singillatim | to cold climes comes springtime

Entry tags:

to cold climes comes springtime — open & closed

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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. ]

[ 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?

[ 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.

You've got a funny way of showing it.

[ He had said so, that day she showed up at his cabin with a bottle of bourbon in her hand and an apology on her lips: I care for you. She hadn't known how to deal with that sentiment at the time, but she'd grabbed onto it greedily all the same, clutched it into that part of herself that's still sore and empty from years of being shunned and hated for no other reason than that she'd lived through something terrible and come out of it broken.

She grabs what she'd been looking for, then goes to the sink to pour a glass of water before finally turning back to him. He's got his hand out, imploring, and he's injecting earnestness into every word, and how the hell is she supposed to square any of this with the last couple of months? ]

Do you even know what you're apologizing for?

[ Here's the thing: she knows it would be so much easier if he did just ignore her from now on, if they both ignored each other. Wouldn't it be better to not have him around, expecting the best of her and being off-puttingly sincere at her?

And yet here she is, coming back from the sink with a glass of water that she pushes at him, along with a little coated pill: one of her small collection of ibuprofen tablets. Wynonna holds them both out to him with her eyebrows up, stubborn. ]

Here. Your face looks like it hurts.

[ She's plenty familiar with the dizziness and headaches that come along with getting hit in the face, along with the tender, sore skin. And he probably hasn't been taking any of his own 'capsules.' She's known him long enough now to clock how careful he is with resources, but if she'd gotten hit in the face by Logan, she'd want a painkiller, to. ]

Edited 2024-05-11 19:21 (UTC)

[ Something snags within him, a jolt that's more confused than unpleasant, at first — 'Do you even know what you're apologizing for?' — but then unease comes in, trickling and then flooding, and he knows there's more to say, so much more. This must be because of how he'd spoken to her last time (of course it is, isn't it? He's ashamed and deeply regretful and nervous in the face of it, wetting his lower lip with his tongue as his eyes fall to the floor for a moment, head dipped.)

How does he convey any of it? How does he apologise properly? Little crumbles in the face of confrontation, of facing what wrongs he's done, mistakes he's made, but more than anything he crumbles in the face of someone he's hurt, disappointed. He can't bear to look back up into Wynonna's eyes and see something wounded. He can't bear to hear what will surely come with apology — she might never wish to speak to him again. Certainly she would be merited in that; he'd raised his voice at her. It's.... unthinkable.

He's standing there in a pool of his own misery, trying to find the words, when he feels movement and finally looks back up to see her approaching him and holding out water, a capsule for pain.... Widely, Little stares at her, surprised, but then reaches for both with a quick nod; he wouldn't dare refuse in this moment (although ordinarily he would rather eat his own boot than take such a precious resource from her, especially considering that she could likely use this as much as him, what with the state of her.)

But she's looking at him with both eyebrows raised, which is an expression Little knows very well by now. He's awkward with the gesture, still unused to swallowing such a thing whole and even with the assist of water, but down it goes. ]

Thank you.

[ He does mean it, words heavy and sincere, and he can't try to avoid her gaze anymore because now more of the distance between them has been crossed, and he swallows again. ]

I— spoke roughly with you, the last time we.... It was improper of me. Unacceptable of me. I deeply apologise, Miss Earp; one should not speak that way with a lady. [ He shakes his head, quick and stiff. He's ashamed, and doesn't mask that, couldn't. ] It was a side of myself that should not have been exposed to you, and I am deeply regretful for it.

[ He takes the pill and the water and downs both, which is a relief. She can't keep her glance from returning, again and again, to the dark, puffy bruise marring his face, the broken blood vessels leaking bright red into what should be a soft brown eye. It infuriates her to see him hurt, and there's not a damn thing she can do about it aside from give him some water and painkillers, and the helplessness only makes her more angry. Fortunately, he decides to open his mouth and spill out a bunch of nonsense, which is a highly effective distraction from her sudden desire to go punch Logan all over again, metal skull or no metal skull.

And— he doesn't get it. He doesn't see it, and all of a sudden the anger takes a hard swerve into the hurt that's been swelling in her chest for weeks, for months and pops it like a dagger sinking into a balloon. She reaches to pluck the empty water glass from his hand and sets it on the nearby table with a hard clunk of glass on wood, then wheels on him, words she can't stop bubbling up from that tucked-away place behind her ribs, into the air between them.

He's apologizing for the wrong thing, and she doesn't have it in her to ease him into the truth. ]

You left me there!

[ Her breath is coming too fast: it hurts, like everything hurts right now, but this isn't just the remnants of her fight with Mal and Logan. It's deeper, it's personal. It's been clawing at her insides for weeks. She comes towards him, a step at a time, hardly feeling her own limp, each word as precise as she can make it while hurt bleeds into anger and anger cycles back into hurt. ]

You told me you care about me and that you’d help me, but when I actually might have needed you, you fucked off back here. I was alone and hurt and you left me behind.

