The sun took a tale to the moon in the west

[pacificator]

Who: Wynonna Earp & others
What: Various activities around recovering from a gunshot wound
When: April
Where: bumming around Lakeside

Content Warnings: general Wynonna alcoholism CWs, talk of traumatic injury, others as they come up

[ starters in comments, will be adding throughout the month. hmu @ repeatandfade or blueofthebay @ disco to plot! ]

Comments

may I introduce the state I'm in – closed to fidior & castitas; cw: blood

[pacificator]

[ People are starting to head back to Milton, now that the month is almost over. March is already gone, like his namesake, which is a pain: she could have used some help on her planned trip back to town. But there's no way around it; she's got to see Goodsir, get things taken care of. Hell, she hasn't even managed to change clothing since she dragged herself back to the cabin where she's been staying, but there's a silver lining, there. She's already dressed for a trek and ready to go... just as soon as she makes a last house call.

There's nothing wrong with her legs, but it's still tiring just walking to the end of the line of cabins to find the one Little and Kate have been staying in. She's mostly avoided it, but she knows which one it is, steps up on the porch to rap the knuckles of her left hand on the door before waiting for it to open.

Even a casual observer might notice something's off about the way Wynonna's holding herself today. Gone is her usual casual, confident slouch; faint tension runs like wire through her body. She stands stiffly, uncomfortable, and her coat hangs strangely on her right side, where she hasn't slipped her arm through that of the coat.

A sharper-eyed observer, one used to seeing her with Peacemaker at her hip, might notice that her gunbelt and holster are backwards, the revolver's ivory grip poking up at her left hip and in the wrong direction instead of her right.

Perhaps relatedly – and far more obviously than the rest – there's also a large hole in the loose-swinging right arm of her jacket, its edges and the fabric around it stiff and stained a dark rust with dried blood. Not her leather jacket, thank god: she'd been wearing a thicker winter coat for her hike southward with Ruby.

When the door opens, she lifts a small, plastic rectangle in her hand. ]

Hey. Delivery service.

[castitas]

Wynonna— [ Kate's the first one to get to the door. She's a little more at ease, a little more in brighter spirits when she answers. Her time in Lakeside's done her good — getting away from Milton and everything going on there. Just hanging out by the lake with Lieutenant Little. It's... honestly felt like a little vacation, time to... exist peacefully. Or as peacefully as one can in the Northern Territories. It's... been really nice. It kinda sucks that it has to end, soon.

Her gaze shifts to the tape in her hand, squinting slightly for a few seconds before she gasps in open, excited surprise: is that Gordon Lightfoot tape? ]

You found it—!

[ Somewhere here, someone else was a Gordon Lightfoot fan and has absolutely blessed her with the opportunity to listen to his music herself — and she's absolutely delighted. Kate reaches to take the tape from Wynonna, holding onto it like it's made out of gold.

No, she's not explained why she needed a tape. She's not explained how it may or may not have to do with a Certain Constable, one she feels absolutely terrible for from a recent interaction. And she's not explained how maybe if she listened to some more of Gordon Lightfoot's music she could maybe start trying to learn how to play said music.

For, you know, well— reasons.

Thanks is on the tip of her tongue, but Kate stops. The delight in her soon fades into visible confusion and concern as she takes Wynonna in properly: the stiff, rigid way she holds herself; the sleeve of her jacket, torn and stained and— ]

Hey, wait— [ ... Is that blood—? ] what happened?

[pacificator]

Said I would, didn't I?

[ Not exactly in so many words – she'd actually said something like 'why the hell do you want a Gordon Lightfoot tape?' – but one thing about the kind of people who come up to vacation in a place like this: they tend to be the 'getting back to nature' types who like this drivel. Just like Kate does, apparently.

She shifts as Kate looks her over, as that delight fades and confusion sets in. Wynonna half-turns, pushing her right shoulder back in a way that makes it all too obvious she's (badly) trying to hide it. Wynonna, please, your arm is right there. ]

I got a little shot.

[ A little, Kate! ]

It's fine, I just need to go find Goodsir. I was just dropping this off on my way back to town.

[castitas]

[ She's getting to something, surely. Maybe not 'back to nature', but maybe back to romance. Sometimes you might wanna... play some Gordon Lightfoot to your crush after a bit of a rough patch, okay?

