villagelogs | 037-040 » the reason for time

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037-040 » the reason for time

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central Mathias
WHEN: Day 037-040
WHAT: The dead return and the living wake to changes within Mathias Township.
WARNINGS: Some explicit sexual content in threads. (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Kammarheit "Sleep after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas"

DAY 037
THE DEAD RETURN
“The only reason for time is so that everything
doesn't happen at once.” —Albert Einstein
The dead return to Mathias forever changed by their experiences. Waking along the beach, near the tree line, or among the graves, they will find that their bodies are not as they remember them. They are whole again and not torn to shreds by the shadow creatures that cannot be described, but they are also not as they were before the Hunt. These residents will find, so strangely, that their bodies are in the physical state in which they first arrived in Mathias — any injuries or recovery they have made since their initial arrival no longer exists, as if their time in Mathias has simply been a horrible nightmare. Except they all now carry a last reminder of the Hunt with them: spiderweb-thin healed scars marking their injuries from the Hunt. Those who were injured by fire in the other realm also carry those burns with them.

The dead are not the only things that have returned to Mathias. Inexplicably, fall is back, with the temperature finally reaching above freezing and snow falling from trees to reveal beautiful autumnal colors. As the sun rises higher in the lightly cloudy sky and the day warms, the snow begins rapidly melting, puddles growing in the slowly revealed grass and little rivers forming in the streets. And with that snow comes the frozen blood from the deaths to the Hunt, tinting the street river on Phillips Drive a sickening shade of red.

Another oddity that residents will notice: houses with broken windows from the encounter with the fog on Day 015 have now been completely repaired, though any boards put in place are still there somehow. A small bit of good news, at least? And truly, how kind of Mathias to clean up its own mess.

Finally, alcohol is back. Enjoy in moderation, friends, for more will not be arriving the following morning.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's quite chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. Indeed, their timing is perfect, for alcohol has finally returned to Mathias Township — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

DAY 038-039
THE CHANGE OF SEASON
The continued warm weather proves that the unseasonable shift of the previous day was not merely a fluke. Once again, the sun rises and brings with it a temperature that feels almost spring-like, save for the fact that each day there seem to be more and more leaves on the trees in hues of red and orange. For those who have been in Mathias for some time, this new type of weird may be almost normal at this point, but newer arrivals will likely find it quite odd.

The gently trickling river running along Phillips Drive is still somewhat pink in color as the snow continues to melt and refreeze each night. By Day 040, the bloody snow will finally be gone completely, though the relief will be... short-lived.

DAY 040
THE BLINDING WHITE
In the late morning of Day 040, when the sun is visible through patchy greyish clouds, the fog sweeps into town like a like a tidal wave. It moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. Rather than a soft blanket enveloping the town, it is a heavy weight pressing down, blotting out the sky in a way that almost feels suffocating, for none can see further than their outstretch hand.

Those outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, stumbling toward shelter as you're unable to even see your feet beneath you, let alone any obstacles in your path. Perhaps you call out for help, hoping for another voice to guide you toward shelter or simply another living soul. Or perhaps you were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in.

Unlike the last time the fog swept into the town, residents who encounter it are not immediately killed. Instead, they are simply disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

By nightfall, the fog still has not dissipated.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE WEATHER conditions are fairly typical for late fall: chilly "sweater weather" days and nights that can dip just below freezing. You don't want to be outside without a coat, but it won't kill anyone if they bundle up. Probably.

— THE FOG remains blocking the paths in the forest beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper, and it also now blocks the western section of town, beginning just past Hill Lane, before where residents know the chasm in the earth to be between Hill and Stine Road. Venturing into the fog blocking these areas is ill-advised.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue. Castiel and Sam Winchester have vanished, and Dean Winchester has not returned with the others after his death during the Hunt.

— THE GRAVEYARD has now seen around a dozen burials, both below and above ground. With the weather warming, though, something may need to be done about the handful of temporary graves aboveground...

— ALCOHOL has returned to Mathias! A small stock of beer and cheap wine may be found at the General Store, and some homes may have a small store of alcohol in the fridge or pantry. The Grey Gull has also been restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. Alcohol does not replenish in the same way as food.

— THE GREY GULL has been cleaned up and stocked with moonshine. Along with the newly restocked usual offerings, the place almost seems like an actual bar again.

— THE GENERAL STORE is in a bit of a state following the brutal slaughter of two residents during the Hunt. Cleanup on aisle 3, anyone?

OOC NOTES

— FOOD is now being mysteriously restocked as per usual, including inside homes and at the General Store. Alcohol is not being restocked. Use those rationing skills, friends.