[ She's close enough now to look right up into his face, and that would give her all the power — she knows he'd fold like a wet piece of tissue paper — but something weird happens with her voice and that last word: it breaks, a little, watery, and she blinks back a sudden shimmering scrim of moisture, frustrated and scowling at herself. ]

[ Whatever response he could have anticipated to the apology, this isn't it — and for a few seconds he's too stunned to realise Wynonna is angry, not even when she grabs the glass back from him and all but thrusts it down, the sharp sound it makes giving him a startled jolt.

'You left me there!'

His startle and confusion are an impossible tangled mix and right on the cusp of those things, coming in closer and closer and with each step Wynonna takes towards him, is a fright — as he realises it, now. Anger. She's angry, more, or in a different way, than she was the last time they'd stood facing each other, voices rising louder and louder, reacting in all the worst ways to one another's responses.

This time it's... intentional, aimed right at him and not just in response to his own shift in tone, and that's what makes something at the core of himself shudder, makes him feel so much smaller. Breathless and heated words, the lock of sharp unhappy eyes right on him; it's painfully easy to shake Edward at the core, perhaps easier than ever these days. He's always been a sensitive man, but the expedition... challenged him, as it did all of those men, in ways he'd never felt before, and he can't say that he came out of it stronger, but much the opposite. Never in his life had he disappointed a captain, consistently and in all of the ways he had whilst Terror was stuck on that ice. Never had he, Edward Little, who had risen to first lieutenant through his naval career without any complications and causing no distress, following proudly in the footsteps of his father who was held in such high esteem, been threatened to be lashed. Never had he carried the thought that he was a disappointment, that every decision was the wrong one, that men suffered and died because he couldn't be more, couldn't be better.

....The cracks stay there in him, and maybe that's why it was so easy for that shadowed twin to take hold not too many months ago, and all of this is to say that he wants to crumble to pieces in the face of Wynonna Earp's anger. (Of course, it would be justified, given how he raised his voice at her last time, a fact he frantically would remind himself of, except....)

Except. This isn't about that.

'you left me behind'

Something splits, subtle but he hears it, feels it, like a fragile thing breaking apart just enough that its shape changes in your palms. It might fall, slip down through your fingers; you have to hold on tighter.

Edward blinks, and the frightened stun of his own freezes in place; everything does. She's teary-eyed, she's angry, she's hurt.

His mouth parts, and at first nothing comes, but he tries to. Tries to find the words, but it's difficult to do anything when Wynonna looks so wounded, and before he can stop the thought from happening, it comes: natural and human, and he thinks she needs to be held — but he wouldn't dare, he stays where he is, though his eyes soften right up and he's looking back at her just as wounded, but no longer for himself. ]

I— [ There are answers he hasn't explored beyond unpleasant little whispers against the shell of his ear; he hasn't let them in. His voice falls almost to a whisper; he feels his own eyes moisten. (He could say he doesn't understand, and perhaps he's surprised by how deeply it has affected her, but he isn't oblivious to the fact, is he? He's kept a distance. But now, to hear that she'd been.... needing his help, that his lack of it wounded her... that she was alone and hurt.... of course she was. She'd been shot. She could have used his help. And there are reasons he didn't seek her out again, ones that have nothing to do with that argument, and they're a mess of knots in his mind.) ]

I'm truly sorry. I hadn't realised that— Considering the nature of our conversation the last time we spoke, I thought— [ ....And if possible, the soft hush of his voice falls even more quiet. ]

I thought it would be best if we maintained some distance. I never meant to.... abandon you.

[ Ah. That word. It's a sudden, strange lump in his throat. He remembers how Thomas Jopson had looked at him when he'd first arrived to this place, barely able to stand, body wilting but eyes still so alive, so defiant — so angry and hurt with him. There are too many people he's left behind.

He swallows again and reaches into an inner pocket of his coat, where he's taken to keeping a handkerchief these days, holding it out to her. He doesn't know if she'll take it, but he keeps his hand lifted.

He can, at least, express his regret, and he does regret it now. There were other ways to handle it all, better ways, he could have.... been stronger. He could have been there to help her, and anything else could have been kept in a separate room. He was afraid. He still is. ]

......I wish I had not. I wish I had stayed.

[ There are any number of ways he could react to her laying that accusation at his feet. He could toss her owns words back in her face — I can take care of myself — or point out that, once again, she'd stormed away from him. He could just as easily remind her that she'd been skirting around him, too, that he wasn't the only one keeping his distance. And he'd be right. Again. He'd be right about all of it, about her, again, just like he was during that fight he'd tried to apologize for.

