milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When Doc enters the bar tonight, it's from a hotel room in Montgomery. He's carrying a bag over his shoulder, and isn't surprised to see that Milliways has decided to show up. After a quick trip to his apartment in the staff wing to change his clothes and shower, he makes a trip out to the stables to check on things.

Once he's satisfied with the state of the stock (and taken note of some new arrivals), he ends up at a table near the bar with a drink and a dinner 'menu'.

Contemplating the specials, he sips at the bourbon (straight, tonight) and looks around the bar for familiar faces while he decides what to order.

[No new threads please - busy workweek means slowtimes. He'll be back!]

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"My room, then," he says once she's done.

Without any obvious preamble, he stands from the table, carrying his bourbon with him as he rises.

"Mmm, party." She grins, loping along in his wake. "Would you rather any girlfriends didn't see me? Or did?"

At least someone's in a terribly good mood.

He's unable to stop the bark of a laugh that escapes his lungs at her comment.

"I don't got any 'girlfriends' t'be concerned with," he says with a smirk as he leads them through the bar and towards the entrance that leads to the staff wing. It's quieter than most of the halls upstairs, and they only have to pass a few doors until he reaches #4.

After unlocking the door, he steps aside.

(It's only polite to hold the door for the lady, and if there is anything lying in wait, she'll have no problems dispatching it.)

The apartment is relatively neat - books lining a large bookshelf on one wall of the living area, a couch, small dining table and two chairs near a kitchenette, and separate doorways leading to his bedroom and the bathroom. A small arsenal of medieval weaponry (longbow, sword, staff, and crossbow) hang on one wall with a cloak that would easily blend into any forest's green and browns; there are a few live plants in the windowsill that overlooks the lake.

He removes the gunbelt after locking the door, dropping it over one corner of a chair - well within reach, but off his person.

She doubled back to deal with the door, setting up a quick warding to deter any visitors.

And then, we're afraid, she is terribly distracted with the medieval weaponry. Her fingers dance along the edge of the sword, as light as a breeze.

"It is often used?" She asks, curiously. Someone, it seems, has a bit of a hobby.

"I take it out to practice," he says. "And I've taken it to Sherwood before, when I've been there with Will a few times. It doesn't see much actual fighting these days, though."

There is another sword in the footlocker that sits below that wall, wrapped in cloth. He had lost it during the end of days battle and then Teja had found it, and repaired it; though the weird feelings of power that still pull at him when he wields it are enough to tell him it would be wiser to leave it for very special occasions that it's needed.

Beside the footlocker there is also a cask that looks like it was stolen from a pirate ship; that's because it was.

"To be quite honest, I rarely see Will these days," he adds, somewhat quieter. "I hope he's doin' all right."

Gently she lifts it free, testing the balance before moving through forms quite a lot of people don't even realize have been forgotten in her time - just for a few moments, just long enough to get a feel for the sword as a weapon.

"Good sword." She finally allows, even if it isn't quite right for her. "Do you usually fight with lighter?"

"I don't use a sword back home," he says. "I've got my Colt," he nods to the gunbelt on the back of the chair. "If I'm out ridin' I carry a rifle, too. As far as blades go..."

He moves to the sheath on the leather belt and draws the bone-handled Bowie that he's carried since being stabbed with it by the bounty hunter who had him tied up in Raton. He flips it over in his palm before offering it to her, handle first.

"...I definitely fight with lighter."

While he's a hell of a shot with a firearm, he's not half-bad at close quarters knife fighting, either. Bare-knuckle brawls aren't his thing by a longshot, but with a sharp edge and quick reflexes, he stands a fighting chance at making it out alive - no pun intended.

She takes it, handling the knife with a familiarity that speaks of very long practice.
"Brave, to carry one that has already tasted you." she notes, judging its throwing balance - but if she was him, she'd never let someone else get their hands on something like this.

Of course, that's the key point, isn't it?

"That knife gave me one helluva scar," he admits. "I killed the man who'd been wieldin' it at the time. Keepin' it reminds me of that."

While she holds the knife, he never truly turns his back to her, even as he moves towards the kitchen to pour himself another drink. There's an edge to his senses, now that she's in his space, his outlaw's instincts keeping track of where she's standing in comparison to him - all subconscious.

"So just what is it you gotta do for the protectin' work, anyway? I'd like t'be as clear as possible 'fore I just agree t'let you get a taste."

"If it was for me? Not as much, not now. I have my amulets that have been mine for decades. They usually just need maintenance, and... once, charging from time to time by the boss, if something had gone wrong."

She doesn't have that back-up anymore, and hasn't gotten into a battle rough enough since coming back here to seriously run down her defenses. She places the knife down carefully on a side-table, and curls up into one corner of the couch.

"For you? As I said, something of you, something you can carry and will not be remarked upon, enough power that I should not get into a fight tonight." Or at least, if she does, she's fairly sure Skellig will be deeply unhappy with her.

The shot of bourbon that he pours is knocked back quickly, and he leaves the empty glass on the counter as he moves towards the couch, taking a seat in the opposite corner, one leg pulled up beneath himself as he faces her.

"I don't carry much on me in the way of jewelry or nothin'," he says. "I usually keep t'just my gun and that knife. I had t'sell my watch a few months back," he admits, trying to think of his options that won't raise suspicion.

And then something clicks in his head.

"I do have somethin'," he says. "That I used t'wear all the time. Chavez made each of us these pieces of cord that were wrapped 'round a stone, I kept mine on an ankle 'cause the rest of the guys all thought it was a bunch of Navajo bullshit..."

He pushes himself up off the couch to go to the dresser in his bedroom, his form visible through the open door as he pulls open the top drawer and rummages.

"...they took it off the last time I ended up here in the infirmary and had it sent up t'my room," he adds.

