Post by Logan on Jun 10, 2012 4:17:08 GMT -5
Gun smoke and dust swirl and pollute the air. Women are screaming, men shouting their threats. Injured men and lifeless bodies lay in the dirt road, on porches and balconies. A horse makes a panicked escape down the street, dragging its incapacitated rider caught in a stirrup behind it. Galloping hooves, gunfire, a cacophony of angry and terrified voices pull together to form a chaotic scene. Stray bullets rip through woodwork, shatter glass, and in the confusion, it is impossible to tell who is friend or foe. It is an engagement of shoot first, ask questions later, survive the fracas and, when the dust clears, see who comes out on top.
To think, moments ago, the small town was the definition of peaceful. It just goes to show how much change a man with a sizeable bounty on his head can usher in unexpected. Ned Wallace, known gang leader and bandit, with a list of sins that spans from Nevada to Colorado has turned the small town on its head. Ned’s men trade fire with the locals, with the law enforcement, and a bounty hunter who may or may not have had a hand in starting this whole mess, is caught in the middle.
Logan Abraham Duvall’s back hits the wall of the smithy and he slides down into a crouch, breathless and wired. Deft hands work on their own accord as they quickly reload a Smith & Wesson revolver. Four bullets. The gun holds six but he is short and caught out – a state of ill-preparation that the hunter can blame on his own pride and bravado. A week’s worth of planning was set fire to and burned away like paper because of one foolish, testosterone-driven decision. Meticulous though he may be, Logan Duvall is not a man to back down when confronted, even when it puts himself and his plans in jeopardy.
And how was he supposed to know that she was Ned’s favorite whore.
An argument turned into a scuffle, a scuffle into a room-wide brawl between the locals and Ned’s posse. No one can be sure who fired the first shot but after, all hell broke loose and it continues to break. The brim of Logan’s dark brown hat appears around the corner of the smithy as he leans out to steal an assessing look into the open. He has systematically put a bullet in three of Ned’s men and somewhere in the fray, their brave leader has slipped away. Maybe the hunter’s plan of stealthily catching Ned and dragging his ass to jail has fallen through, but Logan’s not one to shy away from improvisation. He’ll shoot Ned in the head, drag his corpse in and deal with the smaller bounty. Easy – except Logan has no idea where the bastard is.
Narrowed grey eyes catch sight of his target edging out of a building, and straight towards a pair of hitched horses. It took the hunter a month to catch wind of Ned’s trail and he is not about to let the snake slip away so easily. Logan makes a brazen exit out of cover – and is summarily shot at. Bullets whizz by his head, bite into the cloth of his duster. ”Goddamnit.” His ass hits the ground and he scrambles for cover behind a wagon, back pressed against a wooden wheel. There is a burn in his left shoulder but adrenaline keeps him from noticing – even as blood seeps out from the wound.
Every attempt to leave the barrier the wagon provides is met by close calls of lead and smoke. Someone has the hunter effectively pinned and Logan has no idea where the gunman is. From his vantage point he can see Ned, now on horseback, leaving billows of dust in his wake as he makes his escape. Roiling frustration eats at his gut but Logan has made enough mistakes for the day. First he has to survive. Then he can think about Ned.
Fingers pop open the revolver’s chamber, double-checking. Four bullets. He hopes, today, that four is his lucky number.
Nathaniel Hart does not like chaos – perhaps even less than he likes being interrupted.
The little room he’d rented above the bar contains the first real bed he’s slept on in half a month, and the marshal is only just kicking his boots off when the brawl erupts downstairs – and any thought of ignoring it slips away as the first sounds of gunfire and screaming reach his ears. The turned-up blanket is given one last, lingering look of longing before Nathan’s back in his black duster, boots on, and holding his hat to his head as he makes for the fray; his free hand runs a thumb along the grip of his Colt, tucked safely away at his hip, muscles tense with the resisted urge to draw.
The fight has, with all politeness and propriety, taken itself outside by the time the man arrives on the scene, leaving Nathan with only an empty room and a dead man to answer unspoken questions. He resorts to playing catch-up, his least favorite game, in a race to determine just who or what is on the wrong side in this powder keg of a firefight – and it is as he edges from the doorway to duck behind a barrel that the marshal catches wind of one Ned Wallace. It’s a feeling that lurks in him before it is consciously recognized, a scent memorized by a wolf only half-awake, imprinted upon him through numerous close encounters and near-misses – the beast stirs, and the man raises his head to snag sight of the outlaw, darting across the dirt to the relative safety of another building. Nate curses under his breath. Wallace has a long list of crimes, but at the top is a history of making the marshal look the fool.
This is just the way his luck tends to run, and he’s left to make the best of what remains in its chopping wake.
