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River stamped his feet, apparently agreeing with him.

He hummed along with the song the band was playing until they finished, then he was just happy for the relative quiet. The band was getting better, but they really needed a new sound man. Jake had finished getting River's saddle ready, though not on him, when he heard a noise from just outside the wide doors at the back. He'd heard it often enough–hell, he'd made it often enough–that he knew it right away and paused to grin.

Someone was getting slammed up against the back wall and if the grunt of approval was any indication they weren't fighting.

He shook his head and picked up the saddle, willing enough to let whoever it was have their fun. He tried not to listen, but he could hear it anyway, and part of his mind was trying to sort out who it was. Wouldn't be Kip and Beth–they would be with the tents, Beth getting the baby to sleep and Kip trying to help. Might be Elias, if the looks he'd been exchanging with one of the Thompson girls was any indication.

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He was almost to River, had actually lifted the saddle and was about to settle it over the blanket when he heard it, probably the only groan on the planet that could make him freeze when heard out of context. With him in a stall and Tor not right there, naked and wanting with him, it was most definitely out of its proper context.

He didn't think, just turned and put the saddle over the stall wall and headed to the doors, not bothering with stealth. He stood in the open doors, knowing he was in full light and watched.

It wasn't anything like what had happened two years ago at the auction. He didn't feel the rush of anger, the need to run over and stop it, to stake his claim. Maybe because this time he knew for a fact it was Tor. Maybe because he wasn't surprised. This time, when it mattered, he said nothing. Felt nothing.

He watched Tor in the shadows, leaning against the outside wall, his head thrown back as Travis finished undoing their jeans. Listened as Tor gasped when Travis started jerking them both off. Watched as Tor moaned and thrust and begged for more, told Travis to suck him off. When Travis grinned and went to his knees, less than ten feet away, Jake watched as Tor's eyes closed, heard him hiss with pleasure as Travis took Tor in his mouth.

He noticed the way they were just outside the fall of light from the doors, the way Travis knelt with one knee in the dirt, the other leg bent so his boot was planted solid. Travis's jeans were dusty, like he'd not had time to change after playing ball in the yard all afternoon.

Tor had showered and changed, though; was wearing his good boots, and new jeans. The shirt wasn't new, but it was one of Jake's favorites–it was the same blue–gray as Jake's eyes.

Jake noticed other things, too. The ring in Tor's cock and the way Travis played with it.

That Travis was noisy, his mouth soft and wet, his lips already swollen, probably from kisses. That Tor had no hesitation in using Travis's name or telling him how nice it felt.

That Tor's breath was coming faster and faster, even though he seemed to be in no rush to finish.

He noticed how pale Travis was, how his hair seemed to shine in the less than half-light.

How the lean muscles in his back flexed as he moved. How young he looked.

Jake didn't turn and walk away until Tor was thrusting hard, fucking Travis's mouth and Travis was stroking himself off, his hand in rhythm with Tor's hips. Tor sounded like Travis was good at what he was doing.

Jake walked through the stables, from one end to the other, and out into the crowd. If anyone spoke to him he missed it. He didn't feel anything yet, and that sort of worried
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him. He should feel something, after all. Anger. Hurt. Humiliation. Anything at all–but he didn't. He just felt empty, like nothing could touch him. Cold.

He walked steadily toward the big tent where the band was playing, the sounds of the music and the people just outside of his awareness. He was pretty sure he wasn't going deaf, which left shutting down and shock as his current state. Jake figured that made sense, but he really only noted it as a point of interest. He was focused on getting to where he was going, and after that…well, he'd see what happened after that.

Jake walked through the groups of people, brushing off one hand that rested on his arm, not knowing or caring who it was. He avoided the lights in the big tent, veering off to the right where he'd seen a large group of lawn chairs and blankets. The portable bar, more or less. People had found that having all the coolers together–at least the ones without food–stopped them from losing their drinks when they were moving around so much. All the booze on the ranch in one handy place, and no one really caring who was drinking what.

