[ It's true — he had worked hard to get to where he is (....was; past-tense lingers like some unwelcomed guest that occupies too much of a room). It was less a promotion or a natural rise in rank and more an appointment, and some politics were inevitably involved, but one still had to earn such an appointment. ...He felt that he'd earned it, in any case, that he'd put in the work, that he'd withheld a respectable character, that he'd studied and trained diligently. He was chosen to become a lieutenant, and he'd risen to first. And it is (...was?) a source of pride in him, his greatest source of personal pride. Knowing that he'd done a good job, that he understood exactly what was expected of him, that he could be good at it. He never had dreams to become a great man, to find glory; he would have simply been content to work as hard as he could. To never falter in being the type of decent man he'd always believed in.
...Now that he has faltered in it, he no longer knows how to look at himself in the mirror.
But there's no mirror here, no reflection of himself to flinch back from — only Wynonna, and an actual conversation about the deepest parts of himself, not just the usual internalised reprimand and disgust of himself. Not being alone with only that shadowed thing from before, some tangible representation of every regret and shortcoming and ache. It's so much easier and so much... more welcomed, to look into her eyes instead, to listen to her words. Even in the pleasant glossy haze of the flickering firelight and the warmth of alcohol, he feels the sincerity of what she says, and he finds that this time, this one time, he doesn't shy away from someone's positive assessment of him. That he can accept it — that in this moment, he can actually believe it, too. And maybe it won't last; the depths of Edward's self-loathing and the cracks in his self-perception run deep, deep, but for tonight... for now, it lasts. Someone sees him, and says he's all right even when he's not being a lieutenant. And it matters; his heart warms.
There's much he wants to say in response to it, but he doesn't quite know how. Perhaps his role is to listen, warm and lulled and letting his eyes speak for him — still moist, perhaps a danger...... but no, he's contented more than anything, eyes soft and relaxed — and happy. He feels Wynonna shift and it's a subtle movement and an even more subtle touch, a slight pressure against his leg, but for someone who hasn't been touched like this, it stands out. Ordinarily he might pull back, quick and careful, but tonight he's so comfortable, and Wynonna's so— happy, she seems happy too, he thinks. Amused and smiling and just as relaxed. His head's lolled fully to face her, comfortable against the sofa cushion, eyelids heavier. He doesn't pull back from the feel of her.
A promise of something — not the first time Wynonna Earp has given him one. She's kept them, and she'll keep this one, he knows, has no doubt, and it's that promise of the thing to come — of learning this story (long and not happy but hers), that makes that warm flutter of happiness within him spread. He couldn't pinpoint it all, exactly, but it's some assurance, and he's needed something like that for so, so long. Some knowledge of a thing, a security in it. She's here, and they'll talk again. Maybe about those sad parts of the past, but that's not so bad. It's nice to have someone to talk to about the things that ache deeply. It's nice for the bruises to be seen. He's spent so long trying to cover his own, keeping everything concealed beneath the layers — literal ones, in his case, but right now he isn't even thinking about the uniform that hangs in the little wardrobe upstairs.
It happens without thought, something blooming and natural. A flower opening its petals in the face of sunshine; Edward smiles, and it isn't one of his creeping, shy, careful things. It's wide, lifting the corners of his mouth back, exposing teeth, the rarely-glimpsed curve of his canines; they're long, sharp, a little wolfish. Even more rare is how unpracticed, unfiltered the gesture is, how it makes his eyes squint, curved into half-moons. How he doesn't think about controlling his expression, correcting it. Certainly, it's hardly a proper way for someone like him to smile, especially towards someone he still really hardly knows at all — but it couldn't feel more natural here and now. 'This is really nice' — she says it directly; she thinks so, too.
He's glad. He couldn't be more glad. To think that someone would enjoy spending time with him, this way... And so he fully means the words, simple as they seem, they mean so much more, to a man who has felt like his existence has met a certain ending, and yet Wynonna Earp has given him something to anticipate, to welcome— ]
no subject
...Now that he has faltered in it, he no longer knows how to look at himself in the mirror.
But there's no mirror here, no reflection of himself to flinch back from — only Wynonna, and an actual conversation about the deepest parts of himself, not just the usual internalised reprimand and disgust of himself. Not being alone with only that shadowed thing from before, some tangible representation of every regret and shortcoming and ache. It's so much easier and so much... more welcomed, to look into her eyes instead, to listen to her words. Even in the pleasant glossy haze of the flickering firelight and the warmth of alcohol, he feels the sincerity of what she says, and he finds that this time, this one time, he doesn't shy away from someone's positive assessment of him. That he can accept it — that in this moment, he can actually believe it, too. And maybe it won't last; the depths of Edward's self-loathing and the cracks in his self-perception run deep, deep, but for tonight... for now, it lasts. Someone sees him, and says he's all right even when he's not being a lieutenant. And it matters; his heart warms.
There's much he wants to say in response to it, but he doesn't quite know how. Perhaps his role is to listen, warm and lulled and letting his eyes speak for him — still moist, perhaps a danger...... but no, he's contented more than anything, eyes soft and relaxed — and happy. He feels Wynonna shift and it's a subtle movement and an even more subtle touch, a slight pressure against his leg, but for someone who hasn't been touched like this, it stands out. Ordinarily he might pull back, quick and careful, but tonight he's so comfortable, and Wynonna's so— happy, she seems happy too, he thinks. Amused and smiling and just as relaxed. His head's lolled fully to face her, comfortable against the sofa cushion, eyelids heavier. He doesn't pull back from the feel of her.
A promise of something — not the first time Wynonna Earp has given him one. She's kept them, and she'll keep this one, he knows, has no doubt, and it's that promise of the thing to come — of learning this story (long and not happy but hers), that makes that warm flutter of happiness within him spread. He couldn't pinpoint it all, exactly, but it's some assurance, and he's needed something like that for so, so long. Some knowledge of a thing, a security in it. She's here, and they'll talk again. Maybe about those sad parts of the past, but that's not so bad. It's nice to have someone to talk to about the things that ache deeply. It's nice for the bruises to be seen. He's spent so long trying to cover his own, keeping everything concealed beneath the layers — literal ones, in his case, but right now he isn't even thinking about the uniform that hangs in the little wardrobe upstairs.
It happens without thought, something blooming and natural. A flower opening its petals in the face of sunshine; Edward smiles, and it isn't one of his creeping, shy, careful things. It's wide, lifting the corners of his mouth back, exposing teeth, the rarely-glimpsed curve of his canines; they're long, sharp, a little wolfish. Even more rare is how unpracticed, unfiltered the gesture is, how it makes his eyes squint, curved into half-moons. How he doesn't think about controlling his expression, correcting it. Certainly, it's hardly a proper way for someone like him to smile, especially towards someone he still really hardly knows at all — but it couldn't feel more natural here and now. 'This is really nice' — she says it directly; she thinks so, too.
He's glad. He couldn't be more glad. To think that someone would enjoy spending time with him, this way... And so he fully means the words, simple as they seem, they mean so much more, to a man who has felt like his existence has met a certain ending, and yet Wynonna Earp has given him something to anticipate, to welcome— ]
I shall look forward to it, Miss Earp. Thank you.