singillatim | to cold climes comes springtime

[ 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.

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. ]

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.

[ 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 ].

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.

[ March tsks loudly--pesky, pesky lead poisoning--and at least settles somewhat. Long enough to chug and ungodly amount of water and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand like the true bachelor he is. ]

Why would you put warning labels on alcohol? People can just use their brains.

[ Then again... He glances to Wynonna. He's not going to say it. He flattens his face. ]

Anything broken?

God, you are so last century sometimes.

[ The water helps, a little. It would help more if it were laced with morphine, but they're a little low on prescription painkillers out here. Probably for the best, honestly. ]

I don't think so.

[ Which isn't a no, exactly. Her shin feels fragmented, like someone dropped a sheet of glass and it broke into a bunch of pieces but stayed in essentially the same shape, and there's a non-zero chance she fractured her still healing humerus. Good times. ]

But hitting that dude was like hitting a tree. He is not normal.

Maybe he's Bigby Normal.

[ It's a thought. March glances at her wounds, and then at her, brow furrowed in clear concern, even if he's not actively saying it. ]

[ He's standing, which means she has to tilt her head back to look at him, and it makes her feel weirdly small. She never feels small around March. ]

Will you quit looking at me like you think I'm about to bleed out?

Are you about to bleed out?

[ Hey, Wynonna brought it up! ]

No!

[ Probably not, anyway! ]

What's your problem?

[ It's kind of hard not to be combative when you're worried as hell, which is probably a bit messed up in the grand scheme of things, but Holland is surprisingly mad at her. The problem is that their whole foundation has been built on both of them being relatively chill with each other's extremely poor decisions.

Holland March is at an impasse. Fuck it. ]

You're my problem.

[ And those hands are back on his hips. ]

You literally leapt on a guy twice your goddamn size.

Yeah!

[ He knows this about her, doesn't he? And anyway, the point is: ]

And I'm still conscious, which is better than Little's doing. He's probably got a concussion, he needs a doctor!

[ She lifts her eyebrows at March and his stupid dad stance, an implicit threat in the expression. Is she gonna have to go through you, too, Holland? ]

So are you done, or can you bitch while we make sure the guy's not gonna die in a snowbank?

He's not gonna die in the snowbank, there were like 40 people rubbernecking, someone's going to pick him up.

Wynonna--

[ God. Fuck. Feelings again, rearing their ugly head. March needs a smoke. He has no smoke. He winds up smoothing his facial hair out, tone softening as much as it can, considering how annoyed and worried he is. ]

--If I can't die doing something stupid than you can't either, alright?

Dude, I wasn't gonna die. Did you even look at the other two? Compared to them, I'm in the best shape of my life.

[ He runs his hand over his mouth and chin the way guys do sometimes, the way Doc does when he doesn't want to say whatever the hell's rolling around in his head, giving him grief. March has been exasperated with her before — and it's been mutual — but this feels... different. She doesn't like it, and she doesn't like how he dragged her away before she could show Logan the error of his ways even less, and she likes the blind rage that had descended over her like a hood least of all.

She gets up. What's he gonna do, force her to sit down. ]

I can handle myself in a fight, Holland. Hell, the guy I train with back home could wipe the floor with both of those assholes!

I know you can. You can probably kick my ass--I'm not an idiot. I've got eyeballs.

[ It's unbearably sexy. March exhales again, more of a huff. Looks at Wynonna with sincerity he's probably going to regret. ]

It's the other guys I don't know about. Too many unknowns.

I can definitely kick your ass.

[ She glances out the window: Logan's a crumpled lump in the snow, Mal's gone, and it looks like the Viking chick has got Little sitting up, at least. Something too tight relaxes a little in her chest, then snags back up again as she looks back at March. ]

What d'you want me to tell you, March? I won't get in anymore fights? I'll turn and run if someone comes out swinging? That dude Logan was getting in a fight whether I was there or not. At least I can handle it.

