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

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OOM: Room #100 -- for Tommy Gavin

[Following this:]

The sun's just setting when Kate heads in from the stables. Lately, she's been staying out after dark, but tonight she needs to clean up before Tommy stops by.

Her room is untidy, a 'tee-vee' and 'dee-vee-dee player' on a rolling cart stationed in front of her bureau. There's a small stack of films lying nearby. The table in the corner is covered with dirtied glasses and half-empty — or completely empty — liquor bottles, used tissues, and cupcake wrappers.

She unlocks the door and steps in, greeted by the expectant mewling of her cats. Taking off her gun belt, she leaves it on the chest by the foot of her bed, and heads into the washroom. She feeds the boys, and takes a quick bath.

By the time Tommy stops by, the bed will be made and the trash collected, the glasses stacked to be washed later and the bottles pushed aside. A few tissues escape her notice under the T.V. cart, but at least she feels mostly presentable.

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His hand comes to rest on her shoulder as they sit quietly. The cocoa fills him with sweet warmth, just as having Kate be near him does the same.

Then, cup held in his lap, he considers what she says.

"I guess I-- I kinda want the same things you do. To stop running for a while. To get away from the stuff in my head. To sleep. You help me sleep, too, y'know. And that's a huge thing for me 'cause any time that I can spend where I don't feel angry or guilty, or I don't see the faces of people I couldn't save, or I don't hear-- the voices-- I--"

His voice suddenly cracks.

Shit.

The catch and tremor snags her like fishing wire, reeling her closer to him. An instinctual intimacy, not forcing him, not pushing him; just being there, bracing him.

"I'm right here."

A whisper without waver, firm and strong and sure.

The voices.

They've danced around this subject in the past. He doesn't need to explain what he means, because she already knows exactly what that's like.

He can talk to her.

He quickly turns his face away from her in case the wet sting in his eyes and the lump shoved up into his throat turn into something more. He puts his cup down on the floor at his feet and leans forward on his elbows, head bent, jaw clenched, a hand pressed to his brow-- willing this feeling to go the fuck away.

He hates it. He hates its suddenness, its randomness. That it's becoming more frequent and uncontrollable.

That it could happen in public, in front of other people.

After a few moments and a few deep breaths, the jag passes without getting worse. This time. Face still turned away, he roughly wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. Embarrassed and frustrated and angry again.

She sets her cup on the floor at the same time, and presses a kiss to his shoulder.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't hush him, or encourage him; she just strokes his hair, her other hand rubbing his back, and gives him all the time he needs.

When he starts scrubbing at his face, tension pouring off of him, she rests her chin on his shoulder and drops her voice into an even softer whisper.

"S'okay. I know."

Her fingers slowly card through his hair. He's okay. She's here. She won't push him, or force herself on him, but she isn't going anywhere. He's got her.

He doesn't feel as if he's being coddled, but though one part of him wants to pull away, the other part deeply wants this and needs this. It's been too long since he's let anyone close enough to give this to him.

Eventually, he sits up a bit, shoulders still hunched. He doesn't look at her, only shakes his head as she runs her fingers through his hair.

"That wasn't supposed to happen."

It's muttered self-deprecatingly.

There's a knot in her chest. She exhales, smiling tightly, the bridge of her nose brushing the curve of his jaw.

"What a pair we make."

Her answering self-depreciation is tempered with humor. If they can't laugh, what are they to do? But more than that, it's filled with kinship.

There's no need to be embarrassed. This is a safe space, filled with understanding and affection.

He manages to huff a dry chuckle. Whenever their jagged edges are exposed, they always seem to fit together.

Breathing a deep sigh, he turns his head, pressing his cheek lightly against her forehead. He swallows, hesitating before deciding to speak.

"I've been-- seeing the same ghosts again lately. Even when I'm awake. And I ain't even drinking. They just-- appear, whenever, wherever, and-- and I just lose control. 'S never happened like that before."

