fall in love

The kiss is all he wants, all he needs; to have those lips moving against his own and those hands touching him. He thinks back to that night in the tent, of riding the redhead, of sleeping at his side and how his promise had been the only reason he'd left the shelter of the Red Death's embrace.

The kiss stops and he almost whines, but then Rafferty looks at him and it knocks the air out of him. By the time the redhead's hand is over his heart, he's close to trembling, but not quite.

He nods, accepting to be without a heat he shouldn't be craving nor missing so much already. "Alright—" There's a pause, before he asks, "You'll come back, right?!" Rafferty had already said he'd stayed, but in that momenyhe srill needs reassurance.

After Rafferty moves from the bed, Beau clicks his tongue and Scout crawls to him, tail wagging furiously and crying a little. He looks hydrated which reassures him. "Thank you for taking care of them." He says as he pets his dog. Scout and Sentry had saved his life. He'll visit his girl as soon as he feels better.

"I'd be taking care of them anyways, if you die," It comes out harsher than the redhead means it yet, he still busies himself, not saying bye as he exits the room. The door shuts, and he lets out a slow, long exhale. He fears he owes a God he doesn't believe in.

Rafferty gets to work, always better using his hands in fraught situations, to calm the mind. Scout would come get him if he was needed, just as he had done yesterday. That was a rational train of thought as he began to see to things - explained to the barkeeper that the man who'd been shot was his brother, a courier, trying to survive in a harsh and unforgiving world. That neither of them have anything but each other, and family is the most important thing on God's earth. Such words earn a sympathetic nod, and mean a blind eye will be turned.

He's gone most of the morning, sorting out the horses, feeding and watering them. Brushing them, to, getting the bloodstains off Sentry, letting her know that her master is good and well, but won't be riding for a while. Rafferty thinks maybe he should, just in-case she gets restless. Unlike Brigid, who is perfectly happy to stay still, in one place, for long periods of rest.

Then, food. Bread, fried eggs, a little meat for Scout. A fresh pitcher of water, rags, to clean Beau down with. He feels...better, running around, keeping busy. He returns to the rented room, looking at dog and master together on the bed...and smiles.

"Got you somethin' to eat. Nothing fancy, kind of a shit-hole town here. Mind if I clean you up? I need to get yer clothes washed, to," The redhead talks quietly, acting out a scene of domesticity he isn't used to. Yet, it comes so easily...frighteningly easy.

Though, when she talks of a pack with a demon, he leans back into his chair in shock. Strangely enough, it's like there's something familiar about what she'd said and he doesn't know why. "That sounds a lot like something from The Fall of the House of Usher." He thinks out loud. Though, doesn't comment on it more. Considering the strange nature of his own existence, Stellan doesn't question the veracity of Cleo's claim.

He smiles as she says he's sweet. Compliments get to him easily, but he's often awkward about them. But for a moment, he feels somewhat helpful or like his existence is meaningful—he's happy.

He laughs as Cleo's describes her brother. "So he's a bit overprotective, but he's a nice guy. I mean, if it can reassure him... it's a bit tmi, but I'm gay and last I checked, you're the violent one!" He teases her, referring to her readiness to fight him for a vinyl. "But yeah, I get it. Siblings love."

Was it sibling love, or some form of obligation? She wondered, often, if her brother truly wanted her alive and well or, if he was just mad that the universe had seen his greatest trick and punished him for it. Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods, only to suffer everyday atop the mountain for it.

"Maybe I could play wing-woman, when he comes? Between us to, I think a good lay would be good for him," She says around a mouthful of coffee which tastes of...nothing.

He likes days like today, when things feel...normal. When Cleo is chatty and bright and human again, not the wretched creature that cries to be let go and feasts on flesh to sustain itself. Robin had absorbed enough magic from an aging sorcerer to keep his own affliction at bay and somewhat heal his sister.

There was the matter of that door, though. There hadn't been a leak, or he'd have been able to feel it in the air, and hone in quicker. Perhaps the guy had skipped town...how many had used, or tried to use Stellan for his limitless potential? He blew out smoke, chucking his cigarette on the floor as he approached the coffee shop. Fuck. Back to square one.

