10 June 2022: I'm back! If you're new, welcome. If you're not, sorry for the wait. First two chapters have been moderately edited with a few new things added in, but none of them are entirely important if you don't wanna go back and reread. Warnings include Suicidal Thoughts and Actions, depictions of violence, PTSD, foul language, drug and alcohol use, and some flashbacks of domestic violence.

If I haven't run you off by now, then happy reading :)

Chapter One: Death and Hell

He wasn't drowning anymore. He had his helmet. He had his KABAR, and the Jap pistol that Doc Howard couldn't manage to get away from him in those first few days after he was spared death on Peleliu. He didn't have these things on hand before, but he did now. He focused on that. He focused on that, and not drowning, and he very specifically did not focus on the fact that not drowning meant that he was no longer on some godforsaken Navy shit bucket in the Pacific. He walked very well for a man experiencing mortal panic. Cpl. Thomas Lawton, 1st Marine Division, made his way down the avenues of Western Town, Hollywood Corner, as if he were back on the streets of his hometown.

People were staring. As if he were the one out of place. He wasn't sure if he was even breathing as he smiled at them. Heaven was fucked for sure if it smelled like horse shit all the time- and it sure was a temperate day to be in Hell. Perhaps Purgatory had such a line these folks'd been here since the first Thanksgiving (that's a joke, of course, though he's not sure how it's funny). It was getting harder to smile, and his steps were a little stilted now, and it felt like he was drowning again, and he wished he'd done his drowning in the Pacific and not here in front of these-

Tom slipped between a pair of brick buildings and crouched against a wall, throwing up great amounts of bluish liquid and what was left of his late dinner. He felt the heaving of the seas and plopped in the dirt with a throbbing head and his breathing just barely contained. He hadn't lost it through two years of jungle combat and he wasn't losing it now. He could feel vomit on his chin. He hadn't the strength to wipe it off. The Marine rolled his eyes toward the mouth of the alley and watched a few curious civilians watching him. When he blinked he saw the roiling ocean and his ship aflame. He hadn't lost it through two years of jungle combat. He wasn't losing it now.

None of the civilians lingered. They passed a curious glance at him in his tattered dungarees and continued on their way. Tom gathered his strength and crawled toward a corner. He cradled his helmet in his lap. He traced the scars in the herringbone cover while tapping his fingers on the steel. For just a moment, the man was homesick- and laughed at himself, because it was the first time in a long time he'd had the chance to feel anything.

Adapt. Overcome. Even if the afterlife does look like a John Wayne movie.

He couldn't tell where he was. Definitely America, if he had heard the murmurs correctly before falling into the alley. He couldn't tell when. Not 1945. The women's dresses swished about their ankles like his grandmother's did.

A swelling panic made his hands quiver. He couldn't think, so he tried drawing pictures in the dirt. It was easy, mindless. He drew bomber planes and flowers, a Japanese woman he'd seen in a dead soldier's photograph. They looked like squiggles. He stared at his hands. They were cleaner than they'd been in months. He noticed blood under his fingernail, and he tried to claw it out with a broken thumbnail and then with his knife, and when both failed he punched the wall he rested against and grounded himself through pain. He wondered if this was some personal hell meant to drive him insane. Another burning ring, where the last one had failed. He felt alive now, but he'd felt alive before too. On Guadalcanal. On Gloucester. On Peleliu. He felt alive and he felt an insistent pain tugging, burning, in his chest and the million dollar wound that got him off the Island.

There was a noise in his head that persisted then in the quiet between bombardments, and it lingered with him now. And he felt sick, again, and there's no other feeling but the cold and the racing jumble of noise in his head. He was alive, he was alive, he was alive and only dreaming. He would wake again. He might wake up on the Island again. Without thinking he unholstered his pistol, stuffed the barrel into his mouth angled up toward his brain and pulled the trigger.

