narcotics to a known drunkard like Teller? A man with his... proclivities?" His eyes flick meaningfully to Mark. "Who knows what additional vices he might develop. It would be irresponsible of me. I'm simply looking out for his well-being."

"This ain't about anything but basic humanity," Hawkins says, his voice flat but with an undercurrent of anger. "Any man suffering like that deserves relief if we got it, without conditions."

"Humanity," Kepler repeats, as if tasting an unfamiliar word. "Such a noble sentiment." He opens a desk drawer, rifling through its contents with theatrical slowness, drawing out the moment with sadistic precision.

From outside, a ragged moan tears through the night air—Simon's voice, raw with agony. The sound hangs like a physical presence. Rather than showing any concern, Kepler tilts his head, listening with something akin to appreciation in his eyes, like he's hearing a symphony played at a distance.

"You know," he says softly after the cry has faded, "I've found that pain can be quite educational." Kepler leans back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the arm. "Teaches a man his limits. His... thresholds." His eyes meet Mark's with deliberate intensity, glittering with cruel promise. "What do you imagine Teller's threshold is, Mark? What's yours?"

The question hangs between them—not just about physical pain, but about how much Mark will endure before breaking, before submitting. Every second Simon suffers is another weight on the scale, another turn of the screw. Kepler's message is clear; Simon's suffering will continue until Mark yields, and he can feel himself teetering on a precipice, the familiar pull of obedience tugging him forward even as everything he'd built since escaping Kepler begged him to step back.

Another scream rips through the night, this one weaker than before. Mark flinches visibly, his carefully constructed defiance cracking at the edges.

Hawkins clears his throat. "Sir, with respect, the man needs medicine."

"Does he?" Kepler tilts his head, feigning consideration. He glances toward the tent flap where Simon's moans filter through. "Strange how clearly you can hear him from here. Almost as if he's performing. Playing it up a bit, if you will."

"For God's sake—" Mark starts, then catches himself.

Kepler's eyes gleam with victory at the slip. "For God's sake, what, Mark? You have something to add?" He leans forward slightly. "Perhaps a request? I've always found you quite... persuasive when you really want something."

"Sir," Hawkins says, with forced patience, unaware of the undercurrents swirling between the two men. "The morphine."

"I'm looking, Mr. Hawkins." Kepler pulls out papers, a pocket watch, a small pistol—laying each item on the desk with methodical precision. "Organization has never been my strong suit." His eyes flick up to Mark's face, gauging his reaction, savoring the desperation he sees there.

Mark knows what Kepler is doing—stretching the moment, demonstrating his power, making it clear that Simon's suffering is entirely within his control. It is the same game he'd played years ago, but with higher stakes.

Simon's voice rises again in agony, trailing off into a sob that sounds like Mark's name. The sound cuts through him like a knife.

"Please," Mark whispers, the word forced from him against his will. His shoulders inch downward, the beginning of a compliance he can't help.

Kepler's eyes light up at the plea. "Please what, Daniel? You'll need to be more specific."

Mark's fingers curl into fists at his sides, letting nails reopen the crescents in his palms. Every muscle in his body tenses with the need to run back to the medical wagon, to do something, anything to ease that suffering.

"The medicine," he manages, jaw clenched so tight he can barely form the words.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're asking for," Kepler says, leaning back in his chair again and retrieving his drink as if he had all the time in the world stretching out in front of him. "Perhaps if you were clearer about what you're willing to offer in exchange?"

A particularly heart-wrenching cry from outside makes Mark's resolve crumble further. He can almost feel Simon's pain as his own, can picture him thrashing against the restraints Hilbert surely had to apply to keep him from tearing his stitches.

"If I..." Mark begins, his voice dropping so low Hawkins has to strain to hear him. "If I reconsider your offer from earlier, could you perhaps think you could find some morphine for him?"

Kepler freezes, the glass in his hand hovering halfway to his lips. For a brief moment, the mask slips—naked hunger racing across his features before the calculating veneer slides back into place. He sets the tumbler down with care, the soft clink of crystal on wood suddenly loud in the silent tent.

"You'd do that? For Teller?" His voice is almost gentle, the gentleness of a prison door shutting.

Mark's throat works as he swallows.

"I would. For him." The admission costs him visibly, each word like a small death.

"How touching." Kepler leans forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes never leave Mark's face, drinking in every flicker of conflict, every trace of shame. "And what exactly do you imagine you're offering me, Daniel? Your... company? Your subservience? Be specific."

The air in the tent grows thick with tension. Mark's eyes dart to Hawkins, then back to Kepler, shame burning his cheeks. Six years of hard-won dignity vanishing in an instant. He'd sworn never again, but Simon's pain still echoes in his ears, and he's found himself willing to make a deal with the devil himself if that's what is needed to stop it.

"Whatever," Mark whispers, defeat hollowing his voice. "Whatever it is. Whatever you want. I'll do it if you just give him that medicine."

"Your... reconsideration would be noted," Kepler continues carefully, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Victory gleams in his eyes, sharp and predatory. "Though I'm not sure what Mr. Hawkins thinks we're discussing."

He gestures toward the tent flap. "Perhaps you should wait outside, Hawkins, while Mr. Jacobi and I... finalize our terms." The dismissal is casual but firm, a man accustomed to being obeyed.

Hawkins doesn't move. His eyes shift between them, confusion giving way to dawning comprehension. The rigid set of his shoulders suggests he's piecing together the nature of the arrangement being negotiated. His weathered face hardens as understanding settles in, disgust and anger flashing in his eyes.

"I think I'll stay right here, sir," Hawkins says, the polite address barely masking his contempt. "Seeing as how this concerns the welfare of one of my men."

Kepler's jaw tightens at the insubordination. His eyes dart between Hawkins and Mark, calculations visibly shifting behind them. The power dynamic has changed again with Hawkins refusing to leave, and Kepler must adjust his approach.

"Well then," he says coldly, leaning back in his chair. "Since Mr. Hawkins insists on being present for our business discussion, let's be direct." He turns his attention fully to Mark. "Your desperation is quite revealing, Mr. Midland. I find myself curious about what exactly you're willing to sacrifice for Teller." His eyes flick up to Mark's, sharp as a razor. "Makes me wonder just how deep your concern for him truly runs. Daniel"

Mark stands motionless, hollowed out, a man who has sold himself to save another. The sacrifice etched in every line of his body.

Hawkins steps forward, positioning himself slightly between them. "This has gone far enough." His voice is quiet but carries the weight of decades on the trail, an unmovable object meeting Kepler's unstoppable force. "Either you have the medicine or you don't, but I won't stand here while you play games with a man's life."

The challenge hangs in the air between them. Kepler's eyes narrow, assessing the potential consequences of pushing further with a witness who clearly understands what's happening. The standoff stretches for several heartbeats before calculation replaces cruelty in his expression. There will be other opportunities with Mark, other moments without witnesses.

"Ah, look at that!" Kepler says finally, removing a small brown bottle from the very drawer he'd first opened. "Here's some morphine right here. Must have been misplaced."

He holds it out, not to Mark, but to Hawkins, a calculated move to demonstrate who controlled what happened next—who has the power to grant mercy or withhold it.

"Son, if you could walk this on over to the medical tent," Hawkins says, taking the bottle and pressing it into Mark's palm. His voice is gruff with barely contained anger. "Hilbert'll get him cared for." His eyes hold Mark's for a moment, the message clear—get out while you can.

"I think you can handle that, Hawkins," Kepler counters, his voice hardening. "Young Mr. Midland and I have business to discuss."

Mark's fingers close around the bottle, the glass warm. He hesitates, caught between the urgent need to get the medicine to Simon and the dread of what might happen if he leaves Hawkins alone to face Kepler's wrath.

"I don't think you do, Warren." Hawkins' use of Kepler's first name feels like a thrown gauntlet.

"I'm sorry?" Kepler's voice drops dangerously.

"Look, I'm fine with pretending I didn't hear what I heard tonight." Hawkins plants his feet wider, his weathered frame suddenly imposing despite Kepler's higher station. "I been riding these trails for twenty years, boss. Seen all kinds of men. Some take their cornbread savory and some take it sweet—that don't much surprise me, don't much bother me neither."

His eyes land briefly on Mark, a moment of quiet reassurance before returning to Kepler. "I know how to go along to get along. Always have. But I draw the line at watching a man suffer when we got medicine sitting right here in this tent. And I sure as hell ain't gonna stand by while you use that suffering as a bargaining chip."

"You don't know shit, Hawkins."

"I been out here for a long time, Kepler. I didn't fall off the turnip wagon last night." Hawkins' gaze was steady, unintimidated. "Go on, son," he added to Mark without looking away from Kepler. "That medicine ain't doing Teller any good sitting in your hand."

Mark glances between them, the tension crackling like lightning before a storm.

"And what exactly do you think you know, Mr. Hawkins?" Kepler asks, his voice silky with the threat.

"I know for a fucking fact that I've been out on these prairies since you were just a soft city boy in some high falutin' school." Hawkins takes a step forward, his shadow falling across Kepler's desk. "I know you waltzed into Leadville five years ago with company backing and not a goddamned bit of experience and then we all had to snap into formation for you. I know the other men are getting real tired of biting their tongues about how you treat them, about how you treat the greenhorns in your care."

His gaze flicks meaningfully to Mark, who stands frozen by the tent flap, then back to Kepler. The implication hangs unspoken between them.

"Careful, Hawkins." Kepler's hand drifts toward the desk drawer where he'd placed the pistol.

"Oh, I'm always careful." Hawkins' voice remains level. "Careful enough to write letters back to the company every month. Careful enough to keep track of every... irregularity on this drive. Careful enough to make sure those letters find their way even if something happens to me." He nods toward Mark. "Go on now, get that medicine to Teller. Mr. Kepler and I are just having a real friendly chat about trail management."

Mark hesitates only a moment longer before slipping through the tent flap, the morphine clutched in his hand like salvation. Behind him, he hears Hawkins continue, his voice carrying just enough for Mark to catch the words.

"Now let's talk about how things are gonna run from here on out, because I've seen just about enough of your kind of 'management' to last a lifetime..."

The first lungful of clean prairie air after the stifling, perfumed confines of Kepler's tent feels like a baptism. Mark's lungs expand fully for what seems like the first time in hours, the night breeze washing away the lingering scent of expensive cologne from his nostrils.

The weight on his chest doesn't disappear entirely—the memory of what he came within a whisper of agreeing to agreed to lingers like a bruise—but Simon's medicine is secure in his grip, and that's all that matters right now.

He all but runs across the encampment, boots kicking up dust in the darkness. The other drovers give him a wide berth, sensing something in his urgent stride. Their conversations drop to whispers as he passes, but Mark barely notices. His focus narrows to the medical wagon, its canvas sides glowing faintly from the lantern within.

Hilbert looks up sharply when Mark bursts through the flap, his lined face drawn with exhaustion.

"You have?" Hilbert asks, not bothering with pleasantries.

Mark nods, pressing the small brown bottle into the doctor's weathered hands.

"Kepler had it," he says, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Mark watches as the doctor uncaps the bottle with practiced hands, drawing the clear liquid into the glass barrel of a hypodermic. The metal needle catches the lantern light as Hilbert taps it to remove air bubbles.

Mark's eyes find Simon's on the makeshift cot. His face is flushed with fever, hair dark with sweat against his forehead. The bandages around his torso show spots of fresh blood where he's reopened his wounds thrashing in pain.

"Mark," Simon whispers as Hilbert approaches with the morphine, the single word carrying more meaning than any poetry Mark has ever read.

"I'm here," Mark answers, kneeling beside the cot and taking Simon's hand. "I'm right here."

As Hilbert administers the drugs, Mark feels Simon's fingers squeeze his own—weak but present, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Behind them, the camp continues its nighttime routines.

In Kepler's tent, a reckoning is taking place. But in this small, humble space that smells of blood and cheap alcohol and iodine rather than expensive cologne, Mark finds sanctuary—the only kind of holiness that matters in a world that has shown him so little mercy.

"Can I…Hilbert, can we have a moment?" Mark asks, not taking his eyes off Simon's face.

"Da. If you need." The doctor wipes his hands on a cloth, tucking the syringe away. "He will not be conscious long. Do not move him. Do not let him move."

"Yeah."

Hilbert slips out, the canvas flap falling closed behind him, leaving them alone in the lantern's warm glow.

"Hey," Mark says softly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of Simon's hand.

Simon's eyes open halfway, clouded with pain and morphine but searching until they find Mark's face. His lips curve into a faint smile.

"Hey yourself." The words come out slurred, barely above a whisper. "You look terrible."

Mark gives a surprised laugh, the sound catching in his throat. Even half-delirious, Simon can make him smile. "Look who's talking."

Simon's eyes drift closed momentarily, then open with effort. "Been lying here forever... wondering where you went." His fingers tighten weakly around Mark's. "Was starting...to think you'd found someone prettier."

"Impossible." Mark leans closer, lifting Simon's hand to press it against his cheek. "There isn't anyone prettier."

Simon's unfocused gaze sharpens slightly, struggling to surface from the warm morphine waters threatening to drag him under. There's a shadow across Mark's brow, a tightness around his eyes that speaks of more than just worry.

"Kid." Simon's eyes clear momentarily, fighting through the fog of medication. "You okay?"

Mark considers lying, but can't—not to Simon, not now. "No. But I will be."

"Kepler?" Simon asks, the name itself a question with many layers.

"Doesn't matter right now." Mark brushes damp hair from Simon's forehead, his touch lingering. "You're what matters."

"Want me to go kick his ass?" Simon's eyes drift slightly out of focus, then back again, the morphine making him both earnest and absurd.

"I do. Too bad Hilbert says you have to stay still." Mark's smile is gentle, protective.

Simon's face takes on a comically serious expression, his words slurring at the edges.

"Could shoot him, 'm a real good shot." His eyelids grow heavier as the medicine takes stronger hold. "For you. Would do anything for you."

Mark can't help the soft laugh that escapes him, affection welling up in his chest.

"I know you would." He adjusts the thin blanket over Simon, careful of his bandaged torso. "And I'd do the same for you. I'd do anything for you."

"Kid—" Simon's breathing grows more labored, each word clearly costing him. "If I don't—"

"Don't you dare." Mark's voice breaks. "Don't you dare say it."

"No. Listen to me." Simon fights to stay focused, to stay present long enough to say what he needs. "Not done with you yet, Midland. Not...by a long shot. Just saying...in case..." His other hand reaches up, trembling with effort, to touch Mark's cheek, to cradle Mark's face like it is the most precious thing in the world. "Promise me you'll keep going. All the way to Oregon."

Mark leans down, their foreheads touching. "Nothing's going to happen to you."

"Promise me anyway," Simon whispers, the words barely audible.

"I promise." Mark's voice is thick with emotion. "But you have to promise too. Promise you'll fight."

"Always do," Simon manages a faint smile. His fingers weakly curl around the nape of Mark's neck, drawing him closer. "One more thing..."

Their lips meet in the gentlest of kisses, brief and soft as a whisper. It carries everything they can't say aloud—fear, hope, devotion.

"Been wanting to do that all day," Simon murmurs as his eyes grow heavier. "Stay?" The word is barely a breath, a question loaded with need.

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away," Mark whispers, settling himself beside the cot, taking Simon's hands in his own.

A smile touches Simon's lips as he finally surrenders to the morphine. "Good."

Mark doesn't move, not when Simon's breathing evens out, not when the camp quiets around them, not when his own muscles cramp from holding the same position for too long. He simply watches, counting each rise and fall of Simon's chest. The single lantern burns low, casting long shadows across the wagon's canvas walls, but Mark's eyes never leave Simon's face.

Hours pass this way, Mark keeping his silent vigil. When Hilbert returns to check the bandages, he finds Mark in exactly the same position, still holding Simon's hands as if they are the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.

"You should go rest," the doctor murmurs.

Mark shakes his head once. A promise is a promise.

"You can stay a while longer," Hilbert concedes, checking Simon's bandages with practiced hands. "But before dawn, you must go. Otherwise questions that neither of you need."

Mark nods, understanding the unspoken warning. The camp has eyes, and not all of them kind. To be found here at first light would be bad in ways Mark couldn't fully conceive of right now, but that's still hours away, and until then, he won't break his word.

The fight with Kepler has changed something in him—hardened some parts, even as it has healed others.

But for tonight, in this moment of quiet communion, he holds on. Simon's hands remain warm in his, each steady breath a small victory. In a few hours, Mark will slip away in the darkness, return to his bedroll before the first cowboys stir. He'll pretend he hasn't spent the night keeping watch, and Simon will pretend he doesn't miss Mark's presence when he wakes.

It isn't perfect. It isn't enough. But for tonight, in this moment, it's all they have.

Chapter Text

Dawn breaks pale and reluctant over the eastern horizon, painting the scrub land in wan, washed out hues. The hollow ache in Mark's chest hasn't eased; if anything it's only intensified, a throbbing absence where there should be a roguish smile and warm gray eyes and strong, steady hands.

The moment replays behind his closed eyelids every time he tries to rest—Simon's face twisting in pain, a bloom of crimson across his shirt, the way his body listed sideways before Mark could reach him. That moment keeps stealing Mark's breath even now.

Mark hasn't truly slept—just dozed fitfully beside a dying campfire, his back against his saddle, hat tipped low over his eyes. The night has stretched endlessly, filled with half-formed dreams where he reaches for Simon but can't quite touch him.

It's strange how quickly a man can become essential, how the absence of Simon's steady breathing beside him leaves the night impossibly long and cold. They've only shared a bedroll for a handful of nights really, but Mark's body keeps searching for that new, already familiar warmth, the solid presence that should be there.

In the hazy fog between wakefulness and exhaustion, Mark's mind wanders. He thinks of Simon's hands—sure and steady whether holding reins tight against a spooked horse or cradling Mark's face in the privacy of darkness, calluses rough yet impossibly gentle. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, a quiet mischief sparking in their depths, like he’s sharing a secret only Mark’s privy to. The low rumble of his voice telling stories around the fire, each word rolling out like a river stone smoothed by time. The way Simon hums tunes under his breath while brushing down Mariposa, so soft Mark only catches it when the wind dies down. The faint scent of sage and tobacco that clings to his jacket, a comfort Mark hadn’t realized he’d memorized until it was gone. The quick, absent tap of his fingers against his thigh when he’s thinking, a rhythm Mark could pick out blind.

His thoughts drift to their last night together, the peace they had before the ambush; the way the fire caught in Simon's hair, limned his body in gold as he moved above Mark. How he'd leaned in with the confidence of a man who now knew how to make Mark come undone, and who still hungered to learn more. The weight of him; heavy and solid, a welcome anchor in the vast emptiness surrounding them.

He clings to how Simon whispered his name; like a prayer against his skin. In the safety of his drifting consciousness, Mark lets himself remember how completely he surrendered to Simon; something he'd sworn never to do again.

These are the things that snag in Mark’s chest now—tiny, ordinary threads woven into the fabric of their days together, fraying loose in Simon’s absence. The campfire feels too quiet without his low chuckle, the bedroll too wide without his solid frame pressed close. Mark misses the brush of Simon’s stubble when they’d steal a kiss, the steady rise and fall of his chest under his hand as they drifted off. He misses all the small pieces that make up the man Mark hadn’t ever wanted to need but now can’t imagine living without.

Mark hadn't intended to need anyone ever again, certainly not like this—with every fiber of his being. When he'd left Kepler, he'd done so determined to rely only on himself, to never again be vulnerable like that. After escaping, he'd sworn no one would ever have control like that over him again—not his family in Philadelphia, not any man on the trail, not even God himself. Yet here he is, his entire world narrowed to the rhythm of one man's labored breathing, to the stubborn beat of a heart that must, simply must, continue.

A horse snorts, sharp and deliberate, slicing the quiet and dragging him fully awake. Mark’s fingers twitch toward his rifle; gunfight instincts still jagged, but he would know that silhouette at a thousand paces.

Warren Kepler reins in, dust curling lazy around his boots as he swings down, shadow stretching long and cold over the fire. His hat sits low, eyes glinting like wet steel, that razor smile cutting deep—same as it did years back, when Mark was still Danny, still breakable. There's a young man, a boy really shuffling a step behind, a skinny colt in a too-big hat, clutching it tight, his shoulders hunched like he’s braced for a whip. The boy’s gaze flicks to Mark—quick, skittish—then drops, caught in Kepler’s orbit.

"Midland," Kepler calls as he walks over, his voice carrying that familiar mocking, commanding tone that only stirs a cold resentment in Mark.

"Kepler." Mark acknowledges flatly, not bothering to stand. Let the man come to him. "Thought we said everything that needed saying last night."

“Well, Danny-boy, that conversation is still far from over” Kepler purrs, voice a low, slick drawl, honey over a blade, sliding into every crack Mark’s tried to seal. He steps closer, boots scuffing slow, deliberate, stopping just beyond the fire’s reach—close enough Mark catches the whiskey tang, the expensive cologne, scents that threaten to drag him back again. “Seems your Simon’s still hangin’ on this fine morning. Fever’s a bitch, though—and I heard Hilbert’s got nothin’ left to ease it, does he? Poor bastard’s burnin’ up, and there ain't shit you can do about it.”

Mark’s jaw locks, teeth grinding as he meets Kepler’s stare—bloodshot but steady, a wall against the jab.

“He’s tougher than you think,” he says, voice rough, scraped raw from sleepless hours, but it holds—barely. “We don’t need you.”

Kepler’s chuckle slithers out, dark and knowing, a sound that once made Mark shrink. He crouches slow, elbows on his knees, firelight catching the cruel curve of his mouth. His fingers trace the dirt near Mark’s boot—not touching, just close enough to prickle old scars, to summon the ghost of hands that pinned him and broke him, back when he was too young to fight.

“Oh, Danny,” he murmurs, eyes boring in, peeling back skin. “Still the scared little shit who’d sob so sweet when I bent you—still clinging to that bravado like it’ll save you. But Simon’s dyin’, and you’re gonna have to watch it happen.”

The words land like a fist, precise and bruising, ripping open wounds Mark thought he’d stitched shut—nights together, Kepler’s voice in his ear, his grip a cage Mark couldn’t claw free of. His breath hitches, fists curling tight, nails biting into his palms, but he holds still—too drained, and too raw to lunge. Kepler’s grin sharpens, smug as sin, reading every flicker in Mark’s face like a book he wrote.

“Here’s my offer, boy,” he says, voice dropping to a hiss, intimate and vile. “Three nights, Danny— three nights in my tent, just like before. Three nights. That's all; three nights with me, and I cut you loose for good. Full severing, no strings. Plus, I’ll pull every drop of laudanum I’ve got stashed, hand it over, pretty as you please. Simon lives, gets to keep whisperin’ your name in the dark. Or…” He leans closer, whiskey breath hot and sour, eyes glinting with cruel delight. “You let him burn out, and I’ll still be here, watchin’ you break all over again. Tick-tock, darlin’—you never could say no to me.”

Rage boils, thick and bitter, choking Mark’s throat—shame and fury tangling with the memory of Simon’s steady hands, his quiet strength, everything Kepler is trying to steal. The offer’s a chain, glinting with Simon’s life at the end of it, and Kepler dangles it with the certainty of a man who’s cracked Mark open before, who thinks he still holds the reins. Mark’s voice trembles, low and lethal, spitting through clenched teeth.

“Go fuck yourself, Warren. I’m not that boy anymore.”

Kepler’s smile doesn’t waver, cold and sure, like he’s savoring the defiance, filing it away to crush later.

“Think it over, Danny-boy,” he says, rising slow, brushing dust from his knees with a lazy flick. “You’ll crawl back—you always did.” He nods at Nathan, voice snapping sharp. “This here’s Nathan. Yours for drag now.”

"Don't need a partner," Mark says flatly fury simmering beneath. "Already got one."

"Wasn't asking, Midland." Kepler's smile finally makes its way to his eyes, a cruel sort of pleasure in them. "The drive's shorthanded as is, and we are leaving this godforsaken stretch of prairie in three days. Boy's green, but he can take orders," Kepler continues, giving the kid a shake that's just shy of rough. "You need someone to help. Unless you think you can handle it alone?"

The challenge in Kepler's voice is clear. Suggesting he couldn't manage without Simon is a deliberate twist of the knife—another way to demonstrate power after Mark's rejection.

"I'll manage fine," Mark says, his voice measured despite the anger simmering beneath. "With or without help."

“Good. Then it’s with.” Kepler pivots to his horse, then snaps, “Nathan! Gear up.” His voice cracks like a whip, and the boy jolts, fumbling with his bedroll and saddlebags, nearly dropping them in his haste. Kepler watches with barely disguised contempt before turning back to Mark.

"Not keeping him for yourself?" Mark asks, the question deceptively casual despite the cold fury building behind it.

The boy flinches at the words, trying to disappear. Kepler’s hand clamps down on the boy’s thin shoulder, fingers digging in ‘til his knuckles blanch. The kid freezes, a statue under that grip.

"Drive comes first, Midland," Kepler says, his smile not reaching his eyes. "I can always send for him if I have a powerful need." He pauses, voice dropping so only Mark can hear. "Your choice who pays the price for your stubbornness. The boy's still... pliable. Breaking him in has been... educational."

The threat lands like a stone in Mark’s gut—raw, protective fire flaring where he’d once been helpless. Kepler’s dangling freedom and Simon’s life, but if Mark says no, Nathan’s the next lamb to slaughter. It’s meant to fracture him, to drag him back to that scared boy who’d bend. Instead, it ignites something fierce.

Mark rises, muscles screaming from hours of stillness, but his voice is steady, a line carved in rock.

“No, Warren. Boy’s on drag with me now. Stays with me.”

Something crackles between them—a silent clash of wills, heavy with years of scars and unspoken history. Kepler’s eyes narrow to slits, but Mark holds, unblinking.

“Awful protective over a stranger,” Kepler says, his voice a taunt as he shoves Nathan loose, sending the boy stumbling forward, arms flailing.

"Just setting things straight," Mark replies, his expression giving nothing away. "Drag's about as far from the boss as a man can get on this drive. Best he understands that from the start."

"Keep him, don’t—your mess now." Kepler sneers, voice a low growl, venom dripping. He swings into the saddle, horse snorting as he yanks the reins hard, and rides off, dust clotting the air thick and bitter, his shadow lingering like a stain. Nathan stands rooted, hat crushed in his hands, eyes darting between Mark and the fading figure—wary, waiting.

Mark exhales, shaky, Kepler’s words clawing at his skull—three nights, Simon’s life, a past he can’t outrun.

An uneasy quiet settles, pierced only by a meadowlark’s distant trill and Nathan’s nervous shifting, boots scuffing the dirt. The boy clutches his gear tight, eyes glued to the ground, braced for rejection—or worse. He doesn’t know why Kepler dumped him here, doesn’t trust the shift. Mark can feel it—the kid’s waiting for the cruelty he’s used to, the kind Kepler dishes out like breathing.

"You ain't gotta stand up for me like—" Nathan finally begins, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Kinda do," Mark cuts him off, not wanting to hear whatever thanks the boy thinks he owes him.

Nathan looks up then, confusion evident in his young face. "But Mr. Kepler, he'll—"

"Kepler ain't here right now," Mark says firmly. He turns away from the boy, uncomfortable with the naked gratitude and fear mingling in those eyes. Something about it mirrors too closely to what he once felt, and it sits wrong in his chest to be thanked just for doing what any decent person should.

Mark rubs a calloused hand over the stubble on his jaw, wincing at the grit in his eyes. Another wave of exhaustion threatens to overtake him as he sways slightly on his feet, the combination of no sleep and the confrontation with Kepler draining what little energy he had left.

“You hungry?” Mark asks, voice gravelly but gentler, forcing his spine to unwind as he nods toward the fire. Nathan blinks up at him, startled, like the question’s a foreign thing—or maybe it’s the softness under Mark’s rough edges that throws him. The boy hesitates, his fingers tightening around the brim of that too-big hat, crumpling it further, then gives a quick, shaky nod, barely meeting Mark’s eyes.

“I uh—yes, sir? I could eat. If… if there’s enough.”

“There’s enough,” Mark grunts, striking a match off his boot and coaxing the kindling to life. “And it’s Mark, not sir.”

Mark shifts, knees creaking from a night propped against his saddle, and leans toward the fire. He jabs at the embers with a stick, helping the fire along, the faint crackle filling the silence Kepler left behind. The man’s shadow still clings—whiskey and cologne and cruel promises—but Mark shoves it down, focuses on the kid instead. Nathan edges closer, steps halting and jerky, like a colt fresh off a rope, expecting a shout or a hand to snap him back. Mark knows that flinch too well—seen it in his own reflection, years back, when Kepler’s voice could still make him small.

“Sit,” he says, keeping his tone short but not sharp, and Nathan drops fast, folding his lanky frame into the dirt, knees pulled up tight, eyes fixed on the ground. The firelight catches the hollows of his face—sharp cheekbones, a yellowing bruise across his jaw—and Mark wonders how long the kid’s been under Kepler’s thumb, how deep those scars run.

He turns to his saddlebag, digging past a coiled rope and a half-empty canteen to pull out a battered skillet and a couple of eggs—meager rations, but they’ll do. He balances the skillet over the flames, cracks the eggs one-handed, the way Simon showed him back when the days were softer. The yolk hits the pan with a hiss, sizzling sharp against the quiet, and the memory cuts through—Simon’s grin over a quail nest they’d stumbled on, his low Like this, darlin while callused fingers guided Mark’s. It stings, sharp and sweet, but it steadies him too, a tether to the man he’s fighting for.

“He always like that with you?” Mark asks, voice low, almost lost in the fire’s sputter as he watches the eggs bubble. He doesn’t look up, keeps his hands busy, but he catches Nathan stiffen from the corner of his eye—fingers digging into that hat brim, shoulders hunching tighter, a faint tremor rippling through him. It’s the same twitch Mark saw when Kepler’s hand had clamped down on the kid’s arm, that shake just shy of rough, a warning dressed as control.

“Yessir,” Nathan mumbles, voice so soft it nearly drowns in the wind rustling the scrub. He swallows, eyes flicking up to Mark’s face then dropping fast, like he’s afraid of being caught looking. “Quick with a cuff if I’m slow—quicker if I talk back. Says I’ll learn or I’ll bleed. Mostly been learnin’ the hard way.” His words come halting, each one pulled out like it costs him, and Mark’s gut twists—too familiar, that cold, calculated edge of Kepler’s hand. He’s seen it, felt it, the way it leaves you counting your breaths, waiting for the next strike.

Mark nods, silent, and flips the eggs with a flick of the skillet, the edges crisping gold. His jaw tightens, but he keeps his face steady—Nathan doesn’t need his anger, not now. He slides the eggs onto dented tin plates, adds a  couple of hunks of hardtack from his pack, and hands one over.

“Eat,” he says, simple and firm, holding the plate out until Nathan takes it. The kid grabs it quick, like it might vanish if he hesitates, and shovels a bite in, chewing fast, his eyes darting to the food like he’s afraid it’s a trick. Mark’s seen that too—hunger laced with fear, a reflex Kepler’s beaten in deep.

He turns back to the fire, pulls the coffee pot from the coals—black, bitter, the way Simon always brewed it—and pours two cups, the steam curling up into the cool dawn air. He sets one by Nathan, the tin clinking soft against a rock, and mutters,

“Slow down. Nobody's taking it from you here.” Nathan pauses, egg halfway to his mouth, and blinks at the coffee, then at Mark. A flicker crosses his face—relief, maybe, or something close—and he nods, slowing his bites, letting his shoulders drop a fraction. The firelight dances over him, softening the sharp lines of his frame, and for a moment, he looks even younger than he ought to.

"This your first drive?" Mark asks, though he already knows the answer.

Nathan nods, looking down. "Yes sir— uh, Mark."

"Mine too," Mark admits, surprising himself with the confession. "Started six weeks ago."

"Really?" Nathan looks up, visibly startled. "But you seem like you been doing it for years."

Mark shrugs. "I didn't know a stirrup from a cinch when I signed on. First day, I tried to saddle my horse backward." The memory brings a faint smile. "Simon—Mr. Teller—he took the time to show me. Didn't laugh, didn't call me stupid. He called me stubborn, called me arrogant, which was fair- but never stupid.Then he showed me how, and expected me to remember next time. Never once raised a hand against me."

He meets Nathan's eyes directly. "That's how it's supposed to work. You show a man once, maybe twice, then he carries his weight. Not because you're cruel to him, not because he's scared of what happens if he fucks up, but because that's what men do for each other out here. Nobody survives alone."

Mark pauses, feeling a strange warmth spread through his chest as the words leave his mouth.

"We take care of our own," he adds with quiet conviction, the phrase feeling different now that he's the one saying it. Six weeks ago, he'd been the one hearing those words from Simon; just last night Hawkins had handed them to him along with a cigarette and now here he was, passing them along down the line. The circle of belonging it implied still felt new, but right somehow.

Nathan looks at him, something flickering in his eyes—a cautious recognition of what it might mean to be counted among our own after being treated as less for so long.

"Mr. Kepler always said I was too slow with everything anyway," Nathan offers hesitantly, as if testing whether his admission will shatter the fragile moment.

Mark snorts, the sound breaking the solemnity. "Well, Kepler ain't here, is he? And between you and me, that man couldn't saddle his own horse if his life depended on it. Just good at giving orders."

The moment that follows is fragile, the tentative beginning of an understanding. Nathan watches Mark warily before a hesitant smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

They sit there, the quiet settling back in, broken only by the pop of the fire and the faint scrape of Nathan’s fork against the plate. Mark sips his coffee, the burn of it grounding him, chasing the last of Kepler’s chill from his bones. Nathan finishes his eggs, wipes his mouth with a sleeve, and glances up again, tentative, like he’s testing the waters.

“Mister Teller—he’s real good to newbies,” Nathan says, voice still small but steadier now, his fingers tracing the edge of the plate absently. “Back at the beginning of the drive, chuck line was a mess—greenhorns tripping over each other, droppin’ biscuits in the dirt. Simon just stepped in, showed us how to keep it moving—said a man’s gotta eat proper to ride proper. Didn’t even raise his voice.” A faint smile tugs at his lips, soft and fleeting, then fades as he shifts, eyes dropping to the coffee cup he’s cradling now. “Heard he took a bullet bad—fever’s got him too, huh? But I heard one time how he held a whole bull steady for the brand, kept it from kickin’ the boss clean off the prairie—he still that strong?”

Mark’s chest tightens, Simon’s name a soft ache blooming under his ribs. He stares into his coffee, the dark swirl of it, and lets the warmth of the tin seep into his palms.

“He’s fighting,” Mark says finally, voice rough but sure, each word a vow he’s clinging to. “Strong as ever—stronger’n me, most days. I’m heading to the wagon soon, see for myself.”

