[ Her smile flickers, the bright candlelight glow of her amusement fading, turning to something wry and shuttered. The air still feels clearer around them, lighter, but her mouth rucks up now in a crooked half-curve that's a less a smile than the faint softening at the corners of his own mouth manages to be. ]
You'd lose that bet.
[ Plenty of things offend her, and worse, she's like a dog with a bone when it comes to grudges. She's been nursing some of them for fifteen years or longer, indulging in them. Wallowing in them. Auggie Hamilton recognized something of his own obsession in her, in her inability to let go. In her need for vengeance.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
It's just easier, better, not to let people see they've gotten to her. Which makes her wonder, again, why the hell she's sitting on this couch in this small cabin with this particular man, exchanging truths like they're friends.
And yet here she is, listening as he keeps speaking, as he offers what's got to be a confession tugged right from the heart. His rank's important to him, she knows that. Everyone here knows that; he introduces himself as Lieutenant, he wears his uniform even when there are better, warmer options. He's been clinging to it with more tenacity than she would have thought he was capable of, originally.
But he's not wearing his uniform now, and she kind of... likes seeing him this way. Without the cap, the greatcoat, the boots, he's less at a remove. She feels like she could reach out and touch the actual man that's been existing underneath them. If she wanted to give him a heart attack, anyway.
He looks at her and his expression, usually some mix of stern or anxious, is, for once, neither of those. It softens his features, his eyes, darkly lashed and the same warm, melting brown as those of a worried dog as he talks about relief. He's not the only one here who's got his identity all tangled up and confused with a title. But he's been carrying this one for years, working away beneath it, where she did her best to keep hers from catching up to her. Wynonna chews at her lip for a minute, studying him, wondering what the hell someone good at stuff like this would say.
But he's not telling all this to someone who'd be good at understanding it, who'd be good with words and whatever it is he needs to hear. He's telling her. He wants her to know. He wants her to know. Somehow, she's managed to earn his trust, too, and as flippant as she can be, as frustrating as she's sure he finds her, she takes that shit seriously. ]
Look, I know all about defining yourself by your... your title. Duty. Whatever. But it's not like you were born a lieutenant, you know?
[ There's the difference between them: she wasn't born the Heir, but it became her birthright as soon as Willa breathed her last. The world's crappiest inheritance. ]
So maybe try leaving the coat off, for a while. See how it feels. [ A beat, before she adds, the corner of her mouth crooking up again: ] I mean, get another coat, it's cold as fuck out there.
[ Wynonna lifts her shoulders and lets them fall again in a loose shrug. ] And anyway, there's nothing appropriate about this place. Trying to be appropriate is only gonna drive you crazy. Besides...
[ One shoulder lifts again, her head canting toward it. On another woman, the motion might seem bashful; on her, it's easy, thoughtless. And then there's the quirk of her mouth and the glint of mischief in her eyes, like an echo of the grin she'd once shot him from the floor of an abandoned house, teasing him into going down into the cellar with her. ]
...being inappropriate is a lot more fun. You should try it sometime.
no subject
You'd lose that bet.
[ Plenty of things offend her, and worse, she's like a dog with a bone when it comes to grudges. She's been nursing some of them for fifteen years or longer, indulging in them. Wallowing in them. Auggie Hamilton recognized something of his own obsession in her, in her inability to let go. In her need for vengeance.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
It's just easier, better, not to let people see they've gotten to her. Which makes her wonder, again, why the hell she's sitting on this couch in this small cabin with this particular man, exchanging truths like they're friends.
And yet here she is, listening as he keeps speaking, as he offers what's got to be a confession tugged right from the heart. His rank's important to him, she knows that. Everyone here knows that; he introduces himself as Lieutenant, he wears his uniform even when there are better, warmer options. He's been clinging to it with more tenacity than she would have thought he was capable of, originally.
But he's not wearing his uniform now, and she kind of... likes seeing him this way. Without the cap, the greatcoat, the boots, he's less at a remove. She feels like she could reach out and touch the actual man that's been existing underneath them. If she wanted to give him a heart attack, anyway.
He looks at her and his expression, usually some mix of stern or anxious, is, for once, neither of those. It softens his features, his eyes, darkly lashed and the same warm, melting brown as those of a worried dog as he talks about relief. He's not the only one here who's got his identity all tangled up and confused with a title. But he's been carrying this one for years, working away beneath it, where she did her best to keep hers from catching up to her. Wynonna chews at her lip for a minute, studying him, wondering what the hell someone good at stuff like this would say.
But he's not telling all this to someone who'd be good at understanding it, who'd be good with words and whatever it is he needs to hear. He's telling her. He wants her to know. He wants her to know. Somehow, she's managed to earn his trust, too, and as flippant as she can be, as frustrating as she's sure he finds her, she takes that shit seriously. ]
Look, I know all about defining yourself by your... your title. Duty. Whatever. But it's not like you were born a lieutenant, you know?
[ There's the difference between them: she wasn't born the Heir, but it became her birthright as soon as Willa breathed her last. The world's crappiest inheritance. ]
So maybe try leaving the coat off, for a while. See how it feels. [ A beat, before she adds, the corner of her mouth crooking up again: ] I mean, get another coat, it's cold as fuck out there.
[ Wynonna lifts her shoulders and lets them fall again in a loose shrug. ] And anyway, there's nothing appropriate about this place. Trying to be appropriate is only gonna drive you crazy. Besides...
[ One shoulder lifts again, her head canting toward it. On another woman, the motion might seem bashful; on her, it's easy, thoughtless. And then there's the quirk of her mouth and the glint of mischief in her eyes, like an echo of the grin she'd once shot him from the floor of an abandoned house, teasing him into going down into the cellar with her. ]
...being inappropriate is a lot more fun. You should try it sometime.