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

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OOM: Room #100 -- For Tommy Gavin

Her floor is a battleground of hastily discarded clothes.

She's come to love the steady comfort of having him in her bed night after night, but she'll never tire of the way he pulls at her when they've been separated for a long stretch, eager to get her alone, to have her all to himself. The nearly frantic, desperate love-making punctuated by clumsy hands and a mad rush to find a flat surface; the way they pause only long enough to regather their steam, and then start all over again.

During one of these pauses, he hovers over her, dropping kisses up and down her neck, and she traces the lines around his eyes with her thumb, giggling. He grumbles at her, which only makes her laugh more. At least I'll always know when you're foolin' around, she says, because you'll stop pinnin' me down when you've gone too long without.

Hey! A month is a really long time!

The night passes slowly, bleeding into morning. Work hangs over them both. Kate wants to check on the stock, and Tommy's always ready to get back to the firehouse. It'll be a long day on little sleep, with nothing but a hot shower to bolster them. Well. A hot shower and what goes on while they're taking it.

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"Open up."

She pokes the thermometer at his mouth, giving him a stern look.

POUT.

He opens up and lets her stick the thermometer into his mouth, and he heaves a beleaguered sigh, his shoulders sagging. It's as if merely holding a thermometer under his tongue causes him to regress several decades. He doesn't need a magic spell to turn him back into a sulky ten-year-old.

Her lips twist, and she can't quite stifle a chuckle. She kisses his jaw — it's as high up as she can stretch — for his trouble.

After a few minutes, the results are clear. He's sick.

"All right, you're not goin' t'work today. C'mon, let's get you dressed an' back in bed."

"What? No, c'mon, that thing's probably broken, I don't get sick. I'm fine, I can totally function!"

At this point he breaks into a hacking cough, and he turns his head, covering his mouth. It lasts for a few moments, but when it passes, he eyes her as he tries to come up with an excuse.

"It's just a little tickle in my throat, that's all! I just need a lozenge or something."

Tommy's getting Kate's patented Teacher Face (TM).

"What y'need is rest. Y'barely slept all night. I know, 'cuz I was there. An' with half the bar sick, y'can't expect it won't spread. In bed now, mister."

She pulls on his towel, indicating he better follow her or risk punishment. Once in the bedroom, she digs out some clean clothes for him to sleep in.

Her Teacher Face (TM) can get him to do almost anything.

"I don't need to rest," he grumbles pathetically, but he follows when she tugs on his towel, because if he doesn't, she might tug it right off, and then he'll be cold.

Okay, so maybe it is chilly.

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and sits down on the edge of the bed to dry his damp hair.

"I'm sure it's just one of those twenty-four-hour things."

At least he's conceded that he's caught some sort of a bug, as the so-called tickle in his throat and the sudden weariness in his limbs and joints is actually cause for concern now. He just hates it when he's not feeling one hundred percent.

"Twenty-four-hour things?"

The future's concept of illness is still strange to Kate. However, she's grateful most things can be cured quickly. It puts a small smile on her face, shoulders relaxing. She leans in and kisses his forehead.

"I hope so. Still, how 'bout I bring up some breakfast? Hot tea, maybe some juice?"

She combs his damp hair back, lips twitching as she presses them against his ear.

"I'll even let y'watch me change."

A little lack of modesty is the least she can do if he ain't feeling well.

The idea of breakfast perks him up a fraction.

The idea of watching her get dressed perks him up a little more.

"I'd rather watch you take your clothes off 'stead of puttin' 'em on, but I'll take what I can get at this point."

Managing a wan smile, he turns his head, pressing his hot cheek to hers.

"Orange juice. Lots of orange juice. And maybe some-- toast."

Because suddenly even just the thought of fried eggs and sausages isn't sitting well with his stomach, empty as it is.

She smiles, though there's no masking the concern on her face. He's escalating quickly. She better get out of here and let him get a little rest.

"All right. Get under the covers an' relax, sweetheart. I'll take care'a it."

She cups his cheek tenderly before moving away, leaving her towel draped over a chair. She even takes her time putting on her clothes.

"I'll be back inna li'l bit. Try t'get some sleep."

As much as he enjoys and appreciates her tender touches, he'd rather they lead to something more than just getting him breakfast. But whatever this bug is, it's something fierce, as he doesn't even bother protesting when she tells him to get under the covers. So he lies back and gets as comfortable as he can, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

However, he's not so sick yet that he can't keep his eyes open to watch Kate get dressed. Call it a simple pleasure.

And plus she's just really gorgeous.

By the time she says she'll be back, his eyelids are heavy.

"Mmm, I'll try," he murmurs as another chill courses through his body and weariness overtakes him.

And by the time she does get back, he's asleep, breathing raspy and shallow, curled up in the covers like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

She takes her time, wanting him to get more than a few minutes of undisturbed sleep. There's enough to keep her occupied, anyhow.

She stops by the infirmary, eyes scanning the board (as they always do), to see about medicine. She leaves with a cough suppressant and something to help him sleep.

At the Bar, she sees about any mail that might not have been delivered yesterday, briefly catches up with the Miss, and writes a few quick notes while breakfast is achieved. Hot tea, orange juice (a whole carafe), plain toast, a dish of grits with a little butter and honey, a banana, and some dry cereal crowd the tray she carries back to her room.

The sound of the door doesn't wake him, so she sets the tray down on the table and slips over to his side of the bed, gently pressing her hand to his forehead.

