Somewhere along the line, somehow, she found herself out in the hallway. She wasn't sure how she got there, but she was pretty sure where she was heading. She stopped. Turned around. Walked back. Stopped. Turned around. Continued on. Stopped. Turned around.
This process continued itself for almost a full half-hour before she was in front of his door, and even then she couldn't bring herself to knock. Hands on either side of his door, fingernails digging into the doorjamb to assure herself that she isn't dreaming this. She panted for breath, heart beating so fast she couldn't think.
She needed him.
You need him.
She doesn't remember knocking, but his voice is calling out sharp and gruff and ... him.
'This isn't him. This isn't the same Doc. Oh, God, this isn't him.'
She swallows down her fear, she swallows down her nerves, she closes her eyes against the sickness in her head, and tells herself to breathe.
You need him.
"It's--"
Too quiet, he'll never hear you.
"It's Kate."
Her hands ball into fists, fingernails now digging into the palms of her hands.
Even with her leg healed, feeling healthier physically than she has in a very long time, she feels weaker than she ever has before. She stands awkwardly, praying her knees won't give out under her.
Doc lifts his eyes from the floor when he hears the quiet murmur from the other side of the closed door, and it only takes a moment for him to stand.
"One second," he replies.
His steps are uneven as he carefully makes his way across the room, ignoring the twinge in his ribs. Even with the advanced medical technologies of Milliways, there will still be soreness and a need for healing for weeks.
The locks on the door (deadbolt and knob) come undone with quiet click click sounds and then he slowly pulls the door open, glancing over her head, first, before he looks at her face.
A bare hint of a smile lights his eyes, and tries to make its way to his mouth, almost managing.
"Hey."
He steps back, opening the door wider, nodding for her to come in. He doesn't want to stand exposed to the hallway for any longer than he has to.
She steps back on instinct when the door opens, wrapping her arms around her middle.
For strength.
She stands there watching him, her brow furrowed deeply, her lips slightly parted as she trembles to take in air.
His face is cleaner, but he still looks like hell. She can see bruises and cuts, he's still wearing that bloodied shirt, though it's left open to show his undershirt, which is vaguely stained with sweat.
She's so preoccupied -- looking at a ghost -- that it takes a minute for her to realize that he's stepped back and wants her to come in, out of the hallway.
Out of the line of attack.
She moves inside as if her feet are made of cinder blocks, picking her feet up with effort and setting them down again with caution.
Click click.
When the door is closed and locked and they're facing each other again, she takes a moment, shivering, searching for her voice.
For the first few moments, he busies himself with closing and locking the door -- but once they've faced each other again, there isn't anything he can do to distract himself from the reality.
She buried you.
He works his throat to try and ward off the tightness that threatens to steal his voice away completely, before slowly lifting one hand, and extending it to her. Palm facing upwards, pale scar tissue marring the tanned skin's rough surface.
"I swear t'God," his voice cracks, and he has to swallow before continuing. "S'really me."
Her eyes burn when he raises his hand -- his scarred hand, he's always been so self-conscious about that hand -- for her inspection. It blurs out of focus when he starts speaking, voice quavering.
Dropping her head, arms going tighter around her middle, her face twists with the effort to hold in her emotions.
It's a losing battle.
Trembling hands reach out and encircle his hand, gently pulling it to her until she has it pressed against her heart.
He's vaguely aware of the rapid flutter of her heart beneath his palm, the tempo of the beat a violent thrashing that causes his own to tick upwards a notch or two.
"C'mere, darlin'."
But he doesn't wait for her to step to him.
He moves to her, his free arm carefully moving to wrap around her body -- ignoring the spark of pain that ignites in his upper arm as he lifts it -- and he pulls her into a hug.
She'll be able to feel his heartbeat, with their bodies so close together. Strong, rapid, and full of life.
