[ 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.
no subject
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.