ikissdhimbck | AU: Western Texas - Gene Hunt

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AU: Western Texas - Gene Hunt - 1888

**NOTE: This is part of a plot arc that was meant to occur in Milliways over the Spring/Summer of 2011 in Bar Time. It has since become an AU, and should be treated as a standalone plot not associated with any game, and not fitting into Kate's continuity.**

A door opens out of thin air, admitting a pair of riders. The gentleman in proper Victorian dress astride a perlino gelding is the first to ride out, followed not long after by the woman on the starred bay. It's late April, and Texas lays open on every side of them. Behind them, to the north, is a low rolling mountain range leading to Kenedy; descending ahead is desert plain, pocked with scruff and scraggly trees. Some ways off to their left are train tracks.

It's midday. The sun is hot, but despite being a little muggy the air is withstandably balmy. It's just the way Kate left it when last she was here. She can even see the dust clouds Beaut kicked up still settling behind them. They're just south of Beeville now, and likely there ain't anybody from Kenedy still chasing after her.

She combs a few renegades from her messy braid back behind her ears, and sets her hat down on her head to ward off the winking sun. Glancing at Gene from the corner of her eye, she just manages to bite back a smirk.

"Home sweet home."

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He rolls his eyes at her nagging, and follows where she aims Beaut. He's glad Concession seems to want a drink and isn't giving him trouble, because it lets him look around again.

His first real Western town. And it looks exactly like he thought it would. Dusty, and wooden. Horse shit here and there, and every bloke's dressed more or less like him. He runs his tongue over dry lips, and reaches for his hip flask.

'We stoppin' here, there?'

He's dying for a fag, but he remembers as he automatically goes for them, that he can't.

'I need fags.'

It's ideal in that the town is already used to people riding in and out from all over. If they play their cards right, no one will even bat an eye.

"S'early. We can let the horses rest a spell an' continue on, or if things look agreeable take a peek inside," she says, nodding over her shoulder to the hotel entrance. "Might be easier on you, snaggin' us dinner, if y'find it in a hotel rather'n out on the range."

She winks, resettling her guns on her hips as she dismounts. She squints through the dust motes to the other side of the street where the apothecary is.

"Sure we can manage t'find you some tobacco, 'fore you go on and waste away on me."

Gene sends a look at her immediately.

'Easier on me. Do I bloody look like I need anyone t'go easy on me?'

That really is offensive. He's Gene Hunt, for God's sake.

Mind you, he is hungry. And his expression turns rather sly as he looks at her.

'Wouldn' do t'waste away, though. Might need t'keep me energy up, eh?'

Edited 2011-05-09 00:31 (UTC)

Her voice drops into an immediately stern hiss.

"You mind your tongue 'round here, Mr. Hunt. An' if we need board there will be two rooms, thank you."

Her cheeks color, nonetheless.

She holds herself back from leading the way across the street, keeping a demure pace at Gene's side. But hell if she'll keep quiet and let him do the talking for her once they're inside the stores.

Ah yes. The old 'I'm in charge' thing. Gene purses his lips and just looks at her evenly, processing. He'd agreed to it even though it didn't sit right - this is her world, after all, and he doesn't want to muck things up for her.

But God, that wasn't even a decent suggestive remark. Is she going to be that uptight the whole time?

'I never said anythin' different, did I?' he murmurs back. They're 'business associates'. He knows it has to be two rooms. He was only joking.

Y'know. Sort of.

He's thoughtful as they cross the street. It had never occurred to him that it might be so awkward, watching every word and being talked to like that by a woman. He took orders from people for years - in the Army, and then his superior officers in the force - he still does, occasionally. But it's different coming from her, especially with the promise of what's coming between them. Unless she's changed her mind again.

He holds the door open for her nonetheless. With a polite smile as well.

It's only a little bit sarcastic.

She hadn't really anticipated he'd listen. As they cross the boardwalk in noticeable silence, she sizes him up from the corner of her eye.

Her answering curtsy when he opens the door, too, isn't in the least salty.

This will be interesting.

"Howdy."

"Good afternoon," says Kate, her voice soft and prim. The shopkeeper is a round-faced man with rosy complexion and a drastically receding hairline. He speaks in a thick Texas drawl. "The gentleman would like to purchase some tobacco."

"Chewin', pipe, papers 'r cigar?" the man grins. "We got Long Nines, Pastes, Twofers, Half Spanish..."

