Ben Wade (
almosthonorable) wrote2009-02-15 12:20 am
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[[ tombstone ]]
whitetextiswhite
Ben's more than a little sorry he poked fun at the Lieutenant when she suggested a trip to Canyon Diablo.
Now, the thought of getting out of the bar -- space to ride, space to breathe -- couldn't be more welcome.
(Even if it is to see a giant hole in the ground; Esfir's clear excitement alone is worth the week-long ride.)
He adjusts his hat on his head and swings open the Front Door in Milliways; just beyond is a saloon at the edge of Tombstone, Arizona.
"After you, Lieutenant."
Ben's more than a little sorry he poked fun at the Lieutenant when she suggested a trip to Canyon Diablo.
Now, the thought of getting out of the bar -- space to ride, space to breathe -- couldn't be more welcome.
(Even if it is to see a giant hole in the ground; Esfir's clear excitement alone is worth the week-long ride.)
He adjusts his hat on his head and swings open the Front Door in Milliways; just beyond is a saloon at the edge of Tombstone, Arizona.
"After you, Lieutenant."
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She'll let it slide.
Stepping through, Esfir automatically steps out of the way for him and scans the room. She's been in bars before, but this is...different. Very, very different. A hundred years and another country different, in fact. Given she's dressed like Ben - boots and trousers, waistcoat over long sleeves and a coat over that - she's by far the most clothed woman in the room.
Of course, given she's dressing like the men, the fact that she is a woman herself isn't that obvious.
(she's grateful for that)
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(It's dry -- dry as dust, here in Arizona.)
Esfir and Ben get more than cursory glances from the half-full bar, and as he surveys the middling-to-rough patrons, Ben's thankful Esfir can be easily mistaken for a man in her shapeless get-up.
Until a woman wearing too much powder and too little clothing to be called a lady sidles over to them.
"Well, hello."
Her eyes move from Ben to Esfir, and it's hard to gauge who she's leering at more.
(Ben's doing an admirable job of keeping his amusement to himself.)
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He isn't going to, is he?
Fuck.
Stiffly, voice low and accent thicker than normal, "Morning."
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"Mornin', ma'am. You'll have to excuse my friend, here -- he's new to the place."
(Butter wouldn't melt in Ben's mouth.)
The woman's eyes light with what looks like possibility.
"Well, sugar, y'all could let me -- "
He's already shaking his head.
"Just gonna show 'im around, get him acquainted with the town." Another tip of his head in the woman's direction. "Now, if you'll kindly excuse us ... c'mon, Yazy."
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(In this case, something rather close to shock and outrage)
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And he's got a damn good idea what it means.
Leading them out of the saloon and to the livery across the dusty street, he inclines his head toward her.
"Awful friendly folks here."
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He opens the door to the makeshift office, striding in first and holding it open behind him.
(Ordinarily, he'd hold it and let her step through first, but they're trying to keep up appearances.)
He nods to the grizzled man making notes on a ledger.
"Howdy, John," Ben says, taking off his hat. "Need a couple horses, full tack. You got any to spare?"
John looks up, his face brightening.
"Surely do, Mr. Wade. Got just the pair."
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Bargaining she knows, but most of what Ben and John debate and argue about goes straight over her head.
What this means is that when she rides out of the town, all she really knows is that Ben's horse is so dark a brown to be black, and more of a prancer compared to her own horse, which is a nice soft tan-gold-brown with lighter mane and tail.
Not that she minds. She quite likes this horse.
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They head north and west, and Ben's content to let Sugar pick her path among the dust and rock and scrub.
There's little wind, and despite the cold, he's damn near sweating by the time morning bleeds into afternoon.
"You doin' all right, Lieutenant?"
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She grins at him.
"I'm oke."
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"You look good up there, y'know."
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"I look good?" She repeats, curiously.
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"Like you know what you're doin'."
His grin widens.
"And I like that hat."
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"And I thought you'd be commenting on my boots."
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A beat.
"Then again, could be I just like you."
He adjusts the reins in his hands, concentrating on the feel of the leather between his fingers to tamp down his grin.
"C'mon, Sugar."
With a squeeze of his calves, he urges the horse into an easy canter.
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Feeling a little confused (or rather, more than a little), she urges her own horse into a canter and follows him out.