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oom: in the cells
The pad of paper is yellow, the pen full of black ink. Why he notices the details like this, he's not sure, but he does. Maybe it's a part of his brain telling him that he needs to focus on this moment.
He has it in his mind to write: Notes. Letters. Apologies.
But when given the time alone, with the pen in his hand and the paper at the ready, he stares at it. Nothing comes. Sure, there are people he needs to tell what's going on. Mike and Indiana need to know about the stables. Will and Merlin needs to know that he loves them like brothers, and in Merlin's case, a little more than that. Or at least...he thought so.
"It's amazing what people will believe during sex. He's human. Weak. Fragile. Short-lived. A temporary hobby until I found something more interesting to focus on."
Maybe not, after that conversation.
And then there's Bill and Nathan, and Ella, and Mary (who he hasn't seen in quite some time, and he's worried about her) and then Billy. As mad as he is at Billy...they're still pals. Billy would probably be right at his side...or telling him he'd fucked up good. And Jack. What to say to the man who's going to walk him to his possible death and a man he'd come to respect as a friend and just...what to say?
Probable death. You know if you face him you'll die.
"At least you'll be gone," he mutters, quiet.
A blank pad of paper, a brand new pen, full of that black ink. He's supposed to be good at this sort of thing.
But he can't find the words.
They're stuck in his throat like his heart is stuck in his chest. There are two options, here:
One is to stay locked up in this cell for the rest of time, which really wouldn't happen because Brand would coming looking. And then that put the entire Bar at risk, everyone in it.
They're not important.
"Yes they are."
Two is to go back to the castle and back to the shadow, to train with Brand further, grow in the abilities needed to finally take him down. He was getting better at controlling the demon and using it to his abilities. He would go back to the shadow and walk a broken pattern, learn more than he could dream of.
You want that power.
"To get rid of you."
The first would mean he'd most likely survive, awhile longer. The second would mean either getting the job done and killing Brand, or being killed himself. Either way, it would be something he would be proud of. He wasn't proud of sitting in this cell. Wasn't proud of being a coward and accepting help that was too good to be true. He wasn't proud of himself for those things but if he died giving his best chance to get rid of Brand and this demon...then he'd be proud.
He'd be proud. They'd be proud.
Letters.
Notes.
Anything.
A simple one is addressed to Mike and Indiana stating that if he dies outside of the Bar, that it will be delivered and they'll need to find another person to run the stables, as a precaution, if he doesn't return.
But everyone else...
+++++
Doc has no idea how long he's awake, staring at the pages of the pad. There's nothing he can say. Nothing he can write down that...
Then the idea strikes him.
It takes several attempts and sheets of paper, some torn and smashed into balls, others scratched out and scribbled on, before he's satisfied.
He reads the words quietly to himself a few times before he tears the sheet off and folds it carefully in half, and sets it aside. Then he picks up the deck of playing cards and sorts through them, with an idle hand, until he finds the four Kings. He shuffles the heart, club, and diamond back into the deck, then takes the pen and writes around the border of the spade.
I'm sorry I failed you.
He doesn't write his name. Merlin will know who it's from.
The card is placed next to the folded sheet of paper, which he picks up again, and reads another time.
The body's victory
Is often
The soul's tremendous loss.
The soul's victory
Is always
The body's amazing progress.
He has it in his mind to write: Notes. Letters. Apologies.
But when given the time alone, with the pen in his hand and the paper at the ready, he stares at it. Nothing comes. Sure, there are people he needs to tell what's going on. Mike and Indiana need to know about the stables. Will and Merlin needs to know that he loves them like brothers, and in Merlin's case, a little more than that. Or at least...he thought so.
"It's amazing what people will believe during sex. He's human. Weak. Fragile. Short-lived. A temporary hobby until I found something more interesting to focus on."
Maybe not, after that conversation.
And then there's Bill and Nathan, and Ella, and Mary (who he hasn't seen in quite some time, and he's worried about her) and then Billy. As mad as he is at Billy...they're still pals. Billy would probably be right at his side...or telling him he'd fucked up good. And Jack. What to say to the man who's going to walk him to his possible death and a man he'd come to respect as a friend and just...what to say?
Probable death. You know if you face him you'll die.
"At least you'll be gone," he mutters, quiet.
A blank pad of paper, a brand new pen, full of that black ink. He's supposed to be good at this sort of thing.
But he can't find the words.
They're stuck in his throat like his heart is stuck in his chest. There are two options, here:
One is to stay locked up in this cell for the rest of time, which really wouldn't happen because Brand would coming looking. And then that put the entire Bar at risk, everyone in it.
They're not important.
"Yes they are."
Two is to go back to the castle and back to the shadow, to train with Brand further, grow in the abilities needed to finally take him down. He was getting better at controlling the demon and using it to his abilities. He would go back to the shadow and walk a broken pattern, learn more than he could dream of.
You want that power.
"To get rid of you."
The first would mean he'd most likely survive, awhile longer. The second would mean either getting the job done and killing Brand, or being killed himself. Either way, it would be something he would be proud of. He wasn't proud of sitting in this cell. Wasn't proud of being a coward and accepting help that was too good to be true. He wasn't proud of himself for those things but if he died giving his best chance to get rid of Brand and this demon...then he'd be proud.
He'd be proud. They'd be proud.
Letters.
Notes.
Anything.
A simple one is addressed to Mike and Indiana stating that if he dies outside of the Bar, that it will be delivered and they'll need to find another person to run the stables, as a precaution, if he doesn't return.
But everyone else...
+++++
Doc has no idea how long he's awake, staring at the pages of the pad. There's nothing he can say. Nothing he can write down that...
Then the idea strikes him.
It takes several attempts and sheets of paper, some torn and smashed into balls, others scratched out and scribbled on, before he's satisfied.
He reads the words quietly to himself a few times before he tears the sheet off and folds it carefully in half, and sets it aside. Then he picks up the deck of playing cards and sorts through them, with an idle hand, until he finds the four Kings. He shuffles the heart, club, and diamond back into the deck, then takes the pen and writes around the border of the spade.
I'm sorry I failed you.
He doesn't write his name. Merlin will know who it's from.
The card is placed next to the folded sheet of paper, which he picks up again, and reads another time.
Is often
The soul's tremendous loss.
The soul's victory
Is always
The body's amazing progress.