oom: room 25
For a man who doesn't put a lot of stock in material possessions, Doc realizes that he's gathered a handful of rather interesting items during his time at Milliways. He's still not sure just when he's going to head back -- he needs to talk to Billy and he needs to talk to Jack, again -- but he figures that it doesn't hurt to get his things in order.
Just in case.
Plus, with the strangeness he's heard going around with people's rooms, he doesn't want to take any chances on his stuff suddenly disappearing and not being there when he's ready to go. It's not like cleaning his room is hard, anyways. Once he's finished organizing his things, he takes care of other tasks he knows he needs to do before he goes.
The stock record is easily updated with more current information (new animals brought in, the notations of others which have since left Milliways, updated ages and training information) and he takes the time to write a brief outline of daily, weekly, and monthly tasks for the newest addition to the staff, as well as brief note explaining that nobody really has a set schedule at this point. There's also a list of numbers and figures that he'll leave with bar, a sort of 'bill' for those who do have animals stabled there (as Doc has to pay his staff somehow) but like the tabs for food and drink, it's really up to Bar when it needs to be paid by.
Doc gives a cursory check to the Colt pistol, he had cleaned it the other day and ensured it wouldn't rust after being caught in the Texas rainstorm in Green Lake, and then moves to the long barreled rifle that leans in the corner of his room, taking care to oil the joints and wipe down the stock as well. He's not sure if he's going to take it back to New Mexico (after all, he's already got one there and would have no reason to bring a second one) so if he's gone awhile he wants it to be in good condition when he returns.
If he returns.
After that thought runs through his mind for a spell, he checks over the bow and practice sword that also stand in the corner of his room, and finding them in good order, he goes through the drawers of the dresser and looks over his clothes and personal effects. There are a few pairs of jeans that have holes in them, and he makes a note to ask Bar for material to patch them with and some thread and a sewing needle (he could just get a new pair, but they're comfortable) and fix them later.
The few books that are actually his get stacked neatly on the desk as he sits down and reaches for a piece of paper and pen. Over the next few hours he writes a handful of letters to people and folds them carefully, each person's name on the outside, and then finds a piece of string to bind them with before he slips them into a drawer of the desk, where they'll stay hidden.
There is a collection of papers, old letters, notes and scraps that he's meant to get rid of that he sets aside, to discard when he makes his way downstairs for dinner. He cleans out his leather bag and smiles a bit when he finds the book of Poe which he'd lent to Miss Katherine and sets it on the desk with the others.
Eventually, (after nearly hitting the light fixture with a misguided toss of one of the juggling cubes he's been practicing with and deciding that perhaps he should take a break for the afternoon) he ends up stretched out on the bed, asleep.
He dreams about a rainstorm, only this time it's not in Texas, but in Lincoln. It's all familiar, a summer monsoon, water pouring down off the rooftops and running along the streets.
No. It must be winter -- the air is cold, and if it was any colder it just might snow -- and he's standing inside the saloon, listening to the rain slamming into the roof overhead. There's a man playing the piano, and another on the fiddle. Tunstall and Alex are sitting at a nearby table, a bottle of whiskey between the two of them.
Doc's standing in the doorway.
(He always stood in the doorway.)
The rifle is leaning against the wall at his side, as he looks out at the water running down the street, pooling in the mud. The air running past him is cold, but he doesn't mind the temperature. He's listening to the conversations inside.
Thunder rumbles overhead.
He doesn't move.
(He never did.)
When he wakes up, he listens to the sound of the silence in his room for a long few minutes before he realizes that he's not in Lincoln, but in the bar. And it isn't raining. Doc lies in bed another few minutes, before he gets up and then heads downstairs, taking the notes and ledger with him.
Just in case.
Plus, with the strangeness he's heard going around with people's rooms, he doesn't want to take any chances on his stuff suddenly disappearing and not being there when he's ready to go. It's not like cleaning his room is hard, anyways. Once he's finished organizing his things, he takes care of other tasks he knows he needs to do before he goes.
The stock record is easily updated with more current information (new animals brought in, the notations of others which have since left Milliways, updated ages and training information) and he takes the time to write a brief outline of daily, weekly, and monthly tasks for the newest addition to the staff, as well as brief note explaining that nobody really has a set schedule at this point. There's also a list of numbers and figures that he'll leave with bar, a sort of 'bill' for those who do have animals stabled there (as Doc has to pay his staff somehow) but like the tabs for food and drink, it's really up to Bar when it needs to be paid by.
Doc gives a cursory check to the Colt pistol, he had cleaned it the other day and ensured it wouldn't rust after being caught in the Texas rainstorm in Green Lake, and then moves to the long barreled rifle that leans in the corner of his room, taking care to oil the joints and wipe down the stock as well. He's not sure if he's going to take it back to New Mexico (after all, he's already got one there and would have no reason to bring a second one) so if he's gone awhile he wants it to be in good condition when he returns.
If he returns.
After that thought runs through his mind for a spell, he checks over the bow and practice sword that also stand in the corner of his room, and finding them in good order, he goes through the drawers of the dresser and looks over his clothes and personal effects. There are a few pairs of jeans that have holes in them, and he makes a note to ask Bar for material to patch them with and some thread and a sewing needle (he could just get a new pair, but they're comfortable) and fix them later.
The few books that are actually his get stacked neatly on the desk as he sits down and reaches for a piece of paper and pen. Over the next few hours he writes a handful of letters to people and folds them carefully, each person's name on the outside, and then finds a piece of string to bind them with before he slips them into a drawer of the desk, where they'll stay hidden.
There is a collection of papers, old letters, notes and scraps that he's meant to get rid of that he sets aside, to discard when he makes his way downstairs for dinner. He cleans out his leather bag and smiles a bit when he finds the book of Poe which he'd lent to Miss Katherine and sets it on the desk with the others.
Eventually, (after nearly hitting the light fixture with a misguided toss of one of the juggling cubes he's been practicing with and deciding that perhaps he should take a break for the afternoon) he ends up stretched out on the bed, asleep.
He dreams about a rainstorm, only this time it's not in Texas, but in Lincoln. It's all familiar, a summer monsoon, water pouring down off the rooftops and running along the streets.
No. It must be winter -- the air is cold, and if it was any colder it just might snow -- and he's standing inside the saloon, listening to the rain slamming into the roof overhead. There's a man playing the piano, and another on the fiddle. Tunstall and Alex are sitting at a nearby table, a bottle of whiskey between the two of them.
Doc's standing in the doorway.
(He always stood in the doorway.)
The rifle is leaning against the wall at his side, as he looks out at the water running down the street, pooling in the mud. The air running past him is cold, but he doesn't mind the temperature. He's listening to the conversations inside.
Thunder rumbles overhead.
He doesn't move.
(He never did.)
When he wakes up, he listens to the sound of the silence in his room for a long few minutes before he realizes that he's not in Lincoln, but in the bar. And it isn't raining. Doc lies in bed another few minutes, before he gets up and then heads downstairs, taking the notes and ledger with him.