scurlock | oom: room 25, for katherine

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oom: room 25, for katherine

Doc leads the way into his room, holding the door for Katherine as she steps inside. He's still just buzzed enough from the liquor (though the food's helped him a lot) to be relaxed, but he knows that Katherine knows that he just wants to talk and hang out.

"You mind if I change, real quick, get outta this shirt?"

He inclines his head to the bathroom while he says it. Obviously she can go find a spot to claim on the couch and doesn't have to leave the room.

There are some new books on the desk, and a photo propped up against one, of Doc standing over an incubator, looking at a tiny baby that happens to be holding onto his finger. Guppy gave him a copy. There are also several brightly colored squares of paper in a pile.

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She walks close to him the entire trek up the stairs to his room, going so far as to rest a cautiously supportive hand around his waist. She knows he'll argue that he didn't need it--and really, he didn't--but she knows he won't complain about it, either.

"You gonna be all right on your own?" she teases, and it's a wholly joking question this time around.

She nods her consent, moving for the couch where she will wait for him to finish up.

"I'm almost sober, now."

Doc's definitely not going to complain about the hand around his waist, either. He strips his vest off right there, then grabs a t-shirt out of the drawer as he walks for the bathroom.

"I won't be long."

The vest gets tossed over into what looks like a hamper of sorts in the corner before he closes the door behind him.

"Take your time," she calls.

He might be almost sober, but there's still the matter of them wounds he sustained that he still hasn't told her about. She knows they aren't bad, but she still sees a minute stiffness in the way he's carrying himself, compared to the way he normally does.

Yes, she fully intends to mommy him.

When he returns a few minutes later, he tosses the button down onto the same pile, and as he walks over to the couch he idly rubs at his lower back. He's definitely sore, now that the adrenaline and the whiskey's worn off.

(He's also got a hell of a bruise forming, from getting hit with that chair.)

Doc detours to the desk, and picks up the colored papers and the photograph, then walks over to have a seat next to her. "Guppy's son. I went t'visit him in the hospital the other day, just for a couple minutes," he explains as he shows it to her.

She watches his every movement, eyes following the attention of his hands. She's making mental notes of what to ask him about, when the moment is right.

She shifts on the couch when he settles next to her, turning her attention to him. She has to lean against his shoulder to catch a good look at the photograph, her head tipped close to his.

"Would you look at that," she breathes, marveling at the photograph. "Such a bitty little thing!"

"He's holdin' onto my finger, it's kinda hard to see," he points out. "He was born real early, that's why they gotta keep him in this...he called it an incubator...until he's bigger and stronger."

Doc smiles a little.

"Alexander Jefry. He's a hell of a fighter, though."

"I'll say!" she breathes, squinting at the photo. "It's a marvel he didn't die!"

Doc nods. "It is. It really is."

He offers to hand the photo to her, if she wants to keep studying it, but if not he can just as easily put it on the coffee table. "They got good technology on his earth. Modern stuff, like here at the bar."

She takes it.

"It never ceases to amaze me," she agrees, examining the machine Doc had referred to as an 'incubator.'

After a time, her eyes slip back to that tiny hand curled around his finger, and the expression on his face. Her whole expression brightens with a broad smile.

There are tubes as well, not unlike the one that Doc had after getting shot, to get his medication via IV. He leans forward to pick up a piece of the bright colored paper, it's a pale blue, and then he leans back and crosses his legs as he settles on the couch again.

"Milliways has opened my eyes to a lot. Medical and otherwise."

He glances at her, and the expression on her face.

"Hmm?"

Oops. She's been caught.

"Nothing," she shrugs, shaking her head gently as she sets the picture down on the coffee table. She leans back and peers up at him.

"You just looked... I don't know. Awed."

She absently brushes a bit of those too-long blonde bangs from his face, so she can see his eyes proper.

"I was."

Jonathan wasn't that little. He was small, but not that small.

Doc smiles a little when she brushes his bangs out of his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders.

