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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

She chucks a matchbox at him before she saunters off, leaving him to watch the horses.

(And her ass.)

It takes her a little longer than usual to finagle getting water for the both of them in this place, but she doesn't linger. Lord knows what manner of disaster she'd come back to if Gene was left to his own devices for too long.

They mount up and head out with little fuss, riding well past the point when the last copper sliver of sun has sunk below the dancing horizon. Periwinkle and and grey have begun to sneak into the sky.

They come upon a little gulch by an outcropping of red rock. It's not much, but it'll make a decent camp.

Well past the point of sundown, yes. Well past the point of him having a comfortable arse, too. Not that he's going to say that, obviously, but he thinks she could have warned him that sitting in a saddle this long would hurt so damn much.

'Unless you're hidin' a couple of torches in themm bags of yours, hadn' we better stop before there's nothin' t'see but the dark?'

It is beautiful, though, sunset in the desert. Another thing he won't be saying, but he's definitely bloody appreciating it.

"That's jus' what I intend t'do."

She dismounts, punctuating her point.

'Right.'

He dismounts too.

And then wishes he'd turned Concession away, so he was standing more or less out of view of her when he did so. Because, ow. And his legs won't go straight.

'I'm bow-legged. You've made me go bandy!'

Also, ow. Did he mention the ow? Ow.

She glances up —

— and bursts into peals of laughter.

"You'll straighten up."

Eventually.

Hopefully.

"Jus' take a few steps t'stretch your legs a bit."

She ties Beaut to a yucca, and moves in the direction of a scraggly little bush to see about finding some tinder. Not purposely flaunting the fact that she can move at the moment, of course. That's just serendipity.

'Tart,' he mutters to himself, and hobbles over to tie Concession up as well. It doesn't make a noticeable difference at first, but he walks around in circles a bit, and it does ease after a while.

Still, he leans on the rock and sparks up one of his own fags. He's pretending to watch her...well, no, he is watching her. It's just also a cover for squeezing his muscles out.

'You'll have t'massage the kinks out of me.'

He can hope.

She's dug a shallow fire pit by that point, and is trying to spark up the tinder to get some light and heat going. The desert can get rather cool at night, and though they may not need the fire now they'll be glad for it once they've gone to sleep.

She glances up and smirks crookedly, not deigning to respond.

"It'll be easier tomorrow."

That is, in fact, a lie.

As far as he's concerned, that wasn't a no.

'C'mere. Dozy tart, why don' you just ask?'

For his lighter, he means. He limps over and offers it down to her. He does think maybe he'd like to do it the old-fashioned way at some point, but it doesn't have to be tonight.

Stretching hurts. He does it anyway, then rubs his hand over his face.

'You makin' dinner? I can sort the horses.'

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