the_gene_genie | (no subject)

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kate barlow

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To say he's nervous about this would be understating it a little. Not only is he weirded out by the idea of getting on a horse, he's also wearing jeans. Which is not a usual thing for him and just brings out the alien nature of this whole encounter. But! Needs must and every time he wavers on it, he just thinks of Westerns and it's enough to strengthen his resolve.

Besides, the Gene Genie isn't afraid of a damn thing and he'll be damned if some beast is going to stop him living out a dream. So here he is, early in the morning (less chance of anyone seeing) and already fortified by a good few nips of Scotch.

'Alrigh', luv?'

Stables smell weird. Horses smell weird. Grass smells weird when it's all damp like this (he's never normally close enough to it to realise that dew gives a fresh tinge to everything). He pulls at his hipflask again and eyes her.

'If y'get the urge t'laugh, jus' remember who's goin' to show you how to drive a car, yeah?'

Revenge will be sweet, should she be less than understanding.

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"They don't teach you knots 'fore they hand out them DCI badges?" she exclaims, feigning shock. "Here's hopin' a herd'a cattle don't escape on your watch."

She winks, and gestures him out of the stall.

"I'll show y'then. Lead 'im out, nice an' easy. There are lead ties on the outside'a the stall; y'should be able t'see 'em where you are. We're jus' gonna tie him off there so we can get him brushed down an' ready."

'I know 'ow t'tie a knot. I never 'eard of 4H, tha's all.'

He hates it when people know more than him, expecially when they're women. But he has to concede that isn't that the point of this? She knows about horses, he wants to learn how to ride one. So he just flashes her a dark sort of look and takes hold of the reins, trusting that Duncan knows how to walk without being dragged.

She conciliatorily holds up her hands, slipping out of the stall and around the gate as Gene brings Duncan out, and latches the gate shut again.

"Bring 'im about face."

'Ah, military terms. Them, I know.'

He turns him around. Easy enough.

This horse-ridin' stuff's a piece of piss.

The corner of her mouth twitches, but she bites her tongue.

For now.

She shows him a simple halter hitch, and helps him get Duncan secure before reaching for the bucket of brushes. She hands Gene one with coarse bristles.

"'Fore you can get 'im saddled up, y'make sure there ain't nothin' that'll aggravate his skin while you're ridin'. This is important."

It's not a beauty treatment in the strictest sense, as he had griped.

She pulls another mane and tail brush from the bucket and starts at Duncan's spine to demonstrate how it's done, instructing him on the basics: go with the coat, not against it; never stand behind him; and so on.

He watches her tie the knot and explain it. When she hands him the brush, she'll no doubt see his look of supreme unimpressed-ness.

'If you'd just called it a quick-release knot, like it is...'

Never mind.

He brushes the horse. It's straightforward enough, though he stops every now and again to pull hair out of it with a frown.

'Hairy bastard, ain't he? An' he smells. D'they all smell like tha'?'

"Folks 'round here have all kinds'a different names for things. Could'a called it a halter hitch, but I reckoned I'd get a blank look for that."

She's undaunted yet by his unimpressed-ness, and his bellyaching only makes her grin.

She leans in just slightly, catching hints of his cologne.

"I wonder if that's what they think, when you first walk in."

She would have, as well. He'd deny it, but then she leans in and he looks down at her, wondering what she's up to until she speaks. And then is just full of righteous indignation.

'Oi, wha' you tryin' t'say? Ain' nothin' wrong wi' my aftershave.'

He nods at Duncan who, it has to be said, appears unconcerned with anything Gene might say, do or smell like at this point in time.

'A bit o'Hai Karate sprayed on him wouldn' 'urt. He might even ge' a shag out of it.'

Hey, if men have to fight off the ladies, maybe bloke horses would be fighting off the mares. You never know.

It takes effort to keep the shock on her face from looking comical.

"Maybe, if he wasn't a gelding."

Her voice is full of barely contained laughter.

"What kinda name is 'Hi, Care'a Tea', anyhow?"

'He's 'ad his balls off?'

His indignant look turns sympathetic and he leans down to look Duncan in the eye.

'You poor bugger. Did she do tha'? I'd kick 'er in the tits if I were you.'

She deserves that for laughing at him, he feels. He straightens and pulls his fags out of his jeans pocket.

'I didn' name it Kate, I jus' splash it on an' fight the tarts off with a stick.'

She's never been so simultaneously offended and amused in her entire life. The way her face reddens, stomach contracted as she holds her breath, is only evidence of that.

"Your wife is a lucky woman."

Her voice is as dry as autumn leaves.

"Y'think you boys'll be all right if I go t'pull out the rest of our tack?"

'An' don' she know it, luv.'

Heh.

He lights up and claps the horse on the neck in a matey kind of way.

'Don' worry 'bout us. You need t'take a minute to calm yerself, go ahead.'

Duncan chuffs at the contact, muscles twitching under Gene's hand, and stomps a forefoot.

Kate just smiles, like the cat who ate the canary.

"Already y'know me so well, Gene. Don't spook 'im."

She turns on her heel and heads for the tack room.

This is going to be a terribly interesting lesson.

He's just trying to wind her up. She's altogether too immune to his sense of humour for his liking and anyway, a day's not complete without a bird screaming at him about what a twat he is.

Plus...well. He's not used to talking to women like they're people. He quite literally doesn't know how to have an actual conversation with one, at least not outside a professional capacity (and there are no female coppers anywhere near his rank, and very few in the station overall).

