singillatim | I am not a builder, I'm much better at blowing things down

[ It takes so much less time now to make her way back from Milton to the luxury cabin sitting so grandly at the shore of the lake. Sure, she had to shift midway through to work the elevator, shivering at the touch of the cold mine air to her skin, but the railroad bridge is a breeze on four strong legs and four sure paws, and she eats up the trails to Lakeside with a lazy loping stride that makes the landscape seem as though it's unscrolling beneath her.

Even with the warmer, longer days, it's cold when she finally reaches Jackrabbit, and all of her clothes are inside. Which is why, if Thomas is inside, he won't hear the door opening as Wynonna lets herself in without fanfare; instead, there's a scrape of claws at the door and a low whine, followed by a sharp bark.

Yo, Tommy! Let her in! ]

Thomas stands up and peers out the window, rolling his eyes at the sight of the wolf at the door.

"You really should plan better before you wander off," he says, opening the door for her with a smile. "I could have made you a pack to wear on your silly shoulders." And she's getting a happy headscratch because he really is pleased to see her again. He's missed her.

She butts her head up against his hand and sticks her cold nose into his colder palm, giving his chilly fingers an affectionate lick before she trots further into the living room to shake the damp off her fur. There's a blanket on the couch; good enough.

The wolf lifts onto its hind legs, stretches up and up, rough fur smoothing out to pale bare skin, and Wynonna reaches for the blanket to wrap around herself as she looks back at him. "What, one that won't explode when I shift? Because that would actually be pretty sweet."

He turns away, giving her the privacy she needs, though it hardly seems to matter any longer. He just drags over the wood for their stove and sets a kettle on to boil water.

"Or something you can remove before shifting," he points out, finally turning back around. "Are you hungry? I just finished roasting a rabbit," he tells her, though he's fairly sure she could smell it from wherever she was.

"I could eat." Obviously, as her stomach rumbles, clearly audible. The scent of roasted rabbit had her mouth watering for the last five hundred yards. "I didn't stop for anything on the way."

She's heading for the short hall that leads to the bedrooms, tossing words over her shoulder as she goes to change into real clothes. "I'll hunt tomorrow, bring us back some more meat. There's plenty out there again."

He calls after her. "You need not treat me like the cat bringing home a dead mouse. I am quite capable of bringing home enough to go around. I managed to have enough for a stew."

Which he has placed in the embers on the far corner of the fireplace so it will not scorch.

"Hey, I'm just trying to pull my weight." She pulls on soft flannel pajama pants, wanders back out into the living area as she tugs a shirt on and ties it loosely up at her ribs. She's still warm from her run, and Tommy won't care. "You're cooking, cleaning, mending all my shit... I guess I make a decent guard dog, at least."

Wynonna curls into a corner of the large sofa, watching him as he works. "Anything crazy happen while I was gone?"

He just likes being useful. But she does sit and he automatically hands her a plate with a bit of rabbit dusted with ground acorns, and a berry mash.

But the water boils and he sits on the floor, meticulously rolling up the legs of his trousers to the knee.

"Mm, I walked to the tower," he says. "Up that great hill and back down. It was a beautiful view, but - odd."

Somehow, he manages to take pure survival rations and make them into something that's not just fuel, but food. Good food, even. Wynonna forces herself to eat slowly, making each bite last. She still hasn't put much weight back on after the lean weeks back in June, and the outline of her ribs is still clearly visible through her skin. "You realize beautiful but odd covers like ninety percent of this place, right?"

After she's finished a third of her meal, she makes herself set the plate in her lap, letting the food settle. "So what variation of 'odd' was it this time?"

Thomas nods, agreeing completely with those choice of words. Ninety percent. Ninety five. Beautiful and odd.

"There was a man there. His name was Sam. He - well, he was the lookout there for a while, but then something happened. He left and left many of his things behind. Maps and such. I - should have paid more attention to them." But he was very distracted.

Her mouth opens — there was a guy there? — and shuts again as he keeps going and she realizes what he meant. Still, there's plenty to latch onto once he finishes. "Maps? As in maps of this area? As in maps that will show us how to get out of this area?"

