A/N: It has come to my attention that those of us who are hot and bothered by Gene Wilder are criminally underserved on this platform, and I felt the need to address that. Part 2 is coming soon! For now, please enjoy a pining, lovesick Waco Kid whose a little bit riled up and a lotta bit possessive. As always, I live for feedback.
The sting of bourbon slid down his throat, thick and smoky, while he slouched back in his seat. Shoulders heavy, thighs spread, he kicked one booted foot to prop itself up on the seat of the empty chair across from him. As if willing himself to be more at ease with an open, careless posture that didn't at all match what roiled within.
Jim's hardened gaze followed her with a sharp focus despite his bubbling inebriation. From the moment he entered the Rock Ridge Saloon through his first four drinks, now presently imbibing on his fifth, he didn't take his eyes off of her for a moment.
The seasoned drinker that he was, he wasn't drunk, but he was certainly loose. Though he knew that if the night carried on the way he feared, the way it had every night since he met her, he could make no promises to the state of his sobriety by the end of it.
The steeliness of his eyes ice cold as they were ice blue, cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke that invaded the saloon. Freezing into place anyone unfortunate enough to get caught in his crosshairs.
His ensemble midnight black and the set to his shadowed jaw grim, the way his fingers twitched around his perspiring glass made the odd passerby who noticed give him a wider berth. Eager to distance themselves, as if just lingering in his line of sight was courting disaster. That his finger itched to squeeze the trigger of cold-hard steel, instead of glass.
The much adored Rock Ridge Deputy now looked more akin to the town's stormy-eyed villain.
The Kid was always so mellow, so affable, so lax.
No one had seen him agitated before, much less stewing in it so openly, and in such a public setting. Most surprised of all to see him so foul was Bart.
"What's your trouble, man?"
"Oh, no trouble." Jim sneered around his next hard gulp, his smooth tone remaining as even as always.
Bart waited in the beat of silence that followed. For someone who was usually so open and honest, he was taken aback at the blatant lie, not that he tried all that hard to sell it. Hunched over the table as he continued to nurse his drink, Bart peered at his friend courteously in wait, but Jim remained quiet. No further elaboration offered.
A teasing jest on the tip of his tongue, Bart halted when he then noticed a sudden shift in Jim.
It was subtle. He hadn't budged from the languid set to his contrastingly tense form. Yet the intensity of his focus snapped to attention the moment she approached them. Bart's eyebrows furrowed in scrutiny as he gave him a quick once over.
Jim eyed the young woman before them with an intemperance Bart didn't even think him capable. Then it all made sense.
Francesca, the young lady in question and the newest saloon girl, stood at their table.
Perfectly polite with angelic features, she made a man want to protect her. From other men, and also from themselves. Her beauty was obvious, as was her innocence. A China doll's pout and mocha brown eyes that were both doe and cat-like all at once, it was no wonder the she was the source of The Waco Kid's restlessness.
With a quiet snicker to himself, Bart couldn't believe he didn't piece things together sooner.
"Good evening, gentleman." Not having served them yet that evening, she did her best to address them both while still pointedly ignoring Jim, and the brilliant blue smoldering embers where his eyes used to be. She cleared her throat, then shifted all of her attention to the Sheriff. When she spoke, her voice was liquid sugar, dripping from her painted lips like honey from the comb. "Would you like another round, Sheriff?"
"Will do, honey, will do." He flashed her an easy smile, before then jerking his head in Jim's direction. "But my deputy here will have a coffee."
Jim opened his mouth in protest, having successfully been shaken from his simmer, at least for the moment. Before he could get a word in edgewise, Bart continued.
"My friend, you have had enough." He emphasized despite his good-natured grin. "And we have work bright and early come the mornin'."
Jim didn't share in Bart's amusement. His lips pressed together in a way that made his expression otherwise unreadable, he then slowly turned his head back towards Francesca, who stood there patiently - albeit antsy to leave them - during their exchange.
He regarded her cooly, holding her captive, almost challenging her to react, gaze hooded with heavily lidded eyes. His silky voice tainted with an uncharacteristic hoarseness from the force he employed to keep steady. "Make it an Irish coffee please, dear."
