the_gene_genie | OOM: Movie

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OOM: Movie

Room 6620 is a pretty generic sort of place. It looks like a basic hotel suite - double bed, table, a couple of chairs, a sofa. There are a few suits hanging, dry-cleaned, on the back of the bathroom door (he frowns at them, there are a couple there that he’s never bought so his future self must have been around again) and a number of half-full bottles of Scotch and Firewhiskey on the table. The only thing that shows this room is really reserved for one person’s use are the posters hanging framed up above the bed. Two, cinema-size vintage prints,one from The Good, The Bad and the Ugly and the other, Gary Cooper in High Noon.

He aims Kate towards the bed.

‘Here. Lie down before you fall down.’

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...yeah, that glare isn’t going anywhere and now it has more than a hint of outrage about it as well.

‘If you’re implyin’ I’m queer...’

Well.

‘You’re jus’ beggin’ f’me to come over there an’ prove otherwise, aren’ ya?’

"And interrupt your big night with Mr. Cooper?"

She's as nonchalant as they come, slowly winding the ends of her hair (damp from a quick scrub with the soap) into a knot to secure the braid.

"By all means continue, an' don' let me interrupt. In fact, if y'need the bed later on, y'just tell me t'move."

Gene gets to his feet immediately and stalks over, glass of Scotch in one hand and the one he poured for her in the other. For a moment, he looks down at her with that same pissed-off look on his face.

But then he just says, in a strangely mild tone;

‘Kate? Shut it.’

in a tone that brooks no argument. And holds out the glass to her.

(She’s been shot and is on drugs. His response would likely have been very different otherwise.)

He actually gets up, and that's what starts the little bundle of nerves in her stomach turning somersaults like a child at recess. Her eyes are riveted on his face for his entire approach, wondering partly if he really means to make good on his threat. The other part wonders, briefly, if he means to hurt her. But she's quick to push it from her mind.

She switches her gaze to the glass of scotch, feeling her face heat. She sips at it immediately, hoping she can blame the pink in her cheeks on the medicine or the alcohol or the lingering feeling of fever.

"Only if you insist."

Her voice is quieter; nearly shy.

‘I do.’

There’s a hesitation and then he gestures back at the sofa.

‘On second thought, you should come an’ watch. You migh’ like it. You can lie on the sofa an’ I can keep an eye on you better.’

It sounds, more than anything, like an invitation and one he’s sure she’ll turn down. Like a teenager inviting a girl to the pictures but having to have a cover story in place in case she says no.

Kate's eyes flick quickly from his face to the television, the DVD menu bright behind him. She won't deny that she's been itching to see one of these 'Westerns' ever since Bill Pardy brought them up in conversation more than a year ago; and beside that, anything that would put a little distance between her and Gene's bed at the moment sounds incredibly appealing.

"Okay."

She runs her thumb along the lip of her glass, hesitating. Eventually, she holds out a hand.

"Would y'help me up, please?"

‘’course.’

He takes her hand, eyes still on her face. He doesn’t pull her up though, just stays strong so she can use it to lever herself up at her own pace. He also doesn’t step back so that when she’s standing, she’ll be a whole lot closer to him than is strictly acceptable between people who are just supposed to be friends.

He wonders if the hesitation meant she’d really rather go to sleep but...well, he’s not stupid. That blush gave it away that there’s something going on in that unfathomable female brain of hers and maybe, just maybe, it’s similar to what’s been in his own mind for a while now.

But even if it’s just that she’s embarrassed being alone with him, he has to know. One way or the other.

She carefully pulls herself to her feet, slipping her arm between their bodies as soon as she's erect. Her palm curls against his chest, keeping space between them.

She's grown used to his flirtation, the puffing of his chest and the posturing, the dirty little looks and impolite one-liners. But this comes off as all too different. More serious. And maybe it's just being alone with him in his room, something she never does; but she glances up at him, catching the look in his eyes, and it sets her heart beating a little faster.

She moves away, her mind lost in a tempest of confusion. She uses her own strength to get her over to the couch.

"I probably shouldn't drink all of this," she mumbles off-handedly, indicating her glass. "Guppy'd toss a fit."

He looks down at her hand on his chest for the brief moment it’s there and when she moves away, his shoulders drop a bit. So it’s like that, is it?

He’s still not sure but...well, he hadn’t planned this. It’s a chance occurrence that has her in his room tonight, she isn’t here exactly by choice. He can hardly be disappointed - and the invitation to keep an eye on her had been made out of concern for her welfare. There was no ulterior motive. So he tells himself not to be a twat and puts a smirk on his face.

‘Well, I won’ tell him if you don’t.’

Beat.

‘An’ if you die in th’ night, I’ll be sure t’tell him that you insisted on drinkin’ half the bottle an’ it were bugger all t’do wi’ me.’

She looks up at him as she lowers herself down onto the couch, nerves and confusion clearing into a gently scolding look.

There. Back to normal.

You're imagining things, Kate.

"A true gentleman."

She sinks herself into one corner of the couch, leaving room for him to sit if he chooses to join her. Her hands are shaking a little more noticeably now with the spike in her heartbeat. She curls them into fists, and scrapes together a smile.

"Speakin' of, you best keep your hands off my effects. It all goes t'my horse, if I die."

‘Tha’s alright. I’ll jus’ take your horse.’

