ikissdhimbck | OOM: Milliways grounds

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OOM: Milliways grounds - lunch with Tommy

It's Tommy's first day working in the stables. Kate sets him up with a grooming bucket and shows him what to do, handling her morning chores between bringing him horses — though she works a little more aggressively than usual. It's just been a few days since Tommy fought with Voodoo, and despite his claims that he feels much better, the bruises have mottled and turned uglier colors. Kate's temper hasn't abated, and likely never will. God help Voodoo if he ever tries approaching her.

Once it's time for afternoon tea, Tommy suggests they go someplace quiet to eat together. It only takes her a moment to decide on the field out beyond the lake where she likes to take Beaut from time to time. Instructing him to finish up and put his tools away, she heads out first, on horseback. It's a typical sight around this time of day, so nobody else is likely to suspect she'll be meeting someone.

When Tommy does mosey along, he'll find her just a few paces away from the beaten path in a great field of dandelions and poppies. Beaut is grazing freely while she's unpacking a basket of food on a large checkered blanket.

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"I didn't — this whole mess started 'cuz I cussed him out in the bar last time we was all together. I was — afraid'a what might happen if I said anythin'."

Afraid of what Voodoo might say, afraid of what she might do, afraid of what Tommy might do. She was just too goddamn angry and hurt to think straight.

"Back then I didn't think you an' I were anythin' more'n jus' — I wouldn't even know how t'explain us. Nothin' half as important as your pals."

He shakes his head.

"Nah, that ain't how it started. After you left, you'd shut Voodoo up pretty damn good. And I told him, I warned him that he'd better watch his mouth or you'd shoot his balls off, but if anything-- I shouldn't have given him ammo by saying what I said about you. And I'm sorry. But I mean, even if I didn't say nothin', he already assumed we were-- y'know, seeing each other, and plus, y'know, like you said, me an' him were pals, but that sure as hell don't give him a free pass to write you a note like that. Seriously, none of my other friends would do that. Franco wouldn't do that, Sean wouldn't do that, Lou certainly wouldn't, and I wouldn't do it to them or whoever they happen to be dating, so I have no clue why Voodoo thought it would be a good idea unless he just deliberately wanted to piss you off. You and me. 'Cause believe me, no guy wants to hear that his girl's got a letter calling her names and all that shit. Christ, what an asshole."

"That's what I thought as well."

Seemed to her he had no intention of speaking to her again. It's hard wrapping her mind around any other possibility.

She shakes her head, letting go of Tommy's hand to wrap her arms around herself.

"It meant nothin' t'him. I don't even know if he remembers it."

"Honey," he adds, glancing at her, "what I mean is, no guy wants to see his girl hurt like that."

And he would've fought for her had he known who to fight.

The loss of contact between them suddenly makes him feel as if he's drifting aimlessly for a few moments, but he lets her be.

"You don't still have the letter, do you?"

His girl.

She ganders back at him briefly, wondering how much she should read into that. She happens to agree; a gentleman should stand up for his partner (just the same as she would stand up for her beau), but her past is riddled with disappointment inasmuch as all that goes. It's not something she'd ask for or expect, half so she don't get mad if he lets her down, half because she can take care of herself.

She watches the grass and wildflowers part before her while she absorbs the question. Her arms squeeze a little tighter, manufacturing comfort and safety.

"Yes, of course. I save all my correspondence."

"Correspondence? You call that correspondence?"

Tommy snorts, glaring ahead of him, thinking of all the ways a piece of garbage like that ought to be disposed of.

"Show it to me later. If Voodoo forgot about it, I'll make sure he remembers by shoving it down his goddamn throat."

"I ain't sure what good that'll do. Y'already know most'a what it said, an' if y'go wavin' it 'round it'll only tell Voodoo that you an' I are still seein' each other."

And he's shown himself not to be the sort to take a hint and shut up when it's so much easier making a wisecrack or insult. For bullies like that, knowledge is power.

However, she shrugs amenably, shaking her head.

"I didn't keep any of the 'gifts', though."

Oh, right. The whole 'keeping things secret'...thing.

He grunts, as if to begrudgingly say good point, and deflates a little, although he sure would like for Voodoo to eat that letter one strip at a time.

Then, he turns his head sharply.

"Gifts? What 'gifts'?"

