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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"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."

"Well that's how the night started," he admits.

Oh, yes there is more to that story, yes indeed.

"We wasn't lookin' entirely fer'a fight."

Her fingers slow and stop for a moment.

"'Entirely'?" she questions, eyebrow arched ~~and smirk concealed.~~

Doc's quiet, a moment, before he glances up at her with an entirely innocent expression.

"Reckon y'could say we wasn't adverse t'that happenin' eventually?"

She shakes her head, commencing with the slow pull of her fingers through that mess of hair of his.

"That so?" she asks, eyes lightly scolding. "So, you went out looking for trouble, then?"

Doc sighs happily when her fingers return to his hair.

"Maybe jus'a little bit of trouble."

Judging by the cuts and bruises, and the smell of liquor and cheap perfume, they found it in spades.

Which is why she asks: "Hope y'didn't find too much of it?"

Her demeanor hasn't changed at all. She is still raking through his hair steadily, an even expression on her face. But there's a hint of... something in her voice.

Worry, perhaps. Not so much concern, anymore.

Doc pauses, and shifts so he's more on his back and that way he can look up at her, better, without twisting his neck back awkwardly.

"Hey," he murmurs, reaching up to touch her cheek. "We didn't get into nothin' more than a fight. We was drinkin' inna little place and talkin' with a lady, and one other feller did'na like that too much. He came over an' said some things t'Will and then it all went from there."

He pauses.

"I only got eyes for wantin' you, Kate."

Her fingers still, yet again, when he touches her face. It sends a shiver through her heart she has to close her eyes to, briefly.

When she reopens them, she focuses back on Doc's eyes, his words, soaking them in with little reaction. After a time she pulls her hand from his hair and covers the hand he has at her cheek, twisting her face aside (though not breaking contact with his eyes) to kiss his palm.

"I just worry, is all," she whispers, after a time, settling her cheek back in his hand with a sigh. "I don't like seein' you come back all mussed."

"I know. And I don't like comin' back and you seein' me like this...but s'part of who I am. I may act the gentlemen but sometimes I'm more the outlaw, an stuff like this is gonna happen. I take care'a myself, though. Now."

Doc thinks another moment, before he grazes along her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"Now I got someone t'git back here to."

"I know," she nods in reply to his statement about being an outlaw. Really, that's the one thing she has been more aware of than anything else, these past few weeks. It's the part of him she loves so dearly, and fears so much, all in the same go.

But she knew it was part of him ever before they first kissed. She stepped into this position knowingly.

"I know," she repeats, letting her hand trail down his extended arm and to his neck, the backs of her fingers ghosting across the line of his jaw.

"Jus'... promise me you'll keep comin' back."

To me.

"I promise."

His eyes are still on hers.

'I know.'

She knows who he is. She knows what he's done. Maybe not all of what he's done, but she's read the stories. Of course, the stories ain't quite true...

But sometimes they paint a kinder picture than the truth does.

She moves her fingers back up into his hair.

"What you makin' them little birds for?" she whispers, not breaking eye contact.

"Each of 'em is someone that I've spent time thinkin' 'bout, while I've been here. Guess s'just a way t'remind myself to say a word or two."

Doc breaks the eye contact to glance over at his dresser.

"The brown one an' the pink one I got, someone here last year made...hundreds of 'em and they were left all over the bar. Then I asked bar for a book and practiced a lot. I made the orange one myself."

"And the blue one?"

Her eyes skitter to the new crane still sitting on the coffee table.

"Who's he for?"

"Guppy's son."

Doc shifts back so he's lying on his side again, giving her fingers better access to run through his hair.

"The orange one's for you, by the way."

As he shifts to his side, it might not be as easy to see the smile that slowly coats her face at his words.

She runs her fingers lovingly through his hair, nails lightly scraping over his scalp.

"What about the other two?"

"Cap'n Sparrow an' Yen."

Doc's tone is quiet, and slightly cautious, but no real nerves, there.

Yet, anyway.

She loses a bit of her smile, but not much.

She is content to remain quiet, just watching his hair as she moves through it, dirty blond locks dully picking up the low light in the room and casting it back off again.

"Sweet hobby," she murmurs at last, voice soft.

His eyes close with the motions of her hands in his hair and her fingers running through his scalp, an easy, repetitive motion that he can breathe along with, relax along with, and focus on.

It's comforting.

"S'easier then tryin' to knit, s'fer sure."

She breathes a soft laugh, eyes shining as she peers at his face.

"Suppose you can leave the knitting and mending to me, then," she murmurs.

It's a promise of something more together that makes her pause, because deep in the pit of her stomach there's still a worry there. A family in New York he can't see -- won't see? -- A woman he visibly keeps in his thoughts, and a baby he won't watch grow.

She should say something. Encourage him one more time to try an look in on his son. But she is afraid to bring it up, him looking as peaceful as he does. So she says nothing.

She just goes back to watching the shift of his hair, her movements lulling even herself into a sort of reverie.

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