Yeah, there's no hiding it. She's already seen it and Wynonna trying to hide it is not helping the horror that quickly sets in: I got a little shot. ]

What?! [ There is no getting a little shot, there is only actually getting shot. And that's especially bad, considering they're in the middle of nowhere with limited medical supplies. Kate gapes at her in disbelief — walk back to town—? ]

No way. You can't go walk back to Milton all by yourself like that—! [ Hiking back is gonna take hours, and it's over that awful railway bridge and through the mines. Kate shakes her head and she's moving out the door to start gently pulling Wynonna inside, calling out over shoulder: ]

Lieutenant Little—! [ Totally narc-ing on you, Wynonna. You're absolutely not leaving to go back alone. ] Lieutenant—! Wynonna's been shot—!

[fidior]

[ It has been nice here, though strange, too. Edward isn't used to taking some time to sit down, and he's still kept quite busy what with exploring Lakeside, gathering supplies, trying to help others there. The weeks pass quickly, and now it's been nearly a month since he left Milton. His concern for the people left back there doesn't leave him, and he spends much of his time stressed, worrying. Will he return to the news that someone else has been taken by the Darkwalker? Perhaps out here, he wouldn't feel the nightmarish lead-up to it. He's fretful, anxious to get back.

...But there's some quiet part of him that isn't anxious to get back, and it's a source of guilt in the man, something he tries to keep swallowed down deep inside of himself and not look too closely at. He doesn't quite know how to place any of his own feelings. Everything feels very strange.

But there are little moments he can... perhaps, if he were to put a word to it, enjoy himself. The cabin he and Kate have been staying in is more than he could have imagined, spacious and comfortable. He especially likes the view of the lake, and spends much of his time out on the large wrap-around porch, sitting in a rocking chair. At times he reads, but mostly he watches. Often he naps, and it's what he's doing now, dozing in a rare moment of true peace, stomach not so tight with worries. Occasionally, briefly, he can let himself rest. Kate is safe; he knows she's inside, and knows it's safe there.

Everything's still, silent. And so when suddenly it isn't anymore, he's able to hear the cry that comes through the large sliding glass door that leads to the back porch, his name (title; both are wound up in one another) called. Edward's eyes immediately open and he's getting up, quickly, rushing to pull open the glass and let himself back into the cabin. He's mildly groggy, ripped out of a nap so quickly, but alarm takes priority over everything as he takes in the sight of Kate urging in one Wynonna Earp. His eyes are immediately scanning her all over — he expects the worst, is the thing, he always does when it comes to the people he cares about, but it never makes the blow any easier when it comes. Not when he sees one arm of the woman's coat hanging strangely, loosely, and the blood caked into the fabric. ]

What happened.

[pacificator]

[ Kate isn't even touching her bad arm, and it still hurts like a motherfucker when the girl starts gently hauling her into the cabin. She's never gotten shot before; it sucks. It sucks balls. She has never before been so profoundly injured, muscles torn and bone bruised if not fractured; it's like she broke her arm and then also stabbed a knife through it, just for kicks.

Getting a little fussed over by Kate, therefore, doesn't sound like such a bad idea– except then Kate's gotta go and call over her shoulder and Wynonna lifts her hands in reflexive negation.

Well. Hand. The other one twitches and sends a wave of fresh pain through her arm that has her breaking out into a cold sweat. ]

No, no nonononono don't call– hey.

[ It gets dragged out – heyyyyyyyyyyy – in a pathetic attempt at innocence as Little comes rushing in, looking a little bleary and rumpled but alert all the same. Wynonna's welp, I'm screwed smile is big and bright as she backs toward the door. ]

Little. Uh, so, funny story– turns out those hippies south of here are muy aggressive, and they do not like visitors. Who knew, right?

[castitas]

[ Kate would say sorry, but she is absolutely not apologising for this. There's nothing to apologise for: Wynonna got shot and there's no way Kate's gonna let her go hike back to Milton in this state. So, like, naturally what needs to happen is she's gotta call for Lieutenant Little.

She's shutting the door behind them as she ushers Wynonna in, keeping a gentle hold on her as she tries backing up again when the Lieutenant comes in. Her brow pinches slightly; if there's anything she's sorry for it's disrupting the his chill out time.