— REWARD REDEPEMPTION is back and will soon have a new option for anyone looking to spend big AP and learn a bit more of the lore of the town.

— MADNESSES due to the Hunt have been earned by Klaus Hargreeves, Ellie, and Malcolm Bright and may now be claimed. Players may also claim additional sanity loss from the aftermath of the Hunt; only losses from the Hunt itself have been deducted from totals thus far.

— SANITY REGAIN is now available! Players will submit a form with some details of the progress their character has made and the mod will review and decide on the numbers of points that will be regained.

— MOD STATUS The usual reminder that it's mostly just Amy steering this ship for now, so things will probably be pretty slow for a while. Apologies in advance, and please don't feel shy about pinging me if you're stuck waiting for something.

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"Hmmh." Doc slips into the seat next to Raylan, hunching like a seasoned drinker and resting his elbows on the countertop. "If you are confiscating all the moonshine then I would have no choice but to come here everyday, anyway. But I had presumed, perhaps wrongly, that you would have wanted some time and space away from the house, with different company." There must have been a reason why he had chosen Dean Winchester to be his partner in crime. Or at least had agreed to go along, if this was what Dean wanted to do.

"Tell me about this 'terror boner'," Doc asks. "We should work on it. And your social graces. A bit of customer ire surely builds character."

"Cracked my master plan there," he said of the moonshine with a little lift of his cup before he busied his mouth with a drink, bobbing his head in consideration of the idea and ending it with a little shake. "It was just somethin' to do with my hands. Maybe give the town a little life again for some reason."

He couldn't say why that was something he wanted to do; they weren't going to stay here forever and the Gull would, after they were gone, slip back into the dirty disrepair that plagued the rest of the town. Dean had just happened to stumble on him having it at just the right time. For all the good that had done. Well, some good - Raylan couldn't argue that the place got cleaner a hellva lot quicker with the help.

Taking a breath in, Raylan lifted his eyebrows as he starts, eyes themselves never quite making it up past Henry's midsection with the glance over he gave. "Sounds like exactly what it is, though I don't know what that says about me." He shook his head a little again, cup moving around in his fingers. "It's the weirdest fuckin' thing. Anytime I see fire, I.. can barely stop myself from scramblin' away. Except all at the same time, I don't. Like I'm playin' Russian Roulette or somethin' and enjoyin' it and I'm not."

Except madness's tended to override a lot. "Keep findin' myself wanderin' towards the treeline to test the fog, I can't stop thinkin' about it or the fireplace or your goddamned lighter," he sighed, one hand finally coming up to rub at his eyes like he could push the visions of it all out of his head. "I dunno."

Edited 2021-03-12 16:42 (UTC)

"I don't think it that strange." The man had burned. Badly. Died from it. An aversion to fire was only natural. People have rational and irrational fears over far more minor incidents. Avoid dogs if they've been bitten, become averse to horses from a bad fall. Maybe it is a little strange to have this push-pull, attraction-aversion to it all. But men can get reckless after a close brush with death. More so Raylan who had actually died. Twice.

"Hey," he says gently, reaching over behind Raylan's back and giving his further upper arm a firm squeeze, tugging him close for one of those masculinity-reaffirming cowboy bro to cowboy bro side-hugs. Doc won't be lighting one up near Raylan anytime soon.

"The only thing any of this says about you is that you are too hard on yourself. This wasn't ever gonna be easy. It sure ain't sommin' you can just snap yourself out of. Give yourself some time. Some space. Some forgiveness."

Needless to say, there were somethings about Raylan's way of thinking that were, inarguably, backwards. Such as there being any other option than getting back up on the horse that just knocked you off. It was fire, something he'd wielded since he was young - he knew the rules, knew how to handle it safely and -- The broken basic rules of reality offended him, to say the least. There was no adjusting if the rules kept changing.

That's the way madness lay.

He didn't expect the hand, the gentle tug into the side hug and it made his face all the softer around the edges for the effort Henry was putting in. Life habits were a bitch to break and as much as he wished it otherwise, no amount of side hugs were going to make it better.

"Forgiveness I can manage. Space and time?" He shook his head a little. "We're borrowin' both here. And it's the kinda venerability that could get someone else killed." They couldn't afford him the time and space - there was none for men like them, even in an empty town with no one to save.

"But there's somethin'... wrong. I haven't seen it in Negan yet, but I've seen it in Neal. Haven't seen enough of Klaus or any of the rest but.." He shook his head. "Somethin' else happened that I don't understand. Will overrides fear and it feels like that switch got.. flipped. Just.. you can help me out by keepin' your ear to the ground and your eye on all of us." Which was what he'd be doing too, as best he could.

