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 chuckles low in her throat, at the unorthodox compliment.

"Then go on and get some rest. I'll be right here with you when you wake up," she whispers, settling back against the couch while he gets himself comfortable.

It isn't long before he is asleep, but she doesn't stop carding her hands through his hair. It's as much of a comfort to her as it is for him. She even begins to hum softly.

She won't fall asleep herself -- at least, not straight away. Her eyes shift about the room as she thinks, mind heavy with thoughts, and often they will alight upon the paper cranes on his dresser and the coffee table. She sighs, wondering at the crazy night it has been for them both.

After a while, she closes her eyes, too. She tilts her chin against her shoulder and leans back, fingers stilling in his hair as she begins to doze.

Doc doesn't sleep too long (a few hours, at most) before he automatically wakes up. Maybe she moved. Maybe he heard something. Whatever it is, it stirs him to the point of realizing that she's on his couch and he's curled up with his head in her lap.

"Y'gonna git a crick'n y'neck sleepin' like that."

It's uttered low and soft, before he shifts and tugs her on top of him, like a blanket of sorts, listening to her sleepy, confused protest.

It doesn't stop him, however, from settling beneath her and getting comfortable again.

The softly muttered words do stir her, slightly, though she is still trapped in a haze of sleepiness until his hands are tugging her down to him.

It stirs her enough for that sleepy, confused protest, but it isn't until her legs are drawn up on the couch and his body is warm and solid beneath her that she finds herself awake enough to form a coherent sentence.

"Mmm'no, I should... should go. 'N y'need sleep. In bed. Feel better."

Okay, so she is a little more out of it than she would like to admit. And she also can't help the way her arms hug themselves around him.

Which is perfectly alright, as his arms hug around her just the same, resting at the small of her back as she settles her body on top of his.

It's a very comfortable couch.

(And he's pretty damn comfortable himself.)

"M'fine right here, thank you."

The words hang between them for a long moment before she is awake enough to really hear them. She takes in a long, deep breath to wake herself up a little more, and pulls away so her head is resting on the couch next to his, a few inches between their faces so she can focus on his eyes.

She is blinking slowly, looking at him through her long lashes. Her hair is still pinned up, but a curl or two has fallen into her line of vision.

"Dun wan'you t'be sore when y'wake up inna mornin'. S'some awful bruises y'got. 'N I could get t'thrashin' in m'sleep, if'n I have a bad dream. So close. Yer close. Could hurtcha."

"Y'don't weigh a goddamn thing," he protests, brushing her worries off. "Thrash all y'want, jus'don shove me offa the couch."

Doc nuzzles closer, and that's that, apparently, because he drifts off a few minutes later again.

She sighs impatiently, and she would argue some more, if he didn't nuzzle himself so close and drop back off again.

There's a thrill in the pit of her stomach at the sensations of his body close to hers. The firm weight of his hands on the small of her back. The tickle of his hair at her face. The warm breeze of his soft, even breath blowing across the hollow of her throat.

She tries to wake herself up and move off of the couch (stubbornly), but her body is heavy and warm, her arms comfortable curled around him, and soon she is blinking oh-so-heavily again until they close for good, and she falls into a light sleep.

Doc sleeps soundly for the next few hours, until the sun peeks into the windows...

jesus christ i hate the sun make it go away

...and then he groans and weasels his way out of her grasp, knowing that he needs a shower and a cup of coffee because he smells like whiskey and his head is pounding like someone is beating a triangle calling the hands in for supper. She protests him moving, drowsily, but he convinces her (using his hands carding through her hair as a totally unfair tactic) to go back to sleep awhile longer.

He pulls the blinds closed and then heads for the bathroom, takes his shower, then pads downstairs in a pair of sweatpants to get a cup of coffee and some asprin.

When she comes around, she'll find him sitting on the other section of the 'L' shaped couch, cup of coffee in his hands, idly watching her sleep. Still in just the sweatpants, his upper half bare.

She is cold after he leaves, and it makes it difficult for her to settle back into the same level of restfulness after he completely unfairly convinces her to drop back off.

Every time he moves through the room or makes a noise she hears it, and beyond the veil of sleep she tells herself to get up and leave him to his morning routine. But she never quite makes it there.

Ironically, it isn't until he is totally quiet, sitting there opposite her, that she opens her eyes and is able to wake herself enough not to fall immediately back asleep again. Her eyes find him easily, and for the moment she forgoes the obvious nervousness his state of dress evokes to ask a simple, sleep-addled question.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Tryin' not t'be dizzy."

Doc gives her a wry, tiny half-smile that barely tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"An'you just happen to be beautiful when you sleep, you know that? So I was watchin' you while I was drinkin' my coffee, that's all."

