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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"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."

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

'Careful, I might just get you into trouble. Ruffian and all...or did we decide that I was still an upstanding gentleman?
I can't remember.'

Her eyes come open right away and she stares fixedly, across the room to where the bathroom door is.

Her shoulders are slightly tense.

'Seems it ain't too often you can trust the word of the law, these days.'

(His body jerks as his feet come out from underneath him, whiplash throwing that blonde hair in his face as he groans. Lead meets bone and tendon and marrow, a sickening crack audible even beyond the echoing blast.)

'You know, I can't even tell you how many men I've killed.'

Her free hand reaches around her slight frame and brushes his hand, stilling his moving fingertips.

"Dreamed about you, too."

Doc's quiet another long moment.

And then another.

"Somethin' tells me it wasn't a good dream."

She doesn't have to tell him, but it does explain things. His hand stills against her back, and his eyes are on her face, which is turned away from him.

"No."

An understatement to answer an understatement.

She's still for another long moment.

And then she lifts her chin from her hand and slowly leans back, body curling instinctively as she comes to rest again against the back of the couch. Her hands move to cover her face.

"You was holdin' his body."

Edited 2008-11-03 20:46 (UTC)

Doc leans back himself, still close enough to be 'close' but not too close, given the circumstances and what she's told him so far. Now he's understanding why she's on such an edge.

"Was...was it just a dream or anythin' else strange?"

"What do you mean?"

She takes in a cleansing breath, smoothing her hands over her face and through her hair. Absently she realizes she still has to let it down or do something with it.

"I... could hear his voice, even after I woke up. My father. Like he was in the room, tryin' to talk to me."

"I've had dreams like that," he admits. "When you wake up thinkin' you're hearin' the folk."

He reaches for his water bottle again and has a few sips, before replacing the cap and setting it back on the coffee table, for something to do with his hands.

"But this place is...awful strange, at times."

She shakes her head, not wanting to close her eyes, but unable to keep them open. She can still see the look in his eyes, like pulling down a movie screen and revisiting that dream in all its striking detail.

She panics for the briefest of moments when she reopens her eyes and can still see the blood on her hands.

"Was you and Ben," she goes on, voice unsteady. "And I kept hearing Fira and Demeter. And then I just picked up the rifle and I--"

Bang.

She swallows, but her voice continues to lose strength.

"You were all talkin' so loud, and there was all that blood and I... I was in my schoolhouse and Trout kept grabbin' me and I just... I didn't..."

"Hey, hey, Kate, you're alright," he says, voice firm and his eyes locked on her face as she talks, voice rapid and wavering. "You're alright."

and Trout kept grabbin' me

It echoes around in his head, and doesn't sit right with him.

There's a voice in his head, too.

"You tell your Englishman he best leave no slime on the trail behind him as he crawls back to Wall Street."

Doc's eyes narrow, just slightly, at the memory.

"Who the 'ell's Trout?"

"Charles Walker. He's the--"

--one who grabbed me before, after night class.

She doesn't say it because she suddenly realizes she never told him that story. She told Ben. But not Doc.

Her arm freezes with her voice, extended in a telling gesture as her other hand lies closed where Trout's fingers had been. She can still feel bruised flesh, somewhere in her memory.

She's quiet, she's still, but she knows it's too late. She's said too much.

"--H-he's the Mayor's son."

His eyes are on her arm, narrowing more at the way her hand is covering her skin.

Someone touched her.

Doc tilts his head ever-so-slightly to study her face, then. There's a cold look in his eyes and his mouth is set ever so slightly.

"And what did Mr. Walker do to you, Kate."

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