Chapter Text
Octavius sighed as he stared down the blank screen before him, taking a sip from his glass and grimacing at the bitter burn of alcohol as it journeyed down his throat. The blinking cursor was mocking him, laughing at his career choice and his messy desk and his seemingly ever-present writer’s block. He shoved back from his desk with a grumble, running a hand through his already disheveled hair as he began to pace the room. Why had he decided to become an author? Just… Why? And not just any author, no, Octavius could never be that simple. You see, he held a mild fascination with the Wild West (he blamed his grandfather, of course; there were only so many episodes of Gunsmoke and The Rifleman one could watch without becoming obsessed), which of course translated over to his writing, the result of which was…
He paused his pacing, eyes falling to the scattered mess of papers on his desk, among which was resting a small paperback copy of his singular successful novel. Octavius took the few steps to cross back in front of the desk, setting down his glass of whiskey in favor of examining the novel. It had the same style as the innumerable Louis L’Amour books, a muted color background with a singular watercolor-esque picture in the middle, the title Silver Creek printed in a bold black font above, his chosen pseudonym of Lucas Roman in the same font just below (Lucas McCain was his gay awakening before he even knew what being gay was, it only felt right to pay homage to the man). It was an intentional style choice by the publisher, to evoke a sense of nostalgia in whoever might read the book; he didn’t know, marketing wasn’t his thing, but it seemed to work. For whatever reason, Octavius’s novel had sold about ten thousand copies in its first year, which was a near-miracle, according to the publisher. And so, with that unexpected success, he was now expected to write a sequel.
Octavius tossed the book down with a frustrated growl as the colors on the front began swimming together, not caring about the numerous papers that fluttered to the floor as a result. He didn’t write Silver Creek to have a sequel. “Stupid publisher,” he muttered to himself as he refilled his nearly empty tumbler. He gulped down half the glass, topping it off once more before slumping back down in his chair, dragging his free hand roughly down his face. What the hell am I going to do? he thought, staring idly over his desk. Mind pleasantly numbed by the alcohol, he let his thoughts wander to his fictional main character – Jedediah. The cowboy was almost stereotypical: six feet tall, shaggy blonde hair and electric blue eyes, skin tanned from hours in the sun and sporting a heavy country accent. If he were being honest, the character was Octavius’s dream man, and not just in appearance. The fictional man had a personality that might as well exist only in fiction, always happy and kind with a contagious smile and mischievous heart, endlessly loyal to the last and sacrificial to a fault. He was the perfect man, in short, and any man or woman would be insane not to fall in love with him.
Exhaling deeply, Octavius took another long drink and straightened up, pulling his chair back in front of his computer. He had an idea, now, of what to do for a sequel; the one thing that he didn’t include in his first novel: a love interest. It had been an intentional choice, albeit a foolish and naïve one. Romance sells, he knew that as well as anyone. Octavius grabbed a pen and piece of paper at random, ignoring the random scribbles already marring the white surface as he built his new character. She (because of course it would be a woman) would be young and pretty, an outsider that has just moved into town. Maybe she would have a mysterious past, which could cause trouble for Jedediah; a mysterious past was always a good plot device.
Octavius reached for the bottle of whiskey to refill his once-again empty glass, not looking up from where he was rapidly scribbling notes until the lukewarm bottle was in hand. Who cared how much he drank; it was nearly midnight anyway. Refilled glass in hand, Octavius returned to his writing, sipping much slower now that his thoughts were occupied. He brought pen to paper once more, but suddenly found the letters swarming over the page, the pen in his hand unsteady as he attempted to write. Squeezing his eyes shut, he dropped the pen in favor of rubbing his eyes, hoping to clear some of the fuzz. Upon opening them, however, he realized his mistake as now he couldn’t even make out words on the page.
Admitting defeat, Octavius finished his last drink, standing up somewhat unsteadily from his chair. The room swam around him, making him a little unsteady as he stepped toward the door of his study, intent on making it to his bedroom down the hall. He paused when he finally reached the doorway, leaning heavily and squinting at the bright hall light overhead. Was that light always so bright? Turning away with a groan, he shut his eyes against the stabbing light, using the wall to his left as a support as he stumbled down the hall. Once at his bedroom door, he was just aware enough to flip off his lights before crashing onto his bed, fully clothed, world spinning rapidly around him. He only distantly registered the soft cotton of his pillows before he was pulled into unconsciousness.
***
He climbed slowly out of unconsciousness, groaning slightly at the pain behind his eyes. There was a dull heat seeping through his clothes, scratchy against his skin, and a bright light shining down on his face. Distantly, he registered the murmur of voices surrounding him.
