the_gene_genie | OOM: Oakville, Texas, 1888. Dinner.

She exhales, reclaiming her smile but softly.

"S'up to you. The night is young."

'Yeah, I know.'

His gaze on her is openly appraising. In a good way. But he's still wondering, a little, whether she's trying to put him off.

'An' this is fun. But it'll be fun tomorrow an' all. Tonight, we could be...well. Y'know.'

Never let it be said that he's not keen. But he will, of course, respect her decision.

(It may be clear that he's a bit rubbish at dates, on the whole.)

(Kate isn't much better herself.)

She looks out on the room at large. His eyes traveling over her like that heat her face. She takes a drink to cover up if she's turning red, looking over the hall to see if anyone's looking back. A few are, of course. Kate's the only woman in the whole building dressed like that. She happens to turn heads.

She clears her throat quietly.

"You're terrible at keepin' a convincin' cover," she whispers, turning around to face the bar instead. "People pay attention, y'know. T'looks like that."

The smile trying desperately to loose itself on her lips makes it a rather unconvincing scolding. She happens to like it when he looks at her like that.

'I'm not used to it. Everyone knows who I am, back 'ome.'

Coppers, anyway. And the important criminals. These are just about the only groups of people that matter to him back in Manchester, so he's happy with it.

'An' bein' undercover don' suit me.'

He turns to the bar, putting his back firmly to the room so they can't see his expressions.

'Are you tryin' t'put me off, an' being nice about it?'

Edited 2011-06-22 22:07 (UTC)

She hesitates.

"No."

Maybe.

She hadn't thought about it quite like that. To be honest, she's tried to put the end of the night far from her thoughts. She's been enjoying Gene's company for what it is, and she knows he's eager to move to the next stage but she's not quite as anxious.

"No, I just..."

She glances up at him, a touch of nervous excitement in her eyes.

"I'm jus' tryin' to be careful."

He wants to ask why, but doesn't want to ruin things by making her spell out stuff he might not want to hear. So he focuses on the hesitation instead - which isn't any more pleasant, but in different ways.

'You don' sound like you mean it.'

He sounds disappointed.

'Enjoyed las' night though, didn' you?'

She looks up at him fully, her eyes widening.

"Gene."

Her expression switches from one of surprise, and concern, to subtle embarrassment. A smirk touches her lips, and her voice drops even lower.

"Thought that was rather clear."

The tips of her ears must be red. They feel like they're on fire.

"It's only ... the walls in our hotel are thin. An' a woman rides into town with a man, unmarried, wearin' britches and guns and people like that barmaid start whisperin' about me like I'm common trash. You can see the difference yourself, the way people have been treatin' me while I'm all gussied up. Suddenly I'm a lady, and it's all right keepin' company with me. But the more rumors fly, the more they'll be lookin' at us both crooked. Based simply on how I present myself."

It's not a proud thing for a woman to be independent and in charge, to wear man's clothes and flaunt how she manages her sex life. She can, and she would, but things will be so much easier for them if the pretense at the very least is there.

"Besides all that... Well. What y'said last night. About. Our ... differences."

That nervousness is back.

Even before she adds that last bit, he's starting to smirk. But it's sort of...fond, and certainly not malicious.

'You're worried about thin walls? Don' scream then.'

Though if he has his way...

'Look. I don' care how any of 'em look at me, and seein' as we're leavin' in a few days, I don' see why you do either. But I wasn't exactly plannin' on announcing it to the whole town. No one'll know, if we're careful.'

He relights his cigar, which had gone out.

'As for the...er, differences...you let me worry abou' that.'

Edited 2011-06-22 23:12 (UTC)

She does care about what other people think. She doesn't know why either, most of the time. It's so deeply a part of her breeding that it's hard to shake, save for when folk have her mad enough not to care. But that's not her only reason for hesitating.

She never planned on being with more than one man in her life. As far as she's concerned, Doc was it for her. She crossed a line last night she's still not sure how she should feel about, and if they go to bed together then... that's it. There's no more excuses, and no turning back.

She catches his eye, searching him out slowly and carefully. The bundle of nerves in her belly are enough to remind her of how much she does want him, and just looking at him — hearing him reassure her — is enough to remind her that she does care about him. She didn't lead him on all this time; she's not a tease. Not with the people who matter.