Nathan nods, slow, his eyes softening a fraction—like he’s holding onto that strength too, a thread of trust spinning out between them.

“He’s good folk,” he adds, quieter now, almost to himself. “Didn’t laugh when I near fell off my horse first week—just hauled me up, said I’d get the hang of it.”

The fire snaps, spitting a spark into the air, and Mark leans back against his saddle, coffee cradled in his hands. Nathan’s words pull a sad smile from him—Simon’s patience, his steady way, alive even in this kid’s memory. He can see it clear as day: Simon brushing off a stumble with that easy grin, gray eyes crinkling, turning a fall into a lesson.

Mark’s no good at stories though, not like Simon with his smooth, deep river-stone voice, but he feels it—the echo of that kindness, warming the space Kepler tried to freeze. He watches Nathan sip the coffee, wincing at the bite of it, but the kid’s hunched frame eases more, the tension bleeding out slow.

“He’s good like that,” Mark says, voice low, the smile lingering a beat longer before it fades into something heavier—need, pulling him west. He drains his cup, the last bitter dregs coating his tongue, and sets it down with a soft clink. Standing, he brushes the dust from his knees, the ache in his chest sharpening now, tugging him toward Simon like a compass needle. He grabs his hat, settling it low over his eyes, and glances at Nathan, who’s still nursing the coffee, plate empty beside him.

“Stay put,” he tells the kid, voice firm but kind, a quiet steadiness he’s borrowing from Simon. “Finish my plate. I’ll be back after I see him.” Nathan nods, quick and obedient, and Mark turns, boots crunching soft in the dirt as he heads west toward the medical wagon. The dawn stretches thin behind him, pale light spilling over the scrub, and the pull toward Simon grows stronger with every step, a tether he can’t, and won’t let snap.

"Mark?" Nathan calls as he's about to leave. When Mark turns, the boy seems to struggle with his words before simply saying, "Hope he's doing better."

"Me too," Mark replies, choked by the emotion that tightens his throat. "Me too."

Mark’s barely fifty yards out when a lean cowboy—Martinez, he says—tips his hat from a saddle blanket he’s stitching.

“You’re Midland, Teller’s partner, right? He’s tough. He’ll make it.” Mark nods, startled the man knows him at all.

Then it’s a deluge as he nears the chuck wagon, voices rolling over him like a wave, rough and warm, hands jutting out, names getting lost in the jumble: Nichols, Jacobson, Jensen, Frye, more he can’t catch.

“Tell Simon to quit goldbricking!”

“Fire’s open tonight!”

No eatin’ solo while he’s down!”

“Bastard’s duckin’ work!” Laughter cuts through, hands slap his back, a whistle shrieks, faces smear—stubble, sweat, dust-caked hats.

Someone yells, “He’s too damn stubborn to die!” another hollers, “One tough son of a bitch!”

It becomes a blur, rapid-fire, no edges, just noise and motion slamming into him. Mark’s head spins. He and Simon kept to the fringes; eating by their own fire, keeping their own company, dodging Kepler’s reach. Now this—men he’s never even spoken to, pelting him with goodwill he can’t sort. It’s not stiff pity; it’s loud and easy, spilling over him too fast to hold. Mark's chest steadies some under it, even as it swamps him, a lifeline he didn’t know was there.

As he passes the remuda, a red-headed man calls out from where he's checking hooves. "You're with Teller, ain't ya? How's he doing"

"Heading to find out," Mark answers.

He straightens up, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"When I was with the 8th Cavalry, saw a man take two minié balls and ride thirty miles to safety. Teller's tougher than that fellow ever was." A quick grin, then he’s back to work.

Mark finds himself nodding, surprised at how easily these men; strangers until now, are reaching out.

Near the medical wagon, he encounters an older cowboy with a weather-beaten face who regards him with quiet intensity.

"Fuller," the man introduces himself with no preamble. "Rode with Simon up in Montana Territory, '68. '69 maybe."

He pulls down his collar to reveal a puckered scar. "Got shot clean through the shoulder back then. Simon Teller half dragged, half carried me the last five miles back to camp through snow as deep as his waist. Fever took me for three days. Doc said I wouldn't make it." He shrugs. "Still here."

Before Mark can respond, Fuller claps him once on the shoulder and walks away.

The collective faith of these men—men he's never even exchanged words with until now—wraps around Mark like a blanket. It's not just empty reassurance; it's the genuine belief of men who've seen death and survival play out a hundred times on the trail. Their certainty doesn't erase his fear, but it makes it more bearable somehow.

By the time he reaches Hilbert's wagon, Mark's steps are steadier, his resolve strengthened. Whatever he finds inside, he knows now that he's not alone in believing Simon can pull through—and maybe not as alone on this drive as he'd originally thought.

But as his hand reaches for the canvas flap, the confidence wavers. What if Simon's worse? What if those men's faith is misplaced? His fingers tremble slightly before he forces them still and pulls the flap aside, pushing into the humid dim of the wagon.

"No. Go." Hilbert's gruff voice meets him before he can even step fully inside. The older man is standing over a cot, blocking Mark's view of its occupant.

"No... I want to check on him," Mark says, hearing the desperation in his own voice, tasting it on his tongue.

"He is asleep. Fevered." Hilbert's face softens slightly, but he doesn't move aside. "Best not to disturb him."

"Please," Mark says, the word barely audible. "Just for a minute."

Something in his expression must reach the doctor, because Hilbert sighs heavily before stepping aside. "One minute. Don't wake him."

Simon lies pale against the rough blankets, his face ashen beneath a sheen of sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. A bandage wraps his torso, a small bloom of red seeping through on his side.

Mark swallows hard, moving to the edge of the cot. Even with the need for caution in the middle of a wide awake, bustling camp, he allows himself to take Simon's hand, his thumb gently stroking across the calloused palm. Mark doesn't honestly think he could have stopped himself. He catalogs every detail of Simon's face, listening to each labored breath as if it might be the last.

"He's fighting," Hilbert says quietly. "Fever broke once in night, came back. If he break it again and keep it down, he'll have a chance."

Mark's eyes don't leave Simon's face; pale, sweat-slicked. "And if it doesn't break again?"

"I think you know."

Tell me straight, Doc,” Mark says, quiet but firm, steel beneath the strain. “What we’re facing.”

Hilbert glances at the wagon flap, steps closer. “Bullet missed vital parts, but dragged shirt in. Festering.” He sighs, heavy, gesturing to his scant supplies—bottles, rags, a worn kit. “I cleaned what I could, but here…”

“His chances?” Mark presses. “Real ones.”

Hilbert’s weathered face turns grave. “Fever breaks soon— today, next day, maybe? Chances good. If not…” He pauses, jaw tight. “Blood poisoning spreads. When that starts, I can do little.”

“How long?”

“Two days. Three, perhaps.” Hilbert’s tone softens slightly. “He’s strong. Fights harder than most.”

Mark nods, taking it in—brutal, clear. His fingers tighten on Simon’s limp hand, feeling the weak pulse. A day to turn it. Two, maybe three before the poison takes over. His fear has edges now, a shape he can hold. Grim as it is, the hard line steadies him.

“What does he need?” Mark asks, his voice shifting, practical but frayed at the seams. “Anything that’d help? Anything at all?”

“I keep him cool—wet cloths, like this.” Hilbert gestures to the basin of murky water by the cot. “Get liquids down him when he’s awake enough to swallow.” He turns to his medicine chest, rummaging through a clutter of small bottles, faded pouches, and a rusted kit—meager scraps of a healer’s trade.

“Laudanum?” Mark says, keeping it light, deliberate. “For the pain, the fever. Kepler said you might be running low.”

Hilbert turns, his weathered face sharpening, eyes glinting under heavy brows. “Did he now? How convenient.” He studies Mark a beat too long, then sighs, the sound heavy with knowing. “I had a supply. Not much, but enough. Bottles gone now—vanished, like that.” His fingers snap, a dry crack in the stillness.

The implication hangs in the air between them. Mark's jaw tightens as he remembers Kepler's threat, the casual way he'd mentioned the medicine Simon needed.

“There are other ways,” Hilbert says, reading the shift in Mark’s eyes. “Willow bark tea can cut fever some—not the pain, but some help. There’s a stand of willows by the creek, a mile east maybe, if someone’s willing to fetch it.”

Mark tucks that away—creek, a mile east, willow bark. A thread to pull, out of Kepler’s reach, already planning how to slip away later to find that creek. "I understand."

He brushes the damp hair from Simon's forehead before gently placing a freshly wrung cloth there. Leaning down, he speaks quietly near Simon's ear. "You hang on, you hear me? I'll get what you need." His voice is a quiet promise, rough with everything he can’t say in Hilbert's company.

Simon stirs under the cool touch, cracked lips parting. “Mark?” It’s a whisper, thin as a thread, nearly lost in the creak of the wagon.

“I’m here,” Mark says softly, mindful of Hilbert’s shadow looming near the chest. “Rest now.”

Simon’s eyes flutter—brief, unfocused—then slip shut, his chest rising unevenly in his fitful sleep. Mark lingers a moment, pressing the cloth down once more, letting his hand rest on Simon’s shoulder—just a fleeting touch—before pulling back.

“Take care of him, Doc,” he says, meeting Hilbert’s steady, tired gaze across the cramped space.

“Doing what I can with what I have." Hilbert nods, wiping his hands on a stained rag. "Bring me willow. We see."

Mark steps out, the harsh sunlight stabbing his eyes after the wagon’s gloom.Nathan’s hurrying toward him, hat clutched in his hands, his face flushed and apologetic.

“Mark,” he calls, breathless from the run. “Hawkins is looking for us. Says there’s a job—needs doing right now.”

"What kind of job?" Mark asks, reluctantly turning away from the medical wagon.

Nathan grimaces. "Clearing a wash that's blocked with debris from the tornado. Hawkins says we need to clear it today."

Of course, Mark thinks grimly. The most back-breaking work on the drive, and it's theirs. Hauling waterlogged timber and mud in the hot sun; whether it's Kepler's doing or just bad luck, he can't tell.

"Alright," he sighs, casting one last look at the wagon where Simon fights his private battle. "Let's get at it."

The sun’s climbing as they reach the wash—a choked snarl of splintered trees, mud, and tangled brush, the tornado’s ugly scar. Cattle low faintly in the distance, a dull prod: no water, no herd. Hawkins meets them there, voice cutting through the haze.

“Needs doing today, Midland, before sundown tonight. You and the kid. We’re short-handed.”

“Understood,” Mark says, steady despite the weariness dragging at his bones. “Sundown.”

They start in—logs thick as thighs half-sunk in mire, roots clawing at every pull. Mark grabs a fallen limb, muscles screaming as he yanks it free, boots sinking into soft, stinking earth. Sweat beads, stings his eyes. Nathan swings a borrowed axe nearby, blade thudding into a trunk, his thin arms straining. Mud cakes them both, turning steps to slogs, shirts clinging wet. The air’s heavy—damp rot and heat, pressing down.

“Start with the smaller stuff,” Mark says, voice rough from the exhaustion he still hasn’t shaken off. “We’ll drag what we can, chop what we can’t.”

Nathan nods, setting to work without complaint. He’s quick to move, tugging at a tangle of branches with a determination that surprises Mark. The boy’s hands—too small for the axe handle—wrestle with the wood, but he doesn’t falter. Mark grabs a fallen limb himself, muscles protesting as he hauls it free of the mire. The weight pulls at his shoulders, a dull ache blooming where fatigue already sits, but he grits his teeth and keeps going. Simon’s ashen face flashes in his mind—those shallow breaths, the fever’s heat under his skin. Willow bark. A mile east. He just needs an opening.

By noon, the sun is a hammer overhead, and Mark’s shirt is soaked through. He pauses, leaning on the axe, chest heaving. Nathan’s a few yards off, wrestling with a snarl of vines, his face red from effort. Mark’s gaze drifts east—toward the creek Hilbert mentioned. A mile. He could make it there and back in an hour, maybe less if he pushes. The wash is half-cleared; they’re ahead of pace. He wipes his hands on his trousers, calculating.

“Nathan,” Mark calls, voice firm but scraped raw from the day. “Stepping off for a bit. Need something for the Doc.”

The boy looks up from the wash, mud smeared across his flushed cheek like war paint. “What?” he pants.

“Just keep going,” Mark says, dodging the question, his tone clipped but not sharp. “Won’t be long.”

Nathan’s eyes flicker—unease, maybe doubt—but he nods, turning back to the tangle of debris. Mark grabs his canteen, the dented tin warm in his grip, and heads east. The scrub land unfurls before him, a brittle sea of sagebrush and gnarled junipers, their shadows stretching thin under the climbing sun. His legs ache, a deep burn coiling through his thighs, but he pushes on, Simon’s cracked Mark? looping in his skull—faint, desperate, a magnet pulling him forward.

Dust hangs in the air, kicked up by a breeze that smells of dry earth and distant rain. He’s half a mile out when hoof beats rumble behind him, steady and close. Mark tenses, hand reaching behind him, fingers brushing empty air where his rifle should be—left back at camp. He turns, already knowing who it’ll be.

Kepler rides up slow, dust swirling thick around his horse’s hooves, that sharp smile slicing through the haze. His hat sits low, shadowing eyes that spark like flint.

“Well, now,” he drawls, voice oil-slick, reining in tight. “Where’s my favorite drover slipping off to?”

“Break,” Mark says, flat, locking eyes with him. “Work’s hot.”

“Hot, sure. But I didn’t peg you for a man who wanders off when there’s labor to be done.” Kepler tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Unless you’re chasing after something.” His gaze rakes over Mark, slow, predatory, peeling him apart.

“Needed water,” Mark says, lifting the canteen, the lie steady despite the pulse hammering in his throat.

Kepler’s laugh cuts low, a guttural thing that sets Mark’s teeth on edge. “Water? From a creek you ain’t even near yet?” He swings down, boots thudding into the dirt, closing the gap with a stride that’s all threat. "You wouldn’t be sneaking off for something… medicinal, would you? For Teller?”

Mark’s fists curl, nails biting into his palms, heat flaring up his spine. “Step off, Warren,” he says, voice low, a warning coiled tight.

Kepler steps closer, close enough Mark smells the tobacco and sweat on him, his grin twisting into something cruel, almost feral.

“Heard Hilbert’s laudanum’s gone—poof, like magic. What terrible luck. Fever’s hell without it, ain’t it? And I know you’re too stubborn to just ask me for it. Or beg.” He drops his voice, a hiss against Mark’s ear. “Three nights, Midland. Three nights with me, and I’ll dig up every bottle I’ve taken and give them right to you. Simon lives. You don’t gotta scrape bark like some desperate dog.”

Rage boils, thick and sour, choking Mark’s throat. He shoves Kepler hard, shoulder slamming into his chest, knocking him back a step. “Fuck. Off.”

Kepler’s hand snaps out, clamping Mark’s arm, fingers digging in like talons, bruising down to the bone.

“You don’t walk away from me, boy,” he snarls, yanking Mark close, breath hot and rancid. “I’ll bury him—and you right alongside—before I let you forget who’s got the reins here.”

Mark twists free, shoving again, fury sparking white-hot. “Touch me again, I’ll put my knife in your belly.”

Kepler staggers back, boots scraping dirt, hand twitching toward his holster—then stops cold. His laugh rasps out, jagged as broken glass, eyes smoldering with something blacker than rage.

“Go fetch your twigs, boy,” he sneers, voice dripping acid. “Some snake oil mumbo jumbo won’t save your precious Simon— a couple sticks ain’t gonna cheat that fever. I’ll be watching every damn step, and when it fails, you’ll crawl back begging for my laudanum anyway. And, oh, I’ll make you grovel, Danny—I'll make it hurt.”

He swings into the saddle, horse snorting as he yanks the reins hard, wheeling it around. Dust clots the air thick and bitter as he rides off, a shadow slicing through the haze.

Mark stands there, chest heaving, Kepler’s threat sinking into his gut like cold iron. Time is slipping though—he shakes it off, pushes east. The creek glints ahead, a thin silver thread weaving through the scrub, willows crowding its banks, their cool, pale green branches sagging low over the water’s edge. He wades in, boots squelching into soft, black mud, cool ripples lapping at his shins, chilling the sweat on his skin. His knife flashes, slicing strips of bark—rough, green, sharp with a bitter tang—his hands trembling with adrenaline and raw need. It’s not much, but it’s Simon’s chance. He tucks the bundle inside his shirt, edges scraping his chest, and heads back west, Kepler’s words gnawing at his spine like a blade.

He doesn’t turn back for Nathan—the wash can wait. Simon can’t. The sun’s tilting lower, casting long shadows over the camp as he reaches Hilbert’s wagon, its canvas flap swaying faintly in the dry wind. He ducks inside, the air heavy with damp heat and the sour bite of sickness. Simon lies still on the cot, breath shallow, a sheen of sweat on his face.

“Hilbert,” Mark says, voice rough, pulling the bark free—damp, stained with his own sweat. “Willow bark. From the creek.”

Hilbert turns from a cluttered bench, eyes sharpening at the sight.

“Good,” he says, quick and firm, taking the strips in his weathered hands. “Fast work.” He grabs a small pot, a mortar already stained with old herbs, and sets to it—crushing the bark with a steady grind. “I start now. Might ease him tonight.”

Mark steps to Simon’s side, the cot creaking under his weight as he kneels. The cloth on Simon’s brow is warm, dried out from the heat radiating off of him in waves.

“Hang on,” Mark murmurs, low and fierce, just for Simon. Kepler’s shadow looms, dark and clawing, but this—the bark, their chance—is beyond his grip. For now, it’s enough. He lingers by the cot, Simon’s chest rising faint and frail, a thread Mark clings to. Hilbert’s mortar grinds steady behind him, the sharp, green scent of willow bark cutting through the wagon’s sour heat. Mark swaps the warm cloth on Simon’s brow for a fresh one, water dripping cold between his fingers, and steps back, hoping—praying—those eyes might open clear tonight.

He ducks out, the late afternoon sun a dull, merciless hammer pounding against his skull, and trudges back to the wash, boots dragging through dust turned tacky with his own sweat. Nathan’s still there, a lone figure in the wreckage, axe thudding into a log—a dull, weary pulse swallowed by the heavy air. The boy’s narrow shoulders slump, bowed under the weight of it, sweat cutting jagged tracks through the mud caked thick on his face, streaking him like some hollowed-out ghost. He looks up as Mark staggers closer, relief flickering faint in his bloodshot eyes, a spark nearly drowned by fatigue.

“You’re back,” Nathan croaks, voice scraped raw, barely audible over the wash’s sluggish gurgle.

“Yeah,” Mark mutters, the canteen slipping from his grip to hit the dirt with a dull, leaden thunk. “Got what I needed.”

He takes back the axe, the handle slick with grime and Nathan’s blood, and swings—wood splintering with a crack that judders up his arms, rattling his spine, a shock that sinks into his marrow. Mud sucks at his boots, thick and greedy,like a living thing clawing him down with every step, each lift a wrenching fight against the earth’s pull. Nathan hauls a branch free beside him, hands raw and oozing where blisters have burst, his thin frame trembling as he drags it through the mire. They work in grim, silent tandem, no words left—just the wet squelch of mud, the groan of timber, the rasp of their breaths sawing the air.

The afternoon stretches into a purgatory, hours bleeding into one another until time’s a shapeless, suffocating thing—Mark can’t tell if it’s been minutes or days, can’t see the end through the haze of sweat stinging his eyes. The sun doesn’t move, just squats overhead, a brutal fist pressing heat into him, baking the mud into a stinking crust that clings to his jeans, weighs his legs like iron. Each swing of the axe is a war—his shoulders scream, muscles tearing under the strain, the blade biting wood only to stick, forcing him to wrench it free with a grunt that rips from his gut. Logs loom, waterlogged and unyielding, their jagged ends snagging on roots, on each other, a tangle that fights back, mocking every heave.

His hands blister fast, skin splitting open where the handle rubs, blood mixing with sweat, slicking his grip until the axe slips, nearly takes his shin. He catches it, curses low—a sound lost in the wash’s churn—and swings again, harder, the jolt a white-hot spike through his wrists, his elbows, his spine a knotted rope ready to snap. Nathan stumbles nearby, dragging a mass of snarled brush, his boots sinking deep, each step a lurching pull from the muck, his gasps sharp and shallow, the boy drowning in the grind. The wash barely yields—brackish water seeps through, a pitiful trickle mocking their labor, the wreckage still choking its throat.

Dusk creeps in at last, the sky shading purple and black, light fading slow as if reluctant to let them go. Mark’s back is a howling knot, every bend a stab, every lift a plea his body can’t answer. His hands are raw meat, blisters torn wide, stinging with each grip, but he doesn’t stop—can’t—until the last snarled mass of branches gives, dragged free from the ravine with a final, guttural heave that leaves him swaying, hollowed out. The wash breathes, a sluggish, brackish stream cutting through the chaos, cleared by some miracle of will.

“Go,” Mark rasps, wiping sweat from his brow with a trembling, blood-streaked hand, the words heavy and dry as stones on his tongue. “Tell Hawkins it’s finished.”

Nathan nods, weary but quick, and shuffles off toward camp, axe dragging a faint line in the dust. Mark stands there, alone in the fading glow, the wash gurgling soft behind him. His knees wobble, threatening to buckle.

He’s never been this tired—not after a full day’s ride, not even under Kepler’s leash those first weeks. Every bone aches, a deep, gnawing pain inside the fragile meat of him, begging for rest. His lungs burn with each breath, dust and exhaustion clogging them thick. He should eat—something, anything. Sleep, collapse somewhere soft. Hell, a slug of whiskey might dull the edges tonight, and he doesn’t even drink.

But he won’t. He knows it, even as the thought flickers. Simon’s in that wagon, fighting, needing him, and here Mark stands, fraying at the seams, useless if he breaks now. Guilt twists sharp in his core—he’s got no right to this weariness, not when Simon’s breath hangs so thin, not when every second counts. He clenches his fists, blistered palms stinging, and forces himself straight. He’s so damn tired, a hollowed-out shell teetering on collapse, but he can’t—won’t—let it win. Not yet. Simon’s waiting, and that’s all that matters.

Mark drags himself toward the medical wagon, feet shuffling through the dust, each step a leaden pull from some deep, stubborn core—an animated corpse shambling toward its last tether. The sky’s a deep bruise now, stars pricking through, and the air carries a chill that bites at his sweat-soaked skin. His hands tremble as he reaches for the canvas flap, fingers brushing the rough weave, too shaky to grip. Before he can steady himself, Hilbert pushes out, nearly colliding with him, the doctor’s thin frame filling the entrance.

“Ah,” Hilbert says, voice low, his Russian lilt threading through. “Was coming to find. He is awake. Asking for you.”

The words hit like a flood breaking a dam; Mark's fear eases so fast, so sharp, it’s almost a pain in his chest. Mark sways, legs buckling under the weight of it, the world tilting soft and strange. Relief, brutal and sweet, washes through him, stealing his breath.

Hilbert catches his arm, steadying him with a firm grip, guiding him through the flap.

“I will eat my dinner,” he says, nodding toward the camp. “Give you some time. Do not move him.”

“Thank you,” Mark rasps, throat tight and raw. “Thank you so much.”

“Is job,” Hilbert mutters, clapping his shoulder once before stepping into the dusk.

Mark stumbles inside, the wagon’s humid air wrapping around him—sour with sickness, sharp with the green bite of brewing willow bark. Simon’s there, propped up slightly on the cot, a thin pillow wedged behind him. He’s bare from the waist up, bandages wound tight around his chest, stark white and mercifully clean—no blood seeping through. His skin’s pale, glistening faintly with sweat, but his eyes—those clear, steady eyes—find Mark’s, and his face lights up. A tired smile tugs his lips, shadowed by a small grimace he tries to bury fast.

“Hey, Kid,” Simon says, voice rough, a whisper scraped over five miles of hard trail, but warm—so damn warm, love evident in every syllable.

Mark freezes, rooted there, the sight of him alive, awake, punching through the haze of fear that’s clouded him these past days.

“Simon,” he breathes, and his voice cracks, a small, broken thing finding its legs. He crosses the cramped space in two steps, sinking to his knees beside the cot, hands hovering—afraid to touch, afraid he’ll shatter this moment, this miracle.

Simon reaches out first, slow, his hand trembling as it finds Mark’s. His fingers are cool, and weak, tracing over Mark’s blistered palm—rough, split skin meeting his own fever-worn touch—before curling tight, holding on like it’s all he’s got left. The contact soothes Mark, roots him there beside the cot, and he leans in, pressing a soft, trembling kiss to Simon’s knuckles—gentle, reverent, a quiet plea against his skin.

“You look like you’re fraying at the seams,” Simon says, voicestill rough, a faint chuckle rumbling low until a wince snags it, pain flashing sharp across his face. He swallows it quick, eyes locking on Mark’s; piercing, even through the remnants of the fever’s haze. “Like you’ve run yourself ragged since yesterday. Did you get any sleep last night at all? Real sleep?”

The question hangs thick in the humid air, heavy with what Simon leaves unsaid—I know you’ve been here, tearing yourself apart. It’s a quiet blade, cutting through Mark’s guard, and he feels it lodge deep.

“I’m fine,” Mark insists, the lie brittle and flimsy, a shield he clings to anyway. He lifts Simon’s hand, pressing another soft kiss to his wrist, feeling the faint pulse beneath his lips. “You’re the one who took a bullet.” His voice dips, rough with the memory—Simon’s blood soaking his hands, the frantic cut of Hilbert’s knife, the night that wouldn’t end.

Simon’s thumb brushes over Mark’s knuckles, slow and deliberate, a gentle rebuke that says more than words. The touch—soft and steady from a man who was bleeding out hours ago—twists a spike of guilt hard in Mark’s gut. Here’s Simon, stitched up and still half-gone, eyes sharp with worry for him, when it should be Mark fretting, carrying this weight. He doesn’t deserve that care—not when he’s standing, not when Simon’s the one who stared down death and clawed back. The shame of it burns, hot and quick, tightening his chest until he has to look away, jaw clenching against the sting.

“I’m fine,” he says again, but the words feel like a rope fraying under too much strain, strands splitting one by one. He leans closer, brushing a tender kiss to Simon’s forehead—light, lingering, tasting salt and sweat—a silent apology for the lie.

“That don’t answer me,” Simon murmurs, soft but firm, his touch lingering on the blistered ridges of Mark’s palm, soothing as he traces shivery paths. He tilts his head, catching Mark’s gaze, and lifts his free hand to cup Mark’s cheek, thumb stroking over the stubble there. “C’mere, darlin’,” he whispers, voice a velvet rasp, and presses a faint, gentle kiss to Mark’s temple, his lips warm against the grit and exhaustion.

The tenderness cuts deeper, a quiet blade slicing at the threads holding Mark together. His free hand scrubs through his hair, gritty with dust and sweat, and he catches the wreck he’s become in Simon’s gaze—eyes sunk in shadows, carved by his sleepless night followed by fighting Kepler and the mud, each hour pulling another strand loose. Stubble bristles along his jaw, barely two days’ growth but jagged from strain, like the fibers of him are splitting apart. His shirt’s a crumpled ruin, mud caked stiff at his jeans’ hem, the sour reek of swamp and despair clinging to him—a testament to the pain, the labor, the 48 hours stretching that rope to its breaking point.

“I’ve slept,” he lies again, the words thin as smoke, dissolving as they hit the air, another thread snapping free. “Enough—here and there.” It’s a half-truth; he’s had restless dozing by Simon’s cot, snatches by the fire, jolted awake by every sound, every shift in Simon’s breath. 

Simon’s eyes soften, cutting through the bluff with that steady, knowing look—past the dirt, the strain, straight to the hollowed-out husk Mark’s become in two brutal days. But he doesn’t push, not yet—just shifts on the narrow cot, wincing as the bandages pull, making a sliver of space.

“Tell me about the drive,” he says, voice a quiet lifeline, his hand tugging Mark’s closer to rest against his chest, over his heart. “What’s happening out there?”

It’s an offering, a breath, a way to step away from the fear clawing them both, and Mark grabs for it, desperate for the reprieve.

“Drive’s stalled,” he says, aiming for lightness, though it falls flat. “Regathering after the storm hit. Getting the lay of it. Waiting on you.” He forces a small grin, fleeting, and brushes a kiss to Simon’s knuckles again, lingering there, feeling the faint tremble of his fingers. “Got myself a temporary partner while you’re laid up. Boy called Nathan.”

“Kepler’s shadow?” Simon’s brow lifts, attention sharpening despite the weakness dragging at him. “I’ve seen him trailing the boss like a kicked pup.”

Mark nods, a flicker of something fierce and protective kindling in his chest, a burning ache to be the person he had needed and never had. It’s more than pity; it’s a ghost of himself staring back.

“He’s just a kid, Simon,” he says, voice low, edged with a tremor he can’t hide. “Younger’n I was when I—when he—” The words snag, choking on the past they both know too well—Kepler’s hands, his sneer, the nights Mark still tastes in his nightmares. No need to name it; it’s a specter hovering in this fresh hell, sharp and unburied. “Got him away from Kepler,” he finishes, quieter, firm. “At least for now.”

Simon’s fingers tighten around his, a squeeze that trembles but grips like iron, tethering Mark through the shake.

“That’s good. Real damn good, darlin’. Watching out for him. Looking after me.” His voice drops, thick with something unshakable, soft with awe. “You’ve got a heart bigger than Texas, Mark Midland; it’s your damn fool kindness that hooked me deep, and I still can’t figure how I lucked into it.” He lifts Mark’s hand, pressing a weak, tender kiss to his palm—right over the blisters, a soft brush of lips that stings and soothes all at once.

The praise lands like a stone in Mark’s chest, heavy and warm, unfurling something tight and scared he’s kept locked down since yesterday’s blood-soaked scrabble. Simon has always seen it; this stubborn, bleeding spark of care in him, a kindness Mark doubts even now, fragile against these two days’ grind. It’s the piece of him Simon’s loved from the start, through dust and dark, a lifeline Mark’s offered without knowing its worth—and hearing it now, raw and reverent, steals his breath, roots him there in the humid glow. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to Simon’s brow, slow and lingering—a silent thank you for seeing him.

“Just doing what you’d do,” Mark murmurs, voice low, rough with the truth, a faint flush creeping up his neck under Simon’s gaze. “Tryin’ to.”

“No,” Simon counters, soft but sure, his thumb brushing Mark’s hand again, a steady rhythm. “Doing what you’d do.” He tilts his head, catching Mark’s lips in a faint, careful kiss—barely a press, but warm and alive, a promise in the brush of his breath.

The words and the kisses settle between them, humming in the quiet, a thread of devotion spun over six weeks and a thousand miles of prairie, tested deeply in these last 48 hours. Simon’s breathing labors, each rise a hard-won fight, but it’s steady, a pulse Mark holds onto like a worry stone—until a dry, ragged cough breaks it, rattling up from Simon’s chest, his frame tensing briefly against the cot. The sound, small but sharp, cuts through the stillness, and Mark’s heart lurches, eyes snapping to Simon’s face, tracing the strain there, the faint grimace he’s trying to hide.

“Water?” Mark offers quick, voice tight, reaching for the canteen by the cot, the dented tin cool against his palm, something real and tangible he can grip.

Simon nods, a faint tilt of his head, and Mark slides a hand behind his neck—cradling his head like something holy, tender but firm—lifting him just enough. The canteen trembles slightly as he tips it, water spilling a thin stream past Simon’s cracked lips, soothing the raw edge of that cough. A bead escapes, tracing down his chin, and Mark catches it with his sleeve, wiping it away in a motion so instinctive it’s almost a prayer—rough fabric brushing skin, a silent plea for Simon to stay. He presses a soft kiss to Simon’s temple as he settles back, exhaling slow, the cough easing, and lingers there, breathing him in—sage and sweat and life.

Simon’s eyes search Mark’s face—reading the strain, the fear, the exhaustion etched deep from two days that broke him.

“Talk to me,” he says, quiet but insistent, his voice a soft pull cutting through the wagon’s humid haze. “What’s eating at you? And don’t say nothing—I know that look, darlin’, even through this fog.”

Mark swallows hard, the lump in his throat swelling, unyielding.

“You almost died yesterday, Simon,” he says, voice fraying at the edges, barely holding. “Fuck… you still might. What do you think is eating at me?” The words come angry, sharp with the terror that’s owned him since the shot rang out—Simon’s limp weight in his arms, the blood soaking his hands, the endless night bleeding into today. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping under the strain, eyes pinched with the effort to keep it locked down. He doesn’t say how he’d spent those hours in a cold sweat, counting Simon’s shallow breaths, pressing a hand to his burning skin, praying to gods he’d long stopped believing in.

Simon watches Mark quietly, let's him rage. He’s seen this before; in soldiers dragging friends from battlefields, around shaky campfires after raids, parents that have snatched children out of fast moving water. That blend of relief and lingering terror, nowhere to go but out, wearing anger’s clothes because it’s easier than the fear. His face softens, and he reaches out—not just brushing but capturing Mark’s wrist, fingers weak but sure, tugging him closer until Mark has no choice but to perch on the cot’s edge. It’s an apology, an offering—Simon taking some of the weight of those 48 hours, inviting Mark to let it go. He lifts Mark’s hand, pressing a faint kiss to his fingertips, a quiet anchor.

“I’m still here, kid,” Simon murmurs, thumb stroking over Mark’s pulse point, feeling the rapid flutter beneath the skin. His eyes hold Mark’s, steady and present, soaking up the unspoken—the relief, the dread, the fraying edges—without flinching. “Right here.”

“You almost weren’t,” Mark rasps, the words slipping out raw and honest before he can cage them, a strand of the rope snapping loose. His hand hovers inches from Simon’s face, trembling faintly, as if touching him might shatter this fragile reality—might prove it’s just another fever dream, dissolving with the dawn. He tracks every detail instead—the clarity back in Simon’s gaze after two days of haze, the faint color creeping into his cheeks, the familiar lines crinkling at his eyes. Tentatively, like handling glass, his fingertips graze Simon’s face, brushing the thick stubble there, and he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Simon’s mouth—careful, aching, grounding himself in the warmth.

“But I am,” Simon says, quiet but firm, a promise carved in those two words. His hand slides up Mark’s arm, feeling the tension coiled tight in the muscles, the tremor Mark’s fighting to hide. “I’m right here.” He tilts his head, brushing a faint kiss to Mark’s jaw; weak, but tender—a whisper of love against the strain.

Mark nods, quick and shaky, clinging to it, but it’s not enough—another strand frays. “This is more than that, though,” Simon presses, gentle but unrelenting, his grip tightening through the tremor, anchoring Mark as the cracks widen. “Something’s happened since—I can see it, right there in your eyes.”

