Legion

crematorium Clarence had left the saloon that night with a very distinct sway in his step. It was without a doubt one of his peculiarities; he had a bit of a fondness for alcohol, yet had an embarrassingly low amount of tolerance for it. It probably hadn’t taken him long to loosen up, seated near Jack and speaking quietly of things that weren’t likely to bring about any sort of anxiety… he felt safe enough. And so long as the doctor continued to catch the attention of the barkeep—there was no way he’d let Jack buy him any more than the one drink—it would have been just as proper to assume that over time, he would have gladly spoken more. About anything—everything—random things that somehow made sense. And without having been asked, which had been his ‘norm’ thus far. He hadn’t gone so far as to believe himself entertaining, but it was obvious to think that if Jack was eating, it would be difficult for him to speak.

The silence had been a gap in need of filling as far as Clarence was concerned, and the alcohol had simply given him the ability to forget some of his shyness in doing so. He still stumbled about his words, perhaps not quite in the typical newborn deer style he seemed to maintain, but rather because he was… excited? Somewhat ‘buzzed’? Perhaps both. He had chattered about New York; he’d likely wanted to ever since Jack had mentioned that it was a place he had always hoped to see. And though he initially spoke with intentions of only describing what it was like living there—his tone mostly neutral with occasional hints of positivity when stumbling over a personally favoured detail—it didn’t exactly bother him when mention of one building (or another) trailed into rambling about education, and eventually… In his slightly intoxicated state, Clarence didn’t hesitate to inform Jack that his family had supplied most of the inspiration he’d needed to leave New York. He seemed to mellow significantly after that, though, and spent the rest of his time ensuring that Jack finished his meal, if only to insist that he hurry straight to bed directly after the plate had been whisked away.

The next few weeks saw to it that the doctor retired to the small office cot each night as exhausted as possible. There were several instances wherein the man—unable to immediately find sleep’s embrace however worn out he may have been—attempted to consider the days’ events, only to find himself thinking about Jack. His thoughts were never quite the same when they revolved around him (with the exception of his inclusion, of course); there was always a minor difference in each one, whether it be focused on his safety, his whereabouts, his family or a brief mental pause when the offer Jack had made in the saloon came to mind. It wasn’t all that long before Clarence grew used to Jack’s residence in his head… it was almost nice, in a way, to be reminded of the one patient he’d had that actually made him feel worthy of his title. He didn’t think of himself as perpetually lonely after having encountered Jack, because that alone had been proof that he was capable of getting along with another living (…) human being.

There was probably a handful of grateful people living in Armadillo, not counting the whores, but for one reason or another, he hardly saw any of them. Surely the blacksmiths accumulated burns… did they have their own remedial ways of soothing them? And what about the horse… trainers? Breakers? He didn’t even know what to call them. Clarence had seen one get kicked once, and then simply get up like he’d tripped over his own feet. Had living in these harsh environments conditioned these people to be close to invincible? It was something the doctor wanted to ponder, but apparently there was a never ending supply of ruffians to tend to… not to mention the poor bastards that always seemed to be losing duels. (Thankfully he only had to pronounce them dead, well, unless they weren’t.)

He almost preferred the tediousness of bullet retrieval over dealing with rowdy criminals at gunpoint. Clarence would never sacrifice a proper procedure in favour of speed. Never. It went without saying that those were the situations in which he found himself in a position to be roughed up quite significantly. He’d experienced it once before, and wasn’t so much afraid of it as he was irritated by it. The second time it’d happened, no tears were shed. He simply finished his job and locked up for the day, not even bothering to tend to his own wounds before collapsing into bed. The third time, however? He exploded, physically forcing his patient (and/or assailant) out of the office and onto the street, not caring whether the injured person was twice as likely to be trampled by a parade of war horses in his bold outburst. Clarence didn’t plan on sticking around to deal with this sort of behaviour any more—he explained that much in the letter he’d written as he hurriedly stuffed his things into their appropriate bags and trunks.

Though he paused to delicately tuck his collection of books away beneath his clothing, it didn’t take him long to completely empty the office of his belongings. He didn’t know how far away Blackwater was, but it’d be nice to finally get there. At this point, it didn’t matter how, though he’d probably leave the decision making up to the options available to him.

naga Jack, ever the lover of stories of any kind, had happily listened to Clarence’s talks of New York, education, the reasonings for his moving, and anything and everything else the man felt content to divulge. It had been somewhat amusing to note, however, how quickly the man seemed to succumb to the alcohol he drank. Jack’s own tendencies towards drinking were frequently limited to bursts of depression, where he would drink as much as possible and simply pass out without a care in the world. Otherwise he frequently kept away from the stuff other than the odd drink here or there. His tolerance seemed about average regardless, and he could only attribute that to his heritage rather than old school practice. Being descended from thieves and whores seemed to do the trick well enough for him.

