[ He shifts toward her, deliberately, and reaches to settle his hand as lightly as down on her waist, and there's a moment where some button gets smashed in her head and she has to fight down the urge to flee; he's so close. And it's nothing at all like the day she slammed into him and couldn't let go, or the day she dragged him bleeding through the snow. Both of those times were brought on by a fever of desperation and the sick, slanting fear of loss.
This is just a normal night — if such a thing exists here — and she's used to him keeping a polite distance away, not coming close enough for her to see the way the candlelight flickers in his eyes and turns them the clear brown-gold of good brandy.
But that's an insane thought. It's just Little, and even if she's been wrestling with... everything... since maybe even before the Forest Talker attack, before she saw him drop, before she almost lost him for good, it's not like he's noticed or has anything like the same problem. He's her friend; he wants to dance; she can make this happen. No matter how furious she is at her own rapidly increasing heart rate. ]
Almost.
[ Let it never be said Wynonna Earp shies away from impaling herself on her own worst mistakes. She takes a half-step closer and lifts her own left hand to grab the one he has on her waist, pulling it a little higher and a little further around her, more on her back than her side, placing it under her shoulder blade and pressing his palm firmly to her ribs.
It brings her even closer. She tries not to notice.
Her own hand, she brings to his right shoulder, between the gold epaulet and his collar. There's just enough room. The fabric of this uniform — has he had this the whole time? — is warm and just a little rough against her palm and fingers.
She takes a slightly deeper breath than necessary, like she's about to walk into a dark cave that may or may not have a pit full of spikes yawning open just past the entrance, and looks up at him. ]
no subject
This is just a normal night — if such a thing exists here — and she's used to him keeping a polite distance away, not coming close enough for her to see the way the candlelight flickers in his eyes and turns them the clear brown-gold of good brandy.
But that's an insane thought. It's just Little, and even if she's been wrestling with... everything... since maybe even before the Forest Talker attack, before she saw him drop, before she almost lost him for good, it's not like he's noticed or has anything like the same problem. He's her friend; he wants to dance; she can make this happen. No matter how furious she is at her own rapidly increasing heart rate. ]
Almost.
[ Let it never be said Wynonna Earp shies away from impaling herself on her own worst mistakes. She takes a half-step closer and lifts her own left hand to grab the one he has on her waist, pulling it a little higher and a little further around her, more on her back than her side, placing it under her shoulder blade and pressing his palm firmly to her ribs.
It brings her even closer. She tries not to notice.
Her own hand, she brings to his right shoulder, between the gold epaulet and his collar. There's just enough room. The fabric of this uniform — has he had this the whole time? — is warm and just a little rough against her palm and fingers.
She takes a slightly deeper breath than necessary, like she's about to walk into a dark cave that may or may not have a pit full of spikes yawning open just past the entrance, and looks up at him. ]
Forward and back, you got it.