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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"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.

"Oh? An' how's the way it should be?"

So asks the Texas born cowgirl and daughter of a rancher to the... well, she's not sure how to describe Gene. But when one refers to grass as 'that green stuff', the answer should be rich.

'Like I've seen it. Fast.'

He wants it to look cool, or e would if he'd ever use such a word. But he doesn't feel cool up here now, he feels like a div.

Kate laughs.

"How fast d'you think you were goin' when you left the stables?"

'Dunno. Not as fast as I wan' t'go.'

At least he's honest about it? He has no designs on beng a great horseman, he just wants to gallop about the place and have fun. Which pretty much sums up his life, now we come to mention it.

They come around one bend in the path. As they leave the wooded areas and head towards warmer climes, the lane grows wider and clearer. Little streams cut across the path here and there.

"I can't account for how fast you've 'seen it', as I ain't never watched a movin' picture like that, but I'd reckon you're shootin' for somethin' four t'five times faster than when you set out."

She eyes him.

"Y'really think you're ready for that?"

He takes the eyeing as a challenge and that's only ever going to end up one way. Because no, he's not ready for it, still doesn't feel all that comfortable up here. But there's no way in hell he's going to back down.

'Prob'ly no' but lets do it anyway.'

He gets a flat look.

Beaut stops short at her command, legs shuffling to a halt. Once she's still, Kate leans forward, resting her elbow on the saddle horn. She doesn't know it, but her posture mimics that classic stance in which cowboys of yore are commonly depicted.

"Y'want to? Be my guest."

It's probably a good thing Kate's specialty wasn't in teaching young'n's to handle dangerous animals back in her teaching days.

He glares at her.

'Fine.'

And without allowing himself to think about it, belts Duncan with his heels. The horse startles, head jerking upwards with a snort, and then takes off. Gene yells something unintelligible as they disappear off round the bend in the trail; whether in fear or enjoyment is hard to tell.

The whoosh knocks the hat clean off Kate's head.

"Be mindful of your posture!"

She calmly adjusts her leather gloves.

There's a noise - sort of a thump - somewhere in the distance. Could be a noise from the bar, of course.

Only it isn't.

There are some noises Kate simply expects.

click - The sound of your mortality coming to call.

thunk - A footfall in a dark room or a cramped hallway.

thump - The sound of an idiot falling on his ass.

She flexes her fingers, then tugs on her sleeves to put everything back in order. Gathering up the reins, she figures she better go see if Duncan is all right.

Oh, Gene too.

"Hyah!"

She'll come across his hat first, because it blew off his head at some point. Another hundred yards further on, she'll come across Gene by the side of the trail, sitting but leaning back on his hands, trying to catch his breath and with a thin trickle of blood running down by the corner of his eye. Duncan's a little further on, eating grass and unharmed.

Beaut comes galloping up the trail, mild enough to permit Kate's weight in only one stirrup. She dismounts before the animal has the chance to come to a stop.

Kate takes the final few feet between Gene and herself in a quick trot, pulling the kerchief from around her throat in one swift motion. She doesn't wait for permission (she knows he wouldn't give it) to kneel next to him, carefully dabbing at the blood on his face.

(Beaut continues on to where Duncan has been grazing; the two nicker at each other and Duncan starts, leading Beaut on a quick romp through the grass.)

"Didja land on your head or on yer ass?"

The impatience is still there in her voice, but it's tempered by a softness -- a gentle concern. He's a bullheaded fool, and for that she could just about kill him; but she don't like it when someone gets hurt on her watch, regardless of the reason.