milliways_bar | (no subject)

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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.]

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"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."

She gives him a warning glare, but it's half-hearted at best. Amusement is tugging the corner of her frown until the whole thing comes unknotted.

"I'll chuck you into a tub full of salts this time."

But he's already got her undone. She'll have him back in bed with chicken and dumplings before he can spit, and probably snuggle up to him just to be certain he don't catch a chill.

She nods, gesturing out the back door for him to get to it. She can pretend she won't be watching him like a hawk, at least for a minute or two. Just because she knows he's sick and pathetic clearly don't mean he does, and what with their whole relationship having been erased in just under a day, it wouldn't do to be overly friendly-like with somebody who's not much having it. Somebody spoken for. A near stranger.

It's Valentines Day. This isn't quite how she thought she'd be spending it.

He's only fooling himself if he insists that he isn't attracted to her (especially with her laugh and those little looks she tosses his way), but being sick kind of puts a damper on the situation, and plus-- she's spoken for. However, deep down, Tommy is still in there somewhere, and if Kate is lucky, he might keep a few things once he's back to normal.

Like maybe a plaid shirt.

...Nah.

Wayne does well enough with the task he's been given. Even though it won't put any cash in his pocket, or even guarantee him a beer, he does it because there's nothing better to take your mind off things than honest work.

So as he makes his way around the grounds, he inspects all the spigots he finds. A couple of them are coated with a thin crust of ice, and he has to chip away at them without much more of a fuss; others work fine, after a sputter or two. Here he makes sure not to get splashed, but the last one at a watering trough, probably partially blocked with ice in the pipes, delivers a sudden gush that sprays his pant leg.

"Goddammit!"

Whether or not Kate can hear the exclamation depends on if she's still hovering.

The narration wouldn't call it 'hovering.'

'Keen interest,' perhaps.

She busies herself with some paperwork for a time, but eventually settles against the doorjamb where she can see him on occasion, making his way from pipe to pipe. Neither Tommy nor Wayne are particularly quiet men, so it's not hard to hear the hollering.

She half-smirks.

At least some things are the same.

There's a pile of horse blankets inside the door beside her. She'll let him come back on his own steam, so as not to embarrass him. Unless he's truly soaked himself. He shouldn't be walking around in wet clothes.

Sometimes he catches a flash of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't let on that he knows she's been peeking in on him. He doesn't mind. But that means she probably heard the string of cuss words by the time he shuts off that last spigot. That water was ice cold.

Grumbling and muttering, his drooping mustache accentuating the annoyed twist of his mouth, he stomps back into the barn. Standing in front of Kate's desk, he tugs off his gloves.

There's a large wet stain on his jeans that makes him look as if he's had a very unfortunate accident.

"Last one was half frozen but it seems to be workin' fine now."

Do we really need to tell you where Kate's eyes are?

She covers her mouth politely, but snickering is still audible. Oh, Tommy. Kate can always count on him.

She clears her throat and looks up sharply, feigning remorse.

"I'm so sorry. Let me getcha somethin' t'dry off with. Lord have mercy."

She quickly gathers up a blanket and presses it to Wayne's wet stain, which she would think twice about if she were genuinely with a stranger. However, her comfortableness around Tommy is her undoing, and it's a beat or two before she realizes where her hand is. She jumps back as if she'd been burned, face turning red.

"M'sorry, I didn't mean t'touch that. I mean — I wasn't—"

With each word, her voice gets louder and higher-pitched. She's like a teapot about to boil over.

There's not much else he can do but stare at her when she stares, and stare some more when she starts snickering. It's just a tad undignified to have a damp stain on your crotch and have a woman giggle at it, and just a bit more so when she attempts to dry it herself.

At this point he's stunned into motionlessness.

She jumps back and begins to stammer, and he takes that as his cue to start stammering as well.

"No, no, it's okay, you didn't touch very much. I mean-- you didn't-- not that I--"

And then he starts laughing.

His fluster just makes her all the worse. She shakes her head so vehemently her hair starts flipping around, eyes wide and fixed above his neck.

"No! I wouldn't call it small at all—"

And then she realizes that isn't what he meant.

She bursts into laughter with a genuine pop of sound, the frankly ludicrous turn of events making all the incredulity and amusement flood out of her all at once. She's relieved he's laughing, too; she can appreciate the ridiculousness of starting all over with a new Tommy, but to him is she just some crazy woman?

"M'sorry. M'really, jus' — so sorry. You should pro'ly get out of them wet clothes, though."

She. Is. Adorable. And beautiful. And so is her laugh. And the more she laughs, the more he does as well, one of those hearty belly laughs that make you stagger off-balance. It's a relief to let go of what was holding him down, even for just this brief moment of silliness.

Eventually his mirth tapers off into stiff coughs into his fist, though still peppered with the occasional breathless chuckle as he shakes his head.

"Oh, man. Heh, really, it's alright. But I guess I should get a change of clothes. Won't do me no good to spend the day in cold, wet drawers. Guess my first day on the job was a bust, huh?"

It's good to hear him laugh. With Tommy, every smile is a personal victory, hearing him laugh instead of grumble is like diamonds. She clucks, sympathy rucking her brow when he starts hacking. She'd almost forgot what started this whole affair.

"Naw, you did good. The animals'll be grateful."

She smiles, a gentle hand braced on his chest. One last snicker escapes, crinkling her eyes.

"There might even be some clean clothes in the tack room. Not britches, usually, but y'never know. C'mon."

She lays a hand on his chest, and her touch immediately feels familiar. As if they've had this connection for some time now. (As if Tommy's trying to find his way back to her.) The internal pull is strange and bewildering-- but then again, there isn't much about today that hasn't been strange and bewildering.

And besides, nothing else matters when he sees the warmth and amusement in her eyes.

Smiling behind his mustache, he nods and follows her to the tack room.

"Alright. Dunno if you'll find anything to fit a beanpole like me, though."