Wynonna Earp (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pacificator) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-02-02 03:45 pm
pacificator) wrote in singillatim2024-02-02 03:45 pm
Entry tags:
I had a dream about a burning house
Who: Wynonna Earp & others
What: Event recovery post-Visitor & Adust
When: Through February
Where: Around town, Little's cabin, tbd.
What: Event recovery post-Visitor & Adust
When: Through February
Where: Around town, Little's cabin, tbd.
Content Warnings: General Wynonna warnings (alcoholism, possible mentions of child abandonment & abduction, patricide, violence), others tbd.
Hit me up for plotting or starters at repeatandfade or blueofthebay on disco!
repeatandfade or blueofthebay on disco!
no subject
Admittedly, however, some part of him wonders if it isn't really gone. While his vision and thoughts are clearer now — as though some veil has been lifted from his eyes, leaving him horrified by what he's done (abandoning the town just after one of its citizens was murdered, abandoning the people who rely on him, ignoring knocks at his door and turning his back on anyone who managed to make it inside) — Edward still feels.... a weight. It's odd, as though the absence of the literal shadow makes him more deeply feel some of the figurative ones that have been following him for a very long time.
La'an is still dead. And this place is not safe, and he can do nothing to protect anyone. Not really.
He's failed at so many things. He doesn't know what to... do, with this weight, this ache. He's always tried to simply push through it, not look too closely at it, but the truth is that he has lost so many people that he loves, and he is so deeply wounded by the thought of losing more. For the first time since it happened, he weeps over the deaths of his companions from the Expedition, and what he's lost here, too.
At some point, he takes off the outer layers of his uniform, and doesn't put them back on. His boots, gloves, and waistcoat are removed, leaving him only in his jumper, trousers, and socks (this is casual, for him...) His greatcoat hangs in the wardrobe, along with his other uniform, and his cap. His epaulettes are placed there too. He closes its wooden door, the clothes hidden from his sight, and he tucks his shotgun under his bed.
He should return to his patrols around town. Pick up the mantle again, resume his duties. And yet in the days to follow since Kieren Walker came here and Edward learned what the boy was (a monster, is the word that most would use for it, but not the one that Edward sees) and was saved by that very boy, he doesn't return.
What is the point to it? To him.... acting as a lieutenant, as though it means anything anymore? The others have all given up those roles. Even Crozier shirks from being referred to as captain, now. An officer's title means nothing; he means nothing. He'll reach out to those he'd abandoned soon enough, apologise to them, hope for forgiveness, but.... he can't bear to do it in those immediate days. Perhaps it really would be better if everyone forgot about him.
And then one day a knock comes to the door, and although his stomach twists with its own nerves, he won't ignore it this time — can't bear to behave so impolitely, and he's moving that way, trying to prepare himself for whomever might be on the other side of that door.
But the person actually standing there is a complete surprise, and no brief swell of mental preparation can actually stop him from looking at Wynonna with outright stun when he slowly opens the door, eyes wide and expression frozen. ]
Miss Earp.
[ His voice is no longer the lifeless thing it was before; there's a lilt of recognition, then surprise — and he's not refusing to look at her anymore, but quite the opposite, almost ogling the woman. He blinks, swallows, and pushes his door open a little bit more. He hasn't forgotten the last time he saw her. It's been there, like coming out of a nightmare, memory thick and hazy and with a slick, sick feeling at the back of the throat. Like Kate, she was one of the ones he abandoned directly, literally turning his back to her. He doesn't deserve for her to even look at him again.
Maybe she's here to unleash some more (well-deserved) anger at him, but maybe something's happened. Maybe the thing came back, killed someone else. Maybe Hickey's done something in his absence. Maybe, maybe, maybe, a thousand maybes bubbling up and he's fretful in his usual quiet but earnest way, eyes tightening with worry, searching. ]
Is... is everything all right?
no subject
For a long second, she stares at him and he stares back at her in an awkward stand-off, like people who haven't seen each other for years who suddenly ran into one another at a coffee shop, and she's got absolutely no fucking idea what to say to that Miss Earp that sounds so surprised. Of course he's surprised, considering the way she slammed her way out of here before; what she doesn't get is the lack of exasperation or even outright anger that ought to follow it. She'd expected him to be mad, and when he isn't it feels like a rug has been yanked out under her feet. To give herself a second to think, she blinks and wrenches her glance away from his to give him a once-over; he looks better. There's color back in his face and his voice is back to that pleasant rumble that's been a problem since day one, and he's holding himself more like he used to... but he looks different, too. He's sock-footed, which is both bizarre and kind of endearing, wearing just a sweater with his uniform pants, and without his cap his hair is all slightly rumpled dark waves and he just seems... softer around the edges, lacking all the trappings of his rank.
He looks almost like a regular guy, and she realizes, belatedly, that he's not actually that much taller than she is. The boots and greatcoat and cap had lent him more of a physical presence; without them he turns out to be... just normal, if a little sad around the eyes and mouth. It's nice and weird in equal measure and she squirms internally, uncomfortable with it for no very good reason.
Thank god his expression shifts into one she recognizes on his face: uncertain worry. Thank god he asks her a question she can actually answer. ]
Yeah. Or... getting there, anyway. No, I just came to, uh...
[ Everything is categorically not all right, but she's not lying. It does seem to be getting there. She's feeling better, and it looks like he is, too, although she's a little worried about how dressed down he is. Should she be concerned or relieved that it was Edward who came to the door and not the First Lieutenant?
Or how about she just be grateful he showed up at the door at all and stop overthinking shit? Wynonna drifts into a lean, her shoulder pressing against the doorframe, and looks up with eyes big and solemn and eloquently remorseful as a dog that tore apart something necessary and expensive, like a couch. She chews her lip. But, weirdly, now that the moment has come, it actually feels easy to say: ]
Apologize. I came to apologize.
I'm really sorry.
[ She shifts; lifts the bottle by its neck. What's left of the few hours of sunlight they get these days slants through the bourbon inside, making it glow invitingly golden. ]
Pax?
no subject
Little blinks openly at the way she's looking up at him now, eyes all big and round and mournful, and maybe more vulnerable than he's seen Wynonna ever look at him, tilted against the doorframe, not angry but..... something else. When he learns what it is, his own eyes widen (and, for a comical moment, he reflects that mournful look right back, the pair of them locked in another round of staring: Puppy Eyes Edition).
