Archive of Our Own

There’s ink on the reverend’s skin, dark and old, that never makes Clayton fail to want to bite when he sees it.

“Seems a shame to keep that covered up," he lets it slip out as he watches Mason test his mobility against the bandages, nodding his head to the tattoo spread out across the other man’s freckled shoulder, and the reverend ducks his head to grab his shirt in response.

Clayton still sees the ways his cheeks flush.

"Do you have any?" Matthew’s deflection is clumsy and obvious, but Clayton just shrugs and lets him get away with it, knows when to leave the past behind.

"I do. I just wish I didn't.” He doesn’t think he’d be as honest if the others were around, but they’re back in town, tending to their own interests after another successful job for Swearengen.

"Something from when you were young and foolish?" Matthew’s looking at him now, eyes sparking with curiosity, and Clayton holds himself still so as to not run from the attention.

"No. Something I wish I didn't have for people to identify me anymore." It’s the truth, and it’s stupid to admit, but Matthew just nods and pushes himself up from his bed, slowly stretches his arms over his head with a wince before reaching for his cassock.

“That I can understand very well.” The reverend is looking at Clayton but his gaze goes far away as he says it, his fingers slowing on his buttons, and Clayton recognizes it very well, and hates it all the more.

He knows what a walking nightmare looks like, and he knows that Matthew Mason does not deserve to be in one.

And Clayton, Clayton does not ask for things he does not deserve, but he knows how to get a man out of his head.

“You want to fuck me so bad, don’t you?” He lets his dirtiest smile spread across his face as he asks, leaning against the wall behind him and cocking a hip out, and the response is better than he could have hoped for.

Matthew chokes on his breath and starts coughing, eyes widening and face flushing bright red, one hand coming up to wave in Clayton’s direction as the other covers his mouth. He’d feel bad, but the shock on the reverend’s face is made up of embarrassment and good old Catholic guilt rather than offense or anger, and that’s not a no.

“Catch your breath. You’re going to need it.” He lowers his voice and turns it into a promise, takes his hat off and sets it aside before using his teeth to pull off his gloves, just to watch the way Matthew’s gaze drops and his pupils dilate. He tips his head back to expose his throat and slowly pulls his coat off, slinging it onto a peg that he’d helped Matthew install a few weeks back when they’d finally moved on from fixing the church’s walls to the man’s room above it, unbuckles his gun belt and carefully hangs it up as well, all the while watching himself being stared at.

“Mr. Sharpe, I’m sorry if I’ve been improper in any way, but really, I don’t think,” and Clayton undoes his tie as the reverend babbles, lets it fall to the floor before slowly unbuttoning his vest and untucking his shirt, and the other man cuts himself off abruptly when he pops the button of his collar.

"We've been fucking inevitable, charging straight for this like a horse that doesn't see the cliff's edge. You really going to tell me you didn’t see this coming after all these months?” He lets his drawl thicken and walks towards the chair across the room, keeps undoing buttons of his shirt with one hand and watches Matthew track him. He sinks into the chair once he reaches it, tugs his shirt and vest off to hang over the back and raises an eyebrow, letting his legs splay wide and obscene.

The reverend blushes all the harder but does not avert his gaze.

“Didn’t see what coming?” His voice is a little higher, breathier, and Clayton slowly trails his eyes down over the other man, pausing on the bulge he can see in his pants and licking his lips before bending over to start pulling his boots and socks. He lets the silence sit for a moment, listens to the reverend shift next to the bed before looking back up and grinning as dirty as he can.

“You and me in bed, sweetheart.” He stands back up slowly, unfolds the long lines of his body for Matthew to stare at, and the other man does not disappoint, eyes flicking over his scarred shoulders, his bare feet resting on worn wood, the hem of his undershirt ridden up enough to expose hair leading down into his pants.

He swallows hard but says nothing as he watches Clayton pick up the chair and walk it back over to the door, says nothing when Clayton sets it down, says nothing when Clayton raises an eyebrow over his shoulder and taps fingers against the doorknob.

“I know you ain’t fixed the lock yet. You want this to stop, you say so now, and I’ll walk right out of here and never bring this up again. But if you do want this,” ( want me ), “then I’m going to make sure no one can get in here, and I’m going to get you out of those clothes.” And Clayton goes to that still place inside of himself again, breathes slow and steady, and he sees Matthew really look at him.

His eyes are focused, intense, and there is something a little sharp in the way he holds himself, something that Clayton recognizes, something that makes Clayton want him even more.

“You’re the absolute worst kind of temptation, you know that?” His voice is low, deep, and Clayton can feel a shiver run up his spine, tightens his grip on the chair and does not move, waits for a yes or a no, and then Matthew swears low and starts undoing the buttons of the cassock again. “Because you’re not wrong. I want you, very badly, and yes, this was always going to happen.”

Clayton jams the chair under the doorknob and turns to Matthew, smiles insolently and drops both hands to his belt, starts undoing it as he walks towards the other man, and Matthew drops the cassock to the floor carelessly as he keeps watching with eyes that have gone liquid and hot.

“Thought you weren’t going to fuck any of your sheep, Reverend.” He says it a little bit like a joke, a little more on the mean side, just because he can, slides his belt out of the loops and tosses it in the direction of his boots, and Matthew scoffs and crosses his arms, cocking an eyebrow in a way that reminds Clayton of learning not to touch a hot stove.

“Thought you didn’t consider yourself part of my flock, Mr. Sharpe.” His voice has a razor’s edge to it, daring Clayton to grab on and see if he cuts his hand, and he may like danger but it doesn’t mean he’s stupid.

“If I'm going to get that cock in me, you might as well call me Clayton.” He pops the buttons on his fly as he says it, one two three, and watches Matthew’s eyes flick down like he can’t help himself.

“That what you want, Clayton?” The reverend’s voice is low and dangerous, and Clayton feels the heat in his stomach go molten, licks his lips and starts undoing the buttons of the other man’s shirt once he reaches him, pausing when he doesn’t uncross his arms.

“What I want is for you to be able to truthfully tell Miriam tomorrow that you didn’t bleed through your bandages, so I’m thinking our best bet is you buried in my ass, yeah.” He raises an eyebrow and slides a hand under his partly open shirt, rests a hand gently on the bandages underneath, and grins when he feels the reverend shudder at his words.

“Jesus, the mouth on you.” Matthew drops his arms to his sides, and Clayton grins, vicious and victorious, grabs his shirt and rips it the rest of the way open, buttons popping and scattering around the room.

"Like you don’t even know.” Matthew opens his mouth to argue and Clayton kisses him, has to, bites his lower lip and sticks his tongue into his mouth and swallows his moan. The reverend responds eagerly, grabs his jaw firmly and rolls his hips forward, and Clayton has to pull away or he’ll lose his mind. “Well, Father, you really think this is worth it enough to sin?"

"What's one more?" Matthew says it absently, already reaching down, hands settling carefully on his waist to grab for the hem of his undershirt; Clayton dodges the touch and smiles at him, a dirty thing, and drops to his knees, fingers making quick work of his belt.

“What’s one more indeed?”

--

“This is the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place,” he quietly admits in the dark, exhaling smoke up to the ceiling and settling his back further against the headboard, the wood cold through his undershirt. The reverend shifts next to him, a long line of heat against his leg, and fingers ghost against his wrist, hesitant even after what they’ve done to each other.

He knows that it isn’t what the other man is asking for, but he holds out the cigarette in a wordless offer anyway and looks down, seeing the shape of Matthew more than any details of his face, and wonders what it is about this man that makes him feel like baring his soul. The touch stutters briefly before stilling, and just as Clayton thinks to bring his hand back up to his mouth there are feather light traces along the back of his hand until two steady fingers slide the cigarette away.

He watches the tip burn brighter as the reverend inhales, sees liquid dark eyes staring up at him, curious and soft, and greedily want to lean down and kiss him hard, the smoke stuck between their mouths until all they can breathe is each other.

Instead he bends over and take the cigarette out of Mason’s hand with his teeth when it’s offered back to him, and this close it’s easy to hear the sharp inhalation from the other man; he inhales deep and holds the smoke in his lungs as he straightens up, waits until the reverend exhales shakily before slowly blowing the smoke down at him.

“Help you with something, Reverend?” He’s already reaching down as he says it, sliding the sheets off them, and Matthew chokes on what might be a laugh.

“Ah, the spirit is very willing, but,” and he trails off with a hard swallow as Clayton presses his palm against his chest and shifts to straddle his waist, bringing the cigarette to his mouth again in the hopes that the other man can see the dirty smile he puts on display.

“You give me two minutes, and we’ll see if I can’t get the body on board too, huh?” It’s a little hard to speak without dropping ash on the reverend’s chest, but being able to use both hands is worth it.

Matthew trembles under him and makes a sound of assent, and Clayton feels a laugh rumble low in his chest, settles himself down a little more as he notices where the other man is staring.

“Want me to get rid of the coffin nail?” His drawl sounds deeper, darker, and he can hear a sharp inhale from the reverend again, feels the hands on his thighs flex as he starts to slide one hand down between them.

“There’s a dark sense of irony, you calling it that,” and his thumbs are pressing firmly into muscle, right below the bruises he made ( and didn’t apologize for ) earlier, and Clayton thinks briefly on the marks different people leave behind as he runs his own fingers over a scar low on Matthew’s abdomen.

That particular thought thread could easily unravel him, though, and Clayton isn’t keen on letting down any more walls.

“S’the only thing I'll ever let put me in the ground.” Matthew makes another sound, one hand sliding up towards the hem of Clayton’s undershirt, and he immediately goes on the defense, curls his hand around the reverend’s cock and squeezes. “That didn’t sound like a yes to me, Father.”

Matthew groans low and shudders under him, hands sliding around to his ass even as he looks away, and Clayton knows he has him.

“It wasn’t. Don’t put it out.” Clayton hums agreement and inhales slowly, holding the smoke in his mouth as he leans down, one hand working between them and the other pulling the cigarette away just before it hits skin. He kisses Matthew easily when the other man opens his mouth to him, exhales the smoke slowly and shudders as a hand slides up under his shirt to settle on the small of his back.

“Shirt stays on.” He says it because he doesn’t know what else to, smears it against Matthew’s jaw and drags his tongue down his neck, starts to worry skin between his teeth because he wants to leave some kind of mark, some kind of proof that he was here before there’s a sudden hand in his hair, fingers curled tight enough to make him squirm and moan.

“Nothing above where the collar sits.” There’s a sudden very real authority in his voice, a command pressed right into Clayton’s ear, and he carefully braces his free hand against the headboard and twists his other wrist just to hear Matthew grunt, feel him jerk underneath him.

“Or what, Reverend?” He says it as disrespectfully as he can, pressing his open mouth against the reverend’s throat and using his teeth to test the limits between them.

“You’ll be sorry.” It’s a threat that sends a thrill down Clayton’s spine, the hand in his hair now trying to pull him away, and Clayton lets him just to the point where they can lock eyes, brings the cigarette back to his mouth and inhales just to watch the reflection in the other man’s dark eyes. 

He’s never been good with authority, and Matthew’s cock is twitching in his hand.

“Put your money where your mouth is.” He blows the smoke in the reverend’s face before fighting his grip, moaning at the pain before sinking his teeth low on his neck, flirting with where the clerical collar may or may not cover a bruise as dark as the one he sets at leaving.

“As soon as these bandages are off I’m going to fuck you until you scream,” and it’s a promise, low and heated in the dark, from a man who seems to do his best not to lie. The hand on his lower back presses him closer even as the one in his hair yanks sharply before finally letting go, and Clayton lets him take the cigarette when fingers brush against his.

