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
( ... )
It's meant both as a 'just so you know,' given how long he's been gone, as well as a subtle warning. He's not to be mucking stalls for a while, if she has anything to say about it.
He's a little surprised at the offer, but he's certainly not going to turn it down.
"...I'd appreciate that," he replies, nodding to say 'yes' to her question.
The lights are already on in the bathroom and Bar has made sure that there are plenty of clean washcloths and towels stocked on the shelf.
First, he needs to get out of his bloodied button-down shirt -- once they step away from each other, he makes an attempt to shrug it from his shoulders and peel out of it.
She's still feeling a little disconnected, like her head isn't sitting quite right on her shoulders. Being away from his strength and solidity only aids those feelings.
Her face is warm, but her hands are freezing. There's a tremble in her belly, and an ache in her eyes.
She reaches up around his neck to help him, though, pulling the fabric away from his body carefully.
She catches sight of the stab wound, peeking out from under his short-sleeved undershirt.
Guppy didn't bandage it -- or Doc has since taken the bandage off -- but the stitches are neat and tidy on his skin, the wound a few inches long, skin a little bit pink around the injury.
Once the shirt is off, he shivers slightly. The air in the room is cold, and being away from her makes it more noticeable.
"S'gonna be this one that's more of a pain t'git free," he admits, reaching down for the hem at his waist, un-tucking the fabric from his trousers, and ignoring the unsightly marks on his wrists.
(If he thinks about the rope burns, he thinks about the rope.)
She nods, but doesn't speak. Not with the boulder choking out her words.
An outlaw's definition of a "scratch."
"Sit down?" she mumbles, nodding over to the desk chair.
Once he settles himself down, it's easier for her to maneuver the shirt over his head. She gently pulls at the hem, getting the fabric up off his back, and then slides it down his arms once it's clear, without ever making him lift his arms above his head.
She inhales sharply when she slides the shirt from his hands, noticing the rope burns at last.
She slips one hand into his hair, shaking her head though she knows he can't see her. She bows her head until her face is pressed lightly into his hair.
"Don't gotta talk 'bout it right now, 'kay? There's time for that later. Jus'... let's just git you cleaned up first, okay?"
Her voice quavers with emotion, but her hands stay steady. She squeezes her eyes shut and nuzzles into his hair slightly, before straightening herself again.
"M'gonna go run the water. Y'just sit tight, I'll be right back."
He swallows hard, pushing down the emotion in his voice, and stays sitting in the chair as she moves away to run the water. He's cold, but he knows that he'll be warmer once he's clean and in the bath.
Doc looks around the room, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. Things have been moved, since he was last here -- the cask of rum is slightly askew, things on his dresser have been shifted, and there are a few things missing from his desk.
They thought you were dead...it makes sense...
He idly rubs at the skin near his stitches, trying to get rid of an itch without actually scratching at it.
She crouches by the tub as it fills with hot water, elbows tucked in and her face in her hands.
The steam slowly wafting through the room is soothing to her lungs, and she stays still for a long time, just trying to stay calm and breathe.
She doesn't know what to do.
She exits the bathroom a few minutes later, her footsteps slowing as her eyes brush over his beaten flesh. He'll be dark purple and green by morning, without a doubt.
Pursing her lips together and swallowing down her emotions, she nods toward the bathroom door.
"S'ready. You go on an' get in; I'm gonna go fetch you somethin' t'eat, but I'll be right back. Okay?"
She doesn't want to leave him (never going to leave your side ever again, never going to walk away), but he looks so hungry. Besides, he should have some privacy to get undressed and settled.
Remember, you're practically strangers to each other's bodies.
"Thank you...had somethin' light for breakfast this mornin', but I ain't eaten since."
Not counting a chunk of beef jerky he'd fished from his saddlebags around noon -- but that doesn't count as anything close to a meal, and the fact that he's willingly accepting the offer of food is telling enough.
Doc carefully stands from the chair, shifting his weight off of his sore leg.
"Do y'think y'could bring some tea, when y'come back?"
It's hard to mask the sweep of her eyes as she tries to take count of his injuries. They eventually settle at his feet, and she nods with a small smile.
"I'll be sure t'do that."
Him asking for tea is telling, as well.
She stands there for an awkward moment, nothing but silence passing between them. Eventually, though, she picks her feet up and moves for the door.
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 ( ... )
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"I'm takin' care of things in the stables."
It's meant both as a 'just so you know,' given how long he's been gone, as well as a subtle warning. He's not to be mucking stalls for a while, if she has anything to say about it.
