scurlock | oom: room 25, eventually

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oom: room 25, eventually

After the birthday party to end all birthday parties (or at least, a good amount of rum, and fireworks, and singing, and s'mores, and more rum) out back, Doc eventually stumbles his way back inside. The cask of rum makes it as far as the Bar, who agrees to hang onto it until Doc can get someone to help him carry it upstairs.

Doc has enough troubles with the stairs on his own, but he makes it eventually.

He's pretty damn sloshed, and holding a still hot and melty s'more on a paper plate. He smells like woodsmoke, with a hint of saltwater, and a splash of alcohol, his skin flushed and red from both the booze and the cold outside.

But he finds her door just fine, and knocks on it.

(Who knows what time it is.)

"Darlin', s'Doc. Open the door. I got somethin' fer you 'fore I git my ass t'bed, but s'not like I can give it t'you with the door closed." This is said to the door. "Promise I ain't here t'steal y'way, though might like that. Like that lots, achsually, but ain't t'day. Fall off m'damn horse and be left sittin' in the dust," he laughs. "S'quick, swear t'God. Y'jus gotta open door."

He's humming under his breath while he waits, leaning on the door (and the doorframe) to keep his balance. If the damn hallway would just stop spinning...

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Who knows what time it is?

Katherine knows what time it is.

She hurries to flip on her light and crawl out of bed, blinking back the sleepiness and adrenaline from being jostled out of a fairly deep sleep by the knocking (and yelling) at her door.

"Doc?"

She opens the door, blinking hard in the light of the hallway.

"What in blazes is goin' on? You got any idea what time it is?"

Then she smells the woodsmoke. And booze.

And her brow knits at the goofy-assed smile currently on his face.

"Yer drunk off your ass!"

Doc finds this funny. Really funny.

Which explains why he hands her the plate (so that he doesn't drop it) and then starts to laugh, only he doesn't want to wake the entire hall, so he clamps a hand over his mouth and giggles.

And nods.

And then hisses as he laughs some more, his eyes dancing with amusement.

She accepts the plate with some confusion, only eying the strange looking food on it for a moment's time before her eyes dart back to him.

He's losing it.

Him laughing is making her laugh, brow furrowed and head shaking.

"Where the hell have you been, cowboy?" she asks, opening the door a bit wider so she can take a step out into the hallway, closer to him. She is still in her nightgown, so she doesn't wander far from the safety of her dark room.

Doc only stays standing another few seconds, before he backs into the doorframe, wavers a little, and then slides down along the wall until he's sitting down on the floor.

Damn floor keeps moving!

"Been ou'side," he comments, with a motion of his hand (the wrong way down the hall) to the stairs. "No, wait," he glances the other direction, then back again, then back up at her. "Ou'side is that (correct direction) way."

A pause.

"Like it when y'call me cowboy, y'know that?"

She only panics mildly when he begins to "fall," quickly depositing the plate in one hand on the secretary in her room, while her other hand is extended towards his slumping body.

"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!" she hisses, betrayed by the giggles she can't quite restrain as she kneels beside him.

She doesn't bother following the inclination of his hand, either time. Her blue eyes are focused on his reddened face.

"Reckon I do now," she says, in reply to his final statement. "Y'been outside drinking? Christ, you smell like a barroom floor!"

"Atton's birthday. Had bonfire. Big bonfire. He likes fire y'know that? Heh, he's a good man. An'was a bit of drinkin', an'abit of singin', oh an' we had fireworks!"

Doc's laughing.

"Y'shoulda seen some of 'em, was...'ell I dunno th'word I want. Silly, ain'it? Poet ain't knowin' a licka words, heh, God," he tips his head back against the doorframe.

He's quiet a moment, smile on his face, eyes closed...then he opens them again, and looks at her.

"An'we had s'mores! I brought you one..." he looks around for the plate, then awkwardly pats his chest, and the jacket he's wearing, then peers into her room (nearly toppling over on his side) around the doorframe. "...cept thing the doggamn things dun'go ran off on us."

She's nodding slowly, eyes wide, as he speaks. It's an expression she uses often with her younger children. It conveys a message somewhere along the lines of 'Uh-huh. Yeah? I'm listening.'

