scurlock | oom: room 25 / later outside

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oom: room 25 / later outside

After taking care of his morning chores and the conversation that came with it, Doc leads Katherine up to his room, box of donuts and two cups carefully held in his hands.

Once he's opened the door and they've stepped inside, the first thing she'll notice is that he's changed the layout of the room a bit, and his bed has been shoved up against the wall, his desk moved closer to the door. There's a new couch by the windows, with an end table that wasn't there before as well.

"Figured if I was gonna be livin' here I might as well make it less like a hotel room," he offers, by way of explanation, as he closes the door behind them with his foot, but doesn't bother to lock it.

There are books stacked on the desk, but not poetry or literature. History of Medieval England, for one. Several medical texts. There's an empty glass (and half empty bottle of Laphroaig) sitting on the desk as well. Scattered pages of notes. Half finished poems. Nothing but scratched sketches from a bored and frustrated writer's hand.

His bed is roughly made (sheets and blankets pulled up but not tucked in) and there are several other books on the side where another person would sleep. A hard bound selection of Keats is tucked in with a leather bound journal or two.

She'll see, tacked to the wall between the bed and desk, a piece of paper with the poem Jack quoted to him at a Happy Hour a few weeks ago, handwritten in black ink.

On the dresser, there are still the two folded paper cranes, one pink and one brown, but a third, a bright orange (like canned peaches) has joined them. The cask in the corner is covered with a towel, sword and bow and rifle leaning against the wall. There are coat hooks on the wall beside the door -- that black duster, as well as his tan one, and a woolen cloak, hooded and green, that is suitable for hiding among the trees and leaves of Sherwood hang on the pegs.

The footlocker at the end of the bed is covered in cloth, and that sword (not the practice blade, but a finer, sharper weapon) is resting on it, polishing cloth beside it.

Doc crosses the room to the couch and coffeetable, and sets the contents of his hands down on the surface before he leans over to shove one of the windows open, pulling the curtains over it to allow for the morning breeze.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," he offers, before he motions for her to sit while he pulls his coat off, the flannel jacket ending up on the end of the bed.

She'll also notice the end of his bed is missing something familiar.

(His gunbelt is nowhere to be seen.)

It's really not all that horrible, but it's more 'lived in' than she's seen it before.

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"Sort of."

Doc explains what he means. "When I first came to Milliways it was fresh off the gunfight at McSween's," he explains. "Yen and I hadn't made it to New York City, yet. I was here awhile...I met Will. It's for both of them. Will and Billy."

He sets the cup of coffee down on the table, thinking on that.

Pals.

Let's finish the game.

"I'm not dead but I can't go back, not to what I had before," he admits.

His hand goes to his stomach without him realizing, and he rubs gently over the shirt, itching at the fresh and healing skin, as he thinks on that. They had finished the game.

A slight smile, tinged with bitterness, briefly flashes over his features before it vanishes.

"Suppose it's God's way of sayin' 'I told you so.'."

Katherine nods, her features relaxing a bit. "He seems like a good man. Will, I mean. I'm not... I'm not sure what I think of Billy just yet."

It's funny how people's ideas of what a hero is changes over time.

'Billy The Kid,' Fastest Gun in the West, Fearsome Outlaw, and murderer of almost every man who called him Friend.

She watches Doc's hand as it rubs at the concealed wound in his stomach, feeling her own stomach churn.

"What do you mean?" she asks softly.

"I hope he gets back here," Doc says honestly. "He doesn't know I'm still alive."

Plus he kind of wants to hit him. Or hug him. He's not quite sure which, and probably won't until he sees him face to face.

Then he looks at her, a moment, before he looks across the room.

"I know He ain't one to say it," he begins. "But reckon it's payback for all the things I've done. Thievin' and lyin', drink' and the like. For all the things that happened in Begma. For all the wrongs I've done here. I'm a God fearin' man but I ain't a good Christian, haven't been in a long time."

He considers something.

"Hell, he's probably mad at me for never gettin' married in a church, too."

She studies him, carefully, brow furrowed as he speaks.

"Payback? You mean losing your wife and son?"

She shakes her head and sighs, and part of her wants to bridge the gap between them and place a comforting hand on his. She doesn't, of course, but that doesn't make the desire any less there.

