justdidntseeit | [[ milliways ]]

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[[ milliways ]]

For the first time in what feels like awhile, Kate doesn't walk into the bar in her pajamas. (Or bathrobe. Or fuzzy slippers.) The door leading back to Bill's kitchen doesn't disappear, either.

She takes a quick look around; after a half-second of debate, she heads for the counter.

(Bill's gone fishing with Dave, anyway; he won't be wondering where she's gotten to.)

She opens her mouth to order lunch, but, while she's thinking about it --

"Bar, have you seen Doc today? I need to talk to him about the stables."

(She's really hoping she and Bill can borrow a couple of horses for Valentine's Day.)

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A napkin appears on the surface.

Not since yesterday morning.

Then another.

(The writing doesn't appear right away.)

Room #25.

"Oh, did he -- "

'Leave' dies on her lips when the second napkin, then the room number appear.

"Bar?"

A sandwich, in a plastic Ziploc bag appears, along with a thermos of what she'll later discover is cold milk.

And a room key.

You might need it.

A line appears between her brows.

"Bar -- "

She swallows the rest of the question -- it's obvious he's not okay -- and picks up the items; the key feels heavier than it should in her hand.

"Thank you."

She pockets the key, mounts the stairs, and stops in front of Room 25.

Be here. Please.

She lifts her free hand and knocks, the sound of her knuckles on the wood loud in the deserted hallway.

There's no answer.

She waits.

Hesitates.

Knocks again.

And fits the key in the lock.

With a quiet click and a turn of the knob, she eases open the door and squints into the half-gloom.

"Doc?"

The lights are off, but the shutters are half-open and allow some sunlight to stream into the room. There's a desk to her right, past that and in the corner a bed. A couch in the far corner from the door, beneath the windows. A dresser, weapons (a longbow, a rifle, a dull-edged sword) lean in the corner that's nearest the bathroom door, a bookcase on the other side of it near the closet.

All in all, it's clean and organized.

There's a simple wooden chair near the dresser.

His holster is draped over the back, handle of the Colt visible even in the half-light.

She pulls the key from the lock and takes a small step across the threshold, plastic crinkling when her fingers tighten on the Ziploc bag and thermos.

(She's stepping into the Matheson house on Blue Tree Drive again, worry warring with trepidation.)

If she weren't so concerned, she'd take in the room slowly, maybe even scan the bookshelves for familiar titles.

As it is, the lizard part of her brain is cataloging the weapons in the room, and she's relieved to see the gun's tucked in its holster.

(This isn't the Matheson house and Doc isn't Kim Bauer; he won't draw on her.)

She swallows and licks her lips.

"Doc? It's Kate. Kate Warner."

"Least one of you came back."

The bathroom door is open, as she steps into the room she'll be able to see his feet (he's not wearing shoes, but he's got white socks on) and the edges of his jeans. He's sitting on the floor, back against the tub, with his legs drawn up, knees to his chest and one arm (his left) wrapped around his shins. The other arm is folded behind him, hand resting on the back of his head.

There's a bandage on his right hand, simple white cloth wrapped around his knuckles and wrist. And given the state of the bathroom floor (there's pieces of the mirror off the medicine cabinet littering the tile) it's not hard to guess why his hand is wrapped up.

He doesn't lift his head.

"Watch out for the glass."

She doesn't remember placing the bag or the thermos on the dresser; she's in the bedroom, then she's in the bathroom, crouched a few inches from his knees.

In her leather-heeled flats and jeans, the glass isn't so much as an afterthought.

He hasn't moved, so she doesn't touch him; she curls her palms around her bent knees.

"Hey."

"Hey."

He keeps his head down, shoulders bent forward, curled up on himself. He's been sitting here for the last few hours, ever since he got up from a fitful nap and stared at himself in the mirror until he couldn't stand the sight of the reflection staring back and put his fist into it. There are a few small, bloodied chunks of glass on the edge of the sink, and a pair of tweezers.

He swallows, hard.

"It still Monday?"

"Yeah."

(She's thankful Bar's time matches evenly with Bill's in Wheelsy.)

Her eyes trace the bandaging on his right hand while she bites the inside of her cheek.

"Bar told me you were up here. She gave me a key."

Don't make me leave.

"Bar's good 'bout that kind of stuff."

He sniffles a little and then lifts his head up, finally, ignoring the twinge of pain in his neck from having it in such an awkward damn position for so long. He moves the bandaged hand to it, to work at the knot with his fingertips.

From the looks of his face, he's gotten some sleep, but not much, and there's evidence of earlier tears streaked at the corners of his eyes. He swallows, again.

"She..."

He can't finish the words, and he stares at her knees to avoid her eyes.

Her knuckles are sharp and pale against the dark denim of her jeans.

He looks terrible -- too ragged and worn for someone who's not even twenty-five yet -- a universe away from the hopeful cowboy she'd seen the last time they talked.

"What happened?" she asks around the hammering heart behind her teeth.

He pulls in a deep breath and holds it until he manages to get a grip on himself. It takes a few minutes.