“What the hell is he doin’ out here?” “Anybody recognize ‘im?” “Hey, I think he’s wakin’ up.” “Did someone go get Jed?” Octavius groaned again, bringing a hand to cover his eyes as he sat up slowly. Never again, he thought to himself, rubbing across his forehead. He squinted his eyes open, cautious of the bright sun he could feel against his skin and behind his eyelids. Between the black spots dancing across his vision, he was able to make out several pairs of denim- and leather-clad legs against a background of dirt and prairie grass. Alarm bells started ringing in his head as he looked up to see open sky and a myriad of strange faces. The last thing he remembered was collapsing in his bed, which was most certainly inside, and definitely in the middle of a large and bustling city.
“Where am I?” he asked warily, eyes shifting across the faces surrounding him, most of whom were still mumbling to each other. “Who are all of you?” More confusion passed among the men towering above where he still sat in the dirt.
“I’m believin’ that’s a question we should be askin’ you, friend,” said a bright, loud voice suddenly as a leather-gloved hand was thrust down in his face. Octavius stared at the hand, slowly following the extended arm up to its source. Unfortunately, the figure was positioned directly in front of the gleaming sun, so he couldn’t see the stranger’s face (although Octavius’s pounding hangover was very glad to have the bright light blocked for a change). He grabbed the extended hand cautiously, the leather-covered fingers gripping firmly as he was yanked upward into standing. Octavius swayed, the abrupt change of orientation causing a rush of blood to his head and making the world spin, and a steadying hand landed on his shoulder. “Whoa, there, easy partner,” came the painfully cheerful voice, much louder now that he was closer.
As the world came back into focus, Octavius was finally able to get a good look at the faces surrounding him. There were roughly a dozen scruffy men, most bearded, all with faces hardened by the sun and the wind. They all looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t tell how. The man in front of him, who still had a tight grip on his hand, grinned and patted his shoulder roughly. His hair was shaggy and blond, and his aquamarine eyes sparkled in a way that set the alarm bells in Octavius’s mind ringing.
“There he is!” exclaimed the man before him. “Now that you’re fully in the land a the livin’, mind tellin’ me what you were doin’ takin’ a snooze in the middle of the road?” The men were all watching him curiously, suddenly quiet to hear his answer. Octavius looked around confused; sure enough, he was now standing in the middle of a wide dirt road which led down to a large ranch house several yards away. It was a simple saltbox-type house, with two stories, tall windows lining the walls, a wrap-around porch, and large stone chimneys poking their way through the roof. The sight of the house had Octavius’s stomach dropping.
“I-I’m not quite sure,” he replied hesitantly, eyes flitting around the gathered faces. “Where- where am I?” At this, a scowl marred the blond’s handsome features.
“You okay there, friend? Got a head injury or somethin’?” he questioned. Octavius brought his hand to his head, running it through his thick hair to feel for any lumps. Finding none, he shook his head.
“No, I’m quite fine. I just… don’t know where I am.” He caught the glances exchanged between the blond before him and some of the other men. They seemed to be concerned, and Octavius was inclined to agree with them. The blond’s next words brought his mind to a screeching halt:
“You’re on Silver Creek Ranch, fella,” he said. Octavius blinked at him, stunned into disbelieving silence. A cough from one of the surrounding men broke his stupor, but he barely registered as they started to disband, suddenly disinterested as their apparent leader handled the situation.
“That’s a joke, right?” he asked, hesitating and uncertain. The blond gazed at him in confusion, shaking his head.
“Ain’t no joke, partner. You sure you’re alright?”
“Not really, no,” he admitted. The other man frowned (an action that looked incredibly wrong on him, Octavius believed), turning to mutter something in the ear of one of the few remaining men. Whatever he was told, the man nodded, turning to trek back down to the farmhouse. The blond faced him again, smile returned though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“C’mon, let’s go down and have some grub,” he started, turning to lead the way down to the house, eyes cast over his shoulder, watching to see if Octavius would follow. He didn’t exactly fancy standing in the middle of the road all day, so he let his steps follow the blond. “I sent Luther to go get the doc,” he explained as they walked. “It’ll take a minute, so we might as well eat while we wait.” Octavius didn’t respond, still in shock at the only conclusion his mind could come to. They walked slowly, Octavius watching absently as the blond’s scuffed boots kicked up the dust. Suddenly the miniature dust storms stopped, the agitator spinning to face him and Octavius looked up into bright blue eyes and a mischievous grin. “Say,” the man began, “I don’t reckon I ever caught your name.” He stared for a moment, caught off guard.
“Oh, uh. It’s Octavius,” he muttered, convincing himself it was the sun that caused his cheeks to heat up, and not the grin that spread wider on the other man’s face. “Octavius, huh? Well, it’s nice ta meet ya, Octavius, I’m –”
“Jed!” The blond spun at the interruption, yelled out the door of the house by a young woman, both of them oblivious to the way Octavius’s blood ran cold and his heart skipped a beat as his suspicions were confirmed.
“Hold yer horses, Jo, I’m comin’!” he yelled back. He faced Octavius again, smile still in place. “Yep, that’s me. Jedediah’s the name, but most call me Jed.” He stared at the cowboy, unable to respond. Somehow, he had ended up in his book, and he was standing face-to-face with his main character.
Fuck.