[ Edward would be startled to learn that Wynonna thinks of herself as anything but comforting. When she reaches for him, and he lets her — hands lowering from his face, head bowed and tipping to her shoulder — all he feels is comforted. She's there, the way she's consistently been there for him. There have been bumps and bruises inbetween (maybe neither of them are prime examples of fully well-functioning adult human beings and maybe there are things both of them need to run away from), but they found each other again once, twice, a third time — again and again. They both chose to stay.
She stays with him now, reminds him he isn't alone, and it matters more than anything, to tell someone one of the worst things he's ever done and to be held immediately after. He sinks to her, fingers seeking out the material of her clothing, holding on, burying his face. In this moment, all he wants to do is hide. Escape himself — an impossible goal, and Edward's wounded by that fact alone; he can't run, can't hide, he's done something he can't ever undo, and maybe anyone else at all wouldn't be so affected by what was surely a necessary act, but it's the truth — he's not a killer. There's a weird open place deep down in his soul that's been ripped wider, more open, letting more things in — or maybe letting more things out.
He closes his eyes against Wynonna's shoulder and just— lets himself cry. It's all still very quiet, very soft. He isn't even sure how much time passes — long minutes, probably, time ticking by — but he doesn't move. Not even when he's aware thick strands of her hair are practically glued to his wet cheek and wetter eye socket, when he can feel himself all tangled up in her. It's all right, to be.
It's only after a while that he does finally speak again, after a hard swallow. ]
I couldn't let him take Kate's life. [ Not Miss Marsh, not Miss Kate. In the moment, the importance of such things fizzles away for even him, too. Kate is Kate — his Kate. ]
I couldn't. But... but he wasn't himself. This place made him hostile, cruel, it— He's just a boy.
[ His voice falls away again briefly, lost to the tightness of his own throat, and his eyelids are fluttering against the woman's shoulder. What he says next is obvious, probably, to anyone who knows him. But it still feels like a confession all in its own, the words pulled up and forced out. To admit it is to admit that now, such a thing has changed. ]
no subject
She stays with him now, reminds him he isn't alone, and it matters more than anything, to tell someone one of the worst things he's ever done and to be held immediately after. He sinks to her, fingers seeking out the material of her clothing, holding on, burying his face. In this moment, all he wants to do is hide. Escape himself — an impossible goal, and Edward's wounded by that fact alone; he can't run, can't hide, he's done something he can't ever undo, and maybe anyone else at all wouldn't be so affected by what was surely a necessary act, but it's the truth — he's not a killer. There's a weird open place deep down in his soul that's been ripped wider, more open, letting more things in — or maybe letting more things out.
He closes his eyes against Wynonna's shoulder and just— lets himself cry. It's all still very quiet, very soft. He isn't even sure how much time passes — long minutes, probably, time ticking by — but he doesn't move. Not even when he's aware thick strands of her hair are practically glued to his wet cheek and wetter eye socket, when he can feel himself all tangled up in her. It's all right, to be.
It's only after a while that he does finally speak again, after a hard swallow. ]
I couldn't let him take Kate's life. [ Not Miss Marsh, not Miss Kate. In the moment, the importance of such things fizzles away for even him, too. Kate is Kate — his Kate. ]
I couldn't. But... but he wasn't himself. This place made him hostile, cruel, it— He's just a boy.
[ His voice falls away again briefly, lost to the tightness of his own throat, and his eyelids are fluttering against the woman's shoulder. What he says next is obvious, probably, to anyone who knows him. But it still feels like a confession all in its own, the words pulled up and forced out. To admit it is to admit that now, such a thing has changed. ]
I've never killed anyone before.