OOM: Room 6620, #6

[the_gene_genie]

He knows he's probably in trouble as he drags himself up the stairs. He only went down to have a quick pint, and pick up some more wine. He's been gone about five hours now, he estimates, though it's really hard to care. Sitting on the garage floor after a scrap has left him stiff as a board, and freezing cold. The half bottle of Scotch - not to mention Guppy smacking him on the melon a few times - means his head's pounding. Everything aches, and he wants nothing more than to climb into a warm bed, and stay there forever.

But he can't do that. Enough of this. He's been trying so hard, but it's time to throw in the towel. He can't go through another encounter like that. All that's left is to tell her.

He lets himself into their room quietly, half hoping she'll be asleep but knowing he'd have to wake her up anyway.

Comments

[lady_bols]

'Oh. No.'

She shakes her head, again looking down at her hand on his chest. 'No, if he'd spoken, I would have known he was...' The thought dies on her lips.

'Why?'

[the_gene_genie]

'Would've known he was me?'

He shakes his head, and looks away. He'd meant whether it had spoken to her today, but at least now he never has to ask again.

'Don't know. Just don't understand why. It turns up, and just stares.'

And a cold sweat is threatening on his forehead just thinking about it. He swallows hard, and runs his palms down his thighs. Deep breath. He has to make it go away.

[lady_bols]

'He,' she corrects, her voice quiet. Her hand presses over his heart, feeling the strong beat beneath.

'He's -- the first of us all, isn't he. Lost and confused. Hurting. Angry at the universe for taking it all away from him. Angry because he has no control over his own fate. He doesn't need to speak to us, does he? We already know.'

[the_gene_genie]

'Don't.'

He's shaking his head as she speaks, not letting the words go in. They'll make him remember, and he doesn't want to. He's going home so he doesn't have to.

And he turns to kiss her, firm but gentle, because it's the easiest way he knows to shut her up. And because it's nice.

[lady_bols]

She returns the kiss, one hand on his cheek. It's cheating, but after everything, he's allowed. Some days, it's just too much effort to fight to understand it all. Some days, she envies him the ability to forget, to push it all down into the darkness and go on like nothing's the matter at all.

Another kiss, and she rests her forehead against his, her fingers idly stroking his hair back over his ear. Just touching him because he's here and she can, and tomorrow, she won't be able to.

'Have you eaten?'

[the_gene_genie]

He shakes his head again, and tilts his head to reach her lips again, his hand at her waist.

'Not hungry.'

There was Scotch. He doesn't need much else.

[lady_bols]

No, of course not. Her body turns into his touch, her thoughts clouded by his proximity.

'You need to eat something.'

It's a feeble protest, but he needs to keep his strength up. And he's getting grease on her jumper, and she finds she doesn't care.

[the_gene_genie]

'Yeah?'

He smirks tiredly - it's an automatic flirt, with no real intention behind it - but his hand doesn't come off her.

'What'd you have in mind?'

[lady_bols]

It wins him a smile, genuine and small, but still. Flirting with him is comfortable.

'You can't have your dessert first. You'll spoil your dinner.'

[the_gene_genie]

He sighs, obviously hard done by, and flops back against the cushions. And winces, because his leg sodding hurts, even with the paracetamol starting to kick in.

'Fine. Dinner, then?'

[lady_bols]

'Dinner,' she agrees, shifting to grab another cold pack off the tea trolley. One hand skims down his thigh to his knee, watching his face so she knows where he needs it most.

'How do you feel about lamb stew?'

[the_gene_genie]

Her hand doesn't bother him, but he has to move it away to stretch his leg out. His own fingers press into the side of the kneecap, supporting it as he eases it unbent. There's a hiss from between his teeth, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

'Lamb stew. Fine. Long as it's with spuds.'

[lady_bols]

Her lips thin at the sound of that hiss, but she doesn't say anything. She does stand and bend to kiss his cheek again, heading off towards the table. Pen and paper in hand, she sits down and starts to write.