It's half-statement, half-question, that comes out as neither for the tears in her voice. She doesn't care that he's covered in blood (it's not his) or sweat, or that he feels skinny after growing used to an older version's arms around her (she's skinnier, too). All she cares about is the pulse beneath his shirt, and the warmth soaking into her skin, that tells her he is alive.
Her fingers tighten a fraction around his hand.
"They said this might... That you'd come back but I..." She whimpers, searching for words between the rush of her tears, blood ringing in her ears. "It's really you? It's really you?"
Doc inhales a deep breath, eyes closing as her scent fills his nostrils and the rush of emotion that has always come with being this close to her returns in a tidal wave.
"And I swear it, s'really me. Outlaw's honor, I swear it."
And I'm never leaving you again.
His fingertips gently curl into her skin, wanting to hold her close and never, ever let her go.
She means the world to him -- a whole box of cartridges, even. Everything. He is nothing without her, and now she is here, and she's in his arms again.
His ribs protest the embrace, but he doesn't even flinch.
"I don't blame you for nothin'," he assures her. He doesn't even know what happened, other than the basic facts of the story -- Ramon shot him and he died in Colorado, and Kate had to bury him -- but he can guess at what she's apologizing for. "Not a damn thing, y'hear me?"
Even as his voice wavers, the conviction in it doesn't.
"I forgive you, always will. I love you...so much. I never should've left, was just goin' t'git Nova some work...never should have left you. Never gonna leave you 'gain, Kate."
"We were...I'd just given you your rifle'n your hat back," he says. "Y'left m'room and I decided that if I was gonna git Nova out into the heat 'gain, I'd best take him out to New Mexico and git some work in the weather...and I lost m'door for awhile."
He shakes his head.
"I traveled lookin' for one, spent some time workin' with a friend of mine...he's got a ranch near Raton, in the territory...it's been jus'a few months..."
Too long.
His throat feels dry, and his voice threatens to break again as he speaks.
"I never should have left without sayin' nothin', I just didn't think it was gonna be so long...so sorry, swear t'God I'm sorry. Y'mean more t'me than leavin' without a word and I should've...never should've left."
It's like the entire fall and winter never happened. Five months, by bar-reckoning (longer, for Kate), that don't exist.
Gone.
"Y'shouldn't've... Y'shouldn't've left without sayin' nothin'."
He left, and disappeared for ten years.
And then, when he finally made it back, she marched him off to his death.
All that time, gone.
"But that doesn't... doesn't much matter, now. I forgave--forgive you. I forgive you."
She smooths her hands down his chest, eyes on the dirt and grime from traveling in the desert and whatever fight he got himself into. She shakes her head, gathering her wits about her and sniffling back her tears.
She asked for one more shot with him.
She just didn't specify which him she wanted.
Bloody Bar.
"I'm just glad you're all right. I'm glad you're all right," she breathes, laying her cheek against his breast, listening again for his heartbeat.
"Guppy managed t'patch me up pretty well...s'gonna take some time t'heal up proper...but m'fine. Gonna be just fine."
His heart is still beating, and he has no intention of that changing anytime soon.
Doc rests his cheek lightly against her hair, his left arm circling around her as she keeps close to him. His right arm is hanging lax at his side.
There are a million different things running through his exhausted, weary mind -- but all he can think about is the fact that she's here. She's here in his arms, and that's all he's wanted for months.
"Managed t'avoid gettin' shot, actually," he replies. "Just...kicked 'round a bit. Busted up a rib. More sore'n anythin'," he admits.
He pauses...before adding more injuries to the list.
"Got cut real good'n the arm...Guppy managed t'fuse the muscle damage and stitch the skin, told me I gotta take it easy for a few weeks...no liftin' real heavy things or stretchin' too much."
And then the rope burns, which are currently hidden beneath the cuffs of his dirty sleeves.
She wasn't okay.
She couldn't sleep.
She couldn't stop pacing.
(She couldn't stop crying.)
