[ There are certainly mysteries to Wynonna — layers of them, things he's glimpsed pieces of here and there; she's the heir to something, and she.. knows things, does things, she has a gun, she knows how to fight, she's... assuredly an intimidating woman in nearly all aspects (but of course what would stand out the most is that softness underneath, it's never too far away really, or maybe he's just especially sensitive to it — soft, wounded eyes and a mouth tugged tightly to hide some inner feeling; she's intimidating but she isn't cold, isn't unfeeling, and it's all of those human parts he thinks of the easiest when he thinks of Wynonna Earp.)
He watches her movements, restless and tired and aching, and realises he isn't actively crying anymore — that what's left are remnants, soft and wet against the hair that frames his face and covers most of his cheeks. He's tired too; it all sought escape from him in that moment, made him overwhelmed, and now he's reeling gently from all of it, sitting there still leaned forward, watching her with his eyes glassy and sore and concerned. There's still so much upset in her — and he can't do anything to appease it. He's helpless.
Which is why maybe he even latches onto that question, the one that he'd always flinched from so fiercely. The one he was always afraid to be asked. He doesn't want the people here to know... what he's done, who he really is.
And yet here and now, he grasps for that question, because it's something to do for her — even if it's just this much, to answer a horrible thing. She asks him and he would never refuse to answer it. Not to her. So he tips his head forwards again, shoulders lifting with another full-bodied sigh, a movement that heaves everything in him, shifts it, and then settles back into the rocking chair with a heaviness. ]
I am not a good man, [ he all but whispers — and perhaps an ironic statement, all things considered, but one he wholly believes. How does he even begin to convey it? All of the things he's done, all of his weaknesses, his failings, all of the ghosts that haunt him? And so many of them here with him, in this place? So many of them that she knows?]
Everything went... wrong. And I didn't... I wasn't enough. I failed them. [ He leans forward more, spine bent, hands moving up through his hair, almost an echo of Wynonna's gesture moments ago. Palms press into his scalp and he leaves them there for a moment, gaze wide and distant, thinking of something, somewhere else. One of the ghosts slips down over his eyes, and he blinks against a fresh coat of gloss. ]
When the mutiny began, there was... a man. Our sergeant of the Marines. He was a foundational part of it, with Mr. Hickey. And he— I chased him. I found him. I had my gun raised, but I couldn't... I could not pull the trigger. I could not kill him.
[ It sounds almost anticlimactic voiced like that, this particular dark thing. But he's shaking again, even if more softly this time. ]
If I had.... I might have stopped what came after. The mutiny, and what they... did, to our men. What horrible things they did. [ His eyes widen further; he'd only learned those nightmarish details after his arrival in this place. The... slaughter, the feasting of human flesh. Gibson. Goodsir. How can he voice it aloud? His mouth parts, closes slightly, parts again; his throat moves but no words come. Not for a long moment. When he speaks next, everything feels hollow. ]
But I let it happen. I let it all happen. The mutiny, and what came after, and— and they suffered because of me, because I am— I am nothing. Every man here in this place with us now has suffered, because of me. They should all have hatred for me, in their hearts. I am certain that they do.
[ There's more to it, but his voice falters, the secrets he's revealed to no one sticking up out of the soil within himself, like exposed bones. How he'd betrayed his captain's wishes. How Crozier had waited for his rescue, and none had come. How he'd walked away from the sick, the dying — how Thomas Jopson still haunts his nightmares here, two glowing sparks of blue set in a frame that can barely be called a face anymore, skull-like, skin too thin and too tight, and rotting away. He was still alive when they left, even if just. He saw them leave him. Edward knows that now. ]
And to take that young man's life now... Everything I... tried to be, tried to hold onto, it— none of it mattered. I should have died the way my men did. The way Thomas— [ He can't, the words falling away again in a soft, breathless gasp, and he blinks, that odd haze clearing a little, enough to find her again. ] —I'm sorry.
cw: mention of cannibalism
He watches her movements, restless and tired and aching, and realises he isn't actively crying anymore — that what's left are remnants, soft and wet against the hair that frames his face and covers most of his cheeks. He's tired too; it all sought escape from him in that moment, made him overwhelmed, and now he's reeling gently from all of it, sitting there still leaned forward, watching her with his eyes glassy and sore and concerned. There's still so much upset in her — and he can't do anything to appease it. He's helpless.
Which is why maybe he even latches onto that question, the one that he'd always flinched from so fiercely. The one he was always afraid to be asked. He doesn't want the people here to know... what he's done, who he really is.
And yet here and now, he grasps for that question, because it's something to do for her — even if it's just this much, to answer a horrible thing. She asks him and he would never refuse to answer it. Not to her. So he tips his head forwards again, shoulders lifting with another full-bodied sigh, a movement that heaves everything in him, shifts it, and then settles back into the rocking chair with a heaviness. ]
I am not a good man, [ he all but whispers — and perhaps an ironic statement, all things considered, but one he wholly believes. How does he even begin to convey it? All of the things he's done, all of his weaknesses, his failings, all of the ghosts that haunt him? And so many of them here with him, in this place? So many of them that she knows? ]
Everything went... wrong. And I didn't... I wasn't enough. I failed them. [ He leans forward more, spine bent, hands moving up through his hair, almost an echo of Wynonna's gesture moments ago. Palms press into his scalp and he leaves them there for a moment, gaze wide and distant, thinking of something, somewhere else. One of the ghosts slips down over his eyes, and he blinks against a fresh coat of gloss. ]
When the mutiny began, there was... a man. Our sergeant of the Marines. He was a foundational part of it, with Mr. Hickey. And he— I chased him. I found him. I had my gun raised, but I couldn't... I could not pull the trigger. I could not kill him.
[ It sounds almost anticlimactic voiced like that, this particular dark thing. But he's shaking again, even if more softly this time. ]
If I had.... I might have stopped what came after. The mutiny, and what they... did, to our men. What horrible things they did. [ His eyes widen further; he'd only learned those nightmarish details after his arrival in this place. The... slaughter, the feasting of human flesh. Gibson. Goodsir. How can he voice it aloud? His mouth parts, closes slightly, parts again; his throat moves but no words come. Not for a long moment. When he speaks next, everything feels hollow. ]
But I let it happen. I let it all happen. The mutiny, and what came after, and— and they suffered because of me, because I am— I am nothing. Every man here in this place with us now has suffered, because of me. They should all have hatred for me, in their hearts. I am certain that they do.
[ There's more to it, but his voice falters, the secrets he's revealed to no one sticking up out of the soil within himself, like exposed bones. How he'd betrayed his captain's wishes. How Crozier had waited for his rescue, and none had come. How he'd walked away from the sick, the dying — how Thomas Jopson still haunts his nightmares here, two glowing sparks of blue set in a frame that can barely be called a face anymore, skull-like, skin too thin and too tight, and rotting away. He was still alive when they left, even if just. He saw them leave him. Edward knows that now. ]
And to take that young man's life now... Everything I... tried to be, tried to hold onto, it— none of it mattered. I should have died the way my men did. The way Thomas— [ He can't, the words falling away again in a soft, breathless gasp, and he blinks, that odd haze clearing a little, enough to find her again. ] —I'm sorry.