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roamingtigress · 2 years ago

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The Merry Misadventures of Hosea and The Mustached Idiot

Chapter One -

The Matthews Mattress

I feel the warmth of the morning sun on my face, and a heavy feeling blanketing, weighting down my form. I sigh. There's some 6'1 tall idiot with a mustache and a silly soul patch lying on top of me, wrapping a strong arm around me, the other draped off the bed. There was a pair of long legs sprawled out over the edge of the bed, which was only made for one, but Mustached Idiot here -- all 185 pounds of him -- decided that was only a suggestion.

But he's MY Mustached Idiot. Brilliant and stupid and frustrating and a pain in the ass all at the same time; Dutch can read the direction from the sky, but can't or won't follow a line on a map, but someone has to look after him. And we love each other, oh so much, bickering and all like the old couple that we are. Some fellow, Reverend Joe Swanson, got us married. And ol' Dutch isn't half bad to look at, either. When he shuts up, he can say a lot with his face when it isn't in a book, or doing some odd job that I get myself into now and then with him. Sometimes Arthur, and sometimes John with some convincing comes along (John always fights with Dutch over the issue of direction and Dutch is convinced he's heading in the right direction and that John simply can't be correct because that's not what the moon is telling him). Occasionally Sadie and Sean come along on our bounty missions or even on just a trail ride, and there's always some sort of chaos that erupts; a bounty usually dies, and a wild animal completely redirects us off course, particularly wolves; I don't know what it is, but the wolves come out of the woodwork when that man is out and about.

On that subject of books, Dutch and I have a nightly routine where we would get a book and read a chapter of it before bedtime . . . Something we've been doing since we first dated all those years ago. Sometimes we don't get sleep well into the night because sometimes we stop and end up discussing whatever is happening in the chapter.

"Dutch, I need to breathe -- "

I hear some clanking around. A somewhat, heavyset, tall fellow (even taller than the human blanket on top of me), well dressed considering his occupation working with tanning fluids, with a grey beard, half talking to himself about someone named Maggie Fike, half talking to me because he heard my sigh. The gentleman, none other than J.B Cripps. We agreed on a business deal with him; for a campsite that he'd move around here and there, we could have a good steady cash flow involving the sale of furs, feathers and hides. Cripps is . . . An interesting fellow with some strange stories to tell. One involved him being an acrobat in Portugal. Another involved a failed bank job in Tennessee with someone named Phil the Crab and Limpy Pete. Cripps doesn't care much for dogs, though. Poor Matilda! What a lovely Labrador she is, with her shiny black coat, always happy nature. She does her best.

The coffee he was brewing smelled good though and the smell of bacon and eggs was wafting in the air. The food came from the stockyard in Valentine in some high-risk, high-reward job that actually worked according to, er, plan. The pigs that he killed in the middle of the night were located right behind the police station; whom he also collects bounties for. What he hadn't used were sold to the butcher who took the remains without question. Nobody said that Dutch isn't a complex character. I accompanied him because adult supervision is required from time to time, and I needed to get a cold drink for a change.

Dutch still hasn't stirred too much from his sleep and he's making some sort of odd sound of contentment; something of a mew, something of a growl. He has a stupid crooked smile on his face as he uses my chest as a pillow and I don't have the heart to wake him; he looks at once ridiculous and gorgeous. I gently petted his cheek, a little rough from a day's missed shave. We went on a long-distance delivery from Cumberland Forest to Blackwater, and when he came home he had only a few hours of rest before the stockyard raid, giving him very little time for a shave, which is more than just a quick chore, it was a venture. He normally slept in his Union suit but the business of slaughtering pigs in rain-soaked slop is a messy business and he hadn't wanted to come to bed smelling like muck and shit, so he stripped himself down after a quick dip in the river, and put on some pants he used for some chores; nothing he'd wear out into town, but did its job. Sleeping in the nude is something he's also not above doing, but it was a bit nippy for that tonight and as he's gotten older the cold is something we've both grown more intolerant to.

I want to breathe and feel circulation in my body again, but . . . I still don't have the heart to wake him just yet. I want to just admire him for a moment longer. I traced a finger around that wonderful Roman nose of his, and after he let his arm slip off of me, which helped me move a bit, and then move my finger along the shape his mustache and that soulpatch. I run a hand through his lovely hair of his up a bit. I've long been a fan of how his hair looks in the morning before he puts on the pomade. Satisfied with my work, I slid my hand over a shoulder and down his back, which had been aching a bit after that long delivery run. Judy is a lovely Suffolk Punch mare -- under the saddle -- but a bitch in the hitch and will take the bit and run with it, and his poor back was suffering from it. I lean in and kiss his forehead, and just lightly, work a light massage into his lower back. There was a particularly nasty knot there and I worked on it with gradually firming touch. I felt the muscle twitching underneath my touch and then, subside.