There's a pause as Wynonna starts explaining things, her expression incredulous for a long moment: what. ]

The... Forest Talkers...? [ That's what she means by those hippies south of here, and Kate's balking slightly. ] You mean the same people that Young Bill said to, like, keep away from—?

[ Wynonna, why? ]

[fidior]

[ Alarm is a flood that's rushing in, a sweeping thing that too-often threatens to overwhelm him. It makes him feel numb, mostly, like someone else is working his body and he's just a passenger to it. And certainly he's no stranger to physical injury, but in the face of any amount of blood, he tends to buckle inwards these days, crumbling, stomach sick as a rush of thoughts comes pouring. Always, he expects the worst, and while Kate's call had stirred him from sleep, he hadn't quite caught onto the "shot" part of it just yet—

was Wynonna bitten by something, attacked, was it a person, are they still pursuing her now, is the danger over — no, it never is

She's backing away a little, and Edward moves closer in a split-second reaction that takes no thought, hand lifting but not touching, hovering there in his rising worry. But then come the words, and it has him freezing abruptly like he's hit a solid wall, eyebrows shooting upwards in stun. He'd been informed of the threat, assumed they'd all been. Assumed there was no chance any of them would actually end up down there. For Wynonna to have been in that proximity.... there must be a reason, and his frown tugs deeper, horror bleeding into his concern. ]

They— did this? They shot you. [ He can see now what it is, up closer, and his heart pumps blood too fast. Unfortunately for Wynonna, he's going to join Kate with the barrage of questions... ]

Why were you down there? Was someone else involved?

[ He knows her nature, knows a certain tendency not to hesitate when someone else's well-being is at risk. Perhaps she'd been helping someone else, and it's an immediate concern; do they need help, too?

But she certainly needs medical attention, immediately — and as he asks her the questions, he's reaching gently for her uninjured arm, fingers barely brushing the surface of her coat, not daring to actually take hold of her but trying to coax her forward with him into the cabin. He's quickly muttering a few words, mind spinning — 'Need to be sitting down— We'll have to find help—' ]

[pacificator]

Look, I didn't hear anything from Young Bill. All I heard was that they were unfriendly... I didn't realize "unfriendly" meant "shoot first ask questions never."

[ And now Little's fussing, too, which is... kind of nice, if also more than a little awkward, coaxing her further into the cabin while he and Kate both rain questions down on her. Her arm aches, a pain that continually refreshes itself with each move she makes, despite the over-the-counter painkillers she'd swallowed and her – admittedly shabby – attempt at bandaging it. Each time her loose jacket nudges against it, or it jolts even slightly with a small step, it hurts.

Help and sitting down both sound great, but the problem with sitting down is that she's not sure she'll manage to get back up again. Easier to just push through it, but how she's supposed to do that without a. worrying them further and b. fucking up her own arm even more, she has no idea. ]

Ruby and I were exploring the area. Looking to see what we could find, you know the drill.

[ It's one thing for her to get hurt, but Ruby– she might be used to it, but that doesn't make Wynonna feel any better. They wouldn't even have been checking out the Forest Talkers' area if she hadn't said anything about it. ]

We thought we'd just go check it out– I didn't think they'd shoot at us. But they tagged us both. Assholes.

[ Who shoots at a teenager? ]

She's okay – [ This seems important to let them know right off the bat. ] But she got hit in the leg, so she's gonna have to stay put for a bit.

[ Or... she could push through it. But Wynonna doesn't know that. ]

[castitas]

Considering how plenty in this world wants us dead, I'm pretty sure 'unfriendly' should definitely mean 'stay away' in this case. You could have ended up— [ There's a little break in her voice, it catches a little, and she can't quite finish what she means to say. Upset shifts into her face, brow furrowing and eyes a little glossy. Her mouth doesn't move but the words are there, hanging on in the air, softly desperation and frustration: 'What were you thinking?'

She doesn't keep going, startled with the mention of Ruby — her eyes widening at Wynonna. ]

What—?! Ruby got shot—?! [ Horror washes over her and she's looking back to the door. Ruby isn't here, and Kate bristles with anxiousness. Where is she? If she's not here with Wynonna then where is she?

She's "okay", according to Wynonna. But it doesn't help. It doesn't help to soothe the panic and horror in her. Not only did Wynonna got shot, but Ruby got shot.

Kate doesn't get it. Why did they go that way? Why would Wynonna and Ruby go that way, towards unfriendly people. Her breaths are shallow for a moment and she steps back a little. ]

There's no way you're gonna manage getting back to Milton. [ What're they gonna do? Kate swallows thickly, considering for a long moment. She'll need the wound seen to, and Ruby will need seen to, too. ]

I... I could get Mr Goodsir. [ There's a beat. ] Not running to Milton, I mean— I can try... talking to him. We can... we can both do that telepathy thing. I can try that. Get him to come here.

[fidior]

Miss Rose was with you? [ Little gasps, somewhere in the middle of Kate's own horrified words. Hearing that "she's okay" does little to assuage the swell of concern in his gut — she's probably about as okay as Wynonna herself is right now, which is to say, very much not okay....! He's met Ruby and her affinity for weaponry and can just imagine that she and Wynonna would be quite the hazardous mix.

....Which means his horror is only growing with every passing second as he rubs a hand up over his mouth, mind spinning, thoughts reeling. Yes, there's that tendency to become stagnant in the face of certain extreme horrors, the kind that leave him motionless and empty, but this isn't one of those times. It's horrific but he can handle this, can work and function despite the relentless thrum of his own heart and the thought over and over again, the one Kate almost finishes but doesn't quite— 'You could have ended up...'

He turns to her, tone severe, authoritative, giving an approving nod at Kate's immensely helpful idea. ]

Please do try and contact him, as swiftly as you can. Tell him to bring supplies — enough to handle two gunshot wounds. He might also need an escort to help him through, to find his way.

[ The path has been forged, but it's not wise to go anywhere alone. With that, he'll wait until Kate has slipped out of earshot before then turning back to Wynonna, swift, eyes hard, searching — pressing. His voice doesn't rise just yet, but there's a hard edge to it, a sort of... scolding. ]

What were you thinking, Miss Earp? Didn't you consider they might have been dangerous? Why would you willingly approach any area, any person, not explicitly known to be safe?

kneeslides in here

[questioningmermaids]

Holland March left for lakeside to Wynonna as soon as he heard. Probably he should think about that, take a good hard look at himself. Self-examine the psyche and all that, poke at the reasons why.

He's not going to, though. He's too cold is the excuse he's giving himself, and besides, his own shit is a different problem for a different day. Current situation: Wynonna hurt. March go. End of thought.

He finds Wynonna's cabin from someone who says such-and-such and March has never speedwalked in his life until now, striding and using his full lanky gait as he finds himself opening the door--slamming it more accurately--in record time.

"I'd ask if you know how insane you are, but that's a moot point."

[pacificator]

If you're here to yell at me, I already got it from both barrels from Little.

[ And Kate, which is the one she really didn't expect. She hates how it makes her feel, knowing she's disappointed the two of them, remembering the way they looked at her, aghast at first, angry after. Getting dressed down by Little made her feel about two inches tall; even getting pissed off in return didn't help, seeing as she was madder at herself than she could be at him.

It's just unfair. There aren't that many people here that she wants to think well of her, and she'd managed to disappoint two of them in one fell swoop.

Three, maybe. She glares at March from the kitchen, where she'd been trying and failing to open a can of soup. It turns out it's a lot easier to operate a can opener when you have two working arms, instead of one being stuck in a sling. ]

I really don't need any more, thanks.

[pacificator]

[ Oh, good. She's upset Kate. A flicker of something almost like a wince passes over Wynonna's face for a second as the girl's voice breaks, as that other voice of hers continues — not that she lets Wynonna answer that question she doesn't ask out loud.

Worse is the way she looks and sounds when she hears about Ruby, and yeah — that one, Wynonna can't defend, no matter how capable Ruby is. She's still a kid, one who's now cooling her heels in a cabin, trying not to exacerbate a leg wound. Wynonna feels like shit, but at least she can still walk.

Which is why she was going to go — but Kate's already gone; apparently teenagers everywhere, even in an apocalyptic snowbound nightmare version of Canada, don't want anyone else listening in on their conversations. Which leaves her alone with Little, for the first time since the evening they sat on his couch and drank the bourbon she brought and he looked at her with warmth and softness in his eyes and shed the inflexible barrier of his rank.

