the_gene_genie | OOM: Texas, 1888. Just outside Oakville

She growls in frustration and brings her hands to her face. The earlier sting behind her eyes has turned to an uncomfortable stickiness in her lashes.

"It's like you're not even listenin'."

'Oh, I'm listenin' alright.'

He gets it. She worries for him. But he won't let it stop him doing his work. He can't.

"No."

Her hands are shaking, and it's making her angry. She only briefly glances at him, just once, before she starts moving for the door.

She doesn't care if he sees how upset she is with him. But she does care if he sees her crying.

"You're not."

He moves on reflex to stand in front of her. Not in a threatening way - at least, he doesn't intend it that way. But, especially after what she's just said, he can hardly just let her walk off, leave her to it.

'Well then, this is obviously one of them times when you're gonna have to spell it out proper.'

God damn it, how much clearer does she have to be?

"I can protect you."

She's been avoiding those words for a while now. Avoiding them because she suspects — she knows — they'll only set him off. But they're out of her mouth before she has time to really think about it, desperation cracking every other syllable.

She still isn't looking at him.

"An' before you say anythin', I know it's my fault, lettin' us get this far without sayin' anythin' about you comin' t'help me. Look at me, Gene. I'm not locked in some high tower. I'm not wearin' glass slippers, or sittin' on my haunches, waitin' for my prince t'come. These hands have mucked stalls an' birthed animals, they've taken care of whole households, an' dug graves; an' you better believe they can put a man down when it's necessary.

"But you know that. An' I know you say y'trust me t'take care of myself, but y'don't trust me t'take care'a you, too. Y'don't need t'put me behind you. Jus' put me beside you. I can help, an' if nothin' else then at least I'll be beside you when the bullets fly."

Twin tears streak down her face, and she's still not looking at him. Not only to hide her face from his eyes, but to avoid seeing the anger she's afraid is brewing in his.

He doesn't explode. He's a bit too taken aback to explode. He just turns his head a bit, so he's looking at her side-on, looking more incongruous than anything.

The idea is so alien, he has no idea how to respond to it.

'...why would I need you to?'

He's Gene Hunt. He doesn't need anyone to take care of him, let alone a bird. OK, so there has been the occasional time when one of his team have got him out of a scrape, and vice versa. But they're coppers. She's a civvie, and a lady at that.

"Why would I need you to?"

Are there really ever any 'civvies' in the West? She's a woman, yes. But she knows her Constitution, her Bible, and her gun. What more is there?

"This is my territory. My folk. Y'told me that if I ever came back t'Manchester I'd hafta follow your rules, an' I agreed. Because it's your territory. Your folk. I know things that can help you."

She breathes out, almost touching her forehead to his chest.

"An' because I want to."

'I never said you needed me to. It's only you sayin' that.'

All this is in her mind. He can't compete with it.

'If you wanna help, then just do it. I don' understand why we have to have a flamin' great row about every little thing. Do you really think that if you get me back, an' help me out, that I'm goin' t'complain?'

Her trying to get him to verbally accept her help is the impossible bit. If she just acted, the way he does, then there'd be no problem whatsoever.

"It's only me ever sayin' anythin'."

One minute he's going on about how actions are more important than words, and the next he's using his silence like a shield. She could go on, reminding him of all the things he's done and said so far in the name of protecting her, but she won't. She doesn't want a 'flamin' great row', and his watching out for her isn't on trial right now.

"It's kinda hard t'get your back when you're flyin' off on your own, or not tellin' me where you're goin', or what your doin', hollerin' for me t'stay put."

Stay on the street.

Watch your back if you leave the hotel without me.

I've got to 'step out' after dinner.

"If you want me t'chase you, then fine. If y'want me t'nag when y'won't open your mouth, fine. I jus' wanted you t' ... let me."

Of his own volition.

Her throat is aching, and two little muddy patches are starting to form in the dirt near the toes of her boots. She sniffles sharply, turning her head away from him. Still refusing to look at him.

