A/N: this work is not a happy one in the slightest, and contains nonconsensual touching, which, though not sexual in nature, is creepy and uncomfortable.
The trailer park, as Doc has come to learn the name of the plot of land littered with single-room metal abodes strewn across compacted dirt and scraggly, yellowed grass like the toys of an irritable toddler is called, is not exactly somewhere he would ever have expected to end up in, when the Stone Witch cast him down the well, one-hundred-and-thirty years ago. When he thinks about it, though, it seems fitting—replace the metal with weathered cloth and wooden stakes, the electrified conveniences such as plumbing, lighting, and heat with a pails of water drawn from the stream and a spitting fire, and one has a decent approximation of the small cowtowns and woodland camps that Doc spent much of his older, consumptive life in.
Unfortunately, this similarity extends to the individuals he now finds himself in the company of—rough men, faces weatherbeaten and dust-grimed, who are more than willing to turn on those around them should the opportunity so present itself. Doc, at least, has a code of honour and a sense of decorum—the revenants of the encampment belonging to the man formerly known as Robert Svane have none of either, and a trigger-happy disposition at large to boot.
He grimaces at the cards he's drawn. He's currently on his twelfth game of solitaire of the day, and Lady Luck, in the absence of bluffing and subtle intimidation, has fled his side, leaving him, once again, staring morosely down at a useless hand. He places them at the bottom of the deck and draws again.
The door to his trailer bangs open, clearly having been opened with an overapplication of force—probably, going by the way the revenant who opened it swaggers in, with a kick. James Michaels, better known as Whiskey Jim, for his habit of stealing the aforementioned alcohol from stagecoaches transporting it. Shot by Wyatt in a resultant pursual, in fact. Doc still has the scar from where the man's bullet grazed his shoulder, a death avoided only by a sudden coughing fit that had had him doubling over.
He sets the cards down, resigning himself to whatever it is the man's about to pester him with; offers an easy smile. "And what may I help a fine gentleman such as yourself with?" He leans back in his chair, hooking his hands behind his head just to watch the man's lip twitch.
"Boss wants to see you," Jim bites out; looking like he wants to leer at Doc as he had so many decades ago, back when Doc had been too physically weak to do anything about it but hope that if anything ever came of it, his draw would be quick enough to fend him off. Now, cured of the sickness that ailed him for a decade and a half, he cuts a more imposing figure, one that makes Whiskey Jim wary. Doc finds himself pleased by the fact despite its relative irrelevance.
"And has he any new information for me?" Doc drawls. "After all, those were the terms of our agreement."
Jim shifts; looking suddenly uncomfortable. "Maybe. Said he wanted your services."
"Ah, I am to be his hound, then," Doc surmises. "Well, you can tell Mister Del Rey that he can take that misguided notion of his, and shove it so far up his fur-covered ass that he tastes the bullshit. I've had enough of following after men like dogs."
The revenant frowns. "He won't be happy," he warns; and then, suddenly, smiles. "Maybe he'll let me have at you."
Doc's hand flies to his hip; revolver out and cocked before the other can blink. "I shall remind you that even if our good friend Bobo casts me out of this enclave, I will retain my wits and my quick draw. I may not be able to send you back to hell, but I can certainly cause you a world of pain—unless you've forgotten about dear old Levi?"
At his words, a shadow of unease passes over Jim's face. "Bobo wouldn't let you do that," he says, but he sounds uncertain; and, after a beat, backs off the floor and down onto the step leading up to the door. He doesn't have the courtesy to pull the door shut behind him, so Doc has to settle his revolver back in its holster and rise to do the deed himself.
When he sits back down and picks his cards up, it's to find that he's got a ten of spades, a jack of hearts, and a three of aces. Not a half bad hand, and a hell of a lot better than what he's been pulling since the morning. He smiles and begins to rearrange the columns.
A few hours later, the boredom of playing cards for one with no monetary element has him putting the cards back into a neat stack on the shelf above the window and pulling out a bottle of gin from the miniature coldbox in the corner. Normally, he'd opt for whiskey, but the memory of the revenant from early puts him off it. It's gotten dark, so he moves to close the drapes, and catches sight of a familiar, fur-coated figure stalking towards the trailer, his sycophants scattering like swatted flies.
Bobo, at least, has the decency to knock before he enters, though the smouldering of his eyes banishes any pretence of it being anything but a hollow nicety. " Mister Del Rey," Doc says, pulling the drapes shut. "To what do I owe your presence?"
"Why, John Henry, where are your manners?" Bobo says; voice laced with a thousand daggers. "You haven't even offered me a drink."
Doc resists an eyeroll. The man's become magnitudes more dramatic in revenanthood than he ever was in life, and it's a bit grating. When he doesn't move, Bobo bares his teeth; sharp canines glinting under the yellow lighting. "A drink, John Henry," he says, low and commanding. "Be a good little hound."
"So Jim did repeat my words to you," Doc muses, still standing; still not reaching for the glasses. "I wasn't sure he had a decent enough grasp of the vocabulary to convey it to you."