'Apologize. I came to apologize. I'm really sorry.'
And she's holding something up, a bottle that's recognisable as alcohol, and Edward gives a soft exhale of realisation through the lingering confusion, and he doesn't know at all how to handle this, but he's pushing the door open wider because there's only one option that feels right to begin with, and it's— ]
Will you come inside?
[ It's not his usual way to handle things, even just that small bit of framing. Will you isn't Would you like to, even if the two things are very close. Close, but not the same, because it's more of a request (a little too bold for his usual comfort zone) and it's his turn to bite his lower lip for a moment, worrying soft tissue, taking a step back from the door. If there were any lingering doubts as to his invitation inwards, that gesture nips them clean; he's stepping back so she can step in.
Please come in, he thinks, once and then twice and then another time. He wants her to. There are so many things to say — his own apologies to make, and explanations to give (even if he doesn't know where to begin, how to convey any of it), and even as much as he's baffled by this, taken aback by all of it, his heart knows exactly what it wants, which is to make sure that Wynonna comes in, and this time, stays. ]
no subject
But it turns out it was the other way around. And she can't go back in time and make herself stay instead of pushing out the door and leaving him to his misery, but he's still here and so is she, so maybe there's something she can do now, if he lets her.
Which he does. He steps back, opening the door she'd slammed in her tornado of emotions, and invites her in, instead of sending her packing like she probably deserves. Her whole expression shifts; that hangdog remorse in her eyes softening and brightening, the wry press of her lips curving more into something that's almost a smile, crooked and pleased. ]
Thanks.
[ She lowers the bottle and does just as he asks, coming into his cabin – again, but this time as an invited guest and not as a whirlwind of frustrated worry – and glances around as she waits for him to close the door behind her. It's a pretty simple set up, but neat and tidy. He'd built the fire back up – or someone had – and that cold, oppressing feeling of gloom has lifted. Relief loosens her shoulders before she turns back to look at him. ]
You had one too, right? One of those shadows.
[ The familiar twisting sensation of guilt starts crawling up her throat; she tries to smash it flat. It won't help anyone, least of all him. ]
no subject
And he's grateful for the company, if he were to admit it. It feels like he's been alone for a very long time. It... says something, that Wynonna came to find him again. That she wanted to see him, even after... everything. That someone cares. He almost doesn't know what to do with the thought of that, and it makes him weirdly shy and pleased all in equal parts.
He's quietly closing the cabin door and moving inside, socked feet padding against wooden floors. Without his boots on, his footsteps are lighter, quicker, as he moves to stoke the fire again, and turns to look at her, brows lifting in surprise to hear those words. He hasn't told anyone about what had been following him, and certainly never expected to hear that anyone else experienced the same. ]
You know about them?
[ But her words said more than that, didn't they. Understanding comes in, and he's watching her widely, quietly horrified and curious all at the same time. ]
I thought.... I thought it was only myself. You had one?
no subject
For a while, I thought it was my sister... My older sister. Willa. Hanging around to remind me of all the ways I've fucked up... like I could forget.
[ Willa. She's talked more about Willa in the past few weeks than she had in the last decade and a half before. It's brought her sister back in dreams, the two of them walking through the long, golden grasses of the homestead. Giggling to each other late at night. Making promises neither of them were ever able to uphold. And sometimes Willa asks her what she's doing, why she'd left. How she could leave while one of the Seven is still breathing.
She wakes up from those dreams breathing hard and shaking, but she holds them close, anyway. It's the only way she can see her sister.
Wynonna turns around as he goes to stoke the fire, taking stock of the little cabin, then goes to set the bottle of bourbon on the table with a thunk of heavy glass on wood. ]
By the time I figured out it was me, it was already screwing with my head. I sat there in my cabin with the door open. Fire out. Didn’t care if I ate, if I slept, if I lived or died.
[ She slants a careful glance at him, then lifts the bottle again to twist the cap, gaze lowered. ]
Anyway, afterward – [ It's such a small word for everything that happened between the shadow clinging to her, draining her of everything that made her her, but it's all she's got. ] – I remembered. Your door was unlocked. Your fire was out.
[ The seal crackles, breaks, and the cap comes off in her hand. ]
... you got any glasses?
no subject
It's not difficult to imagine that someone could mistake that twin for another person. If his hadn't been wearing the outline of his clothing, he might've thought it was one of the other men, and it could have been any of them — but Thomas Jopson is the ghost that haunts him the most, and it would be too suiting that this place would conjure up some phantom version of the other man.
He's stunned by the knowledge that the experience wasn't isolated to himself, standing there absorbing the information, and everything Wynonna says is too familiar. Doors open and fires gone out. 'Didn’t care if I ate, if I slept, if I lived or died.'
It's an ache to hear someone else voice the worse parts of it aloud, but it's a connection too (someone else knows what it was like, and maybe he shouldn't be surprised, considering the ways this place has affected people in the past.) He hadn't questioned it, though. Hadn't even considered the thought anyone else was experiencing it. He knew he deserved it, whatever that silent double of himself truly was, and he'd... accepted it, more easily than most might have.
He stares, and then he's blinking, nodding, stepping forth to the modest kitchen area of the cabin, opening a cupboard and pulling down a glass. One, to begin with, and then after a brief hesitation, another. (Even Edward Little can enjoy a glass of alcohol, though it's been a long time since he has, and having a glass with a woman is..... an entirely new concept, but— he's becoming more used to that, these days.)
He brings them both over to her, setting them down on the table, looking at Wynonna with something wounded, a deep wet empathy that glosses his eyes. ]
Was yours... still there, when you came to me? She was with you?
no subject
Which she had. And she could have left after that, but she's still here. He hasn't kicked her out, and now she's pouring, the sweet smoky scent of bourbon drifting into the air as she dollops a measure into first one glass, then the other. And maybe she's paying a little more attention to how much she's pouring than she really needs, but she can't meet that sore, all too understanding look in his eyes for long. ]
Yeah, [ she says, again, her lashes lowered as she spins the cap back onto the bottle. ]
It wasn't so bad for me then, but she was there. But my point is –
[ What exactly is her point? What did she come here to say, now that she's picking up the two glasses and lifting her gaze back up to meet his.
