vamphelsing

"'S just a bunch o' yankees runnin' lose. Have ya seen 'em? Dirty horses, dirtier clothes...there's this big one, saw him sprinting through town like a lunatic..."

"Yes, I saw him too."

You were distracted in your answers, tracing circles on the table top with the condensation that had dripped all over it from your glass.

Because you knew that big one. You knew him in a way you did not exactly wish to tell others.

Your first encounter with Arthur Morgan had been strange, the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels. He'd burst into the bar you were at and, as he was walking up to the bartender, he glanced at you.

He'd had the most striking turquoise eyes you'd seen in your life. Blue under the shadow of his hat but green when he tilted his head up and let the sunlight hit them.

You'd turned your head to look at him so quickly, you woke up the next day with a pulled muscle. You'd never seen a man like that. With shoulders like that, with a waist like that, with legs like that! It took you til the woman you'd been talking to moments earlier scoffed loudly and began fanning herself in offence to realize you'd been absolutely gawking at him for much longer than necessary.

"Sorry, madame," was the best you could manage. "you know we don't get men like that often, in Saint-Denis."

He drank a shot of whiskey without batting an eye, put his glass down harder than was proper. He argued with the bartender, left in a huff, but not before getting hassled by a drunkard- who apparently told him what he'd come to hear, because he walked out the bar looking rather resolute.

Something possessed you to stand and follow him out, much to the chagrin, once more, of the woman you'd been entertaining. By the time you made it outside, he had disappeared into an alleyway.

Your words were true- you did not get men like him in Saint-Denis. Ever. Herders never came into the city, either hating the civilization or simply not needing to, for their business was in the countryside. Outlaws were only ever here to be hung, otherwise they avoided the place like the plague- too much law. The closest you'd ever seen were the sailors, but they were always drunk and buried in the nearest brothel for you to care particularly.

This, you deduced, was a real, authentic American cowboy. Hat and all.

The next time you met Arthur, it was he who spoke to you.

"'Scuse me, mister." He said, coming up next to you as you mounted your horse, leaving the theater after viewing a show.

"Yes sir, how can I help?" You'd said, leaning down to make sure you'd hear him well.

He set a hand on the neck of your horse, as though to make sure you weren't going anywhere, then tilted his head up to look at you past the brim of his hat.

"You wouldn't mind pointin' me to the stables, would'ja? 'M new in town, my horse needs some carin' for..."

"It is not so far from here, sir. If you only continue down this street, towards the boardwalk- it will be on your left." You told him, gesturing slightly to help him orient himself.

"Mighty kind of you." He said, tipping his hat slightly. Then, he added, "Feels like I know your face, mister."

"You might. We met eyes in the saloon, a day ago, but only briefly. What is your name?"

"Arthur Morgan."

You told him your name, and he offered you a quick handshake- a firm one, almost startling you with the strength in his grip, before he thanked you again and was on his way.

You stared at your hand, as though amazed, for an odd moment. You then shook yourself out of it. This strange man had you all out of sorts, acting like a blushing virgin before him! Embarrassing behavior for an adult man, you told yourself, before being on your way.

But then you saw him again. And again.

The longer Arthur stayed in town, the more your paths seemed to cross and the more you heard about him. You liked to talk to the people in the streets, and they all had something to say about him. The more you heard, the more you liked. The more you liked, the more you questioned.

You were not a man of...of alternate romantic persuasions, you did not think. But when you thought of him, you got hot under the collar- and you thought of him a lot.

Yes, he was a large, fairly...attractive man, but he was also a very kind one, so you heard. At least, kind of heart, while maybe a little bit rough around the edges.

Eventually, you found yourself sharing a drink with him.

"You're making a name for yourself in Saint-Denis, mister Morgan." You told him.

"That so? Well, it ain't on purpose..."

"Not in a bad way. They say you're quite the good man."

He scoffed at that, and downed his glass. "Nah, nah...Not a good man at all. You don't know me."

Something, once more, possessed you to do something stupid, and you murmured around the lip of your glass, "I would not mind knowing you, mister Morgan."

Luckily, he did not hear you well- or perhaps he pretended not to.

You and Arthur met up for drinks a few more times after that. You also took him up to the tailor to fit him for a new shirt. You showed him around town, and he took you out into Rhodes' environs to show you what he rather see.

You were much too weak to him, and being around him so much rendered you weaker. Seeing him on the saddle, watching him set up camp for you both, observing the way his back worked- it was becoming the object of your daily fantasy, and, try as you might, you could not find a logical explanation to this sudden illness of the mind you had been attacked by.

This fascination that bordered on obsession- or worse, on lust- was unnatural. A man should not look at another, a man should not wish for another!

But Arthur Morgan was not any man. He was one in a million, you told yourself, something you may never see again, once he leaves Saint-Denis and returns west, like he keeps telling you he wishes to do.

