M7*M7*M7
Two men lay stretched out on sleeping bags, in front of a toasting stove. Chris had turned the lantern off, and the only light came through the cracks in the old stove. Both men stared at different shadows flickering over the rough walls; neither man gave in to sleep as a staggering tangle of problems confronted each one.
Chris' mind ran over every scenario he could think of happening with Vin, and only one of them was pleasant: Vin waking up the next morning remembering who, what, when, why and how. Vin waking up as Vin. But Chris had less and less hope that it would happen just that fast.
Every other scenario worried him, because every other scenario seemed to result in an unhappy ending – Vin either sent back to the psych hospital, or trapped between two worlds. Maybe worst of all was the possibility – though it seemed unlikely – that Vin would come back, but be so overwhelmed by the fear and trauma that had kept him hidden these past few days, that he'd be driven back into the profound mental paralysis he'd suffered after his mother's death.
But, as disturbing as any and all of these situations were, they were still possibilities, and Chris tried to find the way out of each of them. Nettie was Vin's next of kin and unless he was a danger to himself or someone else, it would take her consent or a court order to send Vin back to the hospital. Which left scenario number two, with Vin believing he belonged in the 19th century but having to live in the 21st century.
Thinking that one over, Chris relaxed a little more. Vin, this Vin, seemed to be okay with his surroundings. Once he determined that any particular thing wasn't a threat to him – the assorted medical paraphernalia, the shower, furniture, cars and electric lights – he just accepted it. It was probable – Chris wouldn't allow himself to think that it would be likely – that Old West Vin would slowly and quietly become himself again as he absorbed more and more of his real life.
Still, one tiny, inconsequential, microscopic particle of a non-event stared at Chris and quietly insisted that he pay attention to it: Vin emphatically saying 'you don't name your horse, y'never know when you might have to eat it.'
As long as Chris had known Vin, he'd been vegetarian, even eggs and milk. It wasn't a cultural or social or political choice – it was a physical necessity. Sometimes just the thought of any kind of food that 'used to have a face' was enough to make Vin gag. Could Vin be that far lost in this persona that such a strong, visceral response would be completely obliterated?
The obvious answer was 'yes' – because what would the other answer be? That this really was 'Old West' Vin? That somehow he'd time-traveled one hundred and thirty years into the future to have life-saving back surgery? Sure. That was right up there with Buck's close encounter with the woman who was a Siamese twin – from the waist down.
Except that Nathan had confirmed later on that such a thing was more than possible – he'd seen case studies of it. Chris turned his attention to Vin, without turning his head.
Well, the day Nathan produced a case study of time travel Chris would be a believer.
Vin had less profound thoughts on his mind: he wanted to run. If he ran far enough, he'd find Chris again, wouldn't he? His Chris? It happened the first time like that. He'd run from Tascosa as far as his horse and his money took him, and a week later he was standing with Chris Larabee. His Chris Larabee.
He couldn't help a soft laugh at that. As though Chris Larabee – his Chris Larabee – could be claimed by anybody. As he laughed, he felt Chris – this Chris – go still at hearing it, but he didn't ask Vin what it was for.
The only times Vin remembered anybody telling him 'you belong to me' was the times he riled the wrong person and they figured he owed them something. Nobody'd ever said he belonged to them the way something precious and valued belonged to them.
'Course, he'd never said anybody belonged to him neither. He couldn't be sure he'd even so much as thought it about anybody. Felt it maybe. If that feeling of being worried about somebody and watching their back whether they wanted you to or not was 'belonging'. If that feeling of relief when that somebody – bloodied or beaten – stood up again was 'belonging'.
Maybe belonging was fighting with somebody and forgiving them and then fighting with them again. Maybe it was knowing a person as much as you could know a person – and still be willing to fight for them and maybe even die for them. Maybe belonging wasn't something you decided, but something that got decided for you.
If it was, then maybe he felt that one or two people in his life belonged to him.
If it was, then maybe one or two people in his life felt that he belonged to them.
M7*M7*M7
Chris heard Vin let out a soft sound. He listened a few moments, wanting to be sure it was a laugh and not a breath of pain. He didn't hear anything else, and he didn't want to pry into what Vin could be finding so funny right at the moment. Chris sure couldn't think of anything funny just then. He was out in the middle of nowhere, with a delusional friend, who had death threats hanging over him. The bad guy was still out there, looking for Vin. Hell, even the good guys were out there, looking for Vin, and Chris wondered what'd happened when the detectives showed up at the hospital to find no Vin. He had no doubt that Nettie would be equal to the task.
Off to his right, Vin pushed himself up on his elbow and reached for the canteen set beside him.
"How's your back?" Chris asked.
"Tolerable." Vin answered before taking a swig of water.
"Meaning it isn't quite bad enough to make you pass out."
"That's what I said. Tolerable." He swirled the canteen a little and, before taking another drink, asked. "So – how much does that job a'yours pay? The one y'give your Vin?" Chris knew that this Vin's wages in 1871 was a dollar a day, plus room and board, and he wondered what reaction he'd get as he said:
"I pay him twelve dollars an hour."
Vin choked on his water. "Hell, for that much money, I'll stay."
