milliways_bar | Milliversary EP: Kate Barlow

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Milliversary EP: Kate Barlow | main bar

"What're you — "

With a magical chime, Kate's typical attire is replaced by a party dress, fancy lace choker, and matching turquoise-studded black cowboy boots.

"Very funny, ma'am."

All right, she kinda likes the boots. But she's not going without her guns. It takes a brief argument over a few napkins and Kate agreeing to keep the party attire, but her gun belt eventually settles itself back on her hips.

"Thank you kindly. An' take care of this for me, would y'please?"

She tosses an old newspaper down, folded to a heading just briefly visible before Miss Bar disposes of it.
YOUNGER RANCH
YORKTOWN, TX.
Fine bred horses, stock, pigs, goats.

Happy Milliversary! :)

"Thank you, ma'am. 'Nother bottle of bourbon, an' keep 'em comin'."

A large plate of cookies materializes with her order. Well, hell. Now she'll have to find somebody to share them with.

[ooc: Today is Kate's 4th Milliversary! Open indefinitely, and as the cowgirl is a little drunk (and only set to get more so) shenanigans are welcome. ^__^ Note: All threads timed before the one with Tommy Gavin.]

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There was the riding lesson.

There was the kiss.

There was the jar of peaches.

And right now, for some ridiculous reason, Tommy feels as if he's at a high school dance, going up to talk to a cute blonde after he'd slipped a note into her locker, asking her if she wants to go ice skating some time.

Hands tucked into his jeans pockets, he approaches Kate, expression free of hardened cynicism, the look in his eyes conveying the fact that as far as he's concerned, she's the only other person in the room.

"Hey. Hi."

It would be difficult to find anything lecherously disingenuous about that.

She isn't expecting to see him. Yes, there was the riding lesson, the kiss, the jar of peaches — but so often she holds out hope she'll see someone again, only to have them disappear. And, with the way things went, she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd wanted to disappear.

She turns quickly, a touch unsteady, the small of her back bumping against the Bar.

"Mr. — Tommy. Hello."

The bottle of bourbon is a quarter of the way gone, yet she doesn't spill a drop from her glass through it all.

She does, however, turn a little pink.

"How've you been?"

He notes the bourbon, the telltale slight wobbliness, and also the blush. It could be from the alcohol.

"Been alright. And you? What's the occasion?"

The dress and the cookies are a little hard to miss as well.

"Fine, thank you."

It could be the bourbon.

It could also be the fact that less than one week ago she'd over-imbibed with one of his friends, and can't quite remember what she'd told him. But she distinctly remembers the jar of peaches being picked up, and something about a deal.

So she acts casual, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress.

"It's, ah. It's my anniversary. Well, it's a couple of 'em, actually, but in particular it's my anniversary of findin' this place. Miss Bar likes t'remind me, and — well."

She's rambling.

But she's casually rambling.

He smiles a little, one corner of his mouth pulled back.

"Oh, really? Well, you look nice."

A pause.

"Thanks for the peaches, by the way. Lou-- uh, Kenny-- we call 'im Lou at the firehouse-- anyways, he told me that, uh, that you guys met and talked and whatnot, and he made sure I got the peaches, and-- they were great, and, well... Thanks. You really didn't have to, though. I mean-- y'know."

This is Tommy rambling, and he's sober.

She waits for an opportunity to get a word in edgewise, eyes a touch round and head shaking slightly.

She reaches to comb an errant curl behind her ear, but as it turns out there isn't one there. So her fingers trail over the lace across her neck, pulling subtly to relieve the pinpricks of heat against her skin.

"Thank you. For the compliment, I mean. Y'look — well."

She doesn't realize she's looking him up and down until her eyes are on his thighs. She glances away, kicking herself for the impropriety.

"It wasn't — it was my pleasure. The peaches. I was makin' up a big batch anyhow, an' I thought, since y'seemed t'like 'em so much ... I'm — sorry. For what happened."

He never figured her to have roving eyes, but he chalks it up to a combination of shyness and booze. She's fidgeting, and he doesn't want to make it any more awkward than it already is.