She giggles again, not quite able to believe how completely pathetic he looks right now. Must have been one hell of a party.

She opens her mouth to speak when he goes quiet, but suddenly his eyes pop back open and he's going on again about something called a "s'more." It doesn't take her long to figure he means the plate of food he brought her, laughing as she reaches out to steady him before he topples into her room.

"No, honey, you already gave it to me. Remember?" She knows he doesn't remember. "And goodness, yer heavy! Why don't you come inside, hmm? Get yourself up off the floor?"

"Can't come in yer room, that ain't proper," he murmurs. "Jusgotta git my ass up offa the floor here,"

Doc pats the floor of the hallway fondly.

"Would 'preciate it if you'd stop spinnin' so much, darlin', ain't no way can walk like that."

With careful, well practiced (Doc's obviously picked himself up off the floor while his head's spinning around before, given the fact that he doesn't totter too much) movements he stands up and leans against (holding onto for dear life) the door frame again.

"S'all I wanted t'give t'you, was that there s'more, s'good. Still hot. One day I'm gonna teach y'how to make them," he promises. "When we're ridin' together. I teach you, swear. Ou'laws honor."

He carefully draws an 'X' over his heart.

She has got to cover her mouth with her hand to keep herself from laughing at this point.

Well. At least he's no longer on the floor.

She leans on the door next to him, petite hand on the door handle, face contorted with an odd mixture of amusement and adoration and disapproval and love, his words oddly touching her.

"Thank you," she murmurs, smiling up at the drunk, drunk man. "Next time we're out ridin', then. You'll teach me how."

She reaches a hand across to his hand, partly out of affection and partly out of a desire to hold him steady.

"I'll hold you to it."

"Good."

Doc looks like he's at a loss for words, for a moment or two, before he nods and then leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

"I shud go," he indicates the direction of his room, vaguely, with an errant motion of his hand and that half of his body. "M'gonna be alright, jus some sleep," he yawns, suddenly tired. "An'll be 'kay. Luv you. Lots. Love s'good, real good."

Another kiss to her hair, before he smiles.

"G'night darlin'."

"Y'sure?" she asks, smiling, though not quite convinced of his ability to get himself down to his room without further incident. She shakes her head, answering her own question.

"No, hold on a minute, let me throw on my coat an' I'll help you..."

"Darlin', m'fine. I been worse drunk then this 'fore," he promises.

It's...possibly the truth, thought given how wasted he is at the moment, this probably comes close to the record for his BAC. He insists she stay, and once he manages to leave (without her following him), he makes his way back to his room, using the wall for balance.

Doc doesn't lock his door behind him, and makes it as far as the couch, where he lands sprawled on his stomach, facedown in the cushion, one arm resting off the edge, knuckles against the floor. Snoring lightly (though it's muffled thanks to the cushion) he sleeps.

Soundly.

He's completely dressed, his boots on and everything, but it doesn't bother him. He's too damn drunk to care.

She watches him wobble all the way down the hall when he goes, sighing in resignation.

Boys will be boys.

When he's out of sight, she steps back into her room and pokes at the s'more warily before trying a bite. It's good. Real good. She eats the whole thing before she crawls back into bed and tries to get a few more hours of sleep.

She isn't entirely successful.

She rises in the morning when the sky is still gray, before the sun has even climbed over the horizon, and dresses quickly. She isn't surprised to find Doc's door unlocked--and slightly ajar--and she steps on in without knocking, to assess the damage.

When he wakes up, no doubt several hours later, he will find several things have changed. First, his boots are now on the floor next to the couch, and a blanket is draped over his body. Second, the shades have all been drawn shut. Tight. Third, and most importantly, there is a tall glass of water on the coffee table by his face, along with two white pills and a note--with her print on it, not her cursive.

When you can read this without your head swimming,
there is coffee and a hot breakfast under a lid on your desk.
Gone out to check on the stables, but I'll be back to
check in on you. Bed has been turned down.
-- Katherine

Doc does sleep, for several hours. Until he wakes up sick as a dog and staggers into the bathroom, trying not to be sick, but it's entirely unsuccessful. The tile floor feels incredible against his hot skin, and his head is swimming so much he feels like he's underwater.

