#wohn

“I need to talk to you,” Keg says, arching into the way Ruzza kisses along the base of her throat. They’re in bed in the morning, holed up in a rented room with sun bleaching the floor white and empty walls bracketing them in.

“Talk?” Ruzza says, voice thick with suppressed laughter. She digs her nails in tight, tighter, so that she rips at skin and paints blood along Keg’s thigh with her fingers. “I don’t feel like talking.”

“No, we need to – ah,” Keg says. “You bit me.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Ruzza says, and then they’re not talking anymore.

Keg kind of…it’s complicated, okay. She’s working with limited options here.

And it’s not like she can’t hit things! Keg is very good at hitting things – one of the best, in fact. It’s the only thing she’s good at, so she tries her best to live up to her (broken, it’s all broken, shattered and bloody and gone) dreams, and it’s sort of working. Keg can adapt. In every job interview that she’s ever had (one and a half), she’s named “adaptability” as one of her key personal attributes, up there with “can take a punch”. Of course, then the asshole has asked if she could spell adaptability, and Keg’s hazy visions of skirting legality had gone down the drain with a knuckle to his stupid, smug face.

Lorenzo comes along during a period of Keg’s life that she likes to call “more fucked up than usual”, which is saying something. It was a weird stretch between enforced formal schooling (which was a joke, but not Keg can read – sort of – and write – sort of – and she doesn’t know what to do with that), and a corpse. People look at her stubble and her grin and think, nope, and either walk away or walk closer. Keg’s knuckles are tattooed with bruises every night, when she goes to sleep tucked away in whatever corner is closest. She runs with some kids, and then she doesn’t, and then she does. Her gang life is like her love life, which is to say – messy.

“I’ve heard some things about you,” Lorenzo says, smiling. He’s always smiling. Gentle and kind and lying, always lying. There’s blood on his cheek, but Keg doesn’t ask. Keg doesn’t ask a lot of things.

(She’ll regret that, one day).

“Things?” Keg says, wiping dirt off her nose and baring her teeth. Her voice only recently stopped cracking from high to low, and she’s not taking any chances under extreme stress – and from what she’s heard of Lorenzo and the Iron Shepherds, Keg counts this instance as one of extreme fucking stress.

“Bad things,” Lorenzo promises, and then grabs her by the scruff of her neck and hauls her to her feet. “Come with me.”

The options in Shady Creek Run are these: work for a family, or die.

Keg doesn’t intend to die.

“Hey, hey, hey,” a creepy little halfling says, arms crossed and sneer wide. “Who the fuck is the new kid?”

Keg jerks forward, instinct taking over reason (as per usual), but Lorenzo has a firm hand on her shirt, and she doesn’t go two steps before she’s choking herself.

“Be nice,” Lorenzo says. Keg isn’t sure which of them he’s talking to, but she doesn’t really want to take any chances.

“I thought we weren’t taking on any new hires,” a human female says, leaning against the wall. She’s taller than – well, basically everyone is taller than Keg, but she’s twice as broad, forearms thick with ropey muscle. Keg runs her eyes along the thick slope of her shoulders, the brightness of her eyes.

“We weren’t,” Lorenzo says.

“Let’s get this straight,” Keg starts to say, “I’m not an – ngh –”

Lorenzo doesn’t even glance her way as he once again casually pulls back on her shirt, hard enough to cut the air circulation to her lungs. Keg backs up so that she bumps into his leg. It’s degrading, but at least she can breathe. That seems to be her motto, these days: stay alive, stay alive, do whatever you can to stay alive.

(Keg has lived with the chill of Shady Creek Run in the winter burrowed into her bones; she’s spent so long looking at corpses that she’s wondered if she’s dead herself. Frozen things – frozen places, frozen faces.

This is the story Keg likes to tell people: I emerged, fully formed, from the mud.

It’s kind of true).

