scurlock | oom: room 25

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oom: room 25

[after this]

Bar takes care of the pile of wet clothes (his duster, jacket, hat, and gloves) for him with a note saying she'd have them laundered, but Doc slings his scarf over his shoulder before he and Miss Katherine head for the stairwell.

He's more focused on not tripping his way up the stairs, even with her arm around his middle, to try and talk much. Thankfully, his door's unlocked, and since he was going away for a spell (even with Bar saying it would be quick) his room is spotless. The desk is neat and organized, the bed made, his laundry done and in the drawers, and the shades half-shut.

"I appreciate this," he says, needlessly.

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"S'not really much t'say about it," he tells her. "S'flat."

Doc's got that amused little 'I'm being a brat and you know it and I know that you know it' look on his features, but he grins at the mention of dinner and another hot tea.

"You'll never guess who I met this evenin', though," he comments, as he stretches slightly and settles in the tub, down to his neck again in the heat. From his tone, the meeting didn't go badly at all. In fact, he might be a bit prideful.

She sighs, resting her chin on one folded arm. Her eyes stay on his, meeting his look with one of her own.

(Hers says something more along the lines of, 'You know what I was getting at you little brat, don't make me get out the ruler and thwap you upside the head.')

But, out loud, she simply says:

"Oh? Who was that?"

She's still moving small handfuls of hot water up to his hair, running her fingers through the damp locks, letting little rivulets curl through his sideburns and off his beard.

(From the looks of that beard, he hasn't trimmed it in about a week.)

"One'a the Mastersons," he replies.

A beat.

"Not Bat, though."

To further explain, after a few more seconds of silence. "I left Larned this mornin' 'fore the sun came up, made it down to Dodge City just after nightfall. Got caught outside town in the weather."

She straightens when he utters the name, eyes going wide and mouth slightly open.

"Was it Jim or Ed?" she asks, before he can even get into the rest of his explanation.

Dodge City.

Holy cow.

"Jim. Ed's been gone since what, '78?"

Doc feels a twinge in his back and winces slightly before he pushes himself up a bit, to rest his arms on the edge of the tub and flex his hands in the warm air of the bathroom.

"He's the Deputy Marshal. Walked right by me. Actually told me t'get inside 'fore I froze to death."

"Yeah, seventy-eight. Forgot the year you'd be wanderin' about in."

Milliways does that.

She doesn't like the wince on his face as he shifts his body, moving back from the edge to let him rest his arms there instead. She reaches for the hand closest her body, fingertips gently massaging the tendons and delicate little bones, encouraging the blood-flow back into his own fingertips.

"How's your joints feelin'? Got any stiffness or loss of motion?" she asks softly.

Assessing the damage the cold has done to his body is greater than her interest in his Masterson story.

...For now.

"Ain't all that bad, jus'a bit sore from bein' a week out in the saddle an' the cold."

His left hand (the one she has) is a different story altogether. Everything works just fine, but as she works over his bones she'll be able to feel the damage that is under the skin, bones healed not-quite-right and the scar tissue that covers.

He normally doesn't let anyone get a good look at that scar, let alone touch and feel like he's letting her do right now.

"Jus'cold," he murmurs.

She nods weakly, eyes lowered to their hands as she tenderly massages each finger, moving from the base to the tip and back down again.

There are strange, tough malformations in his palm, beneath that slick scar, that she is concentrating on. She knows what they're from. She knows, too, the tightness she feels has nothing to do with his week in the saddle, or the cold.

Her eyes flick up to his, piercing blue on cold gray-green.

Doc's eyes are on hers, with an even, calm gaze.

(Anyone else, he might tell them to not even dare to ask.)

"Bullet did a lot of damage goin' straight through like it did," he murmurs. "By the time I got 'round to settin' the bones back in place, keepin' it wrapped the best I could...damn thing bled for days. Damage was done, they healed back the best they could."

Her return gaze is just as even, just as calm.

She nods, the action somewhat stronger this time, and slowly lifts his hand to her face.

She doesn't break eye contact as her lips fall to the scar. She kisses it tenderly once, twice, three times, fingers still exploring the mis-set bones and tight bits of muscle.

"Jim Masterson didn't give you any trouble?" she asks, voice muffled behind his palm.

"No ma'am," he replies, his eyes on her as she kisses his hand and her fingers trail over his skin. "Not a lick."

Doc pulls in a quiet breath and then exhales, slow and easy.

