They don't ride off into the sunset.

There will be killing to do, in time. Already, there are secret meetings at the Turnverein, the men who meet there stockpiling and drilling with rifles as the South begins to stir and tensions rise between their mostly immigrant, mostly pro-Union neighbors and the Confederate sympathizers that share their city in an uneasy peace. In a year, under General Lyon's command, they will join the troops surrounding Camp Jackson as the country cannibalizes itself; in two, there will be long months of separation bridged only by letters with too many worried spaces between them.

But today, Hildy is finishing her speech at the hall, her eyes blurring over the rows of pale men in white suits as they bring their hands together. For her. She ducks her head, blushing. Django speaks at the Turnverein on occasion—most of the men who attend have been in America for a decade and speak English fluently—but the novelty of a freed slave who can give speeches in German has yet to wear off, and they frequently ask for her to address the abolitionist meetings there. She catches Schultz's gaze for a relieved moment, smiles shyly as he covers James' ears in a probably futile attempt to keep the baby from waking. She curtsies and steps off the stage. Some of the men, their curiosity about her seemingly bottomless, try to continue the conversation, but Schultz comes to her rescue, brushing them aside as politely as he can manage and bustling her outside into the bright June sun.

She takes James from him and then hooks her arm through his. "You did well," he tells her.

"They're already abolitionists," Hildy replies. "It ain't like I'm changing their minds about anything." Still, they're enthusiastic about her, enough to overlook both her peculiar living arrangement and her suspiciously un-feminine proficiency with firearms. Most people in their neighborhood are Forty-Eighters like Schultz, and of a decidedly liberal mindset, and seem to accept without too many questions that he disappeared for several years to the South and returned with a young family he'd rescued from the horrors of the flesh trade. If they wonder why the Von Shafts haven't struck out on their own, or what improprieties take place behind those paper-thin walls, they are discreet enough to keep it to themselves.

"They'll be waging a war soon enough," Schultz says. "It's important to remind them of why."

After eight months in St. Louis, Hildy is a city girl, and she draws stares as much for her fashionable periwinkle morning dress and bonnet as she does for the scar on her face or the company she keeps. Her head is held high and no one, not even a stranger unaware of Schultz's reputation, would mistake her for his slave, or him for her master. She's not the first freed black to take refuge in the city, nor will she be the last, the freedom bond law on the books but rarely imposed. For the first time in her life, she's not constantly looking over her shoulder.

Schultz barely limps now; his own scars ache when it rains, but on a sunny afternoon, having just returned from a heated debate about whether war or diplomacy will ultimately end the evils of slavery, and arm-in-arm with a beautiful lady, he looks his very much his old self, and happy. She hopes it's not just an act for her sake or for Django's.

She's sure, at least, that his affection for their child brings him genuine happiness. They don't share blood, but he'd helped bring James into the world nevertheless, wrestled, as was every joy in their lives, from blood and suffering and terror. (Two years from now, when there's another child, a golden-skinned girl with an unmistakable mischievous streak, those inclined to look askance at the family are merely reminded of the deadly reputation of all three adults in the house, and refrain from speculating aloud.)

When they get home, Django is bent over the writing desk, as he so often is these days. No one is as surprised as he is that he'd exchange—if only temporarily—the rifle for the pen. But Schultz had bought him several published slave narratives that are popular amongst the abolitionists, and now he's stubbornly determined to write his own.

"I hope you'll leave me out of it," Schultz complains. When he left St. Louis four years ago, Hildy's learned, he'd been considered an amoral son-of-a-gun by his fellow exiles and was quite appalled to discover that he's been elevated to living sainthood in their eyes on account of his having liberated actual slaves. "I have quite enough notoriety as it is."

Django barely looks up from his manuscript. "You want me to lie?"

"Embellish, my dear boy."

"I don't see what the hurry is," Hildy says, positioning an arm in between Django and the desk. "Ain't like your life story's going anywhere."

"I made a promise," Django says softly. "To keep fighting." He looks guiltily at the papers but abandons them, for now, in favor of his wife, their lover, and their infant son, who gurgles happily when Django takes him to put him down for his nap. It's hard sometimes for Hildy to take her eyes off James, a hazy, distant dream miraculously made living, born into freedom without the knowledge of the chains that had bound his parents. She loves him fiercely, desperately, is amazed that the love she bears Django and Schultz is somehow multiplied beyond reckon in his presence.

The $3000 reward and the warrant with Django's name on it sit in a box in the drawer of the writing desk. They never look at it. (Years from now, James' daughter will find it while rampaging through her grandparents' house, and force Schultz to tell her the story of how Django was once a wanted man, and Hildy will somehow manage to use the story as a measure to manipulate her normally rambunctious brood of grandchildren into well-behaved angels for the rest of their visit.)

The guns sit in a cabinet, gathering dust; waiting, as patient things do, for the day when they will be needed again.

But that day seems far off, and the afternoon lies sultry and inviting before them, the sun sparkling through an open window and the spring wind floating conversation and laughter from the street below. Hildy takes the hands of both men and drags them, grinning, to the bedroom, determined to make the most of the time that remains.

FIN

[A/N: Eeek! That was kind of long, wasn't it?

I swear, I started this story as a quick one-off with only two ideas in my head. The first, coming out of the movie, was that all three of these kids were adorable and had crazy chemistry with each other, and someone should write a fix-it where Schultz survives somehow and then they all have a threesome. (By the time I got around to writing enough to post, several other people had gotten the same idea, but it's not like there can be too much porn in the world. Right? Right.)

The second was a review that a friend of mine wrote, which, among other things, made a strong case for Schultz being in exile after the failed 1848 revolutions in Europe. Which, in retrospect, made his character that much more awesome, so I decided that I wanted write about that too.

Somehow this turned into a 38,000+ word story with very little porn, quite a lot of plot, an embarrassing soundtrack, ridiculous amounts of research, and a browser history that, should I unexpectedly die, is going to raise some eyebrows.

If you're curious, here are things that I totally didn't make up:

- Captain Caldwell's Gonzales Rangers were real, and fought in the Battle of Plum Creek. (Handsome Jack Stone is totally fictional, though.)

- Jacob Burkle was a German businessman who allegedly hid fugitive slaves in the basement of his house. It's now a museum dedicated to the Underground Railroad.

- The massacre in Düsseldorf occurred on May 9, 1849. Friedrich Engels wrote about it in Neue Rheinische Zeitung, a short-lived but influential daily newspaper.

- The Turnvereine (Turner halls) were, of all things, gymnastics clubs with political ties to abolitionist and labor movements. Many German veterans of the 1848 revolution ended up joining the Union forces through recruitment there, eventually comprising the Western Turner Rifles. (If you Google "st louis german turner shooting club," you will find an awesome old timey picture.)

Oh yes, and apropos of nothing, the title is a line from Billy Bragg's "Tender Comrade," which you should check out if you haven't heard it.

Anyway, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who commented, critiqued, left kudos, followed, favorited, or read this monstrosity. I haven't actually finished any writing in four years, and so it's gratifying to know that not only can I put something out, but that other people like it too. You are all lovely people and I am beaming little cartoon hearts in your direction.]