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

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He bends slightly, and kisses the top of her head with a small smile.

'Get goin' then. I'm right behind you.'

Literally.

"All right."

Her gaze trails from his eyes to his chin and back again, looking for ... she doesn't know what. She smiles tightly and pulls away from him, skipping every other button on her blouse for the sake of speed.

She steps out into the hall once she's back in order, walking with purpose even as her eyes are darting around for random passersby. There's someone at the base of the staircase, but they shouldn't be able to see her as long as she follows the wall.

Her fingers graze the horsehair plaster, burning the sensation into her skin.

She unlocks his door and slips in, takes a calming breath, and moves to light the oil lamp as she had done last night.

Gene is completely unfazed, even when the person at the bottom of the stairs starts coming up. He just locks her door quickly and leans against the wall, lighting up a cigar and looking for all the world like he's waiting for her to emerge. He gets a bit of a strange look from the man who walks by, but a glance at the door and a roll of eyes seems to translate through the centuries, and the bloke grins at him in understanding.

That little encounter out of the way, he just waits until he hears him go into another room, and then walks into his own.

She's still facing the oil lamp, her back to him when he enters. She's removing her blouse for the second time and the warm light is outlining her skin, painting a halo around her silhouette. She glances over her shoulder, letting the fabric collect on the floor.

He stops by the doorway, leans on the wall again and pulls on his cigar, taking a moment to appreciate the view. She makes a pretty picture and he can feel himself start to heat, the anticipation stepping up a notch. After a moment, when his eyes rake over her, up and down, he turns back and locks the door behind them.

The cigar gets stubbed out, and somewhere on the way over to her the waistcoat hits the floor and the rest of his shirt buttons get flicked open. His hands come to rest lightly on her shoulders befores sliding down her arms and stopping on her hips.

'Sure this time?'

She turns in his embrace, keeping her eyes on his as her thumbs trace the edge of his suspenders. She carefully, purposely pushes them from his shoulders.

"Are you?"

'Yeah.'

He was sure last time, but there's no way even he's going to say that.

The suspenders drop, and his fingers bunch in her chemise, pull it upwards. When it's over her head and off, he leans down to kiss her. It's gentle but insistent, no hesitation in it.

Her shoulders tense when he pulls her chemise off. It's brighter in this room than it was at the campsite, and Kate's not wholly used to being fully exposed to a man. Once in bed, with sheets and covers to hide in, sure. But not with lamplight to pick up her every curve, her every flaw.

Though, any tension that forms quickly dissipates when he kisses her. She relaxes into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and kisses him back. Relieved, letting out a soft moan — and a smile pulls at her lips.

She pulls his shirt free of his waistband and pushes it off his body, licking her lips when they break.

"You were right. That is good whiskey."

'Should've took more off 'em an' bought two.'

He lets go of her just long enough get the shirt off his arms, and to yank his vest over his head because there's no need for clothes right now. It gives him a chance to look her over properly, pouting with approval. Though he does frown at the bullet scar on her arm, now he's looking at it in the light. But it's another story for another time. He doesn't want to hear anything that might spoil this now.

His hand pulls up her stomach and cups her breast, and he's licking his lips too but it's not to taste whiskey.

'You are bloody gorgeous.'

"I'll hafta write 'em a nice thank-you note."

She only gives him enough room to rid himself of his undershirt, hands and mouth and body sticking close to the warmth pouring off him.

She smiles, a quick flash of white before she dips her head, and the tips of her ears turn rosy.

"Keep sayin' things like that..." she hums, index fingers hooking the waistband of his trousers; "an' I'll get the impression y'like me or somethin'."

He glances down at her hands, half-smiling himself.

'Keep those fingers goin', an' you'll find something that'll take away all doubt.'

And he figures he might as well take his own hint. She really doesn't need to have those trousers on, does she? Of course not. He kisses her as he looks for the buttons on them, distraction in case she freaks out again maybe, or possibly because he just likes kissing her.

Half her mouth moves upward, a quiet chuckle spilling out between them. She's about to make a reply when she feels his skin sliding across her waist, and then his mouth descends on hers.

He won't have to worry much. Her whole demeanor is different from what it was last night, and rather than pull away she does just what he suggested. She finds the clasp to his pants.

There isn't the same level of desperation to the way she responds to him. She's taking her time, moving slow and methodically, letting him lead without being led along.

'I think,' he murmurs, barely moving his mouth from hers, 'that we'd be best served movin' this t'the bed.'

Seeing as her trousers are dropping down her legs and all. His hands find silk, and he pulls his head back to look, letting out a long breath. Women should always wear silk.

She draws back slightly, tilting her head to follow the slant of his eyes. She pulls in a breath.

Her fists curl around his slackened suspenders, right where they cinch to his trousers. She steadies herself as she steps out of her britches, and kicks them aside. And then she looks up at him through her lashes, takes a step backwards, and pulls him along after her.

"I got all dressed up for you last night, an' here I am plain."

He refrains from saying that it wasn't him that wasted the dress last night, because he's not going to waste this now.

'I'm a bloke, luv. When it comes to bedtime, it don' matter what you wear.'

Preferably nothing, of course.

He follows her willingly, his eyes firmly on her arse the whole time. When she reaches the bed, he leans down past her to pull the covers back so she can sit down. It suddenly feels surreal. This is actually happening.

'Blimey,' he mutters, and then a grin starts to spread across his face. His boots get pulled off and tossed away carelessly, and then he just stands and looks at her, grinning like a loon.

'Took us long enough, eh?'

She pauses to let him turn down the covers, but doesn't sit down just yet. She watches him kick off his boots, carelessly yanking the stockings off her legs.

"Y'look like you've jus' mined your weight in gold."