Slowly, as though pulled out of a drowsy trance, your eyes dragged back up to meet Arthur's. Only now did you realize, that the whole time you've been sitting across from him, you've spent looking at the flesh exposed by the undone buttons at the top of his shirt, and the slight smattering of hair you could see poking out of there.

"Sorry." You murmured, placing your chin in your hand and turning your gaze away to stare, instead, at the floorboards in shame.

"Fer what?" Arthur asked, thumbing at the side of his glass.

"For ogling you so indecently, my friend. There must be something in the air, I have been acting most strangely, as of late..."

"Indecently?" He repeated, before glancing down at himself, and clearing his throat slightly. "S not like I'm naked. Yer fine."

For once, you managed to hold your tongue.

It was after a sleepless night spent in deep reflection that you chose to confront Arthur about this illness of the mind you'd been attained by.

You almost felt guilty, putting the blame on him for how you felt after spending such lovely moments with him. After all, it was not his fault he was unbearably attractive. He was only born that way.

Alas, you finally told him, while you both sat together off the side of a trail, watching a river flow.

"I have something I must tell you, mister Morgan." You said, and his head turned, so he could look at you.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

"You make me feel a strange way." You said slowly. "I don't know...what I am meant to think."

"My lifestyle often has that effect on people."

"No. Not your lifestyle, mister Morgan. You. I feel for you as I should for a woman. And I do not know what to think."

That, he did not answer for a long moment.

"Well I...You seem pretty clear on what you think. You uh. Feel for me as y' should for a woman, or whatever y' said." He shrugged. "That's...fine."

"It's more complicated than that. It isn't natural...I should not feel this way. Perhaps...I am afraid..."

"O' me?"

"Yes." You said, guilty. "Of you. And how you make me feel."

He let out a gruff "Mm", ever a man of few words, then turned his body to face yours.

"Don't gotta be scared o' none. Don't s'ppose I ever heard anyone ever call love scary."

"Love is not scary. It is the novelty of loving a man. What am I to expect? Will it all be the same as a woman? And what will society think of me?"

Though you would not cry, distress was evident in your voice. Arthur kindly put a hand on your shoulder.

"I ain't a good man, and I certainly ain't a good lover. I don't think I can...can offer you much. M' sorry."

He then patted your shoulder, and stood, walking a few steps away towards his horse before you scrambled up to follow him.

"Arthur, please." You said, catching up to him at his steed- he seemed to startle at the first name basis.

Still, he turned to face you. It took you much courage to so much as grit out your final request- but Arthur heard it. And, after glancing up and down the trail to make sure no riders were coming, he cleared his throat, took his hat off- shielding you both, momentarily, from the world- and pressed your lips together.

Neither of you said anything after that, as he pulled away, fixed his hat back on, and got in the saddle, putting a rapidly growing distance between you two.

So, now here you were. At the mayor's garden party, talking to some factory owner or other, about that big one. Gods damn it, Arthur, was all you could think. Leave it to a cowboy to ruin your life- it was like all the romance novels said.

"Please, excuse me." You murmured.

The fireworks had started, and you needed a break from all the noise. Inside you went, hoping to escape to the upstairs balcony, which had recently been deserted. But on your way up the stairs...

"Scuse me."

"Oh, excuse me, sir, I..."

Good lord. He cleaned up beautifully. So beautifully, you thought you might vomit, so quickly did your heart seize.

"Mister Morgan, I...Hello."

He nodded curtly, mumbling out a polite greeting in return. His ears were red, so you noticed.

"You're dressed nicely." He commented lamely.

"So are you. You look...very..."

You were also rather lame.

Then, after a very long moment spent in stupid silence, you decided that you'd made enough of a fool of yourself around this man as it was. You could not possibly do worse.

And so you grabbed him by the lapels, and yanked him to your chest, kissing him as hard as you could manage.

He scrambled to grip your blazer at the back, much to your surprise, and you both stumbled down a few steps, before Arthur managed to press you up against a wall, stopping your clumsy decent.

You could taste cigar smoke on his lips and he could no doubt taste champagne on yours- his body was so warm, only a solid wall of man pressed to yours that you could, inexplicably, not stop touching, your hands running up the sides of his neck, then back down the front of his suit.

It took a ridiculous amount of time for you both to wrench away from each other, Arthur immediately glancing back to check the bottom of the stairs while you looked up to check the top. Coast was clear.

"The hell was that?" Arthur finally managed, pulling away from you as though being hit with a wave of clarity of sorts.

"I...I am not sure." You babbled, adjusting your collar like a moron. "I must've...I was..."

"Utterly stupid, that's what," He grunted, wiping his brow. "You know how many people-? Ah...hell..."

You both stood there, dumbly, before he glanced sideways at you, over his shoulder once more, then stooped back down to kiss you. You wrapped your arms up and around his neck, and you ran your fingers through his hair. He squeezed you tighter when you did so- like he liked it.

Maybe it'd go on forever. By now, you were past tracking time. You didn't care for much else other than how he felt...