He snagged a bottle of water as he rummaged, flipping lids open with the toe of his boot.

Someone asked him something–maybe to pass a bottle, maybe what the hell was he doing–and he ignored the voice, moving to the next cooler. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and it wasn't beer. He needed something easy to carry, because despite his new found ability to ignore everyone, he had no intention of drinking himself stupid surrounded by people.

Four coolers later he found it, a bottle of bourbon, mostly full. He snatched it out of the melting ice, then stepped past the coolers into the darkness and started to walk.

He didn't pay attention to where he went, he just walked. In the dark, away from the people, his pace steady except for when he stopped to swallow another mouthful of bourbon. It tasted like he remembered, which didn't surprise him. He'd known his memories of assorted flavours were true; years of drinking made some things hard to forget.

He wondered if he should pace himself, then realized he was going to throw it all up eventually anyway; the intent was to drink himself unconscious. He walked for what felt like hours, until he'd started to weave and trip over rocks, then he sat and looked around.

He couldn't hear the music anymore, or any yelling. The stars were out, the moon slightly more than half full; all he could hear was his own heartbeat and the cicadas.

He didn't think about it. He didn't think about anything at all, just looked at the stars until he got dizzy, then he looked at the grass. He was hot, the walking and the drink making his body temperature seem higher than it was. It took a little effort, but he managed to get his shirts off and he set them aside, thinking that when he finally threw up he wanted them out of the way.

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The bottle was almost empty, only and inch or two left, so he drained it and waited. He waited to feel angry, to feel sick…to feel. He listened to his breathing for awhile and got bored.

Finally he made himself picture it, to imagine Tor finally coming down Travis's throat.

He tried to hear Tor's voice, picture his face, and it worked to a point, though getting Tor's voice to cry out a name other than his own was work.

Still, he felt nothing, his breathing didn't speed and his hands didn't shake. Dead. Empty.

Drained.

He poked at the edges of it all, tried to imagine Tor fucking Travis, and that didn't do it either. He wished he had more bourbon.

He drank the water, the whole bottle in a few swallows and lay back, looking at the stars again, letting himself think of nothing. He must have passed out at some point, because when he started puking the sky was a little lighter, false dawn coming.

He was sober enough to roll onto his side. He may be dead, but he didn't want to choke to death.

He'd forgotten what it was like to be sick on booze, even if he remembered the taste of all the kinds of alcohol he'd ever had. He'd forgotten the way his stomach cramped and the way his throat burned, the way his arms would clutch at his belly.

He'd forgotten the smell, so different from being sick with the flu. He'd forgotten that when he was piss drunk and puking he always got messy, clean shirts off to the side regardless. He'd forgotten the stink of his sweat when alcohol tried to get out of his system through every pore.

He remembered the headaches. He remembered the bliss of passing out again. He remembered the way every cell in his body protested when he came to again, the sun up and getting higher.

He lay on the grass for a long time, waiting for his stomach settle enough that he could figure out where he was. It didn't, and then he got to remember dry heaves.

A long while later, when the sun was telling him it was almost noon, he got to his feet and put on his shirts. He picked up the empty bottles, figured out where he was, and started to walk.

There were people all over when he made it back to the ranch, and he found his hearing was still faulty, or his attention was. He dumped the bottles in the recycling bins and passed a few more hands as he crossed the yard, the smell of breakfast and lunch cooking making his stomach churn.

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Someone called out to him, but he couldn't summon the interest to look up and see who.

He passed the big house just as Travis came off the steps, his usual friendly smile in place.

He stared at the man, watching as Travis grew nervous, his smile fading.

"Jake? Something wrong?" Travis asked.

"No. Not anymore," Jake said, his voice rough. He wondered if he might still be drunk–there was no other explanation for him talking to Travis.

Travis looked unsure, and more than ready to flee, but something held him where he was.

