"I will try not to have a violent reaction when you start snoring," he jokes right back, glancing at Raylan out of the corner of his eye before deciding it might be too soon to be exchanging looks in the dark and letting his gaze drift back to the ceiling. It was getting too warm with the shirt on drinking all that moonshine in bed but now it's just right. Propping himself up on one elbow, Doc reaches down past a slightly bent knee to pull up a thin sheet. They'll need the blanket later but for now he tugs on the sheet and drapes it over Raylan just under the line of his folded arm, fingertips grazing over the sewn hem as it forms a fitting mould around Raylan's outline.
"You might need to hold my hand. I'm not drunk enough to not mind the dark." He actually chuckles at that. For all the things he takes for granted with his immortality, his own gaudy ring acting as a security blanket to assuage him of his mortal fears, he can't get over his claustrophobia. Just Ellie's mere suggestion at venturing into the crawlspace under the house next door and he is four feet tall again, alone in the dark, covering the scrape on his knee with a soil-scuffed hand lying in the dirt listening to his mother's laboured breaths waiting to die.
Their time together in Mathias, though made all the better for banding together, has only made the darkness more unsettling. Every little noise has him clenching his jaw and shifting his leg restlessly, thinking of climbing out of bed to check on the others, reaching for his knife or the table lamp or just anything that can be swung at the shadows.
"Let us not ask or encourage Mathias's other wild ideas. Much as I do love some of her charms she is a wily, cruel mistress." In the shell of some folkloric legend lies a sometimes fearful, often worrying traumatised mess of a broken man. What would the history books think?
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"You might need to hold my hand. I'm not drunk enough to not mind the dark." He actually chuckles at that. For all the things he takes for granted with his immortality, his own gaudy ring acting as a security blanket to assuage him of his mortal fears, he can't get over his claustrophobia. Just Ellie's mere suggestion at venturing into the crawlspace under the house next door and he is four feet tall again, alone in the dark, covering the scrape on his knee with a soil-scuffed hand lying in the dirt listening to his mother's laboured breaths waiting to die.
Their time together in Mathias, though made all the better for banding together, has only made the darkness more unsettling. Every little noise has him clenching his jaw and shifting his leg restlessly, thinking of climbing out of bed to check on the others, reaching for his knife or the table lamp or just anything that can be swung at the shadows.
"Let us not ask or encourage Mathias's other wild ideas. Much as I do love some of her charms she is a wily, cruel mistress." In the shell of some folkloric legend lies a sometimes fearful, often worrying traumatised mess of a broken man. What would the history books think?