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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Doc doesn't move a muscle. He hardly breathes. He can't. He can't move. He can't --

It's funny, ain't it Doc?

-- it all suddenly makes sense, to the fucked up logic in his head, and he slips out of the bed and paces carefully, a few steps away. His eyes fall to the gunbelt on the far counter, neatly folded, those grips well worn from use. He looks at his hands, thinks about the blood on his face and the fear in her eyes.

She's still laughing, quietly, in disbelief.

Pals.

His skin feels sticky, as he walks the distance to the counter and the sink and he flicks the tap on, reaches for the soap, and washes his hands. Why he's not sure. Maybe it's a guilt thing.

You killed half the men I got credit for. I've seen you, Scurlock. I've seen you kill!

The skin of his knuckles goes white as he grips the edge of the counter, though he's not sure if it's anger or just his body keeping him from falling. Everything feels fuzzy, detached. Maybe she's still laughing. Maybe she's not. Maybe she's gone.

She's gone.

Just like Yen.

Just like Merlin.

She's gone and you're alone.

Doc looks at his reflection in the mirror, and a smirk tugs at his lips. Billy's standing over his shoulder, thumbs hooked in the loops of his belt, looking awful smug because he knows what Doc knows.

"You were right, you goddamn son of a bitch."

I know I was, Doc. Just another gringo.

"You were right."

She's no longer laughing after he stands and begins pacing. She's watching him with furrowed brow, quiet but not without concern. The circumstances are unsavory, but he is sick, and she still loves--

She still...

She still cares about him.

She quietly watches every move he makes. She knows he's been fevering, and she knows he's still weak from his wounds. She's amazed he's moving as effortlessly as he is.

"You were right, you goddamn son of a bitch. You were right."

She finally rises and walks to him. Her eyes are aching from crying, and her chest is tight. So very tight. But she holds herself together, she keeps collected, she keeps the tremor out of her voice, and she brings her tiny body close to his.

Heat is pouring off him.

She puts her hands gently, but firmly, on his shoulders and stands on her tiptoes, speaking softly into his ear. "Let's get you back into bed."

Even if she has to peel his hands from the sink and lead him back to bed herself. She's upset, but he's hurt.

And she still cares about him.

Doc doesn't move, not quite yet.

"He was right. I should've listened t'him. Never would've been nothin' more than a gringo down in Ol' Mexico. S'the same as bein' dead." He glances up at the mirror again. "Y'happy, Kid? You were right."

We're outlaws, Doc. And there's a reason for it.

"Course there is," he replies.

Yep.

He hangs his head and then nods, slowly, taking in a deep breath, then another before he turns. He's so very tired. All he wants to do is sleep.

Doc lets her guide him back into bed, and he lies himself down and reaches for the IV lines. It's not difficult to reconnect them, and he avoids her eyes, guilt and shame in his features as she helps him settle down. He hates this. Hates that she's still there, taking care of him.

But he loves her. Needs her.

(Even if he feels like she's already gone.)

All he wants to do is sleep. Part of him wants to never wake up.

She's afraid he is hallucinating. His skin is hot and clammy, and he's spouting words she doesn't know how to respond to.

Carefully she helps get him situated again, not oblivious to the way he avoids looking at her as much as humanly possible. She wants to ask him a million questions; she wants to scream and shout; she wants him to wrap her up in his arms. She wants to know why.

But she only checks his temperature, and his IVs, and makes sure he's tucked in securely, and the pillows are just right.

He looks tired. She's tired too.

"I'll go fetch Kim; make sure you'll get the medicine you need, and you'll be watched over."

That's her way of saying goodbye.

"Thank you."

Doc's quiet, for a moment, and she's still standing beside him and he knows he should say something. But he's not sure what to say. There is nothing to say, because nothing he can say will make this good enough.

He swallows, and then glances up at her.

There's a look in his eyes, but he couldn't tell you what it was.

"I need you to take my guns," he says, voice rough, low. "Leave 'em with Bar and y'order her not t'give 'em to me until I ain't wantin' 'em for the wrong reasons like I am right now."

Doc holds her gaze for a minute, before he nods and looks away.

Her eyes are locked on his, and the intensity of the gaze chills her to the core.

"What do you mean, Doc."

It's not really a question.

