to cold climes comes springtime — open & closed

[pacificator]

Who: Wynonna Earp & others
What: May–June catchall
When: May through June
Where: Milton, Lakeside

Content Warnings: Usual Wynonna warnings including themes of alcohol & violence; others marked as needed.

open & closed starters posted here throughout May & June! pwm @ repeatandfade

Comments

bruises — closed to McCoy (biofunction)

[pacificator]

[ Every. Single. Part of her. Hurts.

Her arm is healed enough to not be bleeding, but the abused muscles and skin Goodsir sewed back together and the still tender bone are shrieking that it definitely wasn't healed enough to get into a fight. Another fight.

That, and her head is aching from where Jason yanked her back by the hair; she's limping on the leg that wrenched a knee and slammed a shin into what felt like iron bars; she's bruised all over, and somehow the worst part of it all is how worried she is under the tired simmer that's all she can dredge up of her anger.

Maybe she should go back... but she'd just be putting herself in the line of fire to get yelled at again.

A scuffling sound interrupts her thoughts; she's passing by one of the unclaimed cabins on the outskirts, and there's somebody digging through the small shed attached. ]

Hey.

[ Wynonna raises her voice, just enough to be clearly heard. ]

There's nothing left in that one. I already looked.

[homeostatic]

( It's a muffled swear that answers her call; that somebody sure wasn't expecting anyone out here in the muffled quiet.

He hates it here. Not because someone's startled him, no, but the entire goddamn situation, stuck without a way home, with other folks equally stuck and miserable, and all the perilous complications of surviving in freezing weather. But... while he could certainly swear up a storm and ride it home, there was nothing constructive about it, so after he'd taken a day of rest, McCoy had gone to start collecting anything that might be of use. He'd found a quilted winter jacket that more or less fit his frame, layers to add to his present attire, and warm wool socks, and off he'd went.

A large construction bucket speckled with dried paint sits like a sentinel outside the shed door, and it's the first thing he glances down to briefly when he emerges, before he flicks his gaze to her. )

Yeah, I noticed. ( His sigh blows hot through the scarf hiding his nose and mouth, a cloud of white in the frosty air.

Then... he really looks at her, at the way she's standing, favoring a leg and looking, well, 'ruffled' is a tactful way to put it. He tugs away the scarf, exposing the frown of concern on his lips. )

You all right there?

[pacificator]

[ Newbie. That accent he's got is familiar, but not from here, and she doesn't recognize his face, the cadence of his voice. There's a whole new crop of interlopers, and she's only met a couple of them.

Still, those meetings were pretty memorable. She shifts to take her weight off her bad leg, again, uncomfortable standing here and just as uncomfortable walking. All she wants is to sink into a hot bath and let it soak away the aches and pain, the dull throbbing that beats slowly through her.

Also, she is so obviously, visibly injured, even without bruises on her face, that she can't even try to wave it off. A muscle jumps in her jaw. ] I've had better days.

[ She's still got a few of those ibuprofen tablets back at her cabin, and she's pretty sure she's gonna need at least one to be able to sleep tonight. ] Pro tip: don't get into a fight with two dudes twice your size.

[homeostatic]

( His brows narrow under the brim of his knitted toque, her irreverence so much like Jim that a jolt of warm familiarity follows it, immediate like and exasperation all in one.

Good Lord, well, that's as good a reason as any to look like Hell. McCoy sucks in a breath between his teeth. )

Always good advice, ( he concedes, and starts retracing his steps back to the road toward her, ) I'm Doctor McCoy, Miss. You mind helpin' me fulfill my medical oaths and seeing you home safe? I don't gotta be psychic to tell you shouldn't be walkin anymore on that leg.

[pacificator]

[ Her own eyebrows push up at that, but she doesn't move away. ]

You packing a working truck or a bike somewhere I can't see? Dogsled? Sled-sled? 'Cause otherwise, I don't see many other options aside from walking.

[ Wynonna gives the guy a long, speculative glance, from the tip of that toque to his boots and back again, then shrugs. Hey, she'll be able to tell March she saw a doctor after all: that makes this more of a win than an annoyance.