"That is fine." She replies with a shrug. Of course, the fellow could have been some sort of magic user himself, which could make things interesting, but she spent much of her early teens breaking simple wards. "Interesting fashion statement."

Chavez's 'magic' consisted of drinking peyote tea and interpreting hallucinations as guidance from the 'spirit world'. While Doc does believe in the existence of other gods and powers - he's friends with Coyote, for starters, and ended up at Raven's cabin - any wards that Chavez may have put on the simple leather cord would be weak.

"He was one of my pals," he offers. "It made him feel better. He got shot the same time I did - I nearly died, 'fore I found my way back here after weeks. He wasn't that lucky."

Doc pulls the braided piece of leather from the drawer - it's plain, with one small, flat piece of worn turquoise woven in between the strands. He pauses a moment, looking down at it - part of him is angry at himself for being afraid of wearing it as intended, on his wrist, while riding with the other guys.

He misses Chavez a lot. Some times more than others.

Pushing that thought out of his head, he walks back into the other room.

She studies him as he walks in, this American gunslinger. She already appears ridiculously comfortable in his space.

"You have not worn it so long... in his memory?" Katya asks, mostly to know if there's a chance it could disappear again.

"I...a lot of things have changed. I wasn't sure for awhile about things, and I thought..."

He shakes his head.

"I don't know what I thought. What I do know is that this," he holds up the coiled leather in his open palm. "Is who I really am. An outlaw and a Regulator. All I got is my friends in this world, the ones that are still livin' and those who ain't. I know that I now," he says.

After she does this protection spell, that braided cord will be going on his wrist, and staying there until someone removes his hand.

She stands, languidly, and stalks towards him, every step placed and poised.

"Then that is two things that are you - I do not like the enemy's chances, mmm?" It's almost a purr, but the silver around her neck and wrists doesn't shimmer in the light - she's almost preternaturally still.

"I make better decisions, now," he says, watching her with a sharp, careful eye as she moves - as she stalks towards him. "I was younger when we were fightin' the war 'gainst Murphy and Dolan and all his sonsofbitches..."

She's moving like a predator towards prey, and while the realization of that makes his skin crawl beneath his clothing, he doesn't flinch away as she gets closer.

"I'm done makin' stupid mistakes."

"Nyet, cowboy - that is a part of living." She retorts with a sly, sideways smile. When Olga calls upon the Gloom it obeys, like sleek deerhounds called to heel. For Katya, much younger, much wilder, it is more like the rising tide of the ocean, the dangerous depths only steps, breaths away. The cold tangles around ankles and seeps into clothing, not there at all and everywhere at once.

Olga is well matched with her surgeon, neat and precise. Katya and tigers are not known for their tidiness.

"But this is not one, kharoshi mal'chik, this is the end of nightmares." A step away, a breath away, and she holds out her hands, as if for alms. "Do you want this?"

He shivers - though it's not fear that causes him to do so, but the unrelenting chill that has spread throughout the room. He's felt it before, mostly in Olga's presence, so the Gloom is not entirely unfamiliar, but this is much more feral and raw than he's ever come in contact with before.

Wary, but out of caution and not fear, he nods and extends his hands.

"I do, yes."

Doc trusts her, as crazy as it might seem right now. And regardless, there's no going back, even if he wanted to - which he doesn't.

She suddenly laughs, his trust fizzing like soda in her blood, and she twines her smaller hands around his, raising them up. Her fingers are gentle over his calluses, mapping the changes wrought by a life of choices, good or bad. She can smell the soap he uses when he cleans up from the stables, her breath warm against his palms.

Just before she nips, just barely deep enough to bleed, into meat of his thumb, and the Gloom surges around her in response.

It's so sweet.

Between the bone-rattling chill that wraps around his spine and the scent of his blood on the too-cold air, he has to close his eyes to try and ward off images of his past; scenes of McKloskey getting his brains blown out and Richard's body falling to the dust are intercut with the images of hands pressed against ash-covered windows, backlit by silently flickering flames as the world burns around him, and the ink-black ghosts of demons fight for his soul in a sulfur-soaked pit of hell.

(He's so damn cold he can hardly think straight, but he knows he has to focus on her, and he forces himself to reopen his eyes. There's a hint of fear there, now - healthy, of course - but he's stronger than those who have tried to do him harm in his past.)

She croons softly, the words tender and tumbling through blood-red lips. The words are that of a very old lullaby, once sung by a young woman after a day of taking her even younger daughter to the Moscow Zoo. She slips into the spaces between his limbs like a young vine, both supporting and asking for support.

The actual spell-work is simple, something fully explored and stream-lined ages before she was even born. It's taking the gift of him and the power that defines her and twisting them into something stronger than either.

And just like that the tide recedes, leaving Katya and her finished project washed up like seashells on the beach.

He hooks one arm under hers to keep her from stumbling when the wave draws back from around them, bracing his feet firmly on the floor to steady his own stance.

Not wanting to speak (in case he should keep quiet - again, he's not sure what he's supposed to do) he keeps his mouth shut, eyes watching her face. The look in them has shifted from fear and caution to one that is tempered with concern, now.

Her smile is slightly wan, as she responds to his concern. She is no Grand Sorceress, and this is just a bit outside her normal skill set.

"Wear it, mmm? It will do no good back in your sock drawer." She chastises mildly, regaining her balance.

"I will," he says.

And without hesitation, he takes the cord from her and fastens it securely around his left wrist - he won't risk wearing it on his gun hand, where it might snag with a draw and cost him crucial seconds (or his life) - once she's stable on her feet.

"I owe you a solid, now," he says. "As I don't know if a simple 'thank you' will suffice in this case."

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katyafeline - 2012-07-23 02:32 (UTC) - Expand

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