Once he can move (after a brief nap on the tile) he rinses his mouth out and then walks his way back to the couch. He pokes at breakfast (he eats nothing but the toast, and ignores the coffee) and drinks the entire glass of water, takes the pills, smokes two cigarettes (the butts get stubbed out in the ashtray on his desk) and then migrates into bed.

His jacket is in a wad at the end, along with his longsleeved shirt, and the glass of water is half empty on the coffee table, his cigarettes and matches beside it.

And Doc?

Is curled up in a ball, tuft of blond hair sticking out from under the blanket, facing the wall and silently begging the room to stop spinning.

It's that tuft of hair that gets the attentions of one delicate hand, slowly, slowly, carding through the strands as she sneaks a peak at his face and checks his temperature. He's a little clammy.

She didn't knock when she came in this time, either. She didn't dare to. Her modest eyes took a careful appraisal of the room, before she found him under the covers and deemed it safe to come in. She picked his discarded clothes up and checked his breakfast with disappointment, before tidying up a few other things and refilling his water glass (which is now sitting closer to his bed).

And now, she sits. Hand moving slowly through his hair.

"M'never drinkin' that much rum again," he croaks, his already rough voice even worse, thanks to the cotton mouth and the fact that he feels like he's in the middle of the Sahara after a month without water.

Doc's breathing is shallow, almost labored, but only because even the slightest bit of movements or deep breathing sends his brain into a tailspin, and his stomach threatens to follow after.

"Was'a good party, though."

"Shh," she insists gently, carefully petting that sweaty mop of yellow hair.

She leaves his side for a moment, coming back shortly with a cold, damp cloth that she uses to pat at his forehead.

"Y'think y'can drink a little water?"

Doc nods in the affirmative, before he clenches his eyes shut and groans slightly, rolling over, pushing himself up with one elbow, forehead still resting against the mattress as he attempts to get his bearings.

"Can't sit up...feel like m'gonna fall over."

"Then you lay yourself back down," she murmurs quietly, hands gently encouraging his back down to the mattress again. "Don't you move none. I'll be right back, okay?"

She leaves him for fifteen minutes or so, making a quick trip to the bar before reentering with a small tray. She's got a long straw, which she plunks into his glass of water and brings up to the bed with her as she settles next to him again.

"Just lift your head a little, sweetheart," she encourages softly, holding the straw steady for him.

Doc sits up when she returns, just slightly, and has a few swallows of the water through the straw, before he returns to lying flat on his back.

One hand reaches out for the sheets, to 'steady' himself.

Nevermind that he's not moving.

"Time s'it?"

"'Bout ten-thirty," she answers, setting the glass back on the tray (on the floor), and coming back up with a small plate of fresh scrambled eggs.

"Now, listen, honey. I know you're probably not hungry, but it would do you good to put a little somethin' in your belly."

She loads a modest forkful, before giving him a warning look.

"Now don't give me no fussin' about how this ain't dignified; just take a few bites for me, an' I'll leave you alone. Promise."

"It ain't dignified," he protests, as he pushes himself up again so he's sitting a little more, the room spinning. "An' I ate the toast."

Doc holds his hand out.

"Y'can hold the plate, but let me hold the fork? I can hold the fork. They got salt on 'em yet?"

"What did I say about fussin'?"

No, Doc Scurlock, she isn't kidding.

However, she does relinquish the fork.

"Toast ain't enough. Miss Bar told me y'needed proteins, 'n said to be sure you got some eggs in you. Also gave me them little white pills... you take those yet?"

Yes, this woman did just spend the morning asking the Bar what to do for a hangover. What of it?

"They got a little salt on 'em, but no pepper."

"Took 'em a few hours ago, 'fore I went back to sleep."

Doc takes the eggs and eats the bite, then stabs at them, before he nods over (ignoring the woozy feeling) at his desk.

"Go in the bottom drawer, I gots me a bottle of somethin' called 'tabasco'," he says, as he has another bite. "Bring it t'me, will you? Please?"

She furrows her brow at the request, but she isn't going to say no. Not when he looks so pitiful.

And he asked nice.

"All right."

She carefully hands him the plate, before getting up and retrieving the bottle of pepper sauce.

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