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

She snickers.

"What's your alternative? We don't get t'choose when it comes t'family. Some of us get big families, an' some of us don't. Some women can have lots'a children, an' some can't have any. Two-and-eighty's a ripe age; it's unheard of. An' some people lose their daddies when they're young."

She was all right while she was saying it, but now that it's hanging in the air it gives her pause.

"Y'just gotta take care'a him the best y'know how. Um. So you're gonna spend your next few days on holiday with him? Anythin' special planned?"

He eats in silence for a while, because yeah, she's right again. As much as Tommy bitches and moans about his family, he wouldn't know what to do if they weren't around to bitch and moan about.

His eyes flick up at her at her last line. It weighs heavily with her, he can tell that much.

And he looks back down at his eggs again. He plucks up a strip of bacon and munches on it.

"I dunno," he sighs. "Hopefully he'll just wanna stay in so I don't gotta take him anywhere 'cause he can barely get around on his own as it is. Just turn on the sports channel on TV, set a couple of beers within reach, and boom, there goes 48 hours. At least on the weekends my kids can distract him. I mean, jeez, I have no idea what to do with him. Bad enough that his second wife died and left her millions to her thirty cats and his brother's in jail for murder--"

Tommy stops in mid-chew, realizing how that sounded.

"My uncle didn't kill my step-mom, by the way. My family's crazy but they ain't that kinda crazy."

Kate's fork is paused in midair, mouth ajar.

"I don't even know where t'begin."

So, in deference to Tommy and his family, she skirts around the crazy.

"You an' your daddy sound like y'have a lotta things in common. Is it really so hard figurin' out what t'do with him for a few days?"

He sighs again through his teeth with somewhat wry bemusement as he refills his cup.

"Yeah, well, lemme explain something. Me and my old man-- we don't exactly get along. I mean, sure, we do experience stretches of civility between him bein' a jackass to me and me bein' resentful towards him, but for the most part, the only things we ever exchange words on are baseball, war, and sometimes Ma. We don't-- we don't really talk. We just don't. We never did. Not even about firefighting. Okay, yeah, he used to tell the occasional anecdote or whatever, but frankly, it's like we've already said what we had to say and the only thing left to do is bitch at each other, especially now that we actually hafta live together, when before we had Ma or Uncle Teddy as a buffer. It would probably be a helluva lot easier if I was still drinking 'cause then at least we could drink together, but since I ain't, he'll just take every opportunity to call me a sissy for giving it up. But whatever. I'll try, y'know, of course I will, I'm the only one out of all my brothers and sisters who can take him in right now, and I'll do it 'cause, well-- he's my dad."

At some point she abandons her plate.

She watches him, because she's not afraid to make eye contact. She's not afraid to listen to the difficult things, and let her remorse show on her face.

"I'm sorry."

She's quiet, sincere, and more than a little sorry she brought it up. It sounds miserable, whether or not he tries to make it sound that way.

"I know y'will. I know y'will try. I didn't — I'm sorry. My daddy an' I were close when he was alive. We were all each other had. I can't imagine havin' gone a day without talkin' t'him when I had the chance to. Perhaps that makes me naive."

But it's still difficult imagining why anyone would treat Tommy that way.

As Tommy speaks, each time his gaze ventures back to her eyes, she's always there.

It's easy for him to get legitimately angry when he talks about his father, and it probably shows in his eyes and the set of his mouth, but all he allows himself to be right now is severely irritated. She doesn't need to hear a full-blown rant.

Taking a few bolstering swallows of coffee, he sets the cup down, shaking his head at her apologies. He picks up his fork and jabs at the last of his eggs.

"Nah, that don't make you naive," he assures her. "That just makes you lucky. I can only hope my own kids never feel some of the things I do about my dad, but it might be too late for that." He wipes his lips with a napkin. "In any case, I didn't mean to dump this on ya, especially during breakfast, but-- heh, well, I have issues, as people from my time tend to say."

Lucky.

Yes.

She was.

She smiles crookedly, giving him another nudge with her foot.

"D'you really think y'need to explain yourself to me?"

Her voice is soft, non-accusatory, and just slightly amused. If he was expecting shock or disappointment, he's not going to get it out of her. Her 'issues' have issues, and she knows better than to press.

