ikissdhimbck | OOM: Outside, Stables -- For Tommy Gavin

He deflates a little at the apology and he shakes his head, as it wasn't his intention to get one out of her. But before he can say anything else, he comes up short with words, because her question might as well be a statement. A true one, at that.

"Yeah. Pretty much." He stares at her for a moment, his expression significantly softened, wondering if he'd been such an open book with her that she'd gotten him so quickly. He usually is.

"Also, I'm here 'cause I needed a distraction, 'cause you asked me to come with you, and 'cause I like-- talking to you."

What is this, fuckin' high school?

He blinks rapidly, glancing away for a second with a sigh. "Look, I don't care if you poke fun at me, okay?" he says, turning to her with earnestness. "I honestly, sincerely do not care, 'cause it ain't any worse than what I usually get from other people. And I'm-- I'm sorry if I came off a little strong there, but that's just how I am, how I react. If you really piss me off, believe me, you'll know it, but I doubt I'll ever reach that point with you if all you do is call me a pussy cat."

An open book? Perhaps. Kate's good at reading people, mostly naughty schoolboys; however, with a price on her head it can mean the difference between life or death knowing what makes someone else tick. All right, maybe it's more the naughty schoolboy angle with Tommy. She doesn't have to use too many honed skills when he comes out and makes declarations like that one.

Her smile is bright, toothy in an appealing way. It reaches all the way to her eyes before she turns, chuckling, keeping her focus on the path.

"I ain't gonna lie, I've got a bit of a temper. I've pushed people's buttons before; not gonna say I won't ever push yours. But you don't need t'worry, I ain't about t'run off with my tail between my legs. I like talkin' t'you. It feels — familiar. An' if you come off strong, chances are I'll let you know it."

She defaults apologetic, but she's as stubborn as a mule when she wants to be; no woman can survive doing what she's doing without a strong will.

She glances at him.

"So how 'bout we keep doin' what we're doin', an' if I press a li'l too hard y'let me know before the fireworks start?"

If she's a stubborn mule, then he's a cranky jackass. They'll get along fine.

He smiles a lot easier now, relieved. He's messed up so many times in the past, what with his habit of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person in the wrong way, that any instance where he manages to keep a relationship intact is a personal victory. It doesn't mean that it'll never happen again, but at least he knows where she stands.

"Sounds like a good plan," he agrees with a chuckle.

"...Though I dunno about you, but I like a few fireworks now and then to keep things interesting." He slants a look at her, that same kind he slides her way every chance he gets.

What was that about saying the wrong thing? Oh, right -- there's that little detail where Tommy enjoys pushing buttons, too. They're just different buttons.

Fresh.

She smirks in answer, giving him a slow head shake she figures he's got to be used to by now.

"Yeah. Except they tend t'be literal fireworks with me."

The fact he's shown no particular affinity toward guns is actually a high mark in his favor. She's got enough aching memories in her meat to last a lifetime.

"Y'wanna try a canter before we get back?"

She inclines her chin toward the stables now that they've swung back into view, and bites her lip to rein in her grin.

A smirk and a head shake isn't going to stop Tommy.

"Hey, I'm a fireman," he says, lowering his shades. "Fireworks get too hot, I can always put 'em out."

And then she's got that irresistibly challenging look again, the one that he inevitably finds himself giving in to. Again.

"Sure, why not." How bad can a canter be?

"But -- can we stop for a bit first? I need to get the feeling back in my feet. And my legs. Come to think of it, I can't feel my ass either..."

Edited 2012-07-01 22:42 (UTC)

"Oh, y'get used t'that."

She dismisses him without a hint of laughter or sympathy.

Which, really, should be his first clue that she's messing with him. Eventually, she does chuckle.

"C'mon, then."

She takes Rachat off the beaten path, heading across the grass to a tall tree where they can rest a bit.

He shoots her a skeptical glance and murmurs a wry "Uh huh." Of course she's not going to stop, either.

After successfully guiding Duncan over to follow, Tommy even manages to make him stop when they reach the tree. But now he hesitates -- getting off a horse should be as easy as getting up on one, right?

...He'll wait for Kate to dismount first.

She watches him the whole time, but he's done well enough that she doesn't need to call out instructions. She smirks, and swings off her horse.

Her legs are about as long as his, once you've worked out the difference in height, and strong. This is the sort of thing she does every day.

