As usual, it's all Lutra's fault...

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Shamelessly stolen from the excellent Kiefer Rocks fansite.

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Disclaimer: not mine, and I'm not profiting from the use.

Shaman and Poet

It's most likely that they had no idea of the appealing picture they made. Two perfect opposites, the one pale, hair the colour of corn stalks, happy blue eyes under quizzical brows and an easy smile: the other dark, exotic, hair and eyes like polished jet looking out at the world with stoic calm garnered from a nature half as old as time.
     They were both beautiful, in their separate ways.
     And both lonely. It was, most likely, their loneliness that drew them together...

Someone was whimpering.
     It was very faint, very quiet, but Doc was a light sleeper: he jolted awake and up, blinking as his eyes adapted to the darkness. The sound came from a short distance away, where Chavez had laid his bedroll, as usual slightly apart from the rest. The half-breed was twitching, the quiet sounds of misery not loud enough to wake the others, but touching Doc's heart. He remembered making those sounds himself, long ago, before Tunstall had taken him in...
      Best not remember those days. Tunstall now lay rotting in the ground, victim of Murphy's greed and malice, his absence a rawness and a pain in Doc's heart.
     Chavez whimpered again, the sound close to a sob, and Doc reached out to him, unable to bear the sound of his friend in distress. Cautiously resting a hand on the Indian's shoulder, he leaned close to whisper his name.
     Chavez flinched under his hand, then tensed, deep beautiful eyes flashing open to glare up at his fellow Regulator, knife suddenly appearing at Doc's throat.
     'What?'
     Doc held very still and tried an uncertain smile.
     'You were dreaming. It sounded... It didn't sound happy.'
     'It is nothing.'
     Doc breathed a little easier as the knife was withdrawn, but did not move his hand.
     'Chavez... brother... I know what it is to hurt.'
     Chavez frowned into his eyes for a silent moment, then turned away, turned his back.
     He didn't, however, twitch Doc's hand away, something that the young man found comforting. Doc drifted back to sleep, faintly aware of the hard muscle under his palm, the breathing of the half-breed...

When he woke in the half-light before dawn, Chavez was no longer beside him. The Indian's horse was still tied up with the others, however, so he hadn't left the group. Probably washing, or answering a call of nature. Doc found his hand still outstretched, and pulled it back, tucking it under his cheek, missing the contact. Chavez must have moved carefully, laid the hand down gently, to avoid waking him. That was... considerate.
     Doc closed his eyes for a few minutes more rest, seeing Chavez in his mind's eye. He'd always admired the Indian's supple grace, his inscrutable but somehow companionable silences – and of course his skill with his knives. Odd as it would have seemed to the others, he felt that they had much in common, and a sort of tacit understanding he'd never found with anyone else.
     Knowing Chavez was always there made him feel safe.

The bullets had torn through his leg, along his ribs, and gashed the side of his head, furrowing through the straw-pale hair. The force of it threw him off the horse and onto the hard ground: lying winded, curled around himself, pain a blaze of fire throughout his body, Doc was dimly aware of the fading hoofbeats of the others' horses... no, one was returning...
     'Can you ride?'
     Doc squinted up into eyes so dark they seemed black, and managed a breathless nod. Chavez looped an arm under Doc's shoulders and dragged him upright, holding him steady as the poet swayed and nearly fell, eyes fluttering closed.
     'Come, my friend. The others have drawn them away; we may escape if we ride fast enough.'
      Doc could barely see through the pain.
     'You go.' It was gasped, so faint Chavez could only just hear it. 'Save yourself.'
     'No, my brother.' Chavez clicked his tongue against his teeth: obediently his horse trotted quickly to his side. The half-breed, still holding Doc, swung himself up into the saddle then, grasping the poet's upper arms, hauled him clumsily but strongly up before him. 'We go together, or not at all.'

Doc was only dimly aware of their flight, the exquisitely painful jolting as the horse cantered over uneven ground, Chavez' arm solid and secure around his waist, holding him steady even as his body refused to co-operate and flopped awkwardly at every turn. He'd been injured before – of course he had – but this... this was agony...