She looks away, with a self-deprecating little half-shrug.

"Listen, sugar — I know we ain't anythin' special. But we are friends, aren't we? Y'can say an' do whatever you like; or y'can not say or do whatever y'like. Y'wanna come up an' mess around, then we don't hafta worry ourselves on talkin'. But if y'want someplace t'spend the night, or someone t'talk to, I suppose I can be convinced."

Her lips twitch.

"I don't mind."

Resting his elbows on the table and loosely lacing his fingers, he glances at her over his knuckles, then past her shoulder out the window at the brightening morning sky.

She confuses him sometimes. That whole physical/emotional thing. It's no more clearer to him on a full stomach and two cups of coffee than it is after cheesecake and sex.

He flashes back briefly to the first time he kissed her. He wishes he could take it back if only to never see the shock and fear in her eyes.

I don't mind.

How or why she even let him get to this point, he'll never know.

But they are friends. And he's grateful for it.

"Thanks."

It's a word that Tommy says so infrequently that he might as well have forgotten how to pronounce it or what it means.

As he looks at her, an already imperceptible smile is hidden behind his hands, but it somehow manages to reach the hard sharpness of his eyes. Under the table, his knee touches hers.

She's still trying to figure out the physical/emotional thing herself. She's only been vulnerable with him once before last night, on that day he kissed her for the first time. She doesn't like being vulnerable, not least because others don't like it either. He'd burned so hot and then went so cold, flashing from annoyance to remorse, in such a blink that it startled her, and made her feel guilty.

She doesn't know what she's doing, but he doesn't need to know that.

(Just like he doesn't need to know that while he was sleeping she had herself a good cry in the tub when she finally allowed herself to think — about the curse, about her dimming hope for a suitable life, about Doc, about her empty heart.)

She's feeling her way through the dark, hoping he won't notice just how out of her depth she is, how lost she feels. Because, despite all her better senses, it feels good to be looked at again. To be touched. To not have to wake up alone, for the first time in far too long.

Even if it isn't real.

Cradling her chin, a smile spills across her face. She bumps her knee against his, and her bare foot dips under his pants leg.

"Anytime."

She warned him. She gave him every opportunity to back away. Instead, he closed the distance.

Maybe it's a little selfish, trying to fill up an empty space at the expense of someone else.

(It's more than a little.)

Or maybe, somewhere deep down, she's still gripping that hopeful-hearted girl who can't let go of maybe.

maybe it will be different this time.

He can make it different.

For a while.

But it would end the same.

His fault, his mistake, his touch that eventually brings everything crashing down.

But screw endings. He can't see that far ahead and can't waste time thinking about consequences, not when the present is all he has and the past constantly threatens to swallow him up.

He wanted this.

He wanted her.

Even if he had no idea what to expect. Even as she kept asking him, warning him, if it'd be worth it.

Her smile charms him, the flirtatious nudge of her foot sparking a glint in his eyes. He pushes his plate aside and folds his arms on the table.

"Know what you should do with your free time today? You should try on some of those dresses from that catalog. Just so you can get a feel for what they're like, y'know?"

She quirks an eyebrow.

"Y'really think so?"

Seems awful indulgent, spending the day fussing over clothing. However, it does need to be done. And this is for Carlotta, after all. She wants to be presentable.

"Sure, why not? 'Specially the sexy ones. Then while I'm at work I can imagine you in 'em and it'll make my day go by a lot faster."

Unapologetic as ever.

Her expression flattens.

"Would it now? An' I'd think imaginin' me slowly peelin' off dress after dress would make the hours at work go by a lot slower."

Her voice is a husky hum, intended to tease him.

The drop in her voice coupled with that drawl sends goosebumps up and down his arms.

"With that mental image? Ain't no better way to pass the time, honey."

His gaze dips briefly. Though her robe is wrapped securely around her, the silk clings to her curves in a way he can appreciate.

"Eyes up here, pardner."

Her voice hasn't changed a bit, so it sounds a little less like a command and a little more like a challenge. Her smile is practically sinister.

Her foot continues its climb up his calve, only stopping when the angle becomes too difficult. She leans back.