He sighs again, leaning into her, his limbs sagging.

"Dunno why. Must be stress or something."

Slipping his arm around her waist, he gives her a grateful squeeze.

A pensive line forms between her brows. Without hesitation, she kisses his forehead when he leans against her.

Dr. Lecter has been explaining 'triggers' to her, and she can't help but wonder as he speaks

Dunno why

if it's not in some way her fault. Her troubles getting the better of him, setting him off, making them weak.

She wraps her arms around his waist, tilting her head down to try and catch his eyes.

"Hey. S'all right."

She cradles his cheek, thumb tracing the lines around his eyes.

"Don't hide yourself from me. S'okay. S'okay. I know what that feels like. Y'don't hafta be ashamed."

It's hard when you're supposed to be the big tough guy, to allow yourself to be comforted in a moment of vulnerability. But Tommy has always trusted Kate, and he trusts her now, even though it's still a little difficult to look at her.

"I know, I know..." he murmurs, nodding. "'M fine now. It comes and goes."

Pursing his lips, his gaze briefly flicks up to meet hers.

"Thanks."

Her lips thin in return.

"It'd be all right even if y'weren't."

She knows he wants her to feel safe when she's with him — he wants to make things better. She wants be the same refuge for him. By trusting her, it'll go a long way in her trusting him, too.

She lays her head on his shoulder.

He nods again. He supposes it would be all right, after all.

As she rests her head on his shoulder, he strokes her arm, a slow, soothing motion, just taking comfort in her warmth and closeness. Sometimes he doesn't want to admit to himself that he needs this, these quiet times together. But he does.

After losing themselves in silence for a while, he's brought back down to earth by a sudden thought.

"Oh. I should give you the-- the thing I forgot to give you."

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a flat, square, dove gray box, its lid embossed with a stylized lion's head within a circle, and hands it to her. When she opens it, she'll find a certain necklace that she'd been eying the first time she visited New York City.

At the moment, she's not thinking about forgotten items or the reason why he's here, or anything other than wanting to ask him to stay, lie down, and spend the night with her. She's plucking up the nerve to do so when he moves.

She straightens, brow furrowed at the package and then at him. She clears her throat, tucking an errant strand of hair that isn't there behind her ear, and feels for the seam to separate lid from box.

She blinks at the necklace for several long moments.

"Tommy—? This is — this is the necklace I—"

She'd been eyeing it at the library, true. What she remembers is how very uncomfortable he'd been the whole time she was, diverting her attention to cheaper items instead. She runs her fingers over the smooth silver, a little dumbfounded.

"What is this?"

Hmm...she doesn't seem to be jumping for joy at it.

He blinks at her a little owlishly.

"It's-- the one you liked, isn't it?"

She's still a little heartsore from the conversation they were just having. Comprehension's dawning slowly, if at all.

"Yes."

It almost sounds like a question.

She tears her eyes away from the necklace to search out his face, wondering — a great many things, to be honest.

"Is this a gift?"

He nods.

"Uh-huh. I was planning to give it to you when you came over, but--" He sighs, shrugs. "The way things started to turn out, I-- I dunno, I just didn't feel there was a right time. And then when you left, I didn't wanna be all, 'Oh hey, here's that Shakespeare necklace you liked, see ya later!' So. I was hoping to give it to you soon after, though."

Knee-jerk reaction has her arching her eyebrows, fixing him with a quizzical look.

"This is your idea of the right time?"

There's no ire in her voice. In fact, it isn't until she's spoken that she blinks, realizes that could be interpreted as a criticism, and drops her chin shyly.

She gazes at the fine silver, wanting to ask him why he's giving it to her, but having the presence of mind to realize that, too, could be poorly interpreted. She's not sure what to say. She's not even sure she should accept it.

However, she smiles. Just a fledgling thing, touched by his thoughtfulness and awed by the finery.

