Dear Charlotte, your birthday story is looking bigger and shinier. I shouldn't make you beta read your own birthday gift, but it's all the better for it. May your shadow never grow less. Happy Birthday. R.

Chris stared sourly at his glass. There were times when he could cheerfully shoot JD.

The kid was nowhere in sight, and frankly, that annoyed him more than seeing him would. Or maybe not. He spent a few seconds trying to decide whether seeing him and wanting to shoot him and not being able to, or actively getting up, hunting him down and wanting to shoot him would be more annoying. If he stayed here, he could get another drink. Hunting JD down won out, marginally, on the more annoying stakes, and Chris slopped another shot into his glass, then drained it. He frowned. Why did he bother with the glass?

"I'm thinking that's not as much fun as you'd like." Buck parked himself kitty corner to Chris, leaning his elbows on the table and taking up far more space than was probable, or convenient. Chris reached to move the bottle, but Buck got to it first. "Huh. The bad stuff."

"Oh, I finished the bad stuff a while back," Chris confided. He raised the glass in salute, then swooped in to drink the last drops. The glass wasn't quite where his eyes expected, but hand and mouth were used to this, and coordinated themselves despite him. He slapped it, empty, down in front of Buck.

"Don't mind if I do." He poured a shot into Chris's glass, and before Chris could grab it, drank it himself. His mouth quirked. "You weren't kidding. Whooo-ee." He poured another glass and pushed it towards Chris, who glowered but took it and drank it down, dropping the glass with more force than he intended onto the table.

Buck grinned. "What're you gonna do to get home, Larabee? Roll?"

"C'n ride."

"You probably can at that." Buck sighed, "Well, if you're not wanting company…?"

Chris didn't say anything but when Buck made as if to get up, stared at him until he sat down again with a grin.

"Plenty of friends you could make around here, if ya wanted."

Chris shrugged. He wanted Lydia, or one of Lydia's girls. He didn't shit in his own back yard. If he fucked one of the girls here, that could backfire spectacularly. Besides. No point antagonising that Travis woman any more .

"Too late for that." He reached for the bottle, and Buck moved it away, frowning.

"Too late -- Chris, what'n hell's name are you talkin' about?"

Chris blinked, and realised belatedly that Buck had completely missed his train of thought. He grinned slowly. Rare enough for Buck to miss a sexual innuendo.

"You know, a *friend*," he said, leaning in a little further than he'd meant to. He wasn't drunk, wasn't out of control. He just leaned in far enough to smell Buck.

His pants were tight, and he wriggled in his seat. Shouldn't have had that extra dish of stew for dinner, he thought, and swiftly behind that came the urgent need to piss. He reached down and adjusted himself a little, and Buck's eyebrows shot up.

"Ahuh." Buck said mildly. "A friend."

Chris pushed up to his feet and started for the doors. As an afterthought he grabbed the bottle, and distantly admired the straight line he made to the doors, and the crisp, even sound of his booted feet on the wooden floor. Sharp against the soft haze of alcohol.

Not drunk, just a little done.

"Where you think you're going, pard?" Buck asked at his shoulder, and Chris felt both startled and unsurprised. Years of controlling his reactions let him simply toss the bottle in Buck's direction, trusting him to catch it before it smashed as he took a sharp turn around the corner of the saloon and opened his fly and let loose with a sigh of relief.

Buck chuckled, his back to Chris, a dark shape blocking the flickering light from the torches on the street. Wouldn't be long before they guttered and the dark became nearly absolute, just the stars to see by. He wondered absently where JD was, since he was on his feet now anyway… A little huntin' and shootin' might cheer him right up. Or not.

"Fuckin' shame," he muttered to himself, staring down at his flaccid dick. Even if there'd been someone available, didn't look like he'd be doing much about it. He shook off the last few drops and tucked himself away.

"What's that?" Buck asked, and then paused, and even with his back turned and facing away from the light he could hear the chuckle in Buck's voice, rich with innuendo.

"Is *that* it?"

"What?" he snapped, and turned back up onto the main street, his hand held out for the bottle. Buck handed it over, and he opened it, took a good swig, and wiped his hand across his mouth.

"You know *what*," Buck laughed.

"None of your damn business."

"I got a room."

Chris paused and looked at Buck.

Buck looked at him, and despite the dark he didn't really need to see to know what he was thinking. He shrugged. "Better'n riding home in the dark," he said casually, as though it was just an offer of sleep space.

Maybe it was.

Buck took the bottle off him as he opened the door for him. Mrs. Cooper had given in and put Buck as far away from any other person as possible. She liked the money, and she turned a blind eye to the midnight comings and goings now that she didn't have to listen to the periods betwixt and between.

The bottle clattered on the dresser and Chris flinched. Noisy.

"Sorry," Buck muttered, and bent over something by the bed. A scrape and the flare of a Lucifer blinded him, leaving spots before his eyes as he shrugged out of his duster, letting it lie where it fell. He sat on the bed in the dim glow of the oil lamp and pulled his boots off, Buck next to him, companionably stretching out his stockinged feet with a happy little groan.

