[ There are fingers through his hair. He can't remember anyone ever doing such a thing. Perhaps when he was much younger, young enough to cling unashamedly to his mother or one of his older sisters. It's soothing, such a gesture — such an act of care the likes of which he's so foreign to; it almost makes him want to cry freshly.
And it helps. The ache in him gapes wider and wider, some awful mouth stretching open, but if he were alone... he wouldn't be able to do this. He needs this guidance, what Wynonna provides — I know, she says, and he knows she truly does. It means something, just to be seen, understood.
You did it to save someone you love.
Love. That word, too, is almost foreign to him. It's always felt too much, like too much sunlight, shining too brightly against his vision; it's a word that something in him flinched back from, a little. But not now. Kate doesn't feel too much or too bright; she's soft warmth, the glow of a sunset, gentle and safe. He agonises over how to define the people here, what they are to him, but really he knows — he has come to love her, that quiet, broken girl. He knows he's nothing now, only a ghost left to roam this place, but for as long as he roams, he'll fight to protect her.
And he had. (Is this the cost? To be a great man? To be brave, and bold? To protect others, truly protect them? Should he have shot Solomon Tozer that nightmarish foggy day out on the shale?
Whom might he have saved, if he had?)
Even knowing that, he can't see what he did as okay. As the right decision. He should have... tried something else. Tried to knock Mikel out, tried to reason with him — right? He could have tried. The Edward Little from a year ago would have tried. (But trying means there's the potential to fail, and with people's lives at stake.... Hasn't he already failed in that particular way once, and then more than once? Hasn't his failure caused others to have to pay the cost?)
He doesn't know how to feel. He only feels... lost, and wrong, and deeply sad. Deeply sorry. So when Wynonna says that she's sorry, it stuns him; he's blinking against her, eyes fluttering again, a fresh stab of something needle-sharp spearing his heart. She would have done it for him, made that sacrifice (because that's what it would be, to him, one of the most horrible things that a person can do, a stain to have to live with — and she would have done it in his place?)
It's this that finally has him able to move, a little. To draw back, enough that he can look at her. Even now, face to face, he can't seem to conjure up much shame, or embarrassment. He doesn't feel any of those things, somehow. ]
I wouldn't want you to have to do that, [ he says in a hush, throat aching, as tight as his chest. She would do that, for him.Him. He doesn't know that Wynonna already knows what it is to take a life, that even now she... knows more of how he feels than he could imagine. He stares at her, stunned and shaken and touched in a way he can't quite pinpoint. A long pause, and then something else comes, quietly. A knowledge that's been there from the start. ]
no subject
And it helps. The ache in him gapes wider and wider, some awful mouth stretching open, but if he were alone... he wouldn't be able to do this. He needs this guidance, what Wynonna provides — I know, she says, and he knows she truly does. It means something, just to be seen, understood.
You did it to save someone you love.
Love. That word, too, is almost foreign to him. It's always felt too much, like too much sunlight, shining too brightly against his vision; it's a word that something in him flinched back from, a little. But not now. Kate doesn't feel too much or too bright; she's soft warmth, the glow of a sunset, gentle and safe. He agonises over how to define the people here, what they are to him, but really he knows — he has come to love her, that quiet, broken girl. He knows he's nothing now, only a ghost left to roam this place, but for as long as he roams, he'll fight to protect her.
And he had. (Is this the cost? To be a great man? To be brave, and bold? To protect others, truly protect them? Should he have shot Solomon Tozer that nightmarish foggy day out on the shale?
Whom might he have saved, if he had?)
Even knowing that, he can't see what he did as okay. As the right decision. He should have... tried something else. Tried to knock Mikel out, tried to reason with him — right? He could have tried. The Edward Little from a year ago would have tried. (But trying means there's the potential to fail, and with people's lives at stake.... Hasn't he already failed in that particular way once, and then more than once? Hasn't his failure caused others to have to pay the cost?)
He doesn't know how to feel. He only feels... lost, and wrong, and deeply sad. Deeply sorry. So when Wynonna says that she's sorry, it stuns him; he's blinking against her, eyes fluttering again, a fresh stab of something needle-sharp spearing his heart. She would have done it for him, made that sacrifice (because that's what it would be, to him, one of the most horrible things that a person can do, a stain to have to live with — and she would have done it in his place?)
It's this that finally has him able to move, a little. To draw back, enough that he can look at her. Even now, face to face, he can't seem to conjure up much shame, or embarrassment. He doesn't feel any of those things, somehow. ]
I wouldn't want you to have to do that, [ he says in a hush, throat aching, as tight as his chest. She would do that, for him. Him. He doesn't know that Wynonna already knows what it is to take a life, that even now she... knows more of how he feels than he could imagine. He stares at her, stunned and shaken and touched in a way he can't quite pinpoint. A long pause, and then something else comes, quietly. A knowledge that's been there from the start. ]
I deserve this.