Kate tugs off her gloves and glances up at Gene while the shopkeeper rambles on.

'I'm not smokin' a pipe,' he says eventually, cutting off the man's rambling when it gets to a point where he can no longer understand what he's saying.

'An' I hate that chewin' shite. Papers'll do. An' some cigars too.'

Damnit, he can't remember what they were all called. But he does know one brand from this time, something he read in an old magazine about cigars being two for a cent.

'Twofers. I'll have...twenty.'

Should keep him going. And if they taste like shit, he can just toss them. He's not going to cry over ten cents.

'And tobacco. To go in the papers.'

Years, years since he smoked rollies. He's willing to bet they don't sell Drum here neither.

He is very resolutely not looking at Kate through all of this.

Edited 2011-05-09 01:35 (UTC)

Kate will just be over here, admiring a few finely tooled snuffboxes.

The shopkeeper is momentarily taken aback by Gene's distinct out-of-town dialect. And then again when he places an order for twenty cigars.

"You two jus' ride in from somewhere?"

"East Texas," Kate offers, helpfully. She discretely brushes the side of her nose to hide her amused smile.

"...Right. Ah, how much tobacco will that be, sir?"

He hits on a solution. (Do they measure things in pounds and ounces here?)

'Enough t'last me abou' two weeks,' he says. Firmly. While eyeballing the man, as if daring him to go ahead and beg specifics.

Yes, he saw that smile Kate, thank you.

There's an old-fashioned scale on the counter, to answer Gene's question. The shopkeeper, however, takes the hairy eyeball at face value and nods briskly, assuming he's to figure out the specifics on his own.

"I take it y'ain't plannin' on stayin' with us here at Mineral City long, then?"

He lines the scale in brown paper and sets to doling out the tobacco. It comes out of a sack, rich and dark and pungent.

"We're just passin' through," Kate supplies.

"What's yer business?"

'Nothin' that's anythin' t'do with you,' he returns, watching the tobacco get spooned out. It smells lovely, but he's hardly going to point that out.

And the brusque reply is just a matter of course, really. He doesn't tend to share his private stuff, and just assumes Kate would feel the same way, given...well, everything.

And he's always been a bit rubbish at being undercover. It just doesn't sit naturally with him, deception.

Once again the shopkeeper looks startled. He glances up at the imposing Englishman.

"What my associate means," hurries Kate, stepping in with a gentle smile; "is we're veering from the beaten path for a spell. Headin' down to San Patricio to fetch our stock and run 'em up the Chisholm, but thought we might nose about over here a lil' while."

The tradesman relaxes some, switching his muddy brown gaze onto the friendlier (and better-looking) young blonde.

"Cattle." Another nod, as he finishes up Gene's order. "Don't see much of that out here."

"It was the stories of your fine establishment that drew us so far off course."

Kate can be charming when there's a call for it. She's pretty and well-bred, and men like that. Disingenuousness doesn't come to her naturally either, but folk around these parts ask questions. It's in their nature. And the less you leave them to speculate on, the less you'll have to worry about later.

The shopkeeper almost instantly relaxes, resuming his banter with a more agreeable partner. The paper bundle of tobacco is tied off with horsehair twine, and then wrapped with a count of twenty twofers and enough paper to last a decent smoker two weeks. By the end, Kate has even allowed herself to be talked into the purchase of an inexpensive turquoise hairpin.

"That should about do ya. Anythin' else?"

Gene looks from one to the other, not liking being ignored but understanding why he is. He should be more careful with how he speaks, probably.

'Yeah, tha's what I was sayin',' he interjects, then picks the parcels up.

'How much?'

"Seventy-five cents."

He rings up the sale on his polished brass register, and pays back the trouble of a little banter with some town gossip — where they should go if they're hunting for Mayor Malone; be sure Susan Sanford's the one they speak to about filling their canteens; don't bother with Mr. Coley if they can avoid it, he's just a soured old drunk.

"An' y'watch yourselves on that eastern road if yer travelin' after sundown. Indians come through that way, an' it's full'a lizards t'boot."

'Yeah?'

His ears perk up. He wants to see Indians!

...lizards, less so.

And seventy-five cents for all of this - ridiculous. And brilliant! He's so stocking up on stuff before they go back to the bar.

'Ta, mate. You comin', Ka...Miss Barlow?'

