ikissdhimbck | OOM: Room #100, for Tommy Gavin

He rubs his forehead and sighs again. He's grateful that she presses closer to him instead of pulling away, although in the back of his mind he's counting down the moments before she deliberately slips out of his arms.

Would it be worth the effort to try to explain that some women from his time even use the phrase themselves and might even consider it a legitimate pick-up line? Probably not. Because then he'd have to explain what kind of women he'd been hitting on.

"No. Well, sometimes. It depends on who I'm talkin' to and the woman I'm talkin' about." ~~For example, Clementine probably wouldn't mind.~~

"Look, does it really matter now? 'Cause I ain't gonna talk about you like that. Not to Voodoo, not to anybody. I didn't mean for all of that to happen, I shouldn't have said what I said in the first place, and I'm sorry. When you left, I felt like shit, 'cause believe me, honey, I would never say anything to hurt you or degrade you or anything like that. At least not on purpose. Definitely not on purpose. I might say something stupid every so now and then, but cut me some slack, I'm a guy, and, like, almost 120 years separates us, so, y'know, the whole thing about what's socially acceptable and what's not might be a problem, and I ain't always gonna get things right, but-- y'know, I try."

A line forms between her brows.

"Why would y'think I'd expect you t'treat me any different than your other women?"

She barely picks her chin up off his chest to speak, so her voice comes out muted and a touch husky.

Therein lies the matter entirely. For her, anyhow. It occurs to her now that Tommy might feel like she's interrogating him, trying to catch him up, looking for a reason to be angry. She is angry, but it's not the primary thing on her mind right now. The primary thing on her mind is what happened in the bar, and her not knowing where they stand.

"I ain't gonna ask you t'stop doin' somethin' for my sake. For one thing, I'd never be able t'make you. I walked into this knowin' full well what I was gettin'. An' I made a deal I intend t'keep."

She keeps her eyes on her fingers, still tracing patterns on his chest.

"I guess, maybe, I'm askin' you the same question. Does it matter? I jus' — I dunno why you was talkin' 'bout me at all."

Tommy is used to being interrogated by women. However, he's usually not so forthright with the truth, or at least some version of the truth, as his method is to start with lies.

But lying to Kate is something he hasn't quite leveled up to. Mostly because she owns guns.

"Is that-- is that all you wanna know? Why we were talkin' bout you? Well, for starters, Voodoo told me you hit him with a bucket. And then I apologized to him for losing my temper over thinking he'd felt you up, 'cause I just wanted to clear the air with him on that. And then things just-- went from there."

He shrugs, a little at a loss of what else to say, or what exactly she isn't asking him to stop doing, or what. Her fingertips are still idly tracing figures on his chest, but he still wonders when or if her claws will come out.

"And just so you know, you're not like any of my other-- the other women I've been with."

In answer to his questions, she slowly shakes her head, leaving it at that as he continues. It's not all she wants to know, but they have to start somewhere.

His closing comment gives her pause.

"Because I'm from a different time."

It's half question, but after what he just said about the gap between them she jumps to the most reasonable conclusion.

When she shakes her head, he expects her to follow up on that, and he can't help feeling that she's saving up for it. He shifts his body a little with some unease but masks it by tightening his arms around her and lacing his fingers at her shoulder.

"Well, yeah, obviously," he murmurs, glancing down to her mouth, then sighing and settling his head back into the pillow and closing his eyes as if wanting to go to sleep.

After a moment or two, he adds, his eyes still closed: "More to it than that, though."

After the first few seconds of silence, she figures he is trying to drop off. Goosebumps rise on her arms.

She shifts her attention to the rumpled pillows, pulling back the bedspread as much as she can from her angle. She pauses when he speaks again.

"How d'you mean?"

Gently, she pulls away from his embrace enough that she can brace herself on her elbows. She continues turning down the bed, tossing throw pillows to the floor. Suddenly, a cat leaps into the melee, disappearing under the bedspread up to the tail. There are clearly evil bed monsters that require defeating before Kate can proceed any further.

Tommy opens his eyes when she moves to pull back the sheets, and he sits up halfway, about to explain...

"Well--"

The cats had thankfully non-present -- up until this point.

Tommy stares at the tail and the lump huddled under the bedspread.

"I ain't getting under the covers with the cat," he says flatly, and he merely flops back down with his arms folded behind his head.

The other cat also tries leaping into bed, only he's used to doing so from the side Tommy's currently occupying. Startled to see the man in his spot, he jumps and falls off again.

"This's jus' their nightly routine. S'usually jus' the three of us; they'll get down when I'm through."