“I’d like to see you try,” and he says it like a dare, a challenge, laughs so he doesn’t ask if that means Matthew wants this to happen again. 

“Then by the grace of God you will.” The words cut quick, deep, clear through all the smoke filling the small space between them, and then Matthew is urging him closer, slower, hands on him proprietary in ways Clayton has never let anyone else touch him, and words fall to the wayside.

The cigarette is burning Clayton’s fingertips by the time they’re finished, one of Matthew’s large arms over his waist as they settle, sweat cooling on their skin and making Clayton’s shirt stick uncomfortably.

Matthew doesn’t move to take it off him, nor does he ask him to leave, just kisses his shoulder once, right over a scar, and in between breaths is asleep.

Clayton stubs his smoke out on the shitty dresser from the previous reverend that’s already pockmarked with burns on the side, and he finds the still place inside of him, and he waits for darkness or dreams to take him, waits for Matthew to wake up and say they made a mistake, waits for the other shoe to drop.

--

The sun comes up, and when Clayton rouses from dreamless sleep the reverend is snoring loudly and drooling on his shoulder.

He knows he’d be able to slip away without waking Matthew, and knows that he would let him get away with nothing more than a few blushes and stutters when they saw each other again. 

He also knows that he wants this, badly, and that these new friends of his think he’s brave rather than a coward, and that for some reason that means more to him than anyone’s opinion has in years. He wants to prove them right.

Clayton closes his eyes and relaxes on the bed again, and tells himself that when Matthew wakes up he’ll take his leave and make sure it sticks.

--

Clayton Sharpe is a fucking liar, to everyone he meets, but apparently none worse than to himself. 

Clayton doesn’t mean to make a habit of sleeping with the reverend, doesn’t mean to keep  touching him with hands that will never be clean of blood, doesn’t mean to follow him around and fall into bed over and over again, but-

Matthew wants him, for some godforsaken reason, keeps finding him and reaching for him and looking at him, and Clayton, Clayton does not deserve anything as good as this man, but he’s selfish and a sinner and no good at saying no.

--

The world turns, and the days go by, and Clayton is in too deep, too fast, to know how to be without four people watching his back every time they leave or come back to Deadwood.

Clayton can’t remember the last time it was this easy to breathe. The five of them come together, day after day, playing cards and drinking and making money off of Swearengen and Miss Stubbs and Sheriff Bullock. They laugh at each other and make fun of him and don’t take it personal when the most they get out of him is a crooked smile that’s gone quick.

Clayton also can’t remember the last time he had four people he cared about this much, and it weighs on him heavy, the things he notices that they try to hide.

Miriam occasionally gets mail that makes her mouth turn into a tight line, and Arabella stays out with them as late as possible while avoiding questions about her husband, and Aloysius keeps his head down every time someone new shows up in town, and Matthew keeps trying to convince the people of an entirely godless town that they deserve forgiveness like he’s the one asking for it.

Clayton intercepts every wanted poster and bounty that has his friends’ faces on it and burns them all without reading, and the days go by.

--

They’re taking a slow night, Mririam beating everyone at poker at the Gem, when things start to fall apart.

"Hey, don't I know you?" He’s waiting at the bar for Dan to hand him another bottle of whiskey when someone grabs his shoulder, and it takes everything inside of him not to turn around and draw a gun. 

"I don't think so." He takes a slow breath and steps away from the touch, looking out the corner of his eye to see a vaguely familiar man looking at him real hard.

"You sure? Cause I could swear that you're the man they call 'The Coffin'.” Clayton reaches for the stillness inside of himself and takes a slow breath, watches Dan set the bottle of whiskey down a little clumsily at the name, wide eyed as he stares at Clayton like he used to when he first came to town.

"You better pray that you're mistaken, cause any man with that name like that sounds dangerous." He says it low, does not look at the man as he reaches for the bottle, but he takes a step closer like he’s been invited.

"That's what they say." A name swirls up into his mind this time, and Clayton breathes, tries to focus on the solid floor under his feet and the potential weapon in his hand.

"Don't matter to me what they say, since that ain't my name anyway. You better move along." He stands his ground and tightens his grip on the bottle, finally turning to face his past and opening his coat on on side to show the revolver on his hip.

A smart man would have run, but this one is just stupid and reckless, which Clayton knows for a fact is even more dangerous to him and his secrets.

"No, I don't reckon I will. I hear you've been trying to hide, but I recognize that ugly face. You're him alright.” He takes another step forward, right into Clayton’s space, and he can smell the liquor and rot coming off his breath.

“I said, I fucking ain’t. Move on, before I make you.” Clayton aims for bored and lands it, loosening his posture and letting his gaze slide past the man, back to where his friends are watching with very sharp eyes. He nods at them and starts to step around him, done with the conversation, and then a hand grabs his arm, tight and unforgiving. Clayton tries to hold on to his own stillness and freezes, looking back down into a screwed up face.

This is a mistake.

“This warm in here, and you’ll still wearing your coat and sleeves down to the wrist. The man I know is made of scars. Go on, show me an arm and prove you’re not him.” The man digs his thumb right into a scar as he speaks, knowing and taunting, and Clayton feels the stillness stretching, threatening to snap, and does not let himself reach for his gun no matter how bad he wants to.

"Excuse me, but I believe this gentleman has asked you, very politely might I add, to leave him alone,” and relief washes over him, Miriam’s voice so cold and demanding, “so I suggest you do just that, before there's several more ugly faces you have to deal with who won't be quite so polite." Clayton looks down at her, beautiful and commanding authority, sees her digging her nails into the other man’s arm, and jerks away when he’s finally released.

"Letting a woman fight your battles now, huh Coffin?" It’s a sneer, a derision, but Clayton does not let it cut into him, sinks instead into the quiet concern in Miriam’s eyes and offers her his arm.

"I don't let her do shit, she does as she pleases, and that isn't my name." Miriam takes his arm but is still glaring, looking seconds away from providing a verbal lashing that Clayton has seen make grown men cry, but tonight he’s too tired and wants to escape from any attention. "Leave it alone Miriam, he's just drunk and stupid. Time for me to go back to the hotel anyway."

"Don't remember you being a coward, Coffin." Miriam’s hand tightens on his arm, but Clayton just rests his own on top of hers and squeezes gently, nodding slightly and not looking away. She flashes him a smile, a little angry around the corners but still real, and he feels a little bit of tightness in his chest ease.

"You don't remember cause you don't know me. Don't call me that again." He says it with finality, injects the boredom back in his voice, and Miriam’s smile gets a little softer.

"Don't let him ruin a good night. Come back to the table." She takes a step back towards their friends as she says it, and Clayton looks up to see three sets of very worried eyes watching them, hands below the table, and relaxes, ready to let himself be led, when-

"Yeah, Coffin, tuck your tail like your bitch here says and-" and the stillness flies to pieces, shattered as he turns around and grabs the man by the throat, pressing him back against the bar and slamming the bottle of whiskey next to him.

"You're the only bitch here I see. Now, you're going to shut the fuck up and let me leave, and when I get up in the morning, you're going to be long gone, you understand?" He growls it low and dark, squeezes his fingers in a little tighter below his jaw when the man clenches his jaw and reaches down to rest his other hand on one of his revolvers. "Speak up, boy. I said, you fucking understand?"

"Yeah, I understand.” It’s little more than a wheeze, but it’s enough for Clayton, and he shoves the man back even harder against the bar while pushing himself away, lets go to grab the bottle of whiskey and turns to find four people with looks on their faces like they’re ready to kill for him.

It just about undoes him.

"Good,” he says it over his shoulder before offering the bottle to Aly, tipping his hat to Arabella and Miriam while avoiding Matthew’s perceptive gaze, “Night, y'all, I'll see you tomorrow." He slips through them easily, weaves his way through tables and makes it almost out the door before a loud voice carries across the room to him.

"You think they call him 'Coffin' cause he put so many people in one, or cause he crawled out of one? Place your bets now, and then I'll tell you." 

“Hey, fuck you-” “Shut up or I’ll-” “Time to leave-” “Get fucked you-”

Clayton does not recall moving. All he knows is that in one moment he is about to step into the night, and the next he is digging his revolver under the jaw of the joke of a man who is a threat to his current way of life.

“Alright, you weasel-faced piece of shit, you listen to me. I got nothing tying me to this town, and no lawman is gonna put me in chains for killing you right here, even with all these witnesses. Now shut your mouth and get out, or I’m going to drag you to the gallows and string you up myself. You won’t get any merciful quick death from me. We understand each other?” He’s close but not quiet as he says it, sees the fear in the other man’s eyes and feels a steadying hand on his back, and doesn’t let up until there’s the sound of a glass being dropped behind the bar.

Clayton steps back, and the man stumbles away from the bar; he almost immediately runs into four people who are looking murderous, two of whom are holding large knives that they rightly shouldn’t have been able to hide on their persons, but Clayton just waves a hand and his friends part. The man makes his way through a very quiet saloon, and Clayton almost lets him leave before a thought comes to mind.

“And Barrows? You didn’t see me here, got it? Or I’m coming after you.” His voice rings clear, almost too loud to his own ears, but Barrows turns with a look of terror on his face, and then he’s gone like he was never there.

“Darlin’, you alright?” Miriam’s voice is gentle, and Clayton desperately tries to find the still place inside of himself but it’s gone, and suddenly the concerned faces turned on him are too much to bear.

“M’fine,” he mumbles it low and pushes past them, raising his voice to all the other eyes that are watching him, “That’s it for the show, folks.” Above him, Swearengen’s door closes, and Clayton fights the urge to run and walks, as calmly as he can manage, out of the saloon.

They follow him into the street, because they’re good people who don’t know how to leave well enough alone, and Clayton’s chest aches. Arabella insists he doesn’t spend the night alone, just in case, and Matthew quietly volunteers the church, and he’s too tired to say no ( and doesn’t want to anyway ). The rest walk them there, eyes sharp and crowded around him, and Clayton just keeps counting his footsteps and keeps his head low, shoulders tense and nearly at his ears.

Miriam kisses his cheek and Arabella tries to smile and Aly rests a hand on his arm, and Clayton can’t bring himself to respond with anything more than a nod before he draws away and heads up the stairs towards Matthew’s door, slipping inside before the reverend is even done exchanging low words that aren’t quite making sense at the moment.

Matthew finds him half dressed and shaking on the edge of the bed, and he doesn’t ask questions as he helps him undress the rest of the way without touching his undershirt, doesn’t ask questions as he bundles them both into bed under the blanket, doesn’t ask questions as he helps him count his breaths until they’re slow and steady again, just nudges his mouth against Clayton’s head and holds him until sleep pulls him under.

In the morning Matthew pins Clayton’s wrists to the bed and fucks him slow, easy, like they have all the time in the world, pressing open mouthed kisses to as much skin as he can reach and murmuring praise in his ear, and he doesn’t say anything when Clayton comes so hard that everything greys out for a moment and there are tears tracking down his temples when he gains awareness again.

Clayton, in turn, doesn’t say anything when Matthew comes and muffles the word “mine” against his shoulder.

His world, despite one small stutter, keeps turning.

--

“Would you mind taking a quick walk with me, while we’re waiting on our friends? I need to send a letter.” Miriam’s voice is as warm as the sun already beating down this early in the morning, and Clayton offers his arm as she comes up behind him, following her easy pace.

“Of course.” It settles between them, simple as they always are, but Clayton can see the slight furrow in her brow out of the corner of his eye, and presses his luck. “Anything to do with that letter you got the other day?”

