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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She lets out a breath, turning to look at him.

'It's a mobile phone. Also, it holds all your music and other -- computer stuff. It's one of those smartphones I was telling you about earlier.'

Her shoulders fall a bit, and she licks her lips.

'He was wrong about that world defining you. It's the other way 'round. You define it.'

And that's the real danger of forgetting, isn't it? She keeps that thought to herself, for now at least.

'You think so?'

He sounds quite pleased about that idea, but unsure as well.

'I don' know. Maybe.'

He's quiet a moment, then reaches an arm out and threads it around her waist.

'I hope so.'

She moves into his embrace with ease, her hands resting on his arms.

'I know so. You don't think I picked that prostitute's outfit for myself, do you?'

Her tone is quiet, a tentative return to the the teasing of their early days.

'You mean you wouldn' choose to wear that stuff?'

His smile is small, but genuine and a bit sly. He eases her closer, and glances down at her chest.

'That's a disappointment.'

He pulls her closer and her arms thread around his neck, her fingertips lightly stroking through the small hairs at his nape.

'Good heavens, no. That skirt alone...' She makes a quiet sound of exasperation, smirking as he looks down her top. Her tone gentles. 'You've been stealing glances so long, I'm half-afraid you'll be disappointed with the real thing.'

'Not a chance,' he says immediately, and means it.

'An' there wasn' a thing wrong with that skirt.'

His eyes may be straying a bit still, because no matter what they look like - and he's sure they'll be stunning - they're attached to her, so they're going to be OK with him.

'It left nothing to the imagination.'

She's starting to feel a bit nervous again, this time with the butterflies that come from having him so close. He can't see much, surely, not through the loose neckline of this shirt, surely.

Nevertheless, her breath comes a little shallower, a little quicker. This close, she can study the fine lines of his face, the way the five o'clock shadow outlines his jaw. She finds herself leaning in, nuzzling against his cheek, drinking in his scent.

'You, erm, coming back to bed?'

'Exactly.'

His eyes fall closed, and he lowers his head, breathing quiet against her neck. His fingers grip a little tighter on her back.

'...yeah, OK.'

Edited 2012-07-06 20:01 (UTC)

Her head falls to one side, her chin rising to invite him in. Goosebumps flare across her collarbone, running down her arms and her back. She closes her eyes, holding her breath now. Her hands fret in his hair, as she wars with herself, trying to respect his desire to go slowly.

He wanted to wait, so she'll let him make the next move.

He's in no hurry, and is quite enjoying the anticipation, in a masochistic kind of way. His lips brush along her neck, kiss under her ear, revelling in the quiet flare of arousal that's become familiar over the years working with her. It's different from the angry chemistry of their fights, or the silent anguish of knowing he'd never get her. It's familiar because while the moments of unacknowledged intimacy were rare, he remembers all of them, has them imprinted on his memory.

His hands drop away, but one finds hers and catches her fingers.

'C'mon then.'

He flicks the TV off, and leads her to bed in the dark.

A quiet breath shudders through her at that kiss, and yes, she does cling to him in that one brief moment. But then he's pulling away, leaving her hanging, trying to remember how to breathe. His hand feels like a lifeline in the darkness.

She's glad of the shadows, not wanting him to see her face. She's exhausted, emotionally reeling still, and this dance is almost too much to bear. She knows she's squeezing his hand tight, but she doesn't care.

It's only a few steps, but she hesitates, not sure where he wants her. In her own bed again, or back in his.

'Gene?'

'Yeah?'

He sits on his bed, and pulls her gently towards him, so she's standing between his legs. His hands go to her hips, making small circles, edging around to her backside. But then he hears the uncertainty in her tone, and thinks maybe he misunderstood 'go back to bed'.

He stills his touch.

'Did you want your own bed? That's all right.'

'No. No, no this is -- this is fine.'

She dares to touch his face, exquisitely aware of his beard beneath her fingertips. Gently, she urges his head up, bending to taste his mouth again. Just the barest brush of her lips.

'This is perfect.'

Another soft kiss, taking a little control back.

'Mmmm.'

He returns it, just as soft, trying to remind himself of why control is important. It's hard to recall. When she touches him, he just wants her all over his skin. He's been waiting for it for a long time.

A few moments later, when he's drawn back to breathe, he slides backwards and turns, lying half-propped on the pillows. He finds her hand in the dark again, giving it a gentle tug.

She follows, listening to his hands to guide her. It feels right to lay beside him, her head on his shoulder and her body pressed along the entire length of his.

It feels right to pull him close, to steal another soft kiss.

'Comfortable?'

He snorts a tiny, quiet laugh.