The coffee shop is round the corner, Robin's brogues clacking on the floor, hands carefully placed within the pockets of his coat, dressed conservatively despite the balmy weather outside. Ever since he pierced the vale between the living and the dead, he'd found himself colder than usual. The bell rings above the door when he enters, catching Cleo sat with...somebody, a back turned to him, he can't see the face.

She waves, and he does it turn, picking up a Chai and walking over to see. Oh. Stellan. Robin sits easily, pretends they haven't met. Smiles, says;

"I hope she's not been too much trouble. Cleo does have a habit of forcing the unwilling to become her friends,"

In his drunkenness, he doesn’t catch the man putting something in his drink and just when he’s about to drink from it, a hand comes over the glass to stop him and takes the drink away. He giggles in response and leans forward only to see a chest, then gazes up before grabbing the hand. “If you take my drink, I take your hand.” He says with the most adorable face not realizing who’s the owner of said hand. “You are handsome. Have we met before?”

The ice queen himself, the picture of poise and elegance yet, sharp as the picks they use to hack at the glacier. Those jagged edges may cut but, Tex doesn't mind, so long as he gets to behold something beautiful.

And - Noah is beautiful, on the ice, disciplined and graceful, an artist at work. Here, though, under dimmed lights, with music vibrating through every pore, alcohol and good times flowing he looks disheveled...and devastating, in his relaxation. A smile comes easy, the crinkle at the corner of the eyes, and Tex has to drink his entire beer and order another one just to do something else that isn't staring.

Luckily, he is staring when something is dropped into the skaters drink, the bubbles from the fizz disguising that something is dissolving within it. That's when Tex acts, moving across to grab the drink without a second thought and Noah...giggles. Flirts. Oh, he's loose, so easily gives him a smile that the taller man can't think of what to say for a few moments. The spiked drink is still in his hand, trying to place it further down the bar for someone to take and chuck.

"Maybe once. I've seen you, on the ice before - did I stand out that much in the crowd? My mama does say I got a handsome face," Tex jokes back with a smile, not giving away the whole truth and lose...this. A nicer Noah.

If only he knows why she looked this good, but also how bad it’ll eventually become… he would’ve run far away, escape to another country.

But that’s not the destiny that awaits him.

“I’m sorry about that. It must be awful! If music is my first love, eating is my second.” Comes with being surrounded by werewolves really.

He looks down at the vinyl and barks another laugh. “I gotta be honest, I’d fucking love to see who buys this!” He says through laughter. There has to be someone! It’s one of those moments that he’d ask for a job here and work until he sees it being sold.

“I didn’t give it already?! My bad! I’m Stellan.” He says, not really bothered with remembering whether he’d given his name or not.

“Alright. How about I stay with you until he joins you again? That way you won’t be left alone and bored.” Too generous… that moment will cost him greatly. “Ready?!” He offers his arm. Stellan doesn’t know why he’s so nice to her. It truly reminds him of how quickly he’d taken to Chester.

"Great-Grandma shagged a demon for the privilege of magic. We're all his when we die now," She lies, just as easily as Robin would. He'd be proud. "Most of us are about as magic as a toilet brush, though. I can't wait to go to hell, and get nothing out of it,"

Cleo beams at the agreement to tag along, taking the offered arm easily. "Awh, you're really sweet, Stellan," She says. He's easy to talk to, and she has to take this advantage while she can...chances are, Cleo will never be seeing him again after this. Maybe that's why she keeps looking around, trying to take everything in on their short walk. Soon, only memories of today while keep her company and, even then, they will one day fade away to.

She's positive because, what's the alternative? Crying, and raving, and grieving, as she rots back into the living dead? Cleo has done that already, and it doesn't stop the situation.

Cleo grabs an iced Americano, sliding into the table opposite the man she's designated a friend. When her phone vibrates - Robin, asking if she's alright. Asking where she is. She knows her brother is looking for something...or, someone, important. Taking the phone, she snaps a quick picture of the plastic coffee cup with the cafe's logo on the front.

Falling back onto the pillow, he doesn’t expect the gentle touch that follows. He instinctively leans into in. “Perfect.” There’s something in his eyes as he says the singular word; some craze thirst―it’s something Rafferty has to know intimately; raging vengeance. And though it’s gone very quickly, it’s clear that Beau has something to settle and that whatever is in his bags, it’s important.