Chavez caught him as he slid bonelessly and barely conscious from the horse, holding him close, breath ruffling his hair.
     'A few more minutes, my friend. Endure a few more minutes and we will be safe, at least until tomorrow.'
     Taking almost all of Doc's weight, Chavez dragged him into... what was it? Doc was fading in and out of consciousness, unable to make sense of his surroundings. But it was warm, and quiet, and Chavez was lowering him carefully onto something yielding, almost soft.
     Doc roused slightly at an unfamiliar sensation: Chavez had pulled out one of his knives and was delicately cutting open the stitching of Doc's trousers. The injured man weakly caught his wrist.
     'Ch... Chavez?'
     The Indian gently swept Doc's hair out of his eyes.
     'You must rest. And I must tend to your wounds.'
     Doc sighed and passed out.

It was as well Doc was unconscious, Chavez thought as he dug for the bullet in the meat of the white man's thigh. It had, it seemed, lodged against the bone, although thank the gods it hadn't broken it, and was proving difficult to extract. He growled silently to himself and splashed another handful of the raw whiskey onto the bleeding flesh, regarding Doc closely as he winced and whimpered, but – fortunately – didn't wake, then finally, finally managed to pull the metal out. A little more whiskey poured into the wound, then he ripped Doc's shirt into strip and bound it as best he could. Sitting back on his heels he eyed the naked pale body below him for a moment, then sighed and moved onto the next wound, slightly lower down the lean, muscular leg. At least this one had gone straight through: all he'd need to do was clean and bind it.
     It took another half an hour to deal with the ragged bloody runnel the bullet had gouged from Doc's ribs, the smaller one across the top of his shoulder and the flesh wound in the side of his scalp, but eventually all were tended to and Chavez could relax.
     He added more wood to the small fire he'd built before starting the task and regarded his friend solemnly. Doc was going to be in a lot of pain when he woke, and their supply of whiskey was limited. Should he leave for a short time, try to get some more? Or search the surrounding countryside for anything that could act to dull pain? There might be peyote...
     He turned his gaze to the fire. On the other hand, it would probably be safer not to leave the injured man alone for any length of time. The fire, small as it was, may attract unwanted attention, and Doc was in no state to defend himself. And he was tough, despite his fancy manners and seeming vulnerability.
     Doc moaned quietly, startling Chavez. Frowning, he rested a hand over the injured man's forehead: Doc was running a fever, twitching and shivering, sweat pouring from him.
     That had happened fast. And it wasn't good. Chavez poured water from his canteen over a torn piece of shirt and swept it across Doc's face with extraordinary tenderness, pressing gently on the uninjured shoulder to try to hold the man still.
     'Hush.'
     Doc mumbled incoherently, weakly trying to push the half-breed's hands away: Chavez talked to him, nonsense words in his own language, low and musical and soothing as he wiped the cloth over Doc's far-too-hot skin.
     'Gently, my brother, gently. Lie still, let the fever fly far from you, take the sickness from you...'

It was a long, long night, sleepless for Chavez as he watched over his suffering friend. Doc had clawed at his makeshift bandages, reopening wounds that had just barely started to heal, then curled in on himself, whimpering: the Indian was hard put to hold him still, to stop him making his injuries worse. Finally Chavez had to resort to lying beside and partially on top of the injured man, holding him close – bemused when Doc stopped struggling and turned into the embrace, wrapping shaking arms around his saviour, mumbling incoherently as he pressed his face into Chavez' neck.
     Interesting. He'd always assumed Doc, as a white man, was only attracted to women.
     Then again, he was ill and not in his right mind right now. It was probably nothing.
     Which – Chavez' clan's totem whispered in the back of his mind – would be a shame...

