ikissdhimbck | OOM: Room #100, for Tommy Gavin -- The Morning After

Meanwhile, Tommy is sprawled in the armchair, one leg having slid off the ottoman, one arm draped loosely around a throw pillow. It had been a fitful night, with his occasionally getting up to check on Kate, and occasionally taking another painkiller or two.

Not exactly the kind of night he'd expected to have, what with Dug's Momentous Arrival and all.

But it isn't the approaching daylight that wakes Tommy; it's the crick in his neck. With a sharp intake of breath, his eyes snap open at the jab of pain. Then, blinking blearily, he eases himself out of the chair, feeling as if a truck had just run him over. Glancing over at the bed, he sees that Kate and Dug are still sound asleep. He shuffles quietly around the room, closing the curtains so that the impending sunlight won't wake them, and won't cause Kate blinding agony when she opens her eyes.

Being a former blackout drunk has been very useful!

He pauses at the table in the corner. And he picks up the bottle of whiskey that had been sitting there all night, staring at him as intently as one of Kate's cats. His throat goes dry again. His fingers itch to uncap the bottle.

After a moment or two, he sets the bottle back down.

Stepping into the washroom, he softly shuts the door. He splashes some cold water onto his face and runs his wet hands through his hair to rouse himself. He'll stay for however long it takes for Kate to wake up, but he might as well remain awake because there's no way he's getting any more sleep right now. He figures he'll stop by Lou's room afterwards and crash on his couch for a few hours to properly recharge before going home.

Standing there for a moment, hunched over the sink, he thinks: What the fuck happened last night?

He's sober. Of course he remembers exactly what happened. He just doesn't quite understand how it started out with intense bourbon-flavored kisses and ended up with a talking dog biting him on the ass.

Speaking of which...

Tommy unbuckles his belt, undoes the button on his jeans, and unzips his fly. Now, he hadn't felt himself actually bleeding, but his right ass cheek is definitely still sore. Pushing his jeans down around his thighs, he gingerly peels down the waistband of his black boxer briefs -- and then with oh so very awkward and kind of painful twists and turns of his upper body, he tries to peer around and over his own shoulder to see just how bad the bite is.

"Goddammit."

When that doesn't work, there's the mirror above the vanity. With a variety of more unsuccessful contortions, he manages to catch a glimpse of some red marks on his skin but the ache in his neck and back aren't helping much with the twisting and the turning.

"Shit!"

Then, grasping his pants, he rummages through the drawers again. He could've sworn he saw a handheld mirror in there somewhere. Yes! He holds the mirror up to his right ass cheek, tilting it this way and that until he can see the very pink and raw teeth marks in perfect dental formation. He grimaces. It doesn't look like the skin's been punctured, but it's definitely going to bruise later on.

As he does this, his backside is facing toward the door. Which he hasn't bothered to lock.

She can't comprehend what she's seeing.

Waking with cotton in her mouth and The Little Drummer Boy circling her skull, she scrounged together no more than four short thoughts: Dug soft; water good; need cave (preferably where no hint of light can reach her sensitive eyes); ... the hell did the washroom go?

It's led to where she is now, bleary-eyed, leaning heavily on the doorjamb, blinking at the blush of teeth marks in lily-white flesh.

This is not her flesh.

Is this her bathroom?

"Oh, I — !"

She turns a tight circle, hits the door, and stumbles out of the bathroom.

There's a thud.

And then silence.

He doesn't notice the door opening until two seconds after it's opened, and realizes one second after Kate is standing there that she's standing there, blinking at him.

"Jeez-!"

In three seconds, the mirror clatters on the vanity table, pants abruptly get yanked up (the chafe), and a shin gets banged on the edge of the bathtub.

"Ow, ow ow ow shit-- Kate!"

He almost trips over his own feet getting to her on the floor, but fortunately he doesn't fall on her. They've done more than enough falling between them already, thankyouverymuch.

Kneeling, he hovers over her, his hand on her cheek. "Kate? You alright? Jeezus, I'm sorry!"

"Shh."

She's propped on an elbow, hand pressed to her right eye to make the butter knife quit stabbing her in the brain. Her left leg is bent, toes curled, waiting out the waves of pain in her knee from colliding with a bookshelf.

"Tommy? What — "

are you doing here?

just happened?

happened last night?

happened to your backside?

