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!
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
It's wavy. She'd had no idea.
(Right now she's just grateful that, when he's looking down like this, that one sweeping, curling lock falling over his forehead and into his eye isn't visible. She hadn't needed to know that existed!)
Even when he answers her, he doesn't look over, but there's nothing weird and distant about his voice; if anything, he sounds a little chagrined for... really? For the crime of finding out her name from a roster? Wynonna feels the twitch of a disbelieving smile starting at the corners of her mouth, right up until he finally does look her way again, only for his glance to drop, and linger, on her throat.
She'd moved a little closer, which means he's a little closer, so she really can't miss it – not the way he stares, not the way his own throat works for a half second – just like she can't miss the sudden clutch in her own stomach. He takes another drink – almost swigging it, like Doc would, but she's got no idea if he's got a tolerance anything like Doc's – before opening his mouth again as she blinks. He looks nervous, despite giving her a perfectly reasonable explanation, what the hell...? But then he actually says what he says, and –
– And she laughs.
Full-throated, smile flashing, crinkling up the corners of her eyes; she relaxes against the back of the couch and laughs.
Aside from those booze-soaked nights earlier in the month, when she'd been so sore and so angry and so damn sad she didn't know what to do with herself aside from try and escape, when even she knows she can't run away from herself – when was the last time she laughed, here? For real, the way she is now? There's nothing mean or sharp about it; it's just such a funny fucking idea, that he might possibly offend her, just by using her name. When he's been scrupulously polite in its usage every time. It's always Miss Earp, to the point where she kind of has to wonder if he even remembers her first name.
It mellows down into a chuckle, but the laugh is still in her eyes, still tucking dimples into her cheeks with the smile that isn't going anywhere, still bubbling under her voice, amused, when she says: ]
You really haven't.
[ I didn't mean to overstep my boundaries... And here she was thinking he'd never met a boundary he didn't happily stay well within. Has he been worried about that this whole time?
Just thinking about it almost sets her off again, but she takes a swallow of her drink instead, her lips pressing and twitching into an unruly curve. She doesn't even try to stop it; why would she? It's funny, and it's sweet, in the way he is – often, she's realizing, now that she's thinking about it, he's often – sweet: very seriously, as if the smallest of familiarities might make her gasp and swoon at the impropriety of it all. Compared to the near obscenities Doc disguises with his velveted Georgian drawl, Little's concern over anything even remotely familiar is refreshing. It's... yeah, there really isn't a better word for it. It's sweet. ]
Between the two of us, I'm definitely the one who offends people, not you. You're good, Little; you are free to use my name after finding it out in a totally reasonable way. Permission granted. And I promise I haven't minded at all.
Wynonna: laughs | Ned: 70 paragraphs of introspection about it
But, all of it to say that some part of him, perhaps the greater part, already knows that Wynonna won't have taken offense for it. And yet it's still such a.... relief to have clarification of that. It comes after a quick moment of stun — she starts laughing, and it catches Edward completely off-guard, eyes wide, locked on, staring, as her mouth tugs wider into a smile and her eyes narrow with it, and she's leaning backwards as though the mirth has weakened her for the moment.
It's so... rare to see someone laugh, and to laugh like that. So open, unrestrained, (free, is the word that might come to mind, when he explores this memory again later). People don't laugh like that where and when he is from. ....Although perhaps on the ships, from time to time, one might catch the loud laughter of a seaman, a boy. Certainly not an officer, but.... one might hear it coming from somewhere below. A loud display of delight, unfiltered, joyful. There was joy on the open water, once. It wasn't always something so horrific.
He doesn't know that he's ever quite laughed like that. If he has, it would have been so long ago, when he was more of a boy than a man, perhaps while playing, perhaps before he began to structure himself into the role he holds today. He can't remember it, if so. He can't imagine it ever happening.
