ikissdhimbck | OOM sorta: Rooms, back door, stables, in the morning.

It's still too damn early to be awake. Doc is awake, and half dressed, with his boots lying near the door and his coat tossed on the end of his bed. He hears the knock and glances out the window to the outside.

It's...still pretty damn dark.

"Comin'," he calls, and she'll hear quiet footsteps and the door behind unlocked before he pulls it open. "C'mon in, almost finished gettin' my boots on."

Doc rubs at the back of his hair and yawns as he turns away, backing up so she can enter.

She smirks at the bed hair.

"Good morning to you as well, Doc," she teases, as she steps inside.

Funny how it's not as hard as it used to be.

Things change.

Doc stops, turns, and nods at her a little.

"Good mornin', Miss Katherine." It sounds somewhat like a young schoolboy would sing-song obediently after being prompted on his manners. He runs his hands over his hair and then goes to the dresser to select a shirt. He doesn't care which.

"You seem like y'slept better last night," he continues, as he grabs one and pulls it on, glancing up at her as he buttons it up the front. Only he's off by one button and has to start over.

She arches one eyebrow, ever-so-slightly, struggling to restrain the smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He would fit in, right smart, with her students, way things are looking this morning. Though, her students rarely have to be reprimanded on their manners, of course...

"Better than you?" she teases.

She then shakes her head apologetically.

"I slept well, thank you."

And it's true. It may not have been a full eight hours, but it was a dreamless and uninterrupted slumber.

"S'good to hear. I slept well myself."

Though given the state of his bed and the pile of blankets - that is some impressive layering going on there - it was thanks to having wrapped himself into a bundle of sorts.

Doc fixes the shirt this time, tucks in the bottom and adjusts the straps on his suspenders before he glances at his hair again in the mirror, and fusses with it a bit until he gives up.

Then it's to the chair by the desk to yank his boots on.

"Should stop by Bar an' see if I got any notes," he yawns again.

(This will give Bar the chance to give him coffee, too.)

She might be reading his mind.

She chuckles softly, politely covering her mouth to try to hide her amusement. She shakes her head at him.

"We might should see about getting you some coffee, too," she smirks. "Would have brought you some myself, but I don't think you ever did tell me how you take it."

There's perhaps a glint in her eyes that express the fact that "with whiskey in" is not the answer she is looking for.

"I'll take it any way I can get it," he tells her honestly, as he pulls the boots on and adjusts the cuffs of his dark jeans to sit properly before he stands. "But for the record. Black, with just a shot of milk. No sugar."

He moves to the bed and grabs one of his scarves, loops it around his neck, and then picks up the tan duster and shrugs into it. Doc pats one pocket for his gloves, and then nods, more to himself than anything.

Then he glances at her and moves for the open doorway, pausing and inclining his head towards it.

"'Sides, ain't like you bringin' me coffee is part of the job description."

Black. Just a shot of milk. No sugar.

She tucks an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and shrugs.

"No, but I was heading this way, anyway," she murmurs, a bit shyly, taking the prompt and moving towards the doorway and him in it. "I haven't broke my fast in any case, and could do for some tea, myself."

She smiles, absently placing her hand on his forearm.

"It's a good thing to know. For future reference."

"Suppose it is," he smiles a little as they head downstairs into the main bar. It's pretty empty, but then again it is relatively early. Doc slides easily onto a barstool and places his hands on the counter.

"Hit me, sweetheart."

Shortly, there is a mug of coffee, a shotglass full of ice-cold milk, a piece of paper with some numbers and figures on it, a bunch of carrots...

Morning, Josiah.

...and a plastic container full of sugarcubes, next to the carrots.

Since they're not for his coffee...

"You want breakfast? I ain't hungry but y'should eat somethin'."

She observes the spread before him with some interest, amused at the way he and Miss Bar communicate with each other. She levels him with a mildly scolding look.

"You're too skinny. You know you should put something on your stomach, 'fore heading out there and working yourself too hard. You're gonna end up thinner than a bean pole," she complains.

Working the stock and fields back home, it was no secret: The men fed themselves. Whether it was on the cold leftovers of the previous night's supper, or a fresh cooked breakfast, they never set to the plow or the pitchfork without something in their bellies.

"You complain 'bout the horses gettin' fat and about me gettin' skinny," he teases, before he taps lightly on the bartop. "Help me out here, darlin'?"

Bar provides two pieces of toast, two pieces of bacon, and two eggs.

And jam, for the toast.

"Thank you."

And then he glances to Katherine, to see if she approves.

