singillatim | closed; long cool woman

Entry tags:

closed; long cool woman

Who: Holland March + Cornelius Hickey and then also March + Bigby
What: A little CR, a lot of gossip
When: Early March
Where: Various cabins

Content Warnings: The usual alcoholism tw for March, most likely weird shit from Hickey, will update as needed

➤ Bigby

This place is utterly fucked. Irrevocably. Bigby's town meeting really drove that home--March had been there, quiet in the background and keeping his mouth shut. Maybe they're not all starving like he's predicted but there's a terrifying monster that can't be stopped--and yeah, monsters, they exist, he's still kind of grappling with that, too, even if it's been a while.

Bigby's technically a monster. That's certainly a sentence that March has thought and turned around over and over in his mind for the past few months, too. Difference: Bigby isn't going to claw him to death for no reason. Maybe he will now, though, because March is starting to feel it. That dig. That itch. Maybe it's the Darkwalker appearing again that's subconsciously kickstarting it. Maybe it's because he's running away from complicated feelings around someone who's name starts with a W.

Regardless of the reason, it definitely seems like Holland March has his groove back.

He notices something's off with Bigby in the community hall before all of this with a pretty, power suited new arrival. With the new arrival, at least for the broad shouldered wolfman. Subtle, but there, and March has to give Bigby credit for hiding it extremely well, but March knows him better than he'd like. The blond grins through the toothpick he's been chewing at in a feeble attempt to curb his nicotine cravings when he notices the two together, waits until he's fairly certain Bigby's alone in his cabin to knock on the door.

And he does knock, to his credit. He's also immediately opening it and making himself at home, rose tinted aviators fogging up as he transitions from hot to cold, stomping his boots on the porch like he's born and raised in the midwest despite never seeing a flyover state in his life.

"You wanna talk horrors?"

That's a non-answer, Bigby. Of course you do. March closes the door behind him and starts shoving his obnoxiously coloured ski jacket off. He's practically vibrating.

Yeah. March definitely has his groove back.

➤ Hickey

Even March knows he can't avoid it for very long. Eventually, he's got to talk about it. He's like a carbonated soda that's been shaken like crazy, it's kind of embarrassing. But it's not like he can goes straight to the source and hash it out and all that.

When he finally decides to do something about it he makes a list of people that give him the time of day. It's a surprisingly short list (he tries not to think about that) and he spends a solid 20 minutes going through it over and over, his little detective notebook worn out but still kicking:

Maybe:
~~-Healy~~ not here
~~-Fraser~~ square
~~-Bigby~~ will actually give advice
~~-Tim (?)~~ 12 years old
~~-Kieren~~ Also 12 years old
~~-Wynonna~~ NO!!!
~~-Goodsir (?)~~ too victorian
~~-Lanfear~~ complicated
-Hickey

Hickey should have the same problem as Goodsir, which is mainly that they're all so Victorian their idea of a fun recreational activity is some lady singing opera at them for four hours in a musty theatre, except Hickey's different. Hickey likes to party. So March brings half a bottle of moonshine--he already drank half of it the day before, whoops--and heads over to where he knows Hickey is.

It's not like anything crazy or dramatic has happened to the boat boys in the past few days, after all. That would be ridiculous.

Knock, knock, pal.

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March is over the moon. The Aurora's fear and loneliness has been almost completely short circuited thanks to March's sheer force of will. It's rare he has a win, however simple. Even rarer now that he's in Canada. His ego needs this desperately.

But wait--that does mean Wynonna can't touch him, and he can't reach out and tuck that strand of hair that's not really but a little bit in front of her face. He doesn't understand how Wynonna has perfect hair in this shithole, but it always looks good.

Wynonna just looks good in general. It's the leather jacket, maybe. No--it's her face shape, how it fits perfectly with the curve of her neck, how her brow furrows and it's the cutest thing he thinks he's ever seen, even when she's annoyed. Especially when she's annoyed.

March's proud grin fades slowly, and when it dissipates altogether he's looking around the room. The nice, rich, vacation-style getaway spot that they can't use.

"Shit."

He turns to look at Wynonna again, jerks a thumb at the wall behind him as a way to gesture to the area.

