[ He doesn't know what shape she holds within him, either. It's a perpetual source of unease — and for so many others here, too. Those from his crew, those who aren't... He's even struggled deeply with how to define, how to treat, young Miss Marsh. Even now, he isn't sure where to place the young woman. She... means something dear to him. He wants to protect her, but it goes more deeply even than that. He actively worries about losing her. His heart fears that concept, regularly aches at the thought of it. Truly, he has no right to feel that way, does he?
The same could be said for Wynonna, though parts of it are... different. He doesn't know, only knows that she isn't his in any sense that should mean he'd want to remain so close to the woman, want to protect her so fiercely. He isn't courting her, they aren't married.... The closest thing to understanding what category to place her in has been as one of "his crew", a fellow crewmate, but... it's just not right, either.
Companion? Is it... all right for him to think of her that way? Surely it isn't, especially not when the immediate days after that hazy warm evening spent on his couch with her he realised a certain nervous tightness in his throat whenever she'd cross his thoughts (and she had, strangely frequently, along with the shape of her smile and the tone of her laugh — warm, playful, youthful.) He was horrified to realise that he would find himself, quite unexpectedly, thinking fondly of the smell of her thick, warm hair when she'd drawn so close to him, thinking upon the way it frames her face with soft waves (her hair especially has been a particular source of agony for him....!) Unbound and so wild...
The mere sight of Wynonna Earp — and all of the things about her that are so different from what he knows — had been such a startle for him since he'd first encountered her causing a ruckus in that old shed, but over time..... Well. Over time, one becomes less shocked by things and more used to them, and perhaps... one even learns to enjoy them.
...Which would, of course, be entirely inappropriate. He does not enjoy any of... that. (And if he does, he must try very hard not to. Which is maybe what he'd been doing when he initially drew back from her, and which is maybe what some part of him thinks he should still be doing now, but... here he stands, vowing never to abandon her again, and asking if he may stay close with her, if she'll call upon him for help, if she won't go off into something dangerous alone— and he has no right to, she doesn't owe him anything, but it's not really about owing each other, is the thing. He wants to be here. And it's dangerous, maybe, goes against that other half of him that knows he needs to be doing the exact opposite of this and might even feel safer that way, but...)
(But he's missed her. For whatever shape she isn't, or is, within his head and his heart, Wynonna Earp is precious to him.)
Edward blinks widely down at the hand offered to him, the one that comes with a barely-concealed wince — the gesture of something important, binding. She wants him to come to her, too. To look after one another. 'You watch my back and I'll watch yours. Deal?']
Deal. [ He affirms, voice soft but not hesitant — the only hesitation comes in reaching for her hand, a task he takes on as carefully as he can, not wanting to risk hurting her arm in the process. His hand gently finds hers, fingers so barely grasping it — but his other hand lifts almost to compensate, fingertips brushing the back of her knuckles, softly cupping her hand inbetween his for a moment as he tips his head to her.
And his brows lift, purposefully, not quite chiding as much as... well, he is fussing. Just a little bit. He's smiling though, in the places he can't swallow back — his eyes, or, the one eye, a warm brown that shines with something almost amused, brightened. He's still nervous, but he's mostly happy. He hasn't lost her.
(If he's going to let himself take care of her, then such things as fussing are to be expected. And maybe that's all the anger from before really was.) ]
You really should stop using this arm, Miss Earp. How are you going to heal properly....
cw: Edward Little horny thoughts about Wynonna's Hair / this could be a possible wrap!
The same could be said for Wynonna, though parts of it are... different. He doesn't know, only knows that she isn't his in any sense that should mean he'd want to remain so close to the woman, want to protect her so fiercely. He isn't courting her, they aren't married.... The closest thing to understanding what category to place her in has been as one of "his crew", a fellow crewmate, but... it's just not right, either.
Companion? Is it... all right for him to think of her that way? Surely it isn't, especially not when the immediate days after that hazy warm evening spent on his couch with her he realised a certain nervous tightness in his throat whenever she'd cross his thoughts (and she had, strangely frequently, along with the shape of her smile and the tone of her laugh — warm, playful, youthful.) He was horrified to realise that he would find himself, quite unexpectedly, thinking fondly of the smell of her thick, warm hair when she'd drawn so close to him, thinking upon the way it frames her face with soft waves (her hair especially has been a particular source of agony for him....!) Unbound and so wild...
The mere sight of Wynonna Earp — and all of the things about her that are so different from what he knows — had been such a startle for him since he'd first encountered her causing a ruckus in that old shed, but over time..... Well. Over time, one becomes less shocked by things and more used to them, and perhaps... one even learns to enjoy them.
...Which would, of course, be entirely inappropriate. He does not enjoy any of... that. (And if he does, he must try very hard not to. Which is maybe what he'd been doing when he initially drew back from her, and which is maybe what some part of him thinks he should still be doing now, but... here he stands, vowing never to abandon her again, and asking if he may stay close with her, if she'll call upon him for help, if she won't go off into something dangerous alone— and he has no right to, she doesn't owe him anything, but it's not really about owing each other, is the thing. He wants to be here. And it's dangerous, maybe, goes against that other half of him that knows he needs to be doing the exact opposite of this and might even feel safer that way, but...)
(But he's missed her. For whatever shape she isn't, or is, within his head and his heart, Wynonna Earp is precious to him.)
Edward blinks widely down at the hand offered to him, the one that comes with a barely-concealed wince — the gesture of something important, binding. She wants him to come to her, too. To look after one another. 'You watch my back and I'll watch yours. Deal?' ]
Deal. [ He affirms, voice soft but not hesitant — the only hesitation comes in reaching for her hand, a task he takes on as carefully as he can, not wanting to risk hurting her arm in the process. His hand gently finds hers, fingers so barely grasping it — but his other hand lifts almost to compensate, fingertips brushing the back of her knuckles, softly cupping her hand inbetween his for a moment as he tips his head to her.
And his brows lift, purposefully, not quite chiding as much as... well, he is fussing. Just a little bit. He's smiling though, in the places he can't swallow back — his eyes, or, the one eye, a warm brown that shines with something almost amused, brightened. He's still nervous, but he's mostly happy. He hasn't lost her.
(If he's going to let himself take care of her, then such things as fussing are to be expected. And maybe that's all the anger from before really was.) ]
You really should stop using this arm, Miss Earp. How are you going to heal properly....