singillatim | this empty northern hemisphere

this empty northern hemisphere

NOVEMBER 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — STRANGERS: The Darkwalker returns to directly target Interlopers by stripping away the very things that make them who they are.

PROMPT TWO — NO EXIT: Interlopers find themselves trapped within the bowels of the earth, with no way out, except one.

PROMPT THREE — LAST SUNSET OF THE YEAR: As the long night draws in, Interlopers find a way to bring about some festive cheer to chase off the chill and darkness.

STRANGERS

WHEN: The month of November
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mental manipulation; memory loss; loss of self/identity; potential identity crisis; potential personality changes; possible themes of depression; possible themes of suicide.

”They failed.”

For some, they have heard this voice before many times. For others they have only heard the voice upon their arrival into this place. An old voice, deep and dark and ancient. Something impossible, older than the earth itself. The one that floats into your ears and nestles there, sending an ice-cold shiver down your spine. Even to the most stoic and unshakeable souls, it is an unnerving voice. It feels wrong. It feels like an ending. It is the very same voice that spoke to you, right from the start. The words all Interlopers share with one another: You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.

They failed, and you realise just who ‘they’ are — the Forest Talkers. Mallory slumped in a cabin, slowly bleeding out.

”Interloper.”.

The voice that wants you gone. The one that wants to get rid of you. The Darkwalker.

”Inconsequential. They have gone into the Dark. As will you. As will all.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before it continues.

“What are you truly, Interloper?” it asks you. ”Or rather…. who are you? Take it away, and what are you left with?”

You feel your hands shake, you can’t seem to breathe. What does it mean?

”Perhaps nothing worth keeping, perhaps then you will finally see. Maybe you will finally understand your place. And perhaps then you will go into the Dark.”

You remember those words, and they linger within your mind in the days that follow.

It happens slowly, like the sea erodes the cliff face. The pieces come away, everything within you is slowly undone. Not an instant, but an insidious thing. You begin to forget things, about yourself, about the others around you.

You know you have loved ones, here in the Northern Territories, or even the ones waiting for you back home, but you cannot recognise their faces. You cannot recall the colour of a daughter’s hair, or the dimpled smile of a brother. You do not remember your father’s eyes, or your mother’s laugh. You cannot recall their names, their voices.

You do not remember those around you here in this world. You look upon a friend and see a stranger. You cannot recall the trials you have gone through together and come out the other side from. You cannot remember every shared moment, every small and brief moment of joy or compassion or hope. A hug, a hand held, a joke, a kind word, an apology.

Or perhaps you cannot remember any good thing you ever did. You cannot recall any act of kindness or goodness you brought into the world. You cannot recall your good deeds. Everything falls away from you, and you are left wondering who you are, what kind of person you are. Are you a good person? Or a bad person? Perhaps you’re a terrible person, after all. One who should not be here. Why should someone who has done nothing good with their life be here in this place?

Perhaps the Darkwalker is right. Take it all away, and who are you? What is left of you? Who are you if you cannot remember any goodness of you? If you cannot remember the connections you have made in this place? If you cannot remember the love of those back home?

Is it anything worth keeping? Is it anything that’s worth staying?

For some, it may be too much. Despair and disconnection are heavy things, and it may be too much. Perhaps they are nothing worth keeping, in the end. It may be enough to seek an end to themselves. Maybe it would be best to slip quietly into the Long Dark, after all.

It is a terrible trick, but it is one that can be broken. The Darkwalker’s hold has been broken before, and perhaps it can be broken again. Even if you do not remember yourself, the ones around you do. Leaning on those you are close to and talking with slowly pull the pieces of yourself back to you. The Darkwalker has power, but the testament of Interlopers is their persistence in this world, and that has power, too. Given enough time, and patience, and care — those around you may finally make you whole once more.

