Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2010-02-05 11:32 pm
ikissdhimbck) wrote2010-02-05 11:32 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: Room #25 (WARNING: Contains triggery content)
[following this:]
After Guppy takes Alex home, Kate eventually does make it to the fire to warm up. Of course, by this point her body is already warm; it's her heart that feels chilled. She dispenses with the tea, and just takes the whiskey for a second and third drink.
It's late by the time she's able to muddle through her thoughts well enough to drag herself upstairs. All she wants to do is collapse into her bed and sleep, but once she reaches the landing--
Doc.
He'll be expecting her.
She stands there for a moment, gathering her wits about her.
I don't want him to see me like this.
She swallows hard, steeling herself for what she knows she has to do next. She can't just bypass his room without a word; not when they've been spending so many nights together. Not when he'll be expecting her. Not when they've just had the intimacy 'conversation.' She'll pull herself together long enough to tell him she needs a quiet night to sleep. Everything's fine, she just misses her own bed. She'll be right as rain come tomorrow.
When she stops outside his door, she doesn't take out her key and walk in. For some reason, tonight she knocks.
.
After Guppy takes Alex home, Kate eventually does make it to the fire to warm up. Of course, by this point her body is already warm; it's her heart that feels chilled. She dispenses with the tea, and just takes the whiskey for a second and third drink.
It's late by the time she's able to muddle through her thoughts well enough to drag herself upstairs. All she wants to do is collapse into her bed and sleep, but once she reaches the landing--
Doc.
He'll be expecting her.
She stands there for a moment, gathering her wits about her.
She swallows hard, steeling herself for what she knows she has to do next. She can't just bypass his room without a word; not when they've been spending so many nights together. Not when he'll be expecting her. Not when they've just had the intimacy 'conversation.' She'll pull herself together long enough to tell him she needs a quiet night to sleep. Everything's fine, she just misses her own bed. She'll be right as rain come tomorrow.
When she stops outside his door, she doesn't take out her key and walk in. For some reason, tonight she knocks.
.
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She's filthy -- at least she feels it, whiskey leaking out of her pores in cold sweats, dirt and grime leftover from her chores in the stables clinging to her clothes -- and all she really wants to do is wash up and go to bed.
Will I dream again? Will I see his face?
"I didn't mean for it t'happen like this."
She feels rooted to the floor, almost terrified to leave because if she does, she'll have nothing to keep her from withering up and dying.
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Doc reaches for her arms.
"Let me help you?"
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Another slow shake of her head.
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First step: Identify the problem.
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Can't stay.
Can't do anything right.
Can't change the things she's done.
Can't say no to you.
Her head is still shaking, side to side.
"...Can't..."
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And he does, carefully shifting on the floor into a crouch, before he pulls her into his arms and lifts her into his embrace.
(It's all too familiar a scene, in his mind.)
"We'll get you cleaned up a bit, then in bed so's you can rest."
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It's only the weakest of protests as he hefts her up into his arms (she's too filthy for him to be touching her), and her hand falls against his chest, over his heart.
Her mind is too muddy to think, after all those tears, but deep down she still feels like she doesn't deserve this. And she's scared, she's terrified, of all that could happen.
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She's trusting you not to break her.
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She lets her head fall against his shoulder, eyes shut, feeling some of the weight that's been bowing her back with dread for weeks slip off of her like a shed skin, and she's almost weightless in his arms.
(But not quite.)
"I wanted t'tell you sooner, I just didn't know... how."
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They make their way into the washroom, and he glances down at her.
"Can y'sit up a moment, while I git the shower goin'? Or do y'just want t'change and freshen up?"
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"I can sit."
At best, she might manage to lean.
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He carefully helps her into the chair just inside the door, before kneeling at her feet to work on getting off her boots.
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have to do this, she would have said as he lowers her into that chair like a child, kneeling to help her take off her boots. She grips the seat to keep herself upright, head still spinning.
She hasn't been sleeping right, she's been weak, and she should have known better than to stay downstairs drinking. For months she wouldn't let herself grieve, and now, with the weight of everything that's happened present in full in the forefront of her mind, and Doc's reaction to take care of her like this, she can't keep the tears from buzzing in her brain.
Her eyes burn again, and though she feels all cried out, she apparently isn't. Tears streak down her flushed face like flames, and she hopes that her hair covers her face well enough to hide them from him.
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"It ain't nothin' to worry yourself about."
Doc reaches up to gently cover her wrists, thumbs brushing her skin. He knows she's upset -- he can tell by the tension under her skin, the way she's breathing.
"We're gonna be alright."
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"I'll be fine from here."
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"You sure? I...I can help, if y'...need me to."
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She manages to keep the quiver from her voice, but can't hold back a sniffle.
"Jus' go."
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He looks down at her feet, running his hands from her wrists, back to her ankles. He doesn't want to let her go. His throat works without sound, jaw flexing as his eyes focus at some far-off point in the 'distance', fingertips brushing the skin-warmed metal of the golden anklet with an absent touch.
"Anythin'."
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She sits for a moment longer, hands still curled around the chair.
Eventually, she moves, using the chair back as support to haul herself to her feet.
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(She might need him.)
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When she thinks she has a good grip on herself, she carefully makes her way over to the tub, slowly pulling the curtain back and reaching in to turn the shower on.
Hot.
She strips right there, leaning against the wall as she lets all of her clothes fall into a pile at her feet, and carefully climbs in. The water turns her skin pink, and she feels dizzy breathing in the steam with her head already foggy as it is. But she doesn't turn the tap any cooler, neither does she get out.
Nor does she actually bathe.
She eventually ends up on the floor of the tub, knees curled to her chest and forehead pressed to the cool fiberglass, sobbing quietly. She doesn't even move when the water turns lukewarm, and then cold.
It's the most private spot she has in this room, right now.
She doesn't want to talk.
She doesn't want to think.
She just wants to grieve.