"Listen," he says, stepping closer and lowering his voice to his most gentle tone. He does have one -- it still sounds like sandpaper and smoke, but it's merely warm instead of caustic. "You don't have to apologize, 'cause you did nothing wrong. So don't worry about it. Okay? I told you, it was me. And I'm sorry."

He tries to meet her eyes and he huffs out a soft but wry chuckle. "Maybe if I wore a nice hat more often, I wouldn't act like such an ass all the time, huh?"

He steps into her space, and she goes still. He doesn't look or sound angry, he isn't pulling away, or retreating. She catches his eyes, holding his gaze steadily as he speaks.

"All right."

She doesn't refuse the apology this time, even though she still doesn't think it's necessary. They've come to what looks like an understanding, so she accepts his piece and relaxes a touch, only now realizing how tight her grip on the Bar had been. She raises her chin, meeting his wry chuckle with a gently teasing smile.

"We could find out. C'mere."

He's too damn tall. He's going to have to get on her level, because no amount of tip-toeing will get her on his.

Relief. Again.

And he's relieved to see that smile, and even though he's wary enough to see she's got something up her sleeve, he'll go along with it. Smirking, he leans in, bending slightly as if she were going to tell him a secret.

"...What?"

Perfect blonde curls cascade over her shoulders, spilling by the sides of her face as she takes off her hat. It's a men's stetson, white, and it just so happens to fit Tommy. She tucks his hair back, fussing for a few seconds until it looks just right.

"There."

She switches her gaze back to his eyes, a fledgling smile swimming in the blue.

"Keep that on for twenty minutes, an' we'll see if a gentleman can't be made outta you yet."

Okay, he totally wasn't expecting that.

And, okay, it might be his turn to flush a little pink (what? he's Irish!) when she touches his hair while fitting the hat on his head, and maybe her fingertips brush his ear and his temple in the process.

And now he's seen her without a hat for a second time.

Straightening up, he utters a self-conscious laugh, wincing a little at the prospect of having to wear it for so long.

"Twenty minutes? ...In a row?"

"Well, I s'pose you can take it off if y'feel a powerful need t'start cussin' an' hollerin'."

She's serious.

(What? She's a Texan.)

"But the idea is t'see how long y'can last. Besides, it suits you."

"Heh! Right. Okay, well. Guess I'll play. Dunno if it really suits me, though, I feel like a gorilla in a tutu..."

Twenty minutes? Twenty?

"Might as well get comfortable, then." He pulls a barstool over and holds a hand out to help her up. She's tipsy, she's wearing a dress, and she's petite -- it has nothing to do with the hat.

Of course not, Tommy.

It's all just a perfect coincidence.

"A what in a what?" Kate laughs, accepting the hand without thinking about it. "Thank you. Y'look fine. I think you worry too much."

She settles on the stool carefully, refilling her glass of bourbon.

"So Mr. Shea told you we talked? An', by the bye, how d'you get Lou outta Kenny?"

"A big ape in a frilly skirt?" he clarifies, smirking. "Could be worse, you might've put me in leather chaps or something instead."

...Please, no ideas.

As he pulls up a stool beside her and sits down, his eyes flick to the bourbon filling her glass, and his throat immediately goes dry. With a quick pass of his tongue over his lips, he looks away and orders a glass of club soda.

"Oh, Lou is short for lieutenant. And yeah, he mentioned that you talked. Actually, first he mentioned that I should wear a hat, that the gentlemanly look was popular or something, and I was like, the hell d'you mean by that? And then when he was making a salad in the kitchen, he had the jar of peaches out on the table all nonchalant and whatever, and I was all, where did you get this, and he was all, Kate left it at the bar for you. And then he said he knew about me falling off the horse, and-- okay, I ain't gonna lie: I thought you told him. And I got really pissed off. And I'm really sorry that I thought you'd tell. Lou insisted that you didn't, that you didn't wanna say anything and that he just guessed -- and I believe him. And he also said that you said that the peaches were an apology. So...I felt kinda shitty for thinking all that."

"I dunno where I'd find leather chaps long 'nough."

She doesn't notice the look on his face as she pours. She's halfway to asking if he'd like like a glass when she glances over the rim, sees the club soda, and remembers how he'd said he can't drink.

"Does this bother you? 'Cuz I can drink faster."