"Arthur!"

You both jumped, and Arthur turned around incredibly fast. You noticed his hand reach for his hip, as though for a gun. You blinked in surprise.

Three men were at the bottom of the stairs, staring at you and Arthur quizzically. But then, they smiled. It was not good natured, but clearly friendly, and mocking.

"Need a minute?" The one with an impressive mustache said.

"No, no. I...uh.." Arthur glanced back at you- you'd never seen such a large man look so embarrassed. "We was..."

"Did you at least find anything?" Another asked, this one with a nasally voice and a few years more than the first.

"Yeah. I did...I..." He patted his breast pocket awkwardly, then glanced at you again, and gave you a little 'I am so sorry, I will see you later' kind of wave. "I think we're done here." He finally said, before making his way down the stairs to rejoin his...friends?

You stood, shell-shocked, on the stairs, while you heard the fourth man mock Arthur about being a "sly dog", while Arthur grumbled for him to shut up.

You managed to regain your senses enough to make your way all the way down the stairs, and watch them leave down the long hallway and through the open doors. When they reached the entrance gates, all four men retrieved guns from the guard at the front.

What exactly had you gotten yourself into?

You were a silent vigil. A violent one. You were unnecessarily protecting something that had been disturbed, even long after it had been brought back to its den.

You sat there, hugging your shotgun to your chest, hardly blinking- let alone doing anything else, like eating and drinking.

If Pearson, or Dutch, or god forbid, Micah, got too close, you'd rack that shotgun. And you'd stare them in the eyes til they walked away.

Arthur wasn't better. Not yet. He was feverish, he kept thrashing and hurting himself all over. He was still scared, no matter how many times he came to and realized, for but a moment, that he was home. Then he'd get bad again.

You'd only let miss Grimshaw and the girls get behind you, let them check Arthur's shoulder and feed him. Anyone else was kept a barrels length away- and then some.

For some reason, you couldn't find shame in yourself, not when it came to Arthur. In any other situation, you'd have been embarrassed, treating a man like this weak thing that has to be protected, that you have to keep safe, and away from anyone that ain't you. You felt like an animal, a sick one, protecting the last thing it had.

When the night fell and everyone would head to bed, you'd stay awake. You'd stare at him and wait for him to wake up, cause he always did, wake up with a gasp and a babble of "Where 'm I?". You'd help him lay back down. And you'd tell him he was home.

Part of you itched to shoot Dutch in the arm and string him up, too. He was the one who'd told everyone Arthur would just roll back in. He was the one who couldn't tell something was horribly wrong.

You looked for him, leastways you tried, best you could, but you were a livewire when you lost something so important, and most men who just said they didn't know what you were talking about weren't standing no more.

When Arthur came back, it was like a lead weight in your stomach, when you saw him drop off his horse like that. What you could've done to make sure he got home safe that day, you'd never stop beating yourself over it.

"M'h par'ner..."

You startled out of your spiral, turning to look at the source of the mumble. He'd woken up again.

"Partner..." He rasped, waving his good hand at you weakly, before grinding out your name, too.

You got off your chair, kneeling at his bedside in less than a moment, pressing your hand to his feverish forehead.

"M here, Arthur. Right here."

He grasped your wrist, head turning to face you while his eyes were still closed. "I'h hurts..." He told you, and you nodded your head, thumbing away the sweat pearling at his brow.

"Okay. I'll get you yer medicine. Gon' be alright, Arthur, it wont hurt for long."

Like a fool, you stooped down, kissing between his brows like he was some soft thing to be cared for. At least he let out a little mumble of appreciation.

While you prepared a ridiculous mix of every opiate a man could get his hands on- half stolen from Swanson, half bought from the doctors- you thought on what this meant for you. The camp members must suspect something, the way you're protecting Arthur like he's the most important thing in the world.

For once, you don't care.

So long as Arthur gets better, you don't care one bit.

You chose not to dwell on them. You turned back to Arthur, sitting him up while careful of his shoulder. You sat by his bed and you gave him his medicine- soon enough, he was dozing off again.

You hated it, having to keep Arthur this out of it so that he wouldn't be in pain.

"'M sorry, Arthur." You whispered to him, tucking his head into the crook of your shoulder. "'M sorry. 'S gon' be all better soon."

He couldn't answer, already unconscious. His beard, grown past the length he usually kept it at, scraped at your shoulder whenever he moved even a tiny bit, like when he'd take a deep breath. But you wouldn't move, not if he'd gotten comfortable there.

You let him sleep- and you slept, too.

In the morning, you woke up to miss Grimshaw jostling you lightly. Arthur was still asleep on your shoulder, and you were reluctant to move- but glancing past her, you saw some funny looks that immediately made you shuffle away from Arthur, easing him down into the sheets.

It wasn't for your dignity you did that. It was for his.

"Someone should shave him." You mumbled to Grimshaw, before snatching up your shotgun and sitting at the front of his tent again.

You'd eat later.