There is a flood of adrenaline running his blood hot, an animal itching beneath his skin that has every inch of him alert and on fire – and Nathan fights it to take the time he needs to check his revolver, to run his eyes over the little town, to piece together the scenario. Ned’s men are ever changing, lost to frequent acts of violence, but several are known to him and he seeks them out; understanding, now, the nature of the brawl, he makes a determined effort to single out his quarry. From behind his cover he waits, unnoticed and gun raised and ready, blue eyes flickering to any sign of movement.
The wind picks up, and for the briefest moment the town is clear of its clinging clot of dust and smoke, borne on the hot and heavy air. But Nathan does not feel the temperature; does not feel the sweat on his brow, beneath his hat, collecting in damp rivulets on the back of his neck. There is only the struggle for information and order, for determining allegiances and sides against the rising floodwaters of entropy, and the men that exist solely down the sight of his gun. In this one perfect moment the marshal exists alone, and the two bodies his echoing gunshots leave behind are outside of him.
Nathan darts from his hide in the memory of the instant, moving to new cover, to lose himself amongst the odds and ends of wagonry assemblage discarded up against the building. Prone, he repeats the tactic, still and silent until his prey makes itself known to him – this time in the form of a man on a balcony, too lost in his rifle’s sights to notice the bullet until it’s between his eyes. By then, it’s rather too late.
Tense silence descends, the sort shared between wild men with loaded guns and half a mind to keep using them, but driven to caution by growing losses. Opposite him, near where the rifleman had been laying down his cover fire, Nathan can make out Wallace spurring his horse on in his escape; the marshal leaps on the opportunity – books it in one final act of desperation – and it’s only when another shot rings out, too close for comfort, that he dives again for cover. The moment is lost, and Wallace is away; without a quick follow-up, he’ll be long gone.
Coming up beside some wounded gunman had not been Nathan’s intent, but if Ned’s men had been shooting at him, he figures they’re at least associates for the duration of their time spent in hiding. The glint of silver half-hidden beneath his lapel announces his own allegiances, however poorly he follows them. Nate runs his tongue over dry, dusty lips; reloads his revolver without looking, pressing three fresh cartridges home, and offers the gunman a knowing look and a wry, strained smile – before a bullet blows a chunk of wood to splinters above their heads, and the marshal starts and ducks ingloriously.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, or so he hopes.
The town falls quiet, though there is danger still in the air, but it is less frantic – indication that the players are either dead or hiding and waiting the fight out. Logan, for his part, remains behind the wagon wracking his mind for a plan of action, while staring heatedly in the direction Ned has vanished in. The bandit has as many hiding holes to dip into than a prairie dog, and as each second passes by, Logan knows his chances of finding the bastard decrease exponentially. He would give chase if every attempt to leave cover wasn’t met by an assailment of bullets. Trapped and without means to follow his quarry rankles the hunter’s nerves and leaves him entertaining reckless thoughts. If he could just make a break for the horses, he could be on Ned’s trail within minutes. He moves into a crouch, prepares to give into desperation-born foolhardiness when someone else joins him behind the wagon.
Logan nearly jumps out of his skin and has his revolver trained on the man, ready to pull the trigger, when he catches sight of that tell-tale glint pinned to the stranger’s chest. Grey eyes raise to meet blue. ”Marshal,” he greets coolly, as if they are simply crossing paths and not at all caught up in a gunfight. He drops his hand, points the barrel of his gun towards the ground, and makes to say something when an eruption of splinters spits overhead. A hand flies to the top of his hat and Logan sinks down thinking Ah, hell. Either that was a stray shot or someone knows where they are and is aiming to put a bullet in their hides. The hunter decides to test the theory and removes his hat, and slowly inches it out. The moment it peeks from the wagon’s edge, a gunshot rings loudly and nearly rips the damned thing out of his grip. He turns a practiced, nonchalant gaze back onto the marshal, runs a tongue over his lips and swallows. ”Looks like someone still wants a fight,” he says as he eyes the hole in the brim of the hat. ”I say we give it to him.” Logan replaces the hat on his head and supplies an even, collected look.
”I’m going to run out there, draw the fire. You use the chance to find him and put a bullet in the bastard’s head.” Simple. Logan moves back into a crouch and places one hand on the spoke of a wagon wheel. He throws a look over his shoulder. ”You better be a damned good shot,” the hunter says and leaves no room or time for argument. In the next second, Logan propels himself out from cover and directly into the street. Bullets buzz past, burst into the ground near his feet and send a splash of dirt and dust into the air. As Logan makes a beeline towards the next available cover, he thinks that the marshal better be wearing that star for a reason—a lawman with a crooked shot would be the cowshit-icing on the cake. A bullet grazes his boot and Logan dips and rolls behind a barrel. His back presses against the wood and he flinches when lead rips through the top of the container. A stream of water pours out of the hole, onto the top of his hat, down the rim and onto his chest, soaking right through his dusty clothing.
