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[oom] Room 6620
[ cont'd from here ]
Alex waits for the door to close behind Ace before turning back to face an utterly boneless Gene. He's laying half on his side, his jacket wrinkled, his hair mussed. One leg hangs over the edge of the bed.
She stands over him for a long moment, before picking up the one errant foot and slipping the boot off. The other soon follows and she tries not to let her hands linger, tries to keep her movements clinical and impersonal. She slips off his jacket and his tie, hanging them on the hook behind the door. His belt follows, and if she rests her head on his chest while her hands work it through the loops, then so be it.
She sits on the bed next to him, one leg folded beneath her. He's warm, and even through the booze and the cigarettes, she can smell his aftershave. She smooths his hair back from his face and makes sure his neck is supported by a pillow. Her hands do slow then, and she bends to brush a kiss against his cheek.
"Thought for a moment I'd lost you today." Her voice is the barest whisper, and the memory of that sickening moment when she didn't know if it was Mac or him that had taken the killing shot makes her throat tighten and her mouth go dry. "And not just when you asked that Glaswegian nutter to marry you," she laughs, biting back the tears that rise.
She rests her head against his shoulder, the strain making her lower back twinge, but she won't stretch out next to him. Ace's warning to not fall asleep across his chest still rings in her ears. (Oh but to wake up with his arms around her...)
The thought makes her sit up abruptly, scrubbing her hands over her face, dragging her fingers through her hair. She rises and toes off her boots, stepping into the bathroom. She fumbles the hot water on and grabs a cloth to remove her makeup. A few minutes later, she returns to the sound of his snoring.
Numb fingers pull the duvet up from the one side of the bed, gently covering him . She turns out the light and slips between the covers beside him, turning to lay with her back to him. Her eyes close and she listens to the sound of his breathing. Each breath, she urges another part of her body to relax. Her shoulders, her back, her legs, willing herself to let it go. Let that shot go. Let Jackie's little joke go. Let Summers go. Let it all go.
She focuses on her breathing, matching it to his, one breath at a time, until the heaviness takes over and her body slips into unconsciousness.
Alex waits for the door to close behind Ace before turning back to face an utterly boneless Gene. He's laying half on his side, his jacket wrinkled, his hair mussed. One leg hangs over the edge of the bed.
She stands over him for a long moment, before picking up the one errant foot and slipping the boot off. The other soon follows and she tries not to let her hands linger, tries to keep her movements clinical and impersonal. She slips off his jacket and his tie, hanging them on the hook behind the door. His belt follows, and if she rests her head on his chest while her hands work it through the loops, then so be it.
She sits on the bed next to him, one leg folded beneath her. He's warm, and even through the booze and the cigarettes, she can smell his aftershave. She smooths his hair back from his face and makes sure his neck is supported by a pillow. Her hands do slow then, and she bends to brush a kiss against his cheek.
"Thought for a moment I'd lost you today." Her voice is the barest whisper, and the memory of that sickening moment when she didn't know if it was Mac or him that had taken the killing shot makes her throat tighten and her mouth go dry. "And not just when you asked that Glaswegian nutter to marry you," she laughs, biting back the tears that rise.
She rests her head against his shoulder, the strain making her lower back twinge, but she won't stretch out next to him. Ace's warning to not fall asleep across his chest still rings in her ears. (Oh but to wake up with his arms around her...)
The thought makes her sit up abruptly, scrubbing her hands over her face, dragging her fingers through her hair. She rises and toes off her boots, stepping into the bathroom. She fumbles the hot water on and grabs a cloth to remove her makeup. A few minutes later, she returns to the sound of his snoring.
Numb fingers pull the duvet up from the one side of the bed, gently covering him . She turns out the light and slips between the covers beside him, turning to lay with her back to him. Her eyes close and she listens to the sound of his breathing. Each breath, she urges another part of her body to relax. Her shoulders, her back, her legs, willing herself to let it go. Let that shot go. Let Jackie's little joke go. Let Summers go. Let it all go.
She focuses on her breathing, matching it to his, one breath at a time, until the heaviness takes over and her body slips into unconsciousness.
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'I'm goin' t'get cleaned up,' he mutters, and gets up, walks to the wardrobe. If Bar can provide him a room, maybe...yeah. Clean clothes.
He doesn't look back at her as he heads to the bathroom. He's sort of hoping she'll be gone by the time he gets out but at the same time, wants her to be there to talk to. Her choice though.
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But it doesn't hurt as much as the thought of giving up on getting back to Molly.
The door closes behind him, and her face crumples. She blinks back the tears, not making a sound. She's just tired. Tired and worn thin, and the last thing she needs to do is lose her grip here, in this place.
"Just breathe," she tells herself. "Just breathe."
By the time he gets out, she's tidied up and made them both another cup of hot tea. It might have been easier to leave while he was in the shower, but it never even occurred to her.
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'Never seen a shower in a hotel room before,' he remarks, purposefully keeping it trivial and only glancing at her as he tosses yesterday's clothes over the back of a chair. Then the tea is spotted and he sits down again, rubs his hand over his face and reaches for his fags once more.
'Ta.'
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"My turn." She decided it's best to just keep it simple, and yes, a glance in the wardrobe does reveal a change of clothes for her as well. Including underthings.
She disappears into the bathroom, and the steam, and the scent of his aftershave.
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And now he's even more tired, sated in a dissatisfied kind of way, and is glad that it's still about midnight back home. When they walk back through the door, he can go home and sleep off the rest of this god-awful hangover.
...he wishes there were more in this room to take his mind off the thought of her there in the bathroom. He gets up and flicks the TV on. There's a program about those terrorist attacks Mills told him about and he almost switches it off, but doesn't in the end. It gets his mind off her for a few moments anyway, which can only be a good thing.
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She hears the voice on the television and turns, her eyes wide.
"Ninth anniversary," she whispers. "God has it been nine years?"
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'Wha' did you say?'
Seasick. Again.
But at least this time it can easily be explained by the hangover, so he thinks nothing of it.
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She waves a hand at the television, and turns back to her now cold tea.
"I need a drink." If she's already half dead from a bullet to the head, what's a little liver damage in the long run?
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He knows what she said. He doesn't know why she said it but he's choosing not to go there because thinking about it makes him feel ill.
'Spare flask in me coat.'
He's got the other one in his hand and isn't giving it up any time soon.
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Still, she feels like she could sleep for a week.
Looking up over her head, she sees the light from the window. It's a gorgeous day outside, from what she can see.
"You want to go for a walk? Around the lake?"
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'I wan' t'draw the curtains, stay in 'ere an' die. Or go home t'bed.'
He doesn't move. His eyelids are starting to droop and even dragging himself up to walk downstairs seems like an unbearable effort. Hell, his damp hair is making his collar wet which feels horrible but he doesn't have the energy to lift his head, let alone anything else.
No one said a hungover Gene was nice to be around.
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But so is staying here.
"Can we stay? Just a little while longer?"
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He sighs and sits up. Now his neck hurts.
'Shove over.'
He has to lie down. Food hasn't helped, he's just starting to feel worse. Lying down is the only possible option and he feels bad enough that he can't even worry that she's on there as well.
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She wants to rest her head against his shoulder, but the warm solid presence beside her is comforting enough. She does steal a glance at him.
"You look like shit," she says, her tone affectionate.
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'You would too, if you drank what I did. At least, I assume it was a lot. All evidence is pointin' tha' way.'
She looks tired. But not like shit. Never like shit.
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It's not long at all before her breathing has grown steady and she's drifted off again.
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