He can understand that compulsion. That unwillingness to indulge in something that could cost them dearly should they not be ready for the next calamity coming their way. Most days Doc has trouble forgiving himself. It is impossible to ask all three of others, however hard he might try.

"I... don't think I understand, either?" Not based on that explanation. "I would keep an eye on all of you." That much should go without saying. It is what they do in this town, in this house. But he's not sure if there was something in particular he needed to be keeping an eye out for.

"What did you see in Neal, exactly? The same thing you are experiencing?"

He could forgive himself the fracture, the weakness itself happening, but not the inability to look at it hard and get over it. He knew where that sprang from and he hated it. Even when he told others to take the time they needed, there was some small part of him that judged them to be acceptably weaker for needing to take it.

Raylan nodded a little, face pinched again as his eyes got lost somewhere in the lower level of the shelves while he searched for the right words. "It's.. a mania. An impulse. An instability, a suspension of better sense. Of actionable reason."

Snapping out of it a little, he glanced over, meeting Doc's eye before he was eyeing his cup again, emptying it after he finished. "We'll have to see if it passes. I sure as hell hope it does. I'll keep you up to date. Can't have you worryin' any more than you already will. We got better things to worry about.. You restockin' everything now that the foods back? We'll be more careful, this time around. Seems like the Honeymoon with Mathis is over."

"Well it's too late for that," he points out casually with a slight tip of his head in Raylan's direction before he settles back properly on his stool, both elbows on the countertop gazing off in a similar direction even if his gaze isn't settling on the shelf. He is already worrying. Worrying is what he does. Whether he is spinning one or twelve plates of worry, he is still worrying. What is one or two more plates to add to the Mathias circus show? Not much more to add to the load.

"And here I thought I had a reason now to keep you handcuffed to the bed," he jokes with a wistful-sounding sigh, trying to lighten some of Raylan's load whilst making approximately zero mention of Last Night. It'll be fine. Doc will know to keep an eye out on them now, stop them from leaping into stupid as best he can.

"I have started again, yes." Nobody's mentioned the holes in the wall adjacent to the new screwholes that haven't been plastered over yet, which either means nobody's looked too closely or they were sparing Doc the need to excuse his snapping with some pointless lie about how the little quake shook the shelf loose from where it had been screwed into the wall.

"Taking only what is left over at the end of the day. I do not wish to build a safety net out of depriving anyone of anything they want to take for themselves." If other people who might be starting their own little hoard wish to do so, that is their business.

"And I would no longer take from this place either, if you are looking to build something of it." Raylan can't run anything out of the Grey Gull if the place is constantly getting looted.

"Though perhaps, until it passes, you might want to spend more time in the house. This place will... probably still be here then."

That was fair. They'd been worrying John Henry Holliday since he got attached to the lot of them. Maybe he'd rethink that in the future. Raylan hoped he wouldn't - they were all the better for Doc being there.

"Not sure you need a reason," Raylan joked back, unashamed since there was no one else there to overhear or see them being within spitting distance of honest about what they'd done the night before. It'd be a lie to say Raylan's ass didn't throb a little in appreciation every time he thought about it.

Having not been over in 1307 since they'd gotten trapped there, Raylan only had the suggestion of drywall dust on Doc's everything, and he could guess what that meant. Regardless, when he did find out about the damage, he'd go about trying to fix it wordlessly. They were allowed their breaks.

"Smart." Kind even but he wasn't sure that Henry would appreciate it being called out so starkly. "But the food ain't that important. I still think that we should leave a little somethin', in case a new soul wanders in."

Raylan's lips curled a little as he eyed Henry sidelong, hazel eyes halfmoons over the amusement. "You sure?" It was just a joke. He nodded. "I won't wander too far. Not outside Phillips Drive after maybe tomorrow.." He wanted to hunt down Will Graham at some point.

"So long as you can promise the same. Leave a note or somethin' if you plan on bein' out for more than a few hours maybe. Just to let us know." He wouldn't even joke that they might not worry - Raylan felt more protective of Doc now than he had before, the way Mathis had been jerking them about, the way he relied on the solid, equally stoic presence next to him. Last night not withstanding.

Doc leans over closer, dropping his voice to barely more than a low whisper-threat even though there's no one else here to listen in on them.

"Give me a reason to put you under house arrest and I'll make you scream for your Worchestershire sauce," he drawls before shooting Raylan a knowing look and pulling back slowly. Flirting is always easy. Not so easy to address Last Night directly, and he's of the mind that not mentioning it meant Raylan didn't have any pressing complaints to file about the rough (but possibly enjoyable) time he had, although he would be willing to talk if Raylan wanted to go there.

