the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #2

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OOM: Room 6620, #2

He opens the door and steps back, so she can walk in first. The smell of whiskey is pretty strong - there's a bottle lying on its side on the floor, with a wet patch spread around it. Apart from that, it looks pristine. Two double beds on one side, a TV and sofa and armchair on the other. A door leading to the bathroom at the back. Just like a large-ish hotel room. The only indication that he rents it is the huge poster over the bed, the one she got him.

He tosses his keys down on the small table, and puts his bottle down. The taste of it is driving him a bit mental, and his eyes ache to the point of pain. Doesn't matter.

'Back in a sec.'

He needs to brush his teeth. And take just a second on his own to breathe.

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The look of surprise on his face is unmistakable, but he hopes she didn't see it, given that she's arranging them how she wants. He doesn't mind, really. He just wasn't expecting it.

'Uh...'

OK, then.

His arms drop around her, uneasily at first. But holding a woman isn't difficult. And it's good to feel her against him.

'Yeah.'

So, she's not angry at him. That's good. That's a start. He doesn't get it, but he can let it lie, for now.

'...you should've got something to eat.'

She laughs through her tears again, and nestles close against his chest, sniffling a bit.

'I'm watching my girlish figure,' she teases. A long ragged sigh, and she's relaxing against him, hiding her face. But these tears are a long time coming, and as inconvenient as she thinks they are, they don't seem to care.

'I'm sorry, I can't seem to stop.'

She doesn't want to look too closely at the sense that finding him was all too easy. After the hell they've been through, she doesn't trust that this moment will last. She'll take what she can get, and hold on tight.

'Don' matter.'

He'll chuck this suit anyway. It smells of smoke, and it touched Keats. He doesn't want it anymore. He does find a clean hanky in his pocket though, in case there's snot.

'S'posed to help, so I'm told.'

By her, probably.

She takes the hanky, because yes, there's snot. Delicately, she blows her nose. And then there's that awkward moment when she thinks about giving it back, and realises, no, no one who lends you a hanky wants it back after you've blown your nose into it.

Another deep breath, and she pulls back just enough to look into his face.

Her hand alights on his cheek, and she remembers the shattered visage of his ghost. Another wave of tears threatens.

"I'm so sorry, Gene. I'm so, so sorry."

He looks away at once, across the room. Shakes his head.

'Don't.'

Not now. Maybe not ever. He doesn't want her pity. And if she's apologising for her part in what happened - he can't keep it all straight in his head at the moment. He doesn't want the anger to flare. He hasn't got the energy.

'Do you even -- know? No, of course you don't.'

She pulls his gaze back to hers, searching his eyes. Her voice is quiet, rough from crying, and pitched low.

'You came to me. While I was lying in hospital, in a coma. You came to me then, and so many times after. I never knew why I wasn't scared out of my mind. But it was you, I know that now. It was always you.'

He came to her? He's pretty sure he didn't.

...oh, yeah. She means...he shakes his head, hard enough to dislodge her hand, and looks away again. Bites his lip. His breath comes harder straight away, and he fights not to see that face.

She always does this. She never stops. It's just the way she is, but she bloody knows how to pick her moments.

'Stop it.'

It comes out so quietly, he might almost be talking to himself. But he's not.

She sits back, and yes, the anger in his voice hurts.

'Gene, I know...' She has to swallow again, trying find the right words. 'I know you have to forget in order to -- do what you do. But I can't. I can't forget it.'

Her breath hitches, and there's real fear in her voice. She can barely get the words out.

'I'm dead. I took a bullet in the brain. My little girl is...'

She sucks in a breath, and holds it, clenching her eyes shut.

'I'm not askin' you to.'

He bites it out, and then reigns it in. Which is hard, because he's not all that well known for holding himself back. His hands come away from her so they can scrub over his face.

This is why she couldn't stay. Never stops picking.

And she's not the only one who faced down a gun, and lost. He slumps again, head bowed now.

'I know. An' I'm sorry.'

The dry cough that escapes might be called a laugh, but it's too sharp, too thin. He gets to be sorry, but she's not allowed. No, he gets to go this alone. For some stupid, noble reason she's sure she doesn't understand.

He leans forward, and she keeps one hand on him.

'Gene, please. Please.'

'What?'

He doesn't get what please means when it's not attached to something. He's not a bloody mind reader. Her hand feels heavy on his back and he stands abruptly to get rid of it. Pressure is closing in on all sides. This suit scratches. Boots are too tight. The room's too hot, and there's not enough space. He yanks his tie off as he paces, trying to breathe right.

(BANG)

'It'll be alright. Just got to...let it lie. Both of us.'

She tries to breathe, finding the sight of him so agitated deeply disturbing. But when she remembers the look on his face in that farmhouse, she thinks she knows what's going on. It's impossible to have any emotional distance.

'I'm sorry,' she whispers. 'We're both...'

The words taper off, as she watches him pace. Gingerly, she scoots forward and pours him a measure of Scotch into the only glass available, and damned if there's a few drops of red still left in the bottom. When she stands, she offers it to him.

'If you want me to go...'

