OOM: Doc and Kate, following Christmas
New Years snuck up on them fast.
They spent the holidays in quiet togetherness, neither celebrating with the bar nor with one another. They didn't need the lights and music and tinsel and gifts.
They only needed each other.
The morning after they spent the night together in her room, Kate awoke to watch Doc's face in silence as he slept. She thought about his request that they move in together. She thought about her home. She thought about her father (four years ago this week ... again). She thought about Sam. She thought about Colorado.
She quietly slipped from Doc's embrace, and snuck back into the shower, bathing with too-hot water until it went cold on her. Doc was up by the time she got out, and though he twice moved to hold her, she didn't allow their bodies contact until she was dressed from head to toe. He didn't mind.
(At least, he didn't appear to.)
It bothered him some, when she would pull away from him at night, claiming to be too hot with his arms around her. She'd kick off the covers to prove her point, and then shiver stubbornly until she was sure he'd fallen asleep, before pulling the covers back over her body.
But she was still there. She still kissed him, and held his hand, and told him ‘I love you’ first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He assumed her moments of distance were just moments of grief. She lost her father. He only lost his father figure.
(But the wound still stung deep for them both.)
He didn't think much of it when she withdrew after X-23 came by to bring Rosencrantz and Guildenstern home, wrapping back up in that afghan on his couch, where she had spent most of the day already. She watched the three of them play, but didn't join in.
He didn't think much of it when he'd change in the room with her, and she'd turn away or leave the room; nor did he worry much when she persisted in leaving the room to dress and undress, keeping herself always covered head-to-toe in his presence.
(But when she pulls away at night, that is what bothers him some.)
They spent New Years in his room, quiet and reflective. He needed her: her touch; her support; her kiss. She supposed she needed him, too (I lost Sam and everything I had, one year ago this month ... again). But she remained cautious.
So weak.
"Doc... stop."
He had been making her feel good, he knows it. Curled up on his bed, whiskey and chocolate on their tongues, her hands in his hair, his mouth on hers... she moaned when he nibbled at her bottom lip, ran his tongue over the swollen flesh. But when his hand had slid from her face to her hip, something changed.
"What s'it, darlin'?"
He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes; watched her expression change; watched her eyes grow distant. He was alert in an instant, but before he could say another word she was picking his hands off her and rolling on her side.
"M'tired tonight."
He didn't know what to say, suddenly presented with her cold shoulder. He couldn't see her face, and that bothered him. But he promised he would never push her, and he swore he would never hurt her. A month of sharing the same bed and they still haven't made love; a week since the one time they'd been intimate, and she won't let him touch her. But he loves her.
No matter what.
"M'sorry."
He chanced an arm around her shoulder, pulling her back against his body as he stretched out to sleep. She didn't say another word, and neither did he. He watched the soft light play off her hair in the darkness of the room, pulling in deep breaths until he had himself calmed down again, and fell asleep wishing he could see her face.
They started spending nights father and farther apart, until he had ‘his’ side of the bed, and she had ‘hers’. Doc began to think it was more than just grief that made her distant.
Something's not right. You've done something wrong.
When he'd try to talk about the morning they spent in her room, she would change the subject. But she still told him she loved him. She still hugged him, and kissed him, and held his hand. They still talked about the future, and when he'd ask her if something was wrong, she would always say 'no', or find a reasonable excuse for her distant behavior.
But when he'd get too close, she would always ask him to stop, and pull away.
"Kate... darlin'... what's wrong?"
"Nothin's wrong," she answered with a patient laugh, though she kept her eyes on the task of turning down the bed.
Doc grew quiet, and dropped his eyes away from her form. He was sitting with his hands together, and he watched the scar on the back of his hand shift and move as he ran his thumb over it.
You have to ask her.
"Where d'you go at night?"
She hesitated, fingers flinching away from the bed sheets. Again, she laughed, but this time it sounded more strained.
"What?"
"I wake up and you're not here. S'happened a few times now."
"I told you," she began sharply, before softening her tone and turning to look at him. "The stables. I been forgettin' to do things, 'fore I leave. Can't leave 'em undone all night, risk hurtin' the horses."
She moved for the dresser, crouching at the bottom drawer where she kept a few things. Doc had told her she could take the whole drawer, or they'd get a bigger dresser, so she could be bringing over her clothes. But she kept it empty, save for just the few things.
"And I need the fresh air sometimes."
"Why? Why d'you have t'git up in the middle of the night, just for some fresh air?"
Why do you have to leave me to find peace? he thinks. Why is it that you're only happy, the further you manage to get away from me?
"God almighty, Doc. Is this you gettin' back at me for momma hennin' you while y'healed yourself up?" she cried, closing the drawer and straightening with a handful of sleepwear. "I'm fine. Would y'stop your fussin'?"
"I ain't fussin'. M'just worried, s'all. And I think y'should be wearin' that necklace Bela gave you-"
"Fine, I will."
She moved into the bathroom and shut the door to change, indicating that the conversation was then over. Doc sighed. That's not how he had hoped it would go.
It's hard for him to sleep, that night, watching her from the other side of the bed; worrying she'll try to slip out.
Worrying that he's going to lose her, again.