"How long ago was it?"
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He nods, slowly -- before gratefully bowing his head.
"Thank you."
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Her hand brushes his breastbone on his right side, and she can't help but envision a bleeding hole in his armpit, either.
"Let me clean you up?"
At least this time he'll get back up again.
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"...I'd appreciate that," he replies, nodding to say 'yes' to her question.
The lights are already on in the bathroom and Bar has made sure that there are plenty of clean washcloths and towels stocked on the shelf.
First, he needs to get out of his bloodied button-down shirt -- once they step away from each other, he makes an attempt to shrug it from his shoulders and peel out of it.
(He's going to need her help.)
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Her face is warm, but her hands are freezing. There's a tremble in her belly, and an ache in her eyes.
She reaches up around his neck to help him, though, pulling the fabric away from his body carefully.
She catches sight of the stab wound, peeking out from under his short-sleeved undershirt.
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Once the shirt is off, he shivers slightly. The air in the room is cold, and being away from her makes it more noticeable.
"S'gonna be this one that's more of a pain t'git free," he admits, reaching down for the hem at his waist, un-tucking the fabric from his trousers, and ignoring the unsightly marks on his wrists.
(If he thinks about the rope burns, he thinks about the rope.)
"M'jus'glad that it's a scratch."
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An outlaw's definition of a "scratch."
"Sit down?" she mumbles, nodding over to the desk chair.
Once he settles himself down, it's easier for her to maneuver the shirt over his head. She gently pulls at the hem, getting the fabric up off his back, and then slides it down his arms once it's clear, without ever making him lift his arms above his head.
She inhales sharply when she slides the shirt from his hands, noticing the rope burns at last.
Her jaw works, but no sound comes out.
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He's hoping they won't scar, but they probably will.
(He'll always be able to see them, in his mind.)
Doc lifts his eyes a little bit, to glance at the raw flesh -- but his eyes aren't really seeing the wounds.
"M'sure...there's somethin' I can do...t'git rid'a 'em."
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She slips one hand into his hair, shaking her head though she knows he can't see her. She bows her head until her face is pressed lightly into his hair.
"Don't gotta talk 'bout it right now, 'kay? There's time for that later. Jus'... let's just git you cleaned up first, okay?"
Her voice quavers with emotion, but her hands stay steady. She squeezes her eyes shut and nuzzles into his hair slightly, before straightening herself again.
"M'gonna go run the water. Y'just sit tight, I'll be right back."
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He swallows hard, pushing down the emotion in his voice, and stays sitting in the chair as she moves away to run the water. He's cold, but he knows that he'll be warmer once he's clean and in the bath.
Doc looks around the room, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. Things have been moved, since he was last here -- the cask of rum is slightly askew, things on his dresser have been shifted, and there are a few things missing from his desk.
They thought you were dead...it makes sense...
He idly rubs at the skin near his stitches, trying to get rid of an itch without actually scratching at it.
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The steam slowly wafting through the room is soothing to her lungs, and she stays still for a long time, just trying to stay calm and breathe.
She doesn't know what to do.
She exits the bathroom a few minutes later, her footsteps slowing as her eyes brush over his beaten flesh. He'll be dark purple and green by morning, without a doubt.
Pursing her lips together and swallowing down her emotions, she nods toward the bathroom door.
"S'ready. You go on an' get in; I'm gonna go fetch you somethin' t'eat, but I'll be right back. Okay?"
She doesn't want to leave him (never going to leave your side ever again, never going to walk away), but he looks so hungry. Besides, he should have some privacy to get undressed and settled.
Remember, you're practically strangers to each other's bodies.
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Not counting a chunk of beef jerky he'd fished from his saddlebags around noon -- but that doesn't count as anything close to a meal, and the fact that he's willingly accepting the offer of food is telling enough.
Doc carefully stands from the chair, shifting his weight off of his sore leg.
"Do y'think y'could bring some tea, when y'come back?"
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"I'll be sure t'do that."
Him asking for tea is telling, as well.
She stands there for an awkward moment, nothing but silence passing between them. Eventually, though, she picks her feet up and moves for the door.
Quietly.
(What else is there to say?)
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He gently touches her arm, before she gets out of reach.
"Thank you."
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The corner of her mouth tics upward, even though the concerned furrow of her brow doesn't even out.
"You're welcome."
She lets her fingers ghost over his hand before she turns and unlocks the door.
"You can go on and lock it after me," she remembers to say, looking a bit bashful. "I have a key."
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