"Doc, He doesn't work like that," she says softly.

"Though," she begins, and her eyes narrow very slightly in confusion. "What... W-where did you get married?"

"I know He doesn't but I ain't..." Doc thinks back to his conversation with Kate Warner from awhile ago, and what he can remember past the taste of the scotch is a conversation about faith. "I ain't sure what I believe in, anymore."

He sounds tentative when he speaks, like he's fearful of what she'll say if he discusses his struggle with his faith and she doesn't like what she hears.

"There's a lot of tensions startin' up with the Chinese. Folk in New York don't look kindly on a white man and a Chinese woman gettin' married, not t'mention there was no way I was about to put my Christian name on a license, risk gettin' recognized. They would've known who I was and thought she was nothin' but a two-bit..."

That sentence cuts off sharply.

"Forgive my tongue."

Doc's not ashamed of his marriage. (But he's worried about what she'll think.)

"One of the temples," he says, to finally answer the question. "Was just us an' her parents an' the priest of sorts."

"A--"

A pagan wedding.

She doesn't say it, but she thinks it. And she hates herself a little for doing so.

'We're all equal under the eyes of God. You remember that.'

She shakes her head, looking back into her tea, when he asks her to forgive him.

"I understand. You were... careful."

She's quiet, just as afraid of what Doc will think of how she views his faith if she says too much, so she leaves it at that.

She's not really sure what to say or think, anyhow.

This situation is just so messed up.

It really is.

Doc swallows, and his eyes are on her carefully as he settles back into the couch again, trying to think of what to say, and he crosses his legs again and glances down at his hands.

"I'm tryin'," he finally says. "I'm really, really tryin', it's just so damn hard to believe in anythin' when you're barely hangin' on. John was always so strong, teachin' us what was right, and I've read the Book cover to cover since I've been back. I'm tryin'."

A hard swallow.

"For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind: it hath no stalk; the bud shall yield no meal: if so be it yield, the strangers shall swallow it up."

He pauses.

"I just...we did it to ourselves, but there was no way we was gonna let them get away with killin' John. No way in Hell."

He's not sure why he's telling her this. Why now? Why here?

"No way in Hell."

Katherine's stormy eyes refocus on Doc as he speaks.

It's just so damn hard to believe in anythin' when you're barely hangin' on.

If this was a few months back, she would have scooched herself closer to him and cupped his face in her hands.

But this wasn't a few months back.

"Doc," she entreats him, setting her cup down on the coffee table and turning to face him.

"You know how often I thought about goin' down to the Crocker ranch with my daddy's rifle and takin' one of them boys for my loss?" Her eyes are glassy as she speaks, jaw set. "You did what you thought was right. Justice, for a good man, remember? Ain't no one fought for my pa like that."

She looks down, gathering her composure as best she can. "Now, I don't know what God thinks of me when I entertain thoughts like that. I don't know what that says about my heart, knowin' every time I saw them boys I barely kept myself from violence."

'You'll learn, Katie, that some things is just worth fightin' for. Some people are worth fightin' for.'

"But," she swallows hard, "I can't believe He would take your family, just because you got in over your head.

"I can't believe that."

"Someone should've," Doc says. "Hell, I would if I knew you wouldn't hate me for it, ain't right when a man gets cut down for no good reason," he adds, before he pulls in a deep breath.

There's an angry fire burning in his eyes that she'll catch, before he swallows hard and closes them, rolling his neck around to try and get rid of a little bit of tension. When he glances at her again, that fire's still there, though he looks away to keep from catching her gaze as he continues.

"What we did was the right thing to do."

He sets his jaw, slightly.

"You know, I can't even tell you how many men I've killed," his voice is even, almost thoughtful as he considers the number in his head with a soft shake. His hair falls slightly into his eyes, and for a moment he's almost...sad. But it's gone before she can blink.

And that fire's still smoldering, deep in his voice.

"And I'm not sayin' you should've done a thing with that rifle, Kate," he tells her. "But someone should have. I don't care what the Book says 'bout killin', it ain't right to let men like Murphy and those boys get away with the things they do."

