Josiah 'Doc' Scurlock

The original plan he had in mind for the last time (two years ago, give or take) he stepped through the Front Door of Milliways Bar and headed out into his world was simple enough - he was headed north, to the Yukon. There was opportunity there, they were saying. The land was wild. Rugged and untamed. Raw.

He ended up riding into Portland, Oregon on a Friday afternoon. The next train to Spokane wasn't until Tuesday morning, but it would at least give him time to purchase and pack a crate of supplies for the northern territories. Maybe he could even find a mule (or two) and arrange passage for the animals as freight cargo.

It was raining, naturally, as he walked down the streets from the railway station towards downtown. A streetcar rumbled and squealed as it passed by him; people went about their business on the docks despite the dismal weather. Doc felt a smile pull at the corner of his mouth as he passed a particularly busy warehouse, catching a glimpse of the men working at loading crates onto a wagon inside.

Portland, he decided, reminded him just a little bit of New Orleans.

**

Two months later, he's still there. The bar hasn't shown up since he stepped off the train in Portland, and he's beginning to think perhaps it was all part of Her plan to put him in this city. It's dirty, rough and ragged around the edges - a real honest working town, with enough of an underbelly to keep him on his toes from time to time. He's not watching his back like he used to, though. He's got a job working on the docks on the river, nothing more than grunt labor, rafting together massive bundles of logs after they've come from upstream and the many timber camps to the north. It's hard work, but it pays decent enough to keep him fed and housed.

(McCoy would probably want to read him the riot act for a few near-misses he has while working on the river - the risk of crushing a hand, foot, or an entire limb is real and ever-present while he's scrambling over floating, spinning logs and gripping chains that weigh more than he does. But Doc works smart, doesn't cut corners, and manages to avoid getting hurt.)

**

Six months since the door to Milliways last showed up, and he's sitting at the desk of the administrative officer for the Willamette University College of Medicine. Part of him can't believe he's actually considering going back to school, but he's curious to see if he really could hack it. And if they say no, then he'll go back to his job with the timber company full-time and maybe try to land a position at the new outfit they're planning on building in Seattle next year.

"Mr. Scurlock, I think we'd be willing to give you a shot for this semester. You'll have to start with the basic courses since you have no prior experience..."

**

Anatomy and dissection are difficult. Unlike medical schools of the future which will have live and willing patients to learn from (and on), his class practices on cadavers of the poor and homeless of the city, the criminals who die in prison, or the foreigners who have no family to lay claim to them. Doc treats each body with respect, moreso than some of his fellow classmates.

He struggles, and for the first time since he stepped off the train in Portland, he goes looking for the door to Milliways one night.

It never shows.

The next day, he goes back to class and works harder to push himself past his hang-ups in dealing with the dead.

**

Two years after arriving in Portland, he's graduating near the head of his class - not the top, but close. Honors. He can hardly believe it once he's finished and has the diploma in hand, his name finely scripted on the thick piece of paper.

He made it.

Now, he has to see if he can hack it.

**

The property he buys is well-within his means; a small acreage in a developing settlement well-outside of the city. There's a need for a physician in the area and while he's nowhere near able to afford an office in town or even a fine buggy to make his calls in, he manages. Folks respect him, exchange pleasantries at the mercantile, and there's hardly an afternoon he manages to escape from church without being stopped by at least three of the women of the parish wishing to discuss their...maladies.

(It's well-known that the young doctor Scurlock is a bachelor, and that is just...well, it ain't right, they'd said, a nice young man such as himself all alone on that farm.)

**

It had rained all night.

Not uncommon, in Oregon. But when the roof of your modest cabin springs a leak in the middle of a thrasher of a rainstorm, you take notice - and you go out and fix it the next morning once the rain has abated.

That was the plan, at least.

