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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'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.'

"Thank you. I forgot I gave you my matches."

'Gave', 'threw at' — same difference.

"You'll hafta get 'em watered an' fed. Don't mind cookin' us up somethin', though you'll still owe me a dinner."

She smiles serenely.

He catches her eye, and holds it there for a moment in the fading light.

'I'll buy you dinner when we stop in town. Proper date, like.'

He says it like it's not up for argument. And it isn't, for two reasons - one, that in this Thing they have, he's learned that one of them has to make a definitive move any time they want to get anywhere; and two, he can't cook worth a damn. He could pour beans into a can, and they'd burn. And he literally couldn't do anything else. Fry an egg, maybe.

That sobers her up quicker than a thunderbolt. She holds his gaze, blinking a time or two before she finds the words to answer.

"Oh.

"Okay."

She smiles a bit softer, less playful arrogance and a touch more shyness.

She drops her attention to the lighter.

"Lemme know if y'need any help with them."

'Yeah.'

He looks away, then back at her, then walks off. That pause there, that look on her face - he's not sure whether that means there's been another change of heart, or if she's just working herself up about all that 'curse' crap again.

Concession and Beaut are far less complicated, even if Beaut does seem to disapprove of the way he untacks her. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised. The animal is female, after all.

Edited 2011-05-10 23:23 (UTC)

Kate's eyes follow his silhouette as he retreats, lingering at the curve of his jaw and his neck before finally falling away.

Setting up camp has become such a routine that she can do it without much thought; which is convenient, given she can't seem to concentrate on much other than the pleasant little bundle of nerves in her belly.

Dinner is simple: pork and beans with a few buttermilk biscuits. She sets a pot of water going for coffee (and for washing), and sets out the bedrolls and nightly supplies before the last hint of daylight has left the sky.

He's not quite as easy with the horses; getting the tack off properly isn't too hard even in the failing light, and giving them a rubdown doesn't take long. But he's never fed a horse before, and doesn't really want to go rifling through her stuff looking for food.

'What d'they eat, then?' he calls out, looking at the saddlebags dubiously.

'Distinct lack of grass aroun' here.'

"There's feed in that bag there by your feet," she calls back, gesturing with her chin. "They'll graze a bit on the brush overnight. It ain't so tender as what they're used to at the bar, but it'll suit them 'til we next hit water."

She made sure Beaut and Concession both had more than their share of good hay before they left the bar this morning, so they should do fine with what they've snagged over the course of the day.

"We're headin' for wet country soon."

'What, in Texas?'

That doesn't tally with what the movies have taught him. At all. Still, he shoots her a disapproving look - that she won't be able to see, given the light and the way he's facing away - and gets on with feeding the mounts. He makes quick work of it because he's bloody hungry himself, and his muscles definitely want to lie down.

'Wha's for tea?' he asks, unceremoniously, as he ease himself down on to one of the bedrolls, and lights another tag.

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