I hear Cripps moving about still, doing odd jobs. Matilda barked at something, and Dynformer, that fine Thoroughbred stallion, snorted, and pawed at the dirt, eager to get the day started. Usually, he would be going out for a ride about now but someone decided to sleep in (or rather sleep on).

"I don't want to interrupt anythin', but breakfast is ready. I'll keep it warm over the fire."

It was a nice bonus to work with someone who had been accepting us as a couple; we didn't need to hide away when we camp; sure we could sneak out, and we still do for fun, but, that wasn't needed. You can say what you want to say about Cripps, but he even set up a nice little area for us a candle on a table for a romantic night setup by the cauldron, though we normally had our place at the bonfire. It was a nice thought and we have been there for reading while Cripps popped out in town.

My stomach nagged me. Breakfast did smell good. But I still had this Mustached Idiot on top of me. What am I to do?

Dutch's stupid smile widened as I traced my hand through his touseled hair again, and let a finger slip along his soft jawline; my other wasn't free just yet. Dutch was manipulating me in his sleep, just by being adorable. As I thought of a plan, I absentmindedly moved my hand down to his sensitive ribs. I didn't even realize I was doing it, but I was petting him like I do with Matilda and I felt him squirm under my touch, a happy sigh escaping from him. He was slowly waking; it was masterful manipulation, or so he likely thought, just so that he lay on me longer. But this wasn't my first rodeo and I had a trick up my sleeve, and my smirk that I had since I woke up, widened.

"Mmf!" Dutch squeaks out, initially trying to muffle it but it snuck out when I slipped a finger just under the hem of his pants, finding that sweet spot on his right hip, and he squirms. God, I love that waist of his, strangely serpentine, with a certain feminine quality to it. And I know it's one of his soft spots, particularly the right hip.

"Waking up are we, babygirl?" I grin, and then sigh again as he simply turns over onto me like I'm a fucking mattress. What did I get myself into?

Dutch let out a low whimpering growl, his head tilted back. Purring, he was fucking purring! "Mrr . . . " That stupid smile just grew.

"I know you're awake, Duchess."

I caught the glimpse of an eye fluttering open as I snaked a hand towards his belly, another sensitive spot. My other hand is rested over his heart and I feel him lightly placing his hand over mine, and then taking it, lightly, so lightly just kissing it. It was a silent 'I love you'; a nice little morning routine before whatever lays ahead for us for that day.

"How long have you been awake?" I tap that nose of his.

I refuse to touch him again until I get an answer, but that sonofabitch arches his back and presses his midriff into my hands, and I dance them away again. He pouts and gives me puppy dog eyes as he flops back down on me again, but those eyes are smiling. I do love seeing this playful side of him; it reminds me of the old days so much. And with that, I feel younger.

"Oh . . . About an hour." The twinkle in his eyes showed in his voice.

I give him a slap on the belly; there's a tiny bit of a thud, and he lets out this wheezy chortle. There's a chance we'll likely get in finer shape (there's a tinge of softness on both in both of us old dads but looking pretty damn good, mind) soon enough with all that we've signed up for.

"You shit -- "

Dutch just laughs, placing a hand over my other hand that's over his heart, he gives it a light squeeze. A sort of squeeze that he'd do to pacify me whenever I got upset in a silent plea to not be angry; he knows I'm not upset, but he plays the part, and I play along.

"You was pettin' me, 'sea -- " He answers coyly, and repositioned himself slightly; no, not for my comfort, but so that he can kiss me on the neck as he does to get out of trouble, even in our arguments when he wants to get back on my good graces.

Dutch got one over me! The boy needs to be put in his place! "You -- " I break from my stern expression though and I just laugh, lightly tickling him; as per usual he tries not to laugh and tries to stay stoic, but, it sneaks out. I take delight in that laugh, feeling him squirming under my touch. I slow my fingers down to a gentle stroke and then, with my free hand, I hold him tight, and I bury my face into that lovely, tousled hair.

"I think I love you . . ." Dutch murmured as he moves up into my touch, and in return, he kisses me, touching me, wherever he can. I realize I'm not helping my situation and only encouraging him.

"I think I love you too, you know . . . " I smile. And that smartass side of his sneaks out.

"Someone's got to."

I kiss that idiot, and for that moment, I don't want him to get up. We'll eventually get up and have our breakfast; Matilda is getting a little needy, but for just a few or more minutes, he'll remain in my arms.

"You got me that time, but there will be another."

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