But he doesn't do any of that, and he doesn't crumble in the face of her wounded anger. He doesn't drop his head and let the waves of her fury crash over him while he founders without fighting back. Instead, he meets her sharp, angry glance and his own softens, inexplicably. She sees the moment the apprehension vanishes and is replaced by... what, she doesn't know, can't parse, but he's watching her with one sad, soft brown eye and one bloodshot but no less thickly lashed and all too understanding, and when he finally speaks, lips parting to carefully place words into the silence between them, his voice is low and hushed, a whisper of velvet brushing over all her rough edges and even now she can feel it. The way the back of her neck and the slippery knots in her stomach tighten at the sound, even when the words he's offering are an apology and nothing more.

He starts and stops and starts again and she isn't used to Edward Little being uncertain with his words, but she's seen it before, hasn't she? Considering the nature of our conversation the last time we spoke, I thought— he says, and doesn't finish, which is smart of him, maybe the first smart thing she's seen him do, because it's not about that fight anymore. Maybe it never was.

I thought it would be best if we maintained some distance.

There it is. Even he's admitting it now, and she swallows, her throat moving, her stomach plummeting before she draws in a shaky breath and braces, because any second now he's going to tell her he still thinks it, that he doesn't want to be around her anymore, would she please keep herself away, and then that will be it. Whatever any of this is, was, could have been, will be over, and she'll lose not just him, but Kate, too.

She expects it even as he reaches into a coat pocket and pulls out a soft, square cloth — he's a kind man, and even while saying goodbye he'd be polite and well-mannered and gentlemanly to the very last second — and she still expects it right up until he opens his mouth again and says I wish I had stayed.

There are deep cracks in her. She knows it, has known it for years; she lived through that terrible night at the homestead but it broke her in ways she's never been able to fix, and everyone who knows her knows it. She's a shattered porcelain plate; some of the pieces are missing, others don't fit where they used to anymore, and anyone who tries putting her back together has a tendency to reel back again, clutching a cut and bleeding hand from all her raw edges. Nobody who tries stays, except Waverly.

But Edward Little says I wish I had stayed and offers her a handkerchief and the bottom drops out of the world she thought she was about to be in. She drags in a breath that catches painfully in her chest with an audible noise and reaches to snatch the handkerchief out of his hand before she half turns away, shoulders up and tight, blinking too fast to try and clear the glossy scrim from her eyes. Her own voice is thick; she hates it. She hates that he has any kind of effect on her like this at all. ]

I don't want distance from you anymore. Dumbass.

[ The handkerchief is warm from where it had been tucked between him and his coat; she presses it against first one eye, then the other other, then sniffs and shakes her hair back, straightens her shoulders before she looks back at him.

That fight was the most we'd said to each other in weeks. Do you realize that?

[ This is so stupid. He’s infuriating; he’s regularly ridiculous. But right now, it’s taking real effort not to close the gap between them completely with the single step needed for her to be able to set her forehead against the dark blue wool of his coat and just— close her eyes. Breathe.

She doesn't. But she thinks it, anyway. ]

[ He doesn't doubt that Wynonna cares about him. It's been a strange revelation over time, and even now he can't quite understand some of it, but he knows she cares about his well-being (he would know even if she hadn't directly told him once that she gave a damn about him), and the well-being of others. She saved his life at enormous risk to herself, ran straight back into a burning building.

But it's been there in softer moments, too, soft and subtle but telling in their own way. He thinks Wynonna is a kind, selfless soul — layered in a rough, admittedly intimidating outer edge, but he's known others like that, and it isn't difficult to see what peeks out beneath. Not for him. She's very gentle, really; there's gentleness, a softness. She doesn't feel like anyone cold or abrasive to the touch, not to him. She's warm. She's safe. Perhaps one could argue that Edward Little, foolish and naïve and gullible, chooses to see the best in people, that it will always be his downfall.

But it isn't a choice. It's just... there. To him, it speaks for itself; he sees it. How could he not? He knows she struggles to be around people; he may not know the extent of it, but he sees that too, and yet.... He also sees how others brighten up around her, how her presence makes one feel at a certain ease in a crowded room. How wounded the softest parts of her eyes looked when she spoke about failing to protect others and how fiercely she does that now, how she didn't hesitate a beat when he came to her door for help, for someone to help him keep Kate safe. She stayed at his home for as long as he needed her to, she— she's always been there for him. No matter an acerbic tongue or so many irritated gestures, no matter the (often times flustering; it's so easy for her to speak obscenely.....) teases and provocations, no matter how sharply she may show her teeth, Wynonna Earp has always been a reliable presence to him here.

