[ There’s got to be more she can offer, in the silence that falls after his story is told. What would Waverly say? She’d find some way to comfort him, to help him remember his fallen friends and comrades as they were and not how they died. She’d find a way to sweetly tease that shadow of a smile into the real thing, even after listening to his story. Wynonna’s never seen him smile; she’s got no idea what it would even look like. And she’s not sweet, or especially good at offering sympathy, but she does know what it’s like to watch the people you care about die right in front of you. She knows all about happiness turning to ash in the mouth, a night of laughter and warmth becoming a nightmare out of nowhere, the horrible surprise and shock of unexpected violence.
For the first time since she got here, she thinks she might actually tell someone about it; she might tell him about it. The night Willa was taken. The night Daddy died. She thinks maybe she wants to tell him. Maybe she wants him to know. It would mean pulling her own ribs open and dragging each word from herself, but would it maybe be a relief, after? He'd know who she is, then; who she really is. She finds that thought alone almost terrifying.
They’re sitting here telling each other truths she never expected to unearth to anyone here, and there’s a rill of fear in her stomach, twisting, at the thought. After everything, she doesn’t know if she could take seeing him close himself off to her again, the way everyone did at home, the way they still do. She doesn’t know what might happen if she says the word demons. But she’s starting to think it might be worth the risk.
If she’s unprepared for his sincerity, the effect of him speaking in a low almost murmur, watching her from the other side of the couch with those dark, heavily-lashed eyes and his rumpled mop of hair, smaller and softer in his sweater than she’s ever seen him, is like catching a bullet to the gut. There’s a faint flush of color blooming at the tip of the ear she can just barely see through his hair, and she doesn’t know if it’s because of the alcohol or because of her or both. They’ve come a long way from his shocked surprise at seeing her jeans, but he’s still so proper. Way more than she could ever be. She’s the furthest thing from being a lady she could possibly be.
He meets her eyes and she fights a short but violent battle with her own instinctive reaction to look away. She’s not bashful, never has been, but there’s something in his shy, steady regard that has her nervous. Wynonna toys with her own glass, then lifts it to take a sip, trying to think. When she lowers it again, she meets his gaze with her own, shadows of memory lurking behind her eyes. ]
I basically asked you to stand there and watch me die.
[ That’s not quite it, but she doesn’t know how to put it into words. I’m sorry because watching you go back in there would have been worse than going myself is close, maybe. It’s easy to take a risk when it risks only herself. But the memories of Waverly standing tip-toe on a stool with a noose around her throat, of Dolls getting dragged into the air and ridden by a demon, are all too clear. She doesn’t care about many people here, but she does give a damn about him. She did then, too, in the snow, in front of the burning house. She remembers the way his greatcoat felt under her hands as she patted down any remaining sparks.
Her own voice lowers, not quite a whisper but still something cautiously intimate. This is a way of stripping herself bare that’s wholly different from what she’s used to, but even with knots in her stomach, it feels… safe. She doesn’t know how to explain it, even to herself, except to say: it’s Little, and he’s a safe place to land. ]
I didn’t give you any explanation, I didn’t let you argue, I didn’t… think about what it might be like. Watching someone go back in. And I was gone for so long… you must have thought I was dead. That’s a terrible thing to do to someone.
[ Her jaw works, she chews again on her bottom lip, her glance falling to her glass, to his. They’re going to need more bourbon soon. She should have just brought the bottle over. But she looks back up at him, eyes crystal clear and certain, when she says: ]
The thing is, I’d do it again, if I had to. Because there’s no one else here I would trust with Peacemaker. It's the only thing that came with me that I care about. It's the only important thing I have.
[ That's not enough; she has to tell him why. He deserves to know. And... she needs him to know what it meant. What it means. She doesn't trust anybody, but she trusts him. ]
I need that gun to save my sister, I can’t hand it to just anybody. But I can hand it to you.
[ Now she does look a little abashed, a little softer. Almost girlish, maybe, in the way she twists her mouth, half-quirking it into a smile before she adds, lightly teasing: ]
cw: mention of child murder, parental death, near-hanging, demonic possession
For the first time since she got here, she thinks she might actually tell someone about it; she might tell him about it. The night Willa was taken. The night Daddy died. She thinks maybe she wants to tell him. Maybe she wants him to know. It would mean pulling her own ribs open and dragging each word from herself, but would it maybe be a relief, after? He'd know who she is, then; who she really is. She finds that thought alone almost terrifying.
They’re sitting here telling each other truths she never expected to unearth to anyone here, and there’s a rill of fear in her stomach, twisting, at the thought. After everything, she doesn’t know if she could take seeing him close himself off to her again, the way everyone did at home, the way they still do. She doesn’t know what might happen if she says the word demons. But she’s starting to think it might be worth the risk.
If she’s unprepared for his sincerity, the effect of him speaking in a low almost murmur, watching her from the other side of the couch with those dark, heavily-lashed eyes and his rumpled mop of hair, smaller and softer in his sweater than she’s ever seen him, is like catching a bullet to the gut. There’s a faint flush of color blooming at the tip of the ear she can just barely see through his hair, and she doesn’t know if it’s because of the alcohol or because of her or both. They’ve come a long way from his shocked surprise at seeing her jeans, but he’s still so proper. Way more than she could ever be. She’s the furthest thing from being a lady she could possibly be.
He meets her eyes and she fights a short but violent battle with her own instinctive reaction to look away. She’s not bashful, never has been, but there’s something in his shy, steady regard that has her nervous. Wynonna toys with her own glass, then lifts it to take a sip, trying to think. When she lowers it again, she meets his gaze with her own, shadows of memory lurking behind her eyes. ]
I basically asked you to stand there and watch me die.
[ That’s not quite it, but she doesn’t know how to put it into words. I’m sorry because watching you go back in there would have been worse than going myself is close, maybe. It’s easy to take a risk when it risks only herself. But the memories of Waverly standing tip-toe on a stool with a noose around her throat, of Dolls getting dragged into the air and ridden by a demon, are all too clear. She doesn’t care about many people here, but she does give a damn about him. She did then, too, in the snow, in front of the burning house. She remembers the way his greatcoat felt under her hands as she patted down any remaining sparks.
Her own voice lowers, not quite a whisper but still something cautiously intimate. This is a way of stripping herself bare that’s wholly different from what she’s used to, but even with knots in her stomach, it feels… safe. She doesn’t know how to explain it, even to herself, except to say: it’s Little, and he’s a safe place to land. ]
I didn’t give you any explanation, I didn’t let you argue, I didn’t… think about what it might be like. Watching someone go back in. And I was gone for so long… you must have thought I was dead. That’s a terrible thing to do to someone.
[ Her jaw works, she chews again on her bottom lip, her glance falling to her glass, to his. They’re going to need more bourbon soon. She should have just brought the bottle over. But she looks back up at him, eyes crystal clear and certain, when she says: ]
The thing is, I’d do it again, if I had to. Because there’s no one else here I would trust with Peacemaker. It's the only thing that came with me that I care about. It's the only important thing I have.
[ That's not enough; she has to tell him why. He deserves to know. And... she needs him to know what it meant. What it means. She doesn't trust anybody, but she trusts him. ]
I need that gun to save my sister, I can’t hand it to just anybody. But I can hand it to you.
[ Now she does look a little abashed, a little softer. Almost girlish, maybe, in the way she twists her mouth, half-quirking it into a smile before she adds, lightly teasing: ]
…don’t let it go to your head.