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Murdoch had to be losing his mind.

Mr. Jim Sterling, respectable, educated professional, pillar of the community, took an experimental sip of the neat whiskey he’d been served—couldn’t expect them to have heard of things like cocktails here, apparently—and grimaced. It was just as rough as it had been the last five times he’d tried it.

Why in blazes weren’t they at the Hip?

Murdoch was halfway through something on a guitar, something about “everytime I told him ain’t no use to pretend, however much he runs away he’s gone be back again” and wasn’t that embarrassing enough, by itself, to be a reason why they should never have come to a place like this? As if his brother-in-law hadn’t had a more than good enough education to know better than to say things like 'ain’t’ and 'gone be!' But then of course that was why they’d come to a place like this. Murdoch would do anything, anything, for someone he thought was relying on him, so apparently their stag night, this month, had lined up with a performance engagement, and turned into a more literal kind of Stag night. Which was a shame. They got to see eachother, somehow, much less than they did before Jim had married Murdoch’s sister.

Murdoch, you see, would do anything, anything, for someone like his brother in law.

Jim did his best to ignore the rough dive bar, which was an impressive trick given how crowded and noisy it was, but the whiskey at least worked no matter how bad it tasted, and the memories he reached for, sank into, were even more potent:

The first time, tentative, unsure if this had been some kind of test from Holly he was already failing, but Murdoch had shown up at his room exactly as promised, and had done all the things neither Jim nor Holly had quite dared to explicitly name even in proposition, and his muzzle had been warm and soft and hungrily receptive.

Or the 'nature photography' expedition, that weekend, out to the forest up in the mountains, where the photographs Murdoch had taken might arguably have been of the two of them in a ‘natural’ state but the same could hardly have been said for the acts they were doing.

Or his bachelor party night, upstairs at the Hip with that professional with whom Murdoch hadn’t even bothered to pretend he wasn’t personally acquainted, getting to enjoy the looks of shock and baffled desire on his 'friends’' faces when for all their posturing they’d spent themselves into another man just as eagerly as they had sneered at Jim for doing.

The kind of memories that kept a man warm at night. At least a certain part of him.

“I ask him, Boy! Can’t you hear! The echoes of the drums? He says, I can’t hear nothing but that everlovin’ hummmmmm…” Murdoch’s voice rang out. The men seemed to be enjoying his performance, at least.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Jim wasn’t sure when that weasel with the fancy accent had shown up, but Murdoch had very mysteriously had much less free time since. Sometimes the two of them seemed joined at the hip, ha ha, what a witty play on words, but no really he was all-but-certain that the two of of them had shared a bed with that professional boy, what was his name, the white panther, more often than Jim himself had. Clearly the weasel had Murdoch curled around his dainty little claw, and all it had taken was a little show of appreciation.

Or the way the Sheriff’s department kept monopolizing his time! Oh sure, it was work, it paid well, but that was just another variety of the same problem.

Murdoch would exchange all the time in the world for the smallest scraps of approval. From anyone! Which left precious little for the people he was supposed to be saving that time for! It really was maddening. Jim had much less free time himself, now he was A Married Man with a capital Mar, and that meant far fewer chances to satisfy the sides of his appetites that were supposed to be his brother in law’s responsibility. Which is why they ought to be at a place like the Hip. Gentlemanly, sophisticated, refined, where civilized people understood a man might have… acquired tastes.

“Sunrise! Is comin’ soon! You’ll see it without me.”

Not like this place, full of the same boors and ruffians he had to duck past every day in the mines. And just like, in the mines, they needed an educated assayer like himself to know the difference between valuable ore and a piece of schist, they’d never appreciate the kinds of things Murdoch’s mouth could really do. Not the way he could appreciate them.

“So pour another round ‘cause maybe that’ll set me free!”

Except for that… dash it all, he might as well think the word he really meant, that damn weasel was right there at the forefront of the crowd. Jim could hardly deny that fellow’d probably appreciated Murdoch’s mouth a few times at least.

Oh wait, the white panther was here too, the professional.