The human female grins, sharp and bright and gorgeous. Keg smirks back at her, because when it comes to beautiful people, Keg has no sense of self preservation.

“I kind of like her.”

“You would, Wohn.”

“This is Protto, and Wohn,” Lorenzo says. “You’ll meet the others later. Wohn, you’re in charge of making sure she doesn’t get herself killed.”

Protto lets out a wild cackle, but Wohn only looks quietly amused. And Keg isn’t in the business of making promises she can’t keep, but she makes this one to herself: if she can get this to work, she’s staying.

There’s blood on the wall, and on the ground, and on Keg’s clothing and skin and everywhere, there’s blood everywhere and it’s never coming out.

“Here,” Wohn says, crouching in front of Keg and giving her a damp cloth. Keg stares at it, unblinking. Wohn gives an annoyed sign before grabbing the cloth and roughly scraping it over Keg’s battered forehead. It stings, but it’s a hollow thing. So far away. Keg can’t – Keg just can’t.

“What was that?” she whispers.

They’re in a dark place, tucker away in the far corner – if Keg has learned anything, it’s that corners lend a weight to your back and walls to your sides. Pinned and desperate is where Keg shines, and it means there’s no way for someone to come up behind her. The other Shepherds aren’t in the immediate vicinity – Keg doesn’t know where they are (out, getting more people, getting more people for –) and Keg needs to get herself under control, or she won’t like the consequences.

(Dwelna is there. Dwelna is down there in the dark, suffocating heat, and Keg is never going to look at people the same way again).

“’That’ is what you signed up for,” Wohn says, finished with Keg’s forehead and moving onto her cheeks. “You know what we do.”

Keg hadn’t known they had done…this.

(She hadn’t known, she hadn’t known, she hadn’t known –)

“Those are people,” Keg sounds out, because this is Wohn and because the others aren’t here to flay her open. “Those are –”

Wohn takes her by the chin and looks her dead in the eyes. Her voice is firm when she says, “No, Keg. Those are sheep.”

“Sheep,” Keg repeats dumbly.

Wohn shrugs, sitting back on her haunches and settling her elbows on her knees. She looks unbearable hot in this light, but Keg is too out of it to really appreciate the view. “We’re Shepherds, Keg. They stop being people the moment we get them,” she says. “Before that, even. We’re in the business of trafficking slaves.”

“This isn’t trafficking,” Keg says. “This is – why do we –?”

Lorenzo prides himself on selling – uh, malleable workers,” Wohn says. “Best to keep it all in-house.”

In-house, Keg thinks. She sleeps upstairs.

She doesn’t know how she’s ever going to sleep again.

“Well, hello, there,” Ruzza says.

Well, Keg hadn’t known her name then, but she does now. The memory is awash with rain and muffled screams as they unload the back of the cart, cages hauled out of impossible, hidden spaces. Keg pauses in her work, Wohn beside her as they pull them out, one by one, and stack them on the ground. The things (people, the people) stare at her with wide eyes, panicked eyes, pleading eyes. Keg looks away to the half-elvan woman with short hair and red lips.

“I’m Keg,” she says, and then gets back to work. There are a lot of cages.

Ruzza ducks around playfully, so that Keg is facing her once again. She makes no move to help with the unpacking of cargo. “It’s very nice to meet you, Keg,” she says, and okay, so like. Keg is traumatised, not dead. And Ruzza is gorgeous. Maybe it’s not Wohn’s muscular attractiveness, but Ruzza is tall and slender and fine-boned and hot. Keg could better stop the sun from shining than interest sparking low in her stomach.

“You as well,” Keg says, trying to keep her syllables even. Her voice has finally stopped giving her problems, but the instances of occurrence always seem to exponentially increase the longer she’s around good-looking people. (In the back of her mind, a little twit with glasses and large ears says, “Can you even spell ‘exponentially’?”). Smooth, Keg. Be smooth.

“I’m Ruzza,” she says, folding her arms across her chest and smiling wide.