She swallows a deep breath (and another gulp of whiskey), and reclaims her resolve. She doesn't need to say much; if he's paying attention to the look in her eye and the tiny nod of her head, he'll know her answer.

"Play a few more rounds," she murmurs, laying down enough of her winnings to cover their drinks. "An' then meet me back the way we came."

He swallows the good girl that nearly comes out, as it would have been all too triumphant. But the sentiment remains in his head. All he does is nod though, and drain his glass.

'Right then.'

Finally.

'You be careful out there though. Sure you don' want t'stay an' let me go first?'

Doesn't seem right, sending her out there on her own. Could be all kinds of nutters lurking about.

It's a very good thing he swallowed that comment, or he might have found himself locked out of both rooms.

"I can take care of myself."

Her lips twitch.

"Jus' don't make me wait too long."

She turns at that, making her way back to the roulette table presumably to inform the gentlemen that she's cashing out while she's still hot. She does lay down one last bet, though, throwing the croupier a wink and telling him to keep her winnings. And she does, indeed, win.

Gene gets one last look from across the room, and then she heads out into the night, making her way back to that first stock pen where their little side street spilled out.

Edited 2011-06-22 23:52 (UTC)

Those looks across crowded rooms are starting to drive him insane. As is the idea of waiting another few spins of this damn wheel before going to meet her. But, rules are rules - her world, and if he wants her to respect his when she comes out, he'd better behave himself now.

So he wanders back over after getting one more drink, and gives one of the blokes a black look because he dares to look at him as though something was just going on.

'Quite a livewire, that boss of yours.'

'She's a bloody pain in the arse,' he grumbles, managing to look sour, and promptly loses three bets on the trot. The gents at the table commiserate disingenuously, but he couldn't care less. He just wants one win, as it gives him an excuse to get out.

And on the fifth try, there it is. OK, so he spread five bucks about to win on that one number, and it barely covers his stake, but so what?

'Tha's me, gents. Have a good night.'

Two minutes later, he's strolling down the side of the stock pens, smoking his cigar, looking all the world like a bloke out for an evening walk back from the pub.

Edited 2011-06-22 23:59 (UTC)

Kate's stroking the muzzle of one of the cows, admiring her the way a good cattle woman would. She's a good animal. Not the best Kate's seen, but certainly worth stealing. She hasn't forgotten what Gene told her over dinner.

She hears him coming, sees the dull point of light at the end of his cigar, and steps back. She turns to the street that will lead them back to the hotel, and moves into the shadows. Her steps are slow so he can catch up with her along the way.

Which he does, offering her his arm as any respectable gentleman would, and without breaking stride either.

He doesn't say anything. There's nothing that really needs to be said, to his mind. They both know where they're going, and it's a nice night. Easy enough to just walk back quietly.

Anyway, there's less chance of him saying the wrong thing if he keeps his mouth shut. There's that too.

She takes his arm, perhaps allowing herself to walk a little closer to him than she would have when they were in public. There's nothing really that needs to be said, and not solely for fear of spoiling the moment. Just because it's ... comfortable.

They reach the hotel in short order and she resumes her respectable distance, letting him open the door for her. Still, no one is at the desk and so it's easy enough to quietly climb the stairs, check the hall to make sure they're alone, and then turn to face him.

"Your room?" she asks, voice quiet.

'Whichever you like.'

He was thinking hers so that, if she absolutely has to, she could kick him out before morning and maintain the illusion. But thinking about it logically, he supposes his room makes more sense - if there are obvious sounds of shagging from within, people might just assume he's got a hooker in there.

'D'you need to...I dunno. Do whatever it is women like t'do, first?'

He's quiet too, unlocking his door as he speaks. It had never occurred to him she'd come straight in. Women always seem to be going off to redo make-up, or...something, before. He never understands it.

She's actually not sure what he means by that. She looks up at him sidelong, smiling lopsidedly.

"I would've thought you'd like t'help with the takin' off of my clothes."

Quiet; so quiet it's barely audible.

'Oh, I do.'

And he's still quiet as well, but definitely no less emphatic for it. He stands aside and gestures her through the door.

