OOM: Suite 130

[watching_you]

[Continued from here.]

It's morning.

Veronica wakes from a dreamless sleep completely and fully, her eyes snapping open to take in the ceiling above her head. It's not the ceiling she was expecting, but it is a ceiling she knows: Milliways.

Okay. So. Inventory.

One set of pyjamas—her own, which is nice. Ten fingers and ten toes. Some vague memories of being taken to the infirmary which get especially blurry after the German guy asked about her medical history with opiates. And one throbbing, aching, holy-fuck-this-is-unpleasant shoulder wound.

Oh, and one Mills, sleeping in a chair. (Why the chair? she wonders.) She adjusts, moving to sit up in bed; from what she knows of him, he'll be awake himself soon enough.

Comments

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He is, as soon as she shifts in the bed. The quiet hiss of air through her teeth brought back everything that happened the night before. He opens his eyes and sits up himself, surprisingly not stiff from sleeping in the chair all night.

"Morning. How's the shoulder?"

[watching_you]

She takes her time, resettling, favouring her good arm. "Not great. You know I've actually never been shot before? I've shot other people. I've been shot at. But I'd completely avoided getting hit before yesterday."

She twists a little, resting more on good side than on her back, which helps. "There. Good morning."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He scrubs a hand across his face, through his hair, tossing aside the throw and moving to sit beside her on the bed.

"Technically, I don't think you were shot," he grumbles, grinning. "I think that was a richochet. But--seeing as it's probably going to leave a scar, I think it's safe to count this one."

[watching_you]

She pulls a face. "That would explain how he managed to hit me in the back without ever leaving my sight. He didn't have a… I mean, there wasn't anyone else." With tentative fingers, she reaches back, probing at the bandage.

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He sees her fiddling with it and grunts, standing up to open her closet door.

"Take your shirt off."

There could be more romantic ways to phrase that, but he's stepped into the bathroom. He returns a moment later, rummaging through her first aid kit.

[watching_you]

It's probably good that he steps away when he does, because she's caught off-guard and blushing, the red rising in her neck in an uncharacteristic way. "Calm down, Mars," she mutters to herself, and with some effort manages to tug the shirt back over her head, leaving her arms in the sleeves and pressing it to her front. The wound shoots her warning signals.

She crosses to the closet door, and the full-length mirror there, wincing at herself as he returns. A shower is definitely needed: there's blood dried into her hair, and smudges of it along her cheek. On top of this she looks just plain unpleasant, skin paler than it rightly should be, shadows like bruises under her eyes.

"Ugh."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He sets the first aid kit on the bed and joins her, one hand coming to rest in the small of her back.

"No showers," he says, seemingly reading her thoughts. "Not until the stitches are out. And either I can change your dressing or you can go back to the infirmary. Which I suggest you do anyway, after breakfast maybe. The Medic didn't give you any antibiotics."

When she turns back around, his hand rises to her cheek, thumb idly brushing over that one tiny smudge of blood.

"Did you get the bastard, at least?"

[watching_you]

"No showers at all? Couple of days, you're not going to want to be around me."

Then he does the thing with the thumb and that low, rumbling voice and being witty is somehow less important. "I got him. Wasn't sure I could, but… I guess he thought I was down. Stuck his head out at the wrong second." She clenches her jaw, uncomfortable, and turns her face away.

With her back to the mirror, now, she can more easily examine the bandage affixed to her shoulder. "This is going to be hard to accessorize."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He watches her reflection in the mirror, knowing how hard it is the first time, and still, proud (relieved) beyond measure that she had the nerve to perform the indicated response.

"We'll get you Hello Kitty bandaids or something. And a rhinestone studded sling, how's that sound?"

[watching_you]

"Ah, you know the way to a woman's heart."

Her fingers reach back again. They test along the edge of the bandage, spotted as it is with blood from when her stitches were still raw. A quick, probing gesture to test the sensitivity of the surrounding skin is met with hard resistance, a powerful shock of pain that has her pulling back immediately.

"Nngh! Okay," she hisses through gritted teeth, "No touching, then."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He winces a little in sympathy, but makes no move to curtail her investigation.