"S'lovely. Thank you."

Raising his eyebrows, he gives a bit of a sheepish shrug at her question.

"Um-- well--?"

He has no answer for that. He was never really good with 'right times' anyway.

But she smiles, however tiny it is, and she likes the necklace, and that's all that matters. A smile of his own tugs at the corners of his mouth. He realizes that she's never asked him for anything, so she never expects anything from him. So when he does something out of the blue, as much as she can't tell what his next move is, he can't tell if she'll close herself off, or misread his intentions, or even still like him two seconds later.

"You're welcome."

He might have done something right for once.

"D'you wanna try it on?"

It's hard to wrap her mind around it being hers. She can wear it, because he got it for her. Because she liked it. Because he noticed.

She starts off shaking her head, slight and quick — it's just too much — but then she nods, gratitude in her eyes.

She's so sorry her episode spoiled being together in New York. She isn't really sure what to think anymore. How did she go from knowing him like the back of her hand, to him constantly confounding her?

She hands the box back to him, and slips off her hoodie. She's wearing a simple camisole underneath, leaving her neck exposed.

Shifting a little to face her, he takes the necklace and undoes the clasp. When she sheds her hoodie and turns her back to him, he sweeps aside wisps of hair fringing the nape of her neck that have escaped her braid. He then brings the silver chain around and fastens it, warm fingertips deliberately brushing against her skin as he does so.

As an afterthought, and unable to resist anyway, he leans in to kiss her behind her ear, his hands skimming over her shoulders and down her arms.

"There ya go."

More intimate than anything are the moments of trust between them. Baring her neck to him is extremely intimate; trusting him not to hurt her, even as his hands move over the sensitive skin, and even as she can't see what he's doing.

One hand lingers at her braid (defensive), keeping it out of his way. She shivers, smiling when his hands slip away and he kisses her.

The charm rests over her heart, and her hand rests over the charm.

This above all: to thine own self be true.

"Thank you."

Her voice is barely a whisper.

She turns over her shoulder, brow deeply rucked.

"Y'didn't hafta do this."

He shrugs a shoulder.

"I just wanted to get you something-- y'know-- special."

Unlike most things Tommy does, buying a gift for Kate wasn't a whim, and it required actual thought. A bit of brainstorming, really. Connecting the dots between what she'd appreciate (books? horses? a book about horses?) and what would be somewhat meaningful was no small feat, even if it might be easy and obvious for some.

Some things do stick in his mess of a head, though. Kate never seemed to be one for diamonds and gold, but the way she eyed this necklace in the library shop, it you'd think it was made from something more precious. The quote from Shakespeare was the precious part.

(And so what if he haggled a little? Just because you can get it for cheaper doesn't undercut its value.)

Special.

She starts laughing. She really can't figure out where he's coming from sometimes. After everything they said the last time he was up here, she was expecting some special to-do out in New York. And there wasn't one.

Now he's given her this — her fingers toy with the mobius strip, holding it like some precious thing — something she never would have expected. She almost feels like crying.

She cups his cheek, bumping her forehead against his.

"Y'confound the livin' daylights outta me sometimes, Tommy."

"Um..."

Laughter? Confusion? He doesn't expect those reactions but he'll take 'em.

"As long as it's in a good way?" he half-chuckles with another hapless shrug, and he leans in to close the gap between their mouths to kiss her, warm and affectionate.

She wasn't expecting the kiss, either.

"I'm still thinkin' 'bout it."

But she's smiling all the same, sniffling despite the most her tears managed to spring free was a slight glassiness in her eyes.

He grins lopsidedly.

"Well, lemme know if I can sway you..."

Before he moves to kiss her again, he pauses, the corner of his mouth quirking when he notices her sniffling and her shining eyes-- it's hard not to notice when their faces are so close to one another.

"Are you--? You ain't gonna--?"

Get weepy, is what he's implying.

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