Beside her, Wohn snorts. “Keep going,” she says. “We’ve got another cart after this. You can – ah, get to know each other, later.”

Keg keeps her eyes forward and gets back to work, but there’s a small grin to the corner of her eye, now. All she has to do is not look down. (That’s not a human, that’s not a halfling, that’s not a half-elf…). With Ruzza standing there, tall and graceful and gorgeous, it’s not that hard.

They leave.

Keg walks away. Money talks, and Keg is out of Shady Creek Run, and there’s no one to stop her. It’s not raining. It’s not anything. The sun is so far away, but it’s burning through the cloud cover and it’s visible, holy shit, it’s visible. Keg is moving forward and she doesn’t recognise anything. She’s going to have a heart attack, soon.

“Like what you see?” Ruzza says. She’s sitting next to Keg on the cart, long legs swinging back and forth. It’s empty, and feels light in a way that Keg doesn’t usually associate with the creaking wood.

Keg turns to her, rolling her eyes. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” she says, because being cool is a priority around Ruzza. “It’s not that different.”

Ruzza laughs. “Wait till you see the rest, then.”

(This is what the rest is:

Silence.

Creeping, cold.

Keg waits in the still air, waits for Ruzza and Protto and Dwelma to come back, waits for her blood to start flowing again and her joints to unfreeze. Lorenzo is next to her, leaning against the cart and staring up at the stars.

It’s their first hit on the run, but it won’t be their last. Twenty cages stand, stacked, in the cart – hidden under a thick spell that leaves Keg dizzy every time she pokes her head through.

She wants to say something, but nothing will come up through her teeth. If she opens her mouth, she’s going to throw up. No matter what, Keg is not allowed to throw up.

Lorenzo glances at her, amused. Always, endlessly amused. There’s blood flecking the corner of her his cheek, but Keg doesn’t ask. Keg can’t ask, because if she doesn’t know, she doesn’t have to do anything about it.

“Don’t worry, Keg,” he says. “They’ll be back.”

And it’s funny, it’s hilarious, but Keg doesn’t know if she wants them to or not).

Ruzza laughs, when they fuck, when they tangle into each other with rain on the windows and blood on their hands.

“You’re on the next run,” she says, kissing her way up Keg’s collarbone. “All yours, next time. I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun.”

“Can we not,” Keg says, shrugging off her shirt and grappling for Ruzza’s. “It this really the time –”

“You’re fun when you scream,” Ruzza says, and there’s something cold about the way she says it. Keg can’t help but shiver, but it’s too late, the warning’s too late, she’s in too deep. Ruzza just laughs, and keeps laughing, well into the night.

Keg is born with ice in her veins and mud in her hair.

She clawed herself up and out, up and out. She’s got a trail of bodies and hearts behind her (less hearts than bodies, unfortunately), and there’s no point in looking back, not now.

Chapter 1: Watches

They drove through the night, and it was silent for a few hours. They kept to the back roads. Occasionally, he would drive in large circles; he reasoned that driving straight away would be too obvious, but in reality, he had no clue which way he should go, and Doc had no idea either. Sniper didn’t feel tired, and Doc informed him that it was normal, but his body certainly was feeling the entire gunfight now. Doc leaned his head against the cracked window, his lilac eyes dully watching the scenery. He was exhausted, yet he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. He felt wound up like a too-tight spring.

The sky started to lighten, and the gunman yawned. Doc yawned soon after and stretched. 

“5 am sky,” the yellow eyed man mused. 

“Hm?”

He checked his watch, a round face with a basic digital interface. It flashed a time: 5:14 am. Doc assumed it was displaying local time. He frowned, remembering the locker that held all his personal items back in the labs.

“Wait. You have a watch??” he asked, incredulously.

“I leave it in the glove compartment. Gets in the way when I’m on the job.” He yawned again and tapped it. The face went dark. His right hand stayed on the steering wheel, his left cradled his cheek as he propped his elbow against the driver’s side window.

