[ She would hate him if she knew all of the truths. Even if not wholly — some part of her must. How could anyone not? As much as he longs to be someone that others here can trust, the truth is that Edward knows no one should. If there were any goodness left to him — to that man whose rot was kept beneath all of it, beneath layers upon layers of wool as he clung so desperately to his role and the thought that he could still help others with it — it was lost on that last march.
And in this place, he's been... foolish, to think he could ever return to who he used to be, or at least to some semblance of that man. He isn't. He can't be, ever again. Perhaps he's already known that — after the death of Lieutenant Noonien-Singh, so much.... was revealed to him, and he gave up, for a while; he did, he gave up, and even if he eventually came back... not all of him did. Not really. More and more, pieces have eroded away. Perhaps this was always going to happen.
But he does listen to Wynonna as she speaks, and as some part of him still, still, wants to believe every word, to accept them — wants what she's offering, which isn't... forgiveness, necessarily, but something much more palatable. Logic, reasoning, 'you couldn't have stopped a mutiny by shooting one guy,' and she's right, he does know she's right. Even what came after — the... vote, the looks in those men's faces as he stared back in horror, the way Lieutenant Le Vesconte could not maintain eye contact with him for too long, the anger so severe every part of him shook with it; there was nothing more he could have done. Not really.
(Then he should have died. He should have sat down with Thomas, and the others, and let himself die.) What did he think could be done for the marching men? That he would truly be able to lead them to safety? To rescue? That he could do anything for them? He knows now that there were no survivors of their Expedition.
Then he should have died while he was still himself, and not a man marching towards the faint, impossible prospect of survival. Not a man who left his captain behind. If this is what it means to live, then he shouldn't be.
...But that, truly is what he deserves. To live, like this. Knowing what he'd done. Knowing what he'd lost.
And so, even as Wynonna Earp looks at him with eyes — somehow both like a steel trap and yet still so comforting for their familiarity — and tells him that he is not nothing, not to her, he knows that he doesn't deserve this, either. Doesn't deserve her. She understands (it isn't the first time he's known such a concept; she knows what it's like to ruin things, everything she says, and he believes her, because she's known what it is to fail to protect others — he remembers her telling him, has never forgotten, even if he doesn't know the particular details behind it) but she shouldn't have to see herself in someone like him. Not she, who is brave and good and would kill someone so that he doesn't have to. Would make that kind of sacrifice. ]
Whatever Hell this is, that dead men are allowed to walk again... that is what I deserve, [ he says softly. ] Not to truly die, but to.... live. As a ghost amongst the ghosts of the men I—.... I abandoned. [ The word catches, but softly. He... sees himself very clearly now. And his eyes narrow sadly down at her, at the disappointment he knows he must be to her — who has fought so hard for his sake. She shouldn't. There are others worth fighting for, far more deserving. ]
I see that now.
[ He reaches out, for the first time, eyes heavy and aching, and places a hand gently upon Wynonna's shoulder. (It's selfish, he knows, to want to keep her, despite everything he's just said and all of the things that have remained unspoken. Even so, he wishes he could.) ]
I am glad that it is you with whom I am stuck. ['You're stuck with me', she said, as though that was his punishment instead, as though she isn't the person he now so often thinks to first when he needs— anyone, for anything. There might almost be a glint of something light-hearted to the sentiment, for the way it's worded, a faint ripple of warmth to his wet gaze, but it fades quickly. His heart feels.... gone. Emptied. He needs to bury Mikel. (He can't imagine returning back to his cabin. He doesn't know what to do. He wants to run away.) He frowns, deep and miserable. ]
But I truly am not the man you think I am. I... barely deserve to stand in your shadow, Miss Earp. Whatever ruin you may have known before, when I look to you, I see only... what grows. What thrives, and lives. Not ruin. Only light.
[ He squeezes her shoulder, but softly, meant to be soothing to a woman who has revealed some of her own hurts and wounds to him, before he finally lets his hand fall away. ]
As much as I long to keep it, someone else deserves your mercy. Not I.
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And in this place, he's been... foolish, to think he could ever return to who he used to be, or at least to some semblance of that man. He isn't. He can't be, ever again. Perhaps he's already known that — after the death of Lieutenant Noonien-Singh, so much.... was revealed to him, and he gave up, for a while; he did, he gave up, and even if he eventually came back... not all of him did. Not really. More and more, pieces have eroded away. Perhaps this was always going to happen.
But he does listen to Wynonna as she speaks, and as some part of him still, still, wants to believe every word, to accept them — wants what she's offering, which isn't... forgiveness, necessarily, but something much more palatable. Logic, reasoning, 'you couldn't have stopped a mutiny by shooting one guy,' and she's right, he does know she's right. Even what came after — the... vote, the looks in those men's faces as he stared back in horror, the way Lieutenant Le Vesconte could not maintain eye contact with him for too long, the anger so severe every part of him shook with it; there was nothing more he could have done. Not really.
(Then he should have died. He should have sat down with Thomas, and the others, and let himself die.) What did he think could be done for the marching men? That he would truly be able to lead them to safety? To rescue? That he could do anything for them? He knows now that there were no survivors of their Expedition.
Then he should have died while he was still himself, and not a man marching towards the faint, impossible prospect of survival. Not a man who left his captain behind. If this is what it means to live, then he shouldn't be.
...But that, truly is what he deserves. To live, like this. Knowing what he'd done. Knowing what he'd lost.
And so, even as Wynonna Earp looks at him with eyes — somehow both like a steel trap and yet still so comforting for their familiarity — and tells him that he is not nothing, not to her, he knows that he doesn't deserve this, either. Doesn't deserve her. She understands (it isn't the first time he's known such a concept; she knows what it's like to ruin things, everything she says, and he believes her, because she's known what it is to fail to protect others — he remembers her telling him, has never forgotten, even if he doesn't know the particular details behind it) but she shouldn't have to see herself in someone like him. Not she, who is brave and good and would kill someone so that he doesn't have to. Would make that kind of sacrifice. ]
Whatever Hell this is, that dead men are allowed to walk again... that is what I deserve, [ he says softly. ] Not to truly die, but to.... live. As a ghost amongst the ghosts of the men I—.... I abandoned. [ The word catches, but softly. He... sees himself very clearly now. And his eyes narrow sadly down at her, at the disappointment he knows he must be to her — who has fought so hard for his sake. She shouldn't. There are others worth fighting for, far more deserving. ]
I see that now.
[ He reaches out, for the first time, eyes heavy and aching, and places a hand gently upon Wynonna's shoulder. (It's selfish, he knows, to want to keep her, despite everything he's just said and all of the things that have remained unspoken. Even so, he wishes he could.) ]
I am glad that it is you with whom I am stuck. [ 'You're stuck with me', she said, as though that was his punishment instead, as though she isn't the person he now so often thinks to first when he needs— anyone, for anything. There might almost be a glint of something light-hearted to the sentiment, for the way it's worded, a faint ripple of warmth to his wet gaze, but it fades quickly. His heart feels.... gone. Emptied. He needs to bury Mikel. (He can't imagine returning back to his cabin. He doesn't know what to do. He wants to run away.) He frowns, deep and miserable. ]
But I truly am not the man you think I am. I... barely deserve to stand in your shadow, Miss Earp. Whatever ruin you may have known before, when I look to you, I see only... what grows. What thrives, and lives. Not ruin. Only light.
[ He squeezes her shoulder, but softly, meant to be soothing to a woman who has revealed some of her own hurts and wounds to him, before he finally lets his hand fall away. ]
As much as I long to keep it, someone else deserves your mercy. Not I.