Ben Cartwright's trip to town that morning hadn't been the most exciting. Candy had left his side to pursue his latest fling (with promise of course to help load the wagon before leaving town). He dropped a list of goods off at the general store, and paid a brief visit to the bank. He had an ultimately fruitless experience there when he decided that with the spring roundup already clouding his thoughts and a certain son's birthday coming up a little too soon -and Joe was a grown man now, he didn't need a birthday present, but there were some fine horses coming off the Rocking K lately, and- put simply, future business investments could wait a little while. Immersed as he was, Ben nearly plowed straight through the young Mrs. Henderson on her way to the haberdashery.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Sally!" Ben chortled, sidling out of the little woman's way.

"You Cartwrights never watch where you're going, Ben, it's always rush rush rush with you lot!" Mrs. Henderson had never been a woman to chide much, and true to her nature there was a smile in her eye. "One of these days, Mr. Cartwright, you'll trod on my toes- and not at a barn dance!"

"Oho Mrs. Henderson, I'd never," Ben fetched the door for her, and with a little thought followed her inside.

"Mrs. Henderson, I have your order ready for this week," smiled the little clerk from the top of a step stool near the store window. "It's right behind the counter, one moment. Is there something I can fetch for you Mr. Cartwright?"

Paul Osler and his wife Jane had leased the little shop only a year ago. Their journey west was halted by Janey's brief illness, but after the incident and with only a little friction between them and the shopkeep across the street, the pair had found Virginia City their welcome new home. Janey was an efficient seamstress. Pre-fashioned garments hung in every quadrant of their shop, most of them assembled by her own busy hands.

"How about a new suit, Paul?" Ben's church suits were starting to look a little worse for wear in ways that a bachelor had no way of mending. "Or maybe two."

Paul's wife flitted down from their upstairs living quarters to chat with Mrs. Henderson while the clerk himself took Ben's measurements. She had a pale look about her, and it wasn't her typical shade of sickly. Ben inquired of her health.

"She's received ill word I'm afraid," Paul hummed, just below her hearing range. "Her brother has died suddenly. His wife is coming by stage from the Dakota Territories. Janey worries for her."

"Oh I do love what you've done with that yellow fabric," Jane was purring, "what a beautiful dress." The hollow look hung in her eyes even through her smile.

Ben felt the tape measure pull at his shirt. Sally Henderson left the store with a grin, and Janey pretended to straighten the counter as she tried to get a listen in on the menfolk's murmuring.

Mrs. Henderson was shrieking before she rounded the street corner.

Click. His teeth were hurting. And his knuckles. And he thought perhaps the screaming might mean he was already in hell. But his eyes were open before he even realized- perhaps they'd been the whole time- and the world still looked like The Lucky Texan in color. The lady fainted dead away in the gathering crowd and he watched a light breeze stir the exposed petticoats under her yellow dress.

He felt a little hazy, like he'd woken from a dream he didn't know he was having. His teeth clacked against steel. His hands were still shaking. He bit down on the Jap pistol.

Failure to fire.

Another man was dragging the hand away from his mouth and he thought without much care that he might pull the trigger again out of spite. Or shame. There was yelling, and below that a consistent murmur in the ranks. Two men waved their arms. The crowd backed away. Another man burst through with a six-shooter like his granny's. They took his Jap pistol from him very gently, and hands were waving about in front of his face, and he knew men were shouting but now he heard only the ringing in his ears. He focused on the lady in the yellow dress. She'd been revived, and refused to look at him as she clutched her husband while a breeze he couldn't feel tickled the dark tendrils of her hair.

They were dragging him. One had his shoulder. Tom twisted and vomited very near one of their boots, and they paused only briefly while his stomach lurched. He felt that he was screaming, but couldn't hear it. In a motion he wasn't half-sure was assistance or hindrance, Tom kicked his legs and struggling sought a glimpse of yellow in the crowd.

Viv would have ate that up.