She cracks open her eyes, tipping her face into his palm. A groan catches in her throat.

"What're y'doin'?"

He clamps his mouth shut. No with the loud-voice. Or even the normal-voice. Low-voice good.

"I was--"

Glancing over at the bed where Dug is still sleeping, he drops his voice to a raspy whisper.

"I was just tryin'a look at the bite mark. Jeez, I am so, so sorry, honey, that probably wasn't the first thing you wanted to see today. Is your leg okay?"

She shakes her head, processing his words at a snail's pace.

"Bite mark? What — "

With dull recollection, she turns to the bed. Milliversary. Bourbon. The cowboy hat. Tommy ...

Blue eyes flash with alarm.

"Did we — ?"

Hand gestures supply the missing words for 'have relations', and her gaze swings low. There is some confusion on the matter of who bit Tommy's ass, it would seem.

"No," he hisses, eyes wide. "No, no, no. No, we didn't have-- no. I promise you, we didn't."

A beat, as he realizes that she has absolutely no memory of what happened.

--And also that his pants are still undone, and with a swear and an apology under his breath, he quickly zips up.

"Well. Uh. We almost did."

Another beat.

"'Cept Dug came in and-- y'know-- sorta-- bit me on the ass."

Edited 2012-07-19 21:43 (UTC)

"Oh, thank god."

She presses her hand to her forehead.

Beat.

"Not — I didn't mean — not thank god we didn't — I was worried I might've — "

She realizes halfway through gesturing to his rear end that she doesn't want to share that piece of information. Also, that she's rambling. Everything screeches to a halt for half a second, and then she artfully switches tracks.

"Dug bit you on the oh golly I remember that."

The hand that had been kneading her temple moves to her mouth. Glancing at the sleeping dog snoring and twitching away, she makes a move toward getting up. She feels like she's made out of papier-mâché, though heavily-soaked below the elbows and knees.

"Help me t'the other room?"

His eyes get even wider.

"Wh-- you thought-- Jeezus, no!"

That would be--

--that would be really kinky, but he's not thinking about that right now.

He gets to his feet and holds out both of his hands to help her up off the floor.

Squinting, she slips her trembling fingers in his hands and allows him to lever her off the floor. There's a fresh twinge of pain in her knee that almost sends her sprawling again, but she catches herself.

Well, to be more truthful, she stumbles into Tommy, catching her arm around his middle.

"M'sorry."

She isn't, really. He's solid and warm, and she ends up holding on a beat too long to be excused as regaining her balance. She pulls back slowly, testing out her knee. Smoothing her rumpled skirts into some order, she motions to the bathroom and gingerly makes her way inside.

"I don't wanna wake Dug. Did he hurt you too awful bad?"

And he catches her, though he keeps himself from doing more than simply grasping her waist to support her when she leans on him for that lingering second.

Before answering, he follows her into the bathroom, and quietly presses the door shut behind him. He leans his back against it with a sigh.

"Nah, I don't think so," he murmurs. "I know I ain't bleeding, so that's good."

He passes a hand over his face, shaking his head and uttering a low, dry chuckle. "God, this's ridiculous."

She carefully perches on the edge of the tub, her back to the godforsaken window letting in obnoxiously blissful daylight. Every morning she wakes up like this she swears off liquor forever, which is why drinking nonstop had been working out so well the past week.

"M'sorry."

She winces. If she didn't look so peaked, she might even blush.

"I — I hafta be honest, I'm havin' trouble rememberin' everythin', but I think it's safe t'say I acted outta line. An' I'm sorry. I reckon I've lost your esteem, an' rightly so."

"Outta line?" he says, frowning a little and shaking his head at her. "Honey, no. Believe me, I remember everything, and there was nothing you did that was remotely outta line, okay? You don't have to apologize for anything. And lost my esteem? Oh, you'll have to try much, much harder if you wanna do that."

He goes over to sit on the toilet seat lid -- the cold, hard toilet seat lid. "And listen, I don't-- ow, shit!" Jumping back up, he winces and rubs his backside. "Jeezus, this's actually hurting more than the riding lesson."

A notion strikes him, and few beats go by that seem to get more awkward as they pass.

