ikissdhimbck | AU: Oakville, Texas. The morning after.

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AU: Oakville, Texas. The morning after.

**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.**

Kate doesn't sleep well. Once she gets to her room and undresses (for the last time tonight), slips on her chemise, and slides into bed (alone), she finds she can't stop playing their conversation out again and again. As she stares at the ceiling in her darkened room, driving their words so deep into her memory it'll be a while yet before she can erase them, she finds herself growing more and more agitated.

Stupid man.

Stupid drink.

Stupid her.

She wakes up later than she normally does. The light outside her window is already starting to yellow, hinting closer to seven o'clock than to six. She rises and gets dressed, mind still cranking, making sure she looks a smidgen more 'respectable' than when they first rode in. More womanly. More businesslike. And by the time she's finished she has a rehearsed speech all set in her mind. This constant arguing is pointless, and she won't do it anymore.

She steps out into the hall, catching sight of her wearied boots on worn and shabby carpeting. The rug was likely quite fine in its day, but like the knotted old wood it's trying to hide it's grown bedraggled and thin. She contemplates knocking on his door and quickly dismisses the idea. Her day doesn't hinge on whether or not Gene Hunt is happy with her.

She makes her way down to the dining room where the senorita from yesterday is cleaning shot glasses and tumblers, asks for a hot breakfast, and sits herself down at a table.

"Has my associate been down this mornin'?"

"No, ma'am. Only you."

Kate nods.

And waits.

By noon Gene still hasn't come down. She wonders if this is ordinary for him, but she's run out of reasons to linger in the bar without looking like a fool. She leaves a few coins for the barmaid, and debates whether she should go on and head out and just hope he gets the idea whenever he comes to. No. Things are mendable, ignorable, and shouldn't be left to fester simply because of their pride.

She scales the stairs and stops in front of his door, takes a breath, and resists rolling her eyes. She reminds herself that this is the last time this is going to happen. By god, this is the last time. And she knocks.

There's no answer.

She knocks again.

Perhaps he slipped out early, and no one noticed he left? She figures he wouldn't bother to tell her, especially if he's upset about last night. He could've just decided to take a look around town, or —

Her heart sinks.

Or he could've gone back to The Bar.

She opens his door — it's unlocked, just like he said it would be — and takes a look inside.

"Gene?"

He's definitely not here. Perhaps it should be comforting to note that his bags are still in the room. It doesn't look like he bothered to pack or clean up. But he's gone, along with his coat, which leaves only two equally unhappy possibilities. He's gone back to Milliways, left, had enough of her and this; or he's out, and likely been out all night. All night with...

She rubs at her forehead. Sighs heavily. Sits on the edge of his bed and just... just sits.

Her rehearsed apology and the amendment she planned to offer suddenly feel utterly childish. She feels utterly childish, for so whole-heartedly believing she was going to set things right. For actually believing, after so many failed attempts to overcome her doubts, her worries, this — this curse she can't ignore despite how fervently people tell her to, that she could get it together long enough not to mess another good thing up.

She considers feeling angry. For the briefest second, she does. But then all she feels is disappointed. It was never going to be part of the deal to let him in enough for her to get hurt. She wasn't going to care when everything went to hell. And eventually it would, she knew that, and that was okay. It is okay. This all blew up in their faces, just like it was always going to. And she's still okay with it. It's fine.

Just don't mind the gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach.

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The attempted punch doesn't connect, as he'd been expecting it. He has done this one or two times before. So Mr. Quinn gets ranked forward suddenly and then slammed back again to disorientate him, then turned around, face pressed into the wood and the barrel of the gun in his ear. Gene leans almost his whole weight into the guy's back, in case there's any more attempts at bravery.

'You listen close, you poncey wanker. I'm bettin' those men in there take orders from you. When you wake up, you're gonna tell them that if they so much as look at that woman wrong again, I'm gonna take a brick t'their faces until not even their mothers'd recognise 'em. You get me? Might even let her finish 'em off an' believe me when I say, I don' reckon they'd like that much.'

He wonders what Kate would do. Probably something far more subtle than beating the living crap out of them, but he can live with that.

'We on the same page, pal?'

He's seeing stars until he's face first in splinters, gritting his teeth. Gene might have him pinned, but he doesn't have him pegged.

"Do yourself an' that lil' bitch a favor, and worry 'bout your own neck! 'Cuz when you next see me I'm gonn' cut you from ear t'ear, an' if I don't, then one'a them boys inside will, and I'll be sure an' tell 'em not to finish you off until they've made you watch while they show your boss a good time!"

He sounds like every caught criminal Gene's ever encountered; only difference is, he has no doubt this bloke means what he says. But that's alright, because he wasn't joking about the brick either.

He uncocks his gun, and swivels it around in his hand.

'One hand on her. You remember.'

He doesn't hit him hard enough to induce amnesia. He thinks. But it's a satisfying enough thud when the butt meets the side of his head, and he makes a nice heap on the ground. And with that taken care of, he strolls back into the bar and the three thugs at the table, his gun loose in his hand.

'Your boss'll have a message for you boys when he wakes up. I suggest you listen to him, for your own good.'

He reaches over and picks up five dollars of chips from the pile in front of one of them.

'I'll get her a present from you, t'say sorry. An' I'd advise stayin' away from her in future. Where I come from, it isn' nice to treat women like you boys jus' did, an' I won't be so polite about it if you try it again.'

One of the men stands up, four inches shorter than Gene but broad in the shoulders and tough in the face, his grizzled mouth set in a hard line. The other two follow, the sounds of chair legs scuffling against the floorboards, boot heels grinding in the sawdust.