Besides, it's probably smart to get in good with the limited medical personnel around here. ]

But you can come if you want. And it's Earp, Wynonna Earp.

[homeostatic]

( Those few questions make him chuckle, warm in the frosty air. )

Wynonna. Easy to remember.

( He's reached the path alongside her, and gives her a similarly speculative look, toes to the top of her head, like he's judging the dimensions of a potential parcel. )

Any broken ribs or other injuries to your torso I ought to know about? Weapons in your back pocket?

( Is he gonna carry her? Yes, if she'll let him. )

[pacificator]

A two hundred pound asshole with an attitude problem fell on me and probably cracked a couple ribs. Definitely bruised the hell out of my abs, which is annoying. I work hard on those, and it's almost bikini season.

[ Unlikely to be a problem here.

She eyes him back, wary of that considering look he's giving her. ]

And the only weapon I've got on me is this old Buntline Special, unless you count a habit of insulting people even if they're trying to help me. Turns out it's not just sticks and stones; words can hurt you. Aside from that?

[ She gives him a sweetly fake smile. ]

I'm harmless as a bunny.

they sing out: I am gonna stand my ground — closed to Kate (castitas)

[pacificator]

[ Maybe the very last thing she should do, considering the shape she's in, is trek all the way into town. Her hip is bruised to hell and back where Logan kicked her, her knee is swollen and tender, and the arm that's still healing is... healing a lot more slowly.

And yet here she is, limping stubbornly into the Community Hall and beelining for the coffee just as if she didn't have any in the little cabin she's finally come back to after over a month away. (She does. She'd even brought some back from Lakeside to ensure she has plenty.)

But it's not really the coffee she's after. The last two months in Lakeside, stuck in that cabin by herself, had given her a craving — just not one for caffeine. She's tired and sore and sick of being all by herself, and the easiest solution to that is to just — go to a place where she knows there will be people. She's not there to talk or socialize; that's not the point.

She just wants to feel a little less like a ghost floating through this town, only grounding herself in a fight, only being around people when they're attacking her. And there is, after all, coffee. ]

[castitas]

[ The initial disappointment and anger had been short-lived when Wynonna turned up to the cabin door in Lakeside. She can't stay mad forever, it's not in her to hold onto it. There's been a silent forgiveness given — it's not as if Wynonna meant for her and Ruby to end up getting shot, after all. But certainly, upset has lingered in her, intermingled with fear.

It could have ended so much more differently.

Kate's seen very little of Wynonna since. Moved back to Milton, back into the Community Hall. It's... honestly bumming her out a little, being back here. Her time staying with Lieutenant Little had... actually been really nice. She misses it, misses the routine with him, misses him, and his company. But she couldn't expect to live in Lakeside forever, and she couldn't expect to take up space in his small home.

So it's... back to business as usual, spending most of her time keeping busy: there's always plenty to do. She does have downtime, sat at one of the tables in quiet study of her bible — looking up to see a familiar face... limping towards the coffee. ]

Wynonna—? [ Kate's on her feet, making a beeline for her — stunned for a moment as she takes the rest of her in. Pain is hard to mask, sometimes. It's there. ]

What... what happened to you?

[ She'd hurt her arm, as far as she knew. Not... this. ]

[pacificator]

[ Of course, this is the flip side of being around people: occasionally, they want to talk to you.

She hasn't really seen Kate at all since she stopped by to drop off that Gordon Lightfoot tape and ended up in a shouting match with Little. It's not the girl's fault that her gut clenches, uncomfortable and tight, seeing her here and now. ] Kate... hey.

[ Her luck isn't improving; there isn't any fresh coffee. If she wants some, she's going to have to make some, and stand around waiting for it. Her excuse to be here is gone.

...But she still does kind of want coffee, so she starts rummaging around for the pot and percolator to fill up with snow and set by the fire to heat, which at least gives her the chance to look away from Kate as she answers the girl's question. ]

Mal and Logan happened to me. Newbies. Feisty ones. Hey, have you seen the lid to this pot anywhere?