Doc remembered his and pushed the sleeve of his bullet-ridden coat up. His watch was analogue, a simple white face with silver hands and roman numerals. It was also cracked, and wasn’t working. He sighed.

“Gonna need to pull off soon.” He was checking the scenery and decided that staying near the woods was better than taking chances on the freeway. “I think I can fill the tank once but after that, I’mma hafta scrounge for more.  In fact….” He pulled off the road, bumping over the shoulder, and angling into a copse of trees just off the side. “Let’s pull off a bit. I…kinda wanna change.”

The night’s events struck the Doctor again and he suppressed an inward shiver. The chase. The escape. The forest. The shootout. Assassin looming over him. The gush of blood from the gunman’s neck. His eyes snapped to the healed wound; the entire front of his shirt was covered in drying blood. Doc shook his head and refocused into watching Sniper put the camper in park and then watched him slide the curtained partition from the front seats to the back. 

He awkwardly stood at that border of the front seat and the living area. The gunman opened a drawer under the bedroll and rummaged around. He quickly unbuttoned the blood soaked shirt and tossed it in the nearby trashcan. Found a small plastic can of body wipes and pulled a few out. By this time, Doc had turned his head to the other wall, flushing slightly.

“Sorry for doing this in front of you,” he said, wiping himself down and scrubbing at his neck. He could see Doc in the reflection of the small mirror on the door of the wall cabinet. His neck was, as expected by now, healed completely. He ran his fingers along where he felt the cut and frowned. 

Doc busied himself with looking at anywhere except the other man. It’s not as if seeing anyone half naked was new for him, so he wasn’t exactly sure why he was embarrassed this time. 

“Here.” He looked up to see the plastic canister handed to him. He took it and curiously read the label. “They ain’t much but they help a bit. They got teatree oil in ‘im.” He gestured at the bedroll and then him. 

“Hmm??”

“At least sit down. I’m nearly done.” He scrubbed a little more in earnest and internally grumbled about refusing to renovate the interior to fit a small sink.

The Doctor sat and awkwardly held the plastic can in his hands. Reading and rereading the label until he heard the gunman sigh. He looked up, startled. He was now wearing a light yellow button-down; it had a buttoned, box-pleated pocket on each side of the chest. He started rolling the sleeves to his elbows and put his fingerless gloves back on. He had an orange handkerchief tied around his neck, which made Doc’s eyes fall onto it.

The glance made Sniper automatically put a hand to it. He opened his mouth, then thought otherwise and the hand nervously dropped to his side. Their eyes roved around the camper until they met again.

A silence ballooned between them before he coughed awkwardly and nodded at him. “Wanna…uh…change?” While his lab coat and shirt weren’t as bloody as Sniper’s were, they nonetheless bore evidence of the escape, namely blood at the neck from where he was stabbed, and the 4 bullet holes that cleanly had passed through to the back. The fact there wasn’t as much associated blood with the associated violence was a testament to Doc’s healing ability, but it only extended to his body and not to the clothing of course.

“I don’t…have any…” Doc hadn’t felt so foolish stating the obvious as he did at this moment. 

Bending back down to the drawer, privately thankful that he had something else to do besides stand there like a quiver with no arrows, Sniper rummaged and pulled out another shirt, cream colored with 2 smaller, jetted pockets on the front. He smiled sheepishly. 

“You’ll swim in’t, but it’s better’n sitting in bullet holes. Trust me on that part at least.”

Hesitantly, Doc shrugged off the old lab coat and folded it neatly on the bed. He started unbuttoning his shirt, his hands deftly guiding the buttons free. 2 were gone, and he figured he must have lost them when he had that impromptu surgery for the spare bullets. 

Sniper politely turned to give him a little privacy, but forgot to close the cabinet and caught sight of him undressing in the mirror. He slammed it shut with another small flush. It made Doc jump.

