scurlock | oom, sorta: infirmary thread with katherine

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oom, sorta: infirmary thread with katherine

It's been nearly twenty-four hours since he's been back at Milliways, and a good portion of those hours have been spent either asleep or in a haze from the fentanyl in his system. There have been people in to see him, and he's eaten a little bit every time he's been awake, just because he knows he needs to eat, even if he can't think about what happened back home -- no, it's not home, not anymore -- without his stomach knotting up into twists and coils.

Doc's not sure if anyone's there, he knows Katherine's been staying with him and he's protested a few times to try and get her to go upstairs and rest, clean up, eat, take care of herself for a few hours -- he's certainly not dying anytime soon, after all -- and he hopes she's listened.

He sleeps solid for a few hours, with Kim coming by every few to check on him, adjust his medication or bandages if he needs it, but for the most part, he's healing just like anyone would from a gunshot wound that went too long without being treated. Slowly. Everything takes energy, no matter if it's eating or sleeping or getting up long enough to use the bathroom. He's still not gotten a shower, but brushing his teeth for the first time in days felt so incredible he could hardly stand it.

It's in the middle of the night when the first strange dream comes.

On the outside, he's silent. His body shifts a little on the bed as his mind takes him across deserts and sand, heat rising up in flickers to rush over his skin. He's not wearing a shirt, and the sun bakes his flesh to a red glow as he crosses.

The sand gives way to hard, caked earth, and then to rock and granite, crumbled boulders that heave against the ground, driven by an unseen force power and strength and all you could want if you drink from this that ripples the air around him. He's flying, or at least he feels like it, and the ripples reflect off the air like sunlight on a pond.

His fingertips brush against them, slowly.

Everything swirls around him like the air before a rainstorm, skin almost wet from the sweat and the heat.

Ripples...then air...a tornado....not...no...

"Alex."

Alex McSween is standing in front of him, those golden, sunlit ripples bouncing off his chest, just like those bullets from the Gatling gun ripped into his body that day, the way he stumbled and fell in the dirt and mud in front of his house.

"Alex."

Still asleep, he jerks his head softly to the side when the gunshots start, only it's not Alex falling, it's John, they shot him in the back and he fell from the wagon, horse dead too, they had no choice but to run. They had to run. It all started...

The wind kicks up around his face, swirling dust up into his eyes. His mouth tastes like iron, he thinks. No, salt. For they are the salt of the earth...

Wicked boys...wanted and wicked or just plain wicked?

Power. All he could want. All he had to do was reach out and touch it...

"No. No. Get out of my head I don't want...please. Please. No."

...it was a whirlwind, now. Sand kicking up into his eyes and blinding him, he was staggering, stumbling against it, it hurt to breathe and his mouth tastes not like salt, or iron, but of dirt, face down in the earth with the bullets flying overhead and shattering adobe bricks, he's trapped and he can't get out.

Run boys, run.

Alex falls dead, beside him.

Run.

Doc opens his eyes -- everything's blurry because there are tears, he's not sure what for or where from or how he has the energy to cry right now, and even though nothing hurts due to the painkillers he can't help the fact that the heat in his eyes, on his skin, everywhere -- and he pulls in a choked, harsh breath.

"I'm sorry, Alex," he whispers, eyes focused on the ceiling, tears streaking down over his skin, leaving tracks along his temples and into his hair. "I'm so sorry."

Whether she's at his side or not, he's not sure. Part of him doesn't want her to see him like this, wants her to be taking care of herself...but the part of him that's making those tears keep coming needs her more than anything right now.

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At the moment she's a few feet away from the bed, at the stainless steel sink. She's rinsing her hands for the umpteenth time since Doc was brought in, but she still can't seem to get the stain of blood completely off of her. Or maybe that's just her imagination.

The burn on her wrist is a little inflamed from all the abuse she's put it through. She dabs at it cautiously, wincing when it screams in protest. She hasn't been doctoring it as she should be. She hasn't even left the room for much of anything, truth be told, and she's starting to look a little worse for wear.

