[ I am not a good man, he says, and she can tell he believes it, right down to his foundations. Whatever image he'd held of himself before the expedition went so badly south has been wholly wiped away, leaving nothing but an impression of guilt and horror behind.
She knows it, because she's lived it. Everything everyone she knows blames her for, she's blamed herself for a million times over. And here's Edward Little, one of the gentlest, most forthright, most honorable men she's ever known, hanging his head and telling her he's nothing, that everything that happened after he didn't pull the trigger was his fault. And guilt is a heady drug, she knows it well, is all too familiar with the way someone can latch onto it and never find a way to let go. Her own is a constant companion, still, always, even if it hasn't taken physical form since those weeks back in the winter. Old Augie Hamilton would be feasting on them both, if he ever managed to find his way here.
I should have died, he says, and her blood runs cold; the way Thomas, he says, and everything in her lurches abruptly to the side. She doesn't want to think about what happened between him and Tommy. She doesn't want to know. What could it possibly help, when Thomas himself already forgave him?
But he won't forgive himself. She's seen Augie Hamilton in her own face in the mirror too many times not to recognize a fellow guilty heart. Wynonna lifts a hand, runs her fingers lightly over the thin white line of scar tissue at her throat, thinking about guilt, thinking about forgiveness, recalling the bright flicker of pain as his cold razor nicked her skin.
(Tick tock, tick tock. Forgiven? Or not?)
She's silent for a long moment after he finishes, thinking hard, as she thumbs that line of her scar before dropping her hand away again. ]
You know, if my sister were here, she'd know just what to say. She'd find some way to make you feel better, or tell you it's never the wrong thing to not kill somebody, or... I don't know, because she's not here. You're stuck with me instead, and the best I've got is... not great. But okay. Let's give it a shot, because Waverly might be nicer than me, but I know what it's like to ruin... everything. Crushing guilt and I are old buddies.
[ She sinks back onto her heels again, her knees and shins yelling. His eyes are on her again, glossy and sad and hurt and she's never felt so helpless, she's never wished so much to not have something in common with him. ]
Look, you couldn't have stopped a mutiny by shooting one guy. I mean, you probably couldn't have stopped it even if that one guy was Hickey. He'd just have been a martyr to the cause. And yeah, I know knowing that doesn't magically change things. That stuff all still happened.
But you are not nothing. [ She leans forward again, holding his glance with her own fierce and sore and steady. ]
You're not nothing. Not to me. Not to a lot of people here, including all the ones you think should hate you.
[ Her expression turns inwards for a long moment, seeing again in her mind's eye the way the good people of Purgatory cross the street to get away from her, feeling their glares linger. She thinks of Shorty saying they're wrong... you're a good girl, Wynonna, and doesn't quite manage to fully shutter the flicker of pain that surfaces along with the memory. ]
Don't ask for that. Just... don't. You don't deserve it. Because I think you are a good man. I know you are.
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She knows it, because she's lived it. Everything everyone she knows blames her for, she's blamed herself for a million times over. And here's Edward Little, one of the gentlest, most forthright, most honorable men she's ever known, hanging his head and telling her he's nothing, that everything that happened after he didn't pull the trigger was his fault. And guilt is a heady drug, she knows it well, is all too familiar with the way someone can latch onto it and never find a way to let go. Her own is a constant companion, still, always, even if it hasn't taken physical form since those weeks back in the winter. Old Augie Hamilton would be feasting on them both, if he ever managed to find his way here.
I should have died, he says, and her blood runs cold; the way Thomas, he says, and everything in her lurches abruptly to the side. She doesn't want to think about what happened between him and Tommy. She doesn't want to know. What could it possibly help, when Thomas himself already forgave him?
But he won't forgive himself. She's seen Augie Hamilton in her own face in the mirror too many times not to recognize a fellow guilty heart. Wynonna lifts a hand, runs her fingers lightly over the thin white line of scar tissue at her throat, thinking about guilt, thinking about forgiveness, recalling the bright flicker of pain as his cold razor nicked her skin.
(Tick tock, tick tock. Forgiven? Or not?)
She's silent for a long moment after he finishes, thinking hard, as she thumbs that line of her scar before dropping her hand away again. ]
You know, if my sister were here, she'd know just what to say. She'd find some way to make you feel better, or tell you it's never the wrong thing to not kill somebody, or... I don't know, because she's not here. You're stuck with me instead, and the best I've got is... not great. But okay. Let's give it a shot, because Waverly might be nicer than me, but I know what it's like to ruin... everything. Crushing guilt and I are old buddies.
[ She sinks back onto her heels again, her knees and shins yelling. His eyes are on her again, glossy and sad and hurt and she's never felt so helpless, she's never wished so much to not have something in common with him. ]
Look, you couldn't have stopped a mutiny by shooting one guy. I mean, you probably couldn't have stopped it even if that one guy was Hickey. He'd just have been a martyr to the cause. And yeah, I know knowing that doesn't magically change things. That stuff all still happened.
But you are not nothing. [ She leans forward again, holding his glance with her own fierce and sore and steady. ]
You're not nothing. Not to me. Not to a lot of people here, including all the ones you think should hate you.
[ Her expression turns inwards for a long moment, seeing again in her mind's eye the way the good people of Purgatory cross the street to get away from her, feeling their glares linger. She thinks of Shorty saying they're wrong... you're a good girl, Wynonna, and doesn't quite manage to fully shutter the flicker of pain that surfaces along with the memory. ]
Don't ask for that. Just... don't. You don't deserve it. Because I think you are a good man. I know you are.