[ She hears Little make his way to the rocking chair near the stove, sees the movement out of the corner of her eye as she feeds small logs and kindling, as she sets it ablaze. Good, he looked like he was about to fall over.
But as she turns, mouth opening to tell him to go ahead and take the coat off, relax, another motion catches her eye: a drop of water, hitting the floor. Another follows, until there's a slow but steady patter of them, and for a moment she stupidly thinks it's raining, forgetting they're inside. It feels far more likely than what's actually happening when she realizes what it is — he's weeping, quiet but with an ache to each breath that sends a crack straight through her. Her hands pause, her eyes wide and bemused; she eyes the shining splots of damp on her floor warily. ]
Ah... what's happening?
[ It's drawn out, nonplussed, as she stares at those quiet droplets dropping one after another to her floor: whaaaaaaaat?. And, look: she's a modern, open-minded Millennial, okay; she's all for men feeling their feelings and shit. It's just that she's almost never seen it. Dolls and Doc are of the 'repress everything' and 'drink it away' variety of emotionally stunted dude, respectively, and Ward Earp dealt with whatever sadness he might have felt the same way he dealt with everything else: a bottle, a target. He had a heavy hand and a blunt tongue, her Daddy, a man who never seemed to feel much of anything aside from frustration.
The last man she saw shedding tears was Shorty. She... can't think about Shorty right now.
In fact, it's better not to think at all, because if she thinks about any of this, she's going to remember that she's crap at comforting people. She didn't grow up soothing Waverly's tears or getting hugs from her mother; she's not soft and feminine and motherly. Reaching to her for comfort is a little like curling fingers around a naked blade: the best you can hope for is that it'll be distracting, what with the blood and the pain and the yelling. But he's... Little, and every deep, shuddering breath he takes grips into her gut and squeezes. It makes her chest ache, like if he can't breathe, she can't breathe.
The other chair nearby is the armchair, and it's too far away, so she doesn't bother with it, just sinks to her knees in front of him, her jeans soaking up the tears that have already hit the floor, and she doesn't know how, where, if she should touch him, but he looks so miserable and alone hunched over there in the chair and she gave up on anything other than acting on pure gut instinct days ago. Wynonna reaches to cradle his face in her hands, coaxing him to look at her. ]
Jesus, we're having a day.
[ She has no idea what to do. Still, her touch is gentler than she thinks, her voice softer, as she runs the pad of her thumb over his cheek to smooth away a little wetness, as she ducks her head to meet his eyes, her own clear and steady and helpless.
She doesn't know why it drops off her tongue, isn't thinking about it, or about much of anything at all aside from how much she hates seeing him this sad. ]
cw: mention of alcoholism, abuse
But as she turns, mouth opening to tell him to go ahead and take the coat off, relax, another motion catches her eye: a drop of water, hitting the floor. Another follows, until there's a slow but steady patter of them, and for a moment she stupidly thinks it's raining, forgetting they're inside. It feels far more likely than what's actually happening when she realizes what it is — he's weeping, quiet but with an ache to each breath that sends a crack straight through her. Her hands pause, her eyes wide and bemused; she eyes the shining splots of damp on her floor warily. ]
Ah... what's happening?
[ It's drawn out, nonplussed, as she stares at those quiet droplets dropping one after another to her floor: whaaaaaaaat?. And, look: she's a modern, open-minded Millennial, okay; she's all for men feeling their feelings and shit. It's just that she's almost never seen it. Dolls and Doc are of the 'repress everything' and 'drink it away' variety of emotionally stunted dude, respectively, and Ward Earp dealt with whatever sadness he might have felt the same way he dealt with everything else: a bottle, a target. He had a heavy hand and a blunt tongue, her Daddy, a man who never seemed to feel much of anything aside from frustration.
The last man she saw shedding tears was Shorty. She... can't think about Shorty right now.
In fact, it's better not to think at all, because if she thinks about any of this, she's going to remember that she's crap at comforting people. She didn't grow up soothing Waverly's tears or getting hugs from her mother; she's not soft and feminine and motherly. Reaching to her for comfort is a little like curling fingers around a naked blade: the best you can hope for is that it'll be distracting, what with the blood and the pain and the yelling. But he's... Little, and every deep, shuddering breath he takes grips into her gut and squeezes. It makes her chest ache, like if he can't breathe, she can't breathe.
The other chair nearby is the armchair, and it's too far away, so she doesn't bother with it, just sinks to her knees in front of him, her jeans soaking up the tears that have already hit the floor, and she doesn't know how, where, if she should touch him, but he looks so miserable and alone hunched over there in the chair and she gave up on anything other than acting on pure gut instinct days ago. Wynonna reaches to cradle his face in her hands, coaxing him to look at her. ]
Jesus, we're having a day.
[ She has no idea what to do. Still, her touch is gentler than she thinks, her voice softer, as she runs the pad of her thumb over his cheek to smooth away a little wetness, as she ducks her head to meet his eyes, her own clear and steady and helpless.
She doesn't know why it drops off her tongue, isn't thinking about it, or about much of anything at all aside from how much she hates seeing him this sad. ]
Hey. Hey, Edward.