scurlock | oom: room 25

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oom: room 25

[ooc: after this]

When he opens the door to his bedroom, room twenty-five, he glances first to the bed and then at the floor, not wanting to trip over anything in the dark. He kicks a pair of boots out of the way as he crosses the open space, shifting her weight in his arms so that he can draw back the blankets and sheets. He moves her so that she's sitting on the edge of the bed, then kneels down to start unlacing her boots.

They're still caked with mud, so it takes him a minute or two.

He glances up at her.

"Do you want to get changed or just sleep?"

He figures she'll go for the latter.

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She doesn't want to do either, truth be told.

Numbly, she watches him work at her laces, a blush coming to her already hot face.

"I..."

She swallows thickly, curling bedlinen into her trembling hands.

"You shouldn't have to do this."

No, I shouldn't, because this shouldn't have happened to you.

"It's all right," he says, honestly. "I don't mind. You would do the same for me. You have done the same for me."

He works her boots and stockings off, then rises from the floor, crosses the room to his dresser and then returns with a pair of his socks. They're dry and clean, and they might be a little big on her feet but at least they'll keep her feet warm.

She's quiet as he moves back to her and kneels, preparing to ease those socks onto her feet.

Her face is grave, but she knows he isn't paying attention.

Silently, cautiously, she reaches her right arm out, and gently lays her hand on top of his head, fingers slipping between strands of golden hair.

It's long, again.

He pauses, only for a moment, when he feels her fingers slide into his hair. He continues putting the socks onto her feet, and then he tips his head up slightly, to glance up at her.

Doc offers her the barest hint of a smile.

"I ain't a fan of cold feet in the mornin', steppin' on this floor."

She tries offering one back.

(It's more of a twitch than a smile, if we're being honest.)

"I tried t'get to you."

It's whispered calmly, just stating a fact.

"I know you... you said I should find you if..."

‘If y'ever get hassled by someone y'let me know, and I mean that.'

"Jus' couldn't find a door. I'm sorry. I... I'm sorry."

He doesn't rise from the floor when he's finished with the socks, instead sitting there a moment longer and studying her face.

"You don't gotta apologize for that...this place can be hard to find."

He swallows hard.

"But now you're here and you'll have my help, all right? We'll take care of things, once we take care of you."

"I don't deserve it."

She shakes her head. After everything that's happened over the last three days of her life... she doesn't deserve this. Not from him.

'We'll take care of things, once we take care of you.'

The words almost make her wince.

She can only shake her head more.

I don't deserve it.

Now is not the time to be arguing this, he knows that much. Doc slowly pushes himself up off the floor and kicks his own boots off when he stands, before he sits on the edge of the bed at her side. He reaches over with a hand to lightly take one of hers.

"You may not think you do, but I gotta disagree. No matter what happened out there. But we don't gotta talk about this right now if you're tired."

And I know you're tired.

(Hell, he's already tired just from hanging onto his emotions.)

"You need to rest and lie down a little while, it will help you feel better."

"They killed him 'cuz of me. Because I'm a liar and a cheat and I... I was hurt and angry and I didn't... God forgive me, he didn't do anything wrong!"

Her voice is low, only mildly panicked, but the tears are coming back and she knows she has to fight them off, or else he'll worry.

But she has to say this.

"He didn't do nothin' wrong, Doc, it's my fault he's dead. I couldn't... couldn't stop it. The sheriff wouldn't come when I went to him and---my schoolhouse."

She swallows hard.

"They burned it."

Something twists hard in his gut at her words, the wince something that he can't even hide. He's not even trying.

"Jesus Christ."

Doc swallows, mouth suddenly dry and his throat tight, but he manages to shift a little on the bed, to put his arm around her shoulders. He wants to hug her, if she'll let him.

"You don't gotta fight it, Kate," he wipes his thumb along her cheek, over a few stray tracks from earlier tears downstairs. "I ain't gonna think any less of you for bein' upset."

Inside he's angry.

Outside he's concerned.

To be honest, she's not feeling much of anything right now. His arm goes practically unnoticed.

"We were crossing the lake," she continues, eyes focused on him. Silently, tears begin sliding down her face to meet his wandering thumb.