It's said through a grin to match, though she is trying to sound put off. Surreal doesn't say the half of it. It's so thought out, so planned, and yet the two of them finally getting around to agreeing on something doesn't seem ... right. She's completely out of her element.

But then, that's all right.

She reaches up to take the pins out of her hair and then changes her mind halfway, bringing her hands back down to his hips. She keeps her eyes on his as she finally decides to sit, pulling his slackened trousers down with her as she goes.

'Happy t'be here.'

He likes sex. He likes her (when she's not being a pain in the arse). Seems like a good time to him.

When his trousers come down, he automatically puts a hand over the bulge - protection instinct, or maybe just checking it's still there. It occurs to him that with her sitting there like that, she's at just the right level to...no. He can't ask that right off. She's not a prozzie.

This is weird. But not a bad weird. Just weird.

He sits next to her instead, and gets rid of the trousers and his socks. Right then. He's sitting in a room in the Old West, in 1888, in nothing but pants and his gold chain with a Yank girl who probably doesn't know the meaning of the word blowjob. She thinks she's out of her element?

He looks sideways at her, and grins again. It's like being twenty again, and working out how to do it with a good girl instead of one of the slappers in the working mens clubs of a Saturday night.

'Lie down, luv.'

God, what is that awful thing he's wearing around his neck? She can't keep her eyes off of it for a time. It's mesmerizing, the jokes about his masculinity springing to her mind with such alacrity she almost starts laughing again.

But she resists. Like a trooper, she resists.

There is, however, a smile on her face as she finally starts to unpin her hair.

"You first."

His eyebrows raise. He wasn't expecting that. Truth be told, he was expecting her to be a lot more nervous than she appears. But he's glad she's not. That look on her face is interesting.

'Bossy mare,' he tells her, and crawls up onto the bed behind her, sprawling out on his back in his usual space-stealing way. He's completely unselfconscious, resting his head on one bent arm, though the other hand stays close to the family jewels. For no particular reason, just that a hand is never too far away from them at any given time. He is male, after all.

He watches her hair fall. He likes long hair on a woman. It makes them look feminine, reminds the world that there are prettier things in it than all the stinking blokes he spends every spare minute with. Sometimes it's nice to look at long blonde hair down a naked back, especially when the bird in question is about to get her knickers off.

He reaches out and catches a lock of it, runs it briefly between his fingers.

'S'nice.'

She lets him get away with the name calling. It's becoming more and more an endearment, rather than an insult.

"You'll have your turn."

Maybe.

She sets her hairpins on the closest surface, surprised to feel his hand in her hair as she's turning to him. She doesn't move for a moment, save to reach for his hand. Her expression softens.

It is nice.

She presses her lips to his fingers, and then eases herself down on her hands and knees. She slips one leg between his, stretching herself out over his body until she can just touch his lips with her own, hair curtained to the side of their faces.

He lets out a small murmur of appreciation at the feel of her leg pressing against him. His free hand runs down her back, feeling the ridges of her spine, the sharp edge of her shoulderblade. He pulls his nails lightly over it, and moves his head up just a fraction to kiss her lightly; his wandering fingers find the band of her knickers.

'Take 'em off, sweet'eart,' he says quietly, the fingertips dipping underneath and stroking her skin.

'Let me see.'

She sucks in a sharp little breath when she feels his nails scratching across her skin, and arches her back ever so slightly.

She opens her eyes as he starts talking, the sharp blue irises dark with excitement. For a moment she only searches out his face, letting his words settle over her like molasses. She shifts against it, mired and slow, sticky and warm.

He isn't shy, and for the first time tonight she loses a bit of her confidence. But only for a moment. She swallows to moisten her throat, and rolls her hips carefully to encourage his hands lower.

Shifting her knees underneath her, she hooks her thumbs in the waistband and encourages the silk down her thighs, past milky white scars and smooth skin, holding his eyes as she works to kick the fabric to the floor.

His eyes run down her body slowly, that one hand resting on her naked hip. His lips purse and he shifts a little, starting to swell in anticipation. The arm he's been resting his head on comes free and it joins the other on her body, stroking his thumb over a nipple, light as anything, while the other rubs a small circle on her inner thigh.

'Like I said. Gorgeous.'

He means it too. Scars mean nothing to him except curiousity to be dealt with later. The knot of excitement forming at the base of his belly needs to be nurtured first.

'You OK? Not scared?'

He wants her to enjoy it. And wants to know how careful he's got to be. It seems easier to ask than to make a mistake at some crucial point.

"'Course I'm scared."

She's terrified, deep down. As much as she wants to believe that she has this all figured out, that last night was just a test run that didn't go well and now, this, is precisely what she's been wanting, she can't. Her mind keeps drifting to last night, to this morning, to his empty room and her empty heart. A little voice keeps nagging at the back of her mind, asking her if she really knows what the hell she's doing. Her mind has drifted to Doc a dozen times, and she's ripped it right back to this. Here and now. And though she sounds nonchalant, inside she's a maelstrom of uncertainty.

"But I'm not gonna tell you that."

Her lips twitch just barely, hinting at a joke that's only half-funny if you tilt your head and squint. She drops her head and kisses him, one after another. Not particularly forceful, but insistent. She's okay. He doesn't have to treat her like a china doll.

The kisses do more to convince him than the words, and they have the added bonus of being distracting. And it's OK,'now she's said that. He's not going to keep asking. She's showing him she's alright, and that's good enough for him.

He presses for a deeper kiss, and the hand on her leg moves upwards to start stroking between them, nice and easy, just like they started off that night by the campfire. That had been good. He's really bloody hoping this'll be better. He's told her it will be enough times, he'll feel stupid if he's wrong.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject