the_gene_genie | OOM: Movie

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OOM: Movie

Room 6620 is a pretty generic sort of place. It looks like a basic hotel suite - double bed, table, a couple of chairs, a sofa. There are a few suits hanging, dry-cleaned, on the back of the bathroom door (he frowns at them, there are a couple there that he’s never bought so his future self must have been around again) and a number of half-full bottles of Scotch and Firewhiskey on the table. The only thing that shows this room is really reserved for one person’s use are the posters hanging framed up above the bed. Two, cinema-size vintage prints,one from The Good, The Bad and the Ugly and the other, Gary Cooper in High Noon.

He aims Kate towards the bed.

‘Here. Lie down before you fall down.’

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It smells like a man's room.

"Lemme clean up, first."

She's kept her arm tight around him, leaning into his side with every staggering footfall. But once they're inside and she's looked around, she pulls at him, redirecting them toward the bathroom.

"I've spoiled 'nough of your things. Jus' wanna get the blood off."

She's got the clean clothes Guppy fetched for her clutched to her chest, along with the small package of medicine and pain relief.

Gene snorts, like he thinks she should know by now that he’s not the type to worry about random clothes and bedsheets getting messed up. Still, she’s a bird. No doubt she thinks he should.

He steers her towards the bathroom and directs a cheeky leer at her.

‘Want me t’scrub your back?’

"Y'can help me sit down, then close the door behind you."

There's a small smile on her face, despite the scolding edge to her tone.

'Spoilsport.'

He flips the lid of the toilet down so she has somewhere to sit and eases her down, then heads out to leave her in peace. Though he does add,

'Shout if you think you're goin' t'pass out or somethin'. The doc woul' never forgive me otherwise.'

"Promise."

She sits for a while without moving, listening to the sounds Gene makes as he shuffles about his room. Her gaze wanders the bathroom and finds a clean washcloth and some soap. There's still a deft tremor in her hands she can't seem to shake, whether it's from the physical trauma or the emotional one.

It takes her a while to wash the sweat and dust and grime away, to work the blood off of her skin. In the end her hands are still red, dried blood caught underneath her fingernails, and what she really needs is a bath. But she should keep her fresh stitches dry.

When she finally emerges, leaning against the doorjamb and taking slow, shuffling steps, she's wearing a pair of sweatpants with a low, loose waist to give her bandages space, and a plain t-shirt. She's never quite comfortable having her arms bare, and it shows on her face.

Like all women when it comes to bathrooms, she seems to take an age. Still, he grudgingly accepts that perhaps she has an excuse this time so he refrains from yelling stuff through the door at her and just fidgets about, pressing buttons on the DVD player until it beeps and flares into life. He gets the disc in without drama and is left staring at the menu screen, nonplussed. It clearly calls for another drink before he attempts to tackle it.

She opens the door and he stares for a moment. This is the most casual he’s ever seen her and it’s far easier to see her as a schoolteacher than a criminal, dressed like that.

He gestures to the bed a moment later.

‘Like I said, lie down. You look like you need to.’

Her eyes dart from one corner of the room to the other, and she nods.

"I can take the couch."

The idea of lying on another man's bed is bizarre.

He sighs. Women. Always got to be bloody difficult.

‘Will you shut up, woman, and lie your scrawny arse down. I’m goin’ over there,’ he gestures at the sofa, ‘to watch a film. You can either lie here an’ watch it an’ all, or you can go t’sleep but either way, you need t’stay in bed.’

That’s where invalids belong, isn’t it?

She sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes at him. But she isn't in the mood to argue.

She sits on the edge of his bed and closes her eyes, taking a few seconds to stop her head from spinning.

"So, who's Gerry Cooper?" she asks, pulling her hair over her shoulder. She starts to wind the long gold strands into a braid.

He immediately glares.

...well, he was anyway only this is for a different reason.

‘Gary Cooper.’

His head jerks up to the poster over the bed.

‘Finest example of actin’ you’ll see, in the Western genre anyway.’ He doesn’t know much about any other genre, it has to be said. ‘An’ I mean it, if you flap yer mouth all the way through High Noon, I’m chuckin’ you out.’

She cranes her neck to see the poster.

"Don't know many menfolk who sleep with a picture of a fella hangin' overhead."

It has to be said.

"He's handsome."

Kate approves of your choice in men, Gene.

...yeah, that glare isn’t going anywhere and now it has more than a hint of outrage about it as well.

‘If you’re implyin’ I’m queer...’

Well.

‘You’re jus’ beggin’ f’me to come over there an’ prove otherwise, aren’ ya?’

"And interrupt your big night with Mr. Cooper?"

She's as nonchalant as they come, slowly winding the ends of her hair (damp from a quick scrub with the soap) into a knot to secure the braid.

"By all means continue, an' don' let me interrupt. In fact, if y'need the bed later on, y'just tell me t'move."

Gene gets to his feet immediately and stalks over, glass of Scotch in one hand and the one he poured for her in the other. For a moment, he looks down at her with that same pissed-off look on his face.

But then he just says, in a strangely mild tone;

‘Kate? Shut it.’

in a tone that brooks no argument. And holds out the glass to her.

(She’s been shot and is on drugs. His response would likely have been very different otherwise.)

