ikissdhimbck | OOM: Room #100 -- For Tommy Gavin

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OOM: Room #100 -- For Tommy Gavin

Her floor is a battleground of hastily discarded clothes.

She's come to love the steady comfort of having him in her bed night after night, but she'll never tire of the way he pulls at her when they've been separated for a long stretch, eager to get her alone, to have her all to himself. The nearly frantic, desperate love-making punctuated by clumsy hands and a mad rush to find a flat surface; the way they pause only long enough to regather their steam, and then start all over again.

During one of these pauses, he hovers over her, dropping kisses up and down her neck, and she traces the lines around his eyes with her thumb, giggling. He grumbles at her, which only makes her laugh more. At least I'll always know when you're foolin' around, she says, because you'll stop pinnin' me down when you've gone too long without.

Hey! A month is a really long time!

The night passes slowly, bleeding into morning. Work hangs over them both. Kate wants to check on the stock, and Tommy's always ready to get back to the firehouse. It'll be a long day on little sleep, with nothing but a hot shower to bolster them. Well. A hot shower and what goes on while they're taking it.

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Fortunately, the shower stall keeps the floor from getting as wet as it would've gotten had they taken a bath instead.

It's a long, indulgent shower, the hot water soothing their limbs and invigorating their senses at the same time. The room is full of thick steam when they finish, their fingertips pruney but their hands no less touchy and grabby. Tommy's skin tingles, turned pink from the heat and the water pressure. Eventually he takes a large towel and wraps it around Kate's shoulders.

"Mmmf. Oh, man. That really did the trick. I feel like I could go for the Triple Crown right now. Just like Mickey Mantle."

He tugs on the corners of her towel and pulls her in for a peck on the lips.

Edited 2014-02-05 07:39 (UTC)

She bumps up against him, snickering into his lips. Pulling back, there's a very serious set to her brow.

"After that, all y'can talk 'bout is some stranger an' baseball?"

She's guessing he ain't talking about horse racing.

She pinches his backside, feigning a hurt expression, and readjusts her towel so it's tucked under her arms.

"Hey, Mickey Mantle ain't no stranger, he's a baseball legend. I've actually read books about him, y'know."

He gives her an IT ARE FACT expression, which quickly dissipates with a yelp at the ass-pinch.

"Aw, c'mon, now..."

Instead of grabbing a towel for himself, he leans in to kiss away the look on her face, and he slips his arms around her waist, waltzing her backwards until her back is against the sink.

"This very well could go into extra innings..."

She hums her dubiousness into his mouth, just barely holding back another chuckle. The fact that he's so eager to tell her he reads in tandem with using the words 'very well' tickles her pink. She's clearly having more than one kind of effect on him.

"Mmm? Y'think y'can knock it out of the park?"

Her hands slip down his bare back, cupping his rump and pulling him snug against her.

He raises his eyebrows with a sly "Ooh."

If he can try to sound smart, then by all means, she can toss baseball metaphors at him (he knows what metaphors are).

"Mmm, put me in, coach, you know I can score big..."

With that, he lifts her up off her feet and sits her down on the edge of the sink, keeping his arms wrapped around her middle so she doesn't slip. Now eye-to-eye with her, he gives her a grin and a squeeze before kissing her again, bodies pressed flush against one another.

A sudden shiver hits him, making him shudder under her touch. Sure, his skin is still damp, but the air in the room is still hot and humid, and there's no discernible draft. The chill seems to come from within him, and he frowns, a little bewildered.

"Whoa, that felt weird."

She can't help it, she loves it when she gets him to coo like that. She matches his grin, tittering as he braces her against the sink, legs parting to welcome him in.

The shudder surprises her as much as it does him. It's too violent to be a reaction to her hands in his hair, too sudden to come from rising excitement. She blinks at him, her expression concerned.

"Are you all right?"

He sniffs and clears his throat, that tickle in the back of it suddenly feeling a lot more persistent. What's stranger still is that although the tremor has passed, for the most part, it hasn't entirely gone, and his limbs seem heavier as if a lurking fatigue is threatening to drag him down.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, honey, it was just a little chill. I'm fine, really. And I'm still up to bat..."

Bending his head, he moves in to nuzzle her under her ear.

All those people in the bar had gotten sick, but dammit, not him, not now.

Edited 2014-02-06 03:43 (UTC)

She noticed he seemed a little off, but she just assumed it was the lack of sleep taking its toll. Now she scrutinizes every sniffle, every tremble. She presses her wrist against his forehead to get a temperature, but he gives her the slip and moves in to nibble her neck.

"Darlin', you feel hot."

Her sensitive skin sizzles under the press of his cheek. She gently pushes him back, cradling his face to get a good look at his eyes.

She cups his face in her cool hands and he meets her gaze. His eyes are a little glassy and bloodshot, although that could be from the aforementioned lack of sleep. Or, y'know, the onset of the flu.

"And you look hot."

He manages one of his irrepressible lopsided smirks. Whatever it takes to stay on track here and ignore the fact that he's actually coming down with something.

She quirks a smirk at him, patiently amused.

"Well, this game's rained out. C'mon, lemme down. I think I've got a thermometer."

She pats his derriere and slips back to the floor, padding over to where she keeps the first aid kit. After a little rummaging, she comes up victorious.

It's apparent that she's picked up a lot from watching all those ballgames on TV.

"No, no, no, nooo," he whines as he steps back to let her down and she slides out of his arms. Without the shared body heat, he's really starting to feel that chill, so he takes a towel and wraps it around his waist.