"Um. Speaking of outta line. I know this's gonna sound, like, really, sincerely outta line, but-- um. I don't suppose you could-- uh, y'know--" Cue random and vague gesturing at his rear end. "Take a quick peek at it. The bite, I mean. Just to check. Y'know, make sure that it's not as bad as it feels. 'Cause I mean, I couldn't see much of it, my neck and my back are all screwed up, and the mirror didn't help, and-- uh. Yeah. So. Y'know, just a really, really quick look, that's all."

Rambling awkward request is rambling and awkward.

Listening is miles easier than trying to form words right now, which is the only reason she has no remarks to make all through his reassurances and straight on into the — request.

Though, she does take a sharp breath when he sits and jumps up again.

She blinks at him.

It's been some time since she was asked permission for somebody to drop their drawers.

Laughing softly and shaking her head, she gestures to the vanity.

"Bring me them li'l white pills in the bottom drawer an' a glass of water, an' get over here an' drop your britches."

His turn to blink. She actually agreed.

"Right. The pills. I figured you'd need 'em."

He knows exactly where the pills are, and after handing the bottle (emptier than it originally had been) over to her, he fills a glass with cold water and hands that over, too.

"I owe you a new bottle. Sorry 'bout that. Been popping the stuff all night." He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, wincing. "Landing on your back on the floor is much more painful than landing on your back on a grassy patch of dirt."

She's seen worse things.

Shaking the depleted bottle, she narrows a look on Tommy before taking a couple for herself. Dug must have really done a number on him.

After she's finished the glass of water, she feels slightly more capable of speech. Something's niggling at her.

"So we — didn't do anythin' last night?"

He shakes his head. "Thanks to Dug, no."

A pause. "Well, depends on what you mean by 'anything.' We did do...some stuff."

He might as well refresh her memory. "Obviously, you drank a lot, and-- we talked a lot. One thing led to another and we came up to your room. Did a little more talking. And I asked you to tell me a poem. And then you let me take off your gun belt."

He's not sure why, but he still can feel her hand sliding over his as their fingers undid the buckle.

"Then-- then you asked me if I was still sure if I wanted to do this, and when I said I was, you had me sit on the bed-- and you got up in my lap-- and...you kissed me. Three times. On that third kiss, I kissed you back. Just to make sure that you wanted it as much as I did."

And he was sure that she did.

He sighs, a wryness creeping into his tone, because now is the fun part.

"And then, following the natural course of things, I ended up on top of you, but before anything else could happen, Dug came in, took a bite outta my ass, I fell off the bed, and you got sick and passed out. The end. Oh, and by the way, I made friends with Dug, so don't worry about that."

She was worried.

And confused, but not about the course of events. Things happened about the way she expected they did — which doesn't keep the heat out of her face, but at least she isn't surprised.

(Sparks shoot from her fingertips to the heels of her palms as she remembers his arms around her, his hands tugging at her belt, his breath across her ear ... )

She's confused about something else entirely. She searches out his eyes.

They didn't sleep together, he was attacked by her dog, she, frankly, acted like a fool ...

"But y'stayed anyway?"

"Well, yeah."

He says this as if that were the only and obvious option, and for a moment he's a little confused himself as to why she'd think he'd do otherwise. And then he remembers, oh right, he can be a complete tool sometimes.

"I mean, I wasn't gonna leave you in the state you were in, 'cause you never know what can happen. I was just, y'know, lookin' out for you."

His eyes then flick away, down to her hands. "And, well...you told me that you didn't wanna be alone." He shrugs a little, glancing back up again. "I didn't mind staying."

She's stunned.

It isn't because she thinks poorly of Tommy, despite assurances from both himself and his friend, Mr. Shea, that he's a real piece of work. His propensity toward doing and saying the wrong thing is boyish, even endearing, before it's off-putting. At least so far.

But she didn't expect him to stay, and knowing that he did, after everything that happened — it's what she wanted. Last night. Last year. The memory of last year makes her stomach churn even now. She just didn't want to be alone.

She glances down. Her heartbeat rattles her bones, and the tremor can be felt all the way down her booze-frail arms.

She smirks.

"Are y'gonna let me look'it your posterior or what?"

He suddenly flushes very warm.

"Ah. Right. That."

Well, he isn't going to let any of the guys take a look at it, for Chrissakes.

"Okay."

As he goes for his belt he realizes that he'd been standing there the entire time with the buckle undone, but hey, that's the least awkward thing at this point.

