Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2014-02-04 11:29 pm
ikissdhimbck) wrote2014-02-04 11:29 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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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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."
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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.
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"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.
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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'?"
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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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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."
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"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.
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"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.
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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.
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"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.
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"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.
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"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."
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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"'Scuse me?"
She blinks, head tilted.
"No. Don't believe y'have."
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"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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She rubs his chest, poking through the bottles and jars lined up beside the bed until she finds the VapoRub. She makes sure he's all settled before pushing his shirt out of the way, unscrewing the lid, and getting a dollop of the pungent stuff on her fingers. She rubs it into his skin, working all over his chest and up to the hollow of his throat, hushing him tenderly.
"Well, y'are pretty tall. Like a big ol' gentle giant."
She quirks a smile. That's not the first time she's called him a gentle giant, but she wonders if he remembers.
"Sweetheart? What's your name?"
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"Naw. Gentlest thing I ever done is buy a guy a beer after gettin' into a barroom brawl with 'im."
Her touch is as soothing as the scent of menthol. If he doesn't take another hit of NyQuil soon, this'll be as high as he's going to get.
Eyes still closed, lost in that haze, he then replies,
"Name's Wayne. You know that, darlin'."
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Another distant bell starts ringing, conjuring memories from before they ever met. She chews on her lip, just concentrating on the slow circles she's painting on his skin.
"An' d'you know what my name is?"
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"'Course I do, honey. It's..."
He trails off slightly, brow furrowing, before a brief coughing jag takes him. It seems to shake and jumble up everything up in his head, and he has to grasp for her name, reaching back through the memories that aren't his.
"Kate."
Yes. Right. Kate.
Lightly grasping her wrist, stopping her hand on his chest, he gazes up at her. The weary look in his eyes is still there, the deep, slow drawl of his voice like heavy feet dragging across gravel.
"Why're you askin' me these things like I've lost my mind? 'M just sick, not senile."
There's a light note in there somewhere.
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"Did I ever tell you that, one time, I got sick an' thought my name was Scarlett?"
She sets the jar down with her free hand, and pulls his collar out from being twisted under his shoulder, smoothing her hand down his arm.
"Was a couple'a years ago, now. I remember I — went downstairs an' tended bar in a blue wig an' a tiny li'l dress, 'cuz it felt natural."
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"A blue wig? Now why'd you go and pick a blue wig for? Your hair's beautiful as it is."
A beat or two passes.
"How tiny a dress we talkin' about?"
Maybe some things will never change.
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"I liked color. Blue, pink, green — I think I changed it nightly, or whenever the wind blew a certain way."
She leans into his touch, and sighs with a good deal of long-suffering — and amusement.
"If it were any shorter, y'could see what I had for breakfast."
The phrase is borrowed, but it stuck with her.
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His palm briefly cups the back of her head, and he wishes longingly that he could kiss her. He's riddled with germs, though, and instead he lets his hand fall, sweeping the backs of his fingers against her jaw along the way.
With a chuckle, he tilts his head to the side and takes a gander at her current outfit.
"I think you have far more interesting things to offer than just a look at your breakfast. But nothin' against breakfast, of course."
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