"I reckon you've gotta leave soon? Catch up on them last few hours of sleep?"

His eyes immediately flick back up, and he grins, still unapologetic, especially since her foot's still interested in his leg.

"Yeah, I guess oughtta get goin'."

The thought of his father alone in the apartment gives him a sudden twinge of worry.

"Though I might not be able to sleep anyways 'cause of the two cups of coffee I just had, but it ain't like my sleeping habits have been the most regular or whatever. Last night was, like, the most sleep I'd ever gotten in a while. And I don't mean like hours, I mean like, really deep, actual sleep. So. I dunno. Thanks for not kickin' me outta your bed?" He smiles lopsidedly.

She hides the surprise well.

Her expression warms, a chuckle caught somewhere in her quiet exhale.

"Thanks for not givin' me a reason to."

She takes a slow draw off her coffee, pulling her leg back and neatly crossing her ankles. Well, now. This wasn't as awkward as she was afraid it would be. She might even like to do it again sometime.

"Go on. Get."

Before they start thanking each other for everything else.

The list could get lengthy.

He holds a hand up as if solemnly swearing. "Believe me, I'll try not to ever give you a reason. I can't guarantee it, but I'll do my damnedest." Not much with the solemnity, but there was a mild swear in it anyway.

Then at her command (there's that fantasy again where the outlaw is calling the shots), he rises from the table with a stretch and pads over to the bed to pull on his boots. He's...in a pretty good mood, actually. He likes where this whole thing went. She seems pleased with the results. Nothing could possibly ruin things now!

"Um-- can I ask you something?"

She's just covering the leftover food and stacking plates when he calls out the question.

"Sure, sugar."

Boots on, still sitting on the bed, he runs his fingers through his hair a couple times.

"You know a guy named Voodoo, right?"

He asks this as casually as possible.

Goosebumps rise on her forearms.

"Yes, I know him. Why d'you ask?"

She continues cleaning up.

"Oh. Yeah, well, uh."

He shrugs and gets up. Takes a few steps. Turns, leans against the bedpost with his fingers tucked into his jeans pockets. Watching her.

"I dunno, it's just something stupid, really, I guess. We were just talking yesterday, y'know, shootin' the shit about whatever. And you just happened to come up. And, well..."

He scrubs a hand through his hair again. He's not mad, or even irritated, or anything like that -- he just wants to know.

"He kinda said something about-- you. About your-- y'know."

He gestures somewhat vaguely at her, attempting to indicate what she has under her robe.

He starts talking, and a number of things fly through her mind.

The fight.

The bruises.

The moonshine.

The kiss.

Her panic abates, however, as he goes on and she notices how twitchy he is. She'd expect anger, or suspicion, or frustration, but he doesn't seem to be any of those things.

However, when he gestures at her body she quickly becomes all three. She goes still.

Rising to her feet, she turns to face him, leaning back against the table.

"About my what?"

There's a chill in her eyes, and her voice leaves no room for discussion.

You're going to have to spell it out for her, Tommy. Every. Single. Word.

He blinks. And then suddenly Tommy feels as if he should be defending Voodoo against her (but not really).

"Your breasts," he blurts out. "We were talking, I mentioned that I was-- y'know, kinda with you-- and then he got this weird reaction like he couldn't believe it or something, and then he gave your stats for some crazy reason, even gave your measurements as 34D -- which, in our world is, y'know, a woman's bra size. So I was like, how the hell does he even know that? And naturally I got really pissed off at him 'cause I thought he'd -- y'know, felt you up. He kept sayin' he never touched you, and the madder I got, the more insistent he was, and I just-- I dunno if I believe him yet. Seriously, he didn't feel you up, did he?"

Edited 2012-08-23 08:29 (UTC)

What.

Kate blinks hard.

"He told you he knew what my breasts look like?"

Tommy might be able to infer, just from the tone and volume of her voice, that Voodoo most certainly did not feel her up.

"That sonnovabitch."

They agreed not to say anything about what happened, to anyone, ever. So instead he manufactures this story?

"That sonnovabitch!"

She's going to kill him.

He is going to be killed.

There will be not breathing with the Voodoo.

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