And yet, watching her.... that odd warmth from before spreads, maybe in other ways, different types of ways — a tug up under his sternum, a loosening of some perpetual tight knot that occupies his stomach. A quiet tug at the corners of his own mouth, and the gesture is still controlled, still maintained, but it warms the browns of his own eyes, melts them to something soft and perhaps even affectionate, and through his stun and the soft glazy layer that the alcohol pads his vision with, he realises he feels happy, too. That it's nice to see Wynonna laugh, that as unexpected as it is, he wouldn't dislike seeing it again.
If it was difficult to look at her just moments ago, he feels much the opposite in this moment, and finds that he's having a hard time looking away. He only does when she takes another swallow of her drink, that laughter died down but its presence still felt, something that's brightened the air, the darkness of this place, this lonely wooden cabin out near the cold woods. He takes another drink of his own, lowers it to rest carefully at his knee. There are dimples in her cheeks, youthful, charming. ]
Then I am deeply relieved, Miss Earp. [ It feels a little different now, now that permission has been granted — whether she meant it playfully or not, it flipped a switch in his mind, made it something else, now. (A little safer? More familiar? He still can't quite figure out what shape this woman occupies within his mind, but it feels different now.)
And more things are beginning to feel different now, as he adjusts his position on the sofa and finds that even just a little bit of movement kickstarts some of that growing dizziness, like a swirl of liquid in his head. He blinks, a little glossily, and looks back over to her with that echo of a smile. ]
I am beginning to think there is nothing that could offend you.
[ It doesn't sound like an insult, a judgment of her character — and it isn't one. It's conversational more than anything, head tilting just slightly to the side. ]
I must admit, some part of me envies such a concept. It is difficult to become closer with others, at times — there is much that is not appropriate for me to engage with, at my ranking.
[ A pause, something working itself in his mind. His greatcoat and cap and various other things are all stashed away, and have been ever since the shadowed thing was here, haunting him. Perhaps to her, and perhaps only to her, he can admit— ]
....I have had little desire to return to that man, with that ranking. It has been almost a relief to shed my coat, for a time.
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.
no subject
Everything is coated in some light-hearted daze, and the upsets and darker things from earlier aren't gone, but all of it feels more manageable, now. He can sit and wonder what she means underneath the words, reflect on the reminder that he really knows so very little about Wynonna Earp — and the subsequent realisation that he wants to know more about her, to know what she means by it.
But he won't ask, not directly. Parts and pieces of them both are being revealed in a way that's... strange, unlike anything he's really ever known before, but not unpleasant. Maybe it truly is the alcohol helping smooth out some of those tightly-knotted kinks in his stomach, the ones he carries around constantly, but he's having more and more of a difficult time being afraid of any of this. And more and more of a time just enjoying it for what it is — a conversation. Truths are revealed here and there, sometimes more direct, sometimes less. All of it means something.
(But he does wonder. What would offend someone like her? Someone so much more.... free-spirited than himself, than most anyone he knows?)
He tilts his head a little further as she continues, speaks of titles and duties inbetween relaxed shrugs and easy nudges of her mouth into playful smiles (unnerving, he'd once thought, and maybe ordinarily might, but right now he can only notice the way each gesture brightens the greys of her eyes.) ]
Inappropriate. [ He repeats the word with the slightest breath behind it, and it's almost a scoff. He knows, though, that he's... straight-laced; he isn't oblivious to it. Even other officers might joke and tease and behave a bit more flippantly (Hodgson and Le Vesconte come to mind...) or have an easy, genial disposition that made them particularly likable to the men (like his counterpart on Erebus who was lost so soon and mourned by the crew, poor Graham Gore). ]
Does this count as such a thing? Consuming alcohol when I usually would be starting up a patrol?
[ There's even some playfulness of his own behind it, even if it's so subtle, and his hand tilts his glass carefully to the side, almost thoughtfully. The truth is he wasn't going to start up a patrol today anyway, and can't imagine when he might do such things again. ]
But shouldn't we.... hold even more steadfast to those things, in a place like this? If we let go of them... then what is left?
[ Again, it isn't a challenge, but a genuine need to know her opinion on the question that's been haunting him since long before 'this place'. ]
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Little!