"This has to be on purpose just to fuck with us. This is our own personal hell."

"Whatever. It's not like I wanted to touch you, anyway," she says, desperately wanting to touch him now that she can't. It's not that his hands-on-hips-well-what-have-we-here posture is so irresistible, but, okay, he'd flashed that grin and it lit up his whole slightly scruffy face and she's not immune to bright blue eyes and softly rumpled hair that's just begging her to put her hands in it.

Also, if she has to spend one more evening with a guy where all they do is talk, she's going to lose her mind. This place is the worst.

And however bored or casual she tries to make her words, she can feel it, cracked open across her face. That maybe she kind of did want to see what might happen now that March has sauntered his way into this cabin and lit a fire, and not just because the Aurora is clawing at her, filling her chest and her head with claustrophobic memories of all the times she's let everyone down. That maybe she would, given the opportunity, step closer to fix the way his lapel is bent all wrong. And then stay there, only a few inches away.

He didn't even bring an obviously not hers hair tie, this time. She's not used to people showing up just to be around her. "I am so fucking sick of the fucking Auroras."

"I'm sick of Canada," March says, agreeing emphatically. This place sucks. The aurora sucks. He feels like he's about to have a child like temper tantrum just because he can't actually kiss the one person he's wanted to for what feels like years.

Of course she looks fantastic now. And March swears she's mildly disappointed, which--

--No. Yeah, no. Yeah. That's definitely right, he recognize it by now. He stares at her long enough when she's not looking, and it's not creepy, they drink together, so. It's fine.

He sinks into a rocking chair with what can only be described as a Dad Grunt.

"When I get home I'm never leaving Los Angeles. You know what I can do in Los Angeles? Watch Starsky and Hutch. Not be fucked by winter." He pauses, gaze lingering on Wynonna.

"Touch people."

That lingering look from blue eyes of his could almost be a touch, with the way she can feel it. She lounges back against the couch and he's slouched in that rocking chair and there's maybe five, six feet of air between them, and she could swear there's another live wire just like the one that almost killed him crackling nearby.

For having plenty of space between them, it sure doesn't seem like enough. Not even as it's more than she wishes were there. "Of course you'd be into Starsky and Hutch."

Looks like conversation is the best they're going to be able to do. And the thing is, she doesn't even mind that; she likes talking to March. She just thinks all this would be better, more sincere and less edged with frustration, spoken drowsily across a shared pillow. "You always want to be a detective?"

"Oh, I don't know." He does know, and as he sighs he sinks a little bit lower, bending his spine just a little to sink down.

"Yeah. I guess. Joined the force for a bit."

He can't touch Wynonna--he's more than a little annoyed about that--but they can talk. It's something. His foot moves to the part of the couch he manages to reach as he slumps and he pushes off against it, rocking himself like that. There isn't even any booze they can angrily slosh around, either. This is hell.

He sets a foot against the couch and she casually, idly stretches out one leg along the cushions, leaving a couple inches between his foot and hers. Who knows if they'd feel the pain through socks and boots... she's not risking it, but it still feels a little like holding her palm over an open flame. Seeing how much of it she can take before she has to pull away.

Not being able to touch him is a constant ache, an itch under her skin. She wishes desperately for something to drink. "Lawman," she observes, not without some irony to her tone.

Even here, she can't escape them, seems like. "Wouldn't have pegged you for a uniform."

Does Wynonna know just how nice her legs look like that? Is she aware that March is watching like a hawk, painfully sober and painfully full of a strange sort of longing he can't quite place.

He's being vulnerable with her, and he doesn't even realize it. Later on, when he's alone, when they part ways, March will retroactively decide that this is one of the more terrifying moments of his life in the Northwest Territories.

"Yeah, well, private suits me better," he says, and there's a bitterness in his tone. He's not mad at all. Really, he isn't. Not a single bit.

He leans forward.

"They say it was the no-fault divorce clause that really screwed the pooch, but I'm not an idiot. I got caught--I'm the one that got caught, easy to pin on the beat cop, y'know?"

He's not bitter, except he totally is, even if he's not entirely sure Wynonna is following. There's just something about her that makes him unable to shut the fuck up.