"Okay, so I'm not gonna, like, completely drop my pants, just so you know. I'm just gonna-- okay, I should just-- okay."

Standing with his back to her and turned slightly to the right, he unzips his fly and shoves his jeans down around the tops of his thighs. Then he gingerly pushes the waistband of his boxer briefs down just enough to bare only his right ass cheek, which displays quite clearly a set of very red and very raw canine teeth marks.

And besides baring his ass, there's also his right hip, which just happens to have a gnarled scar, discolored against his pale skin, running in an almost straight vertical line and about five inches long. It's hard to ignore, but really, Tommy's just interested in the teeth marks.

She doesn't make eye contact once in all the time before he turns around, because this is honestly awkward enough.

Presented with the, ah, affected cheek, she clucks her tongue.

"Oh, sweetheart. He did a number on you."

She runs her fingertip along the arc of the bite, her touch so light it's barely there. Her eyes do flick to the scar on his hip, but it's best not to get too curious when a man's delicate areas are in your face.

"There's a 'first aid kit' stashed behind the latrine. Would y'bring it here?"

It's not exactly the most dignified position, for either of them, really, but they've pretty much already barreled past dignity. Maybe they'll both look back on this someday and laugh.

Yep.

And oh, that sensitive white Irish ass can definitely feel that faint tickle of her fingertip, and he grits his teeth in response as a shiver runs up his spine.

He then tugs his briefs back up, because he's not shuffling across the room with half his rear end out, and he is so not bending over to get the first aid kit like that either. What was that about dignity?

After handing over the kit to her, he turns and pulls his shorts back down, same as before. "I didn't think it was that bad. I guess it's just the chafing that's makin' it worse. Gonna have a helluva time explaining to the guys at the firehouse why I can only sit on the left side of my ass."

A beat, as he glances over his shoulder at her. "Learning how to ride sidesaddle?" he snorts.

Kate would be enjoying his little shuffle a hell of a lot more if she weren't hungover. As it stands, she's definitely going to look back on this and laugh. Probably later tonight, when the room's to herself again.

"It ain't bad. Looks clean, an' not too deep. But it's awful red, an' it'd do t'bandage it up."

God love Guppy, always keeping her in supply of emergency medicine. She'd be offended if she didn't need it so often.

She finds an alcohol swab, and some sort of gel for cuts and burns. She catches his eyes briefly — looking up makes her vision grow dark around the edges — and smiles crookedly.

"That a request? I ain't real good at goin' sidesaddle m'self — this'll sting — but if you're interested ... "

"Oh, Jeezus, no," he says almost immediately with an almost-laugh. "Don't get me wrong, I told you already that I like horses just fine, I just ain't--"

He cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath, briefly grimacing at the ointment's sudden sting, though it does have a sort of cooling after-effect.

"--I just ain't the type to be riding 'em."

He glances over his shoulder at her again -- no reason. She just has a nice, light touch with the swab.

"Comparin' ridin' t'bein' bit on your rear isn't the most flatterin' review I've ever got."

But there's laughter in her voice, even if it's muted.

"First time's always the hardest. Until the second time, of course. Eventually, y'jus' build enough muscle y'stop feelin' it after a while."

And you end up with legs like Kate's, which is to say rock hard and lean.

She catches him looking at her. If she looks anything like she feels, she must be a fright. Her hair is wild, her makeup smudged. She keeps her chin down, concentrating on the bite until it's time to dig gauze out of the kit.

"I should'a warned you 'bout Dug. He don't stay with me every night, but he comes an' goes as he pleases, an' there's been a lot more of the former lately. I'm glad y'made up."

His mind flits back to when she straddled his lap and then quickly veers away from the image again because now is not a good time.

And hey, nobody's exempt from looking like shit the morning after a week-long bender. Tommy's impressed she's even upright and speaking coherently.

"Well. Guess we were just-- too caught up in the moment for you to even think he'd wander in on us. Heh. But he's alright. I like 'im. The fact that he can talk is a bonus."

"He likes t'talk."

There's a great deal of affection in her expression. Dug brings his own manner of mayhem with him, but she's irrevocably wrapped around his paw.

She starts taping the bandage in place, her touch more firm.

"Tell me if I'm hurtin' you. My hands're a li'l unsteady."

Tilting his head in a nod, it makes sense to him. "That must be why we'll get along fine," he chuckles.