The errant little clicking of the hammer of that silly looking pistol was louder entirely than Mrs. Henderson collapsing from fright. There was a suspended moment between seeing that boy in the alley and hearing the click that would haunt Ben till his dying day.

Adam had never been one to wear green, and those sun-rotted dungarees were of a style he'd never seen before, but that jaw, that mat of black hair usually kept so neat, and he could almost see Elizabeth's pursed lips in that mouth that did not belong to his son. The realization almost halted Ben's approach, but when honey-hued eyes bore into him and the man's hand shook as it tightened on the pistol, Ben renewed his haste.

"Son, look at me," the boy was so cold, and his gaze so distant it was like the gun had gone off after all. "Son." But the man's brains were where they belonged, and he didn't fight Ben for the pistol. "Look at me here now, you're alright."

A crowd had gathered. Mr. Henderson was supporting his wife, the shopkeeps were crowding the alley, and someone had run for the sheriff who called out for order and to let him through. Ben stopped Sheriff Coffee with a single look, and Candy's candy-red shirt popped through the crowd just after him.

"What's happened here, Ben?" Coffee asked, nudging the stranger's foot.

"He tried to shoot himself."

"The gun jam?" Ben didn't relinquish the pistol. He wiped the dirt off carefully, nodding as he did, and tucked it in his trousers. The make of it, the pattern of the stranger's boots, the steel helmet near his trembling hands were things he couldn't quite recognize and didn't want to be asked about before they had a chance to bring the man to his senses.

"Let's get him in a cell. Get him some water, feed him." Roy was looking into the boy's vacant eyes, waving, snapping, without response. "He don't seem to be all there."

Candy didn't need to be told, and took one half of the stranger's body while Ben took the other. The crowd parted, but not without some complaint. Ben's hands shook minutely. They made the short walk to the jail in a relative quiet that resounded in the scraping boots of Virginia City's newest prisoner. A dozen people lingered eight feet behind, but the doors to the jail itself were a barrier to them. Ben and Candy maneuvered the skin and bones and dungarees onto a cot, put day-old coffee in his hands, and waited for him to return to himself.

"On the streets of town," Roy hmmed regretfully. "Such a mortal sin."

Ben shot him a look but said nothing, choosing instead to fiddle with the confiscated pistol. It had no cylinder, or visible hammer. The aging man concluded with a bit of uneasiness that he had no idea how to unload the weapon, and placed it on Roy's desk for temporary safe keeping. Then he turned to watch the young man- soldier, by the looks of him- in his stupor. There were questions. He felt a lingering nausea. Black hair. Hazel eyes. Black hair, hazel eyes- he's not yours! Ben's toes tapped. The racing in his heart nearly drove him out of the chair to pace.

It was Candy that got him to speak.

"You look like Robles." God, he almost sounded like Adam.

Candy was the only one in the cell with him. He had the steel helmet in his hands and was turning it slowly, tracing scars and tears along the worn twill cover. The other man was seated not too close and was not looking at him.

"The name's Canaday." There was too much tension in the air. "You can call me Candy."

"Lawton. Tom." The words were spaced apart as though he wasn't sure he wanted to give them up. His hands were balled in tight fists, his back straight as a rod, and he still wasn't looking at Candy.

The sheriff, intent on cutting right to the hard questions, opened his mouth and released fire. Ben shook his head, watching Candy watching Tom, who twitched and said nothing. Eyes forward. Chin out. There was a shiver in his shoulders only Candy could see. Tom's eyes closed and he let out a slow breath. The questions seemed to dizzy the boy.

"Leave me here alone." Tom half-stood and unbuckled his belt, handing it and his sheathed knife to Ben's foreman.

"Now son, we need you to answer these questi-"

"You can ask me again in the fucking morning."

"Now boy-" Sheriff Coffee started, but Candy stood and cut him off.