The cat under the covers is killing imaginary mice, by the looks of things. In any case, Kate's protecting Tommy from his advances, still half-draped over his body.

"What were y'sayin'?"

Yeah, that other cat better jump off.

"About what-? Oh."

He closes his eyes again and rubs his forehead. With her draped over him like that, she'd feel him tense up slightly.

It's not that he doesn't want to say. Just that he doesn't know how to put it without it sounding like he cares for her a little too much.

Anything more than that would be a bad idea...

"Remember what I said before, about that-- connection? You know what I mean, right?"

Opening his eyes, he looks at her but doesn't meet her gaze, opting to stare at her mouth, her chin nestled on his chest, the way her hair tumbles over her bare shoulders.

"That's the difference, basically."

"Oh."

She absently plays with Roz as he darts about, ruffling his belly when he emerges from under the blankets, batting at her hand.

That connection.

You know what I mean, right?

She nudges Roz off the bed during a particularly epic wrestling match. It's all right; he lands on his feet. Unencumbered, she returns to Tommy, bracing herself on the heels of her palms. She hovers over him, eyes nearly teal after sex, hair slipping past her shoulders and resting at his throat.

"I mean somethin' t'you?"

Her words skate across his mouth.

"More'n attraction? More'n — sex? More'n jus' wantin' t'know I'm all right?"

The tussle with the cat gives him something else to look at as he waits for her to process what he'd just said.

And then she's leaning over him, her eyes like jewels, her hair falling like blonde curtains, pooling at the pit of his throat. He swallows hard. Glancing up to meet her gaze, he quickly looks away again, feeling as if she could see right through to his core.

"Yeah. Pretty much."

He keeps his gaze lowered, watching his hand as he lightly runs his palms up her arms.

"Listen, I like you, okay? Yeah, I care about you, and yeah, you mean more to me than just sex, 'cause you're-- y'know, I--"

His brow knits when a word he hadn't thought to associate with Kate before comes to him.

"--I trust you."

It's weird to say it, and it's almost weird to think it, but it sort of makes sense to him. That was part of the connection. That he could so quickly tell her about his son when they barely knew each other, even when the wound was still fresh. About his wife and the trouble they'd been through, and knowing she wouldn't judge him for it.

And if he ever found the time and place and reason to tell her about Jimmy, he'd trust her to understand.

His eyes finally flick up to meet hers, and he holds her gaze this time.

Oh.

For a while, their eyes do all the talking. She searches him out, pulled in by him the way the tide pulls at her ankles; the way a wind at her back pulls her forward, unrelenting.

Trust.

She simultaneously feels appreciative and wary. She'd never do anything to betray his trust, and the fact he knows that is good; however, so too comes the guilt that she'll only hurt him. She's too wounded, too unpredictable. Even she knows that. She can't rely on anyone, and no one should rely on her.

Her eyes are a sea storm.

"Good."

Is it, Kate?

Is it good?

Her attention dips to his chin.

"Tommy... Y'know, with me, you're never gonna get a normal kinda courtship, don't you? I know y'said y'weren't lookin' for that, but I — I don't wanna hurt you. An' I like you, too. I'm jus' — I'm not the kinda person a body wants t'bank on. I'm in too many pieces."

She pulls her fingers through his hair slowly, gently, like she's stroking one of her cats. His hair is healthy, and the action is comforting.

"I'd only let y'down."

I don't wanna hurt you.

I'd only let y'down.

He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, the furrow between his brows deepening even as she strokes his hair, her touch reminding him of better times.

Better times before the broken promises, and the broken hearts, and the broken feelings of nearly everyone he was supposed to care about. Before the disappointment, and the resentment, and the blame.

"Don't worry about it."

When he opens his eyes, the intense sharpness in them masks the enduring sadness and regret.

"I can't see that far ahead. I dunno what's gonna happen tomorrow or a week from now or a month from now, but I ain't gonna be thinking about the day you might let me down, or the day you might hurt me, or the day I might do the same to you or what. Even if that day's gonna come for sure, I ain't gonna dwell on it. I won't. I can't.

"And I don't want normal. A guy like me-- I can't have normal. I don't know what normal is, I don't know how to be normal anymore."

He grasps her shoulders.

"I just-- want this. You. Here. Now. This's all I want.

"'Cause this? This-- this's all I can give you."

Her skin sings under his touch. It almost feels like it's burning.

This's all I want.

She didn't expect he'd feel that way. It'd be safer for them both if he didn't. That's why she took him to her bed, ain't it? He was safe. Somebody who would make her feel good for a little while, fill up the empty spaces, and move on once he was bored. Someone who wouldn't judge her for needing this.

