milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

As much as he tried to convince himself that he wasn't getting sick, Tommy wasn't immune to that weird flu that's been going around after all.

Because now his name isn't Tommy. It's Wayne.

And after several days of not shaving in his flu-ridden delirium, he decided to give himself a mustache.

"Aw, c'mon, Miss Bar," he says, his usually rapid New York City bark replaced with a slow, Midwestern drawl. "You can't deny a fella just one sip of whiskey, now can you?"

A napkin appears. Yes, she can. Because of reasons.

Wayne sighs. Deeply, and sadly. Almost depressive, defeated. His shoulders hunched over, he slouches on a bar stool and lights a cigarette with tremulous fingers.

And yes, he's wearing a straw cowboy hat.

[OOC: Probably one of the last victims of the IMDb flu! Tommy is now Wayne from a movie called Jesus' Son.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He sniffles, clears his throat, and takes another drag.

"Know a quick way to make a buck around here?"

He was waiting for Fuckhead, but he's not sure if the kid even knows about this place.

"What d'you need money for?"

It seems like a safer answer than suggesting bar tending work.

"Haven't y'checked your pockets?"

"Ain't nothin' in my pockets that I can use. Miss Bar won't let me have a drink, so I figure if I had some money, she'd know I was good for it."

Funny thing: the track marks on his arms seem to have faded, as if they were never there, but the pull remains. Getting high with Fuckhead was one thing, but he can't go 'round these unfamiliar parts looking for a score. The least he could do is get drunk.

Her lips twist.

"Miss Bar has her reasons for a lotta things. Don't think banknotes at hand would make much difference."

Beat.

"I could offer you work; however, I really don't think you're well 'nough for it."

He looks at her, sitting up a little straighter. He's not exactly perked up, as 'perked up' is too strong a phrase, but she's definitely got his attention.

"What kinda work? I told you, darlin', 'm fine, really I am. I can do any sorta work you got."

It seems to brighten him some, so she tamps down her worry and nods.

"Stable work. 'Member, darlin'? I help run the stables."

"Stables...? Oh. Yeah. That's right."

It's something he should know, shouldn't he? In any case, Kate is one of them rancher types, a cowgirl from the old days, so it's no surprise that she works at the stables.

A sudden wave of dizziness hits him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his forehead. The flu symptoms come and go; his memories ebb and flow. It's so annoying when he can't remember straight.

The wave passes, and he shakes his head to clear it.

"I can do whatever you want me to do. My granddad had a farm. Used to help out when I was a kid."

She watches him with her brow deeply rucked, wondering if she was this bad when she had this illness. She doesn't recall it being this way.

"Yeah? Tell me 'bout that."

She nods over her shoulder, indicating they can head out while he talks. She's in no hurry, ambling along slowly, hoping she can distract him enough that he doesn't overdo it.

He slides off the stool and starts to head toward the back door, his pace as easy as hers. Maybe some fresh air will do him some good.

"I dunno, I-- I just remember-- cornfields. Far as the eye can see. Can't remember that far back sometimes. You could say I got kind of a-- Swiss cheese memory."

He shakes his head slowly, frowning deeply. A part of him still feels that it's impossible to recall a past that isn't his, almost wrong.

As he opens the door, a light gust of cool faux-Scotland air comes in, and he gives Kate an 'after you' gesture.

"Maybe your 'Swiss cheese' memory's from drinkin' too much."

She bumps into him playfully, smiling down at her boots. She knows the real reason why, of course. She just wants to make him feel at ease.

She grabs a coat left by the back door — she hadn't anticipated going outside again today — and shrugs it on while he holds the door for her. What he's wearing looks warm enough, but she still holds out a scarf.

"T'help the scratchiness."

"Now, hey," he chides her gently with a wry smirk, "I think we can all appreciate the value of a good, stiff drink every so often. 'Often' bein' the operative word here."

He eyes the scarf for a moment, then shrugs and takes it with a thank you, wrapping it around his neck as he follows Kate outside.

She does make him feel at ease. Maybe too at ease, because for all intents and purposes, she should be a complete stranger to him, yet she isn't. And something-- someone she mentioned earlier sticks in his craw, and the name won't leave.

(Maybe because it was always there to begin with.)

"So, uh-- who's this Tommy fella?"

She pops her collar to ward off the chill around her ears, hunkering in on herself. She'll never altogether get used to this weather.

"Why? You jealous?"

It's been a long time since Kate last felt like she needed to win Tommy's trust. It's hard knowing just what exactly to say, so she stays light and teasing, friendly, warm. The last thing she wants to do is spook 'Wayne'.

"Jealous? Naw, 'course not. 'M just-- curious."

Confused is more like it.

"I mean, I woke up in your room, you're helping me get over this damned cold, you're keepin' me company like we've met before-- If anything, he should be jealous. Who is he?"

