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

Blink.

"What face? I ain't makin' a face. What face am I makin'?"

(He stops making whatever face he's making anyway.)

Rolling over onto his back, he looks up at her. Completely innocent.

She doesn't know him well enough to read his expressions, but she's catching on quick.

She's got sharp eyes, after all.

"Y'looked like you we're tryin' t'breathe water through your pecker."

He chokes on a laugh.

"I looked like what?"

Still innocent.

A beat.

"Okay, listen. I know, I know I told you that I don't care what you do on the other side of your door, or where you go, or who you're with. I don't. I really don't. Except-- I kinda do. I mean, c'mon, I can't help it. You were gone for over a month and I was sorta okay with that until I met Marston and he mentioned stuff like having to kill a guy and then you showed up having just robbed a bank and-- I dunno, it all just sounds really dangerous."

Says the guy who runs into burning buildings for a living.

The line between her brows softens almost imperceptibly.

She looks into his eyes.

"It is dangerous. Everythin' I do is dangerous, Tommy. It don't matter where I am. These?"

She touches the gnarled scar on her right bicep, and the silky pink hole in her left thigh (there's another almost perfect match on the back, where the bullet passed straight through her meat).

"I got here. An' another in my back, where I was wearin' somethin' that protected me."

He flashes back to the first time she told him about getting shot. They'd just met, and he'd asked a stupid question, and he'd regretted it afterward.

Her guns and her scars are part of her, and he understands this better these days. He's gotten used to the guns; he's never minded the scars when his fingers brush over them. It's just that sometimes he forgets why they're there, how they got there.

"I know, I remember," he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I ain't sayin' that you can't go and do whatever you do out there. I ain't gonna tell you what to do. I promised you that, and I think so far I've done a pretty good job. So. Yeah. I'm still gonna-- y'know-- worry about you and whatever."

Reaching out an arm, his hand lands on her hip.

"Those guys, though. You trust 'em?"

A smirk tempts the corner of her mouth, but it doesn't quite make it through. He thinks he's done a pretty good job in the short time since they had that talk. It may have been a few months for Tommy, but it's been much less for Kate. Still —

I'm still gonna-- y'know-- worry about you and whatever

— he's trying, and that's sweet.

"I don't trust anybody."

She closes her eyes ever so briefly when he touches her hip. Were she on her other side, he'd only be touching another scar. She's a patchwork quilt of stories that tell why she doesn't trust, and what the punishment is when she forgets. She rests her hand over his heart.

"But if I did, I guess they'd be somewhere near the top of the list."

He nods.

Almost pensively, he glances down and strokes her skin with the pad of his thumb. Her hand on his heart is like a reverse I swear.

"And-- they're just-- y'know-- friends, right?"

He flicks his eyes up to hers again.

Her eyes widen slightly.

"Tommy."

His eyes widen, too.

"What? I'm just askin'!"

Innocent! Completely innocent!

She makes a face.

And then she laughs.

(Curse him.)

"You are the only man I've had in my bed in a long, long time, an' I ain't in any hurry t'change that. Besides, John's married."

It'd probably be a good idea not to mention how she and Jim spent the night dancing and teasing each other.

She kisses him lightly.

"What're y'so worried about, Fireman?"

He's not sure how reassuring her laugh should be, or the kiss, but he's doing his damnedest to suppress his inclination to beat the crap out of every guy who says hello to his woman. It's genetic.

"Nothing! Nothing. Really."

He reaches up to toy with the long blonde locks framing her face, the backs of his fingers brushing against her cheek.

"It's just that you are such a gorgeous, gorgeous girl, and you're smart, and you're hot, and you've got beautiful eyes, and you can kick ass, and did I mention that you're gorgeous?"

She smirks.

She lets him play with her hair while she thinks things over, carefully sweeping her eyes over his face. With a soft sigh, she pushes herself up into a sitting position.

"C'mere."

She wants him upright and looking at her, where she can put her arm around him, or slip her hand to the back of his neck.

"I know I've been gone a long time, an' I know the things I do — well, they're disconcertin'. You've been actin' like I'm jus' gonna magic away all night, but you don't hafta look for reasons for us t'be together. I've had men callin' me beautiful my whole life; I've had marriage proposals, Tommy. It don't mean I'm gonna run off an' get hitched with the first pair of admirin' eyes that come along."