How Simon still reads him so clear—half-dead, fever-worn, and sharp as ever after 48 hours of hell—is a marvel that steadies Mark even as it pulls him apart. That gaze, soft and fierce, has been his anchor, his undoing—two days or twenty years, it cuts the same. His throat locks, breath catching, and he feels the weight pressing down—fear for Simon, dread of Kepler, the grind of two days shredding him thin.

“Mark,” Simon says, voice dropping low, tender as a bruise, thick with a love that’s ready to weather worse than this. “Darlin’. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mark forces out, clinging to the edge of control, voice scraped raw. “I’m okay. You’re awake—I’m good now. I’ll be good. It’ll be fine.” It’s mostly true, desperate and wavering, betraying the strain—another snap in the rope.

“Liar,” Simon murmurs, a faint smile tugging his lips, seeing through Mark's fraying mask. “Come here.” His hand tugs, weak but insistent, pulling Mark closer, and he shifts, wincing faintly as he makes more space on the cot.

Mark resists a heartbeat; he wants to stay strong, wants to be a rock Simon can lean on, then gives in, sinking onto the cot’s edge, careful not to jostle Simon’s bandages. The wood creaks under him, and Simon’s arm lifts, trembling with the effort, and curls around Mark’s shoulders, guiding him down until Mark’s forehead rests against the cool, damp skin of Simon’s collarbone. The bandages press against his cheek, clean and crisp, a faint pulse thudding beneath—alive, steady, real. Mark presses a soft kiss there—slow, tender, to the hollow of Simon’s throat—a quiet vow against his skin.

“You don’t gotta pretend,” Simon says, soft as a whisper, his breath warm against Mark’s skin. He threads his fingers through Mark’s hair, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple—light, reverent—a promise in the touch. “Not with me, darlin’.”

That does it—the gentleness, the knowing, the way Simon holds him even half-broken himself. Mark’s walls buckle, a shudder running through him, and he presses his face harder into Simon’s shoulder, breath hitching.

“I’m trying,” he chokes out, voice splintering, raw and small. “Trying so hard—for you. But I—” Tears well hot, spilling over, soaking into the bandages, and he clenches Simon’s hand tighter, pressing a desperate kiss to his knuckles as the sobs break free. “Kepler—he took the laudanum, left you with nothing. And he’s pushing me again, Simon—like before, wants something ugly. Told me it was the only way to get medicine for you.” His voice breaks, a sob swallowing the rest, and he shakes his head, shame and fear tangling thick. “I’m so tired. So scared. What if I lose you?”

Simon’s breath catches, sharp and quick, a jolt Mark feels against his cheek. His hand stills in Mark’s hair, then threads slow and deliberate, a steady hold despite the shake.

“I’m gonna kill him…” he says, voice low, rough with a flicker of old fire, but it fades fast, laced with ache more than rage. His arm tightens, frail but unyielding, pulling Mark closer—close enough that Mark can feel the faint tremor in his frame, the heat of him alive and fighting. Then he softens, exhaling slow, his tone shifting—gentle, fierce, searching.

“Listen to me," Simon murmurs, voice dropping to a gravelly hush, thick with something unshakable. He tilts Mark’s chin up, callused fingers firm but tender, locking eyes with him—gray and piercing, burning through the last of the fever’s haze. “You’re mine—mine to hold, mine to fight for, mine to love ‘til I’m dust. Not his. Never his. And I’d claw my way outta hell before I let you give him a damn thing—especially not for me.” His thumb brushes Mark’s jaw, possessive but soft, and he leans in, brushing a trembling kiss to his lips—careful, warm, a vow pressed into the space between them. “Don’t you dare think you gotta bend to that bastard to save me. I’d rather die than see him touch you again—hear me?”

Mark breaks fully then, a soft sob tearing free, muffled against Simon’s chest as he presses a shaky kiss to the bandages—right over Simon’s heart, feeling the faint thud beneath, a lifeline he clings to. The exhaustion, the terror, Kepler’s clawing shadow—it pours out, messy and raw, but Simon doesn’t flinch. He holds Mark steady, fingers tracing gentle lines through his hair, pressing kisses to his brow—light, reverent, each one a balm.

“I’ve got you, darlin’,” he whispers, voice thick with love, lips brushing Mark’s cheek in a tender trail, then finding his mouth again—soft, slow, a kiss that’s all care and comfort, sealing his claim.“C’mere, for me,” Simon murmurs, voice a velvet rasp, tugging Mark with a quiet strength. “Up here—need you close.”

His hand shifts, guiding Mark fully onto the narrow cot, making space despite the creak of wood and the pull of bandages. Mark hesitates—too heavy, too broken—but Simon’s grip insists, pulling him down until he’s curled against Simon’s side, head tucked under his chin, their breaths syncing in the humid glow. Mark presses a gentle kiss to Simon’s collarbone—slow and aching, full of a love he doesn’t think he can put words to, a silent echo of Simon’s words sinking deep.

“He can’t touch us,” Simon whispers, lips brushing Mark’s temple, a vow pressed into skin, followed by another soft kiss—light, lingering. “Not here. Not like this.”

His arm drapes over Mark’s shoulders, trembling but sure, a tether of warmth and heartbeat—fevered skin to sweat-damp shirt, an anchor line spun from dust and devotion. Mark clings back, their hands locked tight, fingers entwined in a grip that’s both desperate and steady, and he presses another tender kiss to Simon’s throat—barely a whisper of lips, soft and reverent against the pulse fluttering there. His tears slow, caught in the rough weave of Simon’s bandages, as Simon’s closeness seeps in, stitching him back together, piece by fragile piece. The weight lifts, just a fraction—Kepler’s shadow named, but shrinking in this sacred space between them, and Mark’s breathing deepens, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his frayed edges, pulling him toward the cradle of Simon’s hold.

Simon shifts beneath him, a faint wince tugging at his lips as the cot creaks, but his arm tightens, drawing Mark closer until their bodies press flush—chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, the faint thud of Simon’s pulse a quiet song against Mark’s ear. He tilts his head, brushing a soft kiss to Mark’s temple. and murmurs, voice a velvet rasp, “Why don’t you sleep here a little, darlin’?”

Mark blinks, heavy-lidded, the words sinking slow through the fog of weariness. “But Hilbert’ll—” he starts, voice thick and slurred, a protest half-formed before it falters.

“Tell you to leave before sunup, yeah.” Simon finishes for him, a faint smile curling his lips, weary but fond. “But we got time now. Hours yet ‘til dawn. Stay with me—just for a bit.” His fingers trace gentle circles at the nape of Mark’s neck, soothing the tension coiled there, and he presses another kiss to Mark’s brow—light, lingering, a plea wrapped in tenderness. “You’re dead on your feet, kid. Let me hold you ‘til then.”

Mark hesitates, the instinct to fight his own collapse warring with the pull of Simon’s warmth. His body aches—bones hollowed out, muscles screaming from two days of breaking—and his eyes burn, gritty with dust and unshed tears. But Simon’s gaze holds him, steady and soft, those gray eyes crinkling at the corners with that quiet mischief Mark loves, even dulled by fever.

“Please?” Simon whispers, voice cracking faintly, and he brushes his lips against Mark’s cheek—soft, barely there, a touch that undoes him. “Need you close as much as you need me.”

That cracks the last of Mark’s resistance. He nods, a small, shaky jerk of his head, and shifts—careful, so careful not to jostle Simon’s bandages—until he’s fully on the cot, curled tight against Simon’s side. The narrow space forces them closer, legs tangling beneath the rough blanket, Mark’s head tucks under Simon’s chin, his hand splaying over Simon’s chest to feel the rise and fall of each hard-won breath. He presses a slow, tender kiss to Simon’s collarbone—tasting salt and sage, a comfort he’s already written into hs soul—and lets out a shuddering exhale, the tension of the day finally bleeding from his frame.

“You stay right here,” Simon murmurs, his voice a low hum against Mark’s hair, lips brushing his forehead in another gentle kiss—light as a feather, heavy with promise. His hand slides down Mark’s arm, fingers tracing the curve of his elbow before settling over Mark’s hand on his chest, locking them together. “Ain’t letting you go, darlin’. Not tonight.”

Mark’s throat tightens, a fresh wave of emotion swelling, but it’s softer now—less jagged, wrapped in the safety of Simon’s hold.

“Don’t,” he whispers, voice small and raw, and he tilts his head up, catching Simon’s lips in a faint, lingering kiss—slow, careful, just the barest press of mouths, tasting warmth and life. “Don’t let go.”

Simon hums, a quiet, contented sound, and kisses him back—soft, unhurried, a press of lips that’s all love, no rush, sealing the vow between them as deep and holy as any said in a church.

“Not never,” he breathes, the word a warm puff against Mark’s mouth, and he shifts his head, pressing a final kiss to the bridge of Mark’s nose—gentle, playful, a spark of the man he was before the bullet. His arm curls tighter around Mark’s shoulders, trembling with the effort but unyielding, and he tucks Mark’s head back under his chin, their bodies molding into the cot’s narrow embrace.

The wagon’s humid stillness wraps around them, a fragile shield against the world outside. Mark’s breathing slows, syncing with Simon’s—each rise of his chest a steady pull, each faint thud of his pulse a lullaby against Mark’s ear. His hand stays splayed over Simon’s heart, fingers twitching once, twice, before stilling, the blistered skin pressed to fevered warmth. Simon’s fingers thread through Mark’s hair, slow and soothing, a rhythm that lulls them both, and he murmurs, barely audible, “Sleep now, darlin’. I’ve got you.”

Sleep takes them both, heavy and dreamless, a good few hours lost in the gentle press of their bodies, the softness of breathing and the comfort of skin. The wagon’s stillness holds them through the night, until Hilbert’s boots scuff the floor before dawn, the gray light just kissing the horizon.

“Out, Midland,” he grunts, rough hand on Mark's shoulder, but voice low to keep the camp asleep. “Let him rest proper now.”

Simon stirs, his hand squeezing Mark’s one last time, a soft “Go on, darlin’”

Love is in the press of his fingers, lips brushing Mark’s knuckles in a faint, final kiss—weak but warm, a promise to hold on. Mark blinks awake, reluctant, the ache of leaving sharp but blessedly dulled by those hours of peace. He slides off the cot, stiff and battered, stumbling into the pre-dawn chill—bruised, and still frayed, but steadied by Simon’s love, a thread strong enough to carry him forward.

Chapter Text

Mark stumbles from the medical wagon into the pre-dawn gloom, Hilbert’s gruff; Out, Midland still ringing in his ears, the doctor’s bony hand lingering a heartbeat on his shoulder before pushing him gently towards the flap.

Gray light kisses the horizon, a thin thread of golden promise bleeding into the bruised sky at the horizon, and the chill in the air bites sharp at his sweat-damp skin, tugging a shiver from his bones. His legs wobble, stiff from hours curled against Simon on that narrow cot, muscles knotted tight from two days of breaking—mud, blood, Kepler’s shadow—but his chest feels lighter, steadied by the faint thud of Simon’s pulse still echoing against his ear, the comfortable leather and smoke scent of him clinging to his shirt.

He scrubs a blistered hand over his face, stubble rasping under his palm, and squints into the camp just beginning to stir awake. Sleep still tugs at him, heavy and dreamless, a gift snatched in Simon’s arms, but it’s not enough—not near enough—to mend the hollow ache carved deep from forty-eight hours of hell. Still, there’s a spark there, fragile but stubborn, kindled by Simon’s whispered darlin’ and the press of fevered fingers locked with his own.

He’s alive. They’re alive. That has to count for something.

For a long moment, Mark just stands there, a little lost, staring out at the prairie as the thin line of morning light catches pink and orange, sending slow fingers across the sky—delicate, tentative, like a hand brushing dust off a window ledge.

The horizon stretches wide, scrub and sage trembling under the first breath of dawn, and it’s beautiful in a way that aches, a quiet he doesn’t know how to hold. His chest feels lighter, Simon’s pulse still a faint drumbeat against his ribs—but the weight’s only shifted, not gone. Somehow, finding out his anchor is still secure with Simon has left him incongruously adrift and unmoored, a boat cut loose in still waters with no wind to guide it.

For the first time on this whole drive, he’s completely without instruction. Simon has always been there, steady voice, steady hands pointing the way: Check the herd, Kid. Fix that line. Ride out the flank. Six weeks of orders, quiet and sure, tethering Mark to something solid when the dust and the dark tried to swallow him whole.

Now, with Simon stitched up but sidelined, it all falls on Mark’s shoulders—too broad a load for a frame still trembling from two days of breaking. His mind scrambles, grasping for a thread to follow, something to stitch the morning together before it all unravels.

Breakfast first, he decides, the thought clumsy but firm; he's been running for too long on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness and when it does catch up with him, it'll pull him under sure as anything. He'll check if the chuck wagon’s serving anything while they’re stalled, maybe he'll luck out and get a hot meal he doesn't have to cook.

He needs to check on Nathan too; poor kid’s been alone all night, and the guilt of leaving him defenseless stings sharp, a burr under his skin. At the very least, Mark wants to offer an apology and see how he’s holding up.

Then a whore’s bath, cold water and a mostly clean rag, enough to at least scrub the mud and sweat from his neck, the grit caked in his hair, the blood that must surely still be staining him. He could use a shave too—he must look like something dragged out of the woods by now; rumpled, stubble jagged, eyes sunk in shadows, a ghost of the man Simon kissed before all of this happened.

Sighing, Mark turns toward the main fire, a collection of disgruntled noises from the camp swelling behind him. Fires crackle low, spitting sparks into the chill, and the air hums with the shuffle of boots, the clank of tin, the distant low of cattle rousing under the dawn. His own boots scuff the dust, breath fogging faint, and he feels the ache of leaving Simon settle deep; sharp but dulled some by those stolen hours, a bruise he can press without flinching.

The chuck wagon looms ahead through the pre-dawn murk, a hulking shadow against the lightening sky, steam curling thick from a battered pot like smoke off a signal fire. Bitter coffee cuts the crisp morning sharp as a blade, its tang mingling with the pop of flapjacks sizzling in a skillet.

Cookie—grizzled and leathery, all squint and scowl under a hat brim stained with years of sweat and grease, stands over the heat, flipping dough with a flick of his wrist, the rhythm steady as a clock. Mark shuffles closer, boots dragging dust, breath fogging faint, and Cookie shoves a tin mug into his hands without looking or preamble—black liquid sloshing over the rim, a muttered grunt that might be Drink or might be a curse rasping from his throat. The heat sears Mark’s blistered palms, jolting him awake, and he nods a bleary thanks, sipping slow, letting the burn chase the last of the fog from his skull.

It’s still very early—too damn early, the kind of hour that clings to a man’s bones like damp cold—and the camp’s just stirring, a ragged chorus of groans and creaks spilling from bedrolls and lean-tos. Mark wanders into the loose circle around the fire, drawn by the glow and the promise of something hot, his shadow stretching long across the dirt.

The drovers there already are a motley sprawl—half-dressed, half-alive—rallying slow to face the day. Mark stands at the edge of the firelight, names and faces from hurried introductions flickering through his memory, hard to grasp like fish in murky water.

Jensen's there, lanky and hunched, slumped on a crate with his shirt unbuttoned to the navel, crooked nose catching the firelight as he scrubs a hand through sleep-tangled hair. Fuller's propped against a wagon wheel, broad shoulders bare under suspenders, his scarred chest dusted with ash as he yawns wide enough to crack his jaw. Another cowboy; Petey, maybe; wiry and freckled, crouches near the flames, britches sagging low, tugging on a single sock with a curse as the other foot stays bare in the dust. Two more men shuffle in from the darkness, one tall and gaunt as a scarecrow, the other bowlegged and compact, both nodding silent acknowledgments to the assembly. Their names escape Mark entirely, just shadowy figures from a blur of handshakes.

“Midland,” Jensen calls, voice rough with sleep, squinting up from his perch. “Teller awake?”

Startled by the hail, Mark nods his acknowledgment, throat tight, the mug trembling faintly in his grip.

“Yeah. He's awake. Talking.” The words feel like a prayer, small and sacred, and Jensen grunts, a flicker of relief softening his hard edges.

“Goddamn,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Teller’s made from different stuff. I’m fuckin’ barely awake after just goin’ to bed last night—I sure as shit wouldn’t be talkin’ two days after a gut shot. Man’s a bull.”

Petey nods, sock half-on, a sleepy grin tugging his freckled face as he drags a tin plate closer, the scrape of metal on dirt cutting through the fire’s crackle. “Tough as old leather, that one. Not even the first time he's spit in death's eye, neither.”

The crew murmurs low, a ripple of tired respect circling the fire—Simon’s a legend in their bones now, a story to chew on while the coffee burns their tongues. But the air shifts, heavy with the weight of the last two days, the storm’s mud still caked on their boots, and the grumbles turn outward, souring fast.

“On the other hand…” Fuller snorts, spitting a dark glob into the fire, the sizzle sharp. “Kepler’s out here actin’ like he owns the damn drive. Struttin’ round yesterday—yellin’ ‘bout ‘his’ herd, and ‘his’ men—while we’re haulin’ calves outta mud up to our necks. Man’s got a spine like a wet rag, but barks like a big dog.”

Jensen leans back, mug cradled loose, a mean grin tugging his mouth crooked. “Yeah, caught him this morning ‘fore dawn, whinin’ at Cookie like a damn kid—Where’s my coffee? Where’s my breakfast? As if he lifted a single manicured finger in that storm while we were drowning. Yellow bastard sat it out under canvas, leavin’ the rest of us to eat dirt.”

Cookie grumbles, sliding a flapjack onto a tin plate, grease spitting as he flips another. “Told him to make his own damn fire if he’s so parched. Ain’t my job to nursemaid a fool too useless to boil his own pot. Had the gall to glare at me, then stomped off mutterin’ ‘bout the herd—Gotta get ‘em back, or we’re done.”

Petey chuckles, low and sharp, yanking that sock up his skinny leg. “That’s what I heard last night—him pacin’ by his boys, voice all high and tight like a caught thief. Them cattle’s gone, and we’re cooked. He’s shittin’ bricks over them missin' cows.”

Mark sips his coffee, the bitter heat grounding him as the crew’s griping swirls. He’s heard this before— in his father’s factories, and boardrooms thick with cigar smoke, men in suits bitching about quotas and foremen.

It’s the same here, just under wide-open skies instead of dim industrial sprawl—a cowboy breakroom, all bravado and grumbles, the kind of talk that never changes. Bosses are bastards, work’s a grind, and Kepler’s just the latest prick to catch their flak.

Mark eases onto a crate beside Jensen, the wood creaking under him, and Cookie slides him a plate—two flapjacks, a strip of bacon curled crisp, a smear of molasses glistening slow. The first bite’s a burst of warmth, sweet and salty, and he chews quiet, letting them gossip around him.

“Storm didn’t help none,” Jensen mutters, scratching at his stubble, shirt flapping loose. “Martinez and the other points say we’re down more’n we thought— another thirty, forty head, maybe. I know we lost some to that twister; but this is too many. They've been taken, and you can damn well set a warrant on it.”

“Kepler’s herd,” Fuller mocks, voice dripping scorn, and he gulps his coffee, wincing at the burn. “Reckon he’ll cry to the boss ‘bout that too, ‘stead of ridin’ out like a man to find 'em. Yellow streak’s wider’n the Platte.”

“Wait—” Mark cuts in, voice low, head tilting as the numbers snag in his skull. “How many in total are missing from the main herd?”

Jensen squints, chewing slow, then shrugs. “All told? Least two hundred gone—storm took some, mud swallowed more, and the rest… hell, who knows. How many they get from you’n Teller when he got plugged?”

Mark bristles at the term—plugged, like Simon’s a damn barrel, not the man who held him through the night—and his jaw tightens, coffee sloshing in his grip.

“We had twenty-six. Plus a calf. Just a baby, born not two days before the storm hit. Wiley’s gang.”

“No shit?” Fuller’s eyes widen, mug pausing halfway to his mouth, a grin splitting his scarred face. “You boys got hit by John fuckin’ Wiley and lived to tell? Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

“Wiley? Wiley's in the area?” Petey’s head snaps up, sock forgotten, voice pitching high with a mix of awe and nerves. “That bastard’s been pickin’ drives clean from Montana to Kansas. Heard he took a hunnerd and fifty head off the Grayson outfit last season—left most of ‘em bleedin’ in the dust.”

“Reckon that’s where a sizable portion of our missin’ two hundred went,” Jensen says, low and sharp, leaning back with a whistle. “Storm gave him cover, and Kepler’s too arrogant, stupid or busy yellin’ to notice. Yellow prick prob’ly shat himself when he heard Wiley’s name.”

Mark’s gut twists, the bacon turning heavy on his tongue. Wiley. It fits, a jagged puzzle snapping into place. 

A half-formed idea flickers through his mind—ride out, track ‘em, take ‘em back—sparked by the crew’s griping and the memory of Simon’s blood on his hands, the crack of his own shot felling Wiley in the foggy murk. He swallows, the thought settling like a stone, and sets his plate aside, resolve hardening in his chest; quiet for now, a coal glowing under ash, waiting for a spark to set it ablaze.

He glances between the faces of the drovers—men who've spent lifetimes on cattle drives but defer to Kepler's money instead of their own instincts. Something fierce and hungry rises in Mark's chest. He could do what Kepler couldn't—bring back those missing cattle.

His eyes drift to the horizon where purple dawn bleeds across the plains. Bringing back two hundred head that Kepler had let be stolen out from under him? The thought sends a strange heat through his veins, part vindication, part revenge.

Mark's fingers tighten around his tin cup, the metal biting into his palm. Two hundred head would mean more than just cattle returned; it would be proof, cold and undeniable, that Kepler had been wrong about him. That the softness Kepler had exploited wasn't weakness at all, but something else entirely—a kind of strength the trail boss could never understand. A strength Simon has always seen in him. 

“Gonna grab some food for Simon,” he says, standing slow, brushing crumbs from his jeans. Cookie grunts, piling another plate—flapjacks and bacon, wrapped in a rag—and hands it over without a word. The crew’s chatter fades as Mark steps away, the fire’s warmth clinging to his shins, the day ahead sharpening into focus—food for Simon, a check on Nathan, a quick wash, then back to the wagon where his anchor waits.

Then he's going after the last dregs of Wiley's gang.

Mark turns from the chuck wagon, the dawn’s pink fingers stretching longer across the prairie, painting the scrub in soft gold as the camp hums awake behind him. His boots scuff the dust, the wrapped plate warm against his palm, and he veers toward the drag—the tail end of the herd where the stragglers lag, where Nathan’s been holding the line while Mark clung to Simon.

Guilt gnaws at him, a sharp pang under his ribs—he’d left the kid alone, too caught in Simon’s recovery and Kepler’s threats to check on him. Nathan is too young, too green to be left like that; barely more than a boy, and Mark’s the one who promised to watch out for him, only to vanish the first damn night.

He spots him near their camp, hunched over a saddle tossed across a crate, the horses snorting soft as they nose the dirt for scraps. Nathan’s a scarecrow silhouette—shirt rumpled, hair a bird’s nest of tangles, one boot off as he rubs sleep from his eyes with a fist.

The kid startles when Mark calls, “Hey, Nathan,” his head snapping up, a flicker of something—relief, maybe—flashing across his pinched face.

“Mark?” Nathan’s voice is small, cracked with morning, and he blinks fast, tugging his boot back on like he’s been caught slacking. “You’re back!”

“Yeah,” Mark says, crouching beside him, the plate balanced on his knee. “Sorry I left you hangin’, kid. Got tied up with Simon…” He trails off, Nathan doesn't need to know anything more than that; “You holdin’ up alright?”

"Yessir. Mark." Nathan shrugs, a shaky grin tugging his lips. “Better’n with Kepler. You kept him off me— ain't no one came back as far as drag; s’what matters. Didn’t sleep much though anyway—cows kept bawlin’ all night.”

"Yeah, they'll do that." Mark huffs a small laugh, relief loosening his chest, and unwraps the rag, pulling out a strip of bacon—crisp and curling, still warm. “Here,” he says, pressing it into Nathan’s hand. “Got this for Simon, but you look like you need it as much as he does right now. Eat up—can’t have you fallin’ off your horse.”

Nathan takes it, eyes lighting up, and crams half of it into his mouth all at once, chewing fast with a muffled “Thanks.”

He studies Nathan's face, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders slump with exhaustion. Still, there's something different in his posture—a slight squaring of the shoulders that hadn't been there when Kepler has left him back in drag. Mark claps his shoulder, light but firm, the kid’s trust settling warm in his gut; another small stitch in the frayed edges of the last two days.

"Managed the whole night by yourself," Mark says, not quite a question. He keeps his voice neutral, fighting the urge to fuss or praise too much. Nathan isn't a child needing coddling, just a young man finding his footing.

Nathan swallows the bacon, wiping greasy fingers on his pants. "Spooked myself silly every time a coyote howled," he admits with a self-deprecating smile. "But I stayed put."

Mark nods, allowing himself a small smile.

"That's the job." He reaches for Nathan's canteen, weighing it. Empty. He hands over his own. "Drought'll kill you faster than any rustler. Drink."

As Nathan gulps water, Mark rises, surveying the camp coming to life.

"Cookie's got flapjacks on this morning too. Once you get yourself together, head on over."

He leaves Nathan to the bacon and the saddle, veering toward a water barrel tucked near the drag’s edge. Behind him, the camp’s waking up proper now—shouts echoing from the herd, a harmonica wheezing somewhere—but here it’s quieter, just the quiet mooing of cattle and the creak of leather. He dips the rag into the barrel’s chill, and scrubs it over his face—cold water sluicing mud from his neck, dripping dark streaks onto his shirt. His fingers rake through his hair, taming the grit-caked mess, and he drags the rag down his arms, peeling away the grime, layer by layer.

The shaving kit’s next—tucked in his satchel, a small wooden box he pulls free, the straight razor glinting dull in the morning light. He wets it, soap lathering thin under his thumb, and tilts his head, scraping stubble from his jaw—each pass a sharp rasp, shedding the wildness of two days’ growth. The blade is cool against his skin, steadying his hands, and as it glides, a thought sparks—Simon, pale and sweat-slick on that cot, stubble shadowing his face, a rugged edge Mark’s fingers itched to smooth last night. He could take the kit to him, wash the fever’s grime away, shave that jaw ‘til it’s bare under his touch—a quiet tending of the one he loves.

 Wiley’s gang, missing cattle, Kepler’s panic—they can all wait.

First, Simon.

The camp’s alive now, a low roar swelling as the sun climbs—shouts ringing from the herd, the clatter of harnesses, a harmonica’s thin wail threading through the din. Mark cuts through it, boots kicking up pale clouds, the wrapped plate still warm in his hand, the shaving kit tucked under his arm. His jaw feels raw, freshly scraped, the cool air biting at it as he weaves past drovers rolling bedrolls and horses snorting steam into the dawn.

He pauses at the chuck wagon’s edge, where Cookie’s fire still crackles, the skillet quiet now but a kettle steaming beside it.

“Need some hot water,” Mark says, nodding at the kettle. Cookie grunts—half-approval, half-annoyance—and jerks his grizzled chin toward a dented tin bowl stacked with the mess gear. Mark grabs it, and tips the kettle, steam curling up as hot water splashes in, rippling clear and scalding.

“For Teller,” he adds, though Cookie’s already turned back to scraping grease, muttering something about soft-hearted fools. The heat seeps through the bowl, warming his hands, and Mark balances it careful to keep it from sloshing on the walk to the medical wagon.

It looms ahead, canvas taut and sun-bleached, parked just beyond the herd’s edge where the dust settles thinner. The flap’s tied loose, swaying in the morning breeze, and Mark’s pulse kicks up, a steady thud echoing the one he’d felt against his ear last night.

He ducks inside, the humid air wrapping around him—sour with sickness, sharp with willow bark, but softer now, kissed by the sun slanting through the gaps. Simon’s there, propped higher on the cot, a thin blanket draped over his hips, bandages stark white against his chest.

“Hey, Kid,” Simon rasps, voice rougher than the night before but warm, that familiar lilt curling through like mesquite smoke on the wind. His eyes—clearer now, gray and piercing, catch Mark’s, lighting up with a tired smile that tugs at the corners of his cracked lips. “Back already? Thought Hilbert had run you off for good this time.”

Mark huffs a laugh, soft and easy, the tension in his shoulders melting a little as he sets the bowl of hot water down beside the cot, steam rising faint in the humid glow.

"Not a chance," he says, easing the plate of flapjacks and bacon onto a crate, the shaving kit tucked under his arm as he sinks to his knees beside Simon. "Got you something."

"Good! I'm feelin' better," Simon says, a playful edge cutting through the rasp, his smile widening just enough to crinkle those gray eyes. "Thinkin' 'bout ridin' out this afternoon—round up them strays myself, give Kepler a kick in the ass while I'm at it."

Mark snorts, the grin tugging his lips unbidden, the ease of Simon's teasing settling deeper in his chest—like slipping into a worn saddle, familiar and right. "Yeah, sure you are. I'll tell Hilbert to go saddle up Mariposa."

Simon chuckles, a low rumble that catches in his throat, and he shifts on the cot, wincing faintly but waving it off quick. "Might be worth it, just to see his face. Old bear would probably tie me down first."

"That old bear saved your life," Mark says, voice softening, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes as he unwraps the rag from the plate, the scent of bacon and molasses spilling into the air.

"He pulled a bullet outta me," Simon counters, his tone gentle but firm, those gray eyes locking on Mark's with a weight that pins him. "You saved my life, Kid."

His hand lifts, trembling but sure, brushing Mark's knuckles where they rest on the crate—a touch light as a prairie breeze, heavy as the truth.

"Simon…" Mark starts, throat tight, ducking his head as heat creeps up his neck, the memory of blood and panic flashing sharp—Wiley's laugh, Simon's limp weight, his own hands slick and shaking as he pressed them to the wound. "I just—didn't let go. Couldn't. Wasn't gonna lose you."

His voice cracks, small and raw, and he busies himself with the plate, fingers trembling as he unwraps the rag fully to hide the shake.

Simon's smile softens, crinkling deeper, and he catches Mark's hand again, squeezing this time—weak but steady, calluses warm against Mark's skin.

"And I ain't goin' nowhere, darlin'," he murmurs, voice thick with something that feels like forever. "Not when I got you hauling me back from the edge. Reckon I owe you more than I can ever repay—but I'm planning to try."

Mark's chest warms, a shy grin tugging his lips despite himself. 

"Sleep must've done you good," he says, teasing, mimicking Simon's drawl just enough to earn a raised brow and an eye roll. "Got you talking big again."

"Some," Simon admits, his gaze softening, a quiet warmth making the wagon feel smaller. "Better with you curled up here, though—kept me grounded." His thumb brushes Mark's wrist, a spark of mischief glinting as he adds, "You plannin' to stick around some, or is Hilbert gonna shoo you out again?"

“He’ll have to drag me,” Mark says, reaching for the plate. “Hilbert feedin’ you anything worth a damn?”

“Bitter tea and broth,” Simon says, nose wrinkling like a kid fed greens, and he leans back, the blanket slipping an inch lower on his hips. “Said if I stay awake and talking like this, I can have real food tonight though—somethin’ that ain’t hot water dressed up as soup.”

Mark smirks, breaking off a piece of bacon and holding it up, the crisp edge glinting in the slanted light. “I'll sneak you this now, save Hilbert the trouble.”

Simon’s eyes widen, delight cutting through fatigue, and he laughs—soft, rough, setting that spark flaring in Mark’s chest.

“Hell, Kid, you’re breakin' rules for me?" he teases, leaning forward, breath hot and close, tinged with willow bark and want. His gaze locks on Mark’s, hungry, and he parts his lips slow, inviting.

Mark’s pulse leaps, and he edges closer—cot creaking, knee brushing Simon’s thigh—as he presses the bacon to Simon’s mouth, dragging it along his lower lip, teasing, and deliberate.

“Go on, darlin’,” he whispers, voice rough, the pet name a flicker of flame. Simon’s lips close around it, teeth grazing Mark’s fingertips—sharp and intentional, a bite that lingers—sending heat searing through Mark’s veins, pooling low. Simon chews slow, eyes burning into Mark’s, tongue flicking out to catch a crumb, brushing Mark’s thumb in a bold, velvet stroke that steals his breath.

“Tastes better from you,” Simon rasps, voice thick with hunger, swallowing as his gaze holds Mark’s, a smirk curling his lips. “Keep feedin’ me like that, and I’m gonna start expectin’ it.” His hand lifts, grazing Mark’s, fingers curling loose but possessive, anchoring them in the moment.

Mark’s flush deepens, heart hammering, but he holds Simon’s stare, voice low.

“Don’t tempt me.” He sets the plate aside, his plan in place—wash him, shave him, claim him with care—and reaches for the rag, dipping it into the hot water—the drip loud in the quiet, steam licking his skin, curling thick in the wagon’s glow. “Got more in mind,” he says, soft but sure, leaning in until their breaths tangle, molasses sweet and mesquite sharp. “Gonna clean you up"

Simon’s brow lifts, surprise flaring with delight and desire, but he stays silent, caught by Mark’s boldness, eyes tracking every move. Outside, the camp bustles—shouts of drovers, clank of harnesses, a harmonica’s wail slicing through the canvas, so thin one wrong sound could draw eyes. Mark feels it, the risk of this humming like a wire, but the flush high on Simon's cheeks, and his steady breath drowns it out—he's healing, alive, here.

Caution fades; this matters so much more.

Lifting the rag, scalding and heavy, Mark presses it to Simon’s brow; slow and reverent, wiping fever’s oily slick away. His fingers trail the cloth, grazing Simon’s temple, and he moves lower, dragging it over Simon's jaw.

Simon’s eyes flutter shut in a ragged sigh—half-growl, half-plea—as he arches into Mark’s touch, neck bared; vulnerable and wanting. Mark’s breath catches, and he shifts closer; his knee sinking into the cot, hip pressing Simon’s side, denim catching on the blanket’s damp edge.

Mark’s breath hitches, the air thick with Simon’s scent—sage and musk and life—and he presses closer, the contact sparking heat through his clothes. The rag glides down Simon’s throat, water pooling in the hollow of his collarbone, and Mark’s free hand follows—fingers splaying over warm skin, feeling the pulse leap beneath.

“Still here,” he whispers, voice raw, “still mine.”

The cloth sweeps down Simon’s chest, skirting bandages, and Mark slows, savoring every inch, skating over shoulders broad and yielding, down a sternum quivering with each shallow breath. His fingers linger, brushing bare skin, circling a pec—water dripping, his thumb grazing a nipple. He knows what he's doing and it's deliberate, drawing a sharp gasps from Simon, a shudder rippling through them both.

