[ He does mean it, which is horrifying in the extreme. A lifetime of being a pariah, of being an outcast, has left her with no natural defenses to his sincerity and she's starting to understand the way he'd checked out before. Not because of any explanation; just because she, too, would kind of like to pretend to be a stone statue, an animal frozen in uncertain panic, until he quits being so genuine at her.
They've had a nice back-and-forth deal up until now, where she bugs him and he gets bewildered by her and now he's ruining it. She's not the one who's supposed to be on the back foot. Not with Lieutenant Amiss or Inappropriate with his ridiculous facial hair and his carefully maintained uniform.
Which he isn't wearing right now, and maybe that's part of it: he's taken off all his armor and now she's not sure what to do with hers. And it turns out that beneath the politeness and propriety lurks something even worse: he's kind. He's kind to her and it's like he's pouring water on a plant struggling to grow in hard-baked soil; nice as it is, it's overwhelming. She has to bite down on the reflex to say something mean just to restore the status quo – right now anything she arrows at him would hit something soft and necessary. This is the problem with baring souls. They're too devastating a target.
It's like March saying I think you're the only good part of this place, words so lethal, so impossible, that they'd managed to penetrate the muffling blanket of intoxication she'd wrapped around herself. They're still knocking around in her head and her chest like a confused bat finding itself in an attic instead of an open field; she still doesn't have the first idea what to do with them.
She can only imagine the reaction Doc or Dolls – or even Waverly – would have to everything he's saying, but thinking of Waverly right now, when she's half back in that burning house, listening to the little boy sob, feeling him shake against her, is just as dangerous as picking her way over that burned-out floor had been to being with. Her lashes flutter as she blinks, rapidly, glancing away to keep him from seeing any suspicious shine to her eyes, but he'd seen her when she came out of the house, couldn't have missed the tracks down her cheeks where tears had cut through the dust and dirt.
Wynonna wipes her fingertips surreptitiously at the corner of her eye, blinks again before she looks back at him. She knows, okay; she knows she's not the most comforting person in the world, and she doesn't have a maternal instinct in her whole body. There's no reason for him to think it was a blessing for her to be there for that little ghost, but he does. And in the end, she'd been able to do what she's been trying to do ever since she shouldered this curse like a coat she can't take off: she helped him make his peace. He went back into the darkness soothed, not screaming. Feeling loved, instead of afraid.
It was worth it, for that. For the peace she could offer, this time in the circle of her arms and not at the end of her gun.
She puts the memories aside as he keeps going, as he tells her, in his rich, lovely voice, about horrors she's never even imagined. Her lips part as he pushes through, as he tells her about how the hope and delight turned into terror and panic and it doesn't matter how many edges she has – it's impossible to hear this without feeling it, a sick, swooping clutch in her stomach. ]
Oh my god, Little... I'm so sorry.
[ She's helpless in the face of this memory – what can she say? What could anyone? Waverly would reach out to him, put a hand on his arm or wrap him in an embrace, but Wynonna can only curl her own fingers into a fist, over and over again, wishing for something to hit. He downs more of the bourbon, the first time she's seen him react in pretty much the same way she would, and she can see his throat working, the memories a web all around him.
It's the most horrible thing she's ever heard. One of their own doctors, destroying the men he must have worked to heal and help. And then the maze, the smoke, the fire, the fear – she can imagine the crushing bodies, the rising panic. She no longer wonders why he froze up; now she's just impressed he moved at all. ]
I can't believe you managed to snap out of it at all... you did great. Seriously.
And I really appreciate you holding onto Peacemaker for me, and... waiting.
[ She winces, realization a cold bucket of water dashed over her head.
Waiting, while she ran back into a burning building and didn't come out, and didn't come out. He'd waited long past when she could reasonably have been expected to survive. She'd handed him her gun with no explanation and ran off, seemingly to her own death. She'd made him watch what could have been her own end and she hasn't even apologized for it. ]
cw: mention of death by fire
They've had a nice back-and-forth deal up until now, where she bugs him and he gets bewildered by her and now he's ruining it. She's not the one who's supposed to be on the back foot. Not with Lieutenant Amiss or Inappropriate with his ridiculous facial hair and his carefully maintained uniform.
Which he isn't wearing right now, and maybe that's part of it: he's taken off all his armor and now she's not sure what to do with hers. And it turns out that beneath the politeness and propriety lurks something even worse: he's kind. He's kind to her and it's like he's pouring water on a plant struggling to grow in hard-baked soil; nice as it is, it's overwhelming. She has to bite down on the reflex to say something mean just to restore the status quo – right now anything she arrows at him would hit something soft and necessary. This is the problem with baring souls. They're too devastating a target.
It's like March saying I think you're the only good part of this place, words so lethal, so impossible, that they'd managed to penetrate the muffling blanket of intoxication she'd wrapped around herself. They're still knocking around in her head and her chest like a confused bat finding itself in an attic instead of an open field; she still doesn't have the first idea what to do with them.
She can only imagine the reaction Doc or Dolls – or even Waverly – would have to everything he's saying, but thinking of Waverly right now, when she's half back in that burning house, listening to the little boy sob, feeling him shake against her, is just as dangerous as picking her way over that burned-out floor had been to being with. Her lashes flutter as she blinks, rapidly, glancing away to keep him from seeing any suspicious shine to her eyes, but he'd seen her when she came out of the house, couldn't have missed the tracks down her cheeks where tears had cut through the dust and dirt.
Wynonna wipes her fingertips surreptitiously at the corner of her eye, blinks again before she looks back at him. She knows, okay; she knows she's not the most comforting person in the world, and she doesn't have a maternal instinct in her whole body. There's no reason for him to think it was a blessing for her to be there for that little ghost, but he does. And in the end, she'd been able to do what she's been trying to do ever since she shouldered this curse like a coat she can't take off: she helped him make his peace. He went back into the darkness soothed, not screaming. Feeling loved, instead of afraid.
It was worth it, for that. For the peace she could offer, this time in the circle of her arms and not at the end of her gun.
She puts the memories aside as he keeps going, as he tells her, in his rich, lovely voice, about horrors she's never even imagined. Her lips part as he pushes through, as he tells her about how the hope and delight turned into terror and panic and it doesn't matter how many edges she has – it's impossible to hear this without feeling it, a sick, swooping clutch in her stomach. ]
Oh my god, Little... I'm so sorry.
[ She's helpless in the face of this memory – what can she say? What could anyone? Waverly would reach out to him, put a hand on his arm or wrap him in an embrace, but Wynonna can only curl her own fingers into a fist, over and over again, wishing for something to hit. He downs more of the bourbon, the first time she's seen him react in pretty much the same way she would, and she can see his throat working, the memories a web all around him.
It's the most horrible thing she's ever heard. One of their own doctors, destroying the men he must have worked to heal and help. And then the maze, the smoke, the fire, the fear – she can imagine the crushing bodies, the rising panic. She no longer wonders why he froze up; now she's just impressed he moved at all. ]
I can't believe you managed to snap out of it at all... you did great. Seriously.
And I really appreciate you holding onto Peacemaker for me, and... waiting.
[ She winces, realization a cold bucket of water dashed over her head.
Waiting, while she ran back into a burning building and didn't come out, and didn't come out. He'd waited long past when she could reasonably have been expected to survive. She'd handed him her gun with no explanation and ran off, seemingly to her own death. She'd made him watch what could have been her own end and she hasn't even apologized for it. ]
... sorry. For that, too.