'With potatoes,' she muses as she thinks. 'And something for the pain in your knee. Topical preferably.' Better than nothing, anyway.

When she's done, she stands and flips open a little door just beneath the light switch, taking a moment to fish the canister out of the pneumatic tube. A moment later, the canister disappears with a whoosh.

'Now, would you like some help getting your boots off, love?'

She can't just sit by and let him suffer. It's not in her nature.

[the_gene_genie]

'Topical? Like, I'm going to have to win a debate about current affairs with it before it'll sort me out?'

Sounds like her.

He shoots her a look, and then gestures towards his injured leg.

'Just that one,' he mutters, because it's awkward, not being able to get your own boot off.

[lady_bols]

Her lips twitch, and her eyes flash. She starts in on the other boot, just to be contrary.

'You're insufferable, you know that? Sit back and just let me take care of you.'

There's an edge in her tone, affectionate to be sure, but not to be argued with.

[the_gene_genie]

He looks down at his lap, and doesn't look up while she pulls his boots off.

'Ta,' he mutters, and pulls his fags over when she's done.

[lady_bols]

She sets his boots and socks aside, and settles next to him again.

Her voice is quiet. This is new territory for them. 'That wasn't so difficult, was it?'

[the_gene_genie]

He shrugs, and smokes. He really can't begin to explain how it makes him feel, and he's too tired to try. He'll only mess it up.

'Never thought you'd be the type,' he says, conversationally, after a moment.

'Thought feminists would rather shove a boot down a bloke's throat than help him take it off.'

It's clearly meant as a light-hearted observation.

[lady_bols]

Her eyes close and she grins at his jab. Her elbow rests on the sofa behind him and her hand drifts over to stroke along his upper arm.

'Being a feminist doesn't mean wanting to oppress men; it means wanting equality. And don't deny it, if my knee had taken a battering, you'd help me take off my shoes. You'd give me no end of grief about it, but you would.'

[the_gene_genie]

'Of course. But it's different.'

It probably isn't. And it doesn't bother him enough to make a big deal out of. It just niggles a little bit.

'Anyway, if somebody had tried to kick your knee in, I'd be out there battering them.'

Just in case there's any doubt on that.

[lady_bols]

Her grin broadens, and she shakes her head.

'Either way, there's nothing wrong comforting the one you love. And right now, I don't care what it looks like. When it's just the two of us, together, it hardly matters.'

So long as we're together, she thinks. And maybe he can see that in her eyes when she meets his gaze.

[the_gene_genie]

'S'pose not,' he mutters, though the way he looks away from her might let on that it's more about what he thinks of himself.

Doesn't matter. He's wrung out, and knackered, and only just starting to warm up. His arm goes back around her, and pulls her against him so he can kiss her.

[lady_bols]

It's strange, and wonderful, this whole new physical intimacy between them. How many times has she thought about leaning in and doing just this, gentle and slow? She melts against his side, leaning into that kiss, claiming his mouth in small, tender mouthfuls.

[the_gene_genie]

He slips his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head gently. The other is firm around her waist, almost possessive in his grip. Like if he can kiss her long enough, he'll forget the rest of this day happened.

'How long d'you reckon dinner will be?'

He asks quietly, against her lips, eyes almost closed.

[lady_bols]

'I dunno,' she murmurs, her voice low and distracted. 'A little while.'

She's intent, focused on nothing more than this. The exquisite warmth of his breath feathering against her lips, the way his fingertips feel brushing over her nape, the importance of painting herself on his skin so this moment seeps down into his bones and even in his dreams, when he's far from her, he'll feel her touch and know, she's waiting for him.

One hand caresses along his jaw, one fingertip marking the line of his sideburns, up to the hollow beneath his ear. Another kiss, wet and soft, and another, her tongue teasing along his lower lip.