The rest of that evening, after being shooed off once he’d finally completed his much needed meal, went by rather horribly. The pain in his shoulder doubled the instant he wasn’t distracted by danger, company, or food. Unable to sleep, he tossed and turned throughout the night and barely managed to grab a couple of hours of shuteye before the sun’s light woke him up all over again. Used to running on little to no sleep, he got himself and his various things together and returned to Ava’s side, saddled her up, and left town before the majority of Armadillo’s residents had stirred from their early morning dozing.

Heading further west, Jack surveyed familiar lands from the stories his father had told him about before he died; Fort Mercer was the first and Jack recalled vividly his own memories of the man… gruff, untidy, and poorly educated. It was alarming to think that a man such as that rose to become the leader of the second most feared gang in this part of the local territory. So dangerous, in fact, that the government had kidnapped him and his mother to ensure that John Marston hunted down and killed him. Jack spit on the ground in front of the fort before heading off again, onwards and southwards to Mexico. He distinctly avoided a particular place that was still too fresh in his memory and eventually made it to Chuparosa, there he was able to sell a few skins and the like from Tall Trees that had more worth down here. Unfortunately for him, his father’s legacy still haunted Mexico as well, and the moment he prepared to leave the town, a man called out to him, challenging him to a duel.

Still too sore and far too tired to deal with such matters, Jack quickly got onto Ava and ran out of town before the man could follow. A string of colourful Spanish curses (or so he assumed, thanks to his pathetic grasp on the language) came after him, but nothing else. He camped out in the nowhere that was Perdido for the night, only to return northwards well into the next day. Passing through Armadillo, he stopped off briefly to get food and water before heading right back off again, this time back up north to MacFarlane’s Ranch. It never hurt to stop by there too often—Bonnie MacFarlane’s company was good enough, and if it hadn’t been for them he would’ve trashed everything his father had worked so hard to set up for him. Despite the fact that he never wanted any of it, he was wracked with guilt at the prospect, and the rest (as they say) was history.

His visit to the ranch was brief, and he was soon off to Thieves’ Landing, there he found himself succumbing to another fit of depression, a frequent enough occurrence, and he ended up spending the next week or so drinking, gambling, and making a complete and utter mess of himself. Some people knew who he was and left him alone, others knew who he was and picked fights—some of those fights he won, some he lost. The last one he lost so poorly that he swiftly packed up his things and fled north, all the way back up to Beecher’s Hope where he promptly collapsed in his home and didn’t bother leaving until well into the next week.

Now two weeks since last meeting the good doctor, when his shoulder was finally mended well enough that it didn’t ache at every move, Jack considered returning to the man to show the progress and ask how things were. With his own personal troubles well and truly buried after letting the demons out to play for long enough, he figured it would be safe enough. After travelling down to Cholla Springs, however, he soon found himself being chased off by Walton’s Gang and otherwise distracted for the next few days. He did manage to get into Armadillo a few times during that week, but he caught no sight of the other man. Either it was too late to be knocking, or he simply couldn’t find the other and assumed he must be treating someone elsewhere. It was a shame—that last conversation he’d had with the doctor was the most decent one he’d had in months.

A couple more days of wandering passed before he found himself in that small little town again, but this time there was enough of a commotion to warrant sticking around. A man was throwing a fit in the street, cursing something awful about his wounds not being treated. Assuming what that matter was all about, Jack milled about and observed, taking shelter from the sun beside Herbert Moon’s general store. It wasn’t until the angry man seemed to storm off toward the saloon that he opted to go ask the source what all the trouble was about.

Knocking on the door softly before daring to step into the doctor’s office, he peeked his head in first before stepping in properly. “Clarence, you in here? That was one hell of a storm you had kicking around outside…” A storm that could return at any minute quite frankly—not a comforting notion.

crematorium “Well,” he began hotly, not even bothering to risk a glance over his shoulder to confirm the identity of his newest intruder—there was nothing unfamiliar about that voice. Its owner wasn’t a threat, not by any means. “I’m quite sick of all the unhappy little rainclouds that seem to enjoy wandering in here! If they want to gang up and make believe they’re a storm, well, that’s just touching…” Clarence paused, at first only to look over the things—mainly medical supplies, which had only just recently been unpacked—he had gathered, wrapped up in supplies that could easily be replaced (like cheap linens and other tattered bandage material) and packed away. But it wasn’t long before his gaze fell upon Jack. The doctor was glad to see him alive and well, really, it’d just been something of an inconvenient time… though that much had been indicated by now. “I’d just… I just don’t… I-…”

However frustrating it may have been, by the time Clarence realised that he’d lost sight of his anger (and of the little rainclouds), he’d already been facing Jack, stuttering stupidly for several seconds. He was an absolute mess—his usually neatly combed hair was ruffled about and generally looking tousled; his lip had been split at one point, though by now it looked like a bit of an older injury; his clothes held the dusty evidence of the ‘storm’ that’d taken place outside, in which he may or may not have acquired a fancy (but relatively small) cut just along his left cheekbone. “I’m leaving,” he said quietly, turning back to be sure he’d gathered the last of his things. “I’m leaving Armadillo, anyway.”

