the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #2

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Hypervigilance is one of the hallmarks of a trauma survivor, Alex's psychology training helpfully informs her. That explains why, even in pitch black, she can hear every rustle of the sheets when he moves, every breath he takes.

And she can hear his breath quicken, like he's in the grips of the nightmare all over again.

It's no good. She can't just lie here and listen to him suffer. She was alone for so long in that flat, she can't let him go through the same hell without doing something.

She doesn't try to move quietly this time. She just moves the covers aside and sits up, waiting for another moment, listening to him struggle to breathe.

He can tell her to go to hell if he wants, but she can't just leave him to flounder. She doesn't turn the light on, just crosses the scant distance between them, and lies down behind him, curling her body around his, her arm around his waist. Maybe just the warmth of her body will help. Maybe it'll help them both.

'...Alex.'

He freezes under her touch. He hadn't heard her move, locked in 1953.

'No, I don'...'

He doesn't know what he's trying to say. But it feels wrong. Her arm around him, and his eyes seeing a door open, the barrel of a gun swinging upwards. Flashes of silver light, and the smell of summer grass.

He doesn't want to break down. She'll make him fall apart. He doesn't want that.

Her hands wrap around his chest, holding him tight.

"Shh, love. I've got you. I've got you."

Her cheeks are wet, and she can feel the tension in his body as if it were her own. In a way, it is her own. How many times did she watch that bullet spiraling towards her, her own face impossibly mirrored in the pitted surface? How many times did she feel the cold impact and the explosion of light? How many times did the sound of dripping water echoing against the hull wake her from her dreams?

"I've got you."

If he wants to pull away, he can; she won't stop him. But if their places were reversed, she would hope that he would do this for her.

Doing it for her is different. It's allowed.

'No.'

He sits up suddenly, his back to her, drags his knees up and puts his arms around them. He won't look at her, even though it's pitch dark.

'I don' need to be cuddled. I'm not a kid.'

Never mind that he sounds like a kid when he says it. There's an obvious petulant tone that even he can't ignore. Never mind that he wants her against him. Not like this, though. Never like this.

She follows, keeping her hand on his back, moving to sit behind him so she can rest her cheek on his shoulder.

"I know, I know, I really do. You're not a child, and you haven't been that 'kid' for -- decades. But you are just a man. You're not a god, and you're not impervious, as much as you'd like to think you are."

Her voice is quiet, her tone gentle. She didn't come back expecting roses and daffodils. She knew it was going to be ugly, for both of them.

"Do you trust me?"

He doesn't think he can make her understand. He's always been 'that kid'. Only his face changed, didn't it? Keats said it. When you know the truth, it explains a lot.

He has to prove he was wrong. He can't bear the thought of being that bloody idiot, who made all this happen.

'I don' want to talk about it.'

What's the point of creating a whole world from nothing if you're not allowed to be impervious? And he is, mostly. There.

He doesn't know how to be here.

Edited 2012-06-22 01:43 (UTC)

'Do you trust me, Gene?'

He hates that it's such an easy answer.

'...yeah.'

'Good.'

She shifts against him, gently urging him to lie back down, shushing him under her breath when he tries to resist.

'Winston Churchill once said, "If you're going through hell, keep going." So I know you don't want to talk about it tonight, but you're going to have to talk about it. It's going to be difficult, but if you trust me, and you let me help you, we can get through this. Together.'

Her hand squeezes his upper arm again, and again, she's wound herself up behind his back. Her voice is a low whisper right next to his ear.

'And tonight, if you'll just listen to the sound of my voice, I think I can help us get some sleep. All right?'

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject