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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Thankfully for March, Hickey's in and Billy's out at the moment. Hickey's sure that Billy would like March (everybody likes March! The man's one of the few people here who know how to have a good time!) but even Hickey can admit that the two of them together have a high chance of getting a bit sloppy.

Case in point. The moment he spots moonshine, Hickey's expression breaks into a wide grin.

"Mate, you're speaking my language. Want any food to go with that or is it a drinks on an empty stomach sort of night?"

It likely says something just how little of a reaction Bigby has to March just entering like this, knock or no knock. Bigby was sitting on the couch, probably attempting to nap judging by how he looks just a little bit dazed, blinking blearily at the other man as he tries to process the whirlwind of colour and energy suddenly entering his general proximity.

It's just how the other is. Bigby is used to it at this point. If this were to still surprise him at this point, then he truly wouldn't know Holland March. And-- if Bigby is entirely honest with himself, he prefers seeing the man this way over how he had spotted March looking during the town meeting, so weirdly quiet. It brings some energy into Bigby's life.

(It's very much like the same reason - or part of it - that he allowed Collin to hang around back home, no matter how different that pig is compared to March.)

Either way, it's also very telling he doesn't tell March to get out, or even to attempt to be a little less present. Bigby's just accepting it.

"Sure," he says, also sounding like he's trying to kick his brain back into gear from half-sleep. It doesn't take much, considering Bigby never sleeps deeply in the first place. "What horror are we talking?"

"Women."

Is that deeply sexist and not a good way to start a conversation? Probably. But March is both product of his times and a little bit of an asshole.

A lot of an asshole. He's already starting to poke around the other's house, lifting up an errant magazine or book as if he's looking for something.

"Hey, you got any cigarettes? My carton ran out a week ago, I think I'm going to die."

"I don't know. You got chilli cheese fries?" March asks it knowing full well that Hickey may not even know what chilli cheese fries are. He's not even sure Hickey knows the true heaven that is In-and-Out, either.

Poor guy. First he's victorian, then he's on a boat getting lost in the arctic, and now March realizes he doesn't even know about animal style. The blonde lifts his face to the heavens in a silent, quick and little prayer, just for Hickey. It's rough out there.

Right. That's a no on food and he has to focus. March puts his hands on his hips, turns his whole torso towards Hickey in a bit of a power stance.

"We're friends, right?"

[ He has a bit of his groove back, which his great. Downside is that there's more darkwalker deaths. Not great. But there's one thing that has changed about Holland March since the last couple of months: he's actually motivated.

March scours the board, attends the town meeting, but in general is a bit quiet. He catches the note that mentions La'an, and it doesn't take him too long to suss out who it's from. Sure, he could just drop his address, but where's the fun in that? ]

Hey.

[ He catches Kirk in the community hall. Unfortunately for March, he doesn't have a cigarette so he can default to his usual Detective Stance. He does, however, lean on the wall and wait for Kirk to pass by before saying anything. Just to look a little cool. Even if he's dressed like a lunatic. ]

JT?

He definitely has his groove back.

It's kind of nice, not feeling like a complete sack of shit, or at least burying that part inside again. It feels great being back on his game. He feels more like himself with Wynonna, or maybe it's because it's Wynonna reminds him of home and Bigby's all but shaken his bullshit out of his body earlier. Whatever it is that's got him pretty happy certainly it isn't the dark, dank halls and the shitty flashlight he's got. It's miserable here. Cold even without wind. Drafts.

March is almost certain the place might have some kind of demon in it. Maybe the Darkwalker lurks in the mines like an old Scooby-Doo cartoon.

"How do you think they did it?" He asks out of nowhere, walking a little ahead of Wynonna.

[ He's not great. The situation decidedly not pleasant, either, but March is here. He's back. He survived. His whole body hurts, too, but that just might be that he's old and needs a bed like a normal, sane person. He's tired.

He's already making a beeline for his house. There's booze in there, and damned if he doesn't need a stiff drink. What he's surprised to find is someone else hovering around. The kid. Tim. ]

Thirsty?

[ He's not stopping regardless of the answer. Might as well invite Tim in for a glass. ]

This is how it always starts, with a knock on the door and March feeling maybe a little anxious because he can't tamp his emotions down with cigarettes and booze like he can back home. He's always going to feel wildly uncomfortable in his own skin, but it's easier not to care when he has company that feels the same way.

Besides. Wynonna's funny. And about a million other things, so: knock knock. Again. This time he just sort of opens it, though.