NO EXIT

WHEN: The month of November
WHERE: Everywhere...?
CONTENT WARNINGS: forced honesty; claustrophobic situations; nyctophobic/scotophobic situations; themes of peril; caves/possible cave-ins; themes of starvation/dehydration; themes of imprisonment

It starts with strange happenings at night, things left to be found by the next morning. Those within Lakeside many find themselves unsurprised You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re sure you were wide awake only seconds before, but when you open your eyes, confused and groggy, you are met with a strange kind of darkness. The kind that seems thick and endless, and you stare into it, trying to get your eyes to adjust but nothing seems to shift in your vision.

The air is stale, and there’s a scent of old, damp stone that clings to it. As you move around, trying to get your bearings, the room echoes oddly and it doesn’t take long to realise that you’re in some kind of cave atrium. And soon enough, someone else is waking up — you’re not alone in this place.

Moving around is difficult, and it’s best to use your body to try to navigate yourself. Testing the way out carefully with hands and feet. Maybe you have something on your by chance to help you light your way — a lighter, a pocket flashlight, matches. However, which way you try to feel out the atrium, you both soon come to the same conclusion: no matter how hard you try, there is no exit. No tunnel or passage out from the atrium, nothing.

You are both entirely trapped within this one space.

For a while, you sit in the atrium. Maybe you sit in silence, maybe you speak over what looks to be the inevitable: you’re doomed to die here, whether you suffocate or die of dehydration or starvation. You and your companion — familiar or strangers —

Out of nowhere, comes a scraping against the stone. You turn to find that on one of the walls, there is light — a ghost writing on the wall, carving into the stone to reveal letters that will glow dimly:

THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

For some, this feels eerily familiar. Those who have been in the Northern Territories have dealt with something similar: a game of truths, a game of deadly consequences. There is no Jackal-headed being, no chains, no blood. This time, there is the truth or there is waiting to die. For others who aren’t familiar, it may take some working out. Maybe it’s best to talk, after all.

Opting for silence will find that nothing will change in the cave’s atrium. You will be left, waiting to die in the half-gloom. Strangely, speaking any lies will find that the cave will rumble ominously, and with enough — rock will begin fall down from above, almost as the place is slowly caving in. As if the stone itself knows if your words are truthful or not.

But as the words say, the truth will set you free. If you say enough, speak your truth, you will find yourselves noting a shift on the air — a crisp, freshness that drifts in from one direction. Heading through that way will bring you to a tunnel that had not been there before, and with it — you will find your exit, out into the wilds of Milton’s region.

LAST SUNSET OF THE YEAR

WHEN: Preparations throughout November; November 26th.
WHERE: Milton Community Hall
CONTENT WARNINGS: drinking/alcohol; mentions of survival situations relating to AMC's The Terror.

As November begins to draw to a close, the daylight hours grow shorter and shorter. From the start of the month, there is less than seven hours of daylight and that number becomes smaller and smaller as the month goes on. The world is darker and colder, and the long night draws nearer — when the sun will not rise, and the Northern Territories exist in total darkness, save for the spare hours of twilight.

For some, it is not the first time they’ve experienced the darkness of winter. For a select few, they have known the darkness only too well — the bitterness, the hopelessness, the hunger for the dawn. But even in the dark, there are sparks of light — the crackles of fires to fight off the night and cold, or in a more figurative sense… the spark of an idea, another way to fight off the night and cold.

As the day shrinks, the idea grows. There is little to be cheerful of in the Northern Territories. Interlopers are tormented endlessly in this place: supernatural beings, harsh weather, precarious food situations, nightmares, the Forest Talkers and whatever mysteries lie within the Aurora. Survival is a persistence, but people are exhausted. Francis Crozier, former Captain of HMS Terror knows this more than anyone. A veteran, and a survivor of an ill-fated expedition— he has seen what becomes of those with low morale, when the darkness seems so thick and endless. He has seen many horrors.

This time, though, it can be different. This is not his world. These are not starving and maddened men, women and children. It is not Carnivale.

Over the month of November, plans are made and slowly bear fruit. Help is wrangled from Interlopers where they can — food preparation, decorations, musicians. Interlopers are encouraged to add their personal touches, country, culture, customs, to all that they plan. The only thing that’s insisted upon is light, so much light: lanterns, candles, torches, mirrors, sculptures made of ice that catch the glimmer of the nearby fires. The evening will glow.