Dawn found Doc still held in Chavez' arms, shivering fitfully, still wracked by fever. The bedroll under him was sodden with sweat – and they were out of water.
     There was a small river running through the canyon, not much more than a wide stream, really, shallow but fast-flowing, cold and clean; it would suffice. Easing himself out of Doc's grip – not easy, the suffering man was holding on for grim death – he pulled a blanket over the lean shuddering body and slipped out of the shallow cave.
     The prairie was already shimmering with the heat of the new sun, but in the shade of the canyon it was cool. Though that wouldn't last. Chavez stripped and sluiced himself with the cold water, then filled both canteens, grabbed his clothing and hurried back to the cave.
     Doc had thrown off the blanket and was shivering fitfully, struggling to breathe and still dripping with sweat. Chavez let fall everything but the canteens and hastened to his side, dropping to sit on the edge of the bedroll then pulling him up into strong arms, onto his lap. For a few seconds Doc resisted, then slumped against the smooth chest with a moan, one hand on Chavez' shoulder, the other at his own throat.
     '... thirsty...'
     The word sounded as though it had been dragged through broken glass. Chavez unstoppered a canteen one-handed and raised it to Doc's parched lips, easing a few drops into his mouth. The injured man spluttered for a moment, then managed to swallow; the Indian carefully poured another mouthful, silently relieved when Doc's shivering lessened a little and his breathing became more regular.
     Wearily, Doc forced open his eyes and blinked up at Chavez.
     'What...?'
     'You are sick, my friend. Be still.'
     For a moment Doc closed his eyes and rested his head against a bronze shoulder – then suddenly seemed to realise where he was. And that they were both naked. The feverish flush of colour over his cheekbones intensified as he tried to squirm out of Chavez lap, succeeding only in settling himself more closely against the Indian's groin. He blinked up into faintly amused deep eyes, blushing even more deeply.
     'S... sorry...'
     'What for? You had no choice.'
     'Y... yes, but...' Against his will Doc became aware of the feel of Chavez' genitals under his buttocks. He groaned silently and closed his eyes, trying to pretend nothing unusual was happening...
     His own groin said differently. Despite the fever – or maybe, his mind grasped for options that let him off the hook, because of it – he was feeling extraordinarily sensitive, and worse, aroused. His own cock was hardening, visibly, the skin over his balls crawling. He tried to draw up his knees to hide his reaction, but gasped as the sharp lancing pain from his leg left him weak and dizzy.
     'Chavez...' He gazed helplessly up into the Indian's face. Chavez' gaze flickered briefly to Doc's groin, then returned to eye him calmly. Doc swallowed nervously. 'Chavez, let... let me... lie back... down...'
     'It is easier for you to breathe, held like this.'
     'But...' He lowered his gaze, burning with embarrassment as much as the fever. '... this... I mean...'
     Chavez chuckled almost silently.
     'It is not like you to be lost for words.'
     'Oh hell, Chavez... It's not like I... I... have a fancy for men... or anything... It's just...'
     The Indian laid a hand over his mouth.
     'You are my friend. There is no cause for you to be troubled.'
     Exhausted, Doc stopped protesting and closed his eyes, but his fevered mind was racing. He'd needed to be unclothed for the Indian to be able to dress his wounds – but was it necessary for him to be stripped naked? And why was Chavez also naked now, and holding him so close, seemingly completely at ease with his lack of clothing. And their closeness.
     Was he...?
     Almost as if he had heard the unspoken question, Chavez brushed his lips over Doc's brow.
     'I am nàdleehé, two-spirit. And you are more than brother to me.'
     As if that explained everything, Chavez reached for the canteen, raising it to Doc's lips and encouraging him to drink. Doc swallowed, trying to make sense of Chavez' words. He'd never heard the term before, but it seemed fairly self-explanatory, if the half-breed's current – gentle, womanly – behaviour was anything to go by...
     ... more than brother... Did that mean Chavez wanted... saw him as... Doc swallowed. Did he want something more intimate? How would that work?
     And how did Doc feel about the idea?
     Well, right now, the sweat still pouring from his tortured body, feeling bonelessly weak and unable even to hold his head up without pain, all he felt for Chavez was deep gratitude that the Indian had cared enough to rescue him, tend to him. Which probably wasn't enough, but Doc was too weary to try to think it through any further.
     'I... I need to sleep...'
     Chavez nodded.
     'It will help you to heal.' He glanced down at the soaking wet bedroll. 'But that will not.'
     He eased Doc from his lap, pulling his saddle over to form a makeshift backrest and settling the injured man against it while he pulled out the other bedroll, draping a blanket over it. He pulled the poet carefully onto the yielding surface and helped him to lie flat, head supported on a saddlebag.
     'Rest here. I will not be far away.'
     Doc instinctively, weakly, grabbed his wrist.
     'Where are you going?'
     Chavez indicated the wet bedroll.
     'The river will cleanse this, and the sun will dry it. I will not be long.'
     Managing a nod, Doc squirmed to find the least uncomfortable position and tried to sleep.

