A/N: I played a smidge with the timeline in "The High Riders" pilot episode, coming up with more of an inserted scene. I don't doubt that Scott was unaffected by what he saw at Lancer, this is one spin on it. But of course, being Scott he powers through and makes good on Pardee. Lots to mine in that character. ;-)

Timestamp: Precarious

He never spent much time in front of mirrors before—let alone one in a makeshift privy meant for the help—but now every peak and gully of his face wanted scrutiny, needed explored. He sent the flat of his fingers across his mouth, then watched them curl and drag beneath the sharp, hard angle of his jaw. He felt the sandpaper-rough tiny stubble, saw the prickle of dark shadow that belied the yellowness of the hair on his head. And he made note of each touch, each tap, like aligning tumblers inside a lock.

He looked and looked, and thought that no one at Lancer could see where he had been, or what he had done. Not the new father, not the new brother.

~o~O~o~

Caspar. His hanging pulled an invisible trigger of sorts. A day after releasing the rope to gently lower the ravaged man to the ground and seeing the travesty done to his Missus in the burned house, Scott came unhinged.

He couldn't hide. Johnny was already hammering on the door. The mirror was in pieces at his feet, and there was enough blood to track in rivulets down his arm. He twisted his elbow to inspect the damage and crimson drizzled from his fingertips like Maria's salsa. He knew it should be a problem, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to care.

Surprised, too, at the odd sense of relief.

He leaned on the bowl of water and waited while Johnny burst in through the doorway with a well-placed slap against wood. Far be it for locks of any strength to be had at Lancer.

"What happened?" Johnny's voice had a wild tinge, but his hands were sure and swift. He snatched the towel from the rail. "Sit down. Get on the floor."

Scott immediately buckled at the knees and dropped. He held his arm out straight in front of him, so Johnny could press the towel where the glass cut deepest. He submitted to his brother's frantic one-handed inspection with closed eyes and pursed lips.

"You're alright," Johnny decided, after he'd catalogued the collection of lesser cuts and nicked knuckles. He turned his attention back to the deeper gash, and jostled Scott's untouched arm, until he opened his eyes. "You okay?"

Scott knew how to answer that. He nodded. "Yes."

~o~O~o~

It didn't happen all at once. The precarious stronghold of sleep eventually failed when memories of the Virginia foothills invaded his dreams. Something relentless tugged at him. When he woke in the night, the terrible clarity made him sweat and shake. He listened for Murdoch's deep snoring rumbles to school himself back to starched clean sheets and the lowing of cattle in the pasture.

He told himself that Caspar was only one man who died violently, and he'd seen so many dead before.

After a while, he could move. Standing in front of his own mirror hanging behind the bureau, he pushed aside General Sheridan and white-knuckled the metal frame that surrounded his mother's picture, but couldn't find an anchor. Slipping. His thoughts were sluggish, still dark and weighted from the night.

~o~O~o~

Some things were like words which can't be unsaid, and the sun came up regardless.

Birds chirped outside and the air smelled like Murdoch's particular brand of strong black coffee. Scott let his fingertips whistle down the stair banister as he tracked a series of clumsy sounds to the kitchen.

He skidded to a stop at the table, not full of eggs and biscuits, but firearms and ammunitions. Johnny threw him a hooded look.

Murdoch whirled on the both of them. "Get ready, gentlemen, we're going to war."

Scott scratched at the white bandage on his forearm under the shirtsleeve, his smile stuttering like a telegrapher tapping out code.

The End