There isn’t so much a ‘dress code’, per say. But Interlopers are encouraged to dress up for the occasion. Maybe hunting around in the homes of former Milton residents may prove lucky — with some rather dated formal-wear that has remained forgotten in the back of closets. It’s vintage, is all.

On November 26th, there is less than an hour of daylight. The crowds gather to watch the sun set after it has barely risen before the festivities begin.

The food is simple and hearty, much like what can be found at Methuselah’s feasts. While pine wine has been brought along, hot tea is also available—both can keep the chill away. Crozier digs into his stores to share all, a promise to every person as they descend into darkness: no Interloper will go hungry this winter.

There’s dancing, of course, an area cleared and illuminated with torches. There’s an insistence on a party thrown in open air, no canvas to obscure the stars, though inside the Community Hall the warmth calls to those needing a break from the chill.

It is important to remember that the last sunset of the year is not the reminder of the darkness ahead, but the promise of the first sunrise of the next.

FAQs

STRANGERS

1. While the Darkwalker Ward Talismans anointed with Interloper blood (first created by Heartman earlier in the year) will help ward off the worst of the Darkwalker's influence, Interlopers will still find themselves vulnerable to this kind of influence — particularly if their spirits are low, or if they've found themself questioning themselves or their relationships around them as of late. Interlopers who do not have Talismans (this is a handwaved thing) will fall victim very easily to the Darkwalker's influence.

2. There are three ways players can play with this plot: they can go with a loss of self, the loss of game-cr or the loss of canon relationships/canon story. Players can go with whatever way they see fit. They can also go with the nuclear option of all three, or a mix of the three.

NO EXIT

1. The truths need to be meaningful in some way in order to secure freedom. 'Small truths' will not be enough.

2. Either both or one of the characters can speak their truth in order to free themselves from the cave.

LAST SUNSET OF THE YEAR

1. A big thank you to Gels for reaching out and helping with this prompt!

2. Characters will be able to find 'formal wear' of a sort within Milton. Bear in mind that a great deal of the fashion within Milton is dated, with a lot of the clothing being decades old that the original residents of Milton would have carefully kept safe. For a rough idea, nothing would be from anything later than the late-00's.

3. Players are free to write out any preparation threads as well as party threads! This could be outfit hunting; resource gathering for food, etc.; or making decorations for the Community Hall.

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( It would be difficult to miss Wynonna in a room no matter what. It's the subtle things as much as the not-so-subtle ones: the sweep of thick, loose waves, the way she stands and moves with a hip jutted out or a smooth saunter to her gait, the way she talks and smiles, wide and unapologetic. She commands attention whether she means to or not: it's the exact opposite of every value of Victorian Sensibility.

Edward has, of course, gotten used to most of it. He's no longer afraid of the tightness of her clothing or the.... openness of it — the freedom with which she presents herself. He understands it's a modern normalcy, very different from his own. There are times he still finds himself caught off-guard (it was a shock to stumble across that devil's costume she was sporting at Milton's last social event), but he eventually always recovers. And over times, such things, such differences in her time and his own seem to matter less and less. No, any lingering discomfort around her regarding those things has been.... placed aside, perhaps for a very long time now, (he's been able to place them aside), and it's gotten easier over time.

.....When he sees her there now, chatting with someone, he's stricken completely off-guard.

It's very different from the costumed adornments of October's gathering, very different from anything he's seen her in, or any woman. From the deep, deep neckline to the slit running down one leg, to the heels that seem to lengthen her entire form. Then there's the very colour of the garment itself — red and flaring, surely drawing every single eye to it that might happen to flit anywhere close to her at all.