The chair he's in creaks as he shifts his weight, leaning forward like it isn't the most dangerous thing either of them have done in weeks. She's not a snapping, sparking live wire that can kill him with a touch, but she feels like she is, knowing that if he comes a few inches closer he'll be shoved back again by the power of the goddamn Aurora somehow coursing over her skin and his.

But it's not just that. She's a rusted-out bear trap; if he reaches out and touches her the way he wants to, the way she wants him to, she can't promise he'll get his hand back. She can't promise it wouldn't hurt, even without the Aurora fucking with them. She's failed so many people in just twenty-seven short years; why wouldn't he get added to the list?

She doesn't want that. His voice is all bitterness and his eyes are too blue and honest with her right now, and she doesn't want to see them get closed off, doesn't want that bitterness aimed her way. "I've got no fucking idea, Holland."

But she says it still meeting his eyes with her own steady, waiting. The last time they got like this, they both had about a gallon of moonshine running through their veins. Now there's nothing but the fire nearby and their own proximity, the empty space between them an unanswered question.

Outside, the sky is lightening. She doesn't notice; his eyes are too blue.

"It is what it is," March agrees, and if he's being honest, it's probably for the best he got caught planting evidence. It got him to Healy. He's got a partner now, back home, a big burly guy with a little jerry curl, a gruff exterior, and the warmest heart March thinks he's ever seen in his life. He misses the guy. Misses Holly.

He thinks if he ever goes home, if he ever has a chance to go back, he'll miss Wynonna in the same way.

"Hey. I've been meaning to ask you somethin'." March's voice is surprisingly soft, easy. There's no quips, no japes, just an honest question. He's been mulling it over since she put it on the table in the community hall when they first were getting to know each other.

"That gun you carry around's special, isn't it?"

She could lie, she could distract him, but what's the point? It's not a secret, even if she's only given a handful of people here bits and pieces of the story. She'd told Little it's the only thing that came with me that I care about... it's the only important thing I have and all that is still true. "Yeah."

Wynonna's glance falls away from him for a moment, but not to hide; she's thinking things over, wondering where to start. What to tell him. March has been pretty cool so far, but even March might start running scared if she starts talking about demons and curses. After a second, she flicks a look back at him, and a little more of her devil-may-care attitude and swagger falls away.

"You ever hear of Wyatt Earp? Gunslinger... shootout at the O.K. Corral? Any of that ring a bell?"

It’s only because March spends so much time staring at Wynonna that he notices it, the little shift, the micro expressions, that rise and fall from that perfect face, the cute as hell slope of her nose.

This is Serious. Okay. March can be serious. He can do it for Wynonna.

“Sure, a little. Spaghetti westerns used to be pretty big.”

"He was my great-great grandaddy." March has this way of watching her, sometimes, like she's a puzzle to be solved. Like she's a torn ticket stub, an empty matchbook, a half-written note; some pile of evidence he's trying to piece together into an answer.

She slides her glance at the gun, then meets his again. How the hell people could think he doesn't pay attention when he wants to, she doesn't know; maybe they never noticed the way he looks at things. People. "That's his gun."

And more, but she leaves it there for the moment, waiting to see if he'll take that answer as it is or keep digging around for the truth.

Here's the problem: it's a balance. You have to ask the right questions to get what you want but not too many, or the other person will withdraw. What'll cause them to shut down depends on a lot of factors, too. Personality. Mood. Past. It's a guessing game, a skill that March luckily has.

The issue is that he's biased as hell. Blindsided, more accurately, and he finds his hand unconsciously going to his shirt pocket before remembering that there aren't any cigarettes in there.

"It's a nice heirloom," he says eventually, settling his hands on the arms of the rocking chair instead like an 80 year old man. He chances the next question, hoping that it doesn't make her shirk into herself, doesn't make her pivot into something else--a joke, a sarcastic remark, annoyance, whatever. March is curious, now. That means he can't let it go.

"How's the weight of it?" Physically, sure. Mentally is more what he means, if his look is to go by.

Her poker face will never be as good as Doc's for one simple reason: she can't, has never been able to, control the tiny shifts of her expression. Her lips press minutely together, her lashes flutter in a few quick blinks; the muscle running along the side of her neck tightens. All of it miniscule; all of it clear as day to read for anyone who might have the knack of it. Gone is the gunslinger's unreadable gaze, clear and unyielding. Her glances drops, flicks back up, shifts over to where Peacemaker hangs in its holster, the gunbelt slung over the back of a chair. "Heavy as shit."

Not the actual weight, although it is that, too. Peacemaker's a big gun, and she'd had to spend days just getting used to the feel of it in her hand, extending her reach another gleaming metallic foot. When she looks back at him, it's like the last vestiges of all her bullshit and walls have fallen away, and it's just her: twenty-seven years old, trying to fix a problem that has nothing to do with her.

And failing. "Do you believe in curses?"

Does he?

March has to genuinely think about it. There's no need to hide it, either--seems disingenuous to do shit like play mind games or be the posture police with himself. Not when they're like this. Not when this seems relatively difficult for Wynonna to talk about and sure, there's that detective scratch, that PI scent of a fresh case and a good mystery, but it's more than that. March just wants to know. It's important to Wynonna, so that means it's important to him, somehow.

But he's not getting attached. And the question Wynonna asks is as loaded as both of their weapons.

"Sometimes," he says truthfully. If his hands didn't just go to his front pocket he would be touching at the chain around his neck.

The soft sound of the fire crackling, of wood breaking into ash, is the only sound in the room as he considers her question. She gives him the time to think about it; they're not in a rush. "Well, there's at least one that's real. And it's got everything to do with that gun and my last name."

She's been keeping all this to herself for so long, and it's exhausting. It's too much. She'd promised to tell Little the story, and maybe that would have helped, but it's been weeks since that night and he's made it clear he has no interest in hearing it or anything else from her.

But the prospect of explaining demons and revenants and telling someone else about Willa, about Daddy, is too much to consider without something to drink, and she pushes herself up and off the couch in a languid, feline motion before she heads past him toward the kitchen. "Hang on," she says, dropping her hand to thoughtlessly pat his shoulder as she passes.

It takes her another three steps to realize: it didn't hurt.

Bigby's the Big Bad Wolf. Kirk is from space. Kieren's a zombie. If March thinks about anything like that for too long his head starts to hurt--he may be a little chaotic but he still likes things to make sense--but the way Wynonna says it, the confident casualness that comes with it, from her-- for some reason March has an easier time believing it.

At the very least he's not as annoyed. Finds himself leaning into that tiny pat a little, even, because it's nice that he and Wynonna are so casual. Besides. He wants to know. Wynonna has a body curious, and--

--wait.

"Did you just...?"

She's half-turned, looking at him, her mind spinning and empty of any thought except that didn't hurt.

She touched him and it didn't hurt.

Wynonna ignores his half-formed question, turns on her heel to march back to him, in front of him, glaring down with her brow furrowed and her jaw tight. She reaches down, fists her hand in his shirt, and pulls, hauling him up as the rocking chair rocks wildly beneath him. "Get up."

She feels like a balloon someone's filling with too much helium; she feels like she's going to explode if she doesn't do this: drag March's lanky six-foot frame to his feet and then tug him right down again as she pushes up to crash her mouth against his in a kiss that's almost as hard as the punch she threw at him on the way here.

"Wh--" He doesn't even get an entire syllable out. Wynonna has a habit of cutting him off via incredibly strong grabs despite her weight--maybe she does have supernatural powers--and this time March isn't complaining. He nearly loses his balance completely thanks to the fact that the rocking chair kind of sucks, and he's honestly never been manhandled in this fashion by a woman before sober, but, well, shit. That sure is a kiss.

March opens his mouth not to quip but instead to kiss back. Wynonna's rough and needy and March is, too, but damned if he doesn't slow it down just a little bit. Just to enjoy this. The brunette's lips are soft and March runs his hands down her sides, down her hips and decides to throw caution to the wind.

Take two: still kissing her, he's lifting her from the ground. He'd already clocked the entire layout, the bedroom isn't hard to find. Wynonna packs a punch but she's lightweight enough that it's easy for him to start moving, one hand supporting her back, the other holding her steady as he moves.

Finally, he thinks, things might not be so bad after all.

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closed; long cool woman

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