ikissdhimbck | AU: Oakville, Texas; for Gene Hunt.

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AU: Oakville, Texas; for Gene Hunt.

**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.**

It's still dark outside when Kate wakes. The room is bathed in warm lamplight from the oil that was left burning overnight, but through the window she can see the first hint of dawn.

It's not the first thing she sees. She finds herself pressed to a warm body, naked and masculine, and feels totally disoriented. For the briefest, cruelest second she believes she's with Doc, his scarred arms wrapped around her middle; and then the heat of the room registers, thick and heavy, and she's brought back to Texas.

Back to Gene.

She blinks slowly, butterfly kisses against his breast, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Her mind is trapped in a haze of sticky dreams and clutching memories, unable to shake them even as the wheels start going. She tips her head back, and watches him sleep.

It seems like hours later, but really it's only a matter of minutes when she shifts away from him. She's taking care not to wake him at first, but the moment she moves her legs — good god, is she sore.

How she manages to get out of bed without waking him is a mystery. How she manages to quietly get dressed when every inch of her feels like it's been crushed by a boulder is another honest mystery. At least he's a heavy sleeper, and by the time she's snuffed out the lamp and rid the room of every last trace of her, light is starting to turn yellow while he slumbers on.

She gets to her room without anybody noticing, but doesn't stay long. She's in desperate need of a long, hot bath. She changes clothes, uses the basin and a small chunk of soap to try and mask the smell of sex, tidies her hair and goes downstairs to see the innkeeper.

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She shoots him with a flat look.

"I ain't the one entertainin' more'n one potential."

And, perhaps because he's not so far off in thinking she can be cruel when she wants to, she gives the bulge in his pants a quick squeeze before turning to face the window.

But Kate's fine with him doing whatever (and whomever) he likes. Honestly. No jealousy here.

He blinks.

'I bloody am...'

And then she squeezes him and he's shocked into silence for a moment. But just a moment.

'...not entertainin' 'more than one potential'. I told you, I was coverin'.'

He'd go and molest her a bit more, but he's a bit put out by that comment, and anyway, she seems a bit interested in whatever's going on out there. So he sighs (loudly, and dramatically), and lights a cigarette with a pointed snap of his Zippo.

'In your own time, luv. Wouldn' wan' t'distract you from the matter at hand.'

"Gene."

She sighs, and grabs him (gently) by the jowls, directing his attention outside.

"Look."

His young friend, the cattleman, is walking down the street. A man of forty, limping a sight and leaking blood from his forehead, is leaning heavily on one of the young man's shoulders. They, along with scattered groups, are heading toward the town square.

Kate allows the lace curtains to fall back into place and turns to the room, tightening the laces of her corset.

He looks.

And frowns.

'...right then. Let's go an' see what's goin' on. An' then come back up here.'

He is all about compromise. Also, now he's just as curious as she is.

She smirks.

Compromise, right.

"Try t'restrain yourself out there, Gene."

She finishes up the last button on her blouse and quickly catches him by the arm, her fingertips pressed gently to the crook of his elbow.

"Those men from last night could be hangin' around out there somewhere. I don't want any trouble."

Which is her heavy-handed way of saying she'd like him to stay in one piece. Ain't nobody's going to be reducing him to pieces but Kate, and hopefully for entirely different reasons.

'You make me soun' like a racehorse that might bolt any second,' he tells her, with (entirely faked) wounded pride.

'An' if they're around somewhere, then we'll deal with 'em.'

Beat.

'Are we goin' right now? Only I've got a semi on, an' I'd rather not display it in front of an entire town.'

She says nothing in response to his first comment. Doesn't really have to, anyway. The crooked little smirk on her face says it all.

Well, aren't you?

Her brow furrows. She drops her gaze.

"Oh."

That could be problematic, then.

He rolls his eyes, and sucks in a lungful of smoke.

'Go on down. I'll meet you out there in five minutes. You can tell me what's goin' on if I miss any good bits.'

"Sorry."

She doesn't sound — or look — the least bit sorry. It would seem Gene's not the only one here who can be smug.

"Whatever y'do," she mutters, pressing a kiss to his throat; "do it in your own room."

Kate really doesn't want to know.

His eyes go wide.

'You depraved little...I'm not abou' t'waste it by wanking.'

She didn't want to know? Sorry, Kate. He doesn't understand the concept of 'oversharing'.

