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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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.

She smirks, watching him carefully from the corner of her eye.

"Texas is a big place, honey."

Once he's settled, she passes over a plate of food. Sure, it doesn't look like much; but it'll taste good, so long as Gene doesn't have an aversion to pig meat. Kate's fairly confident that won't be a problem, given the way he was tucking in to a full English breakfast not too long ago. She takes a biscuit off a pot lid where she'd been warming them, and adds it to his plate.

"I know it ain't much, but it should hold you over t'mornin'."

Beat.

"Y'want some coffee?"

'Aye, ta. An' it looks grand.'

Gene is, in no way, a fussy eater. Unless he thinks something's foreign (this does not include curry). This is probably obvious by the way he tucks in. Who knew sitting on a horse could be so tiring, and make you so hungry?

'We anywhere near the Rio Grande?'

"Mm, not very," Kate answers after swallowing, licking the corner of her mouth. "We're mostly in the middle of the low country, I reckon. Closer t'the sea than Mexico."

She watches him quietly, a thoughtful smile on her face. He'll sleep hard tonight, no doubt.

"We keep goin' west an' south, we'll hit it eventually. But that could take a while. Why d'you ask?"

'No reason. It's jus' famous, that's all.'

He scoops up some beans, then pauses as something scuttles across the ground close to his foot. Some sort of lizard, by the look of it. Interesting.

He stuffs the fork in his mouth, and eyes her speculatively over the fire.

'It goin' t'get much colder?'

"Famous even in your time an' place?"

She takes her sweet time in answering his last question, not bothering to hide her grin.

"Very likely. I'll gather up s'more tinder 'fore we turn in t'keep the fire goin'." She gestures to the low flames with her three-pronged fork. "It'll help keep the critters away, too."

You know. In case he's worried about that.

'Yeah. s'legendary.'

If you like Westerns, that is. Or the desert, or big rivers.

'Only bugs, aren' they?' Nothing to mither about.

Beat.

'Can think of better ways to keep warm.'

Just sayin'.

"Legendary."

She smiles dryly, and shakes her head.

"Do they make movin' pictures 'bout that, too? The 'legendary' great rivers of America?"

Her eyes dance with mischief.

There's a pregnant pause.

"Are you suggestin' we cuddle?"

She might be teasing, but he still nods.

'Rio Grande. 1950. Starred John Wayne. Not bad, as it happens.'

Not that it was about the river, exactly.

And his eyes are indignant, and...also a bit shifty.

'No! Gene Hunt does not bloody cuddle.'

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