He freezes, but neither approaches nor backs away from where he stands a little across the space. He's long-since stopped allowing the safe necessity that once said to distance himself from Wynonna Earp, from the risk of her hand brushing his arm or the way her gaze might linger at his. Not since the time he agreed never to shut her out again, the time they began to operate as one, at least a little bit more than they had before. And since then, he's embraced her in desperation, and she's held him right back, and she's pulled him up to her side as he'd bled, and his fingers have brushed hers soft and fleetingly, and he thinks, but he never can know for sure, that she'd been close to him in those final moments before Kate healed him (sometimes in his dreams, she leans over close and whispers something hushed and hurried and terrified, and her mouth brushes the space just beneath where stray locks of hair fall across his forehead—)

His heart pulses hard and fast, once, like it's taking too deep of a breath. It thuds in his ears. He still doesn't leave. (She's beautiful, but he's always known that.)

He waits until she's alone, this woman he's unsure how to categorise but has stopped trying to, despite how anguished it once made him. Companion, friend, partner. When the person she was speaking to steps aside, Edward moves closer. It's with the typical heavy thud of his boots, but the rest of his attire is different from the usual, not the jumper and waistcoat beneath a long woolen thing that swallows him up. It's a uniform that fits more closely to his body, broad-shouldered but slender at the waist, and with tails hanging behind. A pair of golden, tasseled epaulettes are attached to the shoulders. He hasn't brought them out of their cabinet in.... well, a year now. It's all much less worn-out than his usual garments.

He'd also taken some care with the state of his hair, trimming the unruly wavy locks just a bit, and shaving back some of the more unruly portions of his sideburns. He's left it long enough, though; it's best for this kind of weather. Once, when he was younger, he was a more clean-shaven, neat man.

Still, if he let himself, he might almost feel proud of his own appearance.

He steps up to her, no drink to be found in his own gloved hands, just his cap that he holds tucked to one of his sides, and he takes a quiet breath. Her mouth is dark and red and he obstinately doesn't look down at it, keeping her gaze instead. This is no easier, really, but it's there that his eyes stay. )

Miss Earp. Are you having an enjoyable evening?

( He starts there, polite as ever, and a little shy too, but that's nothing too new for him. What's new is that he needs (or wants, which feels more dangerous, somehow) to tell her how lovely she looks. )

Edited 2024-12-23 02:52 (UTC)

[ The summer had been a long stretch of nightmare, and the fall hadn't been much better, for all it was quieter. The whole town seemed to be laying low, licking its wounds as fresh snowfall covered the mess and the blood and the buried and burned bodies. It's no surprise to her that people have embraced this party, that they've dressed in whatever passes for Milton's finest; she's plenty familiar with the urge to find some small semblance of normalcy amongst a forest full of weird.

And, likewise, it's no surprise that she clocks when he enters, where he stands. She's been hyper-aware of Edward Little for months now; his is the face she looks for first when she does her sweep, checking to make sure her people are in line of sight and okay. Similarly, she knows he'll look for her. They have a deal; they agreed to keep an eye out for each other. She's been by more often, since the day she brought back his cap and stayed to have tea, to talk; he's been recovering well, and she's been glad to see it, relieved. She can tuck all those desperate words that had poured out of her the day she found him only to almost lost him back behind her ribs, safely unsaid once more. Things have been... good.

And then she hears a familiar tread of boots on boards, and whatever teasing remark she'd been about to greet him with — something about him attempting to be fun at a party — dies on her tongue when she turns and is no longer just aware of him, but looking at him, straight on. He's— trim in a uniform jacket she's never seen before, neatly tailored and tapered at the waist, and gold gleams at his shoulders. The uniform cuts close to his body; she's never seen his body, not really. He's always swaddled in his bulkier clothing, the greatcoat that could hide almost anything underneath. The epaulets broaden his shoulders and the uniform jacket his chest; she wants to set her hands on the tidy span of his waist.

Even his hair is different, brushed into a softly shining wave that keeps that one wayward lock from curling over his eye. He shaved, she realizes, with a sharp thud of shock. Not cleanly, but enough to trim back those ridiculous muttonchops, enough that she can see more of his face. But that's not just because of the trim, though, is it? She can see him because his head is up, not hung in uncertain gloom and lingering regret.

He looks back at her, all serious brown eyes and a voice she thinks she'd hear clearly even if everyone around them was yelling. ]

Little. Hey.