But he hadn't quite grasped how... much she might care for him, or how much she might become hurt by his distance. It does stun him, splits some strange piece within him wide open; he can't predict... any of this, and that's always been one of the scariest things, but each scary little thing seems to tighten a rope that he'd felt loosening, fortifying a thing he'd been afraid to lose (because he is afraid of that, just as much as he's afraid to have it); she takes the offered handkerchief, she tells him she doesn't want distance from him anymore, she insults his character and he might almost laugh with some strange flood of relief that this feels familiar and he's missed that—

—She's missed him, too.

Edward dares to let himself see that, to realise it there in her wet eyes and sniffling as she turns back to him. 'That fight was the most we'd said to each other in weeks. Do you realize that?' ]

....Yes. [ He almost whispers, eyes lowering to the wooden floorboards for a moment. That's it. Another truth. The 'distance' he thought was best to keep, came well before that argument in the Lakeside cabin. It was there, maybe easier to pretend like it wasn't, like he was simply very busy, occupied with everything going on, that it was normal there would be no time to spare to meet with her again and hold true conversation as they had that one night in the dark warmth, sitting on his sofa. He didn't... intentionally utilise the argument to drive a direct wedge between them, but perhaps it was easy to... let the repercussions of it fall into place. They argued, they shouldn't speak again for some time; it was justified.

And he spent the next month or so not having to look at her for too long, or share space, or worry that she might reach for his arm to get his attention, or laugh where he could hear it, or smile at him, meaning for him to see it. ]

I do..... apologise for that, as well. Things have been.... Much has happened.

[ (She really has noticed it, though? Noticed his absence, so much? His? As much as he doesn't doubt Wynonna cares for his well-being, he hadn't thought that his mere... company was worth lamenting the loss of. He still isn't sure if that's what she means, not entirely; maybe it's that he hadn't been around to keep watch over things, to check in with. Surely it's that. Surely it's nothing— nothing else.)

He inhales, slow and careful, fingers rubbing quietly against themselves. ]

...But I never meant to cause distress. I must confess that at times, the decisions I make... seem like the right ones, and then I realise—

[ He pauses, exhales with an underlying shudder. He's withholding things but simultaneously revealing things, and his stomach twists tighter, nervous, aching. He'd directly told Wynonna once, that he cared for her, but this is— it feels different. Almost too bold and at once not bold enough, some unnerving mixture of the two, and he swallows, hard. ]

—they have hurt those I care the most deeply for.

Edited 2024-05-30 18:10 (UTC)

[ Maybe she'd expected him to hedge, but once again he proves himself an honest man, and as hard as it seems for him to say even just that one word — yes, admitted with his glance downcast and his voice a bare whisper — he does say it, and it's infuriating to admire anything about him but she does see it. The way he struggles with words, with confrontation, and yet he doesn't back away and he doesn't snap back at her, he simply, softly, agrees.

Yes. She wasn't the only one who noticed it. It's not quite a confession of avoiding her on purpose, but that's not what she was looking for, she was looking for this, for proof that it mattered to him, too. ]

Yeah, a lot's happened. It was a good excuse, right?

[ She wets her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, then bites at it before she takes a sharp, almost surprised breath, like a diver who just reached the surface, because... he's given her the answer she wanted, and now she finds herself staring down the barrel of the response he deserves — ]

I mean, that was my excuse.

[ — that she'd been avoiding him, too.

And it had been easier, right up until it wasn't. It was easier not to hear him speaking low and seriously and sincerely in that voice while he watched her with those soft brown eyes, and there were whole weeks where she didn't have to come to the realization, again and again, that sometimes when the light catches him just right the brown of his eyes turns clear and almost gold, like good brandy. She didn't have to think about how he smiled at her and made everything in this whole damn place seem worth it, just for one warm and golden moment, or how much she wants to make him smile again.

She didn't have to listen to him tell her she's a good person, seeing something in her, believing steadfastly in it, that no one else does. And if she thought now and then about the comfortable bulk of his shoulder under her cheek, the warmth of him against her side, at least he wasn't around to make her feel weird about it.

So it was fine for a while, and then it sucked, and then it sucked even more but they'd fought and he was gone, and she can still hear Waverly saying you know, you're awfully needy for a lone wolf which she hated at the time and still hates, because it's true.