"Can we go inside, now?"

Once again, he looks taken aback. Flying off, on his own or otherwise, is just...the way he is. If people want to join in, he assumes they'll follow. Nothing has to be said about it.

'Since when have you ever listened t'anythin' I say anyway? You're the most contrary bloody mare I know.'

He catches her face, gently, and tries to get her to look at him. He doesn't give a damn that she's crying. Women cry. It's fine.

'I'm not stoppin' you doin' anythin' you want. Like you said, this is your place. I'm just...not stopping doin' things I want either.'

So as long as they want the same things, it's fine, right? He hopes.

'Let's go then. Both need a drink, I reckon.'

She chokes on a laugh. Sometimes she thinks he brings out the worst in her, and maybe he does. Contrary bloody mare. She would rather listen to him, but he never has anything sensible to say.

She doesn't resist his gentle prompting, or childishly jerk away. But her eyes squeeze shut, as though somehow that in itself is a mask he won't be able to see through; that he won't notice the way she's trembling, or how clammy her skin is to the touch. But, eventually she has to open her eyes. The sheen makes her irises look even bluer than usual. Or, maybe it's not the sheen, maybe it's the maelstrom of emotions tearing the sea blue to pieces.

She touches his hand, so very gently, and nods almost imperceptibly. She can't balance the words on her tongue that are so painfully obvious in her expression: that she's shook up, and scared, and not ready to lose again. Pride won't allow it.

"Let's get outta here. I jus' wanna get outta here."

She just wants to get out.

'Alright.'

He's really bad at this stuff. And he is mindful that she won't want to be seen walking too close to him on the way back to the hotel, so he can't put his arm around her or anything. He hugs her now instead, brief, a little awkwardly maybe, but he doesn't know what else to say and it's easier to just do this.

'It'll be alright. C'mon.'

He releases her and steps back, then clears his throat and moves to hold the door open. He even looks away, so she can tidy up her face if she wants.

She's still as he embraces her. She wasn't expecting the tenderness, and by the time she's ready to reciprocate he's already moving away, creating a small vacuum that rushes around her. A change from the humidity, at least.

She quickly wipes her eyes and turns to give the horses one last once-over. Everything is squared away and Beaut's blinking at her, one ear cocked back. They're fine. They'll be fine.

She turns on her heel and strides through the open door, looking more confident than she feels. She's halfway to the hotel when she hears howling. But it's not from any dog. She knows that much, even if she can't see anyone else on the street.

He walks next to her silently, matching her stride easily. There's nothing to say out here in public, so he says nothing. Bet your bottom dollar he keeps his eyes open though, right up until the noise starts.

'...what the bleedin' hell is that?'

Edited 2011-09-12 21:45 (UTC)

"Never been taunted before?"

Her voice is tight and low, a match to the white-knuckled fist curled around her holster. Maybe he'd have to be a woman to recognize the sound.

She doesn't break stride, shoulders as square as cinder bricks. As she steps inside the hotel, it gives off an allusion of anger to explain the redness in her face, and for that she's glad. She doesn't acknowledge anyone in the lobby on her way to the stairs. Given she smells like a stockyard, she figures they'll excuse the poor manners.

'Bastards,' he mutters under his breath, and his first instinct is to wheel off in the direction of the sound. But after that conversation, how can he?

He doesn't follow her right up the stairs though. Only because she's hammered it into him about appearances. He walks to the bar instead, acknowledging a few nods, keenly aware of people eyeing the badge pinned to his jacket.

'Whiskey. Bottle,' he says to the barmaid, who smiles that smile at him, and goes to fetch it. When she comes back, he says,

'You noticed any lowlifes hangin' around here, luv? I don' mean people stealin' cattle, either.'

'Then what do you mean?'

'Men more interested in stealin' women, if you catch my drift.'

She pouts, thinks - or appears to. Then shrugs. 'No. No more than the normal behaviour of men coming through here.'

