scurlock | oom: room 25, millitimed to halloween night

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oom: room 25, millitimed to halloween night

Doc leads the way up the stairs to his room, Katherine trailing behind him (because this way, he's not tempted to check her out) and while he's expecting both of their costumes to disappear...they don't. So he opens the door to his room, which has been cleaned up nicely since the last time she was in it.

The bed is made, the weapons are all put away, his desk still looks like a bit of a disaster area (but that's to be expected, given the books and papers and the fact that he's been writing a lot lately) but it's generally a lot better than it was last time.

"I got somethin' you can wear," he tells her. "Let me get it and then I'll run back down and get us somethin' for dinner."

He rifles through the dresser for some drawstring pants, socks, a t-shirt and a button down, all of them getting put on the polished surface, next to those folded paper cranes. "You may have t'roll the sleeves up a bit," he apologizes. "But that should work."

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"I had me some jerky, too. And as I was goin' some nights I'd stay with folk and they'd offer t'cook me dinner, especially when it was snowin' and I needed t'stable Nova somewhere for the night. But most of it was just tack, jerky, salt pork...I shot a turkey 'round Christmas, though, cooked him up one night."

Doc shrugs.

"Ain't like I was carryin' much. Change of clothes, bedroll, tarp t'sleep on and my guns."

The expression on her face is a mixture of shock and concern as she listens to him speak, her blue eyes wide and unflinching.

"God almighty, Josiah," she murmurs, picturing him wandering, by himself, through the snow and the cold, unwrapping bits of fat and chew from dirty brown paper around a lonely campfire.

I shot a turkey 'round Christmas.

"It's a wonder you didn't catch your death of cold!" she scolds, her voice imbued with worry.

"I had places t'get dry," he says. "Best I could. And when y'got a fire and a good coat, well, y'make it work the best you can. Plus, you can make tea outta most anything. Pine needles, if you steep 'em long enough, actually get pretty good..."

Right.

Doc shrugs a little.

"I had to go somewhere, didn't see the point in hangin' around."

She sighs, shaking her head.

"Still don't sit right with me," she mutters. "You being out there by your lonesome all those months, not takin' proper care of yourself."

Doc looks at her. "And it don't sit right with me that you've been in here, not takin' proper care of yourself," he adds gently, before he has another drink of water. "Which is why I'm gonna make certain that you do."

She blushes softly, knowing he's caught her good.

"Haven't had much say in the matter..." she murmurs, shaking her head.

To be honest, she could have forced herself to eat more, but when you're so highly wound, sometimes the last thing you want to do is argue with your appetite.

"The one thing you're in control of is your own actions."

Doc nods slowly.

"So it's alright, just...I don't want y'falling to pieces on me, you hear?"

"I'm not falling to pieces," she sighs, laughing that quiet laugh one utters when they're just so tired they don't know what else to do.

One hand goes to her face, and once she's sure her water bottle won't spill in her lap, the other joins it.

She's quiet.

"All right," she mutters into her palms. "I'm falling to pieces."

"It's alright," Doc leans over slightly after he tosses his plate on the coffee table and caps his water bottle, one arm going around her shoulders. "Because I'm damn good at pickin' up pieces after they've hit the ground."

A small smile, hopeful.

"And I'm not gonna give up on you."

She jumps when his arm goes around her, hands sliding to her neck so her eyes can focus on his chest.

He's fine. He's whole. No unsightly wounds or stains of dark red.

"...did we decide that I was still an upstanding gentleman?
I can't remember."

"Thank you."

It's the only thing she can think to say.

"You don't have to thank me," he says. "But, you're welcome, Katherine."

Doc's still worried. She's not acting right.

"You tired? I can sleep on the couch and you can take the bed, 'less you want...to share."

"No!"

The answer comes out a little too quick, a little too sharp, her body going rigid as she looks up at his face. When she makes contact with his eyes, she forces herself to relax.

"I mean, no, I'm not tired. I'm just... I'm not tired."

It's a blatant lie. But the very thought of going to sleep right now terrifies her beyond rightful explanation.

If she would just tell him that, he'd understand.

Doc leans back just a little.