He isn't asking more from her than she can give — not yet, anyhow — and so she forces back the dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. Here and now she can give him. This she can give him. She brings herself lower, laying herself over him like a heavy fur. There is no world beyond the golden curtain hemming them in; nothing outside their eyes, their ears, their mouths. The cats could run laps over them. Dug could stroll in. The entire bar could come down around their ears, and she wouldn't look away.

"Okay."

She's not sure what else to say, and nods helplessly. It's undeniable now that he cares more for her than she does for him. The guilt gnawing on her bones, however, is due to her realization that this could all change in a blink. She could care so easily. She could give in.

But she will not hurt him. She won't.

She kisses him, tentatively, eyes staying open. Like she's tasting him, checking the temperature of her morning tea so she doesn't scald her tongue.

"I need you t'promise me a couple things."

There's a sense of relief, and even a small twinge of victory, as she lays herself on top of him. The warmth of her body envelops him; her gaze holds him fast and doesn't let go.

But he can still feel the hesitation in her lips, and he realizes that he might have to work harder at not screwing this up.

promise me a couple things.

Annnd there's the hitch.

More than one promise?

Fingertips squeezing her shoulders, he exhales a sigh as his eyes fall closed again. The sigh is part reluctance, to commit to something that he might not be able to; and part resignation, to commit to something that would be the only way to make her stay.

He reminds himself that he wanted this. That he wanted her.

And it's going to take some effort to keep what he wants.

"Like what?"

She traces the lines of his face, leaving one hand to rest in his hair. He may not be looking at her, but she's still looking at him. When he reopens his eyes he'll see serious intent, pools of fire; her fingers stop at his chin, grasping just firmly enough to get across the necessity that he listen and listen well.

"Don't ever tell me what I can an' can't do; I know how t'take care'a myself. I may walk out that door one day an' never walk back in. I'm wanted out there, dead or alive. But I ain't lookin' for somebody t'save me, so don't you try."

She means it. She's heard well and enough from men about how she should stand back and let them take care of things for her, how she's not doing things straight, how she's not smart enough. But here she is now, on her lonesome, and she ain't about to let another body dictate how she behave.

"Second thing is, don't ever tell me somethin' that ain't true. 'Specially if you're doin' it 'cuz y'think it's what I want t'hear. I don't want no false promises; don't you tell me things is one way when they're another, or act like y'love me when y'don't. Don't hide things from me. An' I don't mean y'gotta tell me everythin' — I'll be perfectly happy if I never hafta hear what y'say 'bout me behind my back again. However, like I said before 'bout you tellin' me if y'lie with another woman while you're with me — don't make up fish tales. Jus' be honest. I've been lied to enough, an' I swear t'you, Tommy Gavin, I will bring hell down on your head if you deceive me."

There's no 'ifs' about it.

In this moment, ever so much more noticeable than the scars on her skin are the ones she carries underneath.

Just as she won't hurt him, she won't let him hurt her. Not like that.

"If I'm t'trust you, y'gotta promise me that."

Edited 2012-09-26 04:47 (UTC)

Her firm touch and tone of voice compel him to open his eyes again.

What she's making him promise isn't unreasonable. It's nothing he hasn't been told to do before. To not be so controlling, to be honest. And it's not like the women in his life ever listen to him anyway, or ever fall for his lies.

But also, it's not like he's finally learned that being a lying, controlling, sneaking sonuvabitch always comes back to bite him in the ass.

When she's said her piece, he swallows (perhaps a bit audibly), and blinks up at her.

"Okay," he finds himself saying as he nods. "I promise."

The thing about Kate is she's a woman of two halves. On the one hand, her senses and instincts are sharp, honed to see through lies and little boy guilt. On the other hand, she's earnest; the teacher in her wants to believe in honesty and change.

It's silent for one more long stretch.

"Okay."

She nods, and kisses him. Now they're back on the same page. It isn't where she thought they'd be, but so long as she knows what he's thinking maybe she won't try and run.

(But she's eying those fence posts, low to the ground though they are, as the corral is built around her.)

Sucking in a deep breath, she pushes herself off him, rolling to the edge of the bed. Her limbs are heavy and dumb, tired, sated — sore. But she sits herself up, her bare back to him, and starts working on taking her garters off.

"How many folk have y'told? 'Bout us."

Sealed with a kiss.

Sometimes, Tommy really wonders what he gets himself into, usually seconds after committing to it.

He doesn't regret this, though. He'll stick to it. For as long as he can. Or for as long as she wants him around. Whichever comes first.

When she sits up, he lays there for a moment, his gaze fixed on her back. Her hair falling between her shoulder blades. The graceful slope of her spine. The curve of her hips.