Teeth grit, a strong jaw clenches and Logan shouts out, ”You make the shot, Marshal?” The answer better be positive because there is only so much of being pissed on by a wounded barrel that the hunter can take. From the periphery of his vision, Logan spies the remainder of Ned’s crew making their retreat, scattering like rats.
Ned is long gone, he’s wet and hurting and there is a worrying sting in his arm.
Logan thinks, not for the first time, that he should’ve stayed home and been a goddamned rancher.
”You got it,” the lawman replies, making a lazy salute with his gun and matching that gaze beat for beat. Nate decides he likes his mysterious stranger; that any man with twice the balls as brains deserves some amount of respect, particularly when that mettle is exercised to the marshal’s own benefit.
”And you’d better be a damned fast runner,” he murmurs beneath his breath. But the man is off, already moving, and the mocking sentiment is meant more for himself as is; Nathan leans out from behind cover with a preparatory flinch, and when no peppering of hellfire greets him, he draws his Colt upwards. Hard eyes scan the deserted town, searching, seconds counting down in his head – and it’s that telling muzzle flash and windswept gun smoke, drawn out by Logan's distraction, that gives their enemy away. Nathan steadies his aim.
It takes two shots, but that’s a secret shared between Nate and a dead man.
In answer to the shouted question, Nathan tenders only silence; he rises slowly, and when a tentative step draws no further fire, stands to holster his revolver and dust himself off. The marshal lights a hand-rolled cigarette, drawn from a slim metal case, and gives himself a quick once-over with his free hand as he strides to the crouching man’s side. There is a fresh hole in his coat that he picks at thoughtfully, unsure of its origins, but nothing else serious, no damage he’s somehow ignored. Nate pauses, looking down the length of his nose at the sodden gunman, and an amused ghost of a smile plays along his weathered features; he holds out a hand to help the man up, shoulders rolling in a cocksure shrug. ”Looks like I did,” is the only offered reply, though his eyes reflect none of that spoken modesty.
”I’d say we should clean you up, but I think you’ve got that covered.” He takes a slow, pointed drag from that cigarette, before using it to gesture at the other man’s shoulder. ”Might wanna take a look at that, though, if you’re planning on rolling around in the dirt s’more.” Based on the dust covering the both of them, Nathan thinks that’s a fair assessment, and infection is far more likely to kill a man than any lucky shot. If this town has a surgeon, he’s likely already got his hands full – though Nate suspects if the man’s still standing after all that, he’s at least not about to fall over and bleed out on him. Maybe. He hopes. The marshal isn’t the greatest physician, and tends to cause wounds more than heal them.
”Should get you inside,” Nate suggests, though his intonation implies it’s not exactly up for debate. Stranger the bearded gunman may be, he’d proved his worth and helped the lawman out – something that should be repaid in kind. Wallace is long gone as is, and though he’d have some hope of tracking him down if he set out now, Nathan can’t ignore that begrudged sense of obligation; a virtue he’d rather do without, most days. ”C’mon,” and with a toss of his head in indication, back towards the vacated saloon, Nathan will flick away the stub of his cigarette and escort his comrade along.
”Name’s Hart. Nathaniel Hart.” He owes the stranger that much, for sticking his neck out like that. ”Thanks for the help.” Insomuch as they’d survived the encounter, but lost their man – but there’s something to be said for living to see the morning.
A pair of dusty boots wanders into his field of vision, and Logan angles his head back to look straight into the eyes of the smiling marshal. The hunter gives a subtle responding frown because he is the one making out like a drowned rat and the water has dampened more than his clothing. He is offered a hand up and he eyes the offending appendage sullenly because pride dictates that he refuse-- he has this handled. Logan makes to stand but falters, unceremoniously landing on his ass. He shoots a look up, daring the marshal to laugh, and it is with a scowl that he accepts the hand and pulls himself to his feet.
”Ha ha, real funny, chucklehead.” There is no real bite to the words and Logan even throws a quick, lopsided smirk in the marshal’s direction. He vainly tries to expel the grit gathered on his coat with patting hands, an action that only serves to aggravate the wound in his left shoulder. ”This,” he says by way of questioning, and looks at his arm, ”It’s not anything to write home about.” His is a claim based on bravado and the fact that Logan has dealt with worse. He rolls his shoulder, finds that despite the pain, he has the full range of motion. It is a shallow wound delivered by a ricochet bullet as opposed to a direct hit. Luck, pure and simple. ”Wouldn’t say no to some dry britches, though.” With that prompt, Logan makes for the saloon with the stranger.
The hunter is sending a furrowed, stern look down the horizon that Ned has escaped in when the marshal introduces himself. ”Duvall,” he replies distracted, reins in his attention and affords it onto Nathan. ”Logan.” Grey eyes wander over the marshal’s grizzled and dusty features, and the hunter gives a single nod. ”I suppose I should say the same,” he delivers coolly and that is as much of a ‘thank you’ one might manage to weasel out of the hunter. He pushes inside of the saloon and avoids the overturned tables and debris, saunters up the creaky wooden steps and makes for a specific room.
