the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #4

He's genuinely worried, and doing his best not to show it. It's not something she's seen often with him, and it only reinforces how much he cares about all of them. They're more than his team; they're the only family he's known for thirty years.

She reaches out and takes his hand between hers, leaning on her elbows. Her gaze plays over his rough knuckles, and she sighs.

'Forgive me for stating the obvious, but... You're not alone anymore.'

It's important that he knows that.

'Don' matter.'

In this, he won't be swayed.

'There's some stuff women should leave well alone, is all I mean.'

His relationship with her, even before all this, is very different than the one he has with his lads. And he reckons the boys, Ray in particular, wouldn't be interested in hearing what she thinks they should think about him. He might be wrong. He might never have the chance to find out. But that's what he reckons.

And it's clear, he's taken her statement far more seriously than she intended. Wouldn't be the first time they've misunderstood each other, and it won't be the last.

'I think what you meant to say is, "Keep your nose out of it, Bolly."'

Her lips slide into a crooked smirk.

'And I will, never fear. But I will tell you what I think, and you can take it or leave it.'

Her tone is still gentle, affectionate even. He's such a hard case sometimes.

'Yeah. That.'

He shrugs, pulls a smile, and looks down at the table.

'You always tell me what you think. Something'd really be wrong if you didn't.'

'So glad you noticed,' she says, her smirk broadening into a grin, letting him see everything for once, if he cares to look.

'However did you survive so long without me?'

The tiniest flicker of a frown crosses his brow, but then disappears.

'Dunno.'

He's looking around the room again. She really knows how to pick her words sometimes, and while he's doing his best to get past all this, it's not that easy. He hates that tiny things - things that he'd normally think nothing of - strike home.

No matter. The tea, and breakfast, turns up. He's glad of the distraction.

For some reason, it's easier for her to make light of such things, rather than dwelling on it all. She's spent the last three years dwelling on it, and she's tired. So very tired.

She sits back, letting his hand go and taking a good long time to doctor her tea just the way she likes it.

He may have succeeded in driving her back into herself. And just when they were doing so well.

He's had four days to dwell on it. It's going to take a bit longer for him to reach the 'making light' stage, much as he wishes he were there already.

He spoons sugar into his tea, and watches the stairs in case Shaz appears. He ignores his toast, and smokes his cigarette. He might look outwardly calm, but his arm movements are sharp and pointed.

She is well aware of the incongruities between their mutual acceptance or denial of their situation. Painfully so.

She sips her tea and looks out across the room.

'I suppose I should ask for another room while we're down here.'

Her words are cool, distant, but there's a tension around her eyes when she says them.

He blinks, and pulls his attention back to her.

'Why?'

Her shoulders rise and hover a bit, before falling down again.

'Just before. You said...'

She turns the mug of tea half a turn clockwise, and then back again, like there's a combination, and if she could only figure it out, she could find the right words.

'Unless you'd rather I stay in your room. Our room.'

Another spoonful of sugar, that's what she needs. Do dead women have to watch their caloric intake? Does she even care?

He looks down.

'We weren't shagging when I said that,' he points out, quiet and defensive.

She's saying it because she wants him to say, stay in our room. He knows that. The manipulation bothers him, but his head is starting to ache and he can't think.

'You don't have to. It's up to you.'

She's not trying to manipulate him at all, and if she knew that was what he was thinking, she'd insist on getting another room. She doesn't want to intrude on his life, she wants to be a part of it. A welcome part, at that.

'Right.' There's a nervous chuff of laughter, and she looks across at him, waiting for him to look up at her again.

'I want to stay, but it's your room. So if I get up your nose, just tell me, all right? Before it gets to be a problem.'

He does meet her eyes eventually, tired and inscrutable. He listens when she talks. His fag burns down, and he stubs it out.

'I didn't say you were getting up my nose.'

He resists the urge to sigh, but does let out a long breath, trying to ease the edge of annoyance.

'But if you're going to bring up stuff I said before yesterday, as if we didn' spend the day in bed, then that'll piss me off, yeah.'

He will never, ever understand why women feel the need to talk in circles.

'An' bringing it up right after you're pissed off with me about-'

He does sigh now, and picks his tea up.

'It don' matter. Stay in the room.'

'I wasn't pissed off at you. Not in the least.'

She's not quite sure where he got that impression. She sits very still, afraid to say anything for fear of setting him off again, and yet, as always, unable to stay quiet.

'So much has changed in the last few days, it's hard to know which way is up. And yes, we spent all day in bed yesterday, but right now, with you over there and me over here... It feels like we're right back where we started. I'm still trying to get my sea legs, and I -- I'd just -- I'd appreciate it if you'd cut me some slack.'

'Fine,' he says, in that slightly petulant way he has, as if this is a school playground.

He's not sure of the specifics of 'cut me some slack', but he's too proud to ask.

'Just eat your breakfast.'

'And you eat your toast,' she gestures with her fork, tearing into her omelette with a vengeance.

If he's going to boss her around, she's going to boss him around right back.

'Tetchy bastard.'

That statement is half-observation, half-affectionate jibe.