She thinks she hears Doc stirring behind her, but over the last few hours he's shifted and dreamed a lot, so she doesn't move to him immediately. She simply turns the faucet off and listens.

"...don't want...please. Please. No."

She's by his side in an instant, still toweling off her hands as she sits on the edge of his bed. She can see the tears collecting in his hairline, the choked whisper still fresh on his lips, eyes focused on the ceiling.

Tenderly she wipes the tears from his face and pets his sweat-dampened hair. "Hey," she whispers, and she can see the subtle edge of shame on his features.

"You want some water?" she asks softly, trying to give him as much dignity as possible by leaning away for the pitcher and cup.

"Yeah," he says, quietly, as he realizes that he's not in Begma or Shadow or New Mexico, but Milliways, in the infirmary, and he's not dead or possessed or anything of the sort. "Please."

Doc uses his good arm to push himself up, carefully, still drugged up pretty well, and once he's up on one arm, he eases himself up to sitting completely upright, careful not to go too fast as to get dizzy.

He hates feeling trapped in the bed like this.

One hand goes to his face and he scrubs it over his features, and he's idly reminded of the fact that he could really, really use to shower. Maybe in a minute he'll try standing up. After some water.

And after he gets the taste of earth out of his mouth.

She pours him a glass, still amazed that the water remains somewhat chilled despite not being in an icebox, and carefully hands him the cup.

"Are you in any pain? Should I fetch Kim to bring you another dose of pain killers?"

His eyes are still a little glassy, and she's trying her darndest to keep her voice even and not look too concerned.

"No...I'm pretty numb right now, actually."

Doc drinks from the glass and then looks at her, one hand moving to his chest to scratch idly at the skin above one of the bruises. He still wasn't keen on putting on a shirt, and hell at this point she'd already seen him without his so he had no real need to.

"Do wanna try t'stand up though," he adds, after another few swallows of water. "Gotta cap the IV but I remember how t'do that."

As he scratches at his bruised chest, Katherine is suddenly mindful of her current state of dress. She rolls down the sleeves of her blouse deftly, buttoning the cuffs, and smooths the material against herself self-consciously.

"Not too numb, I hope."

She eyes him, letting some of that earlier restrained worry shine through.

"Are you sure? I-I'm not the doctor here, but it seems so soon..."

And all those cords and cables snaking into his flesh are a little disconcerting.

"I was up after 'bout a day the last time I was in here," he says quietly. "And I've...I've come back worse, before," he adds, eyes down for a moment as he carefully leans over and unclips the pulse-ox sensor from his finger and flicks the machine off.

"Plus I've helped a few times when others have come in," he continues. "Could y'do me a favor and git some of that white tape from that tray over there?"

Doc offers her a crooked, half smile. "I just...I gotta stand up, gettin' tired of lyin' down so much. Suppose s'my restless nature peekin' through."

"As long as your restless nature doesn't leave you flat on your back, or worse," she scolds gently, handing him the requested tape.

"Will...has told me... about a few instances," she mumbles, not quite meeting his eyes. "Of you coming back here worse. Though, it's hard to picture..."

'Call it for luck.'

'For luck.'

She swallows hard and refocuses on him, smiling as best she can.

"You can stand, long as you promise to let me lend you my arm."

"Deal."

Doc carefully clamps off the IV fluid line, then removes it from the port on the tube in his arm, and then clamps that off and tapes it down so it won't go anywhere.

Once that's done, and once he swings his legs over the side of the bed, he sits like that a moment.

"We can talk 'bout those," he offers, before he braces his hands on the bed and then slides his feet to the floor, slowly standing, and instinctively putting his hand on her shoulder, to lightly steady himself.

Her hands reach tentatively for his elbows - there to steady him if he needs her to, but still only lightly touching him.

"I... Are you..."

He's close enough she can feel the slightly fevered heat of his skin radiating against her cheeks and hands.

"Are you in any condition to start a story like that?"

"Not right this second and t'be honest, depends on which instance m'talkin' 'bout. Some of them are...more draining than others."