Wynonna lifts her eyebrows at him, leaning forward, her food for the moment forgotten. "Did you bring any back?"

"I'm no thief. They weren't maps like that. They were places we already knew. And the journal itself was - disjointed."

He shakes his head. He knows that it isn't like him to be this scattered, especially when it comes to new information, but he simply can't remember anything more than what his stupid, smitten brain can comprehend.

She ducks her head, pins him with a look from under her brows. "You're disjointed."

Barely, but when it comes to Tommy, that's still a blaring alarm and a roomful of flashing red lights. "Did you get a fever? Did that stab wound get infected?"

"No, nothing like that. I was - distracted. And the wound is healed, thanks to a friend."

And he might choke on the word 'friend.'

[ If the days weren't getting shorter and colder, maybe they wouldn't have stopped at the old woman's fire for a little light and warmth, and probably Wynonna wouldn't have accepted a cup of tea from a total stranger.

But they are, and they did, and she did, and now she holds the warm mug between her hands, breathing in the scented steam. ]

This lady's got a lot to live up to if she wants to out-do Tommy when it comes to tea.

[ ooc: here's your chance to learn about Wynonna's past via memories or embarrass her with some enforced truthtelling! hmu @

repeatandfade or blueofthebay on disco if you want to plot what memory or secret you get ]

Wynonna. [ Kate's voice is soft, but there's a gentle scolding in it of hey don't be rude towards the lady who's very kindly shared her fire and given us free tea. Even though, yes, Mr Jopson's tea is awesome. She agrees!

But like.... tact, Wynonna.

She cradles her rosehip tea close to her, blowing on it gently for a moment. ]

Thank you for the tea, ma'am. It's real nice of you to share.

[ The old woman mumbles something unintelligible, but she smiles and shakes her head. She just seems glad for the company more than anything. Kate smiles politely before she looks to Wynonna with raised eyebrows before she takes a sip of her tea. ]

For Heaven's sake—

[ Irving bristles at Wynonna's comment not only for fear that the lady may overhear her, but that he might also be considered impolite by mere association if so— as much as he still wishes she wouldn't call Jopson Tommy, either, he's at least given up that particular campaign by now.

He thanks the old woman in an amiable but borderline distracted sort of way, words tripping over each other in his haste to save face. ]

Tea is tea, Miss Earp, [ he adds in a harsh semi-whisper after they move on, ] There's no point in comparing any one cup to another.

[Look. Smart choices weren't exactly Ruby and Wynonna's strong suit, but here they were.

For how quick Ruby was to accept any sort of food given to her, it's actually a little odd to see her hesitate at the sight of tea before outright refusing it. She didn't mind the warmth or the smell, but she wasn't about to indulge in anything like that.

She's quick to hide that apprehension by focusing on Wynonna for the moment.]

Oh? And what does this Tommy do with his tea that's so special?

[ March's lips are curled into a semi disapproving snarl, debating whether or not he actually wants to drink it. It's warm, sure, but on the other hand? He glances over at Wynonna. ]

This smells too much like hippie bullshit to me, Winnie, I gotta be level with you on this.

What? She's like a million years old and she lives alone in the woods. She's got bigger problems than somebody not liking her tea.

[ It's muttered, at least, as Wynonna lifts her cup and sips at the tea, the familiar taste of rosehip filtering over her tongue. It's not sweet, like Kate's syrup, but it's soothing and warm. The fire crackles as she settles herself a little more comfortably, blinking against a fog that seems to be creeping in over the corners of her vision.

The scene in front of her flickers and darkens, and she frowns down at the cup, suspicious. ]

This is just rosehips, right?

Like you wouldn't throw a shit fit if someone handed you a cup that was brewed ten seconds too long.

[ Irving can hiss all he wants; he's still sitting here with her, hands curled around his own mug. He might be staying with Kate and Little, but that doesn't mean he has to befriend her, too, and he's had a bunch of chances to nope right the hell out of this acquaintance.