He shrugs, and doesn't eat it. He can tell by the butter it's gone cold already, and cold toast is like chewing cardboard. He drinks th tea instead, and lights another cigarette. He'll have to get off the cigarillos at this rate. They're not made for chain smoking.

'Dont think she's coming back down.'

She watches him light another, watches his hands go through the motion without conscious thought.

'I'll leave a message for her at the bar. I have a few things I want to pick up anyway.'

'All right.'

He sits a moment, then gets up.

'Back in a minute.'

He doesn't really need to use the bathroom, but it's a good excuse for a couple of minutes to himself. It's not that he minds her being around all the time - he's fine with it, actually - but he's not used to it. Even at work, he could close the office door and they wouldn't interrupt too much. Constantly dealing with whatever expectations she seems to have is exhausting, and he's tired enough already.

Maybe she doesn't have expectations. But - Christ, she asked him to marry her. So she must have. On top of everything else, it's hard to find some solid ground to stand on.

He rests his back against the cool tiles of the restroom, and finishes his smoke. Just some peace, that's all he wants. You're supposed to be able to have that, when you're dead.

While he's gone, Alex sits and drinks her tea, eyes sharp on the room, taking in all the strangeness it has to offer.

Is this a place she could spend the rest of her existence? If he goes back to Fenchurch and doesn't come back, how long does she wait for him? How long before she can move on properly? Will the Bar even let her move on properly? Will Heaven, or Nelson, or whoever's in charge of such things, even let her?

She nibbles at a piece of toast, not even tasting it. Too many questions. Too many unknowns.

And then there's the two of them. She's not sure what he wants from her, other than the obvious. And even that's not obvious, is it? It's early days yet, but it feels to her like something far more than just the basics. And what did he mean by saying he was staying until she was 'all right'?

How do they define 'all right'? She can make a good show of it, stiff upper lip and all that rot, but if he's leaving again, she knows she won't be 'all right' until he's back again. And if he never comes back, well...

She refills her mug for the umpteenth time and wishes he would come back and save her from her own head. Drinking something stronger than tea is very much on the agenda if it doesn't calm down and let her just breathe for a bit.

He chucks the butt of his fag into the nearest urinal and leans back, his hands shoved in his pockets. He should get back. She can't seem to stop clinging to him at the moment, which is both gratifying and suffocating in equal measure.

He knows what the answer is. He needs to go home. But he can't, because if he does he might never see her again, and he can't stand the idea of that. He can't stand the idea of being here either, but at least there's Alex. So, basically...there's nothing he can do. Just put it up with it.

He pulls in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out over his teeth. It'll be OK. Just keep going. That's all any of them can ever do.

He looks a bit more relaxed when he sits down opposite her again. Not by much, but a little bit.

''nother tea?'

He's having one.

'Yes, I think so.'

Her entire awareness is keyed in on him, and where he might be a bit more relaxed, she's all sharp edges now. She gives him a tight smile when he sits, leaning forward on her elbows, her own mug clasped between her hands, its contents suddenly fascinating.

She swallows, chews on her lower lip, her breath held for a long moment before she lets it out in as controlled a breath as she can manage.

'You know, it occurs to me, you could just -- ask the Bar. If it'll let you go home and come back. I mean, I'm not in a hurry for you to leave. Not at all. But if we could know whether or not --'

Has he ever seen Alex terrified before? Truly afraid down to her very core? He's seen her shaken, he's seen her livid, furious, and broken. But has he ever seen her afraid? She didn't let him see it when she walked through the door the first time. But the mere idea of losing him, of having to watch him be the one to walk away, it frightens her. Enough to make her complexion go pale. Enough to make her hands tremble and her mouth go dry.

She's trying to hide that from him right now, and maybe she's succeeding. But she's trying, because she's not the clingy type. In the last three days, she's had her world turned upside down, again and again. And for the first time, she's operating under the impression that not only is she allowed to lean on him, he wants her to. She was also under the impression that he needs her just as much as she needs him.

Which is why the idea of losing him steals her very language, leaving her stammering, staring into her teacup, and trying very, very hard not to let any of this turmoil show on the surface. She's had three years of practice. Maybe she's gotten good at it.

Maybe he's gotten good at seeing through it.

He shakes his head a little, and waves another rat over.

'It's not the bar that decides that. It's the Landlord, an' no one around here seems t'know who he is. Or if he exists.'

He orders more tea.

'The bar's just a normal bar, with a spell put on it. It didn' make this place.'

He's seen her terrified before, and not known it. All that stuff that scared her while he was still oblivious - he just put her erratic behaviour down to being female, and a bit barmy. Now he knows what it was about, but everything that happened gives her a justifiable reason to act weird.

'I said I'll ask about something I heard a while back. It'll be all right.'

His way of dealing with fear is to ignore it, and then do what you're scared of anyway. That's pretty much what policing requires anyway.

She looks at him, listening as he fills in the blanks, her heart sinking.

'All right,' she echoes, trying to sound like she shares his confidence, even if she doesn't.

She's silent for a long time, focusing on her breathing, getting her head straight, or as straight as it ever is.

'Does time stop for you? On the other side of the door?'

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