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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"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?"

She blinks a few times.

Nope, this is definitely happening.

"Ah, I, um. I brought you some moo-vees an' books an' a li'l hot lunch."

She walks to the bed as if she's looking for land mines, and carefully sets the basket down. Tommy is scrutinized. He did say the medicine would make him 'loopy', but this is a little much.

"You sure you're feelin' all right, sugar? Y'sound like you've been spendin' time out West."

He stares at the basket.

"Movies? In there?"

It's the early 1970s. He sees no television set or 8mm film projector in the room, and portable movies aren't a thing. At this point, Kate is now more technologically advanced than he is.

He then chuckles. "Sure, 'm alright, for the most part. And what d'you mean, spendin' time? I am from Iowa. Ain't as far west as you, but it's still west of somewhere."

How does he still remember where she comes from but not his own New York City? Well, the flu works in mysterious ways. He's still feverish, and that just adds to the delirium.

Kate laughs out of one side of her mouth, suspicious he's playing a joke on her. The line between her brows deepens.

"S'that right? What 'bout New York?"

If she's the most technologically advanced person in the room, they're going to have a real problem when it comes time to turn the laptop DVD player on.

"New York? Why, what about New--"

A tickle in his sinuses cuts him off, and he sneezes hard, the suddenness of it then triggering a coughing spell. He covers his mouth with his sleeve.

(Why is he wearing this shirt? Plaid was never his thing. Or maybe it is.)

"Goddammit," he wheezes, his head throbbing. "Ugh, gonna need more of that green stuff."

It's not exactly clear who's talking now. He's not even sure who's talking now, and that's a little disconcerting, as flashes of a life he's never seen before infiltrate his muddled mind.

She reaches inside the basket and pulls out the tissues, bringing them over to him.

"Oh, sugar."

She sighs, pressing her hand to his cheek to take his temperature. He's still quite warm.

"Maybe y'should get back in bed. An' take this off."

She taps the brim of his hat, lips twitching. She's still wondering where he got it from, but something about the way he's acting feels oddly — familiar. She just can't place her finger on why.

Tommy sniffles into a tissue as he catches his breath. Feels like he's going to be miserable for a little while longer.

"Yeah, maybe I should..."

He plucks the straw cowboy hat off his head and stares at it for a second, wondering why the hell he's wearing a cowboy hat. Then again, like the plaid shirt, it's all just a matter of preference, right?

"I got this from Miss Bar," he murmurs slowly, carefully, remembering with a frown. "Just wanted some clothes that felt like me, is all."

He shakes his head and passes a hand over his face, trying to sort out his thoughts. He scratches at the gingery day-old stubble on his jaw.

Kate frowns.

"If y'want me t'take you home with me next time, all y'hafta do is say so. I'll getcha fixed up."

She smiles softly, combing through his hair with slow, tender strokes. She remembers the day she first got him in a cowboy hat. It most certainly wasn't 'him' at the time. She doesn't think all that much has changed.

What's going on here?

She kisses his cheek, tugging playfully at his flannel collar.

"Y'should'a let me give you a shave earlier. Y'feel like a porcupine. C'mon, we'll get y'settled back in bed, an' I'll sit with you a spell."

As her fingers thread through his hair, he turns his head and looks up at her. There's something different in his eyes. They lack the sharpness, the anger. All that's left is the sadness and regret, the weariness of life.

"Might take you up on that. But I can shave m'self, thank you," he mutters wryly with no bite.

He picks up a glass of orange juice-- and his hand is immediately set upon by a tremor.

withdrawal

He sets the glass back down before he spills it. Well, that wasn't supposed to happen.

"Or maybe not."

Sheepish, he gets to his feet, a little unsteady as his head spins slightly.

She don't like it when he gets that look in his eye, and it ain't because she won't admit it's there, or because it belies some weakness he shouldn't have. It's all too familiar, and she hates knowing there ain't a thing she can do to take that burden away from him.

She watches him with no small measure of worry, slipping to his side when it looks like he might topple. Her hands are strong, her shoulders sturdy.

"I got you, sweetheart. I got you."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he grunts, even as he slides an arm around her for support. He knows a good woman when he sees one.

Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, he exhales a groan, feeling as if whatever's making him sick has permeated every inch of his body. He rubs his face in his hands, palms cold and clammy, forehead damp and warm with a simmering fever.

"I ever tell you 'bout my buddy Fuckhead?"

This is half-mumbled into his hands as he massages his brow.

She's about to ask him if he'd like her to fetch a doctor.

"'Scuse me?"

She blinks, head tilted.

"No. Don't believe y'have."

As he eases himself onto his back, he speaks slower than she's probably ever heard him talk. The words and memories come to him as if through a hazy, narcotic-induced dream (well, there was all that NyQuil).

"Great kid. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he's fun to be around. We do odd jobs 'round town when we can find 'em. He's got a car; I don't. Sorry-ass piece of shit, but it drives just fine, makes it easier to get where we gotta go to make a handful of cash. Small thing, though, need to fold m'self in half just to fit behind the wheel."

He chuckles, which inevitably dissolves into wheezing coughs.

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