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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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."

She mouths back 'a solid' in sheer confusion, but she gets the idea through context. The wry twist he grin takes shows exactly what she thinks of that idea.

"I remember a voice in the darkness." Katya points out, stretching up to plant a (slightly bloody, sorry) kiss on his cheek.

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