Mark leans in, their foreheads pressed together, breaths weaving in the dense air, wrapping them tightly together. The rag traces Simon’s ribs, water sluicing over the taut plane of his stomach, muscles twitching under the slow drag. He presses closer, lips ghosting Simon’s jaw, tasting salt, feeling the rasp of stubble, and pulls the rag lower, teasing the blanket’s hem where it clings wet to Simon’s hips, outlining every dip of muscle. His fingers hover, grazing the skin just above, nails scraping faintly, Simon’s heat pulses through damp cloth, and it pulls a low moan from deep in his chest.

A shout pierces the air outside—some drover cursing a stray—but it’s distant and meaningless. Mark’s gaze locks on Simon’s parted lips, his half-lidded eyes, burning with want. The whole camp could barge in; it wouldn’t stop him. Simon’s hand seizes Mark’s wrist—hard and desperate, yanking him closer until their noses brush, lips a heartbeat apart, breath shared and ragged.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” Simon growls, his voice a low rumble, thick with need as he shifts—stitches straining, blanket slipping another inch—closing the gap until their lips nearly brush, his breath hot, ragged, a plea and a dare all in one. “Ain’t supposed to feel this good, not laid up like this.”

Breath catching in his chest, Mark drags the rag back up, tortuously slow, over Simon’s chest, his free hand splaying wide across Simon’s shoulder, fingers digging into muscle, claiming him.

“You can just feel me,” he murmurs, his voice a soft blade, lips ghosting Simon’s jaw, so close he tastes the salt of him. The rag presses to Simon’s neck, wiping slow, water trickling down his spine, pooling at the cot’s edge. He leans in, nose brushing Simon’s ear, whispering his intent. “Wanna feel you too— now you're all mine again.”

Simon’s shudder deepens, a low groan rumbling in his throat, and his grip on Mark’s wrist tightens, pulling him even closer.

“You’re killin’ me, Kid,” he rasps, eyes blazing, lips so near Mark feels their heat. “Keep this up, and Hilbert’s rules are dust— I'm gonna want more’n a bath.”

Mark’s grin flashes, wicked and warm, and his hand dips once more, fingers brushing just under the blanket’s hem, grazing the fever-hot skin where hip meets thigh, and Simon’s moan spikes, hips twitching, his arousal stark beneath the damp blanket, straining hard and undeniable. The air crackles, Hilbert’s edicts a faint echo, but Mark pulls back, his restraint a fragile thread—Simon’s stitches too fragile, the camp’s ears all too close.

“Later,” he whispers, voice low, fraying with desire, lips brushing Simon’s ear, hot and deliberate. “Tonight, when everyone's asleep, I'll come back and we’ll steal a moment. Slow, careful, and skin-close, nothing to tug those stitches.” His nose grazes Simon’s cheek, sealing the vow in breath, and then eases back, rag dripping, blue eyes blazing fierce. “For now, I’m cleaning you up proper.”

The air in the wagon hangs heavy, thick with steam and musk, as Mark’s hand lingers on Simon’s shoulder, fingers tracing the taut muscle beneath sweat-slick skin. Simon’s breath catches softly, raw-edged, his body yielding under the touch, radiating heat like a brand. Outside, the camp stirs—a drover’s shout pierces the dusk, boots crunch gravel, men waking up and work starting for the day—but the sounds fade against Simon’s presence, his pulse steady and alive. Mark’s world narrows to the man before him, mending in this fragile moment.

“You gonna let me shave you too, or you planning to keep lookin’ like a grizzly?” Mark asks, his voice rough with promise.

Simon’s eyes blaze, gray and molten, a crooked smirk curling his lips.

“Right now? Think I’d be about apt to let you do whatever you wanted, Kid,” he rasps, voice thick with desire, a surrender wrapped in tease. His hand lingers on Mark’s wrist, thumb stroking slow, a spark that promises more if the world would just fade away.

Mark’s grins again, knowing and warm, heart thrumming wildly as he sets the rag aside, water dripping onto the cot. The camp’s clamor—shouts, harness clanks, a harmonica’s wail—presses against the canvas, a thin reminder of how close to the outside they are, but Simon’s flush, his steady pulse, and the heat in his eye; drowns it all out.

He’s healing, here and present and alive. Reaching for the shaving kit, Mark lets his fingers graze the wooden box, opening it with a soft creak, building anticipation, the straight razor and soap glinting in the wagon’s humid glow.

“Gonna sit you up straight” Mark murmurs, his voice a smooth blend of wealthy restraint and raw want, blue eyes searching Simon’s face for any sign of pain. He slides one hand behind Simon’s back, his palm warm against bare skin, and braces the other on Simon's shoulder, guiding him slowly, carefully, watching each breath. "Tell me if it hurts."

The blanket slips lower, pooling at Simon's hips, baring the curve of his pelvis, skin flushed and unguarded beneath—nothing but Simon, raw and open, arousal stirring faintly, a subtle tightening under the thin cover that catches Mark’s gaze, sparking heat low in his gut.

“Only thing hurtin’ right now is how much I want you, darlin’,” he says, gaze locked, chest grazing Mark’s arm, sparking heat through cotton. “Keep goin’—I’m all yours.”

Mark’s breath catches, a flush creeping up his neck, but he steadies Simon upright, their faces inches apart, the air dense with musk and steam. The cot creaks as he moves, bold and sure now, swinging a leg over to straddle Simon’s thigh, his weight settling close, intimate, a jolt passing between them. Simon’s hands find Mark’s hips, fingers curling into his belt loops, tugging him forward with possessive intent. 

“Hold still,” Mark whispers, lips so near Simon’s they could brush. He tests the water, finds it still warm, and dips the brush, working it into the soap, the scent of bay rum blooming sharp and rich, claiming the wagon back from the heavy scent of blood and sickness.

The lather builds thin, but Mark works it slow, brush swirling tight circles, froth gathering like a vow. He leans in, breath ghosting hot across Simon's skin, as he brushes soap onto Simon’s jaw, soft strokes painting close ginger stubble white, bristles rasping. The scent wraps around them; Mark’s own bay rum soap, spicy and possessive feeling— and he lingers, savoring the act, dragging the brush along Simon’s cheek, down the column of his throat, circling the pulse that leaps beneath. Foam drips, catching the light, water beading on Simon’s chest, each stroke teasing what waits—the steel’s bite, and the blade’s edge.

From jaw down to neck, Mark keeps the brush moving in slow, sensual arcs, lathering the skin where stubble meets vulnerability, and Mark’s free hand grazes Simon’s jaw, a thumb tracing the foam’s edge, pausing to let the anticipation coil tighter

Simon tilts his head back, trusting and open, baring his throat fully, eyes half-lidded but locked on Mark’s.

“Gonna smell like you, Kid,” he murmurs, voice rougher than he means, a smirk teasing at the corners of his lips. “Your soap all over me—reckon I’m marked as yours now.”

Mark’s heart kicks, a possessive thrill surging, the thought of Simon carrying his scent, lighting a fire in his core. His hand pauses, eyes flicking to Simon’s, a grin breaking, sharp and hungry.

"Reckon you are." he says, voice low, edges cracking. He sweeps the brush again over Simon's his adam's apple, making sure he hasn't missed with the lather, each pass bearing a promise of the steel to come.

"Been a long time since anyone's done this for me," Simon says, his voice rougher than he intends, a flicker of vulnerability under the heat.

Mark's movements still for a brief moment. "Been a long time since I've done this for anyone but myself," he admits, not quite meeting Simon's eyes as he works the brush in small circles.

The razor glints in the low light as Mark tests the blade on his thumb before pressing it to Simon’s throat, lethal edge kissing his skin just above his wild pulse.

Simon’s breath catches, hum rumbling, eyes locked, baring all—his throat, heart, soul. The blade glides, rasp slicing quiet, scraping stubble, leaving behind a patch of smooth skin. Mark’s fingers graze the shaved patch, thumb lingering at Simon’s jaw, tilting him.

“Look at you,” he whispers, voice raw, “beautiful.”

Making another slow pass, Mark traces the angle of Simon's jaw carefully, deadly steel wielded by steady hands and Simon can't help the quiet, enthralled moan that leaks out of him.

"Keep still," Mark murmurs when Simon shifts slightly beneath him. His thumb presses gently against Simon's chin, steadying him as he works around his mouth.

Simon obeys, but his eyes remain fixed on Mark's face, drinking in the sight of his furrowed brow, the slight bite of his lower lip as he concentrates. Mark's body is a welcome weight against his thigh, warm and solid after the distance.

"Not much longer," Mark says, his voice lower than before as he rinses the blade. He returns to work on the underside of Simon's jaw, his hand sliding to cup the back of Simon's neck, tilting his head back to expose his throat fully.

Simon swallows, feeling the blade track carefully along the vulnerable skin of his neck. A single slip could open his throat, but there's not even a whisper of fear in Simon as that dangerously sharp edge travel along his pulse point. Mark's face is inches from his own, close enough that Simon can feel the warmth of his breath, can count the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. Mark shifts his weight slightly, adjusting his position on Simon's thigh, and the movement sends a current of awareness through them both.

"You're good at this," Simon says, voice rough with something more than just the effort of holding still.

Mark's eyes meet his briefly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Got plenty of practice."

"On yourself," Simon points out. "Different angle."

"Had other teachers," Mark says, his focus returning to the razor's path. "My father, and then..."

He lets the sentence trail off, not needing to finish it. Simon already knows the story, doesn't need or want to poke that wound, not here, not while they're together.

Simon's hand tightens briefly on Mark's hip, a silent acknowledgment.

"You've got steady hands," he murmurs. His eyes hold Mark's for a beat longer than necessary, saying without words that what came before doesn't define what they have now.

Mark makes one final stroke with the razor, then sets it aside, examining his work with critical eyes. His thumb brushes over Simon's jaw, testing for missed spots, the touch lingering longer than necessary.

"How's it look?" Simon asks, a twinkle in his eye.

Mark reaches for a small towel, dampening it with the last of the cloudy water. He wipes away the final traces of soap with gentle, thorough strokes, each pass deliberate, savoring the smooth skin revealed.

“Like you again,” he says quietly, voice low and contemplative.

Simon’s smirk holds, eyes warm, his hand resting on Mark’s thigh, fingers pressing lightly through denim, grounding them in the moment.

"What did I ever do to deserve this? To deserve you?"

The camp hums outside—boots scuff gravel, a drover’s curse cuts through, canvas too thin to hide their breaths—but the world has narrowed to their touch, the cot’s creak, the lantern’s soft hiss.

Mark lets the questions hang unanswered as his hand lingers on Simon’s jaw, thumb tracing one last slow arc, and then stills, his gaze dropping, a shadow crossing his face.

This isn't going to be easy, but it must be done. He exhales, resolve hardening behind those blue eyes, and the air shifts, heavier now, the shave’s tenderness giving way to something unspoken.

“I wanted to take care of you before I let you know where I was going…” he murmurs, voice low, polished restraint fraying as he pulls back just enough to meet Simon’s gaze, “before I go.”

Simon’s smirk fades, eyes sharpening, a flicker of dread cutting through the warmth. His hand tightens on Mark’s thigh, fingers digging in, not possessive now but bracing, like he’s anchoring himself against a coming storm.

“Go?” he says, voice rougher, testing the word, gray eyes narrowing as they search Mark’s face. “Where you headin’, Kid?”

Mark's jaw sets, resolve hardening behind those blue eyes, but his hand stays gentle, cupping Simon's cheek, thumb stroking slow, a tether to this moment.

"Wiley's gang," he says, steady, each word deliberate. "The stolen herd. I'm going after them."

Simon's breath catches, a sharp hitch speaking to the fear that surges through him. His hand slides from Mark's thigh to his wrist, gripping hard enough that his knuckles whiten, as if he could anchor Mark here through that single point of contact, could keep Mark with him simply by sheer force of will.

"No," he says, voice low, almost a growl, but it cracks at the edges, raw with something deeper than command. The word escapes before he can catch it, an instinct born of terror rather than thought.

Mark stiffens, his gentle touch on Simon's face faltering. Something cold flashes in his eyes—a hurt that cuts deeper than anger, the wound of being treated like something fragile, something less. His shoulders square, chin lifting with that stubborn pride Simon has come to both love and fear as he pulls away slowly from Simon's grasp. In that moment, Mark's transformation is suddenly immediately visible—from skittish greenhorn to a man hardened by years of fighting to own himself.

"Simon... you can't tell me no." The words are quiet but laced through with steel, a boundary being drawn between them that Simon never intended.

And Simon sees it then—the echo of every time someone else had tried to control Mark, to dictate his choices, to treat him as less than his own man. The shadow of Kepler, of Philadelphia, of all the prisons Mark has fought to escape. The realization strikes Simon like a physical blow, horror washing through him at his own carelessness. He feels himself becoming what he never wanted- never intended to be; another hand trying to close around Mark's throat.

"Wait, wait, wait," Simon cuts in, voice rough but urgent, fingers loosening their grip to slide down, twining with Mark's instead of restraining. His eyes blaze with fierce intensity as he shakes his head, stitches pulling faintly at the movement. "I ain't actually gonna try and stop you."

Mark blinks, surprise flickering across his face, blue eyes widening, the defensiveness momentarily falling away. "You aren't?"

The question hangs between them, fragile and heavy with meaning—not just about Wiley's gang, but about everything: trust, respect, the promise they've been building between them that neither would try to cage the other. It's the question at the heart of what they're becoming together—can this thing between them exist without chains?

"No." Simon's jaw works, a muscle ticking, and he leans closer, noses nearly brushing, grip unrelenting but no longer restraining. "I don't think there's anything on this whole damn earth that could stop you once you had your mind set on something."

The words carry admiration, frustration, and a bone-deep fear so tangled together that Simon can't separate them himself. His hand trembles slightly against Mark's, betraying the storm roiling beneath the surface.

Mark's eyes soften, a flicker of surprise breaking his resolve. "I thought you'd be more…" He trails off, searching Simon's face, voice quieter, testing the boundaries. "Upset? Scared? Tell me no, that I couldn't go. Wasn't allowed to go."

Simon's laugh is short, bitter, a sound that doesn't reach his eyes. It scrapes his throat raw, honesty burning like whiskey.

"Upset? Scared? I am that," he says, voice rough as gravel, leaning closer still, his breath hot, shared between them like a confession. "Wiley's gang ain't got Wiley anymore. They'll be scattered, skittish, mean as hell. They'll shoot first and ask questions never."

The fear bleeds through his voice now, no longer hidden behind bravado or anger—just the naked terror of a man who's already imagining the thousand ways he might lose what he's only just found.

Mark holds his gaze, unflinching. "But you're not gonna try and stop me?"

The question carries a weight beyond its simple words—it's Mark testing this new ground between them, feeling for the trap that experience has taught him must be there.

Simon's eyes blaze, torn between fury and something softer, deeper—a love that aches to cage Mark safe but knows it can't, shouldn't, won't. His teeth grind, stitches pulling as he shifts, his vulnerability stark against his words. The fever still burns beneath his skin, but it's nothing compared to the fire of this moment.

"Kid," he rasps, voice dropping low, heavy with truth, "c'mere." He shifts, making more room on the cot, a silent invitation. "I may call you Kid, but I ain't thought of you as a kid in a long damn time. If I could keep you here, keep you safe, would I?"

The question turns the knife inward, Simon examining his own heart with a ruthlessness that surprises even him. He's never been one for this kind of naked honesty, but the bullet and the fever have stripped away his defenses, leaving only this raw core of truth.

"Would you?" Mark asks, voice barely a whisper, blue eyes searching as he settles beside Simon, curled together on this small bed. There's hope in the question, but wariness too—a lifetime of betrayals making him cautious even now.

The question hangs, unanswered for a long moment, Simon's hand loosening but not letting go, fingers trembling faintly—not from fever now, but fear, raw and unhidden. His eyes drop, tracing the blanket's edge, then lift again, shadowed with a truth he can no longer hide from either of them.

"I don't rightly know," he says, voice rough, cracking open like earth in drought. "There's a part of me, darlin', that would, I think. That part is mean and jealous and cowardly. That part would lock you up in a box, set you on a shelf, keep you right where I know you're safe."

The admission costs him, each word drawn from a place he's never shown anyone, not even himself. His hand tightens on Mark's, needing the anchor as he exposes his own darkest truths.

Mark's throat works, stunned, his body going still beside Simon as the words sink in. He leans forward, shoulders hunching slightly, breath warm against Simon's shoulder as he processes this confession.

"I gotta do this, Simon," he murmurs, voice soft but unyielding, polished edges fraying with the weight of it. "For the herd. For me."

The last two words contain multitudes—all Mark's need to prove himself, to stand on his own, to be more than what others have tried to make him.

Simon's breath shudders, eyes closing briefly, and when they open, they're fierce, raw with love and dread. The pain of his wound is nothing compared to the ache of knowing Mark will ride into danger, and he'll have to let him go.

"I know," he says, voice low, heavy with the burden of understanding too well. "The part of me that would keep you back is wrong. And I know it. And it shames me, but God help me, it's there."

His fingers trace the line of Mark's jaw, memorizing the contours of his face, as if afraid this might be the last time.

"But I could no more stop you from doin' what you think is right than I could stop the sun from comin' up tomorrow mornin'. If I kept you here? If I tried to take that from you? That would make me no better than your daddy. No better than Kepler." The names hang between them, specters of the men who'd tried to own Mark in different ways. "That ain't love, Kid. That's not protection or care—it's just control. It kills me to think about you getting hurt, but it hurts worse thinking I might ever be the cause of it."

The words are an offering, a truth Simon has fought to learn through years of his own battles. His eyes hold Mark's, unflinching in their honesty, even as his hand trembles against Mark's skin.

Mark's breath catches, a quiet sound, his eyes wide, shimmering with something unspoken—awe, maybe, at the man baring his soul before him, at this vision of love so different from anything he's ever known before.

Mark falters, words failing, his body shifting closer until they are pressed together tightly, letting touch say what his voice can't.

"Simon… I—" he starts, but chokes on the weight of it, eyes wide, heart pounding visibly in his throat at this open, jagged love. He shakes his head, a faint smile breaking, raw and real—a new understanding dawning in his eyes.

Simon's hand slides up Mark's arm to grip his shoulder, anchoring them both in this moment of terrible, beautiful vulnerability.

"Don't," he murmurs, voice softer now, almost a plea. "Don't say nothin' yet, darlin'. I see it in you—that fire, that need to set things right. It's why I love you. Love you like I didn't know you could love a person. Always will, no matter what damned fool thing you ride into."

The words hang in the air between them, impossible to take back—Simon's heart laid bare with a simple openness. His eyes never leave Mark's, even as his breath comes faster, fear and fever making him light-headed.  "But I see you, Mark, I know who you are, what drives you. That's mine to hold gentle, not to break and not to hide away."

His eyes hold Mark's, desperate with a love that cuts deeper than fear, that has finally accepted the risk of loss as the price of loving truly. "Just, please… don't make me bury you, Kid. That's all I ask."

The raw plea strips away the last of his defenses, leaving him utterly exposed—a man who has lost too much already, terrified of losing the one thing that matters most, again.

Mark's lips part, a faint tremor running through him, and he leans in, forehead pressing to Simon's again, breaths mingling.

"I love you too," he whispers, voice rough, fraying at the edges, blue eyes locked on gray. "I'm only doing- I only think I even can do this because of you, Simon. You  had faith in me when I didn't have any in myself. And now, I have to go do this. Prove I can. That I'm worthy of that faith."

The words are simple but hold the weight of revelation—Mark, too, stripping away his armor, offering his own heart in return.

Simon's hand slides to Mark's chest, resting over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath his palm.

"You're gonna tear me apart, darlin'," he repeats, barely above a whisper, fingers curling into Mark's shirt. "But I ain't ever gonna be the one to chain you down."

The promise is sealed in those words—a different kind of love than either has known before, one that gives freedom and trust rather than demanding surrender.

Mark's throat tightens, a nod his only answer, leaning forward until his forehead rests against Simon's shoulder, a silent vow. The camp's hum presses closer—a clank of harness, a low curse—but it's nothing compared to the thread that binds them together, glowing and simple and pure.

The air shifts, thick with the weight of their words, love and fear entwined so tightly they can no longer be separated. Simon's arm circles Mark's shoulders, drawing him closer, as if memorizing the feel of him before letting go.

Simon pulls back just enough to meet Mark's gaze, fierce and open, and he nods, a small gesture, bracing for what's next—for the pain of watching Mark ride away, and the hope of his return. It all between them settles like dust after a storm, still hanging in the air but no longer blinding. His smile flickers, faint but real, a spark of his usual fire breaking through. His eyes, still tender, sharpen with a different kind of care; the practical concern of a man who's survived enough to know what kills.

"So," he says, voice steadier now, though the dread lingers beneath it, "you got a plan for this raid, or you just ridin' in blind?"

The question transforms the air between them—not diminishing the love just confessed, but channeling it into something tangible, useful. If Simon can't stop Mark from going, he can at least help ensure he comes back.

Mark's jaw sets, resolve hardening as he meets Simon's gray eyes. His hand slides to Simon's shoulder, fingers curling gently, a tether even as his mind races ahead to the task.

“They took off northwest when they fled,” he says, voice low, polished but fraying with fire, faint drawl slipping through. “Got twenty-seven head from you and me, but only four of them left. I figure I can get in there.” He leans in, blue eyes blazing, confidence swelling like he’s already half-victorious. “I’ll track ’em to their camp—has to be open ground up there, right? I go in at dusk, quiet, cut the herd loose, and drive ’em back before those bastards know I’m there. Just me, my gun, quick and clean. In and out, herd’s ours again.”

The words spill fast, bold, Mark’s chest rising with the thrill of it—heroic to him, a chance to reclaim what’s theirs, to prove himself. His hand tightens on Simon’s shoulder, thumb grazing skin, as if the plan’s already in motion, his drawl thicker now, “Reckon it’ll work, too. Ain’t no need for more’n that.”

Simon listens, really listens, weighing each word. The love he's just confessed doesn't blind him—if anything, it only sharpens his focus, makes him see with painful clarity the holes in Mark's plan, the dangers lurking in each assumption. His expression shifts subtly, the tenderness remaining but now joined by the calculating assessment of a veteran who's seen too many good men die from confidence alone.

"Kid," he says, each word carefully chosen. "You're talking about ridin' into a rattler's nest alone, at dusk, with four skittish killers who don't sleep sound no more." His eyes bore into Mark's, fierce with love, that fear bleeding through. "For twenty-seven cows?"

Sheepishly, Mark shrugs a little. "Actually about two hundred head all told."

Simon's expression freezes, the shift in numbers hitting him like a physical blow. Two hundred head—not twenty-seven—changes everything. A grim understanding settles in his eyes, not anger at being misled, but alarm at the true scale of what Mark intends.

"Two hundred?" he says, voice low, rough, testing the number like it's a blade he wasn't expecting slipped between his ribs.

Mark nods, brow furrowing faintly, still riding the plan's thrill. "As far as point and flanks can tell, yeah—herd's lost about two hundred, can't be blamed on the storm."

Simon's breath catches, a low sound, and his hand shifts to Mark's forearm, gripping firm but not restraining. The touch is grounding, a lifeline thrown between fear and love.

"Well, you can't do that, Mark," he says, voice rough, each word still careful, like he's stepping through thorns. "Not in a you can't because I say so way, but in a no man alive could do that way. It is simply not possible to handle two hundred scared, stupid, blind cattle with one man. It's suicide."

It carries the weight of expertise, not control—Simon's love manifesting as his knowledge, freely given; a desperate need to keep Mark alive by equipping him, not restraining him. His eyes remain steady on Mark's, not backing down from the reality, but not commanding either. This is what he can offer: not protection through restraint, but protection through wisdom.

Mark's brow furrows, his confidence wavering, hand pausing on Simon's shoulder. "Then I don't know what…"

Simon leans closer, like he's sharing a secret; "Northwest ain't open ground, either—it's canyons, choke points, rocks that hide a man with a rifle. You think you'll sneak in, cut out two hundred head, and not make a sound? Those cows are gonna bellow, give you away before you're ten steps in. And four ain't exactly a few when they're desperate, shooting at shadows—cornered, mean, with Wiley's ghost still riding 'em. You go in alone, no scout, no backup…" He trails off, jaw working. "I ain't chainin' you down, darlin',  won't tell you no; but I am begging you to see it clear."

Mark's lips part, a quiet exhale, and he shifts, denim grazing blanket, searching Simon's face.

"So what do I do?" he asks, voice softer, polished edge fraying, drawl faint but real. "I have to get them back, Simon."

Simon's grip on Mark's wrist softens, but his hand stays, thumb stroking pulse now, grounding them. His voice steadies, trail-boss mind kicking in, logistics flowing like a river, but Mark's safety anchors every word.

"Today, while you're out working, conversate with the other men a little." he says, low, deliberate, "you try to get Martinez, Jensen, Fuller, and O'Brien to come with you. Alford and Foster if you can. Seven or more going would be ideal, but you could manage it with five. If they don't come with you, you gotta promise me you won't go."

Mark's eyes widen, a flicker of awe breaking through, touched deep by Simon's care, his mind already mapping the crew.

"I promise," he says, voice rough, heavy with truth, hand tightening on Simon's shoulder.

Simon's gaze sharpens, gray eyes piercing, love and fear entwined. "Not even for your calf," he says, voice dropping, soft but firm. "Not even for Maisie."

Mark's breath catches, heart slamming at the name. The memory floods back; wind howling, Simon's arms hauling him to safety, Maisie bawling, and his throat tightens, eyes shimmering with the weight of Simon remembering, caring.

"No," he says, voice cracking, pain lacing each word. "I promise. Fuck the cow." It hurts to say, cuts him deep down to dismiss Maisie, but he'll hold the promise, solid as stone, for Simon.

Simon nods, a faint smile tugging, pride shining in his eyes.

"If it makes you feel better," he says, voice warming, shifting to the grit of the plan, "I don't think you'll have a problem getting Martinez or Fuller. Those two're always itchin' for a fight. Martinez swings a rifle like it's part of him, and Fuller's mean with a knife if it gets in close. Jensen and O'Brien? They'' take take some convincing, but you remind 'em they owe me—Jensen for that horse I pulled out of the ravine, O'Brien for the brawl I backed him in. They'll come, grumbling but loyal. Foster and Alford? Coin toss on those two; they got girls back west—Foster's steady herdin' but hates a scrap, Alford's quick but flighty. You lean on 'em hard though, might sway 'em."

Mark listens, blue eyes locked on Simon, soaking in every word, the logistics painting a picture—men, guns, a real shot. His hand slides to Simon's arm, fingers curling, grounding himself in Simon's voice, its rough warmth wrapping him tight.

"How do you know all this?" he murmurs, awe creeping in, drawl soft. "Every man, what they'll do, what they owe…"

Simon's smirk widens, a glint of his old fire, but his eyes remain serious, his mind racing through every detail that might keep Mark alive.

"Been on the trails a lot longer'n you, darlin'. Know the crew, know what breaks 'em, what binds 'em." His breathing quickens slightly with urgency; a plan forming, the way he'd do it if he could get out of this camp cot. "You go at dawn, not dusk. Dawn's when they'll be sleeping deepest and if you're lucky they won't have a watch with only four of them. You don't ride straight in neither—you circle wide, come in from the east with the sun at your back, blind 'em if they wake."

Mark absorbs this, nodding slowly as the plan grows clearer in his own mind.

"You'll want two men high if there's ridges, and you got enough" Simon continues, "covering with rifles. Martinez up front, he's got eyes like a hawk. Fuller watches your back, O'Brien flanks the herd. Jensen's on point, keeps 'em movin'. Another two to cut the herd quiet—Fuller's good with cattle, got a way of settling 'em."

His hand tightens slightly on Mark's arm. "You stay back, direct it all, keep your eye on the rustlers, not the cows."

Mark nods again, his earlier bravado replaced by attentive focus.

"You don't try to drive 'em all back at once," Simon adds, voice growing hoarser but never faltering. "Cut small groups, move 'em quiet. Start with the ones furthest from their camp. That's probably how the gang did it without us noticing, you just do it right on back to them. Might take three runs, even four, but better slow and alive than fast and dead."

"And if I only got three besides me?" Mark asks, voice quiet, testing, thumb grazing Simon's arm.

Simon's jaw tightens, dread flickering across his face clear and unvarnished.

"Four's thin," he says, voice rougher, grip tightening. "You'd need a miracle, Kid. Five's the line—less, and you're bleedin' before you start. Promise holds, yeah? No goin' without 'em." His eyes bore into Mark's, fierce, pleading, his love louder than his fear.

"I promise," Mark repeats, voice steady, raw, leaning in, forehead grazing Simon's, close and honest.

Simon exhales, a shudder running through him, and his hand slides to Mark's neck, fingers curling, holding tight.

"Good,"  A faint smile breaks, but his grip stays, the raw truth of it binding them.

He shifts, stitches pulling faintly, blanket slipping lower, and his voice steadies, trail-boss mind locking in, love anchoring every word.

"Now," he says, low, deliberate, "I ain't gonna tell you how to play it once you're there. I don't know exactly what sort of layout you'll be looking at, so you'll need to think quick on your feet, listen to Martinez—he's got a head for this—but I am gonna tell you to take my good side piece, and a full pouch of extra ammo."

Mark's brow furrows, eyes flickering with doubt, hand pausing on Simon's arm.

"I'm not a good shot…" he starts, voice soft, drawl faint, hesitation creeping in, memories of his shaky aim under pressure flashing through.

The look in Simon's eyes cuts through Mark's fear.

"I think John Wiley'd beg to differ if he were still breathing," he says, voice rough, the dark joke leaking through. "But a rifle ain't gonna be enough. Won't do you any good if you're in close—takes too long to reload. I want you to have the best chances possible. That means fast shots if you need 'em."

Mark's throat works, doubt lingering, and he leans closer, forehead grazing Simon's.

"I don't know if I can do this," he murmurs, voice cracking, raw with the weight of canyons, outlaws, two hundred head, and Simon's faith pressing heavy on his untested shoulders.

"You can," he says, thick with conviction. "And if you have enough men with you, you will. Martinez'll steer you, Fuller's got your back—you want five, preferably seven, like we said. You're not alone, darlin'." His fingers curl tighter, a vow in their grip, willing Mark to believe.

Mark's lips part, a quiet exhale, and his hand slides to Simon's arm, fingers digging in, anchoring himself in that fire.

"You're giving me too much," he says, voice rough, drawl thick with awe, blue eyes shimmering as Simon's trust sinks deep. "… I ain't earned all this. Ain't worth it." It's half a confession—care that humbles him.

Simon's eyes blaze, unyielding, and he pulls Mark closer, noses brushing, voice dropping to a growl of certainty.

"You are. All of it and so much more, Mark Midland, and I want you to take Mariposa too," he says, voice low, heavy with sacrifice. "She's the smartest horse on the prairie; hell, she's smarter'n some of the men, and fast enough I know she'll get you back to me."

Mark's breath catches, eyes widening, stunned by the gift.

"Mariposa? But she's your best girl," he says, voice trembling, drawl soft, heart slamming at Simon offering his prized mare, the one he's groomed and trusted through countless trails, damn near his best friend.

Simon leans in, lips brushing Mark's temple, a whisper of care against the storm.

"You're mine too," he murmurs, voice thick with the force of his love and dread. "And I expect to see both of you back here, hale and whole."

The weight of his words carries everything he can't say—his fear, his hope, his trust in Mark to return to him.

Mark's throat works, a tremor running through him, and he nods, blue eyes locked on Simon's, shimmering with awe and resolve.

"I'll bring her back," he says, voice steady, raw, the promise heavy as stone. "And me. For you. I promise"

His hand curls tighter on Simon's arm, sealing it, grounding him in this vow.

The logistics and planning fall away, leaving only the men beneath—the ones who had walked through fire together, the ones who had nearly died, the ones who had pulled each other back from different brinks. The ones who just confessed their love again, deeper now, more rich and full than either can fully comprehend. The one who will ride into danger tomorrow, and the one who must find the courage to watch him go. In this breath, in this space, they are simply the ones who found each other against all odds, the ones who refuse to let go.

Simon's Hand slides from Mark's arm to the back of his neck, grip tightening with a newfound urgency.

"Mark," he whispers, his name a prayer on Simon's lips.

Mark feels the shift instantly—the air between them suddenly charged, electric with something beyond planning and promises. His breath catches as Simon pulls him closer, their foreheads touching, then noses, then lips—tentative at first, a question asked and answered in the same moment.

The kiss deepens, fear and longing crashing over them. Mark's hand slides carefully to Simon's chest, mindful of the bandages but desperate for the contact, for proof of life beneath his palm. Simon's heartbeat thunders against his fingers, strong and vital despite everything.

Simon tugs Mark closer, a soft groan escaping him—pain mingled with desire as Mark's weight shifts against him. Neither cares, both consumed by the fierce certainty that tomorrow carries no guarantees.

"Simon," Mark breathes against his mouth, "I should—your wound—"

"Don't you dare stop," Simon growls, fingers tangling in Mark's hair, pulling him back down with surprising strength. The kiss turns desperate, almost punishing, a claim staked in flesh and breath. Simon's other hand slides beneath Mark's shirt, calluses rough against smooth skin, mapping terrain he fears he might never touch again, committing every ridge and hollow to memory.

Mark shifts, the blanket tangling between them as heat builds, urgent and demanding. Simon's mouth trails from Mark's lips to his jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath his ear, then biting down—hard enough to mark, hard enough to linger—drawing a shuddering gasp from deep in Mark's chest.

"Need you," Simon murmurs against the reddening skin, voice stripped to its rawest form. "Need this."

Mark responds with a kiss that borders on violence, stealing Simon's breath, giving his own in return. His hands shake as they move lower, hesitating at the edge of Simon's bandages before finding skin again. The world narrows to just this—the feel of Simon, hot and vital beneath trembling fingers; the taste of his mouth, bitter with medicine yet somehow perfect; the quiet sounds of need between them, half-swallowed and desperate. The strategy session, the camp outside, the dangers ahead all fade into nothing compared against the undeniable truth of their bodies pressed together, hearts beating in time, each pulse a defiant reminder that for now, at least, they are still alive, still together, still burning.

"Mark! You in there?" Boots scuff outside the wagon, Nathan's voice cutting through their haze like a knife. "Mr. Hawkins is lookin' for us! Says we got it easier than yesterday, but we still gotta get at it!"

They freeze, lips still pressed together, eyes flying open. For a heartbeat, they remain locked in their embrace, both reluctant to break the spell—then reality crashes back. Mark scrambles up, nearly toppling from the narrow cot as he straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. Simon winces as the sudden movement jostles his wound, but a breathless laugh escapes him at the panic on Mark's face.

"Just a minute, Nathan!" Mark calls, voice rough with lingering desire, as he tucks his shirt in hastily. He turns back to Simon, eyes wide with fading adrenaline and something like wonder.