And was that the Sheriff with them? Mother of God, didn’t these boys know how to be discrete? Maybe Murdoch really had lost his mind! If they got themselves arrested for indecency, and that might lead to Murdoch, and the Sheriff might think to search Murdoch, and might ask about the ring he was wearing never-mind-where, he might realize it matched one on Jim’s finger that was only supposed match the one on the finger of one Mrs. Holly Sterling… well, maybe his dear wife would get her fondest wish after all! Because skipping town, and faster than even she could’ve wanted, would be the only option!

Speaking of leaving, what was he still doing here? Nobody to dance with but a crush of sweaty miners and ranchers, nothing decent to drink, and he’d be lucky if Murdoch had enough time to wave goodnight. But an appetite unassuaged is a mighty chain, and there was still a chance his brother-in-law would remember where he was supposed to be tonight, and Murdoch wasn’t the only one who’d pay more than was wise for a little… appreciation.

Speaking of paying unwisely, he’d managed to actually finish the whiskey. Where had the bartender gotten to-

The two men beside him at the bar shared a kiss.

It was quick, it was unobtrusive, it would’ve gone completely unnoticed if he hadn’t turned at exactly that moment. But it wasn’t chaste, certainly. Look at where the rat’s paw had been, and the way the hyena’s tail was reacting.

The room suddenly felt both close and cramped and also much larger than it was. The air felt stiff and heavy, like a muggy afternoon before a thunderstorm. Jim momentarily felt as if he were losing his balance, as if the hand of God had caught at his shoulder, while the world continued to spin beneath him, as if to pull him off a carousel. In vain.

Nobody else seemed to have seen them. Nobody else seemed to care. And the two of them seemed unconcerned with whether anyone had seen or cared.

Was… this a queer dive?

Surely not. Surely they only had places like that back east, or in California. Not in a place like Echo. A rough and menial place!

A place that for most of its existence had been populated only by a single sex, and even now ladies were notably uncommon!

A place where a man… like Murdoch…

…had grown up. And could be on-stage…

…to the apparent delight of the dancing crowd.

Who were all men.

And had been dancing with one another all evening.

“Some day I’ll drag you back to where it all begins,” Murdoch’s voice was echoing, somewhere, as if from an enormous distance.

Oh.

“You lost, fella?”

Oh shit, the rat had caught him staring. Jim pulled away from the bar, hastily, muttering nonsensical apologies that couldn’t have been heard over “And dance the paws right off you cause we need new ways to sin,” or the raucous applause that followed. He had to get out of here. The SHERIFF had been here, could have seen him at any point! Maybe Murdoch got the benefit of a blind eye for his use as a photographer, maybe that white panther was a professional snitch as well as in other fields of expertise—in which case what secrets might he already have spilled—but what hope of leniency could someone like Jim bargain for? He’d just have to hope that-

-the Sheriff wasn’t interested in arresting queers.

Wait a moment there. The place had been full to bursting. Sheriff Adler could’ve had his pick of the litter, and come back next night for more. Jim hadn’t been in this town as long as some, but he couldn’t remember a case like that, well, ever, not here. There were vice busts in the cities back east, of course, but not here.

…did the Sheriff really not realize what kind of place this was?

Well, Jim had to admit, neither had he. Not until he saw that kiss.

“Hey there, mister’re you… alright?”

He whirled, wide-eyed, ready to do who knows what, and, oh. It was just that hyena from before. Green eyes, unkempt fur, probably a miner like all the rest. Well, except for the fact he’d been kissing a man.

He must have followed when Jim stumbled outdoor in a panic. “Where’s your friend?”

“My friend?” the hyena seemed confused.

“The rat. What was his name?”

“I dunno,” the hyena blinked at Jim as if the fox had wanted to know the president’s breakfast order. “I didn’t get around to asking.”

“You mean that was just-”

“A guy I met,” the hyena was looking at him like he wasn’t sure if they spoke the same language, “Whole point of coming here, ain’t it?”