Your relationship with the drover was…tense. Uncertain. Confusing.

You didn't know what you two had. It started out as a rivalry- you'd hated him, and he'd hated you. It had been a purely professional agreement. He helps you move your cattle to Darwin, you pay him with the horse he wants. Done deal. But it got…complicated.

It warmed up too fast, and the glass cracked. You were back at the starting point.

One night on the trail, you'd had too much to drink and you'd kissed the man. Kissed him hard, rolled around with him in the grass. It could've been good, you and him. Til he pulled back and gritted out that he wasn't no sodomite.

After that, you were back to hating him. Burning with anger that he used that word to describe people like you, burning with embarrassment at the rejection. And despite it all, you couldn't bring yourself to pull all the way away. You lingered. You wanted to make it work.

He who hated stuck up rich folk like you. You who should hate wild, mannerless men like him. It could never work, even as you watched him wash up on the last night of the drove, yearning to feel that big, warm body encasing yours again. You knew you fit well in his arms, you knew his lips fit against yours like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

And you knew that, for all his acceptance of people who were oh so different and hated, Drover would call you a fag if you so much as sighed longingly in his direction.

You wondered why. He'd kissed you back, hands grabbing at you, squeezing your hips, feeling up your spine. And all of a sudden, he'd wrenched away from you, like he'd been burned.

You wanted his lips back on yours. His body pressed to you again.

All this, you reflected on as you got ready for the event you'd been invited to. After all, despite all odds, you survived the drove through the Never Never, with a “dangerous” man like Drover and the “unpredictable” company he kept. Now people wanted to parade you around like the poor, fortunate soul they saw you as. The lucky man that survived the drover. You wondered if you really did.

Truth be told, you didn't want to go.

You also didn't want to stay in this stupid house you'd rented in Darwin, with Drover. It felt like a prison, dancing around him.

As you fixed your tie, you stared, almost longingly, at the white suit you'd gotten for Drover. You didn't know why you bought it, he'd never come with- besides, you were almost too afraid to ask him to join you.

“What's the other suit for?”

You flinched, looking over your shoulder at Drover, who had a hip leaning against the doorframe and his arms crossed over his chest.

“You should've knocked. I could've been naked.” You grumbled, picking up the suit and folding it up in your arms. “And for your information, it's just another option.”

“Doesn't look like it would fit you.” He commented, snatching the blazer from your hands as you passed, unfolding it right in front of himself- and raising a brow when it lined up perfectly with his frame.

What could you say- you had a photographic memory for that body of his. It hadn't been difficult to remember a perfect fit.

Mumbling something about a mix-up at the tailors, you took the blazer back and hung it up, along with the vest, shirt and pants, in your closet. Perhaps along with the rest of you, that was rotting somewhere in there.

“I'll be back late.” You said, fixing your cuffs as you passed him. “Don't wait up.”

“Wasn't planning to.”

You held back the urge to call him something mean- Bastard, asshole, something or other. You wondered if he was deliberately trying to make you mad- and for that reason, you did your best to stay stone cold towards him.

You hadn't spent that long in the Outback, and yet you already felt unused to polite society. It felt so dull, and at the same time, it was too much. The forced smiles, the polite conversation, the batting eyelashes of women hoping to be asked to dance. The stench of expensive perfume, the stiff movements of people trying not to damage their tailored outfits. As you brought a glass of bourbon to your lips, you thought back to the steady, fluid rocking of a body on a saddle, the musk of sweat after a long day taking a beating from the sun, and a specific unshaven face, with his dirty, ripped clothes and well worn pants.

You sighed into your glass. Not a man here was as desirable as the Drover, for they were all fake. All made up of money and no real personality. Nothing true, nothing of substance. Even as you were…window shopping, so to say, leaning against the bar and lazily running your eyes over the other men present, you always got bored with what you saw, and returned to your drink.

What was the point? They all looked the same, and you knew you only wanted one man, no matter how disgusted he was by you. You finished your drink, put the empty cup down on the bar top, and took your leave. For all that “guest of honor” bullshit they fed you, they sure as hell didn't notice you slip away.

You chose to walk home instead of asking for a ride. Your luck had it that, in this damnable country where it practically didn't rain for 6 months a year, you'd picked the one night to walk home where the wet season started. A raindrop hit your nose, then another, and another, and soon enough, you were soaked through.

You didn't even bother trying to run home. What was the point? You'd get wet anyway.

You wondered if Drover was in bed. If that man even slept. Would he have left the house you'd gotten, left Darwin while you were gone? You wondered if the thought made you sad or relieved. Wondered just how much you loved him, and how much you hated him. Which was more prevalent.

Every answer pointed at the fact that you loved him more. You ignored it.

After all, hate and love were similar emotions- maybe you were just mixing them up.

You came through the door to a silent house, removing your sopping blazer and wiping water off of your face. Clicking on lights as you headed deeper into the house, footsteps quiet against the clean floors.