[castitas]

[ The question isn't so much as ignored, but she's processing on the first part she says: Mal and Logan. Newbies. Fiesty ones. Kate's frowning slightly, ingesting it and putting things together. The realisation is almost comical, her expression widening. Sorry, Wynonna. Coffee's on hold for a second. ]

... You mean the fight in the middle of the street?

[ Yeah, she's heard. Kind of helps that people have telepathy in this place, Kate included. Not to mention the huge black eye Lieutenant Little's sporting right now. ]

You got into a fight?! [ It's not so much accusatory but more incredulous, considering: ] Wynonna, you got shot last month.

[ Wynonna, why? ]

[pacificator]

[ Nooooooo Kate, the coffee— ! ]

Sure, that one.

[ The one where Little got clocked — which she still feels bad about — and March ran in just in time to keep her from probably attempting to murder Logan right then and there.

They're cool now. It's fine.

Seeing how Kate isn't going to help her, Wynonna bends with a grunt to look around for the top of the coffee pot herself, only glancing up to flick a wry look at the younger girl. ]

Yeah, I was there. I remember.

[castitas]

[ Kate stares at the answer, the grim-mocking look. It's almost flippant, and for a long moment she can only stand there with wide eyes and parted lips. Like it's fine, like it's all just fine for Wynonna and something wrong here because it's not fine.

Her eyes flutter and she huffs out a harsh breath — finally spurred into action. She doesn't know where to begin, at first. But she can start by taking the coffee pot from the woman's hands and then turns, rummaging in an agitated frenzy in a drawer for the lid and snapping it down onto the pot. ]

... Are you serious—? [ It's rare there's any bite to her voice, but it's there. Disbelief, incredulous. She's almost breathless from the outburst. ] You were literally shot last month and you thought it was a super great idea to get into a fight with a bunch of guys?

Why? W-what is the deal, Wynonna? [ Her voice is tight, a tremor running through it. ] Can't... can't you just give yourself a break for five minutes?

post-fight

[questioningmermaids]

[ He's seen Wynonna mad, sort of, but this is a different level. He's hungover, he's pretty sure Wynonna's flailing means his upper arm is gonna bruise a tad, and the more important thing: this spitfire of a women is going to be the death of him. And, if she's not careful, herself.

He's cold as hell and still in just his tank top and that spurs him on just as much as a feral cowgirl does. March all but kicks the door to his cabin open and is forced to just kind of shove Wynonna in so he can close the door. Almost immediately his hands are on his hips, but it's far from his usual power stance.

He's pissed. ]

You got 30 seconds to tell me what the fuck happened, Earp, before I start asking around and get the wrong idea.

[pacificator]

[ The ground had disappeared under her feet without warning, and that iron grip around her waist hadn't let up as she struggled — doesn't he know she needs to get back there? — but the second March shoves her into the cabin and she takes a step to balance herself, the hip that had taken a kick from Logan's weirdly heavy foot and the knee she'd wrenched falling over Jason's prone form both give out at the same time and she collapses onto her ass on the floor.

Which also hurts, if she's being honest, but she's still too livid to care. ]

Poker game gone bad. That dude, Logan, he's drunk as hell.

[ — is what she grits out as she pushes herself back up to her feet, her leg and arm two long yells of pain. ]

Get out of my way, Holland.

[questioningmermaids]

Sit your ass down. I've seen Holly throw better tantrums than this.

[ There's no anger. He's aggravated--insanely so--and his voice is tense and terse and annoyed, but there's too much worry layered in there to truly call him angry.

Frustrated, though, that's another story. He's not moving from the door until Wynonna looks like she's settled, though he's already mentally inventorying what little first aid stuff he has to use before he forces her to go to one of the town doctors. ]

[pacificator]

Holly probably hasn't had to deal with a huge dude with metal claws.

[ Right? That would have come up before, if she had. She's pretty sure.

But she does sit her ass down, more because her leg has mostly decided to just stop working and she doesn't want to fall over again than because March told her to. Probably.

She can be as petulant as she wants about it, though. ]

At least let me see if Little's woken up yet, or if I'm gonna have to tell Goodsir he's got brain damage.

