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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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.

After the coughs die down, he groans miserably.

"I know, I know, I won't. And I am taking this seriously, you think I'm enjoying this? I hate bein' sick. And of course I had to get sick now, didn't I? Ugh, this sucks."

If he were any more disgruntled, he'd pull the covers over his head and sulk, but he doesn't. Instead he just lies there, deflated and exhausted.

"One thing, though. And I am bein' serious here..."

He wraps his fingers around her wrist, and presses her hand to his chest.

"That medicine's gonna put me out, but it might make me a little-- uh, loopy. So if I do wake up and you ain't here-- well, if you have any liquor around, either lock it up or take it with you. Please."

His tirade is met with little sympathy by this point. Her lips are curled, a sarcastic joke on the tip of her tongue. He did manage half a dozen sexual encounters with her before this morning, sleeping for a day ain't the end of the world.

But then he's touching her, looking so very serious.

"All right."

She nods, thumb brushing his collarbone. All playfulness is gone.

"I'll take care of it, sweetheart. Don't you worry none."

He would kiss her hand, but-- well.

Running his thumb back and forth over her knuckles, his heavy-lidded, glassy eyes flick up to meet her gaze then quickly lower again. He can be flippant about his problem when he's got a better hold on it, but he knows he needs someone on his side when he can't afford to joke around.

"Thanks."

He squeezes her hand.

"Alright, go feed your horses."

It's funny how much gets lost between them when they lose the freedom to kiss.

She squeezes his hand, giving him a tight but heartfelt smile.

"All right. I'll be back soon. You sleep."

She combs his hair back from his forehead, concern lining her brow. Collecting all the liquor in the room, she leaves him with temptation-free quiet.

Her smile is the last thing he sees before he lets his eyelids fall closed, wishing she could just keep running her fingers through his hair. Already quickly drifting off, he hears the faint clink of glass bottles-- and then nothing else.

"all the really good times happen when wayne's around"

motown on the jukebox

country & western on the radio

whiskey in a glass

dope on a spoon

Tommy wakes with a gasp-- and then coughs. The fit passes in a few moments, but it leaves him breathless with his head swimming. He closes his eyes and swallows, remembering a familiar taste on his tongue. There's the sweet twang of Floyd Cramer and...some scruffy kid singing along to Joe Tex, and...

Tommy opens his eyes. He blinks slowly in the light, brow furrowed. Were those memories? Or just all part of a dream?

He throws the covers back and sits up, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. What is he wearing? A t-shirt with the NHL logo on it. What the hell, he doesn't even like hockey. He gets up and crosses the room to look through 'his' drawer in the dresser. There isn't a single flannel shirt. Why?

It's almost noon, but Kate isn't back yet. She'd told him to stay put, but he's got a strange, overwhelming need, a need that he isn't sure where it's coming from. Part dream, part reality. In a sluggish, zombie-like trance, he changes out of his sweatpants into a pair of jeans and pulls on his boots. He's about to leave the room when he notices that there's no hat for him on the hat rack. What?

This has to be rectified, he reckons. Bar will surely provide. He'll just pop downstairs and get some decent clothes.

Ten minutes later, Tommy is sitting at the table, hunched over the breakfast tray and spooning cold grits into his mouth. He's wearing a blue plaid shirt; a straw cowboy hat is tipped toward the back of his head.

"No, a basket will suit jus' fine."

A large wicker basket appears on the Bar.

Kate gathers it up, slipping all her spoils inside. She's been to check on the stables, and, as usual, they haven't fallen into disrepair in her absence. The rest of the staff does just fine without her here. However, several of the animals were eager to see her, and her them. It was a brief but needed check-up, and then she was off to get some things for Tommy.

A box of tissues; a small stack of books on Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, and Jackie Robinson; a few DVDs, all baseball films; a laptop to play them on, and some lunch. She hefts her basket of supplies, and makes her way upstairs.

"Hi, sweet...heart."

Tommy's up, but he's in a rather strange affair. Kate arches her eyebrows, wondering where he got them clothes.

"H–how are y'feelin'?"

"Hey, darlin'."

It comes out as a slow, Midwestern drawl.

The sound of his own voice kind of surprises Tommy. He hasn't actually spoken aloud to anybody since Kate left that morning. But at this point, he's just going with the flow, and besides, half a bottle of NyQuil makes everything easier to deal with.

"Feelin' better. Still lousy. But better."

He sets his spoon aside, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and looks up at Kate-- and it's almost as if he's seeing her for the first time. Through a new set of eyes. She's beautiful. Almost makes him forget his ex-wife, but his ex-wife is pretty hard to forget.

He nods toward the basket. "What'cha got in there?"

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