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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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."

Her eyes finally slip from his face when he begins to speak, and she does naught but listen to him.

Pale, smooth fingers grip his calloused ones when he finishes.

She's trying to hold back tears.

"I remember when your word was worth so much..."

Her voice is frail when she speaks, and she doesn't mean to insult him. It's just the way things happened.

She doesn't insult him, and he knows she didn't mean too, but her words cause his stomach to sink like he's been filled with bricks or lead, and his heart isn't far behind.

His face doesn't show anything other than a calm exterior. There is a brief, passing flicker of pain but he blinks it away. Doc swallows, and his voice is quiet. So very, very quiet.

"I understand."

Faith. Hope.

He lied to her, and coming clean didn't work.

more blood on your hands

Doc slowly withdraws his hand from hers and then turns, bowing his head. His elbows rest on his knees, and his fingers card up through his hair to settle on the back of his neck. His eyes are closed.

"I understand."

There's a little more conviction behind it, but not much.

"This place--I--"

She shakes her head and falls silent. Anything she can think to say right now just sounds shallow and useless.

Her hand grows cold when he pulls his away.

Her chin quivers just slightly, knowing she can't take back what she said. Knowing he can't take back what he did. Knowing they can't take back what Milliways and their lives outside have robbed them of.

He could never come back to Green Lake with her: build a life, raise a family, work an honest job.

She could never give up her home for him. For what? Milliways? He can't go back. He has a son and he can't go back...

She sniffles quietly and steadies her voice.

"Should I leave you?"

After what she's said, after all this baggage, maybe he wants to be alone. She stands slowly, waiting.

"Don't, please."

Doc looks up at her. He'll be alright. He just knows the truth, and that's basically that he has to start over, from square one. Scratch. And he's bound and damn determined to build them up again.

"I just got back in from Sherwood," he says. "I could use the company."

He offers her a hint of a smile.

"And I do remember somethin' about you wantin' to see me work with the bow, or the sword, if I ain't mistaken. Perhaps after some breakfast?"

She looks down into his eyes, and at that smile on his face, and can feel his conviction. She offers a timid smile in return, bowing her head just slightly.

"I did say that," she admits quietly.

Friends. They can do this. After a while it won't hurt so damn much. Right?

"A-and I am hungry. I haven't broken my fast yet today."

The donuts get a suspicious glance. They kind of look like round cakes.

"Those are like...pastry things. Or we could go downstairs and get somethin' more proper."

And that would prove to her that Doc is actually eating properly.

If they don't eat the donuts, they'll just get eaten later, probably in the middle of the night when he's too lazy to go downstairs to get a snack, so he doesn't care if they stay on the coffee table.

He stands from the couch and straightens his shirt a little.

"I could use to get changed...meet you downstairs in a few?"

Katherine is by no stretch of the imagination averse to sweets, but given the state of her stomach this morning, the donuts get a subtle scrunch of the nose.

"I think it would do us both some good to eat a proper meal," she says, giving him a look. Yes, that look.

She straightens her own skirts, more out of nervousness than anything, and moves to the bed to retrieve her coat.

"All right," she says, folding the long red fabric over her arm. "Do you prefer a booth or a table, or...?"

This feels weird after such heavy conversation.

"Doesn't matter either way, booth, table, counter at the bar...just someplace where I can sit and see both doors."

He doesn't even realize the words would seem strange to anyone.

(Though if she now takes a look at his bedroom and how it's been arranged, she'll notice from the bed he can see the windows and doorways, and the fact that it's been pushed into the corner means nobody can sneak up behind him. The same with the desk, to an extent, and the location of the couch.)

Doc already is moving to get the door for the lady, as a proper gentleman should.

The words do give her pause, but they're nodded at swiftly.

She imagines if she'd been through half of what Doc has recently, she might have a similar desire.

(And the planned layout of the room is, now, noticed.)

She thanks him for holding the door for her and steps out into the hallway. Though this is Milliways, she still glances around to see if anyone has seen her exit Doc's room. Satisfied she is alone, she makes her way to the bar proper.

There's a table in the corner, snug between two walls, where one can see the wide majority of the eatery if they happen to be seated in the chair closest the corner.

Wisely, Katherine is sitting in the chair opposite, her back to the bar. She's sipping at another cup of tea, but she's taken care to request a pot of coffee as well, which sits steaming in the center of the table, next to an empty mug and a creamer full of milk.

She may join Doc for a cup later on. She hasn't decided yet.

Doc takes the time to shower, very quickly, and then dress in clothes that will work for either showing off sword forms or using the bow -- a long sleeved shirt (only this time it is blue instead of white), which he rolls up to the elbows, and a pair of corduroy jeans (dark brown, with a familiar patch job on one knee), boots, and around his neck he's looped the gift Ella gave him awhile ago (a black cord with a thin piece light-nearly-clear blue glass hanging from it) and tucked it under his shirt.

The sword and bow are left upstairs. He'll fetch them after breakfast, since it's not exactly proper to bring your weapons to the dining table.

He's quick in doing all this, so it's not long before he jogs downstairs, spots her in the corner, and makes his way over. His hair is combed back and still slightly damp, but he didn't bother shaving his beard.

"Perfect," he tells her, as he slides into the chair. "And y'got coffee. Extra perfect."

"I asked Bar how you preferred it," she says evenly, sipping at her tea. "But requested she abstain from adding in the whiskey this time."

She sets her cup down on its saucer with a soft clink.

"I didn't rush you, did I?" she asks, noting the slightly wet hair.

Doc pauses as he's reaching for the pot of coffee, and looks up at her and that even tone. Not to mention the topic.

"Old habits die hard," he offers quietly, as he then resumes pouring a cup of it, and adding just a dash of milk before he stirs it with a spoon.

He shakes his head.

"And no, you didn't. If I try and dry this," he motions up at his hair. "It'll just go all over anyway."

She doesn't say anything more; just looks at him. And she imagines her look says enough.

His use of the word 'habit' isn't exactly comforting, either.

"So you were saying," she says, playing absently with her teacup. "About Sherwood. You went with Will?"

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