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Lawman - Lonesome Dove Roleplay

Colonel Francis Clayton Mosby posting in The Lonesome Dove Roleplaying Community
User: lonesomedove_rp (posted by col_mosby)
Date: 2006-09-20 19:53
Subject: Lawman
Security: Public
Mood:amusedamused
((Again, this is an AU fic for amusement and not related to any fics or roleplay in this comm or any other.))

Peale had come over to warn Mosby that the strange lawman was in town, and checking into The Lonesome Dove, so Clay took care in dressing, and went out on the balcony to catch a glimpse of the man.

He was tall. From the back, it was clear that he was well built. The black pants, black boots and black coat were fancy, for a man traveling on horseback. His wide brimmed hat was dark gray, with a black leather band. The Morgan that he was leading towards the livery was magnificent, a stallion of great worth. Obviously not a standard issue animal for this officer of the law.

After about twenty minutes, the lawman exited the livery without his horse, and he was looking around the street. He seemed at ease, not resting his hand on his gun like so many men do in a strange place. But it was when the man turned in place and looked up at the Ambrosia Club balcony that Clay Mosby had a physical reaction. His breath caught, and his body leaned forward to brace on the wood railing. Dear God...the man is beautiful.

The men sized each other up, for a long moment. The man in the street was taking in the long, dark hair and well trimmed beard, as well as the perfectly cut trousers, vest and French cotton shirt. The man up above was staring at the mouth, that delicious mouth, and the eyes...the sculptured features and the nose that might seem large, but fit perfectly in the face of this man. Mosby guessed that this was what a Greek or Roman god would look like, if he were a believer in pagan religions.

Clay gave the man a half smile, tilting his head forward and invitation clearly in his eyes as he waved towards the door of the club. The man in the street reached up to touch the brim of his hat, and nod towards the other man.

Mosby stopped to put on his jacket, before going downstairs. He personally pulled out a bottle of his private stock whiskey, which was unwatered and aged. With two clean glasses, he took a spot at a table near the window.

The man came in, blinking twice at the change in light. Mosby had come over to extend his well manicured hand to the other man. "My sheriff tells me you are a U.S. Marshal, sir. I'm Clay Mosby, owner of this club and half this town. I'm happy to offer you my assistance, but please, allow me to offer you a drink, Marshal..."

"Mulder. U.S. Marshal Fox Mulder." Mulder removed his hat, and shook hands with Mosby, smiling. "A drink is very kind of you."

Mosby clapped the man on the back to lead him over to the table. It gave him a chance to feel the fine muscles of the other man, in a way that wouldn't make him skittish. After pouring two glasses, Mosby took a seat opposite his guest. "Now what brings a U.S. Marshal all the way out here to our little town? Hunting desperados?"

"Just one." Mulder sipped a bit of the whiskey, and licked his lips. The pleasant burn down his throat and in his belly spread, and the aches of the ride eased a bit. "I usually investigate cases that are less mundane, but this slippery bastard is different." Mulder almost said 'special', but he bit that back, not wanting to voice that and give away anything in the history.

"Less mundane? That sounds fascinating, Marshal Mulder. Do tell. And what has this desperado done to bring you out to the wilds?" Clay lit a cigar, and offered one to his companion, who declined.

"I investigate strange cases, often with Indians or sightings of strange creatures. Bizzare deaths, plagues, suspected witchcraft." Another sip of whiskey brings more warmth. The fall air had turned nippy, on the long ride. "The man I'm looking for is a Russian. He uses a number of names, including Romanov. Dark hair, very unusual green eyes, accent, tall...handsome sort."

"Handsome? For a scoundrel, you mean?" Mosby was amused, given the night he had enjoyed with Alexei Romanov at this very table recently. "What has this green eyed man done?"

"Murder. Kidnapping. Suspected of espionage and smuggling." Fox nodded his thanks as Mosby poured another round. "He's a very dangerous man. I need to find him as soon as possible."

"Why Marshal...this sounds personal." Mosby watched him take a drink , marveling inwardly at the softness of that mouth. "Do you show such intensity for all of your cases? Or is this Romanov fellow special?"

Mulder frowned and looked at the glass in his hand. Across the muddy street, in the darkening town, there was a man tucked in a doorway. He had his black hat pulled low over his face, and his black leather duster provided some protection from the chill of the rain that began to drizzle down as the sun faded behind the hills. The oil lamps being lit inside The Ambrosia club lit Mulder and Mosby beautifully for his watchful gaze. It also caught and glittered in the heavy lashed green eyes that could barely be seen under the brim of the damp felt hat.

Inside, Mulder felt a shiver up his spine, and an unease that he couldn't put his finger on. But he leaned back in the wooden chair, and scraped his boot along the floor. "Special? No. He's nothing special. Just a job. Another prisoner I need to put behind bars."

Liar. Mosby was enjoying this immensely. There were too many lovely possibilities for how this could go. He did wonder where Romanov was, at that moment, but the mystery was part of the pleasure.
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September 2006