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

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?

She doesn't cut him off. Mostly, she tells herself, because it's not polite to do so. There's also the fact that she doesn't know what to say either, and she finds herself morbidly curious as to what he's going to say.

It isn't until she's holding her hat in her hands, rubbing the brim absently like she's working at a copper penny, that she cracks a wry smile and finds her voice.

"Y'were only playin' around? S'all right."

The closeness is uncomfortable, but only because she finds she likes it so much. Her gaze falls somewhere closer to his shoulder. She's slightly unhinged. He won't be able to miss it. But she works on that smile, pulling out a dry laugh.

"I'm jus' one big sad song, Tommy. Y'hang around me long 'nough an' you'll start t'feel a whole lot better 'bout your lot."

Self-deprecation, teasing, joking — these are the ways we hold the seams together, when the whole world wants to split. She sets her hand down next to his, nudging him ever so slightly.

"I guess if y'wanna find out if I really ever take off my guns, you're jus' gonna have t'stick around."

How many funerals had Tommy attended...how many wives, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children had he tried to comfort...with a hug, a handshake, a He was a good man, a He was a hero.

It was never enough. But Tommy always seemed so goddamned solid. They found some reassurance in that. He kept it together for them, even as he ignored the way he was falling apart.

Sitting still, with one knee drawn up a bit, he keeps quiet, until Kate finds it in herself to respond. And he's glad that she can still manage to smile, faltering and uncertain as it may be, and even laugh a little. He would help her do at least that -- hell, he'd been making her laugh almost all day, and if that's all he can do, then he'll do it. Tommy may be a complete mess on the inside, but sometimes, sometimes he can put that aside for the sake of someone else.

He glances down at their hands, the grass poking through their fingers.

With a sigh, he gazes back out toward the lake, and as he shifts slightly, he presses his shoulder against hers.

"I could probably try."

It's as noncommittal a statement anybody could ever make, but when he turns to look at her, she'll see it's an honest one -- and that he's a bad idea that's destined to fail.

But nobody can ever say that he doesn't try.

It's strange, seeing so much in someone else's eyes that hits so close to home. It's undefinable, and so she doesn't try to work out just what it is. She figures if he holds to that statement, she'll figure it out sooner or later.

The corner of her mouth curls, a specter of her earlier amusement.

"With your luck, I guess we better keep you away from horses if y'wanna live t'see the end of this week."

He has to give that one a nod and a chuckle. "Yeah, you might be right..."

His eyes inevitably land on the curve of her lips. So close, so right there.

He manages to stop himself from leaning in.

"But we've still gotta make it back to the stables, and I think you mentioned something about going at a canter. So."

He slides his sunglasses up onto his head. With the sensation back in his feet and legs (and ass), he gets up, brushes some grass and dirt from his jeans. He then holds out both of his hands toward Kate to help her up.

"Y'think you'll live?"

She's very quietly pleased — at least, by her estimation. She doesn't realize she looks like a kitten in cream, smug and happily sated. She would have been prepared to lead the horses back to the barn, but it looks like Tommy's more resilient than she thought.

For a city boy.

She grasps his hands, grip strong for such a deceptively small woman, the act of levering herself up betraying power a simple handshake does not. Though she be but little...

"I'll round up the boys if your lower half is awake."

"Oh, I'm golden, honey," he insists, cocky and overconfident as ever. Whether or not it lasts until they reach the barn remains to be seen. She'll most likely look even more smug by then.

When she gets to her feet, his grasp on her hands lingers, and for a second they look as if they were caught in a dance, before he lets her fingers slip from his palms.

At her statement, he tilts his head, biting his lower lip in a sharp grin. She's saying these things on purpose. He's sure of it.

"My lower half is...just fine."

That's the enigma of Kate. The outlaw and the schoolteacher; the woman and the innocent girl. If she doesn't keep you guessing, she's probably just under the weather.

She pulls her hands away at the same moment he does, lips pursed.

"Good."

She bends to fetch her hat, but after another pause she decides to leave it dangling at her back by the stampede string. Some of her smile breaks free, but she's already turned toward the horses where Tommy won't be able to see.

"'Cuz your second time swingin' into the saddle's harder than the first."

"...Wait, what?"

She's almost out of earshot anyway, and as he wanders over to the edge of the trail, he's left to ponder why the hell it would be harder the second time. That doesn't make sense to him. If he's done it once without screwing up, he can totally do it a second time without screwing up, which is more than he can say about getting off, but he'll get to that when he gets to that.

Whatever, he's got this.

She tosses a grin over her shoulder.

The marvelous thing about riding a horse is you use muscles you don't use for anything else. Muscles you don't even know you've got. The bowlegged stiffness you feel coming out of the saddle is nothing compared to when you wake up the next morning, or when you rest those muscles long enough they feel the twinge of being spread again.

Tommy wouldn't understand.

Kate clucks her tongue, and the horses start ambling towards her. Duncan almost instantly goes for her pockets.

"You'll be all right. It's not long back t'the stables."