[ His name comes out on an almost-laugh of her own. Turns out there's some life in him after all, which is both a pleasant surprise and something she wants to pounce on immediately; she wants to pry it out of him until she's finally managed to catch a glimpse of whoever he is under the uniform and behind all his rigid propriety.
Except this can't be proper, exactly, right? How often has he ever hung out with a woman alone before? ]
That was almost a joke. I'm honestly proud.
[ But he turns serious again almost immediately after, asking her questions she doesn't have any idea how to answer. What is left?
She's questioned how tightly he's been holding onto the thought of himself as a Lieutenant, with all the rules and restrictions that go along with that same title. But has she been doing the same thing, herself? She clings to Peacemaker, even though the gun's lost any supernatural capability. But there are no revenants here. The only curse is on all of them, not just her.
So what is left? ]
I don't know.
[ There's something about his sincerity, about the way he asks her these things as if she were a respected colleague and not just a random woman who gives him a hard time whenever possible that compels her to be honest with him in return. And it's... nice. To think her opinion might hold some weight with him, the way his does with her. He wants to know what she thinks; one of a handful of people she can say that about.
The funny thing is, she wants to know what he thinks about what she thinks. She wants to sit here and talk with him about this stuff for as long as he'll let her. It soothes some still-wrinkled part of her soul. If she still had that shadowy twin, she thinks it would be long gone by now, banished by the warm weight of his regard. ]
I can't be what I was at home here. Which is good, probably, but... if I'm not the heir, I guess what's left is... just me.
[ She shrugs again, slight, a little uncomfortable. ] For whatever that's worth. My point is –
[ What is her point? She eyes her own drink for a moment, noticing for the first time that her thoughts are a little fuzzy, that her face is a little tingly. She shakes it off and reaches to prod him in the shoulder again, not quite as obnoxiously hard as she might on another day. ]
There's still a guy left, even without all those things. And that guy, you know, earned the rank, and everything else. So I'm guessing there's plenty left.
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No, this time, he finds himself almost laughing, almost too amused to feel anything but that, almost delighted — all such rare things to feel in the face of any of this. He never really... plays around with anyone. Is never played around with. As much as Little struggles to feel comfortable around others, others struggle to feel comfortable around him.
(Has he always been that way? Surely there was a time, once, when he knew how to enjoy the company of others. It's difficult to even find that man again now, after everything that has happened and so much time has passed, but sometimes he feels him there, just under his own skin. Never for long, just another shadow.)
It's easier to feel him here, now, around Wynonna. She's delighted by him, pleased by him; he's made someone smile and almost laugh too; she says she's proud and he knows she means it with amusement, knows the light-heartedness meant behind all of it all. Maybe it's all a fleeting thing, but he feels himself enjoy it. He can't remember the last time he enjoyed anything.
And even if what comes next is sobered, it's all right, and he thinks he's enjoying that, too. Again — the conversation, the insight, the chance to sit and talk to someone. He listens, head still turned to face her, and posture nothing compared to its normal resolute stiffness; by this point he's almost slouching a little, back into the sofa. It's easy to, with how comfortable it is, how pleasantly lulled the drink makes him feel. He folds his arms over his middle, loose and easy as he watches her.
The heir. The burdens she's alluded to having. The business with this Peacemaker of hers. He doesn't quite know exactly what the heir means for her, entails. He wants to know, doesn't know how to ask. It's less about offending some social norm, now, and more about not wanting to offend her. Just her. Some risk of souring the conversation, of touching upon something sore. He'd like for her to think nicely of him, not because it's what's expected but because he likes that he's made her delighted and he doesn't want to ruin that, doesn't want to hurt her feelings or upset her heart or make her uncomfortable and these are all thoughts melting into one another as he sits there and stares at Wynonna, eyes a little half-lidded, glossy. Attentive but relaxed — what a concept for him....!
When she reaches to poke him with that playful familiarity, his head lolls towards her a little, and his body stays relaxed, not tensing at all, no rippling waves of discomfort to be found at all. For a long moment, he just stares — absorbing what she'd said, slow and steady, and through it all realising that (once again, somehow,) Wynonna Earp has said the things that, perhaps unknowingly, he's been wanting to hear for a very long time. As though someone has gently dipped their hands right into the core of him and found what he most needs. Edward's almost awed of it, of her, watching her with a quiet but focused intensity, marveling to himself of it.