Surprisingly, the gentle petting doesn’t stop and Beau doesn’t dare saying anything in case it makes Rafferty stop.

Days he says?! And he won’t leave…?! He feels his chest tightens knowing that this won’t be a night he cannot remember, but something to last until he’s better.

He’s a stupid and foolish man to let the warmth fill his heart more and to let temptation win again, but he does―

He kisses Rafferty a second time. He can always blame his current state later if they need something to believe in, something to look away from what has been growing between them… something to pretend that it was nothing.

He tries to hold back his emotions, but they bleed into the other’s mouth, slip down his tongue and then down Rafferty’s throat and to the killer’s cold heart. It’s unspoken, but it’s there―I love you.

He nearly lost Beau. He still could. And hadn't that been terrifying? A world without the one-handed courier.

The sharp look isn't lost on Rafferty, who knows the mask of revenge. He'll have to ask, later, what's within the pack. Something important, clearly. The redhead doesn't get a chance to, because Beauregard is kissing him again. He keeps his hand within those dirty blonde locks, letting it slowly slide down to the scruff on his jawline, thumb rubbing at the roughness there.

There were a few moments, a few terrifying moments when he thought they'd never do this again. That the next time he kissed Beau, those lips would be cold and blue, and it would simply be a gesture of parting. Yet, his skin is warm under his palm, and his lips are chapped and welcoming, and filled with everything neither of them are brave enough to voice. Even with death over his shoulder, it is still silent.

Rafferty takes in a breath, it shudders in his chest, he pulls back. Just enough to take in the other man, pale eyes tracing the slope of a nose, counting each eyelash, a little scar, as if making sure this was real. Hands move to his neck, collarbones, arms, chest and rest there, feeling the steady thump of a heartbeat underneath. Alive, alive, alive.

He sniffs, looks away, extracts himself from the bed, lest his feelings get the better of him. Rafferty can't cry in front of him, can't pry open his own chest and offer his heart on a platter...even if he's already done that without realising.

He takes a deep breath, still surprised by everything he can now easily smell. “So sweet.” He murmurs to himself, before taking a step toward the vampire. He leans forward slightly, not bothered by the mess between them. “You smell so sweet, Bunny.” He pulls back, hating how little control he suddenly seems to have over himself.

Though, the taste of Jean-Claude lingering on his tongue is distracting.

“Well, this is something. Are you alright, Jean-Claude?” It’s not that he’s changing the subject, but that he has ten times more questions now than he had before holding the vampire’s hand. “Where did the fox bit you?” Not that he thinks it matters, it was just in his head after all, but maybe the where holds significance.

All this for a man you barely know. Pathetic, for the lonely vampire.

"Take a bite," His voice is soft, daring, as the man leans forwards, catching that sweet scent. It would only be fair, for he took a chunk from Laurent earlier...his blood had been rich, aged, a fine wine with a good year.

"Going through memories takes it out of me," It's an easier excuse than I don't know what that was, I don't know what you are, I don't know what you will become, and I don't know how that will affect me. "Ah, little bastard got my ankle, - here," Jean-Claude motions down to where it has dulled to a mild sting, pulling up the edge of his pant to reveal...little indentations. Small, sharp teeth. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He’s home.

A long shaky sigh falls from his lips. He’s deep asleep, but a part of his heart still takes in all the comfort it’s receiving from the undead.

Time passes and it’s almost noon when he finally wakes up, still spooning with Maddox. He blinks a few times, confused at first, then he remembers before looking over his shoulder. He turns around and leans there. He remembers Maddox never being the type to really sleep, so he’s sure he’s already awake, but he still wants to take in the moment… taken in this closeness…

Even if he knows it’s not really. At least, he can cherish hearing the undead play piano and sing and also whatever intimacy they’d shared. It’s more than anything he ever thought possible. Just seeing him alive was more than enough.

Thus, he spends the night, and early morning existing within a place only of half-rest, trying hard each time his eyes flutter shut to keep the foggy memories front and centre...to clear away the haze.

