Word count: 250
Rating: R-for language.
Written for Drabbletag at Femslash 100
Also available at
Alma came to know Trixie’s body as her only source of comfort during the long days when she had been throwing off the shackles of her dependency. She knew Trixie’s body better than her own, as the other woman had no shame about sleeping sans the layers of garments that a lady of Alma’s station must always be shrouded in. She memorized Trixie’s arms and stomach and hips by the scars she felt under her fingers as Trixie held her tightly though the trembling and nausea; physically holding her down when she begged permission to visit Doc Cochran for the relief her body told her it wanted.
She found herself morbidly fascinated by a small circle of uneven bumps on the top of Trixie’s right hand. While Trixie was handing her the brooch to close the top of her mourning dress on the day of Brom’s funeral, she finally steeled herself to ask. Alma took Trixie’s hand and laid her thumb over the circle of ruined flesh, rubbing it gently, letting her widened eyes ask the question and giving Trixie an opportunity to decline to answer.
Trixie stole a look at the child and lowered her voice.
“Never get one of them mother-fucking cocksuckers pissed off when he’s got a cheroot in his mouth.”
Alma nodded, and tried not to notice her own fingers trembling as she closed the brooch.
That minute she devised her plan for Trixie to escape from Al Swearingen, Deadwood and all that went with it.