Holland March (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
questioningmermaids) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-03-06 10:21 am
questioningmermaids) wrote in singillatim2024-03-06 10:21 am
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
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.
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.
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:
-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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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...?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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.