His gaze settles back ahead of him as they slip easily back into talking about business. Usually he likes keeping his hands occupied with a drink or a cigarette but he might hold off on the former for now and save the latter for when he's out of Raylan's hair. No need to spook the old man.

"We'll keep an eye out for the new folk, though I'm. I'm not always much in the mood for herding them." That's more to do with all this death and undeath than last night though. It's not like you can die for a day and come back and act like nothing happened. Even if the two of them are acting exactly as though nothing happened.

"I do have a penchant for taking off without a word, but I will leave a note," he promises. Maybe he'll keep one of those colourful square pads of paper that's got a sticky strip and a few pens on the side table near the entranceway, remind himself to write something and stick it on the back of the door on his way out.

"But I will try and stay close by, least until whatever this is passes. Be at your beck and call until you annoy the shit outta me."

That whisper-threat, however far away from his ear, Raylan could still feel across it, like Doc was still mounted over him as as much as he would have liked to have hidden the subtle shiver it sent through his shoulders, he couldn't. Right in the daylight, mentioning that? Scandalous. Thank god Raylan wasn't a blusher in his old age. He was only willing to talk about it because there was no one else in the building. The second someone walked in, the topic would be dropped like a hot iron.

"I do that, we're gonna need provisions and an empty house that we can wreck our way across." Yes, he enjoyed it. Despite all his expectations, he ached in the best way that, if he thought about too long, he would have to excuse himself to distraction. What enjoying it meant was.. something to be debated and chewed over, if looked at at all.

"I can help with the herding. Despite your utterly disparaging comments about my social and customer service skills, I'll have you know the Marshal's service likes sending me in, most'a the time, to use this sweet smooth accent and half decent mug to diffuse and resolve situations that would otherwise be immensely volatile. I think I can manage the new comers-" By virtue of not really giving a shit if they liked him or not, welcome to hell?? "- and a bar. Though that offer to give you bar time wasn't an empty one.."

Since Doc always needed something to do with his hands that wasn't lovingly trying to break his arm.

"My beck and call, huh?" Oh the devilish look Raylan slid Doc's way. "Careful what you offer there cowboy, I just make take you up on it." But he knew what Doc meant and thank god because Raylan knew that he wouldn't have enough in him to herd what their house had become by himself. For a man that lived in a single, sad motel room for more years than he'd like to admit, their house was more full than he'd ever dealt with before. He imagined it was the same with the man next to him, considering how often he was on the move.

"I seem to recall coming upon an empty house just sometime yesterday," Doc muses. He didn't miss that reaction he managed to get out of Raylan but he didn't push, didn't mention that maybe he'd prefer taking a Marshal rather than a pipe wrench to a wall, didn't linger on the topic or speak at any great length about yesterday, or last night, or any of what happened. It had been joked and alluded to that Doc could have anyone anytime he wanted, and while he's flattered by the notion, it really has taken him this long to give in to who he wanted. He doesn't want to mess a good night up by being too glib.

"Tch. What accent?" he scoffs, the way friends who frequently give each other shit are wont to do. "You mean every time Mister Caffrey gives you a blank stare because he can't understand what you just said?" No comment about the mug. Those faint scars add a certain ruggedness that will certainly be a conversation starter for any lady with a working pair of eyes.

"I will come by, often," he promises. That is part of what being at Raylan's disposal entails. He will split his time with their brewery, the willows, raiding vacant houses to add to their stockpile, and here. Though he would also rather be around in relatively close orbit of the house if Raylan is going to be here for long stretches of time. At least anyone staying in the whole day will see one cowboy popping in and out, in case anything happens.

"Have to say. This house is more responsibility than I have ever had." Even when he had the bordello, things were different. The ladies looked after him sometimes. He had always felt ready to leave at a moment's notice, even when he was running a business. This place though has him longing to stay, put down his roots. Fill up half a cupboard with his flannel shirts. Unpack his bag. Maybe it wouldn't hurt, just leaving one or two things of his lying around. Maybe that snowglobe on the fireplace mantle could really be his, just like Malcolm insisted.

"Would hate to leave you to it, all to your lonesome. Even after you get over whatever this is." They don't own or run the house, but that sense of the weight of it on their shoulders is almost palpable. He wouldn't want to kick a leg out from under them after throwing everything they've got into it.

Raylan's eyebrows lifted in an interested 'Well how about that', clearly socking the musing away for the next time they felt like dancing. He'd rather Doc not take out any more walls full of useful materials if he could help it; they both minded the shortages in their own way.

