(no subject)
The room is quiet, but it's not empty.
Doc had made his way upstairs after he and Will had made their way to the infirmary -- where Guppy was quite surprised to see the outlaws, but managed to patch up Doc's various injuries as best he could -- and then he had shed his saddlebags, pack, and duster to the floor the moment he'd stepped through the door.
Now he's sitting on the chair near his desk, with his boots off. His eyes are focused absently on the glint of his spurs in the low light of the room -- the lights are on, but not all of them burn brightly at the moment -- and his mind is wandering through everything that's happened in the last few hours.
Ramon shot you, and you died. In Colorado...what were you doing in Colorado? She agreed to come with you? You made it to a place where you wanted to take her? Was it...was it really you? Or was it another timeline, another Doc...another man?
No. You know it was you, it had to be. You've come in young before, so who's to say that you can't come in older? It was you.
Where are the cats...probably in her room. Bar said you'd been gone for months. You need to check the stock in the morning...they're probably fine for tonight. It's already winter, snow on the ground and everything. Wonder how the colt is doing.
She buried you. She...buried you.
You told Frank you were already a ghost...you're not dead. You bled while Guppy was workin' on your arm, you know you ain't dead...just bar being strange, again. You're all right...
He'd intended on undressing and taking a shower and a bath, but his attention span had drifted rapidly and he hasn't moved from the chair since sitting down to take his boots off. The sudden knock on the door snaps his mind out of distraction, heart leaping into his throat at the sound.
"Who's there," he calls, voice a little tired and rough.
His gun is on the desk just a few feet away, and he knows he could get to it quickly, but he makes no move for it, yet.
Doc had made his way upstairs after he and Will had made their way to the infirmary -- where Guppy was quite surprised to see the outlaws, but managed to patch up Doc's various injuries as best he could -- and then he had shed his saddlebags, pack, and duster to the floor the moment he'd stepped through the door.
Now he's sitting on the chair near his desk, with his boots off. His eyes are focused absently on the glint of his spurs in the low light of the room -- the lights are on, but not all of them burn brightly at the moment -- and his mind is wandering through everything that's happened in the last few hours.
Ramon shot you, and you died. In Colorado...what were you doing in Colorado? She agreed to come with you? You made it to a place where you wanted to take her? Was it...was it really you? Or was it another timeline, another Doc...another man?
No. You know it was you, it had to be. You've come in young before, so who's to say that you can't come in older? It was you.
Where are the cats...probably in her room. Bar said you'd been gone for months. You need to check the stock in the morning...they're probably fine for tonight. It's already winter, snow on the ground and everything. Wonder how the colt is doing.
She buried you. She...buried you.
You told Frank you were already a ghost...you're not dead. You bled while Guppy was workin' on your arm, you know you ain't dead...just bar being strange, again. You're all right...
He'd intended on undressing and taking a shower and a bath, but his attention span had drifted rapidly and he hasn't moved from the chair since sitting down to take his boots off. The sudden knock on the door snaps his mind out of distraction, heart leaping into his throat at the sound.
"Who's there," he calls, voice a little tired and rough.
His gun is on the desk just a few feet away, and he knows he could get to it quickly, but he makes no move for it, yet.