'So I'm guessing there's plenty left.'
Ah..... That touches him, and he feels his eyes become a little strange, a little heated, a little too wet. (And the drink.... does make it a bit worse in him; he's maybe prone to getting a bit weepy...) Little blinks, eyelashes fluttering for a moment, gives a soft exhale as though waking himself back up from the long moment of silent staring at the woman. ]
Thank you.
[ It's earnest as ever, even if the words come out feeling slower, heavier than normal. He's a little sleepy, he thinks, with the warmth of alcohol in his belly and the warmth of the nearby fire at his skin and the warmth of her very close to him. ]
That means a very great deal to me. It is often..... difficult, to see it, myself. I suppose it is easy for me to forget that I am... simply a person, as peculiar as that may be to say.
[ Now he does laugh, quietly; he feels a certain amusement as he sits and analyses himself. ]
I suppose if anyone would understand such a concept, it would be an heir. [ An inheritance of something..... she must carry even more burdens than he does, more burdens than most could ever know. Edward pauses for a beat or two, studying her, before he asks — but it's not severe and somber, not asked with a serious tone at all. It's with shining eyes and a spirited lilt of his voice, head tilted at her, thoughtful and playful in equal parts. ]
.......Are you royalty, Miss Earp?
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[ The alcohol is hitting her, a little; she's familiar with this particular kind of earnestness, the sort that feels like it's working under a timer. There's only so much time before she slips from 'pleasantly tipsy and willing to be honest' to 'forgot what the hell she said thirty seconds ago,' even though she's not here to get drunk — and isn't that kind of strange in itself? this might be the first night here where she hasn't wanted to drown everything in a haze of alcohol.
Just this seems like the perfect amount. It's warming her from the inside, a gentle, tingling buzz like sleepy bees trundling along her veins, and the fire is warming her from the outside, now burning low and steady and casting a gentle glow over the couch and the two of them that softens everything. It's not the first time she and Little have sat together in front of a fire, the darkness of a cabin closing quietly in around them, but that's about the only similarity this has to those hours spent hiding from the blizzard.
The firelight flickers over him, picking out the waves of his dark hair and lending some warmth to his skin and it's easier now to admit to herself that he's a handsome man, despite the tragic presence of those ridiculous muttonchops. She teases him and he lightens like someone struck a match, just about laughing, and she was absolutely not prepared for the way his eyes — already unfairly thickly lashed and deeply, warmly brown — crinkle a little at the corners. It's such a small thing but it changes so much about his face; turns those sad beagle eyes into something brighter, livelier. It's like flipping a switch — no, it's like one of those shades that goes snapping up when you tug the cord, leaving you blinking in a sudden wash of sunlight.
It's worse by far than when he turns those same eyes on her, looking deeply moved, almost like he's blinking back tears, and oh shit, oh no, she's not going to let this get weepy. She wants to see him laugh again. She wants to know what it might look like for him to really smile.
She's still thinking about it moments later, and... what was she saying? ]
Some people — [ her, for example, ] shit just happens to them. You know? They're born into it, fall into it, whatever. But you actually worked for it all. Someone saw you doing a good job and thought: 'yeah, that guy should be a Lieutenant.'
[ A beat. ] I don't know how the Navy works. But I bet they don't just go around handing out ranks to people who don't earn them, most of the time. So, you know. As far as being 'simply a person' goes... you could be a lot worse off. And it's not like you have to be a Lieutenant for people to like you, you know? You seem fine to me.
[ He's relaxed, slouched back on the couch, and she shifts to mirror him, still turned toward him. Leans her head against the back of the couch, her shoulder pressing into that soft material as she snuggles into the couch cushion. Shifting down like this means her hip and leg need to move; her knee slides forward, just nudging the seam of his trousers. She wonders if that sweater is as soft as it looks; gets distracted by the utterly unusual nature of what happens next: Little teasing her, very gently. He's almost laughing, again, and she's grinning, again, cheeks dimpled and eyes soft at the corners, the firelight turning their clear gray-blue to a warmer, gentler smoke. ]
Nope.