It takes a lot to knock Tommy down and keep him down, and it seems as if a biological assault on his immune system is doing the trick. Even when he was recovering from his last fight, he was ready and willing to work through the pain and suck it up. It's what he always does, it's in his nature to get right back on his feet no matter what.

Right now?

Staying still and staying warm and staying in bed is nice.

The nap he takes is entirely too short when he wakes from it, the touch of Kate's cool hand gently drawing him out of a fitful doze. He exhales a groan, unwilling to open his eyes or move.

He really isn't feeling like himself.

Kate clucks quietly, a murmured 'aww' just barely audible.

"Hi, sweetheart."

She keeps her words at a whisper, in case his head is hurting or he'd rather drop back off.

"I brought breakfast. Y'feel up t'eatin'?"

Another groan.

"No. But I should prob'ly eat something."

Eventually, he rolls over onto his back, cracking open his eyes and blearily blinking up at her.

"Sorry I got sick. Seems like you're always patching me up."

Her hand slips to his cheek when he moves, and she rubs gentle circles against his sideburn with her thumb. He's a little sweaty.

"Hush up, now. Your turn'll come around soon."

A flickering smile, tinged with wry humor.

"Let's get some pillows propped up behind you, an' I'll bring the tray over, hmm? I also got some medicine, in case y'need it."

One of the cats has made himself comfortable curled up at the back of his knees. Kate shoos him and helps get Tommy situated.

Yet another groan.

He's good at fetching books and food when someone else is sick, but that's about it. Maybe he'll learn a thing or two about bedside manners this time around.

Pushing himself up, he sits back against the headboard with a couple of pillows to cushion him. The tickle in his throat has evolved into a more irritating scratchiness, and the all-over body ache is beginning to settle into his bones. This flu is working startlingly fast.

"Ugh, yeah, I'm gonna need as much medicine as you got. Is it the kind that makes you pass out for half a day?"

She eyes him a little. Worry is melting into suspicion that perhaps he's not so much sick as he is miserable.

"I honestly couldn't say, other'n it should be safe for you t'take."

She brings over the tray, pouring him a small glass of orange juice as well as a cup of hot chamomile tea with lemon and honey.

"If all y'can manage is toast, that's all right. But I thought grits might stick t'your ribs a bit more, an' still be gentle. An' the Miss also gave you some fruit an' cereal, if that suits better. Drink the tea, though. It'll be good for you."

She lines up the small selection of medicine she acquired on the bookshelf beside the bed, well within his reach.

He's miserable because he's sick. And he'll let her know just how miserable he is.

"If I manage anything at all, I'll probably just puke it up later anyway, but thanks."

Sipping at the glass of orange juice first, he grimaces when swallowing feels like sandpaper, but he gulps down some more anyway to relieve the dryness.

He then abruptly grabs a paper napkin and sneezes into it.

"Ow, fuck, that hurt." He coughs and winces. "D'you have tissues?"

Edited 2014-02-07 06:50 (UTC)

She rubs his back, cooing 'poor baby' at him.

"I've got a spare handkerchief."

It's silk, and very soft.

She sits down on the edge of the bed and gives him a look of concern.

"Y'want me t'stay with you, baby? I could see 'bout gettin' some 'moo-vees', or maybe a book or two?"

"I don't think I've ever used an actual handkerchief before."

He lives in the age of disposable things!

Sniffling, he despondently pokes a spoon into the bowl of grits.

"Nah, you don't hafta stay."

Although he not-so-secretly wants her to, judging by his level of mopey-ness, but he's not that big of a baby.

"Movies would be cool, though. Or sure, even books. About baseball. Both the books and the movies."

She's having a hard time not smirking, despite his glum aura. She pinches his chin, gently directing him to look at her.

"I'll stay. I want to. After y'finish breakfast, I'll go check on the stables an' get anythin' you'd like from the Bar while you finish your nap. Hm?"

She'd kiss him, but — well.

Okay, so maybe he is that big of a baby, for now, but nobody has to know.

"Mmkay."

Feeling flushed at the reassurance that she'll be around if he needs her (she really is too good to him), it makes him feel even more feverish, and his head swims. He puts the spoon down and opts for a sip or two of tea.

The noise that he mumbles into the mug sounds suspiciously like thank you.

He manages a piece of toast and a spoonful of grits, finishes the glass of orange juice, and leaves the banana and cereal untouched before deciding that anything more in his stomach would be a bad idea.

"Could you hand me the NyQuil?"

Oh yeah, she got the good stuff.

It's barely English, but she'll take it. Tommy's much better at showing his gratitude in touch rather than words anyhow.

"Mmhmm."

She looks for the right label, and hands him the unopened bottle before clearing the tray away. She covers the grits and leaves everything on the table, in case he gets hungry before lunchtime, and goes to wash out his juice glass in the sink.

The green NyQuil comes with a little measuring cup to pour out the correct dosage, but of course Tommy forgoes using it and just takes a couple of swigs straight from the bottle. Because that's how he rolls.

"Welp, that should knock me out until you get back."

Screwing the cap back on and returning the bottle to the shelf, he scoots down under the covers again. As his head sinks the pillow, he exhales a deep sigh-- which abruptly ends with a coughing fit that wracks his body.

As she's not in the room to stop him, she has little choice but to look between the too-empty medicine bottle and Tommy with grave disappointment.

"Tommy, I do wish you'd take this seriously."

She rubs his chest, fussing with the blankets and pillows until she deems him comfortable enough.

"Don't you leave this bed till I get back, mister. Y'understandin' me?"

Were the circumstances different, she'd look a good deal more playful saying those words.

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