Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2009-12-19 07:44 pm
ikissdhimbck) wrote2009-12-19 07:44 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: Room #25
The room is ghostly still. Every shadow, every trick of the eye, is amplified in the low lamplight; every worry, every harrowing dread, looming like a pall spread over her head.
Doc's sleeping. It gives her small relief. Knowing he needs the rest, but done with seeing his eyes shut, his too pale skin, she watches to make sure he doesn't slip away from her again. She watches the rise and fall of his chest, the shift of his eyelids as he dreams.
She doesn't sleep. If she sleeps, he could disappear.
His head is in her lap, and as he dreams she reflects, dark circles under her eyes and an ache in her back from keeping her head bowed so much. Her fingers slowly comb through his hair, turning it soft with the oils from her skin. When he seems bothered, she hushes him and hums, until he stills and his breathing evens out again.
In.
Out.
In.
He's still here.
He's so young.
No, she has to remind herself. He's exactly the right age.
It's strange staring at his face. Tracing her fingers through the sandy-colored scruff along his chin. Imagining twin strips of gray. She touches the corners of his eyes, where his crows feet are still embryonic and shallow. His hair, still low on his forehead and long and full of color. He seems so young.
He's seen a war. He's seen countless gun battles, and countless deaths. He's been married once already. He has a son.
He isn't young. He's older than she is by physical right, and ages older by experience. She grew used to a thirty-four year old man, aged and experienced. But she remembers the first night she spent with him, doing exactly the opposite of what she's doing now.
He's so old.
She has to remind herself that it's still him. The tender, affectionate poet; the hardened, calloused outlaw; the soft-spoken teacher; the unreserved stable master. Josiah Gordon Scurlock. She remembers his face.
(Remembers what it looks like when he smiles.)
She keeps her gunbelt by her boots, and while he sleeps she'll watch the door. She and Ramon have a deal, but there's nothing to say he wasn't lying to her face. Doc has nightmares, and troubled dreams. He was beaten, and stabbed.
She promised she would protect him.
Nobody'll ever hurt you 'gain, long as I'm here.
Swear it.
She can't remember the last time she laid down.
Hands in his hair, she insists upon his getting rest. She encourages him to sleep, and heal, and recuperate.
She lets the wooden headboard dig into her neck, insisting she stay alert, to watch and protect him, to make sure he doesn't leave.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
"Kate."
Her head snaps up, and she instantly regrets the motion. She had been dozing, head lolling as she tried to fight off the exhaustion, and failed. She winces, bringing a hand up to rub at the crick in her neck, and glances down.
Doc's gray-green eyes are staring straight up at her.
"What is it?" she whispers, instantly alert. She swallows a few times in an effort to dislodge the cotton in her mouth, coughing quietly. Her hand drifts back to his hair. "Are you okay? Bad dream? Y'need some water, some--?"
"You're gonna make yourself sick. Y'need t'lie down."
She hesitates, taken aback by the firmness in his sleepy voice.
"I'm fine. I only drifted for a minute, but I'm awake now."
"Y'need t'drift for more than a minute. C'mere, lemme hold you."
Before she can protest further, he's picking his head up off her lap and shifting closer to the wall, making room for her to lie down next to him. His fingers brush down her forearm, tickling her wrist, before they wrap themselves around her hand and gently tug.
She doesn't move at first.
"I want t'hear your heart beatin'; lets me know this ain't a dream."
Wordlessly, she swallows hard and shifts, unable to refuse the request. Her low back and thighs groan as she straightens out, slipping her legs down between the sheets as her torso hits the mattress. His arm loops around her waist and gently tugs, until they're sharing the same pillow, her hands curled against his chest and his arm along her spine. She shivers as his hand comes to rest at her shoulders, and the tips of his fingers just barely reach over her collar and come to rest on the warm skin of her neck.
She doesn't say anything more, and neither does he. They simply lay there, eyes locked in silent communication. There is so much trapped inside -- so many conversations they've never had, so many questions she's never asked, so many stories and experiences and worries they've never shared -- she feels full to the brim, like a book with too many pages, inked words ready to fly from her mouth. But they stop at her throat, some invisible barrier holding them back.
