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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"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.

He places the plate on the mattress, and settles on his side, resting the fork on the edge until she returns with the bottle and hands it to him after removing the cap.

"'preciate it."

Doc liberally douses the eggs in the hot sauce, before he deems them fit for eating, and then hands the bottle back and picks up the fork again, giving her a small, weak smile, before he takes another bite.

He slowly works his way to clear the plate, then nods (carefully) at the leftovers from earlier.

"And that bacon? Can manage the bacon, don't care 'bout it bein' cold."

She watches him with a careful eye as he veritably drowns his eggs in hot sauce, worrying that the spice might be too much for his stomach. But she isn't going to argue with him, long as he's eating.

"Yeah?" she lilts, drawing her fingers back through his hair in a few loving strokes, when he requests the bacon from the long gone cold breakfast. She nods, returning the small smile.

"All right. I'll bring it on over, but don't overdo it, sweetheart, okay?"

"I won't. Promise."

His throat still feels like he's swallowed glass and he sounds like it too.

"Besides, it'll help. Salt pork s'good after a night'a drinkin', good bit of cornbread, bit of chili. Just need t'soak up the rum." He scrubs a hand over his face after he clears the eggs, and reaches for the water, feeling a bit more human.

Still a bit dizzy, but at least human.

"Well, we'll start with the bacon for now, then see how you feel around lunch time," she says, setting the plate of bacon in front of him after clearing the empty plate away.

She sits on the edge of his bed quietly, giving him time to eat and get his bearings before trying to start up conversation. She can tell he's feeling a little better, but there's no sense in pushing him.

He appreciates that.

Once the bacon is eaten (he doesn't finish it) and the water drank, he sets the plates aside and then lies back down on the bed, on his back, eyes focused on the ceiling.

A pause.

"...did I come to your room last night?"

She helps him clear the plates, shifting so he can pull the blankets back up around his middle if he would like.

She doesn't answer him right away.

But the giggle might just give him his answer.

Doc looks at her. Warily.

"...I wasn't singin', was I?"

She nods.

"Singin', and quotin' verse. Read a few nice poems t'me. Told me y'wanted to steal me away."

She masterfully holds back the smirk just threatening to break through.

"Well least I wasn't makin' a fool of myself," he mutters, closing his eyes.

A small smile.

"Was a hell of a party, though."

"I was just teasin' you," she admits with a soft laugh. "You didn't do none of those things.

"'Cept for the bit about you wanting to steal me away. That was true."

It's a few moments of silence before she flicks her eyes up to meet his, smiling shyly.

"Y'said there were fireworks," she remarks, dropping her eyes away again and brushing a loose curl behind her ear. It doesn't stay.

"An' you brought me a... ss...s'more?"

"S'more, yeah. I made you one. Y'take marshmallow an' put it on a stick, and roast it till it's hot and meltin' and then put in on chocolate and smash it between two cookies. They're mighty tasty, if you ask me."

They go great with rum, too.

Doc stays still a moment.

"And well, then I didn't make no fool of myself, 'cause I do want to steal you away sometime."

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