DCI Gene Hunt (
the_gene_genie) wrote2011-06-12 11:58 pm
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OOM: Oakville, Texas, 1888. Dinner.
Even by 70s standards, this place is basic. But it looks brilliant to him, because it's real - proper, authentic Old West chairs, and tables; wooden floor and burning candles, and the smell of the desert right outside the door. It'll do him. Anything else just wouldn't be the same.
They're shown to a table and he makes sure to sit opposite her. All very proper. There doesn't seem to be too many other people here, which is good, because he hasn't yet worked out what counts as inappropriate for her, and it'd be all too easy for him to open his big trap and say the wrong thing. All too easy to mess this up, and get her into trouble.
As soon as a waiter comes near, he says, 'Whiskey. Double, no ice. Two of 'em.'
The food can wait until after.
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He eyes her around his glass, holding it with fingers slightly bent. He's telling the truth. She's a hard nut, and a pain in the arse sometimes, but he's seen her vulnerability enough to know that she's nothing to be scared of, even if he were inclined to be scared of anyone.
He's seen it often enough to know that he'd be a real shit if he used it against her too. He's aware of having to tread carefully sometimes, and that doesn't come natural to him most of the time.
So OK, yes. She makes him a bit nervous, but probably not for the reasons she might imagine.
'The Gene Genie doesn' get frightened by girls, luv.'
Beat.
'...how old are you, anyway?'
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"Cheeky."
Though, she's more intrigued by his first statement rather than the question. She eyes him for good while.
"Three-and-twenty."
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'I'm sorry; you what?'
She didn't just say...what he thought she said. Did she?
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"You've got me uncomfortable now."
Way to make a girl feel special, Gene.
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'Don' feel uncomfortable. No need f'that.'
Because on the one hand - result! Twenty-three!
On the other...on the other, that's only just alright, in his book. If she thinks she's uncomfortable right now, he's willing to bet it's nothing to how he feels.
'Just surprised me a bit, tha's all. Thought you were older. You act it.'
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Well, if she didn't feel awkward before she certainly does now. Does her age matter, for some reason? She can't figure why it would, and she reasons there must be something else he's not saying. But what? She combs at her hair again, unconsciously checking it's in place, and smooths her skirt.
"Do I? I was introduced to society at fifteen. Quite ordinary."
And she's been a woman long before that. The only woman, in fact, to mind the estate she grew up on since her mother's passing, to tend to the necessities of ranch living, and care for her father.
"Though, I s'pose with time spent in the bar an' other worlds my age has grown suspect."
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Good. That's good.
It's not her age that's the problem. Because there's no other way to look at this - he's old enough to be her dad. And while sleazy remarks about birds and tarts are bread-and-butter to him, he's really not the type of bloke to go running around after young girls.
...well. OK, so he has. And he certainly never asks the age of the hour-long encounters he sometimes finds himself involved in. He certainly looks at birds that age. But when it comes to actually caring about one, and getting involved properly, it just feels a bit...off.
He waves a hand, and then picks up his fork again.
'Don' worry about it. Honestly. I jus' never really thought about it before. It's not anythin' t'fuss over.'
When push comes to shove, he's not her dad. He's a bloke, and she's a woman. They fancy easch other. If he doesn't think about it any deeper than that, everything's fine.
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When it comes down to it, she trusts that if she did have something to worry about he'd let her know. Still, she can't help the feeling that things aren't going so well so far.
And there is the matter of her insatiable curiosity.
"I asked you once how old y'were, an' you never answered me. Now I'm guessin' you're closer to forty than thirty."
She makes an effort to settle back into a teasing grin, despite the sudden confusion.
"Not that it matters."
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Gene think it's going just fine. No awkward silences = everything's fine. Doesn't matter to him if the subject of conversation has them both a bit on edge. As long as there is conversation, they're doing alright.
'I'm more than forty.'
Born in 1931.
That's right, isn't it?
Yes.
There is no confusion. He knows when he was born; ergo, he knows how old he is.
'Not many get to be DCI at my age now, let alone the age I was when I got it.'
Just so she knows.
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She's genuinely surprised. But not at all off-put. If she had married while she was at university, as many of her peers did, she would have more than likely ended up with a suitor fifteen years her senior or more. It wasn't the age that mattered so much as the reputation, and how well a man could provide for a potential wife. Granted, young ladies like Kate did hope for love with a young and attractive suitor, but most accepted the fact that such unions weren't to be expected.
It doesn't matter in any case. She and Gene aren't a long term project. She enjoys his company (most of the time), he's easy enough on the eyes, and he seems to care about her. Anything else is irrelevant.
"Quite the feather in your cap."
She returns to her meal, smiling a bit easier now.
"I guess there must be some basis t'your braggin', then."
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He stabs a 'chip', wondering why knowing his age would make her relax.
'I. Do not. Brag.'
Well. Much.
Though he certainly intends to tomorrow morning, all being well. Just to her, though. No one else.
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She's distinctly amused now.
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Plus, it's weird being called 'sugar' by a twenty-three year old.
'What happened to 'Mr. Hunt'?'
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That's a good question.
She takes a quick look around the room, and on an impulse she says:
"Y'wanna get outta here?"
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'Yeah, I bloody do.'
He really does.
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"Let's git, then."
She catches their waiter's eye, and nods him over.
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He can't be bothered to wait for a bill, though. He just puts ten bucks down - two dinners, four drinks; should cover it - and stands up.
'Shall we?'
He offers her his arm again. Appearances, and all. He's not planning on being so polite later.
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She stands and takes his arm, keeping a respectable distance between them. It's not too difficult, with the difference in their heights.
"All right."
She's had an idea.
"C'mon."
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He re-lights his cigar as soon as they get outside, and he looks up and down the street. Doesn't seem too busy, but he still hear sounds of life everywhere around.
'Hotel?'
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"Hold your horses."
Kate's pleased enough that there doesn't seem to be anyone else within earshot as they walk.
"I love the thought, Gene, but I don't think we're suited for traditional datin'. I wanna show y'somethin'."
She's glancing down each side road as they pass, until she sees a path that seems right. She tugs at his hand, and leads him on what's hopefully not a wild goose chase.
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So he just mentally shrugs, and lets her take the lead.
'What're you up to?'
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Her voice is far too sweet to be completely sincere.
They come out on the other side of a back alley street. There's a pen full of cattle in front of them, and Kate leads them left. Walking past one after the other, eventually sounds of music and laughter, rabble-rousing and caterwauling overwhelm the sounds of the animals, and the warmth of bar lights flood the dark streets.
"I learned a thing'r two in New Orleans," Kate says. "The closer y'get t'the stockyards an' factories, the better the parties get."
There's a gaming house, better than the set up in the bar where Kate found him earlier; there's a fighting ring next door; the obligatory whorehouse, which seems not to be hurting for money at the moment; there's a dance hall, and bar; and what looks like a hole-in-the-wall theater that dabbles in a bit of everything.
Kate grins up at Gene.
"Take your pick. Jus' remember y'got a lady to entertain."
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He wants to head straight for the fighting ring, but he's got a lady to entertain. He imagines she'd probably like the dance hall best but, he just can't bring himself to willingly submit to that. Not without a few more drinks inside him, anyway.
So he compromises, and points at the gaming house, with a grin on his face too.
'That one. We can go an' clean 'em out together.'
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"Deal."
Ah, to hell with good appearances.
"Buy us some drinks, an' I'll find us a good table?"
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He gives her hand a brief squeeze once they get through the door, and he lets her go to head in the direction of the bar.
For some reason, he has no doubt at all that she knows a good table when she sees one.
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