“Your eyes are sharper than anyone else I’ve ever known. Yes, it’s my husband.” Miriam squeezes his arm to gentle the accusation even as her mouth pinches, and he feels dread begin to creep into his heart.

“Everything alright?”

“A little unsure at the moment. He seemed to be insinuating that if business is doing so good here, maybe he should make his was down.” She says it dismissively, waving her hand in the air like she’s trying to get a nuisance away, but Clayton can read the tension in her shoulders.

“And you don’t think that’s a good idea?” He draws it out lazily, nodding to the sheriff as they pass him in the street before looking back down at his friend with a wink.

“You’re incorrigible, always looking for information,” and she flashes a smile up at him as she says, like recognizing like, “In my letter I'm telling him, in no uncertain manner, that if he sets foot in Deadwood he’ll probably wind up dead in three days or less, and that it’s just smarter on all accounts for us to keep conducting business separately.” Clayton hums low and nods, hesitates for a moment before bringing his hand up to cover hers.

“You want me to make sure of that?” He asks it quietly, but Miriam’s piercing eyes still flick up towards him, and after a moment the corner of her mouth curls up.

“I’ll let you know. We’ll see what he has to say first.” They continue on in an easy silence towards the post office, the air light between them. Clayton waits outside when she goes in to drop off the letter, and as quietly as she comes back out he does not start when she takes his arm from behind again and starts to lead him to the Bella Union. “Thank you for the offer.”

Clayton does not do her the disservice of pretending not to know what she’s talking about.

“Of course. You’d do the same for me.” The second half slips out without him meaning to say anything more, but he does not regret the words, and Miriam just hums agreement and squeezes his arm gently.

“I would.” The words are sincere, and he believes them, covers her hand again as they approach the building. She pauses outside, and he thinks that they’re just going to wait until she looks up at him, eyes sharp and voice urgent. “Are you happy, Clayton?”

Clayton swallows hard and stares, not willing to back down but unsure how to answer such a loaded question, and the weight of her gaze makes him think.

He thinks of Arabella, slipping her hand into his and pretending she isn’t holding on for dear life while she points out constellations to him after she wakes from nightmares she won’t talk about, and the way she lights up whenever she has Miriam’s full attention.

He thinks of Aloysius, always laughing and drinking and watching the entrance of every building they’re in, pushing for more information from all of them and using whatever he can to tease but surprisingly never mean, who watches Arabella and Miriam when they aren’t looking and gives everything away on his face.

He thinks of Miriam, beautiful and protective and whip smart, going toe to toe with every man she comes across and coming out on top, who is never as gentle as she is with Arabella, who gives Aly the first cup of coffee always, who doesn’t back down when Clayton is trying to put his walls up, who he’s seen tear men down in very public spaces without a lick of hesitation to protect Matthew. 

He thinks of Reverend Matthew Mason, calling him ‘sweetheart’ in the dark and looking at him with gentle eyes, who carries the same rosary with him always but has never answered where it’s from, so nonchalant about some sins and so committed against others, and his chest cracks open.

“Yeah, I’d say I’m happy,” and it’s the most bitter truth he’s ever tasted.

--

Clayton has never been touched so gently, so carefully, so knowingly, and it is driving him mad.

Aloysius is all wide gestures and reaching hands, slapping him on the back and shoving his shoulder and knocking their knees together as if they’re always in on the same joke.

Arabella is constant grabbing and taking, saying fuck decorum and shoving clothes around looking for injuries and snatching his mug out of his hand as if it’s something normal and natural and easy and allowed.

Miriam is nonstop hands that imply familiarity, curling around the crook of his arm and tipping his hat back to look him in the eyes and brushing her knuckles against his wrists like she knows what’s hiding under his sleeves and wants him to know that no one else will see.

And Matthew, Matthew does not touch him in public except for an occasional hand up or falling asleep on his shoulder around a campfire, but in private-

In private Matthew touches like he’s starving for it, grabbing and pulling and squeezing tight enough to leave bruises, alternating between asking if he’s allowed and taking without question, and Clayton is helpless to do anything but let him every time, helpless against the want that burns so hot inside of himself that sometimes it hurts.

He can feel himself falling and it scares the hell out of him, falling into a family and falling in love, and he’s in too deep to walk away now.

--

They’re already done with the job, the information they needed collected and the proof well documented, when trouble finds them. 

They’ve left the horses tied to some trees and gone for a walk to stretch out, no one feeling pressed for time for once and everyone feeling the effects of the shitty beds they’d been sleeping in over the last few nights.

Clayton’s been keeping a sharp eye out, half tuning out his friends conversation as he breaks off a little ways ahead, feeling uneasy deep in his bones and about to suggest they head back when there’s a sudden boom from behind and a bullet whizzing right past his side, and then chaos descends upon them.

He spins quickly, already reaching down for his own guns when a body suddenly slams into him, and Clayton has to shift his balance quickly, trying to back away even as a thick barrel of a man bears down on him.

There’s a flash of the sun shining on something, and then pain bursts sharply in his side, a meaty hand holding a knife into him and the full weight of the man following him down to the ground. He does not scream or shout, unable to as his back hits the ground hard and the breath is crushed out of him, and the silence in his ears rings for a long moment. The man is saying something, but Clayton cannot focus on anything but the angry burn in his side and trying to get air back into his lungs.

Sounds filters back in slowly, gunshots ringing out and pained cries of people he does not think belong to him, but it’s hard to tell as the man on top of him keeps bearing his weight down, shifting his free arm between them press firmly against his ribs. Even without the black dots starting to appear in his vision, Clayton can’t see anything around them, not even his attacker’s face, just greasy hair and a jaw covered in dirty stubble.

He hasn’t been useless in a fight since he was a child.

Clayton thinks about the God that Matthew believes in, and the Dealer who keeps offering to play cards, and knows that they are not the same, and knows that he can only trust himself, blood and flesh and bone.

The man above him twists the knife between his ribs and laughs cruelly, dark and low in his throat.

Clayton sinks his teeth into where he hears the sound come from, bites harder than he ever has in his life, and the laugh twists into a scream, the man’s hands suddenly both in his hair, trying to pull him away, and Clayton digs his teeth in until his mouth fills with the taste of copper, bright and fast. He grabs the broad shoulders blocking the sky and drives his thumbs into the soft tissue above either side of the clavicle; Clayton listens to the hurt sounds coming out of the throat and thinks about his own soul, about the color of what’s left of it, and then he rips his head to the side as violently as he can.

The scream cuts off into a gurgle, the struggling body suddenly a dead weight on top of him, and Clayton spits a mouthful of blood and flesh out on the dirt even as he pushes the dying man off of him. The knife is still in his side, and he takes shallow breaths as he struggles up into a standing position, pulling a gun out and looking around to check on his friends, seeing if anyone needs any assistance.

He sees four pairs of wide eyes, and quickly realizes how quiet it is aside from his ragged breathing.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Matthew’s voice is low, hushed, stunned, and shame curls uncomfortably in Clayton’s stomach. He starts to swallow and almost gags as blood tries to slide down his throat.

“They ain’t here, Reverend. Everyone alright?” His voice sounds thick to his own ears, and he turns his head to spit out as much of the liquid in his mouth as he can, twists his wounded side away like he can make himself less of a liability if they don’t keep looking.

His sees his hat on the ground, and Clayton feels helpless and exposed without it.

His spit (not just spit) is bright red on the ground, not far from the mess of blood and skin he’d already spat out, harsh and accusing under the unforgiving sun.

“Yeah, sure, we’re fucking fine. What the fuck was that?” Aly says it bluntly, breaking a long pause, and Clayton realizes ( and ignores the pang of disappointment ) that they didn’t see much of what the man who attacked him was doing, or they’d be trying to make sure he was fine, too. He shakes his head and raises an arm, drags his sleeve across his mouth in a way he knows will just smear the blood worse, distracts them from the way he carefully does not breathe as he slides his other hand up his side and pulls the knife out.

The blade is jagged, and not well taken care of, and Clayton does not breathe, does not blink, does not scream as it scrapes free of his body.

“Fuck, man, how does that somehow look worse? Miriam, Bella, either of you ladies got a handkerchief or something he can use?” There’s finally movement from the group in front of him, and Clayton bares his teeth at Aloysius just be contrary, clumsily slides the knife into the inner pocket of his coat before turning back to face them all dead on and takes a careful step forward, testing what movement is going to do to him right now.

“There’s no helping your shirt, but this should fix your face up.” Arabella’s head is down as she speaks, carefully measuring water out of her canteen to wet a handkerchief, and Clayton shrugs his left shoulder, slowly closing the distance between himself and his friends with his hand outstretched, counting the heartbeats pounding in his head to steady himself. She looks up at him once he’s there, and she sighs heavily when she holds out the handkerchief. “That brute hurt you?”

“I’ll get it sorted.” He takes the cloth once he finds himself facing their little cluster, and as he starts to wipe his lower face off he sees Matthew’s hands immediately raise as if to touch him, hovering in the air between them like he knows it won’t be welcome in the open (with witnesses).

Blood slides down his side, and Clayton holds his breath and scrubs at his face hard, knows the smell of iron isn’t going to leave his nostrils for a very long time.

“Well let one of us look at it first, give you some bandages or something.” Someone speaks, and with how hard the blood is still rushing past his ears and how much his vision is suddenly tunneling, Clayton isn’t actually sure who. He bites the side of his tongue hard enough to taste blood again and keeps breathing through it, steps away from the half circle and squints his eyes enough to focus, knows it’ll still look like he’s being contrary anyway and finally sees worried brown eyes.

“It’s just a fucking graze. We ain’t got the time,” and Miriam’s gaze goes steely and hard as soon as he speaks, and Clayton bites back a sigh, “but if it makes you feel better, I'll get it sorted with the doc when we get back.” She nods once sharply and looks to Aloysius, shoulders relaxing just the slightest, and Clayton turns away to find Matthew somehow already by the corpse, Clayton’s hat in his hand as he carefully brushes dirt off it.

There’s no sympathy is his eyes when he looks at the body, and Clayton tells himself it’s just the blood loss and adrenaline that makes his knees a little weak, makes his heart skip a beat when the reverend’s face softens as soon as he looks back down at the hat.

“Arabella, reckon you won’t want this back?” He looks back at her, holds up the now red and pink stained handkerchief, and stuffs it into another pocket at the bored look of disgust she gives him. “Alright, let’s get the horses and get the fuck out of here.”

“Man, why the fuck can’t Swearengen send us to a town where people ain’t going to be shady fucks for once? I’m tired of mending my shirts so damn often,” Alyosius starts bitching to no one in particular as he heads around the hill, Arabella walking alongside him and raising her skirt enough to show him a rip in it as she agrees. Clayton reaches out to touch careful fingers to Miriam’s elbow before she can follow, and he ducks his head down towards her, lowers his voice so the wind won’t carry it.

“Those men were looking to collect a bounty. They got nothing to do with the job, but the others don’t need to know that, alright?” He watches her mouth go tight with worry, but she nods to him once, quick and silent, and he rushes his words as he hears Matthew finally starting to move up behind them. “You look out for men who watch specific people before they watch whole groups, and you look out for men who talk to each other, and every time you find a new town you check out the flyers in the sheriff's office. I didn’t get a chance to today, that one’s on me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She hisses it at him, eyes intent and burning, and Clayton swallows and squeezes her arm carefully, hopes there is no blood on the leather that will stain her skin.

