[ Not for the first time, he finds himself startled by how much his own words affect Wynonna — how much importance he could possibly hold to her. Her voice cracks just enough to be perceptible, subtle, but to him it feels like a huge split, something momentous enough to stun him a little, and wound him a lot. The upset there in her, that flash of anger. Little frowns deeply, brows knit together as he watches her work through, or against, something — his mouth tight and tugged down at the corners; everything feels so heavy, weighted.
'I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wouldn't even blink.'
She wants to protect him from it. She's visibly upset that she wasn't able to. He doesn't even know what to say, eyes just fixed right onto her as he watches. He's never known anyone, could never imagine knowing anyone, who would say something like this for him. Who would do something like this for him. Take a life, for him. His inability to do what other men have done has been some weakness carried, one that's taken on the shape of many things — guilt, regret, disappointment. He remembers a conversation shared with a man here in Milton once, during that storm — a man who'd been horrified, angered, when Little revealed how he'd failed to use his gun on someone once. How he'd failed to do what needed to be done.
But even now.... he can't look back and truly regret not stopping Tozer that way. He can't. No piece of himself could ever be okay with taking another man's life. It... he can't. And where he's only faced judgment for that decision in the few he's revealed it to, here....
...Wynonna understands. She would understand, if he were to tell her about it here and now. She wouldn't think of him as less, or as responsible for everything that came after, for all of the men that could possibly have been saved if he'd taken action and killed one of the mutineers who crossed his path. Wynonna wouldn't. Not her, who hasn't told him it's all right that you did this or it was necessary or met his upset with bewilderment and aversion the way others have when he's started crumbling.
She's... upset for him. For his sake. He watches her pull back in the ways she needs to for a moment, eyes going up and up, away from his — watches her strain to breathe, to function, like she's holding back a dam that's swelling too hard, too fast; it will burst in her any moment, and all he can think is that he wishes he could soothe it. It hurts to see Wynonna hurt this way, carrying what he can't quite understand, not fully, but the fact she would do that for him suggests at least a few things, and so when she says what she does next, finally looking at him again, the words come without him even pausing to consider them, his own voice strained and hoarse with upset, quiet but intense as his eyes search right into hers, trying to find something there in them, in her. To reach her way deep down. ]
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'I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wouldn't even blink.'
She wants to protect him from it. She's visibly upset that she wasn't able to. He doesn't even know what to say, eyes just fixed right onto her as he watches. He's never known anyone, could never imagine knowing anyone, who would say something like this for him. Who would do something like this for him. Take a life, for him. His inability to do what other men have done has been some weakness carried, one that's taken on the shape of many things — guilt, regret, disappointment. He remembers a conversation shared with a man here in Milton once, during that storm — a man who'd been horrified, angered, when Little revealed how he'd failed to use his gun on someone once. How he'd failed to do what needed to be done.
But even now.... he can't look back and truly regret not stopping Tozer that way. He can't. No piece of himself could ever be okay with taking another man's life. It... he can't. And where he's only faced judgment for that decision in the few he's revealed it to, here....
...Wynonna understands. She would understand, if he were to tell her about it here and now. She wouldn't think of him as less, or as responsible for everything that came after, for all of the men that could possibly have been saved if he'd taken action and killed one of the mutineers who crossed his path. Wynonna wouldn't. Not her, who hasn't told him it's all right that you did this or it was necessary or met his upset with bewilderment and aversion the way others have when he's started crumbling.
She's... upset for him. For his sake. He watches her pull back in the ways she needs to for a moment, eyes going up and up, away from his — watches her strain to breathe, to function, like she's holding back a dam that's swelling too hard, too fast; it will burst in her any moment, and all he can think is that he wishes he could soothe it. It hurts to see Wynonna hurt this way, carrying what he can't quite understand, not fully, but the fact she would do that for him suggests at least a few things, and so when she says what she does next, finally looking at him again, the words come without him even pausing to consider them, his own voice strained and hoarse with upset, quiet but intense as his eyes search right into hers, trying to find something there in them, in her. To reach her way deep down. ]
Neither do you, Miss Earp.