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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She nods gently, forehead still pressed to his, and doesn't say another word.

It does help, knowing she's not alone. Knowing he's here and he's safe and they're okay and it's just a dream.

She moves her head gently, to lightly nuzzle his face.

Doc smiles a little.

Even with the hell going on...

"I love you."

Her heart sticks in her throat.

She opens her eyes and looks up, at his face, at the hair falling gently across his brow.

She doesn't say it. She can't say it.

But she does lean in and kiss him softly, lightly, a chaste little peck on the lips that ends soon.

Too soon.

It's alright.

Doc smiles when she pulls back, and reaches up to gentle brush his fingers across her cheek. He doesn't say it again. His return kiss (gentle, soft, and it doesn't linger) says it all.

They've fixed something. Maybe just a little thing. But it's a start.

Her face is hot when he pulls back, and she doesn't quite meet his eyes.

She's throwing every lesson about propriety she was ever taught right out the window tonight.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

About the dream. About Trout. About her troubles eating and sleeping. About every little thing she's kept locked inside.

"I'll try harder to be more honest."

It is, apparently, an issue they both have in common. But he deserves the truth.

"It's alright," he says. "And I appreciate that."

It's an issue they both have in common, but identifying those issues helps.

Doc smiles a little wider, and his fingers trace over her skin again.

"We're gonna be okay."

She can't help but breathe a little laugh, smiling patiently as his fingers dance over her face.

"No one ever accused you of being a pessimist, my Poet Laureate."

The words are tender and teasing.

"And I ain't gonna start bein' one now."

Doc leans in and kisses her forehead gently, before he settles back on the couch.

She sighs, a tremor running through her insides as she pulls back to settle again on her side of the couch. They're still close, but it just wouldn't do to cuddle. Not just yet.

She eyes her half-eaten food for a moment, and then reaches for it, slowly finishing the room-temperature slice of pizza and the bottle of water.

He draws one leg up again and turns so he's facing her, and drinks from his water bottle while she eats and finishes off her food and drink. Inside, he's grinning.

One step at a damn time, but they'll be okay.

She sets her plate and plastic bottle on the coffee table when she's finished. It's not much of a meal, but it's more than what she's had recently.

She touches her hair absently, to move an errant strand behind one ear, and remembers the ridiculous style it had been given to match her costume earlier. Her fingers set to righting it as she turns to face Doc again.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

"You're welcome," he replies.

Doc looks at her hair.

"If y'want to use the bathroom t'try and fix that, you're more than welcome, I don't know if having a mirror...might help?"

She already has it halfway down by the time he asks.

"S'alright. I think it's just pinned up. Though, it feels, too, like there's been hair wax put in it," she mutters, running her fingers through the stiff strands.

Really, she's just looking for something to do with her hands.

"Don't know what you're gonna do about yours, though," she comments after a while, trying her best not to smirk.

It still comes through in her eyes.

"It should," he runs a hand over it. "Be back to normal when I wake up tomorrow morning. At least that's how last year worked, anyway."

It's spiky and his touch does nothing to knock it down.

Hers comes cascading down to her shoulders in loose curls when she works out the last pin, and she immediately sets to work pulling it back.

"That's good. You'd be turning some heads 'round these parts with a do like that, let alone if you ever walked out your door lookin' that way."

"Jack told me it used to be common, years ago in his world, so, reckon you're right 'bout that."

Doc tilts his head to the side.

"Leave it down?"

She pauses, blinking at the request.

"...All right."

She pulls it back down, gold strands curling at her shoulders. It's long--much longer than you would think, what with the way it's always pulled back--and a little fluffy around her face from having undid the style.

"It's beautiful," he says. "Y'should wear it down more often."

Of course, there were Rules about how one would wear their hair and dress. Only certain types of women wore their hair down, and she was definitely not one of those types.

No, she most definitely is not. Which might explain the soft blush on her face.

"Th-thank you," she murmurs, a bit shyly. She moves to tuck it back behind her ears yet again.

"Did-did you want to get changed yourself? You've been sitting here in that getup all night, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to put something more comfortable on."

Doc looks at the outfit he's wearing, the black t-shirt and the black jeans, and the black boots. "Yeah, I probably should," he admits. "I could use a shower. You be alright for a little while if I grab one and get changed? I came in the bar fresh off chores out in the stables."

It'll give her time to explore his room.

She nods.

"Of course. Take your time."

"I will," he says. "And hey, maybe if I'm lucky, Bar will give me my hair back early."

Doc leans down to unlace the boots (which are your typical black ~~stompy~~ combat boots, laced up to the middle of his shins, so it takes a minute before he kicks both of them off and then picks them up and pads across the room to drop them near the door.

"I think I got some readin' material on the desk," and by that he means dime novels, given the smirk on his features. "If y'want." Then he grabs his clothes and heads into the bathroom to shower and change.

"Thank you," she chuckles, as he gathers his things and steps into the bathroom.

She sits for a moment longer, taking a deep, cleansing breath, and stretching her tired muscles. She rubs absently at her forehead and takes the time to think about everything that's happened over the last twenty-four hours.

(The memory of the kiss makes her blush.)

She moves slowly about the room after a while: fingering the literature, but not picking it up; glancing at the poems and papers on Doc's desk, but not really reading them. She steps to the dresser and pokes at the paper cranes. The new, orange one holds her attention. She picks it up, wondering what the significance is for him.

She doesn't quite set it back straight, when she's done looking at it.

Eventually, she just ends up right back where she started, legs curled underneath her and head leaned back on the couch. She closes her eyes for only a minute.

Just a minute.

And falls into a fitful sleep.

When Doc returns from his shower, his hair still how it was when he went in, but he's cleaned and changed into more comfortable clothes (a long sleeved cotton shirt and sweatpants) and his feet are bare.

He notices she's asleep on the couch and folds his clothes, putting them aside quietly, eyes on her. He notices the orange crane moved ever-so-slightly, and his eyes focus on it a moment before he glances back at her.

"Y'are gonna kill your neck sleepin' on that couch," he mutters, to himself, before he walks over and tries to figure out just how light she's sleeping.

(Because he's so going to pick her up and put her in bed.)

She's sleeping pretty light, as might be evidenced by the fact that her breathing is a little fast and uneven, rather than slow and steady.

Her brow is furrowed lightly, and given the way her hands are clutched into fists, one might be able to ascertain that she's not sleeping all that peacefully.

(So one shouldn't worry about waking her up on accident.)

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