The bed creaked a little, and Chris didn't move as Buck unbuttoned his shirt, sober fingers deft and quick.

"You wanna get your belt?" Buck murmured, and Chris nodded. His hands fumbled a little, distracted by Buck's hands on his chest, pushing the soft cotton away from his shoulders. "Shift up a little."

Chris lifted up, his belt undone, and then his trousers were gathered around his knees, and he shuffled free, just wearing his drawers, and not quite sure if Buck meant something by it, or not. His heartbeat seemed heavy and loud, the world slowed to keep pace with it.

Buck's hands swept over him, so lightly. He leaned back; let his head fall back, so relaxed with the rotgut and the quiet that it seemed like living through a dream. Strong hands. Buck was shifting beside him, leaning in over him, lips brushing, slow and easy.

"Yeah?" Buck asked, and Chris half smiled. Kinda late to be asking, he thought, and hummed contentedly. "Yeah," Buck said again, and Chris's smile spread wider. Buck pressed in close and Chris moved with him. Hands fumbled between them, and Buck's skin was warm against him, getting hotter, rubbing closer.

Buck muttered something into his throat and Chris gripped at Buck's hips, rolling up against him, then, more in control, slid his hands up over warm muscle, the inscribed line of backbone and arching ribs. In his mind's eye he saw the tanned skin under his touch, and breathed in deep. He smelled musky, not dirty exactly, just -- like Buck, like horses and smoke and women's perfume and sweat. He smelled good. Familiar.

Buck's hand was on his cock, a firm, dry grip that squeezed and let go, squeezed and let go, until the comfort of touch turned like a spark on dry rags, mutated to urgent need. Buck didn't pause, chuckled almost silently, and Chris swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth, his throat so dry it seemed to click. Buck's grip twisted a little, and the alcohol blur burned away, leaving him raw and tense, eyes shut in something near to pain.

Buck's thumb stroked over the tip of his cock and Chris jerked, moaned something that could have been a name, could have been anything, he had no idea what, couldn't even think to warn him. Buck's hand twisted again and tipped him over that sharp edge, spilling him into endless dark, deep silence, slick and smooth and aching, breathing in choked gasps into Buck's shoulder.

"Good," Buck mumbled, hands gentling. "Good." Maybe he was asking, maybe not, but Chris nodded, yes, yes it was good, all good. He turned his face, brushed kisses against Buck's lips until a wet hand held his cheek still and Buck kissed him, pressing him down into the bed, and he pushed back, still restless with unspent desire. Buck's cock was hard against his thigh, and Chris held him close, one hand in Buck's hair, the other sweeping down the long, long line of his back, shifting, rolling.

It was almost more like wrestling than fucking, and Chris had to fight the impulse to throw Buck off as he pinned him, both half on their sides, chest to back, breathing hard into the mattress as Buck pressed against him, painfully close, too tight, too big, too much, just right, oh god…

Then it was there, just there, moving perfectly together, Buck wrapped around him, deep inside, a leg between Chris's thighs, holding him open for each thrust. He fisted his own cock in time with Buck, then Buck's hand was there too, and Chris was shaking with the doubled pleasure.

Buck's breath was coming in shuddering gasps against his ear, hot and damp, like their bodies; like the air around them, and the ache in his ass, and the grip on his cock. Buck held him close, safe enough to sleep; too hot to breathe.

He wrapped his hand around Buck's, pulling it up to hold against his chest, stopping him stroking -- too much, too soon, he was going to finish again, too soon, he didn't want it to be over yet. Buck moaned low, a helpless sort of sound, his hips moving faster, a hard thrust, then little jerks forwards as though he could go deeper, then out and in again, desperate to get fully inside Chris.

Chris shuddered, and came again into his and Buck's hands. He thought Buck was done, or near enough done, but he couldn't be sure, too lost in the feel of Buck's hands on him, and his own release, and the hard stretch holding his fundament open.

Their breathing slowed, and Chris grunted, winced a little as Buck withdrew. He didn't quite remember how the sheets and blankets came to be arranged over them instead of underneath, the cotton softer than the barely noticed prickle of the rough blankets on his bare skin. Buck's arm was a heavy weight over his hip, his body too close and warm for comfort.

Buck hummed interrogatively against the back of his neck and all remaining tension slid out of him.

"Yeah," he whispered hazily, not answering, not asking, absorbed in the moment of existence. His eyes closed and he tucked himself in closer to the sweaty heat of Buck's body. In turn, Buck's arm tightened, no casual embrace, a touch meaning memory and strength, rock steady no matter might come.

Lips brushed over his neck, and he let it all go, forgotten, and close contentment carried him into sleep.

M7 Slash page

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the fandoms listed herein. I am certainly making no money off of these creative fan tributes to a wonderful, fun show.