Her throat goes dry, and she can't finish the sentence.

When she stands, the temptation to turn on his heel, and hold her against him again is almost overwhelming. Just...for a minute. Drop his head onto her shoulder, and remember what's real, what's in front of him.

But he won't. He's not a kid. He's not.

He takes the whiskey instead, and shakes his head.

'No. Jus'...'

Whiskey goes down his neck, and he slits the top off a new pack of smokes.

'You don' have to go.'

He doesn't want her to go.

Whatever compulsion he has to resist touching her, she doesn't share it. Her hand alights on top of his, ceasing that awful crinkling.

The glass is set aside, and she looks down at his hand in hers, trying to find the strength to put herself out there into the path of his fury again.

Words just aren't going to cut it with him. He is, and always has been, a man of action.

She swallows and takes a deep breath. 'You told me once. To take a leap of faith.' So take it, Alex. That second chance you'd give anything for, it's right here, standing in front of you.

It feels like falling, closing the distance between them. Her hands stroke the front of his jacket, like they did in the street when they said goodbye. Up to his face, dark eyes searching.

He just stands, helpless. He doesn't know what to do. His eyes flit back and forth, over her face, trying to judge what she wants. He was never that good at figuring her out. And now she knows...

'I don' know if I can stay here.'

'Don't leave me.' There is not even a moment's hesitation to her plea.

She knows he has to go back, sometime. But not now. Not today. The bar brought him here for a reason. She came back for a reason.

'I need you, Gene.'

More than that.

(I was needed, and I was there)

He hates that thought. He wishes he'd never said it. Wishes it weren't so sodding true.

He sucks in a shuddering breath, and focuses on the far wall. Her hands still have weight, but not so bad as a minute ago. He waited for her because he had to see her. Had to know whether it was possible, and now, before the truth faded away and they lost what they had, in his head.

He wasn't prepared for it to still feel so raw. So raw, he can't rest on any of it. He doesn't know how to begin tackling what he learned. But he can't leave. She asked him to stay.

He's always wanted her to stay.

'OK.'

She lets go a breath, her stout chin wrinkling as she smiles at him.

'Okay.'

Her hands slide down to his lapels, and she gives a little tug, smoothing them down.

And then she leans in and kisses him. It's soft, gentle for all it's tentative, giving him plenty of leeway to pull away gracefully, if that's what he wants. But for some reason, she needs to wipe away the memory of their last kiss. Because she's here now, and she needs him to know that.

He shuts his eyes. Her lips are soft, and he can't respond. It just makes him sad. So he does pull back, but only half an inch or so.

He doesn't get it. Before it all ended, he understood. Last year, he knew. It was her and him, and surely only a matter of time. But these last months, it's all been a nightmare, and then she found out what he really is - it doesn't make sense that she would be kissing him now.

But her mouth is only a fraction distant, and he doesn't want her thinking he's rejecting her. So he swallows hard, and leans in, and presses his mouth to hers. Not for long, and even softer than she did. Then he straightens, and puts his arms around her, holding her loosely. It's easier to do that than...anything else. Anything more, at this point, just seems too difficult.

He puts his arms around her, and she melts. Just like she did in the bar a scant hour ago, only this time she can slide her arms around his neck and cling to him. She buries her nose in his throat, and sucks in a lungful of air.

'You need a shower,' she mumbles, wondering just how long it's been since either of them have had a hot meal and a good night's sleep. It feels like years.

He's going to have to deal with her holding onto him for a few minutes longer.

'Mmmm.'

She's right. He does.

He doesn't move. Standing here like this is the closest he's come to resting easy for the last two days.

'You can have it first. You said you wanted a bath.'

And he's cottoned on to the idea that she won't be leaving tonight. It's fine with him. There's two beds, and she's the only one here who understands what's going on. He doesn't want to be on his own, tonight.

She nods, and pulls back, trying to school her features to something resembling calm and collected. Again, she smooths his lapels, fidgeting now.

"Right. I, uh... I haven't got any clothes. To sleep in, or um, change into."

Logistics are always troublesome, aren't they?

"Do they have a magic wardrobe here?"

She always wondered how the wardrobe in her flat came up with exactly the piece she needed just when she went looking for it.

He steps back, and waves a hand at the wardrobe to cover a feeling of awkwardness.

'It's always had a few of your things in it. You left them here from before.'

Which is to say, yes, probably. The bar has always provided before.

She nods, eyes downcast, and heads over. Yes, of course. Among other things, there's her favourite pair of leggings and a baggie sweatshirt with faded logo on it (Oxbridge, something something). The dresser probably has her fluffy socks, the height of all couture. Yes, indeed, right where she'd left them, if she'd ever remembered wearing them here.

"Don't suppose they do room service, do you?" They do everything else here. She's asking the question as she disappears into the bath.

"What the -- "

She comes back out, clothes draped over her arm and looks at him, her expression somewhere between exasperated and sympathetic.

"Hand me my shoes, please?"

'What?'

'...oh.'

Yeah. He'd forgotten. He bends and picks up her shoes, glad of the excuse to not look her in the eye.

'What did you want from downstairs? I can go.'

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