Man! I Feel Like a Woman!
And yet more girl!Dougie, because, clearly, I have no control.
Dougie wakes up at four in the morning needing to pee, stumbles down the hall to the toilet still mostly asleep, and - fuck fuck what the fuck - she’s almost a week early. Wide awake now, she hunts a little desperately through the cabinet, but the box of tampons in empty - she knew it would be, Danny and Harry think it’s almost as hilarious to soak them and use them as missiles as it is to make condom balloons, and no one but Dougie would bother to buy more. She contemplates waking them up as payback, but they have an interview in roughly three hours, and she does not want to deal with a vengeance war this week.
“Fuck,” she hisses at the useless box, pitches it a little harder than necessary into the bin, curses again, and goes back to her room to check her bed - just in case - and find clothes - feeling insanely grateful she wears liners and even more pissed off at her stupid bandmates.
Her bed has been mercifully spared, so she pulls on the jeans she’d worn the day before and tugs a hoodie over her tee-shirt without bothering to either find a real shirt or put on a bra. She digs her wallet out of her purse and shoves it in her pocket. Less than five minutes later, she’s tapping softly on Tom’s door, praying he’ll feel badly enough for her that he won’t stay angry at her for waking him up.
Tom cracks his door open and peers at her, bleary-eyed with his hair going in every direction. “Dougie?” he blinks at her, rubs at his eyes. “Are you okay? Why are you dressed? What happened?”
“I need you to take me to the store,” she tells him, hands shoved into the big pocket of her hoodie - Tom’s hoodie, actually - and curls her bare toes into the bottoms of her jeans.
“You need me to what?”
“Take me to the store?” it comes out as a question.
“The fuck?” he blinks at her, clearly confused and only half-awake. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yes.” Dougie hunches her shoulders, wishes she could drive, or that there was a 24-hour store nearby - even though she knows all three of her boys would take her head off if they found out she’d gone anywhere by herself at fuck-all in the morning. Or, worse, call her mother - which is all kinds of unfair, because she’s sixteen and not living at home anymore. “I need to get something.”
Tom drags a hand down his face, leaning heavily enough on the door that it swings a little under his weight. “You need to get something,” he repeats, disbelieving. “Right now.”
“Yes.” Dougie drops her gaze, finds herself staring at Tom’s tattoo, bites her lip and stares at his feet instead.
“What’s so important that you can’t wait until the sun’s up?” His voice is tight, more awake, annoyed.
“It’s a girl thing,” she mumbles, watches the way his toes wiggle against the floorboards.
“It’s a. Oh.” He makes an indistinct noise in his throat. “Um. And you. Uh. Can’t wait until later?”
“Interview,” she reminds him, chances a glance up, because he sounds more awkward than angry now. There’s enough light coming through the window over the stairs that she can see the red splashed across his cheeks. “And no, I can’t wait. I mean, I’m not going to explode or anything, but it’s not going to be pretty, and the liners I have right now will only last so long, and I need something heavier before we go, or it’s going to be a huge mess, and -”
“Stop talking,” Tom says, even redder than before, eyes a little too wide. Dougie shuts her mouth so hard her teeth click. She really needs to learn how to shut up. “Go - find shoes, or something,” he says. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Thank you thank you thank you,” she throws her arms around his neck and smushes a kiss to his cheek, relieved, laughs when he makes a face and rubs at it.
She tumbles down the stairs, remembering halfway down the first flight that Danny and Harry are still sleeping - the wankers - and tiptoes the rest of the way. She makes a bit of a production of it even though there’s no one to see her, just because she can. She pulls on her shoes and hovers by the door until Tom comes down, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt over his boxers, pulling a hoodie on over his head.
“Ready?” he asks, shoving his feet into his shoes and grabbing his keys off their hook.
“Yeah,” she nods, pulls the door open. “I kind of love you, Thomas Fletcher,” she tells him.
He rolls his eyes at her and heads for the car, but she thinks she can still see a flush on his cheeks as he walks past.
Boys, she thinks - thankful that at least he didn’t go mental on her for talking about her period - and grins as she follows him out to his car.