Doc hadn't planned on losing his footing as he made the transition from the rooftop to the ladder leaned up against the side of the cabin; he hadn't planned on falling awkwardly and catching the side of his head (just behind his right ear) on a freshly-split log stacked neatly in the woodpile; he hadn't planned on the sickening snap and crunch of the bone (or bones, he can't really tell, everything hurts way too damn much) of his right arm and shoulder as he hit the ground.


**

He knows he has to get himself into town - the city itself and the hospital would be better, but he knows that there is help within a two-mile walk, sooner if he can catch one of his neighbors in on the way. He's aware enough to recognize that he's broken a bone in his upper arm, and possibly his shoulder - his right arm is dead at his side and there is a ringing in his ears that won't fade away.

He manages to get himself inside and grab his bag, and tie a rudimentary sling around his injured arm in an attempt to stabilize the fracture. (It's not pretty and it's barely functional, but at the least he feels better about it, so it'll do.) He slings his bag over his good shoulder and heads to his front door.

Glancing out the window, he notices it's started to rain.

**

And then he's in the bar. The bar, that hasn't shown up for over two years of his life. Things look different. They feel different, too.

Hoping the infirmary is still in the same place, he heads for the hallway. It is.

The adrenaline and willpower that got him up off the ground, onto his feet, and into and across the bar is starting to wear out about the time he hits the call button for help. A nearby chair is where he ends up, his bag on the floor by his boots, his arm held awkwardly against his torso.

Trying his damn hardest not to black out.

Welcome back, he thinks to himself.

When he wakes up, he's still beneath the familiar cypress tree. The sun is low in the sky, its light cutting sharp lines through the woods.

(For a moment, he wonders if perhaps he didn't make it out of the Bar after all, and this is his mind's version of Heaven - though in that case, Raven's cabin in Alaska must have been Purgatory.)

Eventually, he stands and brushes the dirt off of his trousers. If this is real (which he thinks it is, because it's too alive to be all in his mind) then he only has one way to really verify it.

He scrambles up the bank of the creek, and begins to walk along a nearly-invisible path through the woods, heading for a familiar bit of property a few miles to the south.

( Home. )

He keeps out of trouble easily enough -- stays out of the saloons on the weekends, doesn't give any men a second look when he's walking down the street, pays his tabs and settles his debts promptly -- and for a town like Deadwood, that's saying more than most men can say.

He doesn't take up a mining claim, though he spends countless hours riding through the woods and hills outside of town contemplating just what might be laying beneath the surface of the rocky ground. A fortune or a folly might await him, if he were to try his luck searching for gold here in this part of the country -- but he's always reminded of his father's hands, stained with the grit of the earth's underbelly, coal dust blackening the space beneath his fingernails, and he can't bring himself to put his fingers into the earth.

(It would feel too much like a funeral, too -- letting the dust slip through his fingers and fall away.)




He spends six nights a week sleeping alone in his small, rented room at one of the quieter (for a given value of quiet; in this town it's hard to come by) hotels on the main drag. One night a week is spent at The Gem Theater, with Josephine, and he always pays her enough to make up for keeping her longer than the other men do.

(Everyone has to make a living somehow, and he's not going to keep her from making her fair share.)



It's on one of those nights, at the Gem, that Doc is nearly killed.




"You know, the other girls are starting to ask questions."

"Oh? What sort of questions are they askin'?"

"You know...about you, Sugar."

"What about me?"

"They want to know who this mysterious man is that keeps me to himself all night long..."

"I'm just a man, same as any other."



(She laughs.)



"I know you're from down south...I can hear it when you're talkin' to me so quiet, in your voice."

"Alabama."

"I could've sworn I heard the swamp in your voice...New Orleans, I figured."

"I went to school there."

"Oh?"

"Mmmhmm."

"What'd you go to school for?"

"I wanted to get an education."



(She laughs again.)




"A teacher, really? You don't seem the type, to be quite honest."

"It was a long time ago."

"Must've been a long time ago, for you to get those hands of yours."

"What about them?"