Sitting up himself, he pulls aside the covers on his side of the bed just enough for him to scoot under and lie back down.

"Just Voodoo," he sighs, folding one arm behind his head. "Uh. And I sorta mentioned you to Elrond, 'cause I told him we went to that wedding, but I didn't actually say we were-- uh, together, 'cause that conversation got a little awkward 'cause it was like I was talking to your dad or something and I got really nervous for some reason, so-- uh. Yeah. Oh, and a woman from around my time named Clementine, but I never said your name, only that I was-- y'know, with you, 'cause me and Clem used to-- uh, fool around, and I just wanted to make it clear that I couldn't do that anymore, but she's a really cool chick for a cop, so there was no hard feelings or whatever. Besides, I think she likes someone else anyways."

Edited 2012-09-27 01:54 (UTC)

Every 'and' makes her wince, but with her back to him he shouldn't be able to tell.

To his credit, what he says about Elrond makes her laugh. It's soft, choked — almost not there at all — but it's still the first time she's even smiled all night.

"Why's that? Master Elrond's very dear t'me, but he ain't nothin' like my daddy. Maybe an uncle. I've never had one'a those."

She slips off her silk stockings, maneuvering the fabric around her anklet as if she's done it a thousand times. Once she's completely naked, she sits there, still, debating their discarded clothing. Despite this being the second time they've, ah, coupled, she's not wholly comfortable being naked in front of him. Her blouse won't do much for her. Her chemise is on the other side of the room. This is how she finds herself shrugging on his t-shirt for a second time.

She slips under the covers on her side of the bed, brow beetled at his closing words. She takes a moment to answer.

"Oh."

Beat.

"So you're — not 'seein'' anyone else?"

"Well, I mean, Elrond is-- Elrond," he half-chuckles. "Y'know? He's the closest thing to, like, royalty I've ever known, and when he said he knew you and liked you a lot, and the way he talked about you, I couldn't help feelin' like I was back in high school and had to be on my best behavior."

He watches her pull on his t-shirt, and decides that he wouldn't mind at all if she did that every time from now on. She looks cute in his shirts. In an anachronistic kind of way.

As she settles in under the covers, he turns his head to look at her with a slight frown, a little surprised that she still has to ask that. Except that he really shouldn't be surprised.

"No. Nobody here, nobody back home. Just you."

She allows herself one modest, but proud, smile. What Voodoo took away from her tonight — her sense of pride, her confidence, her honor — is gonna take a little while to repair. But knowing Elrond thinks and speaks well of her does her ego good.

She wouldn't take her choices back.

She isn't ashamed of where she's ended up.

However, sometimes, she does wish she still had her good reputation back home.

(Screw 'em.)

"I'm glad t'hear that."

She doesn't bother distinguishing whether she's glad to hear that Elrond likes her a lot or that he made Tommy feel he had to be on his best behavior. He can sweat it out.

She fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, looking pensive, if not uncomfortable, by this revelation.

"Oh. Jus' me?"

An eyebrow twitches slightly at her remark, as she doesn't elaborate on what exactly she's glad to hear. It doesn't make much of a difference to him, because at least she's smiling again.

But he eyes her, his brow still a bit furrowed.

"Yeah. Just you, honey. Look, I wasn't lying when I told you I hadn't slept with anybody since we met. ...Okay, actually, y'know what, now that I really think about it -- and now that I ain't in the middle of undressing you when you're asking me this, so I can actually think clearly -- I'm pretty sure I was still messing around with Clem, but now I distinctly remember after our, uh, horseback riding lesson-- well, y'know, that was it. I swear."

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth.

"I didn't know if, maybe, y'had someone ... "

She shrugs, gesturing vaguely.

Someone back home. Someone he just hadn't seen for a while. His wife.

"It's all right."

She hunts for his one free hand underneath the covers, settling down against the pillows. Her eyes flick back to his.

They're running out of reasons why they ain't 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend'.

"Jus' tell me when that changes."

Beat.

"An', Tommy — don't – don't tell anybody else. 'Bout us."

Despite all the things that drive Tommy and his wife apart, he still clings to that faint sliver of a possibility that they might find a way to get back together. But for now, he has no idea what it would take for that to happen. What sort of miracle he'd have to perform. What sort of reprieve would have to come down from on high to allow him that third, fourth, fifth chance.

"No, nobody," he reassures her.

It's not a lie.

He just needs some cracks of his own to be filled in.

Shifting onto his side to face her, he brings their linked fingers up from between them and kisses the back of her hand, his stubble scratching her skin.

"Alright. I promise. About the not tellin' anybody and also the other thing."

OOM: Room #100, for Tommy Gavin

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