oom: upstairs
He's gotten himself into quite a routine during his time so far in Milliways, even if it's far from ordinary or anything you could set a watch by in regards to consistency. Dan doesn't need to sleep. He never really gets hungry, but there are occasional cravings. Whiskey burns his throat but doesn't dull his senses -- it takes a few shots of the wine of the 'gods' to do that.
But in regards to his routine (of sorts) he sleeps when he's 'tired' and eats when he's 'hungry' and drinks when he's wanting to be 'drunk'. However, all of that changed a little over a week (two weeks?) ago when Charlie Prince walked into Milliways Bar for the very first time.
For a man with a bad leg, he's gotten into quite the habit of pacing back and forth in circles around his room upstairs.
And as always, his room isn't much, but there have been a few additions the last several months.
A few new articles of clothing -- two pairs of pants, several pairs of drawers and undershirts, a black button down, a handful of socks (not pairs, of course) and a winter coat -- in the dresser.
There is a growing collection of Slinky toys on the bedside table -- one 'original' steel, one bright orange plastic, and one green and purple that glows in the dark -- and they are joined by a book detailing the history of America's favorite toy.
He came upstairs to find the bed bigger, one day -- it'll sleep two instead of one, now, not that he's planning on it but apparently Bar decided he could use the upgrade -- and hadn't bothered to ask for it changed back.
But none of that matters as he paces around and around and around. At least, until he gets tired of pacing -- he never gets tired but he's tired of it now -- and ends up sitting on the bed. He lingers at the edge, fingers unbuckling straps of leather from his leg, and then that wooden boot hits the floor with a thud.
It echoes.
(Like the sound as he turned around and slammed into the side of the boxcar with the second shot.)
(And the sound he made when he hit the shingles of the next rooftop, landing hard after a flying leap.)
"Can you make this?"
"Yeah."
Dan ends up sitting against the headboard, with one of those springs in his hands, gently tilting it back and forth as he stares at nothing on the other side of the room. It's the metal one, this time -- he likes the slink sound as the coils move against each other. Back and forth. Back and forth.
(It's less of an echo than the noise of his boots against the hardwood floor.)
Charlie.
In Milliways.
Charlie.
In Milliways.
His back aches, after awhile. So does his chest. He doesn't move. He can't move. Dan hates not being able to move, no matter the reason. Getting shot hurt. The first shot knocked the breath out of his lungs.
It wasn't the echo of the gun firing that rang in his ears, it was Ben's voice cutting over the din of the steam train and the crack of the powder as the lead broke from the barrel.
No.
No.
No!
The second shot had stunned him still. The third he barely felt as he started to go weak in the knees. It was the third shot that he knew he couldn't survive. Charlie was good but he missed his heart. Dan wonders why. The fourth was insurance, but why didn't he just shoot him in the head?
Charlie wanted him to die slow. That's why he shot him in the back. Then the shoulder. Then the gut. Then the chest. Non-vital. He wanted him to watch him free Ben Wade from the train. He wanted to laugh in his face.
(He did laugh in his face.)
Of course, then Ben Wade shot Charlie. And his other five boys. And then grabbed Charlie by that bone-white vest and put a bullet through his heart.
And then Ben Wade climbed on that train.
The spring is warm in his hands, rhythm methodical. Like a heartbeat.
(Or the tick of a watch.)
There is no clock in Dan's room, and there never will be.
But in regards to his routine (of sorts) he sleeps when he's 'tired' and eats when he's 'hungry' and drinks when he's wanting to be 'drunk'. However, all of that changed a little over a week (two weeks?) ago when Charlie Prince walked into Milliways Bar for the very first time.
For a man with a bad leg, he's gotten into quite the habit of pacing back and forth in circles around his room upstairs.
And as always, his room isn't much, but there have been a few additions the last several months.
A few new articles of clothing -- two pairs of pants, several pairs of drawers and undershirts, a black button down, a handful of socks (not pairs, of course) and a winter coat -- in the dresser.
There is a growing collection of Slinky toys on the bedside table -- one 'original' steel, one bright orange plastic, and one green and purple that glows in the dark -- and they are joined by a book detailing the history of America's favorite toy.
He came upstairs to find the bed bigger, one day -- it'll sleep two instead of one, now, not that he's planning on it but apparently Bar decided he could use the upgrade -- and hadn't bothered to ask for it changed back.
But none of that matters as he paces around and around and around. At least, until he gets tired of pacing -- he never gets tired but he's tired of it now -- and ends up sitting on the bed. He lingers at the edge, fingers unbuckling straps of leather from his leg, and then that wooden boot hits the floor with a thud.
It echoes.
(Like the sound as he turned around and slammed into the side of the boxcar with the second shot.)
(And the sound he made when he hit the shingles of the next rooftop, landing hard after a flying leap.)
"Can you make this?"
"Yeah."
Dan ends up sitting against the headboard, with one of those springs in his hands, gently tilting it back and forth as he stares at nothing on the other side of the room. It's the metal one, this time -- he likes the slink sound as the coils move against each other. Back and forth. Back and forth.
(It's less of an echo than the noise of his boots against the hardwood floor.)
Charlie.
In Milliways.
Charlie.
In Milliways.
His back aches, after awhile. So does his chest. He doesn't move. He can't move. Dan hates not being able to move, no matter the reason. Getting shot hurt. The first shot knocked the breath out of his lungs.
It wasn't the echo of the gun firing that rang in his ears, it was Ben's voice cutting over the din of the steam train and the crack of the powder as the lead broke from the barrel.
No.
No.
No!
The second shot had stunned him still. The third he barely felt as he started to go weak in the knees. It was the third shot that he knew he couldn't survive. Charlie was good but he missed his heart. Dan wonders why. The fourth was insurance, but why didn't he just shoot him in the head?
Charlie wanted him to die slow. That's why he shot him in the back. Then the shoulder. Then the gut. Then the chest. Non-vital. He wanted him to watch him free Ben Wade from the train. He wanted to laugh in his face.
(He did laugh in his face.)
Of course, then Ben Wade shot Charlie. And his other five boys. And then grabbed Charlie by that bone-white vest and put a bullet through his heart.
And then Ben Wade climbed on that train.
The spring is warm in his hands, rhythm methodical. Like a heartbeat.
(Or the tick of a watch.)
There is no clock in Dan's room, and there never will be.