Maybe genuine concern for Jake's well being. "You don't look so good. Do you want me to get Tor?" He pointed toward the bunkhouse.

Jake shook his head. "No. You already got him." He walked past Travis, not bothering to see the effect that had on him, if any. Travis wasn't important. Nothing was, except for getting home. He could smell himself, and only the thought of a hot shower kept him from lying down in the dirt to go back to sleep.

Jake took the steps to the bunkhouse slowly, listening to voices inside. Elias. Kirk. Tor.

Wonderful, everyone was home, and in the kitchen. He opened the door and stepped in, walking right through the room as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. He thanked whoever had kept him alive so far for making sure he didn't trip on anything.

"Jesus. Bad night?" Elias asked from the table.

"Where the hell were you?" Tor said at the same time.

Jake ignored Tor, which was surprisingly easy. "Had better," he said to Elias, still walking. He barely registered the way Tor was looking at him, his eyes narrowing.

"I gotta talk to Taggart," he heard as he walked down the hall. "Y'all might want to leave."

Kirk sighed. "You gonna fight again? 'Cause I gotta say, this is getting tired."

"Just leave." Tor's voice was flat, and then there were steps coming down the hall.

Jake stood by the bed and started stripping off, catching the smell of vomit when he peeled his jeans off. He heard Tor come in, but didn't bother looking up at him, just finished taking off his clothes. He wanted a shower.

"You were drinking last night," Tor said, not making it a question. Jake did look then, met his eyes and saw cold fury in them.

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"Yeah. And you were fucking Travis," Jake said, just as a matter of fact. He had honestly expected that saying it out loud would make him feel it, would make him angry, but it didn't. The punch to his gut was apparently still holding back on him.

He didn't even feel a moment of satisfaction as he watched Tor's eyes widen, the fear and guilt shining in them for a few seconds. He watched as Tor figured out Jake had seen, watched as denial was considered and rejected, and truth finally settled on. Then he watched as the colour drained out of Tor's skin.

Jake pointed to the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."

He locked the door behind him, not wanting to bother with words or whatever bullshit Tor was going to come up with while he got clean. He stayed under the spray a long time, until the water began to cool. He forgot to wash with soap. He just stood and didn't think, then had to wash in the lukewarm water and rinse in near cold. He swallowed a couple of aspirin and walked back into the bedroom with a towel around his waist.

Tor was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him. "It won't happen again," he said quietly. A promise.

Jake started getting out clean clothes. "Don't see why not," he said, just as quietly. "Not like you'll ever be fucking me again." The emptiness inside him didn't even waver.

Tor was silent while Jake pulled on his jeans and boots, watching him as he found a clean shirt.

"What do you want me to do?" Tor asked finally, and Jake looked at him, surprised. It suddenly dawned on him, looking at Tor's eyes, the lines in his face, the way he was holding his body…Jake knew that at that moment he could ask Tor to do anything and he'd do it. Anything at all.

Tor had no idea what he'd done.

"Well, I'm going up to the barn to see about River, get the stuff from his saddle bags,"

Jake said buttoning his shirt and reaching for the doorknob. "You can pack your shit and get the fuck out of here."

Tor looked like he'd been hit. Jake waited, sure that Tor had something to say. He wasn't willing to take this out to the yard or up to the barn. Tor would follow, and Jake, for some reason, didn't want the whole ranch to know what was going on. Not yet.

"Four years, Jake," Tor said, barely above a whisper. "You really going to give up on that?"

Jake wondered why he wasn't pointing out that it was Tor who'd cheated, Tor who'd fucked up. He assumed that if he could feel the hurt and anger he would have done just
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that, would have screamed and hit and had a fist-fight, maybe have hurt Tor really badly.

But he didn't.

Jake supposed they both knew that his walking away wasn't entirely his fault–they both knew he wouldn't be if Tor hadn't been with Travis the night before. There wasn't really a point to saying it. Jake didn't care enough to make it a point. He just wanted to get the stuff he'd left in the barn, and go to sleep.