Just fucking say it, Earp. Don't be such a coward. ]
Look, I hadn’t thought there was anyone here who gave a damn about me. Except March, maybe, and maybe...
But there were. There are. And it helped to know that. So I just wanted to say... I do give a damn. About you. For whatever that might be worth.
[ It can't be worth much, especially since she still finds him unbelievably irritating in too many ways to count. Her mouth twists, her shoulders shift: this is fucking awkward. To cover it, she holds out one of the glasses to him, offering. ]
And I’m sorry I was such an asshole before. Shadow or no shadow.
no subject
But it was pulling him into those things, slowly, more and more over time. And she had one too. He's still caught between his stun and his horror over it all, expression remaining soft and disturbed and wounded, a hand gently grazing the wood of the tabletop as he watches her pour the drink, listens to Wynonna speak, eyes widening slightly at the words.
'So I just wanted to say... I do give a damn. About you.'
Edward's mouth tips open, openly staring at her — no doubt making the awkwardness worse, sorry Wynonna.... but all of it's so unexpected. Such an outright conveyance of feeling to verbal form in itself is different for the norms of his particular time, and especially from a woman to a man, it's.... not something he's used to. But of course, he's felt so much of that here, and so much of it in the presence of Wynonna Earp, who has consistently challenged everything that he knows, and ever since he had met the woman he's found himself wrenched out of his comfort zone just as consistently. She's remained such a mystery in so many ways, something he can't quite predict.
....And yet maybe he has learned her in ways, because he finds himself realising that for Wynonna to openly voice her feelings like this doesn't seem typical, that she'd be someone who would keep them close to herself instead, everything layered in rougher edges and a sharp tongue with a quick wit. He finds himself understanding that this is a very great deal, and his heart's fluttering not with anxiety but something else: affected, aching.... touched. (And for someone to say that they "give a damn", that they care about him — to know that someone came to his home not once but twice to seek him out with intention, to check up on him....)
His eyelids flutter softly as he gives a slow exhale, looks down to the drink she holds out to him and takes it, drawing the cold glass back to himself. 'I'm sorry' she says again, and someone gives a damn about him, someone he knows wouldn't say words like that unless she very much needed him to understand them. Edward swallows, shy in the face of all of it, and warmed, and he doesn't know what to do with those things, but his heart does, and he lets it speak, quietly. ]
I need to apologise, as well. No matter what was.... affecting the both of us, I caused you hurt, Miss Earp. I am deeply sorry for that. [ His eyes dip to the glass in his hand, fingers brushing against it, slowly. No, it isn't typical for him to open up either, but the words come. Maybe he's a little emboldened by her doing so first, and maybe he needs her to know just as much. Maybe he hasn't ruined this.... relationship with her, whatever it may be. ]
In truth, I have been feeling.... very melancholic for some time now. This place has been... difficult, from my arrival to it and in all of the months to follow. I am consistently reminded of the things I have ruined. ....The people I have failed.
[ She thought her shadow was her sister, to begin with. 'hanging around to remind me of all the ways I've fucked up' — he understands it. ]
When Lieutenant Noonien-Singh was killed, I... could no longer bear it. I let myself fall to that shadow. I believe I wanted it to consume me.
[ And that's the shame of it, one of many, tucked up beneath his ribcage, squeezing his heart now. He'd always been someone who never gave in, who kept going, maintained hope, even foolishly so.... (until he finally lost all of it, and abandoned those men, and gave away the last parts of himself, just like in this place. He let himself fade. Turned his back on the people here.) ]
...I do not deserve your mercy in the face of my own weakness, but I am grateful for it. [ A pause, his shyness revving back up again, and it's difficult to look at her as he voices it, but he still does, eyes finding hers and staying there. ] I am glad you came here today. I was afraid I might have lost you.
[ He would have sought her out to apologise eventually, he knows, but.... there was the chance it would have done nothing. Why should she accept his apology? Open her door to him? He provides nothing for her; as she'd said in that heated moment of upset, they aren't friends, or crewmates, or anything at all.
....Except, perhaps, they are. Perhaps this has proven it; no, it does — she gives a damn about him. And that sentiment is mutual, and so he adds on, after a moment, earnest— ]
I care for you, as well. [ Worded a bit differently than she had... but at the core, the same. ] If I were to have lost your presence... it would have been a great loss indeed.
no subject
It's almost impossible to think of steady, dutiful Edward Little failing anyone... she's a failure. She knows the signs. But she'd never considered... she hadn't thought he would ever know what it's like. What it does to a person, knowing they can never make up for something they did. Only now, as he slowly walks himself through his thoughts, does she start to wonder about the way he's so stubbornly held to duty. How he's tried to make himself so helpful. She'd written it off as him being a rule-follower, a perfectly proper officer and a gentleman, but... could it be there's something else feeding that impulse, along with his own personality? Is he trying to make up for something?
But then he says I believe I wanted it to consume me and her glance jumps back to his face, sharp and searching. ]
Do you feel better now? Is that... thing... gone?
[ She's lifting the glass to her lips to sip at the golden liquid as he continues, which was a terrible idea because he says I care for you with all the earnest weight of his serious eyes and resonating voice behind it and she chokes. Sputters and coughs for a second as her throat and sinuses and eyes all burn, her lungs full of sharp smoky vapor.
Look, she'd been sincere. She'd pulled those words, reluctant and stunted and not really enough for everything she was trying to say, out of the deepest parts of herself, and she'd meant them. She just hadn't ever imagined a world where he might say something similar back, and her first instinct — sorry, Edward — is to toss the glass across the room to distract him so she can climb out a window.
She doesn't. But she wouldn't want to sit under oath and say it was easy to stay exactly where she is, her throat working and her heart doing a weird half-lurch, half-stutter in her chest when he tells her he'd have missed her. That it would have been a great loss to never see her again.
She's used to people telling her that the real great loss is everything Waverly won't get to do because she's got Wynonna weighing her down, an albatross around her neck. So this is... something new. Someone who would miss her. Someone who cares about her.
No, for her. Wynonna coughs, trying to clear her throat, and casts a little wildly around for some kind of response, grasping at something light she can use to cover her confusion. ]
Well, you haven't lost it. I mean, even I draw the line at running off on you four times in a row. Three times, fine. Four?
[ She clicks her tongue, tips her head. ]
Maybe a little much.