He grinned at 'What accent' and tonged his teeth a little before bobbing his head, smile still broad. "For all the speed New York is accustomed to havin', cut off a few G's and he's lost. It's almost adorable."

Neal wasn't used to just how quick those words could come if Raylan was pissed off or had a point to make. The smile came back down a few notches as Raylan hummed an acknowledgement at the confirmation and a sidelong look that did no work to hide the playful fondness in Raylan's eyes before he pointed it back towards his cup.

"Good to hear, 'cause it wouldn't be the same without ya. I'm used to mindin' people, just not all under one roof. In the name of full transparency, I didn't plan on havin' anyone livin' with me here. 1307 was the furthest from all of 'em I could get." If it wasn't for Doc, Raylan couldn't imagine the house being what it was now. Filled with the people it was now. No moonshine party to get Malcolm snapping on their kitchen floor, no slow collection and adoption of Neal and Negan - no matter how Doc felt about the man, something Raylan still wasn't clear on - it all tied back to the gunslinger.

"Things are better this way.. And I'm sure I'll.. get over it." Find a way to get over it, whatever, same thing. "Just.. gotta find the right bat to swing at the problem is all. We got other things to worry about, right?"

"I wasn't planning on outstaying my welcome either," Doc confesses quietly. He figured it was a bit of hospitality that their customs had decreed necessary to build good relations and extend their grace and blessings unto others. "It had not been my intention to take advantage of your courtesy, but the moonshine needed tending to, one day rolled over to the next. And then Malcolm came into our home."

Doc doesn't dwell on the implications of that. Easy to dismiss it as a slip of the tongue.

"Is it too much?" he asks quietly but earnestly. It had not been his intention to herd the strays, either, they kind of just followed him home really, but Malcolm has more friends in the house and that can't be a bad thing. If he wants to make room for said strays that is his own business, but the fact that he'd inadvertently made Raylan give up his own space isn't lost on him.

"I figured that was why you might've come here. Maybe it got to be too much." Or, who knows. Maybe grappling with death wrestling with angels has made everything be a bit too much right now.

Raylan looked over at the question and settled his hand over Henry's wrist, gripping there with a gentle insistence that he wouldn't have ignored while his heart was trying to claw his way into his throat. If he could convey how much he needed and wanted Henry next to him in this legitimately crazy fucking world through that grip alone, he would have, but questions asked demand being answered.

"It's not too much. And there's no limit on your welcome either, you didn't overstay anythin'. I-.. I wanted the company. I needed it." He knew for a fact Doc did too. "I don't regret the house growin' into what it is." Even if he was displaced and set back adrift for it. A bit reluctantly, Raylan pulled his hand back, not wanting to seem clingy or over-sincere in a way that would drive Henry back into that Hat of Habits.

"I do miss the quiet of it though." Something he did get here. "As comfortin' as all the sounds of everyone is.." He somehow felt in the way sometimes in a way he didn't like. He took a deep breath and pushed his coffee cup away. "I lived in a shitty motel room for the last two years. I think it'd be easier if I had a reliable door to call my own is all." A place to fall apart behind. They'd secured that, once.

Raylan looked over. "But don't ever think that you shouldn't be gettin' comfortable. I'm not goin' anywhere. I hope you aren't either." It wasn't a profession of love, but Raylan knew that card was unplayable. He couldn't factor it in, despite everything. Too much sway to be had there, sway he didn't want to deploy. Let Henry make his own decisions.

"If I'm left to drink all this moonshine to myself, I'll be in three more graves before the season is over."

Doc was not at all expecting the touch so he seems surprised, straightening up just a bit even though he doesn't move his hand away. Coupled with those quiet confessions he doesn't know what to make of it. Apart from the fact that he probably didn't have this same kind of courage to confront these thoughts and feelings in Raylan's company, give them a life of their own if he were to say these things aloud.

"Can I make that space for you again?" he offers. Doc's been alone for so long the last thing he wants to do is be alone. But sometimes that's the only thing he wants to do. And if there's just the one thing you want to do, it don't really matter if it's first thing on the list or the last. Everyone needs some alone time, this much is easy to understand. And if Raylan felt he didn't have a space to do it then it would only make sense to create one for him.

"I would stay. Although, you shoulda led with moonshine." Much easier and safer to defuse a hairy emotion-laden conversation with some lighthearted commentary about their drinking as if it's the only way into John Henry's heart.

He wasn't sure whether the straightening was a good or bad thing until Henry spoke and when he did, Raylan didn't hear any judgement or subtle admonishment for having given those soft little confessions. A lot of things were new to Raylan here in Mathis, but this calm acceptance that didn't challenge the machoisms he felt the need to hoist up was one of the strangest. One that had wormed its way beneath and between those self-defensive measures with a subtly that allowed him to turn a blind eye to it happening in some fractured hope that this time, he wouldn't get kicked around just for being there.