“Someone else needs to learn. Someone else needs to watch out, in case I get sloppy again,” and it’s almost all truth, and Miriam’s poker face is good but Clayton’s been playing this particular game for 15 years, and he sees the subtle nod and relaxing of her mouth that means she believes him.

“Alright, well at least take these bandages, you stubborn man, and let’s pray you don’t fall off your horse.” She raises her voice and shoves some cloth into his hands, winking quickly before spinning and walking off like she’s frustrated at him.

“Ah, well, she’ll calm down. She just worries,” Matthew’s voice is soft, careful, and Clayton looks over his shoulder to see the reverend a step or two away still, offering his hat out to him, “we all do.”

His eyes are deep with concern, and Clayton cannot stand under the weight of that gentleness right now.

“You don’t need to.” Clayton swallows hard and balls the bandages up into one hand, reaching the other out for his hat, and tries not to feel guilty at the disappointment that briefly crosses Matthew’s face. He settles the hat on his head carefully, turning away quickly so the other does not see the way his jaw clenches when his arm raises too high and pulls the wound enough to send a bright flare of pain shocking through his system.

“Well, I must admit, Clayton, that isn’t going to make us stop. You might as well get used to it.” His voice is firm, tone leaving no room for argument, and Clayton bites back a smile as Matthew steps forward next to him, shoulder barely brushing his. He pulls the brim of his hat down before dropping his hand, letting the back of it nudge the reverend’s.

“Y’all keep saying that.” He says it mildly, focusing on the pain settling deep in his torso instead of the way Matthew’s breathing stutters and his hand flexes briefly.

“Ah, yes, we do. I suppose that must mean we mean it.” Matthew’s voice is a little softer, and then he clears his throat when they hear Aly shout from the distance towards them, flinches away like he’s been shot. 

Clayton grits his teeth and braces his feet in the dirt and uses the distraction to shove the ball of bandages up under his coat and shirts, right against the wound.

The world is white hot pain for a brief, blinding moment, but he holds his breath and does not let himself lose awareness of Matthew, and so when the reverend starts to move he forces himself to follow, one agonizing step at a time.

Eventually he blinks everything back into focus, sees the other three only a few yards up ahead already on their horses, see Matthew silently walking ahead of him, and finds his right arm clamped down against his side, holding the bandages tightly against the wound. Clayton keeps his head down and forces himself to breathe slowly once he gets to his horse, shakes his head at the reverend when he glances over at him, and waits until the other man has looked back to his own horse before grabbing the pommel of the saddle with his left hand and hauling himself up.

“We’re already halfway back to Deadwood and those assholes didn’t bring any new suspicions that we hadn't already really confirmed, everybody good if we just push through?” Arabella’s voice sounds like it’s coming at him from underwater, but Clayton keeps breathing and does not pay attention to how wet the right side his shirt and the waist of his pants have grown.

“Works for me.” His voice sounds rough to his own ears, but no one comments on it, and Clayton picks up his reins carefully in his left hand, vaguely hears the others of their group agree, and watches as they all start moving, leaving him to his usual point behind to watch their backs.

He takes a deep breath, snaps the reins in his hands, and prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that Miriam’s falsehood in front of the reverend doesn’t come true. He tries to find that stillness inside, the quiet place where everything becomes sharp and clear, easy to focus on.

They ride.

Time loses meaning, the sun loses heat, the wind loses sound, everything about their journey slowly falling away until Clayton’s entire world is a pinpoint of the sickly pain in his right side. He’s been holding his arm so tight against his side that he can’t feel it anymore, but even as much as he tries to move with the horse every hoofbeat against the ground sends lightning bolts along his ribs and into his bloodstream. He can tell that the bandages are soaked through, his shirt heavy with blood, but he thinks (hopes pleads prays) that the bleeding has stopped. Clayton focuses on the pain and breathes and wills himself to stay upright.

Eventually his horse starts slowing, and Clayton lets her, presses his hand against her neck and pretends it’s not shaking like he’s going through withdrawals as he tries desperately to become aware of the world around him again.

The first thing that filters back in is the light, golden and pink against the horizon, then the lit lanterns ahead. Next is temperature, the air cool against his skin, chilling the sweat that covers his face and makes the jacket damp against his back. The blurry shapes ahead of him slowly turn into his friends, although they stay fuzzy around the edges. Finally sound comes back, conversation drifting on the air, and he thinks they might be making plans but cannot bring himself to concentrate enough for the words to make sense, just focuses on taking another breath, and then another, (another, another, don’t stop whatever you do) and keeps himself upright and his jaw clenched tight.

His friends stop behind the church, dismounting and laughing, and Clayton aches at how bright and whole and alive they are.

He also knows that if he stops here they’ll all see how fucked up he truly is.

“M’going to the doctor, get this over with. See you t’morrow at the Gem.” He digs the fingers of his left hand into the tender bite on underside of his thigh as he speaks, tries to focus on that (Matthew’s mouth, possessive in all the ways his words weren’t), and the words come out clearer than he feels, even though his voice sounds like he’s been swallowing rocks.

“Meet us for dinner after if you’re feeling up for it. We’re going to see if Matt’s bluffing has gotten any better.” Aly’s voice is round with laughter, and Clayton is sure he slings a smile at him, charming and genuine, but he can’t focus on the details of anyone’s faces, just jerks his head in a poor imitation of a nod and nudges his horse around the church and the outskirts of town, until he’s at the back of the doctor’s building.

He brings his left hand up to his mouth and carefully works the glove off with his teeth, then adjusts it between his teeth and bites down as hard as he can as he dismounts.

The world goes white, but Clayton’s had this horse for a while and she stands firm as he lists against her side the moment his feet touch the ground, and slowly he blinks reality back into his existence, although black shadows are now dancing mockingly around the edges of his vision.

He reaches up for the glove and has to pull it from his own mouth, shoving it into the pocket holding the bloody handkerchief, and take a bracing breath before shoving himself away from the horse and towards the door. He staggers like a drunk but he stays upright until he more or less crashes into the building, and slams his boot into the door, once, twice, three times, using his left hand to hold his right arm against his side.

His head spins and Clayton finds himself biting his tongue again, desperate to stay conscious until he is inside. He contemplates giving himself away to a passerby by just shouting when the door cracks open, and a bright eye peers out at him.

The only two good things about the situation with Doc Cochran are that the new doctor is not a drunk, and he is very scared of Clayton.

“Fuckin’ lemme in,” and he can’t make the words come out as more than slurs, but the doctor still swings the door open and immediately moves out of the way.

Clayton slides off the wall and tilts into the room, barely catching himself on the operating table, and his chest goes so tight with pain that he can’t breathe, can’t speak, or he will scream.

“Jesus fuck, you’re tracking blood! The others behind you?” The doctor sounds very far away, and Clayton braces himself harder against the table and bites back a howl, reaches down into a secret coat pocket and throws the sack of gold in it onto the floor.

“Shut the door. S’all yours, long as you don’t, let them in, or tell ‘em ‘m here.” Clayton can barely get the words out, his breath harder to catch with each phrase, but he digs his nails into consciousness and holds on, injects all the malice he can into his voice. “You fuckin’ understand me?”

“Yes,” the man starts to say, but then Clayton hears the door shut and the lock click into place, and he lets go.

Blackness takes him before he hits the floor.

It is not a mercy that lasts long.

Clayton wakes to agony, barely has the room for thought in his head but shoves his wrist in his mouth and bites so hard he feels the flesh give. 

“Shit, stop that, I don’t want to patch that up too. C’mon, Mr. Sharpe, I need you to get up onto the table or into a chair, I can’t treat you on the floor.” The doctor’s voice pierces the haze of pain, and Clayton sucks in a breath that has his lungs screaming and opens his eyes, sees the man hovering over him and nods.

“Table or chair?” He grits out the words between clenched teeth and reaches up, finds the edge of the operating table and pulls himself up, pushes through the pain that makes spots dance in front of his eyes and leans his weight heavily into it, not trusting himself to stay upright on his own.

“Let’s just focus on getting everything off first so I can see it, then I’ll decide,” and the doctor keeps rambling as he reaches for Clayton’s jacket, but the words mean nothing to him as fear and adrenaline suddenly rush through his system.

“Shirt stays on.” He grits the words out through his teeth, glaring over his shoulder even as he reaches for the buttons on his vest. “Give me booze n’ a belt, now.” The doctor doesn’t argue, just sets his mouth into a thin line and heads over to a corner of his office. Clayton unbuttons his shirt under his vest, tries to breathe slow and shallow and steady, and waits until a bottle and a strip of leather are offered to him.

“I’m thinking the chair, if you think you’re gonna pass out again.” The doctor waits for him to take the two items before going to grab a chair and dragging it over. Clayton takes a deep breath and a deeper gulp of whiskey before shoving the belt between his teeth and yanking his coat and vest off in one go.

It hurts, and he barely is able to straddle the chair as he all but collapses into it, dropping the clothes to the floor and pushing his outer shirt open. His jaw locks around the leather as he pulls his undershirt up enough to expose his side, even through the haze of pain making sure his upper back is covered. The doctor whistles low, and Clayton briefly takes the belt from his mouth, grinding his teeth and breathing sharply through his nose.

“Look at my back n’ I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” He grits it out through his teeth before shoving the belt back in between his aching jaw, and the doctor nods once, sharply, before bracing a hand against Clayton’s shoulder and reaching for the bandages still against the wound.

“They’re stuck against all this blood. This is going to hurt.” His tone is matter of fact, and Clayton bows his head and closes his eyes, gripping the chair back so hard he can feel his knuckles turn white, and pictures Matthew kissing him.

The doctor pulls, and Clayton hears a sick tearing sound, and as the hands pull him down into the deep below, he finally screams, the belt doing nothing to muffle the sound in his head.

Then there is nothing.

--

Clayton wakes to a deep pain spanning his right side and familiar fingers running through his hair, and even as he nudges into the touch he bares his teeth.

“That fucking weasel.” His voice grates against his ears, throat dry as an empty well ( like the hole inside him ), and he opens his eyes to see Matthew’s face alight with relief. He swallows down the painful burst of hope at that look and tries to raise his head instead, look past the other man. “Where is he?”

“The doctor is back in his office, most likely hiding from you.” The reverend is probably aiming for dry humor, but it falls flat amongst the giddy smile on his face.

His fingers are still laced through Clayton’s hair, palm cradling the back of his head.

Clayton aches in ways that have nothing to do with the wound on his side.

“If he knows what’s good for him, he better be.” This time his voice cracks, harsh and broken as it falls to the floor, and Matthew jolts, immediately lets go and turns to grab a glass of water off the bedside table. 

Clayton has to tense every muscle in his body to keep from chasing the touch.

Instead he starts to push himself up into a sitting position, or at least tries, before his whole body tightens and locks up with a wave of pain, ribs feeling as though they are being constricted and fire is hollowing out his chest. He does not scream, does not make a sound, just clenches his jaw and tries to breathe without air.

Matthew does not notice until he is twisting back around with the water.

“Here, drink thi-what are you doing? Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself worse!” He must put the glass back down, because suddenly there are two hands on Clayton, one palm curling over his shoulder as an arm braces his back and the other pressing firmly against his chest, right over his traitorous heart. “Breathe with me, it’s alright Clayton, I have you,” and he keeps talking, tone reassuring and low even when there’s too much pain to focus on what’s being said, and Clayton instead centers on the way Matthew’s voice rumbles in the chest pressed against his arm as they move together to brace him against the headboard, Matthew holding him tightly and resting a knee on the mattress next to him to stay close.

Clayton sucks in one breath, another, another, and clings to the words being spoken until they finally start to make sense again.