[ If she's being honest with herself, maybe it's not that she isn't surprised he came. She should be surprised, given what she knows about the last celebration he went to, back on the ice.

Maybe it's just that she wanted him to come. She knows a lot of people here, but he's her friend, he's— important to her, words she said aloud to him only a few weeks back.

...But that's a lie, too. She wanted him to come. She wanted him to see her like this, dressed up and different. But it seems to have backfired, because right now he looks so good it aches. She curls her fingers around her drink to keep from reaching to touch the gold fringe at one shoulder. ]

Wow, you look—

[ What's a good word— ]

Pretty.

[ Nope— ]

Pretty, pretty good, I mean. Great. You look great.

[ What the hell is wrong with her— ]

I like the—

[ She reaches up to brush at her own shoulder, because the word epaulet has gone completely out of her mind. If, honestly, it was ever there to begin with. ]

That's a nice touch. Very... shiny.

[ Stop talking, Wynonna. ]

( Somewhere along the way, that discomfort he's felt when she's near began to shift forms. He doesn't know when, exactly (although something flickers warm in his memory, flames and the soft lull of alcohol, and her head against his shoulder; it wasn't long after that he started going out of his way to avoid touching her again. Like the glimpse of a thing, and then eyes shutting quickly again afterwards.)

He's no complete stranger to physical attraction, but it's certainly been such a rarity that it's never even been worth mentioning. There have been those he's considered lovely to behold; one can appreciate another's physical appearance in secret, but such things would be quickly packed away and never looked at again. He can't even remember feeling anything like that in the past decade of his life. Everything was his role, his life on the ships and stations. That was how it was.

It's rude to look at her so much. It's rude to approach her at all like this, probably. (But she doesn't think so, and he knows that, and she calls him Little, the way he's used to. Familiar and carefree and accepting.) He's so nervous, but for a moment, soothed by that familiarity, and he actually smiles a little.

Even how she responds to him — staggered, words not eloquent and practiced and proper, but just... words, tumbling in freefall. (He doesn't for a moment think that it's because he's instigated some fluster in her, has no idea, although hearing that she thinks he looks great makes something in him flip-flop pleasantly.) Everything about her is so familiar, and yet there's so much that's new, too. He doesn't know how to handle any of this. He finds himself terrified that his eyes might drop from hers, might look to her mouth or even further downwards, which is— unthinkable, but his heart is pounding. )

Thank you. I haven't often had the opportunity to wear them, but I thought this would be the occasion.

( Still polite, still his usual self, maybe, at least on the surface. But his grasp on his cap is tight, fingers practically squeezing the material to death, and he wills himself to loosen them a little. He wants to tell her that she looks great too, only there's no right way to say that, just as there's been no right way to say how he thinks of Wynonna Earp's physical appearance for months and months and months. It's been safest not to, of course. It would have been unthinkable. And then for so long, he'd told himself there was nothing to even consider at all. Not even after they both came back from being wolves, and he spent so much time coming down from the strange realisation of freedom, some part of his spirit unlocked for the first time in maybe his entire life, and all it wanted was to be close to hers. (And it had been. In all ways. There were tongues involved—)

There are so many words for how she looks right now, and he shouldn't speak any of them, it's not his place (or maybe, more than that, it's because there's a door that he's kept shut and shouldn't open, even as he can feel some light peek through, a sliver of it.) )

And you are a vision of refinement.

( ....For now, for this moment, what comes out is this. Somehow it isn't enough, this polished, pretty response. (Granted, it's still a lot for him to tell a woman...)

But it isn't enough. There are other words, better ones. When did he start thinking that every smile he earns from her is a gift? A thing to look forward to? When did he start wanting to make her, specifically, smile? It’s an indecent thought, a shameful one. But he doesn’t feel shame right this moment (another peculiar new awareness).

He tries again, adding on to his previous words, finding another Very Victorian Compliment, and it immediately, somehow, isn't enough either. )

I should even say that your countenance is as radiant as the morning sun we have been so deprived of, as of late.

