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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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.'

She takes them from him, determined not to make him feel judged.

"A broom and a dust pan would be nice." She slips her shoes on and takes off her jacket, laying it on the bed. A moment later, she disappears into the bath to clean up the mess of broken glass and twisted metal.

"And if you wouldn't mind, just ask Bar if she can recreate my bathroom kit. Knowing this place, it should be on file."

Everything else is.

He can hear the clink and clatter of ex-mirror from the bathroom.

'OK.'

He's not judging himself. He's not sorry. He feels a bit bad that she's cleaning it up, though. He'd just assumed the weird orange staff here would take care of it at some point. But, fine. He refuses to make a mountain out of it.

When he gets downstairs, he takes five minutes to pace around outside, smoking a couple of fags. Just to feel some fresh air, and space. It's drizzling a bit, so there aren't many people around. It's good.

Bathroom kit, dust pan and brush. A big bang of sandwiches and 'stuff she'll like', because he can't remember her ever eating anything but pasta. Bar provides a box of things all wrapped up. He shrugs, and takes it. A few steps away, he stops and backtracks.

'Make sure all her stuff goes on my tab, alright? Everything.'

Bar gives the impression of a shrug, via a napkin with a weird symbol on it. He just glares at it, and goes back upstairs.

'Here y'are.'

She's changed by the time he comes back, and the worst of the mess is neatly piled in a corner by the door.

'Thank you. Ooo, salad.' God, it's been so long since she's had a proper salad. The food gets unloaded on the table, the bathroom stuff gets put away as best she can. (Alex has always been the type to unpack when staying at a hotel, so it's not unusual that she makes use of the drawers in the vanity.)

'Do you have something comfortable you can change into? I thought we might watch a movie or something.'

She disappears back into the bath with the dustpan, making quick work of the last few bits of glass. She'd hoover if there was one available, but she figures the worst of the destruction was contained in the bath, and a quick rinse should take care of any stray shards.

He huffs a laugh, though it's quiet. So typical of her, but quite sweet too.

'No, luv. I'm just going to go to sleep.'

He's not holding out much hope for it, but the prospect of silence - well, it's both good, and not. She doesn't know he was awake all last night.

'You want the bathroom or not?'

'Yeah, I was going to... Have a bit of a soak.'

There's still mud under her fingernails, and he doesn't need to know that.

'Sleep sounds good.'

She sounds sceptical about the idea. She's not looking forward to sleeping. (There's more than a little fear at the idea she might not wake up again.)

He gestures towards the door.

'All yours.'

He'll just...sit. This time, on the bed closest to the wall. He's not interested in the food, and even the fags taste sour now. Just some peace, that's all he wants.

She glances at him once, before she goes in.

A moment later she reemerges, and heads for the bag of sandwiches.

"If there's not a bacon butty in here to soothe your stomach, I'll have to file a complaint." Sure enough, there at the bottom of the bag. "There. Eat this, and I don't want to hear it. I know you don't feel like eating, but you're a right tetchy bastard when you haven't eaten. And I'm going to get up your nose enough as it is."

She gives him a wide-eyed look that dares him to deny it, just before she disappears back into the bath.

A moment later, the sound of running water reaches his ears.

He looks at it in his hand like it's an alien thing. Soothe his stomach?

'I'm dead, Alex,' he mutters, long after she's disappeared, so quiet he can hardly hear it himself. What the hell use does he have for sandwiches?

Only it doesn't work like that, does it? It should. He shouldn't have to bother with all the boring stuff, like bills, and wages, and putting petrol in the car. But he does. Why isn't it all fun stuff, and no stress? Betrayed by his own stupid subconscious.

He sighs, and eats half of it. The rest goes in the bin, under two empty bottles so she won't see. He kicks his boots off, and goes back to sitting.

He must be in a bad way. He doesn't even think about her being naked in there.

Edited 2012-06-22 00:34 (UTC)

For Alex's part, she doesn't even think about herself being naked in proximity to him. The hot water is all she thinks about, taking a long time to let it strip away the grit and grime, the layers of exhaustion. She knows she's dead, and things like food shouldn't matter, but how else is one supposed to go on living if one doesn't act alive?

When she emerges, her hair is twisted up in a towel on top of her head, and the baggy sweatshirt hangs off one shoulder. Seems the eighties haven't entirely left her behind.

"All yours."

The bag is emptied in search of a fork for the salad, and another glass of wine is poured. She balances the plastic box on her knees as she eats, trying to keep an eye on him without making it painfully obvious that she is.

'Ta.'

He finishes yet another fag, and doesn't catch her eye. A quick walk to the wardrobe turns up a white T-shirt, and navy pyjama trousers with a faint tartan stripe. He's not a fan of pyjamas, but he's not about to sleep naked near her.

Ten minutes is all he needs. Five to just let the water hit him, five to scrub furiously, as if he could rip it all off his skin. It doesn't work, but at least he smells better. There's no point shaving, so he doesn't. Just brushes his teeth again, gets dressed, and leaves his clothes in a pile in the corner.

When he emerges, he heads straight for his chosen bed. Not that he wants to be rude, but this is awkward as arse in a whole different way, now. He's slept on her couch before, and they've fallen asleep in the office, and on stakeouts, and occasionally in Luigi's. But it's different to sharing a room, and he doesn't want to dwell on it.

'Night.'

She watches him emerge, eyes wide at the T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. His hair is a mess, and the scruff on his chin is, while charming, also a bit disconcerting. She's never seen him so low.

'Night,' she murmurs, finishing the last few bites of her salad. The wine washes it down nicely, and after a long moment, she rises to get rid of her trash, quietly as she can.

She can tell by his breathing that he's not asleep.

She putters a bit, returning her towel to the bathroom, and brushing her wet hair out, braiding it for the first time in three years. Wondering just what she's supposed to do now. Awkward as arse seems to be an understatement.

Eventually, she returns, turning off the lights one by one, until there's only the lamp between the bed. She wishes she had a book or some other reason not to turn it off.

She laughs to herself. 'This is stupid. I'm afraid if I turn the light off and go to sleep, I won't wake up again.' There's a waiver in her voice at the end of that sentence that wasn't there at the beginning.

He lies on his back, quilt pulled up to his chest, head resting on one arm bent behind his head. He wants that last light put out, so he can roll on to his side, and curl up. He never does that. But he wants to, and he can't while she might see.

'You'll be fine, Alex.'

He blinks at the ceiling.

'Nothin's coming for you now.'

She swallows, nods. He's right. You can't get deader than dead, can you?

She turns back to her bed and pulls the quilt down, arranges the pillows, brushes the sheets smooth. Finally, she swears quietly under her breath and reaches for the light, as if turning it off quickly will make it easier. It's not. The darkness closes around her and she feels like she's back in that coffin.

Deep breaths. Just keep breathing. She slides between the sheets, and despite the tears, she lays her head down on the pillow and just tries to breathe.

He counts to ten after the room goes black. There's no ambient light in here, no streetlights outside the window to cast a glow. He's glad of it. He rolls to his side, and draws his legs up a bit.

He knows right away he's in trouble.

(BANG!)

He closes his eyes, and it's there. Louder than before, and the blood up the wall a darker shade of scarlet. He opens them, and swallows the lump that's come to his throat.

Tries again. Same thing.

Shit.

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