I had a dream about a burning house

[pacificator]

Who: Wynonna Earp & others
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!

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(Edward Little) – trying to take what's lost & broke & make it right

[pacificator]

[ It's a long process, even once she understands what's happening... mostly. As well as she can. But with every kind word from people who don't owe her anything, with every gesture of friendship, with every cup of tea she has with Thomas Jopson and every expression of thanks from Goodsir when she chops wood for him, the shadow retreats. And then, one day, she wakes up to find it's gone entirely, and the sun is back in the sky, and she can think again, feel again.

Which is great, until she's up and making coffee for herself, stoking the fire in her wood stove, and a thought hits her out of nowhere, leaving her wincing at herself and the memory of storming at Little, of slamming the door behind her as she left in a high temper and a swirl of black emotions. It's the fire she's building that sparks some realization, and as it does – as she remembers how listless he'd been, how cold the cabin with a fire gone black and quiet, how he couldn't even look at her — she smacks herself in the forehead. ]

Oh, you unbelievable asshole. He had one, too.

[ The rest of the day feels very like those two hours August Hamilton had given her – tick-tock, tick-tock – as she heads into town, making a beeline for Louis and his collection of foodstuffs and beverages. She'd fucked up big time – something she's used to, the usual state of affairs for Wynonna Earp – but apologizing, asking for forgiveness... none of it is anything she's good at. Better to go straight for bribery, a little something to soften him up. She's been drinking the pine shine for herself, and it's terrible, and she's been almost desperate for something else, something better, but she doesn't touch the bottle she manages to collect once she's jumped through all Louis' hoops. Which takes her hours, because he's got about a million tasks that need doing, but she does them. And then she grabs that bottle by the neck and hits the path that leads her to the outskirts and his cabin. Again.

Finding herself standing here just like she had before and she's nervous. One hand wrapped around the neck of the glass bottle, the other lifted, hesitating, before she knocks. She's got no idea if he's home, if he's shaken off what Jopson called her melancholy or if he still needs the help she'd neglected to realize he needed before, when she was blinded by her own fears. Her history rising to bite her in the ass, and even now, with the shadow gone and her mind clear, it takes everything she's got not to just flee from this porch when she hears floorboards creaking inside.

Her stomach is tight and knotted with nerves; she should have thought of something to say. Too late now. ]

post That Incident (usual march and wynonna cw of alcohol)

[questioningmermaids]

[ It's not that he's got feelings or anything. It all just circles back to what he's notoriously bad at despite his detective inclinations: follow through.

What's wrong with trying to do a little more? What's wrong with self improvement? There's a big boom about that shit in LA, bunch of hippies from a few years ago really bringing it to the forefront. Finish what you started, right? He can do that. He's currently doing that.

So, yeah. Maybe March thinks about how Wynonna went out of her way to wake him up when they passed out on the living room floor. Maybe he can't get how surprisingly gentle that first kiss was out of his head, how she gripped the chain around his neck when the memory surfaces through the tar like fog that is getting too fucked up. And maybe he meant it when he said Wynonna was the best thing in this village.

But it's not feelings.

March shifts up to her place, bright jacket on, rose tinted aviators on too--it may have been a full day between them but March's hangovers last a solid two days, the perils of being 30-something now--and knocks. Just routine. Nothing crazy. Just saying hi, returning an item. It's whatever. This is whatever.

God, he needs a cigarette. ]