She leaves Rachat's reins around the saddle horn, and comes around to Duncan's other side. She holds onto the bridle to keep him steady, and reaches for the reins.

"Swing your left leg off. Y'dismount on his right. Jus' one smooth motion."

She'd never say this, but she's also prepared to catch him if things aren't as smooth as they'd like.

"I kno-ow," he insists in a sing-song voice like a petulant child. Because he is one. "And you don't hafta stand there, either, I'll be fine."

Grumble grumble.

But getting his numbed lower half to do what he wants is proving to be more difficult than he expects. He grits his teeth and puts his weight on his right leg, before forcing his left leg up and juuuust about swings it over the saddle. Still holding onto the saddle horn, his left foot finds purchase on the ground, but his right foot's caught in the stirrup and he's left hopping and muttering, "Shit, shit, shit--goddammit--"

You see, Tommy, when you give her so many opportunities to start laughing you can't really blame her. She cackles insensitively.

Duncan sidesteps warily as Kate reaches for Tommy's waist, trying to steady him long enough to help him out of the stirrup.

"Lord have mercy, Tommy, hold your horses."

She makes herself laugh anew.

By the time she grabs the stirrup, Duncan's taken matters into his own hands. Chuffing, he starts walking away.

At this point, Tommy doesn't care that she's laughing at him, he just wants to get his foot out of the damn stirrup. Kate's trying to help, and he's trying to keep his balance (because hopping uncontrollably obviously makes things easier), but Duncan has had enough of him.

Just as he manages to wriggle his boot out of the stirrup, his grip slips from the saddle horn, his foot slips out from under him in the soft grass--

"Ah, fffu--!"

The expletive is cut off as he lands flat on his back.

"-ughhk."

Well, she tried.

"Are you all right?"

She's got that Southern no-use-crying-over-spilt-milk outlook, but she does feel bad for not catching him. Grimacing, she kneels beside him.

Duncan cranes his head around to eyeball him. His expression is decidedly less apologetic, but he is a horse.

"Fine."

A few beats pass, in which he doesn't move.

"Oh, great. I can feel my ass again. ...Ow."

She's honestly starting to feel bad about laughing now, but goddamn. She sits back, covering her mouth to stave off the snickers.

"Epsom salts. In a hot bath."

It'll help. See, she's helpful.

"You ain't the first t'fall off a horse on my watch, but y'are the first t'do it when the horse was already stopped."

She's also incredibly comforting.

"Oh, well, that's awesome." His voice is absolutely slathered with sarcasm. "Sure, I can get on a horse. Sure, I can ride the damn thing, and sure, I can even steer it. But gettin' off? Naaaaah. Listen, if you don't mind, I'll just lie here for a while until, y'know, I die of embarrassment. It shouldn't take that long. I'm sure you'll get back to the bar by lunchtime."

"Oh, stop."

There's not an awful lot she can do to save his ego now. He's already down, bruised literally and figuratively, and Duncan's off grazing. The best she can do is smile sweetly, touch his shoulder, and pretend like nothing's wrong.

Lots of folk lie in the grass after a ride.

It's practically routine.

Honest.

"I won't breathe a word of it to a soul. An' besides, you was doin' real well up until the, y'know, fallin' over part."

She bites the inside of her lip.

"An' look at it this way, at least y'didn't break your neck. Every cloud, right?"

Her simple touch shouldn't have that much of an effect on him. But he's still that petulant child who'll begrudgingly accept a placation, even if the grownup part of him wants more of it for entirely different reasons.

He snorts a chuckle as he stretches his legs out, wincing as the pins and needles start to take over. "Nope, not a broken neck, just a sore ass and a sore ego. And yeah, I think a lot of stuff that happened today shouldn't make it past-- well, this tree. Or at least you can lie about it all and make me look good."

He removes his sunglasses (knocked slightly askew but at least they didn't fly off), all the better to see the daylight filtering through the leaves and through her hair.

"Do you do everything with a hat on?"

"I ain't so bad at spinnin' yarns. Let's see — "

She leans back on the heels of her palms, chin in the air, watching bough and branch move in the breeze while she thinks up just how to make him look good.

"Should I tell the darin' tale of how you took t'the saddle like a fish to water; a proud visage against the sunrise, hero t'man an' beast. When the far-off cries of two beleaguered souls, caught in a nest of demon bunnies, reached your ears, you an' your faithful steed raced to their aid."

Duncan snorts. Loudly.

The question catches her off-guard.

