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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"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?"

"Could use a hand," he says. "Just finishin' up these bandages."

When she approaches and settles near his side to assist, she'll find the pads already in place on the wounds to his thigh (the right, and closer to the knee than the hip) and stomach, and one for his arm sitting nearby.

She'll also be able to see the bottom edge of a scar beneath those long shorts (which he has pushed up, a little) on the skin above the left knee.

She does settle near his side, shaking her head lightly as she absently pushes up her sleeves.

"Gracious, Doc. You better go easy on yourself, or you might not have much left to scar."

The words are teasing, but there is a slight darkness to her face.

"This was from Sherwood, last year," he pushes up the fabric a little to show the extent of the damaged skin, it's only a few inches. "Reminded me I need t'practice before I go back this year."

Because he's going back. Will's a brother, and fellow outlaw.

As they wrap the injuries, her hands on his leg and then his arm, and then to his stomach, he's aware of just how hot his skin is to the touch given how cool her fingers feel.

Edited 2008-09-05 09:15 (UTC)

"You had better. I don't want you coming home with any more of those," she scolds, indicating the scars and bruises.

Her hands are gentle, light, and cautious as she helps re-bandage him, but nonetheless skilled, like one who has mended a wound or two in her time. The new wraps will hold, snug and dry, for quite some time.

She is concerned by how hot his skin is under her touch, though. His stomach jumps more than once when her fingers brush over the flesh, and he trembles a little now and then.

"Perhaps you should get some more sleep, after you eat," she says quietly, again pressing the back of her hand to his cheek.

"Just need that blanket an' some food in me," he says, as he shifts back into a more comfortable position for eating and tugs the blanket back up around his waist and stomach, to the point where he's covered up a bit more.

Bar, thankfully, knows to feed her outlaws food that'll give them energy, and it's not long before Doc is eating the pasta and vegetables without even having to be told to, once.

After a few minutes of focusing on the food, he glances over at her as he swallows. "Y'look at those cards or leave 'em in the sleeve," he asks, curiously, a light tone to his voice.

When he leans back in bed, she helps pull up the covers for him, then carefully rolls her sleeves back down and smooths the material over her arms a few times, as if making sure it will stay in place.

She's glad to see him eat, and, surprising herself, glad for the meal herself. She hadn't realized how hungry she had been. Her focus had been elsewhere, after all.

Regardless, she eats lightly, watching him carefully in case he might need something.

"I glanced at them," she replies, equally as light, though she's searching out his eyes for the reason why he's asking.

"It ain't a normal deck of cards, m'sure you noticed," he has a few more bites, finishing off the food, and then he sets the plate aside and reaches for the deck of larger cards. He taps them lightly out of the sleeve and into his hand. "It's a deck of the basic tarot," he glances up at her. "Like the gypsies and the sort use for fortune tellin', 'cept it's got a few...special cards."

He looks down as he slowly begins to deal his way through the deck, speaking as he does so

"This is gonna sound awful hard t'explain 'cause I don't quite understand it myself, but there was an incident a few months back when I...I made a deal with a man here t'fight in his war in exchange for protection. I knew I was gonna walk out that door and die and I didn't want to. Thought it was my only way. 'Cept...well, wasn't just fightin' he wanted."

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