You tossed your wet blazer into the bathroom as you passed, the thing landing with a disgusting “splat” sound in the bath. You unbuttoned your vest, shucking off the equally wet garment as you ducked into your room. Your white dress shirt was practically transparent, it had gotten so wet…you might as well not be wearing it. The room was dark, you couldn't see, but you could hear someone breathing, and, looking over, you discovered that the drover had taken up residence on your bed.

Your face scrunched up. He'd said he'd sleep on the couch, the bastard! You sighed, and fought your way out of the rest of your heavy, wet clothes, before yanking on a clean pair of underwear and crawling into bed.

You laid, stiff as a board, next to him, staring blankly at the ceiling before closing your eyes hard. You tried to will yourself to go to sleep, but there, on the far edge of the bed, you were so uncomfortable that you'd never manage.

So, resigned, you scooted closer to Drover. After a moment, you decided you were too cold, to sleep so far. You scooted closer again. And then, you became bothered by the way your back fixed the open air, not pressed against a wall. You rolled over, and shuffled over a little til your back pressed to his chest.

You laid there for a moment, then closed your eyes, snuggling back into him with a little sigh. It's his fault, really. He'd said he would sleep on the couch.

It didn't take long for you to fall asleep.

You woke up slowly the next day, Drover's body encasing yours. His arm was draped over you, his nose pressed against the top of your head. You knew he didn't mean to end up like that with you…but you couldn't help but savor it, at least for a moment. His hand was on your chest, and you rested your hand over his, keeping it there. You closed your eyes again. Maybe you could sleep a little longer…

Of course, the world had other plans, little Nullah bashing his way into the room excitedly.

“Mister Boss!” He called out, as he clambered into bed. “Good morning, mister Boss!”

This woke Drover up, and he immediately rolled off of you, while you reached out for the little boy who was eagerly climbing over Drover to get to you.

“Ah, Nullah…c'mere, buddy. Good mornin’...” You sighed, as the boy you'd come to treat as a son came to lay in your arms.

Drover seemed grumpy about the way he'd woken up, rubbing a hand over his face and his scruffy facial hair.

“Sorry for the waking, mister Drover!” Nullah laughed, even as he seemed very unapologetic, sitting on you with a big smile splitting his face.

“Ah, ‘s alright, kid…” Drover grumbled, giving you a strange look- you weren't too sure what it was- before slipping out of bed.

You shrugged as Drover left the room, returning your attention to the young boy.

“How was The Wizard of Oz?” You asked him, knowing he'd gone to town to watch it last night, when you were at your event.

He launched into a spiel about the movie and how much he liked it, while you tried to make it look like you were listening intently, nodding your head along. But really, you were only half listening, the rest of your mind on Drover, and the look he'd given you that morning.

“Mister Boss,” Nullah poked your shoulder. “Do you listen to me?”

“Yes, Nullah. Sorry.” You must've looked visibly distant, for Nullah to pause his ramble. “Just thinking about something else- I'm listening, now.”

But he didn't start back up again, instead looking at you curiously. He looked out the door, then leaned in conspiratorially.

“Is it because of the drover?”

You chewed on your cheek, and chose to lie.

“No. No, Drover and I are…fine.”

“Liar. Mister Boss and Mister Drover haven't been talking. I notice ages ago- you are angry with him.” He whispered insistently.

You nodded half-heartedly, not knowing how to explain to Nullah that you were nursing a broken heart while trying to stubbornly hold a grudge.

“Drover and I had a disagreement, that's all. Adult problems. But everything's alright.” You told the boy, squeezing his little shoulders reassuringly.

“I don't like it. Mister Drover and you used to get along very good. But now, you treat each other like enemy!” Nullah shook his head. “Even Jeda sees. She whine and whine because you two not friends.”

Jeez, if even the dog was noticing, then you and Drover really were being pissy towards each other. You didn't think it had been that bad- maybe a little one-sided, from you.

“I'm sorry, Nullah. I'll talk to him, okay?”

But you didn't talk to him. You were too stubborn. And part of you was afraid of that harsh word Drover had directed at you, even if you'd heard much worse in the past. You went back to Faraway Downs, acknowledging that there wasn't much left for you in England, and got to work restoring the property. Drover was around, sure, but you still barely spoke, and it made you feel ill. You felt like a puppy, watching him fix up a fence out in the sun while you worked on some furniture inside.

Nights were long, days were long. God, you were disgusting, the way you pined for him. Nullah still bugged you about it, asking when you and the drover would be making up. You also wish you knew.

“You got it bad for that drover now, don't you?” Bandy asked you, as you sat on the porch, hidden from the setting sun, watching him work with some horses while you polished your boots.

“Yeah.” You admitted to her with a sigh, not fearing judgement from her. “And he knows.”

“How'd he take it?”

“Not well.”

You both went quiet as you started polishing your boots again, looking away from Drover.

“Reckon he's scared.” Bandy finally spoke up again. “Of love.”