"That's because you take better care of them horses than you do yourself!" she points out, blue eyes piercing. There's a smile on her lips.

Obviously approving of the breakfast, she nods her head.

"Thank you, Miss Bar," she says, though her eyes are on Doc. "I'd be worried for him if you weren't keepin' such good care."

On the Bar, next to Doc's breakfast, there suddenly appears a plate of hot buttered grits and a sausage patty, along with a small bowl of fresh strawberries. A hot tea sends a curl of steam into the air beside them.

'Don't think you're getting off that easy,' says the accompanying napkin.

Doc ducks his head as his eyes catch the note.

He smirks. He does not laugh.

But he sure looks awfully smug.

"Thank you, Lady Bar," Doc replies, parroting the words back, though his eyes are on Katherine. "I'd be worried for her...well hell, I'd be worried for her regardless, but I never doubted you one second."

And then he starts in on his bacon.

"I take better care of them horses 'cause that's my purpose," he continues, quietly. "I owe it them to treat them right."

Her cheeks are flushed, and it has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. She's focused on that smug look on Doc's face, her eyes two burning embers. She'd pinch him, if she weren't such a proper lady and all.

"You two don't play fair. Ain't very nice, teasing a lady," she mumbles, turning to face her breakfast as she yanks off her gloves and tucks them into her coat.

Her face is still rather thin, and it will be nothing short of a miracle if she eats all that food, but she's at least not averse to trying.

"You aren't gonna be doing them any service if you keel over while you're out there working, or give yourself a fever," she persists, but her eyes are soft when she turns to look at him again. Her voice is quiet.

"But I'd wager that ain't your only purpose."

Doc pauses and considers her words.

"No, no it ain't. But...it's what I do. Take care of my charges. Be it the stock here, or the boys back home..."

Except there ain't any of your boys left.

He shrugs a little. "Guess it's part of the learnin' I had for doctorin' and all. Helpin' folk. Takin' care of them first."

She sighs softly, her expression a mixture of impressed upon pride, and gentle concern.

"Wouldn't be so bad if'n you took care of yourself second," she murmurs, voice soft. "But you just haul off and move onto the next person.

"Who looks out for you, Doc?"

"I git round to it eventually. Or the boys would look out for me."

Except there ain't any of your boys left.

Doc glances over at her.

"I'm doin' better."

"Better than what?" she prompts gently, the wheels in her own head turning after he mentions the boys twice, pausing each time.

Her eyes are cautiously searching him out, but she isn't sure whether she should say anything or not.

"I'm sure he's okay," she finds herself murmuring, much to her own surprise. She elaborates:

"Billy, I mean. Chavez, too. And... Dave, and Henry."

It might only sound like empty reassurance, but she has to at least try, as someone who wants to look out for him, too.

"I just wish I knew where they were headed. I know where Billy is, but not knowin' about the rest of them worries me to hell and back."

The admission startles even Doc, but he blames the early hour and the lack of coffee. He looks at her. "I'm sure they're fine."

And then has another drink of coffee.

"They've come through worse," she points out, hoping the words are true.

She shifts her grits around her plate with her fork, not quite knowing what else to say.

(While her other hand quietly seeks under the Bar for his.)

Doc accepts the hand when she reaches for his, and drinks more of his coffee as he nods. "We're stubborn," he teases gently.

Hard to kill.

He is going to make certain she eats, though.

She laces her fingers together with his, and allows the interlocked hands to rest at his thigh while she picks at her breakfast.

His words make the corner of her mouth twitch in a lopsided grin.

"To, perhaps, put things lightly," she teases back. She inclines her chin to his plate.

"Eat your eggs, 'fore they get cold," she instructs, taking a solid bite of her grits so he can't say anything in return.

There's a smug little smirk on her lips as she chews.

Doc stabs the eggs with a corner of the toast, using the bread to soak up the insides and she's lucky that he knows how to eat left handed. Then again, he can shoot left handed, too.

Eventually he's cleared his plate and finished his coffee.

"What's the weather lookin' like today, Bar?"

She gives him a general report. No rain, but cool with a bit of breeze.

He could have always let go of her hand to eat, had he needed to.

Her plate isn't clean by the time she has finished eating, but she has made a small dent in her food.

She eyes Doc curiously after the report has been given.

"She can predict the weather, as well?"

"Well, just right now. Who knows what it will be in five minutes."

But letting go of her hand would mean...letting go of her hand.

And he has no urge to do that.

Doc gets himself another cup of coffee, and tips the corresponding shot of milk in before he stirs it with the little straw. He's planning on letting her eat a bit more first.

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