"Please, honey, I'm fine. We can totally play through this. C'mon, batter up!"

It's one last wholehearted yet lame attempt at the metaphor game.

"Open up."

She pokes the thermometer at his mouth, giving him a stern look.

POUT.

He opens up and lets her stick the thermometer into his mouth, and he heaves a beleaguered sigh, his shoulders sagging. It's as if merely holding a thermometer under his tongue causes him to regress several decades. He doesn't need a magic spell to turn him back into a sulky ten-year-old.

Her lips twist, and she can't quite stifle a chuckle. She kisses his jaw — it's as high up as she can stretch — for his trouble.

After a few minutes, the results are clear. He's sick.

"All right, you're not goin' t'work today. C'mon, let's get you dressed an' back in bed."

"What? No, c'mon, that thing's probably broken, I don't get sick. I'm fine, I can totally function!"

At this point he breaks into a hacking cough, and he turns his head, covering his mouth. It lasts for a few moments, but when it passes, he eyes her as he tries to come up with an excuse.

"It's just a little tickle in my throat, that's all! I just need a lozenge or something."

Tommy's getting Kate's patented Teacher Face (TM).

"What y'need is rest. Y'barely slept all night. I know, 'cuz I was there. An' with half the bar sick, y'can't expect it won't spread. In bed now, mister."

She pulls on his towel, indicating he better follow her or risk punishment. Once in the bedroom, she digs out some clean clothes for him to sleep in.

Her Teacher Face (TM) can get him to do almost anything.

"I don't need to rest," he grumbles pathetically, but he follows when she tugs on his towel, because if he doesn't, she might tug it right off, and then he'll be cold.

Okay, so maybe it is chilly.

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and sits down on the edge of the bed to dry his damp hair.

"I'm sure it's just one of those twenty-four-hour things."

At least he's conceded that he's caught some sort of a bug, as the so-called tickle in his throat and the sudden weariness in his limbs and joints is actually cause for concern now. He just hates it when he's not feeling one hundred percent.

"Twenty-four-hour things?"

The future's concept of illness is still strange to Kate. However, she's grateful most things can be cured quickly. It puts a small smile on her face, shoulders relaxing. She leans in and kisses his forehead.

"I hope so. Still, how 'bout I bring up some breakfast? Hot tea, maybe some juice?"

She combs his damp hair back, lips twitching as she presses them against his ear.

"I'll even let y'watch me change."

A little lack of modesty is the least she can do if he ain't feeling well.

The idea of breakfast perks him up a fraction.

The idea of watching her get dressed perks him up a little more.

"I'd rather watch you take your clothes off 'stead of puttin' 'em on, but I'll take what I can get at this point."

Managing a wan smile, he turns his head, pressing his hot cheek to hers.

"Orange juice. Lots of orange juice. And maybe some-- toast."

Because suddenly even just the thought of fried eggs and sausages isn't sitting well with his stomach, empty as it is.

She smiles, though there's no masking the concern on her face. He's escalating quickly. She better get out of here and let him get a little rest.

"All right. Get under the covers an' relax, sweetheart. I'll take care'a it."

She cups his cheek tenderly before moving away, leaving her towel draped over a chair. She even takes her time putting on her clothes.

"I'll be back inna li'l bit. Try t'get some sleep."

As much as he enjoys and appreciates her tender touches, he'd rather they lead to something more than just getting him breakfast. But whatever this bug is, it's something fierce, as he doesn't even bother protesting when she tells him to get under the covers. So he lies back and gets as comfortable as he can, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

However, he's not so sick yet that he can't keep his eyes open to watch Kate get dressed. Call it a simple pleasure.

And plus she's just really gorgeous.

By the time she says she'll be back, his eyelids are heavy.

"Mmm, I'll try," he murmurs as another chill courses through his body and weariness overtakes him.

And by the time she does get back, he's asleep, breathing raspy and shallow, curled up in the covers like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

She takes her time, wanting him to get more than a few minutes of undisturbed sleep. There's enough to keep her occupied, anyhow.

She stops by the infirmary, eyes scanning the board (as they always do), to see about medicine. She leaves with a cough suppressant and something to help him sleep.

At the Bar, she sees about any mail that might not have been delivered yesterday, briefly catches up with the Miss, and writes a few quick notes while breakfast is achieved. Hot tea, orange juice (a whole carafe), plain toast, a dish of grits with a little butter and honey, a banana, and some dry cereal crowd the tray she carries back to her room.

The sound of the door doesn't wake him, so she sets the tray down on the table and slips over to his side of the bed, gently pressing her hand to his forehead.

It takes a lot to knock Tommy down and keep him down, and it seems as if a biological assault on his immune system is doing the trick. Even when he was recovering from his last fight, he was ready and willing to work through the pain and suck it up. It's what he always does, it's in his nature to get right back on his feet no matter what.

Right now?

Staying still and staying warm and staying in bed is nice.

The nap he takes is entirely too short when he wakes from it, the touch of Kate's cool hand gently drawing him out of a fitful doze. He exhales a groan, unwilling to open his eyes or move.

He really isn't feeling like himself.

Kate clucks quietly, a murmured 'aww' just barely audible.

"Hi, sweetheart."

She keeps her words at a whisper, in case his head is hurting or he'd rather drop back off.

"I brought breakfast. Y'feel up t'eatin'?"

Another groan.

"No. But I should prob'ly eat something."

Eventually, he rolls over onto his back, cracking open his eyes and blearily blinking up at her.

"Sorry I got sick. Seems like you're always patching me up."

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