Inside he finds his gun belt strewn over the back of a chair, just as he left it. The bed is made, his bag in the corner, and there is steam still rising from the bath he had the whore prepare. It was going to be a fine damned day before he was so rudely interrupted. Logan peels off his duster with a grunt and throws it onto the chair. ”You’re that damned intent on playing doctor, huh?” Weary surrender laces his tone and Logan sends the marshal a glance from where he is unbuttoning his vest. ”You’re a good shot, I’ll give you that.” He turns his back to the marshal as he pulls his shirt over his head, a movement stilted when pain flares in his shoulder. ”But I didn’t think doctorin’ was part of a lawman’s job.” Logan bundles the bloody shirt and throws it against the wall where it lands carelessly on the floor.
Ned Wallace is gone and the hornet’s nest has been stirred. Setting out right now would be a fool’s errand, unless they gathered up a large enough posse – and Logan prefers to work alone. He’ll just have to deal with biding his time until the next opportunity presents itself.
He moves to the vanity mirror, turns sideways and takes stock of the wound. Two fingers press against the injured flesh and this earns a hiss from between clenched teeth. The wound is not bad but it still hurts like a devil. Whiskey may be in order. Logan looks at the lawman through the mirror, catches his gaze like he’s thinking or considering something. Logan’s skin is riddled with imperfections, small scars and bruises that serve as testament to the kind of life he lives, but there is a collection of particularly dangerous looking scars on his side. Like he got into a fight with a bear and somehow won. The hunter draws a long breath into his lungs and holds it there, tasting and testing. Grey eyes narrow before he looks down, apparently releasing whatever thought he was entertaining.
”Well,” he says as he pivots to face Nathan. The hunter gives the other man a quick once over before settling into an empty chair. Long legs sprawl out in front of him and Logan raises a brow. ”Are you just going to stand there and look pretty, or are you going to help a man out?”
Logan figures if he came here for a pampering, he’s getting a pampering. A lawman isn’t exactly a cheap whore ready to spread her legs, but beggars can’t be choosers – and bleeding beggars take what they can get. And at that thought, ”You got a cigarette?”
”You learn a thing or two, doing this,” is all Nate adds for explanation, shutting the door behind them. ”And if you didn’t think you needed it, I somehow can’t see you keeping me around.” It’s a hard truth – an honest statement emphasized with a smug look; that Logan has had every opportunity to turn him away, and the fact that he hasn’t offers Nate some sort of power. ”—and I’m a goddamn great shot.”
The marshal removes his hat as Logan undresses, and slips out of his coat; unpins his badge and slides it into a pocket, because there are certain things one doesn’t do while representing the law – and apparently, in whatever abridged codebook Nathan still follows, doctoring other men falls under this rule. Hands linger over the buckle on his gun belt before he gives in; dares to remove it, to hang it up carefully. The man’s unbuttoning his vest with a worn-out sigh when he catches Logan’s gaze in the mirror, and the look Nate returns is questioning, but otherwise unreadable, however glad he is inwardly for the distraction from the expanse of Logan’s muscled back. Reminded, he averts his eyes as required; maybe spends a little too much time looking away, almost prudish in his lack of commitment.
He nearly starts at the lounging hunter’s complained question, but schools his face into a narrow-eyed mask, thumbing his nose once before giving in. ”Don’t think looking pretty’s on the agenda, no,” he bites back at the perceived insult, and makes his way to the still-warm bath, dunking the linen towel hung there into the water. Nate lets his fingers float in the bath a moment longer than necessary, reveling in the sensation of worn grit and dust working out of the joints of his hand and folds of his palm; that stiffness in his bones lets him know he’s long overdue for a wash of his own that’s not done in a creek bed, and he debates indulging. Later – after he’s seen to Logan. Nathan removes his hand, towel in tow, and tosses the cloth into the washbasin before acknowledging the man’s request. He scratches lazily at his chin, brows raised, and pauses in the center of the room to lock dark eyes on Logan’s grey.
”You getting a kick out of trying my hospitality, Mister Duvall?” There’s little trace of real animosity in his voice, and his expression is laced with a casual amusement; in the end, the marshal returns to his coat for the requested item, a sure enough sign that he’s taken Logan’s biting disposition in stride. The warning, though, is there, a pressed sentiment for the gunman to try his luck. Returning, Nate looms over the other man to offer the lit cigarette straight to his lips, weight leaning heavy onto an arm of his chair. It is an aggressive motion – a reminder, punctuated by a barely-affectionate slap to the hunter’s good shoulder and a good-natured grin.