"She came back. Saturday. She...there was another gentleman...I knew 'bout him before, told her that as long as she was happy then she was doin' the right thing. She told me that she wanted to be with me...just needed time t'clear things up back home."

The words come easier as he speaks, but he's still quiet.

"She went back...she kissed him. It's...it's 'gainst the law for a Negro to kiss a white woman. They..."

she had blood on her skin and mud on her boots, clothes damp and smelling like lake water and muck, hair all a mess and face too damn pale

"...Kate an' Sam were tryin' to git 'way...they shot him. Right in front of her, she had his blood on her face an' her hands and she was all...she was in shock when she came in..."

She's patient, silent, letting him speak in this halting cadence.

A cold feeling coils in the pit of her stomach when he trails off, and she's almost too horrified to find her voice.

"Doc, is she -- is she okay? I mean, physically? Is she down in the infirmary?"

Let her be alive, god, please.

(He can't lose her, too. He's too young for this.)

"Yeah she..."

He pulls in a deep, shuddering breath.

"...she stayed the night up here. I wasn't gonna let her be alone. I stayed up...Christ I dunno how long...just watchin' to make sure she didn't have no nightmares or need anythin'...I told her we'd figure things out in the mornin' after some rest."

Then he curls up again, bowing his head.

"She was gone when I woke up...I looked all over for her and then found Ben...she...she went t'him yesterday mornin' and had him teach her how to shoot a six."

Her knees are beginning to protest, but she doesn't move, afraid it might distract Doc and cause him to close up.

She wants to lean forward and wrap her arms around him, but hesitates for the same reason.

"Ben?"

If it's the same Ben that's ringing a distant bell, she knows who he means.

"But you could -- why would she ask ... ?"

She forgets to finish the question as the line deepens between her brows.

"...cause she didn't want me to try an' stop her from goin' back out to take care of things."

Which I should have done.

Doc lifts his head and there are fresh tears threatening his eyes.

"She's gone. She left an' she didn't even...she told him but she didn't...it ain't that it was him I just...I shouldn't have fallen asleep, I should've watched..."

It's obvious that he's trying not to panic, trying not to break down, given the way his voice gets tight and his shoulders shudder a little with the effort.

"...she shouldn't have gone alone, if she gets hurt, m'not gonna be there..."

He trails off and his attention shifts to the way she's crouched on the floor. The tile is uncomfortable to sit on - he's pretty sure his ass is numb - and here he is, not showing a lick of manners (way to go, Doc) to a lady.

(He doesn't notice that he's crying silently, as his brain tries to figure out how to fix the location issue.)

"Doc, no, you -- "

She's still absorbing what he's said, her brain like a camera set on manual focus as the details lock into place and the picture sharpens, and she doesn't notice she's sitting beside him until her back hits the tub.

"No."

Her arm slips around his shoulders and she pulls him close.

Still curled up, he leans closer on instinct, needing the solid contact of something other than the nearest wall or the back of the tub, this time.

"Hosea...Hosea eight-seven. 'For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.' S'what we...s'what we used to...when was was Regulators, s'what we would say when we was talkin' about takin' care of things. Anyone who dared t'cross us was gonna git it...after John got killed we...we realized we couldn't get out of the whirlwind cause we was in it too."

He coughs, hard, mouth feeling dry and his throat feeling like he's swallowed a few of those glass shards from the broken mirror.

"Kate knew that we...she told Ben t'tell me that verse, said I would understand what it meant. I know what it means, but she..."

He shakes his head.

"...you can't get out. Once you're in...once you..."

She doesn't recognize the verse, but its meaning hits hard in the center of her chest.

Her arm tightens around him and she turns her head, lips pressing against tufts of unruly hair.

Once you're in, you can't get out.

Her throat constricts; with a slight shift, her free arm draws him closer, her hand curling around the back of his neck.

Doc curls into her, moving his arm to wrap it around her side, pulling her close. His hands are shaking, hell, his entire body is shaking at this point, and he's a few heartbeats from breaking down completely.

"I don't want her to know what it feels like, the first time you kill a man."

It never gets easier.

But somehow, the first time is always the worst.

Her fingers stroke his nape and she closes her eyes.

She can see the man she shot -- killed -- the commando outside that warehouse in Studio City.

It doesn't matter that she only pulled the trigger before he did, it doesn't matter that it was self-defense -- she killed a man, and sometimes when she looks at her right hand, she only sees her trigger finger.

"It's horrible."

She pulls in a slow breath.

"But this isn't something you could control. It's not."

"I..."

He swallows and paws at his eyes with his bandaged hand, rubbing at them to wipe the tears away.

I can't remember how many men I've killed.
I should have stayed awake longer.
I never wanted her to know it's like.

He laughs, a hollow sound that echoes off the tile -- when it bounces back and hits his ears, he feels vaguely ill and dizzy and has to close his eyes.

"She's stubborn as hell. Wade said she was...she was bound and determined. But I...I wish she would have said somethin'." He shakes his head. "I..."

A moment's pause, as the energy drains out of him and he leans against her to keep from tipping over forward again.

"I'm just all fucked in the head right now."

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