“You’re okay, you’re safe, just breathe, I’m here,” and Matt’s voice is right in his ear, the other man's forehead pressed to his temple, and Clayton feels a hot rush of shame when he realizes how tightly he is clinging to his forearm. He forces himself to let go, but Matthew does not pull away, just sighs against his skin and rubs his thumb over the staccato beat of Clayton’s reckless heart.

His hands are a welcome weight, warm and grounding and keeping Clayton from flying to pieces, but even as he settles into deeper breaths something tugs uncomfortably at the corner of his mind. His side is throbbing under what feels like thick bandages, and Matthew’s forehead slides a little against the sweat that’s forming at Clayton’s hairline from how much he’s worked himself up, and he’s hyper aware of the familiar sheets pooled at his waist and the worn cotton of the reverend’s shirt against his bare shoulders, and-

“No,” the word drags out of him with all the air in his lungs, expelled as if he’s been punched in the sternum, “no, no, no,” and he shoves Matthew away, slams his back flush up against the headboard as the other man rears back, foot slamming onto the floor and hip hitting the table with the water on it.

The glass shatters on the floor, and Clayton’s wound hurts so bad from the impact with the wood behind him that he feels sick, and Matthew radiates hurt confusion as he stares down at him.

“Who fuckin’ saw it?” His voice is raw and harsh, but Matthew’s expression doesn’t change, and Clayton swallows hard and rocks back against the headboard again. “My back, Reverend.”

“No one, Clayton, no one saw your back, I swear to you.” He raises his hands again, placating and earnest, and Clayton nods once, unable to settle yet.

“Who undressed me?”

“Ah, well, that was me, but I swear to you I kept you facing me. I used a few wet cloths to clean you up, and I just waited until they came up clean before putting you in bed.” Matthew’s eyes are as honest as his voice, no secrets or lies lurking anywhere on his face, and Clayton lets himself relax a little, feels shame curling hot in his stomach at his reaction.

“Thank you, Mason.” He tries to smile, feels it come out more like a grimace and drops his gaze instead, starts counting shards of glass and tries to go to the still place inside himself. “Who else knows?”

“Oh, about the injury? That would be all of our friends.” Matthew says it lightly, but Clayton can hear an undercurrent of something in his voice, and watches carefully as the other man crouches down and starts picking up the pieces of the glass.

Fuck.

“Fuck.”

“Oh yes. Miriam, especially, is what I would call ‘spitting mad’.” It’s anger, maybe, but he’s learned how to hide his emotions well from the rest of them, and Clayton can feel his tenuous grip on the stillness slipping.

“What else is fucking new. Swearengen?”

“Knows you suffered an injury on the return trip, but not how bad.”

“Ain’t lying a sin, Reverend?” It comes out with more of a bite then he intends, but Clayton just wants to get some kind of a reading on this man who somehow became his entire world. Matthew rises slowly, wet glass gleaming in his hands as he walks towards the waste bin in the corner, and says nothing until he’s made his way back to stand at the side of the bed.

“Oh, I was not lying. To my knowledge, you had suffered a minor injury but drank too much at the doctor’s and were sleeping it off. We didn’t know about how many stitches you needed, or your very severe fever, or the infection that followed, or how you almost bled out in the doctor’s office, until after.” Matthew’s voice is even but his eyes are shuttered, hidden, wounded, and that hurts worse than the throbbing spreading across his ribs.

The scream tries to build in Clayton’s throat, and he can barely choke it down.

He feels the shame come surging up in his stomach, drops his gaze and looks down at his chest, the bandages cleanly wrapped and thickest under his right arm. He tries to raise it, sucks in a sharp breath at the warning ache and keeps pushing.

“Clayton, please,” and now Matthew just sounds tired, bone deep, and Clayton feels guilt bloom in his chest, tips his chin up until he can see his friend from under his lashes, and the look on his face makes Clayton drop his arm immediately.

“How’d I get to your room, then?” A flush rises in Matthew’s cheeks suddenly, and Clayton tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow as the reverend looks away.

“You, um, you were conscious, at times. Just, also delirious, but able to walk if the doctor gave you enough laudanum. So I put that leather duster you bought me on you, and I fixed your hat down low, and Miriam and I walked you back late at night, acting like the two of you’d just had too much to drink.” The tops of his ears are pink, and Clayton almost wants to laugh.

“Anyone see?”

“No. Arabella and Aloysius watched.” Matthew looks back down at him, serious and sincere, and Clayton swallows and nods, looks down at his hands in his lap and wishes he was brave enough to reach out.

“How long have I been out of it?” His voice cracks again and he winces, trying to swallow against it, and suddenly there is another glass of water being offered to him.

Clayton brushes his fingers against Matthew’s when he takes it from him, and it makes him relax that much more as he starts to drink.

“Today is the fifth day,” and Clayton almost chokes, snaps his eyes over to the reverend and sees a very tired smile. “We’ve been very worried.”

“I’m sorry.” It slips out without thought, and Clayton doesn’t realize it until Matthew freezes, eyes wide, and he doesn’t want to be a coward anymore, sets the glass down and starts to reach out, “Ma-”

“Matthew?” There’s knocking at the door, a worried voice, and the moment between them shatters like the glass had. Matthew quickly looks over to the door and then back to Clayton, expression torn. “Darling, I heard voices, is he awake? Is he alright?”

“Yeah, I’m up. Give me a minute to get decent.” He takes the decision out of the reverend’s hands, raises his voice and flashes a humorless smile at the other man, sees the conflicting relief and regret in his eyes.

“You hurry up, I’m going to go grab Aly and Bella and then we’ll be coming in!” Her voice is round with a smile even as he hears footsteps running down the stairs, and Clayton swallows and sits forward from the headboard.

“Please tell me you got some of my clothes and I don’t have to try to wear yours.” It startles a laugh out of Matthew, eases the lines of his shoulders, and Clayton can’t help his own smile as the reverend goes over to his dresser and picks up a stack of clothes off of it.

He sets them down on the chair by the bed and looks at Clayton with concern written all over his face; Clayton knows what he’s going to ask before he even opens his mouth, and knows what his answer has to be.

“Let me help you? Please.” A gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder, thumb skimming over his collarbone, and there’s a sudden knot in Clayton’s throat that makes it impossible for him to speak. He turns his head to kiss Matthew’s wrist instead, hopes it is answer enough, and the stuttered exhalation from above him shows it is.

Matthew does not look at his back as he helps him with his shirts, does not say anything about how much of the stiffness leaves Clayton’s body once his torso is covered, just lets him lean on him as they get him dressed and used to standing again.

He’s looking at him with eyes so knowing that Clayton has to kiss him once he’s fully clothed, wraps his arms around his waist and tilts his chin up, and Matthew meets him halfway, cradles his jaw carefully and kisses him so slow and sweet that his heart aches. 

He wants it to last forever, wants to stretch this moment out and never let go, but next thing he knows there are feet pounding up the stairs, and he makes himself let Matthew pull away to unlock and open the door.

“Oh damn, he’s even upright y’all! Ain’t that a sight for sore eyes.” Aly’s grin is big and bright, his voice filling the room as the three of them crowd into the room past the reverend, and Clayton’s chest goes warm even as he tries to keep the smile off his face.

“Yeah, I’m up. I’m fine. Sorry for worrying y’all.” It’s the wrong thing to say, he can tell immediately, even before the faces in front of him go tight with anger.

“You should be sorry, and don’t you ever think about doing something as foolish as that again.” Miriam’s voice is cold, controlled, but Arabella next to her is a bright flame that he can tell is close to an explosion.

“What the hell were you thinking?” She marches right up to him and jabs her finger against his chest, and Clayton does not flinch away, schools his face into neutrality and raises an eyebrow at her instead.

“I didn’t want to burden anyone.” It’s another wrong thing to say, but Clayton doesn’t know what else to do but admit the truth that they’ve always pushed him to give.

He’s still not expecting the slap to the face.

“You’re not a burden, Clayton! Of all the stupid things, I swear, we watched you tear out a man’s throat,” and the brief flash of horror across her face hurts a hundred times worse than his cheek under her hand, “You really thought we’d think you’re what, weak or something, ‘cause you got stabbed?” 

“Now, now, Bella, just take a deep breath, I’m sure Clayton-” Matthew starts to try to ease between them, one hand on Arabella’s shoulder and his voice a forced calm, and all of a sudden it’s too much, all of them here in this tiny room that was supposed to be his place to hide with Matthew, angry at and worried for him, and something inside of him snaps.

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?" His voice is cold to his own ears, sharp, and he leans into the reverend as he says it, staring down Arabella over his shoulder.

Everyone freezes.

"What?" She’s the picture of shock in front of him, eyes wide and mouth open a little, and Clayton digs deep for everything mean inside of him that he’s been trying to hide from them.

"I asked, what's the worst thing you've ever done, huh? Seem real fucking eager to stick your nose in my business, Arabella, so here's a question in return. What's the worst fucking thing you've ever done in your life?" He can feel the tension in Matthew’s back as he asks it, sneers it at her and does not move away, looming in as much as he ever has.

"Well, I don't know, it doesn’t matter, we’re talking about-" He can see her trying to push it aside, trying to to be brave, but Clayton knows how to tear down walls in the cruelest ways.

"C'mon, you can tell us, we're all friends here, right? What'd you do? Kiss a boy before marriage? Read about black magic and get your cards read? Kill that fucking zombie sister of yours all those months back?" He feels dirty spitting it all at her, but the coldness inside of him is taking over, trying to numb out the hurt; he still wants to vomit when he sees the tears welling up in her eyes.

Time stands still for a very short minute, and then Matthew is pulling away and taking Arabella with him, and Miriam is there, blazing angry and slapping the other side of his face.

Clayton takes it and does not flinch.

"That's enough of that! You leave her alone, all she was doing was asking a question. What the hell has gotten into you?" She’s almost a foot shorter than him but still taking up so much space, voice sharp enough to cut himself on, and Clayton just bares his teeth and lets everything out.

"I stared straight into a man’s eyes as I cut his heart out of his chest while it was still beating, and I slept just fine that night. I tore that man’s throat out with my teeth, like the animal I am, because I only care about surviving, no matter what it takes. 'Scuse the fuck out of me for wanting to keep my shame and my secrets to myself, right where they can keep me safe." The words spill out like salt onto the floor, stinging his mouth and catching on his teeth, and his chest is heaving enough that his wound hurts even through the coldness that’s taken over the rest of his body and his heart.

“Enough with this bullshit! Stop acting like some fucking murderer who doesn’t give a damn. You don’t have to keep hiding, we’re not going to press on old bruises to see what hurts!” Aloysius is vicious over Miriam’s shoulder, braced against her back, but Clayton can see them both wavering after his confession, and it hurts all over again.

“We just want to know you, Clayton.” The reverend’s voice is low, raw, and it pierces through everything, like a knife to the gut, and this time he flinches and actually stumbles back before steeling himself to throw it back in Matthew’s face.

"There are no soft parts of me left for anyone to sink their teeth into, and nothing more than this to know, so you can all stop holding your breath.” 

He shoves his way past the four of them, snarls and pulls away from a hand that tries to grab his elbow and throws the door open, nearly running down the stairs as he heads back to the hotel as fast as he can without calling attention to himself, ignores voices calling his name and pushes himself to the point of his side feeling like it’s on fire again.

Clayton doesn’t stop until he’s in his room, the door locked and the chair wedged tightly under the doorknob, curtains pulled over the window, and then he digs out a half empty bottle of whiskey he’d ended up with for some reason or another, and drinks until blackness takes him again.

