Drake was rudely awoken from his blacked-out slumber by a cold liquid splashing on his face and a hard bottle being shoved into his mouth. Bitterly cold, he couldn't move a muscle. He was stark naked and strapped to the leather hide of a mechanical bull, like the kind found in country bars. He tried to cry out but was unable to voice himself because of the whiskey bottle jammed into his mouth, the potent liquid pouring into him.
"Heard he was the lightest lightweight this side of the Mississippi!" one cowboy declared, laughing his head off as the bottle emptied its contents into Drake. "This will make him nice and easy in no time!"
"Then stop wasting it!" the leader, the same jerk from the bathroom, shouted, yanking the bottle back and out of Drake's mouth. "Enough prep work, let's get this party started!" he cheered, and dozens of cowboys joined in with raucous laughter.
Drake tried to focus his vision. He was in a western tavern or bar, but where exactly, he had no clue. It was dark, barely lit by a few oil lamps around the bar. Dozens of half-dressed cowboys, wearing nothing but chaps or less from the waist down, eyed him like a feast. He felt utterly exposed and vulnerable, his naked body on display for all to ogle.
"Wooo-wee!" the leader cheered, slapping Drake firmly on the behind. "Look at that, boys! Look how it jiggles!"
Drake was strapped tightly to the mechanical bull, unable to move or see what was happening to him. All he could do was close his eyes and bear the brunt of it, grateful that the whiskey was already taking effect and dulling his senses. He felt a cloth gag wrap around his neck and into his mouth as he shut his eyes tightly, dreading what was to come next. Unwanted hands, fingers, and other things he never wanted to know, touched, poked, prodded, and slapped him.
He clenched his eyes tight, biting down on the gag hard enough to almost cut through it. Never before had he been so embarrassed, so mortified. Was this what his open declaration had cost him? His freedom? His virginity at the hands of hoodlums? The cost of losing Bull.
William Blackwood, aka Bull, the only man he ever felt anything for. The one who saved his life countless times. And now, nowhere to be seen or heard. God, what Drake wouldn't do to have Bull back in his life. Back in the cabin. Back in the arms that he knew were safe. Unable to travel through time, he wept bitterly as he felt things he never wanted to feel, from people he never wanted to feel them from.
Then, amongst the cheers and jeers in the bar, a single canister rolled across the room, unnoticed by all inside. Suddenly, with a deafening boom and a blinding flash, it exploded. A flashbang canister went off in the bar.
A second canister hissed as it rolled across the floor, spraying out a thick, hazy mist into the room, fogging up and distorting the view of everyone inside. The cheers instantly turned into screams and shouts of terrified men, scrambling to make sense of the chaos, coughing and shouting as the tear gas took effect.
Drake, unable to move or see what was happening, wrestled and shook, trying to escape. The potent liquor in his bloodstream helped stifle the bang, and his eyes had been shut tight during the flash.
Then he felt a rough but familiar hand on his shoulder. "I'm here, Drake." Bull's voice was muffled by the gas mask over his face. He held an identical mask and strapped it over Drake's face, then whipped out a knife and sliced the bindings holding Drake to the mechanical bull.
Drake immediately slipped and fell, caught in Bull's strong arms. "How about we get you out of here, huh?"
Drake gasped as he inhaled the clean air, nodding as he tried to collect his thoughts, the sting of the tear gas dissipating through the gas mask. His senses and nerves felt that familiar etheric tingle, bringing him back to his senses. His eyes opened wide to see Bull's gleaming face. Even behind a gas mask, Bull's face might as well have been that of singing angels. Never before had he been so relieved to see someone else.
Bull wrapped a blanket around Drake and carried him out of the tavern as half-dressed cowboys scurried out of the building, coughing and gasping for air. Bull lifted Drake onto the back of the Ani-maton horse and saddled up behind him.
"I'll fuck you up Bull!!!" the leader shouted, coughing and gagging, roughly aiming his gun at them. "And then I'll fuck your little toy too!"
Drake, gasping for air, held on tightly to Bull and glared at the leader with righteous fury. "No, you won't, bastard…" With a snap of his fingers, he whispered, "Pyros." The oxygen molecules mixed with the misty ether in the canisters, rapidly accelerating and igniting into flames. With a blink of an eye and a snap of Drake's fingers, the entire tavern exploded into a blazing ball of flames, engulfing and incinerating the building in a superheated flash.
"Holy Shit!" Bull shouted as he dashed off on the horse, escaping the blast wave.
Dr. Drake Voss was utterly spent, physically, etherically, and emotionally. As the Ani-maton horse galloped down the road at full speed, Drake clenched his eyes tightly, tears flowing from them, and wrapped his arms around William "Bull" Blackwood.
His savior.
His hero.
His man.