Simon's smirk flickers, pride and amusement breaking through despite the interruption. His hand reaches out, catching Mark's wrist one last time, eyes soft with unspoken words—safety, love, come back.

"Go," Simon murmurs, voice rough, warm, that knowing smirk tugging wider. "I'll be here."

The promise carries new weight now, charged with the memory of what just passed between them—and the promise of what waits when Mark returns. The camp's hum surges—curses, hooves, life beyond their vow—but their connection holds, stronger than before, as Mark pulls away reluctantly.

"Mark!" Nathan calls again, impatience edging his voice.

Mark pauses at the wagon's entrance, silhouetted against the harsh sunlight streaming in. He turns back for one last look at Simon—disheveled, flushed, the ghost of their kiss still visible on his lips, more alive than he's seemed since taking that bullet—Mark steps toward the canvas flap. His body still hums with the ghost of Simon's touch, his lips still burn from Simon's kiss, but his mind is clearer now, his purpose more certain than ever. Their eyes lock across the small space, a thousand unsaid things passing between them. No more words are needed; the vows have been made, the promises exchanged.

He'll go, gather some men, bring back the herd, and he will return to this man who loves him enough to let him go.

Chapter Text

Dusk bleeds purple over the prairie, a slow bruise spreading across the sky, the last rays of the sinking sun catching dust motes in the medical wagon's close, heavy air as Mark eases through the canvas flap, his boots scuffing soft against the wooden planks, his heart thumping louder than the camp's restless pulse behind him.

A bowl of stew trembles slightly in his blistered hands, steam rising in curls. He pauses, letting his eyes adjust to the lantern's dim glow, taking in Simon's still form beneath a threadbare blanket worn thin from years of washing and mending.

Outside, drovers' laughter rolled in from where they gathered around the chuck wagon, bawdy jokes and tall tales cutting through the twilight like bullwhips as their voices rose and fell in a chaotic chorus. The air carried the sounds of their revelry mixed with the scents of tobacco smoke, greasy food, and the earthy perfume of unwashed men who'd ridden hard since sunrise. Their shadows danced long and wild against the prairie grass, cast by the cook fire's orange glow as it sparked and popped beneath the first winking stars.

But in here—in here is a different world altogether. The sounds of celebration dulled and faded against the canvas walls, transforming into a distant rumble like far-off thunder. Inside, the lantern flame barely disturbed the stillness, casting soft amber light across the cramped space where time seemed to slow its gallop to a gentle walk. The medicinal scents of the herbs hung in layers beneath the cedar-wood supports, mingling with the aroma of the stew. Each breath came measured and deliberate in this sanctuary they had, this pocket of calm against the coming storm of tomorrow, fragile though it might be.

Simon's eyes flutter open at Mark's approach, that familiar half-smile curling his lips .

“Hey, Kid,” Simon rasps, voice rough as broken stone but warm and loving, tugging Mark’s heart from his ribs. “That for me?” His gaze flicks to the bowl, then back, holding Mark like a rope pulled taut.

Mark sets the stew on a crate beside the narrow cot and lowers himself to a three-legged stool, joints stiff from his day in the saddle.

“Ain’t much,” he murmurs, voice thick, thumb grazing Simon’s jaw, the barest rasp of stubble scraping his fingertips like a match struck slow. “Stew, biscuit. Just a little somethin’ to keep you.”

Simon’s hand catches his, fingers grazing Mark’s wrist, then curling tight, pulling his knuckles to his mouth.

"Keepin' me's your job, darlin'," he whispers, lips brushing skin, each word a spark that jolts Mark's core. His eyes burn—there's fear there, but also a depth of trust Mark may never fully get used to, raw and open, like the prairie stretching wide under stars. "I don't guess I can try talking you out of tomorrow again, can I?"

Shifting to sit on the edge of the cot, Mark reaches for the bowl instead of answering. He stirs the stew slowly, steam rising between them like morning fog, buying him some time. There's a weight to his silence—determination, worry, plans still forming—as he carefully fills the spoon and offers a bite. His avoidance says more than words could, and they both know it.

"I'm not that injured, Kid," Simon teases, a knowing smirk crinkling the corners of his gray eyes as he shifts higher against his bedroll, the healing stitches along his side catching the light. "Could hold my own spoon by now."

His voice carries a gentle challenge, acknowledging what they both know—this is about something more than recovery, but his eyes don't leave Mark's face, waiting for an answer about tomorrow that Mark is clearly avoiding.

"Maybe I like taking care of you," Mark says, still avoiding the question. There's nothing clinical in the way he lifts a spoonful to Simon's lips.

Simon begins to accept the bite, but his expression suddenly shifts—warmth draining away, replaced by a cold dread that carves deep lines around his mouth. His hand shoots out, gripping Mark's wrist with desperate strength, stopping the spoon mid-air.

"Tell me you found some men to go with you," he demands, voice breaking raw with fear. He pushes himself up with a grimace that has nothing to do with his wound, stitches visibly straining across freckled skin. His breathing quickens, shallow and tight. "God damn it, Kid—tell me you ain't going out there alone."

The panic in his eyes strips away any pretense of a hardened cowboy façade, revealing the terror beneath—the terror of having to watch Mark ride out to die. His fingers tighten until Mark can feel each callus pressing into his skin, anchoring him, as if Simon could physically stop him from leaving by will alone.

"No, not alone." Mark's breath hitches, the raid's shadow flickering between them. He leans closer, forehead grazing Simon's, the cot creaking under their shared weight. "Got some men lined up," he says, low, steady as a heartbeat, desperate to ease the naked fear in Simon's eyes. "Five besides me. Ready for dawn."

The relief that washes over Simon's face is so profound it's almost painful to witness—tension draining from his shoulders, the hand gripping Mark's wrist loosening, trembling slightly before sliding up to cup the back of Mark's neck holding him there for as long as he's allowed to.

For a moment they simply breathe together in the lantern's soft glow, foreheads still touching, Simon's eyes closed as if in prayer. When he finally pulls back, something unguarded and achingly vulnerable remains in his expression. Simon clears his throat, drops his hand reluctantly back to the blanket, the absence of his touch leaving a ghost of warmth on Mark's skin.

Meeting Mark's eyes again, Simon holds his gaze as he finally accepts the offered spoonful, adam's apple bobbing beneath weathered skin, and Mark can't help but watch—the gleam of grease on Simon's lower lip, the soft jump of his pulse at his throat. The world beyond their tent dissolves until nothing exists but this man, this moment, and the unspoken fear that lives between them like a third presence in the wagon.

"Who'd you pull?" he asks, fingers finding Mark's wrist again, but softer, gentler, not a restraint but the need to touch, to feel his pulse tick against the thin skin there. "Better be good ones watching out for you, Kid."

Dawn is coming, and Simon's plan repeats like a loop in Mark's skull: east ridges, sun at their backs, five men minimum. 

Mark dips the tarnished spoon into the steaming stew again, bringing it back to Simon's lips. Something beyond words passes between them—trust, fear, longing—all woven through this simple act of care.

"I started with Martinez," Mark says, voice pitched low enough that it faded before it hit the canvas walls around them. He cradled the bowl closer to Simon's chest, spooning another mouthful of stew out for him. "Caught him at noon, leaning against the chuck wagon, rifle slung across him like it's part of his arm. Man never stops watchin' the horizon."

Simon's lips curve into a knowing smile as he swallows. "Martinez sees ghosts before they're made."

"Told him Wiley's got our herd," Mark continues, tilting the bowl to collect another spoonful. "His eyes lit up like a struck match—says he's got a score to settle from some trouble back in the Territory. Didn't even blink, just nodded. Said he'd be ready to ride before I even finished the asking."

Simon swallows, his smirk deepening, a glint of satisfaction in his storm-gray eyes.

"Martinez don't fuck around. That's your steel right there." His hand slides up to Mark's forearm, squeezing once, the calloused thumb tracing a small circle that sends warmth spreading through Mark's chest. "Who else you got?"

"Fuller," Mark answers, spooning another bite, keeping the bowl steady as Simon shifts slightly on the cot. "Found him chasing strays by a creek bed, grinning like a damn wolf at something only he could see."

As Mark speaks, Simon's hand finds its way to Mark's thigh, fingers sliding up along the worn denim with deliberate slowness. The touch is intimate, possessive, heat flaring between them as Simon's calloused palm settles warm and heavy against Mark's leg, anchoring him in place as surely as any rope.

"Says he's gettin' old," Mark continues, voice dropping to a near-whisper, private as a secret, "but when I told him you said you'd trust him in a scrap over any other man on the drive, he just laughed that coyote laugh of his. Always did love a good fight, he said. He's in, no question."

"Cookie's tryin' to poison me with this slop," Simon teases, but he takes the bite anyway, his lips grazing Mark's thumb—no accident in the touch, deliberate as a promise. "Fuller's got grit. He'll back your play no matter how damn fool it seems."

The harmonica's distant wail slips through the canvas, a lonesome sound that makes their closeness all the more precious. Mark breaks off a corner of biscuit, offering it between two fingers. Mark's thumb sweeps across his bottom lip, a touch that lingers longer than necessary. Heat coils low in his belly as Simon's breath warms his wrist.

"Jensen?" Simon asks, voice rougher now, the word catching slightly in his throat.

Mark dips his head, hiding a smile. "Jensen was a pure pain in the ass. Found him wrestling with a mare's thrown shoe, half-buried in the herd's dust, all grumble and spit. Told him you said he owes you for that horse swap in the ravine last spring—"

"He does," Simon interrupts, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"—and he damn near snaps my head off. Watch your damn mouth, greenhorn, like I'd insulted his mother." Mark offers another spoonful, watching as Simon's throat works, a bead of broth catching in the hollow at the base of his neck. Mark's fingers itch to brush it away. "But Martinez and Fuller being in tipped him over. Fine, but I ain't happy about it, he ended up growling, kickin' dirt like a child."

Simon's chuckle is low, the hand on Mark's thigh sliding up a little further, thumb stroking a maddening rhythm along the seam of his jeans—something they'd never risk beyond these canvas walls.

"Jensen's bark's worse than his bite. Always has been. Man got shot tryin' to pull me out of an ambush years back, bitchin' the whole time about my poor choice of campsites, like it weren't him that led us all straight into that blind canyon."

Mark leans into the touch, allowing himself this moment of vulnerability, of connection. "Got O'Brien too."

"Yeah?" Simon's eyes brighten with hope.

"Yeah," Mark says, feeding another bite, their eyes locked as the camp's distant hum fades to nothing. "Caught him roping a stray by the southern edge, sweat pouring down his neck. Asks about you first thing—how you're holdin' up. When I mention I'm looking for men for this raid and you were the one recommended him specifically, he grins ear to ear, says he's in, that he's the second best shot in the outfit, as long as I don't ask Martinez. Clapped my shoulder so hard I nearly fell over. Solid as stone, that one."

"Second best, huh? Maybe if about six other men left first." Simon's eyes crinkle, the worry lines around his mouth softening just slightly. "But, O'Brien's steady. Won't break at the first shot." His thumb traces lazy patterns on Mark's skin now, sending shivers down his spine despite the wagon's close heat. "Were you able to get Foster?"

Mark's hand pauses mid-motion, spoon hovering, his gut twisting at the memory. He's saved the hardest one for last. "Foster was twitchy as a cornered cat. Found him mendin' a bridle at camp's edge, way off- like he knew I was going to ask him. Kept saying Kepler'll string us all up, that Wiley's crew is too dangerous, too many."

Simon's expression darkens, his hand stilling on Mark's thigh. "And?"

"I told him you'd ride it yourself if you could be in the saddle," Mark says softly, setting the spoon down to take Simon's free hand between both of his. "And that we'd need someone with his eye on that ridge." He runs his thumb over Simon's knuckles, tracing old scars from a hundred fights and falls. "Martinez just stared him down, silent, and that was what pushed him over. Fine, he said, shaking like a leaf, but he's going to cover the ridge with his Remington. Says he'll keep eyes high, warn us if Wiley's men have the same idea."

"He's skittish- no doubt. But eyes like a hawk. If he stays high, you'll be safe. Safer at least." Simon's gaze holds Mark's, pride and fear mingling in their depths.

"So that's, five, plus you," Simon breathes, voice rough with emotion. "Damn good, Kid."

Mark swallows hard, the weight of the raid, and the need to return to Simon pressing heavy on his shoulders.

"That gonna be enough?" he asks, vulnerability slipping into his voice despite his resolve.

"Yeah. I reckon so. More than we could've hoped for," Simon murmurs, fingers tightening gently on Mark's thigh. "You did good. Better than good."

The praise ignites a fire in Mark's chest, and he dips the spoon back into the stew, offering another bite, but Simon shakes his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"You gonna feed me all night, Kid?" Simon teases, his voice low, the barest graze of teeth catching Mark's thumb as he releases it. His hand slides up to Mark's  neck, rough fingers tracing the quickening pulse there, sending shivers down Mark's spine that drown out the flicker of nervous fear about the morning.

"Long as you'll let me," Mark whispers, setting the bowl on the crate with deliberate care. "Gotta keep you close."

"Don't want to be nowhere else," Simon says, his hand tightening on Mark's neck, drawing him closer until their lips hover inches apart. His chest rises steady, skin flushed, the blanket draped low over his hips.

The lantern flame flickers as Mark leans in, closing that final distance. Their lips meet softly at first, tentative despite all they've shared, as if each kiss remains sacred, a gift neither takes for granted. Simon's breath catches—a small sound lost between them—before his hand slides fully into Mark's hair, anchoring him closer. The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, tasting of pepper and salt pork and something uniquely Simon that makes Mark's heart stutter in his chest.

Outside, someone strikes up a fiddle, its distant melody seeping through canvas walls like a ghost. Mark pulls back just enough to breathe, to take in Simon's face—eyes half-lidded, lips parted and glistening in the dim light. He traces Simon's collarbone with reverent fingers, careful to avoid the bandaged side, mapping familiar territory made new by how close he'd come to losing it.

"Been thinkin' about this all day," Simon murmurs against Mark's jaw, leaving a trail of kisses down to the hollow of his throat. His hands find the buttons of Mark's shirt, fumbling slightly, betraying his own need. "Thinkin' about you."

Mark feels himself unraveling under those calloused hands, under the heat of Simon's mouth against his skin. Tomorrow looms dark beyond the wagon's fragile shelter, but here, now, there's only this—only them.

Mark’s gaze drops to Simon’s bare chest, the stitches gleaming in lamplight, the skin beneath calling to him like home. Need surges, raw and unshakable, but he holds back, searching Simon’s face.

"Simon," he murmurs, voice thick, "I need you. Need to feel you. Can I…?"

The question hangs, trembling with desire, his hand hovering above Simon’s heart, waiting for permission.

"Yeah," Simon whispers, voice husky, eyes darkening with want. "Yeah, you can, Darlin'."

Mark's hand moves slow, grazing Simon's throat, settling at the junction of neck and shoulder. Simon's pulse thumps beneath his palm, strong and steady, the sweetest rhythm Mark knows. His thumb traces the hollow at Simon's throat, feeling the catch when Simon swallows.

Simon's eyes flutter shut, his lips parting as he draws in a shaky breath. There's a moment of surrender in the way his shoulders ease downward, overcome by the gentleness of Mark's touch.

"Still with me?" Mark murmurs, his voice a whisper, eyes searching Simon's face for any flicker of discomfort or hesitation. Simon's answering smile is warm and anticipating,

"Right here, Kid," he replies, his voice as steady as a rock even as his breath goes tight.

Mark’s restraint melts, soft as spring, his hand gliding down Simon’s chest, palm skating over warm skin, careful to avoid his stitches. His touch is a devotion, each caress a quiet oath. His thumb brushes Simon’s nipple, deliberate, light—a question—and Simon’s sharp inhale is an answer, raw and unguarded, pulling Mark in closer.

He traces the jagged line of Simon’s collarbone, the faint ridge where bone knit imperfectly after a long-ago break. His fingers drift down mapping the contours of muscle, the constellations of scars etched from years of hard living—each a chapter of Simon Teller’s story, each a miracle Mark can touch. Every stroke is a quiet marvel that he hasn’t lost this man, not yet, not tonight. His chest aches with it, the weight of almosts and not yets, the fragile gift of Simon’s pulse beneath his palm.

A coyote’s howl pierces the night, sharp and lonesome, curling through the canvas walls to mingle with Simon’s deepening breaths. The sound carries the prairie’s vastness, its indifference, making this closeness a defiance, stolen warmth in the dark. Mark’s hand continues its exploration, tracing the curve of a rib, the soft dip beneath Simon’s sternum, the faint trail of hair leading downward. His fingers linger, trembling slightly, as if memorizing Simon’s body could anchor him through dawn’s uncertainty, could etch this moment into the stars themselves.

"You're looking at me like you never seen me before," Simon murmurs, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice.

Mark’s gaze lifts, open, unguarded, carrying a weight he won’t name.

“Maybe I haven’t. Not like this. Not when every second feels like it’s gotta last.” The words slip out, raw, a confession skirting the edge of goodbye, and he looks away quickly, focusing on the steady rise of Simon’s chest, unwilling to let the truth settle between them.

Simon’s breath catches, but he doesn’t press, doesn’t ask Mark to look at it. Instead, he offers a soft smile, one that says he understands but won’t break the spell. Mark’s palm slides up, resting over Simon’s heart, feeling the strong thump against his hand, a rhythm he needs to carry into tomorrow.

Simon’s fingers continue fumbling at Mark’s shirt buttons, slow, purposeful, needing to feel him in return, to hold him here. Their eyes meet again, and the air shifts—tenderness sharpening into a heat that’s been banked but never gone, now blazing with the urgency of a night that might be their last.

“Lie back, Sweetheart,” Mark whispers, rough with need, soft with care, rising to give Simon space. Simon shifts, a faint wince flickering, but settles against the thin pillow, pain fading under Mark’s gaze. The blanket slips lower, baring Simon’s hips, and Mark hesitates, one knee on the cot’s edge, watching for discomfort, love and caution guiding him, but also a fierce need to give Simon this, to leave something of himself behind.

“Come here,” Simon breathes, hand reaching, steady despite the waver in his breath, his touch a quiet anchor.

Mark eases onto the narrow cot, weight braced on one arm, leg draped over Simon’s uninjured side, the frame creaking sharp in the hush. They freeze, ears straining—only a distant harmonica wails, no footsteps. Mark exhales, settling closer, bodies aligned, heat seeping through his clothes to Simon’s bare skin, a burning line of want. But beneath it, there’s a tremor in his touch, a silent plea to remember this, to carry it if he doesn’t come back.

“You don't gotta do this, Kid.” Simon murmurs, fingers tracing Mark’s chest through open buttons, offering escape, his touch tender, undemanding, but his eyes flicker with the same unspoken fear, the same refusal to name it.

"I want to." Mark’s lips press against Simon’s, slow and deep a kiss that pours everything he can’t say into the space between them. “I need to,” he whispers, eyes locking with Simon’s. “Need to give you this, Simon. Need you to feel me before I ride out tomorrow.”

The words hang, heavy with the goodbye neither will say aloud, and Mark presses closer, lips trailing to Simon’s jaw, a vow to fight his way back, to make this more than a farewell.

Simon’s hand tightens on Mark’s neck, a silent pact to cling to this moment, to let it be enough. His fingers slip inside Mark’s partially unbuttoned shirt, palm pressing against the warm skin of his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath.

“Someone might hear,” he warns, voice low, but his touch betrays his need, fingers digging slightly, pulling Mark closer.

Mark’s smile curves. “Then you better be quiet,” he murmurs, lips brushing Simon’s throat, tongue darting to taste the salt of his skin, a claim.

His hand splays across Simon’s chest, reverent, sliding lower, pausing at the blanket’s edge. Simon’s hips shift, the blanket falling away to bare him fully in the lamplight’s dim amber glow, a quiet surrender that steals Mark’s breath.

Their kiss deepens, all their gentleness yielding in the face of their hunger, Mark presses closer against Simon’s uninjured side, his weight a warm anchor in the wagon’s hush, bodies aligned, heat surging where his clothed thigh brushes Simon’s bare skin. A the mournful sough of the wind slices through the canvas, cloaking Simon’s soft gasp as Mark’s lips find the sensitive spot below his ear, teeth grazing lightly, drawing a shudder. Simon’s hand slides beneath Mark’s shirt, tracing the taut line of his spine, fingers curling as muscle shifts, their need a rising tide.

“I dreamed of this, too” Simon confesses, voice a hushed tremor, barely audible in the wagon’s sage-scented air, “when the fever burned worst. You, here, just like this.”

Mark pauses, lips hovering over Simon’s collarbone, eyes lifting, dark and intent, carrying the weight of every moment he sat vigil.

“I was here,” he whispers, voice rough with truth, “and I'm coming back.” The words are a vow, a tether against the raid’s threat, and something unspoken passes—a current too deep for words, sharp with near-loss and fierce with love.

His lips press to Simon’s collarbone, tongue swirling slow, tasting skin, each kiss a devotion etched with the fear of goodbye. Simon’s breath hitches, his hand cradling Mark’s head, just starting to tremble as Mark moves lower, lips grazing the warm plane of Simon’s chest, teasing the faint trail of hair.

“Alright?” Mark murmurs, eyes lifting through lashes, watching for pain, love and need guiding every touch, his own heart pounding with the need to give Simon this, to leave a mark that lingers.

“More than,” Simon breathes, voice thick, eyes blazing with trust, fingers tightening in Mark’s hair.

Mark’s last hold on propriety frays, his lips trailing lower, kissing the dip below Simon’s sternum, tongue flicking soft, then firm, drawing a low moan Simon bites off behind clenched teeth. The cot creaks faintly, as Mark shifts, easing between Simon’s legs, weight braced on forearms to shield Simon’s stitches. His hand glides to Simon’s hip, thumb stroking the sharp bone, grounding them as his lips brush the taut skin above Simon’s navel, each kiss a spark, building heat that burns away the dawn’s shadow.

“Want you to feel me,” Mark whispers, voice a low growl, lips grazing the crease where thigh meets groin, tongue darting out, a slow, filthy lick that pulls a shudder from Simon’s core. “All of me, Darlin’, so you know I’m comin’ back.”

“Hilbert’ll be right outside,” Simon murmurs, his voice husky with want, and touched at the edges with concern.

Mark’s breath warms Simon’s skin, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “He was drinking last I saw,” he replies, lips brushing Simon’s hip.

A muffled burst of laughter from the camp punctuates his words, confirming the gathering beyond. Simon’s fingers trace the line of Mark’s jaw, his chest rising steady, the stitches stark against flushed skin.

“Don’t want you to put yourself at risk for me,” he says softly, the words at odds with the way his body responds to Mark’s closeness.

Mark turns his head, lips sliding across Simon’s wrist, the gesture reverent, defiant, his eyes locking with Simon’s, dark with a desperate love that burns hotter than fear.

“Then you should be extra quiet,” he whispers, the low promise sending a shiver through Simon’s core, “make sure he don’t need to come in and check on you.”

Simon’s breath catches sharply, his gray eyes blazing into Mark’s, a fire that holds the world at bay. Mark lowers his head, lips brushing the heated skin of Simon’s chest, the taste of salt and sweat igniting a hunger deep in his core. Each kiss trails lower, a fierce, loving claim against the dawn’s looming shadow, the canvas walls glowing softly, their shadows dancing over entwined bodies in the lamplight’s amber haze.

Mark’s lips linger, kissing over the steady thump of his heart, tongue flicking soft, savoring the warmth, the life beneath. He moves lower, lips grazing the faint ridge of a rib, careful to skirt the stitches’ stark line, his touch reverent, mapping every inch with a lover’s devotion. Simon’s skin quivers under each kiss, a soft moan slipping free, quickly stifled as he bites his lip, eyes darting to the canvas flap, Hilbert’s shadow a specter beyond the wagon’s fragile walls. Mark’s hand glides up Simon’s side, fingers light, coaxing, as his mouth presses to the dip below Simon’s sternum, tongue dragging slowly, teasing the sensitive skin, drawing a shudder Simon fights to mute.

“I'm don't wanna be too loud,” Simon gasps, his voice a hushed, desperate thread, biting his fist until the knuckles whiten, fear of discovery flickering in his gaze, his need outweighing it all. “Mark, please…”

“Shh, darlin’,” Mark whispers, voice a velvet growl, lips brushing the taut plane of Simon’s navel, the heat of his breath sparking a tremor that curls Simon’s fingers in the blanket. The cot creaks faintly, a dangerous sound in the wagon’s hush, and Simon’s breath hitches, one hand finding Mark’s hair, gripping, not pushing, anchoring himself against the rising tide of want.

Mark’s kisses trail lower, lips nibbling the sharp curve of Simon’s hip, tongue lapping against skin, tasting the salt, the faint tang of sweat, each flick deliberate, teasing towards the edge.

Simon’s hips shift, subtle, trusting, the blanket falling away, baring his cock, hard and throbbing in the lamplight, glistening with need, begging for the wet heat of Mark’s mouth. Mark pauses, lips hovering, breath hot against the sensitive crease where thigh meets groin, his tongue darting out, a slow, filthy lick that traces the seam, savoring the quiver it pulls from Simon’s core.

“Fuck, Mark…” Simon breathes, voice a desperate thread, cut off as he clamps his jaw, eyes wide and pleading, the thin canvas walls of the wagon their only shield.

“Quiet, love,” Mark murmurs, lips grazing the base of Simon’s cock, tongue sliding wet along the pulsing vein, slow and deliberate. His hand cups Simon’s thigh, fingers firm, spreading him gently, as his lips kiss the inner curve, nibbling softly, then harder, drawing a choked moan Simon traps behind clenched teeth. The cot creaks again, sharper, and they freeze, Mark’s mouth still, Simon’s breath held, a drover’s cough slicing through the camp’s hum. The harmonica hums on, and Mark resumes, lips trailing back to Simon’s cock, kissing the shaft, tongue swirling around the head, lapping at the glistening tip, pre-come salty on his tongue, each move a lover’s art, honed to a science and given to this man alone.

“Love you,” Mark whispers, lips brushing the throbbing head as he parts his lips, sinking down inch by inch, sucking slow, and deep the wet heat of his mouth enveloping Simon, tongue curling tight along the underside, filthy and tender, drawing a shudder Simon fights to silence. His hand joins, fingers wrapping the base, stroking slick with spit, in rhythm with his lips, sliding down, throat relaxing to take Simon to the hilt, the overwhelming sensation pulling a low moan Simon attempts to muffle against his fist.

Mark’s tongue flicks out, teasing the slit, his lips tightening as he sucks the tip, slow, deliberate, savoring the pulse against his tongue, and Simon’s thighs quake, his fist pressed harder to his mouth, a choked groan trapped, eyes darting to the canvas flap, Hilbert’s shadow a ghost beyond. Mark’s free hand slides lower, fingers grazing Simon’s balls, cupping them gently, rolling the tender weight in his palm, caressing with a soft, rhythmic stroke that pulls a sharper gasp, Simon’s teeth sinking deeper into his knuckles, trying desperately to stifle the groan that wants to leak from him.

The cot creaks faintly, a dangerous whisper, and Mark pauses, lips still, tongue pressed flat, feeling Simon’s cock throb in his mouth, both holding breath as a drover’s heavy footsteps crunch outside, a slurred jest cutting through the camp’s hum.

“Shh,” Mark breathes, pulling back, lips wet, grazing Simon’s shaft, his voice a velvet command, eyes lifting to Simon’s, blazing with fierce devotion. His hand cradles Simon’s hip, thumb tracing the sharp bone, grounding them as he teases with a slow, deliberate lick, sparking a tremor that curls Simon’s toes. From the prairie, a coyote howls again, masking Simon’s stifled moan as Mark dives back, lips enveloping Simon’s cock, bobbing slow, then fast, a rhythm that pulls a hushed groan from Simon’s throat, fist pressed tight against his lips.

“Fuck, Mark… god Darlin' your mouth feels like heaven,” Simon whispers, voice fracturing, eyes pleading as he bites his fist, skin reddening under teeth, need and fear twisting tight.

Mark pulls back, just enough for his gaze to hold Simon's, dark with love, and want.

“Move for me, Simon,” he murmurs, lips ghosting across the throbbing head of Simon's cock, tongue flicking the slit, lapping away the beaded pre-come that gathers there. “Just a little, go easy— but let me feel you in my throat.”

His words are gentle for all their filthy promise, mindful of Simon’s healing stitches, trust inherent in every syllable.

Simon’s breath hitches, thighs trembling as his hips shift, a cautious thrust, shallow and tentative, too enthralled to notice any pain in his side. Mark meets it with a low hum, throat relaxing, lips tight, encouraging Simon deeper, his hand steadying Simon’s hip to keep the movement soft. The cot creaks faintly, a squeaking cadence keeping time with their movement as Simon’s restraint frays, hips rocking gently, fucking Mark’s mouth with a desperate sort of tenderness, each thrust a shared claim, a plea to hold this moment on pause for as long as hey possibly can.

Mark’s hand never stops, stroking the base of Simon's cock, slick with spit, fingers grazing Simon’s balls, rolling them lightly, then tugging, each touch a spark that drives Simon closer to the edge.

“Mark… oh god, Darlin', I'm so close,” Simon gasps, voice a broken whisper, eyes blazing, fist red from biting, body arching, stitches tugging but pain drowned out by the overwhelming heat of Mark’s relentless focus, and the heat of his brilliant, gorgeous mouth. Mark takes the warning to heart, redoubling his efforts, sucking harder, tongue curling wicked patterns along the underside, meeting Simon’s gentle thrusts with a unwavering devotion, throat working to take him fully to the hilt, as his fingers tease the tender skin behind Simon’s balls, slow, deliberate, pulling forth soft moans Simon can’t contain.

“Mark, fuck—” Simon chokes out, voice fracturing, body tensing as the climax hits all at once, a shattering wave that whites his vision out at the edges. Mark takes him deeper still, swallowing hard as Simon’s release pulses hot down his throat, each shudder rippling through Simon’s frame, his hips jerking softly, breath ragged, eyes locked on Mark’s, trust and love laid bare. Mark holds him through it, lips sealed, tongue coaxing every last tremor, savoring the salt, the heat, the proof of Simon’s surrender.

As Simon’s shudders fade, Mark eases back, lips lingering on the softening shaft, kissing gently, reverent, his head resting on Simon’s trembling thigh as he catches his own breath. The wagon’s canvas traps their heat, sage and sweat mingling, lamplight flickering like prairie stars. Simon’s hand finds Mark’s hair again, fingers threading slow, tender, grounding them in the quiet afterglow. A fight amongst the drovers drifts through the canvas faintly, a stark reminder of the world beyond their sanctuary, but for now, it’s just them, bodies tangled, hearts entwined.

Mark shifts, careful of Simon’s stitches, easing up to lie beside him, one arm draped over Simon’s chest, their legs entwined beneath the slipped blanket. His lips brush Simon’s temple, soft, steady, tasting the faint salt of sweat.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, voice low, rough with love, checking for pain as much as savoring their closeness.

Simon’s smile is faint, weary but warm, his gray eyes soft in the lamplight.

“Right here, Kid,” he whispers, hand sliding to rest over Mark’s heart, feeling its steady thump. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere; and sure as shit not after that.”

His thumb traces lazy circles, a quiet claim, but there’s a flicker in his gaze, a shadow of the raid’s weight they both feel but won’t name.

Mark’s hand covers Simon’s, pressing it closer, his thumb stroking Simon’s knuckles, scarred and familiar.

“Good,” Mark says, voice thick, lips grazing Simon’s jaw, a kiss that carries the weight of all he can’t say. “Need you when I get back. Need this.”

The words skirt the edge of goodbye, a vow wrapped in hope, and Simon’s breath catches, his fingers tightening trying to hold onto the moment.

“Where’s all this comin’ from, Darlin’?” Simon’s question comes soft, tender—not a challenge but an invitation to speak his heart, his gray eyes searching Mark’s in the lamplight’s flicker.

Mark's chest tightens, a surge of want and love drowning the shadow of tomorrow's raid—canyons and rifles powerless against the warmth of Simon's skin, the steady thump of his heart beneath Mark's palm. He needs Simon close, needs to claim every moment tonight as a shield against what tomorrow might bring. He shifts, careful of Simon's stitches, propping himself on one elbow to meet Simon's gaze, their legs still entwined beneath the slipped blanket, the cot creaking softly under their shared weight.

The lantern burns low now, casting long shadows across Simon's features, softening the lines of worry etched around his eyes. Outside, the camp has quieted—only distant murmurs and the occasional pop from the dying cook fire breaking the stillness. Time feels suspended in this small sanctuary they've made.

"When you were out of your head with fever," Mark starts, voice barely above a whisper, rough with the memory, "when you were bleeding, when no one was sure you'd wake up, I sat there, holding your hand, thinking about all the ordinary things we got." His fingers trace idle patterns on Simon's shoulder, memorizing him by touch. "Eating bad stew in tin bowls. The way it drives me to madness when you crack your knuckles." He pauses, a faint smile tugging at his lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Sharing coffee in the morning, arguing over which route to take the herd. Stupid small things that ain't so small anymore."

Simon's hand finds Mark's cheek, thumb brushing across his jaw, holding him steady as if afraid he might disappear into the night. His eyes never leave Mark's face, drinking him in.

"I haven't had them long, Simon, but already I can't—" His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, thumb tracing Simon's knuckles, scarred and familiar. "I can't imagine living without them. Without you."

Simon's breath catches, something vulnerable flickering across his face before he masters it. His hand slides to the nape of Mark's neck, warm and anchoring.

“I’ve been ridin’ trails too damn long,” he says, voice low and rough with emotion. “Never stayed nowhere I could call my own. Never kept nobody close. Then you come along; gorgeous and stubborn, with your fool heart always jumpin’ in before your head.” His thumb traces the pulse at Mark’s throat, touch gentle as a whisper. His voice softens, eyes glistening. "Too many years of nothin' much, and now I can't remember what any of it felt like before you."

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "So you get why I don't want you to go tomorrow?" he asks, the question gentle despite the weight behind it. There's resignation in his tone already, as if he's long accepted the answer but needs to hear it spoken aloud between them.

"I do, Simon," Mark whispers, turning to press his lips against Simon's palm. "And I'm sorry. But I have t—"

"No." Simon's thumb presses against Mark's lips, silencing him. "I know why you need to go. And I meant what I said. I ain't ever gonna be the one to tie you down."

The admission costs him; Mark can see it in the tightness around his mouth, the slight tremor in his hand. Simon takes a deep breath, wincing slightly.

“But understand somethin’, Kid,” Simon continues, voice stronger now, a fire beneath the weariness of his recovery. “I’d ride with you if I could. If these damn stitches weren’t holdin’ me together like a poorly mended shirt, I’d be saddlin’ up beside you come dawn.” His fingers slide around to cradle Mark's head, grounding them in the lamplight’s flicker. “Since I can’t, you gotta promise me somethin’.”

