the_gene_genie | OOM: Texas, 1888. Just outside Oakville

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.

His lips form the slightest of pouts, watching her from eyes half-closed.

'What for?'

Fairly obvious what she was going to say. He imagines she's apologising for exploding at him down there, but history has proven they don't do well with assuming. Anyway, he doesn't think she needs to apologise for that. She was scared. People explode when they're scared.

For a number of things, which is why getting the words out is suddenly so difficult; she isn't sorry for a number of other things.

She wants to say 'for losing my composure', but rather than draw attention back to herself she lets out a breath and presses the softest of kisses to the smooth crook above his adam's apple, right where the fleshy underside of his chin meets his throat.

"I know you meant well."

He almost always means well. And so does she. Somehow, things just get lost in translation; or she scares herself out of saying what she really should be saying. That this doesn't even have much to do with him at all.

"Get undressed. I'll pitch the dirty water out so's you can clean up a bit, hm?"

His internal monlogue rails against her comment, because it sounds patronising. But maybe she didn't mean it that way, and he's too tired to start in on it in any case. So he just nods at her suggestion, cups her face in his hands, lifts it gently and kisses her.

After, he steps back, and shucks off his jacket. He could do with getting this dust off him.

'That soap don' smell of flowers, does it?'

Women's soap always smells of flowers.

"It's lye."

Her lips twitch as she reaches for the bowl, using a firm grip so she doesn't drop it. She tics an eyebrow at Gene before carrying the bowl to the window.

"However, I could throw in some lavender an' rose petals, if you'll be missin' 'em too awful bad."

She's careful at the window, pulling the lace aside with her forefinger to check the street. She doesn't like feeling exposed, though things outside still look quiet. She throws out the old water, and wastes no time about it; closing the curtains tight when she's done.

He shoots her a Look. Says it all really.

And gets on with undressing, unsnapping the suspenders with some relief, and throwing the shirt randomly into the corner of the room. He eyes her as he sits on the bed to pull his boots off (they go the way of the shirt).

'How come you're not gettin' undressed?'

"Clearly 'cuz I'm tryin' t'take advantage of you, Gene."

She sets the bowl down again, and fills it partially with clean, cold water.

"An' because I'm gettin' water for you."

And because she needs to keep moving. She needs to have something to do. Her legs feel like lead weights.

She throws a clean washrag in the general direction of his face, and smirks crookedly. "There. Now, I reckon y'can take care of the rest."

Like the night before, her nightgown is hanging off the screen in one corner of the room. That's where she goes, disappearing to change and give them both a little privacy.

'Damn. I was hopin' you were lookin' for an excuse to paw me.'

Only half kidding.

He catches the washrag in one hand, rolls his eyes at her and then follows her movement behind the screen. It's a tad confusing. He saw it all last night, so why the shyness?

The rag gets dunked in the water; he's rubbing it idly over his neck as he wanders over, and round the edge of the screen, leaning comfortably against the wall.

'What're you doin'?'

Her gunbelt is laid over a stool beside her. She's down to her knickers by the time he comes behind the screen, with her freshly exposed back to him. It makes her jump when he speaks, dropping her camisole and instinctively crossing an arm over her breasts. She whirls over her shoulder.

"I'm bakin' a cake," she says sharply. He's clearly starting to rub off on her; she's been noticing how her accent, too, softens when he's around, sounding more like her father's studied drawl. "M'gettin' changed, Gene; what d'you think?"

To be fair, she would use the screen even if she was alone in the room.

He rolls his eyes, and turns the cloth to his face.

'Yes, thank you, Mrs. Obvious. What I mean is, why're you hidin' behind here?'

"It's a dressin' screen."

And she's still half-turned with her back to him, one arm covering her breasts, and the other attempting to obscure the lion's share of scars on her body. They're far too spread out to successfully hide them all, however.

"I'm not accustomed t'droppin' my drawers in front of someone else."

'Managed it all right las' night.'

And yes, he's smirking, but not in a mean way. Not at all. Affectionate, if anything.

There's also not a single shred of dissatisfaction in his eyes now he's looking at her. The exact opposite, in fact. He pushes off the wall, leaves the washrag on his shoulder and puts one hand on her shoulder, asking her to turn.

"I had some help last night," she replies matter-of-factly, shooting him a pointed look.

She's not so much shy as she is simply grasping to form. There are certain rituals one adheres to. And, besides, she rarely needs an excuse to yell at Gene, affectionately or no.

"I'm in no humor for your tomfoolery."

She sighs dramatically, though as he closes in and urges her to turn towards him, she complies with little reluctance.

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