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 hopes like hell she was talking about the first part. So he just cant his head to the side in acknowledgement, and smokes quietly, tamping down his libido up until she drops the thing on his chest.

'Wha's this?'

"S'for your tobacco."

She points to the band.

"You slip your papers 'tween there. Then y'just use the shaped end'a the lip so's y'can pour the tobacco in clean."

She runs her finger along the shaped leather to show him how there's a very vague spout, to make it easier for him to roll his cigarettes.

His eyebrows go up as he looks it over. It's a neat little thing.

'You carry one o'these around with you all the time?'

A smile paints her lips.

"Yep. 'Long with a pair'a spare boots. All the time."

It's a good thing he likes the desert. Her voice is just as dry as sun-baked leather.

For a moment, he just looks at her like she might be serious - well, she might carry spare boots around. They might be useful! If...a bit big for her.

And then he tells himself to stop being a twat, and rolls his eyes.

'Well, ta. It's nice. An' useful too.'

A genuine Wild West tobacco pouch. He'll only keep it forever.

She smiles.

"You're welcome."

Beat.

"I, uh. I'll clean up supper, an' get us some more wood. There's warm water by the fire for washin' up, if you..."

She nods, once.

'...you want me t'wash up?'

He looks at the plates with horror. Horror. He washes dishes approximately twice a year, when his mother and wife gang up on him. He didn't come out to the desert to become a girl.

She blinks in confusion, before following the angle of his gaze.

"I said I'll — "

And then she laughs.

The big baby.

"For washin' yourself up, y'big galoot."

'...oh.'

Well. That's fine then. He doesn't have a problem with that.

His eyes cut left, then right.

'Here?'

She simpers.

"Wherever y'like."

And with that, she gets to her feet and sets to her busywork.

He rolls his eyes.

He does that a lot around her.

The fag is finished, and tossed into the fire once more, then he eases himself up - that ground is hard, and yeah, he's going to be feeling all this in the morning - and finds some soap, and his toothbrush, in his pack.

'I'll keep the sight of my gorgeous self away from you, in case you can't keep your hands off it.'

If only. A sentiment which is probably conveyed quite nicely in his tone, as he takes his waistcoat off and drop it on his roll.

'Don' feel you have t'return the favour when it's your turn.'

And with that, he disappears into the dark for some privacy. More for her sake than his, it has to be said.

"Oh, Gene — "

She glances up, but he's already retreating outside the firelight's warm glow. She might should have told him not to wander too far from the light. No matter; this country isn't too overrun with Yellow Spotted Lizards.

Still, she'll be keeping both ears open for any signs of trouble.

He reckons he should've thought to bring a torch with him. Other than that, he's fairly oblivious to any possible trouble. His mind is more occupied with her, for obvious reasons.

So maybe he wanders around a bit before setting to taking his shirt off. It's hard to avoid the fact they're going to be spending the next few nights alone together, and if she's going to come over all...like she just was, it's going to be hard.

Difficult. It's going to be difficult.

He's washing the soap off when he hears it. A sound that everyone knows, no matter where they're from; an unmistakable rattle that is really close by.

'...shit.'

His gun is back by the fire, and it wouldn't be a lot of use if he had it, seeing as he can hardly see a damn thing. His hand gropes for his shirt on the ground, jerking back as it brushes something - a rock? Maybe. Maybe not.

And there it is again. It sounds closer, and he hasn't got a clue if legging it will make it more likely to attack, or if that's all it'll take.

'Kate?'

She's enjoying the solitude and relative quiet of camp while Gene's gone. This is... not quite as easy as she'd told herself it would be.

"Jesus, Kate."

She smooths her hand down her belly and pulls in a cleansing breath, dropping a meager armful of brush and twigs near the fire pit. She can count on one hand the number of time she's been alone with a man who wasn't Doc. She's so far outside her comfort zone, she's not sure what to do. Especially given how mixed up Gene can make her feel. If things go on like this, they're bound to get sticky.

Uncomfortable. They're bound to get uncomfortable.

The horses are making some noise, and so she steps over to investigate and soothe them. And then she hears him calling her name.

"Trouble?"

Her hand's already on her six.

He clears his throat quietly, in case a loud noise angers the thing.

'...if I run away from this rattlesnake, is it goin' t'run after me?'

Her eyes widen.

"Snake's don't technically run, they sl — "

You know? Now isn't the time.

"How far away is it?"

She's already picking her way towards him.

'Oh, I dunno. It's a bit dark over 'ere.'

He sounds nonchalant. He doesn't bloody feel it.

'About a metre?'

It makes its noise again. Somehow it's a lot more menacing in the flesh than in the movies.

Can't think why.

She's amazed at how calm he sounds.

"That's good."

She blinks to adjust her eyes, seeking out his silhouette.

"Y'still have on your boots, right?"

'...yeah.'

Does it matter?

And he can't for the life of him think why a metre would be 'good'.

'Can I move, or what?'

It matters if he values his ankles.

And, potentially, his life.

She's caught sight of him, and squints hard at the rocks and bushes that all look the same in the pale moonlight.

"Slowly."

She keeps her hands on her belt, creeping closer, looking for any signs of movement.

"Back away from 'im. Slowly."

'Bit difficult, that, seein' as I don' know where it is.'

It's hard to pinpoint the noise; as soon as he thinks it's obviously in front of him, he listens again and it seems to be behind. Either the thing is moving, or he's just second-guessing himself.

He can't just stand here though. So he...guesses. Or just assumes that it must be in front of him, and so starts to edge backwards.

'...shit!'

There's a clatter as he backs staight into the water he'd brought out from the fire.

Hopefully rattlesnakes don't freak out at loud clattering noises?

There's a whoosh.

And a strike.

Kate is about five feet to Gene's left, arm outstretched and palm open.

Her bowie knife is sticking out of the ground, buried in the meat four inches below the snake's head.

(It's rattle is still going.)

He stops still.

He knows what a thrown knife sounds like. He's had a couple tossed around near him in his lifetime, but never quite like that.

And the thing's still rattling.

'You get it?'

She's holding his lighter above her head. The little flame doesn't do much but cast more shadow; still, it catches the slithering body.

She doesn't answer. Straightening instead, she steps over and presses the head of the snake beneath the sole of her boot, taking the knife out of its body and cleanly cutting off its head.

"Yep."

She turns her overlarge eyes on him.

"You all right?"

He's cold, actually. And wet, and half covered with soap, with his shirt undone and stuck to him because of all the damp. And y'know. A bit spooked.

'...'course,' he says, like he's just lounging behind his desk at work, or something.

'...heard you can eat them.'

And, y'know. Thanks, Kate.

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