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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.
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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Toast buttered, drink of milk, and then he goes for the bacon. Bar's seen fit to make sure he gets his protein, between the meat and the eggs.
"I can't deny it," he continues after a few bites. "I had a few dreams 'bout that weekend once I got back out on the trail."
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Her spoon pauses mid-bite at his last statement.
"Did you now?"
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Doc nods.
"After Garrett and his posse rode back to Lincoln with Billy, I came 'round the next morning and make it up to Albuquerque. I know a few men who work the beef yards for the railroad. Spent those two weeks ridin' East sitting in a boxcar tryin' to think of anythin' but how bad I was hurtin'."
A brief pause.
"Thought a lot 'bout what it would be like. Teachin' in a town where I didn't have to hide."
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It fades fast when he reminds her of the condition he was in when he came back to the bar.
"Wish you had seen a doctor--a real doctor--before you came back here," she sighs.
She picks at her food for a bit as she considers his final words. She knows how he feels about teaching.
Then, she knows how he feels about being on the run, too.
"And where did those thoughts lead you?" she asks.
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"Lot of interestin' places."
Some of them are not to be repeated in her company, fevered dreams rarely contain anything that could be considered proper manners to say the least. There are a few, however.
"It would be nice," he admits. "Ain't likely to ever happen, not for a long time, but it would be nice."
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It would be nice.
Ain't likely to ever happen.
Her attention goes back to her food, and she nods.
"I suppose it would be difficult for you to settle somewhere now, after everything," she says.
She doesn't mention Green Lake this time around.
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Doc eats another few moments in silence, as he contemplates.
"Reckon I could just ride t'Mexico."
And become what -- a washed up outlaw? A man who drinks too much tequila and spends his nights dancing with brown haired girls to try and kill the pain? No.
"On second thought, maybe I'll go to Canada."
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"What's in Canada?"
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Doc lifts his eyes to hers.
"Nothin'. I ain't wanted in Canada."
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"You ain't wanted anywhere, at the moment," she reminds him.
She hates the look in his eyes.
And she feels guilty, because she knows it's there at least in part due to her.
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That's because he's dead. Sort of.
"But my picture is still up in every Marshal's office from New Mexico to Missoura."
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She doesn't say it.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say there was the slightest hint of pride in your voice," she remarks, popping another piece of cantaloupe into her mouth.
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He shouldn't find it amusing. He really shouldn't. But he does, just a little, that glint in his eyes.
"I dare say you're right 'bout that."
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"Shouldn't be smug," she chides.
But her tone is light, and not at all threatening.
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"Ain't smug. Cross my heart. Just...glad that I'm finally gettin' the respect I deserve."
Of course now, he's 'dead'. That messes things up a bit.
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She cocks an eyebrow at him.
"How do you figure?"
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A shrug.
"You get tired of ridin' second hand. Regulators should've been mine after Richard got killed. I would've done things different. Respectable way."
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"Is there any respectable way of taking a man's life?" she asks.
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Instead, Doc leans back slightly in his chair and considers the question a moment, sipping at his coffee before he sets the mug down.
"We wouldn't have had to."
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"Good answer," she murmurs softly, nodding once.
He's won the respect of at least one person.
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He can see it in her eyes, and it makes him smile a little, before he nods and then sets about polishing off the rest of breakfast.
After several minutes, he speaks up again.
"Did y'want to see work with the bow or with the sword?"
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She is a proper lady, after all.
"How about both?" she asks, her eyes glinting.
Yes. Proper lady.
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"That I can do."
Doc finishes up a moment later, and sets his silverware aside as he drains the rest of his milk and coffee.
"I just need to run upstairs and grab what I need."
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After he leaves, she stands and prepares to collect the dishes. A waitrat approaches with a napkin on its tray.
'What have I told you? Don't do that.'
She blushes, abashed, and allows the waitrats to clean everything up as she pulls on her coat.
After a few minutes, a different rat approaches, this time with a styrofoam cup accompanying the new napkin.
'It will keep your hands warm. ;)'
Katherine picks up the rich smelling coffee with a chuckle. She isn't sure when Bar decided to mother her so, but she isn't necessarily complaining about it.
She'll be waiting by the back door, sipping cautiously at the hot liquid, when Doc returns.
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There is no jacket (but it's going to be warm enough once he gets started he won't need one) and he gives her a smile.
"Figure shoot first, it's the less tirin' of the two," he offers, grateful when she opens the door for him before they head outside.
It's only a short walk to the area that gets set up as a 'range'.
"What's Fall like in Green Lake?"
Idle conversation, while they travel.
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