oom: truth and consequences
Before they pull into the station on the outskirts of New York City (because they don't take the cattle straight into Grand Central), Doc takes the time to saddle up his horse and check all the leather, to brush off his coat and situate himself, and to smoke yet another cigarette.
It's straight forward enough to help unload the cattle from the trailers, even with the setting sun, and once the entire herd is out and headed to the processor, he takes his pay (not much, but it'll be enough for a drink or two somewhere in town and a room for the night) and then heads to find himself a livery for his horse.
He hasn't been back here since the day he got arrested, and he can still hear the click click click of the hammers being cocked back on those rifles.
"Josiah Gordon Scurlock? Don't you move."
It's amazing how much a city like New York can change in just about two months time. It seems busier, as he walks through the streets, his boots against the dirty, dusty surface. Even with all the people and the traffic, he knows where he's going. He wants a drink, first, he thinks. Then maybe a good night's sleep.
But part of him wants nothing more than to climb six flights of stairs of a slightly run-down tenement building and walk down the hallway, eight doors down on the left hand side, and knock lightly.
She's probably cooking dinner.
He wonders about his son. He wonders about everything, but first on his mind is the need for a drink and a solid night's sleep. There are plenty of hotels in New York City, with all the travelers coming and going, the new immigrants arriving daily, and the fact that there are more people than there are places to live. New buildings are going up all the time, but the city is growing faster than people can imagine.
Doc finds a room a few blocks from his (is it still his apartment?) building and then heads for the nearest store he can find, to pick up a small bottle of brandy and a roll of gauze bandages. The storekeeper gives him a bit of an odd look, but he's just another face in the crowd of humanity that come and go.
He spends the next few hours washing and re-wrapping the bullet wounds, and drinking his way through the bottle of brandy. By the time he's finished, he's drunk enough that nothing really hurts anymore, so he passes out in bed.
Tomorrow.
He'll find his family tomorrow.
(He dreams of riding horses through the forest, of his fingers brushing her neck and the way that her hair -- blond, not black -- felt underneath his touch, the way she kissed and the taste of spiced peaches. Fireworks over a lake that stretches on forever, as far as he can see...)
_______________________________
It's almost evening when he wakes up again, and it takes him too long to drag himself out of bed. He's not even hungover, but he's barely able to move. He's too damn tired and everything hurts worse than the day before.
The door to the small closet is tempting him.
Please be the bar.
It's not.
Doc tries it several times before he pulls on his gunbelt and then that black coat. He needs to see a doctor and if he had to pick a place other than Milliways to have the bullet dug out of his stomach, it would be New York City. But that will come after he sees his family.
He makes his way out of the hotel and then heads for the laundry he knows Yen's parents own, wondering what he's going to say. What he's going to do. How she's going to react. How would he react?
It only takes a moment to buy a paper from a hawker on the corner, and he stands a moment to read the headline.
Infamous Outlaw Billy the Kid Escapes!
Doc grins at the news and curls his hand into a fist around the paper, glancing at the ground to hide his excitement at the news. Of course it's not likely that Billy will really run to Ol' Mexico, but at least now he'll get the chance to get out.
It's a whirlwind. You can never get out.
(He doesn't want to get out.)
He's standing on the sidewalk, listening to people walk past when he hears a familiar voice -- a laugh -- and he glances up, eyes scanning the crowd.
There.
She's walking out the door of her parent's laundry, and he feels his heart leap up into his throat at the sight of her. He can't make himself move from where he's standing, there across the street, so he just watches.
A young man walks up to her and gently takes her hands in his, smiling as he does so. She presses her lips gently against his cheek, before taking his arm.
No.
It's been two months since he got arrested. Two months. There was no way she would have...
No.
He's not dead and it should be him standing there, but he can't make himself move. She's happy. The man is Chinese and it doesn't look odd for them to walk down the sidewalk together. People don't give them second glances. She looks proper there, like she...like it...
Like it was supposed to be.
When it hits him, he steps back and leans lightly against the wall.
He knew that cheating death, using the bar, using the vest, changing the future, he knew that it was risky but he had never really understood the fact that a paradox was still a paradox. Not the truth. Not a lie.
There's a chill at his shoulder, and he glances over. Nobody's there, but the voice is clear as day in his head.
"They killed you, Doc. They killed you."
He's not dead. Not physically. But in every other sense, he's gone.
(His skin feels sticky, like you feel in the muggy heat before a rainstorm.)
He can't go back to this life. He can't pick up a piece of chalk and stand in that classroom, in front of those boys. He can't walk back in that tiny tenement apartment and pick up his son, and pretend that the last two months never happened. He can't go back, even if he's standing just a few feet away from his entire life. Or what was his life, if it had never crossed paths with one William H. Bonney...but then he realizes, that if he had never crossed paths with Billy, that he wouldn't be standing on a New York City sidewalk at all.
If he hadn't had a reason to fight against Murphy's men after they killed John, he wouldn't have had a reason to fight Murphy as much as he did, and he wouldn't have met Yen-Sun in the first place. They would have never had the chance to run after the siege at the McSween house and he never would have ended up in New York City, teaching, raising a young son, marrying his China doll.
