Author: Mosh
Fandom: Brokeback Mountain
Title: Countless Times
Pairing: Ennis/Jack
Rating: R
Summary: Following the passage of time.
Disclaimer: These boys belong to Annie Proulx. No money being made, no copyright or trademark infringement intended.
A/N: It seems like I'm doomed to write nothing but angst in this fandom. *g* Many thanks to Vee for the beta. 550 words.

Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks!

I

Once, when the snow came early on Brokeback Mountain and caught them by surprise, Jack had laughed at Ennis as he'd tried to locate the rifle, buried somewhere under fluffed-up layers of the sodden stuff.

"You look like a damn coyote with its ass on fire, crawlin around like that."

"Christ's sake, Jack, get over here an help me find the gun. You were the last one of us to put it down."

"Why? More fun watchin you do it."

Ennis had caught the flash of a wicked grin from the direction of the tent. It had riled him up something chronic.

Then: "Tell you what, I'll give you a clue. It ain't over by them rocks over there."

Ennis had foregone his search after that. He had stopped Jack's laughter with his tongue, then stuffed a soggy handful of snow down his open jeans as pay-back.

II

Twice, quick as fork-lightning, they had glanced at each other over the camp fire and looked away, back again, both snorted into their cans of steaming beans and both thought, Christ, I'm gettin soft, at the same time.

The thing about Jack was that he didn't know when to shut up. Words just tumbled out of him like a dam had burst somewhere along the lines and there was no stopping it, no stopping him voicing things, the river just growing faster and wider at every bend.

The thing about Ennis was he had very few words to share, and perhaps fewer actions, but as it was, actions were better than speaking his thoughts right then, as he had caught Jack's eyes again over the licking flames.

Dusty dirt coloured his light denim jeans brown as he'd edged around the fire, right up against Jack till their knees had touched and shoulders had brushed and it had been enough.

III

The third time they had fucked, Ennis had made Jack come with is hand, without a word, only a light kind of grunt; his arm curled tightly and shaking round Jack's hip, fingers pulling hot, damp skin making it even hotter and damper by the millisecond.

Jack had cursed breathlessly, a soft, sibilant, "Shiiit..." and maybe he'd said "Ennis" too, but under the flap of canvas, the rustle of tree leaves and the wail of coyotes outside, it had been hard to tell for sure.

IV

Countless times Ennis would stare at the distant white-glazed mountains, and feel regret for not going back.

There had been no last time on Brokeback, really, only the first - the only time - with Jack.

Once, a violent sense of longing had seized hold of him in the street, stealing time away until he had realised folk were staring at him from out of store windows, at the stationary man on the curb. A statue moulded out of the tarmac, caught in a wistful, melancholy pose - always staring ahead but having been left behind a long, long time ago.

His breath had come short and rasping, then, and he had closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass, wash over him as a stream would over jagged rocks.

No words, no words.

Back then he could still hear it, when the wind blew. His own name hushed out on a breeze, sounding like Jack's voice.

And grey clouds had exploded overhead, the wind carrying the voice away, out towards the mountains where it truly belonged.

~Fin~