Jim did his level best to steep the pet name dear in as much affection as his sour mood would allow. He was always the perfect gentleman with her, but that didn't seem to matter. Francesca gave half a nod, before excusing herself from the pair without a word uttered.
If Jim had succeeded in conveying his longing in just that one, brief exchange - their first that whole evening - she didn't give any indication that it was returned.
Her continued rebuffs just further stoked his fire.
Jim watched with a growl lodged in his throat as she glided through the room in a blur of red and white ruffles from her skirts, bouncing back and forth from table to table to tend to the rowdy, male patrons. All vying for her attention, like bratty children amongst their pretty young school teacher. He couldn't blame them, of course.
She was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on.
Bounds of thick, espresso waves cascaded down her slender back, a few errant fly always from the intricate way in which she had it pinned whisped down over her forehead. Thick, fluttering lashes veiled the dusky toffee pools she had for eyes. Eyes he yearned to drown in.
A petite, diminutive woman that was easily a foot shy of him, Jim was by no means a large man himself, average both in height and build. But the way even he towered over her excited him. It roused his sense of virility like never before.
And her lips - Jim's heart seized in the cavity of his chest whenever he thought of them - they were full and pouty and curved to perfection.
Her smile akin to the flourish of a rosebud in late spring, Jim often found himself closing out the saloon in the wee hours of the morning. Holed up in his spot in the far corner, out of sight, out of mind. All to watch her just a little bit longer.
Tracing her cupids bow, and the lines of her jaw and chin with his eyes, committing it to memory. How he wished to take her in his arms, and hold her face in his hands. Stroking her parted lips with his thumb, teasing her mouth open before stealing a deep kiss.
At least, that's what the romantic in him craved. Then there was his other side to contend with. The greedier, selfish, impatience that desired something more primal.
The side that came to him when he was alone at night, curled in on himself, pants seething through his grit teeth like a sick hound as he pumped himself to sloppy completion. Harsh and furious as sweat beaded down his hunched back. Thinking of those very lips, sealed over the swollen tip of his aching cock.
He felt nothing but contempt while he watched the lot of them; practically foaming at the mouth like a pack of rabid, starved hounds as her lean body maneuvered around them. Dodging the odd sweaty mitt of a man too drunk or too sure of himself that dared to reach out and cop a feel.
Francesca dressed with a fair degree of modesty given it was part of the job description to serve as eye candy to the cowboys after long, hot days on the range.
Yet they all, Jim included, were teased with the hint of cleavage from the frilly, sweetheart neckline of her blouse. And the rippling skirts that accentuated her hips and bared her legs from the knee down. The tight corset at her middle cinched her waist in snug, revealing just how taut she was indeed.
Since beginning her employment, she had become quite adept at evading the onslaught of her admirers. Offering a sweet smile and gentle decline to their requests, using their drinks as a means to keep them distracted, and at arms length.
It was uncommon to have such a sweet and demure young girl in such an environment, but given her immense popularity among the regulars from the start, it was no wonder the barkeep kept a tight hold on her.
Jim couldn't wrap his head around it. If any one of those bottom-feeders caught even a hint that she was The Kid's girl, let alone the acting town Deputy's, they wouldn't dare look at her anymore, much less try to grope her. And yet, she treated Jim like he was the scoundrel.
He had only ever had kind words and an easy smile for her. Of course his gazes could sometimes... linger, his baby blues glistening with suggestion. But he never pressed her, never cornered her. His propositioning was solely with his eyes, but she never looked into them long enough to get the message.
He wasn't a needy regular, he wasn't demanding. He treated her with the utmost respect. His only crime was infatuation from afar. And with the way she coldly regarded him, you'd think he goosed her upon their first meeting.
Jim didn't just want her, he needed her. The only other feeling he had for comparison was when he got the itch to crack open another bottle, only this was much more severe.
When he didn't have access to liquor, it didn't upset him so. When he watched other men flaunt what he had a hankering for, it didn't boil his blood.
