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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He blinks at her, then uneasily puts the reins in one hand so he can pry it out of his jeans pocket.

'I'll assume we're still talkin' abou' the flask.'

It's handed over. Awkwardly. He doesn't feel comfortable doing much leaning over, from this position.

She's quick to take it from him so he doesn't have to lean far, uncapping it and taking a solid swallow.

"I'm sorry, when y'asked if this is where y'get off, I assumed y'meant climbin' off the horse."

Her delivery is dry. It's going to be a long morning.

"Think y'can lead 'im outside on your lonesome, cowboy?"

(No, she isn't handing the flask back. Sorry, Gene.)

He scowls at her, partly because she just stole his Scotch and partly because he doesn't understand the question and is now going to have to ask.

'By lead him, you mean I have t'get off and pull 'im? Or sit here an' make him go?'

He holds his hand out for the flask. His turn.

'We can talk abou' other ways of gettin' off later.'

It's going to be a long morning, yes.

"Since you're so eager t'ride somethin', I'd like t'see what you've got."

She takes another swig before reluctantly handing the flask back to him.

"Unless you've got performance anxiety?"

She calmly digs in a back pocket, fishing out a pair of leather riding gloves. Beaut's been waiting patiently all this time, but she's starting to sidestep, anxious to get going.

'The Gene Genie? Never.'

If there's one way to get him going, it's to call him chicken. So his boots are vigourously applied to Duncan's sides...and that'll be him shooting out of the door, then.

It's probably no more than a trot. But it feels like a gallop to him.

"The Gene what?"

Her surprise only increases when a sudden breeze and an empty spot where Duncan once stood is all that's left in his wake. She arches an eyebrow, and quickly moves to untie Beaut's lead.

"Lean forward, not back!"

He's not aware of leaning in any particular direction at first, merely tries to stay on. He can feel himself slipping to one side, rights himself, slips to the other one. Then his brain tells him to stop being a jessie, he has feet in the stirrups and hands on the reins and all he has to do is pull, yes?

He pulls. Too hard, probably and Duncan doesn't like it but he does stop, not far from the stable.

'You bloody idiot.'

It is unclear whether he's talking to himself or the horse. He doesn't stop to decide which either, he's pulling his fags out because he needs one to calm his racing heart.

"You all right?"

For all their taunting and teasing, she asks the question in all breathless sincerity once Beaut has cantered up to Duncan's side.

There is, perhaps, the slightest inkling of guilt mixed in with the concern in her expression; aside from not exactly being professional, teasing him is probably going to irk him into doing something stupid that could get him or Duncan (or both of them) hurt.

'Still in one piece,' he says, cheerfully enough, though he's slightly paler than usual and he's pulling pretty hard on that cigarette. Duncan seems unconcerned, eating grass, and it doesn't occur to Gene to stop him.

He'd worry if she didn't tease him, not to mention get bored quickly. But it is true that any hint of thinking he's not up to the job will no doubt lead him to prove otherwise, in a definitely reckless manner. He has very little fear of anything, Gene, or maybe its fairer to say that he doesn't let fear stop him doing anything.

'Kicked 'im too 'ard. Don' worry abou' it, luv.'

Yeah, he can see that guilt. And it was his own fault and he'll own up to it.

Her eyes flick from his cigarette back to his eyes. She nods very slightly.

"Y'don't hafta kick 'im so hard."

Beat.

"S'this how y'drive your automobiles?"

'Yeah, I go' that,' he returns mildly.

And then his mouth curls into something wicked.

'Safest driver on the road, me.'

...Sam Tyler will, in the very near future, tell him he drives like a pissed-up crackhead. And he won't be wrong, either. But Gene's never hit anyone on the road so, obviously, he's a safe driver.

For some reason, she doesn't believe him. Maybe it has something to do with that fiendish look on his face. However, the response it pulls from her is a likewise mischievous grin.

"Right. Let's at least try t'git a ways from fence and pole, 'fore your tame manner threatens t'dock my pay for repairs."

She sidles up to him, once more stepping him through what he should be doing to get a simple walk out of Duncan, and then clicks her tongue three times. Both Beaut and Duncan start to move forward.

He keeps the reins taut but not pulled tight, keeps his back straight, tries to remember to keep his heels down though it's bloody awkward and already promises a world of aching calves tomorrow. For the first hundred yards or so, he's silent and tense, concentrating; after that, he starts to relax. This is easy enough.

'You ge' paid for this?'

"Credit t'my tab."

She gives him the space and silence she figures he needs to acquaint himself with the gentle sway of Duncan's movements, watching him from the corner of her eye. It does make her smile, though, once she sees him start to relax.

"Everybody who holds down employ with the Miss earns a lil' somethin' towards their debt."