[questioningmermaids]

[ Okay. March is fairly certain she's not going to bolt out of the cabin to start scrapping again--he really wouldn't put it past her--he's going to grab a mason jar normally reserved for their moonshine and fill it almost to the brim with water. ]

You kidding? They're all from Victorian England. They probably have brain damage already from boiling fur in mercury to make jaunty little hats. Drink. Then you can tell me what the fuck just happened.

[ He's pouring a mason jar sized glass of water for himself, too. his head is killing him ].

[pacificator]

No! [ She says, affronted, but it's just for the sake of arguing. ] ...There was lead poisoning, too.

[ Little's brains already getting scrambled from various types of heavy metal poisoning notwithstanding, she's worried. That was a hard hit, and she'd bet good money he's never been in a real fight before, or even gotten punched. But before she can get up off the chair, March is there with a jar of water.

She glares at him, but takes it, drinks. ]

I told you what happened. Relatedly, we gotta start putting a warning label on our moonshine.

this distance between us can seem a mountain size — (fidior)

[pacificator]

[ For once, it's useful that the only water she can get through the taps in the cabin's little bathroom is cold, because as much as she'd love to soak in a hot bath, dunking her bruised, sore body into water just above freezing is even more effective for the pain and swelling. She stays in as long as she can stand, examining each bruise — some green around the edges, some richly purple — before hauling herself out and getting dressed, then goes to sit moodily in front of the fire as her hair dries.

Her arm is back in a sling, even just sitting around her cabin; it hurts too much to leave it free and she keeps forgetting not to use it, so: bound up at her side again it is. At least she can operate a can opener again.

But none of it manages to fully take her mind off everything that's been camped out there for the last month or so; if anything, she's got all the time in the world to dwell and wallow without the distraction of a decent brawl or a need to trek from one town to another to get in the way. The fog outside is interminable; it clings to her and weighs her down like she's wearing a soaked-through and freezing quilt, and it does nothing to improve her mood, so she stays inside, gnawing over worries and frustrations.

Well. At least she's got the photo of her sisters and the other one of the Seven to keep her company. ]

[fidior]

[ It's been a couple of days since the scuffle, and things look worse before they'll get better: resolutely keeping a cold compress to his eye has helped the initial swelling, but even a few days later, the tissue of the sensitive skin within his socket is puffy. The worst of it, however, is the bruising: a dark blemish of purple and brown that surrounds his left eye. It looks.... bad, and he knows he's a frightful sight (even more so up close, several vessels of his eye broken, staining it red in places), but there's a chance the injury could have been even worse — the hit was hard, almost unnaturally so, but perhaps he was saved from a true and full blow by the man's drunken state.

Regardless, Little has no experience with taking strikes to the face (though this wouldn't be his first time being knocked out by a head injury....) and the entire experience has been upsetting, for a variety of reasons. The pain is a high enough factor, but his physical appearance itself makes him distressed, and he stays off of his patrols for a couple of days. When it becomes clear the bruising is only going to worsen, however, he realises he can't just stay cooped up waiting for it to ease. It could take weeks.

Besides, there's someone he needs to check in with. In truth, he doesn't even know if Wynonna is at her home in Milton right now — she could have gone back to Lakeside, or maybe she's with Mr. March, whom he finally sorted out was the person to assist her to safety from the fight (...""assist""; if he only knew that Wynonna was carried off kicking...) But as he nears, he sees smoke wafting from the chimney and it's some odd mixture within him: a breath of relief, a tightening of anxiety.

He steps up to the front door, hesitating only a moment or two. He'd spent the walk here gathering himself, but finds that he's having to do it all over again, swallowing against a slick, nervous feeling at the back of his throat. Finally, he lifts a gloved fist and knocks. ]

Miss Earp? It's— [ For some reason, he struggles momentarily with how to announce himself. This isn't a business call, and he doesn't want to seem too formal, does he? (No, it's no business call: he's been worried about her for weeks, and the past few days simply amped everything up again, and he needs to know if she's all right, for himself, in person.)