They all square up to Gene, young men the three of them, rough; not yanking out their guns, but keeping their hands near the grips so he knows they could. The whole room is filled with unfriendly faces, and right now they're all staring at Gene. Not that anyone other than the three would bother stepping in, but the threat is there.

And that's all that matters.

It's a silent invitation to git while the gitting is good. If he lingers, then things are going to get a lot more rowdy real, real soon.

He can take a hint. He's said all he came to say anyway. So - of course - he doesn't put the gun away, but he does tip his hat.

'Be seein' you, lads. Behave yourselves.'

He doesn't dally on the way back to the hotel, but he does take a roundabout route in case they've got the wherewithal to try and follow him. It'll be easy enough for them to find out where he's staying; hell, the place isn't big enough to really lose anyone following anyway. But he does his best, ruminating all the time on whether he should make Kate leave tonight instead of staying a while. He doubts she'd go, though. Maybe.

First thing he does when he gets back is take that bath, scrubbing away the remnants of last night. Then he goes looking for her.

By the time he gets back she has already retired to her room. Both oil lamps are lit, placed side-by-side on the dry sink. She's got the one little wooden chair dragged out into the middle of the room near the source of light, so she can sit and mend her blouse.

Her hair is pinned back and she's only in her undergarments, save for a clean pair of britches. The cotton shift she slept in last night is thrown over a screen in the corner of the room, and she has a fresh blouse hung nearby for whenever Gene comes to call.

She supposes it hasn't been very long, but she worries after him all the same. Nothing good ever comes from when he's being cryptic.

He knocks quietly, scrubbing away water from his neck because his hair's still damp. He's got a good bottle of whiskey in one hand, and two glasses, just in case she feels like a nightcap.

He also has no expectation of anything, not least because he's not sure he wants anything. But she's got something to say, and he has to tell her a bit about what just happened so here he is, knocking on her door.

"Who is it?"

She already has a pretty good idea, but it would be foolish not to check.

'Jane Fonda on the hunt for men.'

Good old Phyllis. If he has to borrow someone else's cheeky retorts, hers are always first up.

'Who'd you think it is, you dozy mare?'

"All right, all right."

She swallows back the sarcasm dancing on the tip of her tongue, already halfway through buttoning up her blouse by the time he's finished grumbling.

"Jus' a minute."

She gets everything tucked in and smoothed into place, and unlocks her door. Her eyes dart from his face to the whiskey in his hand, and then to the hallway to make sure no one's loitering about.

"C'mon in, then."

He doesn't hesitate, in case someone is loitering about, and sits himself down on the chair without waiting for an invitation.

'Drink?'

She closes the door, slowly following after him.

"Not right now, thank you."

He gets a quick once-over. He may certainly be looking livelier than he did before, but there's still no telling what he was up to.

"Feelin' any better?"

'Shame. It's a present from those blokes who messed with you.'

So now she knows where he was.

...and just because it's her present (he spent the whole five bucks on it, even), that clearly doesn't mean he's not helping himself to it.

He ignores the question. He's pretty sure he never said he was suffering from the hangover, even though it was obvious.

She stiffens quicker than frog legs in freezing water.

"You didn't."

He says nothing. Just has a drink, watching her over the rim, and then puts the glass down silently without removing his gaze.

What did she think he was going to do, ignore it? Not a chance.

Her mouth starts to form his name, and then stops.

She steps toward him.

"What happened?"

'I told their boss if they ever touched you again, I'd smash their faces in with bricks. Then bashed 'im on the head, nicked some of their cash as compensation, an' came back here.'

He makes it sound like he's kidding, but...well.

He's only telling her at all because they'll need to be even more careful now. But it wasn't like the bloke wasn't pissed off with them to start off with.

'We could leave if you're nervous, but I'd rather not.'

He's never run from anyone. Not since he was thirteen.

"Nervous?"

She almost hits him. The stupid... stupid...

"Argh, Gene!"

She takes him by either side of the face, her touch much gentler than he might expect from her body language. For all of the emotions whipped up inside of her right now, she doesn't actually look angry. She looks worried.

"I told you it was nothin'."

'Three blokes agains' one woman? Tha's never 'nothin'.'

He won't stand for it. Even if he didn't care about her, he wouldn't stand for it.

And he doesn't pull away from her touch. Just looks up at her with unapologetic blue eyes, too spent from last night to get wound up about much.

"They barely touched me."

Pulled at her clothes a bit, teased her, made her fall flat on her backside but that was after her temper started flaring.

"I did worse t'them, if y'noticed. I have a mean right hook when I'm angry."

A black eye and a broken nose for the fella that spoiled her good blouse seemed only fair. But she knew when to back down and leave.

"They didn't lay a hand on you?"

'Didn' give 'em the chance, luv.'

He doesn't care what she did to them. It's the principle. Three of them willing to gang up on her is enough to rile them; that they actually touched her means they automatically qualify for a kicking.

'It don' matter. Jus' keep an' eye out if you step out withou' me.'

"An' what about you?"

Her thumb brushes over his cheek.

"I can't imagine they're happy with you now. Who's gonna be watchin' your back?"

It's almost a rhetorical question. Kate will, obviously.

Every step of the way.

'Big enough an' ugly enough t'take care of meself.'

He still doesn't pull away from her touch. He's quite enjoying it, as it goes.

"Three men against a big, ugly galoot still ain't fair."

There's no malice in her voice, no reason to think she in any way means to insult him.

"It'll be four, now. If not more."

She frowns, resisting the sudden urge to sink into his lap and embrace him. Her voice drops an octave.

"I can be pretty ugly when I need t'be, y'know."

'I doubt that.'

She's not ugly no matter how much he looks at her, or how often she pisses him off.

(Yeah, he knows she doesn't mean it that way, but that's what he's thinking anyway.)

'I'd do the same thing again.'

Doesn't matter how many of them there are.

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