Not that she'd been alone for long; March had arrived swiftly after Little left, and Bigby showed up, too... even Chloe, who she hadn’t seen in weeks. And then Thomas had arrived in Lakeside, and she’d had a few days of constant company with him in the cabin by the lake, and it had soothed her hurt feelings but hadn’t washed them away. All those people came, she has allies... no, friends, friends who give a shit that she got hurt and came to see her, but none of them had been him and that made it different, somehow. Somehow, this careful, anxious man, standing there rubbing his fingers together, picking out careful words and breathing a shuddering breath, is different and she has never been so irritated by a person or so annoyed at herself in her entire life as when he finishes and she realizes, after a long few beats, that he somehow means her. ]

Little—

[ Edward, she'd said, kneeling there in the snow, but it feels like a trap door groaning under her feet to even think his name. All of this does. She feels like a wild animal backed into a corner. Any second now she'll panic and lash out, claws and teeth both bared, running scared, like she always does. She exhales in a rush, reaches with her left hand, his handkerchief balled in her palm, to grip the lapel of his coat. ]

All I do is hurt the people I care for. If I were a better person, I'd tell you to get the hell out of the blast zone. But I'm not.

I can't—

[ Yikes. Something twists, deep in her gut, and she backtracks, fast. ]

I don't... want to lose you. So—

[ She licks at her lip again, tosses her head with an anemic version of her usual insouciance, and lets go of his lapel to gently bounce her fist against his chest, as threatening a gesture as a cat putting a velveted paw on a cheek. ]

Don't do it again. You're on notice, Lieutenant.

[ Excuse. Some kneejerk reaction wants to see the word as foreign, as out of place, as strange — but something deeper knows better, and practically immediately he instead becomes aware of the incredible, terrifying, warming realisation that Wynonna knows his truths.

Shares them. They were avoiding each other; she can come outright and say it, put it into direct words the way he can't.

'that was my excuse'

Somewhere in all of it, his heart feels like an insect suddenly exposed to too much light, fluttering in distress, uneasy. He finds that he doesn't know what to say, that she sees him right down to the bone and yet there's parts she doesn't see, can't possibly see — parts his own eyes don't even look at, not for long. If they look, then they sweep away in seconds. He can't... feel it. That he enjoyed her company that evening. It wouldn't be.... proper, for so many reasons.

But then, what is this? Referring to Wynonna Earp as one of the people he cares very much for, putting her into that category, voicing it aloud. Isn't that an acknowledgment that he enjoys being around her? How does he reconcile with any of this? He feels torn, strange, wounded in fresh ways, and something's too tight in his chest, but then— Wynonna's fingers are grasping the front of his coat, and he feels afraid for that initial moment, because he doesn't know where to look. She's closer than he remembers her ever being, at least like this. Standing in front of him — it's impossible not to see her.

His eyes flit, from hers and down a little, to the tip of her nose. Shyly he lingers there, and is afraid she might feel his heart somehow, even through the layers of his clothing. But then she's speaking, telling him she doesn't want to lose him, and once again it's some mix of sensations. Relief, maybe even a thing he could understand as happiness, if he'd let himself. Surprise, mostly; there's someone who's afraid to lose him. There's someone who noticed when he wasn't there, and wished he was.

'Don't do it again. You're on notice, Lieutenant.'

And just like that, she hits him — very lightly, nothing that could constitute a true strike, almost playful, almost affectionate. Like friends might. And he still doesn't know exactly how to place her, but he knows he doesn't want to lose her, either.

He should tease back — let a smile curve his mouth back a little. But he finds that he can only answer sincerely here, too; his heart, swift and nervous as its beats may be, needs her to know how much he means it. ]

I won't, Miss Earp. I vow it.

[ ...And he's mournful-eyed, one brown and one a little too red but both doleful. He still feels— bad, worse ever than before in the face of her kindness. (She doesn't want to lose him. He'd made her think that she had.) ]

I truly am... deeply regretful of how we spoke, last. I would not have— You did not deserve to be... berated, and I... did not mean what was implied of your character.

[ But it doesn't stop there, and he keeps going, the words spilling right out of him, chest puffing with breath held in and then releasing itself in a shuddery, full-bodied exhale. ]

You are very much capable, Miss Earp, and one of the most reliable and intelligent of our number here. Anyone should be fortunate to have you at their side, and they would be stronger for it.

[ His voice quiets again, slows back down. ]

I was angry, but not.... not truly at you. It was not an anger meant for you.

[ There's a second where she lets her hand just— stay there, the heel of her loosely curled fingers resting against the textured wool of his coat, before she draws it away. And since she's no longer touching him, she should step back and give them both more space, but she lingers without doing that, too, for longer than she should, for no very good reason. I vow it, he says, and they've made a bunch of promises to each other, but this one... feels different, like he feels different. Without having any idea how or why, she just nods: he won't do it again. And if she still trusts him — and she does, would even now leave Peacemaker in his care if she had to — she's got to trust that, too, right?

But it's like some lock's been turned in him, like hearing her gave him some kind of permission to speak his mind, because he goes on, words spilling out like he's afraid they'll piled up in his mouth if he doesn't speak them into the air, and he's saying... impossible things. Somehow, after everything, he's standing her calling her capable and intelligent when mere weeks ago she was foolish and thoughtless even though nothing's really changed since then. She shakes her head at him, her right hand curling fingers into a self-conscious fist that sends a dull spike of paint through her arm.