Nothing. He presses his nose in the nape of Maxence's neck and breathes in deeply. The cobwebs stick, he sighs out softly and keeps him close. Is it manipulating, to be holding Max close, is it giving false hope? He doesn't want to think about it. Maddox is simply tired of trying to prop himself upright and continue living without the only person he thought he had in the whole world.

"You looked like you needed it," He mumbles out, still not letting the wolf go, his front pressed against the others back. He's warm, and it's comforting.

“None of us do, unless we’re under a spell or bound as an undead. Also, fair warning, never ask that to a werewolf… you might lose a few limbs.” It’s the same as the lame insults of ‘stupid dog’ or ‘smelling like a wet dog’; that will get you a lot of shit. Stellan decides that she might have never been around a lot of werewolves in her life, if any at all!

“I suppose we could―maybe.” Stellan is too suspicious to just say yes. “Hello Cleo.” He grins then, coffee is something he’s comfortable with. “I mean I can tell how burnt it was, that’s for sure. Everything else is like wine, taste the same to me.” To be fair, some wine taste better than others, he’s just not a fan.

"No dog jokes, got it," Cleo nodded along though, would most likely forget and probably lose a limb...they'd at least get re-attached.

"Everything tastes the same to me - I have that thing, where you can't taste or smell anything? Like, if it's very salty, or sour, or spicy then yeah, I get a mouth feel 'cause it messes with my tastebuds but, that's about it," It totally wasn't because such things were dead.

The box was full of garbage. "Oh, I don't know, I'm sure...someone really wants The Best of Cliff Richards. Covets it, even," Cleo joked, looking at the severely marked down album with no takers.

Need quickly beats logic and he kisses Rafferty. It’s not hurried, it’s not burning with passion. No, this is gratitude and a burst of emotions he won’t name. He’s happy though, relieved that he was found and is still alive. “M’sorry.” He says after a moment. “You look like shit. Did you stay up all night, Darling?” Of course, the first moment he can talk again and feels better, he’s already half flirting.

It’s Beauregard’s way to say he’s alright and for Rafferty not to worry anymore. Though, he knows he’s not fully out of the park. He needs to be sure the wound won’t get infected. He highly doubts it will, but it’s just to be safe. He technically has enough money to stay for a while in here, but Rafferty…

“Was I only out a day?” He hopes so. Then he thinks about how he’d ended up here and suddenly sits up straight, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder. The stitches had held, but barely. “Is my delivery satchel still here?” He looks around, but then feels dizzy and falls back as it feels like his head will explode.

“That was stupid…” He groans. But he needs it; needs to know this hadn’t been in vain, that he had managed to get his hands on one of the few clue and proof that he hadn’t killed his family and that he was finally getting closer to the true culprit.

In his moment of distraction and mostly dizziness, he thinks back to the kiss he'd just given the redhead and the night they'd spent together in that tent... then back to now, still in bed together. "Can you stay here a bit longer?"

Beau still isn't out of the woods , Rafferty knows this. The first night is over, yes but, there are still many more to come. There is still infection, fever, pulling of the stitches...things that could all still befall Beau. The Red Death will not allow the reaper to pass through the door, no matter what.

He goes to sit up the same time as the blonde, reaching over to keep him steady before watching him give up, fall back into rough pillows. "Not so fast. You've had a rough ride," He cannot help a moment of weakness - he brushes long fingers through dirty blonde strands affectionately. "I got 'em off Sentry. Horse's outside, bags are in here, along with mine,"

Rafferty...doesn't pull that hand away, continues petting, the two locked in a private sanctuary. Just like in the tent. He keeps seeing him, waxy looking on the horse, the dripping of blood down his arm. Rafferty remembers the way his traitorous heart seized at the thought of losing him. That he still might.

He grins. "There's a lot we can do in my shower... like both!" He wiggles his eyebrows knowingly. He sighs happily then, just feeling a burst of joy as he rests in his lover's arms. He wants to say boyfriend, but doesn't dare to ask... not yet anyway.

"I had a lot to prove tonight and to show how grateful I was to the Metro's for backing me like they did." He says seriously, then chuckles at the rest of the explanation. "If it wasn't for the scandal and being arrested for public indecency, I'd be down for it." He grins again. The thought excites him a lot. He's not an exhibitionist, but for the world to know he's Yemi's, not that is something else.