“S-sorry.”

Doc nodded and took a couple wipes to clean himself off. The scent of tea tree oil was nice, but unusual. When he finished cleaning himself, he shrugged the shirt on and started buttoning it closed.

“I’m finished,” he said softly. When the gunman turned back, Doc was standing to look at the length. It definitely was about 2 sizes too big, and he let out a small chuckle that made Doc look up curiously. 

“Yeah. You’re def swimming in that,” he said sheepishly. Doc rolled the sleeves neatly to his elbows and sat back down. “But feel better?”

Doc gave the shirt a once over and gingerly sniffed the collar that he left unbuttoned to the second button. It had the slight fragrance of detergent and maybe the faintest scent of tobacco. Sniper gave him a grimaced grin.

“Hey, I washed it. Like a month ago.”

Doc blushed in embarrassment again. “Sorry….”

He waved it off then scooped the last of the clothes into a pile in the corner on top of the gun locker. Doc’s hand automatically grasped his coat, and Sniper didn’t include it in the bundle. He peeked to look at the driver’s console and sighed.

“Might as well top off now.” It took a bit for Doc to realize he meant the gas tank.

He watched as Sniper fished out a gas can from between the fridge—which was now cool enough for Doc to have put his formula case in—and exited out the back. The hinges of the doors creaked. The white-haired man followed, hopping out the back as the gunman unscrewed the cap to the tank and started to fill the tank. Hands behind his back, clasped loosely, watching interestedly.

“Never seen a gas can before?” Sniper asked, amused.

“I have,” insisted Doc, an indignant timbre coloring his voice. “But you said we’ll need more later. How will we get any?? It’s too risky to show our faces at a station, I assume.”

“I’ll just borrow some.”

Incredulously, Doc blinked. “Was?? From whom?”

Sniper chuckled. He put the can down, then climbed back into the camper, rustled around in one of the overhead cabinets and pulled out a funnel and clear plastic tube. He returned, holding both objects proudly.

“What in the world is that for?”

“Syphoning.”

The poor Doctor looked out of his depth, and the gunman tried not to laugh as he demonstrated by placing the funnel on the open portable tank, and then put one end in the tank. He put one end to his mouth and started a suction until the gas started running back up the tube, into the gas can. He grinned as Doc gaped at the scene.

“It takes suction, you see—”

“I know the principle of syphoning, thank you, but you’re just…I mean, you can….” He put a hand to his head and shook it. “That’s…that’s got to be unlawful.”

“Sure is.” He halted his demonstration to put the gas back in. Watching Doc grapple with the entire situation was humorous, and he needed the laugh.

“Your skill set is staggering. And highly illegal, the more I learn about you.”

“Do you automatically associate every skill I have with it being illegal?” He laughed, and it was easy-going, almost melodic. 

“N-no!” The indignant tone was stronger, yet also out of depth. “But…it’s not as if I have much reference for…anything outside of the Mansion and the staff.”

He finished emptying the can into the tank, and started to screw the cap back on. He chuckled. “I can cook too, think that’s a skill only hitmen have that you don’t?”

Doc crossed his arms across his chest, his lips tightening into a pout. It was kind of cute, Sniper had to admit. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

He chuckled again and then sighed. “Sorry. My brand of humor’s a lil prickly sometimes, mate. Gonna hafta get used to that.”

Still pouting, the Doctor tossed his head slightly, his eyes shut. “If I must.” Then he gave him a sidelong glance. “I suppose a sharp humor is fun when you’re all alone, but not with other people.”

He supposed Doc was trying to jab him back, and it made him smile. He laughed and ruffled his white hair good-naturedly. “Atta boy, Doc. Now you’re getting it! You’re sheltered, Imma loner. We’re gonna get along like a house on fire.”

