milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The change in the weather and the trees should have been the first thing he noticed, but it wasn't. Half-asleep in the saddle, it's not until Cortez picks up the pace at the sight of the barn that Doc realizes that he's no longer riding through Washington Territory.

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch," he mutters. "About damn time."

He shakes a layer of snow from his hat and coat after dismounting from the horse; once he's made certain that Cortez is situated with fresh water and feed in a dry stall, Doc shoulders his bags and heads for the bar. He's not bathed in some time, his hair is shaggy and his beard hasn't been tended to lately either.

Lighting up a cigarette as he drops into a booth near the fireplace, he motions for a waitrat.

"I want dinner," he tells the rat. "Real dinner, none of that shit I've been eatin' the last six months. And a pot of coffee -- good coffee, if you please."

Doc drops a worn banknote on the rat's tray as it scurries off. He figures it won't hurt to tip from the get-go, after how long it's been since he's haunted these parts.

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"Overall?" Doc thinks about his answer for a moment, pulling a drink from his coffee mug while he considers. "Not half-bad. I ain't been shot at since I last saw you and I ain't fallen off my horse either, so I got that goin' for me at least."

Bones has earned his respect, and therefore, Doc is willing to be a little more forthcoming with his answers.

"I wish this place'd turned up 'bout a month ago - I could've used the chance t'supply up 'fore I set out last. It's been a rough couple'a weeks, but...yeah...I'm doin' alright."

McCoy's gaze is considering, but he nods. He can get more persistent later if he feels the need, but Doc seems to be in good enough spirits at the moment.

"Good. Care if I join you for a meal?" Look, Bones can learn tact - that's so much more graceful than 'you are going to eat a proper meal, right?'.

Contrary to the previous times that Doc has found himself unexpectedly in Milliways, he's not bleeding out onto the floor and he's not being chased by a gang of pistol-wielding lawmen out for his head. He has reason to be in good spirits. Even if he hasn't seen the inside of a bathtub in weeks, or a hot meal in just about as long.

"Don't mind at all," Doc replies. "I've already ordered, though if you want somethin' other than ice cream you may have to track down your own rat."

(He's joking about the ice cream, but his delivery is deadpan.)

'Ice Cream?' says his ironical raised eyebrow. He's pretty sure he hasn't even seen Doc eat ice cream once, and even more sure it wouldn't be on the man's top ten list of things to eat when given his choice.

"I'll just tell it to give me another of whatever you're having."

Doc laughs in response to that.

"S'a good thing I ordered well, then."

A rat arrives in short order to refresh the coffee pot and to see if McCoy needs anything; shortly thereafter that, a proper Southern spread appears on a large tray - good food, real food. (Cajun catfish, okra, greens, potatoes and all the other true fixin's that a true gentleman would require.)

McCoy grins wickedly, pulling his plate to him - Olga may make fun of his okra, but it is truly the best vegetable going. Especially when fried within an inch of its life.

"Gotta love ice cream."

"Mmhmm." Doc spears a chunk of the okra with his fork. "S'the one thing I think I'm gonna miss about not bein' anywhere near the South - eatin' real food."

"Where you at now? Where-ever it is, I approve - it's easier on my surgical skills." He asks, happily smushing the greens and potatoes into one big tasty mess.

"Washington Territory," he says. "I'm workin' my way northwards - hopin' to make it to the coast in time t'git a boat up to the Yukon Territories before the weather turns to complete shit for the season."

McCoy frowns at the phrase 'Yukon Territories' - it rings a bell, but he has no idea what he's supposed to be remembering.

"And what'd be up there?"

"A fresh start," Doc says. "Most folks I've talked to said I'm crazy for considerin' it, but it ain't like I'm committed to prospectin' at a hundred percent. There's money t'be made in being a supplier for folk lookin' to travel all the way up into the territory. The man I used t'work for, in Lincoln, he had a store...I'd run it every couple'a weeks, if he had t'be elsewhere for a stretch."

He glances up at McCoy.

"I ain't lookin' t'git in any trouble, and knowin' myself, if I git the hell out of the desert I'm less likely t'be tempted by old habits."

That's not to say that he won't develop new ones.

That earns a narrowed look that's a bit reminicent of Olga, looking a bit worried about this plan. But he does have a point - he knows his own weaknesses.

"You as a shopkeeper - who'da thunk?"

"Sure as hell wouldn't have been me," Doc retorts, with a bit of a laugh. "Course, I didn't expect t'see myself turn twenty."

A beat.

"And at least if it don't work out, I'm still sharp enough t'git back into hustlin' cards."

"Because that's a safe, stable enterprise." McCoy agrees with a snort, and addresses himself to the catfish to improve his temper.

"Since when have you known me t'be safe or stable in my dealin's?"

Doc also works a bit on his catfish - because if the catfish cannot improve the conversation's tone, then little will.

"Besides, they don't hang you for hustlin' cards," Doc adds. "I ain't interested in goin' out at the end of a rope. If it's gonna be somethin', it better as hell be somethin' I got at least half a shot of beatin' a man to the draw or to the blade. I ain't sayin' I'm gonna go lookin' for trouble, but if bein' respectable don't git me 'nought t'eat or keep my horse fed, I don't see it as nothin' more than survival."

And that is what Doc has always had to do in life - survive.

"And I ain't too keen on findin' out what starvin' t'death s'like. I daresay it's mighty unpleasant."

"Take a breath, son." McCoy's tone is acerbic, but his expression is kind. "I'm not judgin'. I'd just be regrettin' the chance for you to have a more peaceful sorta life. It's too damn bad we can't get you back into school - you've got the gift."

That statement gives Doc pause. It also brings him back off of the ragged edge he was beginning to slip towards - weeks of being out of touch with human contact, weeks stuck with nothing but his thoughts to fill the silence in his head, weeks of doubt and insecurity have all taken their toll on his psyche.

"I know you ain't judgin'," he says. "You're one of the few friends I got that don't. And I appreciate you for it."

He lifts his attention from his plate to the man sitting across from him.

"You really think I could hack it?"

"Wouldn't've ever asked you to scrub in with me if I didn't." He replies honestly. He trusts Olga with his life, but he didn't even think to ask her to get in there.

Doc considers the weight of McCoy's words while his fingers rest against the rim of his empty coffee mug. He hadn't previously considered the thought of going back to medical school, though he knows he would likely prefer it to digging amongst the muck on a fool's errand, searching for gold - or to selling lye and lard to local folk who are trying to scrape by the way he has.

But, now with his friend's suggestion - and vote of confidence - it is an option he's willing to consider once more.

"University of Oregon jus' opened a medical college last year," he says. "I'd have to start from scratch, but I could do it - might have t'defer for a little while 'til I could git the tuition together, get established in the state - but there ain't nobody there who'd know who I was."

"Sounds like a better time than supplying hungry adventure-seekers." McCoy notes, waving a piece of fried okra at him.

"And I'm probably actually less likely t'git shot at," he points out.

"Oh, don't know about that, sometimes I think if I'm not being glared at for something I'm not doing my job right."

Usually that person is Kirk.

Unless it's Spock.

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