He felt better about it now, then when he first did. So much of that anxiety had leeched out of him, especially when realising that he felt better with Teddy than without. Then, there was watching Scott Hunter on live TV, inviting a man onto the ice only to kiss him in victory...yeah, that had helped, to.

Adz squeezes him a little tighter, leans down to press a few more kisses to his temple. "Well, you proved it. And you'll keep doing so every match,"

He lets out a short bark of laughter.

"Nice to know we're on the same page,"

At first, he's facing the undead, sinking deeper into a restful sleep, fists tightly closed around the front of the other man's shirt in unspoken desperation. then turns around; pressing his back to Maddox's chest, pulling the other's arms around himself. He sighs, lingering tensions leaving his body completely after decades of being unable to properly rest.

A moment passes and his body starts to tremble as he silently cries in his sleep. "I've missed you so much..." He sobs quietly in his slumber. "—so much." Maxence suddenly feels so little, bravado gone, leaving a broken man behind. A man who hasn't found a way to heal from the loss of the one he'd cherished the most.

But - he isn't. Same person, different memories, shaped by the distinct Max-shaped hole within his head.

There is silence for a while afterwards, Maddox ready to try again with dreamless sleep before Maxence shifts again...he helps, securing his arms tight around the man who begins to cry in his sleep. Everything he'd kept inside leaking out, and Maddox desperately trying to keep it all in. He squeezes Max tight, letting a careful hand brush through unruly dark hair.

"You can rest now," Maddox's voice is low, body completely moulded to Maxence's. This feels wrong, somehow, as if playing into some delusion...giving Max false hope. Maddox knows he may never remember, it doesn't matter how much he wants to.

His eyes shoot wide opened before his head falls back in the most opened and genuine laugh. If the first one had been similar, this one takes the cake. She's so refreshing! He holds his hand out to her them—"Deal. Though it's worth fighting for, I'll let you have it. One of the few remakes that are actually good." He smiles then. "To be honest, I'm not much of a fighter. Unusual for a guy raised with wolves... literally."

"Ha! To be fair, I feel out of place all the time." Comes with being what he is. Stellan feels neither normal or abnormal, just utterly different. "Buf I get what you mean." It's not that they stand out per say, but they clearly don't have the same vibe to them. "Nah it's them, not us!" He chuckles softly and winks at her. "I'm Stellan by the way.

"So what, your parents trained police dogs or you're a werewolf?" She asks with a blink, wondering if he really is...wondering if the stranger will instead think she's maybe got a screw lose and will leave her alone.

"Do you sit on command?"

I feel out of place all the time. That is something Cleo understands...she's the same. Living but not alive, undead, not dead. Stuck in a middle place between both, needing Robin's magic to keep her sane and decidedly less bitey.

And when the redhead climbs behind him, he silently sheds tears of exhaustion, but also because he knows what it could cost Rafferty to help him. Is it horrible of him to think that dying now, pressed against the one he loves and while riding is kinda the best way to go down after dying of old age while resting under a tree?

He’s spoken to, but Beau cannot tell if he’s lost too much blood to understand or if it’s because Rafferty is not speaking English. He’s a dead weight truly, but he tries to help, even when his feet are half-dragging on the grownd. Sharp pain suddenly runs through his arm and he cannot hold back the sound of pain.

The comfort of a bed is finally felt. All he can think about now, is Rafferty, Scout and Sentry; will they be alright? And that’s when he hears and feels Scout whining by his feet. “Good boy.” He whispers. Though, he does catch the threat… if you can call it that.

“Alright love… I won’t move.” He promises, though, he won’t remember the promise the next day.

Madeline hurries as soon as she’s made aware of who needs her help. And when they get to the room, she’s relieved to see that while in a bad condition, Beauregard is in far better shape than she expected. “He’s a bit warm, but it’s nothing to worry about yet. Get me some water and heat up some if you can too. I’ll get ready.”

The next hour is spent fixing what she can. Madeline seems unsurprised by the sight arm; so it’s clear she knows the blond well enough.