The most deliciously cool sensation roused him from fitful sleep, and he opened his eyes to find Chavez, still naked, dribbling cold water from the canteen over his body. He shivered – and then realised the fever had broken: he was no longer shaking uncontrollably, and felt a little more... rational, sharper, his brain no longer stuffed with wool. He groaned and weakly rubbed a hand over his eyes: Chavez stopped pouring water and laid a hand on his chest, over his heart.
     'Are you well?'
     'Better...' Doc managed a smile, small but heart-felt. 'Thank you.'
     Chavez cupped his face in the other hand.
     'Should I do less for my brother?' He inclined his head. 'Now you should drink.'
     And indeed, Doc felt as though he'd been wrung out and left out to dry in the noonday sun. Chavez slid an arm around his shoulders and helped him to sit up, then held the canteen to his lips.
     'Not too much, brother.'
     But it was hard not to gulp, to try to assuage the fiery thirst. He forced himself to moderation, taking several breaths between each mouthful. Chavez nodded approvingly.
     'Better.'
     Doc reached for the canteen. Its slight weight made his hands shake weakly, but he managed to hold it steady enough to drink. Chavez rested a hand on his chest, twisting to peer down at the makeshift bandages.
     'When you are ready, I must check your injuries.'
     Doc nodded, then winced as he moved incautiously. He felt grimy and uncomfortable...
     'A bath too.'
     'The river is cold...'
     'Good.'
     Chavez frowned. 'Are you strong enough?'
     Whether he was or not, Doc had to get out of the cave, if only for a little while. 'Yes – if you will help me.'
     'Always...'