He figured as much. This place isn't the Ritz, but it's not like the other bars he's seen around here so far. 'Alrigh', luv. Keep your eyes open, eh? Let me know if there're blokes hangin' around that shouldn' be.'

He winks at her, and drops a five on the table. She snatches it up with a grin, and nods. Whether she will or not, who knows? That's the gamble you take with snouts.

His feet feel heavy on the stairs. It's been a long day. He doesn't hesitate to knock on her door, though.

There is no answering voice, for propriety's sake. But, after a moment or two, there's a rustling and a click as she unlocks the door, cracks it a bit to catch his eyes, and then steps away.

She's already down to her camisole, and her face and arms look particularly pink. The dry sink's basin is full of dirty water.

"Lock the door."

Her guns are still on her hips, creating a strange juxtaposition of leather and silk. The handmade lace trim looks dirty against the waist of her trousers. She returns to the basin, her back to him, and picks up the wedge of soap.

He already is. And then he's taking in her appearance with a frown and a pout. He can understand wanting to get clean after a day out in the desert, but she seems to be taking it a bit seriously.

He sits himself at the head of the bed, letting one leg stretch out casually before him. And then he pours drinks. Big ones.

'You alright?'

She pauses, turning her head to fix him with a look. Is she all right? Is he serious?

She ends up laughing, despite herself. Really, what else is there to do?

"Yeah, m'fine."

She shakes her head, reaching for a small sponge. Her hands are trembling.

"'Least we actually smell like stock animals today. Don't think anyone has t'wonder where we've been. M'jus' scrubbin' the dirt offa me. I'll get a bath come daylight."

She has no intention of going back outside until the sun is up.

The bruises on her wrists have set up nicely. No matter how many swipes she makes with the sponge, they don't lessen or go away.

He watches her go over them a few times, before he can't take it any more. He gets up then, puts her glass down next to the bowl and then catches her wrist in his hand.

'Leave 'em, luv. You'll just make 'em worse.'

And her hands are still shaking. So he puts his arms around her again, hoping she'll relax into it this time, hoping it'll actually help. He doesn't seem to be very good at that, with her.

She blinks, seeing his dirty fingers against her flushed skin as though she's looking through a spyglass, and he's really far away. She doesn't struggle, or resist. Her moist hands smear the dirt on his skin as she circles his arms, rubbing small designs into the joints of his thumbs.

Adrenaline is still sloshing through her bloodstream, making her feel unsteady. But it's also keeping her standing, keeping her awake, when she knows once it leaves her she'll be spent and tired.

"I got distracted."

She leans back, just slightly. The delicate bluffs of her shoulder blades gently flatten against his breast, and she turns her head to one side until she can see his collarbone.

Her lips tic.

"You smell."

It's said with affection.

'Smell like a cowboy. You said you liked that.'

His arms tighten around her, just a bit.

'Anyway, you're hoggin' all the water. Bet it's cold, an' all.'

"I do like that. But here I am tryin' t'get clean, an' you're gettin' your stink all over me."

Her lungs shudder. She meant to laugh, but she's shaking too much to get it just right.

"It is cold, but it don't feel so bad. There's plenty of fresh in the pitcher. If y'want."

Not that she's making any move to get away, or lessen his hold on her.

'Well, long as we both stink, it's fine.'

He's not making any move to get away, or lessen his hold on her.

'Take it I can stay tonigh', then?'

Can never assume, with her. And he wants to stay, even just for sleeping. He's pretty knackered, truth be told.

She fixes her eyes on some far-off point.

"Yes."

She's quieter than usual. Her soft voice is barely audible, even in the silence of the room. So, she turns with care while still in his embrace. Cautious, like she's standing on thin ice. And once, finally, she's facing him, she slides her palms against his chest and looks at him through her lashes.

"You can stay."

She wants him to stay, but it wouldn't do to sound like she's begging, or desperate. She'll merely allow it, since he asked.

She debates with herself.

"I'm s — "

The fledgling apology gets stuck on its way up, like a sparrow caught in a flue.

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