( Stop talking, Edward. )

[ He smiles — just a little, that shy softening of his mouth that's so familiar to her now and which is similar to his real smile, the brilliant and buoyant one, as a sliver of moon is to the midday sun. She wants to see it again, that smile, the one that blossomed over his face so late that night, in the warm dimness of his cabin. It changed everything about him. It changed everything. Even now, when she lies awake at night with her eyes stubbornly closed, she can see it in perfect detail. Even the memory leaves her with a rush of confused and irritated warmth; how dare he have such a good smile?

But this one is good, too, even softer and smaller. Her glance tracks down to the way his lips curve, very slightly, before lifting again to his eyes. He at least still looks familiarly anxious, which helps, but she wants to kick herself, or take herself out to the nearest snowbank, because great isn't really the word for how he looks right now. He's... handsome, a word she never thought to use outside seeing it in books that are too old and boring for her to want to read anyway. But it fits, here: a little old-fashioned, a lot overwhelming. She's known he's a handsome man this whole time, remembers thinking it months ago, but handsome has never really done anything for her before. It lacks the necessary edge.

None of which explains why, when she rubs the pads of her fingers together just for something to do with her non-drink-holding hand, she can almost feel the strands of his hair against them again. In a moment of weakness over the summer — stupid empathy — she'd run her fingers through his hair and it's been with her ever since, that knowledge. She look at the dark smooth wave of it and knows exactly the texture of it. She wants to sink her fingers in and muss it all up again. She wants to make fun of his gold fringe and neat uniform. She wants, more than anything, to have never come to the realization that she wants him. It goes against everything she stands for. She has a reputation to uphold, and he'll ruin it. He's so... good. It's horrifying.

Also horrifying: whatever's happening right now. Vision sounds good, refinement sounds like a swing and a miss. No part of her is refined, and he knows it. Beneath this sleek gown burns a poorly-aimed firework, liable to go off any moment and take someone's hand with it.

...She's got no fucking idea what to make of what he says next. ]

My what?

[ What the hell is countenance—

It's almost something Doc would say, but she'd been used to Doc spouting pretty words her way, ladled out in his lazy drawl. And Little's pretty far from Doc, but the thought's enough to lend her at least some context. And radiant—

Her own smile starts to tug, slightly disbelieving at first, but soon wide and white and amused... and something else, too, that isn't quite shy but is a little more than uncertain. ]

Is this your way of saying you think I look nice?

[ It clutches in her stomach, makes something behind her ribs slam awkwardly into itself. It's Little, and he's always polite, and this is probably just what he's been taught to say to ladies of his acquaintance at parties, but—

But she can't help it. Her smile tucks into her cheeks, pleased. She's too hardened and jaded to blush, but the warmth of the room is pinking her cheeks with a little color. She'll stand by that excuse to her dying day. ]

( The words don't fit, but they're relatively safe things to say to a woman one is trying to compliment, sparing any sort of direct acclaim to her features (such as drawing explicit attention to her eyes or smile or the slope at her waist that one's hand could rest upon.) Really, if he wanted to truly be safe, it would be her character that he'd compliment and nothing else at all, but—

She said he looked great.

His own words aren't enough and they're not right. Not all the way. It isn't to say that he doesn't mean them, because he does. But— yes, Wynonna wearing a dress at all is a particular refinement, perhaps, but the dress is cut low and reveals much, and it's startling and feels a little dangerous (and that's Wynonna, really.) And her countenance is as bright as the sun, but not because of any new thing tonight at all; Wynonna's always shone (and this too has maybe felt a little dangerous, bright-hot and a little painful, but that was way back when he first met her. Now she doesn't shine painfully at all, not to him. She feels like warm firelight, comfortable and safe.)

It's right there when she smiles at him like that. How her smile grows and spreads, at times sharp, wolfish and at times almost girlish, youthful; at times softer, at times teasing and playful. He likes all of her smiles, and especially likes being the cause of them, a fact his heart keeps like a secret, dangerous and precious.