“Who wouldn't be scared of lovin’ a man? Gets you killed, out here.”

“No, not just loving a man. Loving in general.” She clarified. “Drover was married once. She was an Aboriginal woman. Lost her to white folk not wanting to treat her when she was sick.”

You nodded pensively. You'd heard Drover had married before- hadn't heard what had happened to the wife, though.

“But maybe he's scared of loving someone different again. Scared it'll get them killed too.”

“If that's how he felt, he didn't show it well.”

“How'd he show it?”

You hesitated. Maybe it was normal here, as it was anywhere else, to treat men like you that way. Maybe she'd tell you you were overreacting.

“He called it dirty. What I was doing.” You finally said. “He called people like me sodomites. Called himself that. For kissing me.”

Your polishing slowed to a stop, and you raised your eyes to look out at Drover, who was leading a horse around in a pen, with Nullah on its bare back.

“I thought he'd be the last person to think that of me.”

Bandy said nothing, sensing you might still have more to say. You did.

“He didn't say it like he was guilty. He said it like he was disgusted…he spat it in my face. Like I'd tricked him.” You whispered. “But I don't understand, Bandy. He kissed me back, for a moment. He held my face and looked at me like he saw me- really saw me. And all of a sudden, his expression hardened and he…he pushed me away.”

“Was he drunk?”

“We were on a drove. He's never drunk then.” You whispered. “I guess..I guess we had been drinking, because of Flynn…but…he was stone sober. He'd only had one drink.”

You set your boots aside, shaking your head. “I don't know why he stays. Probably for the boy.”

“I doubt it.” Bandy said softly. “I think he stays for you.”

“Don't try to make me delusional, Bandy…”

“Fire him, then, if you think he should leave.”

You couldn't do that. You remembered what Drover had said, the day you met him. “No man hires me, no man fires me”. You remember that day like it was a dream, like you were looking at a different person. It hadn't been so long ago, but you'd changed so much.

The day you'd arrived, you'd worn a fitted black tailcoat, with your riding gloves, with a cane, with polished shoes and a well tied, silk cravat. The drover had looked you up and down that day, and told you those words.

When you'd been out on the trail with him, it hadn't taken long for you to ditch classiness for comfort and utility. Getting rid of your tailcoat, rolling up your sleeves, unbuttoning the top few buttons of your shirt and tying your cravat back up in a way that was less restricting. Drover had commented on how the wildness of the outback suited you better than the quiet, proper look of polite society.

After that, it stuck. No more tailcoats. No more shoes polished to a mirror shine. You’d dream of wearing his clothes, maybe the morning after a long night.

Maybe you'd never get over him.

Ever since that night, you hadn't let yourself have a proper drink. Tonight, you drowned your sorrows, and fell asleep with your head buried in your arms, wondering distantly if you were overreacting, if Drover was really worth all this longing.

When you woke up- or at least, regained a semblance of consciousness- it was because someone had shaken you slightly, then grabbed you to try and pick you up.

You groaned and wriggled slightly at the arms hauling you off the stool you were sitting on, the way you fought back, just about as effective as a child throwing a half hearted tantrum. After a bit of a struggle, your eyes still closed and your brain soupy from the alcohol, you went limp, too tired to keep fighting.

“Let me go.” You whispered dumbly, not too sure who it even was picking you up.

But the moment your face was in the crook of his shoulder, and he was carrying you like you didn't weigh much, you were hit by the thick scent of saddle soap, smoke, and sweat.

“Drover…” The name left your lips breathily, your hand fumbling with his worn out necktie.

“‘M right here.” He replied, and you clung on tighter, your other hand gripping the back of his shirt.

“Don't drop me.”

“I won't.”

You sort of phased in and out of consciousness, half aware of where he was bringing you. Once in your bed, he sat with you, and you slowly opened your eyes.

“Drover.” You whispered again, hand reaching up to cup his jaw, thumbing through the scruff of his facial hair. “Oh, Drover…”

He didn't say anything, but you didn't want him to. You leaned up, pulling him down so he'd meet you halfway, and pressed your lips to his. He let you do so for a moment, before pulling back.

“Don't do that again.” He whispered, even as he seemed to, for once, return your softened gaze. “Not…not right now. Too drunk.”

“Okay.” You mumbled, nodding along. Yeah, you probably were really drunk.

Then, your lip trembled, and your eyes welled up with tears. Drover was startled by the sudden emotion change.

“Hey, hey, hey…what's this?”

“Why do you hate me?” You asked, pathetic. “‘M so in love with you, Drover…can't help it…can't help that I…I can't look at women the way I…look at you…”

“Oh, crikey-” Drover sighed, but you interrupted whatever might come after.

“I don't want to be like this.” You continued to babble out. “Wish I wasn't…a…a…”

He shook his head to tell you to stop, and you did, lip still trembling.