M7*M7*M7
Morning came too soon for Vin, who spent most of the night struggling with his dilemma – he wanted to go home, he had to get home, what if he didn't get home? Then the thought abruptly hit him – what if he was home? It almost took his breath away it was so simple and straightforward.
What if he was this Chris' Vin?
He tried to reason himself out of it – he knew what he knew, he had the memories and the scars to go with those memories of the life he knew he had lived. But that meant – what? That somehow he'd gone ahead in time over a hundred years?
Well, he'd heard stories from some of the elders who said they'd gone back to their ancestors for wisdom, or gone ahead in time for knowledge. They'd been talkin' about visions a'course. So maybe that's all this was. A vision.
Or maybe it wasn't.
He couldn't have made this all up on his own – Vin knew he wasn't that smart. But the other Vin was. Or at least the others thought he was. But why would he be making it all up? He was used to scrapes with folks on both sides of the law, that wouldn't send him running for cover. So those outlaws who killed that fella at the saloon had a bounty on his head – that wasn't nothing new. He'd been facing that down on his own a long time – now he had friends to protect him, so that couldn't be the reason he'd be hiding.
Still, he thought back to when his leg was broke, out in the middle of nowhere, and he was dragging himself along twenty miles to the nearest town. He ignored the pain then, and just kept on no matter how bad it hurt. Then the Comanche found him, and just as soon as he knew he was safe, that they were going to help him and not kill him, the pain just swallowed him up so bad he couldn't talk, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even think.
Because as soon as he knew he was safe, he didn't have to hide the pain anymore.
He looked over to Chris still asleep on the bedroll next to him.
Couldn't get anymore safe than having six good men watching your back, could you? A man could set down a world of pain inside the protection of those six men.
What if he was home?
M7*M7*M7
Coming back into the cabin from using the privy, Chris heard Vin trying to get himself into an upright position. From the sound of the mutters and curses, and the breathless panting, it was a lost cause. Chris held his breath and steeled himself not to show the overwhelming disappointment he was going to feel when Vin was still not his Vin. "What're you doing?" He asked, shutting the door behind himself.
"Robbin' the stage, what's it look like I'm doing?" Vin – Old West Vin – asked. He eased himself stiffly back onto the sleeping bag and pillow. "Damn, I must be gettin' old."
"Or you been shot, beaten, and strangled." Chris pointed out – more to try to reassure himself than Vin. "Sleeping on the floor in the cold, bound to be stiff." Even he could hear the dull sadness in his voice.
"…sorry…" Vin whispered after a moment. He turned onto his side, to try a different way to get off the floor. Chris cursed himself for being so transparent. He walked over to help.
"No, I'm sorry Vin." He crouched down and held out both hands. "I know I'm pushing too hard." Vin accepted the help, as he shrugged.
"Can't help wantin' what we want…" Even with the help, he sucked in a long breath of pain, and held onto Chris' arms until he was steady enough to stand on his own. "Wouldn't a'minded waking up next t'the ornery cuss who's my Chris…"
"Would he have helped you up off the floor?" Chris tried to joke.
"Yeah, he would. He did – more time's than I wanted him to…" Vin took a few cautious paces around the small room, keeping a hand pressed to his back. "It was gettin' real bad, 'specially those last couple weeks. Damn Larabee musta slept with his ear to the wall, didn't seem I could so much as sit down hard in the chair, and he'd be there faster'n a gunshot. Making sure I'se all right, asking was I in pain. Put me back into bed even when I'se hollerin' at him to leave me the hell alone."
"And who was it you called the ornery cuss?" Chris asked, watching Vin make his slow circuit of the cabin's single room. Watching, he knew, for any sign that his Vin was coming back.
"I ain't much used to fussin'." Vin allowed. "And 'specially not from Chris."
"Him bein' the ornery one…"
"Well…reckon there ain't one amongst the seven of us isn't ornery some way or t'other." Vin set himself into the chair to pull the brogans on again. "Your Vin's got narrow feet for a fella spends so much time outside…"
"I'll tell him you said so…" Satisfied that Vin was physically all right, Chris stoked up the fire and started getting things ready for breakfast.
"Might thank him for the duds too, you get the chance. Hope he weren't too particular fond of 'em, seein's he won't be getting 'em back."
"I'll tell him that too." Chris said, when no other answer presented itself. The conversation was painfully shallow – neither man obviously wanted to broach the serious topic: what now?
Once he had the shoes on, Vin pushed himself up out of the chair again. "Where y'keep the privy around these parts?"
"Out back, near the tree line. Can't miss it…" Chris watched Vin slowly tug on his leather fringed jacket, and saw the pain cut across his face. "You be all right on your own out there? I'll walk with you."
"I can make it. I 'preciate the offer though." He lifted the latch, but stood a moment at the open door. "I been thinkin' Chris – if things don't work out the way either of us wants it to…if the offer still stands – I'd be proud to make my place with you."
Chris almost couldn't breathe for the sudden rush of hope that filled him. He knew, he just new, Vin was on his way back. But he held his enthusiasm and managed to nod.
"Be proud to have you."
M7*M7*M7