I will always disappoint you. She'd said that to Kate, and Kate hadn't listened anymore than she thinks Little will if she tries to say the same thing here and now, but— she doesn't want to say it. She doesn't want to try and convince him that he's betting on the wrong horse, she doesn't want him to ever look at her with the cold disdain or flat anger that's all she gets from the good people of Purgatory.

She wants him to think better of her. She wants there to be someone, one person, this one man, who looks at her and sees something worthwhile. She doesn't deserve Edward Little's good opinion, but she can try to earn it, can't she?

The rush of words slows, his voice lowers. Once again, they're the only people in a house in the middle of the woods, and yet her own is hushed, too, as she watches him. The cool distance is gone from the way she looks up at him, replaced by something cautious and a little too vulnerable; they could be back on his sofa, in the warm dark, the fire crackling and softly glowing nearby. ]

Why were you angry?

Edited 2024-06-04 20:01 (UTC)

[ He doesn't know where to put her, exactly, but Wynonna isn't one of his men — and it's not that he ever really thought of her that way, as... subordinate. But he has felt a certain... responsibility for her, and maybe the shape of that has desperately latched onto whatever it could, however it could. He feels responsible for everyone here, but with some people, it's... different, it's deeper, it's terrifying, because there are people here he cares about the way an officer does not care about their men. A way that's not just responsibility. 'You're mine', something in him might whisper, sometimes, but not in the way a person of his rank would consider someone 'his'. It's— softer, gentler; you're mine to care for.

'Why were you angry?' she asks, and he doesn't know how to answer. What's.. the correct way to say it, the proper way.

But that's the thing. The act of being... companions with someone beyond simply "working together" isn't very proper in itself, is it. Sitting with her on his sofa after the sun had gone down, her head to his shoulder and his eyes heavy, half-lidded. Maybe such a thing will never happen again. (But what if it does? What if he'd want it to?) In any case, if he's going to continue to have this... relationship with her at all, this thing that isn't just people mutually surviving in a place together, he's going to have to acquiesce to the fact it isn't proper, and perhaps he's still struggling with that, unsure how to handle this through all of the other things he isn't sure how to handle.

But— one thing at a time. Why were you angry. ]

Because— [ A soft sigh, not irritated or frustrated but upset, still, to think back upon what happened to her and Ruby. ] —it was wrong of them to shoot at you and Ms. Rose, no matter if you ventured to their territory. It was... indecent, immoral— They should face consequence, lawful consequence.

[ But of course, it isn't only that. Edward frowns, and lets his eyes drop to the space between them, as short as that distance is. ]

...Because I continue to fail to keep anyone safe. It isn't enough, I'm not—... [ His heart pounds with the awareness of its own honesty; it's difficult, it hurts, and through all of it he finds himself afraid to look back up at her eyes, but only because they're so hard to look away from once he's there.

He almost doesn't continue, but there's still more to it. More to his anger, to the frustration, to the fear. His eyes stay downwards, almost as though he's ashamed by his own words. ]

If something were to happen to you, I— I fear it would—... I'm afraid to lose you.

[ She can't help herself, layers words over his own, unable to keep from teasing him, even now, even as he's answering her question with all the thoughtful gravity she's come to expect from him. ] You say indecent and immoral like it's a bad thing—

[ But he keeps going and she falls silent, her expression shifting at the words he pulls, self-conscious, from somewhere deep inside, and again when he stops short. He's not looking at her to see it, but it travels across her face: amusement fading, her brows flickering into a wrinkle, tugging together like she's pressed on a sore spot. I'm not, he says, and, god, she gets it. Feeling like you're always two steps too slow, two steps behind. Never fast enough, strong enough. Never good enough. He does everything he does to protect people, and they keep getting hurt anyway, and she knows. She knows exactly how that can cut you down, take your knees out, leave you feeling small and worthless.

She couldn't save Shorty. She couldn't save Willa, or Daddy. But he's— better than her. Maybe he's in over his head here, and maybe he's not the right man to try and stop a gunfight or a fistfight, but there are other ways to keep people safe, and he's... it's not what he does, it's what he is. He is safety, to her. The way being here in this little cabin is safety, the way family is. ]

You didn't fail me. This— ? [ She half-lifts her right arm in its sling, a motion that sends a sharp twang of pain through her. She rides it out, keeping her eyes on him. ]

This was not your fault. You weren’t even there. Hey—

[ Because she gets this, too. How fear snarls up into anger and chokes someone. How desperation turns into snapping words and arguments and frustrated horror because it's impossible to keep from losing people. People are lost all the time. Slowly, one by one, like with his crew, or all at once in an explosion of terror and screams scattering like shards of glass the way it was for her.