[ The air in here has grown claustrophobically close and she desperately wants to step back, to put space between her and him and all the words that are hanging in that caught air between them, which is both beside the point of why she came and also unfair to him. He probably hadn't expected anyone to show up and bare their soul today, least of all her.
So she... sidesteps it, instead. For the moment. ]
Besides, you're maybe the only person in town I can trust to hold onto Peacemaker for me.
no subject
I must admit, in its absence, I feel a little... lost. Aimless.
[ There's an alarmed startle when Wynonna suddenly starts coughing, and he sets his glass down, moving around the table to where she stands, bringing a closer proximity so that he can assist as needed (Edward, you're not helping....) But there's really nothing to be done for it, only to offer her a glass of water, which he slips inbetween her words — "Would you like some water?" — but fortunately, the woman seems to be all right after a moment or two. It's understandable; it's likely been awhile since she's consumed alcohol either, in this place; it can be abrasive to the throat. (...If only he knew the truth...)
He pauses then, at her words, and gives his head a soft tilt downwards, something that might almost be the sliver of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 'even I draw the line at running off on you four times in a row'
It has become something of a pattern between them, hasn't it? This place has created such situations, harrowing moments of upset; she's had to flee, he's had to find her. Or wait for her, like back at the Milton House — a memory that flickers soft and strange within him, and brought back to the forefront of his mind now. ]
Your weapon. [ He nods, rests a palm against the tabletop. It's... a little awkward, just standing up like this around the kitchen table; he should invite her to sit. He's never entertained a woman before... But he's been to many gentlemen's gatherings, back home — and plenty of officer's meetings, of course. There's only so much to be done; he can follow that protocol... ]
Would you like to sit more comfortably? [ He offers after a beat too long, and yes, it's— an awkward little interjection, a little out of place, a hand extended towards the sofa in his living room, much more pleasing than the old wooden table here. ]
It must mean a great deal to you. Your Peacemaker.
no subject
But why would she notice that, why would anyone? It doesn't have anything to do with anything.
She waves him off, her eyes watering, until she's cleared her throat, which helps, and then he ducks his head and almost smiles, which almost sets her off again. She's never seen him look anything but severe or worried or caught in that horrible blank panic from the house, the knowledge that he's even capable of amusement is... fucking weird. Thankfully, he offers a seat on the couch by the fire and she grasps at the invitation, nodding. It's a relief to hear the shadow thing isn't around anymore, but what he says about it... that's too familiar. And concerning.
The damn thing was an anchor in more ways than one. It weighed her down, yes, but she knows what he means: it had given her some focus for... everything. All her mistakes, all her fears, all her despairs. They're all still there, she knows, lurking under the surface.
At the couch, she sets her glass down for long enough to shed her jacket and toss it over the arm, leaving her in her red-burnout tee and a flannel shirt she'd dredged up from some trunk here in Milton, the bottom tied just above the waist of her jeans. It shifts as she undoes her gunbelt, taking it off and setting belt, holster, and gun aside. Sitting down, she picks up her drink and flips her hair back over her shoulder as she settles in, one leg bent beneath her, the other with the sole of her boot flat on the floor, letting her turn toward him when he sits.
As she slips her fingers under her hair and pushes it back, two marks at her throat are uncovered, marring the skin. One, a thin line a few inches below her chin, old and white. The other is still healing: two small puncture wounds sunk into the channel of her jugular. ]
Yeah, about that.
[ About how she pushed the gun on him with next to no explanation and ran back to the house. ]
I should probably explain. I meant to, before, but...
[ Her words drift off; she shrugs, awkward. But. ]
no subject
...He has no idea what he's doing, here. But she accepts the offer to sit, which is an immediate relief (given he's mostly used to Wynonna doing the opposite of what he asks), and this interaction is clearly different from any of their other ones. From the very start, apologies swapped and little glimpses of hurts that don't have to do with each other, necessarily (her older sister, his pressing melancholy), two shadowed doubles attached and desperate and needing. It might actually be nice to... to sit, and have a drink (even if he's a little shy at the thought of partaking in it around her). But the thing that matters the most is that he has the chance to, to mend the fractures with someone, and he may be shy and nervous but he's not having to force himself through this. He wants to.
Even if there's a kneejerk flicker of something that feels like panic when she starts taking off her jacket, and he's making every effort not to look her way for those few moments, settling at the opposite end of the sofa, drink held in his hands, its contents still untouched. He'll only look back up when he feels her sit down too, and then he's looking over, expectant after the words, ready to dip into that topic of conversation, but—
It's difficult to miss the odd markings on her neck. His peripheral catches it, and at first he doesn't know what he's seeing, eyes flitting down without his control, like instinct pulling him — a soft frown as he stares. Then a flush as he realises he's doing it and he looks back up again, startled, and then startled again as the realisation comes, and it's with a comically awkward tug of his eyes right back down. Down and then up and then back down, and now they're staying on, because no matter his discomfort to be staring at her throat, concern outweighs anything else. ]
Please pardon my interruption, but you're— you're wounded.
[ He doesn't quite know how to put to words what he's seeing, like little stab marks, still healing and angry red. His brows knit as he leans just slightly closer to see, already worriedly setting his glass aside on the short wooden table in front of the sofa. It doesn't seem to be bleeding, but it's... an odd place for a wound, isn't it? It seems an especially dangerous place. Wynonna... what have you been getting up to.... He was brooding and unavailable for just a little while and this happened—! ]
Does it hurt you? Do you need relief? [ He can't remember the word of the medicine that he'd been given once, a pain relief the likes of which no one from his time could even imagine (it's ibuprofen), but he has a couple of the pills left; he's been saving them. For those worst days, when the poison in his system feels like it's coiled into his stomach or other organs, and the ache is more relentless. Quickly— ]
I have capsules.
[ He has capsules, Wynonna. ]
cw: memories of vampire bite ig???
I'm – huh?
[ Wounded? She claps a hand to her throat, and what she feels beneath her fingers makes her whole body shift in an exasperated sigh at herself.
She'd forgotten about the damn bite.
That whole night is a blur, from the pine wine to Louis to winding up on March's kitchen table. All she really remembers is how fucking pathetic Louis looked, shaking like an addict and weepy with first hunger and then second-hand alcohol, straight from her bloodstream to whatever plumbing he's got going on. She thinks the bite hurt, but that's fuzzy, too.