"I figured we could share a cabin." It's gorgeous over here, if he's being honest. Milton seems like a shitshow compared to the ritzy resort.

[ There's a knock on the door, and it's not a heavy thud of a cop knock (or Healy), nor is it the tip-tap of anyone else he knows. Not that he has knocks memorized.

He does. A little bit. That's not the point. The point is that there's a knock on the door. Weird, considering he's normally the one that seeks people out. The hesitation is more confusion than anything. ]

...Yeah?

[ Door's unlocked. Come on in, stranger. March is at the kitchen table, a glass of pinewine on top and also a very battered novel from the library in his hands. He'd been surprisingly enthralled. ]

[Tim is scruffy. But he's not here to raid March's stash ^{(see what he did there?)} of aftershave and Pine-Sol masquerading as cologne. The day is slipping away fast, the starless night is increasingly uninviting. And Tim's stopped mid shuffle-jog by the sorry sight of Holland March.]

What'cha got on tap?

[He thinks, heart leaping into his throat, oh my god he's alive.

And as is his habit, he's there in a second. At the man's heels, eyes scanning here and there for danger inside the cabin. March himself seems...

Well.

Alive.

And to Tim, that's-- a lot. Rejuvenated, he offers (without being asked),] Over or Under three more months before someone makes a Fight Club here, officially? There's barely any free weights at the Rec. And you know nobody is actually going to go all-in on Jury Duty the next time a punch to the face is due.

What the fuck is a chilli cheese fries. Is that a food? It sounds like a food. Fuck, he'd enjoy a fried anything right about now.

His dreams of fried food are dashed as March asks him the question. He gestures for March to follow him inside. However they talk, they can talk while sitting on the couch.

"Course we're friends," said like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "What, don't tell me you thought otherwise?"

Please tell him that March didn't think otherwise, please let March think that they're friends as well, Christ how he hopes that the two of them are on the same page here.

Someone punched a dude?

[ He's kind of about this. Tim's a weird, freaky little man who seems like he'd be right at home with Alice Cooper, but he's alright. And mostly he lets March do whatever the hell he wants without doing that weird frowny thing some people do when they're clearly judging you. ]

What'd I miss?

[ Come on in, Tim. ]

"Yeah, but I don't know, you guys are weird. I feel like I need to court you guys every time I say hi. Hide my delicate ankles."

He's just gonna plop riiiiight on down and put his feet up.

"I may have a problem. A foxy one. If you're into that sort of thing."

"How do I think they did what?"

They've split off a little from the main group, which suits her fine. Hickey didn't come on this little excursion, which means Little doesn't need her for backup with Kate anymore, and that's great, because she needs a fucking break. They're doing their thing, a little unit of two, and she's here wandering around with March, who is exactly the level of bullshit she feels like she can put up with right now, while they're all underground and trying to get out before this long night ends. "Build the mine?"

Wynonna kicks at an old, empty fuse box that's lying broken on the damp stone floor and shrugs, thumbs in her back pockets. "The way anyone does: digging and dynamite."

"Finished the last of 'em at the town meeting," is Bigby's simple reply.

And indeed, March will find it's not just the other lying to him to not have to share any cigarettes. Any container the other might find while poking around is completely empty, and there isn't even anything else interesting to be found..

.. other than the copious amount of animal bones. They're scattered absolutely everywhere, completely picked clean. Underneath a magazine, between some mugs, underneath a couch cushion, just about anywhere you can think to look you might find animal bones.

Sorry, March, this is apparently what happens when you snoop around a wolf's home.

".. why women, though? Are you telling me you got yourself a girl here?"

[He's inside, stop nagging. Tim takes the lead to shut the door behind him; March can make himself useful with other things, like peeling off the layers of adventure that he's got weighing on his scrawny shoulders.

Tim rolls his eyes, distracts himself with poking at the wood stove and fiddling around it. He can start the fire-- March shouldn't have to worry about--

Tim tells himself to be a little less pitiful]

I don't know. Probably. What did I miss?

[but he can't help it that it feels like home. A Drake's home. Cold, dim, stilted and awkward and moseying through the minefields of years unknown.]

Did you bring back a souvenir?

She hasn't made it over to the door to answer it before it opens and March swings in, all lanky self-assurance and five o'clock shadow and eye-wateringly bright clothing. Wynonna had looked up from the cabinets of the swanky cabin's even swankier kitchen when the knock came; as March lets himself in, she goes back to snooping around. "Why, because you wanna stay up all night and braid each other's hair?"