"Those are a workin' man's hands...rough in all the right places...holdin' a rope or a gun, pair of reins..."

"You know I do a lot of ridin', I told you that."

"I know, Sugar...it's just exciting to think about it."

"About ridin'?"

"No, about where a man like you might've been, things you might've seen and done...wild things..."

"I'm no outlaw, if that's what you're sayin'."

"No, not an outlaw...just a wild man..."




He wakes up later as she's shifting on top of him, her body stretched out against his in the darkness. She's running her fingertips down his chest and up over his shoulders, tracing every contour of muscle and bone she can reach without stretching. Through the haze in his vision he can see the grin on her face, and after he clears the fog from his mind, his own mouth opens to form a matching smile.

"I thought for certain you'd be the one havin' trouble waking," he says.

"Mmm, no...not tonight." She draws her leg up against his thigh. "I was hopin' that you might wake up 'fore the sunrise, though..."

"Oh, and why's that?"

His hand falls to her hip as she leans down, her hair falling across his eyes as her lips meet his.

"'Cause I intend to give you just as much pleasure as you insist on payin' me for, Mister Mysterious from Alabama," she whispers, kissing him firmly as he shifts his weight beneath her on the bed and rolls them over, her arms winding falling back to allow her fingers to tighten in the sheets beneath her pillow.



He's half-asleep when dawn comes, and in the sated haze of slumber, he never feels her fingers press against his shoulders until the blade threatens to break the skin that covers his spine.

"Now listen here," she says, and he's wide awake (and furious) in an instant, but he doesn't dare move -- even though draped on top of her as he is, he would have the advantage in any tussle. "I know you've got money, cowboy, and I don't know where you get it front or what you plan on doin' with it, but I think we need to have a little talk 'bout my wages."

"Is that so," he replies, voice flat and devoid of emotion.

(Within his chest, his heart is hammering with enough force to send shockwaves through his tongue; each angry, pulsing beat vibrates in his mouth hard enough to rattle his teeth.)

"Mmmhmm."

He feels the point of the knife dig into his flesh and he knows the sting that follows is a precursor to blood being spilled on the sheets; his eyes move to meet hers and for a moment he forgets who he's looking at.

She smiles, but doesn't laugh.

"I'm thinkin'...double," she says. "For starters."

"And if I refuse?"

"You know all I have to do is scream."

"You get paid to do that anyway," he snaps -- the bite of his tongue motivation enough for her to sink the blade into his skin, his world going blackredblack for an instant until the adrenaline sears up his torso and floods the area with heat.

She's quick, but not quick enough to keep his hand from curling around her throat.

"I know what your game is," she hisses. "You think you can use me to get to him."

"I don't want him," he says.

"Liar."

"And? You're a whore, if we're gonna get into name callin'--"


His words cut off in a shocked gasp as she twists the handle of the knife just enough to lose her grip on the handle -- though in part, the blood coating the antler or bone has gets some credit for that aspect of the situation -- and before she can shout, he's on his knees with the blade in his hand, steel pressed against her throat.


"I don't want to get to your boss," he spits out. "Or you."

(He wants to get to his hotel room where he can take a look at the wound in his back, though he knows it'll be difficult with the numbness creeping into his left arm.)

In that moment, when his steel-grey eyes are glaring straight into the pit of her soul, she realizes she's made a terrible mistake when it comes to choosing her latest mark.

"All right," she says, voice hushed. "I'm sorry."



(He laughs.)



She watches the sunrise though the lace curtains that cover the window, while counting out the fistful of money he left on the side table, her eyes drifting to the dried blood that smears several of the bills.

It's not double the usual -- it's triple.





With his fingertips still tingling (though he'll blame it on the chill of the winter air, what with snow mixing in the muddy streets of Deadwood beneath the hooves of his horse as he heads out) and a new Bowie knife at his hip, he turns Nova to the southeast trail and spurs him -- leaving behind nothing but blood and hoofprints, both of which will fade into the background noise of the bustling mining town.