Doc clung to Chavez, squinting as they exited into the sunlight. Light-headed, his legs feeling like wet rope, every inch of him aching, he could barely move. The Indian half-carried him to the water's edge then eased him to sit on the warm ground, squatting at his side and frowning at the blood-stained cloth around thigh and chest.
     'These will not come off easily. You must sit in the water.'
     Doc wasn't going to complain: between the heat of the afternoon and the sweat-stained stiffness of his skin and hair the mere thought of bathing – no matter how cold the water – was heavenly. With Chavez' help he squirmed into the shallows, gasping as the chill took his breath away for a moment, then forced himself to relax. Chavez splashed water over the strips of cloth around Doc's leg, gradually ungluing them from the pale skin underneath and finally managing to remove them.
     The bullet wounds were ugly but clean, and already nearly closed. Doc gazed at them for a moment then raised his eyes to Chavez.
     'How long...?'
     'Four days.'
     Doc blinked. Four days? He'd been unconscious for four days? No wonder he felt weak! But Chavez was still speaking, his voice soft, as though admitting to a secret.
     'I feared for your life.'
     Doc swallowed. For Chavez, strong, inscrutable Chavez, to confess such a thing... well, he was... touched wasn't the right word... He watched the Indian for a few moments, his appreciation of Chavez' exotic beauty renewed and somehow deepened with the new knowledge. It may have been a combination of hunger, pain, gratitude and the lingering effects of the fever, but... he wanted to touch Chavez, to be touched.
     And Chavez was urging him deeper into the river, so that the water could loosen the bandages higher up, sitting close behind him, laving his hair, his ribs, strong, capable hands smoothing over Doc's sensitised skin, sleeking through the pale hair on his chest, ghosting over a nipple... Doc moaned silently and let his head fall back against the Indian's shoulder, grateful his lower body was underwater as his cock surged erect.
     The sheer alienness of the situation was as much of a temptation as the reality of Chavez holding him. He felt light, liquid, exhausted but somehow deeply alive. It may have been his escape from death, if he had been as ill as Chavez had implied (and Chavez wasn't given to exaggeration), that left him feeling so weirdly exhilarated. Or it could be a hitherto hidden part of his self rising up from the depths to make itself known at last....
     And then Chavez' hand slid down his hip, settling over the top of his thigh, just above the healing wound, and the Indian's low voice was soft in his ear.
     'I would not force you. If this is not to your will, speak now.'
     Doc shivered, anticipation and fear a tight knot in his belly overriding his hunger, sparking a hunger of a different kind. He could say no. He probably should say no. But Chavez was his friend, his close friend, his brother in all but blood... He cared. He... loved.
     This was the New World. Chavez was its soul. The old ways – well, they shouldn't apply anymore, should they?
     Nervously, Doc twisted, brushing a timid kiss over the Indian's lips.
     He hadn't been aware of the tension in Chavez' body until it was gone, melting away with the kiss. Chavez hummed deep in his throat, arms tightening around Doc's body, mouth moving to his jaw, kissing and nipping very gently as Doc leaned back, head tilted sideways to give him better access. He moaned then gasped as Chavez sucked at the skin between his neck and shoulder, one thumb stroking a nipple, the other hand stealthily snaking under his balls, cupping them, the other thumb teasing rigid flesh. Doc found one of his hands tangling in the Indian's wealth of shining black hair while the other slid down to grip his own erection. Chavez beat him to it, strong fingers wrapping the quivering cock, hot against the chill of the river: Doc covered the Indian's hand with his own as Chavez began to stroke, teasingly at first, then more powerfully, until Doc came, back arching, gasping Chavez' name to the heat-drugged air...
     He lay back against the half-breed, panting, suddenly very aware of the hardness pressing into his lower back. He shivered in part-fear, part-excitement, not knowing what was to happen next but eager to find out. Chavez bit gently at his neck.
     'You have never taken a man before.' It wasn't a question, but Doc shook his head anyway. 'Then we must go slowly, and carefully.'
     Doc swallowed nervously.
     'What... how... what happens?'
     Chavez chuckled quietly.
     'You do not need to fear. You are not ready for the true joining yet.'
     ... whatever that was... Although Doc had an inkling. He wasn't sure how he felt about it – but it was Chavez, and Chavez wouldn't hurt him...
     'So... what now, then?'
     'Now, we get out. You are growing chilled. And you are still weak. Come.' Chavez rose to his feet, pulling Doc upright with him, and led him to the shore. smiling at Doc's efforts to keep his eyes averted from his friend's groin and the thick, sturdy erection jutting there. At the entrance to the small cave they paused: Chavez retrieved the bedroll and laid it out in the sun. He sank down onto it, settling himself on his side, and gestured to Doc to join him.
     'Do to me as I did to you.'
     Uncertain as to whether to be relieved or disappointed, Doc slid onto the bedroll and tentatively, apprehensively, ran his fingers along the Indian's silky penis. Chavez closed his eyes with a tiny moan, hips thrusting forward, and Doc, encouraged, wrapped his hand around the rigid flesh, moving slowly at first. Then, bringing into play the things he liked himself, he gripped more firmly, cupping the Indian's tight balls with his other hand and stroking firmly.
     Chavez gasped and grabbed Doc's shoulders before he remembered the gash and pulled one hand away, but, caught up in the strangeness, Doc ignored the sudden flare of pain and increased his efforts... It wasn't so different from being with a woman, not really. Skin was skin and bones were bones and it was the person inside them that really mattered anyway. And... it was... enjoyable, this pleasuring another.
     And arousing, he realised as his own cock began to harden again.
     Chavez ran his free hand into Doc's hair, pulling his head close – then kissed him, forcefully. His mouth tasted hot, of peppers and whiskey, an oddly familiar, reassuring flavour. And his lips were firm and mobile, his tongue questing... And he was, Doc realised, eyes widening, trembling. Thrusting into pale strong hands, lovely eyes closed, mouth parted to kiss, wholly beautiful as he whimpered and came, spilling over Doc's hands, body tensed and quivering... Beautiful.
     Strangely proud of himself, Doc grinned. How could something so... so perfect possibly be wrong? He pulled Chavez close, ignoring the slimy wetness on his hands, and for a few moments they lay skin to skin as Doc pressed little kisses to the Indian's face and neck. Then Chavez opened his eyes, and Doc was suddenly awed by the intensity of affection in their depths.
     'Chavez...'
     The half-breed kissed him, lingeringly.
     'Brother... lover... other-self...'
     Heart full of pride and happiness, Doc sighed and nestled closer. Time enough to explore what this all meant later. Here and now he was... content.

Two-spirit: "A direct translation of the Ojibwe term, Niizh manidoowag, "two-spirited" or "two-spirit" is usually used to indicate a person whose body simultaneously houses a masculine spirit and a feminine spirit." (wikipedia) The English term itself may be modern, but the concept is ancient.