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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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."

She braces him without budging when he sags.

"That's okay." Her fingers are still stroking the back of his neck. "I'm not asking you to be anything else."

She swallows past the lump in her throat and opens her eyes.

"How long's it been since you ate something?"

Doc ponders the question a moment.

"...hell, I can't even remember."

After another moment of figuring, he shakes his head.

"I had a late lunch the day Kate got back, I'd been out in the stables movin' hay all afternoon."

Then it had all gone to hell, and it's been a blur since.

She takes this in with a slight nod; now isn't the time to say he should've paid more attention, should've taken better care of himself.

(He's talking, and he's coherent. Right now, that's a lot.)

"Bar sent a sandwich with me. And a thermos of ... something."

(She wonders now if it's soup.)

"Feel like putting that in your stomach?"

He pulls in a breath, and he almost mutters no before he nods, slowly.

"I know I gotta 'fore I fall apart."

(Even though some might say he already has.)

Doc shifts a little, wincing at the pain in his back. Sitting on the tile floor for the last several hours hasn't done him any favors; he'll be lucky if he can stand up without her help.

In the end, he'd rather not fall and crack his head against the tub.

"Can y'give me a hand up, once you're up?"

She can feel the dampness at the shoulder of her thin cotton button-down, but she doesn't give it a second thought (and barely a first).

"I think I can handle that."

She unfolds her legs and stands, careful not to crush any of the shards surrounding them -- Doc doesn't need her tracking microscopic shards into his bedroom, not when he'd most likely step on them later.

She steps in front of him and offers both hands, and as she studies him, she's betting he's slept as much as he's eaten.

He reaches up and takes her hands (ignoring the twinge in his right when he flexes his knuckles) and uses her help to get himself up off the floor.

Yeah, not walking anywhere just yet. Standing without falling, first, then he'll think about walking.

He glances down at the floor and the shards (most of them got shoved out of the way with a towel but there are still some) and mentally picks a path to avoid since he's not wearing shoes. Something registers from earlier, for a second time.

"...Bar gave you food for me?"

She's surveying the floor when he speaks, picking out the least littered line to the threshold, and her eyes lift to his.

"She did."

She slips an arm around his waist for support and tries to smile.

"So c'mon -- you can't refuse something like that."

"Glad it was you an' not some random stranger gettin' a sandwich and a room key."

His own face shifts into a half-smile, barely tugging at the corner of his mouth, but at least it's an attempt. That's something, and probably more than he could have managed a few hours ago after he lost his temper.

They make it out of the bathroom without any mirror shards coming with them; he scrubs his bandaged hand over his face while walking over to the couch, glancing outside at the late afternoon sun.

You haven't checked the horses in two days.

She sees the effort, and it's the effort that counts.

"Me, too."

"Least one of you came back."

When they reach the couch and she's certain he's steady on his feet, she crosses the hardwood to retrieve the sandwich and thermos.

"I need to water my plants."

There are two containers on the windowsill, one small pot that has the start of a bulb peeking through the soil, the other a divided rectangle with four small cups of dirt in it, but no apparent growth just yet.

Doc shakes his head and sits on the couch, pulling the coffee table a little closer with his un-wrapped hand.

Doc needs to water his plants like Kate had needed to buy more floss the day after her mom died.

She sets the bag and the thermos on the coffee table.

"But you need to eat, first."

And get some sleep.

"Yeah."

He nods slightly and pulls the sandwich (cut diagonally across the middle into two triangles) out of the plastic bag, using the bag as a 'plate' when he sets it down. His movements are almost automatic as he goes for the thermos, taking the lid off, looking into the container.

He chuckles a little.

"Suppose that's payback somehow," he murmurs, as he pours himself a glass of milk.

After a few bites of the sandwich and a drink of milk, he glances over at her.

"I told Bar to give Ben Wade a glass of milk for every time he ordered a glass of whiskey," he explains.

He's talking, he's coherent, and he's eating; she doesn't realize how tense the back of her neck has been until her shoulders relax.

Her lips quirk at the explanation.

"Worried about his liver?"

