[ It's there underneath everything else — beneath the careful and strict social constructions of his particular time, beneath his ability to swallow back whatever he might truly feel in favour of what he should, beneath even simply his own shy disposition. Somewhere under all of it is simply a human being, and this crumbling, pathetic display is what's human. It's more raw than he's ever been around another; everything's so raw. He feels opened up and exposed, nerves red and wet and aching in the cold.
But it's genuine, it's true. He can only feel sorrow for Wynonna, for what she's lost, and how. Whatever horror he sees is because of what's been done to her, not any act she might have committed. Not even when she tells him that her father wasn't the only victim, that there were more, and perhaps the deaths of those men were intentional. It certainly seems that way.
It wouldn't matter. He can't see her as a monster, as something damned, and— he's listening to her, quietly, staying just as he is for a very long moment. He can't find the strength to do anything else, not for a long time; he can only listen to what Wynonna... offers him, because that is the word. It's not forgiveness; it's something so much more than that, something so less horrible (he'd shirk from the concept like he'd touched something hot, couldn't bear to hear anyone say you're forgiven). No, it isn't that. She isn't only revealing what horrors and losses she's known, but telling him that he isn't alone in his. Even here, even now, this is her... fighting for him. Protecting him. He sees that; it almost cripples him.
He gives a few soft exhales, eyes pressed shut, and then he's opening them again, reaching his free hand up to his face, rubbing the wool of his glove across his eyes. He's a mess, more than he's ever been around anyone or anything. He can't remember the last time he wept freely. The last time that what he truly felt took over everything, left him reduced to this. Like a child. Through it all, her words stay right there with him.
'But if you're damned, I'm damned. If you deserve this, I deserve it, too' 'I'm not letting you face any of it alone'
Finally, he lifts his head again, and finally, he releases her hand. But slowly, gently, lowering it to the photograph that's still secured to his lap. He picks it up, carefully holding it up for its owner to reclaim, barely allowing his fingertips to apply any pressure to its surface, as though afraid to harm it, as though it's a living thing. It's a deeply precious item, for all that it aches. What a horrible thing it is, to know that one has lost who one used to be, that one single act was enough to... alter the course of things. To set a pathway that one's feet are unable to escape walking. How cruel it is that Wynonna knew it when she was so very young. ]
Then I am not alone. And neither are you.
[ His voice is worn and more hoarse and pained than before, but resolute. He looks up at Wynonna, eyes red, their surrounding tissue swollen, but he holds contact. ]
You have me. No matter what you've faced, or what you've done.
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But it's genuine, it's true. He can only feel sorrow for Wynonna, for what she's lost, and how. Whatever horror he sees is because of what's been done to her, not any act she might have committed. Not even when she tells him that her father wasn't the only victim, that there were more, and perhaps the deaths of those men were intentional. It certainly seems that way.
It wouldn't matter. He can't see her as a monster, as something damned, and— he's listening to her, quietly, staying just as he is for a very long moment. He can't find the strength to do anything else, not for a long time; he can only listen to what Wynonna... offers him, because that is the word. It's not forgiveness; it's something so much more than that, something so less horrible (he'd shirk from the concept like he'd touched something hot, couldn't bear to hear anyone say you're forgiven). No, it isn't that. She isn't only revealing what horrors and losses she's known, but telling him that he isn't alone in his. Even here, even now, this is her... fighting for him. Protecting him. He sees that; it almost cripples him.
He gives a few soft exhales, eyes pressed shut, and then he's opening them again, reaching his free hand up to his face, rubbing the wool of his glove across his eyes. He's a mess, more than he's ever been around anyone or anything. He can't remember the last time he wept freely. The last time that what he truly felt took over everything, left him reduced to this. Like a child. Through it all, her words stay right there with him.
'But if you're damned, I'm damned. If you deserve this, I deserve it, too'
'I'm not letting you face any of it alone'
Finally, he lifts his head again, and finally, he releases her hand. But slowly, gently, lowering it to the photograph that's still secured to his lap. He picks it up, carefully holding it up for its owner to reclaim, barely allowing his fingertips to apply any pressure to its surface, as though afraid to harm it, as though it's a living thing. It's a deeply precious item, for all that it aches. What a horrible thing it is, to know that one has lost who one used to be, that one single act was enough to... alter the course of things. To set a pathway that one's feet are unable to escape walking. How cruel it is that Wynonna knew it when she was so very young. ]
Then I am not alone. And neither are you.
[ His voice is worn and more hoarse and pained than before, but resolute. He looks up at Wynonna, eyes red, their surrounding tissue swollen, but he holds contact. ]
You have me. No matter what you've faced, or what you've done.