He sits down next to her, the Scotch bottle on the small table in front of them. He’s not going to actively push it on her but he won’t stop her drinking if if she wants to either.

Back to normal. Good.

Only it’s not because she’s shaking a bit and her hair’s wet and she’s hardly wearing anything compared to what she usually does. And she’s on his sofa, in his room, drinking his Scotch.

She’s also trusting him to look after her so he reminds himself again that he should definitely stay on his best behaviour.

‘Now pipe down. Gary’s goin’ t’do his thing, unless you’ve got another few snide remarks t’make about that?’

"If she'll have you. Mare's got taste."

There, now that she has that one out of her system she can concentrate on the movie. She reserves all 'snide remarks' on Gary Cooper for after the movie has ended (or begun, but she's trying to play nice).

"After you, maestro."

‘Most mares know a good thing when they see it,’ he mutters, somewhat petulantly, under his breath and settles back into the sofa.

The lights are off so there’s only the flickering from the screen to light the room. It’s only about thirty seconds into the intro when he breaks his own rule of quiet and looks her over.

‘You comfortable like that? Cold? Y’know. Jus’ say if you wan’ t’move.’

She has, after all, been shot. It’s not girly to show a bit of concern for her comfort. Only polite really.

She flicks her gaze to him.

He's being... sweet. Much more so than she would have expected. It throws her a little.

"Think I'm all right for right now," she says, rubbing at her bare arms.

Scotch makes for a good makeshift blanket, though she's trying not to over-imbibe. Not everything Guppy said went in one ear and out the other.

‘OK then.’

He lapses into silence and returns his attention to the screen. It doesn’t matter how many times he sees this film, he still loves it. But his focus is wavering more than he’d like. Even with Gary being magnificent as always, he’s very aware of her sitting there. After twenty minutes or so, he’s starting to wish she didn’t listen to him and was making stupid girly comments. At least then he could snark at her.

She's been holding them back ever since the opening credits. Does Gene imagine all cowboys out on some picturesque prairie, the dulcet tones of an old trail song narrating their adventures? Surely not.

She starts to squirm after about fifteen minutes, seeking out a more comfortable position. The scotch is serving to make her warm, but not as pain-free as she had hoped for.

No. And yes. But mostly no. It’s not just the landscape that appeals to him. It’s the freedom and the...well, you never see Will Kane buried under paperwork or facing an enquiry or being told he can’t just shoot scum when they rob and murder. It’s a lot of things, really.

Right now, he’s not thinking about any of them. Because she’s squirming and it’s distracting.

‘Bloody ‘ell woman, you got ants in your pants or somethin’? Wha’s wrong?’

"S'nothin'. I only got a little shot t'day, that's all."

She sets her half-empty glass down on the table.

"Hurts. Hold still."

She shifts until she's got more breathing room, straightening out her waist. Of course, in order to get into a position where she doesn't have to bend at the waist she has to move closer to Gene, leaning against his shoulder as she tucks her legs up onto the cushions.

"Bullets don't finish folk off as quick as all that."

She tips her chin toward the television.

‘Luckily for you, no.’

His eyes are fixed on the screen but he’s not really seeing it. His mind is firmly placed on how she’s leaning on him. She feels warm against his shoulder but slight, as though she’s hardly there. The only thing stopping him from losing patience with all this uncertainty is the way he’s not sure if she even knows she’s doing it.

‘...you want another drink? Might help the pain.’

"Mmm..."

She considers it at first, and then tips her head back to look at him.

"Haven't finished the one I got."

And she really shouldn't. Her fingers trace along the bit of plastic still stuck in her arm from the IV, and she thinks about how much she doesn't want to end up back in the infirmary come morning. Or sooner.

"Should be all right, now. 'Less I'm botherin' you."

‘No. Not botherin’ me.’

Not in the way she probably means, anyway.

He settles back again and tries to forget about it but realises after about five more minutes that his eyes are spending more time darting to the side than fixed on the telly. It’s very frustrating. And this is not the Gene Hunt way, damnit. He’s acting like a girl, just sitting here like this.

Another five minutes or so and he yawns. It’s almost genuine. But not quite.

Two minutes after that, he yawns again and wriggles, flexing his shoulderblades and stretching out a bit. It feels good.

And if it, coincidentally, means that he now has an arm resting along the back of the sofa behind her, then so be it.

Maybe it's subliminal, from listening to him yawn, or maybe it's the pain medication and alcohol getting to her, but she’s starting to feel tired. She barely registers all his shifting about, though it gives her the perfect excuse to go heavy against him.

She tips her head against his shoulder, now that his arm is at a perfect angle behind her neck, and sighs.

This is odd. It should be a louder thought, not something in passing caught behind a web of exhaustion and mind-altering substances. She trusts Gene -- has, ever since that day out on the shooting range, even given all the yelling and throwing himself about. But this is... closeness. Something she hasn’t felt in a long time. Something she hasn’t even let herself think about.

“Comfy?” she mutters, half in earnest and half because, well. She’s not stupid.

He snorts the quietest of laughs and drops his arm down from the cushion so that it’s wrapped lightly around her.

‘Yeah.’

Yeah, now he is.

She blinks heavily, trying to keep her focus on the movie.

"Thank you."

‘...normally that comes later an’ after a whole lot more activity.’

Just sayin’. Because he can’t see what there is to thank him for, really.

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