Her eyes are on his long after he looks away from her. She isn't moving.

"Josiah. What do you mean."

He doesn't answer her.

It's not that he doesn't want to. He just can't. Doc swallows, slowly, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat but it just won't go away.

Josiah. What do you mean.

It won't go away.

His eyes are riveted like cold steel to a point on the wall in the direction he's looking, jaw set. He's calm. Oddly so.

She sits back down on the edge of the bed and reaches out to cup his face. It's more firm than tender as she forces him to look at her.

She's leaning in towards him, and there's a fire dancing in those cold eyes now.

"Don't you tell me you walked through hellfire and a storm of bullets just to give up on me now."

Her voice is low and dangerous, with the barest hint of tears edging each word.

For a half second, he's angry when she forces him to look at her, that temper flaring up and sparking dangerously close to the surface of his eyes, his words coming out in a growl.

"This ain't worth it if I ain't got you."

But then he looks at her. Looks at her. And something changes. The outlaw passion and that spark vanishes, replaced by something else. Something softer, but worn around the edges.

"This ain't...I ain't good at goin' alone, Katherine. I know I went an' fucked this all up," he doesn't bother to correct the swear, not now. "But I...I'm tired of fightin' to hold on to the people I love. I love you. I don't wanna lose you."

Edited 2008-09-06 07:33 (UTC)

She's almost afraid of him--almost--but his anger dissipates almost as suddenly as it burst forth, and all that's left that Katherine can see is a boy.

Not a man. A boy, young and wounded and scared. And he's looking straight at her, like he can see right through her.

Her heart is pounding in her ears and she just doesn't know what to say. She had been so ready to walk out, but here she is and here he is and...

I love you. I don't wanna lose you.

"Mind your tongue," she whispers, because it's just too hard to say anything else. Blonde hair is falling in her eyes now, and she hopes it obscures the tears collecting in the corners.

She suddenly feels so tired of holding herself up. Her hands fall to the bed on either side of his head, and slowly her head drops until her forehead is resting against his collarbone.

She feels like she should say something but she doesn't know what to say. Everything inside her head is a mess, rivaled only by the shambles her heart is in.

His earlier words when he was talking into the mirror come back to her, and her voice is very small when she speaks.

"He wasn't right."

She doesn't clarify any further than that. She figures he'll know what she means, even if she doesn't really understand it herself.

Mind your tongue.

Doc feels her forehead pressing lightly against his skin and he sighs, the exhaustion setting into his bones and his muscles, the anger and the exertion having taxed him more than he thought they would. He knows Kim will be by eventually, and while Katherine could go fetch her, he has no desire to watch her walk away.

"I know."

A pause.

"You need sleep," he murmurs, gently. Carefully, slowly, he shifts his body over to the far side of the bed, to his left, away from her and where she's sitting. "And I need sleep." His fingers lightly card through a few strands of her hair. "But you ain't spendin' another night in that chair," he whispers. "Plenty of room for you right here."

There's still so much left unresolved between them. Her insides are caught in a maelstrom of mixed emotions, and combined with the exhaustion it makes her feel vaguely ill. They need to talk. They need to settle the air between them.

But he's right. She needs sleep, and he needs sleep, and right now she's so exhausted inside and out that she can't help but comply. She needs him. She needs his solidity and his warmth. Tomorrow everything will hit her like a ton of bricks, but for right now she needs him.

She draws her legs up onto the bed and settles next to him--on top of the covers, of course. She's almost afraid to touch him, for a variety of reasons.

"I don't want to hurt you," she whispers.

"You can't."

She's on his right side, and he shifts his arm around her, so that she can rest her head on his shoulder, and he reaches for her arm with his free hand and gently settles it on his chest. The bruises are still fading, and will take time to heal, but it's a process.

Just like they are.

Doc knows they're nowhere near all right, but he's too tired to talk, argue, or even think.

"For what it's worth," he says, quietly. "I'm sorry for not telling you the truth."

She allows him to position her, snuggling into his warmth (albeit he is burning a little hotter than he should be). She fits next to him, snug as a puzzle piece.

It feels wrong, and she's accosted by a sudden stab of guilt. This is wrong. She knows it. She knows she shouldn't be here. This is wrong.

