singillatim | I had a dream about a burning house

Really? 'Cause...

[ Wynonna makes a show of checking her pockets and patting her hips, fingers brushing over Peacemaker's ivory grip. She twists, pretending to take something out of the back pocket of her jeans and checking the invisible prop before she shakes her head again. ]

Nope, got my gun, my clothes, and my self-respect all right here. Pretty sure that's all I had on me.

You don't have self respect.

[ It's alright. Neither does he, and there's a twitch of a smile underneath his perfectly coiffed 70s stache. ]

You gonna let me in so I don't freeze my ass off?

[ She rolls her eyes at him, but it's not like he's wrong. Her self-respect went out the window a long time ago. Probably whenever it was she first discovered Jose Cuervo. ]

Guess I can't let a perfectly good ass go to waste.

[ She heads to the door, pushes it open to the living space inside, and casts a glance at him over her shoulder. ]

Come on in. Take a load off.

[ March's smirk widens, using the exact same cadence as he had moments before. ]

And you do like my ass.

[ He's wholly satisfied as he makes his way up the steps, aura of smug incredibly clear. He takes his sunglasses off the moment he's inside and then proceeds to slough off his bright jacket and shove it carelessly onto the nearest surface like he owns the place. It half-misses and winds up dangling precariously from the rocking chair.

Nailed it. ]

So. Hi. Hiya. How's your head?

Edited 2024-03-05 18:50 (UTC)

[ He's standing near her kitchen table, and that just reminds her of what happened on his kitchen table... not that any of those memories have been all that far away since she woke up on the floor next to him. They're hazy, sure, but in a good way, like those old movies where they would smear the lens with petroleum to lend a little Hollywood dreaminess to the scene. There's a simplicity to a drunken hookup that's a relief after the insanity of this place, even with the awkwardness that follows.

She shrugs off her own jacket and hangs it up, cocking a mildly disbelieving glance at hi over her shoulder. ]

Improving from feeling like it was full of broken glass all yesterday.

[ Their moonshine is... dangerous. She'd spent a full twenty four hours just trying to rehydrate. ]

How's yours?

Only mildly unpleasant today.

[ Great. Small talk. This is something that should be normal. Easy, even, for the two of them, except March swears that there's an invisible barrier between them or some shit. Or maybe he's just tired and still hungover from a whole two days ago.

Or maybe he's just not the best at expressing honest to God, proper emotions, like 'hey Wnnonna, you look like shit but you're still gorgeous,' and 'hey, Wynonna, hope you don't mind but I made up half a lie just to see you again.' ]

Don't suppose you have a can of gatorade floating around?

[ Her forehead crinkles at can of Gatorade and she shakes her head, going to the snow-rimmed window that serves as her refrigerator. When she opens it, a gust of crisp air swirls into the room, pushing her hair back from her face. ]

Best I can do is orange soda.

[ She holds up a can for his perusal, then tosses it over before snapping open a can of her own. Mm, tastes like high school. ]

So what is it?

[ She arches her brows at him, nocking her hip against the kitchen counter as she sips at her soda. ]

The thing I left?

Oh.

[ Right. March sniffs--the transition from cold to warm really gets his sinuses, it's annoying, he misses California an ungodly amount--and proceeds to dig into his pocket.

Other pocket.

Other, other pocket. ]

There we go.

[ He produces the excuse: a singular hair tie. ]

[ Wynonna looks at him, looks at the hair tie. Drags her glance back up to his face. ]

That's not mine.

[ She doesn't put her hair into a ponytail that often, and she definitely hadn't that night. It's fuzzy, but she remembers that, because she remembers Louis sweeping her hair off her neck with a cold, gentle touch. ]

What do you mean it's not yours?

[ March refuses to glance down to double check if it's actually a possession of Wynonna's, even though the slow realization is creeping up on him. It's probably not hers at all. It's probably Barbies. If he looks down it will pink.

There is no way in hell he's lowering his gaze. ]

Edited 2024-03-11 15:02 (UTC)

[ Her glance slides to the hair tie again. It's bright pink, glittery, and there seems to be some kind of blush-colored pom poms attached. It's the kind of thing Waverly loves and Wynonna hasn't voluntarily worn since she was six.

She looks him in the eye again, narrowing her own, then lets go of the chair and saunters forward to pluck the hair tie out of his fingers and stretch it around her own. She doesn't move away, just stands here, inches from him, and meets his eyes as she reaches back to fingercomb her hair into a ponytail, tying it off with the ridiculous elastic until it's high and swingy at the back of her head. A peppy cheerleading pony that flips and swings when she shakes her head, brushing against her neck, where the bitemark Louis left is still healing. ]

I mean, does this look like me?

