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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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
She's quiet.
There's nothing else to say, really.
She picks up Billy's gun first, and then gathers Doc's Colt and belt into her arms. There's no way she's leaving them in the room. No way.
"Get some rest," she tells him, but her voice is so quiet she wonders if he can even hear her.
She doesn't know what else to do.
She doesn't know what else to say.
Being in this room is making both of them sick.
So despite the ache in her heart, she turns her back to him and walks to the door.
This is killing her.
She pauses in the doorway. She doesn't turn back to look at him. She just stands there, searching for the words to say.
She doesn't know what else to say.
But perhaps the long, silent pause says more than she ever could with words.
And then she leaves.
no subject
He doesn't blink, he doesn't breathe. He's not sure how his lungs don't protest. How his eyes don't dry out. He doesn't know how long it's been.
He stood there on the streets of New York City and watched her walk away.
And now.
This.
You did this to yourself. Liar. Cheat. Outlaw.
You're gonna hang, Regulator.
Doc doesn't move after she walks away.
(But a man doesn't have to move at all to lose his mind.)