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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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.

He hasn't lost his sense of humor. It's just that he doesn't have many reasons to use it except for when FH is around, but he doesn't expect Kate to reawaken this side of him. So when she starts laughing, more amused than scandalized and thoroughly in on the joke, he feels as if he's accomplished something important. And that's a great feeling.

"I'm usually more polite in the company of a woman, but I think we've moved past the point of polite," he says with a wry chuckle.

After all, she did try to dry his nether regions with a blanket.

She flushes, and it has nothing to do with laughter.

"I believe you're right. Besides, y'don't generally call a lady 'darlin'' when you're tryin' t'be polite."

She leans back against her desk, eyes shining at him. She's a mess of frayed hair and rosy cheeks, lips taut in the kind of smile that makes you wonder what's going on underneath.

It is, for all intents and purposes, flirtatious.

That is a very dangerous smile.

But while she manages to look effortlessly enticing, he can't do much more than look like a big goof.

"Well, you seem like a 'darlin'' to me more than a 'ma'am'. It was the first thing that rolled off my tongue when I saw you. Hope I don't hafta change it."

"No—"

The answer comes quickly off her tongue, adding to her rosiness.

"—I'd rather you didn't. I like it."

She laughs softly, lowering her head. She wonders how much Tommy's gonna remember once he snaps out of this. She might have a lot to answer for, but if it gets him to call her 'darlin'' with a sweet little twang in his voice, she don't mind.

She clears her throat.

"Should we head back in?"

She likes it. That she insists on it, and the color that it brings to her cheeks-- it actually touches him. It shouldn't, but it does. Because still, he wonders what Tommy calls her.

"Sure," he says quietly with a faint nod. "I could go for something hot to drink right about now."

He suddenly turns his head and sneezes, covering his mouth with his sleeve. It's a reminder of why he should be getting back, and getting better.

"And then maybe a nap."

She smiles at him, a sweet little chuckle caught under her breath.

"That sounds like a good idea."

Though part of her is reluctant to move. They're all alone out here, just them and the animals, and she's still infinitely curious about this man he thinks he is. More than she was before, perhaps. It's not just an illness, now; he's sweet, and kind, and funny, and good-tempered.

"Thank you for your help. I'll be sure you're compensated."

She moseys on up alongside him, keeping her hands in her pockets despite the itch to hold onto him.