Doc’s face fell in a dubious frown. “What a hauntingly terrible metaphor.”

~~~~

Instead of keeping to the roads, Sniper decided to drive a little deeper into the woods, the camper bouncing over the uneven terrain as it weaved through the trees. He parked quite a distance in, headed to the back, and opened another cabinet and pulled out a colored tarp. It was stored in a vacuum bag and started to puff up when he opened it. It was a camouflaged patterned vehicle cover, and he started to drape it loosely over the camper.

“Will this really work?”

“Fools drones pretty good, and I think we’ve got a good distance. But I’ll keep an ear out.” He checked his watch again. It was approaching 7 am.

Doc automatically checked his watch as well but its hands were still frozen at 8:24. He tapped the cracked glass, sighed and removed the watch from his left wrist. He gazed at it for a few seconds before exhaling and tossing it to the ground.

Sniper blinked and bent down to pick it up. “What are you doing?”

“It’s broken.” He shrugged, a melancholic look in his eyes. He turned to climb back into the back of the camper, between panels of the tarp. After a few seconds, the yellow eyed man looked down at the broken watch. The white face, silver hands and numbers, and the worn grey leather watchband had all the hallmarks of a well-loved accessory. But the ease that Doc let it go bothered him. 

He entered the back of the camper, tugging the panels closed and shut the doors. Doc was sitting on the makeshift bed, hands in his lap. He stifled a yawn as Sniper opened a cabinet and searched for a small tool kit. He sat down onto the gun locker and set the watch and tool kit onto the mini fridge. He frowned at the lilac eyed man.

“Why doncha take a nap? I’ll keep watch. Or we can switch.”

The Doctor also frowned. “Id rather not.” He pulled out his pocket notebook and started writing notes. “Unfortunately, neither of us should fall asleep yet.”

“Why’s that?”

Doc pushed his glasses up. “The first 24 hours following the injection are the most crucial. I need to monitor you at least until after 6 pm. Just to be sure.”

Sniper crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “Is…is there something that can go wrong?”

“Well, best case scenario…nothing happens. You go on as you have been, except for your new enhanced abilities.”

The gunman paused, glancing down at the floor. “Ok…but if something goes wrong…what’s the best case scenario…?”

A pained look flicked across his face. “Well…if you fall asleep, and something goes wrong…you slip into a coma and never wake up. That’s best case if your body rejects the drug at this point.”

“And the worst?”

The Doctor bit his lip and looked at his notebook. Then, “You…lose your mind.”

Sniper’s face took on a very worried look. “I’ll go crazy?”

“Essentially.” He tilted his head slightly. “But you feel perfectly fine?”

“Yeah. Othern’ being tired and still taking this all in…I feel fine.”

“Sehr gut. If your sanity was going to snap, it would have during our escape. I’m very certain you’ll be fine at this point. But I fear something going wrong physically if you sleep.” He sighed. “Though that means you’ll have to remain awake for more than 24 hours essentially.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m used to all-nighters. So if that’s what I gotta do, so be it.” He shrugged. “You’re the doctor.”

“Jawohl, I suppose.”

He turned his attention to the watch, and Doc cocked his head. 

“What are you doing? I threw that away.”

“Was it a gift?” he asked, looking at the watch closely. He removed his own and set it aside.

Doc blinked. He cast his gaze aside, thinking. “I suppose it was. I’ve had it for about 20 years.”

“Then it’s a waste to throw away a gift.”

He didn’t answer. The look in his eyes was slightly sad. 

“Where’d you get it?” tried Sniper. He started to loosen the small pins on the side holding the band to the watch. Focused on the task, he didn’t look up. 

He thought about it, as if he hadn’t given it a single thought in a long time. “…I believe I got it when I finished medical school.”

“When you graduated?”

“Yes. I was about 20.”

He glanced up this time. “Huh? How long were you in med school??”

“I was in an accelerated program when I was in high school. Started med school when I was 16, 17 years old.”

The gunman let out a low, impressed whistle, hands still working. “Dang.”