And, he hopes, so will the memory of the mysterious man from Alabama will fade along with them.




(It does.)

The only sound in the empty space is that of a deck of playing cards being shuffled from one hand to the other; the saloon is deserted, save for the bartender across the room. No noise comes from the dusty street outside, although the distorted shadows of people and horses can be seen through the windowpanes that face the boardwalk.

(He knows he should hear the clip-clop of hooves, the metallic jangle of bits and bridles, the dull thud of boot heels against the pine as life passes outside the dual doors of the Wild Horse Saloon -- but the only thing he can hear is the shuffle of paper as he passes the cards from one hand to the other.)

Doc knows he's waiting for someone -- no idea who, but he knows he's supposed to be meeting someone here, today -- so until that person shows up, he shuffles the cards back and forth, back and forth.






The bartender doesn't speak once during the hour (hours?) that pass before the doors swing open; Doc glances up at the man who enters the saloon, tilting his head slightly to the side in an odd combination of greeting and confusion.


(He figured he'd at least recognize the person he was supposed to meet.)




He's older; patches of salt sprinkled through a neatly trimmed beard, dark hair and dark eyes (shadows) that seem to cut straight through anything they focus on. A purple brocade scarf hangs loosely from his neck, tied in a neat knot at the throat.

"Evenin', son."

Doc studies the man's features closely, in an effort to spur some distant memory that might lend a hand to establishing an identity; even if he doesn't get a name, he at least wants a place or even why--

"Don't remember me, do you."

"No sir," Doc replies, shaking his head. "'I'm afaid I have to admit that I don't."

"Figured you wouldn't," the man shrugs. "It's been an awful long time, after all."





(The Wild Horse Saloon is on the east side of Liberty, Missouri.)




"You sure you don't remember me?"

Doc looks down at the playing cards (there's no scar on your left hand) and then up at the man sitting across from him. There's a faint pull at the back of his mind, a memory trying to pull itself free.

He's seen hundreds of faces in dozens of saloons over the last five or six years.

Why is this one so important?




The man smiles, and extends his hand. "C'mon, let me show you something. It might help."

Doc looks at the outstretched hand warily. Something tells him that he shouldn't trust this man, but given that he doesn't trust anyone these days, it's hard to make sense of what his brain is telling him to do.



(Wild Horse Saloon. Liberty, Missouri.)

"What's your name?"

The man's smile changes, to something cold and hardened and just dangerous enough that it makes Doc's attention shift from the surroundings of the saloon to the weight of his Colt at his hip. The gun is still there, thank God, but the room is suddenly no longer quiet.

"Didn't matter to you back then, why should it matter to you now?"



Doc feels the end of the gun press against his ribs before he even hears the click of the hammer being pulled back and cocked into place.


(Wild Horse Saloon. Liberty, Missouri. Purple brocade scarf.)



"Remember me, yet?"

The man's smile is unflinching -- and unsettling.



Shit.


All of a sudden he's young and green again, scared out of his wits with a gun against his ribs. The gun has a bullet that's just itching to tear free of the barrel and rip its way through his torso, and all Doc can see in that moment is the blood pooling on his hands and on the floor, staining the dark surface of scratched and worn hardwood.

(The bartender never moved, not once, the entire time.)

Was it forty-five seconds or fifty?



"Now you do."

"Not the name," Doc replies. "But I knew your face was familiar."

"What're you going to do about it this time?"

"The same thing I did last time, if I've got any say in the matter."


Don't reckon it matters how long it takes this time.


Abruptly, the room falls silent -- the shadows outside slowing as everything blurs around the edges, the world lit with a rose-colored halo that he can't seem to clear from his vision, no matter how hard he blinks his eyes.

The bartender still doesn't move.

Doc can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he glances down towards his feet, where the gentleman he was supposed to meet has fallen to the floor. His head is twisted in an unnatural manner and his left arm is bent behind his back, pinned to the ground.