”You remember where the hell you got that from, and bite down instead of punching me, got it?” And Nate’s only half joking. Washbasin at Logan’s feet, the marshal drags the vanity’s stool over and settles to it with the heel of one boot hooked over a rung; he rolls the sleeves of his white shirt up before leaning over the hunter and getting to work. The rough, wet linen cleans away clotted blood and dirt in crimson trails and visceral chunks, and Nathan’s free hand slides up Logan’s arm, grips with a will up by his bicep and holds him into place.
”Yeah, you’ll live, if you’re not a goddamn idiot about it.” Because he’s seen men die from less, letting a small wound worry and fester with rot out of pride – pride that was swiftly cowed once gangrene got the better of them. ”You got anything to wrap this up? Just gotta keep the dirt out of it, unless you’re aiming for me to drag you out back and burn it shut.” It’s shallow enough that the marshal doesn’t think any such measures will be required – that even wrapping it might be unnecessary, but hell if he’s got any real idea. Nathan’s general rule of thumb, if his numerous scars are anything to go by, is to leave well enough alone and keep the surgeons out of him. It’s served him well so far.
The lawman leans back, wiping his hands off on the bloody rag before dropping it to the basin. He lets out a slow exhale – a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, born out of their close contact, and shifts his weight with a sudden discomfort. ”I think you’re good, otherwise. Got lucky. I can call up a drink for you, if it makes it easier.” Or two; because Nathan’s feeling more and more like he needs one himself.
And then maybe that bath.
”No sir, Marshal – I would never.” The hunter’s drawl comes lazy and slow, and ringing of sarcasm. There is a glint in his eyes as he meets the lawman’s gaze and Logan, smirking subtly, leans forward without breaking the stare. Lips part and secure around the tip of the offered cigarette, and the hunter stays there leaned in close, grey still locked onto blue. Nostrils flare in the most minute of movements and he draws the lawman’s scent in, and then there is that look back in Logan’s gaze – the one that borders simultaneously on thoughtful and wondering. Something inside of him is unsettled and wired, and it has nothing to do with the shootout. Smoke streams out of the corner of his mouth and Logan leans back and finally breaks the stare.
His head tilts towards the ceiling and he wonders over Ned and where he may have gotten to. The Nevada desert is open and sprawling, filled with potential hideouts and routes of escape. He may be blessed with the nose of a bloodhound, but finding one man amongst the brush and sand is a tall order. The presence returns at his side and delivers advice that earns a lopsided smile from the hunter. ”Don’t have to worry about me, Marshal.” His voice is a low rasp, as dry and windswept as the desert that surrounds them. ”I try not to make it a habit of breaking nice things.” There is humor written into the lines that sprout from the corners of his eyes. He swallows around the cigarette and hums when the lawman sees to the wound. It hurts.
”Might do.” Logan thinks he might have something like bandages in his bag, and wrapping the damned thing is far more appealing than searing it shut. He shifts in his seat until he is hunched forward with one elbow propped on a knee. Fingers seize the cigarette dangling from his lips and hold it out as he exhales a puff of white smoke. Logan turns his head and directs his attention onto the lawman. ”You got a soft touch there, friend. Should be careful, or you might give a guy the wrong idea.” Grey eyes drop onto the marshal’s lips for a fraction of a moment, before Logan is hoisting himself out of the chair – without so much as a thank you.
He wanders towards the bag and drops into a crouch. Logan carefully sifts through the contents. Bullets, dollars, clothing. The whole of his life kept in a simple leather sack. ”I could go for that whiskey,” the hunter prompts over his shoulder because he can feel the lawman’s eyes on him. A little fire in his gut would do him a world of good, he figures. When the marshal leaves to summon up their drinks, Logan takes the chance to wrap his arm with clean cloth. He is sitting on the vanity stool running a wet towel over his face and neck when the lawman returns. The dirt and grit seemingly etched into every pore is now absent and Logan glances up, holds out a hand and accepts his glass. He sips at the drink and winces, shakes his head. ”This is some watered down horse-piss.” Nonetheless, he proceeds to down the entire glass in nearly one go.
Logan sets the drink aside and continues to dab at his skin. He looks Nathan over, seems to be thinking again. ”Got a bath ready. I can’t use it on account of my arm, but it’d be a shame to let that hot water go to waste,” he lets the suggestion hang in the air and rolls his good shoulder in a shrug. ”You’re welcomed to it.” He draws a tongue over his bottom lip and wonders over the feeling growing in his gut and writhing under his skin.
The hunter is no stranger to attraction, but this is different. This is an animal’s curiosity tempered with a man’s caution.
He stands up and brushes past the lawman. Logan pushes the window open and takes a gander outside. The town is largely cleaned up but still nursing her wounds – there are not many people out and about. The sun is setting and somewhere, out there, Ned is riding free and untouched. Logan steals a glance towards the marshal and swallows roughly. ”Any idea where Ned might be headed?” Something to distract him from the lawman’s scent and presence. Logan wonders if he can blame the heat on the whiskey, thinks probably not, but does it anyway.
