to cold climes comes springtime — open & closed

[pacificator]

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

Comments

a "short" one...

[pacificator]

[ 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?

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

[fidior]

[ 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....