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30 November 2009 @ 12:45 pm
FIC: "The Line Shack"  
FIC: "The Line Shack"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn (camelotslash-2@qwest.net)
DATE: November 28, 2009
FANDOM: 'Lancer' (CBS-TV western, 1968-70)
PAIRING: Johnny/Scott (James Stacy and Wayne Maunder)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to 20th Century Fox, to CBS and the respective actors of the series, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS: Slash, incest.
AUTHOR NOTES: Written for the November Challenge at LancerAfterDark, "sex in an unusual place." Of course, the line shack is the quintessential hook-up spot for western slashers, so it seemed like a fine time to stick it in, so to speak.
WORD COUNT: 1,200


Johnny rode with determination, his head hardly turning, his pace steady, his sights set on an unseen destination in the distance. His horse and hands both knew the way well, and he had plenty of time to let his mind wander as he headed southeast toward the small building hidden in a copse of squat trees on the edge of the southern range of the Lancer ranch.

The place was stocked with canned food and fresh water and a cot barely big enough for two, which made it the perfect place to meet his half-brother, Scott.

Scott was probably already there, opening and airing the small shack and tidying up the dust that somehow seeped through the boards during the weeks it wasn't used. He had been east for a month visiting his maternal grandfather who was recovering from a heart ailment, but he had written and promised Johnny he would make his way to the line shack as soon as he could.

"Be there by the full moon," Johnny had instructed via telegram.

Johnny was in the middle of the round-up, finding and identifying the market cattle, branding, castrating and de-horning in preparation for the autumn drive. Before falling into exhausted sleep after the 14-hour days, he had looked up through the scattered clouds at the waxing moon, squinting at the yellow light, imagining the color of his brother's hair at the end of summer and remembering the way it felt coiled around his fingers and the way it smelled pressed against his face.

He watched the gibbous moon growing each night and counted down the days. When he knew it was time, he told the Lancer vaqueros he would go missing for a while and didn't want to be found. They nodded knowingly, grinning through their evening ration of muddy coffee laced with a shot of whiskey.

He heard a sleepy voice call out, "Buena suerte, senor!" when he rode out in the morning. The camp was just waking, and he could already smell bacon.

Johnny was in too much of a hurry to eat, his real hunger gnawing a source south of his belly. And he knew his good luck was assured, because success didn't depend on the whims of feminine wiles or masculine charm. Scott might be a man bred in Boston with manners and mannerisms that sometimes seemed completely foreign, but he was still a man.

"Gracias," he answered, swinging his leg over the saddle. "Adios."

He knew he'd reach the line shack by mid-day. He'd have time to take a crap in an actual outhouse and clean himself in the nearby stream, then dry off in the afternoon sun before supper. He might even get in a short nap in preparation for a busy night.

He was like a kid contemplating Christmas.

It had been a long month for Johnny, a month with few erotic distractions other than his own fantasies or an occasionally purple dream. Since he and his older brother had begun bedding one another, there had been few reasons to seek comfort in the rooms over a saloon or in a two-story house on the edge of town. And since Johnny had learned how spirited and satisfying such a relationship could be, these former pursuits had lost much of their appeal.

Scott's absence had been almost painful, not just in the surcease of physical closeness, but in the tortured suspicions of his brother's back-east consorting. How many of Boston's lucky 'ladies' had enjoyed Scott's attentions during those weeks; and how many college chums and boyhood buddies had found their former friend more willing and considerably more able than memory might serve?

The idea itched at Johnny in a place he couldn't reach to scratch.

He saw the outline of the trees first, scrawled by a shaky hand against the horizon. As he got closer and closer, he could make out familiar landmarks, the spot where the short trees clumped over water, the hillock that blushed red each spring with poppies and scarlet locoweed, and the high rock that gave the best view of the valley, less than two hundred yards above the line shack. 'Lancer's Mount Olympus,' Scott called it, claiming that anyone who scaled the rock was bound to feel like a god. Squatting on the south face on a summer day, Johnny could almost believe there would never be fences or roofs or railroads marring the endless vista of open range.

He had to ride up a long, inclined trail, over naked earth lined with rock, to reach the high ground. His boots barely gave a nudge to encourage his mount. Barranca was as anxious as he was to get to cover and good oats.

Johnny nearly started to sing as he finished the last half-mile. He could see a feather of smoke flourishing the sky over the roof of the shack. Scott was there, and he was already cooking. The younger of the Lancer sons started to salivate, his imagination tasting fresh coffee, canned peaches and Scott's smooth skin.

Would he let Scott take the lead tonight? Would he lie back on the droopy cot, watching his brother's flushed face loom over his? Would he close his eyes as Scott bent to pleasure him, encouraging and praising him in a soft voice as he measured his breathing by the pace of his galloping heartbeat? Maybe he wouldn't lift a finger to do more than guide Scott to his ultimate objective, whatever that might turn out to be. Maybe he'd even emancipate his exhausted body and snooze a little as Scott's hands and lips continued their rapturous work.

Johnny loved being awakened in the midst of love-making.

Or maybe he'd tether his horse and sneak silently into the line shack, grab his unsuspecting brother from behind, toss him roughly down and have his way, determined and driven and decidedly prolonged. If this resulted in the sigh-like sound that Scott sometimes made when he was just past the peak of passion, it would be worth it.

He couldn't quite decide, and he was nearly at the end of his dusty ride.

Scott decided for him, standing outside the shack waiting as Johnny cleared the rise. He was slouched against the clapboard walls, arms folded, wearing clean pants and a half smile. His feet and chest were bare, and he looked freshly scrubbed and rosy.

Johnny drew in his breath and took in the view, comparing it to the sights he had seen as he traversed several miles of the San Juaquin Valley and finding the rest of the world wanting. It was all he could do to get off his horse without falling.

Within seconds they were in one another's arms, in plain sight of the birds and ground squirrels and anybody who might be lurking in the scrub brush.

"God, I missed you," Scott said in his deep, clear voice.

Johnny shuddered in answer, gripping his brother's bare back and holding on against a strong wind of emotion and excitement.

"I need a bath," he finally managed to say. He wanted to say more.

"There's plenty of time for that," Scott said, pulling Johnny inside the warm shack. "Later."

{fini}