She hesitates.

She never went into detail describing what accompanied Voodoo's note, keeping it all under a blanket of 'filthy presents', but Tommy must have forgotten.

(Once he finds out, there may not be enough reason in the universe to keep him from making Voodoo eat that letter.)

She turns red, casting her gaze down.

Tommy remembers things one piece at a time. The most important pieces stick, the lesser pieces float around and sometimes are forgotten entirely. In a moment of shock or rage-- such as when he first found out about the letter-- all that mattered was that there was a letter.

Now her hesitation says a lot, at least to him. His imagination runs rampant, and he can feel a fresh wave of fury about to break, but he keeps himself in check, though his voice is low with barely restrained anger.

"Kate...what else did he give you?"

"I don't wanna say out loud."

Kate's not exactly what you'd call a prude, but Victorian sensibilities run deep. Even out in the middle of nowhere she glances around, and turns until she's facing him.

(She still can't look him in the eye, of course.)

"He — he left several boxes of condoms, an' at least half'a dozen bottles of–of somethin' called KY jelly for — for, um. Anyhow. There was a magazine of barely dressed women he suggested I–I look through for ideas."

Her face screws up like she just bit into something sour; she feels vaguely sick to her stomach.

Edited 2013-10-08 19:43 (UTC)

With every 'gift' she lists, Tommy's jaw drops lower, his eyes grow wider, and the vein in his temple throbs just a bit harder.

There are a few things that he's learned from being with a woman from the Victorian era. Kate isn't exactly a prude, no, but she's a lot more sensitive than other women Tommy's dated, and he's had to adjust to that. But something else he's learned is that he can't expect her to turn into a modern day woman just because such-and-such a thing is the norm where he's from. And he's been with her long enough to care about how she responds to these things.

But really?

What in everloving fuck was Voodoo thinking by giving condoms and porn to his (not)girlfriend?! His Victorian (not)girlfriend.

And as he looks at Kate, how distraught and uncomfortable she is telling him this, he recalls all those times the letter came up in conversation, how hurt she was, how humiliated she was even mentioning it, how close she came to tears over it. Because ultimately, the way Kate saw it, and the way she still sees it, Voodoo's message to her was that she was a whore.

Suddenly the thought of Voodoo eating that letter is just too lenient a punishment.

Tommy is having a hard time deciding if he's more infuriated or incredulous, but eventually settles on the fact that he's both.

"Oh. Oh, this's-- this--"

He has no words.

He snatches the his sunglasses off his face and pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, his teeth on edge.

If being a modern woman means grinning and bearing it when a man demeans her, no matter what his 'intentions' are, Kate'll be happy to stay exactly as she is. 'Cuz the thing is, it don't mean a goddamn lick whether she's from the past or the future, is a Victorian or an alien, no lady deserves to be called a bitch or sexually ridiculed after the very argument where she expresses discomfort and rage over that topic. Every time somebody suggests she don't understand because she's from a different where and when makes her feel like a relic, like she's stupid or there's something inherently wrong with her, like she should be ashamed — and all that does is make her want to shoot every man in the goddamn bar if they so much as hint at disrespecting a lady.

There is no excuse for Voodoo's behavior. Not for Kate.

So she glances at Tommy, watching the rage percolate behind his eyes, unclear as to what she should say. She's reminded — not for the first time — of the night he fought with his brother, knuckles torn and eyes wild. Nothing will ever rub that sight from her memory. It's one of the bigger reasons why she never mentioned Voodoo was the author of that note.

Edited 2013-10-09 15:51 (UTC)

White noise. Everything is white noise, and his train of ragethought has gone past Why would he do this? to Where is he so I can kill him?

For a few seconds he paces in short, quick strides, crushing dandelions under his boot heels every time he makes a sharp turn.

Suddenly he stops, facing Kate, and he points at her belt.

"Lemme borrow a gun. I'm gonna shoot 'im myself."

How they dance around each other fascinates her. She thinks about his incredulous, pleading language to pull her back when she was set to go after Voodoo's hide just days before, and now his blind fury while she wades by in an eerie calm. She tilts her head, eyeing him, arms still crossed.

She could take out her gun, hand it to him, let him be done with the situation for good. She could plead with him not to act too rash. She could ask why it's different now, why he couldn't let her march off the other night to confront Voodoo, but, now he's got a reason, he's going to accept that mantle. She could do any number of these things.