"Let's do as he says." The fuming sheriff made a face like he'd throw Candy in a cell of his own, but Candy waved his hands placatingly. "Head home, Roy, and see what your wife's got ready for supper. You too, Ben. You need to get that flour home to Hop Sing before he and Hoss form a mob." Cartwright and Coffee both made to argue and Candy wouldn't let them.

"I'll stay."

He didn't know, really, how he got them to agree to it. Hours later, in the company of a stranger, Candy ate a meal of cold cornbread and salted beef. Prison fare to be sure, but nothing more nor less than what Tom had eaten. A word had not been spoken between them. Tom propped himself in the corner of the cell, angled to keep one eye on Candy, and appeared to doze for short snatches he broke by stiffening noiselessly. When this occurred, the man would grit his teeth- it had to hurt by now- and pace twice around the boundaries he was confined in. There was a smattering of rain to be heard, and the jail wasn't the warmest of buildings in town. A pop from the furnace made Tom jump clean off the cot and into a crouch half under it. Candy watched as the man's face reddened, and looked away before he was looked at himself.

"I don't see any reason for you to be locked up in there, Lawton," Tom's possessions were safe in a lock box and Candy himself went unarmed. A few heavy objects lined Coffee's desk, but Candy had faith in his hand-to-hand combat skills and more faith altogether in the other man. "How 'bout a game of cards and a smoke?"

A rare smile greeted him. It was a little hesitant at the corners and didn't quite reach the man's eyes, but it was a smile nonetheless as Tom replied, "boy you sure said the magic word."

The magic word, it turned out to be, was "smoke." He still didn't say too much, but Tom was a different man behind a cigarette. His sallow skin took on a new life. He smiled easier. He was a lucky poker player too, though Candy was more focused on the man than the game. In rare form, Tom made eye contact. He was celebrating a full house, but there was something hollow behind his eyes and so dark the ranch hand scarcely heard him. He'd seen that look before. In other men. In the mirror. There was fear there, and a little bit of shame. To say there was pain there would be to say the ocean was a little wet.

Candy gulped and was unable to hide it. He almost asked the bitter question when the dark eyes turned away from him. Scarred hands shuffled the deck and dealt the next hand. Off the bat Candy had two pair, but they were low, and he put down two cards seeking a flush. Whether this was a wise move he couldn't decide.

"Look at us two. Bachelors, having a game of cards. Spring's around the next-"

"I'm not a bachelor."

Tom tossed down an appaloosa hand in a stroke of bad luck and Candy won with his remaining pair. Candy took the cards in hand and shuffled. The other man flexed his shoulder with a grimace.

"My wife is farther from me now than the coasts of Australia." The stranger's poker face was chiseled from stone. He flicked through his cards with a restrained aggression, but there was nothing at all in his tone. "Her last letter to me conveyed the loss of our unborn child. It was a boy. She wasn't sure she ever wanted to see me again and left our home for her mother's."

She would have taken the gun from him, though. Whether she loved him still or not. She would have pulled it very gently from his mouth and put it to her own head. Her eyes would have narrowed. He'd have begged. She'd have shoved the piece back into his hands and told him to stop fucking around, and wouldn't have spoke to him for three days.

Their silence was renewed, and this an uneasy one. Tom laid two cards on the table. Without looking at his hand Candy let one slip out of his fingers. He was slow to deal. He didn't see who won before Tom was taking the cards in hand again. A horse galloped down the street and he stiffened, and tweaked the cards a little in a way that was sure to crease.

"What's brought you here?" Candy wasn't sure if the question was meant to change the subject or pursue it.

Tom didn't answer. Their next several hands were marked by an almost stillness, and the dripping of rainwater through the ceiling. Tom blew a smoke ring gracefully and laid down a losing hand.

"These cigarettes are shit."

Candy was almost offended.

"You get what you get in prison, I'm afraid," he tisked.