She brushes his bangs from his eyes, and cups his cheek, thumb rubbing the soft patch of skin under his eye.

"I'm scared, too. I'm scared of what I'm gonna do t'you. But you want t'be here. So long as y'want t'be here, you're the only man I want t'be with."

She lowers her eyes, and reaches for his hand.

"D'you trust me?"

He does as she bids him, sitting up and propping himself up on one hand. Not expecting her to tell him these things, he's rendered silent (just how many men before him had been unsuccessful?). These reassurances are different.

She grasps his free hand, and he squeezes her fingers lightly.

"Of course I trust you, honey."

A beat.

"It's just that I don't trust guys with you. Listen, I come from a long line of overprotective husbands, boyfriends, and brothers, okay, so y'know, sometimes I just can't help feeling the way I do, 'cause guys can be real jerks. And I know you don't need protecting or whatever and I know you can handle yourself just fine, I know all this, which is why I'm tryin' not to make a big deal out of it, which is another thing I tend to do, make big deals out of things, but basically what I'm sayin' is that, yeah, I trust you, but if some other guy comes onto you or thinks he can treat you like crap, you can't expect me to just sit back. I know you ain't 'mine' to defend, but I like you, and I don't wanna see you hurt."

She bites her tongue while he rambles, respectfully letting him say his piece. Her instinct is to interject, make some wild proclamation, so it takes her a moment to think of the best way to respond.

She squeezes his fingers in return, though her grip isn't what it usually is. She's itching to pull off her bandage.

"Tommy — how'd you get that scar on your backside?"

Blink.

"You mean the bite from Dug."

He's not sure how she got there or where she's going.

She laughs softly.

"No, on your other side."

Her fingers slide down his spine, circling a good-sized scar below his hip, raised and ugly. She presses a kiss to his arm.

"This one."

"Oh, that one."

He's never been self-conscious about the scars, nicks, and dents he carries, but for anyone who's ever gotten his pants off, this one is the most noticeable.

"I got that a long time ago on the job. I was carrying out this guy who started a fire by smoking in bed. When I found him he was passed out, either drunk or high on drugs or whatever. I had him on this staircase-- the stairs gave way, we both fell through-- landed on some metal spikes underneath. Part of a fence or something. Anyways, he lived. His kids and their mother didn't make it."

It's almost matter-of-fact if not for the restrained bitterness at the injustice of it all. He shrugs a shoulder.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Jesus."

It's even worse than she'd imagined. She swallows down the ill feeling which spikes and slowly ebbs away.

"Weren't y'wearin' any protective clothin', or somethin'?"

"Just my bunker gear. You've seen the pants I wear. They're thick and tough, but metal spikes are metal spikes, and when you fall on 'em from that height, with the added weight of a grown man, and all the other stuff I gotta carry, well, it's gonna hurt."

He leans in and pecks her on the corner of her mouth.

"All in a day's work, baby. I can tell you about all the times I saved puppies and kittens if that'll make you feel better."

With a lopsided smirk, he rubs her arm reassuringly. Sometimes being flippant is how he deals with stories like this.

Sitting back and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed, he scans the floor for his underwear. He finds them near where the cats are still curled up together in Dug's basket. Plucking them up without waking them (one of them opens an eye but boredly closes it again), he pulls them on, snapping the waistband over the scar on his hip. He then pads over to the table in the corner of the room and takes a few gulps from Kate's bottle of juice.

She blinks at the flip remark, words stolen away from her. She doesn't move when he kisses her, or when he gets up — though, the desire to reach out and catch his wrist, to tell him not to go, is there.

She purses her lips and huffs, eyes shifting from the spot where he used to be to the rumpled and flattened blouse on the other side of the bed. She shrugs it on again, turning around as she buttons up, and fixes him with mild, unamused eyes.

Sitting with her knees drawn up, watching him drink from her bottle, she doesn't say anything for a time. Eventually, she looks away, voice measured and distant.

"Until this year, the day my schoolhouse burned in Green Lake was the most terrifyin' experience I'd ever been through. One mornin' I was sittin' at my desk, an' then they was rippin' apart books an' turnin' over desks for kindlin'. It burned so fast. I ain't never felt such a powerful heat, or tasted such a thick air. I coughed up black for days."

There's a long pause. She lifts her eyes to look at him again.

"Didja ever consider that, maybe, when I'm with you I can't help but think 'bout that day?"