"I thought if we... if I could get him to the other shore... we could run and he wouldn't... they wouldn't..."

She pulls in a breath.

"It was that damn motorboat. Didn't even take them an hour to catch up."

"Who were you with? Who did they...?"

Shoot.

Kill.

Murder.

There's no easy way to put it, and he knows that. He knows that all too well and part of him hates himself for it, but that's what being an outlaw does. Teaches you things you never wanted to know, and they're things you'll never be able to get rid of.

Her voice hitches.

She never said his name.

She blinks, searching for her voice again.

"Sam."

She can't believe she never said his name.

"He was the gentlemen friend of yours," he says.

It's a guess, but...he has a feeling.

"He was the only friend of mine."

Mentally, he kicks himself.

He pulls her a little closer, towards him, and exhales a quiet breath.

"I'm sorry about Sam."

"I kissed him."

Her heart races as she blurts the words out, fingers trembling against his breast.

'Does he treat you right?'

"That's why. They killed him."

'It’s against the law for a Negro to kiss a white woman.'

(He thinks about Joseph, and that night sitting in the farmhouse, her at his side while he stitched the black man's wounds. He thinks about her father, and the way he shook hands with Crocker, the look in his eyes. He thinks about that cotton field, and the hot Texas sun beating down on the men and women working.)

"Damn..."

Doc cradles her a little closer, able to feel her heart pounding through her body.

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against her hair.

"We'll take care of it."

Her eyes are wide open and fixed on the opposing wall as he embraces her, surprised by the contact and the softness of his words.

'We'll take care of it.'

Again, she almost flinches.

‘You got a door, I got a gun. And I don't miss.’

Slowly, she lets her eyes ease shut, soaking in the heat from his embrace.

"...I--"

He may not be a Regulator --

-- no, he will always be a Regulator.

He takes care of things.

"Don't worry 'bout it right now," he urges, shifting a little to move onto his back on the bed, pulling her with him. He'll deal with the blankets in a minute. "I got you."

'I got you.'

She knows it. However, she can't help but tense when he pulls her down to the bed with him. She goes practically rigid.

She carefully, slowly, inches out of his embrace, and settles next to him.

He shifts, arranging the blankets around her, and settling himself on top of them, leaving a respectful bit of space between their bodies. He'll watch over her, until she falls asleep.

He doesn't feel like sleeping, himself.

(Too many things running through his mind, his heart. His soul.)

She silently watches his face for a few moments, blinking slowly.

Eventually, she does let her eyes slide shut.

He's not sure how long he stays awake.

watching and counting how often she breathes and memorizing the lines on her face

(Hours. Hours and hours.)

He's not sure what runs through his mind.

need help if we're going to take care of things proper

(Too much. Way too much.)

Eventually, he allows himself to fall asleep, at some ungodly hour of the morning.

swear to god, we'll take care of things

(Tomorrow will be a better day.)

She's not sure how long she lies like that.

(Hours. Hours and hours.)

She knows he's watching her but she's caught between fitful moments of sleep and a gut churning with guilt.

It's when she notices the sound of his breathing evening out that she chances opening her eyes again, blinking in the dark, early morning hours.

'We'll take care of things, once we take care of you.'

Her heart constricts in her ribcage.

'And, maybe, when you can think in straight lines again, you can make them regret pulling the trigger.'

She knows. She knows what she has to do.

'I'm not sayin' you should've done a thing with that rifle, Kate. But someone should have. I don't care what the Book says 'bout killin', it ain't right to let men like Murphy and those boys get away with the things they do.'

Slowly, oh-so-very-slooooowly, she eases back the blankets and sheets, and carefully slips out of bed. She watches his face for any sign that he might wake up.

And receives none.

Gathering her stockings and her shoes, she quickly and quietly changes again, leaving his socks on top of his dresser, and then she leaves his room.

The door clicks softly as she pulls it shut, and her stomach turns again.

I have to do this.

She walks away from his room, and makes her way up the stairs, down the corridor, around the bend, down two doors--

And then she stops.

And knocks.

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oom: room 25

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