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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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."

She glances over her shoulder, a one-two punch of cocked lips and a dubious look answering his 'beanpole' remark. He's tall and slender, but he's a large man.

"It jus' has t'suit long enough for you to get inside an' warmed up. It's too cold for you t'be walkin' around with a wet—"

She aborts that thought before it gets any further, but he'll likely see the way the tips of her ears turn strawberry red.

There are a few jackets and dusters, a clean shirt, gloves and neckerchiefs, and Kate finally comes up with a pair of overalls. They'll be too short on his long legs, but they're big enough. And, more importantly, they're dry.

He stares after her expectantly, wondering if she's going to finish that sentence, but the blush is evidence enough that she won't. Pursing his lips to repress a full-blown smirk, he'll let the moment pass without further commentary, as he's sure she'd prefer it that way.

There doesn't seem to be anything in storage that he could use, until she discovers the overalls. They're a bit dusty and they smell like hay and horses, but yes, they're dry.

He takes them and holds them up, matching their waistline to his own, just to check the length.

"Might show a little too much ankle," he snorts wryly. "But I'll take it. Thanks."

He's never had to roll up his pant legs in his life.

She represses a smirk of her own. It hadn't occurred to her before now, but with him thinking he's somebody else, maybe he's somebody from a time or place more like her own, where showing a flash of ankle really would be scandalous. The possibilities open up to her, filling her with a hitherto unknown craving for someone to relate to. Someone she can talk to as an equal, not an antique or an instructor.

Or perhaps he's just joking.

"I reckon you can handle the gossip."

She stays light and teasing, still just feeling him out. Being cautious, reserved. The reflection stays heavy on her mind, though. She realizes after a moment she's staring, and shyly glances away.

"M'sorry. I'll give you some privacy, hm?"

Straightening, she turns to the door.

It's as if neither of them can help smirking, as the amusement and tension between them is contagious.

"Yeah, I've got pretty thick skin," he assures her with a low chuckle.

He notices her staring, but pretends not to. He wonders what's on her mind. Tommy? Someone else? Something else? Something about him, about-- everything that's happened over the course of the day?

It feels so strange. Like he's already felt what he's feeling for her. It's getting hard to think of her as pretty much still a stranger, but he wishes he knew where all this was coming from.

(From Tommy.)

He nods, and waits for her to leave the room before he starts to change clothes.

Even the modesty in front of her feels odd.

Fairly soon he emerges from the tack room, clad in the denim overalls, his damp jeans and drawers (stuffed inside them) rolled up and tucked under an arm. The overalls are a bit baggier than he's used to, and he'd lengthened the shoulder straps an inch or two so the cuffs of the pant legs didn't look ridiculously short on him.

"How do I look?"

(Tommy wouldn't be caught dead in this getup.)

She don't know why she feels so nervous. By all accounts, she shouldn't.

However, as she waits by the desk she can't help but wring her hands, fussily pushing her hair back when it hasn't moved an inch, pacing a few feet this way and that. She needs to get him back in bed, try to get his fever to break. Maybe things will set themselves aright then.

She's just not wholly sure she wants them to right now.

Turning, she gives him a quick once-over and bites down on her lip. She ain't laughing.

She ain't.

"Y'look drier."

It's the nicest thing she can say.

He linefaces.

The mustache just makes it look even less threatening.

"Well. At least you ain't lyin'. But I know you wanna laugh, so go on, laugh, I told you I got thick skin."

(He would actually like to hear her laugh.)

It's the mustache that breaks through her resolve.

She starts snickering, low and under her breath, but flashing her teeth gives her amusement away.

"I ain't laughin'."

If he wants to hear her again, he'll have to try harder than that. Politeness runs deep.

The curve of his mustache makes his face a perfect :C when he frowns.

"Now, look here, darlin'," he says, so not angrily at all, as he smushes his hat down on his head and stands with his fist on his hip, "I know a laugh when I hear one, and this, what you're doin' right now, is laughing, so don't even try to cover it up, 'cause I know you can't."

She's gonna make a valiant effort, though.

She tips her head down and covers her mouth, then pinches the bridge of her nose. Christ in a chicken basket, why's he gotta stand like that? Hat all dented around his ears, nose whiskers hanging.

There's definite chortling happening, but she stands her ground.

She just can't look at him, is all.

He huffs into his 'stache.

"You ain't foolin' me, darlin', you're just gonna hafta come out with all of it, 'less you want me to expose more of my ankles, and I don't think anybody needs to be scandalized by that sorta thing. What's more, the inseam on these overalls is ridin' up somethin' awful, and I'd much rather get into some dry pants my size before the chafing starts a fire."

It's not funny. It really isn't. It's just that — well.

He called her darlin'.

The laughter starts bubbling up like a fresh-struck well, slow at first and then all at once. Low, quiet, babbling, until it's singing in the air like church bells. Her hand is still over her mouth, but ineffectually so.

"Good gracious, the things you say!"

She looks scandalized, doesn't she? Truth is, she's long used to worse coming from him.