A glimmer of pride crept into Doc’s eyes as he smiled faintly, the gaze in his eyes reminiscing. “I was rather clever in my youth, I suppose.”

“All right, did your parents give it to you then?”

“Oh. Heavens no. My parents were long dead by then.” It was the airy and nonchalant way he dropped such bombshells that bothered Sniper the most. As if Doc was talking about a life that wasn’t his. “It was a present from one of my professors. When I got my medical license.”

"What were you going for? When you finished, I mean. Like general practitioner?

"Pediatrics, actually. I was told I had the perfect beside manner and demeanor for working with children."

“How long were you practicing?” He’d finally freed one of the bands from one side of the watch, and he deposited the screw and pin into the tool kit for safe keeping. The second one also came off quickly.

“…Never got to. When I was supposed to start…my license was revoked.”

Another bombshell, but this one made Sniper’s hands freeze. He snapped up to look at him. The melancholy look in those lilac eyes as they gazed at the floor hit his chest like a haymaker.

“What??”

Doc shrugged, his hands in the air before they fluttered back down to his lap and loosely clasped together. “First day I was supposed to start, I was told my license was invalid.” He inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “Immediately after, Surgeon picked me up…and I had to move to Warstein.”

He looked up, a sad smile on his lips. “…and I never left. For 20 years.”

They stared at one another, Sniper’s eyes darting from the floor to Doc, then narrowing in uncertainty. He settled on watching him with pity in the canary colored eyes. Doc broke the stare. He didn’t like the look of it.

“I…I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I scarcely can remember life before I moved to the Mansion. So, in the end, that watch just belongs to a life that never happened.”

But you never threw it away, thought Sniper as he turned back to his work. Chest aching, his hands started to move again, slowly. He moved onto his own watch and removed the bands from his watch face. And you kept wearing it. Every day. 

The single worn hole of the clasp said it all. Second from the last.

“I’m sorry. That was…far too much information.” Doc hunched over slightly, leaning over his knees. Shut his eyes and sighed again. “I don’t mean to burden you with such trivial details about my past.”

“Don’t. It’s not trivial. It’s your life.” It was hard for him to keep his voice from shaking. “And it was something important.”

Doc didn’t answer. He felt he should feel sad, but the only feeling he had, thinking about the day he lost his license, the day he climbed into that limo with Surgeon, the day he moved into the Mansion, was emptiness. A waste of time he could do nothing about.

“Here.” Sniper’s voice seemed far away for a moment, and it took a second before he looked up. A few inches from his face was Sniper’s watch, now attached to the worn grey leather watchbands he used to wear. He blinked in surprise.

“What???”

“Since you value practicality, take this one.” When Doc took the watch gently in his hands, Sniper turned back to the broken one he’d started to attach to his own leather watchband, a well-loved, warm brown band

“But…I can’t. It’s yours,” Doc protested, clutching it.

Sniper leaned forward and took it back, taking Doc’s left wrist and slipping the watch on. The bigger watch accounted for a different fit, and he guided the clasp into a new hole. Doc merely watched him with troubled eyes. Once he finished, the gunman put the newly assembled other watch back onto his own left wrist, using his teeth to help cinch it back. Tapped the broken face with the tip of his finger. He also had to use a new hole.

“Jeez, Doc, your wrists are tiny,” he chuckled. 

“I can’t take this.”

“Sure you can. Besides, it’ll be better for you to have accurate time.” His eyes locked with Doc’s, softening. “C’mon. Consider it a gift.”

Speechless, the Doctor merely looked back down at the watch, the glossy black face reflecting his own. Sniper had oriented it the way he’d noticed how Doc had it: the face on the underside of his wrist. 

“I can’t give you back your medical license, but maybe I can give you something else.” Sniper stood up, and put the tool kit away as he made his way up to the front seat and settled down.

Doc sat on the bedroll, fingers gently atop the watch face. He didn’t know how long he’d sat there.