“We'll talk about this in the morning, yeah? When you've sobered up a touch…” He convinced you, setting about tucking you into bed. You nodded along, still sniffling like a child. You probably looked very stupid, you realized, and it made you start crying again. Damn your emotional, drunken self.

“Hey, hey, come on, your about to go ta sleep, no use cryin’ so much…”

“I look stupid.” You informed him, and he cracked a smile. You did indeed, wrapped up in your blankets like an imprisoned worm.

“Don't try ‘n make me laugh, now.” He told you off, and you sniffled, smiling a little.

“‘M sorry. Will you stay?” You asked softly. “For a bit?”

He nodded, and scooted around to comfortably sit by you. You closed your eyes, snuggling up to his legs.

When you woke up, you were in his arms, nursing a hangover. You must've crawled onto him during the night, because he was holding you a bit like a child holds a plush toy. Hastily, you pulled away, your head throbbing at the sudden movement. Oh, no, you'd come onto him when you were drunk, it's horrible, he's going to hate you, he's…

Drover's eyes opened, and he gave you a softened look, sitting up a little too.

“Mornin’. That grog wear off, yet?”

You nodded a bit stupidly, staring at him like it took all of your brainpower to compute why he was being nice to you. You looked down at yourself. Still fully clothed. So was he.

“What's going on?” You asked him, before awkwardly starting to remove your shirt- you didn't want to be wearing yesterday's clothes.

“Nothin’. Why are you taking that off?”

“Clothes are dirty...”

Once you got your shirt off, you laid back down, but not near Drover. Keeping a respectable distance- you weren't drunk anymore. You were both awkwardly silent. You were afraid to say anything, and he seemed unsure of what to say at all. You even cleared your throat a little as though to start talking, but decided against it.

“I'm sorry.” He finally said. “For…for that night. On the drove. Was a proper muck up on my end and I see it that way. Shouldn't have said that to you, not when I led you on in the first place.”

You gazed sidelong at him, as though waiting for him to suddenly change his tune like he had that night. But he just continued to gaze at you with those softened eyes.

“It's fine, I suppose. I was drunk. And I never should've made a move on you like that, not without asking.”

“Nah, nah, don't you apologize for none…You said it yerself. You were drunk. It was my responsibility and I…I did everythin’ wrong.”

You cleared your throat a little awkwardly, before nodding and getting up to get out of your dirty clothes from the night before. You didn't know what else to say, just silently stood by the window while you got to work on your belt.

You heard the bed creak as he got up. Assumed he'd be leaving the room next- but instead, he came up behind you, hands tentative as they rested on your biceps.

“Got any idea on how I could make it up to ya?” He asked, thumbing slightly at your elbow.

You swallowed, staring out the window like you couldn't afford to move. But you did, slowly turning to face him.

“You don't have to, Drover. Don't gotta do this just cause I took it hard- I can get over it, you know. Been rejected before…”

“I want t’ make it up to ya.” Drover repeated firmly, holding your gaze. “What I said was wrong. And I said it ‘cause I was scared.”

“You? Were scared?” You repeated, a slight smile curving your lips. “Hard to imagine that from you…”

He snorted quietly, looking away for a brief moment. “ ‘M full of surprises.” He said, cupping your cheek.

You didn't move as he leaned closer, half expecting to wake up with a jolt the second his lips touched yours. But you didn't. Your hands fumbled for his belt, pulling him against you as he held the kiss. It was like he didn't want to breathe, like he intended to die kissing you. It was more than you expected. Hungrier than you expected.

And just as you lost your footing a little, as you began to push his shirt up, fingers feeling up his abdomen, following the trail of hair, you heard the banging of a tiny fist against the door, and the rattle of the doorknob.

“Mister Droverrr!”

You both pulled apart with a gasp, your hand slipping out from under his shirt.

“Nullah.” You whispered, looking over at the door.

“Mmn.” Drover muttered, distracted, trying to catch your lips again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Drover, he wants to see you…”

“Ah, she'll be right…kid can wait.” He insisted, pulling you closer for another kiss.

You laughed against his lips, but Nullah hammered the door again, and you had to pull apart for good.

“Go on. I'll make sure you finish this later.” You told him, practically having to peel him off of you.

He didn't answer, just squeezed your arm and pulled away, walking over to the door to yank it open and playfully chase Nullah away. You wiped your brow, and sat on the bed- God, that man was a pistol to your sanity. He'd kill you, one day.

But what a way to go.

For the last few months, the Vatican has had a werewolf problem.

A singular, unique, werewolf problem.

Though Van Helsing was cured of his lycantropy, in theory, he was not cleansed of the venom in his veins. While he remained human on most days, full moons still triggered a brutal transformation- and the Vatican was still working on how to fix that part of the problem.

Every full moon, Van Helsing had to be locked away. Put in a giant box of iron and silver, sealed til morning.

But tonight, he broke out. Blasted the door clean off its hinges.

Why?

…Because he was needy, of course.