He hasn't, which means he's willing to put up with her at least to a point. And though he's prudish, repressed, and maybe the judgiest bitch she's ever met, it's not like she's opted out of this hang, either. Hell, she kinda likes the guy. Besides, who knows what might be lurking under all that weird, awkward stuffiness? If she can find a kernel of fun in Edward Little, she might be able to pick one out in this dude, too.

Once he's got his tea and the old woman has sat back down, Wynonna lifts her mug for a sip, letting the slightly sour rosehip infusion roll over her tongue. ]

I mean, it's fine. We're not at the Ritz, or anything.

[ She blinks against the smoke from the fire, trying to clear her vision, but it doesn't seem to be working. In fact, the fire itself seems to be shrinking away, an unnatural veil of darkness lowering between her and the light. ]

Uh, Irving? I take it back. I think there's something wrong with this tea.

[ Deeply wrong, because she can't see the fire or the woods around her at all anymore. Instead, when she blinks, her gaze falls on the wide and sweeping prairies surrounding the Homestead: gently undulating fields rising lazily towards low hills in the distance. The house and the barn next to it are black smudges; she looks to her side and sees Gus' old blue and white truck. Everything is cloaked in the weird darkness of an eclipse; it feels wrong.

Also wrong: the looming figure of Jim "Killer" Miller slowly stalking away from her, cloak fluttering. ]

There's something wrong with this tea!

Shut up and drink your tea, March.

[ The semi-warm weather of the last few weeks has been rapidly fading, and she's grateful for the warm mug in her hands, for the fire crackling gently a few feet away. They'll hang here a minute, warm up, have their tea, and head back out again, somewhere far enough away that this nice old lady won't get traumatized if they shed their clothes and turn into wolves.

Her own tea tastes fine, the sour-sweet of rosehips, and she arches her eyebrows at March in a silent order. Drink it, dummy! ]

You shut up.

[ Wynonna isn't even talking. March doesn't care, the consistent need to get the last word in with her superceding most things, including survival. But he'll finally taste it, a different flavour entirely to her rosehips. ]

This is awful.

[ He doesn't need to be truth serum'd to confess that. But he stares pointedly at Wynonna as he takes another sip because he's trying to prove some sort of weird, internal point. ]

[ His stare, and whatever point he was trying to make, bounce right off her, unnoticed. In fact, everything does, as the taste of rosehips floods her mouth and a memory that's never far away drags its claws across her mind.

But it doesn't feel like a memory; it feels like being back there, like she's standing in the dimly lit dining room of the homestead, watching it all play out in front of her. There are four familiar figures at that table: a man about March's age, worn down and with an ever-present furrow of frustration in his brow, and three girls. She knows their ages: Willa, thirteen years old. Waverly, six. And there, with her hair in two tidy braids, watching their father with hero-worship in her eyes, a twelve year old Wynonna Earp.

They're all watching him as he cleans the gun in his hands -- Peacemaker, shining in the candlelight -- and he's talking, saying the words that have burned into Wynonna's brain ever since that night all those years ago. They say Wyatt took down 77 outlaws with this gun, Ward Earp tells his girls, all listening with rapt attention. And all those outlaws are resurrecting as revenants coming for us. They won't rest until they gain freedom from their earthly prison.

You'll get them, Daddy, the smaller Wynonna says, as the real one pales, reaches for March's arm. ]

March. We gotta get, we gotta get out of here.

Edited 2024-09-04 16:35 (UTC)

Hey--

[ March is aware Wynonna has grabbed his arm. He doesn't move, though, feet glued to the floor. This is private. This is personal. ]

This is you.

[ It's not a revelation. He clocks it immediately--he spends enough time daydreaming about Wynonna to recognize features on the petite version. The nose stands out the most. And, of course, the gun.

This is Wynonna's dinner table, this is Wynonna's family, that is Wynonna's gun. He doesn't take his eyes off of anything, clocking it, alert and alarmingly observant. ]

This is that legend you were telling me about. [ Kind of. Sort of. ]

I am not a builder, I'm much better at blowing things down

can it be easy for once? — closed to Thomas Jopson

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I light torches in my sleep — tea time; open

r u ready to get ANGY Wynonna

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