--

He avoids them for a week, holes up in his room and goes out only at odd hours, threatening the doctor to not tell them shit and ducking into alleys when he has to, and he thinks about the hurts they’ve shown him over the past year and the ways he’s hurt them, and he knows what he has to do before he leaves.

Clayton hadn’t been lying to Miriam when he told her that he’d never shot a man who hadn’t been trying to shoot him first, back when they were dancing around trusting each other, but things have changed since then, and now he’s a lot more willing to do plenty of things to the men who have tried to hurt the people he cared for.

--

He’s waiting in the kitchen when Mr. Whitlock stumbles downstairs, a few hours after Bella’s already left and so hungover he doesn’t even notice Clayton until he cocks the hammer of one of his revolvers.

“Take a seat, Mr. Whitlock. We got some things to discuss.” It’s satisfying, seeing the man jump and nearly fall over trying to figure out where Clayton is, the panic on his face when he sees a stranger sitting in the corner like he belongs there.

The fear that bleeds into his eyes and voice when he recognizes him is even better.

“I-I know who you are.” His voice quakes, and Clayton grins sharply, leans forward and motions with his revolver to a chair, lets the silence sit heavily until the other man sits.

“Yeah, I know you do. I seen the men you have following your wife.” He leaves the gun aimed at the other man, but the real threat is in the steel of his voice, and Mr. Whitlock seems to know it from the way his breathing goes shallow.

“We could share her, if that’s what you want, I-” and Clayton digs his nails into the still place inside of himself so he does not react to the red haze that clouds his mind, takes a slow breath and grits his teeth.

“You piece of shit, did you just offer me your wife to save your own neck?”

“Well, I, I heard y’all are close, figured one of you probably wants to fuck her.” Whitlock wheedles, backpedals, and Clayton takes another breath and presents himself as unaffected as possible.

“It ain’t fucking me. Now, you know what they call me?”

“Clayton, uh, Sharpe.”

“That’s one name,” and he flashes another grin that feels like a knife,” You ever heard ‘The Coffin’, though?”

“N-o, I hadn’t.” His fear is palpable in the room, stinking sharply in Clayton’s nostrils, and he leans forward again, gestures lazily with his gun just to see the way Whitlock’s eyes track it.

“I could tell you how I got the name, but you’re supposed to be smart, you can figure it out yourself.” He says it as derisively as possible, and it feels good, feels cruel, to be so in control of his emotions and other people’s reactions to them. “Now, I have a proposition for you, and you’re gonna listen real close and think real hard, you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I do, uh-huh.” The man’s voice cracks and hitches, and Clayton drops the smile and flattens his tone.

“You fucking drunk, you’re going to leave, alright? Go out further west, and you’re going to leave Bella here. Give her a divorce, give her money, and get the fuck out of dodge, if you know what’s good for you.” It’s all threat, sincere and deadly and deep, but Whitlock, it seems, is just as stupid as Bella had let on.

“Why, why would I do that?” It’s an obvious bluff, the quiver in his voice very real, and Clayton can feel his lips start to curl back.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll make her a widow and doctor your will myself.” He finally stretches himself up out of the chair, levels his gun right at the man’s heart and bares his teeth in his most savage imitation of a smile. "Now, Mr. Whitlock, you tell me-you feel like someone's walking over your grave right now?"

“Please don’t kill me, I’ll do whatever you say, oh god, please.”

“Then run like the cur you are.” He starts to tighten his finger on the trigger, watches the other man slam his eyes shut, takes a slow breath, and squeezes.

He’s gone with a ribbon in his pocket before Mr. Whitlock can register what that empty clicking sound was.

--

Sneaking into Miriam’s room that same afternoon is easy with the lockpicking skills he’s picked up over the last year. Finding the address he needs is a little harder, but eventually he’s able to carefully copy it down from a scrap of envelope that wasn’t torn up enough in the waste basket.

He’s loathe to invade her privacy, but his fingers are itchy and her trunk is sitting unlocked. It takes much less time to find what he wants, and before long he’s making his way down to the post office to send a letter; the snuffbox is a comforting weight in his pocket next to the ribbon.

The postmaster makes a comment about how light the letter is, and Clayton just shrugs and pays him, doesn’t offer much in the way of an explanation but just enough that he hopes it will be forgettable.

“It ain’t long, but it should suffice.”

Let her stay, and stay far away, or I’m coming for you.

-The Coffin

--

He slips through alleys like a shadow on his way back to the hotel, unsure where the four people he’s avoiding are going to be spending their evening, and makes it upstairs to his own room with no one paying him mind.

Everything important is already packed, and he slings the bag over his shoulder and locks the door before heading over to the last room he needs to collect something from.

Aloysius’s room is a mess, which is surprisingly helpful in Clayton’s search, and he’s downstairs checking out in 2 minutes flat with a single playing card lying under the ribbon in the snuffbox, all secured within his pack.

“You heard of a man, dark one, called Aloysius?” He holds his breath to keep from snapping to attention when he hears the name, looks out the corner of his eye and sees a man sneering at the clerk, and the stillness inside cools him immediately.

“I have. I know exactly who you’re talking about.” His voice is steady, easy, and the clerk looks at him sharply but Clayton just nods to him and turns to face the bounty hunter.

His grin is ugly and mean, and Clayton finds himself very comfortable with what is going to happen in a few moments.

“Mind telling me where I could find that dog?” He leans in closer, swaying slightly, and Clayton raises an eyebrow and shrugs, makes himself sound as disinterested as possible.

“For a price, I will.”

“Whatever you want, friend,” and the word sounds wrong out of this man’s mouth, burns through the calm in Clayton’s chest, but he forces himself not to react.

“Not here, outside. Follow me.” The man follows, chuckling low to himself, and Clayton finds his breath slowing immediately, matches it to the steady beat of his heart, and within a few seconds they’re behind the building.

“Now, where’s this fuck-” and Clayton has the barrel of his gun jammed in the man’s mouth before he finishes speaking, pulls the trigger without a second thought, and watches the back of his head blow out against the wall.

He follows the body to the ground, finds a bounty from the south in a coat pocket and shoves it into his own, and then disappears down the other end of the alley, mindful not to step in any blood.

Night has fully fallen by the time he makes it down to his second to last destination, and he’s unsurprised when he opens the door to find expectant eyes already on him.

“Sheriff.” He tips the brim of his hat and nods, pack over his left shoulder and the wound throbbing on his side.

“Mr. Sharpe. Sorry to see you go.” Bullock sounds genuine, and Clayton fights back a snort, just nods again and steps closer to put a sack of gold on the man’s desk.

“You’re the only one. You keep hiding those bounties for me? When I have an address they can be sent to I’ll let you know.” 

“Keep your money. I’ll keep doing it all the same.” Bullock crooks a smile at him and nods, pushing the gold back across the desk and staring up at him with knowing eyes. Clayton pulls the brim of his hat down lower and quietly pockets the gold.

“Before you go, thought you should know I did get in a wanted poster today. Not for Mr. Fogg or the Reverend, but someone else you might know.” He says it mildly, holding the folded paper out between them, and Clayton clenches his jaw and takes it carefully, pocketing it without bothering to read it. Bullock nods once more and settles back in his seat, and Clayton breathes again.

“Thank you.” He turns and heads for the door as he says it, conversation over, but the sheriff breaks the silence just before he steps outside.

“You’re a good man, Mr. Sharpe. Deadwood will be a little worse without you.” It hits him like a bullet, but Clayton breathes slowly and does not turn around.

“No, Sheriff, I’m leaving the good ones here. They’ll take care of everything. Don’t need me for that, I can promise you.” 

He slips out into the night and heads for the church, and no one stops him.

The doors are locked, Matthew evidently still out with the others, so Clayton slinks around to the back door by the stairs and picks the lock, slipping in quietly and making his way over to the front pews. It’s quiet, and dark, the shutters closed and only faint slits of moonlight falling across the floor, but for as few masses Clayton has attended he still knows the inside of this building like the back of his hand.

He sets his bag down and sits next to it, looks up to the pulpit to see the ghost of Matthew for a moment before carrying his gaze up to where the crucifix is firmly anchored to the wall.

Clayton clasps his hands together, slows his breathing, and tries not to pray as he waits.

Time passes strangely, but it seems like a few hours before the doors behind him unlock and swing open, and he turns to face them, not keen on having a gun pulled on him for looking like a lurker in the dark.

“Clayton! I, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Matthew’s voice contains a range of emotions, but relief seems to be the most prevalent, and Clayton aches, makes himself stand slowly so he doesn’t drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness that he doesn’t deserve.

“I’ve come to give a confession, Reverend.” His voice sounds a little rough to his own ears, and he clears his throat and raises his chin and tries not to think about how he’d been getting too used to having people who wanted to hear him.

“Well I wasn’t expecting that either, but of course I’ll listen. Please, come, I have a partition over here to sit behind so no one feels too exposed.” Matthew seems to school his features somewhat, walking down the aisle towards him and gesturing towards the side, but the relief is still there and Clayton wishes he could make it last.

“No offense, Mason, but I still don’t truly trust the integrity of this building. You mind us using your room upstairs?” He makes his voice casual, even, steady, but he can see Matthew’s eyes tracking over his body, the way he’s still holding himself a little stiff, and the reverend immediately nods.

“Yes, of course, I understand. We can lock the door and put the chair under it like usual-ah, I mean, if you like.” It’s hard to tell with so little light, but Clayton thinks he sees a flush high on Matthew’s cheeks as he keeps approaching.

“Good. Lead the way, then.” Clayton stays by the pew as Matthew passes him, blocking any view of his pack before falling in behind him, and he forces himself to follow slowly out the back door, takes the stairs carefully and does not crowd up against the broad back in front of him as the reverend fumbles with his keys for a moment before unlocking the door.

He slips in silently when the door is held open to him, already walking over to grab the chair and bring it back over before Matthew has even flipped the lock, and he forces himself to wait until he steps away before wedging the chair under the handle. Matthew hesitates briefly and then steps away, over to the side table where the lantern is, and Clayton tries to find the still place inside but there is only heat as the light takes and he gets to see Matthew for the first time in a full week.

“Do you want to sit for this, or-” and he can’t let Matthew finish, the genuine concern in his voice and the want in his eyes too much, the heat in Clayton’s chest flaring bright and taking over as he all but flings himself forward to grab the lapels of the reverend’s coat and yank him down into a kiss.

They almost knock foreheads as Matthew ducks down a little too far, but Clayton dodges and then lets Matthew pull him back into another kiss as he wraps large arms around his waist, presses flush against the reverend and licks into his mouth with a whine he can’t hold back.

“I’m sorry, that’s my confession, I’m sorry,” he gasps it between kisses, between undressing Matthew as fast as he possibly can, between helping Matthew peel his layers off and away.

The reverend leaves his undershirt alone, but Clayton rips it off and flings it away just as they tumble into bed.

Afterwards, as the sweat cools on their bodies and makes the bandages around his torso itch, Clayton stretches out on his stomach and presses his face against Matthew’s shoulder, exposing the tattoo on his upper back where he knows the lantern light will highlight it.

“I don’t recognize the flowers.” The reverend’s voice is soft, hushed, giving Clayton the opportunity to pretend he didn’t hear.

Clayton is tired of hiding.

“Black Eyed Susans,” and he takes a deep, slow breath, leaves his mouth against Matthew’s shoulder and does not look up. “They were my little sister’s favorite, on account of having the same name. She’d be around Bella’s age.”