Not anymore. He turns on her like a disappointed principal — she's all too familiar with the expression — and she blinks at the tone he takes. He hadn't been this sharp with her even that first time they met, when she actually deserved it. ]

Because all we had to go on was the word of one crazy guy living out in the woods?

[ She can feel her hackles rising at the scolding accusation in his voice, tries to wrestle them back down again. ]

There was a chance we could have made some allies, gotten some supplies... look, I wish Ruby hadn't gotten hurt, too. I'm sorry about that. But if there are chances here, we've got to take them.

[questioningmermaids]

[ March looks at her, looks at her arm, looks at the can of soup. He's never seen a can of Dinty Moore look so pathetic before. Wild, considering he's absolutely ate it straight out of the can without heating it up before.

It's a low point. It's fine. This is lower, because there's a distinct look on Wynonna's face that he hasn't seen before. Guilt? Shame? Whatever it is, the angry annoyance that's been bubbling and stewing and steering him all the way to Lakeside has pretty much dissipated. ]

I hate standing in line anyway.

[ He closes the door behind him, shrugging off one of his jackets and throwing it unceremoniously across the room in a lazy arc, somehow avoiding all hangers and hooks so it just kind of flops to the floor. He stares at it for a few seconds because it's a lot easier to hide his worry that way. After a beat, he sighs, and puts his hands on his hips. ]

Alright. Gimmie that.

I could write a book from the scars on my skin — closed to bestsir; cw: blood, gunshot injury

[pacificator]

[ If she'd been allowed to make the trek back over the bridge and through the mine to Milton, she'd at least have had something to do, something to distract her from the pain in her arm and her own annoyance at herself. She's smarting almost as much from being scolded by Little as she is from the bullet that's — hopefully not? maybe not? — still in her arm.

And there's not much she can do with a bum arm, either, aside from sit around and try not to jar it.

So it's one edgy, frustrated Wynonna who answers the door when the knock comes, pale with pain and the inability to rest. The relief when she sees who it is rushes over her like a wave. ]

Hey. Come on in.

[fidior]

[ The absence of Kate changes things, a little — a lot. Focus slips and slides, not enough to shake him away from what's important here (that Wynonna is injured, and Ruby has been too), but enough for the pressing awareness at the back of his mind to move closer to the front — the awareness that yes, this is the first time he's been face to face with Wynonna, alone, since that evening several weeks back.

It would be a lie to say he hasn't outright been avoiding such a thing (being alone with her) happening again. While he hasn't ignored the woman herself, it's been... that he hasn't been around her without the company of others, or indirectly, in passing — a polite nod on the journey through the mines, until he let distance pass between them and was several bodies ahead of her, no longer having to worry about how long to let a gaze linger, what makes a thing impolite or inappropriate, how warm a smile should be. Anything else has been buried, the way so much is within him; these past weeks since he woke drearily on his sofa with her head tipped to his shoulder and her hair thick and warm, some of it catching to his cheek, have been spent resolutely, not allowing any of it to escape the surface layers of him; it all stays down deep. He doesn't think about it. He's been nervous to make contact with her eyes again.

And now he is, directly, face to face, and there's some hitch of unease within him to have those eyes meeting his own, but all of it is quickly swallowed up by other things. With Kate rushing off, Little finds whatever soft edges managed to hold to his tone melting away, his horror and fear sharp and demanding. His heart is thudding. She could have died. Someone else could be at this doorstep right now, reporting the news that she was killed.

And her explanation.... Somewhere in it, he knows it's not a senseless one; the search for allies and supplies makes sense, of course it does, but to willingly approach an area that they had been warned against, to go without adult assistance, and all on the chance—

It's that word that snags him, curls into his ribs like a hook, yanking against all of the upset and fear and the persistent, gutting awareness that she could be dead right now, or... any number of horrible things could have happened. A gunshot wound to the arm is nothing to sneeze at, but it could have been much, much worse. All of it could have been. And he— can't imagine what he would do if that news came, if it was her to be killed this time, there's already that looming threat of the Darkwalker that he's helpless to do anything about, and she's part of this community, she's someone he has to protect (someone he wants to, she's not an obligation, she's his friend, he can't imagine losing her)—

It floods up and over and his fists don't even have time to ball, for fingers curling into themselves and nails pressing into palms in some attempt to stave the upset; it comes too quickly for any of that. Abruptly, his voice lifts towards a shout, such a rare occurrence for Edward Little, who has never allowed himself to shout at anyone or at anything, even when every ounce of him was screaming for it — oh, it comes now, loud and angry; the upset in him manifests as something that feels that way, angry. Doesn't she value her own life more than that? Why would she— ]

A chance!? You put yourself at risk for a chance?