This smile is, at first, a little harder to read — not quite hesitant, but not so fast and assured. He pauses in the spaces she lingers in, and then—

'Is this your way of saying you think I look nice?'

Edward inhales quietly, frozen. Nice — one simple word to counter all of his complicated ones. It's not a word his vocabulary would usually ever allow for, not in this context, certainly.

It's perfect. She does, she looks nice, and things like refinement and a radiant countenance maybe amplify that here in the glow of so many candles and lanterns, but at the core it's because it's her.

He feels so shy. His heart stutters, his stomach clenches. He can't remember feeling so young and uncertain of himself.

But she's given him the word, and given him permission to use it, and though he knows Wynonna's particular era is so different from his own, that it might not offend her to use such a word to describe her, the fact she lets him use it, gives it to him, makes all the difference. He cradles the word in his palms, gently, and then offers it back. It's safe to. He tips his head forwards, as if to nod, and also as if to hide the new, freshly shy smile that appears there. )

If I might be so bold — you look very nice, Miss Earp.

( The words are voiced very softly, bashful but not reluctant, his own eyes swimming as if something in him melts — and it feels like that, like something melting. It warms his features, something fond despite his timidity, something brighter than usual, maybe even— happier. )

[ Little and his quiet, shy smiles; Little and his Miss Earps, words she's heard him say now so many times and in so many different tones, from scandalized to shouted to soft. And now this, tacked onto a compliment she'd never in a million years have expected from him, no matter how polite he is and how expected he probably thinks it is to say something like it. He ducks his head and smiles, but she can still see the gentle curve of it; she can hear it in his voice, and when he looks back up at her with that warmth in his eyes she feels something trip all over itself in her chest. They're surrounded by people, but right now she can't help but feel like they're right back on the couch in his old cabin, the fire burning low, sending flickering light over them both, softening all their edges.

It's candles and lanterns this time, catching them both in this glow, and it's making her feel like time has stopped; like someone somewhere has taken a quiet breath in and is holding it. ]

You may.

[ Her own smile is crinkling up the corners of her eyes now, pressing dimples into her cheeks. He might just be being polite, but that doesn't make it any nice to hear, and she doesn't— she's not sure he is just being polite. ]

In fact, I'm gonna go ahead and give you blanket permission. Be bold, go for it. I like it. Here—

[ Wynonna reaches out now — it feels like finally — for his upper arm, fingers slipping along his uniform sleeve until they find the curve of his elbow and curl there, firm. She does her best to tell herself it feels like every other time she's reached for his arm or smacked his shoulder, any other time she'd reached for him like she was allowed to.

But what it really feels like is the day they played in the woods as wolves, when she checked her shoulder against his and wound around him; when she mouthed at him and licked him without thinking about it, warm and delighted and affectionate. Maybe it's the affection that's the same... is that the thing that's lighting up his eyes and softening his smile?

Well, they're friends. He's finally gotten used to her, and she doubts even taking his arm right now to try and coax him to come with her will make him blink. ]

Let's get you a drink and see if that helps you get even bolder.

( On his end of things, Edward's initial thought is that she's teasing him. This, too, is something that should make him more uncomfortable than it actually does, but this, too, is something familiar. The tiny hollows that form in her cheeks as she smiles, the sparkling crackle of her eyes. She tells him to be bold, that she likes it, and he takes all of it at face-value, but his face-value for it mostly says that Wynonna is playing with him, the way she so often does.

He likes it, too. It may have taken months and months for some of his exterior to soften enough to be able to handle such a familiar quip, such unfiltered playfulness, but somewhere along the way he began to remember that once upon a time, he liked being someone that others felt comfortable around. It was never really fully; given his no-nonsense loyalty to his duties, he wasn't really a friend to the men, but— they liked him well enough, he thinks. Thought. He was softer than the other officers, not as jovial as some or severe as others, but he was someone the men could come to, and maybe relax a bit around.

If she's comfortable enough around him to tease, like she so often does, then he's happy about it (never mind that five seconds later he's stricken for a moment again when she reaches for his arm, when physical contact is made, and he's suddenly aware of the sensation of being able to perceive her close by — the solidness of her body, the warmth of it, cherry-red fabric mere inches from him.)