There would have never been the shame of watching those young boys as they saw him get arrested, or the fear of repercussion against Yen and his son as he was dragged through the streets with a rope around his wrists and neck. There never would have been that night at Greyhouse's 'rooming establishment' with a fine brandy and a beautiful woman that wasn't Yen.
It would have been him, and the boys, ridin' herd for Mr. Tunstall over New Mexico scrub and keeping things in order.
None of this would have ever happened.
Yen has been gone for -- he's not sure how long, by the time he finally moves from the spot he's riveted to on the sidewalk -- but he doesn't follow her. Them. He doesn't follow them.
None of this would have ever happened.
It had to happen.
None of this...
It had to happen.
_______________________________
When Doc finally moves from the sidewalk, it's a slow, methodical walk to the livery several blocks across town. He could take the stage or several shortcuts through alleys and back streets, but he chooses to walk the full distance.
There's an ache deep in his leg and his arm is painfully tender, more than it was before. Maybe with the rush worn off his body is finally wearing down. Maybe with the resignation he's just too tired to fight off the pain anymore. Maybe he's really dead and this is all a dream.
"They killed you, Doc. The bastard killed you."
He stops at the livery stables to pay for the board for his horse and then saddle the mare up, and he's on his way out of the city before the sun has sunk fully past the ocean horizon. Part of him has no idea what to do now. His mind isn't even thinking about the bar. A million other things are on his mind.
"The bastard killed you."
"No, Billy."
You killed me.
It's what he wants to say. What he wants to scream, but his throat is too tight to do anything but swallow down the lump that he thinks might be his heart. His mind is wandering as he heads north along a road. Where it leads, he has no idea.
He doesn't care.
"You killed me."
"You knew you couldn't go back."
"Of course I couldn't. You were right." Doc laughs a little. "It's a whirlwind, remember? Once you're in, you can't get out." It's funny. After everything, after getting shot half to death and spending roughly ten days traveling the country (or was it twelve, he can't remember anymore), and all the shit he went through, he was right back where he started.
(Right where he wanted.)
Alone.
Except for the shadows.
He laughs again, and soon he's cracking up into hysterics, tears in his eyes because it's funny. Billy was right. He lied to them and he got Tommy killed because there never was a trail, and they were never headed to Ol' Mexico, because why would they go to Ol' Mexico when nothing was waiting for them? Nothing. Doc never made it to Ol' Mexico and he never made it back to Yen, either. Or his son. It's funny. Funny in that way that makes him laugh so hard that he's crying, half-choked sobs and he's not sure why he's still laughing but he is.
It's okay, because he's alone.
Except for the shadows.
And Billy's laughing too.
It's straight forward enough to help unload the cattle from the trailers, even with the setting sun, and once the entire herd is out and headed to the processor, he takes his pay (not much, but it'll be enough for a drink or two somewhere in town and a room for the night) and then heads to find himself a livery for his horse.
He hasn't been back here since the day he got arrested, and he can still hear the click click click of the hammers being cocked back on those rifles.
"Josiah Gordon Scurlock? Don't you move."
It's amazing how much a city like New York can change in just about two months time. It seems busier, as he walks through the streets, his boots against the dirty, dusty surface. Even with all the people and the traffic, he knows where he's going. He wants a drink, first, he thinks. Then maybe a good night's sleep.
But part of him wants nothing more than to climb six flights of stairs of a slightly run-down tenement building and walk down the hallway, eight doors down on the left hand side, and knock lightly.
She's probably cooking dinner.
He wonders about his son. He wonders about everything, but first on his mind is the need for a drink and a solid night's sleep. There are plenty of hotels in New York City, with all the travelers coming and going, the new immigrants arriving daily, and the fact that there are more people than there are places to live. New buildings are going up all the time, but the city is growing faster than people can imagine.
Doc finds a room a few blocks from his (is it still his apartment?) building and then heads for the nearest store he can find, to pick up a small bottle of brandy and a roll of gauze bandages. The storekeeper gives him a bit of an odd look, but he's just another face in the crowd of humanity that come and go.
He spends the next few hours washing and re-wrapping the bullet wounds, and drinking his way through the bottle of brandy. By the time he's finished, he's drunk enough that nothing really hurts anymore, so he passes out in bed.
Tomorrow.
He'll find his family tomorrow.
(He dreams of riding horses through the forest, of his fingers brushing her neck and the way that her hair -- blond, not black -- felt underneath his touch, the way she kissed and the taste of spiced peaches. Fireworks over a lake that stretches on forever, as far as he can see...)
_______________________________
It's almost evening when he wakes up again, and it takes him too long to drag himself out of bed. He's not even hungover, but he's barely able to move. He's too damn tired and everything hurts worse than the day before.
The door to the small closet is tempting him.
Please be the bar.
It's not.
Doc tries it several times before he pulls on his gunbelt and then that black coat. He needs to see a doctor and if he had to pick a place other than Milliways to have the bullet dug out of his stomach, it would be New York City. But that will come after he sees his family.