You're already losing her.
.
They spent the holidays in quiet togetherness, neither celebrating with the bar nor with one another. They didn't need the lights and music and tinsel and gifts.
They only needed each other.
The morning after they spent the night together in her room, Kate awoke to watch Doc's face in silence as he slept. She thought about his request that they move in together. She thought about her home. She thought about her father (four years ago this week ... again). She thought about Sam. She thought about Colorado.
She quietly slipped from Doc's embrace, and snuck back into the shower, bathing with too-hot water until it went cold on her. Doc was up by the time she got out, and though he twice moved to hold her, she didn't allow their bodies contact until she was dressed from head to toe. He didn't mind.
(At least, he didn't appear to.)
It bothered him some, when she would pull away from him at night, claiming to be too hot with his arms around her. She'd kick off the covers to prove her point, and then shiver stubbornly until she was sure he'd fallen asleep, before pulling the covers back over her body.
But she was still there. She still kissed him, and held his hand, and told him ‘I love you’ first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He assumed her moments of distance were just moments of grief. She lost her father. He only lost his father figure.
(But the wound still stung deep for them both.)
He didn't think much of it when she withdrew after X-23 came by to bring Rosencrantz and Guildenstern home, wrapping back up in that afghan on his couch, where she had spent most of the day already. She watched the three of them play, but didn't join in.
He didn't think much of it when he'd change in the room with her, and she'd turn away or leave the room; nor did he worry much when she persisted in leaving the room to dress and undress, keeping herself always covered head-to-toe in his presence.
(But when she pulls away at night, that is what bothers him some.)
They spent New Years in his room, quiet and reflective. He needed her: her touch; her support; her kiss. She supposed she needed him, too (I lost Sam and everything I had, one year ago this month ... again). But she remained cautious.
So weak.
"Doc... stop."
He had been making her feel good, he knows it. Curled up on his bed, whiskey and chocolate on their tongues, her hands in his hair, his mouth on hers... she moaned when he nibbled at her bottom lip, ran his tongue over the swollen flesh. But when his hand had slid from her face to her hip, something changed.
"What s'it, darlin'?"
He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes; watched her expression change; watched her eyes grow distant. He was alert in an instant, but before he could say another word she was picking his hands off her and rolling on her side.
"M'tired tonight."
He didn't know what to say, suddenly presented with her cold shoulder. He couldn't see her face, and that bothered him. But he promised he would never push her, and he swore he would never hurt her. A month of sharing the same bed and they still haven't made love; a week since the one time they'd been intimate, and she won't let him touch her. But he loves her.
No matter what.
"M'sorry."
He chanced an arm around her shoulder, pulling her back against his body as he stretched out to sleep. She didn't say another word, and neither did he. He watched the soft light play off her hair in the darkness of the room, pulling in deep breaths until he had himself calmed down again, and fell asleep wishing he could see her face.
They started spending nights father and farther apart, until he had ‘his’ side of the bed, and she had ‘hers’. Doc began to think it was more than just grief that made her distant.
Something's not right. You've done something wrong.
When he'd try to talk about the morning they spent in her room, she would change the subject. But she still told him she loved him. She still hugged him, and kissed him, and held his hand. They still talked about the future, and when he'd ask her if something was wrong, she would always say 'no', or find a reasonable excuse for her distant behavior.
But when he'd get too close, she would always ask him to stop, and pull away.
"Kate... darlin'... what's wrong?"
"Nothin's wrong," she answered with a patient laugh, though she kept her eyes on the task of turning down the bed.
Doc grew quiet, and dropped his eyes away from her form. He was sitting with his hands together, and he watched the scar on the back of his hand shift and move as he ran his thumb over it.
You have to ask her.
"Where d'you go at night?"
She hesitated, fingers flinching away from the bed sheets. Again, she laughed, but this time it sounded more strained.
"What?"
"I wake up and you're not here. S'happened a few times now."
"I told you," she began sharply, before softening her tone and turning to look at him. "The stables. I been forgettin' to do things, 'fore I leave. Can't leave 'em undone all night, risk hurtin' the horses."
She moved for the dresser, crouching at the bottom drawer where she kept a few things. Doc had told her she could take the whole drawer, or they'd get a bigger dresser, so she could be bringing over her clothes. But she kept it empty, save for just the few things.
"And I need the fresh air sometimes."
"Why? Why d'you have t'git up in the middle of the night, just for some fresh air?"
Why do you have to leave me to find peace? he thinks. Why is it that you're only happy, the further you manage to get away from me?
"God almighty, Doc. Is this you gettin' back at me for momma hennin' you while y'healed yourself up?" she cried, closing the drawer and straightening with a handful of sleepwear. "I'm fine. Would y'stop your fussin'?"
"I ain't fussin'. M'just worried, s'all. And I think y'should be wearin' that necklace Bela gave you-"
"Fine, I will."
She moved into the bathroom and shut the door to change, indicating that the conversation was then over. Doc sighed. That's not how he had hoped it would go.
It's hard for him to sleep, that night, watching her from the other side of the bed; worrying she'll try to slip out.
Worrying that he's going to lose her, again.
You're already losing her.
.