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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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.

Doc turns his head slowly when she touches his hair, and blinks a few times as he wakes back up. He wasn't that deep in sleep to begin with, and even with the slight vestiges of his hangover still digging at the back of his brain he's able to realize where the hell he is and what the hell is going on.

"Good shower?"

A pause.

"Y'smell nice," he adds, able to smell the soap on her skin.

She lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, nodding in response to his question.

"Was just gonna duck out and let you get some rest," she admits, quietly. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"I was fadin' in and out anyways."

Doc pushes the blanket down as an invitation, and she'll be able to see the darkened bruise against his pale skin as he does so.

"And I can rest with y'here just fine. Dare be so bold t'say I rest better when you are here."

"Is that right?" she smiles, shaking her head lightly. "That is bold, though I can't say I'm not glad to hear it."

She catches sight of that bruise, clucking her tongue in concern as her fingers instantly reach to touch the dark skin carefully.

"Oh, honey. That looks terrible!" she murmurs.

"I've had worse. Y'should've seen the bruises I had on my wrists after those Pinks were through with me."

Doc stretches out on the bed and yawns a bit as he gets comfortable, muscles twitching underneath the touch of her fingers.

"And it's true, I sleep better."

The comment isn't exactly comforting, for all the mental images it paints. Her eyes are on his face now, but the same concerned expression as was twisting her expression before still lingers on.

Her hand is still, barely touching his skin as it hovers above him.

The way his over-sized shirt falls off of that one shoulder, damp hair falling in her face as she peers at him, only increases the impression of a little lost pauper one might get while looking at her.

Doc pats the mattress with the hand that's closer to her.

"C'mere. Bed's warmer with the two of us innit," he urges. "Plus it's still early."

Sort of.

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