Being able to hear the words as they left his mouth had been something of a shock to him. He’d been driven all the way to Armadillo by the emotions he’d collected over time—over years—and now he was about to begin the cycle anew. The doctor may have sheepishly admitted that it felt wonderful to strike out at someone attempting to take advantage of his [status, size, role in the community, whatever], but he wouldn’t—couldn’t—ignore the fact that he didn’t feel right in doing so. He didn’t know anything about fighting, save for the kind that could be done verbally, and even then he didn’t count for much. The point was simple: he didn’t want to be violent. If he gave in and acted just as uncivilised as everyone else, then what point was there in even being a doctor? He was supposed to help people, not harm them!

“I’ve… been wondering, Mist… Ja… about what you said,” Clarence turned around again, this time to lean cautiously against the desk he’d set his things upon. He was slightly calmer now, and didn’t hesitate to focus more of his attention on Jack, if only to converse more politely. He still intended to leave, but there wasn’t much he could do at the moment—the train hadn’t arrived yet, and frankly, he had no idea when it was supposed to. “In the saloon, I mean.”

Trust wasn’t something the doctor had ever thrown about too carelessly. He wasn’t as open a person as he may have let on, and considering as much, it’d always been difficult for him to engage in serious, ‘man-to-man’ conversations of secret ambitions or general childish fantasies. Although it could be said that Clarence felt an odd obligation to believe anything—and everything—Jack said in its entirety (which, considering the contents of their original discussion, wasn’t all that odd, really), he still had to be sure the other hadn’t been teasing. That the memory he had of the other’s brief mention of Blackwater hadn’t just been a dream. Still, the notion that he was outwardly expressing his doubt by inquiring was enough to wreak havoc on his nerves. “I think I m-might possibly be headed to Blackwater, and… I don’t want to be a burden—I know you’re a very busy man, of course—but whenever you happen to be in town, it wouldn’t be all that unpleasant to see a familiar face.”

Who was he kidding? He didn’t even know if he’d find work in Blackwater! After all, it’d been a while since he’d heard of the Mess That Came From Yale… perhaps someone else had shown up already.

naga Jack remained where he was, just a step inside the door. Clarence had obviously been pushed a little past his limit and didn’t need his space to be invaded any more at the moment. He could respect that and give the man the room he would need to calm down. Thankfully it didn’t seem to take much time, and after a few moments of obviously attempting to grasp the words to explain his predicament or his mood concerning what just happened, the anger seemed to dissipate and leave him looking and sounding a bit more like himself. Or how Jack assumed he usually sounded like; anger didn’t seem the other man’s usual temperament, which was just as well—it didn’t suit him either.

Something else that didn’t suit him was his current state in general. Hair messed up, cuts and scraps from obvious scuffles, and dust and grime from the grubby hands of unscrupulous characters trying to get a hold of the man and rough him up further. It blew his mind how people could try and pick on those who obviously were not built for fighting, as Clarence obviously was not. Beyond his profession standing for the exact opposite, nothing about his build or demeanour said he was willing or able to fight in the least bit. Up until the last few years Jack himself had been in such a place… but life had ways of making fools of them all, it seemed.

“Leaving?” Jack repeated thoughtfully as he hooked his thumbs in his pockets and mulled it over. Seemed like a good choice if Armadillo was treating him so very poorly. He hoped the other man wasn’t heading back east, however, because it seemed like he had many more reasons to leave New York then than to leave Armadillo now. Then the man clarified somewhat and Jack nodded his head and considered more. Perhaps it would be for the better. Perhaps he had thought about the matter of going to Blackwater—it would suit him far better. It was still likely ‘rough country’ in comparison to New York City or any modern city along the eastern shore of the country, but it was a hell of a lot bigger and more… civilised? one might say, than Armadillo.

Then the topic came up more specifically! Their conversation concerning Blackwater, that is. Stepping in a bit more now that Clarence seemed calmer, easier to focus and seemingly get a bit nervous about something or another. Nervous was too strong a word though, but Jack couldn’t put his finger on it exactly. Empathy wasn’t exactly his strong point, which was yet another thing he knew he should work on but never got around to—what was the point? Either way, Clarence soon confided that he was considering heading northward to Blackwater and Jack finally managed a smile. Said smile only continued to grow when the other man went on about being busy and stopping by and all that noise.