"Beggin' your pardon?"

She'll finish her tale of intrigue and daring do another time. She's peering down at him again, a line between her brows, and the soft suspicion that he's asking with something particular in mind caught in her eyes.

He laughs gruffly at her way over-the-top story, and Duncan seems to have a similar opinion, although his snort has a distinct air of Not in a million years, Tommy.

But at Kate's slightly bewildered question, he raises his eyebrows at her, and he folds his arm behind his head and repeats himself.

"Do you do everything with a hat on?" He may be implying what he's always implying (because let's face it, this is Tommy), but his smile is also laced with a curiosity that's even sort of playful. "I know this's only the second time I've met you, but to me it's like we've been talking forever, so maybe that's why it feels like I should've seen you without your hat by now. ...Is that weird? I think it's a little weird. But maybe I hit my head when I fell. So."

He didn't hit his head. He just shrugs and keeps smiling up at her.

"C'mon. Take your hat off."

It's an out of the ordinary request.

For a time, she simply blinks at him; confusion turns to surprise, surprise to bewilderment, and bewilderment to wary amusement. She's been bold all morning, but it's possible there's a touch of shyness in her chortle, and in the way she reaches up to swipe the hat off her head.

She rarely thinks too hard on the 'tan line' across her forehead, or the way her hair inevitably looks flat-ironed — but not in the attractive way. In this moment, however, she finds herself pulling her hand through the loose curls, trying to give them a little more life.

"It's not — Women my age an' station don't typically wear their hair down," she offers, by way of explanation. "I don't do everythin' with a hat on. I take it off indoors when good manners demand. But I work an' ride so oft I don't go t'the trouble t'pin my hair up most days."

The shyness, the self-consciousness -- that's what charms him the most about the bold ones, when he can get them to show it.

"Mm. I think I'd like your hair down better anyways. Looks more, y'know, natural. Suits you."

A hint of slyness returns to his smile, giving a lazy twist to the corner of his mouth.

"Do you do everything with your guns on?"

Any time he wants to see her self-conscious, all he's gotta do is give her a compliment. The flirting, the coyness, and the charm she can handle; she takes it in stride, like the men doing so are only at it to get a rise out of her. It takes her a while to recognize genuine interest.

"Thank you."

Telling her that her hair looks nice isn't just deviling her.

One corner of her mouth rises, slow and subtle. She glances at her hips.

"Wouldn't you like t'know."

"You're welcome."

Manners are weird, but he's trying.

His smile spreads, toothy and wolfish again as he utters a low chuckle.

"But I would like to know. I can keep a secret."

She side-eyes him.

She figures he's probably not asking to find out if there's particular times when she'd be less protected. Still, it's something of a sensitive question even for two people just teasing each other.

Well, hell. After everything they've already told each other this morning, what's one more thing?

"Remember what I said 'bout my bad luck with men? Almost three years ago I had a beau. I was set t'leave my world behind, an' be with him the rest of my life. We came out here one mornin' t'get our horses an' leave, an' a fella I'd managed t'get on the wrong side of followed us an' opened fire. I took a bullet here — "

She touches her right bicep, and then her left thigh.

" — an' here. An' one in the back, but I'd been wearin' a protective vest. My beau caught a bullet in his lung, an' didn't live."

That numbness from earlier returns. Her eyes lose focus; from time to time, she punishes herself by reimagining it.

"The rules here don't mean shit. Y'figure that out after a while. Sometimes I get cold sweats when I'm workin' an' I hear a noise behind me. So yes, I do everythin' with my guns on."

Tommy's expression is wiped from his face and he feels like a jackass again.

He blinks up at her, pained and apologetic, the revelation so unexpected and shocking that he's speechless for a moment.

"Shit," he murmurs, barely over a rasping whisper. "'M sorry."

No words for this sad story, either.

For lack of a better thing to do, he raises himself up and shifts back to sit beside her, close but not crowding her.

"Jeezus, Kate, I'm really sorry. I didn't-- I wouldn't've asked that way-- I was only..."

Trailing off, he falls silent.

Suddenly she looks so bare and vulnerable. He'd rather not see her that way, with her wounds reopened because of his stupid questions. So he reaches over and picks up her hat where she'd set it on the grass, and offers it to her. He doesn't know why, exactly. It's not like it's going to help. To give her something that's already hers.

He can't give anything of himself except a few I'm sorrys, but when has that ever taken away the sadness and the anger?

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