"I wouldn't hate you, Doc," she whispers, and the way she says it makes a hidden message clear:

I don't hate you, Doc.

It hangs between them a moment in silence, her eyes still downcast.

"To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence," she murmurs, remembering the scripture she read to herself every night for months all that time back. "Their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste. For the Lord shall judge his people, and repent himself for his servants, when he seeth that their power is gone, and there is none shut up, or left."

Her soft blue eyes flick up to his face as he tries to recall the number of men he's killed. She thinks she catches an angry fire there, burning in his eyes, and it makes her tremble a little.

"What goes around comes around, suppose you could say," she remarks, wrapping her arms around herself. She shakes her head, trying to catch his gaze.

"Don't mean it will happen the way we think it should, but neither does it mean you're cursed for the actions you've taken."

It's what she'd like to believe, at least.

Doc lets that phrase roll around in his head a few moments.

but neither does it mean you're cursed for the actions you've taken

Silently.

It takes him a minute to bring his temper under control, and then another to fully grasp the meaning of the verse. He doesn't recognize it, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Of course it's true.

I wouldn't hate you Doc.

He catches the double meaning to her words. She doesn't hate him. She has every right known to man to hate him. She has every right. But she doesn't. She doesn't hate him.

"I think you're right about that," he says. "We can't know how it'll happen or when, or even why sometimes...but it will. We have to trust that it will."

A pause.

"Sometimes you just have to be willing to take the step."

Pull the trigger.

She watches him quietly, there from the other side of the couch.

It's like there's a gaping chasm between them, it's bottomless maw this intimidating stretch of dead space keeping them apart.

But down a ways, yet too far to reach but there, is a rope bridge to the other side.

She leans her head against the couch, eyes still on him. She looks so small, arms around her body, as she sits there peering at him with honest eyes.

"Sometimes."

"More often than not."

He scrubs his hands over his face to try and regain his train of thought from earlier, but all he was doing was answering her questions, so it's not a big surprise to him when he comes up empty.

"I'm a real piece of work."

Doc sighs, though it's not all that sad. He decides to steer away from that topic.

"What else did you want to know about?"

She doesn't comment on that first statement.

Instead, she chances a very small smile, and agrees with him. "Yes, you are."

She sighs softly, looking back to her tea. It's almost too far to consider reaching for.

"But you're nothing I can't handle."

She considers his question carefully, quietly, running her thumbs over the rim of her styrofoam cup.

"All this time... away from home. In this place." She's thinking out loud. "Was I the only one?"

The tone of her voice makes it clear she's gone back to the original subject.

"You were the only one I truly fell in love with."

It's not enough of an answer and he knows it, but he can't bring himself to talk about him, about Merlin, about the shapeshifter and the woman in his bed, about the man who he cared for. He loved the woman as a lover. The man as a friend. Maybe more? Lost and scared and confused. He didn't love him. Not like he loves her.

"Several months ago there was somebody else, but they..."

Decided you were nothing more than a plaything.

"There was an incident in the Bar, or incidents, really, where one world outside began affecting the patrons. Nightmares, horrible nightmares. Except what happened in those nightmares...happened to you. If you were hurt in the dream, you'd wake up with the injuries...you following so far?"

She tenses, feeling her stomach churn against the emptiness there.

She knows she isn't going to like this story.

She nods mutely, eyes on his lips because she can't bear to bring them to his eyes.

"A friend of mine and Bill's," he pauses. "Sheriff Pardy," he clarifies. "Nathan, he was...he was trapped in the nightmare. And Bill and I went to get him out. In doing so, we pissed off the doctor -- the world was an old institution, that had burned down and killed the patients, and the doctor as well."

Doc pauses, as he thinks.

"It started off with just minor things. I was drugged, once. Then it started to get worse. There was a patron here, a child...her name was Mary. She had been one of the patients. We were trying to rescue her, protect her from the doctor, and he didn't like that."

He reaches up and begins to unbutton his shirt, only going about halfway.

"One night in the Old Kingdom -- that was the burnt down hospital -- he caught me. And hurt me. Bad." He pushes the shirt over to reveal a scar just under his collarbone, what looks like a stab wound or a slice. "Artemis and Inari managed to heal me up but this one bit didn't get quite done, it was too deep."

