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

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."

She leans back against the table, pastry in hand, licking raspberry sauce from the corner of her mouth. She still looks unamused.

"Then y'can tell me them stories, too. I jus' don't want you treatin' me like a porcelain doll, Tommy. Lord Almighty."

"Jeezus, who said I was treating you like a porcelain doll? I'm not, and I won't, I swear!"

Sighing again, he moves her Stetson from his pillow ('his' pillow) to hers, and propping the pillow up against the headboard, he leans back, haphazardly tugging the sheets over him. He folds his arms across his chest.

And sulks a little.

Sometimes it's not just about 'protecting' her from what he's seen. It's about keeping himself from unraveling.

In other words -- keeping it all bottled up inside.

It didn't work with Janet, so what makes him think it'll work with Kate?

"So there was this fire one time," he begins, arms still folded, staring down at the sheets pooled in his lap.

"It was in the basement of an abandoned apartment building. Bad ventilation, the only windows were these little narrow things at street level. Smoke was building up fast, but we had reports that some homeless people were trapped in there. Me and Lou went in. Couldn't see a damn thing, could barely even see the fire itself, the smoke was so thick, but we could feel it. We got to this corner and Lou tripped over someone -- this old guy, dressed in rags. He was pretty much choking to death, so Lou rushed him out, but when I started to follow, I heard this kind of-- crying sound. Not really crying, but sorta-- squeaking. Whatever it was, it was alive, and my first instinct is to never leave anything that's alive behind.

"So I followed the sound-- it was hard to hear over the noise, but it managed to cut through, just enough. And whaddya know, I found a litter of kittens in the bottom drawer of an old dresser. The mom was curled up around 'em, half-alive; the babies, like six or seven of 'em, just newborns. So I just grabbed 'em all and stuffed 'em in my pockets, tucked the mom under my jacket, and hightailed it outta there.

"When I made it outside, that homeless guy was being loaded up into an ambulance -- he was still conscious, so that was good. But now I had all these cats on me and I didn't know what to do with 'em. I got a blanket from the truck and laid the kittens out on the ground, and once the guys on my crew saw what I was doing, they took off their air tanks and started reviving the kittens. I put my own air mask on the mom -- I was still holding her under my jacket. For a second there I thought she wasn't gonna make it. But then she let out a yowl and she squirmed and I felt her claws through my shirt and suddenly I had this little tornado of fur under my coat, and so I dropped her onto the blanket where she sniffed over each of her kittens -- all of which survived, by the way.

"But she peed on my shirt. Couldn't get the stink outta my gear for weeks."

Tommy's not sure what the moral of this story is.

Kate stops mid-chew, eyes flicking to Tommy as he speaks. To be honest, she wasn't actually expecting a kitten story. And for how insulting the idea had seemed, now that he's actually telling it...

She snorts, almost choking on her raspberry sauce. She covers her mouth, having the decency not to laugh at him outright. She looks as sympathetic as she can, and then — well, she doesn't have to pretend anymore.

With a sigh, she straightens and heads to his side ('his side') of the bed, feeling indulgent — and a touch wrong — bringing her pastry with her.

She settles next to him, feet braced on the floor.

"So y'really do rescue cats? Even if y'can't stand 'em?"

He's relieved when she laughs. He's always relieved when she laughs. Especially now, when he could just as well say something wrong and make the tension even worse. He's never been so conscious about not wanting to mess up a moment before.

(It's probably the whole shooting-him-into-a-female thing.)

At her questions, the corner of his mouth quirks upward and he shrugs a shoulder. He eyes the bit of pastry in her fingers.

"Of course I do. I may save 'em begrudgingly sometimes, but I ain't that much of a bastard to leave 'em. Y'know, I got twenty years worth of stories, and a quarter of 'em are easily about saving cats, 'cause lemme tell ya, New York City has a lot of cats."

Edited 2012-12-30 06:53 (UTC)

"Well, it needs all them cats t'catch all the rats y'claim you've got."

The corner of her mouth tugs up into something reluctantly warm. She reaches for his hand again — don't worry, Tommy, it isn't remotely sticky.

"But y'don't hafta tell me sugarcoated stories. An' before y'start in again, all I mean is — you don't gotta tell me anythin' you don't want to. But not 'cuz y'think I can't handle it. I ain't ever gonna make you talk, but when y'need to? Don't fuss over me. I've seen a lot worse than y'may realize."

She squeezes his hand, and takes another bite of her pastry, chewing thoughtfully.

"I don't need stories 'bout kittens t'make me 'feel better'. I'm fine. I've jus' come back from hellfire, for pete's sake. Y'wanna talk t'me, then talk. Y'don't? Don't. S'as simple as that."

She pinches his chin again, looking serious in the way mothers do when they're trying to impress something important upon their children.

"Jus' remember I don't gotta tell you anythin', either. I did 'cuz you asked, an' 'cuz I wanted to."

He wouldn't have minded if her fingers were sticky...

Wondering what she means by having 'come back from hellfire,' he lets it pass, because he's tired of talking about what they can and can't and should and shouldn't and might or might not talk about. It's too draining and frustrating. And he doesn't like where it puts him in his head.

But he is grateful to her, deep down somewhere. For letting him in. And opening up. It's those moments when she does let him in, that remind him that this thing, this connection, is a two-way street.

Nodding, he sighs, meeting her eyes. "I know. I get it. I really do."

Sometimes he feels as if he's still chasing after her, the wild mustang that she is, and she only allows him to take the reins for short periods of time before yanking them out of his hands again with a toss of her head.

"Okay. I trust you."

The words come out reflexively. You can almost see the flicker of panic in her eyes before it's gone, and she glances away.

"I believe you."

She's got no reason to beat a dead horse. It's late, and lord knows they're both exhausted. She's said an awful lot tonight, but somehow it doesn't make her feel panicked about what he'll think; she realizes that he missed her, and all these questions and invitations might be his way of expressing that.

She's not sure how she feels about that. However, the aggravation, for one, is gone.

"I won't double-cross you, Tommy. I swear."

trust

believe

There hasn't been much trust or belief in Tommy's life lately. Squandering the trust people had put in him; people no longer believing his promises. Slowly building things back up again only for him to knock everything down. Trying, failing.

Why can't he do something right?

He has to believe that she can trust him. He has to believe that she can believe him.

"Okay." He nods, gently squeezing her hand in return.

He'll do this.

"You gonna finish that?"

The pastry.

A fledgling smile quirks her mouth.

"Y'want some?"

She holds the pastry higher, closer to his lips. There's still plenty of gooey raspberry filling and sticky, flaky crust to share.

He smirks. "I could go for a nibble."

What he actually goes for is more than just a nibble, as he leans in to take a sizable bite out of what's left of the pastry, his lips brushing her fingertips as his teeth close down on the crust. He holds a hand under his chin to catch any crumbs when he leans back, a smear of sweet raspberry goo at the corner of his mouth as he chews.

"Oh my god, that's really good," he mutters through his mouthful.

OOM: Room #100 -- for Tommy Gavin

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