The mug goes to his lips and he has a swallow of the liquid before he returns it to his leg, where one is crossed over the other comfortably.

"I can git you'a blanket if you want."

I'd rather have you back.

She pushes her hair behind her ears, fighting the blush at her face as she slowly rises into a sitting position.

"S'all right."

She does wrap her arms around her torso, though, as her eyes skitter to meet his. Anything below the gray-green orbs makes her face heat in embarrassment.

"Thought you said y'didn't have that much t'drink?" she teases, quietly.

"I didn't have nothin' to drink this mornin'," he drawls. From his tone, he's not joking. "None'a the hair of the dog, so to speak."

Because naturally, when one wakes up with a hangover, one should drink more to feel better.

"So I'm just a little...out of it."

Doc doesn't look as skinny (he's still thin, lightly muscled, but not quite wiry) as he did the last time she saw him shirtless, which is a good sign.

Definitely a good sign, indeed.

"Good," she nods in response to his first statement, answering with a tone equally as serious.

Her arms are still lightly clutched around her body, and she imagines she could do to have a shower.

"You want to lie back down for a spell? You look awful peaked," she murmurs with some concern, noticing the stiffness to his very few movements.

Doc nods, slightly. "Feel like I got run over by the stage, t'be honest."

A pause, another sip of coffee.

"Y'can use my shower if you want. I got some sweats an'a couple shirts in the dresser if you want t'change, too. I don't mind," he nods his head towards the bathroom, and then squints his eyes shut at the movement and stills his head.

Yeah, not doing that again.

She rises from her seat slowly, moving to him with a quiet, practiced grace.

"I will, if you promise to lay yourself down for a while longer," she whispers, reaching to test the heat of his forehead with the back of her hand. He's a little warm.

"Deal."

A pause.

"M'gonna move inna minute, don't trust the room just quite yet."

She crouches in front of him, hands curled lightly around the leg he has crossed.

"Then let me help you," she requests, eyes soft and imploring.

"Take the coffee, set it on the table?"

When she does, Doc then opens his eyes, and looks at her, then nearly nods - before he stops himself.

"Alright. Jus....git me up."

But then he freezes, ever so slightly, and his eyes go a bit distant like he's lost in thought at the words.

She already has her hands lightly clasped around his, waiting for his signal to tell her he's ready to move.

But the signal doesn't come.

She tilts her head at the far-off expression on his face, worrying a bit more.

"I got you," she whispers, hoping to bring him back to her. "You're all right."

Doc snaps back into it with her voice hitting his ears, and then blinks a few times.

"Was the last thing I said t'Chavez. Git me up."

He nods, ever-so-slightly, and then stands from the couch easily. He's just got a hell of a headache.

She threads her arm around his waist, regardless.

"Someday you'll have to tell me that story," she murmurs gently, peering up at him with eyes full of worry.

"I'll tell it t'you after your shower."

Doc leans down slightly and presses his lips to her forehead, tenderly kissing her, his stubble from his beard brushing against the skin at her hairline.

"All right," she smiles, closing her eyes briefly with the affectionate gesture. Her hand instinctively moves from his hip to the small of his back, rubbing the no doubt sensitive area with her own affection.

She helps him lay down on his bed, and when he is settled on top of the covers, she smooths that hair of his away from his forehead and checks his temperature one more time.

"I'll only be a minute," she says, lifting one of his hands to her mouth and kissing the heel of his palm tenderly.

"Alright," he nods. "Take your time."

It feels oddly domestic (and comforting) to have her here, with him. Whenever she returns from the shower she'll find he's slipped under the blankets, moved closer to the wall and pulled the sheets and quilts up to the center of his back, and folded his arms under his head.

He's facedown in the mattress (the pillow is pushed up near the headboard and out of the way) and asleep again, his hair fallen into his face and hiding his eyes.

She exits the bathroom in a pair of gray sweats, drawstring tied tight to keep the pants from slipping right off of her slight hips, white t-shirt drooping off her shoulder now and again, causing her to fuss with it. Her hair is down, and wet, and it smells of his shampoo.

She moves through the room quietly, settling lightly on the edge of the bed as she peers down at him. She can't see his eyes, but she knows he is asleep by the slight part of his mouth, and the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.

She smiles, glad he is resting, and watches him motionlessly for a long moment. As long as he is sleeping, she isn't going to disturb him.

So she has about decided to head back to her own room, and get herself back into her own clothes, thinking maybe when he is feeling better they can have ~~lunch~~ breakfast together. But before she leaves, she can't help but reach her careful fingers out to his face, brushing those bangs from his eyes.

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