What she does, unflinchingly and with eyes turned a little grey, is give him the steady sort of look a young boy gets from a parent when he asks to ride a horse that's just too much for him.

"Y'sure y'know how t'handle it?"

"I'll learn on my way to the bar."

He makes an impatient 'gimme' gesture with his hand. His clipped tone is just as impatient, with an underlying irrationality that goes hand-in-hand with his anger.

Would he really shoot Voodoo? At this very second, he might.

Edited 2013-10-09 17:21 (UTC)

It's that irrationality in him that Kate's protective of the most. She trusts him to be able to take care of himself, to make hairpin-trigger decisions in the heat of an emergency, but when he works himself into a tither he makes all the wrong choices, getting both himself and other people hurt along the way.

(It's, unfortunately, something she's intimately familiar with herself.)

She wraps her hand around his wrist, holding it where it is, grip strong from years of taking care of business. Her gaze is steady.

"Then we'll take care'a this together. Or not at all."

His arm tenses in her grip, his first reaction being to pull free-- but he stops short of it when he meets her eyes and hears her words. Clear-cut, black-and-white, no room for anything in between.

She'll see and feel a flicker of hesitation.

You're not doing this. If this goes down, I'm the shooter.

Uncle Teddy's words before he gunned down the man who killed Tommy's son.

Tommy never could take a life. Not even in revenge.

His arm relaxes in Kate's grasp and he he looks away, pained, frustrated, and still angry.

Beaut gives voice to their shared frustration with a loud harrumph. Could be she's contributing; could be she just had a bee up her nose.

Kate's grip slackens fractionally.

"Tommy—"

She doesn't know what to say. There's so many ways the next three seconds could go. Each humor hovers over her head, ready and waiting for her to snatch one, pick a trail, plow ahead. But she doesn't know where to reach.

Stepping forward, she rests her forehead against his breast.

"I need you."

To listen. To be on my side. To be smart. To be here.

She chips away at his ire until he's forced to hear the echoes of his conscience. Usually he's too busy acting out of rage to heed it or anyone else. But with Kate-- she seems to be the only one who can temper him. Even when they argue, they still seem to be the only ones who can temper each other.

She leans against him, and he melts.

Swallowing his waning anger, frowning deeply, he folds his free arm around her shoulders and bends to kiss the top her head. He's only seething now, his heart still pounding in his chest as he tries to calm down.

"Can we just-- I dunno, shoot 'im in the foot or something?"

He'll feel more than hear the laugh he pulls out of her.

"All right."

Whatever you say, honey. Whatever it takes.

She takes another step into him, turning her cheek against his chest. Releasing his wrist, she keeps her arms slung low over his hips, thumb tucked into his belt loop.

"I hate 'im for hurtin' you too, y'know."

The soundless laugh does wonders in calming him, one corner of his mouth even twitching in response.

Wrapping both of his arms around her, he lightly rests his chin on the crown of her head and stares out across the field, blinking slowly in the warming sun. But the furrow between his brows isn't quite gone yet, the muscles in his jaw still a bit tense.

"It ain't even just that. It's-- those months we were apart, I thought-- I mean, I was actually mad at you 'cause I thought you said I was treating you like a whore, but-- Jeezus Christ..."

She shakes her head. It's kinda awkward with her pressed against him like that, so she takes a step back, but keeps her eyes lowered.

"I've never been spoken to like that. I felt dirty, an' vulnerable. Ashamed. S'why I needed us t'be more careful 'bout no one knowin'. Voodoo, or anybody else who could—"

She shakes her head again, fingers curling in denim.

"I'm doin' wrong. Livin' in sin."

"Honey..."

He draws her back into his arms, wanting to keep her close.

"You're not, though. At least, not to me. But since we got back together I've never told anybody about us. I promised you that. Nobody needs to know."

He understands better now. And he may not be able to convince her that she's not doing anything wrong, but he can still try to keep her safe from something like this happening again.

She lets him draw her back in.

"I don't regret it. I jus' don't want all them eyes judgin' me."

She's still got a lot of issues to work out when it comes to her place in society, and whose opinions matter. She looks out across the field at nothing at all, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Last time that happened, I got somebody killed."

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