He actually gets up, and that's what starts the little bundle of nerves in her stomach turning somersaults like a child at recess. Her eyes are riveted on his face for his entire approach, wondering partly if he really means to make good on his threat. The other part wonders, briefly, if he means to hurt her. But she's quick to push it from her mind.

She switches her gaze to the glass of scotch, feeling her face heat. She sips at it immediately, hoping she can blame the pink in her cheeks on the medicine or the alcohol or the lingering feeling of fever.

"Only if you insist."

Her voice is quieter; nearly shy.

‘I do.’

There’s a hesitation and then he gestures back at the sofa.

‘On second thought, you should come an’ watch. You migh’ like it. You can lie on the sofa an’ I can keep an eye on you better.’

It sounds, more than anything, like an invitation and one he’s sure she’ll turn down. Like a teenager inviting a girl to the pictures but having to have a cover story in place in case she says no.

Kate's eyes flick quickly from his face to the television, the DVD menu bright behind him. She won't deny that she's been itching to see one of these 'Westerns' ever since Bill Pardy brought them up in conversation more than a year ago; and beside that, anything that would put a little distance between her and Gene's bed at the moment sounds incredibly appealing.

"Okay."

She runs her thumb along the lip of her glass, hesitating. Eventually, she holds out a hand.

"Would y'help me up, please?"

‘’course.’

He takes her hand, eyes still on her face. He doesn’t pull her up though, just stays strong so she can use it to lever herself up at her own pace. He also doesn’t step back so that when she’s standing, she’ll be a whole lot closer to him than is strictly acceptable between people who are just supposed to be friends.

He wonders if the hesitation meant she’d really rather go to sleep but...well, he’s not stupid. That blush gave it away that there’s something going on in that unfathomable female brain of hers and maybe, just maybe, it’s similar to what’s been in his own mind for a while now.

But even if it’s just that she’s embarrassed being alone with him, he has to know. One way or the other.

She carefully pulls herself to her feet, slipping her arm between their bodies as soon as she's erect. Her palm curls against his chest, keeping space between them.

She's grown used to his flirtation, the puffing of his chest and the posturing, the dirty little looks and impolite one-liners. But this comes off as all too different. More serious. And maybe it's just being alone with him in his room, something she never does; but she glances up at him, catching the look in his eyes, and it sets her heart beating a little faster.

She moves away, her mind lost in a tempest of confusion. She uses her own strength to get her over to the couch.

"I probably shouldn't drink all of this," she mumbles off-handedly, indicating her glass. "Guppy'd toss a fit."

He looks down at her hand on his chest for the brief moment it’s there and when she moves away, his shoulders drop a bit. So it’s like that, is it?

He’s still not sure but...well, he hadn’t planned this. It’s a chance occurrence that has her in his room tonight, she isn’t here exactly by choice. He can hardly be disappointed - and the invitation to keep an eye on her had been made out of concern for her welfare. There was no ulterior motive. So he tells himself not to be a twat and puts a smirk on his face.

‘Well, I won’ tell him if you don’t.’

Beat.

‘An’ if you die in th’ night, I’ll be sure t’tell him that you insisted on drinkin’ half the bottle an’ it were bugger all t’do wi’ me.’

She looks up at him as she lowers herself down onto the couch, nerves and confusion clearing into a gently scolding look.

There. Back to normal.

You're imagining things, Kate.

"A true gentleman."

She sinks herself into one corner of the couch, leaving room for him to sit if he chooses to join her. Her hands are shaking a little more noticeably now with the spike in her heartbeat. She curls them into fists, and scrapes together a smile.

"Speakin' of, you best keep your hands off my effects. It all goes t'my horse, if I die."

‘Tha’s alright. I’ll jus’ take your horse.’

He sits down next to her, the Scotch bottle on the small table in front of them. He’s not going to actively push it on her but he won’t stop her drinking if if she wants to either.

Back to normal. Good.

Only it’s not because she’s shaking a bit and her hair’s wet and she’s hardly wearing anything compared to what she usually does. And she’s on his sofa, in his room, drinking his Scotch.

She’s also trusting him to look after her so he reminds himself again that he should definitely stay on his best behaviour.

‘Now pipe down. Gary’s goin’ t’do his thing, unless you’ve got another few snide remarks t’make about that?’

"If she'll have you. Mare's got taste."

There, now that she has that one out of her system she can concentrate on the movie. She reserves all 'snide remarks' on Gary Cooper for after the movie has ended (or begun, but she's trying to play nice).

"After you, maestro."

‘Most mares know a good thing when they see it,’ he mutters, somewhat petulantly, under his breath and settles back into the sofa.

The lights are off so there’s only the flickering from the screen to light the room. It’s only about thirty seconds into the intro when he breaks his own rule of quiet and looks her over.

‘You comfortable like that? Cold? Y’know. Jus’ say if you wan’ t’move.’

She has, after all, been shot. It’s not girly to show a bit of concern for her comfort. Only polite really.

She flicks her gaze to him.

He's being... sweet. Much more so than she would have expected. It throws her a little.

"Think I'm all right for right now," she says, rubbing at her bare arms.

Scotch makes for a good makeshift blanket, though she's trying not to over-imbibe. Not everything Guppy said went in one ear and out the other.

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