Once led to Tommy, feeling dejected by the lack of treats on Kate's person, Duncan decides to let bygones be bygones. Which is to say, he noses at Tommy's pockets hoping to get lucky.

Duncan poking around his crotch isn't exactly the greeting Tommy was expecting.

"Jeezus, hey, stop that!"

Stepping backwards only makes Duncan probe further, even taking a tentative nibble at his belt.

"Okay, c'mon, ain't nothin' of interest down there." Tommy takes hold of the bridle and urges Duncan's head up, trying to distract him by stroking him along his nose and under his chin.

"Listen," he says firmly, looking Duncan in the eye as the horse's ears just happen to swivel forward, "don't be indecent. Also, sorry for bein' an idiot when I tried to climb off of you, but jeez, you didn't hafta go walking away like that either, fer Chrissakes. Okay? Okay." He gives him a pat on the cheek.

Duncan's probably never been talked at so much by a New Yorker.

Tommy turns to Kate with a nod. "I think we're good."

Not a New Yorker like Tommy, leastways.

"Y'sure?"

Beyond her amusement, there's a fondness in her expression.

"I could give you two some privacy, if you'd like."

He gives her a thumbs-up and shoots her a smirk. "Nah, we're fine."

Going 'round to Duncan's side, he takes the reins off the saddle horn, determined to get back on without incident despite Kate's ominous warning. He does still feel sore, though not as sore as when he-- well, fell off, so he doesn't see the the problem.

And he's going to go right ahead with it.

Just the act of bending his stiffened leg to get his foot in the stirrup takes a great amount of effort, but trying to get the other leg up sends an incredible amount of pain shooting through his everywhere that he backs off, almost doubled over. He didn't realize until now that his lower back was in on this, too.

"Holy shit, what the hell. I'm so gonna feel this tomorrow ain't I."

"Epsom salts," she reminds him, biting back her laughter. "In a hot bath tonight, twenty minutes at least."

She ducks under Duncan's chin, leaving Rachat to graze while she offers Tommy some help. Not that she expects he'll take it, even if he could use it as an excuse to get her touching him again.

"An' y'might wanna try some self-massage. Where it aches."

Innocent as the driven snow.

"Can I lend you a hand gettin' up?"

No, honestly, what?

Normally he would be all over the puns, except now he's distracted by the realization that he might not even be able to actually perform any of those puns for like the next week or so. And though he's more physically fit compared to the average man his age, he's still no spring chicken, even if his brain still pretty much operates at an adolescent level.

Wincing, he straightens up, one hand pressed to the small of his back, and he gives her a sidelong look. He's weighing his options.

"I'm fine," he stubbornly insists, except of course, he obviously isn't. "Mind over matter, that's all. Mind over matter."

Right. So, take two.

Grab the reins, grab the mane, grab the saddle.

Foot up in the stirrup (Ow).

A couple of hops for momentum (Jeezus Christ, ow).

He pauses his efforts and glances over his shoulder.

"Um. Okay. I could maybe use a little boost."

There's no smart remarks, no laughing, no teasing. She simply closes the distance between them, makes a sling with her hands, and takes his left heel.

"On the count'a three. One, two, three."

She boosts him up so he can swing his right leg over Duncan's back a little easier. In theory.

Luckily the theory works.

And hey, that totally wasn't awkward or ego-crushing at all, but he'll get over it.

And as he lands in the saddle with a jaw-clenching grimace, he kind of feels like he wants to die, but he'll get over that, too.

"Thanks," he grunts through clenched teeth.

"Don't tell me you ain't havin' fun."

She says it with a touch of sarcasm and a winning smile, trying to dispel some of the discomfort by reminding him of the excellent company he's got. Even Duncan holds still through it all — perhaps their little talk touched his heart. Or perhaps he's just tired.

"I'd say it gets easier after your first time, if I thought you'd ever come 'round t'see me again."

She pats his knee, and heads back to Rachat.

"I think maybe we should only get as adventurous as a trot back. I don't wanna split you down the middle."

My junk is going numb right now, HOW CAN THIS NOT BE FUN?

"Oh, yeah. Definitely fun."

He sits up straighter, adjusting his, uh, position, and having no choice but to push through the pain.

"Hey, listen, just 'cause you enjoyed watching me make an ass outta myself way too much doesn't mean I wouldn't come back to see you. And whaddya mean, only a trot? You said we were gonna do a canter, let's do a canter."

Two weeks of not being able to use your junk, Tommy.

"Sugar, I admit I was havin' a li'l fun with you earlier when I suggested it. You're jus' gonna hafta forgive me for that. It's your first time ridin', an' I genuinely don't wanna hurt you. So let's start with the trot, then we'll see 'bout the canter."

She doesn't want to bruise his ego, either. But for all her harrying him and being a tease, she does take the safety of her stock and her students seriously. So she's firm on this, imploring blue eyes devoid of their typical taunting spark.

She brings Rachat up on Duncan's left side, and her expression softens.

"An' if it makes a lick of difference, y'didn't make an ass outta yourself by my reckonin'. I might'a been havin' some fun with you, but y'were laughin' an' pokin' fun right back. That's all I was hopin' for."

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