Mostly what she remembers is that someone had touched her, and it had been violent but it hadn't been aggression, and that it had been worth it to have someone's fingers in her hair, someone's mouth on her neck, even perverted in a cold and painful mockery of intimacy.
She should have worn a turtleneck, should have worn a scarf, should have slapped a bandage on there. Whoops. ]
Please. It's fine.
[ She shrugs off his offer with an insouciant flip of her head, which just happens to pull a few locks of hair back over her shoulder to hide the bite from view. ]
Don't worry about it.
no subject
He's lifting his brows at her, pointedly. Miss Earp, one can almost hear him say. ]
I have known hardly anyone in my lifetime with as little concern for their own well-being.
[ But he doesn't mean it scathingly, words soft and something that almost might be a possible hint of amusement touching his gaze for a moment. ]
...But I do have to thank you for that, as well. I likely wouldn't be alive, were it not for your ability to face dangers so boldly.
[ For a brief moment, his eyes flicker back to where the wound would be, if he could see it; he's still worried about it... ]
....Thank you. [ He says it properly then, tone creeping towards something somber once more, fingers nudging slowly against the cool surface of his glass. She'd saved him; he's alive only because Wynonna was able to act, quickly and steadily, and even if so little of him wants to think back on that nightmarish event... ]
Why did you go back in?
no subject
That just makes me cooler and more interesting, don't you think?
[ One man's boldness is another man's reckless endangerment, it seems. She likes the first one better, but they both boil down to the same thing, in the end. It's fine, he can keep his capsules. He'll probably need them for the headaches she'll give him down the line, if Dolls and Nedley are anything to go by.
Assuming they actually do manage to patch things up and work together again, which... the 'patching up' part seems workable. She can't say staying away from her wouldn't be the smarter move, considering that same boldness has the tendency to come with a fairly wide blast range.
He glances back at the hidden bite and she braces for another round of questioning. And, like someone braced for a push, she's got no defense when she gets pulled, instead; he looks at her and says thank you. Sincere. Serious. No one back home thanks her for shit, and as much as she'd thought it would be nice to hear, once it's out there and falling into her hands, which are way too clumsy to hold words like that, sentiments like that, she doesn't know what to do with it. How do you hold onto something without breaking it?
She wishes he would have some of the bourbon so she'd feel okay about drinking more of her own; how is she supposed to deal with someone this genuine? Why did she think this was a good idea, again?
In the meantime, she dodges it by lowering her own gaze to the glass she's holding in her lap. The sharp, smoky scent of the liquor floats up, and she can almost feel the heat of the flames crackling all around her. ]
I heard something. Someone. It sounded like a kid screaming.
[ He hadn't heard it, she's almost sure. Even if he had, he'd been too terrified to listen even to her, and she'd been right there pressed against his side, talking to him the whole way out. Her tongue works along the side of her teeth, sending her jaw crooked, thoughtful, before she looks back at him. It's not quite the mournful puppy-eyed look she'd given him when he opened the door, but there's something similar to it; something vulnerable in the way her shoulders lower. ]
I had to try and... do something. It's what I'm supposed to do. [ That's not quite right. She knows it. He doesn't. But she finds herself wanting him to know it, to know more, to know her, so she adds: ] No, it's what I want to do.
[ Whatever Doc says, she's not just a killer. She's not. She won't go down that road, no matter how many burning buildings she has to run into. ]
I want to be... better.
no subject
I should say you are quite an interesting person indeed, Miss Earp.
[ He does mean it to be flattering, even if he looks extremely awkward to say it aloud..... It's then, finally, that he allows himself a sip of his drink. A dose of needed liquid courage after complimenting a lady... It goes down strong, his throat unused to such things after so many long months without them, and he takes a moment to adjust to the feeling before looking back up to her, struck by those words.
A child... screaming? In that house? Edward's staring, surprised and disturbed, eyebrows furrowed severely. He hadn't heard such a thing — although is it any wonder, given his own reaction? He'd barely been able to hear anything. Just Wynonna's voice, coaxing him through it. Roughly, insistently, and dependably. She'd gotten him out, as she promised to do. She'd saved his life.
Guilt and horror are pooling into him; a child was inside that building? He'd... abandoned them with his own incompetence, his own frozen heart. The questions are there, shuddering within him — Was there truly a child? Did she find them? Save them? She'd come out alone, so.....
God. He's exhaling softly, horrified, but still, Wynonna's words are something to hold onto. So familiar — the difference between what one is supposed to do and what one wants to do, and so often he still doesn't know it for himself. Hardly ever considers that second option. But.... 'I want to be... better.'
He knows those words. Feels them, constantly. These days he's not sure about whether he can be. But in this moment, it isn't about him, and so he's finally speaking again, softly. It's brazen, what he says, but maybe for this, he can be. ]
You are a good person. Your heart is true, and steadfast. You spent your energy for my sake, and then returned to that burning place for someone else's sake, again. I know few who would do such a thing.
[ He can't bear to ask her directly about the child, what... happened to them, why she walked out alone. She'll tell him what she wants to share, and he won't ask for more than that. Instead— ]
Are you all right....? It must have been exceedingly harrowing. I've.... had nightmares of it since then, but what you faced was ever more horrific.
no subject
Your heart is true and steadfast, he tells her, seriously, and what the fuck is she supposed to do with that, aside from take a swallow of her bourbon? Edward Little is being nice to her, complimenting her, and try as she might she can't find the hidden trap door she's sure has got to be somewhere under those words.
It's not that she doesn't like it. Somewhere, under her embarrassment and awkward uncertainty there's a yawning, open space in her chest that reaches greedily for each of his words, wanting to believe them, wanting to clutch them and cling to them. Someone thinks well of her. He thinks she's a good person, and she can't convince herself that the bourbon is the only reason there's a faint flush of warmth pinking her upper cheeks. ]
Oh, god. Don't say stuff like that. I'm gonna start thinking you mean it.
