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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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.

"How old is your son?"

"Two...two and a half months."

She closes her eyes on instinct.

Two and a half months.

Just a baby. A new baby.

While Doc was kissing her under eaves of branch and leaf, his baby boy was at home with

Doc's wife.

"You should'a said something."

"I know."

Doc's quiet after that, a long time.

Finally, small and almost broken:

"Don't matter no more. They're gone. Lost 'em like I lost everybody else. Was just tryin' to make things right. Went back t'New York and got an honest job, but they found me. It's a whirlwind. I can't get out."

She doesn't know what to say to him.

She wants to reach out and take his hand, or touch his face, or run her fingers through his hair soothingly, but she doesn't move.

She can't move.

Truth be told, she won't move.

She hates herself for sitting there, silent, not looking at him, not moving. But she can't will herself to do anything else.

So there she sits. Silent. Not looking at him. Not moving.

Breaking on the inside.

Doc wants to beg.

Plead.

Get on his knees and swear to everything holy he can think of that he's sorry, that he knows he fucked up but he can't lose her. He wants to swallow his pride (what little of it is left, at this point it's not much) and beg her for forgiveness.

But he doesn't deserve it. And he won't guilt her into doing something she doesn't want to do. She's got every right to hate him. Curse him. Every right and he knows it.

He swallows hard and digs his nails so hard into the skin of his palm that he's pretty sure there's blood being drawn. His knuckles are white and his forearm already aches from the tension, but he pays it no mind.

Take your medicine, son.

If she saw this, it would probably break her. It would probably keep her from leaving. It would probably send her into a fit of worry and compassion, and she'd tell him it's all okay. All is forgiven, and she isn't going to leave him like all the others.

But all she sees are two filthy pistols and a bloody belt of leather on a metal table across the way.

She wants him to argue with her. She wants him to plead his case. She wishes he would wrap his arms around her and refuse to let her go. Tell her he won't ever let her go.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't argue, and he doesn't make any excuses. He was wrong.

This was wrong.

She feels like crying, but she won't. She is a lady, and she'll leave here a lady, tightly wrapped and flawlessly restrained. He'll never see another tear.

"You need your rest, Mr. Scurlock."

She even surprises herself when her voice comes out sounding so cool.

"You need to heal."

Her tone feels like a slap in the face.

(No. A bullet to the gut.)

Doc visibly flinches, ever so slightly but it's there, when his brain registers the sinking feeling in his stomach, the way his heart seems to stop, pressed against his ribs. His lungs are screaming for release, and all he wants to do is...

No.

No.

He fights back the one broken sob that threatens, the sound catching in his throat awkwardly. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. Nothing is right. Nothing.

No.

Then it all snaps.

"DAMN IT!"

She does flinch, shoulders tight and face drawn together in an ugly grimace long after his outburst has stopped ringing in her ears.

Her petite little hands are two fierce, white-knuckled fists, and if she doesn't relax soon her nails will puncture right through her skin.

"I can't... I can't..."

She feels her control slipping, and it terrifies her so much that she springs to her feet and away from the hospital bed.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

Doc pulls in a deep breath.

"It ain't your goddamn fault. You didn't know. You didn't know."

I'm the liar.
I'm the cheat.
I'm the outlaw.

Not you.

The mask goes up quick. Even he's surprised as how fast he goes from wanting to scream to wanting the entire world to be silent. His heart is pounding in his ears but he ignores it. His words are steady. (Too steady.)

"You didn't know. I'm sorry for lyin' to you. It won't happen again."

He settles back on the bed and turns his face to the ceiling. His eyes are open, and he can see her out of the very edge of his gaze, but he's trying not to look. It's hard, but he manages.

"You deserved better. I apologize for shoutin' like that. It won't happen again."

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ikissdhimbck - 2008-09-07 07:50 (UTC) - Expand

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scurlock - 2008-09-07 08:14 (UTC) - Expand

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