He then twists his upper body around a little and tries to see what he can see. Which isn't much, except for the edge of the bandage.

"Nah, 'm fine. Thanks."

"Well, y'got nowhere t'go from here but up."

She's never seen Dug hurt a soul before. She'd have some serious reservations if he and Tommy couldn't get along, even with the blood between them. They must have been making one hell of a ruckus when he walked in.

She clears her throat softly.

"What will y'tell the guys at the firehouse? That you're breakin' in a new pair'a bluejeans?"

Oh, she does remember some things from this past week. There's a definite note of gotcha! in her quiet voice.

Once she's done, he tugs his shorts back up, careful not to dislodge the bandage, and puts some more appropriate space between them as he pulls up his pants and zips up.

In mid-buckle, he arches an eyebrow at her at her suggestion.

"How'd you--?"

Lou.

A smirk twists his lips. "Mm, I don't think that one's gonna work again. I'll come up with something -- either that or I'll just try not to sit so much. Feels a lot better, though."

He takes her empty glass and refills it with cold water, offering it back to her. "How're you feeling?"

This is the face of innocence.

If innocence were run over by a Pony Express the night before.

She nods once when he says he's feeling better, and accepts the glass of water. After a few grateful sips, she tosses a wry smirk back at him.

"I'm not sure I can get back up."

She has been sitting pretty still since she first came in. No sudden movements.

Narrowing his eyes a little with mock-suspicion, he can't help the crooked grin.

"Is...that a request for me to carry you a third time?"

"Absolutely not."

A third time? Oh ... fiddlesticks. She'd forgotten. It seems he has a few chips up his sleeve as far as who's winning this game of ultimate humiliation.

She frowns petulantly, dropping her gaze to her knees.

"The splittin' headache's startin' t'ease a bit, an' my leg don't hurt so bad. I'm jus' gonna — sit. A while. Here."

She doesn't need to be carried around like a swaddled babe, thank you very much.

He knows he got her with that one.

"Alright," he says with a shrug.

He then sticks his hands in his pockets.

"Well. If you're gonna sit, then...I guess I should go."

"Oh. Yes, y'don't hafta — "

She shakes her head.

— stay.

She smiles tightly, combing a hand through her hair. Good manners demand she show him to the door, but that might take some effort.

"Y'gonna be all right?"

He stayed the night. And maybe some part of him wants to keep staying. But maybe that other part of him wants to let go, promise fulfilled.

So he takes a step backwards, nodding.

"Me? Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, I'll be fine. Don't worry 'bout me."

Another step.

"You gonna be okay? I mean, if you want, I could, like, send up some breakfast or some coffee or something."

Her smile grows a touch wider.

"Thank you. However, I think I'm jus' gonna take a long, hot bath, lie down, an' hope I die of embarrassment."

And maybe drink the entire bathtub dry in the process.

Hot bath. NO, Tommy.

There's a beat before he chuckles. "Sounds like a good plan. Without the dyin' of embarrassment thing, though, heh. Seriously, you didn't do anything that was embarrassing. --Well, not that embarrassing. --Well, nothing that didn't happen just between us. --And by that I mean the whole tryin'a walk up the stairs thing, but even that wasn't so bad, 'cause I got to carry you up anyways--"

He stops himself. Jerks his thumb at the door behind him.

"--Uh, yeah, I'll go now."

Another step.

"Thanks again for-- uh-- y'know." Again with the gesturing at his posterior.

She blinks when he stops himself.

And then she grins, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, and starts to fiddle with the taps.

"You're welcome. Again."

She gets the right temperature water flowing.

"An' Tommy?"

Keeping her face turned away until the very last second, as if filling a bathtub requires all her focus, she smirks.

"Y'have a pretty cute caboose."

Blink.

"...I have a--? Ow!"

He's just backed up into the doorknob.

"I'm okay! I'm okay."

Opening the door, he slips through it halfway before turning to her, smiling a bit sheepishly.

"Uh-- yeah, heh, thanks. So. Uh. Feel better soon, and, uh-- guess I'll see ya 'round. Oh! If you still wanna go ice skating, y'know, that's totally still on. Whenever you're up to it. Anytime. At all. So. Yeah. Okay." He holds a hand up. "Bye."

And he ducks out the door and closes it.

Yep, that went well.

OOM: Room #100, for Tommy Gavin -- The Morning After

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