There's no heat to it, though. The place is plenty big enough for them both; it's got two full suites and a pull-out couch. One glass-paneled wall faces the lake; she'd drawn aside the blinds and the first haze of the Aurora is just starting to tint the sky green and blue. She feels weird, like she's back in the mines, like something's dragging her down, so maybe it'll be good to have company. At least she can relax and be herself around March; he doesn't have any expectations of her to be better than she is. He gets her. She gets him. They may as well hang out while they're down here.

Besides, this cabin's too big for just her. "If you're gonna stick around, make yourself useful. See what you can find."

[ Something's happening. He doesn't know what, but something's different — another thing. The gnawing him hunger was one thing, and Kieren's still not sure if it's a step backwards into his untreated state. But then there's this and he doesn't know it's a step forward into something else because it's certainly not back. This place is doing something to him, and it's a mixture of both terror and wonder all in one.

Kieren's a flurry when he steps inside, the Aurora loud behind him. Beside himself. Like he doesn't know what to do with himself and all he can do is just shut the door behind him and then hover. Like, how does he even begin to start with it?

And March's just... sitting at the table with that godawful pinewine of his (and Kieren's stomach does a reflexive churn at the memory of drinking it) with a... novel? Kieren blinks, momentarily stunned by the sight. ]

... Is it weird I didn't expect you to be reading a novel? I mean— ever?

"Poor saps." This is March's own personal hell, trapped in a place with no sun or stars. Just when he's getting used to the lack of sodium streetlights, he's got to head back into a mine like he's about to go prospecting for gold. He misses the city.

But Wynonna's here, and he's kind of in the mood to explore, so it's not all bad. Could do without the crisp dankness of the place. Everything is clammy, and he thinks he hears rushing water somewhere, so he hangs a left to go towards it. A curious hunch.

"You think any of this equipment'll actually work? There's wires and shit."

She shrugs, meandering left as he does, following a little behind and to the left of him and keeping an eye out for rusty nails or rebar. She can't remember the last time she got a tetanus shot. "As well as anything does when the sky goes all disco, maybe."

Which is to say: kinda? Even when shit turns on during the Aurora, it never seems to work quite like it should. "But I'm pretty sure they can zap us either way, so I wouldn't try touching them. Getting superpowers from live wires only happens in the movies."

Also, no one needs March getting superpowers. Nightmare material.

[ Being a fairly recent arrival, he doesn't expect a lot of people to recognize him. Not aside from the few people he's reached out to himself, or the couple he's met through casual conversation, he figures he's largely unknown around here for now.

So being addressed directly is enough to get his attention. Especially as the guy uses the initials he remembers leaving on the message board. (And yeah, that jacket sure is a choice.) ]

That's me. [ He turns to him, nodding. ] And you?

"Oi, fuck you," Hickey laughs. "That's Goodsir and Little who's delicate sensibilities you need to mind, not me."

And don't mind Hickey as he plops right down as well, looking over at March with a quizzical expression. He...has no idea what the man means by a foxy problem but hell, he'll figure it out. Hickey's gotten better at trapping and skinning animals anyway.

"So yeah. What's your problem?"

Edited 2024-03-14 15:38 (UTC)

Postcard for you. 'Welcome to Lakeside: wish you were here to traverse through mines and nearly kill yourself.'

[ This feels normal. It's weird that it feels normal, but it's also kind of nice. And jesus christ, shuffling off his jacket and flannel despite the fact that it's still freezing in here feels almost as good as a glass of scotch right now.

He absolutely lets out a Dad Noise, grunting as he sits down and leans back, eyes half-closed for a second before he cracks one eye open. Something's up. ]

What are you doing?

"You know I can braid hair, right?" March asks in a stubborn tone, only sending a cursory glance at Wynonna before looking around. There's a fire place, which is great, but it's lacking firewood.

March's solution to help is to casually toss a little, tiny wooden stool into the fireplace with a very satisfying crack-thunk. His grin is of a shit eating caliber, approaching the fire place with the new broken stool as firewood and kneeling down with what can only be described as swagger.

Problem solved. They'll get more wood later, for now he just wants to be warm.

"You can just say you want me to. I'll do it."

Got tired of the Starsky and Hutch reruns.

[ That's a joke on two levels: one, with a gesture from his hand containing the book to the television that doesn't work. Two, March getting sick of Starsky and Hutch is nigh impossible. ]

You can get your 'I didn't know you can read' jokes out if you want. S'okay.

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closed; long cool woman

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Kirk;

Wynonna ➤ mines (event)

Tim ➤ Echo (Event)

Wynonna ➤ echo (event)

kieren ➤ echo

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