[pacificator]

[ It's been way too easy to avoid Little, and she'd needed it, after getting pulled by him into helping keep an eye on Kate, after getting pulled by Kate into staying over in his little cabin, sleeping in his bed, with all the memories of the last time she'd fallen asleep in that tiny house running through her head. (His sweater was soft and his shoulder was comfortable and he was warm and she hates that she'd slept dreamlessly and well tucked there at his side.)

But it was easy to avoid him, so easy that it took her an embarrassingly long time to realize he was avoiding her right back, and she'd have been smug about how she was right about how he thinks of her if it weren't for how every time he nodded at her and went on his way, or didn't stop her to talk, and didn't smile at her, and barely looked at her, it didn't feel weird and wrong down in the pit of her stomach. They've been here in Lakeside this whole month and barely interacted at all; instead, she's mostly been with March. Who isn't confusing, and who's clear about what he wants from her, and it was nice to know that if she fell asleep on him he wouldn't be looking at her with wide-eyed near horror in the morning.

Speaking of him looking at her: this the first time he's really looked at her in weeks, and there's for sure no softness in it. The last time they were this close, the last time they were alone together, the firelight and the bourbon were casting a flickering golden haze over everything, and she was telling him things she never tells anybody, things she barely even tells herself. The last time they were this close, he smiled at her, and it felt like the whole damn world shifted around her in ways she can't even begin to explain.

There's no sign of that smile now. A shift comes over him, and he opens his mouth and shouts at her, a reaction so purely unexpected that Wynonna actually takes a step back, that for a second all she can do is stare at him, shocked, before words come back in a rush. ]

Are you seriously mad at me right now?

[ Her own voice is ratcheting up in volume, defensive and annoyed, and she steps back in again toward him, face tilted up with her eyes snapping, a stubborn wrinkle in her brow. ]

Yeah! And I'd do it again!

sorry for the delay!

[bestsir]

Goodsir had gotten the message from Kate—startled by it; he's still not used to this peculiar method of speaking—and once he ascertained where he needed to go, he headed straight for Wynonna.

"Kate told me you'd been injured," he says as he comes in, carrying the supplies he needs to dress a wound. "Sit and let me see, if you please?"

no worries at all!

[pacificator]

"Shot," she says, even though he'll be able to tell that in a second. Her pride got a little dinged, too, but that was more from getting told off by Little than because she caught a bullet to the arm.

Wynonna heads to the little dining area of the way-too-big cabin and draws out a chair to sit, her right arm hanging mostly uselessly at her side. She and Ruby had made an attempt at bandaging it, but the fabric tied around her upper arm is now just stiff with dried blood. Everything hurts, a constant ache that sharpens every time she shifts.

None of it's conducive to a good mood, and in fact she'd been wallowing in a good sulk before he arrived, but she rallies a little, considering how far and how quickly he'd come. "Thanks for coming."

[bestsir]

"Of course," he says, and begins to carefully untie the makeshift bandage to get a better look at her wound. "How did this happen?"

[pacificator]

"Ruby and I got too close to the Forest Talker hideout."

She does her best not to wince as he undoes the stiff fabric, but it's difficult, even with his gentle touch. "They had snipers in the woods."

[pacificator]

[ That sigh doesn't help her petulance even a little, but: she's hungry. And it's been (in retrospect, not shockingly) difficult to feed herself with her good hand tucked against her side and her right arm all but useless. She's not a leftie, and even if she were, it takes two hands to operate a can opener.

It's fine. She's not mad about getting scolded like a child and left here to fend for herself with a bum arm, or anything.

Regardless: she gives him the can, and, a second later, the opener. The stubborn little divot in her brow isn't going anywhere, and neither is that complicated cocktail of guilt and annoyance and simmering frustration, but at least she might be able to eat something soon. And in consideration of that fact, she goes to light the stove and find a pot. ]

Do I need to give you the details, or did you hear those already, too?

