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 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.

It takes her a moment, but eventually she slowly shifts to slip her legs under the covers, settling down in the bed next to him.

She lays her head down on the mattress, one arm bent under her neck for support (and to keep her wet scalp from the bed itself), face turned towards him.

Her blue eyes are imploring.

"Believe you had a story to tell," she whispers, blushing when her leg shifts and accidentally touches his.

"'Bout the mornin' I survived a hellstorm."

Doc nods slightly and shifts onto his back, and slightly closer to her, before folding one arm behind his head as he gazes up at the ceiling and he considers where to start.

"I didn't git much sleep, the night before. I took the sunrise watch," he adds. "Was up from 'bout midnight to six. We were holed up in a ol' cabin, wasn't more than adobe 'round the walls and a couple beams overhead. I sat up and watched the sunrise."

Thinkin' it was gonna be the last one I ever saw.

And he has her undivided attention as he recounts the events of that morning. She barely moves--barely breathes--watching his face with wide, round eyes, full of wonder and concern.

As he speaks, her free hand shifts slowly, easing its way to his breastbone while she quietly listens.

He goes on to tell her tiny, random details, what he remembers of the time before they all got up. The colors of the sky painting reds and pinks and then turning into blues. The way the air felt, cold and crisp, which was why they started a campfire.

"So I was sittin', breaking up little sticks and tryin' to git my hands warm. It was cold...it's always cold, when you git up and you've spent all night sitting still, not quite awake just yet...and we just got to talkin'. About everything. About the war...about the outfit...we were all just shook up about Tommy, and rightfully so. It'd only been a day..."

Doc covers her hand with his own, thumb running over the back of it as he speaks.

And she is content to just listen, until he is finished. Her eyes never leave his face the whole time he speaks.

And her hand never moves from its spot, warm on his chest.

His fingertips trail designs against the back of her hand.

"Even with the vest on, I had a bad feeling. I mean, maybe it was nerves, maybe it was somethin' else...I don't know. We didn't eat. Just sat around and talked, and then Billy...told us that there wasn't no trail to Mexico. That we weren't goin' to Mexico. And...I got mad. I was just so...I trusted him, we all did. And he lied."

Simple as that.

Simple as that.

She nods slowly, brow furrowed over blue eyes sparking like two hot flames. It still makes her mad to think about it.

"So I told him I was leavin'. I couldn't stay anymore. And I grabbed my gun and my coat and I walked out the door...and I never saw the sonuvabitch." He pauses to click his tongue against his teeth at the language. "Forgive me for swearin'," he adds, low and soft.

Then he continues.

"I was lucky he didn't have time to shoot me twice, I guess."

His hand goes to the skin, the scar from that bullet and the infection, rubbing gently.

Her eyes follow the movement of his hand, down to his belly. It don't look so bad now, compared to when it was "fresh." And even then it had spent a few weeks festering.

"God, that was just awful," she whispers, shuddering with the memory of that night.

There were points where she wasn't sure he'd make it, either. She can't remember the last time she had been so scared.

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