And yet, when he watched her interact with all those other men, dangled right before his nose - look, but don't touch - it made him see red. It stirred the possessive in him, the primal. A side of him her very arrival pulled from his depths, one with which he was still woefully unacquainted.
Bart's giddiness spilled forth as a genuine chuckle that rumbled from deep in the pit of his chest. "So that's what's up." He shook his head, uncaring at the way Jim's jaw clenched. "That little baby's got you in a twist, no wonder why you've been lookin' at her like she leaves a bad taste in your mouth."
Jim was quiet for a long time. He then knocked back the rest of his drink in one desperate gulp, the contents more than he could comfortably hold in his mouth, as a droplet broke from the corner of his lips and dribbled across his cheek.
The aggression in which he slammed his empty glass back down on the table jolted a passing waitress, and drew the attention of some of the bar-flies closest to them. Jim then grimaced, scrubbing the back of his hand over his mouth.
"Bart, I just don't understand it." He sighed. The first real break in his anger all evening. "She might be just a baby, but she's giving me grown woman trouble."
"I can see that." Bart shot Jim a sidelong smirk. "C'mon, son, you're The Kid. Lay on some of that charm," he goaded with a crooked smile, trying to pull his pal out of his stupor, "there's not a dame in this joint who isn't sweet on ya. You're actin' like a school-boy."
Almost as if on cue, one of the regular saloon girls, Betty, sauntered past their table, but not without petting Jim on the shoulder as she skirted by. She flashed him a coy grin and a flirtatious purr of his name, stalling just long enough for him to react. But he didn't.
His sights were set on the petite, brunette nymph who pretended she couldn't feel his eyes on her. And on her his sights remained.
"See that? You got your pick of the place, my friend." He was earnest in his attempt to lighten the mood, but it seemed the more he tried, the further inward Jim retreated. "You just need to blow off some steam. Why don't you go and grab yourself any one of these little girlies and you'll feel like yourself again, you'll see."
Jim finally then looked him dead in the eye, the first time since they sat down that evening. "I don't want any one of these little girlies," he began sternly, a crescendo building from the center of his being, "I want her!"
Bart had never seen Jim lose his cool before. Even that was no where near the full breadth his minor manic outburst teased. As quickly as it reared it's ugly head, Jim reigned it back in with a wince.
"I... I'm sorry." He raked his fingers through his wild, dirty blonde mane, offering a chuckle and a shy smile, however weak it was. "I suppose I really am acting like a school-boy after all."
If Bart was being honest with himself, he should have known there was trouble; all the signs were there. He hadn't seen Jim that scruffy and bedraggled since he first met him all that time ago, hanging upside down in that cell.
Nor had he seen him hit the hooch as often. "Just a little night cap", he'd excuse with a raised hand and a devilish smirk. "Just a little something to take my edge." And Bart believed it.
Why wouldn't he?
Bart returned the smile empathetically, giving no more than that in the way of the forgiveness Jim had no need to seek. He then began, tentatively, "she's really got you torn up then."
"Something fierce." Jim sagged further against the wall, and swallowed hard. It was then that Bart noticed how red and raw his eyes looked. "She won't even give me the time of day."
Bart looked over to see Betty saying something to Francesca a few tables away from them. "Well... Maybe she's been warned of your reputation, doesn't wanna be another quick romp in the hay."
Jim, ruefully, couldn't deny that had crossed his mind.
Of course he enjoyed his romps, he was a hot-blooded male. There would be something amiss if he didn't. It wasn't out of lack of care for the girls at the saloon, so much as it was his necessity for closeness.
He was lonely. No matter how many beds, or washtubs, or barn stalls he found himself in, it never seemed to do the trick. He was always left wanting. More touch-starved. More needy.
Always chasing something he didn't know how to explain. That was until he met Francesca, naturally. She introduced him to a feeling, a craving, for something he couldn't place. Something in which he was infinitely unfamiliar. But he knew he wanted it, and he wanted it with her.
Perhaps her playing hard to get enticed him all the more. Perhaps it wasn't even because she was playing hard to get, she just was hard to get.
Jim was never one to shy away from a challenge.
A deep, heavy sigh bruised Jim's lips. "And I guess... that's my real trouble. I don't want that either."