Looking at him, she wonders if he feels the same way.
He falls back to sleep before she does, and again she watches his slumber. The line between his brows. The slight frown on his lips. His bruises set, forming dark shadows under his facial hair, like sinking pits in smooth, soft sand. She memorizes every cut, and every discoloration. She can see them when she closes her eyes, can describe their exact color, and knows their exact location. She watches them, as if she's waiting to see them heal right before her eyes.
(She watches them, as if she's keeping careful watch lest they spread and grow and devour him, every inch.)
She wants to know what happened in New Mexico, and she doesn't.
She wants to tell him about Colorado, and she doesn't.
She traces back in her memory to the last time she saw him, before he rode out without a goodbye, before the 'other him' showed up. She hated him. She hated him for leaving her. She hated him for going away to Wheelsy, for going to New Mexico alone with Kate Warner. She hated him for lying to her about seeing his wife and son. She hated him for lying to her about having a wife and son. She hated him for keeping secrets. She hated him for not being Sam.
She looks at him now, and she can't stop herself from crying.
She doesn't hate him. She can't picture living without him. She was mad at the Bar, and their worlds, and all the things that seemed to drive them apart. She was mad at time, and space, and herself. She was bred for a gentleman; she fell for an outlaw. She knew that from the beginning. She was mad at herself for wasting time wanting him to follow the rules. Rules the both of them spurned.
She didn't hate him.
She loved him so much it scared her. She acted like a child.
I'm sorry.
She watches his face, his still eyelids and his slightly parted lips.
I'm sorry I put us through so much pain, just in growing up and figuring out who I was. I'm sorry I tried to make you something you're not. I should have trusted you.
The book swells with more pages, her heart aching as her body holds it all in. Part of her wants to wake him, to crack the invisible barrier holding everything down her throat, and spill her heart out to him. But she waits. She watches him sleep, watches him dream, and adds to the splitting book of her heart.
Praying she'll find the courage to speak the words aloud, when he's awake.
.
Doc's sleeping. It gives her small relief. Knowing he needs the rest, but done with seeing his eyes shut, his too pale skin, she watches to make sure he doesn't slip away from her again. She watches the rise and fall of his chest, the shift of his eyelids as he dreams.
She doesn't sleep. If she sleeps, he could disappear.
His head is in her lap, and as he dreams she reflects, dark circles under her eyes and an ache in her back from keeping her head bowed so much. Her fingers slowly comb through his hair, turning it soft with the oils from her skin. When he seems bothered, she hushes him and hums, until he stills and his breathing evens out again.
In.
Out.
In.
He's still here.
'I swear to you, I'll never leave you 'gain.'
He's so young.
No, she has to remind herself. He's exactly the right age.
It's strange staring at his face. Tracing her fingers through the sandy-colored scruff along his chin. Imagining twin strips of gray. She touches the corners of his eyes, where his crows feet are still embryonic and shallow. His hair, still low on his forehead and long and full of color. He seems so young.
He's seen a war. He's seen countless gun battles, and countless deaths. He's been married once already. He has a son.
He isn't young. He's older than she is by physical right, and ages older by experience. She grew used to a thirty-four year old man, aged and experienced. But she remembers the first night she spent with him, doing exactly the opposite of what she's doing now.
He's so old.
She has to remind herself that it's still him. The tender, affectionate poet; the hardened, calloused outlaw; the soft-spoken teacher; the unreserved stable master. Josiah Gordon Scurlock. She remembers his face.
(Remembers what it looks like when he smiles.)
She keeps her gunbelt by her boots, and while he sleeps she'll watch the door. She and Ramon have a deal, but there's nothing to say he wasn't lying to her face. Doc has nightmares, and troubled dreams. He was beaten, and stabbed.
She promised she would protect him.
Nobody'll ever hurt you 'gain, long as I'm here.
She can't remember the last time she laid down.