This time, Bobo growls; crosses the distance between them, small as it is, in a single stride; boots clicking against the false wood floor like gunshots; grabs Doc's face, fingers digging into his jaw. This close, his glowing eyes look like bottomless pits of molten metal. "I said get me a drink, John Henry," he hisses; the words slipping from his lips, serpentine; breath billowing against Doc's skin like scalding steam. Instinctively, Doc wants to jerk away from it; get as far as possible; but he's rooted in place by Bobo's grip. He swallows; reaches blindly for the glasses.
Something like pleasure flits across Bobo's expression at his discomfort, and the corners of his lips curl up jaggedly; like a dull knife ripping through flesh. His posture is perfectly relaxed, like a large cat, and just as self-satisfied. He lets go of Doc's face, but doesn't step back; so Doc has to manoeuvre around both their bodies to pour the gin. The heat radiating off of Bobo is untenable, and Doc feels like he's going to burst into flames if he doesn't get away; but there's nowhere to go, now, with the wall behind him and Bobo in front. He offers up the glass.
Bobo takes it; sipping languidly. "Tastes...like piss," he says. "Is this how you treat your guests, John Henry?" The edge of his tone has become a burning brand; and his eyes dare Doc to make a single misstep.
He finds his voice. "I have a bottle of whiskey which I might be inclined to share, should certain parties allow me the room to retrieve it."
Bobo smiles again; the flash of ivory a warning; but he does step back, just enough for Doc to move forward and open the mini-fridge once again. He sets the gin within and retrieves the whiskey, the liquid sloshing slightly against the glass as it moves. He opens it; reaches out to pour a measure.
Bobo's hand snaps out; nails digging against his wrist; and he forces the neck of the bottle down, the amber liquid trickling out as Doc instinctively resists the alien, invasive grip. Bobo's fingers tighten painfully, forcing him into submission, and the trickle becomes a steady stream until there's a good finger within the glass. The entire time, Bobo's burning eyes bore into his.
Finally, he lets Doc's hand raise, only to jerk him forward until they're just as close as they were earlier. "Tell me, John Henry," Bobo purrs, taking a sip of whiskey, "how does it feel to know that while I rose from being a hound, you simply exchanged one master for another?"
"You seem to have forgotten that my statement was avowing myself as no man's hound," Doc says, stiffly. This close, he can smell the musk of the furs lining Bobo's coat, tinged with the bite of burning human flesh. The scent makes him want to retch, but he resists the urge.
Bobo's lips stretch beneath the black of his moustache; and he takes a long pull of the whiskey before he sets the glass down on the counter; raises his now empty hand to run across Doc's jaw; the brush of his fingers burning. "Oh, you were most certainly Wyatt's bitch," he says, sounding amused, "unless you mean to tell me that you never allowed him to do this to you." He drags his thumb across Doc's cheek, mockingly gentle, and then leans forward, the coarse hair of his moustache scraping at Doc's skin, sending spears of disgust shooting up his spine. "Tell me that you didn't," Bobo whispers. "Lie to me, John Henry. Go ahead."
Words flee him; panic and disgust rising like a snake strangling him; and he can't move, not even as Bobo's lips press against his cheek, and then down his jaw, and to his lips. They're still gentle, a mockery of a lover's touch, and they seem to last an eternity. For the first time since escaping the well, Doc wishes that the consumption had truly claimed him, for it would be far more merciful than this.
When Bobo pulls back, his lips are twisted into a cruel grin. "I thought not," he says. His grip is still tight on Doc's wrist, but the bottle has dropped from his fingers at some point; and it lies, shattered, on the floor, amber liquid pooling around the shards.
"Remember which of us has control, John Henry," Bobo says, and releases him, finally, avoiding the mess neatly, and exits the trailer with a billow of dark cloth and fur, leaving Doc suddenly shaking like a leaf.
He stumbles over to the sink; turns the water on as cold as it will go and splashes water onto his face. The cold water briefly assuages the burning beneath his skin, but only for a fraction of a second, and then it's back. He scrubs at the skin, digging his fingers in until the feeling of pain eclipses the burning.
He makes the mistake of glancing up; catches sight of the light glinting off the metal of the faucet, doubled by the way his vision's swimming; and suddenly, all he can see are two burning eyes boring into him. The disgust and panic wells up in him once again, this time with a new component—shame, for not having done anything to stop him. The saliva in his mouth thickens; chest heaving; and suddenly, he's bending over, retching, expelling the meager breakfast he had in the morning into the sink. Even after it's gone, he gags on air, tasting burnt flesh. A rivulet of blood trickles down his cheek from where his fingernails have dug in too deep; and he jerks his hands away from his face, bracing himself on the sink. He's shaking still, hard enough that his hip keeps hitting the edge of the counter.
Finally, he manages to control his breathing; presses his eyes shut and thinks of the darkness of the well, because that is steady, that is familiar, that is preferable to him. When he finally stops gagging, manages to draw in ragged, clean breaths, he lets go of the sink and stands.
His gaze catches sight of the broken bottle, and he latches onto this disappointment. "Waste of good whiskey," he mutters, and grabs a rag to mop it up, wets it; does his best to think only of the half-dried, sticky liquid and the cool rag and the way the floor digs into his knees.