His friend cocked an eyebrow in his direction, his disbelief outright. "Then what do you want?"
To the surprise of them both, Jim laughed. It was still weak, but sincere. "I mean, I do want that, of course. But I want... more." Jim noticed how homesick he sounded all the sudden, homesick for a place he'd never been to before. For something he'd never had. "I want her waiting... in a home we share, waiting for me. With a hot meal on the table, and open arms." A wry grin crept its way across his face, his voice a little hoarse as he pushed the words from his tight throat. "And a few curly haired, blue-eyed little rascals that look an awful lot like me, running underfoot, clinging to her skirts."
Bart grinned, offering an acquiescent nod. "Well well, I guess not even The Kid can draw quicker than Cupid." He teased, now understanding the full extent of Jim's plight. Jim smirked sheepishly, shaking his head as he cast his eyes down into his lap. "Can't say that I at all had you pegged for such a traditional man."
Jim found her again in the crowd, and kept his eyes fixed on her as he spoke. "Can't say that I was one," he then sounded wistful, "but when I look at her, I... she looks how I imagine home might."
Bart nodded. "Have you thought to tell her any of this?"
"I might, if I didn't think I sounded so foolish." Jim picked up his empty glass for another sip, as if forgetting that he emptied it already. With slight disappointment in his sigh, he set it back down on the table. This time so gently, he didn't make a peep. "Not that I could even if I wanted to. Most times I think she'd spit at me given the chance."
Now that Bart was in the loop, and he watched Francesca a little more closely in the new light that she had seemingly stolen Jim's heart, he didn't detect any malice. She kept her distance, that much was true, but he got the impression it was for an entirely different reason than Jim suspected.
Bart shook his head, chuckling. "So you think she just plain doesn't like you, then? Is that it?"
"I don't know, it's strange really... the way she looks at me sometimes, it's like she's waiting for me to make a move, but...," he trailed off as a grimace worked itself back on his face, "I'm not trying hard enough."
As is speaking about her summoned her, and not a moment too soon, she was then approaching their table once more, with the Sheriff's whiskey, and the Deputy's coffee.
With the fervent gleam in his eye reignited, Jim observed as she placed Bart's drink down in front of him first, before then setting the coffee in front of Jim. All the while his pinning remained silent. Watching her, waiting, as if she'd just suddenly give in to the feelings he hoped existed, right then and there.
But she didn't.
Not even offering so much as one of her sweet, placative smiles before departing, she had very nearly succeeded in disappearing from sight once more, before he stopped her.
"Francesca, hold on a moment-," Jim scrambled to his feet, praying he didn't sound as hopeless as he felt.
To his great surprise - and relief - she did stop. Her back still to him for a beat, she turned on her heel to face him. Her expression was all business, holding herself with dignity while she hurried to address him. In a rush to dismiss him, the likelier scenario.
"I gave you exactly what you requested, Deputy, I promise."
Jim blinked, visibly taken off guard. He then shook his head, finding his stride once more. "Oh-uh, no no, I know, I don't have any complaints." He then paused, and with as much suaveness as he could muster while faced with the fear that he'd do, or say, something to scare her away, he spoke softly. "Except for maybe just one small one... I'd like it very much if you called me Jim."
The tip of tongue darted out to swipe over her lips. She kept silent for a moment, finding it difficult not to fidget under his gaze. Her brows knit as she peered up at him, her tone lilted with true concern. Still, she didn't acknowledge him by name. "What do you need from me, then?"
What do you need from me, then?
Jim swallowed a whine, tormented by her choice of phrasing. He relented, keeping his croon buttery smooth, and his expression warm. His posture safe. Approachable.
"You know," he began, "I've been known to be a little obstinate from time to time," Jim chuckled, doing his best to come off as charming, given the circumstances. "I was just telling my friend here that... well, I don't think you care for me very much, but he thinks I'm giving myself too much credit." She continued to stare at him, brows bowed with unease. Jim gave a nervous smile and shrugged. "So I was hoping you could put this to bed for us. Do you find me so detestable, or am I just being dramatic?"
