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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"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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And then he's being a tease again. She clucks her tongue, smacking his arm with no force to speak of. A warning.
"Well, I get the feelin' I could've been in much worse that night. 'Scarlett' didn't have any qualms takin' off her clothes. I think she did it for work. I came awful close t'gettin' myself a tattoo, even."
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"You-- she-- was a stripper?" Pausing, he lets that sink in for a moment. "...Well, goddamn."
He knows about hallucinations, but that would be a bit much, wouldn't it?
"So what you're implyin' is that 'cause I'm sick, I'm someone else, too? Who d'you think I am, then?"
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It was like having another whole person inside her. Two whole people, point of fact. There was another name bouncing around her head, but it's no matter right now.
"I ain't implyin' anythin', sugar. Jus' that the man I spend most'a my nights with s'called Tommy, an' you jus' called yourself Wayne."
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And in any case, he's too tired, mentally and physically, to figure out how he knows Kate and why he was wearing a hockey t-shirt when he woke up.
He clears his throat and swallows, licking his lips as that not-forgotten taste returns to his tongue. It's persistent, almost burning, even nagging at him.
Opening his eyes again, he asks with casual hope,
"You don't happen t'have any, uh-- booze around, do ya?"
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It unsettles her, and she tries not to let it show but she can feel that line between her brows, the corners of her mouth tucked into a frown.
He asks for booze, and her breath catches.
"No."
It's said with absent regret, like she just ran out. And then:
"But y'shouldn't be drinkin' till you're better, anyhow. I can getcha anythin' else y'might want."
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He hasn't shot up in a while. Or at least, he doesn't think he has. He can't remember. He only remembers that he does it to leave everything behind.
"What'd you bring for lunch?" he asks instead.
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Still, won't hurt to ask Guppy about it later.
"Hot roast beef sandwiches with au Jus, french fries, an' some oranges. I thought I'd bring up chicken an' dumplin's for supper, if that sounded all right."
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"That sounds great, darlin'. I could prob'ly do with something warm in my belly right about now. And maybe we could watch one of them movies you brought-- if you got time to spare."
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She can't help but love the twang in his voice just a little bit.
"I thought y'might feel that way. Let me get the tray, an' y'can eat right here. How d'you feel 'bout baseball?"
As she moves away, activity in the room returns to a slow hum. The paper bag crinkles as she takes it out of the basket, laying out the food on his now-empty breakfast tray; digging out the books and DVDs Miss Bar gave her; fussing with the laptop to get it to turn on.
Even if she did have to be somewhere else, she wouldn't dream of leaving his side.
(Somebody's got to keep an eye on him.)