[ He knows, if she's not hurt, that it's not because Wynonna would have stayed inside while all of it was at its worst, keeping herself safe. He knows that about her now, because for all the ways they differ, she's the same as him — she wants to protect other people. And maybe that span isn't quite as wide as his (some could argue it's an impossible goal, to try and keep an entire community safe; he won't meet it, not ever), but it's no less important. There are people she fights to keep safe; he knows she does. He'd trust her with Kate's well-being, her life. He has, before — run straight to Wynonna for that very purpose. He trusts hardly anyone else as much as he does her.
No, she wouldn't have been hiding away inside, and that's one of the several reasons his need to locate her became a desperation. She's okay, but he needs to hear it voiced aloud, eyes finally opening again when she says that she's not hurt, wide and wounded, prickling wet and hot. It's not a hug, this embrace; it's something else, it's— he's found someone he thought he might have lost, and he can't seem to soothe his heart enough, even when she says she's okay. It's still pounding in quick, painful beats against Wynonna's body, like that small degree of separation between them of ribs and clothing is still too much for it. He's still devastated by the thought of losing her, and it's all some overwhelming sensation of relief and horror mingled into one thing.
Her laugh helps. Even if it, too, contains more than one thing — not comfortable and warm and playful the way he's known it to be in the past, but strained for breath and worn and off-beat. Still, it helps ground him because it's her laugh, it's her. It helps. (She's okay. She's okay.) And the words surprise him again, but they also make sense. He breathes out his own reply, still shuddering, still grasping her more tightly than he ever has anyone. Some part of him knows it isn't true, but it feels like, for a moment like this, that they're both completely safe from anything. ]
I was searching for you, too.
[ They were looking for each other. He might laugh too, some expel of tension and relief and stunned awe of the thought — and as he gives an exhale, he almost, maybe, smiles over her shoulder, for just a moment. But the realisation that they aren't safe, not really, comes pooling in thick and unrelenting like tar, and he finally pulls back, but only enough so that he can look at Wynonna, both hands moving to grasp her arms. (Again, later, he might be embarrassed, but right now.... Desperation surpasses everything. And he can't bear to let go. Not yet.) ]
We need to find shelter inside. I'm not certain that this is... over.
[ Enola had... done something, stopped that green nightmarish haze, opened it up, and as he'd run across the snow he'd realised that there were no more cries of rage or screams of pain, but that doesn't mean things are... safe. He can't know that for sure, and the unyielding thuds of his heart keep reminding him of that, still frantic, still upset, still frightened to lose her. ]
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No, she wouldn't have been hiding away inside, and that's one of the several reasons his need to locate her became a desperation. She's okay, but he needs to hear it voiced aloud, eyes finally opening again when she says that she's not hurt, wide and wounded, prickling wet and hot. It's not a hug, this embrace; it's something else, it's— he's found someone he thought he might have lost, and he can't seem to soothe his heart enough, even when she says she's okay. It's still pounding in quick, painful beats against Wynonna's body, like that small degree of separation between them of ribs and clothing is still too much for it. He's still devastated by the thought of losing her, and it's all some overwhelming sensation of relief and horror mingled into one thing.
Her laugh helps. Even if it, too, contains more than one thing — not comfortable and warm and playful the way he's known it to be in the past, but strained for breath and worn and off-beat. Still, it helps ground him because it's her laugh, it's her. It helps. (She's okay. She's okay.) And the words surprise him again, but they also make sense. He breathes out his own reply, still shuddering, still grasping her more tightly than he ever has anyone. Some part of him knows it isn't true, but it feels like, for a moment like this, that they're both completely safe from anything. ]
I was searching for you, too.
[ They were looking for each other. He might laugh too, some expel of tension and relief and stunned awe of the thought — and as he gives an exhale, he almost, maybe, smiles over her shoulder, for just a moment. But the realisation that they aren't safe, not really, comes pooling in thick and unrelenting like tar, and he finally pulls back, but only enough so that he can look at Wynonna, both hands moving to grasp her arms. (Again, later, he might be embarrassed, but right now.... Desperation surpasses everything. And he can't bear to let go. Not yet.) ]
We need to find shelter inside. I'm not certain that this is... over.
[ Enola had... done something, stopped that green nightmarish haze, opened it up, and as he'd run across the snow he'd realised that there were no more cries of rage or screams of pain, but that doesn't mean things are... safe. He can't know that for sure, and the unyielding thuds of his heart keep reminding him of that, still frantic, still upset, still frightened to lose her. ]