[ She doesn't deserve it... or maybe she does, because yeah, she did go back in that house, and she did get him out of it, but she'd rather be right back in that inferno than sitting here listening to him be heartfelt about her goodness, which is a fluid situation at best. He's a good person, so it's probably easy to see goodness in others, but she's not used to hearing anything of the kind levelled her way. She curls her fingers around her own glass; unconsciously flexes the knee she'd wrenched. Are you all right? he asks, and no. No, she definitely isn't all right about what happened. She'd spent multiple nights deep in a bottle about it, and it still haunts her. She can still feel that little ghost boy curled against her, can still hear his voice. ]
The fire wasn't... [ She grimaces, trying to figure out how to explain it. ] It wasn't real. The kid wasn't real. I think it was just an... echo of one of the boys who lived there. He wouldn't let me try to get him out, he just...
[ She shakes her head, at a loss for words, her glance unfocused. She's not seeing him; she's seeing the burning ruin of that bathroom, hearing a little boy crying for his mother. ] He thought I was his mother. He just wanted to be held. He was... scared.
[ She blinks rapidly, takes a deep breath, like a woman surfacing from a dream, and looks back at the man sitting across from her. ] The fire disappeared when he did. It felt like I was burning, but I hadn't. I mean, you know how real it felt.
[ Her brows draw together into a faint frown. ] What happened to you, anyway? I've never seen you freeze up like that.
cw: mention of fire / death by fire / fire-related trauma
I do mean it.
[ He doesn't want to leave her with any doubt as to that regard, and knows he struggles with conveying things adequately, so his words are accompanied by a very serious nod, eyes locked right onto her instead of shyly fluttering away. ]
Our situation was.... unspeakably horrific. Not only were you capable of helping me through it, but you... went back. Surely it even goes against human instinct, to face such, and especially with little hope for survival.
[ It's not just the conjured images of flames eating away at himself and the smell of his own seared flesh that have filled his nightmares. It's her, burning, never coming back out, and maybe that was the worst part of all of it. When he was inside the house, he was in some sort of shock, mind numbed. When he was outside of it and could breathe again and watched Wynonna vanish back through that crumbling door, it was... a different sort of fear.
He falls quiet again as he listens, his attention fixed on. Not real. Maybe once, not so long ago, he wouldn't have been able to understand such a concept. Now he does. This place has... shown him things. He can imagine such an experience happening, though he's no less startled and distressed by what she's telling him now. It makes his heart hurt: a little boy, frightened, clinging to Wynonna, seeing his mother in her. (A spectre? Another ghost? He isn't the only one who has been haunted, and his eyes soften as he watches her.) It must have been... traumatising, yet even her exit from the house betrayed little of that. How is it that she's capable of being so strong? So iron-willed? Little stares at the woman, some mix of awed and wounded by everything she's telling him, head bowing for a moment. ]
I have felt many ghosts here, yet little hauntings as cruel as one involving a child. ....But that he had you to hold him was a mercy I am grateful for.
[ Whether a true phantom, a fluttering little echo, or a trick conceived by this place, it does not matter. Because of Wynonna, a crying child was not alone.
The question that comes isn't a surprise; perhaps he expected it. Perhaps she's made it easier for him to answer, to share in response, with the door she's opened in sharing her own horrors. Little pauses, gazing down at the amber liquid in his glass, unsure how to begin. He finds himself going back, backwards, to the start. It's a lot to share, but none of it feels forced. Not to her, not in this moment. He speaks slowly, recollecting each thing that he can still hold onto. The poison has eroded some of the edges to his memory, but for this... he recalls most of it, and the pieces are more palpable, soft and raised enough that his fingertips can brush against them, like scar tissue. ]
When we were trapped out on the ice, one of our commanders proposed an event to lift the spirits of the men — a sort of festival. In truth, I was not keen on the idea, it used up so many of our resources, but.... I can understand its value. And for a time, our men were happy. Happier than we'd seen them in so much time. They created an entire world, drawing together tarps and tents to create rooms... and different things within each. Displays, recreations of comforts from home...
[ His mouth slowly draws to a deeper frown as he continues, brows knit as though in confusion, although he remembers this part especially well. It begins to feel like a dream, a nightmare. ]
But then we... something went wrong. One of the ship's surgeons was behaving strangely. We didn't understand at first. He was only standing there, and then he— he set himself alight. It happened so suddenly that we were unable to reach him in time. He perished. And then everything else began to burn. The food, decor, the tents — he had sabotaged them all. Drenched them in oil.
[ His voice remains steady enough, not panicked, but his eyes grow wider as he speaks, haunted by memory. By sensation. Sounds, sights, smells. The fire was surreal, blazing like something alive, eating away at everything it touched. The screams were— unimaginable. He has never heard grown men scream that way.
But it was the smell that was the worst of it. ]
The men began to panic. The tents were fastened so tightly and they were— they were like a maze, we could not get out. Some of us fell in the rush, some burned—
[ His words cut off then as he loses his breath, loses the resilience against the tight lump in his throat, and realises his fingers are grasping his glass so tightly that his pale knuckles stretch whiter. Without his usual gloves on, he feels... strangely exposed. He lifts that glass to his mouth, taking a heavier swallow this time — the movements of his throat audible as the liquid rushes down into him, cold at first, but then warm, hot, as the alcohol spreads through his belly, and he finds himself welcoming the sensation. Welcoming any warmth at all. He stares at the dark wooden floorboards of his cabin, and none of this explains why he'd frozen, not really (he can't understand it, only knows that he has been stricken into a frozen fear more than once since then). ]
We lost many men that night.
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.
cw: brief mention of suicidal ideation
...But the story comes out much like that — a story, a thing with a start, middle, and ending, and painted a little more colourfully. It tells what happened and how; maybe he wants to share it with someone. (Wants? Needs? Everything has been so unbearably lonely, and his heart is still raw from that shadowed thing and the particular way it had affected him. He'd sat on the edge of his bed with his shotgun an arm's length away, and it wasn't that he planned to use it, but maybe, after all this time, and after all the ways of feeling so alone and so strange within himself, so achingly aware that he's nothing more than a ghost now, it felt like the only outcome.)
Maybe Wynonna Earp is the only one he could ever tell this to. She, who'd seen him caught in the throes of what he doesn't quite understand to be panic, maybe shock, and she, who'd gotten him out of it. Maybe he's all right with that fact, if it's just her; maybe he only wants it to be her. A little glimpse into his world before here, one chapter of it, what it was like. To be known by someone else is... frightening, and uncomfortable, and goes against so much that's normal within Edward Little, but maybe it's nice, too.
However it is, none of it is forced. It comes willingly, more easily than he could have ever imagined.