"Hadn't seen a baby that small before, just...well, awed s'a good way to put it, actually."

"Yeah?"

She refrains from asking about his baby boy, if to only save themselves the argument that typically then ensues. She still worries over the fact that, as far as she knows, he hasn't tried to see him since everything fell apart in New Mexico.

"Well, I'm glad the baby made it. I know Guppy was real nervous 'bout it all," she comments, absently, her eyes riveted on his as she speaks. "New daddy, and a new husband, too."

"He was. Still is. Alex isn't out of the woods, but he should be alright."

Doc nods a little at that, and then looks back to the piece of paper in his hands, making an idle fold here and there as he focuses on it what at the moment seems like just a square.

She nods.

"I'll be keepin' them both in my thoughts and prayers, then," she murmurs, watching him.

She lets a quietness settle upon them for a long while, before she reaches that hand back out to nudge gently at his shoulder.

"And what about you?" she asks softly, concern in her eyes. "How are you, honestly?"

"Right now? I'm..."

Doc tucks and folds the paper into a shape with a tail and head, and eventually a pair of wings emerge, and it takes the form of a small, blue paper crane. He settles it on his palm a moment to study it, before he leans forward to set it on the table.

His back twinges with the motion.

"...well I'm a bit sore, now that the whiskey's worn off."

Her eyes follow the little blue crane from its emergence to its placement on the coffee table. She smiles briefly, eyes skittering over to the dresser, where the brown, pink, and orange cranes can just be seen.

Her hand instinctively smooths over his hair when he answers her question.

"Where were you hit?" she prods gently.

Doc reaches to a spot on his back, just above the small of it, but a bit more to the side. "I got hit with a chair, actually."

He's being rather honest with her at the moment, because he's comfortable. He doesn't see why he should try and hide the fact that he's sore.

"Jus'a helluva bruise, though. Didn't break the skin."

"What?"

She straightens immediately, eyes a bit wider, as she leans across his body to place her other hand near his on his back. She knows she won't be able to see anything through the material of his t-shirt, but she looks anyway.

"Good gracious, Josiah!" she exclaims, a caretaker's instincts shifting into full gear. "Let me see it!"

"It ain't that bad."

Yet. Come morning it'll be darker.

Doc relents, however, and reaches down to grab the hem of his t-shirt and tug it up to his shoulders, shifting so she can see the mark on his skin.

It's a dark red color, a definite chair leg, and a few inches long.

"It's awful," she mutters, brow furrowed at the mark. She knows it will be a hell of a bruise after all the burst cells settle in the skin.

Two tentative fingers reach out to touch the mark carefully, running its length. She checks him quickly for any other wounds, before her eyes go back to his face.

"I'm not going to be able to let you out of my sights anymore, you know."

"Can't say I'd be adverse to that," he muses, only half teasing as he slowly moves his shirt back down to cover his torso, then settles back into the couch. He might be a little bit closer to her, however, when he finally gets comfortable.

Doc runs a hand through his hair, brushing it back and out of his eyes, again.

"We were just there gettin' a drink."

"Mmmhm."

She believes that one.

She watches him fuss and shift a bit as he gets comfortable, noticing the way he has inched himself a little closer, and lets out a long-suffering sigh. She shifts herself to make more of a lap, and then threads her fingers into his hair.

"C'mere," she says, tugging oh-so-gently.

It's all to get the pressure from his back, of course. So, medical reasons. Naturally.

Naturally. Which is why with a bit of shifting, (and not a hint of protest) he ends up on his side, his head resting gently on her lap, one arm draped over her legs as he gets comfortable.

His eyes are closed, but there's a definite smirk tugging at his lips.

"Much better."

His back is to the couch, and to her, and he opens his eyes again to focus on the crane on the table before he glances up at her out of the corner of his vision.

"Yeah?"

She smirks right back, fingers pulling slowly through his hair as he settles.

"Yeah," she agrees, eyes on his.

"Don't expect me to believe for a minute that you and Will just went out to get a drink, though."

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