DCI Gene Hunt (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_gene_genie) wrote2011-06-12 11:58 pm
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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"That's not what I'm nervous about."
She loosens the first few buttons of his shirt and presses her lips to the hollow of his throat. Only now is she aware of how quickly she's breathing, as she hears the air hissing across his skin.
"Not entirely."
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'...then what?'
He takes care of the last few fastenings without drawing attention to what he's doing, and starts to ease the skirt down. It's made a little harder by the way she's pushing up against him, but he figures she'll get the message.
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Her back arches when she feels his hands working to get the layers of red fabric off of her body. She pulls away from him, disentangling herself with care until only that white, silk blouse is left to cover her undergarments. Silk and lace knickers extend down her thighs, meeting the tops of her black silk stockings. The dull flash of candlelight off the gun still snug in her garter holds her attention for one moment longer.
Her hands curl around his jacket. She isn't sure how to answer him in a way that won't give off the wrong message, without having to explain why she feels as she does. Without having to talk about things neither of them want to hear right now.
"I jus' don't want things t'change between us after this."
She closes her eyes. As soon as the words are out of her mouth she regrets uttering them. It's more than that, but she's too stubborn — or too scared — to dig that deep into her emotions right now. She shakes her head, pushing his jacket off his shoulders.
"Never mind that; forget I — prattlin' on like a demented housewife. It's nothin'," she says, rising up on her tiptoes to kiss him with fervor.
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'How would things change?'
Either she means that she doesn't want things to be weird after this, or she doesn't want things to be any more serious after this. Neither of which he was exactly planning on, but some clarification on the issue would still be good.
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Because it isn't either option. It's not even in the same realm as either option. She looks uncomfortable, so she keeps her eyes from his, fussing instead with the buttons on his waistcoat. It's a handsome waistcoat. She should tell him that.
"Jus' never mind it. S'not important."
She sounds more convincing each time she says it, as each time she convinces herself a little more.
"How is it I'm standin' here in my knickers, an' you're still fully dressed? Don't seem fair."
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'It's important now you're not tellin' me what it is.'
She should just spit it out. Quite apart from the fact that saying something like that and then refusing to elaborate is bloody annoying, there's also the added thing that if she's got bizarre expectations, he's not going to be able to relax until he knows what they are.
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"I don't know if I can."
She's being completely honest. God damn it, she wishes she didn't have all that whiskey in her blood. Maybe then she could've kept quiet. Or at least...
"I don't ... Don't want you t'look at me different. Later on. I don't want you t'..."
She shakes her head. This is impossible.
"It's nothin'. It don't matter at this point; I shouldn't 've been flappin' my jaw."
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He looks blank.
'Why would I do that?'
Seriously.
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She let's out a quiet burst of bitter laughter.
"'Cuz y'don't know what the hell I'm talkin' about."
She feels every bit as stupid as she imagines she looks right now. Halfway undressed and standing in the middle of his room is hardly the spot to have this kind of conversation. Jesus.
"An' this ain't how I was s'posed t' ... This isn't how tonight was s'posed t'go. Forget I said anythin', please. I can't explain it."
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'Kate.'
Beat.
'Do you want to?'
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She looks at him at last.
"I jus' wasn't expectin' it t'happen this soon. An' I — I had this idea in my head that we'd have time t'get all this figured out."
That she'd have time to get this all figured out.
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Next, and last, question.
'Do you want to wait?'
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Continuously.
Not even knowing the answer to that.
"It's a lil' late for that."
Isn't it?
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'Still dressed. Not in bed yet. It's no' too late.'
Unless this is some existential thing that he'll never understa...wait, of course it is. It's her. But what he means is, up until the moment he actually gets in her, it's never too late for her to say no.
He'd rather she didn't, obviously.
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"What are we doin'?"
She reaches for him.
"This ... thing that we're doin'?"
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When women start like that, he already knows he's lost. He stifles the sigh, and resists the temptation to light a fag, but only because she's reaching out for him.
'I dunno. You tell me.'
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"I don't wanna tell you. I want you t'tell me."
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That's the standard reply of teachers and irritated mothers everywhere. He didn't like it then, and he doesn't like now.
The fags come out of his pocket and one gets lit.
'We fancy each other. We're doin' what people who fancy each other do. Which is, where I come at least, have sex.'
Can't put it much plainer than that.
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"So, sex."
If they can just get on the same page, then maybe everything else will fall into place. She nods.
"Just ... sex."
No strings, no commitments, no attachments. Just physical, animal, sexual bonding?
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He thought they gave a shit about each other as well, but maybe that's not what she wants.
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"S'not what I asked."
She didn't think she made any 'now' and 'later' stipulations.
"S'that all we're doin'?"
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He walks away and sits on the bed, his back against the old frame, long legs sprawled over the sheets.
'An' I thought women didn' like everythin' so black an' white.'
But of course, she'd have to be the exception.
'Look...we both know I can't give you all tha' stuff you said you grew up expectin'. So yeah, I suppose. Jus' sex.'
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She's doing little more than muttering to herself. He leaves her, and she doesn't watch after him. She's standing half-undressed in a man's room, back to the wall so she doesn't feel as vulnerable. She can hear the sound of the bed moving, the shudder of shadows on the floor.
She closes her eyes. She breathes one short, humorless laugh.
They're never going to be on the same page.
"Then why wait."
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'You...'
He bites back the first response.
'...don't laugh like that. It's not me tha's got the issue. You come up t'my bloody room, an' ask questions I have no idea the meanin' of. You say cryptic bloody stuff that you then point-blank refuse t'explain. You demand a simple answer to somethin', an' give no clue what you want t'hear an' then say that, like it's my fault I didn' say what you wanted t'hear.'
Enough.
He jerks his head the way they came in.
'Door's that way, Kate. I'll leave it open in case you get your head on straight in the night but even if you do, I can't promise t'be in the mood.'
He's not a dog on a lead, following at her heels and wagging his tail to her every demand. At some point, she'll either have to let him into the problem, or deal with it herself. He's tired of these games.
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She looks at him from over her shoulder, looking every bit as serious as she claims. But she bends to gather her clothes regardless. Either way, this clearly isn't happening tonight.
"Maybe y'misunderstood what I was askin' but I think y'gave me a straight enough answer anyways. I've been — I've been strugglin' t'keep up with you, an' maybe you've been doin' the same," she says, the idea only just striking her with what he's just said. "D'you know how confusin' this is? For me?"
She doubts he does, but her voice lacks any malice or accusation. She slips her skirts into place carefully, both her face and her voice neutral, and then starts buttoning up her blouse. Trying not to feel antiquated in her own damn era.
"I thought I had it worked out before we left the bar. That I knew what t'expect. An' then, last night ... well. Tonight, too. Y'jus' weren't what I was expectin'. An' I'm still — "
Wounded? Inexperienced? In love with another man? Out of my depth? Dozens of excuses come to mind from over half a year of confusing arguments with Gene, none of which she says out loud. They've talked themselves in circles before and there's no chance she'll let them do it again tonight.
" — still the way I am. But why wait now that we both know what t'expect?"
She looks at him again before she takes his invitation to leave.
"M'sorry. This is your game, not mine. I guess my beginner's luck ran out an hour ago; an' now we're both walkin' away unhappy. I didn't mean it."
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