Doc pulls his shirt back together and slowly buttons it up.

"After that, I wouldn't sleep alone. I was too terrified I was going to get killed. I thought...Merlin was a shapeshifter. Primarily male, but he could be female. I thought he cared for me but in reality, to him...I was nothing but a plaything. Something to bide his time with. He told me that when I was locked down in the cells. I was never in love with him, he was just...he was powerful. He protected me. I cared for him as a friend."

He shakes his head.

"So no, there wasn't anyone else."

Tears are bristling in her eyes as she listens, though she's not sure why. Every image his story conjures in her head makes her stomach reel worse, and she rubs at her bottom lip almost nervously, grateful for the fresh air breezing in through the window behind her.

She remembers that scar. She'd spent plenty of time staring at it in the infirmary, as Doc slept, wondering where it, along with half a dozen other nicks and scratches, had come from. But this?

This was too much. First, the story about demon possession, now this: hellacious nightmares and demonic doctors and haunted hospitals and...

...Shapeshifters.

As Doc finishes his story, Katherine narrows her watery eyes at him, more out of confusion than accusation, for the moment.

"But you bedded with him?"

But that moment is soon to pass.

Doc arches an eyebrow.

"Did I...no, Christ no. I never...not that way." He shakes his head, quickly. "I would not. No. Just...never. The only time he ever stayed overnight was to watch me sleep, to make sure I didn't have any nightmares. I never...I never was with him. At all. No, Jesus, no."

He rakes a hand through his hair, a somewhat wary look in his eyes.

What does she think of him now?

Tell her the truth, Doc. All of it.

He is. Is he just pushing her farther away?

She lets out a ragged breath she wasn't even aware she had been holding, and covers her face with her hands.

Her heartbeat is pounding.

She rubs at her face a bit before pulling her hands away, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry I... I didn't..." She shakes her head some more.

Eventually, she catches that wary look in his eyes and she takes a deep breath.

"Is there... more?"

"Not to that story, no."

Doc shakes his head.

Part of him wants to get up and pace, or get up and find himself a cigarette, but he settles down after a few deep breaths, though there's still an odd fear lingering in his eyes. Like an animal that doesn't want to be caught.

"You've no need to apologize," he leans back slightly and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. "I know it's a lot to take in."

She shakes her head by way of answer. Her voice is just a little unsteady right now, and she doesn't trust herself to speak.

She's not sure what to say after all that, anyway. She's not even sure it's all sunk in yet. It's strange and dreamlike, and Katherine feels vaguely caught in that state when you just wake up after a night of nightmares, not fully awake but not asleep either.

She can see her hands trembling just slightly in her lap, and she clasps them together.

It doesn't stop them from trembling.

Doc sees the way her hands shake.

"Like you said," he echoes, quietly. "I ain't nothin' you can't handle."

He sits another moment, before he uncrosses his legs and then shifts on the couch a bit, closer. Not too close, not touching, but definitely closer. He wants to hold her but part of him tells him he shouldn't even touch her.

Tentatively, he reaches his hand out to cover hers, but he pauses before his skin actually meets hers. Waiting for permission, be it verbal or the slightest incline of her head, whatever.

She pretends not to notice when he shifts closer to her, keeping her eyes trained on her hands.

But when his own hand slips into view, she's forced to follow the work-browned fingers up to his face.

He's looking for something. Permission, perhaps. But her eyes are riveted on those gray-green orbs and her voice still isn't working. She wishes things were different. She wishes she knew what to say.

Her hand moves, ever-so-slightly, from her lap to the couch. It's not much, but it's closer to him.

Edited 2008-09-18 03:27 (UTC)

When it rests on the couch, Doc takes it, gently, and looks down at their hands. Her skin is pale against his, and smooth, compared to the callouses that have come with years of gripping iron and leather. He's an outlaw. She's a teacher.

"I don't know what to say," he finally admits, voice low in that rough whisper of his. "I don't know what I can do to fix this, Kate. But you have my word." His thumb lightly trails over one of her fingers. "You have my word that I will never lie to you again."

Doc swallows softly, eyes still downcast to their hands.

"I'm sorry. For all of this."

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