If Doc is anything, it's good at forcing himself to do things he really doesn't want to do; be it saddling up again after a long night of sleeping on the rocky ground, pulling the trigger while staring a man down, or eating when he's not really hungry.

(If he eats while she's here, she won't worry about him as much.)

He picks at the sandwich, but he is eating.

"'Bout the ulcer I'm sure Katherine and I have given him."

"That is the last thing you need to worry about."

She sinks onto the far corner of the couch, tucking one leg beneath her as she faces him.

"When's the last time you slept?"

"A few hours ago. I took a nap."

He lifts his right hand as he's reaching for the lid of the thermos for another drink of milk, to indicate the wrapped bandage that's covering his knuckles

"Before I did this."

If he can stay matter of fact about it, he doesn't have to think about it.

Or why he did it in the first place.

She hears the resolve that edges his answer because it's a razor's width away from the same kind she'd steeled herself with during CTU debriefings and Warner International press conferences.

(Facts -- facts are safe.)

"Do you know how long you slept?"

He finishes the last bite of the first half of the sandwich and gives a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders as he chews.

"Hour, maybe two."

A beat, and he hesitates, eyes on the second half of the sandwich. His gaze is almost distant, while he's thinking on whatever his tongue is mulling over saying next. Eventually he shakes his head and reaches for the sandwich, tearing the triangle in half and setting one half back down.

"I'm used t'not sleepin' well. I usually don't."

Bill doesn't always sleep well, either; she wonders what Doc dreams about more -- bullets or the Old Kingdom.

(With Bill, she's never sure.)

"But you have to try," she says, voice soft with empathy.

"Think you could rest when you're finished with that," and she tips her head toward the sandwich, "even just for a little while?"

Two beats of hesitation.

"I can stay -- I'll read here on the couch, if you don't mind the company."

And so you're not by yourself if you wake up scared or confused.

"I got books."

It's a yes without him actually having to ask the question, and he nods his head over towards the bookcase across the room.

There are copies of collections by poets -- Poe, Shakespeare, Frost and Whitman -- mixed in with guides on equine care and histories of New Mexico, a volume on Medieval England, tales of Robin Hood and his Merry Men sit next to 'The Life and Times of Billy the Kid'. There's a cookbook, a copy of Gray's Anatomy, first-aid. How-to books; origami, reading music, construction. A biography of the man who performed the first heart transplant. There's a stack of worn paperbacks -- dime novels, telling tales of Jesse James and Doc Holliday and yes, even Billy the Kid and his Regulators. There's a copy of 'High Flight' sitting next to 'Of Mice and Men'.

Obviously he's got varied tastes.

(He can keep books here, and not worry about the hassle of carrying them in a saddle bag or box.)

Doc finishes the current bit of sandwich, and eyes the last little triangle like a man might eye a competitor on the playing field. He knows he can eat it.

It's an unspoken yes that she wordlessly accepts.

"I was kind of hoping for an excuse to look at your library."

Leaving Doc to what's left of his food, she crosses the floorboards and scans the shelves.

'Library,' she decides, is a pretty apt way to put it -- there's plenty here to hold her interest while he sleeps (though she'd stay sans any kind of distraction without question).

At length, her hand falls on a worn copy of Steinbeck that looks almost identical to one her dad lost years ago.

That copy of Steinbeck has familiar (if she's seen Paul's handwriting, that is) script among the margins, along with a fair share of doodles to go along with the story printed on the pages.

"I got a hell of a collection," he admits, between bites. "Bookcase is new though...I think the Loompas got tired of me leavin' them stacked all over the place."

When he's finished with the sandwich (and he has to admit he's sort of proud of himself for managing to eat the whole damn thing) he dusts his hands off and finishes off the milk.

The plants can wait until after a nap.

"I like it. It's very IKEA."

Her eyes are tracing the familiar scrawl -- it'll be a minute or three before its owner clicks into place -- when movement from the couch catches her attention and she turns to see he's eaten the entire sandwich.

"Looks like Bar knew what she was doing when she sent that with me."

[[ milliways ]]

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