Doc knows there is a small shower on one side of the infirmary, and he feels confident enough that he can manage to at least rinse himself without assistance.

He lifts his head and stands up a little straighter, and nods slowly.

"Don't feel like m'gonna pass out," he says, cheerfully.

She can't help but chuckle at the cheer in his voice.

"One step at a time, Cowboy," she reminds him playfully. And then her expression sobers, and she gives his elbow a light squeeze.

"And that goes for your story tellin', too. No need to strain yourself just yet; I'm not going anywhere for a while."

She's resolute on this matter, her eyes bright and stubborn.

"Alright, darlin'," he says quietly, before he leans in and lightly presses his lips against her hair, lingering a moment before he pulls back.

"Now I don't know 'bout you but I know I need a shower. They got one across the way there," he nods his head to a doorway which has a small changing room, toilet, and very accessible shower for the cases when patients can't climb stairs back to their rooms. "Y'think you'd mind runnin' upstairs and gettin' me a few things from my room?"

A pause.

"And I expect y'to actually take some time for yourself, ain't gonna make Ben very happy if you're runnin' yourself down just for me, now am I," he quips.

She blushes at the intimate contact, and smiles a truly genuine smile.

Deep in her stomach she feels a twinge of guilt, but she's not sure why.

"I don't mind at all. But are you sure you're okay to be getting your bandages wet this soon?"

She then smiles, a truly wicked smile, and pats his chest--carefully.

"Don't worry. I can handle Mr. Wade just fine."

"I'll take 'em off and you can help me wrap 'em up again, stitches should be alright. Ain't gonna be all too long, just want t'get myself cleaned up a bit."

Doc gives her a little bit of a look, a smirk tugging at his lips. He knows she's not wanting to leave him but he will be fine.

"I got a pair of red shorts in one of my drawers, think it's the middle one, and if y'wouldn't mind goin' into my desk, I got a deck a'cards sitting in the top drawer, if you could bring those too?" There are actually two decks of cards in the top drawer, a regular deck of playing cards, and a deck of larger cards, slipped into a paper sleeve.

Yes, I will be fine. I promise.

She eyes him warily, the way a mother might eye her boy sitting, claiming innocence, in a principals office.

She can be as stubborn as a mule when she wants to be, and right now she's meeting his smirk with a look that says 'Do not even toy with me, Doc Scurlock, or I will tie you to that bed myself.'

This makes her smirk, just a little, and murmur, "You sure you'll be okay with me touching you like that?"

She pulls back her hands, her fingertips ghosting past his hips and along his forearms before she clasps them neatly in front of her.

The requests are strange to her ears, but she nods. "Just the shorts and the cards?

"And are you sure you'll be all right on your own?"

"I'll be fine," he murmurs, quietly. Fine with both, actually.

Doc's got a hint of a smirk on his own lips, and he nods just a bit. "Promise. Just gonna clean myself up a bit so I don't look like I've been fresh outta a hog pile," he teases, his hand lingering another moment on her shoulder before he steps back.

"Just the shorts and the cards," he echoes.

"All right," she finally concedes, stepping back and making sure he can move on his own before leaving him. When she's quite satisfied, she gives him one last look and heads back out to the bar, where she's able to grab a key to his room and head upstairs.

It's almost exactly as she remembers it, save for one thing she notices as she reaches for the dresser drawers. There's a small stack of women's clothes on top of the dresser, a prim little note resting on top.

'There's fresh soap and a washcloth in the bathroom.
Clean up, or Doc will scold me later.
D':'

Katherine chuckles softly, but as she looks up she catches her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. She looks frightful. So, with a sigh, she concedes once again, and steps into the bathroom to clean up a bit.

It's only a short time later she emerges, smelling of some strange sweet soap she's never seen the likes of in her day, hair a little neater and clothes fresh. Bar has the grace to keep her in a skirt this time, albeit perhaps not as reserved an ensemble as she's accustomed to.

It at least covers her knees, and the bruises on her arm.