"Yeah, another reason to go back to the Infirmary. They can give you stronger pain killers. Unless you have a stash somewhere a little better hidden than the medicine cabinet."

What? He does.

[watching_you]

"No." There's something in the way he poses the question that gives his own habits away, and she shoots him a mildly skeptical look.

"Anyway. Um." She glances down at herself, one clutched t-shirt away from a wardrobe malfuction, and clears her throat. "Did you have a plan for that first aid kit, or can I get dressed?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

His voice gentles a bit. "Are you done poking at it?" He gestures for her to sit on the bed again, his motions still economical. This is just another day at work for him.

"I need to change the dressing, and then you can clean up. Just can't get it wet, that's all."

[watching_you]

Veronica refuses to feel guilty. Take that, guilt! Refused! "Yeah, I'm done."

She takes a seat, surprised at the feeling of relief that spreads along her spine as she settles in. Letting a long breath empty her lungs, she touches a hand to her neck, and finds it hot. "Wow, I'm not a fan of this."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

"Wear a vest next time," he says.

He begins the delicate business of peeling off the tape around the bandage.

"There. That's the worst of it."

He lied. The alcohol wipe stings worse.

[watching_you]

"Would have, if I'd known I was going to wind up in a shootout."

(She does hiss at the alcohol burn, but makes a concentrated effort to stifle it, for appearance's sake.)

"I don't usually expect dead men to show up at my motel. Lesson learned." She pauses just for a second, eager to change the topic. "You said something yesterday—I think—when I asked about my note. You said, 'back in August'?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He nods, intent on cleaning up the wound before recovering it.

"Yeah, you've been gone... awhile. Dead men?"

[watching_you]

Evading—for the moment—she presses, "What do you mean, 'a while'?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He takes a breath and lets it out again.

"It's January, Vee."

He doesn't want to pressure her or make her feel like a heel for not having checked in. And he doesn't really know how this whole time in and out of bar thing works.

"But you're here now. And safe. If a bit dinged up around the edges." His hand presses the last of the tape into place. "There, how does that feel?"

[watching_you]

"January?" Her back straightens. "How it could be January? That's ridiculous, that was yesterday, I just saw you a couple of days ago. You must have thought…"

Well, she's not sure what he must have thought. There are options she'd like to believe are true, and options that she fears are so. With her back to him like this, she can't be certain of reading him properly. But to her, his simple gestures—staying the night, dressing her wound—are cast in a new slant of light.

Her voice winds down an octave, tinged with guilt. "It feels fine. Better. Thank you."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He rests a hand on her shoulder for a moment, and then leans closer, speaking near her ear. His own voice is gravelled and low.

"You're welcome. And don't worry about it. You didn't know."

[watching_you]

"No," Veronica agrees.

She fights off the urge to lean back against him, instead pulling away so she can tug her shirt back on while she thinks of something to say. "Um. So what have you been up to, in this time?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

There is a fleeting smile on his lips and he shakes his head before he turns back to reassembling the first aid kit.

"Oh not much. Catching up on my reading, working out at the range. A little light gardening."

"Come on. Get cleaned up and we'll take you back to the Infirmary. You look like you might be a bit feverish."

[watching_you]

"Hah. Right. Give me ten."

She gets up, looking back as though she wants to add something, but doesn't. Then it's all business, moving from the closet to the dresser, pulling out bits and pieces of an outfit all left-handed, her right arm held close to her chest. She has to reconsider several times. Things that are out: shoulder straps, anything backless. Things that will be a pain: buttons. Eventually she disappears into the bathroom.

Ten becomes fifteen, but she returns, fully dressed, face scrubbed, hair damp but not wet. She is completely without makeup for the first time that he's seen, eyeliner being a fiddly tool under the best of circumstances. Atop her head her hair is twisted into a knot, held in place by a couple of fingers; a hair clip is in her teeth.

"Hllp?" she asks Mills, as well as she can. Indicating her hair: "C'd you hlld thish in plache?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

"Right." He's up and out of the chair in a heart beat.

"Wait, hold on a sec. Give ."

He gesture for and takes the clip, doing a surprisingly good job of securing the twist with the barest minimum of fuss.