"I'll remember that for next time," he huffed with a faint pull of a smile that stayed for the most part, barely curling the edges of his lips. "I'm not sure how we'd go about it, short of tellin' Neal to bunk with Negan and takin' back the master. I'll be fine without it, if it ain't somethin' that can be done at home. Gives me a reason to go on more walks or end up here for a few hours. S'long as I know people at the house are safe."

With what Mathis had thrown at him, handling not having a door to be alone behind was the least of his real concerns. It wasn't that important, in the grand scheme of this place. But if he could steal a few moments here and there, he was sure he could get through.

"And maybe I find a door in an empty house now and then." One that Henry could join him behind, should they ever get that kind of chance again. Raylan wasn't counting any chickens before they hatched. "After leavin' a note, of course."

Maybe he could give Raylan the garage. The garage is already theirs, anyway, when they don't go out onto the porch to drink, or when they're building something. Nobody else goes in there. He could do it up nicer, give a warm corner to Raylan.

Doc will give it some thought as to how to go about that. For now they can maybe use the Grey Gull for that purpose. Even if shit goes sideways while he's here, he'll have plenty of food to tie him over, furniture to block the entrances and exits with until it's safe for them to reunite in the house again.

That loaded suggestion gets one eyebrow raised and a small smile flashed at Raylan's direction. Two can play at the coy game.

"Maybe I'll come find you then." A small, nonchalant shrug. "In case you want the company. A big old empty house all to your lonesome. Might be a good place to... bang your problems out."

The garage was a good idea and one that Raylan had been thinking about, however unrelated to closed doors it really was. It would be something. He needed something to call his own to have any kind of root in grounding, even if that was the room he was sleeping in. It was the one constant thing he could keep in his life. Unless beds had figured out how to leave him too. But he'd rather sleep at home or closer to it; the Gull wouldn't do for that.

"A lack of company is what I'm used to at Arlo's house. Though there's only ever shootin' there and if there's bangin' there, I don't wanna know about it," he huffed with a pull of a half grin. "Might be alright to have a little company."

That half pulled grin slid over at Doc before Raylan was lifting his chin a little and changing the subject.

"Speakin' of, tonight and tomorrow night, I'll take night duty for Malcolm. Not sure he'd handle another night of us both bein' gone terribly well." And if he stayed here, which was far too far from the house for his comfort, Malcolm might travel to find him and he didn't want that. The nighttime was dangerous now in a way he didn't like, not that there was much he did like in Mathis, overall.

"Well you're also used to life kickin' your teeth in and pullin' the rug out from under ya. Don't mean you have to put up with that shit." What's the point of putting up with a life lived with some of Arlo in it when you could live the rest of your life not needing to deal with that?

At the mention of Malcolm, Doc just gives a firm nod and a shrug.

"Alright. I think he's had enough of me anyway. Would have considered and dreaded the thought of me being the only one there." And maybe Doc would have struggled on his own with Malcolm, too. It goes both ways. Doc's the kind of man people fantasise about having, a wild horse roaming free that people dream of taming. Not the kind of man people actually want to live with. Not the kind of man anyone would want to make a home with. He is under no illusions about being a difficult, troubled, stubborn man to put up with for a long stretch of time.

That and he can tell Raylan, and even Negan to sit down and shut up and they'd laugh and tell him to fuck off. Malcolm and Neal, they... he has to watch what he says, be wary of ruffling up some sensitive feathers. The New Yorkers are a different breed. The difference between thick skin made out of tanned hide and that made out of tempered glass. They take things personal. Sooner or later, Doc and Malcolm trying to walk on eggshells around each other isn't going to end well.

"I ain't gon' talk about what happened last night. But if it's sommin' we need a cover story about we should-... probably come up with sommin' then," he drawls. He has kept many dirty little secrets over the course of his life, and anyone else who can tell on him is dead. He can afford to keep one with someone who's still alive.

Raylan shrugged. Didn't it mean exactly that? That he had to deal with that shit because he was expected to deal with it. Good at dealing with it, even if that was to his own detriment. His well being didn't matter much in the grand scheme of anything - he'd made his peace with that.

"He thinks you've had enough of him," Raylan answered. "You said somethin' to him while we were.. gone. He took it to heart. Trying to be less of a pain in your ass out of fear that you're going to reject him entirely. What happened between you two?"