Hands in his hair, she insists upon his getting rest. She encourages him to sleep, and heal, and recuperate.
She lets the wooden headboard dig into her neck, insisting she stay alert, to watch and protect him, to make sure he doesn't leave.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
"Kate."
Her head snaps up, and she instantly regrets the motion. She had been dozing, head lolling as she tried to fight off the exhaustion, and failed. She winces, bringing a hand up to rub at the crick in her neck, and glances down.
Doc's gray-green eyes are staring straight up at her.
"What is it?" she whispers, instantly alert. She swallows a few times in an effort to dislodge the cotton in her mouth, coughing quietly. Her hand drifts back to his hair. "Are you okay? Bad dream? Y'need some water, some--?"
"You're gonna make yourself sick. Y'need t'lie down."
She hesitates, taken aback by the firmness in his sleepy voice.
"I'm fine. I only drifted for a minute, but I'm awake now."
"Y'need t'drift for more than a minute. C'mere, lemme hold you."
Before she can protest further, he's picking his head up off her lap and shifting closer to the wall, making room for her to lie down next to him. His fingers brush down her forearm, tickling her wrist, before they wrap themselves around her hand and gently tug.
She doesn't move at first.
"I want t'hear your heart beatin'; lets me know this ain't a dream."
Wordlessly, she swallows hard and shifts, unable to refuse the request. Her low back and thighs groan as she straightens out, slipping her legs down between the sheets as her torso hits the mattress. His arm loops around her waist and gently tugs, until they're sharing the same pillow, her hands curled against his chest and his arm along her spine. She shivers as his hand comes to rest at her shoulders, and the tips of his fingers just barely reach over her collar and come to rest on the warm skin of her neck.
She doesn't say anything more, and neither does he. They simply lay there, eyes locked in silent communication. There is so much trapped inside -- so many conversations they've never had, so many questions she's never asked, so many stories and experiences and worries they've never shared -- she feels full to the brim, like a book with too many pages, inked words ready to fly from her mouth. But they stop at her throat, some invisible barrier holding them back.
Looking at him, she wonders if he feels the same way.
He falls back to sleep before she does, and again she watches his slumber. The line between his brows. The slight frown on his lips. His bruises set, forming dark shadows under his facial hair, like sinking pits in smooth, soft sand. She memorizes every cut, and every discoloration. She can see them when she closes her eyes, can describe their exact color, and knows their exact location. She watches them, as if she's waiting to see them heal right before her eyes.
(She watches them, as if she's keeping careful watch lest they spread and grow and devour him, every inch.)
She wants to know what happened in New Mexico, and she doesn't.
She wants to tell him about Colorado, and she doesn't.
She traces back in her memory to the last time she saw him, before he rode out without a goodbye, before the 'other him' showed up. She hated him. She hated him for leaving her. She hated him for going away to Wheelsy, for going to New Mexico alone with Kate Warner. She hated him for lying to her about seeing his wife and son. She hated him for lying to her about having a wife and son. She hated him for keeping secrets. She hated him for not being Sam.
She looks at him now, and she can't stop herself from crying.
She doesn't hate him. She can't picture living without him. She was mad at the Bar, and their worlds, and all the things that seemed to drive them apart. She was mad at time, and space, and herself. She was bred for a gentleman; she fell for an outlaw. She knew that from the beginning. She was mad at herself for wasting time wanting him to follow the rules. Rules the both of them spurned.
She didn't hate him.
She loved him so much it scared her. She acted like a child.
I'm sorry.
She watches his face, his still eyelids and his slightly parted lips.
I'm sorry I put us through so much pain, just in growing up and figuring out who I was. I'm sorry I tried to make you something you're not. I should have trusted you.
The book swells with more pages, her heart aching as her body holds it all in. Part of her wants to wake him, to crack the invisible barrier holding everything down her throat, and spill her heart out to him. But she waits. She watches him sleep, watches him dream, and adds to the splitting book of her heart.
Praying she'll find the courage to speak the words aloud, when he's awake.
.