“Don’t be silly,” Jack began quickly, happy to brush away any notion of being a ‘busy man’ and focus on the more immediate of things, “I’ll help see you there myself. It’s been a few days and I should likely head back to what little business I have to tend to, but stopping off in Blackwater’s always a useful journey to make, and I can show you to where they’re looking for skilled and educated men like yourself.” And after making sure his tone and stance clearly indicated that he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer, he quickly added for good measure, “You need any help collecting all your things? The train ought to be around in the next half hour or so, I can get you all loaded up and meet you in Blackwater shortly after.” Making the journey by horse was somewhat slower, obviously, but he’d be going fast enough through Thieves’ Landing to make sure he didn’t get into any trouble… yeah, that ought to work just fine!

Besides, the faster Clarence got out of here, the less likely of a chance there was for his most recent patient to come back in an even worse mood… or with a group of friends to add to the mess.

crematorium Clarence stared, almost stupidly in the other’s direction. He certainly hadn’t been expecting a response of that magnitude from Jack. Maybe the past few weeks and each increasingly dramatic series of events had tainted his opinion of the public… Sometimes he felt like he was losing touch with himself, like his professional life was consuming his identity; his sense of emotion was being gobbled up by the cold, calculating nothingness that doctors were made of. And then there was his anxiety. If it weren’t for the minorly embarrassing flaws that plagued him, he probably would have lost his grip on everything. “You mean that?” The words had been whispered, uttered loud enough to not necessarily be heard, but just so that he could be sure he’d actually said them. Immediately, the doctor was behind the desk, carefully picking through a suitcase he hadn’t yet closed, probably to retrieve something.

“You mentioned having wanted to read the second part,” he may have mumbled a book title in the middle of his searching, but the majority of the syllables had—again—been intended for his own comfort. Though he knew Jack had without a doubt spoken of Les Voyages Extraordinaires with him, there was something in his mind—a nagging voice of thought, if you would—that just wouldn’t allow him the confidence to continue without confirmation… even if it went unheard. “I stumbled upon it a while ago while unpacking. I would very much like for you to have it.” The book was set on the desk for the short while it took the doctor to place everything his searching had caused him to remove, and then immediately it was gathered up, with absolutely no intention of staying in his possession.

He approached Jack with an outstretched hand, offering a delicately used copy of Around the Moon to the other—not because he felt it was his turn to put something up for grabs as a means of re-payment, but because they both shared a love for Jules Verne and his many works. He’d obviously read most of the books in the collection—picking through what he could manage of the ones available only in French—whereas Jack had just the one he carried. It hadn’t sounded as though he’d been bent out of shape or feeling sore about such matters, but Clarence had always thought of it as the duty of the literate to seek out and share beautiful literature with one another. Lending if it wasn’t commonly owned; gifting if one wished to do so. It wasn’t proper for Jack to go on dreaming of one day reading a book that Clarence had sitting around with little to no purpose anymore, other than being a pleasant, but distant part of his past. “I’m sure you have something of a library of your own, but if you ever want to borrow anything… or when you finish that, for example, I have others that you are more than welcome to,”

It was difficult to avoid wondering about the ranch Jack had mentioned (the one he had, but apparently didn’t care all that much for) from time to time. When the other had suggested that he’d had a place for the doctor to stay until he got himself back on his feet, he’d made it sound as though it was in an entirely different location. Clarence didn’t suppose it would be entirely logical to keep a ranch within stumbling distance of a town, but so far, there wasn’t much he could see in favour of logic in the first place. Either way, Clarence had already made up his mind that it wouldn’t have been appropriate to ask about it at the moment; it was likely a personal matter.

“My things? Oh, everything’s been accounted for. Well, everything that belongs to me, anyway. It probably wouldn’t hurt to double-check, but at this point, I should probably be thankful I’m not lugging a house around with me. Like a sort of turtle, I suppose… a self-sufficient one. Of course, I suppose that wouldn’t entirely be true… it makes it sound a bit like a turtle with lettuce—or carrots or whatever it is that turtles eat—growing out of its shell. Sounds a bit awkward, I th-… Sorry,” after realising he had started to ramble, Clarence politely interrupted himself and—with a furious blush spreading across his cheeks to his ears, where it ended—became quite silent. Knowing him, the period of silence wasn’t bound to last for long.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take the train as well?” The doctor couldn’t exactly explain what possessed him to ask such a thing, but he figured it was better than his previous urge to hand the other money, simply because he wasn’t quite convinced that his consistant whining didn’t burden the man. Clarence had never in his life heard of someone traveling somewhere on a whim to keep someone company simply because they’d, well, not even asked (his attempt at asking hadn’t even qualified as poor, quite honestly).

naga