[ Wynonna asks a simple question and March is surprised that he doesn't actually know the answer. What does he want? To yell at Wynonna more, yeah, a little. But what the hell is that going to actually achieve? Especially because March isn't all that interested in getting Wynonna to stop, concern aside. Doesn't seem right. Doesn't fit Wynonna, doesn't work. It's part of why March likes her, which--

March's jaw tightens. Flexes a little, looking pointedly anywhere else before he settles back on Wynonna and her stupidly elegant neck and her dumb cute nose.

His final answer? An elaborate shrug that takes his whole body. ]

I don't know.

[ She watches as a series of expressions roll over him: squinting eyes, a tight jaw, a crinkled up nose, the way he's standing there like he'd been waiting up for her after she broke curfew. And they don't— talk about this stuff: he almost gets himself killed and she punches him in the jaw for it; she gets shot and he comes to pointedly open cans of soup at her, but that's it. Because they get each other, because they are, somewhere past the paisley and polyester, somehow the same.

Aren't they? ]

Then either figure it out or cut it out.

[ The alcohol and the buzz of adrenaline are both slowly fading out of her system, and her leg, hip, and side are all starting to throb in annoyingly intrusive ways. ]

You look like you're about to try to send me to my room without any dinner.

Edited 2024-06-17 16:37 (UTC)

I don’t get any respect in this house.

[ That’s a joke. Half of a joke, a tiny joke, but a joke. He’s pissed, sure, but that’s mostly stemming from worry. Wynonna’s Wynonna, and March is March, and this whole thing is looking pretty silly after a solid few minutes away from the situation.

…Right?

There’s still a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach he usually only gets with Holly. He does his best to ignore it, too, just like he ignores how soft his voice is. ]

Are you sure you’re alright?

You don't get any respect anywhere.

[ He's watching her with those blue, blue eyes all scrunched up and worried and his voice is too soft, most of the annoyance leached out of it. He looks bleary and rumpled, like he just woke up. It's tempting to slide her fingers into the mess of his hair and make it even worse.

Maybe because he's giving her that concerned frown, or maybe because she's tired and sore and it seems like he's past the point of yelling at her, she capitulates, a little. ]

I'm sore as hell. Hitting that dude Logan is like hitting a truck. Or... getting hit by a truck. Either way.

I don't think I could take him.

[ It's sheer sincerity--Wynonna's all right and not wound up, March's temper is fading into his usual self. Moonshine probably isn't the best idea for Wynonna, so one of the mason jars he pulls out is getting water. She can drink it until she feels good enough to hit a doctor up, he figures. He can keep an eye out for anything hinky. ]

Shit, the only reason I can pick you up is because you're baby bird weight.

[ She could posture and bitch at him and eventually he'd let her go just so he wouldn't have to deal with her anymore, but she thinks about how he'd probably saved her either from murdering Logan or getting killed herself and opts, instead, to sit heavily back in the chair. She's sore, and she's tired, and her nerves are still a jangling mess. Everything about the way she'd reacted disturbs her.

But this house is quiet, and she's just with March, which means she doesn't have to pretend shit if she doesn't want to. ]

Don't try to take him. He's got knives in his hands. Which seems excessive.

[ Which is maybe her way of saying I shouldn't have tried to take him, either<>/i>. She reaches for the water he gives her and makes a face, but sips at it anyway. ]

Yeah, well, it helps that you're taller than me, Stretch Armstrong.

[ Wait--no--go back. March's whole face sours, disbelief bubbling to the surface. ]

The fuck do you mean, 'he's got knives in his hands?'

Like freaking Edward Scissorhands —

[ Nope. March won't get that reference. She lifts her own hands, exasperated. ]

I mean he's got knives that come out of his fists. Metal. Sharp. Filet-you-like-a-fish knives. Like he saw a switchblade and decided 'that's cute, I think I'll get five more and stick them in my hands.'

to cold climes comes springtime — open & closed

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