He makes his way out of the hotel and then heads for the laundry he knows Yen's parents own, wondering what he's going to say. What he's going to do. How she's going to react. How would he react?
It only takes a moment to buy a paper from a hawker on the corner, and he stands a moment to read the headline.
Infamous Outlaw Billy the Kid Escapes!
Doc grins at the news and curls his hand into a fist around the paper, glancing at the ground to hide his excitement at the news. Of course it's not likely that Billy will really run to Ol' Mexico, but at least now he'll get the chance to get out.
It's a whirlwind. You can never get out.
(He doesn't want to get out.)
He's standing on the sidewalk, listening to people walk past when he hears a familiar voice -- a laugh -- and he glances up, eyes scanning the crowd.
There.
She's walking out the door of her parent's laundry, and he feels his heart leap up into his throat at the sight of her. He can't make himself move from where he's standing, there across the street, so he just watches.
A young man walks up to her and gently takes her hands in his, smiling as he does so. She presses her lips gently against his cheek, before taking his arm.
No.
It's been two months since he got arrested. Two months. There was no way she would have...
No.
He's not dead and it should be him standing there, but he can't make himself move. She's happy. The man is Chinese and it doesn't look odd for them to walk down the sidewalk together. People don't give them second glances. She looks proper there, like she...like it...
Like it was supposed to be.
When it hits him, he steps back and leans lightly against the wall.
He knew that cheating death, using the bar, using the vest, changing the future, he knew that it was risky but he had never really understood the fact that a paradox was still a paradox. Not the truth. Not a lie.
There's a chill at his shoulder, and he glances over. Nobody's there, but the voice is clear as day in his head.
"They killed you, Doc. They killed you."
He's not dead. Not physically. But in every other sense, he's gone.
(His skin feels sticky, like you feel in the muggy heat before a rainstorm.)
He can't go back to this life. He can't pick up a piece of chalk and stand in that classroom, in front of those boys. He can't walk back in that tiny tenement apartment and pick up his son, and pretend that the last two months never happened. He can't go back, even if he's standing just a few feet away from his entire life. Or what was his life, if it had never crossed paths with one William H. Bonney...but then he realizes, that if he had never crossed paths with Billy, that he wouldn't be standing on a New York City sidewalk at all.
If he hadn't had a reason to fight against Murphy's men after they killed John, he wouldn't have had a reason to fight Murphy as much as he did, and he wouldn't have met Yen-Sun in the first place. They would have never had the chance to run after the siege at the McSween house and he never would have ended up in New York City, teaching, raising a young son, marrying his China doll.
There would have never been the shame of watching those young boys as they saw him get arrested, or the fear of repercussion against Yen and his son as he was dragged through the streets with a rope around his wrists and neck. There never would have been that night at Greyhouse's 'rooming establishment' with a fine brandy and a beautiful woman that wasn't Yen.
It would have been him, and the boys, ridin' herd for Mr. Tunstall over New Mexico scrub and keeping things in order.
None of this would have ever happened.
Yen has been gone for -- he's not sure how long, by the time he finally moves from the spot he's riveted to on the sidewalk -- but he doesn't follow her. Them. He doesn't follow them.
None of this would have ever happened.
It had to happen.
None of this...
It had to happen.
_______________________________
When Doc finally moves from the sidewalk, it's a slow, methodical walk to the livery several blocks across town. He could take the stage or several shortcuts through alleys and back streets, but he chooses to walk the full distance.
There's an ache deep in his leg and his arm is painfully tender, more than it was before. Maybe with the rush worn off his body is finally wearing down. Maybe with the resignation he's just too tired to fight off the pain anymore. Maybe he's really dead and this is all a dream.
"They killed you, Doc. The bastard killed you."
He stops at the livery stables to pay for the board for his horse and then saddle the mare up, and he's on his way out of the city before the sun has sunk fully past the ocean horizon. Part of him has no idea what to do now. His mind isn't even thinking about the bar. A million other things are on his mind.
"The bastard killed you."
"No, Billy."
You killed me.
It's what he wants to say. What he wants to scream, but his throat is too tight to do anything but swallow down the lump that he thinks might be his heart. His mind is wandering as he heads north along a road. Where it leads, he has no idea.
He doesn't care.
"You killed me."
"You knew you couldn't go back."
"Of course I couldn't. You were right." Doc laughs a little. "It's a whirlwind, remember? Once you're in, you can't get out." It's funny. After everything, after getting shot half to death and spending roughly ten days traveling the country (or was it twelve, he can't remember anymore), and all the shit he went through, he was right back where he started.
(Right where he wanted.)
Alone.
Except for the shadows.
He laughs again, and soon he's cracking up into hysterics, tears in his eyes because it's funny. Billy was right. He lied to them and he got Tommy killed because there never was a trail, and they were never headed to Ol' Mexico, because why would they go to Ol' Mexico when nothing was waiting for them? Nothing. Doc never made it to Ol' Mexico and he never made it back to Yen, either. Or his son. It's funny. Funny in that way that makes him laugh so hard that he's crying, half-choked sobs and he's not sure why he's still laughing but he is.
It's okay, because he's alone.
Except for the shadows.
And Billy's laughing too.