OOM : Doc's room at Milliways
[Millitimed to after Doc's visit to the infirmary to get his wound taken care of.]
He's not quite sure how there's a change of clothes for him on the end of the bed, or how the Bar knows what size he wears, but Doc doesn't really care as he steps into the room that matches the key he'd gotten from the Bar.
"Bar," he corrects himself, out loud. "Not the Bar, just, Bar."
He's learning. Honest.
The wound in his shoulder doesn't hurt as much as it did earlier, the sling and bandages helping with that. He changes out of his dirty clothes and steps into the washroom, looking about the more modern surroundings curiously for a few moments before he eyes the tub. There's a handle which says 'hot' and another which says 'cold', so he turns the former and watches as water, hot to the touch, begins to fill the tub. After a moment's wrangling with the temperature, he's satisfied.
While he waits for it to fill, he glances at his reflection in the mirror. The lines on his face, the dark circles underneath his eyes. The blood on his cheek, the dirt in his hair. John would've had a fit, seeing him like this.
When the tub is finished, Doc is careful not to disturb his shoulder as he sinks into the water, a smile coming to his features at the way the water feels on his skin. He tips his head back and leans it against the rim of the tub, closing his eyes.
Doc could get used to this modern technology if it gave him wonderful things like this.
He takes more time in the tub than he really needs to, to wash up and scrub the dirt from his skin and his hair, the blood from his fingernails, to ease the tired muscles in his back and arms. He smiles as his skin wrinkles a bit, not caring, as he finally steps out after getting clean. He changes into something appropriate for sleeping, loosely wraps his arm in a fresh bandage, then goes to test out the bed.
The fact that he's out in minutes is a good sign that he's comfortable.
Doc spends the next few days lurking about. Checking on his door, seeing if he can see it. Which he still can't. He writes a little bit of poetry. Takes more baths than he needs to. Trims his hair. Basically, kills time while he's allowing his arm to heal up. He still keeps the sling on, because it does hurt less as the muscles knit back together, but each day he flexes and works on building himself back up to fighting strength.
And waiting for his door.
He's not quite sure how there's a change of clothes for him on the end of the bed, or how the Bar knows what size he wears, but Doc doesn't really care as he steps into the room that matches the key he'd gotten from the Bar.
"Bar," he corrects himself, out loud. "Not the Bar, just, Bar."
He's learning. Honest.
The wound in his shoulder doesn't hurt as much as it did earlier, the sling and bandages helping with that. He changes out of his dirty clothes and steps into the washroom, looking about the more modern surroundings curiously for a few moments before he eyes the tub. There's a handle which says 'hot' and another which says 'cold', so he turns the former and watches as water, hot to the touch, begins to fill the tub. After a moment's wrangling with the temperature, he's satisfied.
While he waits for it to fill, he glances at his reflection in the mirror. The lines on his face, the dark circles underneath his eyes. The blood on his cheek, the dirt in his hair. John would've had a fit, seeing him like this.
When the tub is finished, Doc is careful not to disturb his shoulder as he sinks into the water, a smile coming to his features at the way the water feels on his skin. He tips his head back and leans it against the rim of the tub, closing his eyes.
Doc could get used to this modern technology if it gave him wonderful things like this.
He takes more time in the tub than he really needs to, to wash up and scrub the dirt from his skin and his hair, the blood from his fingernails, to ease the tired muscles in his back and arms. He smiles as his skin wrinkles a bit, not caring, as he finally steps out after getting clean. He changes into something appropriate for sleeping, loosely wraps his arm in a fresh bandage, then goes to test out the bed.
The fact that he's out in minutes is a good sign that he's comfortable.
Doc spends the next few days lurking about. Checking on his door, seeing if he can see it. Which he still can't. He writes a little bit of poetry. Takes more baths than he needs to. Trims his hair. Basically, kills time while he's allowing his arm to heal up. He still keeps the sling on, because it does hurt less as the muscles knit back together, but each day he flexes and works on building himself back up to fighting strength.
And waiting for his door.