(And there's a hole in his gut, leaking blood so dark it's nearly black.)

He remembers.




First man you ever killed.




"You proud of yourself, boy? Look what you've done."




Doc kneels beside the (dying) man, careful to keep his boots out of the mess. "You drew first."

"And you never let that happen again, did you," the man pulls in a wheezing, desperate breath. "Always fast on the draw?"

"Most of the time."

The man smiles. "And when you weren't, you regretted it, didn't you."



(Tunstall is falling from his horse, crumpling to the ground like a child's abandoned doll as he hits the earth.)



"Reckon you could say that," Doc reaches down and unties the scarf from the man's neck, removing the fine silk fabric easily.

"You're smarter, now."

"More experienced. Not sure if you'd say smarter."

The man laughs (blood spotting the pale pink skin of his lips) and reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Doc's forearm in a vice grip. "You're pretty good at what you do now, boy. Killin' folk."

"It's not all I do."

"No, it ain't. But it's what you're best at, and what was it your mama used to tell you? Always do your best work?"

Doc snarls, trying to pull his arm back. "Don't you dare bring my mama into this."

"Into what?"

"Whatever this is, Tolaski." He doesn't know what this is. Doesn't know why he's here, or what he's doing reliving this moment -- unless the last six years have been nothing but a bad dream he can't wake up from.



Maybe it was you that got shot that day.





(He hears the frightened scream of a horse from somewhere out in the street and can't shake the feeling that the sound is out of place for the situation, but it's still familiar in way that sends a chill racing down his spine.)




Maybe you're the one who's bleeding on the floor.



The man tightens his grip on Doc's arm. "You remember me. Good."

"First man I ever shot."



"No," and the smile this time is laced with blood. "The first man you ever killed. But don't worry. I won't be the last."

"You already aren't."

"I know, and you're not done yet. Enjoy it. You're too good at it not to."









Before Doc can speak again (protest) he wakes up in his room at Milliways, light streaming in through the open windows.


Enjoy it.


(He would pass it off as a dream, but he can't this time.)


Enjoy it.


He rolls over and places the purple scarf on his desk, eying it for a moment before rolling back over and pulling the blanket over his head, blocking out the sunlight.


Enjoy it.






(Little does he know now, but he will.)

After Guppy departs from the hallway in front of Doc's room, Doc makes to open the door, careful not to let the kittens escape as the small group makes their way inside.

On instinct, he makes a visual sweep of the interior, checking for anything out of place. Without making a fuss about it, he scoops his gunbelt off the back of his desk chair and walks it over to the closet, stashing it up onto the top shelf as the kittens curiously wander over to greet their new visitor. The room is sparse, but obviously well lived-in, and it appears that bar has sent up a TV and DVD player already, both objects resting on a cart.

[Immediately following this thread. Backdated to Dec. 23rd, 2009 (Bar-date.)]

They are both wearing too much, even with as little as they are wearing at the moment. He shifts slightly, rolling fully onto his side and pushing her onto her back -- not forcefully, he will never force himself onto her -- as they continue to kiss.

She is his and he is hers, and this is his way of showing it.

Mine.

(Plus, he knows she likes it.)

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.

Part One.
Part Two.
Part Three.
Part Four.
Part Five.
Part Six.
Part Seven.
Part Eight.
Part Nine. (locked, unposted)

[previous: six]


"The door? Doc, what--"

"No, Frank," he hisses, backing up slightly, away from the door. "Outside."

McNab turns his head and glances; they don't have a chance to speak again before the door swings inward with a violent sound, wood cracking and splintering as the frame breaks from the pressure.

"Sonova--"

"Don't you move, McNab!"

Frank drops to the ground on a space behind the table, while Doc bolts for the hallway, boots pounding against the hardwood. He's got to make it to the back door or he'll never--

"Josiah Gordon Scurlock? Don't you move."




( He never-- )