A cured werewolf is no better than an overgrown puppy, you'd come to learn, as you stared at the guiltily whining wolfman pawing at your bedsheets. His tail was tucked between his legs, his big, golden eyes staring at you, rimmed with tears. He was pathetic. He wanted to lay in your bed, and twice already, you'd told him no.

You couldn't imagine why the transformed Van Helsing would have completely ignored all of the sisters and brothers chambers and come to yours specifically, but he was clearly desperate to crawl into your bed.

“I…I don't know what to tell you, I cannot share my bed with you.” You urgently whispered to him, blanket pulled up over your bare chest, mostly horrified at the prospect of being eaten for your refusal.

He shook his head, his black mane rustling about while he keened. He reached a paw out, patting at the covers again, almost dragging them clean off the bed. He rested his large muzzle on the mattress, his heavy head making the bed creak- and again, he gave you puppy eyes. And again, he whined.

Oh, but he looked so sad, and his eyes were so soulful and full of stars swimming in tears as he stared at you. He was, afterall, just a pup…how could you possibly refuse him? A fourth time? Oh, but what if he cried?

“Oh…fine…fine. Come…” You mumbled, scooting over.

He let out a strange, happy yip, and clambered onto the bed with all the grace a giant wolfman could muster. He nearly pushed you off the bed in his haste, but the arm he threw over you saved you from falling. Van Helsing dragged you back, then dragged himself onto you.

You stared ahead at the ceiling in horror. He was not only in your bed, he was laying on you, for Christ's sake! Growling in contentment and nearly drooling onto your chest! It was bad enough that he was a beast, but it was worse that there was a man in there. God help you.

In spite of it all, you found yourself nestling into the furry embrace, being lulled to sleep by the rumbling in his throat and the rhythmic whacking of his tail against the bed. This was ridiculous. The beast the Vatican had been locking up monthly was using you as a plush.

He was pawing lazily at your waist, occasionally rubbing his head against you affectionately. You reached up and tentatively patted his muzzle. He seemed to approve of that.

You could only count your blessings- at least he didn't smell like wet dog. And you were perhaps the safest you'd ever be…no one would dare attack a bed full of werewolf.

But then came morning.

When your eyes slowly blinked open, your whole room was being bathed in golden light. You stirred slightly, but became aware, soon after, that you could not move.

A heavy arm was thrown over your waist, hot breaths being huffed against your neck. It was a human hand that was pressed to your abdomen, sleepily rubbing patterns into your skin. Van Helsing was a man once more, but not quite awake. When you tried to wiggle out of his arms, his grip tightened, pulling you flush against his decidedly naked body.

You wished to melt into the mattress. You did not know how to pry yourself from this situation.

“Van Helsing.” You managed to squeeze the words out, only for him to grunt against the nape of your neck.

“Mm.”

“Van Helsing, please, wake up…”

“Mmh…”

His hand slid up to your chest, his nose sliding against your shoulder, his stubble scraping against your shoulderblade as he tilted his head up and let out a sleepy sigh.

You groaned, not even trying to avoid his touch by this point. His palm had settled over your heart, and he'd nuzzled back into the crook of your neck.

“Van Helsing.” You repeated, a bit firmer this time, wiggling your elbow back to prod him in the ribs.

This seemed to jolt him awake enough, because after a moment, he grumbled, and sat up.

“Lord Almighty.” He murmured, and you rolled over, staring at him with a look of mild annoyance mixed into your flustered expression.

“Good morning.” You said, trying to sound casual about this all, despite the heat burning your face.

“I ah…I'm sorry. Did I…”

“Nothing bad…just…cuddly.”

“Cuddly. Perhaps the worst thing I could've heard. I'm sorry, Father, I can't even…how did I break out…?”

Van Helsing rubbed a hand through his hair, shaking his head in confusion.

“Were you…bit? Or anything of the kind?”

You were struggling to reply, considering the fact the man was entirely naked next to you. Realizing this, he quickly covered himself with the blankets and another mumbled apology.

“No…no. Nothing of the kind. It's quite alright, Van Helsing…” You told him after clearing your throat, pulling yourself out of bed. “I shall go find you a robe.”

“...Thank you…Father.”

Somehow, even as a man, he retained that guilty puppy look, eyes downcast as though he was dreadfully ashamed of eating your shoe, or something. Once you returned with a suitable robe and helped him into it, he seemed to have regained his senses.

“I suppose the Vatican will have to reinforce that box they keep me in.” He commented as he tied the sash at his front. “I must apologize once more, Father.”

“It's quite alright. You should perhaps mention this to Carl, he may have an explanation for the sudden…outburst…” You offered, and he gave you an awkward smile that told you he would not be telling anyone about this.

“Good idea. I'll see to it that this…hopefully never happens again.”

“Right.”

Though it seemed that all his hoping, and the extra precautions taken by the Vatican, would not be enough- for on the next full moon, you were once more awoken by soft whining, and bright yellow eyes pleading with you in the dark.

“Oh, Van Helsing, for God's sake…”