"Well then what do you wanna do? I..." He glances around the room, and tries to think of things that they could do. He's not nearly awake enough for origami folding. His eyes fall to his books. "I could read, I guess, until y'were tired?"

She looks down, forcing her breathing to even out.

Slow, careful hands find that water bottle of hers and move it cautiously to the coffee table. Beside her unfinished meal.

She can tell he's getting weary himself.

"Maybe I should go," she whispers. "Let you get some sleep."

She's worried about his health, and besides, at least one of them should get some sleep if they can.

"Kate, if you go without tellin' me what's botherin' you so much, I ain't gonna sleep. I'm gonna end up sittin' here smokin' cigarettes and ponderin' going up to your room to check on you every hour to make sure you're alright."

A pause.

"And don't think I won't, because you know I'm stubborn. I'm not tired."

She knows better than to think he's bluffing.

But she can be just as stubborn herself, when she wants to be.

"I'm just not tired, all right? I don't want to sleep."

She's getting a little agitated, from the nerves and exhaustion and fear and upset.

"I don't want to sleep!"

"Alright," he says, backing off a little, raising one hand in a calm down sort of gesture. "Fine. Don't, then."

Doc's not any less worried, if anything else, he's more worried.

"Don't, if you don't want to."

She's sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees and face in her hands, rubbing at her brow tiredly.

She's exhausted and it's making her irrational and she knows it but she can't do anything about it.

"I'm sorry."

She smooths her hands away from her face, eyes falling on that discarded picture sitting on the coffee table. She fingers it absently.

"Tell me more about your friends. If... if you want to."

Doc looks at the picture, at her hand, her fingers against the edge.

"Y'know, sometimes we'd talk 'bout what we'd do after we moved on from workin' for John," he says. "Sometimes I wanted land. Charlie and I thought 'bout openin' up a cheese factory down by the Gila," he admits. "For awhile, anyway. Don't know how good we would have been at it. We knew we wouldn't work for him forever...but we didn't want to leave."

He pulls a leg up onto the couch.

"John was a good man to work for. He made certain that we did things right, and gave us a solid bunkhouse and square meals, in exchange for keepin' things in order."

She smiles softly at the story, chin cradled in her hand.

She's still leagues away from him, physically and emotionally, but she's smiling.

"What about the rest of the boys? Any of them ever dream about pursuing greater things, like cheese production?" she teases, but her voice is oh-so-tired.

Doc laughs quietly. "You make it sound like we missed out on livin' a dream," he drawls, hand moving to her back as he leans back in a little closer, gently rubbing along her spine.

"Chavez wanted to start a family," he says. "Carry on his tribe. Richard...you know I ain't sure what he wanted to do. Maybe be a lawman someday. He had the right attitude for it. Steve...hell, Steve never really cared what he was doin'," he admits.

"Maybe y'did," she jokes.

She starts when his touch settles on her back, not expecting the contact. She doesn't flinch away or say anything, but her eyes focus oh-so-intently on that photograph in her hand, and her shoulders go just a little tense.

"Chavez... he didn't have any family?"

The motion along her spine is soothing, and bit by bit she relaxes into the touch.

"Cheese factory. I ain't a fan of milkin' cows, and you can't make cheese unless you got milk."

Doc shakes his head.

"No, he didn't. They'd all be killed years back," he says. "He was good with kids, though. The night Charlie got married, he was dancin' with all those little girls, carryin' them around in his arms. They loved him for it."

He keeps his touch light and gentle, repetitive enough to set a watch to.

She sighs, brow creased, as her eyes fall closed.

"Terrible, being the last of your family," she murmurs. And there's something in her voice. Some thread of knowing what it's like, it just comes through in the words. "Maybe there's still time for him, though. To raise another family."

Her chin is heavy in her hand, all her concentration bent on the slow rhythm of his fingertips on the thin cotton of her shirts--his shirts.

But she won't let herself fall asleep.

"I hope so," he says. "He deserves it."

Doc catches the tone in her words, but doesn't mention it. That's the last thing she needs him bringing up right now. Especially if she's having dreams about the day her father died was killed.

Quietly:

"You know I ain't gonna let nothin' hurt you."

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