Their argument rearranges itself in her head, words and expressions shifting until she thinks she can see it clearly: his reaction, her reaction. His distress, his anger, the way he shouted, losing control for the first time ever—

Because he was afraid. Afraid to lose her. Afraid to lose her.

Her chest squeezes; the air feels suddenly too thin. She ignores it; she has to. ]

Look at me. [ She'd said the same thing there in the burning house. Grabbed his face, forced him to meet her eyes. This time, her hand lifts before she thinks; she almost has his chin between her thumb and bent index finger before she pauses.

It had been reflexive, easy, needed in Milton House, but now, here, in her little cabin where the only fire around is the one crackling safely in her stove, it suddenly feels dangerous to touch him. Her hand stops, hovers, fingers still loosely curled, an inch away from his face. She swallows against a suddenly dry throat — an unconscious gesture — and lowers her hand back to her side — an all too conscious one — before ducking her head, trying to catch and hold his glance, a stubborn furrow digging between her brows. ]

You are not gonna lose me.

I’m stubborn as hell and I’m harder to kill than you might think. And I know it makes you nervous when I do this stuff, but dealing with men with guns, dealing with guys like Logan and Mal, it’s part of what I do. It’s part of what I’m trained to do.

[ Now her lips relax toward a smile; it flickers and fades and grows stronger again, like flame catching a candle wick. Soon enough it’s steady and warm, if quirking more at one corner of her mouth and pressing the thumbprint of a dimple into that cheek. It’s a real smile, her eyes creasing toward half-moons, amused and wry and exasperated and fond all at once. ] Unlike you… you look like shit. What on earth possessed you to try and break up that fight? Have you ever even thrown a punch before?

[ There’s a low undercurrent of a laugh in her voice now, even as she looks back at that bruise marring his face, bloodying his eye, and her expression tightens, there and gone again, like the beat of a hummingbird wing. ] I thought he killed you for a second. [ Her glance flutters away, returns to meet his, tries to slide away again, and there's a little strain of too much honesty beneath the easy veil of humor she's clinging to. ]

Don’t know what I would’ve done to Logan if March hadn’t dragged me away.

Edited 2024-06-10 23:18 (UTC)

[ There is a pointed lift of the brows at Wynonna's little interjection there — Miss Earp, please — but he's unable to look at her shortly after that, eyes down, shoulders heavy, weighted rather than released by the things he admits out loud. 'You didn't fail me' she says, and in his peripheral he can see the subtle movement of her arm in gesture, and he can't help wincing again, sharp, like it all hurts. He thinks he did, he can't stop thinking that he did, fail her, the way he continually fails everyone here. And he knows she's right about parts of it — he wasn't even there, what could he possibly have done?

(But perhaps, if he had not been.... maintaining distance... if he had not put up a particular wall towards Wynonna Earp, he might have been with her. She might have come to him for help. Perhaps she wouldn't have — but maybe she would. And maybe he could have persuaded her from the task at all. Or at least, gone with her. And then maybe it would have been him to take the brunt of an attack, a bullet to the arm; she's smaller, thinner, it would have been better in all regards if it were him.

But even then, a voice might whisper, even if you were there, you aren't enough to do much of anything. A greater man than himself should be here in this place, protecting these people. A man who doesn't freeze in the face of horrors, a man who knows what decisions to make, a man who can be trusted wholeheartedly.)

....These are all thoughts that he's nursed again and again in the days since, with a tight heaviness inside of him growing tighter and heavier. He did fail her, he thinks, though it wouldn't be... very proper of him to insist such a thing, so he just keeps his eyes down, mouth tipped open a little, uncertain what to say or how. It all feels so.... defeating.

'Look at me.'

And he does — at her hand first, surprised to see its sudden proximity to his face, even if Wynonna's fingers curl back and her hand lowers, doesn't touch him. It's enough to catch him, eyes sweeping from that hand to the blue-grey pair that seek his out; he won't run from them, though he's bashfully keeping his head down as he looks mournfully at her. But now he stays looking at her as he listens, and it's so easy to hate himself when he's alone and the only voice he can hear is the one in his head — his own voice, deep and disapproving — but when she's with him.... Ah. It's so much easier to be reassured, to feel a certain stability, because she makes him feel stable. He believes her. Even if he doesn't understand everything — 'it's what I'm trained to do' — trained, as in... some sort of service. (What is it that Wynonna Earp does, back home? An heir, a gun the likes of which he's never seen, the ability to hold her own against grown men — for she had known how, he'd seen her fighting, punching, kicking.)

Who is she?

