Chapter Text
Being late wasn’t unusual for Jedediah—but being hit by the train on the way was new.
He was on his way to meet Octavius for a ride in their small car, already behind schedule. "No sense of urgency at all," Octavius would say. However, being the known leader of a diorama had its responsibilities and hardships.
Jedediah had had to break up a fight in the saloon, settling down a huge argument about a certain fella cheating at poker. And, hell, that took a long time.
Not only that, but he also had to oversee the maintenance of the Iron Horse, the steam locomotive that was the West’s pride and joy.
“Yeah, just give ‘er a li’l test drive, eh, Dan?” Covered in grease, the cowboy rushed to check the time on that clock Larry had installed a few weeks ago (to avoid any “accidents”, as he put it). . .
“11:17 p.m.” It read.
Oh, crap.
Damn this old-fashioned town full o’ drama—he’s late!
Jed ran toward his small tent to change his clothes, or clean up at the least, but suddenly stopped to ponder.
Wait, do I have time for this?
The answer is—in his perspective—no.
He sprinted back to the diorama proper, hoping to climb the rope to the Roman side before quarter-past.
But with his luck? No can do.
Because it just so happens that Jedediah had dropped his hat on the rails.
And it just so happens that Dan was test-driving the newly maintained train at that exact time. And it had built up quite a speed.
It’s too late; as Jedediah stoops over to pick up his Stetson, the flash of the train’s headlights blinds him, leaving no time for him to react.
Multiple voices, all yelling his name; the harsh sound of a steam whistle; the cacophonous tolls of the train bells;
And then nothing.
—
“JED!”
The world did not stay quiet for long.
Boots shuffled against coarse sand. Someone shouted to stop the train—too late for that now, eh? —The Iron Horse screeched as it struggled to slow, metal grinding against metal.
Dan stumbled down the engine, his face as pale as ash. “I didn’t . . he just—he was right there—”
“Oh, quit yer blubber’n’ and go get help, boy!” A rough voice snapped.
They found him crumpled just near the rails, hat still clenched loosely in his grip, his hair covering most of his face.
Nobody moved. Too petrified to.
“Is he breathin’?”
“. . . Yeah. Yeah, he is.” A slight shake in their voices.
They moved closer.
“Jed? Hey—Jed, c’mon now, stay with us—“
A low groan.
Barely there, yet enough to induce a sense of calmness across the group.
Jedediah’s fingers lightly twitched; his lips moved slightly, as though he were trying to speak, his eyes still shut from the impact.
“Jed? You sayin’ somethin’, partner?” The men asked, an edge of concern in their tone.
He managed to whisper.
“. . . Octavius . . .”
*
Just next door, Octavius could not rid himself of the dreadful feeling curling in his chest.
“My liege, is something troubling you?”
Octavius snaps out of his stupor, startled by the concern of his Legate.
“It is nothing, Agrippa, I assure you. I am fine.”
But, truthfully?
He was worried about Jedediah. It was long past dusk, and yet he had failed to show up for their nightly drive along the museum.
He had thought about going over to the Western side to check on his friend, but he was smart enough to recognize he was not exactly welcomed by the townsfolk, due to spending all that time with Jedediah and all . . .
Nevermind.
Still.
—
He was pacing the diorama, thoughts focused on nothing but the cowboy, when he got interrupted once more, not by one of his men—but Jedediah’s?
“Sir! Are you. . .” The approaching cowboy was out of breath, panting heavily. Evidently, he might have ran the whole way here.
“Are you . . Emp’ror Octagon-something?”
“Octavius. Yes, I am. May I ask why?” Octavius, mildly offended by the desecration of his name, felt a jolt in his system, feeling as if this conversation was about to be something important.
“There's been an accident, sir! Sheriff told me ta sent for you!”
The westerner exclaimed in a tone of utmost urgency, a tone the Roman himself used quite often.
An accident in the West. Why would that concern him, the once-sworn enemy of their diorama? Unless . . . ?
“. . . apparently Jed’s been askin’ for you—”
Only one word registered in Octavius’ mind from the cowboy’s information: Jed.
Either Jedediah needed his assistance for the incident casualties, or . . .
He was the casualty.
Octavius’ blood ran cold just thinking about it, and he decided to see for himself the fate of his best friend.
And so, he ran to the West, ignoring the messenger’s protests.
He ran—the fastest than he ever had—toward his carissime.
—
Upon reaching the West, the Roman spotted a scruffy-bearded man, hoping to inquire.
“You there!” Octavius called out rashly. He was not in an agreeable mood, given the circumstances.
The man turned, gesturing to himself as though questioning the address.
“Me?” He shouted back.
“Yes, you! Where is he?” The emperor yelled—impatiently. Jedediah might be in serious jeopardy by now, and there he was, having a particularly loud exchange with a regular citizen.
“Where's who?”
“Jedediah!” He shrieked thunderously, his anger almost getting the best of him. Why can't he just understand, for Jupiter’s sake?
The man suddenly gained a look of realization and pointed to the town proper, namely, the train tracks.
“Thank you.” Octavius mouthed, as he dashed towards the town square, a large group of townsfolk gathered round for an unknown reason (to him, of course).
Gods, maybe he was the foolish one. He somehow managed to overlook the crowd of people congregating near the locomotive. For gossip, he could only deduce.
He managed to get to the front of the crowd, ignoring the whispers of the mass amongst him.
“A Roman—here!”
“Ain't he that bloke Jed’s always with?”
He walked further, his heartbeat growing erratic. His breathing stiffened. His palms were sweating. He can feel Jedediah here, he swears.
One more step.
And suddenly, the world halts. Everything slows down, the silence stretching.
Jedediah.
Oh, sweet, darling Jedediah.
He lay motionless on the ground, his body marked by small hints of blood and the smell of burnt wax. His clothes were soaked in grease and covered in a layer of dust and sand.
Octavius cannot help but stare. It is the only thing he can do.
Nothing but stare at his damaged friend, a blank expression in his eyes.
It was then that Jedediah started coming to. He let out a groan, his brows furrowing.
The Roman immediately kneeled down, a wave of relief washing over him knowing the cowboy was somewhat still okay.
“Jedediah?” He asked concernedly.
“‘Tavius.” The westerner replied in a hoarse and quiet voice, a smile forming on his lips.
The emperor lightly reciprocated the grin, wiping a trickle of blood rolling down the cowboy’s forehead before sharply turning to the townsfolk.
“What has happened?” Octavius asked—using one of the many tones he wields as a leader: sharp, deep, authoritative.
No one dared to speak.
In their defense, it is a harrowing experience to have a Roman emperor give you that glowering look.
“Well?” He insisted.
All eyes went on Dan, the unfortunate soul.
“So—um—you see—I was just—”
“—He got hit by the train.” The sheriff burst out.
“He what?” Octavius near yelled of shock. “W. . .” His expression became one of confusion and slight irritation.
“His hat fell on the rails,” Harry—the sheriff—explained. “kept goin’ on and on about him bein’ late.”
The emperor sighed.
“Of course.”
Jedediah sat up behind him with a grumble.
“Whoo!” He attempted lighting up the tense atmosphere, stretching his neck with an unexpected yelp of pain. “Where's my hat at?”
“Well, it sorta got. . . trampled on earlier when you got hit.” Said Harry, pulling a dirty, tattered hat out of his hands.
“You're tellin’ me I damn near killed myself for that dadgum hat, and it ain't even in good condition?”
“Diah.” Octavius rolled his eyes.
“What?” He defended. “Spankin’ good hat.”
“Nevermind. I should get you home to your tent to rest, at the least. You do not look so well.”
“I don't need no restin’, Oct, I’m fine.”
“Really? Stand up then.”
“I'll take ya up on your challenge, Gaius.”
Jedediah failed miserably, almost falling in the sand, which was unfortunate to his dignity and pride. Luckily, Octavius caught him in time, seizing him around his waist.
“I told you, I’m fine!” Jed cried out.
“Y’know, he is right, Jed—you should rest that out,” Agreed one of the townsfolk.
Even if Jed seemed like his ordinary self—sarcastic and upbeat—it was far from what he was actually feeling.
God, it hurt. Why was he so stupid? Jumping in front of a moving train? Seriously? He felt sore everywhere. Bruises covering almost every part of his body. A splitting headache. And his legs—Lord, his legs. How could a wax minifigure endure this much pain? However, he had to uphold his pride. Take it like a man, Jed! Octy ain't always gon’ be coddlin’ ya—oh, no, Octy! He missed their drive! Why'd he always have to ruin his chances?
“—iah? Did you hear what I said?” Octavius snapped him out of his thoughts, staring at him with concerned eyes.
“Um. . . What?” He said with a sheepish grin.
Octavius was not satisfied with his answer. His gaze lingered for too long, studying Jed.
“You are not well.” he said, finally.
“I am!” Jedediah insisted quickly, his protest coming out a tad too fast.
Octavius exhaled heavily, already decided.
“That is enough.”
Before Jed could protest again, Octavius adjusted his grip, taking the cowboy’s arm and placing it over his neck; He fixed his hold on Jedediah’s flank, supporting him more.
“Let's go.”
“What?” Jed blinked, trying to keep his vision in focus, “I can still—”
“You cannot.”
That ended it.
Octavius carefully guided him forward, steering him away from the crowd.
The noise of the townsfolk followed the pair for a moment—frantic whispers, shifting boots, uncertain glances—but it quickly subsided as they moved further away from the tracks.
Jedediah tried keeping pace, but his steps were uneven, his weight leaning on Octavius more and more work every passing second.
The world felt a little too far now.
“. . . ‘Tavius,” he muttered after a short pause, as if the name itself took him effort to find.
The Roman looked down immediately.
Jedediah didn't continue. He just reclined slightly closer to his friend, letting the silence take him.
—
He lifted the tent flap, setting the cowboy down on his snug bedroll with a moan of satisfaction.
“Hey, Oct . . you should come ov’r here. Plenty o’ room.”
Octavius smiled. “Still fine” he said.
He strolled leisurely in Jedediah’s tent, observing the westerner’s things with fascination.
“It's in the bag.”
Octavius looked back.
“Hm?” He probed with confusion.
“The bandages,” Jedediah informed weakly, “They’re in the saddlebag. On the table.”
“Oh.”
The emperor went over to the miniature table Larry had provided them with, taken from a kids’ dollhouse (“It was a very awkward interaction, guys—you better appreciate it.” He had told them.), setting down his helmet. He reached into the bag, pulling out multiple miniscule medical supplies, such as gauze, tissue, and . . . pills?
“Where—and how—did you achieve this?” Octavius asked in disbelief and amazement.
“Gigantor.”
Should've expected that one. He let out a soft chuckle.
“Well, perhaps you should take these drugs. I don't know how much this will affect figurines like us, but we seem to have a regular system as long as we are awake, so this gives us a good chance that it'll work.” He held up the pills to himself, muttering his thoughts by the end of it.
Octavius conveniently pulled out a tiny water bottle and gave it to Jedediah, who was sitting up roughly by the sight of it.
“How much d’you reckon I should drink?” He asked.
“Not too much, I suppose. Since these are for regular humans . . .” the Roman answered.
He took the pills quietly, guzzling the water down his system as he lay back down on his cot.
“Has your condition improved somewhat?”
“I guess. Just feel a li’l drowsy.”
“Hm.”
It was quiet for quite a time, as Jedediah drifted to sleep. Octavius leisurely and carefully looked through the tiny notebooks and papers on his table with curiosity. Larry must have given himself dozens of papercuts making them. Jedediah wouldn't mind, right?
He sat down on a small stool and flipped through one of the notebooks, which was filled with detailed illustrations—maps, and varied drawings of their friends at the museum. They were, in his opinion, the best art he’d seen, apart from the few paintings he and Jedediah had seen at the other museums. He wanted to commend him on the sketches, but he realized that every word that came out of Jedediah’s mouth tonight was purely the drugs speaking.
“Hey, toga boy,” Jedediah called out drunkenly.
“Yes?” Octavius replied, still engrossed in the pictures.
“Did you know that the South Pass is a 35-mile-wide route that has an elevation of roughly 2,260 meters? It’s the lowest point on the Continental Divide between the Central and the Rocky Mountains.”
That proved his point. Drugs. He smiled to himself.
“Octavius—kemosabe,”
Octavius turned around, flipping through the notebook.
“Mhm?”
“D’you wanna know something?”
“What’s that? You have incredible talent in the arts, by the way—”
“I’m madly in love with you, Octy.”