“Anything,” Mark answers without hesitation, turning his head to press his forehead against Simon’s, their breaths mingling, warm and steady in the wagon’s sage-scented hush.

“You ride smart tomorrow. Listen to Martinez and Fuller, if they say to call it, you call it. No heroics. No provin’ yourself. You do what needs doin’, and you come right back to me.” The last words are fierce, almost a command, eyes blazing with a love that defies the shadow of tomorrows trials. “You hear me? You come back.”

"I will, Simon. I'm comin' back," Mark vows, voice thick, his hand covering Simon's, pressing it to his chest where his heart hammers. "I swear it."

"And if it comes down to you or the cows?" Simon asks, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, testing the weight of Mark's promise.

"Fuck the cows," Mark says, a soft laugh breaking through, his eyes never leaving Simon's, the words a seal on their shared resolve.

Simon's smile widens, weary but warm, and he pulls Mark closer, their bodies settling together like they were made for each other.

"Stay with me?" he murmurs, voice soft, heavy with need. "Stay till you gotta leave?"

"Always," Mark whispers, lips brushing Simon's temple, a vow to steal every moment until dawn. They tangle closer, legs entwined beneath the slipped blanket, the cot creaking softly as Mark's arm wraps protectively around Simon, memorizing the warmth of his skin, the angles of him.

The lantern burns low, casting long shadows across Simon's features, softening the worry etched around his eyes. The wind whistles faintly through the canvas, its lonesome call mingling with the occasional pop of the dying cook fire outside, the camp's murmurs faded to a hush. Time feels suspended in their sanctuary, the world held at bay by the rhythm of their breaths.

In the quiet that settles between them, Mark finds himself thinking about the path that led him here—all the bad, the wrong turns and false starts that somehow brought him to this man, to this love that has dug in deep in his soul. His fingers trace idle patterns on Simon’s skin, following the map of scars and freckles he’s come to know by heart, each touch a silent vow to hold this moment against the dawn's looming shadow.

“You know,” Mark says softly, almost to himself, voice barely above a whisper, “before I joined this drive, I never really stayed anywhere long. Never with anyone long either.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts, feeling Simon’s steady breath against his chest, warm and grounding in the sage-scented hush.

Simon’s hand rests on Mark’s arm, fingers light but present, his silence an invitation to continue, his eyes gentle in the lamplight’s glow.

“I never expected you to be a blushin’ bride,” he says, voice soft with understanding, no judgment in his tone. “I know about Kepler.”

Mark’s jaw tightens at the name, old wounds still tender, a shadow of pain crossing his face.

“Not just him,” he murmurs, fingers tracing circles on Simon’s skin, steadying himself. “Not like Kepler—vicious, cold, demanding. There were a few real fine people after him. Good men who deserved better than what I could give ‘em.”

Simon waits, patient, sensing there’s more Mark needs to spill, his thumb brushing lightly over Mark’s wrist, a quiet anchor.

“I think I was always searching,” Mark continues, choosing his words with care, voice low and raw. “Never knew what for, exactly. Just felt this… emptiness inside me, like a compass needle spinning but never finding north.” He lifts his gaze, meeting Simon’s in the lantern’s fading light, the raw honesty in his eyes catching the dim glow. “Then that day, when Maisie was born, the way you wouldn't give up until you had hauled her into the world; I saw you. I’d noticed you before, ‘course I had. You're too handsome to not have noticed. Noticed you noticin’ me, too, glances that held too long.” A faint smile tugs at his lips. “But seeing you hold her, so careful, like she was the whole damn world… the way your hands steadied her, how deep you cared…”

He swallows hard, voice trembling with the weight of it. “It was like something slotted into place, Simon. Like all those years of drifting, all that pain and searching  and heartache I carried, all of it was just a long road leading me to you.” He shifts slightly, needing to see Simon’s face, to ensure he understands the depth of what he’s trying to say. “I never carved out a place inside me for anybody. Not like you. Never felt like I belonged anywhere till you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Simon's fingers caress gently up and down Mark's arm, a soothing rhythm that belies the intensity of the moment, his touch steady.

"You'd be fine, Kid," he says, voice soft but firm. "You're young, smart, beautiful. You could have the whole damn world if you wanted it."

"All I want is you, though." The simplicity of the statement hangs between them, profound in its certainty. Mark lifts his head, meeting Simon's gaze with unflinching directness, eyes dark with love. "That's not going to change. Not next month, not next year. Not ever."

An ache blooms in Simon's chest, deeper than the pull of his stitches, a longing he's carried through years of transience—from the war that stole his youth to the drifting trails after, taking work where he could, never lingering long enough to call anywhere home. Even Elijah, a fleeting beacon of brightness, had been there and gone before they ever had a chance to build something lasting. But Mark—steady, stubborn, unflinching Mark—looks at him with eyes that promise a future, a permanence Simon never even dared to dream for.

"You know what this life is," Simon says, voice rough, offering one last chance at escape, his hand stilling in Mark's hair. "Always movin', never settlin'. Men like us don't get a lot of forevers, we don't get to put down roots, not the kind that stick."

Mark shifts, moving up Simon's body with careful deliberation, balancing his weight to avoid the injured side until they're face to face, noses brushing, breaths entwined.

"Don't need roots in the ground," he murmurs, eyes holding Simon's, fierce and sure. "Just need you. You're my home, wherever the trail takes us. The rest we figure out as we go."

Simon’s breath catches, the ache in his chest swelling into something warm, overwhelming. He pulls Mark into a kiss, soft but searing, a vow that meets Mark’s own, as deep and binding as any said before a judge or minister; their lips lingering as if to etch this moment into their bones.

“Then you keep my home safe tomorrow,” he whispers against Mark’s mouth, voice trembling with love and fear. “Bring it back to me.”

“I will,” Mark breathes, settling back beside Simon, his arm tightening around him, their bodies molded together in the narrow cot. His fingers trace the curve of Simon’s shoulder, memorizing the warmth of his skin, the faint scars beneath his touch, each heartbeat a vow to carry into the raid’s perilous dawn.

Simon’s hand mirrors his, fingers gliding gently up the knobs of Mark’s spine, a slow, deliberate mapping of every ridge, preserving Mark’s presence in his very soul. The the wind dies down outside, its lonesome wail softening, leaving only their breaths, slow and synchronized, the lamplight flickering like prairie stars.

Mark holds Simon close, his palm resting over Simon’s heart, feeling its steady rhythm, knowing he’ll cling to this in the face of tomorrow’s danger. Simon’s touch is just as reverent, his fingertip lingering at the base of Mark’s neck, tracing the faint line of a scar from long-ago, his own heart aching with the need to keep Mark here, with him and safe. The camp’s faint hum is a distant murmur, but in this sanctuary, their entire world is the press of skin, the shared warmth, the silent promise to return. They’ll sleep now, tangled together, until the first light calls Mark away, their love a shield against the coming danger.

Chapter Text

It’s still dark when Mark wakes; though calling the way he gropes back to consciousness waking feels generous. Sleep has barely touched him, even curled against Simon, the one place he feels safest, the one place where the world’s sharp edges dull for him.

A thin, dreamless doze is all he’s managed, his mind spinning unproductively with everything—the sound of Wiley’s revolver, the feel of Simon’s blood on his hands, the near impossibility of the raid looming like a storm on the horizon. The cot creaks under his restless shift, a faint protest swallowed by the steady rhythm of Simon’s breathing, a cadence so familiar it’s carved itself into Mark’s bones, a hymn he could follow blind through any dark. Simon’s arm lies across his ribs like a fallen log, heavy and warm, its weight a fierce sort of tenderness; protective and possessive, but soft in a way that seems to sand down Mark’s guarded edges.

He lies still, eyes tracing the canvas ceiling, its seams silvered by the faint pre-dawn glow seeping through the wagon’s gaps. The air is thick with dust, herbs, and the faint copper tang of Simon’s bandages, a scent that twists Mark’s gut with both fear and gratitude. Simon’s chest presses against his back, rising and falling, each breath it's own quiet vow: I’m here. I’m still here.

Mark wonders if this is what it feels like to be truly claimed—not by land or title, not by the cold grasp of wealth or the choking hold of control, but by someone who’d bleed for you without hesitation, who’d hold you like you’re the only thing keeping their own heart tethered to the earth.

Not like before. Not like the knife-edged, starving kind of claiming that left bruises on his skin and hollowed-out places in his soul. Hands that had reached for him with hunger, not love—taking, always taking, until he felt like a husk, his worth measured in what he could surrender. Those hands had left marks, some visible, some buried so deep they still ached in the quiet, like ghosts stirred by the wind. He’d fled that life, fled himself, thinking he could outrun the shame, the fear that he’d never be more than what others carved from him.

It's different with Simon. Simon doesn’t take. He gives—freely, unstintingly—his callused hands offering warmth, his steady gaze promising safety, his crooked smiles cracking open something in Mark’s chest that feels dangerously like hope. Lying here, wrapped in Simon’s arms, Mark feels drunk on it, overwhelmed by the weight of it, like a man handed a treasure he’s too clumsy to hold without breaking. Each touch, each whispered word in the dark, is a gift Mark doesn’t know how to repay, only how to cherish, hoarding these moments like a miser with gold.

Mark exhales, slow and shaky, and presses his palm over Simon’s hand, lacing their fingers together. The gesture feels sacred, a simple sort of rough hewn reverence. Simon’s grip tightens reflexively, and Mark thinks, not for the first time, how strange it is that love could feel like this—like a river swelling in its banks, wide and deep and unafraid. Like a fire that warms without burning. Like a door left open, every day, without question.

He doesn’t have to earn this. Doesn’t have to prove he’s worthy of it. Simon’s love isn’t a scarce resource to be rationed—it’s a wellspring, endless and unyielding. Mark lets himself sink into it, lets himself be held by the simple, staggering truth of it.

Shifting slightly, the rough cotton of Mark's denim scratches against his skin, the wool blanket heavy across his legs. He hates how soft he wants to be right now, how easy it would be to bury his face in Simon’s neck, breathe in the smell of him, and pretend the world outside this wagon doesn’t exist. But the raid calls—a debt owed he means to pay back in full, a fire in his gut, a need to carve his own name in this hard land.

Beside him, Simon sleeps on, wrapped around Mark like his own living blanket, holding him jealously, as if he can shield Mark from all the dangers of the day just by keeping him close. Even in sleep, even injured and struggling, Simon’s body curls around him like a question mark, his breath warm against the nape of Mark’s neck and Simon’s grip tightens, reflexive, like even in sleep, he knows Mark is thinking of leaving.

Outside, the first of the morning birds begin their cautious chorus. A horse whickers softly from the remuda, answered by another. Mark lies utterly still, soaking in these last moments—the weight of Simon’s arm, the warmth at his back, the scent of him, leather and sage, the rough texture of the blanket against his cheek.

He memorizes it all like a man facing the gallows, knowing each detail might be his last anchor to something good. He wonders idly if this is how he felt in Kepler's arms when they first met—before the bruises, before the lies. Clean. Certain. A man who promised safety only to twist it into a cage. Mark shudders, pressing harder into Simon’s warmth, as if he can scrub the memory from his skin.

Shifting slow as a held breath, Mark eases his weight off the cot. Each movement is deliberate, a slow and careful plea to keep Simon’s steady breathing unbroken. The makeshift bed creaks faintly, a whisper of protest, and Mark freezes, heart hammering, but Simon only sighs, his arm tightening briefly before settling. Mark’s hand lingers on the blanket, fingers tracing its worn threads, thinking of everything he’s leaving here to ride out— quiet laughter, stolen kisses, promises whispered in the dark. Staying, wrapped in Simon’s warmth, feels like the only truth that matters.

If he slips out now, silent as a shadow, he can spare them both the goodbye that’ll cut deeper than any knife. His boots wait by the wagon’s edge, leather scuffed and dust-caked from months on the trail, soles worn down by all the choices that led him here. His hat hangs on its peg, brim curled from sun and sweat, a witness to the man he’s become. Every step is rehearsed in the sleepless hours, a plan born of equal parts cowardice and love—to leave without facing Simon’s eyes, without admitting he might not return. Mark eases toward the tailgate, the cold air seeping through the canvas stinging his skin. His heart thuds, louder than the faint creak of the floorboard underfoot, a traitor to his resolve. He fights the urge to look back, knowing one glance at Simon’s sleeping face—strong jaw softened, pale copper lashes fanning stubbled cheeks—will shatter him, will bind him to this cot until the world ends.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye?”

Simon’s voice, soft as a whisper but sharp as a blade, slices through the quiet. Mark freezes, fingers locked on the canvas flap, stomach lurching like he’s missed a step on a cliff’s edge. He doesn’t need to turn to see Simon—hair mussed, eyes too keen for the hour, burning with a clarity that pierces Mark’s soul. But he turns anyway, slow, like a man caught stealing, and finds Simon by the cot, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to the bandages beneath his ribs. The dim light catches the dingy linen, a stark reminder of how close to death he came when Wiley’s bullet tore through him. A shadow creases Simon’s brow, but his gaze holds Mark, brutally naked with hurt, love, and a fear so deep it steals the air from Mark’s lungs.

“I thought it’d be easier this way,” Mark manages, his voice barely above a whisper, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. Shame burns his neck, the weight of his cowardice laid bare.

“Easier for who?” Simon’s tone is soft but edged with a rawness that hurts so much worse than shouting. He takes a step closer, wincing as he moves, and Mark’s hands twitch with the urge to steady him.

“Simon, I—”

“No.” Simon’s voice hardens, though his eyes shimmer with tears. “I said I wouldn’t stop you, and I stand by that. I keep my word, Mark. But this?” He gestures at the flap, hand trembling, his knuckles white against the cot’s edge. “Sneakin’ out like I’m some stranger you can just leave? To deny me the chance to say goodbye? That’s real low, Kid. You think I don’t deserve to look you in the eye one more time before you ride off to face God-knows-what with Wiley’s crew?”

Mark’s chest tightens, each word landing like a blow.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, stepping toward Simon, hands raised as if he can mend the hurt with a touch. “I just... I couldn’t bear it. Seeing you like this, knowing I might not—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I am coming back, Simon. I swear it to you.”

“Swearin’ don’t mean much when you’re dodging bullets and rustlers.” Simon’s breath hitches, a half-laugh, bitter and thin. “And you don’t get to choose what I carry.” He closes the distance between them, his hand trembling as it reaches for Mark’s. His fingers are warm, calloused, and they curl around Mark’s with a desperation that mirrors the ache in Mark’s heart. “I know why you’re goin’. But don’t shut me out. Not now. You don’t get to decide what I can handle, Mark. You don’t get to steal this from me.”

Mark’s resolve crumbles. He pulls Simon close, careful of his stitches, and presses their foreheads together, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and sage that always seems to cling to him. He feels Simon’s unsteady breath against his lips, the slight tremor in his body—not just from pain, but from something deeper, more primal. Fear. The same fear that has been eating Mark alive.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I thought I was sparing you. Sparing us.”

“There ain’t no sparing in love,” Simon whispers, “You take the pain with the good, or it ain’t real.”

“I’m scared, Simon. Scared I won’t be enough. ”

“You’re enough,” Simon murmurs, free hand cupping Mark’s jaw, thumb tracing stubble. His eyes, wet and fierce, hold Mark’s. “Just come back. Don’t let them take you from me. Promise me you’ll ride smart. Promise me you’ll come back to me, not just some fool’s oath, but with everything you got.”

“I promise,” Mark says, the words heavy with conviction. He leans in, kissing Simon fiercely, a kiss that tastes like dread and devotion, of all the things he can’t put words to.

Simon kisses him back with a hunger that belies his weakened state, his lips warm and desperate against Mark’s. The kiss deepens, Simon’s fingers sliding up to tangle in Mark’s hair, tugging him closer as if he can fuse them together, make them inseparable. Mark feels the heat of Simon’s palm through his shirt, burning like a brand over his heart. He tastes salt—tears, though he couldn’t say whose—and something uniquely Simon, familiar now as his own heartbeat.

This isn’t just goodbye. It is a promise, a prayer, a claim staked deep and true. Mark pours everything into that kiss—his fear of not returning, his guilt for leaving, and beneath it all, a love so fierce it terrifies him. A love worth fighting for. Worth returning for.

When they finally part, breathless, Simon’s grip lingers. Their faces remain close, sharing the same air, neither willing to be the first to break away. Simon’s eyes search his, haunted and hungry all at once. His thumb traces Mark’s lower lip, tender now where moments before there had been only urgency.

“Go,” he says, voice rough but steady. “Go now before I change my mind and make a liar of myself by trying to keep you here.” His hand slides to rest over Mark’s thundering heart. “But don’t you dare forget who’s waitin’ for you.”

Mark covers Simon’s hand with his own, pressing it harder against his chest. “I couldn’t forget if I tried,” he whispers. “You’re in every heartbeat I’ve got.”

Simon nods once, jaw tight with emotion. Then, with visible effort, he lets his hand fall away, taking a small, deliberate step back. The few inches between them feel like a chasm opening.

“Dawn’s comin’,” he says. “Day won’t wait.”

Mark backs toward the wagon’s opening, unwilling to turn away, to break this final thread between them. The cool morning air sweeps in as he reaches for the canvas flap, a stark contrast to the warmth he is leaving behind.

“I’ll be waitin’ for you,” Simon says, standing straight now despite the pain it must cost him. “Forever or until you come back.”

Mark nods, throat too tight for words. He grabs his hat and boots, each step toward the wagon’s tailgate heavier than the last.

Mark slips from the wagon into the pre-dawn chill, the air sharp enough to bite at his skin. His breath clouds in fleeting wisps as he moves quickly, boots crunching on frost-kissed earth, toward the remuda. The camp lies hushed, canvas tents and dying cook fires cloaked in the lingering dark. The horses stir softly, their shapes dim, snorts and shifting hooves the only sounds breaking the stillness. Mariposa’s familiar silhouette stands apart, her head lifting as if she senses his approach, her dark eyes glinting under the fading stars.

His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for the saddle, the leather cool and smooth under his fingers. Every motion—slipping the blanket over Mariposa’s back, cinching the girth, checking the stirrups—feels mechanical, a ritual to keep his mind from drifting back to the wagon, to Simon’s trembling grip, to the safety he’s left behind. Mariposa snorts, nudging his shoulder with her muzzle, and Mark pauses, pressing his forehead against her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of horse and dust. Her steady pulse beneath his skin steadies him, if only for a moment.

He closes his eyes, and the weight of it all settles in. Back East, in the suffocating parlors of his family’s world, he was never enough—not for his father’s expectations, not for the polished life they demanded. Out here, he’s carved something real, something his, but it’s all so very fragile, tethered to Simon’s laugh, to the drive’s rhythm, to the hope he can stand tall.

This raid isn’t just about reclaiming stolen cattle. It’s a line in the sand—against Kepler’s leering threats, against the bandits who nearly stole Simon, against the part of himself that still fears he’ll break under pressure. Simon’s face lingers in his mind, eyes glistening with fear and love, and Mark’s chest aches with the promise he made. He wants to be the man who rides back, not just for Simon, but for himself.

Mariposa shifts, her tail flicking, pulling him back to the moment. The horizon hints at gray, dawn creeping closer. Mark runs a hand along her flank, the motion grounding him.

“We’ve got this, girl,” Mark murmurs, voice low, his trail-softened drawl barely masking the tremor. He grips the saddle horn, hesitating one last heartbeat, the wagon’s pull like a rope around his heart. Then, with a breath that feels like surrender, he swings into the saddle, Mariposa’s familiar sway beneath him steadying his resolve. The raid looms, and there’s no turning back now.

Shaking off as much trepidation as he can, Mark nudges Mariposa into a quiet amble, guiding her away from the remuda toward the dry creek bed where the men agreed to meet. The chilly air bites at his knuckles, the camp’s silhouettes fading behind him as the ground dips into the shallow gully. Pebbles crunch under Mariposa’s hooves, the only sound save for the faint rustle of sagebrush in the breeze. The sky hints at gray, but the stars still cling, cold and unyielding.

Martinez, Fuller, and Jensen are already waiting in the creek bed, their horses tethered to a gnarled juniper. They huddle close, voices hushed, passing a canteen as the glow of their cigarettes flares and fades. Smoke curls upward, mingling with their breath in the chill. Martinez, wiry and sharp-eyed, leans against a boulder, while Fuller, broad and grizzled, spits into the dirt. Jensen, the youngest, fidgets with his reins, his face taut under the brim of his hat.

“Midland,” Jensen greets as Mark rides up, his voice low but carrying in the quiet. “You seen Foster or O’Brien yet?”

Mark shakes his head, reining Mariposa to a stop. “Not yet. They weren’t at the remuda when I saddled up.”

“Fuckers,” Jensen mutters, taking a pull from his cigarette, the tip flaring red. “Probably nursin’ a bottle somewhere. I’ll drag ’em out my damn self if I have’ta.”

“Hey, Midland,” Fuller cuts in, squinting at Mariposa. “That Teller’s nag you’re on?”

“Best girl on the prairie,” Mark says, patting her neck, a flicker of pride cutting through his nerves. Mariposa snorts, as if in agreement, and the men chuckle, the sound rough but warm.

Martinez straightens , flicking his cigarette into the dirt, its ember sizzling out in the frost.

“She better be,” he says, voice clipped, eyes narrowing under his hat’s brim. “You're askin' us to ride into hell today, Midland. Those bandits ain’t greenhorns, and they ain't polite enough to give warning before killing you, they ain't scared of pullin' triggers, and they’re out there sittin’ on our herd like it’s theirs.”

Mark’s stomach tightens, as he shifts in the saddle, Mariposa’s steady warmth grounding him as he forces his focus to the men. 

“So, this is your dance, kid,” Fuller says, nodding over Mark’s shoulder. Mark twists in the saddle, spotting O’Brien and Foster loping toward them, horses kicking up dust in the gully. Fuller’s voice is gruff but not unkind. “You pick the music, just tell us the steps.”

These men—years his senior, their faces carved by sun and saddle—wait for him to lead. Him, the East Coast boy who still dreams of polished parlors some nights, now playing cowboy in a world that chews up soft hands. He stretches his neck, trying to shrug on Simon’s easy confidence like an ill-fitting coat, a costume he hopes they can’t see through. His heart drums, but he keeps his voice steady, the trail’s light drawl softening his clipped diction.

“Simon and I got hit about five miles northwest of here,” he starts, eyes flicking to the horizon where stars fade into gray just beginning to show a faint crack of gold. “Their tracks went north from there. We'll follow till we have a bead on them and then we swing wide, come at wherever they’re camped from the east. Foster takes the high ground, covers us, signals if he sees movement from the camp. The rest of us cut the herd into bite-size pieces, send ’em moving in the general direction we want. Once we’ve got them away from the camp, we rally, round ’em up tight, and head home.”

The words come out smoother than he feels, each one a step on a tightrope. Foster and O’Brien pull up, their horses snorting, faces flushed—Foster’s smirk sharp, O’Brien’s eyes bleary from a flask. They catch the tail of Mark’s plan, and the group falls silent, the creek bed’s quiet broken only by a horse’s soft whicker.

“Sounds real clean and pretty,” Martinez says, his tone dry as the dirt underfoot. He crosses his arms, one brow raised. “What do we do when that goes to hell?”

Mark hesitates. the question catching him off guard and unprepared. He’s no greenhorn, not exactly, not after months on the trail, but leading men like these— experienced, tested drovers; men who’ve faced rustlers and stampedes while he was still dodging his father’s expectations—feels like stepping into boots too big. Simon’s voice echoes in his head, steady and sure: Ride smart. He clenches the reins, Mariposa shifting beneath him, and meets Martinez’s gaze.

“Well,” he says, forcing a calmness he doesn’t feel, “if it goes south, we scatter and regroup at the twin pines, two miles east of the wagons. Foster keeps eyes on the camp, signals if they pursue. We don’t engage unless we have to—herd’s the priority, getting back in one piece; not a firefight.”

His voice holds, but barely and his fingers twitch, nerves coiling like a rattler in his gut. The memories of Simon’s blood-soaked shirt, Kepler’s leering threats—they sharpen his spine. He can’t waver, not now.

Jensen nods, a flicker of respect in his eyes, but Fuller grunts, spitting a stream of tobacco juice.

“Boy’s got a plan, at least,” he mutters, his tone half-challenge, half-grudging approval. “Better not be all talk, Midland.”

Foster chuckles, leaning forward in his saddle, eyes glinting. “Hell, I like it. Scrapping over some cows. Kid’s got guts, takin’ on Wiley—”

“We’re not takin’ on Wiley,” Mark cuts in, sharper than he means to. “John Wiley is dead.”

The men freeze, cigarettes pausing mid-air, eyes snapping to him. Martinez’s brow arches. “You know this how?”

Mark’s jaw tightens, the memory of Wiley’s sneer, of Simon crumpling, searing in his mind.

“I shot him myself,” he says, voice low and steady. There's no boast in it, no swagger, just a cold certainty. “Right between the eyes.”

“The fuck you did,” Foster says, half-laughing, but his smirk falters under Mark’s stare.

“I did.” Mark’s tone is flat, unyielding, the weight of that moment—gun smoke, Simon’s blood—anchoring every word.

“Kid…” O’Brien says, squinting, flask forgotten in his hand. “Not castin’ aspersions on your grit… but John Wiley is John Wiley and you can’t be more’n twenty.”

“Yep. He thought that too.” Mark says, a grim edge creeping into his voice. “Last thing that went through his head before my bullet.”

Fuller whistles low, a slow grin cracking his weathered face, impressed despite himself.

“Well, hot damn. Would you listen to that?” He glances around at the others. “I remember the beginning of the drive. Greenhorns were all soft as girls in spring. This one probably couldn’t even tell which way to point his horse.”

He turns back to Mark, shaking his head in admiration. “Three months with Simon Teller and now you’re droppin’ notorious outlaws. Can you even swim with a pair of balls that heavy, Midland?”

The men burst into rough laughter, Jensen snorting so hard he chokes on his cigarette. Foster slaps his thigh, eyes crinkling at the corners. Even Martinez’s lips twitch, though his eyes stay sharp, reassessing Mark like he’s seeing him for the first time.

The tension in Mark’s shoulders eases a fraction, the bawdy camaraderie washing over him like warm water. These men—hardened, dangerous, loyal to little but their own, are looking at him differently now. Not just a greenhorn. Not just Teller’s shadow. There’s respect in their gazes, grudging but real, and it settles on him uncomfortably; necessary but strange.

“Shit, and here I’ve been treatin’ you like Simon’s kid brother,” Jensen says, wiping his eyes.

“Hell, I’d still take him for a virgin,” Foster adds with a wink, “just clearly not with a gun.”

Fuller spits a stream of tobacco juice, the splatter landing close to Jensen’s boot, earning a mock scowl.

“Virgin or not, kid’s got bigger stones than half this outfit,” he says, voice gruff but laced with a rare warmth. He squints at Mark, weathered face cracking into a half-smile. “Three months ago, you probably couldn’t rope a fence post without trippin’ over your own damn feet. Now you’re out here playin’ reaper. Teller’s a helluva teacher, ain’t he?”

The men laugh, the sound raw and rolling, bouncing off the creek bed’s walls. Martinez, still leaning against his boulder, lets out a rare snort, his dark eyes flicking to Mark with a nod that carries more weight than words.

“Teller’s teachin’ him more’n ropin’, I'd wager,” he says, voice dry as the sagebrush, one brow arched. Mark feels heat creep up his neck as the men laugh; a rough boisterous barroom noise at the edge of the wilderness. “Teller’s got him trained up real good by now".

The words land light, but there’s a knowing glint in his eye, a nod to the shadow Mark’s never far from—Simon’s side, Simon’s fight. It’s as close as any’ll come to naming what they all see, and Mark feels himself blushing, part embarrassment and part being caught out.

Jensen slaps his thigh, nearly dropping his reins. “Hell, Midland, bet you’re countin’ the days till Teller’s healed up enough to share a bedroll again, ain’t ya?” he says, eyes dancing with mischief. “Keepin’ it warm for him!”

The jab’s bold, wrapped in a toothy grin, and the others hoot raucously, Foster tipping his hat back with a smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement. It’s good-natured, the kind of razzing that pulls a man in, not pushes him out, but it’s cheeky enough to raise a brow. Mark’s blush deepens, his heart twisting at the truth behind the tease.

“Aw, you boys ease up,” O’Brien cuts in, passing his flask to Mark with a lopsided grin. His breath smells of whiskey and dust, but his eyes have cleared. “Man’s killed a legend—let him be. Ain't no one commentatin' on who you choose to have by your fire at night or the next morning. Teller’s lucky to have a shadow that shoots so straight.”

Mark takes the flask, the metal cool against his palm, and forces a grin, though his cheeks still burn. He tips the flask back, the whiskey burning a path down his throat, and hands it back to O’Brien, meeting their eyes one by one.

“Y’all talk too damn much,” he says, letting the trail’s light drawl soften his words, a flicker of Simon’s easy confidence in his tone. “Keep at it, and the bandits will hear you jackasses braying from a county away.”

“Listen to him, givin’ orders already!” Fuller booms, his laugh a rumble that shakes his broad frame. He points a thick finger at Mark, eyes glinting with approval. “Boy’s gone from ridin’ drag to callin’ shots. Next thing, he’ll be bossin’ Kepler’s sorry ass.”

“Shit, I’d pay to see that,” Jensen says, swinging into his saddle, leather creaking under his weight. He shoots Mark a grin, all teeth and mischief. “Just don’t get too big for your britches, Midland."

Mark feels his lips curve despite the churning in his gut. This is how they accept you, he knows; rough affection wrapped in thorns. But his pulse still races. He’s no longer just a kid—they see him now, but it’s a spotlight he’s not sure he can hold.

“Alright then, killer,” Martinez says, swinging into his saddle, leather creaking beneath his weight. The trail hand’s face gives little away, but there’s a new note in his voice—not quite deference, but something close to it. “Your plan, your show. Don’t make us regret it.”

The others mount up, checking sidearms and cinching saddlebags with practiced movements. The air crackles with anticipation, each man falling into the familiar rhythms of preparation, but now there’s a fresh edge to their movements. They’ve ridden together, for years in some cases—these men who smell of dust and leather and tobacco—but something has shifted with the promise of violence to come.

Foster checks his rifle again, the metallic click oddly comforting. “Been a while since I shot anything but rattlers and coyotes,” he says, but his eyes gleam with something like hunger. “Might be nice to aim at somethin’ that deserves it.”

“Just remember,” O’Brien adds, voice rough from years of hot dust and cheap whiskey, “we’re doin’ this for the herd, and for our paychecks. We ain’t glory-huntin’.”

Mark nods in agreement, Mariposa’s warmth steadying beneath him. He’s no match for these men’s years, no match for the calluses on their hands or the scars they carry, visible and not. But he’s got fire lit under him, and the trust and begrudging admiration of these seasoned drovers, and so he adjusts his hat, ready to signal the ride, when hoof beats tear through the quiet, hard and fast from the camp.

The change is immediate. The easy camaraderie evaporates like morning dew under a harsh sun. Bodies that had been loose and joking stiffen, faces harden into masks, unreadable as stone. Foster’s hand drops casually to his holster, while Jensen shifts his weight in the saddle, angling toward Mark as if by instinct. Martinez’s jaw tightens beneath his beard, eyes narrowing to slits.

It's Kepler, barreling into the creek bed on his black gelding, dust swirling like a storm around the animal’s flanks. His lean frame coils with menace, shadows clinging to the hollows of his face despite the lightening sky. Those eyes—cold and sharp as flint—lock on Mark with a smirk that cuts like a blade. The space between them seems to shrink, the air itself growing thick and charged, as if lightning might strike at any moment.

None of the gathered cowboys look at one another, yet they move as one, a silent language born of shared hardship.

Kepler leans back in his saddle, casual and dangerous as a snake sunning itself, one gloved hand resting lightly on his thigh, too close to his revolver for anyone's comfort. When he speaks, his voice carries an edge of mockery that slices through the dawn quiet.

“Boys! Heard a rumor about a posse comitatus intent on saddling up for some thrilling heroics.” His gaze travels the circle, lingering on each man before returning to Mark, cold and assessing.

“Now ain’t that something? Teller’s boy from drag.” His smirk deepens, voice dropping to a silky drawl. “Didn’t reckon you’d be leadin’ the charge, Midland. Thought you’d rather hide behind Teller than actually play cowboy.”

The men bristle, their faces hardening further. Fuller spits a stream of tobacco juice, close enough to Kepler’s horse to make it shy. Martinez’s hand rests on his revolver, eyes narrowed, while Jensen mutters a curse under his breath. Foster’s usual smirk sours into a scowl. Kepler’s the drive boss, sure, but he's a known coward and they don't look particularly kindly on his yellow streak or the way he rides in like he owns the whole damn trail. Mark’s different—he’s spilled blood, taken Wiley down, proven his grit on the drag and earned his place among them. Their eyes bore into him now, waiting to see if that same fire holds against Kepler’s barb, their resentment of the boss’s high-handed strut simmering beneath their stares.

Mark’s jaw clenches, Kepler’s barb hitting the raw nerve of his doubts. The drovers’ scrutiny weighs heavy, testing him, and his fingers tighten on the reins, Mariposa shifting beneath him, as he forces his voice steady, the trail’s light drawl masking the fury in his chest.

“We’re takin’ back the herd,” Mark says, meeting Kepler’s stare, knuckles whitening on the leather. “No heroics. Just work.”

The men snort, Fuller’s low chuckle cutting the tension. Jensen nods, a flicker of approval in his eyes. Kepler’s smirk falters, annoyance flashing in his gaze, but he recovers fast, tilting his head with exaggerated indulgence.

“Are you now? Gonna ride out, find a bandit camp, and snatch two hundred head all by your lonesomes?”

“There’s six of us,” Mark says, voice firm. “All ready to put in the work. You here to help or just to jaw?” Foster’s lips flutter with a stifled grin, while Martinez’s eyes glint with quiet respect. Kepler’s fingers twitch on his reins, a crack in his swagger, but his laugh is sharp, unbothered.

“Oh, by all means, Midland,” he drawls, voice dripping with condescension, “show me how it’s done. Lead your little band of outlaws, and let’s see if you can manage without trippin’ over your own spurs.”

He gestures grandly, like a king granting a favor, but his eyes glint with calculation and Mark sees it clear; Kepler’s here to keep him on a leash, to loom like a vulture, ready to swoop in and claim the glory if the raid succeeds, or to be there waiting for Mark if it fails.

"We're riding out." Martinez shifts in his saddle, spitting into the dirt. “And we don’t need a damn nursemaid,” he mutters, loud enough for Kepler to hear. “You ridin’ or just spectatin’?”