Right now, she's someone who's smiling at him even after all of this, the way he'd seen before. Amused, and warm, and it shows in all of the parts of her face. Eyes and mouth and the small little dot in one cheek. Again, again — no one's ever really smiled at him like that. Not him. And this time, there's no dreary lull coating everything in a pleasant, safe glaze. He should look away again, he thinks, unsure if he can — but then she almost-laughs, and it gives him a chance to almost-laugh too, nervous and amused, soft and fast, like the sound came from him without his meaning for it to, tumbling forwards. It makes his eyes crinkle up a bit too, and he lets it even if one half of his face still hurts. ]

I cannot say that I have. Such things are typically considered ruffian behaviour, you know.

[ Even if he were to need to subdue a fight, as an officer, striking someone wouldn't be proper at all...! He can't even imagine it...! It's almost funny, but what's horrible about all of it persists, and he... falls quiet again for a moment, thinking about it. What she says, what she means. Angry, for his sake. (Protective, maybe. Maybe there's a lot that could be said in response to this, but he swallows some things back, and finds himself wanting, instead, to reassure her.) ]

Perhaps I'm harder to kill than one might think, as well.

[ Though it's an almost playful thing to voice, he says it quietly and sincerely, with a little tug at his bottom lip for just a moment after. 'What on earth possessed you to try and break up that fight?' Perhaps, it's the same thing that would have possessed her to go after that large man with the... disconcertingly strong swing, should something worse have happened to him. ]

I couldn't have looked away if you were in danger. Even if you're quite the formidable opponent to witness in person.... I'll help you.

[ ....But look how that turned out last time, Little.... Still. It isn't even a question, to him. And here, he hesitates again, because... it feels inappropriate, somehow. But it's been there since the Forest Talkers — since his anger swelled and overflowed, and he wasn't able to say it then, but— take me with you. ]

If there's some sort of trouble... if I may know in advance, if at all possible... I'd like to go with you.

[ He'd better be, is all she can think, as he meets her eyes with his own looking up toward her underneath a thick line of lashes, as the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile that doesn't make it to his mouth. He better be damned hard to kill, because she doesn't know what she'll do, what she would do, if next time it wasn't just a black eye and a few minutes unconscious in the snow.

I'll help you, he promises, like he'd promised before, that night she came to apologize and ended up staying for hours and hours, talking with him long after the sun had gone down. She'd fallen asleep on his sofa and woken up with her cheek pressed to his shoulder and the sweater he was wearing and before all that he'd said I would assist you however you needed... it is never a burden. Not for you. She remembers every word; she remembers exactly how he looked when he said it, how he looked away abruptly after to take a deep swallow of his drink. She wishes she had a drink now. She wishes she had any idea what to do with this man who isn't like anyone she knows, who has all of Dolls' sense of duty without any of his confidence, who has Doc's manners without any of the snares and edges lurking beneath. She wishes she knew what shape it is he takes up in her head, in her chest, why he always seems to be present in the one, why the other feels so tight whenever he stands this close to her.

Dolls wouldn't ask her permission to come along with her. Doc might, but he'd ignore it and do what he wanted anyway. She's conscious of standing on a balance beam she can't see, and knows if she says no, I don't want you there that he'd accept it. He'd hang his head, give her that mournful look, but he might actually accept it.

She doesn't want him to. She doesn't know how to feel about any of this, but she doesn't want him to let her tell him no, so she says, a little too soft: ]

Okay.

[ Her glance flickers away from his, studying the mottled bruising on his face, before she meets his eyes once more, head tipping slightly to one side. ]

But it goes the other way, too. If there's trouble, if you need—

[ Me, she almost says. If you need me. But it's a pointless thing to say to a man who has a town full of allies and friends, colleagues and crewmates. There's no reason for him to ever need her over any of the rest of them, and she clears her throat, awkward, backpedals. ]

— back up, get me. Okay? Don't deal with it alone.

[ He's not Dolls, they aren't partners. But maybe they could be a... team, like they have been a few times before. And she'd like that, she thinks; different as they are, there's something about him that just fits, feels right. Carefully, she slips her right arm out of the sling, wincing a little at the way it complains, but there's no give in her expression or her eyes when she offers her hand to shake, to bind them both in a promise she has no idea if she has any right to make.

But she'll try. She has to try. ]

You watch my back and I'll watch yours. Deal?

Edited 2024-06-21 22:06 (UTC)

[ 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....

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to cold climes comes springtime — open & closed

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bringing on the essays again....

800 words of narration later

THE ONLY MOOD

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fighting for my life to keep this manageable

no me literally reigning myself in from essays of introspection

I give up, it's indulgent essay o'clock

FOLLOWS RIGHT IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS........

a "short" one...

cw: Edward Little horny thoughts about Wynonna's Hair / this could be a possible wrap!