Dougie wakes up at four in the morning needing to pee, stumbles down the hall to the toilet still mostly asleep, and - fuck fuck what the fuck - she’s almost a week early. Wide awake now, she hunts a little desperately through the cabinet, but the box of tampons in empty - she knew it would be, Danny and Harry think it’s almost as hilarious to soak them and use them as missiles as it is to make condom balloons, and no one but Dougie would bother to buy more. She contemplates waking them up as payback, but they have an interview in roughly three hours, and she does not want to deal with a vengeance war this week.
“Fuck,” she hisses at the useless box, pitches it a little harder than necessary into the bin, curses again, and goes back to her room to check her bed - just in case - and find clothes - feeling insanely grateful she wears liners and even more pissed off at her stupid bandmates.
Her bed has been mercifully spared, so she pulls on the jeans she’d worn the day before and tugs a hoodie over her tee-shirt without bothering to either find a real shirt or put on a bra. She digs her wallet out of her purse and shoves it in her pocket. Less than five minutes later, she’s tapping softly on Tom’s door, praying he’ll feel badly enough for her that he won’t stay angry at her for waking him up.
Tom cracks his door open and peers at her, bleary-eyed with his hair going in every direction. “Dougie?” he blinks at her, rubs at his eyes. “Are you okay? Why are you dressed? What happened?”
“I need you to take me to the store,” she tells him, hands shoved into the big pocket of her hoodie - Tom’s hoodie, actually - and curls her bare toes into the bottoms of her jeans.
“You need me to what?”
“Take me to the store?” it comes out as a question.
“The fuck?” he blinks at her, clearly confused and only half-awake. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yes.” Dougie hunches her shoulders, wishes she could drive, or that there was a 24-hour store nearby - even though she knows all three of her boys would take her head off if they found out she’d gone anywhere by herself at fuck-all in the morning. Or, worse, call her mother - which is all kinds of unfair, because she’s sixteen and not living at home anymore. “I need to get something.”
Tom drags a hand down his face, leaning heavily enough on the door that it swings a little under his weight. “You need to get something,” he repeats, disbelieving. “Right now.”
“Yes.” Dougie drops her gaze, finds herself staring at Tom’s tattoo, bites her lip and stares at his feet instead.
“What’s so important that you can’t wait until the sun’s up?” His voice is tight, more awake, annoyed.
“It’s a girl thing,” she mumbles, watches the way his toes wiggle against the floorboards.
“It’s a. Oh.” He makes an indistinct noise in his throat. “Um. And you. Uh. Can’t wait until later?”
“Interview,” she reminds him, chances a glance up, because he sounds more awkward than angry now. There’s enough light coming through the window over the stairs that she can see the red splashed across his cheeks. “And no, I can’t wait. I mean, I’m not going to explode or anything, but it’s not going to be pretty, and the liners I have right now will only last so long, and I need something heavier before we go, or it’s going to be a huge mess, and -”
“Stop talking,” Tom says, even redder than before, eyes a little too wide. Dougie shuts her mouth so hard her teeth click. She really needs to learn how to shut up. “Go - find shoes, or something,” he says. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Thank you thank you thank you,” she throws her arms around his neck and smushes a kiss to his cheek, relieved, laughs when he makes a face and rubs at it.
She tumbles down the stairs, remembering halfway down the first flight that Danny and Harry are still sleeping - the wankers - and tiptoes the rest of the way. She makes a bit of a production of it even though there’s no one to see her, just because she can. She pulls on her shoes and hovers by the door until Tom comes down, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt over his boxers, pulling a hoodie on over his head.
“Ready?” he asks, shoving his feet into his shoes and grabbing his keys off their hook.
“Yeah,” she nods, pulls the door open. “I kind of love you, Thomas Fletcher,” she tells him.
He rolls his eyes at her and heads for the car, but she thinks she can still see a flush on his cheeks as he walks past.
Boys, she thinks - thankful that at least he didn’t go mental on her for talking about her period - and grins as she follows him out to his car.