"Fingers work just fine. Can't quite make a fist, some days, but ain't like I'm a pugilist like Charlie is," he says, before he closes his eyes. "Was."

"Good," she says in reply to his first statement, slowly lowering his hand and reaching for his other.

She would have asked more about his encounter with Deputy Marshal Masterson, had not his final words made her flinch.

"You do a lot of fightin' with Charlie?" she asks softly, lightly, hoping to draw the conversation around to some good memories.

Or, at least some funny ones.

"Yeah. Well...he did most'a the fightin', really. I was never much of a fighter, usually jus'kept an eye on things when John was in town. I'd go into town with him, while the other boys stayed back, ran the ranch."

Doc smiles slightly and rests his head against the edge of the tub, eyes still closed.

"They'd always be gettin' into scuffles an' scraps, while we was gone," he says.

She chuckles softly, repeating the slow, gentle action of her fingers on his right hand, taking her time to massage and warm each finger, each muscle.

"Y'only do your fightin' in bars, with men of Sherwood?" she teases gently.

Doc laughs at that.

"I been in my share of scraps, before," he tells her. "Billy an' I got into a real good one, once, 'while back. But Mr. Tunstall, he didn't stand for us fightin' with each other."

She tilts her head to the side, a wry little smile on her face as she peers at him.

She lets his hand go, and settles again on the edge of the tub, her arm covering his left arm.

"Sure wish I'd been able to meet him," she murmurs. "Sounds like he was a real good man."

"He's the reason I love poetry so much, y'know? I was always well read, had t'be to make it through Tulane, but...wasn't 'til John hired me that I found out there was more to books than jus' studyin'. You would have liked him."

A pause.

"He would have liked you."

The mun isn't sure how, but Katherine manages to beam at him softly.

"I hope so," she whispers.

There's a pause between them while she watches his body, noting that his shivering has lessened a good deal in the past half hour or so.

"You 'bout ready to get out of that water, Cowboy?"

"I think so," he says, with a slight nod of his head, before he looks at her.

Doc glances at the towels.

"Did...Bar give you some clothes?"

She glances back at him as she stands, a blush rising to her cheeks even as she laughs at the question.

"She did," Katherine nods, unfolding one of the fluffy towels. Somehow, it still feels warm.

She turns her head away as she presents the towel to him. "Let me help you out, and then I'll go grab them for you."

He hesitates a brief second, before he clears his throat.

"Alright."

Once he's sure that she's going to keep her head turned, he carefully hauls himself out of the tub, steps out, and then steps closer to her, his stomach hitting that towel before he reaches for it with this hands.

"Hang on t'my shoulders, will y'darlin', feel like I might fall," he murmurs.

(AS IF SHE WOULD LOOK.)

"I got you," she murmurs, reaching out for him. She keeps her head tilted up toward his face, that gentle blush still at her cheeks.

She doesn't mind the way her sleeves stick to his wet skin.

"C'mon," she encourages, helping him move out of the bathroom. She had set a chair near the door, where she has him sit while she ducks back into the bathroom for more towels.

(WELL DOC MIGHT IF HE WAS HELPING HER OUT OF THE TUB)

Doc ties the towel (which is extra large and fluffy) tightly around his waist before he walks out of the bathroom and has a seat on the chair, eyes looking down at his toes as he wriggles them slightly, skin red from the heat of the water.

"Least I didn't git frostbit," he calls quietly, over his shoulder.

"Thank the good lord for that," she agrees, as she tosses one of the towels over his head. She smirks at him from under the terrycloth edge.

"Heat escapes from your head, so you keep that towel there 'til I say so, y'hear me?" she threatens, but her voice is gentle and sweet as she does so.

As she looks over her shoulder for the clothes she had left on the dresser, she notices that someone has brought up a tray of food and that hot toddy, both of which are still steaming. There are extra blankets at the foot of Doc's bed, and if Katherine isn't mistaken, the whole thing has been remade with flannel sheets.

Bless Bar's heart.

She picks up the hot, spiked tea, and places it in Doc's hands. "Take a couple lungfuls of the steam off'a that," she suggests, unfolding a clean towel and working it over his shoulders.

Doc does as she says, cradling the hot cup of tea in his hands and inhaling deeply, letting the ~~vaporized alcohol~~ steam heat up his nose and mouth before he has a few good drinks off the tea.

It's hot, but not that hot.

The towel working over his shoulders feels excellent, for his still-cold skin.

He sniffles a little more, and drinks more tea.

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