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. 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.

With his clothes bundled up under one arm, it's almost natural for him to offer her the other. She may be someone else's girl, but that doesn't mean he can't still be nice to her. She's already done a lot to look after him while he's been sick, keeping him busy and out of trouble. Maybe if things were different, he could let the harmless flirtations become a little more than just that. But the fact is, he feels too much like a drifter, too unsure of who he is right now, and too uncertain of where he'll be tomorrow.

"D'you s'pose Bar'll give me a glass of whiskey? Compensation an' all."

He doesn't think that'll be happening, but it's worth a shot.

She glances at the arm, and then up to his face. Curious, cautious eyes sweep over his, so familiar and yet so different all at once. She smiles slightly, and wraps her hand around his elbow.

"Perhaps we'll start with hot tea an' lemon for that cough'a yours, then we'll see what Miss Bar's humor is."

Kate would let him have a nip, particularly seeing as how he's sick; however, for how desperate Tommy looked when he asked her not to let that happen, she wouldn't dare betray the promise she made.

"An' it's jus' about time for you t'have another dose of medicine."

He notices what seems to him to be hesitation when she takes his arm, but that's understandable. She might be looking for someone else in his eyes, might prefer to hold onto someone safe and not a stranger. But he offers himself as a substitute -- he can't do anything about how he makes up for or falls short of who she expects, but he'll continue to do his best to treat her well.

He brightens a little at the mention of having to take his medicine. Apparently this is as liquored up as he's allowed to get while he's here.

"Well, that's something to look forward to," he murmurs as they head on their way.

She chuckles dryly.

"Is it?"

(Her hesitation is borne solely out of a desire to not make him uncomfortable, or scare him off.)

"Might have me worryin' about you yet, goin' on like that. It's no good not bein' able t'go without."

He responds with a chuckle of his own, though a bit noncommittal and evasive, with a touch of self-deprecation.

"I can go without," he says conversationally without insisting on it. "Like right about now, I'm goin' without. Have been goin' without since I woke up, actually. Dunno 'bout you, but I think that's a pretty damn good effort."