the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #3

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OOM: Room 6620, #3

The evening did pass smoothly, and it's been a long time since he's been so grateful for anything. OK, there was the inevitable drifting of his thoughts back to recent - and not so recent - events, but it helped to have a distraction. He forced himself to concentrate on what happened with her today, and it gave him some respite. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have picked up The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly - he's seen it too many times to get fully lost in it.

Still. As things stand, he's got no complaints. But now it's over, and they do have to make an attempt at sleeping again. So he's in the bathroom, freshly out of the shower, newly shaved, and telling himself firmly that restraint is the order of the day, here.

Definitely a tad nervous when he emerges into the room, though.

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'Yeah, I'll forget.'

He'll be bloody glad to.

'But I don' know about when I'm here. An' I don' know how much it'll change out there, either. None of this has happened before. Not on this scale.'

He really doesn't have any answers. He's almost as clueless as she is.

'I won' forget you were there, or anythin' like that. You'll probably have transferred out or, if I'm feeling tough on myself, run off with a posh twat.'

'I wouldn't ...'

She cuts herself off, shaking her head and smiling, a sad smile. Hope is a cruel mistress.

'When you're here, with me, I think we should work on finding some sort of -- equilibrium for you. If you're amenable, of course.'

He's immediately suspicious, but he'll hear her out. She let him snog her face off for a bit. That buys her plenty of leeway with saying things like that.

'What d'you mean?'

Edited 2012-07-04 00:07 (UTC)

'I mean -- talk about it. Nothing more, just talk.'

She shifts a little to better face him, resting her cheek on his arm, and letting one leg drape over his knee. One arm crosses her chest, her hand hooked over her shoulder. The other is curled over her stomach.

'Just you and me.'

He looks away.

It's hard for him to see her logic here. She knows him better than just about anyone at the moment. She must know how much talking about things is anathema to him. Plus, there's one significant sticking point.

'Thing is...you said you wanted us to be...you an' me.'

He sounds a bit embarrassed when he says it, like he might have misconstrued what she said, or she might have changed her mind in the last few hours and be about to laugh at him.

'An' I don't think we can be that, an' you be my psychiatrist as well.'

Because that's sure as hell what it sounds like to him.

'No, that would be unethical. And stupid.'

She frees the hand at her shoulder, and rests it on his chest again.

'But lovers talk to one another. They share secrets, fears, memories. They share both triumphs and defeats. That's only normal, isn't it?'

He looks at her sideways.

Internally, he shrivels up a bit. But on the outside, there's just an expression of tired incredulity. She's seen it before, a few times.

'Only if you're married to a poof?'

He's teasing, and it should be obvious in his tone. But the statement stands.

She raises an eyebrow at him. Married. Interesting word choice.

'No.' There's a lilt in her voice that he'll recognise just as well.

'It's normal in couples who love each other enough to be honest with one another, even about the ugly parts of their lives.'

Surely even he can see how a modicum of honesty would have spared them both a world of hurt these last few months?

He raises an eyebrow right back. Love. Interesting word choice.

'It's not about stuff bein' ugly, Bols.'

It's about stuff that hurts.

And honesty, he would think, comes when you can trust. Trust would have been nice, these last few months. But neither honesty nor trust would have got them a result, most likely.

'Ugly, painful, confusing, traumatic.'

She meets his gaze, her expression soft and open.

'Things you can't talk about to anyone else.'

He's already told her he trusts her. And she trusts him. She doesn't know how to prove that to him, but she does.

He looks down. He hates the idea of being that dependant. At the same time, being able to have that sort of relationship with her...well. He's wanted to. Maybe not so much with the talking, but with the unspoken bond they used to share. He'd like that back.

'Maybe,' he mutters.

'We'll have to see how it goes, I 'spect.'

After a pause, he turns his head and smiles, undeniably cheeky.

'Or we could hold the talking an' just shag all the time.'

Another option.

Alex's lips twitch, and the smirk beneath is both amused and mock-exasperated.

'Who says we can't do both?'

She doesn't think he would fancy her if there wasn't a part of him just as attracted to intellectual stimulation as she is. But she knows better than to come right out and say that.

There's intellectual stimulation, and there's talking about emotions and suchlike. Big difference.

'You think there's room outside a twenty-two year old's libido for anythin' but sleep, food an' beer?'

Work, perhaps. Other than that, he reckons his schedule's going to be pretty full.

'Perhaps.' She has a high opinion of him.

'Depends on whether or not his libido can keep up with his thirty-nine year old girlfriend's multi-orgasmic tendencies.' Well, if they're being honest...

Annnnnd that will be a pair of eyebrows shooting up, and a head swivelling 'round so fast, his neck twinges.

'...that's just mean, tellin' me that.'

'What? I thought we were being honest with one another.'

She may be trying on her best innocent face right now.

'Did I spoil the surprise?'

'Were we?'

He doesn't remember agreeing to that, but that's OK. His mouth opens, then shuts again.

'...actually yeah, a bit. Now I'll be stressed in case I don' make you...y'know.'

How's that for honesty? He's already wishing be hadn't said it, so it must have hit the target.

'Although, y'know. S'never been a problem before, so I'm not worried.'

Not even a little bit. At all.

>_>

She smiles, and chuckles under her breath.

'We'll sort it out, one way or another. All things considered, that is the least of my worries.'

'...yeah.'

She's right, of course. His amusement dies away, and he goes back to playing with his lighter.

'Anythin' I can do?'

'Well,' she takes a deep breath, obviously giving the question some thought.

'Tonight, you could take something to help you sleep. I'm sure the Bar will have something exotic that would fit the bill. Or you could try talking to me about it.'

'...how's that going to help you.'

Though as he says it, it seems an obvious question. And he sighs, and wonders which the lesser of two evils would be.

'What, help me sleep?' The question stumps her. 'I don't know. It's been like this so long....'

So long she'd given up even trying to sleep in the bed, because she always ended up on the sofa in front of the television. She snuggles against him, resting her head on his chest.

'Should try something new,' she murmurs, half to herself.

'I wasn'...'

He breaks off, and tries to tamp down the irritation that's flared.

'Don' matter. What d'you wanna talk about?'

Because he wouldn't even know where to begin, and he's not touching drugs if he can help it.

Alex has spent the last three years surviving by reading the subtle shifts in his moods.

She lifts her head, frowning at her miscommunication. 'I'm sorry, what did I miss?'

He considers not answering. But the fact is, he does want to be with her. And he gets the impression that a constant 'don't want to talk about it' isn't going to go down very well. It hasn't for the last three years, come to that.

Again with the lighter.

'Jus'...stop telling me to get sleeping pills from the bar. Please. My brother died from drugs. I don' take anythin' that isn't medicinal for a hangover.'

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