Their back-and-forth is off-putting. It leaves Nathan strangely troubled, uncertain of where he’s standing, and the man finds he doesn’t like that foreign feeling at all; that the animal within him enjoys it even less. He bristles, though not obviously, not with more than a subtle tension expressed along his jaw and eye and in taut fingers, and the marshal exhales slow. It is difficult not to perceive Logan’s comments as insults. The other option, swung opposite on the pendulum, is that the gunman is an incorrigible flirt – and that seems too far-fetched an idea to even entertain. Nathan can only ease away when Logan moves forward, head turned from that exhalation of smoke; from the eyes that slide down his face.
”I'll do my best to be less gentle, next time,” he replies, though the joke misses a beat and falls a little flat – sounds a little too stiff for comfort. Nate stands as the man brushes by, and though his gaze does follow, does linger too long upon the hunter’s half-naked and crouching form, he’s broken away by the time the request for liquor comes. ”You got it. Sit tight,” and he leaps on the opportunity to make an escape, to distance himself from Logan Duvall and the discomfiting electricity that arcs between them. It’s enough of a push that Nathan forgets about his possessions, trusts them implicitly in the gunman’s care, an act he would find appalling were his head on straight.
The marshal takes a little longer than needed downstairs; catches a few breaths, makes laughing small talk with men already moved on from the afternoon’s violence. He returns, minutes later, drinks in hand, and shuts the door behind him with a bump of his hips before offering Logan his glass. Nate takes a pointed, swilled sip of his own, and wrinkles his nose in matching disgust.
”I dunno,” he replies musingly, swirling the liquid in his glass as he clears his throat. ”The turpentine grows on you, after a while.” And he shoots Logan a skewed smirk, swallowing the liquor down. It sets off a slow burn in his gut, gets that beast within him to relax; and perhaps it’s for this feeling that Nathan somehow finds the suggested offer of Logan’s drawn bath to be a good one. He places his drink down beside the hunter’s; casts a longing stare at the brimming tub, and finds it in him to ignore any momentary hesitation.
”That’s mighty nice of you.” The desire for a hot bath overwhelms any lingering suspicion, any uncertainty regarding the gunman’s mixed messages. He can feel every grain of dust clinging to him, every layer caked onto his skin. Nate steps to the opposite side of the room; kicks his boots off leisurely and sets to undressing while Logan peers out the window. His hands do not pause in their work, and Nathan does not turn, but he catches that glance out of the corner of his eye; draws his tongue over his lips in thought as he shrugs off his shirt. ”You like what you see, Duvall, or is it that dull outside?” he shoots back mockingly, though there is an honest curiosity in those words that his daring, light tone can’t quite hide.
The marshal does, of course, take the time to fold his clothes before stepping into the tub; his uncovered skin, in the moments he remains exposed, is a roadmap of a life lived hard, of pockmarked scrapes and worn-in grit – of a telling knot of faded scars that rake along his shoulder blade and disappear along his side. At last, Nathan settles to the water with a gentle sloshing and a slow sigh, the scent of perfumed salts and soaps wafting heavy on the disturbed air.
”No,” he murmurs finally, not bothering to look up. A seeking hand finds a bar of soap left nearby, and he begins scrubbing at his worn skin with a will. ”Chased him halfway ’round the territory, on and off. Always disappears, always pops back up. He’s got a thousand places to hole up until we’ve forgotten about him.” Nate is bitter over racking up yet another loss – though he hadn’t even known the outlaw was in town, had just been stopping through – but he keeps the emotion from his face, from his voice.
”So it was him you were after, then?” The lawman casts blue eyes upwards, running wet hands through damp strands of black hair, seeking confirmation of the man’s long-since assumed profession. The marshal certainly doesn’t mind dealing with Logan’s certain brand of vigilante justice, so long as he’s on this side of the equation. ”How the hell’d you end up in that firefight, anyhow? You got damn lucky,” lucky that Nate had been there to rescue him, in fact. ”Wallace ain’t usually on the losing end of things.”
Slowly, surely, Nathan starts to feel something like clean; lets the warmth soak away the wear from long weeks of travel, from too much time perched in a saddle. He’s feeling remarkably sleepy for just one glass of whiskey – one glass and a shootout, and his first day back in town from the road – and so he loiters until the water grows tepid, and will only then make any effort to rise.
That bed back in his room – with something resembling a real mattress, a blanket, a pillow – sounds like it just might be the best possible end to one hell of a day. He just has to remember how to dress himself, leave Logan to his own devices, and actually get there.
Logan is accustomed to the easy slide into camaraderie, the process of, for the moment, shelving suspicions and curtailing circumstance-fostered paranoia. This man – this lawman—has proven to be a willing and able ally so far, and so the hunter has no qualms in extending a gesture of hospitality. He will share his space, share the fineries he has paid for the night. He will do these things without once acknowledging that he may have ulterior motives, because Logan has learned the merits of deny everything, admit to nothing. It is a freeing mantra, one that allows him to operate without guilt or reservation. A creature of instinct, more so in the recent years marked by the telling scars ripped into his skin.