'After you, then.'

And if the tightness of his tone betrays some of his anticipation, well, what of it?

Edited 2011-06-23 01:37 (UTC)

Her eyes smolder at him.

She steps around him, slow and languid, pulling her gaze from his. The nervous bundle in her stomach is only growing with each passing moment.

The walk back in the fresh air might have helped sober her some, but now she's beginning to feel her pulse drumming. All her layers of fine fabric are suddenly so very heavy.

He shuts the door carefully, and turns the key in the lock. It makes a resounding click, which sounds louder in the quiet of the room.

He can feel the nerves off her. It only adds to the tension, and not in a bad way as far as he's concerned. He still doesn't speak, just walks around the room, lighting the candles so they can see what they're doing, and pulling the curtains shut. So it's just them, with the world locked out and hopefully out of her mind.

That done, stubs his cigar out in the ashtray on the dresser, and turns to face her, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

'You want another drink?'

"No."

Her answer comes quickly, accompanied by a little shake of her head.

"No, I'd like t'be relatively sober for this."

She turns to one of the unlit oil lamps, carefully removes the glass globe, and uses a candle to light it. She adjusts the wick until the right amount of light is cast off, keeping her hands busy at doing something while her mind is racing.

"Y'have a nice room," she says, walking aimlessly around it. "I said that already, didn't I? Well, it is. Nice. Decent, at least. Comfortable, I should think, after a few nights spent on the ground."

It's entirely possible she's only rambling to fill the silence.

He snorts a laugh, and steps in front of her to stop her wandering. The expression on his face is amused, though there's an intent look in his eye that won't be leaving any time soon.

'You make this sound like you're waitin' for the gallows.'

His thumbs come free so he can put his hands on her waist.

'Stop babblin' like a demented housewife, an' relax.'

He leans down and kisses her. Presumably to help with the relaxation part, but mainly just because he likes doing it, and he can.

"No — "

It's nothing like waiting for the gallows. Nothing at all. She closes her eyes as he leans in to kiss her, her lips light like this is all just experimental. Her hands slide down his arms until they come to rest over his knuckles, having her almost akimbo, and she takes an involuntary step back.

"Y'know, most fellas would right now be complimentin' their ladies, quotin' song, or poetry; but I'm lucky t'have the overstuffed galoot who's only honest in his expressions all the time."

The quietness of her voice does nothing to mask the obvious sarcasm — or the affection in her voice. She takes another step back, blindly leading them along until her back hits the wall.

He follows her, expressionless until her back hits the wall, and then he rolls his eyes, as he steps into her space and keeps her there.

'You wouldn' know what t'do with all that romantic bollocks. Smile an' be charmed, and think I was a ponce or somethin'.'

Not that she'd ever have the opportunity, because he would never, ever do it.

'Mind you, most birds wouldn' be insulting a bloke at this point either. You're supposed t'be laughin' at my jokes, and preparin' yourself to be complimentary.'

It's all a load of bollocks. He doesn't have time for bullshit when it really matters. He can leave all that in the pub.

And when he kisses her again, he makes it pretty clear that this isn't just experimental. That he's not prepared to let her be detached, and drift her way through. He's pretty sure she'll thank him for that in the end.

"Y'make it sound like I've never been wooed before."

She has, with all the flowery dialog you can imagine. And she never once thought he was a 'ponce', but she doesn't have time to assure Gene of the same. For one, she knows not to expect it from him, and that's just fine. For another, he's kissing her again and in such a way that he won't have to listen to her speak again for a while, as she tries to put out the small fires going off throughout her body.

Her hands card through his hair, but she still pulls back. She finds that sliver of space between them to catch her breath, to catch his eyes, to notice that she can make out the color of his irises tonight in the warm candlelight.

She doesn't look a thing like any of Gene's painted ladies. She's shy, and gentle; leaving all of her boastfulness outside that locked door. Her fingers move over his body slowly, as though she's cautious of making a mistake. And the way she looks at him... That's different, too.

She doesn't close her eyes when she tips her chin back and kisses him, light and quick. She kisses him again, just as softly; and a third time, this one deeper than the rest, her eyes finally slipping shut.

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