Kepler’s laugh is sharp, unbothered, but eyes give away his discomfort, the realization he's at a disadvantage in this discussion.

“Reckon I’ll ride,” he says, adjusting his hat with a flourish. “Can’t let you boys have all the fun, now, can I? ’Sides, someone’s gotta make sure the kid don’t botch it.” His gaze locks on Mark again, the smirk promising trouble later. “Go on, Midland. Lead. I’m dyin’ to see you shine.”

The men exchange glances, hands still near their holsters, their disdain for Kepler palpable. Mark feels the weight of their skepticism, but also their grudging respect—earned the hard way. He’s not the boy Kepler thinks he can break, not anymore. His heart pounds, but he lifts his chin, voice calm but firm.

“You ride, you follow my plan,” Mark says, the words a quiet challenge, his voice steady despite the pulse hammering in his throat. He meets Kepler’s flint-cold stare, Mariposa shifting beneath him, her warmth grounding his resolve. “We move quiet, we move fast. No grandstandin’.”

Foster lets out a low whistle, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Kid’s got more spine than you, boss,” he says, half under his breath, earning a glare from Kepler but a stifled grin from Jensen, who shifts in his saddle, eyes flicking between the two men.

Kepler’s eyes narrow, a muscle ticking in his jaw, but he leans back, all mock ease, one gloved hand still too close to his revolver.

“Big words, Mark,” he drawls, voice dripping with venom disguised as amusement. “You think you can lead this outfit just ’cause you got lucky with Wiley? Takes more’n one dead bandit to make a man out of a city boy.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, Kepler’s words slicing at the raw edge of his doubts— tight collars he can still feel some nights, stifling Philadelphia parlors, the fear he’ll never be enough, that he's still just playing at being a cowboy. The drovers’ eyes bore into him, waiting, and he feels the weight of their grudging respect, fragile as a dry twig. His knuckles whiten on the reins, but he straightens his back, draws himself up to full height on Mariposa, unwilling to be cowed in this moment.

“Lucky or not, I’m the one with a plan,” he says, holding Kepler’s gaze. “You've had plenty of time to handle this; far as I can tell you ain't done a damn thing about it— Warren. You want to lead now? Well step on up and do it then. Otherwise, fall in or stay outta my way.”

The creek bed goes dead quiet, the air crackling with the challenge. Martinez’s hand hovers near his holster, a flicker of approval in his dark eyes. O’Brien’s brows lift, flask forgotten in his hand, while Fuller spits tobacco juice, the splatter loud in the stillness. Foster’s smirk widens, like he’s savoring the show, but Kepler’s laugh cuts through, sharp and hollow, his fingers flexing on his reins.

“Bold, ain’t you?” Kepler says, leaning forward now, his smirk a blade’s edge. “Teller’s got you thinkin’ you’re somethin’ special, don’t he? Careful, kid. You’re still just his pup, barkin’ big from behind his knees. He ain't out here right now though.” The taunt’s a lash, aimed at Mark’s bond with Simon, veiled but heavy with the promise of trouble later.

Mark’s chest burns as he leans forward in the saddle, voice a low growl, steady as iron. “Don't need anyone else here to put you in your place, Kepler, but I got an audience all the same if you want to try me.”

Jensen snorts, a choked laugh, and Foster’s grin flashes full, teeth glinting in the dawn light. Kepler’s smirk freezes, his eyes blazing with something dangerous—rage, maybe, or the fear of losing face. He opens his mouth, another barb on his tongue, but Martinez cuts him off, nudging his horse forward with a scowl.

“Enough. You can measure your dicks when we get back,” he growls, voice like gravel, slicing through the standoff. The drovers chuckle—Fuller’s low rumble, Jensen’s sharp bark—easing the tension like a valve released. “We’re burnin’ daylight. Let's move out.”

Mark nods, pulse still hammering but resolve like iron. He nudges Mariposa forward, the men falling in behind him, hooves thudding softly in the creek bed. Kepler lingers a moment, his smirk lingering like a bad smell, eyes boring into Mark’s back. Then he spurs his gelding to follow, keeping just close enough to cast a shadow over Mark, the noose of his presence tightening with every step.

Chapter Text

The ride away from the creek bed is all but silent. Weighed down by the realization of what they were heading toward—bandits, bullets, maybe death—the drovers lapse into a tense, heavy quiet, their banter smothered by the gravity of what awaits. Kepler's oppressive presence doesn't help. His horse trails just close enough that Mark can feel the man's shadow crawling across his shoulder blades like an unwelcome touch, his smirk a silent taunt promising retribution for slights real and imagined.

The men have said all that needed saying back at the creek, their words exhausted on plans and teasing and puffed-up bravado. Anything else now would be a fool's comfort; and for everything else these men are, they aren't fools.

Hooves thud soft on the packed earth, a steady rhythm broken only by the creak of leather or the occasional snort from a horse. Dust hangs in the air, its tang sharp in Mark's nose, coating his throat with every breath until each swallow feels like drinking sand. The drovers ride in a tight cluster, heads bowed against the rising sun, silhouettes stark against the sagebrush flats that stretch toward a horizon blurred by heat and distance. Martinez's shoulders are set like iron; his revolver glints at his hip—a promise, not a threat; Fuller's hat is tilted low, hiding his scowl but not his white-knuckled grip on his reins; Foster's fingers twitch, restless but silent, beating out a rhythm against his thigh that matches the pounding of Mark's heart.

O'Brien has his flask tucked away, perhaps for the first time since Mark's met him. He meets Mark's glance with a nod, brief but steady, a signal of his support, whatever blood may come. Even Jensen, usually quick with a joke to break the heaviest silences, keeps his eyes locked on the horizon, jaw tight enough that a muscle jumps beneath his stubble. They're bound for a bandit camp, two hundred head of cattle hanging in the balance, and the weight of it presses like a stone on Mark's chest—not just the cattle, but these men who have followed him, these lives he's made himself responsible for.

The sun begins to peek it's head in earnest over the horizon. It lights the plains sagebrush and scrub in that particular shade of gold you could only get at the edge of the high desert; clear and pure and achingly beautiful, as if the world is mocking their grim purpose with its splendor. The light spills across the rolling flats, catching in the twisted limbs of a gnarled mesquite tree, its roots clawing into the earth like an old man's fingers desperate for purchase in a world that's left him behind.

Mark's eyes linger on it. Mariposa shifts beneath him with the gentle nudge of his knee, her hooves tracing a path that skirts its shadow. He wouldn't have thought he'd even noticed this tree, not when he and Simon tore through this stretch, Simon slumped against him, blood soaking into his shirt, breaths ragged as Mark spurred his horse toward a place with a doctor. The world had been nothing but a terrifying blur then—scrub and boulders flashing past, the mesquite's twisted limbs just a flicker in his panic. He'd been too fixed on Simon's weakening grip, on the fear of losing him, to mark the land. But now, the tree's twist feels like a herald, its roots a signpost he didn't realize he'd read. His body remembers what his mind forgot, had mapped this route into his very bones.

A mile back, it was a jut of red rock, its edge sharp against the sky, that urged him to veer left; before that, a dry creek bed, its stones worn smooth by waters long gone, kept him on course. The land speaks, and he listens now, his hands loose on the reins, guiding Mariposa easily. It's a language he never would have learned in Philadelphia, where streets were straight and certain and crowded, leaving no room for a man to lose himself.

Out here, being lost is sometimes the only way to be found.

Breathing deep, Mark fills his lungs with the prairie—sage, dust, the faint sweetness of blooming yucca, and beneath it all, the metallic tang of his own fear.

This is where he wants to die.

Not today, no; not for a very long time, not if he can help it, but here in the open, the wild, where the sky stretches unbroken and the earth hums with life that persists despite everything. He wants more time with Simon, wants more nights under stars sharp as knife-points, laughter warm beside a crackling fire, the cadence of Simon's breath, sweet and steady in his ear. But he doesn't think he could ever be happy in a city again, caged by expectations and propriety, suffocated by what others would call a proper life.

Those moments are worth more than any Philadelphia finery or silver spoon he left behind. He thinks of Simon now, fighting to heal, his kisses a promise Mark holds to tighter than any vow made before God or man. The wild gave him courage and strength, a sense of purpose he's never had; the wild has given him Simon, and he'll be damned if he lets anything—bandits or bullets or Kepler with his sideways glances and whispered insinuations—take it away. The rifle across his back feels heavier now, its weight a reminder of what he might have to do, the man he might have to become to protect what he loves.

As the sun climbs higher, casting their shadows long and thin before them, Mark straightens in his saddle. The camp can't be more than an hour's ride now. He catches O'Brien's eye again, then Martinez's, a silent communion passing between them. They know what's coming.

Mark's gaze drifts to a lone cottonwood, its silhouette striking against the rise, drawing him in with a quiet gravity he can't quite name, its branches warped by wind, standing defiant on a low rise. Mariposa’s ears flick, and Mark nudges her toward it, the landmark pulling him like a lodestone, though he barely registers the choice.

The trail’s teaching him—how to read the land, how to move with its rhythms.

Three months ago, he’d have stumbled over this scrub, lost without a map, a city boy playing cowboy.

Now, the prairie is in him, deep as his blood.

He was born to the city, raised for its cages—ballrooms, boardrooms, expectations heavy as iron. But Mark knows now, in some intrinsic way, he was made for this: the dust, the danger, the endless possibility of the open range.

That thought steadies him, even as Kepler’s shadow shifts closer, his horse's hooves a deliberate echo. Mark’s jaw tightens at the proximity, but the drovers’ eyes, when they catch his, hold something else; respect, hard-won in the creek bed, tempered by their laughter over a shared flask. They ride with him, not Kepler, and that’s enough for now. A hawk wheels overhead, its cry piercing the quiet, and Mark’s hand rests on his revolver, the weight familiar, grounding.

The drovers crest a ridge, the high desert’s golden light thinning as clouds skid across the dawn sky. Mark’s eyes trace a thicker line of scrub on a ridge; green, probably a good draw if we need water; his hands guiding Mariposa by instinct, when Martinez pulls up beside him, his voice sharp enough to snap Mark from his thoughts.

“We’re closer now.” Martinez points, his gloved hand steady, toward a faint ring of black smudges against the pale dawn—buzzards, heralds of death, circling and dipping just beyond the ridge. His dark eyes flick to Mark, a glint of calculation in them. “That’s your handiwork, Midland. Ain’t it?”

Mark’s breath catches, the words pulling him back to the firefight—Simon’s shout, the crack of his own rifle, the sight of Wiley’s head snapping back before his body crumpled to the wash below. He nods, jaw tight, and nudges Mariposa forward, the drovers falling in behind. Kepler’s gelding snorts, too close, his judgment a blade Mark can feel in his spine without looking.

Impatient and curious, Jensen spurs his horse ahead, cresting the ridge first, and his curse cuts though the quiet.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and there's horror in his voice, but it's laced with a strange awe, maybe even a flicker of jealousy. He reins up, staring down, his bandanna raised against the stench already curling up from below.

The scene swims into focus, a charnel house left to rot in the open. Seven bodies sprawl across the dry wash, the earth scarred by hoof prints and bullet holes. Blood crusts the sand, black and thick, pooling under torn vests and shattered limbs.

Wiley’s among them, his skull half-gone, one eye staring dull and blank at the merciless sky—Mark’s bullet, Mark’s kill. What once were men lie scattered along with their rifles, a canteen glinting in the dust near a hand frozen in death, and flies swarming the bloated corpses. The buzzards screech, their shadows flickering over the dead like a grim dance. The wind moans through the scrub, carrying the sickly sweet, coppery stink of death, sharp enough to burn Mark’s throat.

Fuller dismounts, his boots crunching gravel, and crouches by Wiley’s body.

“Goddamn,” he growls, spitting tobacco juice that splatters near a broken spur. “That’s Wiley, sure as shit. Made it through The War only to end up bleaching his bones on the prairie. Kid, you don’t mess around.”

His weathered eyes meet Mark’s, a grudging respect in them, though his scowl doesn’t soften.

Foster shifts in his saddle, his usual razor edged smile gone, fingers twitching on his reins.

“Hell of a mess,” he mutters, voice tight and nervous. “You and Teller did this? Just the two of you?” His gaze darts to the bodies, then back to Mark, unease battling admiration.

"It was Simon, mostly." Mark’s chest tightens. He sees it all over again—the muzzle flash, Simon’s blood on his hands, the chaos of that morning. “The fog was thick, I couldn't see most of it. I know it wasn’t clean,” he says, voice low. “But it’s done.”

Martinez swings down, his knife glinting as he checks a body, his movements precise, like a man tallying coin.

“Wiley’s crew,” he confirms, standing. “Every one of ‘em wanted. This ain’t just a mess, Foster. It’s a payday.” His tone’s flat, but his eyes burn, already counting the unclaimed bounties on these bodies.

Jensen shakes his head, still staring, his awe turning sharp.

“Two of you against all them” he says, almost to himself. “I’da run, Midland. Hell, most would. How’d you hold your nerve?”

There’s envy there, plain as day, and Mark feels the weight of their eyes—testing and measuring, the same as in the creek bed.

O’Brien stays mounted, silent, surveying the carnage with a cool, practiced eye. There's a sense of the drovers’ respect, hard-won through dust and blood, hanging in the air, fragile but real.

Kepler’s laugh breaks the moment, sharp and hollow.

“Some heroics, Midland. Please do, tell us all about them.” he drawls, leaning back in his saddle, gloved hand too close to his revolver. “Seven against two. Those are some mighty tough odds. ” His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with the promise of later trouble."You know… wanted or not, opening fire on a man without cause is still murder in the territories."

The word murder lands like a stone, the air thickening, the drovers’ eyes flicking between Mark and Kepler. The buzzards’ screeches fade under the wind’s moan, and Mark’s throat tightens as Kepler’s threat hangs heavy in the air, a noose he could tighten with a single word to a marshal, dragging Mark and Simon to a gallows.

Mark's jaw clenches, voice low; “Wiley’s crew fired first,” he says, eyes locked on Kepler’s.

“Did they now? Just your word on it; well yours and that drunk’s back at the drive against seven corpses. You could say just about anything and who’s left to say anything against you?” Kepler’s voice drips with sarcasm, his smirk curling tighter, gloved hand inching closer to his revolver. His eyes glint as he peels back Mark’s story to find a lie. “Two men, a foggy mornin’, and a pile of bodies. Sounds like a mighty convenient tale for a greenhorn lookin’ to play hero. Or maybe you and Teller just saw a chance to bag $5,000 and took it, law be damned.” He leans forward, voice dropping, a venomous whisper for Mark alone. “I know men who’d pay to hear my version, Midland. Marshals. And your Simon ain’t lookin’ so steady to back you up.”

The words cut deep, Kepler’s disbelief twisting the truth, painting Mark as a cold-blooded opportunist, the legal threat now a tangible possibility for both him and Simon.  Mark’s throat burns, not just from decay but from the bitterness of Kepler’s lie.

“Fog was thick, but I heard their shots, saw their irons clear before Simon ever even drew his. We fought to live, not to kill for sport.” The truth steadies Mark in the memories of the chaos of bullets and blood.

Fuller’s tobacco juice splatters again, grazing Kepler’s gelding, making it shy back, a nervous horse with a pompous rider.

“Damn right,” he snarls, voice gravelly. “Shut your trap, Kepler, you yellow bastard. There’s not a lawman from here to Texas who’d believe two men and a pack of cattle got the drop on John Wiley to fire first. Kid fought for his life—somethin’ you’d never be able to stomach.”

“Hell, even if Midland and Teller did outright ambush, bet the marshals’d give ‘em a medal for removin’ a John Wiley-shaped thorn from their side,” Jensen adds, his awe sharpening into a grin, though his eyes flick nervously back to the bodies. The drovers’ laughter is short and rough.

Martinez’s hand hovers near his holster, eyes narrowing. Foster’s scowl deepens, his fingers twitching near his own revolvert, his disdain for Kepler unabashed and naked on his face. O’Brien’s cool gaze shifts, nodding to Mark, but staying silent.

Kepler’s smirk doesn’t falter, but the confidence in his eyes flickers, a predator scenting resistance and tactically retreating for the time.

“We’ll see who the law listens to, Midland,” he mutters, low enough for Mark alone, the threat lingering like the stink of decay. “Men like me got ways of bein’ heard.” 

The buzzards screech, one dipping low, talons grazing John Wiley's vest, and the drovers stir, pulling their focus back to the blood-soaked sand where seven bodies lay sprawled beneath the merciless sun.

"Ain't none of that matters right now," Martinez mutters as he steps forward, knife still bloody at his hip, voice flat but urgent. "That's $5,000 sittin' here; at least last time I saw a wanted poster. May be more now." His eyes fix on Wiley's skull, stark and already beginning to bleach. "We can't leave it to rot. Bounties like this don't come twice."

Martinez squints, testing Mark's lead. The drovers shift, dust swirling at their boots, the heat pressing down like a physical weight.

Fuller spits a stream of tobacco juice that lands with a hiss on the sand. "We got a job, Martinez. Two hundred head waitin' to be took back. That's why we're out here."

"Cattle?" Martinez scoffs, gesturing to the corpses. "That's your future you're spittin' on, Fuller. Five grand seven ways—that's over seven hundred dollars a piece."

"Money that'll be gone in a year," O'Brien cuts in, stepping forward. "That herd's my boys' school money, my wife's burial plot. I'm thinkin' beyond one payday."

Martinez rounds on him, jabbing a finger at his chest. "Your boys won't need schoolin' if their pa's dead! You got a wife to bury—I got two girls to feed right now. Ain't that right, Foster?"

Foster nods, fingers twitching. "Damn right it is. I'm too old for promises. Five thousand in hand beats chasin' rustlers any day." He turns to Mark, eyes narrowed. "I been ridin' for damn near twenty years, and what've I got? A bad back and nothin' to show."

"So you're just gonna leave the herd?" Jensen asks, voice climbing higher. "After what we been through? After what Midland did to Wiley?"

Foster's face hardens. "Midland took a shot any one of us would've. Don't make him special."

"Shut your mouth, Foster," Fuller growls, stepping closer. "The kid's earned his say."

"The kid," Kepler drawls, smirk widening, "is shakin' in his boots. Afraid of what happens when we drag these bodies to town? Afraid a marshal might ask questions about how exactly Wiley died?"

Mark stiffens, and O'Brien moves between them. "Back off, Kepler. We all know what happened."

"Do we?" Kepler's eyes glitter with malice. "All I know is what Mr. Midland said happened."

O'Brien lunges forward, but Mark catches his arm. "Don't. He's not worth it."

"Listen to the kid," Kepler taunts. "Always the peacemaker. Always the one to walk away."

Martinez seizes the opening. "Town's a days' ride. Bandits could be on us by nightfall. I say we take the sure thing."

"Town?" Jensen laughs, sharp and bitter. "You want to haul rotting corpses through bandit country on the backs of our mounts? You're a goddamn idiot!"

Martinez's face flushes dark. "Watch your mouth, boy. You think I'm riskin' my neck for Midland's glory when my girls are starvin'?"

"Your girls this, your girls that," Fuller spits. "You lose at cards every Saturday, Martinez. Don't you dare use them as your shield."

Martinez's hand drops to his knife. "You leave my family out of your filthy mouth."

"Or what?" Fuller steps closer, tobacco staining his beard. "You'll gut me like you keep threatenin'? Do it then. Right here. Fuckin' big mouth coward."

"Stop it!" Mark's voice cuts through, but it's drowned out as Foster shoves him aside.

"You keep out of this, boy," Foster snarls. "Men are talkin'. Run back to Teller if you can't stomach this. This ain't no sickbed hand-holdin'."

Jensen's face flushes with anger. "You'd know all about abandoning sickbeds, wouldn't you, Foster? Your boy died of consumption and your wife left you while you were out chasin' bounties. At least Mark stands by his people."

Foster's hand whips out, grabbing Jensen by the shirt front. "You mention my boy again, I'll put you in the ground."

"Let him go!" O'Brien demands, moving toward them.

"Stay back," Foster warns. "This pup needs to learn respect."

"Respect?" O'Brien cuts in, stepping forward. "For what? For eating dust for twenty years with nothing to show? Empty house while you chased coins? Some legacy."

"Some of us got families to think of. I ain't putting some fucking cows ahead of the family I got."

"Family you had," Fuller corrects, eyes cold. "Maria left you cold last winter. Everyone knows why. I'm guessing she'll be back to take them girls of yours as soon as she can "

Martinez drops Jensen and whirls on Fuller. "You bastard. You don't know the first thing about family."

"I know enough not to gamble away my children's food," Fuller replies, standing his ground.

Martinez's fist connects with Fuller's jaw, sending him staggering. "I said, keep my family out of your mouth!"

Fuller recovers, spitting blood, a grim smile spreading. "Truth hurts, don't it? Your piss poor planning ain't my problem."

"Your jaw's about to be," Martinez snarls, advancing again.

O'Brien intercepts him, shoving him back. "You'll kill us all with this bullshit! Hauling corpses through bandit country? With what horses? We need every mount for the cattle!"

"Cattle we might never find," Foster argues, still gripping Jensen. "Or you gonna pretend you can track better than the rest of us, O'Brien? Like you tracked those rustlers to Dry Creek last spring? How'd that turn out?"

O'Brien's face darkens. "That was different."

"Different how?" Foster presses. "Different because it wasn't your idea? Or different because you didn't lose your share of the herd?"

"Careful, old man," O'Brien warns. "Your memory's getting spotty. Wasn't me who fell asleep on watch when they took the remuda."

Foster releases Jensen with a shove. "You son of a bitch. My wife was dying!"

"And mine's dead," O'Brien fires back. "I still do my job."

"Your job?" Martinez laughs bitterly. "Following a green kid chasing rustlers? That's a job now?"

"More noble than turning bounty hunter, can't trust a man who trades in human flesh " Fuller retorts. "Six splits better n' seven. Which one of us you planning to shoot in the back first, Martinez? For the bounty?"

Martinez's hand drops to his gun. "You keep pushing, Fuller. See what happens."

“This is exactly what the bandits want,” Jensen cuts in, desperate, voice shrill, shoving Foster’s chest, fingers trembling. “Us fightin’ like dogs while they watch!”

The drovers ignore him entirely, a hyena pack tearing at each other’s wounds. These men are friends, and their jabs land with devastating precision—raw but not yet fatal. Yet the savagery rips at them, their trust fraying,and buckling under the strain.

Mark can’t think, it's all too much; the wash’s heavy stinks of choking decay, the cowboys' angry voices poundy in his head like hoof beats, this chaos threatening to break them before they even really get started.

“I’m gonna go check for tracks,” Mark growls, voice rough as he turns Mariposa toward the wash’s edge. He needs air—space to steady himself before the whole crew fractures. Dust stings his eyes, and he turns his face away, not ready for the others to see the heat behind it.

He gets barely a minute to himself before Kepler’s boots scrape the dirt, his shadow slinking close.

“Real impressive back there. You’ve barely been out of camp two hours, and they’re at each other’s throats. Mighty fine job, Daniel.”

“Fuck you, Warren.” Mark’s drawl is steely, reins tight in his fist. “It’s Mark now. Don’t make me say it again.”

Kepler’s chuckle is soft, warm like a blade over coals. “Excuse me, Mark. You can call yourself what you want, don’t change facts. You’re in a mess you ain’t smart enough—or seasoned enough—to handle. It’s collapsin’ on you.”

“I can get ‘em back,” Mark snaps, eyes locked on Kepler’s. “We can do this. I can do this.”

“Can you?” Kepler steps closer, smirk sharp, scenting weakness. “Martinez near gutted Fuller. Jensen’s shakin’. You think a greenhorn like you can rein in that storm?” His voice drops until it's almost soft, reasonable. “Simon can't save you, this time, Mark. You’re all by yourself out here and you're drownin’.”

Mark’s chest burns, “I ain’t drownin’,” he says, voice steady despite the ache of guilt, and the fear of failure gnawing at him. “They’ll follow me. Herd first, then the $5,000. That’s the job. They agreed to help me with the herd.”

"Look. I'm gonna say this just as kind as I can. The center won't hold without somebody to hold it. And you're not the one to hold it." Kepler’s smirk is predatory, scenting the blood in the air and the softest spot to bite into.

“That why you followed me? To taunt me?”

“No, no.” Kepler's tone shifts, to something sickly sweet; slimy and cajoling. “I’m offerin’ help. A seasoned hand like mine could calm those savage beasts. The right word, and they’re yours again.”

“Out of the good of your heart, I’m sure,” Mark says, dry as dust.

“Maybe for a price.” Kepler’s smirk sharpens, eyes tracing Mark’s sweat-damp neck, and he's too close, his smile is too knowing. “A favor, say. You owe me, and we’re square.” Memories of before, of leaving Philadelphia flash through his mind, and Kepler’s hand is so very heavy on his shoulder, bearing promises of protection for a cost. Kepler leans in closer still. “You’re in over your head, Daniel. My hand’s steady—if you meet me halfway.”

Mark’s jaw clenches. He’s not Daniel, he's no longer that boy bending to Kepler’s will.

“I don’t need your help, Warren,” he growls, stepping back, shaking him off. “You’re no savior. You’re not trying to help—you’re tryin’ to sell me poison.”

Kepler’s smirk wavers. His eyes flicker, searching Mark’s like a man grasping at something he’s already lost.

“Poison?” His voice cracks—too soft, like it surprises even him. “You used to listen to me. Used to know I had your back.” His hand twitches. Lifts. Hovers mid-air—like he might reach for Mark’s jaw, the way he used to. But it drops. “I’m not your enemy. I don’t have to be. We could be… like before.”

The words hang there; thin and trembling, haunted by ghosts of stolen nights and control dressed up as warmth.

Mark’s stomach twists, the wash’s stench thick in his nose. But Simon’s laugh gentle and warm and starlit echoes louder than memory, and he swings back into Mariposa's saddle

“There ain’t no ‘before,’ Warren,” he says, eyes like flint. “I burned it away. Far as I can.”

Kepler blinks, like Mark’s words struck deeper than he thought they could.

“Burned it away?” he repeats, and it hurts to say it. “Was it so bad?” he whispers. “Back then? When you were Daniel, with me?” His shoulders slump as the last of his smugness slips. His voice turns pleading—a man unraveling. “I—I tried, Mark, I really did. I didn’t mean to…-”

“But you did.”

Mark’s voice is quiet, cold, true. “You broke me. Same as they did—my family, everyone else. You twisted love into a debt I could never repay.” His hands tremble and Mariposa shifts beneath him, but both of them hold firm.

Kepler laughs, a short, sharp sound, brittle and disbelieving. “And Teller’s better’n me?”

His tone isn’t mocking this time—it’s raw, wounded; like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to, but needs to hear it said.

“Simon doesn’t ask me to lick love off a knife blade.”

That breaks the last of Kepler’s pride.

“I cared,” Kepler chokes, barely above a whisper. “I still do. Ain’t that worth something?” His hand lifts again, a pitiful flutter—half-formed, half-repentant. “I don’t know how to stop missin’ you,” he admits. “I don’t know how to want without hurtin’.”

“Then learn,” Mark says. “But you don't get to use me to do it.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Final.

“I loved you, you know?” Mark says at last, low and steady. “Down to my bones. But it wasn’t real. It felt real, and that’s the worst of it. You made me think it was all I deserved.”

Kepler looks at him like a man staring at the light from a house he’s been locked out of.

“I ain’t yours,” Mark finishes, turning toward the draw. “Not anymore.”

Behind him, Kepler’s voice barely carries.

“You’ll need me.”

But Mark doesn’t turn back, riding straight for the middle of the wash. The men aren’t fighting anymore, but they’re not talking either. No one looks at each other. No one meets his eyes.

So Mark makes them.

From the saddle, he turns in a slow circle, gaze steady, meeting every one of theirs.

“I can’t make you ride with me,” he says, voice rough but even. “And I won’t waste my breath remindin’ you that you gave me your word. End of the day, you can only do what your conscience allows.”

He shifts Mariposa’s reins in one hand, the leather creaking softly. “All I’ll say is this: I’m goin’ after the herd.”

A crow calls somewhere overhead. No one moves.

“If you’d rather haul these stinkin’ corpses to town on the backs of your horses, this is me tellin’ you; go with God.”

He lets it hang. Lets the wind cut between them like a knife.

“But if you’re still the men I rode out with—if you choose to keep your promise—we’ll ride together. We’ll get back what was stolen. I’ll help you stack rocks over these dead boys, and after, I’ll come back with a wagon.”

He leans forward slightly in the saddle, voice dropping low. “And I’ll give up my cut of the bounty.”

A few heads twitch toward him—quick, uncertain.

“That’s another eight hundred dollars to split between y'all.”

He waits a breath. Then lets the next part settle in cold.

“But if you ride off anyway? I’ll file a warrant, claim the whole bounty for myself.”

He taps one gloved finger against the horn of his saddle, steady. “I’ve got cause to do it—and I’ve got men to back it. Fuller, Jensen, O’Brien. And Simon Teller’s laid up with Wiley’s bullet in his gut. He’ll swear on it.”

The silence deepens.

“I might not see a damn dime,” Mark says. “But I’ll sure as shit tie that money up in court long enough to sour it in your hands.”

His voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t need to.

“That’s all. I’m goin’ east. You make your choice.”

Silence stretches, taut and breathless. The stink of blood and dust hangs heavy in the wash, and no one meets Mark’s eye.

Then Foster clears his throat, spits into the dirt, and steps forward.

“Well, hell.” He looks up, squinting into the sun. “Ain’t much of a man if I break my word when it’s hard. I said I’d help get them cattle back. I meant it.” Foster glances over at Mark, something a little steadier than respect flickering in his eyes. “Let’s go get 'em back.”

Mark gives him the smallest nod, the only thanks he dares offer without risking the moment’s gravity.

But Martinez doesn’t move. He’s got his arms crossed tight and his jaw locked harder. His eyes burn, not from sun or dust, but something deeper—raw and unsettled.

“Easy for him to say,” Martinez mutters.

Mark meets his gaze. Quiet. Firm.

“Ain’t none of this fair. But it’s still ours to fix.”

Martinez scowls. “You really think you can lead us through that? That they’ll follow you?”

Mark’s voice is quiet, unwavering. “I think you’re still here, askin’. That counts for somethin’.”

A long pause. The wind picks up, dry and sharp. Somewhere a hawk cries overhead.

Martinez exhales like he’s been holding his breath for miles. Runs a hand over his face.

“Goddamn it.” He turns, slaps his saddle, and mutters, “You better not get me killed.”

Mark allows the ghost of a smile. “Not plannin’ on it.”

Jensen, from the back of the group, gives a low whistle. Well. That was real inspirin’. Y’all wanna kiss now or wait ‘til after?”

A ripple of tired laughter follows. The tension breaks—not all the way, but enough.

"Shut the fuck up, Jensen." Martinez kicks the dirt, but doesn't fully hide the reluctant grin on his face. "We best set these stones quick 'fore we ride off. I ain't leaving five grand out for the buzzards."

Mark swings down from the saddle, the weariness in his bones tempered somewhat by the ripple of uneasy camaraderie settling across the group.

“Martinez is right,” he says, thumbing the brim of his hat back. “Let’s get these men covered proper.”

Boots scrape against gravel as the drovers drift to drag the bodies into a neat row. No one speaks at first—just the sound of stone being hefted, thudding into place. Fuller grunts as he lifts a heavy slab, setting it down over a bandit’s chest with a little too much force. O’Brien doesn’t look up when he passes Mark a rock, but he lingers just long enough for it to count.

Martinez crouches, setting a flat stone with careful precision. After a beat, he mutters, “I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you. Back there.” He doesn’t look up. “You held it better’n I would’ve.”

Mark nods, quiet. “We’re all tired.”

Martinez huffs. “Ain’t the same thing as bein’ wrong.” Then, after a pause, “This plan of yours—cut the cattle, ride hard—might even work.”

Mark lets a dry smile ghost across his mouth. “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Nearby, Foster shifts a body with care, lays the first stone with something like reverence. “I still think this is a bad idea,” he says to no one in particular. “But I’ve rode behind worse men.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “That a compliment?”

Foster shrugs, lips twitching. “Depends how you ride.”

The pile of stones grows, slow but steady. Fuller grunts, hefting a rock nearly too big for him, setting it down with a hard thud that echoes off the canyon walls.

He straightens, wipes his hands on his trousers, and glances sideways without really looking at Martinez.

“Hey. Martinez.” His voice is low, rough like gravel. “I shouldn’t’ve said that shit earlier. About your girls. That was outta line, you done right by them since their Mama left.”

Martinez doesn’t pause his work, just places another stone with care before answering.

“Nah,” he mutters. “You weren’t wrong.”

“Maybe not,” Fuller says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still. Wasn’t mine to say.”

Martinez finally looks up. Just a flick of his eyes, then a small nod. Barely there—but it lands like a hammer.

Fuller sniffs, turns back to the cairn like the conversation never happened. “Let’s get this finished. Sun’s not waitin’.”

A few yards off, O’Brien steps beside Foster, helping stack stones with the kind of quiet that says more than noise ever could. They work in rhythm a while before Foster speaks.

“I ever tell you I was sorry about your Shirl?” His voice is low, not quite steady. “She was a good woman.”

O’Brien keeps working, doesn’t look up. “Mighty kind of you to say it.” That’s all. But out here, it’s enough.

Foster nods once. “Yeah.”

He glances toward Mark, who stands apart, eyes on the horizon. Sunlight paints his profile in sharp lines—still, watchful, steady.

“Reckon we better get ready,” Foster murmurs. “Got us a raid to ride.”

One by one, the men step back from the cairns, brushing dust from their hands. The silence has changed—no longer brittle, it's stronger like steel forged under heat.

Mark turns to them, jaw set, voice clear. “Mount up. Let’s get our cattle back.”

And without another word, they do. Together, they ride towards the bandit's camp.

Chapter Text

Mark didn’t look back at the cairns. Not once.

He could feel them taunting him—seven lumps of stone and flesh cooking in the sun. A warning. An omen. A price. The buzzards had started circling an hour ago, patient black periods against the bleached sky, and Mark had forced himself not to count them. Some things were better left uncounted.

Seven markers stood like sentinels in the wasteland, watching the seven riders who moved through the heat shimmer like mirages.

The symmetry wasn’t lost on him. Seven and seven, the dead, and the living moving toward whatever waited in the canyon ahead. As if the desert itself were keeping accounts, balancing ledgers in blood and bone. As if every choice demanded its equal and opposite, every action its inevitable consequence.

There was something biblical in it, something that spoke to the old certainties his father had tried to beat into him with leather and scripture. Seven seals. Seven trumpets. Seven bowls of wrath. Completion. Judgment. The number of things coming full circle whether a man wanted them to or not.