Before Doc could really answer, Raylan continued with the intent of giving him a block of things to respond to. "You ain't? Was it that bad?" He looked over at him. "What cover story do we need? I was fucked up, you came to make sure I didn't spend the night alone. Who's to say anything else happened."

Of course nothing else happened. Nothing at all. Nothing that he'd care deeply and intently about for sure. Raylan peeled off his barstool, aiming to put himself behind it and find something for his hands to do that wasn't fret about things he couldn't change or effect.

"You don't make a big deal about it, they'll gloss right over the details like it didn't happen." It was how Raylan managed to stay off most radars, emotional and otherwise. "Tell me what happened with Malcolm."

Breathing out a long sigh, Doc scrubs his face tiredly, fingertips poking under the brim of his hat before he tips it back enough to catch it coming off. These last few days have been a real mess. Adopting a statue of a man with a headache, half his face obscured behind the one hand, top of his cheek pressed against his palm, Doc keeps his eyes closed as he speaks.

"He wanted to talk about it. I did not." It is uncharacteristic of him to opt for brevity but this one takes him some time to furnish with details. "I just-- wanted to get things done, that day. There were bodies needed to be taken care of. No food. People to check in on. I 'idn't know if those things were coming back or not. World don't stop turning even if your own one does." He doesn't do shame well, but when he reopens his eyes his soft gaze lingers on the countertop and he looks at least pensive, reflecting on the whole thing. Doc leans down low and to the side, rubbing his free hand down the length of the side of his shin a few times before hunching over his non-existent drink. He doesn't think brooding sober is a particularly good look on him. In the end, with the absence of a glass of alcohol or a cigarette or the handle of a revolver to busy his hands with, he opts for a restless sort of fiddling with the rim of his hat, plucking invisible threads from it.

"Malcolm wanted to solve your murder. Figure out what happened. Try and prevent a next time. Maybe that's his way of dealing, I 'on't know. I didn't give a shit how you died. Ain't nothing anyone can do about invisible wendigos, sentient fires, God's will or whatever the hell happened to you. All I cared about was what I could do for the people left behind." Sure, he got a little sentimental that night, but that was only after he did everything he wanted to get done that day. Raylan is free to call him an asshole to his face for that. It's just the kind of man Doc is and he is unapologetic for it. But if it'd been Doc Holliday who had been dead in the snow you can bet that he would want whoever's left behind to snap out of whatever funk they would find themselves in, pick themselves up and keep going rather than squat there over his corpse trying to figure out if it was a coyote, alcohol poisoning or one too many Lucky Strikes that got him in the end.

"I don't know how many questions he got in or what he asked in the end that set me off, but. I just snapped." And even though they have talked since then, they haven't quite talked in the same way. Doc hasn't tried to apologise. Malcolm hasn't reverted back to his usual chatty self. Not around Doc, anyway.

"You've spoiled me, in a way. I don't have to say anything 'round you. Sometimes I'm. Tired of talking to him. Or anyone else, for that matter." So whether he wants to talk about Malcolm or last night or any of that. Sure, Doc might say a thing or two back. But he doesn't really have much to offer on his own. Ain't that the whole point of drinking anyway? So they can cut all the unnecessary chatter short.

Raylan listened quietly as he watched Doc work through it all. Of course he felt guilty for dying, for leaving clean up and everything else that there was to do on Henry's shoulders, but they'd talked about that the night before so Raylan wasn't going to let that guilt climb up too high without getting a boot to its face. This wasn't about how Raylan felt about it all.

"Cleaning up and dealin' with what you two had to deal with ain't easy. Talkin' about it only makes it harder," He started with a faint nod of his head. There wasn't going to be any name calling over it all - Raylan tended to save those for situations he was actually in and there was no list of 'the right way to handle' it all. Both Doc and Malcolm were doing and had done their best. Raylan understood how things got to a point where Doc would snap.

"Malcolm likes havin' the answers and he's used to gettin' 'em too. Just for the sake of havin' them. You can blame his job or his daddy, if you need something to foist blame onto." Grabbing his cup, Raylan stepped away into the kitchen and returned with a second one, both with coffee in it. The second was set in front of Doc before Raylan took back to his lean on the back counter.

"Considerin' how many people you talk to, I'm not surprised to hear your worn out by it. You want my suggestion, do what I tried to do. Just take a day, a night, whatever. Leave us a note so we know to not go lookin' for you and then come back." That was the important part, coming back. "You know this place isn't gonna fall apart if you stop runnin' around it like an old west Avon, right? Look," he continued, chin lifting a little. "You busy yourself quite a bit with how to make everyone else happy and comfortable. And you're pretty good at it-" Better than Raylan at it, anyway. "-But no one's gonna hate you or forget you or anythin' else if you take some time for yourself."