[ Elongated, lazy. Nnnnnnnnope. ]
Different kind of heir. Heir to a... different kind of thing. It's a long story... not a very happy one. I'll tell you some other time.
[ It feels good, to make that promise. She's told a few people here bits and pieces, but none of them know the whole story, and she wants to tell him the whole story, which is a thought that only a few weeks ago would have been laughable. Tell Edward Little, ambulatory greatcoat and general stick in the mud, about the curse, her part in it, what she's done, what she has to do?
But she no longer thinks he'll shun her, when he knows. Not after all of this, everything they've talked about tonight, everything he's shared and she's shared, truths brought slowly to light.
It's not because she thinks he'll react badly that she doesn't want to tell him. It's just that this has been maybe the nicest evening she's had since she got here, and the best reaction in the world from him wouldn't stop that story being a bucket of ice water getting dumped all over this pleasant moment. ]
This is... really nice. I don't want to ruin it. But I'll tell you later... promise.
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...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.
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That's what it feels like, anyway. He smiles and it lightens everything in the immediate radius like he's turned on a floodlamp. It changes everything about his face, all those deep, downward lines curve up; those sad beagle eyes of his disappear into merry half-moons of dark lashes and crinkled corners and she realizes for the first time (or maybe doesn't realize, she's known it without thinking anything about it) that he's still a young man. Everything he's been carrying around has made him seem older before his time, and she already hated everything she's ever heard about what they went through on the ice, but now she's taking it personally.
It's the first time — the only time — she's seen him without any sadness at all in his face. He smiles at her and a rapid wash of warmth floods her from head to toe, her chest gone tight and weird and her stomach clutching in confused knots. It's fine. She's absolutely fine. It's probably the alcohol. (It's not the alcohol.)
She's been sitting here wondering what a smile — a real smile, unfiltered and unhindered — would look like on his face, and now he has smiled at her, is still smiling at her, wide and warm and too brilliant to look at directly, but she can't look away. The jolt it gives her is too abrupt to be called pleasant. It's like she just walked face first into a wall.
Meanwhile, he's sitting there, wholly relaxed, head loose against the back of the couch just like hers is, and somewhere along the line they both started speaking in quieter voices, like there's someone else in the house they don't want to wake up. He's drowsy, his eyes a little hazy in a way that means he's drunk or falling asleep or both, and everything about him right now from his mussed hair to his eyes to his voice to that sweater is softer, gentler than she has any experience with, when it comes to men. And even half-asleep, he says those words, looking at her like though the prospect of hearing her stupid, terrible life story is the best thing she could possibly have offered him. There's no sarcasm in what he says; he means it. It flusters her all over again, leaves her confused and tongue-tied. ]
Yeah, well, don't get too excited. That drink's gonna need another story.
[ That's not right. Either this bourbon is hitting her harder than usual — possible — or she's more tired than she thought. Which is likely, with the fire burning low and both of them now relaxed against the back of the couch, looking at each other from a distance of probably less than a foot.
She's already forgotten her mistake, too focused on the way his smile fades down into something no less warm and pleased but a great deal less spectacular. He blinks slowly at her, like a cat, and his chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths as the fire burns down to glowing coals, casting the room into warm darkness once again.
Wynonna doesn't know when her own eyes closed, when she went from being sleepy to being asleep. There's no awareness of it at all until gravity asserts itself and her head drops from the couch back with a jarring motion that's just enough to make her want to seek out a more comfortable position. She finds it a moment later, all but unconsciously curling her legs up onto the couch and shifting to settle her head against the warm, comfortable bulk of his shoulder.
She'd never have done it if she were awake enough to think, but she isn't awake enough to think, she's only just awake enough to know that he's there and solid, steady, that her head fits neatly into the curve of his shoulder as her arm presses against his.
All of it in less than a moment, and she's gone again, safely tucked at his side while she drifts back down into a dreamless slumber. ]