She knocks back what's in her glass in one smooth toss, and does the math. Shouldn't take long to empty the bottle.

Assuming she can still pour in a few minutes.

By the time he's finished speaking, she feels a little guilty. It's not a complete lie, but she hadn't been as tight-lipped then as she probably could have. Not remembering what exactly was said helps her poker face, at least. She brushes her hair out of her face, and sets her chin in her hand.

"He's a nice man. He's carryin' some terrible hurts, but he did have a few things t'say about you."

The omission of 'nice' before 'things' was on purpose, because it's her Milliversary, Tommy doesn't hate her, and dammit she has the right to devil him a bit.

"No, no, take your time if you want." The way she's putting away that liquor is impressive, and he wonders what it would've been like had they met before he swore off the stuff. The idea sort of sends a tingle up his spine and makes him take a sip of his club soda.

Lou is a nice guy. Tommy knows this. He does carry his own set of hurts. Tommy knows this for sure. And he always has things to say about Tommy. Oh, yes. He knows this, too.

"Oh, really."

This is said over the rim of his glass, eyebrow arched, before he takes a sip.

"Mm."

It's all he's getting.

The thing about Kate is she didn't start drinking this morning. She started drinking five mornings ago. Just a steady stream, enough to keep her head from coming off from a hangover. Tonight it's going down a little faster than it's been, and the speed won't last for long. She's a small woman, after all.

"You've been friends for a long time, I hear."

...What, that's it?

"Yeah, pretty long. One of my closest friends in the firehouse. And in general."

He takes another sip of his drink, still eying her.

"Okay, c'mon, what'd he say about me?"

She arches an eyebrow.

"Is it makin' you nervous not knowin'?"

She crosses her legs, poring all of her attention into it. She's not used to wearing skirts this short. Or necklines this low. The corsetted waist of her dress shows off her, ah, assets far more than anything else she wears, and it distracts her for a minute.

Why is Tommy so goddamn tall, anyway?

"Well, he told me 'bout how y'are on the job."

"No, not nervous. Just-- y'know, curious."

When she crosses her legs, he notices her...boots. They're nice...boots.

He had no idea she was hiding all this under those cowgirl chic work clothes.

And jeez, he could probably wrap his arms twice around her slim little waist--

"Oh. On the job? Okay. Well, whatever he said, he could probably say about anybody else on our crew, 'cause we do have a pretty damn good group of guys. We all look out for one another, we all trust each other. Still, the longer you work with someone, the better you work with someone. Lou and I have worked together the longest out of all our guys, and if I had to pick just one person to back me up in any situation, it'd be him. And I ain't just sayin' it either."

"That doesn't surprise me."

They're sweet. She'd even venture to say cute, but she's not quite drunk enough to say so out loud.

She tips another finger of bourbon back.

"He also said y'don't stand for lacy — lazy — behavior. S'the rest of the 'guys' much younger'n you?"

Here comes the slurring.

"Yeah, we got a couple guys who've barely gotten outta their twenties. And the 10 or 15 years that separates me from them makes a lot of difference, but y'know what, I could care less what they do when they're off duty, but once we're in the shit, they better pull their weight, 'cause you can't do a half-assed job when lives are on the line. Everybody makes mistakes, but you can't slack off. Not on my watch."

He takes another swallow of soda and crunches on some half-melted ice. Gesturing at her glass and the way she's knocking 'em back, he murmurs, "You okay there, honey?"

She hums in thought, chewing on the inside of her lip. He gestures to her glass, so she looks at her glass.

"Ayup. Jus' clearin' my head."

She shoots him a smirk.

"It's not exactly ladylike behavior, I s'pose. But, then, you're the one wearin' the hat tonight."

That's her excuse, and she's sticking to it.

Besides, she's not that bad, is she? A little warm, and sure, the room lags a half-step behind when she moves her head. But she's still talking clear, and she can still walk.

Probably.

"Mr. Shea did mention somethin' else."

Clearing her head. He's certainly not going to judge her, not with the stories that she carries around with her. And ladylike behavior? Screw that.

He raises his glass to her excuse with a smirk.

If she does decide to try to walk and ends up failing at the attempt, well, he is a fireman.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

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