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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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."

"I like roast beef." It's a fact. Facts are safe. "Ain't a fan of tomatoes, though."

He hauls himself up off the couch and screws the cap back onto the thermos, knowing that if Bar sent it, the milk will stay cold until he wants more later.

But before he sets it down, he pauses, and tilts his head to the side.

"...the hells eye-key-uh?"

She remembers there's no love lost between Doc and tomatoes.

Her eyes are on the book again when he asks his question, and she looks up, a small smile playing on her lips.

"It's a giant furniture chain with stores all around the world; their stuff has a distinct look."

A beat.

"Flat."

Another beat.

"And you get to put most of the pieces together once you get them home."

"With the 'help' of instructions that make absolutely no sense?"

He leaves the thermos on the coffee table and crosses the distance to the desk, and idly leafs through a few papers. Why he bothers with it (they're nothing he's looking for) he's not quite sure.

Except that he is. He's stalling for time, but after a brief couple of seconds he forces himself to knock it off, and he braces his hands against the surface for a moment, hanging his head.

He's staring at the wall, eyes distant and unfocused.

"She'll be alright, she's...she's smart. She can handle herself."

"The one and the same," she says with a nod, and with the meaningless back-and-forth, it's almost easy to forget the shape she'd found him in.

Almost.

She deposits Of Mice and Men on one arm of the couch.

"She's smart."

Except when she left like this -- when she left you like this.

"And she can handle herself."

She steps close to him, her palm hovering over his shoulder blade.

"She's going to be fine."

Her hand is gentle on his back.

"Doc, she'll be fine."

He nods, the motion a bit awkward with his still-sore neck, and he closes his eyes as he pulls in a deep breath, holding it until his lungs burn. If he hadn't already gone through two packs of cigarettes in the last day and a half he'd be wanting one now; as it is, he'll ignore the shake in his fingertips in favor of sleep.

"Yeah."

He clears his throat and nods again, then glances over his shoulder at her. He tries to smile, lips twitching with the effort.

"Yeah. She will be."

Doc swallows down the lump in his throat and looks back at the wall, before he glances at the bed and steps away from Kate (not pulling away, just...movement) and moves to it. The sheet and blankets are already shoved down, and he doesn't bother with changing out of his jeans or t-shirt.

Heck, just sleeping without his boots on is still a novelty from time to time.

"Just hope she doesn't take two months to get back here, this time," he says, as he moves across the bed - it's a bed for two, not huge but not a twin - and he settles himself on his side, back against the wall.

(There's a reason the bed is pushed all the way up into the corner and he can see the entire room, all the doors, and the windows from where his head rests against the pillows.)

He'll close his eyes in a few minutes. Right now, he's just staring at the mattress. Where she should be.

When he moves away and she drops her hand, she resists the urge to fist her fingers at her hip.

"The Landlord can't be that cruel all the time."

Her half-smile matches her tone, small and sad.

She returns to the couch and toes off her shoes, lining them up near the coffee table before she curls into one corner of the sofa.

Eyes on the book in her lap but attention focused on Doc, she wishes she knew what to say.

I'm sorry I can't fix this.

After a few minutes of staring, he eventually messes around with the blankets and the pillows until he's gotten himself relatively comfortable, curled up on his side, knees drawn up. His left hand is tucked under the pillow he's resting his head on. His right arm is wrapped around another pillow he's grabbed down from near the headboard and is currently being hugged tight against his chest.

(He can hear her turning the pages in the book every few minutes -- he uses the quiet sound to keep track of the time as it passes.)

Eventually, he falls asleep.

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