Somewhere along the line, somehow, she found herself out in the hallway. She wasn't sure how she got there, but she was pretty sure where she was heading. She stopped. Turned around. Walked back. Stopped. Turned around. Continued on. Stopped. Turned around.
This process continued itself for almost a full half-hour before she was in front of his door, and even then she couldn't bring herself to knock. Hands on either side of his door, fingernails digging into the doorjamb to assure herself that she isn't dreaming this. She panted for breath, heart beating so fast she couldn't think.
She needed him.
You need him.
She doesn't remember knocking, but his voice is calling out sharp and gruff and ... him.
'This isn't him. This isn't the same Doc. Oh, God, this isn't him.'
She swallows down her fear, she swallows down her nerves, she closes her eyes against the sickness in her head, and tells herself to breathe.
You need him.
"It's--"
Too quiet, he'll never hear you.
"It's Kate."
Her hands ball into fists, fingernails now digging into the palms of her hands.
Even with her leg healed, feeling healthier physically than she has in a very long time, she feels weaker than she ever has before. She stands awkwardly, praying her knees won't give out under her.
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Doc lifts his eyes from the floor when he hears the quiet murmur from the other side of the closed door, and it only takes a moment for him to stand.
"One second," he replies.
His steps are uneven as he carefully makes his way across the room, ignoring the twinge in his ribs. Even with the advanced medical technologies of Milliways, there will still be soreness and a need for healing for weeks.
The locks on the door (deadbolt and knob) come undone with quiet click click sounds and then he slowly pulls the door open, glancing over her head, first, before he looks at her face.
A bare hint of a smile lights his eyes, and tries to make its way to his mouth, almost managing.
"Hey."
He steps back, opening the door wider, nodding for her to come in. He doesn't want to stand exposed to the hallway for any longer than he has to.
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For strength.
She stands there watching him, her brow furrowed deeply, her lips slightly parted as she trembles to take in air.
His face is cleaner, but he still looks like hell. She can see bruises and cuts, he's still wearing that bloodied shirt, though it's left open to show his undershirt, which is vaguely stained with sweat.
She's so preoccupied -- looking at a ghost -- that it takes a minute for her to realize that he's stepped back and wants her to come in, out of the hallway.
Out of the line of attack.
She moves inside as if her feet are made of cinder blocks, picking her feet up with effort and setting them down again with caution.
Click click.
When the door is closed and locked and they're facing each other again, she takes a moment, shivering, searching for her voice.
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For the first few moments, he busies himself with closing and locking the door -- but once they've faced each other again, there isn't anything he can do to distract himself from the reality.
She buried you.
He works his throat to try and ward off the tightness that threatens to steal his voice away completely, before slowly lifting one hand, and extending it to her. Palm facing upwards, pale scar tissue marring the tanned skin's rough surface.
"I swear t'God," his voice cracks, and he has to swallow before continuing. "S'really me."
No ghost.
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Dropping her head, arms going tighter around her middle, her face twists with the effort to hold in her emotions.
It's a losing battle.
Trembling hands reach out and encircle his hand, gently pulling it to her until she has it pressed against her heart.
She quietly sobs.
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"C'mere, darlin'."
But he doesn't wait for her to step to him.
He moves to her, his free arm carefully moving to wrap around her body -- ignoring the spark of pain that ignites in his upper arm as he lifts it -- and he pulls her into a hug.
She'll be able to feel his heartbeat, with their bodies so close together. Strong, rapid, and full of life.
"S'really me."
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It's half-statement, half-question, that comes out as neither for the tears in her voice. She doesn't care that he's covered in blood (it's not his) or sweat, or that he feels skinny after growing used to an older version's arms around her (she's skinnier, too). All she cares about is the pulse beneath his shirt, and the warmth soaking into her skin, that tells her he is alive.
Her fingers tighten a fraction around his hand.
"They said this might... That you'd come back but I..." She whimpers, searching for words between the rush of her tears, blood ringing in her ears. "It's really you? It's really you?"
