Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2012-06-25 05:18 pm
ikissdhimbck) wrote2012-06-25 05:18 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: Room #100
[following this:]
That didn't go the way she planned.
All through settling Concession and finishing her chores, running into Master Albus, and the hoopla she started with Ben Hawkins, it's been on her mind. Not the queen business so much — Can you imagine, daddy? Me, a queen? — but the look on Teja's face when he said it. The look on his face when she left the forge.
Steam curls into the room as she emerges from the shower, chasing away the chill of rain and hail and her own cold heart.
It's been a long time since somebody's looked at her like that. Not like she's just a pair of pretty blue eyes and long blonde hair, but the kind of woman they could wed. The kind of woman they'd be honored to wed.
She comes out wearing her silk robe, and it hugs her thighs as she walks; it's heavy and damp under her hair. She's feeling penned in, hot, and the bottle of bourbon on the table is looking more and more like a good idea.
Turning him down was the right move. It's for the best, and she knows that. It's more than just her virtue or her barren belly, things that would be enough out west to send men like Teja packing. She's an outlaw, a criminal, and how's she supposed to tell him that men end up six feet under when she gets too close? Or how she's still in love with Doc, and will be to the end of her days? And, on the subject of love and the end of days, how's she supposed to tell him she sees Sam's ghost following her from place to place?
It's not Teja, it's her. She can't love nobody.
She finishes her first glass, and goes to the table for another.
Though, the more she thinks about it, she reckons it is about Teja. Because he's different. This isn't like Gene Hunt; that would only ever be physical, safe, because he didn't love her and there was no danger he ever would (and furthermore, he's gone and disappeared and god knows if she'll ever see him again; as hurt as she was to be stood up, she's spent the last eight months thinking about all the ways a copper can be killed and she wouldn't ever know). Teja looks at her with affection, and that? That's dangerous.
"I can fix that."
She turns, third glass sloshing in hand. Eyes wild.
The room is empty.
She only sees Sam when she's outside Milliways. Sometimes he's standing there like the day she kissed him in the rain, rucking his brow in surprise, not knowing what to do with his hands for the first time in all the years she'd known him. Sometimes he's leading Mary Lou, hitched to his onion cart. Sometimes he's rowing, and those are the times she hates the most because it's hard not to see him half blown away, or taste his blood on her tongue. But never when she's here.
"Sam?"
She doesn't know why, but never when she's here does he come to see her.
She lets out a breath, shutting her eyes to the brightness of the room and the sick climbing the back of her throat. The thing is, she's been riding for miles across Texas these past six months with the words her daddy said ringing in her ears.
"You were s'posed to be ... better."
Can you imagine, daddy? Me, a queen? It makes Joseph Waller and his three general stores seem like small potatoes. There wouldn't have been any of that fussing about dowries and occupations. I can just see you now, pulling your hand down your face like someone just hit you with a bucket of cold water. Me, a queen.
That's the thing about getting what you wish for. Just one more day with him, just one more, and All Hallow's Eve provided. Suddenly, the memory of his last words being you take care of yourself out there is rewritten, and all she can see is his disappointment when she thinks of him.
The thing is, his ghost has chased her across every lonely plain from Beeville to Yorktown.
The thing is, she was supposed to be better.
The thing is, she's so damn tired of being lonely, and she didn't think anyone would ever think of her that way again.
The neck of the bourbon bottle hits her glass indelicately, as drink number four sloshes to the rim. She climbs into bed, and convinces herself she didn't trip on that silk robe.
The world just tilted for a second, but it's all right now.
That didn't go the way she planned.
"I would indeed have asked you to be my queen..."
All through settling Concession and finishing her chores, running into Master Albus, and the hoopla she started with Ben Hawkins, it's been on her mind. Not the queen business so much — Can you imagine, daddy? Me, a queen? — but the look on Teja's face when he said it. The look on his face when she left the forge.
"I shall not mention these things again."
Steam curls into the room as she emerges from the shower, chasing away the chill of rain and hail and her own cold heart.
It's been a long time since somebody's looked at her like that. Not like she's just a pair of pretty blue eyes and long blonde hair, but the kind of woman they could wed. The kind of woman they'd be honored to wed.
She comes out wearing her silk robe, and it hugs her thighs as she walks; it's heavy and damp under her hair. She's feeling penned in, hot, and the bottle of bourbon on the table is looking more and more like a good idea.
Turning him down was the right move. It's for the best, and she knows that. It's more than just her virtue or her barren belly, things that would be enough out west to send men like Teja packing. She's an outlaw, a criminal, and how's she supposed to tell him that men end up six feet under when she gets too close? Or how she's still in love with Doc, and will be to the end of her days? And, on the subject of love and the end of days, how's she supposed to tell him she sees Sam's ghost following her from place to place?
It's not Teja, it's her. She can't love nobody.
She finishes her first glass, and goes to the table for another.
Though, the more she thinks about it, she reckons it is about Teja. Because he's different. This isn't like Gene Hunt; that would only ever be physical, safe, because he didn't love her and there was no danger he ever would (and furthermore, he's gone and disappeared and god knows if she'll ever see him again; as hurt as she was to be stood up, she's spent the last eight months thinking about all the ways a copper can be killed and she wouldn't ever know). Teja looks at her with affection, and that? That's dangerous.
"I can fix that."
She turns, third glass sloshing in hand. Eyes wild.
The room is empty.
She only sees Sam when she's outside Milliways. Sometimes he's standing there like the day she kissed him in the rain, rucking his brow in surprise, not knowing what to do with his hands for the first time in all the years she'd known him. Sometimes he's leading Mary Lou, hitched to his onion cart. Sometimes he's rowing, and those are the times she hates the most because it's hard not to see him half blown away, or taste his blood on her tongue. But never when she's here.
"Sam?"
She doesn't know why, but never when she's here does he come to see her.
She lets out a breath, shutting her eyes to the brightness of the room and the sick climbing the back of her throat. The thing is, she's been riding for miles across Texas these past six months with the words her daddy said ringing in her ears.
Can you imagine, daddy? Me, a queen? It makes Joseph Waller and his three general stores seem like small potatoes. There wouldn't have been any of that fussing about dowries and occupations. I can just see you now, pulling your hand down your face like someone just hit you with a bucket of cold water. Me, a queen.
That's the thing about getting what you wish for. Just one more day with him, just one more, and All Hallow's Eve provided. Suddenly, the memory of his last words being you take care of yourself out there is rewritten, and all she can see is his disappointment when she thinks of him.
The thing is, his ghost has chased her across every lonely plain from Beeville to Yorktown.
The thing is, she was supposed to be better.
The thing is, she's so damn tired of being lonely, and she didn't think anyone would ever think of her that way again.
The neck of the bourbon bottle hits her glass indelicately, as drink number four sloshes to the rim. She climbs into bed, and convinces herself she didn't trip on that silk robe.
The world just tilted for a second, but it's all right now.