Grey eyes narrow and look up towards the darkening sky, where the first stars make their appearance. ”I see a man with a smart mouth,” Logan delivers back easily, smirk lost to Nathan as the hunter’s back is turned to the man. There is a mood in the room that the wayfarer thinks he might be reading too much into. Pessimism is a survival instinct, boldness a way of life. The scales may tip in favor of either at any given moment. It is a precarious balancing act, one made all the more difficult when the hunter looks over his shoulder and catches sight of the lawman naked. For brazen, reckless seconds, he allows his stare to linger before directing it, once again, out of the window.
The sound of displaced water indicates that the bath is finally being put to use. ”Like trying to catch a crow with your bare hands,” Logan muses in way of agreement. He has pursued Ned through towns and cities, through deserts and forests. The moment the bandit is within reach and Logan makes his move, he slips away. It is a frustrating pattern, one that the bounty hunter aims to break, but given the day’s events, he is not doing a very good job of it. ”Hm.” He gives an affirmative hum as he pushes off of the wall and leaves the window. Boots thud thickly against the wood floor as he wanders the room. ”His ass is worth a lot of money.” Logan leaves out his commitment to justice, his thoughts on morality, and how he thinks that bad men deserve to be punished. His profession paints a particular picture of a man and he sees no reason to deviate, to set himself apart. There is safety in uniformity.
He reaches the door, presses a palm flat against it. He can hear the muted sound of voices below. It seems not even a gunfight can keep men away from the devil’s drink for long. Nathan delivers a question Logan doesn’t much like and his shoulders tense. ”I could have handled it,” the hunter responds coolly but soon lets go of his rankled pride. ”Let’s just say Ned and I crossed paths before either of us were ready.” Logan had his hand up a whore’s skirt but that is information that the marshal does not need to be privy to. He looks at the man in question from his station at the door, takes note of those half-lidded blue eyes. Thoughts of Ned and justice and missed chances fall flat under the light of a different train of thinking. The lawman is a handsome man – a naked handsome man. In the breath of a moment, a sequence of thoughts takes place and Logan arrives at a conclusion.
His hand surreptitiously slides the door latch into the locked position to safeguard from any unwarranted interruptions. There have been signs, suggestions. He moves away from the door, languidly steps towards the bath. This is a man he will likely never see again after the night passes. Logan stops at the foot-end of the tub. ”Best not fall asleep – I don’t know how I’d explain a drowned marshal in my room.” When there is indication that the lawman’s attention is on him, Logan moves to the side and leans down, grips either side of the tub and looms over Nathan. He glances down, wets his lips. Grey meets blue. ”Hypothetically,” he begins and takes to looking at the lawman curiously, like Logan is a hound that has caught something he doesn’t know what to do with. ” What would you think --what would you do.” His voice drops like he is ready to talk conspiracies and Logan draws in closer, crouches until their eyes can meet on the same level. ”If I said I like what I see?” One hand slips down the smooth side of the tub until the tips of his fingers kiss the water’s surface.
Excitement born from a mixture of curiosity and danger feeds into his bloodstream. Despite his calm demeanor, there is a wildness in his eyes. ”Hypothetically,” he reiterates softly as if that single word can manage to serve as a failsafe.
”You were handling somethin’, alright, when I came along to save your ass,” he laughs, eyes narrowed in both mirth and challenge. Nate holds a hand out of the water and lets it draw his attention, marveling in its apparent cleanliness – who knew fingernails could even get so dirty – and lets that smug smirk continue to play on his lips. ”Ned sure as hell seemed ready to me. Hard not to be, with ten men at your back,” as if he can drive the point home that wrangling with him, whether Logan had started it or not, had been one hell of an idiotic idea. Rankling the hunter, however a foolish notion it may be, serves as the lawman’s one real bastion of power; that he has, in fact, witnessed Logan make mistakes, and can undermine that cocksure authority with the slip of a glib tongue.
”Mm, don’t you worry your pretty head over me.” And Nathan submerges himself deeper with a promiscuous show of knees; lets the last dregs of heat lap up against his chin. ”Wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble.” But those tired and heavy-lidded eyes are drawn up at the comment, at the sudden actuality of Logan Duvall looming near to him, and his motion to rise from the lukewarm water – to end this sequence of events where it stands, before he can let himself slide any further – is stopped dead by the gunman’s charged question and commanding stare. If Logan is the baying hound, Nathan would be proud to play the fox – but he is feeling more of the rabbit, ensnared.
The moment stretches long, snags and hangs.
”I’d think,” he starts with a rumble, voice low, ”I’d think you were possessed by a particular lust for danger, saying something like that.” Nathan’s eyes rake slow from the hunter’s hand upward – to the strength hidden in the muscles of his arm, to his lips, to his storm cloud eyes – and his expression reflects none of that voiced denial. The marshal leans back, relaxes up against the end of the tub with a forced casualness, an arm hooked leisurely over the rim; he runs his stubbled cheeks between his fingers. ”But I’m a deadly handsome man, after all.” Nate delivers the line straight and smirking, a haughty glint in his eye as he thumbs the side of his lip. ”And maybe I like a little risk, too. You know. Hypothetically.”
It’s easier to hide this – whatever this is – behind bandied words and a mask of theoreticals, a façade of confidence and poise that the marshal is used to falling back on. But the tension in the air is palpable, drawn out by the play of Logan’s fingers on the water’s surface, and the smallest crack in that veneer is expressed through a gentle shifting, a reactionary rippling of water as Nathan can no longer keep still. Because he knows that door is latched shut, and there’s a piece of him screaming that he’s going to end his days naked in a tub, shot up by some mad vigilante for his wicked implications – but the blond rogue’s demeanor does not speak of murderous intent, however aggressive his posture. Nate is all too familiar with this sort of act, of the signals being sent, on the receiving end though he may be.
And it’s not as though the lawman isn’t being encouraging. Accommodating.
”And what I’d do,” he pauses, because his voice is suddenly thick and catching in his throat, and it’s an effort to keep his words bold and steady. And this is where the joke is meant to go – the laughing bite of humor to break up the sudden heat in the air, in his skin – but Nathan can’t find it amongst the fog. ”Is get my ass out of this bath, and see just what ideas my soft touch gave you.” His insinuation is spoken with an acerbic emphasis, one that suggests nothing truly gentle regarding his intentions. Hard eyes belie none of his emotion – either need or fear – as the marshal reaches out to run a thumb in a curious caress down the gunman’s cheek, across his beard; there is no trepidation there, only a wolf-born dare.
”—If you were to say,” the lawman reminds, though the feeling of skin beneath his fingertips is working against any illusion of false realities, bringing this wholly into the physical realm. For the second time this evening, Nate feels the telling tremble of adrenaline coursing through his blood, and clings to the foolhardy and counterfeit courage it lends him.
Today has proven to be a series of mistakes and if Logan was a wise man, he might consider pulling back and cutting his losses. He remains where he is, eyes following the marshal’s fingers as he draws them over his stubbled jaw. This is a lawman, let alone another male. Dangerous quarry, someone that should be off limits. He could have Logan locked up. Hell, the bounty hunter has seen men lynched for less. If he was a wise man, he would give into the niggling paranoia that claims the marshal is leading him on. A trap constructed from suggestive words, blue eyes, and a clever smirk. It could be there ready to snap shut.
Fingers twitch in the tepid water and Logan swallows down the urge to touch. Those calculating grey eyes narrow and drop to where a taut abdomen disappears under the water’s surface. This is no innocent curiosity that the vigilante harbors. His mouth runs dry and the line of his shoulders is tense. There is an invisible, motionless shiver just beneath his skin. An intrinsic energy that is remarkably similar to the excitement that overcomes him prior to a hunt. Everything about this reads dangerous and that only serves to make the encounter all the more interesting. Water sloshes and the marshal shifts.
A touch along his cheek and Logan’s eyes shoot up to meet Nathan’s. There is a moment where nothing is said and no responding action given. The seconds run tight, feed into the tension and suspicions. A beat – and then Logan is carefully leaning into the marshal’s touch, like a cautious stray playing nice with a stranger that has something he wants. Lips brush against the skin of the man’s inner wrist and Logan swears he can feel the pulse running fast beneath. His mouth parts and he exhales a huff of heated air. Any thoughts of calling this off dissipate and Logan defers to the electric-buzz in his blood, and the tug in his groin.
He pulls away from that placating hand and leans in closer, head tilted, still watching the marshal with the intent of an entranced, if wary predator. ”Then,” his voice is low and his hand submerges, presses flat low against the lawman’s stomach. ”I like what I see.” The rumbled words come as a challenge and Logan does not hesitate. He closes the distance and secures his mouth over the marshal’s. Coaxing lips start out slow, thoughtful, but at the first sign of reciprocation, the kiss turns rough and hungry. There is a persistent pull, a gravity that Logan has never experienced. His wolf is called to the forefront and he is compelled to pursue this engagement, to explore it and feed from it like a gluttonous animal.
Calloused hands wander, teeth and tongue seek to cajole and taste. It is not long before Logan is pulling the marshal up, directing him out of the tub and towards the bed. There is no thought given to the water sleuthing and dripping off of Nathan’s naked form. The pair, entangled, tumble onto the bedding, carelessy soaking blankets and sheets.
The day has been filled with lost chances and injury, but the night can still be saved. Logan might wonder over the way his beast snaps and curls like a desperate, violent and hungry thing. He might --
If he was a wise man.
