Chapter Text
He wasn’t doing well, he was aware. Far too much drinking, and too much time to himself. The saloon was bustling with noise: loud voices arguing over bets, whiskey, and women; the clatter of glasses; stomping of heavy boots on the wooden floor. Yet his mind was anxiously quiet, and that’s when the memories came back. The drink would help. It used to. Even though he nowadays needed much more to blur the images behind his eyelids.
There was a gentleman at the bar, a stranger, with his back towards Goody, yet every time Goody shook himself out of a red splattered memory, he would meet the stranger’s eyes as he nervously glanced around the saloon. The stranger didn’t quickly avert his gaze, as would be the polite thing to do, just stared until he slowly turned around in his seat again. Goody was far too close to the bottom of a flask of whiskey to care, to worry about what the stranger was thinking. He had tried for so long to keep his horrors to himself, and he knew that it was only a matter of time until they made themselves known to the rest of the world, loud and clear.
When the flask was empty, Goody still had enough sense in him to realise that he shouldn’t bother having any more. The nightmares wouldn’t budge tonight, no matter what he did.
He was grateful the saloon was still filled with the chaos of alcohol, and he used it to hide his stumble as he rose from the chair. It still fell over, but no one batted an eye. Had they known who he was- his stomach churned at the thought, a sickening tight curl, they surely would have paid more attention, he knew. He quickly turned towards the bar. Could it be- Did the stranger know his face? Had he spent a whole night collecting notes: “I saw Goodnight Robicheaux the other week- you won’t believe it! Drunk off his ass, and hands shaking like a little girl! Sharpshooter? Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one!” A mocking tone rung out in his head, and he shook it to urge it away. The movement made him sick. Squinting across the room, he saw that the stranger was gone, and instead he met the eyes of a lady, who sent back a smirk. He looked away, and started towards the stairs. He didn’t bother pulling the chair up again, too aware of the dangerous way he was swaying just to stay on his feet.
He slept late. The sun was pressing against the curtains when he woke, his skin clammy and hot under the blanket. The dream he had been fighting slipped away as he came to, but the feeling of it stayed. He was grateful: most days he woke with awful images, straining for air, and sometimes even a knock at the door. You alright in there, mister? Yes, he was fine, always fine.
He made himself dress, and washed his face quickly, trying to avoid the dirty mirror on the wall. He knew he was looking awful, for god’s sake, he could feel it. The stubble on his cheeks threatened to curl into a real beard, his hair clung to his forehead, too long and shaggy. He put on his hat, and hurried out the door.
Same table as yesterday, same chair, hat down low over his eyes. He wouldn’t risk it tonight, anyone recognizing him. He couldn’t trust his own memories either, maybe he even knew the man from yesterday, he just had forgotten. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He knew the stranger from the bar had been just that- a stranger. He didn’t know any chinamen, if that was where he was from, and he was sure that’s not a thing he would have forgotten.
It was still early for dinner, but Goody ate anyway. One big meal a day he could afford, but not for much longer. The room was cheap, the drink strong, and he liked this town- what he’d seen of it on the ride in, anyway. He’d barely left the inn since then.
He had a man look after his horse, but he knew soon he wouldn’t even afford that. He’d need to do something soon, or he’d be stuck here- without a bed, without the horse, without the drink. The latter bothered him the most, and maybe that said a lot about him. He had another gulp and tried to think of something else.
As the afternoon sun circled the saloon, the tables slowly filled. He was left alone, as usual, which he was grateful for. It seemed to be easier today, for some reason; he could dodge the hauntings in his mind, and he saw the opportunity to hold back on the drink, taking it in slow sips. He’d been drinking for a while though, and no matter the speed, in the late night, he could feel himself sinking into that warmth, a slight slouch to his shoulders. He held up his glass, measured the remains, and gave the room a quick glance. Back again, by the bar, was his stranger. Goody somehow knew, even though he could only see the man’s slender shoulders, his wide belt of- was that knives? Goody tried to make out the shape of a gun, but the man didn’t seem to be carrying one. Goody wondered how a chinaman dared to walk around with that much confidence, or maybe perhaps the absence of a gun was the trick, what let him move freely. He was curious, to say the least. He was almost sure now, that the man didn’t know him, didn’t know just who he was. Goody wasn’t full of himself, but he knew his reputation, and if the stranger had known, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t had been able to leave it at that, leave after just observing. As if he had eyes in his neck, or a super sense of sorts, the stranger turned at looked straight at Goody. No, there wasn’t any recognition in those eyes, no ill-willed taunts. In fact, Goody couldn’t tell nothing from the man’s blank stare. Goody squinted at him, trying to make out any kind of clue, but the man was unreadable. He was just sitting there, dully, on hand on his drink, the other resting on his knee. Goody was almost sure he wasn’t a chinaman: he had a straight nose, dark eyes, a thin moustache above a small mouth. Not that a chinaman couldn’t have that, of course, but there was something…
He suddenly realised that he had no idea how long he’d been staring, and eventually he couldn’t help but to look away. The stranger didn’t seem bothered.
Goody could feel himself get flustered, the drink helping blood reach his cheeks, and he tucked the hat back down again. The man intrigued him, perhaps too much, perhaps in a way Goody had tried to ignore for a very long time. He didn’t usually let himself think of it, of other men, not only because it was, well, illegal , but it was also so much harder than with women. Of course, just the thinking wasn’t illegal, per se, but for Goody it rarely stopped with the thought. His nightmares made him drink, the hauntings in his mind forced him to bed, and maybe this thought would push him somewhere as well. He couldn’t risk it.
Not that it would be impossible with this stranger though, he pondered- unable to let it go, the more he tried. The man had been staring at him, to nights in a row, and even though Goody hadn’t been able to read his intent, that didn’t mean that he didn’t- that he couldn’t- Goody shook his head and pushed his fingertips against his eyelids, rubbing. He tried breathing deeply, in through his mouth, pushing the breath out his nose. He even prayed for a memory for a second, for anything else to take over his mind, but for once it was empty. Goody realised what he’d missed then, what was so obvious all of a sudden. The man had a blank expression because anything else could get him killed. These men couldn’t walk around with an open stare, a public yearning. You had to be careful. Especially working as he did, by the bar, by the women, in such a small town. Goody had gotten the same attention from the whore last night, leaning in the same spot the stranger was currently sitting, as if it was the destined seat for the indecent folk. Goody didn’t judge though, he had had his fair share of them, was pretty sure you could call him indecent as well by now.
Something relaxed within him with the thought, the idea that perhaps he could just, this once , let himself have this, and then move on. He would find a new town, new work, and try to move forward. He’d need more to drink before that though, he knew, or he would not be able to be the least stealthy about it. And he knew that the words rolled more swiftly off his tongue a couple of drinks in, so a bit more wouldn’t hurt. He reached for his glass, not looking, and accidentally pushed it over on its side, the drink dripping down onto the floor. The glass shorty followed, crashing against the floorboards. Tonight, that earned him a couple of murmurs, as the chatter died down for a second. He could swear he heard the barkeep curse to himself across the room. Goody stared at the shards, and blinked heavily when they were crushed under two black boots.
There was something strange with this man, surely, Goody decided for himself then, as he looked up and met his eyes, the stranger now standing next to his table.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” he said, his voice as blank as his face, a slight accent in there somewhere. Goody frowned at how matter-of-factly the stranger said it, like there wasn’t an argument, like there actually was a limit to how much a good man could swallow in a night, and apparently Goody had reached it now.
The barkeep reached them, and huffed at the stranger to move from the shards on the floor. Goody watched as the stranger slowly stepped off the glass, and then curled a hand around Goody’s arm.