'You can take care of it later. Now g'on, or it'll never go away.'

She's already heading for the door, so at least she doesn't need an excuse to turn away before he can see the color creeping into her cheeks.

'Wanking'. How very vulgar.

"All right, all right. I'm goin'."

If he dares to bring up embarrassing her or chasing her off later, she'll deny it to her last breath.

He grins at her retreating back - half the reason he says things like that to her is because he likes finding out what makes her blush. And he didn't see one there, but he's willing to bet she was cringing a bit.

Still, thinking about this isn't helping the matter at hand (as it were), so he tries not to think about it. This whole encounter is just on hold as far he's concerned, and they'll pick it up as soon as her curiousity is satisfied as to what's going on out there. And he's interested too, despite himself. So he takes up a station by the window again, smoking another cigarette and watching the crowd forming. He can't hear what they're saying, but he can see the older bloke who was bleeding, and he doesn't look too clever.

It doesn't take much of a jump for his mind to land on the men who roughed up Kate yesterday. Blokes who'd gang up on a girl like that haven't got much call to complain when people think them guilty of things. But then again, this is the Old West. Lots of rough people out here.

Only one way to find out. As soon as he's sure he's not going to put on an inappropriate display for the townsfolk, he heads out to join them, and Kate.

She's sure to grab her guns before leaving the room, taking time to fasten the old leather holster in the hallway. Her footsteps are sure and quick as she descends the stairs, the comforting nickel weight of a six on her right hip, the Lemon Squeezer on her left.

She slips her hat on once she's outside, warding off the blinding brightness of the sun, and makes her way to the square.

"... outrage! It's time something were done, here!"

The good Judge Eugene Parker is on a soapbox by the town well, elevated above the crowds and looking nervous, sweating through his three piece suit. Young Mr. Cooper is to his left, the roughed up gentleman standing on his own strength beside him.

"I hear you, I hear you," Judge Parker assures, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

Kate walks a slow circle around the outskirts of the gathering, eyes on the crowd as she moves.

"And I have it on good authority that the mayor hears you, too."

"Well then what are y'gonna do 'bout it?!"

"That is what I'm here to discuss."

Kate admires him for trying to keep calm while various townsfolk cry their complaints, but if he doesn't quit dallying around he'll have a mob on his hands.

Gene's only a few mintues behind her, and he wanders over with a cigar between his teeth, hat firmly back on his head. Christ but it's hot, here. He can't understand why waistcoats and jackets are the fashion, with weather like this.

Never mind. The attitude of the crowd is enough to occupy his mind. It reminds him of that conversation with Sam in his office, not so long ago. You ever been somewhere, an' you jus' know it's gonna kick off...?

It's going to kick off here, alright, if the Judge doesn't say something. He doesn't even know what the problem is, but he knows that, plain as day. He wanders around the crowd until he's at Kate's side, watching them just as she is.

'Wha's the problem?' he mutters, sotto voce, hooking his thumbs in the beltloops of his pants.

Edited 2011-07-15 18:23 (UTC)

At first glance, Kate's standing akimbo, mildly disinterested in what's currently going on. However, take a closer look and you'll see her hand is not on her waist, but resting on the grip of her gun. Not with intent to use it — not yet, anyhow — but simply to comfort her. She's keenly interested, in fact; it just so happens her interest is less with the judge, and more with the townsfolk.

There's a lot you can learn from a mob.

"Shh."

She knows Gene is behind her before he ever opens his mouth. Her hand just barely brushes his breast.

Don't talk; listen.

"... another incident of cattle rustlin' last night. I understand no less than three separate complaints have been lodged by you cattlemen, not the least of which comes from Mr. McCormick here who, just last night, lost three head of cattle after surprisin' the bandits."

"They beat him over the head with a shovel!" Mr. Cooper is inclined to add, and another outburst works its way through the crowd.

"Things'r gonna get interestin'."

Kate doesn't just mean presently, but for the rest of their time in Oakville — which might end up being a lot shorter than she anticipated. Already her mind is working. It's usually best to get out of town once tempers start roiling, not even taking into account Gene's tourist status and her self-imposed responsibility to look out for him.

"Listen ... listen," Judge Parker continues, and a sharp whistle from an official at his right gets the gathering to quiet. "The point of this here meetin' is this, gentlemen. We're lookin' for deputies."

Suddenly, things are very quiet indeed.

'I'll do it.'