When it comes down to it, he's less worried about getting on a horse than he is taking lessons from a bird, and one that definitely fits the description of 'totty' at that. So he just smokes his cigarette and looks at Duncan (who ignores him; definitely not a proper lad at all) and thinks about football instead.

"I don't see your hands movin'."

Kate's probably not like the kind of woman Gene's used to. It's not that she's immune to his humor -- and the day's only just beginning, so the possibility of her calling him a 'twat' isn't too far-fetched (though, there are plenty of other choice words in her vocabulary that she might sooner use).

But she comes from a point in time where womenfolk weren't always respected by men. They had their duties, their structured place in society, and often stood to the side while the men discussed politics, education, sciences and so forth.

She's not immune to his ways, she's simply used to having to prove she knows more than needlepoint and Yeats around strong, opinionated men who look and see... well, a 'totty'. She can be patient. She can also throw with just as much accuracy as she shoots, and will lob him one good with one of them hard brushes if he doesn't get his head out of his ass soon.

"Sooner y'get him brushed down, the sooner y'get him saddled up an' we start ridin'," she points out, hauling more leather bits and blankets out to set on a bench between Duncan and Beaut's stalls.

'How much more does he need? I though' he were done!'

And he eyes the tack and blankets with some alarm.

'...Jesus Chris', you've given me a gayboy mount, 'aven't ya? More clothes and bits than any bird, an' I'm supposed to primp him to within an inch o'the poor buggers life? Bloody cruel.'

It should be pointed out that he is, as he talks, grinding his cigarette out on the floor and picking the brush up again. But only because he wants to ride and not because she told him to, obviously.

"How d'you think the cowboys do it? Balance the stirrups over 'is barrel, yell 'giddy-up', an' hold on for dear life? Trust me, once you got your legs spread over his back, you'll be glad for the comfort'a all this."

She has absolutely no intentions of warning him about how sore he'll be this evening. Let him figure that one out on his own.

Soon enough, there are two saddles set with the rest of the tack, and Kate's moving back in to inspect his work.

"Y'ever miss a spot with your shavin' soap? Skin gets all bothered an' aggravated?"

She fishes another brush out of the bucket, this one smaller, with softer bristles.

"How pleasant would you be if someone was always rubbin' up that spot? Y'gotta git his legs, an' all his girth. Once that's done, use this t'brush his face; just move the bridle's straps so's you can get on underneath."

Beat.

"You're doin' a good job. An' you're almost done, promise."

Whether or not she intended it, she's just said exactly the right thing. Gene is hardly what anyone could call an empathic sort of bloke but humanising Duncan and drawing comparisons is something he can't ignore. He does get pissed off when he gets shaving rash.

'Yeah, yeah, alrigh'.'

So he cracks on and makes sure it's done properly - it's not a complicated job, when alls said and done. He just has the patience of a two year old. But when he applies himself, it doesn't take long.

She notices the shift, subtle as it is, but doesn't call it to light. She'll simply enjoy it while it lasts.

While he finishes up, she brings Beaut out of her stall and starts getting her ready.

"All right. Your saddle blanket goes on first," she says, nodding to the bench where she set their tack, indicating he should follow suit and pick up Duncan's.

Throwing the blanket on Beaut's back isn't difficult at all, neither is explaining to Gene just where it should settle on Duncan. Then she hefts her saddle -- something she's done a thousand times before -- handling it like it's nothing.

Blanket, check. He even makes sure its smooth without having to be told. Saddle...check. Though his handling of it is far more unweildy than Kate's.

'Bloody 'ell, this can' be comfortable. For me or him.'

He puts it where she tells him, up on the withers, but is still eyeing it dubiously.

'Am I still goin' t'have my wedding tackle attached by tonight?'

"Reckon that all depends on how much y'piss off the teacher 'fore we're through today."

It's an offhanded comment, made as she's checking his belts to make sure they're tight.

She smiles serenely.

"Think you'll need a step stool?"

'No.'

How rude! Gene is tall and also, has rather stupidly long legs. He's pretty sure he can cope, therefore, she's getting yet another glare.

It doesn't occur to him that she might be winding him up.

'Can I get on 'im now?'

Other people might stick a 'please' on that, but not him.

If it were any other woman, for as many ridiculous jokes as he's made in the last half hour, she might ask him how many times he's asked that question.

She doesn't.

(This is probably for the best.)

"Jus' one more thing."

She steps over to the desk along the back wall, and picks up a Stetson by its crown.

"You ain't gotta wear it; jus' remember it's a gift, an' it'd be rude to refuse."

She's blatantly teasing him as she offers the cowboy hat for inspection. She figures, though, just maybe it'll be right up his alley.

And it is. It really is. He looks surprised, naturally, and for a moment a bit unsure of himself (a rare thing that Kate may never see again) but he takes it from her and immediately puts it on his head.

It suits him.

'Soft mare.'

So, y'know. Thanks, Kate.

Is what he's trying to say.

Edited 2010-08-28 22:24 (UTC)

She has no idea what he's getting at.

But the look on his face -- surprising, confounding, and sweet -- is enough. She don't expect he lets his guard down easily, and so she smiles when he settles his new hat on his head.

(It does suit him.)

"Now yer ready."

Running through all the last minute details, she unties Duncan's lead and offers a steadying hand while Gene negotiates those stupidly long legs of his up into the saddle.