But what would he refer to himself as, if not this? "Miss Earp, it's Little?" Ultimately he settles on what's safest, what was the most familiar, before. It feels like there was a "before", and he hasn't quite known what to make of the "now". His stomach feels like a mess of tiny living things. ]

—Lieutenant Little.

[pacificator]

[ She hears footsteps coming up along the snowy path, the clump of boots on her porch, but doesn't get up right away to answer the door. It's probably March, and he has a tendency to just let himself in.

So the knock is a surprise, but not as much as the voice that follows it; even less so than the long pause between words which does nothing but give her stomach space in which to freefall, clutching and anxious all the way down. Something lurches behind her ribs, stumbling around in confusion. It's a swift physiological stress response that leaves her feeling sick. She doesn't want to see him. She's been worried about him since March dragged her off, incandescent with rage that he'd gotten clocked. The last time she saw him, he was lying in the snow. He'd been gone by the time March finally let her leave.

There's a moment, and then she pushes up, wincing as she puts weight on her bad hip, her bad leg, and there's not really a good reason to go open the door, he'd go away if she didn't, but she does, anyway. Limps over and lifts the latch and pulls the door open with her left hand, her right still tucked in the sling at her side, and there he is: greatcoat, shotgun, cap, and all.

Plus a brand new shiner that's blotted over a quarter of his face. She blinks fast on seeing it, her breath coming quick and shallow with a new flood of the same fury that had sent her arrowing for Logan. It looks terrible. Her throat works as she drags her glance from the black eye and looks at him directly, tiny twitches of muscle at her jaw and cheek belying the flatness of her expression. ]

Lieutenant.

[ Not Edward, like it was when she was pleading with him to look at her; not even Little, her friend. Her worry about his black eye and how his head must be feeling is all tangled up in her chest and gut with everything else; she's still mad. She's been mad for weeks, a thin but simmering scrim of anger over a deeper well of hurt.

For a second, she entertains the thought of slamming the door in his face. He's probably here to scold her again, so what would be the point of letting him in? But her glance flicks back to that black eye, and she stands back to give him room to enter. ]

Coming in?

[ Her cabin is even smaller than his, but it's homey and warm. She'd cut curtains from flannel sheets and hung them at the windows; there's a new chair by the fire, draped in blankets and comfy with pillows, along with the rocker she'd had before. The black blanket Jopson had given her is spread over the foot of the bed, and on the mantle, the framed photo of herself with Willa and Waverly, three girls in white, carrying flowers, the picture of innocence, has pride of place.

She lets go of the door, leaving him to close it if he decides to come in, and moves toward the middle of the room, sock feet muffled on the wooden floorboards. It's warm in the room, but she's wearing a sweater, and her hair is still a little damp as she turns back to face him. ]

Something you need?

[fidior]

[ She looks about as bad as someone would expect, and yet for as much as Edward Little tries to prepare himself for the worst these days, they still manage to catch him so wholly off-guard that he feels a hitch of breath physically move his body. It's subtle, but everything together betrays his surprise — the widening of eyes, the lift of brows, the way his mouth shudders before it opens a little. There's a beat as they take each other in, both bruised, both startled, some mirror to each other — not for the first time.

'Lieutenant.'

The word is the one he clings onto the most, his source of familiarity and stability and comfort as a result, but in this moment it couldn't feel more foreign. More strange. Maybe only Wynonna could make it seem that way — Wynonna, who only ever called him lieutenant so sparingly and he suspects only really to tease him, and maybe that bothered him to begin with, but being called Little began to feel more and more comfortable — like how the rest of the crew would call their equals on the ships. It felt like she was comfortable enough around him to refer to him that way. Now, hearing the title without any sharp grin or playful flash of eye, he realises its coolness and finds himself strangely stricken by it.

(The last time he talked to her, really talked, everything was so warm. The fire, the drink, her hair against his cheek. It all feels a little dreamlike now. In comparison, this feels so cold.)