It is? That answered a question or two about what Murdoch saw in the place, at least. “You’re telling me you just… kissed a man, and you didn’t even know his name?”

“Well I woulda got a lot more’n a kiss if we hadn’t-a got interrupted.”

“You were fully intending to-” Jim silently mouthed the word ‘fuck’ “-a complete stranger?”

“Mister,” the hyena snorted, “what the hell else is there to do in this town?”

He had a point there. This wasn’t some gentlemanly, refined place back east, or all the way west, with acquired tastes and vice busts. This was a rough, menial place, where men would do anything, anything for a little appreciation.

“Huh,” Jim decided, “well, I’m a complete stranger.”

The night outside was completely audible through the thin walls of this… shack? Barn? Jim deliberately didn’t think the word ‘outhouse.’ The desert wind, the night insects, the distant crowd in the stag proper, all could be heard in here.

Presumably someone standing immediately outside would be able to hear him and his new acquaintance—Les, it turned out—in here, but apparently that wasn’t the sort of thing they paid any mind to here.

“F…fuck…” Jim gasped.

Les didn’t answer. His mouth was a bit occupied.

It had been like being swept over a waterfall. No argument, no questions, as soon as Les had been sure this fox wasn’t just fucking with him—in a metaphorical sense—he’d led him right out to one of these suspicious little shacks.

It had taken less time for Les to yank open Jim’s trouser’s, wrap his mouth around his dick, and thud to the floor on his knees, in that order, than for Jim to work up the nerve to ask if they were really going to do this, so he never got around to doing that. It’d probably be a silly question at this point, anyway.

The hyena’s muzzle was warm and deep and eager. ‘Thirsty’ was the word that kept fluttering around Jim’s mind, like a moth around a lamp. There was some subtle resentment in the way he sucked him, in the way his tongue pulled at his tip, but not the kind of resentment Jim would’ve had—he would, right?—were he in the miner’s place. It was the resentment of a man kept waiting for his dinner, a man whose train had been late, as if Les what resented was all the time his lips spent NOT wrapped around a stiff cock.

Jim’s breath was already hissing through his nose, in and out, with the effort of keeping his hips still. Two huge paws clamped over his ass, pressed him forward firmly. When all Jim did was gasp, the gesture was repeated, twice, with a exasperated grunt for emphasis.

Les, it seems, didn’t want to have to use his mouth to explain. But it was pretty clear what he wanted.

Jim let his hips begin thrusting, trying not to notice how different this man was from Murdoch. The hyena smelled different—sweaty and smoky and almost like fresh clay—sounded different—grunting and snuffling instead of Murdoch’s compliant moans—God, he even felt different, there was some burry stickiness to his tongue very different to Murdoch’s velvetlike softness.

It probably said something that he knew Murdoch’s tongue well enough to notice, but working out what wasn’t Jim’s most present priority.

“Ah God,” this was such a bad idea, this was the worst possible idea, the whole point of Murdoch was that he was safe, he could be trusted, this was a stranger. But that made it better, somehow, more exciting, more intense.

He wasn’t going to last long.

He, in fact, did not.

“Rider comes to town again,” the last verse of Murdoch’s uncouth song had still been repeating in his head, mumbled and muttering, like thunder on the other side of the mountains, all morning at work. “I couldn’t tell you why. Saloon is mighty empty, and my throat is mighty dry.” Jim did his best to ignore it.

Murdoch hadn’t asked any questions, after the Stag last night. Merely given him a very concerning look, as if he didn’t need to ask.

Don’t think about it, Jim told himself, focus on work. You’ll work off all the tension… fuck, when? Murdoch and he got to see eachother much less than they did before.

“Gets hard to tell the difference tween the living and the dead,” droned the song that wouldn’t leave his head. “And I can’t fight this loneliness with none to warm my bed…” Wonderful, now it was commentary.

A miner pushed past him, disappeared down the tunnel.

Wait, was that-?

It had definitely been a hyena. And he’d definitely smelled familiar.

Jim spent a moment lost in thought.

Les had said he was a miner, right? Well, how long till he was on break?