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oom: upstairs, room 25
Doc kneels down in front of the trunk at the end of his bed -- a new addition to the room in the time since he's been back from his whole dealing with Brand's world -- and pops the latches on the sides before opening it. He's taken to storing things that are not fit to be floating out in his room in it.
The contents are still sparse, but there is the sword from Brand's world, in the sheath and wrapped in a piece of thick cloth. A few journals, more like private notebooks which have his writings and poetry in them. A deck of trump cards, wrapped in a cloth and tucked away in the corner. The leather satchel that contains the remaining peyote he gathered what seems like ages ago back in his world. Letters to people in the event that he walks out that door someday and doesn't make it back.
He reaches for a deck of regular playing cards and then closes the lid, latches it, and sits on it as he opens the box and pulls out the cards.
(It's missing one king.)
It's easy enough to set the wastebasket up across from him, and he spends the next hour or so flicking the cards in the direction of it. There is no magic to help him 'nudge' them into place. No tricks. No talented hands to repeat the motion, over and over again.
His ratio of success is hardly impressive.
Why did you ever think you could impress him anyway?
The thought stings like a slap across the face, and he looks at the cards in his hands for a long few moments, looks at the ones scattered across the floor, the few that are resting in the waste basket.
"A king. Honestly."
Doc rises from the trunk and carefully gathers all the wayward cards into the deck in his hand, and then stands in the center of the room and stares at them a moment, fingers curled around them.
Why did you ever think...
Because you hoped...
You thought for once, just maybe...
You were wrong...
Nothing but something to pass the time...
Weak...
Fragile...
A temporary hobby...
The cards fly out of his hand before he realizes he's thrown the deck at the wall, all of them fluttering in a mess, and then he's yelling and he's not quite sure why either. All he knows is that he can't feel a damn thing but anger. He's not angry with Merlin. He's angry with himself.
He's angry because he was so damn stupid for falling for Brand's trick but all he wanted to do was to help and see his wife and son again. To make Brand pay for hurting Will and Kate.
It wouldn't have mattered. He's a king now.
What chance...
Doc stands in the middle of the room and stares at the littered cards around him, breathing slightly quicker than he would at rest. His throat hurts. His eyes sting, a little, but he ignores it as he picks up the cards. Once he's certain he's gathered them all, he drops them back into the box and then tosses the deck on the dresser, ignoring the way it nearly careens off the edge.
He doesn't care.
It's a quick trip downstairs to the bar, and when he returns, he places a bag on the trunk and takes out the contents.
Three apples.
You ever try juggling?
He starts with two, instead of three.
(The extra will get eaten sometime in the early hours of the morning when he's still up, frustrated and hungry.)
Slowly, it starts to click. And by the time he's too tired to see straight and his hands are just a little sore from catching and throwing the fruit around in the air, he's gotten alright. Of course, not good enough to try for three, yet.
But there's always tomorrow night. And the night after that.
The contents are still sparse, but there is the sword from Brand's world, in the sheath and wrapped in a piece of thick cloth. A few journals, more like private notebooks which have his writings and poetry in them. A deck of trump cards, wrapped in a cloth and tucked away in the corner. The leather satchel that contains the remaining peyote he gathered what seems like ages ago back in his world. Letters to people in the event that he walks out that door someday and doesn't make it back.
He reaches for a deck of regular playing cards and then closes the lid, latches it, and sits on it as he opens the box and pulls out the cards.
(It's missing one king.)
It's easy enough to set the wastebasket up across from him, and he spends the next hour or so flicking the cards in the direction of it. There is no magic to help him 'nudge' them into place. No tricks. No talented hands to repeat the motion, over and over again.
His ratio of success is hardly impressive.
Why did you ever think you could impress him anyway?
The thought stings like a slap across the face, and he looks at the cards in his hands for a long few moments, looks at the ones scattered across the floor, the few that are resting in the waste basket.
"A king. Honestly."
Doc rises from the trunk and carefully gathers all the wayward cards into the deck in his hand, and then stands in the center of the room and stares at them a moment, fingers curled around them.
Why did you ever think...
Because you hoped...
You thought for once, just maybe...
You were wrong...
Nothing but something to pass the time...
Weak...
Fragile...
A temporary hobby...
The cards fly out of his hand before he realizes he's thrown the deck at the wall, all of them fluttering in a mess, and then he's yelling and he's not quite sure why either. All he knows is that he can't feel a damn thing but anger. He's not angry with Merlin. He's angry with himself.
He's angry because he was so damn stupid for falling for Brand's trick but all he wanted to do was to help and see his wife and son again. To make Brand pay for hurting Will and Kate.
It wouldn't have mattered. He's a king now.
What chance...
Doc stands in the middle of the room and stares at the littered cards around him, breathing slightly quicker than he would at rest. His throat hurts. His eyes sting, a little, but he ignores it as he picks up the cards. Once he's certain he's gathered them all, he drops them back into the box and then tosses the deck on the dresser, ignoring the way it nearly careens off the edge.
He doesn't care.
It's a quick trip downstairs to the bar, and when he returns, he places a bag on the trunk and takes out the contents.
Three apples.
You ever try juggling?
He starts with two, instead of three.
(The extra will get eaten sometime in the early hours of the morning when he's still up, frustrated and hungry.)
Slowly, it starts to click. And by the time he's too tired to see straight and his hands are just a little sore from catching and throwing the fruit around in the air, he's gotten alright. Of course, not good enough to try for three, yet.
But there's always tomorrow night. And the night after that.