He gathers himself, or tries to, and gives a curt nod, a thank you, watching her walk back in. She moves with a noticeable limp, remnants of the physical damage she must have incurred from two (extremely well-muscled) men, and her arm is back in its sling; that injury was still healing, it must have been re-damaged, and Edward swallows as he follows the woman in, turning to gently close the door behind himself before he takes one, two, three steps in and stops. ]

Yes, [ he starts. He's nervous, and maybe it shows, gloved hands twisting together in front of himself, but slowly. His heart feels weird and heavy and unpleasant, and he wonders exactly how much full-bodied pain she might be in. ]

I came to— check upon your state. I can see that things are... quite severe. Have you seen a doctor for your new injuries? And... to check upon your old one? [ He nods to her arm for gesture. It's possible she put the sling back on it herself and hadn't checked back in with Goodsir. ]

[pacificator]

[ The last time — the only time before this that he'd been here had been when he came to her for help with keeping an eye on Kate. They'd been here for about thirty seconds before rushing off again, so she hadn't really had time to consider the strangeness of him standing here, an awkward statue, in her little cabin. But here he is, back in his coat and cap, performing his self-inflicted community service, checking in like the dutiful officer he is. ]

It's mostly bruises. Some pulled muscles. No doctor's gonna tell me anything but 'rest, ice, and ibuprofen,' even Goodsir.

[ She's pretty sure none of those things will help the soreness she's feeling right now, deep in her chest and stomach. It feels like when that kid Mal landed on her, a sense of increasing pressure, everything inside her tender and bruised.

He's watching her, brown eyes big and worried, and her gut feels like it's never going to relax again. There's a tense knot just below her diaphragm that makes every breath feel like it's going to crack her ribs from the inside out, and she'd meant to just dismiss him, but the thought of telling him to leave only makes everything worse. Despite everything, she'd missed him. How stupid is she? ]

What do you even care?

[ She needs to— move, to extract herself from getting stuck staring at him, so she turns away, limps over to the kitchen to rummage through a drawer as she keeps going, edged sarcasm layered over the deep well of sore feelings beneath, but not thickly enough to keep them from bleeding through. ]

Or did you just remember I'm still a part of your community and decide to swing by on one of your patrols?

[fidior]

[ So she hadn't seen anyone — and perhaps she's right, perhaps there's nothing that can truly be done for it except to rest and wait for things to heal (he's since learned what "ibuprofen" is so he understands that word now....) — but the reply still makes him nervous. What if there are internal damages?

But the idea of probing about it further is halted, for the moment, by Wynonna's next words.

'What do you even care?'

It stuns him; he blinks, watching her move away from him, the sound of soft clatter as she sifts through the drawer an odd background noise against the prickling anxious hum in his head. His body turns towards where Wynonna stands, though doesn't move closer, staying stood there in the middle of her living room, staring. At first he doesn't know how to take the question — but then, he supposes, it's been made quite clear. What do you care? She thinks he doesn't. Or— is questioning it. Either way, that twist in his gut tightens like rope wrapping around and around, and Edward lifts a hand — a gesture he often defaults to, for emphasis, and maybe some small way to close the distance between them that his feet don't take. ]

Not at all, Miss Earp, I had only the intention to see you. [ He nods; it was no offhanded thing, no afterthought destination whilst on one of his patrols. He'd been thinking about it for days (and of course, much longer than that), but then.... she would have no way to know that, would she? He pauses, swallows again. His earnesty is a driving trait, but in the face of things like this... sincerity is difficult. It's.... vulnerable. (And for his time, inappropriate in its ways, but then again, he's no stranger to that odd blend with her, is he? It's happened here and there and more and more last time, little ways, meaningful ways. He's never even sat on a seat with a woman past sunset. At some point, he stopped thinking that it was inappropriate, even joked about his own "indecency" in the moment, and only concentrated on how nice it felt to feel at ease around someone whose company he sincerely enjoyed. To relax beside them.)

'What do you even care?' ]

I care for your well-being. [ An odd pause, memory of their last true interaction a discomforting thing: raised voices and accusations and hurt feelings. He'd been so angry. It was always only because of how much he cared for her. ]

I always have. If I've given you reason to doubt that — I do apologise.