[ God fucking dammit. God fucking dammit this is like, the sixth time this has happened with Wynonna. March's jaw clenches so hard he's surprised he doesn't chip a tooth. Wynonna's gorgeous no matter what way you slice it and there's something about the simple intimacy of someone putting their hair up like that's really, really unfair. ]

It doesn't.

[ March closes his eyes, scrunches his whole face up, in desperate need of a reset. When he opens them he's still looking at Wynonna, though. ]

Okay. Maybe I didn't look so close at it.

[ And maybe it was an excuse. ]

Told you.

[ But it's hers now. Actually, it'll be nice to have a hair tie for the now-and-again she wants one.

She takes half a step back and half-sits against the edge of the kitchen table, watching him. He's scruffier than ever and his hair is all rumpled from the trek over here and she wishes she didn't kind of want to run her fingers through it to straighten it out. ]

Nice of you to come all the way out here, just in case.

Just in case.

[ March's jaw is still incredibly tight. He forces it open, physically running a hand through the stubble on his chin to do so, temporarily in thought. A rare occurrence. ]

There was another thing. Maybe. That I came here for.

[ It's difficult not to think about what happened the last time they were hanging around a kitchen table. She curls her fingers over the edge, drums the tip of her index finger on the wood. ]

What other thing?

[ Be cool, man! ]

[ Christ. He's going to have to man up. March brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, letting it just sort of flop back by his waist. ]

The other thing. The drinking thing.

[ here it goes: ]

You remember anything?

[ She eyes him, her thoughts racing. ]

Why don't you tell me what you remember, and I'll tell you what I remember?

[ She's not leaping off this cliff first, March. ]

Mink.

[ Not helpful. Wynonna eyes him and March eyes her right back, craving a cigarette. Maybe this is hell. Would it be weird if he put his sunglasses back on? Probably. He opts against it.

Right. Big boy pants. ]

Pine wine. And a kitchen table, if that rings any bells?

[ Her jaw works; her mouth presses.

It's not that she wishes she didn't remember. It's that she's got no fucking clue what to do about it now that she's not drunk and desperate for touch and he's not looking at her with that hazy simmering want in his eyes. ]

A few.

[ I think you're the only good part of this place. She remembers that, too. ]

I seem to remember I found a really great way to get you to stop talking.

[ Admittance seems painful for Wynonna, too, and if March's ego didn't fluctuate from huge to enormous on the regular he'd probably be self conscious and assume it's because he's ashamed that it's him. Instead, though, he's pretty confident it's just that it's the tenderness of the act itself. Which is complicated.

March doesn't find himself insulted at all. Hard to when you're feeling the exact same way. ]

Did we--I mean, I can't remember if we...

[ He lifts his brows and tries not to think about the way her fingers curled around the necklace he never takes off. ]

But did we?

No. No, we didn't.

[ That, she's pretty sure about. ]

I woke up with way too many clothes still on.

[ So maybe he really does just want to compare memories. Wynonna blows out a breath and squints, arms crossing as she leans back against the table. ]

I kind of remember ending up on the floor... but not much after that.

Okay.

[ There's a pause and March isn't sure if it's a few seconds or a few minutes. Feels like years. His hands are back on his hips. ]

That's great, then, right?

[ Her eyebrows furrow. She spends half her time here frowning at Holland March, it seems like. ]

Why great?

[ She's always been perfectly ready to find an insult anywhere she might look, even though she knows that's not what he means. ]

You seemed pretty into it at the time.

[ Why great? Wynonna clearly hadn't wanted anything to happen, right? Unless--

--Did she?

Shit.

March clears his throat. That hand is back at his chin again. ]

Well, yeah. [ He's still into it. His eyes rake down quickly to her neck, the healing mark on it. Louis, right? ] Of course I was.

It's just since you and I were... [ He trails off, awkwardly shrugging. ] I thought maybe it, uh didn't count...?

[ He's standing right there, shifty as hell, and all she can think of is telling Doc I think I'm better off traveling solo.

The last thing she said to him, or anyone at home, before finding herself in this frozen dump. ]

Yeah. No.

[ She tosses her head, sending the ponytail swinging, and doesn't uncross her arms. ]

It didn't count. We were both drunk off our asses.

I had a dream about a burning house

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