TITLE: Abstinence Can Make The Heart Grow Fonder
CHAPTERS/ONE SHOT: One Shot
WORD COUNT: 1053
CHARACTERS: Al Swearingen/Trixie
SUMMARY: Al's mad at Trixie, so he sent her away from his bed. Doesn't mean he doesn't miss her.
NOTES: Written for acropoliswrites prompt 18: Abstinence
Well, this was a night which Al Swearingen wasn't going to forget any time soon. Not that he was prone to such things - he had a steel trap mind, and a memory like an elephant. He had to, in his line of work. And by that was not meant simple saloon owner nor whoremonger but, more accurately, king of all he fucking surveyed. King of the fucking hill. A difficult position to maintain, but Al was a pro at doing just that. He was not a man born to live his life under someone else's heel. Just as he was not a man who ever forgot where he came from, and how.
The Reverend Smith was dead. Put out of his misery by Al's own hands, even as he explained to Johnny Burns the correct method of doing it, which involved a cloth and the proper application of ones hands, with the proper pressure. More importantly, Magistrate Claggett was dead, and the murder warrant which had hung like the proverbial Sword of Damocles over Al's head was now in his fucking hands. It almost made him not quite give a damn about the new bloodstain on his office floor. He'd have to get the gimp to attend to that. Once he got her to stop dancing with Doc Cochran, that is.
A hell of a night all the way around.
He'd left the office, and the bloodstain - and the newly self-pinned Seth Bullock - the same cocksucker who'd been a thorn in Al's side ever since he rode into camp. Sheriff Bullock left standing on Al's fucking balcony, making eyes at the widow Garrett through the window of EB's hotel across the street. Al guessed he was grateful to Alma Garrett, for if it hadn't been for the conniving slick tricks of her father, attempting to get his hands on her gold vein for purposes of his own - in order to pay off his accumulated debts - well, it wasn't damn likely Bullock would have beaten the shit out of him, nor come to take on the role of sheriff. Interestingly, it was Al who was responsible for Alma Garrett being a widow in the first place. He reckoned Bullock owed him one for that. Not that he intended to try to collect.
The calvary was riding out. Al guessed maybe the General hadn't found Cy Tolliver's place to his liking. No fucking surprise there. He grunted at Dan to hand him a bottle, from behind the bar, and took a damn long pull on it. From the corner of his eye, he was aware of her, although he affected not to notice. Of course not, it would have been beneath him to notice her, she was just a whore. Of course they were all his whores, but that was beside the fucking point.
It wasn't like he'd gone without just because he'd banished her from his bed. He hadn't. But it was a fucking pain in his ass to have to explain things to someone new, to tell the redhead what to do and when to do it. When to talk and when to suck and when to spit. Jesus fucking christ, he'd almost be better off as a priest.
Almost, but not quite.
No, and he had every fucking right to be pissed at Trixie, for being a whore, and for whoring around with that Jewish prick partner of Bullock's, outside of the Gem, in his store. Inside of the Gem it would have been business, only that and nothing more. Inside his store, it was something else and Al didn't like that something else. And he hadn't hesitated to collect his five dollars from Star, to put it back on a business footing. The Jew had refused at first, but once Al told him he was either getting it from him or Trixie would suffer, he had seen the light and paid up, like a good kike.
Doc and Jewel - what a pair. A gimp and a drunk. But at least she wasn't fucking dragging her damn leg. It was the scraping of her leg that drove him to yell at her most times. That and her fucking stupidity. If Doc's little brace shoe or whatever it was worked, more power to him. He caught another glimpse of Trixie. She was smiling now. At him? Maybe. He wasn't fucking going to ask.
And even though he hadn't fucked her since she'd fucked Star, and even though he'd fucked that other one, that redhead, still it felt like he hadn't really fucked anyone. Like he was abstinent or something. Jesus fucking Christ, what was the world coming to? And he was just about at the end of his rope. Not that he'd ever admit to it.
Dammit, he wasn't about to knuckle under to her. Not him. Not fucking Al Swearingen, big man in Deadwood. He poured himself a shot, bolted it. He'd had enough for one night. He turned away from the bar, heading toward the stairs. As he passed by her, he murmured, almost to himself, but well within her earshot, "Grab a bottle. Two minutes." And passed on by.
He was up in his room in less than one, standing in the corner, taking a piss in the chamberpot, when he heard the door open and close. He never bothered to turn until he was done, shaking himself before he buttoned his longjohns, moving to the bed where she now sat. At least she was there. Not that he cared. Of course he didn't.
He laid on his side of the bed while she removed her clothes, taking her own side. The bed creaked as she lay down. He blew out the light, but in what moonlight came through the window, he could see her silhouette, so familiar to him. She understood. She knew what he wanted, what he needed. Her mouth was warm upon his need, and as she crossed the fissure that had developed between them, Al Swearingen breathed a great sigh of relief, even as he filled her mouth.
He didn't have to tell her when to spit. Trixie was a swallower, thank the fucking lord. Satisfied once more, Al Swearingen closed his eyes and fell into a well deserved rest.