'Not for much longer if you keep doin' that.'

Which doesn't stop him kissing her back, or going back for another one. A deeper one, still soft but one that lingers, brushing his tongue gently along hers.

He deepens the kiss and she responds, a quiet sound of pleasure resonating in the back of her throat. He tastes of whiskey, and cigarettes, and something indefinably irresistible. It's his taste, matched with his scent in her memory, a scent that's been in her thoughts for so long now. Her hands stray, over the shell of his ear, along the side of his neck, up into his hair. Just touching him for the joy of it.

She reciprocates, languid and slow, silently telling him a secret she's kept for a very long time.

He moves to his side, more comfortable for this. But the temptation to press a leg between hers is almost overwhelming, and his fingers toy with the hem of her top without him even realising. It's just natural - and at the moment, it feels a lot more natural to touch her than not. But he stops before reaching skin, and pulls back for a moment.

'Gonna test my resolve, aren't you?'

Just by being her, really. That's all she has to do to make this difficult.

She rests her forehead against his, trying to catch her breath. She forces her hands to still on his chest, forces herself to ignore the ache in her skin.

'I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not.'

Maybe he can feel her vibrating with need. Maybe he can hear her swallow, and try to drag air into her lungs.

'I'm sorry for so many other things, but not this. Never this.'

He shuts his eyes, and swallows hard. This is more difficult than he thought. Yesterday, it was easy. Everything hurt so much, this took a backseat. Everything still hurts, but she's told him she wants him regardless of what she knows, and she proves it every time she kisses him. But that doesn't mean she always will. It doesn't change the fundamental problem.

'Bols...I don' know if you'll remember, or maybe I've got it wrong. But the night you ended up with that yuppie twat - seemed to me like I had an invitation, there. Or somethin' like one. I don' know if you would've followed through.'

He'd had no doubts it was an invitation at the time, but memory has proved an unreliable master recently.

'I did the right thing 'cos you were pissed. An' I'm doing it now 'cos you're...well, it seems like taking advantage.'

Neither of them are really in a normal state of mind, and he so badly doesn't want to get this wrong.

'And because - I don' want to be something you use to make yourself feel better, if you're gonna wake up in a month or two, an' realise you don't need me any more.'

Edited 2012-07-06 22:05 (UTC)

She listens, a lump forming in her throat. There have been enough tears over the last few days to last her a lifetime, she thinks, but they still come.

He's so close, she can't help but brush her knuckles over his jaw, feeling the tension in him.

'I'm not pissed now, Gene. I am a mess, you're right about that. But I'm not -- that night -- I told you, I didn't take your world seriously then. I do now. I take you seriously. I take this seriously.'

She catches his hand at her hip and brings it to her heart again, covering it with her own and holding it there.

'I can wait. But this isn't something fleeting, or at least it doesn't feel like that to me. After all we've been through, St. Joseph's and Farringfield Green... I can wait as long as you like, if it proves to you just how much I want this to work.'

She manages to keep the tears from her voice all the way through, but only just.

Her heart's still beating. How does that make any sense?

He's glad she can't see his face in the dark. He doesn't want anyone to ever see vulnerability like this. Though after what she saw at he farmhouse, maybe it's too late.

'I'm only in this bar 'cos of you. Anyone else, I wouldn't come near the place.'

She can hear it in his voice, and it bespeaks a level of trust she's never heard from him. It deserves to be, if not rewarded then, matched with equal honesty.

'And I couldn't stay there, with the others, without you. I came back. For you.'

He doesn't know what to say to that. No one has ever done anything like that for him before. How could they? It's not like everyone knows the road to Heaven is through a pub, and even fewer that there's a magic bar as an alternative. But no one he's seen through that door has ever looked back. They've been glad to go. He never thought anyone would really want to stay, because of him.

It's probably a good thing. Most of them have been blokes. But the point stands.

His hand finds her face. He can't find any words. He just runs the pad of his thumb under her eye, along her cheekbone, and then leans in and kisses her. The sort of kiss that says thank you, and probably that other thing too, only he's never been good at speaking the important stuff.

They've never been good at speaking the important things to one another, so she's gotten used to reading him in other ways. What she feels in his touch is nothing short of amazing.

Her hands grip his shirt, and she trembles, her breath hitching as she kisses him. It's relief, and joy, and sorrow, all together a wash of emotion too rich to express any other way but through something so simple. So rare and wonderful.

There is gratitude in her touch as well.

Without him, she has no idea where she might have ended up. That's a thought she can't even look in the eye.

When she pulls back, she's sniffling, smiling through her tears.

'Besides, I still owe you a date. A proper one, without interruptions.'

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