“Oh, Clayton,” and the weight of those two words almost brings 15 years worth of repressed grief crashing down; he presses his fingers against the reverend’s ribs and swallows, lets himself get pressed even closer by the warm hand that covers the tattoo.

“She wanted to give her life to the Lord, and instead he saw fit to let someone else take it. So the flowers, and the broken rosary.” Clayton can feel his voice crack more than he hears it, but it’s still too much, and so he grits his teeth and leans up to kiss Matthew and closes his eyes against the burning of tears.

Matthew grants him the kindness of letting him, just holds him close and kisses back until his breathing slows into snoring and he goes completely lax under Clayton. 

His chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the wound in his side when he carefully pulls away and Matthew tries to hold onto him even while asleep.

He leaves his real confession in the form of his own wanted poster on the empty pillow he leaves behind, and this close and well lit he could count the silver beginning to thread through Matthew’s temples. The poster is older than the one the sheriff had given him, with long set creases and the paper more weathered, and a name Clayton hasn’t used in fifteen years is printed in large letters, along with a crime he did not commit. 

Across the eyes of his likeness is scrawled the word “innocent” in a hand that Clayton trained himself out of using a decade ago. He hopes (prays) that it’s enough for Matthew to believe.

He gives in to temptation and kisses Matthew’s temple after he’s finished redressing, rests a hand over his heart and thinks about saying a prayer for a moment before straightening up instead. His favorite rosary is sitting on the bedside table, and Clayton can’t help how his fingers twitch for it.

He puts on his hat and angles the brim down low to give his hands something to do as he carefully walks away from the bed; he takes the worn out wooden one draped over the door handle instead on his way out, looping it around his wrist and tucking it under his sleeve.

He does not give in to the urge to look back and closes the door behind him as quiet as he can.

Clayton skips the parts of the stairs that made noise on the way up and slips in through the back door of the church to grab his pack; he ghosts his way past the pews, does not look over his shoulder to the crucifix behind him (watching him, witnessing him), and slips out of the church doors without a sound.

“Told you.” There’s a quiet snicker from his right, and Clayton squeezes the cross in his hand, does not reach for a gun, and turns to face the two men who keep reappearing like cockroaches that want Matthew’s hide.

“You told who what?” He shutters his voice on purpose, does not let it sound as dangerous as he feels on the inside, and cocks a dispassionate eyebrow.

“I told him you and the bastard who calls himself a preacher were fuckin’ around like a couple of regular sinners.” It’s a sneer, derision smeared all over the word ‘preacher’, and the man spits after he says it.

Clayton finds the stillness and taps into quicker than he ever has in his life, sinking into the darkness of his soul and letting everything grow cold.

“I get what I want from him.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

Forgiveness, Clayton wants to say, kindness, more understanding and patience than I deserve, the chance to treat someone right for once in my life.

But these men aren’t looking for honesty, and God knows they don’t deserve it.

“Information,” hook, “You’re the one who thinks he knows Mason’s past, huh? Think you know what happened during the war?” The man’s grin is ugly as he nods, and Clayton hums flatly.

Clayton thinks about what Matthew has told him about the slaughter he’d seen and deserting, and the stillness he sometimes sees that mirrors his own, and how one time Matthew had woken up with tears on his face and hadn’t said a word for a half hour before getting up, had just shaken in Clayton’s arms.

He grins dark and mean, says “You don’t know the half of it,” line, “C’mon, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just not here, don’t want him to come wandering out.”

“Lead the way, Coffin.”

And sinker.

Clayton leads them towards the gallows, out of sight of the majority of town, listens to them quietly plan on how to use the information, and his pack is on the ground and his guns are cracking against their temples before they’ve even thought to shut their mouths.

It’s easy to tie them up and gag them, stunned as they are, and Clayton thinks idly that he might have cracked one of their skulls, but he honestly can’t bring himself to care enough to really check.

He does wait until their eyes focus on him before he starts talking, though.

“You know, I thought about the different options I had for this. I’m known for my guns, but to be completely honest, that’s a quicker mercy than you deserve, and I don’t want anyone to come looking at those sounds anyway. So I’m going to cut you open, and I’m going to string you up, and we’ll see which one kills you motherfuckers first.” They both try to shout, to say something, maybe a threat, maybe a plea, but he’s not feeling in the mood to listen.

Clayton takes his time and says a prayer with the man who says he knows Matthew's past.

"In the name of the father," as he scalps him, "the son," and drives his knife into the man's gut, "and the Holy," slices through the muscle in the left shoulder, "Ghost," and bears his full weight into the knife until he hears the edge of the clavicle snap at the right shoulder.

They're both a bloody mess by the time he's done, but only one of them is grinning like a man possessed by a demon.

"Why sir, you're sweating like a sinner in church. You got something to confess?" The man tries to speak around the cloth shoved in his mouth, a pained sound that just makes Clayton’s mouth twist up more. He watches the blood slide into his eyes and shrugs before straightening up. He looks to the other man, finds his face twisted in horror and the ground around him dark and wet.

“Oh don’t worry, you won’t get it as bad.” This is a lie, but Clayton’s been sinning his whole life, and it doesn’t even add weight as he throws it onto the pile.

He sticks his knife into the man’s chest and drags it down, opens him up like a rabbit, and smiles the whole time.

Stringing them up takes a while, the two men fading in and out of consciousness, complete dead weights, but Clayton pushes past burning muscles and the strain against the healing wound in his side until they’re practically hanging, barely held up by their own balance and just on the alive side of straining for breath.

As long as they stay conscious, they’ll be fine.

Clayton pulls two nails out of his pocket and smiles grimly at the fearful noises the men in front of him make when he holds them up.

“I’m not going to lie, I was just planning leaving these in two corpses, but running into you two was far better.”

He sticks his own bounty, Clayton Sharpe’s bounty, to the thigh of the man who’s already on his way out, weight sagging heavily against the rope around his neck, drives the nail in through flesh and muscle with hard enough force that the paper rips a little.

He puts the warning to leave the reverend be through the hands of the other man, tied together in a sick mockery of prayer.

“When you get to Hell, you tell the devil I said hey.” 

The sun isn’t quite coming up when Clayton makes it back to the church, where his horse is tied up and knickering for him, but the sky is getting lighter, and that’s all the warning he needs.

Clayton clutches the cross at the end of the rosary in one fist and he heads for Cheyenne.

--

Clayton’s never been much of one for dreaming, but he dreams every night of the same thing while he travels, and wakes up furious with himself each time, but tries to convince himself that once he wraps up the last of his loose ends he'll go back to dreamless sleep.

The night after Clayton has his discussion with Miriam’s husband he wakes from another dream of Deadwood, of four warm bodies sitting around a familiar table, of four sets of eyes that won’t stop looking for him, and grabs the rosary around his wrist and screams every curse word he knows up at the moon.

They crawled under his skin while he wasn’t watching, and now he can’t shake them free.

--

The miles stretch further as the days pass, and slowly the days turn into weeks, and every night, Clayton dreams about the people he has left behind.

And then there is a full moon, and even for all of Arabella’s occult teachings she likes to dole out that Clayton generally sweeps aside, something doesn’t settle right as he lays down to sleep.

He dreams of men in Deadwood, men he knows, men who should not be there, and it chills him to the quick, their eyes cruel and their bodies confident and their hands fucking filthy (folded in prayer, covered in blood, knuckle deep inside his chest, will find him will hunt him will hurt him please God make it stop ain’t no God here for you).

This is no dream, this is a nightmare, and Clayton is helpless to watch as they walk down the main street and right up to the church like they belong there.

The doors are unlocked, even after sundown on a Friday night, and Clayton feels sick deep in his soul.

Matthew is tidying up prayer books, unassuming and already starting to smile as he looks up, and Clayton wants to scream, tries to and can’t, just watches as the group files in and close the doors behind them.

“Hello there, how may I help you this evening?” The reverend is too calm, too welcoming, standing there like he’s going to have a civil conversation with the men who left the worst scars on Clayton, with men who don’t give a damn about right or wrong or religion, with men who will tear apart anyone, even a priest, if they think it’ll get them what they want, and Clayton is torn between praying that he can intervene and trying to call on the fucking Dealer.

“Evening, Reverend. We were hoping you could answer some questions for us.” It’s said easy, friendly, poison under all of it, and Matthew’s face doesn’t drop the friendly smile as he takes in the five men in front of him and then heads to the pulpit where the prayer books are stored.

“I always do my best to answer whatever questions are put before me. Please, go ahead.”

“The name ‘Amos Kinsley’ mean anything to you?” And there’s the voice from Clayton’s nightmares, and he can feel phantom hands on him, bile rising up in his throat as Ted Dancy steps to the front of the group. Matthew hums absently and ducks to put the books away, and when he comes back up he’s cocking the shotgun and aiming it steadily right at Clayton’s worst demon.

Several things happen very quickly, but in this weird dream state Clayton is able to keep track of it all; Matthew fires both barrels, and Aloysius comes bursting through the back door, firing off two quick shots, and Arabella and Miriam come slamming through the front doors, each shooting with deadly precision.

Then there are five bodies on the ground, four very still and one twitching slightly, and Matthew walks toward it very calmly, the other three converging with him, all staring down at Dancy with disdain on their faces.

“I’d say that name means a lot more to me then it ever will you, son. You best tell the Devil who sent you.” Matthew pulls his pistol and shoots him right between the eyes, expression dead and clear of any conflict of emotion.

Clayton drops to his knees in the corner, vision starting to tunnel and ears filled with the rushing of blood, and Matthew turns as if he’s heard a sound.

“Thank you,” he tries to say, thinks he says, to no one that can hear him, but Matthew’s eyes go wide and he drops his gun, takes a step away from the group, face lighting up with hope.

“Clayton?” Only he can’t hear it, can only read Matthew’s lips, and he reaches out before everything goes black and Clayton wakes up in time to roll onto his side before he throws up everything in his stomach, shaking with fear and relief and adrenaline.

He starts the journey back before the sun comes up.

--

Clayton Sharpe is sitting in the Gem Saloon one week later, early in the morning, his things locked away in a room in the Bullock Hotel. His back is to the wall and his hands are flat on the table so they do not shake, and when three familiar faces step in with wide eyes full of hope he takes the shot that's been waiting in front of him for a half hour.

Miriam spots him first, and she grabs Aloysius and Arabella each by the hand and drags them over to him, a smile threatening to split her face. The three of them stand on the other side of his table, and Clayton swallows and tips the brim of his hat up, nods to them all, and fights back a smile when he sees they do not let go of each other.

"The morning after you left, my husband told me he's moving out west." Arabella speaks first, swaying forward and bracing her free hand against a chair, voice full of excitement and accusation in equal parts.

"Pleasure to see you too, Miss Livingston." He keeps his voice even, steady, looking over the three of them for any new injuries

"And then he said he'll give me a divorce, too, but I can keep the house, and the money, too." She’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen, no weight on her shoulders or strain in her eyes, and Aloysius and Miriam are both looking at her, too, unable to hide the adoration on their faces.

Clayton aches for what he might have missed.

"Well ain't that something." He says it mildly, hands still flat against the table, and Arabella laughs and sways forward again, eyes going sharp.

"None of the others are taking credit for it, and that only leaves one living person." Three sets of eyes on him, then, shrewd and knowing, and Clayton exhales slowly and shrugs a shoulder.

"I'm not good with words, and I wasn't sure you'd accept an apology from me, anyway. Seemed like the only thing left to do." The honesty scares him, makes him want to run, but he stays planted in the chair and maintains eye contact.

"You didn't have to do anything, Mr. Sharpe,” said gently, offering him an out, but Clayton wants to give them this.

"Yes, I did. You're," someone who actually gives a shit about me, one of the only fucking friends I have, one of the only people I trust, my sister, "a good person, Bella. And you didn't deserve to live under his shadow anymore."

Bella’s eyes get a little glassy, but she smiles bright as the sun as she leans into Miriam.

“No, she didn’t. And now she doesn’t have to,” Aly says it conversationally, eyes still sharp but mouth curled up, “But it seems like you might have been doing a lot of apologizing with actions before you left.”

“Does it seem like that?” He swallows hard, caught out, and glances over to the door, half expecting the sheriff to walk in, but Aly just laughs and knocks his free hand against the table.

“You fool man,” and Miriam lets go of their hands to walk around the table towards him, slowly reaching for his shoulder like he’s a spooked horse, “You came back here even though you could have been in danger of swinging yourself.”

Clayton cannot help the way he relaxes under her touch or the way his hand twitches on the table, instinct telling him to reassure her that he’s fine.

“I owed it to you all to come back, after what I saw you do for me last week.” And he half expects them not to know, but there’s no surprise on their faces, just Miriam squeezing his shoulder and smiling warmly at him when he hazards a glance at her.

“Sugar, you didn’t owe us anything,” and she means it, sincerity falling out of her mouth and landing in his lap, and Clayton has to take a slow breath and curl his hands into fists before he can respond.

“Pretty sure that at the very least I owe you an apology for the things I said before I left.” He looks across the three of them, waits to see hurt or anger, but Miriam just squeezes his shoulder while Aly and Bella wave their hands.

“Well, apology accepted, then. Now, as happy as I am to see you, I think there’s someone else who might want to see you even more.” She’s reached over for Aloysius with Miriam no longer between them, and he takes her hand carefully as Clayton watches, and warmth blooms beneath his breastbone.

“In that case, excuse me.” He stands from his chair and nods to Miriam, lets his mouth quirk into a small smile when she drops to squeeze his wrist, right where the rosary sits under his sleeve, lightning quick before stepping back so he can head for the door. “I’ll see y’all later?” The uncertainty sits heavy on his tongue, but he looks back to see three warm smiles, welcoming him back.

“You damn well better, man. You damn well better.”

The walk to the church has never gone so quickly, and Clayton forces himself to take a deep breath when he gets to the front doors, reaches for that still place inside himself and waits for it to settle before slipping inside as quiet as he can.

Reverend Matthew Mason is on his knees at the front of the church, looking up at the crucifix on the back wall with his hands clasped together, and all the quiet and calm inside of Clayton threatens to snap like a thousand weak threads. He takes another deep breath, tries to slow down the wild staccato of his heart, and starts walking down the aisle towards his friend (lover, dream, destiny).

“Morning, Reverend.” The response is instantaneous, Matthew shooting to his feet and spinning around so quick he has to catch himself on the altar, and his face is a little drawn and there are dark circles under his eyes and he’s still the most beautiful (most holy) thing that Clayton’s ever seen.

“Clayton?” His voice breaks, just a little, and Clayton can only nod, can only keep walking forward, voice locked somewhere in his throat. “Is it, is it really you?”

“Unless we’re having the same hallucination, yeah, it’s me.” He forces himself to talk, tries to crack a joke, but then Matthew is meeting him at the front of the pews, slamming into him and wrapping him tightly in his arms, and Clayton fists his hands in the back of his cassock and presses his face into his neck and inhales as deep as he can, so suddenly homesick for the man right in front of him that it hurts.

“Thank God you’re alright, I’ve been worried sick,” it’s pressed against his temple, his hair, his forehead, Matthew holding him tight and and exhaling the words like a prayer, and Clayton does not let himself melt like he wants to, just huffs out a laugh of relief instead.

“Good to know the other weren’t lying.”

“About what?” The reverend sounds distracted as he asks it, not focused in the slightest, and Clayton feels the same way, just wants to stand here and be held for the rest of his life, but he forces himself to answer even as he presses his mouth to the pulse thundering under the thin skin of his neck.

“About you wanting to see me,” and Matthew flinches as he says it, making him lose his hold, and Clayton feels like his heart has sunk into the pit of his stomach.

The reverend won’t meet his eyes as he takes a step back, looking like he’s been caught doing something terrible; Clayton thinks about sin, about what he wants, about what this small family of his has tried to teach him what he’s worth, and knows what he has to say.

"Mason, I've done a lot of things worse than being with another man, but I ain't going to be a source of shame to no one ever again. You don't have to be honest with anyone else-in fact, I'd rather you weren't, because it's a lot safer for you-for both of us." It comes out like a dam’s been broken, words flooding out of his mouth and spilling out raw emotion, and Matthew looks like he’s just been sucker punched.

"Clayton, I..." and they stand there for a moment, no other sound than their labored breathing, and Clayton can’t look away from those dark eyes full of a storm of emotion.

"But if you can't be honest with yourself, then this stops here." It comes out quieter than he means it to, but it still rings out like a shot.

Matthew closes his eyes, and Clayton feels the finality of it, squeezes the cross in his hand and starts to turn away.

"Ask me again." It’s little more than a whisper, but it freezes Clayton in place, and he looks out of the corner of his eye to see Matthew’s jaw set and his eyes bright and focused solely on him.

"About what, Reverend?" And Clayton just feels tired now, but he still turns to face the reverend, lets his shoulders droop and doesn’t try to put any mask on his face.

"About sinning,” and Matthew must see how he flinches but he pushes on anyway, “Please, Clayton."

"You really think this is worth sinning for,” and he doesn’t know why he does it, but he offers up his own heart like a fucking wounded animal that needs to be put down, “Matthew?"

"You're not a sin, Clay. You're worth so much more than that. You don’t-God above, Clay, you don’t have to drag yourself through the dirt and rocks and horrors of this land to prove yourself. You deserve,” and Matthew takes a deep breath, steps closer and reaches out, hand hovering just next to Clayton’s cheek, and he can’t breathe, “you deserve love already. You don’t have to earn it.”

Clayton swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and leans into Matthew’s hand, and the relieved breath the reverend exhales is almost enough to undo him.

“I’m just trying to be better than I was yesterday.” He whispers the confession and reaches up to hold Matthew’s hand in place against his cheek, and a smile blooms like the sun across the reverend’s face.

“That’s already enough. That’s always been enough, you have always been enough. You never needed to prove you deserve love,” and he smooths his thumb over Clayton’s cheek bone, rests it right under his eye where moisture has started to gather.

“That’s a lot of talk about love, Matthew.” He wants to say his name again and again, now that he's finally sure it won’t hurt to, but his throat closes up under the look of adoration he’s suddenly on the receiving end of.

“Yes, it is. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but Clayton, I love you,” and it feels like there’s light glowing inside of him, warm and bright and all because of Matthew, “on purpose, I love you. With everything I’ve seen, and everything I still don’t know. You think I didn’t see all those warning signs you were throwing my way?” Matthew smiles softly and taps his thumb gently against the corner of Clayton’s eye, and Clayton can’t help the wet laugh that escapes him even as he forces himself to be the voice of reason.

“The shit you don’t know is a lot worse.” His voice is thick, and he swallows hard, tries to push the emotions bubbling up back down into the hollow cavity of his chest, but Matthew steps closer, toe to toe, and keeps smiling.

“And then when you tell me, I will continue to choose to love you. I will not walk away, and unless you really want to go, I’m not letting you walk away either.” It’s a promise, nothing but sincerity in his eyes and Clayton lets himself sway forward to rest their foreheads together.

“Well, when you put it like that.” Clayton sighs as Matthew nudges their noses together, and then he watches the reverend notice the cross dangling from his sleeve, lets him slide it up until the wooden rosary is exposed around his wrist, watches Matthew lose his breath. “I don’t want to run anymore. Can I stay?”

“Yes,” and it’s an exhale of a prayer that makes Clayton want to fall to his knees, “Please, of course, anything.”

“It’s hard for me to call a place home. I reckon I don’t know what that means, to be honest.” He says it against Matthew’s mouth, squeezes his hand and reaches up with his other hand to trace his thumb over the scar on his cheek.

“I understand.” The reverend rubs his thumb over the rosary, careful and reverent, and flicks his eyes back up to lock onto Clayton’s, hope bright in them. “Maybe it would be easier to start with a person?”

“I think I could do that.” The words are barely out of his mouth before Matthew is kissing him, slow and sweet and so familiar that it makes his heart ache; he squeezes the rosary around Clayton’s wrist and it's absolution.

They don’t leave Matthew’s room until after the sun sets, and as they do he loops the rosary back around Clayton’s wrist, presses the cross into his palm and kisses it gently.

His smile feels like home, and Clayton thinks he could get used to this.

--

“Evening, Mr. Coffin. Where’s your other half?” Aloysius drops into the chair across from him with a smile, already reaching from the bottle in the center of the table, and Clayton rolls his eyes.

"Hearing a late confession.” He takes the shot his friend pours for him while laughing, watches Miriam and Arabella talking to Celine near the door, and rolls the glass between his hands. “You remember telling us how you chose your last name, Aly?"

"I do." He’s looking at Clayton with sharp eyes when he looks back over, and Clayton offers him a crooked smile, holds the shot glass back out and keeps his voice low.

"Well ‘The Coffin’ ain't one I chose." He says it softly, just between the two of them, and Aly pours him another shot and hums consideringly, dark eyes warm on him.

"You want me to stop calling you that?" It’s playful, teasing, but Clayton can read the sincerity in Aloysius’s eyes, and it makes him breathe a little easier and settle back into his chair.

"You going to if I say yes?" He hides his smirk behind his collar, glancing at his friend out of the corner of his eye and sees a smile curl over his face.

"Nope. I'm a big believer in reclaiming our ghosts. I think I'll help you with this one." He knocks his knuckles against the table as he says it, glancing over his shoulder to check on Miriam and Arabella, and Clayton watches all three of them light up when Matthew comes in through the door right next to where their friends are talking.

"I'm not asking you to." He says it quiet, still watching, and Aly turns back to him with a snort.

"You don't ask for shit. As your friend, I'm telling you,” eyes serious, tone leaving no room for argument, and Clayton finally lets himself smile, nods and raises his shot glass towards their three friends finally making their way towards them.

"Well, as long as we have that settled, then." He taps glasses with Aly and downs the shot with him, smooth and easy, and makes eye contact with Matthew over his shoulder, feels the warmth in those eyes sink into his bones and settle deep into his core.

“We sure do, Mr. Coffin. We sure do.”

--

“I love you, Matty” he whispers in the dark, lips brushing Matthew’s neck, and he feels an answer in the hand that slides over on his back to press right between his shoulder blades, directly underneath his sister’s flowers. “I don’t think I could ever stop.”

“And I don’t ever want you to.” Matthew presses the words into his hair, voice heavy with sleep but deeply sincere, and Clayton smiles, kisses the skin under his mouth and hums low in his throat.

“I know. Go to sleep, Father.” The only answer he gets is a slur of words that might start as an insult but trail off into a snore, and Clayton can’t help but laugh, even as the sound starts to soothe him towards sleep.

He focuses on the dull pain of the new tattoo on his back, slides his hand up to rest just over Matt’s chest, where he can feel the steady beat of his heart, and sees the design they drew together against his eyelids even as he follows him down into unconsciousness.

A fixed rosary, joined together, half his sister’s and half the one on the nightstand next to them, the one he gets to loop around his wrist every day. The one that means he has someone to believe in.

Clayton dreams, and as happy as it is, it doesn’t compare to his reality.