[ She reaches up to rub at her forehead, frustrated and guilty and annoyed with herself for feeling guilty: it's not her fault, no matter how much Kate wants to set the blame on her shoulder. ]

Maybe I do know better. And maybe you don't know as much about that fight as you think you do.

[ Of course she's upset that Little got hurt; of course she thinks Wynonna's to blame for it, and, yeah — it's not so cut and dried as Wynonna might want to think, either. She remembers the deep feeling of relief that swept through her when fists started flying and she was there, solidly in her body, being asked only to react to violence, a thing she knows as well as breathing.

But how could Kate understand? She's not sure even March would; but Mal does. Logan does, she thinks. She doesn't harbor any resentment toward either of them; they did her a favor. Sometimes, what she really needs isn't just to hit something; it's to get hit back.

So when Kate takes that last step forward, the last thing Wynonna expects is what happens: she almost flinches away right before the girl's arms slip around her and Kate's pressing against her in a hug that feels like absolution. It hurts — she very recently had a two hundred plus pound man fall on her and everything hurts, but the soreness goes deeper than bruised skin and torn muscle. Her breath comes quick, her eyes sting; she swallows, hard, before she carefully curls her left arm around the younger girl.

Kate's a few inches shorter than her; Wynonna can press her cheek against dark gold hair as she lets out a shaky breath. No part of her is relaxing into this embrace, but she's— not letting go, either. ]

I'm sorry I made you worry.

[ That's... the crux of this, right? It was there in Kate's brave, wavering voice: That's how many of us have died... I don't want you to be another one.

The rest of it— she can't look at, right now. Has to set aside for a minute, because this is important: ]

I'm not dying here. If I die, it all falls on Waverly. I won't let that happen.