“I take you to your room,” he said, loud for the barkeep to hear, and with a quick nod towards the stairs. The barkeep hummed in bitter agreement, and stood back to let them pass. Goody stood, perhaps to quickly, because he had to rely on the stranger’s strength too much for his own liking. He had had a lot to drink, he realised. Even though it wasn’t to erase his horrors, he had kept a steady pace. It’s so easy to forget when you’re sitting, he mused, it’s so hard to tell when you’re not using your voice.
The stranger held him straight and guided him through the tables, and eventually up the stairs to the first floor. Up there, they stopped, and Goody stood with one hand against the wall for a long time, panting, the drink swirling in his stomach. Cold sweat was covering his skin, and his clothes felt restraining, too hot. Eventually the stranger tugged on his arm, and Goody met his eyes. Now, there was a raised eyebrow, and Goody needed too long to figure out what it meant before he realised. He grunted in the direction of his room, and they started to make their way over.
As they went down the hall, he found himself getting excited, and amazed at how the whole thing had solved itself, the walk from his table to the bar, to his room. No one would suspect a thing, he was sure no one had been keeping an eye on the chinaman by the bar- no one would notice that he didn’t return.
His pulse was heating his fingertips, he could feel it buzzing there, and he willed his stomach to calm down. He couldn’t survive the shame if he’d have to empty it right now, not when life suddenly decided to comply to his wishes.
The man left him against the wall as he fished out the key from Goody’s pocket and fiddled with the lock. Goody couldn’t keep himself from staring at those fingers now, and it helped that he didn’t have to stop himself- he could stare as much as he liked. He could feel a grin reaching his face, it had been a while, for smiles, and for this. Finally those hands pushed down the handle, and the door swung open. Goody leaned forward, but somehow forgot his feet, and the stranger caught him on his shoulder, and supported him into the room. His hat fell off on their way in, and for a second Goody worried, wanted to pick it up. He knew he could be assumed to be more handsome under its shadow, and perhaps now the stranger would change his mind? Would see Goody in this state, disgusted, and walk away. Goody couldn’t let that happen, he’d have to show he was eager, that he’d pay, that he’d do well-
“How much,” he breathed into the man’s neck, desperate now, and fuck , it’d have to be expensive, the man looked neat, smelled clean, and Goody knew what that usually meant. He’d find money in the next town. He’d spend his money tonight and then leave, it would work out.
The stranger pushed at his shoulders, but Goody shoved harder, momentum of his drunk-heavy body winning and lightly slamming the stranger into the wall. He heard a puff of air above him, and Goody tried to steady himself while his hands roamed, lips panting against a collarbone.
“How much,” he repeated, scared of the answer, but he knew it didn’t matter now, not when he’d managed to get this far. He was hard in his trousers, heart hammering in his chest.
He got his hand wrapped around a wrist, just above those lean fingers, and Goody stopped inquiring about the price, just had to get going, get this show on the road, or there wouldn’t really be much to pay for. It had happened. He had gotten himself worked up all night, built that courage, and when it finally went well, when they finally found themselves in an alley or room or behind a tree, he was just too far gone already. A bit of rutting and then he was done, and the shame didn’t hurt as bad as the disappointment and disgust in their eyes, especially when he knew it was because they just missed their payday.
Not tonight, he promised himself, bringing the hand to his face, sucking one of those pretty fingers into his mouth.
It was snatched away from him so fast it felt like a slap, and before he knew it, he was pushed to the floor, pain rising into his spine. He blinked up, the light from the hallway blinding him in the darkness of the room, making it impossible to see the stranger’s face. But Goody could see the outline, saw the man wipe his hand on his clothes, and with a disgusted grunt, he stormed out the room, slamming the door behind him.
Goody was too shocked to feel anything at first, but as the seconds passed by, hot, boiling shame curled all around him. Hands, arms, fingers, stomach- he felt sick to his very bones, hair standing up on the back of his neck.
“Fuck,” he cursed. “ Fuck, fuck, fuck. ” He couldn’t breathe, his lungs felt too tight, and suddenly he had to throw himself across the room, hands clutching to a bucket as he emptied his stomach.