The words are out of his mouth without him even thinking about it, with no hesitation or nerves. Or consideration, either. They carry easily over the crowd, no hope of them not being heard, or pulled back.

They're looking for deputies? He's in, simple as that.

There's a lull, where heads start turning.

Kate sets her jaw and bows her head, performing a feat of both epic strength and restraint to hold herself back from pinching him. Hard. She stands tense, trying to blend in and praying to God that they'll just move on, ignoring the outburst.

After all, nobody volunteers before they get to the terms of what they're signing on for.

"As you well know," Judge Parker soldiers on, warily; "we're a mite understaffed far as lawfolk go. Deputy Hodgins is agreeable to seven men, in good character, who'd willingly take on the mantle of responsibility. There'd be no compensation ..."

"Don't," Kate warns, through her teeth, as the judge carries on with the details.

'Six, now. I said I'll do it.'

He lets the judge get to the end before saying it this time. So there's that.

And it's not that he can't hear her. It's that he refuses to. They're asking for deputies, in an Old West town, where there are criminals that need catching. He can't say no. No part of him can say no.

"Mr. Hunt, was it?"

Eugene is squinting at him, while the young cattleman starts to grin, recognizing Gene and Kate both.

"I'm afraid I know little about you, sir; but glad, nonetheless, for your enthusiasm. Now, who's next?"

Bolstered, he tries to infuse that enthusiasm into the crowd, with mixed results. Two more gentleman agree, as well as Mr. Cooper, of course. Others start throwing out questions — Whom exactly are they looking for? How are they supposed to catch them? What about the already stolen goods? How dangerous is all of this going to be? — and through it all, Kate is silent.

Eventually, two more men throw their hats into the ring and the gathering starts to break up. The judge leaves his soapbox and calls the volunteers to him.

He turns to her before going over. He knows she's going to disapprove but hell, she was the one who insisted they come out here.

'Back in a minute,' he says, like this is all perfectly routine, and wanders over to the judge.

The kid gets a nod, and he offers his hand to Parker.

'Don' worry. I was a copper, back in England. I know what I'm doin'.'

"Were you now?" asks the judge, shaking Gene's hand. "And what is it you're doin' here, in Texas?"

Crap. What is it he's supposed to be doing here?

'...we're goin' t'pick up some cattle.'

He shrugs, self-deprecatingly, like it'll stave off too many awkward questions.

'Not much opportunity for profit back home, so I came out here. Don' mean I won't catch any bastards that cross my path on the way, though.'

"A cattleman?"

"Sold his soul for the almighty dollar," whoops one of the other volunteers.

"That's fine by me, boys," Judge Parker says. "We can use all the cattlemen we can get. You're a rustler, I take it?"

He nods in Kate's direction, a small smile curling his lips.

"No offense, but I'd say she's more the brains than the brawn just by first look."

"Could be both!"

A laugh works its way through the men.

"No, Miss Katherine's soft," says the young Mr. Cooper, who immediately grows antsy and nervously eyes Gene. "Th-that is her name, ain't it?"

He raises his eyebrows at the judge, but says nothing. If that's what he wants to think, then fine by him. He quite enjoys it when people underestimate him, and he didn't volunteer for this gang to impress anyone.

As for the others, they just get a tight sort of smile. The sort that says, I can take a joke, but don't push your luck.

'A rustler. Aye.'

And then his eyes fall on young Cooper.

'Yeah, that's her name. But if you think she's soft, you're dumber'n you look. She broke the nose of some bastard that was hasslin' her yesterday, even though he had two of his mates in on it as well.'

"Who's been hasslin' Miss Katherine?"

Judge Parker spreads his arm out in front of the indignant Mr. Cooper.

"Let's try an' keep our focus on the matter at hand, shall we? Mr. McCormick, if you would?"

The wounded man nods, shifts his good leg under him, and addresses the group.

"There's at least three'a them. Three that I could see, but I'd reckon, more like, there's five'r six. Couldn't see their faces, but they had irons, an' they made off with 'bout forty of my best steers."

"They rode west outta town," Mr. Cooper supplies. "Southwest. I would'a chased after 'em, but Mr. McCormick..."

"Has told'ja on multiple occasions not t'be impulsive, boy."

He lifts a hand, blackened with dirt and dried blood, and ruffles the boy's dusty hair.

"Five'r six'll mean there's as many of them as there are of us," mutters one of the crowd.

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