She stands back up eventually, hands covered in blood after finally sewing the wound shut. “The bullet wasn’t deep and luckily didn’t caused much damages. Still… he lost blood and needs to rest.” She gazes back at the small fireplace in the room. “I need to go back home to take care of my ma. You need to keep him warm all night. I’ll back back tomorrow. Though, if he starts to run a fever and his lips gets blueish, come and get me.” Though she doesn’t think it’ll happen. But Beau won’t be able to ride for a couple weeks that’s for sure. He’ll be so mad.

―――Next morning

The sunlight hits his face and Beau slowly opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember much than being shot. He wants to move, but he feels weak. He’s strangely comfortable though and that’s both frightening and reassuring. He turns his head and his soul almost leaves his body at the sight of Rafferty in bed, with him.

This has to be a fever dream.

He gazes around quickly; Scout is sleeping at their feet. He hopes his girl is alright too. Though, his attention turns back to Rafferty. “Morning.” He finally says, a bit lost for words.

He lost blood and needs to rest. He needs to be kept warm all night. You need to come get me if he runs a fever.

"May God be with you," It is the last thing he says to the woman, giving her a nod in thanks. The doors clicks shut. Rafferty chews the inside of his cheek and...leaves, also. Not for long - he secures the horses near the water trough, pulls the bags of Sentry's flank. There's blood on her flank, much like Scout's head...tomorrow, he can give them both a wash down. "Yer a good girl. Bringing him all that way, to me. Good horse," Rafferty coos to her softly, stroking the horses mane gently.

The redhead goes back to the room where Beau lies, bandaged up, pale and...alive. The steady, yet stuttering rise and fall of his chest, signals life, and the longer Rafferty stares, making sure that for each inhale, there is an exhale, he...calms, somewhat. He lets out a shaking breath, the anxiety of the last half an hour completely leaving his body in one swoop, a hollowness now there. If a few tears fall, at least nobody is around to see the Red Death shed them. Moving over to the small fire in the room, he chucks a few more logs on it, then searching through Beau's pack for - ah. Salted meat, he gives some to Scout, filling the washbowl in the room with water from the jug and placing it on the floor afterwards. "You too, Scout. Good dog, good boy,"

Rafferty settles, then, on the bed near Beau, to watch. It's going to be a long night, and he doesn't expect to get any sleep...

--- Morning.

It dropped in the night, the temperature - when Beau gave a shiver, Rafferty made the decision to join him, to get closer. He shed the shirt for skin-to-skin contact, being careful not to jostle the injured shoulder. Not once did he get sleep, every time those green eyes slipped shut, his mind replayed the days events, every way it could've been worse.

Every way it still could go wrong.

That's why he'd spent so much of the night talking to Beau, softly in his ear in Irish. Silly, sweet nothings. Saying he'd look after him. They'd ride together. He'd take Scout out with him. He'd patch his shirts, and rub soothing ointment where the metal hand bit at skin. They'd bathe in wild rivers, catch their suppers, take down any bounty hunters who tried to take them in. Beau just had to be okay, and it all could be his.

The sun rises slowly, and the blonde makes a soft noise upon waking that snaps Rafferty out of his doomed thoughts. His eyes are brighter than yesterday, his skin isn't clammy, he isn't feverish. He looks both like shit, and the most beautiful man in the South. Rafferty bets he looks like shit to, on account of not sleeping.

"Glad yer awake," The sincerity bleeds into his words, too exhausted to play the rough Red Death here. "Glad I ain't gotta bury ya. Try not ta move too much - you'll pull the stitches,"

“Maybe.” Again, delusional. He cannot risk going back to that bitch with any wounds. He heals fast, but truth be told, any marks left from Maddox, he’d like to keep as long as he can. A reminder that this isn’t a fever dream, that he’d truly found his heart again. A heart that he’d buried with Maddox when he’d been told the undead had been destroyed beyond reanimation.

A few hours at heaven’s doors before descending back to hell. Hope will keep him alive longer than resentment.

“Alright.” He acquiesces with a soft smile.

He leans down on his side, getting comfortable as he watches Maddox fetching the piano and getting ready to play. He almost feels bad gazing at the other man’s muscles flexing, but the undead has always been really attractive, so it’s hard to look elsewhere.

The voice takes him by surprise and he gasps softly. Maxence has never thought he’d hear the undead sing and even less for him to have such a voice. It brings tears to his eyes, but doesn’t try to stop them from falling nor hide them. Maddox’s voice is deep and soothing.

I love you so much―he thinks and that love is reflected in his eyes, almost screaming actually.

“Your voice is beautiful.” He whispers, knowing the undead will hear him, but also quiet enough that it won’t disturb the moment. He downs the rest of the bottle.

Maxence gets lost in Maddox’s voice and the gentle keys… and they lull him to sleep.

When was the last time he’d fallen asleep without fearing for his life?

Morocco.

Relaxed, asleep, the lines in his face softened and smoothed out, no concern, no anger, no sadness present in that handsome face, just the peacefulness only a good sleep can bring. It tugs at something within Maddox, a man who can't remember why it's doing that...isn't that frustrating? Will he ever remember - will be ever get the chance to? And if not, will either of them ever get the chance to re-learn one another?

They were questions without strict answers. Maddox moved around, collecting the bottles and putting them back in the cupboards, being quiet as he went, locking the door...pausing. He could go back to the guest room, sleep in there but, there was niggling doubt. What if when he woke up, Max had already left? Maddox didn't want him to go.

Then his memories drag him to that night and the massacre of his family, his parents and siblings who'd clearly been taken by surprise. He remembers the blood on the floor, the walls and even the ceiling. When he has nightmares, he's caged in his family home, unable to escape; forced to sit among the dead.

Light comes back into his life in the form of blazing hair and the spirit of wild animal on the hunt. He doesn't understand how the other has managed to slip through the cracks, but he had. Frantic and lustful hands had been as far as he thought things would ever go. But then he remembers that gaze in the tent and the next morning... three months and 6 days ago.

And now, he might die while hallucinating the voice of a man he'd like to call something more, but that he cannot.

Though, Scout's whining brings him back fully to the moment—this is real. He smiles, exhausted.

"Hello my Darling. Came to save me or finish the job?" He manages to both flirt and tease; even in that state.

Had he made it to the town? Surely. "At the end of the road, there's a house with blue flowers, ask for Madeline and tell her Beau will finally take his payment. Bring her to me, she can help." A female doctor... clandestine... but it's her father who'd showed her everything she needed to know. She owes Beauregard, but he'd refused payment back then, telling the woman that the day he'd come for it, would the day he'd need her medical skills.

"It's quite nice to see you..."

The silver locket around his neck weighs heavy, the lock of dirty blonde hair contained with holds with it to, all Rafferty's feelings. "Don't speak," It comes out harsher than he wanted it to but, he doesn't apologise for it. He doesn't have time to say sorry, to explain in great detail the way Beau keeps him closer to humanity than anything else, the way he makes him feel, and act. There isn't time for any of it right now.

There's a woman in town who can help, a female doctor who owes him a favour. Bring her to me. Rafferty acts, better at doing that than talking. He puts a foot in an empty stirrup and pulls himself up, to the back of Sentry's saddle, his front pressed against Beau's back. The wound is the shoulder, it immediately begins soaking into his clothes. He grabs the horses reigns with one hand, and the other he keeps tight around the blonde's waist as he trots the horse carefully to the bar of the saloon where Brigid herself is kept. It may be the fear, the adrenaline that's running through his veins but, Rafferty feels everything...slowly. Seconds feel like precious minutes his Beau doesn't have many of. He can, at least, whisper in his ear quietly here; "Ná fág mé fós," Don't leave me yet.

It's a struggle, getting him down from the horse without injuring him further - he hears a soft moan of pain at one point and quietly shushes the blonde, dragging him down into his arms where he practically becomes dead weight. The height helps, his skinny body all sinew, pulling him up the back steps to the rooms above. Rafferty can't recall how he managed to get Beau onto the small, rickety bed. He looks small, laid out, that larger-than-life spark slowly fading...

He feels the need to be sick, and swallows it down. He stares at Beau from the doorway, lingering, wasting time. Rafferty knows this could be it, that when he returns...Beau may have passed. The reaper hovers outside the door, and Red Death stands as a barrier between the two. "I forbid ya from leaving me. Do ya hear? Mo anam cara - if ya leave, I'll follow ya to hell,"