Magnificent 7 drabble

Ezra let himself into his dark room above the saloon, wobbling slightly as he moved. Too much scotch would do that.

Closing the door, he leaned against the solid wood barrier and let his shoulders slump. The day had been long and trying, and keeping up the facade that was expected of him was difficult. It wasn't the first time a group of ruffians had attempted to rob the bank, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. It also hadn't been the first time he'd killed someone attempting to rob the Four Corners bank, nor would it be the last, either. Such was the life he'd chosen when he'd decided to stay in the dusty town.

No, what had bothered him today, which hadn't been present in any of those previous instances, was the identity of the thief he had taken down. He'd been younger than JD, and just as green and naive as his young compatriot had been when they'd first met. The young – dead – man – boy – had the unfortunate coincidence of bearing an uncanny resemblance to someone he'd known years ago, who had died an even more pointless death than that young bank robber had today.

The experience had jolted him more than he'd been aware, as hours later he'd found himself down in the saloon, alone, putting considerable effort into emptying a bottle of scotch.

“Bad day, Ez?” asked a quiet voice, startling him by its suddenness. Spinning, Ezra cursed himself for letting his guard down. He had apparently started losing his touch if someone was able to hide in his room – with him in it – without him noticing.

Or it may simply be the sheer quantity of alcohol consumed.

“Mr Larabee. To what do I owe this auspicious visit?” he asked as steadily as he could. Taking off his hat, he placed it on the bed post. He he unclipped the links at his wrists and loosened his jacket, hoping the other man would take the hint and leave. However, Chris Larabee was nothing if not stubborn and selectively blind to the most blatant of hints.

“Thought you could use a drink,” the other man said, and for the first time Ezra saw the bottle of bourbon sitting on the dresser next to an empty glass. Chris had a second glass already comfortably settled in his own had, looking for all the world like he belonged here. In Ezra's private sanctuary.

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I do believe I have exceeded my tolerance this evening.” Ezra wished that the other man would leave him be, so he could let an alcoholic slumber erase the pains of the day.

“Drinkin' alone never banishes the demons,” he said, a wealth of knowledge in his voice.

On any other day, under any other set of circumstances, Ezra would have done what he did best – verbally attack the hypocrisy inherent in that statement, but it was too late and he felt too exposed. The alcohol had only numbed the memories, but the heartache was present and accounted for. He felt flayed wide open, and despised having anyone see the ugly scar inside him where Patrick used to live.

“Please leave, Mr Larabee,” Ezra said tiredly. “I am in no mood for company this evening.”

“Not here for company, Ez. Here for a friend.”

Ezra puzzled over that statement, wondering what angle Chris was playing. Hi s mind was sluggish, and he didn't have the energy to even care. He simply wanted to be alone with his thoughts and memories. And perhaps that bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer.

“Have a drink, Ez,” he said again, his voice soft and hypnotic. Later, Ezra would attempt to dissect the undercurrents in the words, but for now he simply walked over and poured himself some bourbon.

He was generally not a fan of that particular hard liquor, but had little reason to care at the moment.

Ezra stood and sipped the bourbon, feeling the distinctive burn as he swallowed. Silence reigned for some time, a comfortable companionship Ezra hadn't felt in longer than he cared to admit.

“His name was Patrick,” Ezra said, his voice soft. The words seemed to be a release, and soon Ezra found himself telling this man – neither stranger nor friend, yet a confidante – about a young man he'd only know a few short months, but had left a lasting impression.

He spoke of his immediate kinship with someone his complete opposite, their instinctive understanding of the other, and the nightmare that was Patrick's death; all with the knowledge that his words would remain private, between himself and Chris Larabee.

Perhaps there was something to this 'friends' idea, after all.

END

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