Bart smirked to himself, watching the exchange unfold. Chin propped up in his palm, he looked first to Jim, and then Francesca, paying closer attention to her.
"I-I..." she stammered, ensnared by the sparkling blue eyes that her pinned her in place. Holding her captive for the second time that evening, breaking down her resolve a little more each time. "I have... other customers I need to see to." She smoothed her palms over the front of her skirt, before making a frantic getaway, she hushed, "excuse me."
Bart stifled a cackle. Jim just stood there for a while after she scurried away. With a pull of his shoulders, and a deflated sigh, he trudged back to collapse into his seat. Posture once more lazy, the heel of his boot found purchase again on the empty chair with a thud. Now instead of angry, he was just left more confused.
"Well," he said after a moment, sucking in a breath as he rolled his head to his shoulder, looking at his friend, "what do you make of that?"
Bart pursed his lips and shook his head. "I'd say that if she were going to spit at you, that was her opportunity."
The men shared a knowing look, Barts brow raised teasingly.
She hadn't scorned him, at least not outwardly, that remained true. Jim reached forward to grab ahold of his coffee, stealing a sip to find it pleasantly spiked, just as he had asked. A lopsided smile spilled across his face.
However he wasn't afforded his good mood for long.
As he and Bart laughed, and he sipped his coffee, Jim's attention was directed back to Francesca.
She was currently waiting a table, occupied by only one man,in a cowboy hat. His back to him, any time he looked to the side and revealed his profile, Jim was more and more certain he didn't know who the man was. He didn't know if that made it better, or worse.
Whoever the man was, what he could make out was that he wasn't leaving her alone. His body language suggesting that he was more than a little comfortable with her.
Jim's eye hardened. As he observed Francesca leave to get his order from the bar, his stomach turned at the way he openly gawked at her retreating form.
Jim couldn't blame the cowboy, of course, but his dominant shadow was being prodded once more.
Upon returning, she set his drink down with a lovely smile, her foot positioned already to turn on her heel and stride away, as was her signature.
Yet as she spun to leave him, his gloved hand sprang forward and snatched her by the wrist, halting her.
Jim didn't realize his own hand had flown to his holster, his index finger popping the strap in one fluid, practiced motion, until he felt Barts hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, old boy." He warned with a smile. Jim huffed, but nodded. Raising his hand away from his holster, he brought it up to rake fingers through his frizzy curls instead.
He couldn't hear what was being said, only having her expressions and body language to go on. The man's hand still held on to her wrist, so tiny that his fingers practically wrapped around twice over. Jim scratched at the stubble that smeared his jaw, and only when his eyes burned did he then realize how long he went without blinking. Watching her like a hawk.
She looked around the room, everywhere except his direction. Jim could feel his chest tighten, already dropping his foot back down to the ground and straightening, at the ready to jump up from his seat.
Come on honey, give me something.
His eyes bore into her from across the room, though she still didn't dare look his way.
Jim swallowed hard, heart thumping.
Please. Please don't do this. Please look at me. Then I'll know, if you look at me, if you'd only just look at me-
It was almost as if the very will of his thoughts reached her. The strength and determination of his need for her stilled her that very moment.
Jim watched with his breath held and eyes burning, as Francesca turned her head and at last, looked directly at him.
It wasn't for long, but it communicated everything he needed in order to act.
Francesca tore her eyes away from him just as quick, as if embarrassed that she looked for him, like a frightened little girl.
No matter how she may have looked at him in that moment, she continued on with the stranger at her table. Straightening her shoulders and flashing the man a small, shy smile, she reached down to grab his hand, before guiding him up out of his seat.
The spark of jealously was now a full-fledged ignition of anger. His fuse rapidly burning to disintegration, inch by white hot inch, Jim stood up from the table.
He stayed in place just long enough to watch her begin to ascend the stairs to the second story, to where the girls were housed. His own blood roared in his ears, molars aching from how tightly he ground his teeth.
"Don't wait up for me." He announced to Bart, his own voice unrecognizable to him, as thick with aggravation as it was.
If Bart responded, it fell on his deaf ears.
The Kid stalked after her and the sweet-talking cowboy with a singular objective in mind.