He's swallowing his last mouthful and so doesn't turn to look at her until she speaks. It's her voice that catches his attention first.

It burned so fast.

Gaze now pinned on her, his brow furrowed and jaw slackened, he feels like a bit of a jackass.

"No, I-- I didn't-- no. ...Sorry."

Her school being burned down was one of the first things she told him about her past. It's not that he'd forgotten. It just seemed to him that it was one of those things that you blocked out, made every effort to keep at bay, just like many of the calls he's been on, the homes destroyed, the lives lost, the faces of those left with nothing.

That he himself would be a reminder of something like that never crossed his mind.

He comes back to the bed and sits down across from her, leaning forward on his hands.

"I didn't mean to make light of anything, honey, I just-- I didn't know that's what you thought."

She presses her finger to his lips, urging him to shush.

"My point is — you're not the only one who worries when one of us goes out that door.

"Tommy, your whole world revolves 'round you runnin' into the same place I ran out of. Every day, you're walkin' into my worst nightmare. Y'think what I do is dangerous? You are literally playin' with fire. I don't mind that y'worry 'bout me, or that y'wanna defend me, or protect me, 'cuz goddammit if I were ever with you when y'went in t'fight a fire it'd take the might of an archangel t'keep me from marchin' in after you an' pullin' your ass back out."

She cups his cheek.

"But I don't, 'cuz I trust that y'know what you're doin', an' y'take steps t'be careful an' protect yourself. Anytime I go out that door, anyone I go out with, I protect myself. I'm careful. Part'a that, I've learned, is choosin' my battles an' knowin' when t'run. I know I can't protect myself from everythin', jus' like I know I can't protect you from everythin'. You an' I, we're both scarred. Hell, Tommy, y'see someone comin' after me then goddammit protect me. But y'gotta trust when you're not around that I'm gonna be okay, an' that if I'm with someone else I'm gonna come back here t'you."

She purses her lips and lets out a breath, playing with his bangs again. She pinches his chin, and leans her forehead against his.

"I don't 'expect you t'sit back'. I expect you t'know how t'choose your battles, an' have faith in me."

you're not the only one who worries when one of us goes out that door

His jaw clamps shut. He purses his lips and he nods with a sigh, his eyes flicking downward for a moment.

On the one hand, it feels nice to be thought about by someone who cares, but on the other, he didn't mean to be an extra burden. She has enough to carry around with her.

He knew this would happen the instant he started telling her more about his job. And he didn't even go into detail about the incident that left him with that scar.

It would be so much easier if they both led normal, mundane, 9-to-5 days, but...no.

She makes good points. As always. And he'll listen. And he'll heed her as best he can. But for all his skill and experience, he still thinks he knows what he's doing when he leaps from ladders and window ledges or runs headfirst into smoke and flames without a mask. Literally playing with fire. Risking his life almost for the hell of it.

She doesn't have to know about those times.

He nods again, eyelids fluttering as she touches his hair, tweaks his chin as if he were teacher's pet. She presses her forehead to his and he reflexively tilts his chin forward, bringing his mouth closer to hers.

"Okay. I get it. I get it."

She wonders if he really does.

But all she does is nod — she hears him — and closes the distance. Her lips feather his, tentative and light.

"Jus' one more thing," she whispers, putting a little distance between them. "That night we made that deal, that y'wouldn't tell me what I can an' can't do, y'wouldn't try t'save me? I didn't mean y'couldn't watch out for me. But I swear t'God, Tommy Gavin, if you keep things from me 'cuz of some overblown idea of protectin' me, I will take out my gun an' I will shoot you into a female — you understandin' me?"

She makes another face at him, eyes as flat as he's likely ever seen them, and with every last ounce of machismo she possesses, she does her best impression of him.

"'All in a day's work, baby.' Are you messin' with me? Kittens an' puppies, ugh. Don't treat me like I can't handle the truth. That's the kind of bull-headed bullshit I was talkin' about. Thinkin' you're protectin' me."

She scoffs and extricates herself from him, going to grab one of the pastries he brought up.

His eyes grow really wide as he pulls back.

"I--"

Gaping. Blinking. Do not argue with a woman who has guns.

"I was joking. Sorry. Jeezus."

He exhales a sigh when she turns to get up off the bed, and he passes a hand over his face and through his hair, shaking his head.

A few beats pass.

"The kittens and puppies stories are just as entertaining, though."

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