Just like Raylan was sure he wasn't going to get any shit for not staying at home, even if it was sorta clear he was only allowed one night away, he'd take the break, the breather, and roll right back into it.

"This is why I like a door," he pointed out. "Going Free-range lets everyone and their mother walk up on you and this town is too small for that kinda open invitation."

He doesn't want to blame anybody except himself for snapping. He could have been more patient with Malcolm. He could have walked away from that conversation before it turned ugly. He could have used a different phrasing, picked better words. Whatever he could have done, snapping was on him.

Watching Raylan move around making coffee, by the time it occurs to him to slide his butt off that seat and help out, the drinks have already been made. He mutters a quiet 'thanks' as he pulls his coffee in a little closer, peering at his rippling reflection in the hot drink. He's listening, taking Raylan's words as they tumble out of his mouth, collecting them into a pan like they're precious gold pieces, shaking and rolling them around in his head, weighing them up, considering them seriously.

"Doors create barriers." Doc had maybe shot himself in the foot there, offering medical services and opening up the house to anyone who needs the refuge, but at the time when they had first arrived, there wasn't anyone better to be offering it. He has tended to more than a half dozen minor and moderate injuries here, invited at least ten people to sit or lie on the living room couch as he cleaned out their wounds or offered counsel, explained how the town works, gave away food, moonshine. It's no small miracle that the other people in 1306 have put up with him bringing all these strangers in trying to plug all these holes in this sinking ship that they have come to call Mathias.

"I do not much like barriers. But I am not so presumptuous as to think that the town would collapse if I did nothing for a day. I would... consider, taking things slow for a while," he contemplates while lifting his cup of coffee and taking a small sip from it. It would be good to take some time to empty out his bottle before he starts trying to cram so much back into it again so quickly. Might prevent another Malcolmesque situation.

Raylan didn't mind the influx of people, though he might have something to say about giving away all their food if he'd known anything about that. That was who Doc was, for better or worse.

Doors create barriers. Raylan liked those barriers. Needed those barriers. How else was he supposed to keep himself safe? What other options were there? Trust people? Hell no. Raylan knew people. People took advantage. Used that shit against him. Being a doctor was never going to be on Raylan's dance card - his bedside manner was shit.

"You spend too much of yourself takin' care of everyone else. You gotta slow down, Henry. Take care of yourself too. Spread yourself too thin and you're gonna shut down or break down, whichever comes first. And I'm not sayin' we wouldn't force feed your ass porridge but." They totally would. Raylan shifted forwards, hands spreading on his side of the bartop as he settled his gaze fully on Henry.

"You and I are the sturdiest among us-" Only because he hadn't tested Negan, hadn't seen what the man could suffer and remain standing under. "If we fracture, the rest of the house does too and they're already on uneven ground... You got no obligation to us. Or too anyone else. But if you demand the takin' of it, do us all a favor and let us help you take the time you need for yourself. My bein' here isn't because it's all too much, but it's for much of the same reason. A few minutes to myself. A chance to remember what and who the hell I was before this place got her fuckin' claws into me. We all need that."

Though he could feel Raylan's gaze settling upon him, at that point he refuses to turn to face Raylan, letting him only see his profile, only see the one side of him. It's a shitty pep talk, to put the weight of the house upon both their shoulders when they are already so burdened and weary with no promise of a higher power to provision them any rest. The only higher power around here would see them dead over and over and over again.

"The man I was is dead." He had left him behind in Colorado a hundred and thirty years ago. He might have tried to start over, in Purgatory, but here he is a gunslinger with no guns, a gambler with no chips, a doctor with no tools, a barkeep with no alcohol. He can't even do alcoholism properly without distilling his own drinks to give himself a drinking problem to contend with. Take everything away - and everything has been taken away; his guns, his cards, his whiskey, his ~~woman~~ ~~child~~ people - only the monster that cannot die remains. He had hoped to leave his demons behind in Purgatory also, but here they are, taunting him from the wavering reflection in his cup of coffee.

"All I am is a name. An idea. Some old memories." Those things don't really need rest. He doesn't even know who or what he is anymore. If there's any part of him left or if too many hands have tried to write his story for him and left him an empty vessel to be filled with all their desires and ideals. Doc lifts his gaze and works through his drink, draining half the cup. Usually there's moonshine in the other half. This morning he is painfully sober. Setting his cup back down, he turns to look at Raylan's coffee, his hands, gaze never lifting off the countertop.

"I buried the man you were. It is okay, if you do not remember. You can decide who you want to be, from here on out."

037-040 » the reason for time

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