Finally, he's looking back up at the woman when she speaks, eyes heavy but not dulled the way they were not so long ago. 'I'm so sorry,' she says, and it's a little dose of her own sincerity. 'Little' she calls him, like usual, and he finds it's an odd comfort in this moment, another unexpected thing. It isn't appropriate, or normal, for a lieutenant to speak this way to anyone. Rarely even with one another. Confiding in each other behind closed doors certainly happened, but.... always with some boundary. With rules, and expectations. As their first, he was especially careful.
But here, he's just... a man, speaking to someone else, sharing with them one of the worst things he's ever faced in his life, and despite the tight coil in his gut to re-live it, his shoulders release some of their own tension, and he's leaning back against the sofa with his glass held against a knee as he looks over at her. And none of it is forced.
He stares as she compliments him, says he did great, and it's startling to hear, because when he looks back at how he handled that situation, "great" is hardly the word he'd use. Not like her (again, how is she so resilient? So capable? He'd seen those streaks down her cheeks, the heaviness in her eyes, something wounded and aching, but she didn't completely crumble the way he surely would have in the face of something so horrific and gutting as a child screaming in fear and terror and pain.)
He doesn't understand how someone as brave as her could appreciate anything about him, or how he'd handled it, but his heart so desperately wants someone to see him as good, as useful, and it flutters and melts at the idea that she might, liquid-warm in his chest. Or maybe it's the alcohol spreading through him, making the edges of him feel just slightly prickly. He isn't a small man, but it's been awhile since he'd drank (...he also has hardly eaten anything today).
He flushes a little at his ears, red blossoming at their tips. He's too shy to answer that, at once incapable of that open sincerity, can't say There was no question that I would wait for you or Nothing else mattered, only that you returned safely. Those things feel like too much suddenly, and he's fighting to hold contact with the woman's eyes, big and grey-blue as she apologises to him.
And ordinarily, he might say You needn't be sorry for a thing, Miss Earp, or You have nothing to apologise to me for, and those things would smooth out any uncomfortable emotion, but Edward finds that he's asking instead. It's soft, not a challenge in the least but genuinely curious, searching, voice barely above a whisper. ]
Why are you sorry?
[ He would never ask someone that, would never feel that it was his place to. And maybe that's what it is, about her. He sits beside Wynonna Earp and feels as though they are equals, and it has nothing to do with rank or experience or any real sort of comparison, only the fact that somehow, for reasons he's not quite certain how to define, he feels safe enough to. ]
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.
no subject
'I basically asked you to stand there and watch me die.'
Little keeps looking over at her as he listens, eyes widening, clearly startled to hear that. But he keeps listening as Wynonna continues, and he finds himself stunned. By it — by all of it. It's only now that he's really... feeling the heaviness of some of this; oh, it's been there in him, but it had been numbed down the way so much gets numbed down in him. Pushed away, deeper and deeper, leaking out in his nightmares, in the tension of a frown when he might suddenly remember what had happened. He hadn't talked about it after the incident, because he never talks about anything, but.... he feels it now, through all of this. He feels it more and more as he listens to her talk, and his breathing shudders here and there, eyes fretful as he stares at her.
And then freshly stunned all over again as Wynonna says there's no one she'd trust with her weapon, that she'd even entrust it to him again, and he hasn't forgotten Peacemaker's heavy weight against his chest. He'd known it meant a great deal to her, but he hadn't known the deeper intricacies — and still doesn't understand most of them, but what Wynonna says is meaningful enough. The gun is important.
She trusts him (with it, with this important single thing, but maybe it's much more than just one).
Edward blinks, looking a little dazed in a way he's not used to feeling. It's not pleasant, but it's not unpleasant, either. Actually, there is something nice to it, if he lets himself realise that — a sort of buzzing in his ears, a warmth that he's very sure isn't the alcohol, now. It's a shyness that's different than other sorts; he's made someone think of him with trust, made someone smile at him the way she's smiling at him now. A twist, a smirk, but a smile wrapped up into it, and a little softer than he's used to Wynonna looking at him.
The man swallows suddenly, palms feeling oddly sweaty, rubbing the heel of one against his pant leg while the other stays pressed against his glass. ]
Well, I— if you ever needed me to watch over it again, I would, assuredly. Without a doubt.
[ Edward Little doesn't ramble often, but he seems to fumble over his words a little there. ]
And it was not a burden, to— to wait for you. I never wanted to leave.
[ The words come out a little breathlessly; he is nervous, now. The quirk of her mouth catches his eyes again, and he looks down. ]
....I was worried for you. It was... the most frightening part of it. Thinking that you might not return. [ It was awful, it was devastating, waiting so long for her, thinking she was dead, exactly as she says. But the thing is— well, she'd just said it. He says it, too. Repeats those words right back. ]
But the thing is, I would do it again.
[ He'd once told Wynonna that his care for her safety came from a concern about every member of this community, and that it included her. And that was true, and still is now, but the care he has for her now doesn't quite feel the same as responsibility. It's similar in ways to how he's grown to feel about other people here, like Kate Marsh — it frightens him. And his heart is warm to it, and opens itself whether he wants it to or not; he has always been led by that organ within his ribcage. He doesn't know how to define what he feels, doesn't know what it means to think of someone as a friend — is that the right word for it? For them? Perhaps not, they're still such strangers to one another, but... ]
I would assist you however you needed, Miss Earp. It is never a burden. Not for you.
[ Since when did he feel that way? It makes no sense to; she's a whirlwind of trouble, of uncertainties, of discomfort, but she's been there right beside him, consistently, whether by virtue of some incident of this place or not (nothing forced her hand to come check on him when he was holed away in his cabin alone, did it? She came on her own. She wanted to see him. And she is kind, and gentle-natured, he thinks, beneath some of the more intimidating parts—)
......Abruptly, he realises his words are very bold, and she is a woman whom he's sharing a seat with, and he flushes again, and— when did he empty his glass....? ]
no subject
It would be so easy to take him and all his promises for granted; she can see it from here. How easy it would be to wring everything she can out of them, because he's offering willingly, holding parts of himself out to her like he's depositing airy pieces of blown glass in her hands and the problem is she isn't any good with fragile things. She's a blunt instrument. Even when she's not trying, things break around her, just from being too close when she goes off, and he is getting too close. She hates herself a little for not wanting to shove him away, for the quiet certainty in her own voice when she says, watching him: ]
I know you would.