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Doc inhales a deep breath, eyes closing as her scent fills his nostrils and the rush of emotion that has always come with being this close to her returns in a tidal wave.
"And I swear it, s'really me. Outlaw's honor, I swear it."
And I'm never leaving you again.
His fingertips gently curl into her skin, wanting to hold her close and never, ever let her go.
She means the world to him -- a whole box of cartridges, even. Everything. He is nothing without her, and now she is here, and she's in his arms again.
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She lets go of his hand at last, arms dragging around his middle until she's clutching him close.
Outlaw's honor.
"M'sorry. I'm so sorry. Oh god, I couldn't... I didn't... I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me, please forgive me, I'm so sorry."
She doesn't know what else to say.
There's just too much to apologize for.
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"I don't blame you for nothin'," he assures her. He doesn't even know what happened, other than the basic facts of the story -- Ramon shot him and he died in Colorado, and Kate had to bury him -- but he can guess at what she's apologizing for. "Not a damn thing, y'hear me?"
Even as his voice wavers, the conviction in it doesn't.
"I forgive you, always will. I love you...so much. I never should've left, was just goin' t'git Nova some work...never should have left you. Never gonna leave you 'gain, Kate."
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'I don't regret lovin' you.'
"I--"
was just goin' t'git Nova some work
She comes up short for words, just concentrating on his heartbeat and the air going in and out of her lungs.
She asked him once. Why he left.
He never really told her.
It was ten years ago.
(This isn't the same Doc.)
((But you already knew that.))
"Raton?"
That's what he said, when she asked where he was coming in from.
She gently pulls back, keeping her head down so he can't see how red her face is, how bloodshot her eyes, tears snaking under her jaw and nose.
"S'the last thing y'remember? Here?"
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"We were...I'd just given you your rifle'n your hat back," he says. "Y'left m'room and I decided that if I was gonna git Nova out into the heat 'gain, I'd best take him out to New Mexico and git some work in the weather...and I lost m'door for awhile."
He shakes his head.
"I traveled lookin' for one, spent some time workin' with a friend of mine...he's got a ranch near Raton, in the territory...it's been jus'a few months..."
Too long.
His throat feels dry, and his voice threatens to break again as he speaks.
"I never should have left without sayin' nothin', I just didn't think it was gonna be so long...so sorry, swear t'God I'm sorry. Y'mean more t'me than leavin' without a word and I should've...never should've left."
I left and then I ended up dead.
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Gone.
"Y'shouldn't've... Y'shouldn't've left without sayin' nothin'."
He left, and disappeared for ten years.
And then, when he finally made it back, she marched him off to his death.
All that time, gone.
"But that doesn't... doesn't much matter, now. I forgave--forgive you. I forgive you."
She smooths her hands down his chest, eyes on the dirt and grime from traveling in the desert and whatever fight he got himself into. She shakes her head, gathering her wits about her and sniffling back her tears.
She asked for one more shot with him.
She just didn't specify which him she wanted.
Bloody Bar.
"I'm just glad you're all right. I'm glad you're all right," she breathes, laying her cheek against his breast, listening again for his heartbeat.
She has to start over.
But the point is that she can.
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His heart is still beating, and he has no intention of that changing anytime soon.
Doc rests his cheek lightly against her hair, his left arm circling around her as she keeps close to him. His right arm is hanging lax at his side.
There are a million different things running through his exhausted, weary mind -- but all he can think about is the fact that she's here. She's here in his arms, and that's all he's wanted for months.
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From the looks of things, just about everywhere -- but his lax arm hasn't escaped her notice.
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He pauses...before adding more injuries to the list.
"Got cut real good'n the arm...Guppy managed t'fuse the muscle damage and stitch the skin, told me I gotta take it easy for a few weeks...no liftin' real heavy things or stretchin' too much."
And then the rope burns, which are currently hidden beneath the cuffs of his dirty sleeves.
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