[ Whatever he might have been expecting, it isn't anger. Little startles, but mutedly, like so much else — not flinching back from her, only blinking there where he sits, not understanding.
Not at first. But then it comes — and Wynonna doesn't temper it down or sugarcoat; everything comes. He's stunned as he watches her stand and move, and for a brief, kneejerk moment he still wonders if she'll leave him, if she should be let go (hasn't be almost opened the door for her to, with these words? It's not that he wants that, he fears it, he aches at the thought, but surely, surely she should find herself pulling back away from a man who means so little, someone who truly doesn't deserve the mercy she continually, somehow, grants him.)
Finally, Edward sits up in the rocking chair. The movement's so slow that it barely causes any resulting momentum; he only rocks back a little, and then he's very still. He stares at the woman, watching her speak. She isn't running away from him. She's telling him something very important. Waverly, a name he's heard. Willa, a name he hasn't. Daddy and Peacemaker and the men (it has to be men, he thinks, as the horrible mental image plays out in accompaniment to Wynonna's words, and there's something sick and nauseated rising inside of him.)
Wynonna holds his gaze, expecting something to shatter, but nothing does. Nothing will. Everything only— softens, as he stares up at her, eyes big and round and filling with fresh, sorrowful wet. Immensely and deeply wounded — not from her, but for her. He looks heartbroken, and that's the way it feels; if anything splits open in the face of Wynonna's words, it's only his own heart.
She tried to save someone she loved. She tried, and failed. And her own father— It's almost too much to bear. Edward draws a shuddery breath, one he has difficulty truly finding air from; everything feels too tight in his chest. There's a flicker of another man's life, a parallel outcome, in which his bullet had struck Kate instead, and it was his loved one's body to fall limp and bleeding to the snow. He can't even— begin to process such a thought. But here it is, right before him; Wynonna Earp lived such a horror.
Wordlessly, he stares down to the item — a sort of daguerreotype that Wynonna brings to him, and whether she means for him to actually take the photo or not, he finds both of his trembling hands reach up to take it, slowly. Something in him needs to.
He stares down at the three figures. The photo may lack colour, but he can see the sun's shining warmth upon the sisters in white dresses. He can feel the grass at their feet, hear the wind that might shift gently through the soft blades around them. The smiling young faces, the fresh flowers in hand; it's the literal picture of innocence.
His eyes move to the sister in twin braids, and stay there, staring at this past version of the woman he knows now. She was just a girl when it happened.
With trembling fingers, Edward places the photo carefully down upon his own lap and crumples to lean forwards and down once again, but— towards her, intentionally, to her. Unless she steps back, she's close as she stands there in front of him — close enough that when he bows his head into her, he feels the slight pressure of her body against the top of it, but he doesn't pull back.
It's not a bold move so much as the only natural one, when he reaches to find her hand. No shame or discomfort exists, not in this moment. Her hand isn't some foreign thing he must coax himself to touch. He finds it, and— holds on. He holds onto her. No, he won't let her go. ]
I'm sorry. I'm sorry this happened to you. I— [ He doesn't know what to do with all of this ache. He feels himself weeping again, for her, and keeps his head bowed. Still, despite the gesture, despite his crumbling, the grasp upon Wynonna's hand is nothing subservient, nothing submissive or hesitant; he holds and squeezes it warmly, protectively.]
a billion words of Ned Thoughts and then crying again....
Not at first. But then it comes — and Wynonna doesn't temper it down or sugarcoat; everything comes. He's stunned as he watches her stand and move, and for a brief, kneejerk moment he still wonders if she'll leave him, if she should be let go (hasn't be almost opened the door for her to, with these words? It's not that he wants that, he fears it, he aches at the thought, but surely, surely she should find herself pulling back away from a man who means so little, someone who truly doesn't deserve the mercy she continually, somehow, grants him.)
Finally, Edward sits up in the rocking chair. The movement's so slow that it barely causes any resulting momentum; he only rocks back a little, and then he's very still. He stares at the woman, watching her speak. She isn't running away from him. She's telling him something very important. Waverly, a name he's heard. Willa, a name he hasn't. Daddy and Peacemaker and the men (it has to be men, he thinks, as the horrible mental image plays out in accompaniment to Wynonna's words, and there's something sick and nauseated rising inside of him.)
Wynonna holds his gaze, expecting something to shatter, but nothing does. Nothing will. Everything only— softens, as he stares up at her, eyes big and round and filling with fresh, sorrowful wet. Immensely and deeply wounded — not from her, but for her. He looks heartbroken, and that's the way it feels; if anything splits open in the face of Wynonna's words, it's only his own heart.
She tried to save someone she loved. She tried, and failed. And her own father— It's almost too much to bear. Edward draws a shuddery breath, one he has difficulty truly finding air from; everything feels too tight in his chest. There's a flicker of another man's life, a parallel outcome, in which his bullet had struck Kate instead, and it was his loved one's body to fall limp and bleeding to the snow. He can't even— begin to process such a thought. But here it is, right before him; Wynonna Earp lived such a horror.
Wordlessly, he stares down to the item — a sort of daguerreotype that Wynonna brings to him, and whether she means for him to actually take the photo or not, he finds both of his trembling hands reach up to take it, slowly. Something in him needs to.
He stares down at the three figures. The photo may lack colour, but he can see the sun's shining warmth upon the sisters in white dresses. He can feel the grass at their feet, hear the wind that might shift gently through the soft blades around them. The smiling young faces, the fresh flowers in hand; it's the literal picture of innocence.
His eyes move to the sister in twin braids, and stay there, staring at this past version of the woman he knows now. She was just a girl when it happened.
With trembling fingers, Edward places the photo carefully down upon his own lap and crumples to lean forwards and down once again, but— towards her, intentionally, to her. Unless she steps back, she's close as she stands there in front of him — close enough that when he bows his head into her, he feels the slight pressure of her body against the top of it, but he doesn't pull back.
It's not a bold move so much as the only natural one, when he reaches to find her hand. No shame or discomfort exists, not in this moment. Her hand isn't some foreign thing he must coax himself to touch. He finds it, and— holds on. He holds onto her. No, he won't let her go. ]
I'm sorry. I'm sorry this happened to you. I— [ He doesn't know what to do with all of this ache. He feels himself weeping again, for her, and keeps his head bowed. Still, despite the gesture, despite his crumbling, the grasp upon Wynonna's hand is nothing subservient, nothing submissive or hesitant; he holds and squeezes it warmly, protectively. ]
My heart breaks for you.