[ They've got to stop talking low and honest like this. (That not for you floats through her head and her thoughts skitter away in a panic, like small anxious animals fleeing some instinctive danger, like a fire. ) Wynonna wets her lip, glance darting away, aware she'd better say something and say it soon, but the best she can do is: ]
Still, maybe better if neither of us need to do it again for a while, huh? I don't know about you, but it would be great to have a day or two where I'm not fearing for my life or dealing with ghosts.
[ It is past time for more bourbon, and not only because his glass is empty. Wynonna tips her own last measure of alcohol into her mouth and pushes up, off the couch, heading around it to the bottle they'd left on the kitchen table. Her tied-up shirt hitches a little as she does; she can feel both the warmth of the fire and the cool air in the rest of the room against the small sliver of skin it exposes for a second.
Before he can think she's running off on him again – she'd be leaving her jacket and Peacemaker, but she thinks they both know that wouldn't be enough to keep her here when that fight-or-flight hits – she's coming back, bottle in hand, pouring herself another finger of whiskey. Wynonna settles back on the sofa – a little more towards the middle than the corner she'd curled into before – shakes her hair back (forgetting, again, about the bite on her throat) and reaches with the bottle to dollop more into his glass, too.
He looks like he needs it as much as she does, though maybe for different reasons. She doesn't have any idea how two words she's heard from him a dozen times or more – Miss Earp – could sound so different suddenly, could sound the way they just did, tucked in between a bunch more words that she can't look at too closely.
She'd listen to him read the phone book in that rich voice of his and enjoy every second of it, but for once it didn't feel like that was the whole problem.
She spins the cap back onto the bottle, lashes lowered, and wonders, briefly, what would happen if she told him he could just call her Wynonna, because surely with all this dragging out of uncomfortable truths they've made it past Miss Earp. With any luck, it'd be his turn to choke on his drink.
The bottle goes on the table; she takes her glass and leans back against the sofa, propping an elbow on the top of the backrest and leaning her head against her hand, one leg curled up beneath her again, her glass resting on her thigh. And because she'd been thinking about names, and how different they can sound and feel depending on who's saying them and when, she offers up a non-sequitur: ]
You know, I didn't even think you knew my name until you were yelling it at me in that storm.
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Again, it's.... strange to hear, coming from her, and yet maybe especially meaningful, coming from her. He's earned her trust in such matters, and it's— frightening, terrifying, to think about. Just how terrifying it is, is something he'll reflect on in the time to come, probably. But in this moment? It feels nice, his heart so warmly and achingly grasping onto the concept. She trusts him. Trusts his words, knows he would hold true to them.
It's all becoming very much, and it's so easy for him to become overwhelmed; there's an immediate gratitude when Wynonna continues on with her words, with that habit she's so skilled with in being able to change a flow of conversation, push it onwards past something lingering and difficult to pull one's self out of (not that he dislikes what they've been speaking about, not at all; in fact, it's.. nice— there's that word again).
He nods his agreement with an exhale of almost relieved breath, before watching her stand, unsure at first where she's going, eyes almost orderly with how they snap to her movements, and then catch sight of a lift of clothing and an exposure of skin, and certainly he's no stranger to seeing more of ladies these days than he ever has in his lifetime, but to happen now throws him off-guard in a way he hadn't expected. His eyes widen, chest feeling strange and tight and he's only growing even warmer from the inside out. It's a mercy that Wynonna's attention is occupied by her mission, although it's only so briefly, and he's still not recovered by the time she sits back down.
And she's closer now, and his eyes aren't daring to look at her for a long moment or two, only holding tightly onto his glass as she refills it. Edward stares down at it, very nervous, very unsure, so painfully aware that all of this is beyond anything that would be considered normal or appropriate when and where he's from. He shouldn't... look at her.
But she's really very lovely, he thinks, and it's not necessarily a brand-new thought; he may not have ever sought out such thoughts, for anyone, but no matter what norms exist for him (and especially for him, an officer of the navy), he has noticed lovely people in his life. One simply never acts on it, pursues it, certainly never admits to such things — but one notices. Despite what he thinks of himself, he is only human, and humans notice such things as the softness of hair and the flutter of lashes and the curve of a woman's mouth.
....And Wynonna has always been very lovely to look at, if one is honest with one's self. Edward had grown up with several sisters, but even within his own household, it was so rare to see a girl or woman with her hair down so freely the way Wynonna's always is — wild and thick and wavy. It's a complete contrast to what is considered typical, to him. He's noticed before (how could he not?) but things have been so persistently harrowing and strange and his thoughts have been occupied by so many things; all of them have been fighting to survive. Now he sits quietly beside her and neither of them have anywhere else to be, and from his peripheral he sees her toss her hair over her shoulder again and is afraid to look at her. He can feel her eyes upon him and stares widely down at his glass before taking another swallow, too shy to meet her gaze for the immediate moment. He should not be thinking of these thoughts (what exactly is he even thinking?)
The statement........... doesn't help. Edward finds himself struggling, but he always has a rather nervous edge to him. Perhaps nothing seems too amiss, and whatever it is he's thinking, whatever shape it could be molded into, can remain another shameful ghost locked away inside of him. ]
Ah— I do need to apologise to you for that incident. I didn't mean to overstep my boundaries... But I discovered your name when I was taking count of those staying in the Community Center through the storm. I hadn't intended to use it. But I— needed to reach you as quickly as possible. I was very afraid that if I didn't, you might have been lost.
[ And he's been avoiding looking at her for long enough that it might now tiptoe across the threshold into being rude, so Edward finally draws his eyes back up to meet Wynonna's — and at once finds them fixing on the exposed skin of her neck again, very much without meaning to; it's an almost instinctive thing. He's so far out of his element, he's ogling the space where those pinpricks disturb the skin for a beat too long, he's flushing all over again, his throat makes an odd sound; all of it happens so quickly. Edward just as quickly lifts his glass again to have something to swallow, to mask that feeling with, flustered — and the swallow this time is so thick that it burns the corners of his eyes a little. Still, at least he's not choked up to the point he can't speak, even if his voice does come out a smidgen strained. He is so completely fine right now. ]
I hope I've not offended you.
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Wynonna: laughs | Ned: 70 paragraphs of introspection about it
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