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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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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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"S'been a long time since I've done that," he snarks at himself, before he opens his eyes and blinks to clear the fog in his head. "Should get somethin' from bar and wrap it up."
Gingerly, he tries to rotate it, and the shooting pain that runs up his arm is enough to make him cringe and tug it closer to his body, instinctual reflexes trying to get him to curl up into a ball.
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One hand goes his neck, thumb at his ear as she tries to calm him enough to focus on her. "Thought you were the doctor here, Scurlock," she teases.
Baby.
She tugs the kerchief she had given him earlier from his pocket, deft fingers wrapping it from the ball of his thumb down his wrist, making a tight bandage.
"This should give you some support, until we get back inside and have it looked at proper," she tells him, matter-of-factly.
Mommy mode is officially turned on. Which would explain why her soft fingers have yet to leave the tender wrist.
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Doc pulls in a breath, then inclines his head to the wrist.
"You make a mighty fine wrap without havin' to try," he adds, as a compliment.
And makes no effort to move his hand.
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"It's amazing the amount of trouble little boys can get into," she remarks, a hidden jab in there somewhere, as she lifts her eyes to his.
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"S'that so, Miss Katherine?"
Little boys. Outlaws. Same difference, he's pretty sure. She's close enough that he could lean in close and kiss her, but he doesn't. It's not right. Proper. As much as he wants to...he can't.
Doc leans his head back just a little.
"It'll be fine, thanks t'you. Bit of ice and few days of rest."
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He's close. She can feel his subtle exhalation across her face, and it reminds her of yesterday. Warm summer months in a bar at the end of the universe, where rules don't matter.
She ducks her head about the same time he leans back, realizing she's still got his wrist and swiftly (but carefully), letting go.
"Just don't rush it. Let it heal up right."
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let it heal up right.
Doc smiles.
"Wouldn't dare," he says honestly, as he returns to the pell to fetch the sword, and he carefully replaces the weapon in the leather scabbard on his back before he moves to gather the quiver and arrows.
just don't rush it.
"Outlaw's honor," he adds. "Let it heal up right."
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"That's right," she insists, her soft southern drawl coming through in the words. "Why don't you let me help with some of your burden, for starters?"
She reaches for the quiver.
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Once they've gathered everything and set back towards the bar, he speaks up again after a brief moment of silence.
"I'm glad you're back."
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They clear in a flash, and she nods politely, offering him her best smile as they continue on.
"Where else would I go?"
Pause.
"Bar would find me."
Grin.
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"She's got quite the habit of doin' that, so I've heard."
Doc nods a bit, maybe more to himself than anything.
Things would be okay. They had to be okay.
Hope was an important thing.
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Turns to him.
And smiles honestly.
"I'm glad I'm back, too, Doc."