It doesn't occur to him to wonder whether he should use her name or not. She ued his, out there, so he's just returning it in kind. He has no solid reason to suspect it might not be a good idea.

It sends an uncomfortable pearl of ice down the back of her neck when he utters her name, but you'd never suspect that from the serene smile she flashes the both of them. There doesn't seem to be any recognition on the shopkeeper's face — only more confusion over the odd foreigner who seems to him a little too excited for such worrisome news and mundane chores — and so she goes with it.

"Thank you kindly; you've been most helpful."

She makes her way to Gene's side as they leave the shop. The dust in the late-day sun looks all the more thick after being inside; but there is a constant line of traffic down the thoroughfare, horses and foot traffic alike, bearing dowsing rods and sundries.

She glances at Gene.

"I'm gonna hafta learn you how t'speak Southern."

'Bollocks,' he says, mildly.

'Can' be that they've never heard an Englishman aroun' here before.'

Can it?

Mind you, he's not bad at accents. He could put one on! The idea amuses him, but not nearly as much as the thought of rolling his own cigarettes again. He hasn't done it in so long, he wonders if he remembers how.

'Does everyone in this time witter on like that? Reminded me of me Auntie Sheila. She never shuts up either.'

"Englishman aside, they ain't never heard you before."

Entirely different beast.

"He was bein' friendly."

Beat.

"An' nosy. An' suspicious. But that ain't so unusual. I haven't traveled much outside'a Green Lake, but I guess y'could say people are friendlier out this ways than in other places. Certainly more'n France."

She inclines her head politely as people pass by, uttering various salutations. The gentle elbow in Gene's side might just be encouragement for him to do the same.

"Y'might prefer 'em to the unfriendlier folk. We don't mess around in Texas. Now, could y'try a simple 'howdy'?" she asks, touching the brim of her hat to show him a traditional salutation.

She nudges him, but it still takes her saying it before he realises what she's on about. It's not so hard. People in England, in his time, do much the same thing, at least if you're in the residential bits as opposed to the centre.

So. He passes a bloke, who nods; he nods back.

'Alrigh'?'

And recieves a strange look in return.

'Twat,' he mutters, under his breath, and then glances at Kate.

'Everyone's a bastard in France. Dunno why you bothered goin' there.'

She's trying very, very hard to hold back her smile, but it's splitting her face regardless. She's laughing under her breath, tipping her face earthward in an attempt to keep from drawing attention.

"I was invited."

(He has a lot of learning to do. If she wasn't so very amused she might be trying harder to teach him.)

"An' it was lovely. Didn't really fit in, but I don't most places these days."

'Full of Frenchies though, innit?'

Surely enough to put anyone off.

He stops saying anything to people, and sticks to the occasional brusque nod. It seems safer.

'We goin' on, or stayin'?'

"As much as England is full'a the English," she counters airily.

She runs her hand along Beaut's damp coat, glancing at the hotel. She'd prefer to move on and make camp at dusk, but she knows it'll mean the difference between a soft bed and hard earth — and potentially between a satisfied belly and a hungry one — so she defers to Gene.

"Can't rightly decide. What would you like t'do?"

She keeps both expression and tone neutral. She's not oblivious to his discomfort at having to follow her lead, and while he's just going to have to get used to it, she's also willing to concede small decisions to him now and again.

For the sake of his pride.

His pride is grateful. When it's not being piqued by the notion that the English might be in any way like the French.

'S'early. I don' want t'stop yet.'

He hasn't nearly had his fill of the desert yet. Of course, it hasn't really occurred to him that here, they would get beds and lots of food. He may be thinking there'll be another town before nightfall, but most likely, he's just not thinking of anything but 'let's get back out there!'

He sees her glance at the hotel though, and misinterprets.

'Unless you want t'stay?'

She's a bird. She'll get tired quicker than him.

It's likely best for all parties involved — his pride included — that he keeps that thought to himself.

"I think y'have the right idea."

She tosses him a smile, letting her eyes linger on his for a shade longer than she typically might.

"I'll see about fillin' our canteens an' then we can start out again."

And that extended gaze right there is part of the appeal in moving on as well, he won't lie. So his lips purse and he nods, leaning against the wooden post where the horses are tied, so he can roll himself a fag.

'Hurry it up, then. Times a-wastin'.'

And the quicker she turns and walks off, the sooner he can ogle her arse.

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