She collects the shorts and the two decks of cards. If it had been any other time, she might have been tempted to snoop around a bit. But, given the circumstances, she makes her way back to him promptly with the requested items.

As soon as she's gone, and he makes his way across the room and into the bathroom, he shuts the door behind him and peels himself out of the bandages and the pants he's wearing, grateful for the various handrails and walls he can lean against as he's getting undressed and actually underneath the spray.

At first, he just stands underneath the water, not moving, not doing anything but letting it soak him from head to toe. It's hot against his already warm skin, but he doesn't care because it feels so incredible that he wonders if he could fall asleep just standing there.

You could but she'd worry.

Eventually, he moves for the soap, gingerly cleaning off traces of dirt and blood, sweat, and grime from not having been clean in nearly a week. He's pretty sure that he was not looking his best, and his hair is grateful for the attention as he ducks his head under the spray.

The beard he'll deal with later.

Once he's cleaned every inch of skin he can reach without hurting himself, and rinsed his mouth out several times, he turns the water off and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back behind his ears.

Doc's grateful that the towel is fluffy, as he wraps it snugly around his waist and tucks it so that there will not be any chance of it falling, and then steps out into the infirmary, careful not to slip on the floor.

When she comes back, she'll find him standing in front of a mirror and staring himself in the eyes, absently, water droplets still sticking to his bare skin.

"You all right?"

Her voice is soft, nearly ethereal, like she's speaking across a great distance, though it's only from the doorway to his hospital room.

She isn't sure if she should enter or leave or... well, there's a man in a towel not a few yards from her, and no manner of breeding or grooming prepared her for what the proper etiquette would be for something like this.

His skin is still pink, and he looks so very tired.

"I think perhaps you should get back to bed."

"Yeah, m'alright."

Doc tilts his head and studies the scar on his cheek, it's faded somewhat more, and the effects of two weeks of the sun have left him with a bit of a tan as well, so it looks worse than it is. He stays there for a moment, before he glances over at her and smiles.

"I'm thinkin' of tryin' to eat a bit. Maybe while I'm gettin' changed y'could do me another favor, ask a rat for some pasta...with vegetables..." his stomach growls at the thought, quietly, as he reaches for the shorts.

She watches the tilt of his head, the slant of his eyes, and the way water skates from the pale scar on his cheek to his chin.

She smiles, an eyebrow arched. "You mean you're willing to eat without me having to force it on you? My, Doc Scurlock, I'm proud."

Her tone is light; teasing.

She hands him the shorts and the two decks of cards.

"I wasn't sure which deck you wanted, so I brought them both?"

His skin is radiating heat from the vestiges of his fever, intinsified by the hot water of his shower.

"God, Doc. You're so hot," she mutters, a little worriedly.

"Fevers always get a little worse 'fore they get better. I'll get some more of those antibiotics an' get back in bed," he promises. His eyes fall to the shorts, and the deck -- no, decks -- of cards, and he pauses for a half second before he looks up at her and smiles. "And I'll eat without y'havin' to force me."

A beat.

"Long as you get enough for two, of course."

Yeah, two can play at that game.

"Promise?" she asks, checking the heat of his face with the back of her hand. Her knuckles graze the skin of his neck below one cheek, then again at the other.

She grins, chuckling softly at his last statement. "Of course. I'll be right back."

Before she leaves, she cups his face in her hands, peering the seven inches up into his gray-green eyes.

"You get dressed and then get right back into bed, you hear me?"

"Swear it."

Once she leaves, he towels himself off quickly and then the changes into the shorts, and the decks of cards get set on the small table beside the bed. He grabs a roll of gauze, more ointment, tape, and settles himself carefully back in bed. The sheet and blanket are kicked down around the end of the bed, and he's already applied the ointment to the wounds, but he needs help with the bandaging part.

When she returns, she'll find him looking at the doorway with a grateful smile on his face and a 'you know you want to help me' look in his eyes. The picture of innocence.

Really.

And that picture of innocence?

Is greeted by a furiously blushing Katherine, as she comes back into the room.

"Need some help, cowboy?"

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