But she fits next to him, snug as a puzzle piece, and soon she's relaxed enough to drop off.

His apology hangs between them, unacknowledged and unanswered, until the morning comes.

And with her pressed up against him, he sleeps soundly, enough that he only wakes after Kim's been by to check on him once, and he's grateful that the infirmary is quiet.

When he finally does wake up, it's slowly, shifting tired limbs and sore muscles as he gets comfortable again. He feels her against his side and the memories of the night before, their conversation, that apology...

Doc feels his leg muscles protest as he moves, and he grunts quietly under his breath, still half asleep as he tries to get comfortable again, fidgeting a bit.

The good news is, that his fever has all but disappeared, but he's still not nearly awake enough to notice.

She awakens when he begins to shift, but it takes her a moment to remember where she is. It doesn't feel like she's been sleeping long; her body is tired and her head aches a bit. But feeling the solid warmth of another body beneath her is enough of a shock to throw her back into consciousness, despite the tendrils of exhaustion still clinging to her mind.

Her head snaps up and she blinks a few times, reminding herself of the events of the previous night. Milliways. The infirmary. Doc.

"Are you in pain?" she mumbles with a mouth made of molasses, still partially asleep.

"Nah."

His leg protests again and he winces a little, but once he gets settled again he's fine. Doc blinks his eyes open and then turns his head to yawn, pulling in a deep breath (that aches his side, but he's not going to complain about being able to breathe) before he exhales.

"Kim came by, dosed me up 'gain pretty good," he adds, before he flops his head back down onto the pillow and closes his eyes again.

She eyes the wince as he shifts a bit more, pulling herself up and away from his body.

Their conversation from last night pours back into her memory with aching detail. That apology is still hanging between them, along with a hundred unasked questions.

"I didn't even hear her come in," Katherine sighs absently, stifling a yawn behind a trembling hand.

"I wouldn't have woken up if she didn't wake me t'let me know what she was doin'."

He lies there a moment, quiet, before he turns his head and opens his eyes, to look at her. He's not sure what to say. Nothing's quite right, anyways. Doc puts an arm to his forehead and swallows. "Fever's gone though, s'good...ain't seein' the Kid walkin' 'round no more."

She can't stand the burn of his eyes on hers, but she can't seem to look away.

There's less than half a foot of space between them, but it feels more like a mile of barren desert laying between.

"That's good," she nods. And it is good. She's relieved.

But she can't bring herself to smile.

Doc looks away after a brief moment. He keeps his eyes down, at the blanket first, then at the back of his hand and that ghost of a white scar. It's something to focus on other than the way he feels like his heart is trying to claw out of his chest.

"Thank you for stayin' with me," he finally manages, but his voice sounds like he's struggling with it. "I know I don't deserve it, but you stayed anyways. Means somethin', more than I can say."

If it weren't for the drugs in his system, he'd be feeling the start of a headache coming on. Even with the drugs in his system, he's already feeling his chest tighten up.

Her eyes are focused on the clean white sheets of his hospital bed. There's nothing there, but she's staring so hard she can almost see something dancing in her line of vision.

She wants to tell him she stayed because she wanted to. She wants to tell him he does deserve it. But she can't seem to get her voice to work.

It feels like her heart is being squeezed in a vice.

"Why didn't you say nothin'?"

It's not even a whisper. It's barely a breath.

Doc shakes his head, lightly, and he glances up at her ever so slightly out of the corner of his vision.

"I was scared of losin' you like I lost everybody else."

He curls his hand up into a light fist, fingertips digging into his palm and that scar. It's obvious he hates admitting to being scared but it's the truth.

"It was wrong an' I should've told you ahead of time but..."

We would have never been more than just friends.

Her eyes are still focused on that not-spot on the hospital bed. She can still taste him on her tongue, and the memory turns her stomach with guilt.

"You lied to me, Doc."

"I..."

He never said he was married, but he never said he wasn't, either. Still a lie. Just not the truth.

Just like back home, and those papers, and the story of Josiah Gordon Scurlock bleeding to death in the dust and dirt, body lost to the Apaches, one less Regulator to worry about. Not dead. Just not alive. Not a lie. Not the truth.

(Paradox.)

Doc can only nod.

oom, sorta: infirmary thread with katherine

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