[fidior]

[ He would so rarely ever speak this way — to anyone, and especially to a woman — but then, this is a completely different scenario to anything that Edward Little has ever been involved in. Back on the ships, to raise his voice at someone like this would have been reserved only for extreme moments, necessary ones, and only ever involving punishable, deviant behaviour (a certain Cornelius Hickey comes to mind...)

But never outside of that. Never. Not even when anger curled in him like a snake, so tightly he could scarcely breathe, stealing every ounce of him until he was nothing but balled-up tension, jaw stiff, eyes hard, fists clenched. He kept it down, kept it down. It was not appropriate, even if perhaps it would have been justified.

....Wynonna Earp is not one of his ship's men. She can't be looked at in terms of hierarchical position, ranking and chain of command, and he doesn't see her through that lens. She's— she's Edward Little's equal, he's come to find, not Lieutenant Little's, and there are so many unexpected ways in which the two of them are alike, and if he could ever truly let himself use the word for her, it would be friend —

Which is to say, that somehow, ironically, the only reason he's able to let himself become openly angry with the woman is because of how comfortable he feels towards her (a fact of course countered by all of the many ways in which he is discomforted by her)..... but it's because she's his friend, because he cares so deeply for her safety.

None of this can he truly see or process in the moment, and there's some awareness of horror at himself (and inevitably much horror to come later on), but when Wynonna answers him and his first, genuinely honest reaction is more anger, he lets himself feel it. ]

What? [ His mouth opens, but any disbelief is quickly consumed by said anger. She's meeting him, her tone changing, her eyes changing, everything bristling and sharpening, and he's always flinched from confrontation like it hurts, but he can see that she's in pain by the way she's holding herself, and he doesn't know how to make this person who says she'd do it again stay safe, be safe. Why can't she see it?

He launches into a rambling tirade, jaw tight and shuddering slightly as he lets the words come directly from his own heart. They come hard and angry and loud. ]

To think that with all of the dangers, with every single thing that would have us dead, you would so willingly offer yourself up! I had known your nature to be impetuous, but this—! How could you be so thoughtless?! So foolish?

a bulletproof smile — Lakeside, open

[pacificator]

[ Convalescing is a slow, boring, hungry process. Slow: it'll take four weeks or longer before it's even close to healed, and probably another few weeks after that before she can start any kind of physical therapy. Boring: there's not much to do in Lakeside, especially once the others have headed back to Milton. Wynonna plays round after round of solitaire, finds and does her best to read a book (and fails... some things are even more boring than just staring at the lake hour after hour); tries not to think about the last time she was so profoundly alone, with no one but her own shadow-self for company until Kate and Jopson and Bigby decided to stop by.

This isn't that — exactly (...yet?) — but it's only a few days before she's fighting off the loneliness and boredom and the memories of being alone in the quiet cabin in Milton by poking around the woods and buildings nearby. She doesn't go south — she's not so foolish or thoughtless as some people might accuse her of being — but even so, there are moments while she's out gathering sticks for firewood when the back of her neck prickles, the few animal sounds there are disappear, and she knows she's being watched.

No one shoots at her, but it's still a relief to come across a clear non-Forest Talker; another interloper from Milton. ]

Do you hear something?

[ She goes prowling around the abandoned buildings and junkyard, looking for a CD player or a boombox and batteries, looking for games, looking for anything to while away the time.

Mostly, she looks for food she can eat with one hand, wary of the nightmare of those shadowed weeks returning, when she couldn't manage to feed herself even with two usable hands. Her body's healing; she's hungry all the time. Which is probably why, when she smells someone cooking food, she heads towards the smell and the company, stomach grumbling, arm aching where it's tucked into a sling at her right side. ]

Any chance you'd be willing to split that?

[ But even with the midnight sun lighting her way, making the days longer and a little safer — maybe — she's still recovering, and she needs rest, frustrating as it is. Most times, she's cooling her heels at the luxury cabin she's been staying in, out on the porch facing the lake or inside trying to keep the fire going, trying to keep herself from going crazy. Anyone looking for shelter — or who already knows where she's been staying — is more than likely to find her there. ]