Honestly? That's a complicated question.

And it has nothing to do with the circumstances.

She walks a few paces forward and turns around, strolling backwards so she can face him while she talks.

"He's a firefighter. A loud-mouthed, dirty-talkin', women-lovin', arrogant so-'n-so, with a temper an' a wit t'match. He's a louse, an' a pugilist; a New York hero, an' a dirty-rotten scoundrel. An' he's dear t'me."

She turns back around.

"If we've never met before, it's strange how much y'know 'bout me. Wouldn't you say?"

He blinks with bewilderment at every item she checks off her list. It certainly wasn't anything he was expecting to hear. When she falls back beside him, he ponders this for a few paces.

"Well, goddamn," he half-chuckles. "From what you're tellin' me, aside from bein' a firefighter and a hero, he don't seem like much of a nice guy."

A few more pensive paces.

"I may not know everything about you, darlin', but-- I feel like I know you. Just-- in general, like. But sometimes that's how it is between some people. Y'know what I mean? And sure, it's as strange as things can get, but I can trust you, and that's all that matters to me right now."

Her lips quirk half-heartedly.

She doesn't say anything for a long time. He's deep in his delusion now, and reminding him he's come up with much more specific things about her probably ain't gonna mean a thing. He's not even the same person he was before she fell asleep.

So she looks at him, really looks at him hard, and bites her lower lip.

"What about you? Are you a nice guy?"

Catching her look-- it's a look that's pretty hard to miss-- he pauses thoughtfully, and then shrugs his shoulders, bobbing his head from side to side.

"Well, I like to think I'm a nice guy. Then again, maybe every fella thinks he's a nice guy until someone tells him otherwise."

A beat.

"My wife thought so."

All her cheeky impertinence finally dissipates. She looks away, focusing on the curve in the road.

"So you're married too."

The addition of too at the end of her statement and the change of tone in her voice earn her a sidelong glance. He doesn't know (remember) what this Tommy fella's marital situation is like, but he was just being honest.

"I was," he says, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, also focusing on the road ahead.

"She left me. She's one of them free spirit types. Always wantin' to take off somewhere, do different things. Said I only tied her down. Didn't mean to. Maybe I just couldn't keep up, so I let her go."

He shrugs his slouched shoulders.

"She's happier now."

Her mind doesn't just travel to Tommy, because of course this 'Wayne' would be married.

Of course.

"I'm sorry."

She glances at him with beetled brow, words and expression lacking in the warmth and concern of earlier, but still sincere. She pushes open the side door to the stables, and directs the rest of her words to the room at large.

"I need somebody t'check the spigots 'round the property t'make sure they ain't freezin' over. There's one at the back wall, a couple in the paddocks 'round each trough, an' one out in the back forty. Jus' make sure the heads ain't damaged an' the levers are secure in their 'off' positions, chip off any ice that may've formed, let me know of any burst pipes or leaks. Think y'can do that?"

He shakes his head a little and manages a barely-there smile, mostly hidden by that scruffy, droopy mustache.

"You don't hafta be. Like I said, she's happier."

Upon entering the stable, he's met with a sense of familiarity, although he doesn't know why. Like he's been here before. Like he knows some of these horses already.

After listening to Kate's instructions, he nods once, and touches the brim of his hat in a lax salute.

"Easy as pie, darlin'. Got any gloves I can use?"

She hesitates a moment. No matter how hard she tries she can't keep herself from smirking, and from there it tumbles into laughter. She shakes her head, moving toward the tack room.

"Yep."

She comes back with a spade and a pair of leather gloves.

Her smirk is cute, but her laugh is beautiful, unexpected as it is. With a curious gaze he watches her disappear into the tack room for a moment, and when she returns, he takes the items with another nod.

"Thanks. I didn't know I was so amusing."

His tone is wry. FH seems to find a whole lot that's funny about him, but to be fair, the kid is wired more than half the time.

She shakes her head.

"M'still gettin' used t'that accent of yours."

Telling him it's a — what does he call it? — a 'turn-on' hearing him talk with a Southern drawl probably won't do anybody any favors. She's inherited yet another broken man, and all he needs to be thinking about is getting better.

"Don't get yourself soaked, now. Y'already got a cold, I don't wantcha catchin' pneumonia."

(In case anybody's wondering, she will be standing by with a pile of blankets.)

"Heh. Didn't think I had much of an accent to begin with, but I s'pose you might be able to tell."

He's not against flirting. Kate is sweet and impossibly kind, and she's pretty, but he wouldn't do Tommy wrong by being a hound about it.

"And I'm sure I can keep dry. If I do get soaked, just assume I did it on purpose just so's I could eat more sandwiches and watch more movies with you."

After slipping on the work gloves, he points the spade toward the door. "I'll get to it, then."