the_gene_genie | OOM: Texas, 1888. Just outside Oakville

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.

'Tomfoolery?'

He snorts a quiet laugh, and his other hand closes around her forearm, gently pulling it away from her body. She doesn't need to cover up around him.

'Want some help now?'

She keeps her head tilted back, eyes on his eyes, not on his hands. He may not know it, but that's the strongest proof she could give that she trusts him.

"A team effort?"

Her now free hands skitter across his skin, forefingers dipping below the waist of his trousers.

"Workin' together toward a common goal?"

One corner of his mouth stays turned up, but his eyes take on a distinctly hungry look.

''m'a big fan of teamwork,' he says, sliding his hand over one breast, feeling the soft weight in his palm. 'Ask anyone.'

Her eyes glitter briefly before she dips her head and laughs, just a breathless little thing that cuts across the contours of his chest.

She's tired. She's no longer shaking on the outside, but on the inside she's still wound tight as a drum. Just standing here with him feels good, his hands on her body and their heat mingling. She rests her forehead against his breast, hands sliding around his middle until they're grasping his backside.

"I'm not gonna need my gown tonight either, am I?"

'Nope. Not gonna need a stitch.'

He kisses the top of her head, feeling the low thrum of arousal start up, deep in his gut. His thumb brushes over her nipple, his other hand sliding up to rest lightly on her neck.

'C'mon.'

Bedtime.

"Mmm, maybe that's why I was changin' behind the screen."

Ever think about that, Gene?

Of course, it's hard to stop the way her body naturally responds to him. Her nipple hardens under his touch, and without needing to think about it she cants her head to the side, easing more firmly into his touch.

"Okay."

It's all she says. All she needs to say. She'll let him lead her back to bed.

Which he does, of course. At once. Not fast though, not pulling her along. Just taking the lead, holding her hand so she doesn't run away.

'One minute,' he says, when she's next to the bed. Because he didn't get very far at getting clean, and it's only polite to take care of the worst of it. And he's a bloke. Washing up doesn't take long.

She lets herself sit down at long last, half-reclining on the bed with a sigh. Her eyes are on him as he rushes to clean up.

"Want me t'get your back?"

She's only half teasing.

He raises an eyebrow at her over his shoulder, much like she had with him a moment ago, only without the horror.

'If you like.'

She can touch him wherever she likes. He's not going to moan about it.

Or maybe he will. In a way.

She was expecting some sort of smarty remark, or a laugh, or a brushoff, so she's rather surprised when he answers seriously. She doesn't move at first, as if she's waiting to make sure he doesn't flip on her and call her daft for offering.

She gets on her knees, moving to the edge of the bed, and holds out her hand. While she waits for him to hand her the cloth, she grabs him by his slackened suspenders and gives a tug to encourage him closer to her.

He pouts again, only amused this time. Without looking, he dips the cloth back in the water, squeezes it out with one hand, and places it in her palm.

Then he takes the few, small steps to her, and looks at her for a minute, before leaning down to kiss her.

She holds the cloth against his side while he kisses her, letting little rivulets of water trickle down his ribs and collect in his waistband. She starts to laugh, giving a little push with her chin to encourage him back.

"How am I s'posed t'get your back this way? Turn around. Sit down."

It's all asked through a smile, not demanding or insulting.

'My back's not the only thing tha's dirty,' he mutters, with a lurid smirk. But he turns easily enough, and sits with just the barest huff of breath to betray his tiredness.

The water on his side tickles and itches; he scratches at it with a sniff, aware suddenly of a certain lack of manliness in letting her do this.

"You're right, but I dunno how I'd ever get you t'stop jawin' on long enough t'get the soap in there," she says, pecking the side of his mouth. "Or maybe I should treat the real problem, try scrubbin' your noggin by forcin' the soap through your ear."

Her hands slide across his body with no real rush or destination. She isn't acquainted with him, yet. Be that from shyness or reservation, lack of opportunity, or any other hitch they've had there's no telling. She doesn't know his body.

And she wants to.

Tonight, they're not going anywhere. They're not pawing at each other (yet). And he's right in her hands. Hopefully, worrying over a lack of manliness will be the last thing on his mind. While she brings the rag to his neck, following the steps his spine makes, her other hand slides to his hip. Deft fingertips dance over bones, over soft skin, skirt the boundaries of his britches; and her mouth lingers near his ear.

He shifts a bit under her hands, quietly surprised by her languid touch. It's warm in here, as ever, and the contrast of the cool water and her gentle fingers is exciting, in a manner that's almost peaceful.

'If you promise t'do it, I'll promise t'shut up.'

He's easy, either way. He thinks he should probably be turning to lay her down already, but her breath is nice on his ear, and his muscles are relaxing nicely after being used all day. There's no rush.

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