He moved to sweep the cards into one pile when Tom laid his hand flat down on top of them. Candy had been studying the other man and didn't need to look down to see the angry scar of a terrible burn. Tom's eyes were fixed somewhere above and to the right of Candy's head in a gaze the cowpoke knew was empty. There was a furrow deepening in his brow.

"What would you say if I told you," the man's voice was almost a whisper, "that I got these burns off a screaming Japanese man wielding a machine that breathed fire?"

Candy's eyes drifted down to the hand between them- Tom's left- and traced the ugly, angry, licking scar that began at two twisted fingers and disappeared behind the sleeve of Tom's shirt. He felt the prisoner's peering at him. His skin prickled. They made eye contact for half a second before Tom smirked and so did Candy.

"I'd say you're a long ways from Tokyo Bay, amigo." There was something sour behind Tom's smirk that Candy couldn't place, and he tried to squeeze the new uneasiness around in his head with everything else the last day had shoved in there. "Say, don't go telling stories like that about the ladies. These Virginia City gals are tough and all, but that doesn't mean spooking them into a fervor will do you any good."

"Virginia City," Tom hummed, sliding the pile of nearly forgotten cards over.

"Like you didn't know," Candy countered. A bit of their camaraderie was lost in the exchange.

"When do you think the sheriff will let me out of the hoosegow?"

Cards were dealt and played a little too rapidly.

"When he's sure you won't cause a ruckus."

"Causing ruckus is what I was bred for."

"Army brat?"

There was a smirk there.

"Devil Dog."

Candy glanced up from his hand. Tom almost didn't notice. He tapped the corner of a creased card against his nose and only by happenstance caught the cowboy's eye.

Fuck.

He'd been thinking about the shitty smokes, and the war, and the cowboy that looked like Robles had got him on Viv. And Viv-

Viv wouldn't have even had to guess. She wouldn't have fucked up, she'd have seen that lady in the yellow dress. First thing, that yellow dress- and commented on the color, and how his mother would have loved it, because she really couldn't help it- and she'd have said:

"Oh, Thomas! Look at her, how lovely, what a stunning gown characteristic of mid-1870s pioneer fa-"

"Marine. Marine Corps. Uh."

He was coughing, and the picture of his wife was so visible he could almost touch her hair, and he recoiled instantly because the last time he'd touched her hair-

"I'd heard you Leathernecks were an odd bunch."

Candy was tapping his cards. Cards. Tom shuffled through his own but didn't see them.

"Didn't think y'all strayed too far from the naval yards."

"We marched 500 miles to Tripoli, you fuck," Tom countered, tossing down another losing hand.

He stood and paced the length of the jail. A drunk he'd never noticed moaned from halfway off a cot. Candy had a careful eye on him. He felt a sudden wrath that came and went so quickly it dizzied him. A claustrophobic chill followed. He wanted fresh air, some money, a fucking bus ticket.

For what? Where are you going to go when you get out of here? The voice that had been begging for his pistol asked. Tom paid it no heed.

He glanced back at the red shirt he'd been staring at half the night. Or didn't quite glance, as he hadn't quite stared. He didn't want to see the face above the red, or recognize the bluebird eyes. He wouldn't put Robles' memory in stark crimson. Ever, anymore than he'd put the man's memory in any other color but olive drab and yellow-jaundice. Candy looked undecided as to whether he'd leap out of his chair and attack, or invite Tom to sit back down for another smoke.

"I'm sorry to offend." The words were measured a little carefully. "Just odd to see a Marine out of place."

He felt almost hopeless when he responded, "feels odd to be out of place."

They were quiet a long time then. He tried not to think too hard about Viv, or about his empty hands. The cold bars of an empty cell supported most of his weight.

"I'll talk to Sheriff Coffee tomorrow on your behalf," Not-Robles promised from the far end of the jail.

Tom didn't quite look up at him. Candy beckoned to his vacant cell, and the marine's feet trudged heavily there.

"We'll get you on outta here." The bolt locked into place. "Then maybe you and I can have a drink and start off fresh."