He could feel it pressing at his back, heavy as the memory of wings. Seven men had built those cairns with their own hands over the corpses of seven who’d believed, right up until the end, they’d see another sunrise. Now the stones stood as lessons carved into the earth; the price of overconfidence in a land that forgave nothing and forgot less.

The horses knew. Animals always did. They shied from places where death lingered, ears flicking back toward the cairns as if they could hear something their riders couldn’t. Mariposa’s gait was cautious, careful, the surefooted walk of a creature that understood the weight of omens and the persistence of ghosts.

Her hooves found purchase on the cracked hardpan, steady under a rider she trusted—even when that trust led her toward gunfire. The men rode close behind, quieter now, tighter. Like the air itself had thinned. Like they were finally beginning to understand what it cost to follow someone into hell.

The silence had its own weight. Not the easy quiet of men who knew one another’s rhythms, but the brittle hush of a wire pulled too taut. Mark could feel it in the way Foster shifted his weight, in how Martinez’s hand drifted to his sidearm every few minutes like a man checking a watch.

Peace bought with promises was fragile as morning frost.

Mark could see it in the set of Kepler’s shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing words too bitter to spit out. The man had murder in his eyes. That kind of hate didn’t vanish because men shook hands and agreed to ride together.

It lingered. Festered. Waited.

Mark worried how it would play when the dust kicked up and wheat had to be separated from chaff. But he couldn’t dwell on it. Not now.

He meant to make the trip worth it.

He meant to come back—cattle in tow, victorious, proven. A man who could look Simon in the eye and say; I kept my word. I brought them home.

He meant to come back to Simon.

His throat tightened at the thought. Not fear, not even doubt. Just the weight of it. The want. The ache that had taken root in his chest since Simon said, Come back to me. A command and a prayer both, rough with something that might have been tears—if Simon were the kind of man who ever let himself cry.

Mark didn’t know if he still believed in God anymore—not after everything—but he believed in that voice. Believed in the way it cracked on the word back, like Simon was already mourning him.

Believed in the press of foreheads, two halves of the same damn coin. In Simon’s breath hot against his skin, stubble catching rough on his jaw. In the feel of Simon’s hand, calloused and shaking, braced tight on his wrist like he could anchor him there by strength alone.

Stay. Stay with me. That grip had said. Don’t go where I can’t follow.

But Mark had already gathered his posse, already looked each man in the eye and promised he’d bring them back alive and rich, or die trying. The kind of vow that carves itself into a man’s bones and haunts his every waking hour.

So yeah. Mark meant to come back.

The sun climbed higher, turning the air thick as honey. Kepler’s horse edged closer to Mariposa, and Mark felt the man’s stare boring into the side of his head like a brand.

“How much further?” Kepler’s voice was tight, and controlled—the kind of control that meant violence straining at its leash.

“Another hour. Maybe two.” Mark didn’t turn, eyes fixed on the horizon where the heat shimmer made the world dance in shifting waves. “Canyon’s just past that ridge.”

“And then what? We ride in shooting and hope for the best?”

There was challenge in the words, subtle insubordination that had been building since camp. Mark could feel the others listening, waiting to hear how he’d answer.

“Then we do what we came to do.” His voice was steady, calm as still water. “We get the cattle back.”

“You still think it’s going to be just that easy?”

The words hung in the air like gun smoke. Mark finally turned, meeting Kepler’s pale eyes head-on. Hate stared back, yes—but something else too. Fear, maybe. Or recognition of what was coming.

“I think,” Mark said quietly, “we’ve got the advantage—if we stay the course and move fast and quiet.”

Kepler’s mouth twisted, but he let it go. For now.

The ridge loomed ahead, jagged as broken teeth against the sky. Beyond it lay Wiley’s gang and more than a hundred head of stolen beef. Maybe the kind of violence that changed men forever, marking them in ways that never showed.

Mark thought of Simon, staring at the canvas ceiling of the medical wagon and listening for hoof-beats that wouldn’t come for hours yet. He replayed the way Simon’s eyes had closed when Mark kissed him goodbye, soft and desperate.

He adjusted his grip on Mariposa’s reins and rode toward the ridge, set on his path. Even if it took blood.

Behind him, Fuller whistled a whippoorwill call—sharp, eerie, and precise. It landed on Mark’s shoulders like a warning shot.

He raised a hand, stilling the group. Mariposa shifted but didn’t spook. She'd learned the rhythm of his body, maybe not as deeply as Simon's, but knew the tight pull in Mark's spine that meant wait. Her ears pricked forward, and Mark followed her gaze.

Through the sparse cottonwoods he saw smoke curling above the scrub. Gray-white wisps caught the light wrong, too thick, too acrid to be just wood and brush. They were burning something else—leather, or cloth. Hair. Maybe bone.

The smell carried on the wind, sour and oily, with an undertone that made his stomach turn. Something that might’ve been alive once.

It hit in waves—rot, piss, infection—the kind of stench that clings to the back of a man’s throat and follows him into his sleep.

Behind him, Martinez muttered something low and harsh in Spanish—a prayer, maybe, or a curse. Jensen’s horse sidestepped nervously, ears twitching at the wrongness that hung over the place like a funeral shroud. Even Kepler went quiet, his constant fidgeting stilled.

Ramshackle lean-tos slouched against the wind like diseased animals, stitched from tarp and splintered barn wood. One was half-collapsed already, canvas flapping loose like a broken wing. Through the gap, Mark saw bedrolls scattered in the dirt like abandoned corpses. Even gravity seemed to have given up on this place.

A torn strip of calico hung from one post—women’s fabric, faded blue with tiny flowers. Mark didn’t want to think about where it came from, or what the brown stains meant.

There was no order here. No discipline. No fence worth the name—just a rough circle of branches and broken posts around the stolen herd, gaps wide enough to drive a wagon through. Inside, cattle milled slow and restless, ribby and heat-struck, some limping, some too far gone to even run. A few wandered outside the corral entirely, grazing listlessly on scrub, too broken to care.

It was a mockery of everything Mark knew about working cattle. Back at the main drive, Simon would’ve been on his feet—bullet wound or no—reading these men the riot act in that deadly quiet voice he used when his temper went past words.

For everything else you could say about Kepler, he runs a clean herd: cattle fed, watered, tended— cared for. Not out of sentiment or any particular love for the creatures, just business. Healthy cows fetched better prices, and better prices kept men alive.

This wasn’t business. This was butchery.

The soil was churned to mud—not from rain, but filth. Weeks of waste and trampling had turned the ground into a fetid bog that squelched underfoot. Flies hung thick in the air like a black storm cloud, and even from here Mark could smell it festering,, the copper tang of blood where some poor cow had rubbed itself raw against a splintered post. The stench wasn’t just a smell—it was alive, writhing, a thing with weight and teeth.

One steer had tangled itself in old barbed wire, rust-red and cruel. It stood patient in its agony, too defeated to struggle, while the wire cut deeper with every small movement. Blood slid down its leg in lazy rivulets, drawing more flies.

Mark’s jaw tightened. A decent man would’ve cut the beast loose or put it down. These bastards had just left it.

He inventoried quickly—maybe a hundred twenty-five of the two hundred missing. Not the full amount, but enough to matter. Enough to make this raid worth it—if they could get them out alive.

But looking at them, Mark wondered how many would even survive the trail home. Some stood with heads hanging low, ribs like prison bars beneath patchy hides. Others rocked on ruined legs. One lay on its side near the fence, flanks barely moving, and Mark couldn’t tell if it was resting or dying.

A young heifer limped circles at the far edge of the corral, front hoof split nearly in half. Each step left a dark print in the mud. The sight of it made something cold and furious coil in his chest.

Then, near the back, he found them: the thirty head stolen from him and Simon just days ago. They weren’t far gone yet, but the heat and thirst showed in their panting. In the middle stood Daisy, broad and steady, blocking a spindly set of legs that had to be Maisie’s. Something small unwound in Mark—not enough, not nearly enough to balance the horror, but a flickering candle in the dark.

Simon would’ve known how to help. He’d have cleaned wounds, wrapped them proper, given time to heal. These cattle hadn’t known care since they’d been stolen—only hunger, thirst, and the casual cruelty of men who saw them as nothing but meat on legs.

Closer to the camp, two horses stood picketed loose, reins dragging. Sweat stained their flanks, and one favored a leg, rocking gently like it hurt just to stand. Their eyes were dull, vacant—the look of animals that had long since given up hope.

The sight struck something unexpected in Mark. Would they follow the herd, if given the chance for something better? Did they even remember what better meant? He folded the thought away, careful as a prayer. Sentiment couldn’t lead now.

But Christ, this place made him sick.

It wasn’t just cruelty—it was indifference. The kind that hollows a man until there’s nothing left but appetite and spite. These men hadn’t just stolen cattle. They’d stopped seeing them as alive at all. Just things to break.

He saw it in the sagging fence line, in the cattle left to suffer, in the slouch of the men by the fire—half-drunk, half-dead, slumped around a crooked coffeepot like the world had already ended and they were just rotting on top of it. One hawked and spat into the flames, watching it hiss. Another scratched at his arm, picking at it like a scab.

Mark counted six men visible, maybe more in the lean-tos. All armed, all loose and careless in the particular way of men who’d never had to face consequence. Their clothes were filthy, stained with things he didn’t care to identify. One sat with his shirt open, chest a lattice of scars—some old, some fresh, some clearly infected. Another grinned with a mouth of ruined gums where most of his teeth had rotted away.

They passed a bottle around, taking long pulls, wiping mouths on their sleeves. Every so often one would laugh—a harsh, braying sound with nothing joyful in it, only the kind of meanness that grows in the dark spaces between a man’s ribs.

These weren’t the hardened outlaws of dime novels, dangerous and romantic in their violence. These were something worse—broken things that broke whatever they touched. With Wiley dead and no real leader to speak of, these were men who’d slid so far down they couldn’t remember which way was up. They’d kill for a dollar, or for nothing at all, just to feel something move under their hands.

This wasn’t just carelessness. It was rot. No latrines dug, no guard set. Bottles scattered like broken teeth, some drained, some still catching the sun. No plan to last another week—maybe not even another day. Just the slow collapse of men who’d already died inside.

The evidence was scattered everywhere: a woman’s jewelry box, tarnished and cracked open; a child’s wooden toy horse, one leg snapped, abandoned in the mud. Family things. Personal things. Taken from people who could least afford the loss—if those people had even been left alive.

It told a story Mark didn’t want to read. These men hadn’t just stolen cattle. They’d stolen anything that caught their eye, spreading casual, comprehensive evil like wildfire.

And that made them dangerous.

Not outlaws with strategy or honor—cornered dogs with cocked pistols and bad aim. The kind who’d put a bullet in a skull just to watch something die. The kind who’d burn the whole world down if it bought them one more night of warmth.

Behind him, Fuller shifted in the saddle, leather creaking soft.

“Jesus,” he breathed, so quiet it was nearly lost to the wind. “What kind of men—”

“The kind that need killing,” Kepler cut him off, voice flat and certain. For once, Mark found himself agreeing.

The kind Simon would’ve put down without hesitation. The kind that made good men reach for their guns not out of anger, but necessity. Some things couldn’t be reasoned with, couldn’t be reformed, couldn’t be left to spread their poison.

“We’re not startin’ it if we don’t need to. I ain’t riskin’ none of you on those sorry bastards,” Mark said, voice low and steady. His hand adjusted on Mariposa’s reins, the Colt’s weight familiar at his hip. He thought of Simon, laid up and hurting, trusting him to see this right. Thought of the men on the drive, honest cowboys scraping a living in a world set against them.

Then he looked again at the suffering cattle, the broken toys, the men by the fire who’d forgotten what it meant to be human.

The decision made itself.

“But I ain’t gonna lose any sleep if none of them wake up tomorrow.”

His jaw tightened. He shifted in the saddle, low and slow, and raised one hand—a signal the others recognized instantly.

Caution. Ready. This was where they’d find out what they were made of.

No mistakes now. Not here. Not when the ground was dry as tinder, ready to catch flame. Not when Simon was waiting for him after sending him off with that look—part trust, part fear, all love bound up in a farewell neither of them had wanted to give.

With a quiet gesture, Mark sent Foster wide, angling him toward the eastern ridge. Foster nodded once, sharp and sure, and peeled off at a canter, crouched low in the saddle like he meant to melt into the sage. He’d find the high ground, glass the camp from above, keep an eye on movement while the rest did the work. If shooting started, Foster’s rifle would speak first.

The others waited, jittery in that particular kind of quiet that meant they knew it was real now. No more riding, no more hoping they’d turn back. This moment had teeth. Martinez crossed himself, lips moving in prayer. O’Brien checked his sidearm for the third time. Even Fuller’s fidgeting had stilled, the man gone predator-still in the saddle.

Mark eased Mariposa into a shallow gully and signaled the rest down after him. The cattle were maybe two hundred yards out—close enough to smell their dust, close enough to hear the uneasy lowing. The bandits still hadn’t stirred, though Mark saw one poke at the fire, another stumble out scratching his belly and pissing against a post without even turning aside.

Animals. Worse than animals—animals had dignity.

“You really think you can handle this, Mark?” Kepler hissed beside him, low and mean. There was something in his tone that made Mark’s teeth itch—insubordination wrapped in arrogance.

Mark didn’t look at him. “We’ve gone over this.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Didn’t need to be.”

The words came out flat, final. Quiet authority that didn’t need to shout. Behind him, Martinez shifted in his saddle, a small noise of approval.

Kepler snorted ready to respond, but Fuller cut across him. “We movin’ or not?”

The question snapped the tension. Mark shot Fuller a grateful look and crooked two fingers, beckoning Jensen and O’Brien forward. Both men leaned close, horses stepping careful on the loose shale, while Mark murmured:

“First cut’s yours. Go wide, west side. Keep it slow, keep it quiet.”

“You sure west is cleanest?” Jensen asked. Not belligerent—just precise. A man running the angles.

“There’s a break in the fence past that downed mesquite,” Mark said, nodding toward it. “You’ll have room.”

Jensen studied the line of sagging brush that passed for a corral, then grunted. “Alright.”

“You move on my signal,” Mark continued. He calculated numbers, distances, the natural drift of the herd. “Cut ’em clean and drive ’em south to the pines. There's forage, there's water. They'll settle there. Wait for their friends."

The pines are maybe a half-mile south—far enough from the camp that noise won't carry, close enough that they can keep the cattle bunched without running them into exhaustion. Good grazing, a creek for fresh water, natural shelter from the wind. The kind of place cattle would choose for themselves if they had the choice.

“How many you want us to take?” O’Brien asked, voice hushed.

“Small groups. Take what you can handle. Anything bigger, they’ll spook.” He spoke like he’d done this a hundred times before—more bravado than truth, but it steadied the men. “Get ’em situated, come back for more.”

O’Brien nodded, boyish face gone grim. “What about guards?”

“Fuller, Martinez—you cover.” Mark’s eyes cut to them. “Circle wide, eyes sharp. If the bastards stir, keep ’em busy. Don’t let ’em near the herd.”

“Busy how?” Jensen asked, nervous energy making him shift in the saddle.

Mark’s smile was cold as winter wind. “However they need to.”

The implication hung heavy. They weren’t here to parley. They were here to take back what had been stolen and make sure it stayed taken. If that meant killing, so be it. These men had made their choice when they drove cattle and people alike through hell.

“Once Jensen and O’Brien clear their first cut, you two move in,” Mark continued, eyes narrowing as he traced the camp’s sprawl. “Work the eastern edge. Those rocks’ll give you cover, and the sun’ll be in their eyes if they bother to look. Pull another thirty head south and link ’em with the first bunch. If shooting starts, you stick with the cows until they’re safe. Then you come back.”

Fuller spat into the brush, rolling his shoulders loose. Martinez crossed himself again, lips tight.

“And what about me?” Kepler’s voice was taut, anger coiled under the words.

Mark finally looked at him, pale eyes locking onto pale eyes. “You stay with me. We anchor the center. Once Fuller and Martinez make their cut, we take the third. You watch the camp in the meantime. Count heads. Track movement. If trouble stirs, you signal. That’s your post.”

It wasn’t a dismissal. It was structure — deliberate, methodical. A rotation that kept every man moving with purpose and kept Kepler tethered where he could do the least harm.

Kepler’s jaw worked like he was chewing glass. “I can handle more than—”

“That’s what you’re handling.” Mark’s tone was iron flat, the kind of authority that brooked no argument. “First cut, second cut, third cut. Small groups, clean and quiet, until we’ve cleared the herd. Anyone got a problem with that?”

Silence. Even Kepler didn’t push it further, though his resentment burned hot enough Mark could feel it radiating across the saddle gap.

Good enough.

Mark turned his eyes back to the camp—the slack bandits, the suffering cattle, the wreckage scattered across the mud. In a few minutes it would all change. Either they’d drive the cattle out clean and quiet, or they’d paint the ground red.

Either way, those animals were going home.

“Jensen, O’Brien—you move on my signal. Take it slow, keep ’em calm.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Remember—we’re not rustlers. We’re bringing them home.”

The distinction mattered. This wasn’t theft. It was reclamation. Restoring what was broken, balancing scales tipped too far toward cruelty and greed.

Mark thought of Simon again—pale and fevered but trusting, waiting for proof that good men could still win against the dark. Thought of the men on the drive, honest cowboys who’d earned every dollar through sweat and grit.

Then he raised his hand, ready to give the signal.

Time to find out what they were all made of.

O’Brien snorted, just once. “Them cows’ll think they woke up rich.”

Mark huffed faintly. “Be a damn sight better than here.” He hesitated a beat, then added: “And listen—if one of those poor nags starts following, you let it. I ain’t risking a body over a beast—horse or cattle—but I’d rather not leave anything breathing to rot out here if we don’t have to.”

O’Brien nodded. “We hear you.”

Jensen wiped sweat from his brow, adjusting his reins. “We’ll make it quiet.”

O’Brien looked pale but steady, jaw set like he was biting down on something hard. Mark had seen him work cattle before—easy, gentle hands, good instincts. He’d trust them now.

Mark clapped O’Brien once on the shoulder. “You got this.”

The two peeled off into the brush, circling west like shadows, hunting the cleanest gap in the fence. The cattle were loose but heavy with heat—they’d drive easier if the cut was quick and quiet, if they got them moving before any shooting started.

Back in the gully, Mark checked sight lines. Martinez was still and watchful, one hand loose on his rifle butt. Fuller held his far right flank, chewing the inside of his cheek—a nervous habit Mark had noticed on the first day—but his hands were steady, breathing even. Simon had said Fuller was good in a fight. Watching him now, coiled and calm, Mark believed it.

To his left, Kepler’s horse shifted, ears twitching with its rider’s tension. Static seemed to bleed off the man.

“I don’t see why I gotta stay tethered to your hip,” Kepler hissed, voice low and mean.

Mark didn’t look at him. “Because we’ve got three cuts to make and only six men. It’ll be a goddamn miracle if we get out without bleeding. Least you can do is stay put and give the others their best chance.”

Kepler recoiled at the sharpness, then drew himself up, regal in his spite. “Bullshit. You just don’t trust me to go off without a leash.”

This time, Mark turned his head. Slow. Measured. “You’re right. I don’t.”

Kepler’s lip curled. “So what, this is nannying now? You think I don’t know how to cut cattle?”

Mark’s voice was flat as prairie stone. “I think you know how to start fights. I think you know how to grandstand when it suits you. And I think you’d leave every last man and cow behind if it meant saving your own sorry hide.” He let it hang. Then added, softer but sharper: “Which is why you’re staying where I can see you.”

Kepler’s hand tightened on his reins. “You think you scare me, Midland?”

“No,” Mark said. “But I think losing should.”

Their eyes locked, one of those long, poisonous stares that used to end in fists. The air between them buzzed like struck wire.

Then Kepler snorted, bitter and low, and looked away.

Mark didn’t watch him. He was already turning back toward the brush, toward the cattle beginning to stir.

The herd was waking. And the clock was ticking.

Above, a flash of light caught Foster’s scope. Three blinks: in position. Bandits sighted. Waiting on you.

All they needed now was the right moment.

A gust of wind kicked up dust, gritty on Mark’s tongue. The sun climbed higher, heat shimmering off the rocks. Too much longer and it would be too hot to move cattle without risking collapse. But for now, the shadows still stretched long and cool.

The herd shifted—shoulders twitching, tails swatting at flies. Ready.

So was he.

When the wind favored them, sun at their backs, blood singing in his veins, Mark lifted his hand and gave the signal.

Jensen and O’Brien moved like they’d done this a hundred times—because they had. Not here, not under stakes this high, but back on the trail. Cutting cattle was in them, deep as their bones.

They circled wide, hugging the tree line, low in the saddle as their horses picked their way through the scrub quiet as ghosts, ears flicking but steady. Neither man glanced at the camp. All focus was on the herd.

Mark hardly dared breathe.

The first few animals lifted their heads, ears pricking at the motion. But they didn’t spook. Just shifted, slow and weary, like they’d been waiting for someone to come fetch them out of this hellhole.

O’Brien angled in first, hands soft on the reins, murmuring words Mark couldn’t hear but knew the cadence of. Jensen flanked wide, horse pressing the outer edge just enough to guide the group together. Easy, deliberate, precise.

And it worked.

Mark found himself counting—twenty… twenty-eight… thirty-three… more. His lips moved silently with the numbers, a habit he must’ve picked up from Simon.

Then he saw her.

Maisie.

Skinny little knock-kneed legs, coat dusty and eyes bright, stepping out from behind her mama. Daisy’s ribs showed too much, but her head was up, steady and protective.

Something in Mark’s chest loosened, sharp as a snapped wire. He hadn’t realized how tight he’d been holding himself, how long he’d been waiting for this.

They’d be in the first cut. That was good. Better than good.

Jensen clicked his tongue, soft and rhythmic. One of the camp horses—sweat streaked, hollow-eyed—lifted its head.

It watched. Ears forward. And then, like it had been waiting for the chance, it stepped after the herd. Not bolting, not running. Just walking. Quiet and sure. Mark swallowed hard, throat working. The sight of it hit him deeper than he’d like to admit. Some part of that animal still remembered what it was to follow a drive, to belong.

The cut slipped through the sagging fence, slow and steady. Ghosts on the move.

Not a single bandit looked up.

No shouting. No gunfire.

Just damn near forty tired cows, one old horse, and two good men sliding out of hell like salvation come calling.

Mark let out the breath he’d been holding, shifting in his saddle. Mariposa stood steady beneath him.

One cut down.

Hope didn’t come easy out here. But this—this felt close.

Dangerously close.

O’Brien and Jensen melted away into the mist, low shapes sliding west until even the brush swallowed them. Silence closed in again, brittle and sharp enough that Mark could hear his own pulse ticking.

Across the way, Martinez and Fuller waited. Fuller’s hand flexed around his rifle stock, glove creaking with every squeeze. Martinez was still as stone, but Mark could practically feel the tension wound tight in his spine, waiting for release.

Beside him, Kepler loomed like a struck match—too much heat, too little patience. His horse shifted restlessly, teeth grinding the iron bit. The man all but crackled, a hot wire straining for an outlet.

Mark held the quiet as long as he dared, eyes flicking from campfire to cattle, weighing stillness against risk. The air was so tight it felt starched, stiff enough to snap.

At last he twitched his fingers—Martinez and Fuller’s turn. Moving like hounds slipped from the leash, they slid into the herd with practiced arcs, pressing cattle eastward in a widening drift. From the ridge it looked almost too clean, dust rising in a pale curtain that blurred the edges of the camp.

For a moment, Mark truly believed. Believed they might actually pull this off without blood, without the kind of violence that haunted men in their sleep.

The first forty head were already heading south, Jensen and O’Brien guiding them steady as priests with a congregation. Another few minutes and Martinez and Fuller would have the next cut clear.

For a heartbeat, Mark thought: Maybe this will hold. Maybe these bastards will wake to find their herd vanished like morning mist, never knowing how close they came to dying.

Maybe.

Beside him, Kepler shifted again. His horse tossed its head, catching the mood. The man’s whole body was strung taut as a wire, teeth flashing in a grin too sharp to be joy. Mark knew that look—had seen it in the old days, right before Kepler’s temper turned heavy hands into bruises.

“Easy,” Mark murmured. To Kepler, to Mariposa, to himself. The morning felt like it was balanced on a knife’s edge, fragile as blown glass.

Then it came: a bark of laughter from the camp, rough and careless. A bandit stumbled from his lean-to, scratching his crotch, pissing in the dirt, spiting into the fire. Oblivious.

The sound hit Kepler like a blow. His grin widened, hungry. His hand slid to his rifle with deliberate precision, the motion of a man who’d finally found his excuse.

“Warren—no!”

The gun went off before Mark could stop him.

The muzzle flash tore the quiet apart like ripping silk. The shot cracked across the valley sharp as a whip, echo rolling and rolling until it seemed to shake the very bones of the earth.

And then—silence.

Not the tense quiet they’d been working in, but something else entirely. The silence after lightning, when the world holds its breath for thunder. It stretched and stretched, crystalline, as if time itself had stumbled and gone still.

The herd stiffened, heads jerking in unison, ears cocked to the sound. Steam rose from their nostrils, turning them into phantoms wreathed in white. On the ridge, horses danced sideways, snorting clouds into the air, leather creaking as riders fought for control.

In the valley, the bandit camp paused mid-breath—laughter cut off, cards and bottles frozen in half-raised hands. The drunk who’d been scratching his groin stood with his mouth open in a perfect O of surprise.

Mark saw it all with terrible clarity. Fuller's shocked white face, mouth shaping a curse that would never carry. Martinez’s horse rearing, the seasoned cowboy fighting the reins. Foster was up on the high ground, crouched behind his boulder, rifle already in hand, waiting for orders that wouldn’t come in time.

Dust hung golden and weightless, each mote catching the light like a star of bad omen. The world had become a photograph, every motion suspended, every sound swallowed by the enormity of what had just happened.

For one heartbeat it held—the cattle’s shiver, the clutch of reins in gloved hands, the faint metallic click of Kepler chambering another round.

His grin cut white beneath the shadow of his hat, mean and hungry. This was what he’d wanted all along—not justice, not cattle, but the chance to hurt. To balance his petty heartbreak with a stranger’s death.

Mark had time for one devastatingly clear thought: If I survive, Simon’s never going to forgive me for this.

Then the world came apart.

The silence shattered like breaking glass. The herd bawled and broke, muscle and horns surging into stampede, their placid docility exploding into pure animal panic. The thunder of their hooves hit the ground like artillery, shaking dust from the rocks, turning the air thick and choking.

The bandits' shouts rose jagged over the thunder—not organized responses but the raw, animal sounds of men caught flatfooted by violence. One of them was screaming, high and shrill, though Mark couldn't tell if he was hit or just afraid. Another was cursing in a steady stream, the kind of creative profanity that only came from genuine terror.

Kepler's horse plunged downhill in a spray of gravel, his rifle blazing again and again, each shot punctuated by that awful laugh of his. He rode like a man possessed, or maybe just like a man finally free to show what he truly was. The horse's hooves struck sparks from the stone, sending up a shower of dust and debris that made him look like some demon riding out of hell.

Martinez's mount went wild under him, eyes rolling white with terror, pitching up hard in a series of crow-hops that would have unseated a lesser rider. But Martinez was good—better than good—and he might have stayed on if the horse hadn't stepped in a gopher hole and gone down hard, the weight tearing free and sending him crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and leather.

Fuller wheeled his horse, rifle flashing in the morning sun, trying to cover the retreat as bullets began to cut sharp through the rising dust. His mount spun like a dancer, hooves finding purchase on the loose shale, while he worked the lever of his Winchester with a mechanical precision.

The cattle were everywhere now, a living river of beef and terror flowing in all directions at once. Some charged toward the camp, driven by blind panic, while others scattered into the scrub like quail flushed by dogs. The careful plan, the quiet professionalism, the hope of a clean operation—all of it swept away in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Mark fought to control Mariposa as she danced and spun beneath him, her training warring with her instincts. She wanted to run, wanted to flee this sudden chaos of gunfire and stampeding cattle, but years of discipline held her steady. Mark blessed her even as he cursed Kepler's name, knowing that without her steadiness he'd already be dead.

A bullet whined past his ear, close enough that he could feel the wind of its passage. The bandits had found their guns, found their voices, found their feet. What had started as a surprise had become a pitched battle, and Mark's men were scattered across the valley like seeds in a storm.

This was what happened when good intentions met bad men and worse judgment. This was what happened when possessive obsession was allowed to fester into madness. This was what happened when the careful plans of reasonable men collided with the chaos and hunger of those who'd lost themselves to violence.

Mark drew Simon's Colt, the weight of it still unfamiliar in his hand, and prepared to reap what Kepler had sown as the valley dissolved into bedlam.

Gunfire cracked from every direction—short, panicked bursts that seemed to come from the rocks, from the smoke, from the very air itself. Muzzle flashes bloomed like deadly flowers in the choking dust, here and gone before a man could fix their location. The bandits were shooting wild, spraying lead at shadows and movement, their aim ruined by drink and terror but no less dangerous for it.

Cattle screamed and thundered past, their eyes rolling white as china plates, horns slashing blind arcs through the chaos. The sound of their panic was something primordial, a noise that reached back to the beginning of the world—one thousand voices raised in pure, mindless terror. Their hooves thundered on the hardpan, each step a small explosion that sent up clouds of dust and debris.

A young bull charged past Mark's position, foam streaming from its mouth, a bandit's bullet crease bleeding down its flank. Behind it came a dozen steers, then twenty, then more than he could count—a living avalanche of muscle and bone and blind, desperate flight. They crashed through the bandits' pathetic fence like it was made of paper, scattering the broken posts and sending the camp's few remaining structures toppling.

Dust rose thick enough to choke a man, turning the morning sun to a blood-red haze that cast everything in hellish light. It got in the eyes, the nose, the throat—gritty and alkaline, tasting of fear and gunpowder. The air itself seemed to have weight, pressing down like a living thing, making every breath a struggle.

"Drive 'em! Drive what you can!" Mark bellowed, his voice ragged but carrying over the roar. "Get 'em to the pines!"

The words felt useless even as he shouted them. There was no driving this chaos, no directing this storm of flesh and terror. The careful plan he'd spent hours crafting had shattered like glass against the rocks of Kepler's spite. Now it was every man for himself, survival measured in heartbeats and the spaces between flying hooves.

He didn’t wait to see who heard. Mariposa lunged under his heels, plunging into the churn. The mare’s training warred with her instincts—every fiber of her screamed to bolt—but years of discipline held. Her ears pinned back, teeth bared in a snarl that would’ve done a wolf proud.

Horns clipped past Mark’s leg, close enough to tear his chaps. A hoof slammed against Mariposa’s flank and she staggered, nearly went down—but found her footing, dancing sideways through the press of bodies with the grace of something wild and dangerous.

The world had become a kaleidoscope of violence. A bandit lurched past, clutching a bloody shoulder, eyes wide with shock. A lean-to collapsed in a spray of canvas and splintered wood, crushed under a dozen panicked steers. Somewhere a horse or a man, Mark couldn't tell which, was screaming—the high, awful sound of mortal pain.

Through the haze, Mark caught him—Martinez, flat on the ground, half-hidden under the stampede. His horse was gone, bolted into the scrub with empty stirrups flapping. Martinez tried to roll, ribs heaving, one arm bent at an angle no arm should go. A steer thundered past, hooves missing him by inches.

Blood streaked his face, running from nose and mouth, painting tracks in the dust. His hat was gone, shirt torn open, bruises already spreading dark across his chest. But his eyes were fierce—the look of a man who refused to die lying down.

Mark leaned low over Mariposa’s neck, driving her into the maelstrom. The mare responded like the war horse she was, weaving through the crush with surgical precision. Dust burned his throat, turned his spit to mud. Gunfire cracked at the edges of his vision—Fuller’s Winchester hammering steady, Foster’s rifle booming from the ridge.

More bullets whined past Mark. Another spanged off a rock, granite shards stinging his cheek. The bandits were sobering fast, finding their range.

Every hoofbeat was a gamble—one slip, one stumble, and horse and rider would vanish under a thousand iron-shod hooves. Good men turned to red mud in seconds.

He reached Martinez just as another steer barreled down. Mariposa checked, spun, giving Mark the angle. He dropped the reins, trusting her, and leaned low.

“Martinez! Give me your hand!”

Martinez looked up through a mask of blood and dust, managed a crooked grin.

Mark caught his jacket, fingers gripping thick canvas. Mariposa bucked under the strain, her hindquarters sliding in the loose dirt, but Mark hauled with everything in him, dragging the man clear. Martinez cried out as his broken arm jolted, but he clamped his good hand on Mark’s belt, hauling himself up behind the saddle.

“Hold on!” Mark bellowed, even as Martinez coughed blood hot into his shoulder.

The pines swallowed them, needles whispering above as if the world itself exhaled. Mark pulled Mariposa to a lurching halt, slid half out of the saddle to ease Martinez’s weight down to try and set the arm. The man groaned, teeth red, chest heaving shallow. Still alive. Still fighting.

Mark pressed a hand hard to his shoulder, steadying him. “Stay with me.”

“Fuck you, Midland.” Martinez grinned—or grimaced, or both—his mouth bright with blood.

Mark huffed a breath, half a laugh, half a growl. “That’s the thanks I get?”

“You dragged me out from under a thousand head,” Martinez rasped, eyes glassy but still sharp. “Guess that’s worth… something.” He winced as his broken arm shifted.

Mark shook his head, already reaching to bind him steady in the saddle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t.” Martinez’s lips twitched, weak but wry. “You ain’t earned it yet.”

The sound of chaos still rolled from the valley — the bawl of cattle, the crack of rifles, the shrieks of men being ground beneath hooves. But through it, another sound rose: the low, steady calls of cowboys working a herd. Jensen’s whistle. O’Brien’s whoop. Fuller’s barked command. They hadn’t broken. They hadn’t run. The others were already turning what was left of the herd, driving them toward safety.

Good men. Men worth bleeding for.

Mark’s throat burned with dust and rage, but he found himself muttering a thanks under his breath — not to God, but maybe to Simon, who’d believed he could lead when no one else did.

Kepler was nowhere. Lost in the smoke, or buried under hooves, or vanished like the devil that had summoned this hell. Mark couldn’t care. Not now. If the man had lived, he’d show himself soon enough. If he hadn’t — well, the earth could keep him.

He swung back into the saddle, gathering Mariposa’s reins, feeling Martinez’s dead weight sag against him. Ahead, the herd’s dust hung pale against the dark line of the pines. The men would be waiting, battered but alive. Simon would be waiting, pale as bone, watching the horizon like it could give him back what he’d already started to mourn.

Mark set his jaw, heels nudging Mariposa forward.

One way or another, he’d bring them home.