scurlock | oom: room 25, saturday night

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oom: room 25, saturday night

Ever since Katherine had sprinted out of bed on Thursday night, Doc has been sleeping alone, and spending more time upstairs than he usually did.

Katherine was around on Friday - he knew that much because Beaut's been gone from the stables for periods of the day and back at night - but she didn't come upstairs at the end of the day. He left the stables for his staff to attend to on Saturday afternoon, claiming a need to get some paperwork done.

And in all reality, he has gotten a good deal of paperwork done. He spent a few hours going over the stock record and copying things into a fresh ledger, working out how to organize the list, and taking care of numbers and figures for costs and staff salary. Bar could have done it for him, but he doesn't mind the work.

It's late, now. There are sketches of barns and floorplans littering his desk, those small peach seedlings in his windowsill have grown a bit the last few days, thanks to a hint of a nudge they got, showing their familiar sawtooth shaped leaves starting to form. The lamps are turned down low, but he's not sleeping, sitting on his couch in the near-dark with a glass of whiskey sweating on the coffee table.

He's sketching on a notepad, lines and dimensions, occasionally sipping from that glass.

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She knocks quietly.

He lifts his head at the knock, a bit confused (did he just hear a knock?) and then hauls himself off the couch, notepad in hand, pencil getting tucked behind his ear. The hardwood is cold under his bare feet as he pads across the room, opening the door slowly and looking out into the well-lit hall.

(He didn't have to unlock the door, either.)

When he sees it's her, he blinks a few times to let his eyes adjust.

"Hey."

She is looking down. Or, she would be, if her eyes were open.

She has attempted sleep a few times over the past few days. Most of her efforts have only resulted in brief naps in front of the fireplace, or up in the library. She fell asleep sitting at a table, once. But every time she lays her head down in her own room -- it don't matter if the lights are on, or off; if the bathroom door is open, or closed, or barricaded shut; if the windows are locked, shades drawn, or if she is letting the moonlight outline her quarters -- the nightmares come back.

She is exhausted. And she is lonely.

I am weak.

"I can't sleep."

He pulls the door open further, stepping back.

"C'mon in."

And given that she's just wearing her nightgown and is wandering the hallway barefoot, he figures that she's here to stay, at least for a little while anyway.

It had been an unconscious sort of decision to come, made in the mist of her disoriented, sleepless state. She was halfway to his room before she had even realized she had left her own.

She nods, murmuring a "Thank you" as she steps inside, rubbing her hands over her arms for warmth and comfort.

"You're welcome."

He shuts the door (locks the door) behind her once she's stepped inside, and then he turns around and tilts his head, studying her frame in the low light.

"More nightmares or just can't get to bed?"

She is grateful that he locks the door. It saves her from having to ask him to do it.

She nods again, combing an escapee from her loose braid back behind her ear. She is trembling deftly.

"S'more nightmares, s'always nightmares. Every time I shut my eyes, s'all I see, s'nightmares."

She's not exactly talking to him at the moment.

"You want to sit up on the couch or lie down with me?"

The bed is already turned down - sort of, as he didn't make it this morning, and the Loompas haven't been by to do it yet - with the sheets and quilt pulled back.

He's wondering if he should talk to Dr. Crowe about what she's saying, or Guppy. Maybe there's something that could help her sleep...

It seems as though she is quietly debating his words for a moment.

But after a while, when she still hasn't said anything...

"Want you," she breathes, hating herself the moment the words leave her mouth.

If her lingering pause has made him debate anything, his reaction to her answer doesn't show it in his features or his eyes.

He nods, slightly.

"Why don't you go on and get in bed, I'll be right there after I wash up, brush my teeth."

She nods her consent, moving for the bed and crawling toward the middle. She wearily slips her body underneath the covers, tucking her hands underneath her head and her knees up to her belly.

He's quick in the bathroom, returning a few moments later and crossing back over to the bed. As he sinks down onto the mattress he slides under the covers, settling on his stomach beside her.

He adjusts the blankets to tuck them both in and then settles his hand on the middle of her back, rubbing softly.

"You need anything else?"

She squeezes her eyes shut at the contact, betraying something about her inner thoughts with the simple action. It looks like she's remembering something -- or perhaps trying to forget. In any case, she scoots a little closer to him, gently curling one arm up under the arm he placed on her back, and letting her hand rest on his shoulder in a loose hug of sorts.

She shakes her head, and reopens her eyes.

"You want the inside?"

He debates on the offer for a second or two.

"I'm fine like this, unless you rather have me at your back."

The fact that she's not shying from his touch is a welcome relief. He can tell she's tense, just from the slow, featherlight strokes against her spine. But he doesn't push it.

"No."

The answer comes quickly, her eyes searching out his face before shyly slipping away.

"I want to be able to see you."

(His heart jumps a little in his chest.)

"I think we can manage that," he says quietly, hint of a fond smile in his voice.

He shifts to curl up a little closer, settling his arm around her in a loose embrace, and he brings his other hand up to brush her cheek with his fingertips.

She is warmer to the touch now than she had been the last time they were together, and her eyes fall shut at the contact. His fingertips feel cold against her flushed skin.

She sighs softly, nodding a little.

He frowns slightly at the heat radiating from her skin, and places a hand against her forehead.

"You're runnin' a bit of a fever," he says.

Probably from bein' out in the cold and not sleeping.

He brushes her hair back and leans in, tenderly kissing her on the forehead before he settles his head on the pillow next to hers.

"I'm burning."

She doesn't reopen her eyes, or offer much else by way of explanation for her words. They seem to make sense in her mind.

She's worrying him, just a little.

"Lemme git you somethin' to help," he replies, kissing her forehead again before he slides out of bed.

It's another quick trip to the bathroom to grab the Tylenol (Guppy mentioned they were fever reducers in addition to minor painkillers) and a washcloth soaked in cold water, wrung out to leave it damp.

He snags a glass of water on the way and then drags a chair over to use as an informal bedside table, water and bottle of pills going on it as he climbs into bed with the cool rag, sliding back under the sheets and curling up beside her again.

When he dabs at her face with the cool rag, she recoils just a bit, a shiver skating down her spine.

"S'cold," she mutters, trying to sound threatening.

He nods slightly.

"It is."

He doesn't linger too long, patting lightly at her temples before he brushes lightly over her neck.

Then the cloth is set aside and he leans in to kiss a spot on her throat.

"Will make you feel better, though."

She shivers when he takes away the rag, cold air hitting her moist skin, and then he presses his warm mouth to her throat.

Her fingers move up to thread in his hair, the only gesture she makes to suggest she likes the attention.

"I feel bad."

"What about?"

It's different than if he were asking 'why'. He doesn't need to know the why, he wants to know the underlying problem so that he can try to figure out how to make it better.

His lips are lingering against her neck.

She sighs, eyes closed, letting her head fall back so she can savor the feeling of his mouth on her skin.

"Lots of things."

She slowly pulls her fingers through his hair.

"Me. You."

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