His lips find their customary pout, as they always do when he's thinking, or feeling particularly bullish. This is one of the former expressions.

'An' there was me thinkin' you were doin' it out of th' goodness of your heart.'

It sounds vaguely mocking but it's himself it's aimed at and hell, he's not about to complain about her earning a living. He just already feels like a bit of a twat up here, even though it's something he's always wanted to learn, and needs something to take his mind off it.

'Shoul' charge you for drivin' lessons.'

She turns her attention full on him, blinking in surprise. She can't tell if he's mocking her or if he's got his feelings hurt. Though, given the brusque manner in which Gene usually addresses her, she can't imagine he'd care one way or the other if she liked him.

Would he?

She chirps a gentle laugh, shaking her head. "This ain't exactly in my job description," she amends. "I work the stables: muckin' stalls, feedin' the stock, figurin' supplies... that sort'a thing. This I do 'cuz I like it."

And, yes, because she likes him. Soured old puss that he is.

"If you're hard pressed for money, though, I could spare some change..."

'Piss off,' he says, rude but teasing, obviously without a care in the world.

'I may no' rob banks bu' I'm hardly on th' breadline.'

Gene is used to being respected and feared. He's used to not being given anything for free and it's the way he prefers it anyway; even a favour done will be repaid in kind, eventually. That's how policing works, where he comes from.

So there's disparity in his head here. Is she doing him a favour that he'll repay with driving lessons? Or is she getting paid and he's doing her the favour, in which case, is he a mug? Or is he a mug just because he doesn't really mind the idea of helping her out for nothing.

He's a bloody mug for giving it this much thought, he knows that. And he absolutely, definitely, does not have hurt feelings. He's not a bloody girl.

'So this is horse ridin', is it? Walkin' around like we're old women, takin' in the scenery? Come on woman, if I'm goin' t'have sore knackers tomorrow I want 'em for somethin' a bit more energetic than this.'

She cackles.

"What is it with you men? Always so worried 'bout yer 'knackers'."

She'll never admit this, but she secretly hopes he won't be able to sit for days after this. It'd serve him right; and if he came back for more after that, then she'd know how much she could really show him.

"Give 'im a gentle nudge. Once we get past the forest here, y'can try your luck givin' him what you got."

'What is it with you women, who get all hormonal an' then insist you're fine whilst you're chompin' on th' remains of the head you've jus' bitten off a bloke? If you lot worried abou' that a bit more, like we worry abou' our knackers, maybe you wouldn' be such a pain in the arse to 'ave around.'

Women in general. Not specifically her, though he's not excluding her from the mad generalisation either, of course.

Duncan is getting eyed again.

'You jus' want me t'land on me arse, don' you?'

"I want you to make up yer mind," she bites back. "Y'call women pains in the asses when you yourself can't stop floppin' back an' forth like a Dixie whore 'tween a pair'a peckers."

The vulgarity falls off her lips slightly awkward. Not just because he's got her feathers ruffled, but because she's blushing by the time the last syllable's come off her tongue.

"You try an' push him today, yeah. You'll likely end up on your ass. Y'can't learn everythin' in one go, cowboy. But you wanna try your luck with a trot, ease your heels in real gentle like, and Duncan'll take care of the rest."

He glares at her.

'Floppin' back an' forth between what?'

The flare of indignation in him is lessened (internally) by the sight of her blush but he hides the urge to laugh quite well.

Oh look, trees.

The path to the inlet is suddenly terribly interesting.

"You wanted t'ride, didn't you?"

With that, she nudges Beaut into a trot and pulls ahead.

'Not as much as I wan' t'know wha' you meant by that,' he calls after her, but she's trotting ahead. The only way to catch up is to grit his teeth and give Duncan a nudge.

Like she said, he takes cares of it. Gene mainly tries to hang on - not entirely resisting the temptation to hold on to the saddle - and is glad when the horse follows the other one so he doesn't have to worry about steering.

Definitely going to to have sore knackers tomorrow though. This is bumpy and damned uncomfortable. But he still wants to know what she meant.

She keeps an ear out for the sound of quickened hoof beats, turning over her shoulder to supervise his approach. She smiles, despite his awkward posture.

Though it fades soon enough, once she sees the determined, hard set of his countenance.

"What I meant by what? You're an impossibly indecisive one t'day, hankerin' between the romance of the notion an' wantin' t'get it over with. Forward or back, Gene? Y'can't have both."

Kate's always been a patient teacher, but she has her moments of bluntness with especially difficult students.

And this is him on a good day.

'Why not? Wha's wrong with wantin' to get it over with? Sooner I learn, sooner it can start bein' the way it should be.'

Which is to say, he wants to ride the way he's always seen and has little to no patience with the basic mechanics of it. But he doesn't see this as a flaw, unlike...most other people. Probably.