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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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Not that she had been staring, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, all this time. Because that would be ridiculous.
She glares at him from the corner of her eye. Though, to be fair, the gesture might be less threatening than desired, as her neck is still craned for the height of the bow.
"Do you see this thing? It's tall.... Don't laugh!"
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Doc tips his head back and then kneels, and extends a hand with a flourish.
"Milady," he says. "If you would be so kind as to wish this humble archer a bit of luck before he shoots?"
A beat, before he drops the accent and smirks.
"Cause I ain't that darn good."
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This time Doc is solely to blame.
(He's to blame for the pink creeping into her cheeks as well.)
Katherine is so not amused by all this.
(Just ignore the brief chuckle that escapes.)
"Luck?" she repeats, eyebrow arched. She's read books on medieval life, devoured tales on knights and rogues, and knows how to play the part.
She pulls a kerchief from her coat pocket, and presses it into his hand as a favor, failing at hiding that smirk as she bends close to him to whisper teasingly.
(She doesn't have to bend far.)
"Let's pray you don't misfire, good sir."
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"My gratitude."
Then he lifts the bow with one hand, sets his stance as he lifts an arrow from the quiver, and carefully notches it. His eyes study the target as he brings the bow up and draws.
Steady.
(He's had a lot of practice the last week, in Sherwood.)
He exhales, ever so slightly, and releases his fingers and the grip on the taut line, bowstring skimming against the leather bracer as the arrow flies free.
thwock
It strikes just a bit wide of the center.
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She claps respectfully: fingers of one hand tapping at the wrist of her other, as she's still holding onto that cup of coffee.
"That was marvelous!" she enthuses, shaking her head. "How long have you been practicing?"
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Doc draws another, aims, thwock and then reaches for a third.
"For a short while I could barely draw the fargin' thing," he admits. "And if y'think that's good, you should see Will. He's incredible."
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She watches the second and third arrows zip through the air and land on their target soundly.
"Incredible," she breathes, shaking her head slightly.
The look on her face is one of awe, and interest, respect, and more than a little envy.
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Doc makes a bit of a face as one arcs a bit high and clips the edge of the target.
"And I've got to make arrows before we head back, John taught me t'fletch proper."
thwock. thwock. thwock.
He's got a quiver of eight and this next is his last, it doesn't hit the bullseye but comes close.
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The prospect does excite her. Ever since she was a girl she'd been in love with the ideals and lifestyles of medieval times. But the offer, from Doc, now...
Too soon.
She glances to her shoes, fussing with the styrofoam cup in her hands.
"Perhaps," she nods with a smile, but the message is clear in her eyes.
Too soon.
But someday...
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It is fast. He knows it's fast.
Slow it down Doc.
He leans the bow against the fenceline and then smiles.
"Will just be a minute t'fetch the arrows," he explains, before he makes the walk downrange to pull them from the target.
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She sips at the coffee in her hands, and it's probably the smoothest cup of joe she's ever had in her entire life. No dregs, no burnt aftertaste, no hickory flavor. Just rich, warm coffee.
It helps to rid the chill around her heart as she watches him downrange.
Bar knows what she's doing,
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This is going to take time.
This is going to take effort.
Then again, he knew that from the start.
Doc finishes gathering the arrows and then returns, slipping them into the quiver carefully, thumb grazing the stiff feathers.
"Didn't know y'drank coffee," he comments, idly, as he pulls his left arm across his chest and stretches out the muscles.
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"I prefer tea. But I would have a cup now and again when I was younger. Early mornings on the farm sometimes called for something stronger than black tea. My daddy drank coffee. I used to fix it for him, some mornings. We would drink our morning coffee together and he'd read to me from the penny paper. Haven't... haven't had coffee for a long spell. 'Course, this isn't anything like the coffee I'm used to. Have you had this? Of course you have, what am I saying. It's really good."
She purses her lips together and looks at said coffee.
Oh dear god shut up.
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With and without the whiskey.
Doc finishes stretching and then puts his hand on her arm, gently.
I get it. I do.
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Her attention is focused on that hand when it touches her arm, her body a little tense beneath the contact. After a time she looks at his face.
I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry.
"So," she looks away, fidgeting a bit, and as she does so she removes herself from his reach. "Are you going to impress me with your mastery over the sword?"
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Doc pulls his hand back after she steps away, and he nods.
"Aye," he comments, without even thinking before he laughs at himself. "I mean yes. Or at least I hope so. Spend a week in Sherwood and I start talkin' like them," he deadpans. "Next thing you know I'll be wearin' green all the time and climbing any tree within reach."
He inclines his head a short distance, to where there is a wooden pell for working with the sword or axe (and it shows a good deal of wear) and an open space for sparring.
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"I'm not sure I'd encourage any drastic wardrobe changes, just yet. But the accent is nice," she teases quietly.
She follows the incline of his head and nods, allowing him to lead the way.
"You're sure your wounds are healed enough for this kind of activity?"
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When they reach the open space he sets everything down that he doesn't need, but the sword is still strapped to his back and he glances at her.
"Not sure how I'll run through it, usually Will and I get out here and spar 'gainst each other, but I'll think of somethin'."
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"Just be careful," she chides, shaking her head. "And don't bother yourself too much, for my sake.
"Perhaps I should have both you and Will perform for me, sometime."
She smirks at him.
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Doc bows his head before he reaches for the handle of the blade on his back, drawing in one swift motion. The sword is not nearly as fine as the other one in his room, but it is still a true broadsword.
He carefully places his hands on the hilt and then nods, and as he moves through a basic series of blocks, he explains each of them and their purpose.
He'll get to the amusing part and actually attack in a minute.
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"Wouldn't want you to do that. I imagine he must be exhausted, after having you as his company for a week."
Her smile is easy. Friends. She can almost pretend like she can do this without splitting herself in two.
She watches the blade slip free of its sheath, and then he has her attention, body and soul. She's rapt, listening carefully to his explanations--even nodding along--logging the words away in her memory. Her eyes barely leave the blade as he moves.
Color Kate enthralled.
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But even with the demon gone, the muscle memory remained.
Doc notes her position out of the corner of his field of vision, before he closes his eyes and works through the blocks and strikes faster. It's almost like a routine, against an invisible opponent.
Everything makes sense when he ignores the world and closes his eyes.
you have to fix this you have to fix this
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Her sad blue eyes seek out his shut lids.
And there they linger, deep in thought.
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He knows he's close to the wooden pell, and he wants to swing at it, but when he does (a full, hard swing) he doesn't actually intend to strike steel against hard surface.
Only he does.
The dull edge of the blade smacks against the solid surface and he feels his wrist snap back, awkwardly, and Doc yelps before he lets go of the hilt, right hand closing around his left wrist to hold it steady.
"And that's why y'keep your eyes open," he grits out between his teeth.
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She jumps, startled by the sound of sudden contact. But she's at his side before the blade even hits the ground.
She comes around him from the left, a gentle hand on his shoulder to let him know she's there, and then she ducks her head into his line of vision as she reaches for his hands.
"Let me see," she commands softly, nimble, careful fingers peeling back his right hand so she can investigate the wounded wrist. Her eyes flick up to his briefly.
She very gently runs her fingers along his wrist, carefully applied pressure seeking out broken bones or pulled muscles.
One shake of her head. "S'just a sprain," she murmurs.
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