He tenses, but not away from Wynonna; he stays right where he is, with her, and his stomach is tingling but he doesn't hate it. She's affectionate to him and he's affectionate right back, even in his nervous way — heart fluttering, Little lifts his arm a bit up, and shifts his body slowly back; the movement opens up a clear space between his elbow and side, as though to ask her to properly take his arm (there's a hitch as he realises it's the wrong arm, that etiquette dictates she take his left arm, but— there are so many little ways he's broken etiquette at all, and maybe it's okay if Wynonna takes his right arm tonight).

Assuming, of course, that she wants to. (It is still rather forward of him....)

Perhaps he should actually ask— )

Would you care to properly accompany me?

( Where were they going, again? Ah, a drink — he wasn't planning to partake, but he thinks he'd do anything Wynonna asked or wanted or needed, his mind a strange, dizzied buzz. How is it that being so close to someone can make him feel so nervous, and yet he can't even fathom the concept of parting with her? He might even come across as greedy for her attention — which is shameful and immoral and so many other terrible words.

....He likes being with her, is the thing. And somehow, maybe because she's exactly the way she is and she gives him permission to be bold, he truly can be. A little bit. This is pretty bold for him. )

Edited 2024-12-26 07:01 (UTC)

[ He shifts, lifting his elbow to give her space, and Wynonna has never had any trouble taking up all the space she can. She shifts around with a step and a soft, rustling sound of slippery satin fabric, sliding her hand and forearm into the curve of his arm and tucking herself comfortably up to his side. With her heels, she's almost as tall as he is, but it still works, she still fits right here next to him, the way she remembers waking up fitted next to him on the couch, her head resting on his shoulder, her hair catching in the soft material of his sweater.

For a moment she glances down, looking at her own hand against his uniform sleeve — she'd painted her nails for the party and now they gleam, cherry-red and warm — against the navy wool. He's warm and solid against her, and it's nothing like the last time they were this close, when she had her arm around him to haul him bodily through the snow, her legs burning and her breath aching in her lungs.

She's been close to Little a lot, if she lets herself think about it. There was a long while after the day she came over and dozed off against his shoulder when it felt like there was some impassable distance between them; they'd kept each other at arm's length or farther, on purpose. But then that green haze had descended, and she'd gone crashing into him once she finally found him again once it cleared, and ever since then she's found herself knocking against his shoulder, brushing her fingers against his, and generally getting into his space more often than not. And he hasn't pushed her away. He doesn't now, either; he actually invites her closer. ]

You know, I think I would.

[ She's not quite sure when or how — or why — it happened, but somewhere along the way he became the person here she most wants to spend time with. Maybe it's because, despite all his propriety and the stiffness that took what seemed like this entire year to soften and unbend, he's never actually made her feel like he wants her to be different from what she is, even as he's clearly struggled with how different she is from him. But he's never admonished her for being rude or inappropriate — the only time he's ever raised his voice or gotten exasperated with her has been for... other things entirely (for being thoughtless and foolish, a memory that still stings and curdles in her stomach sometimes). He's never tried to change her.

And yet, she is conscious of having changed, and it's a been a while since the dawning realization of having changed at least in part because of him. She'd said it herself, sitting there with him after she came to drop off his cap: you make me stronger, too. But it's not really just that; or if it is, it's a different kind of strength than she's ever needed before. It's like being with Waverly, knowing that no matter how often or how hard she stumbles and falls, she'll hit something soft and forgiving instead of inflexible and cold. She can be herself around him, but also maybe a... better version of herself, one that isn't formed wholly by the curse, one that doesn't look at every word and gesture with a suspicious eye.

So maybe it's not really that much of a surprise that she's relieved to see him here, that she'll stick with him now. She doesn't really want to spend the time with anyone else. And maybe he's the only person she can say this to, meaning it, without her usual edge of sarcasm, because he sees things in her she's never been able to see in herself but wants to, and because she means it (and because he's one of the few people who have ever seemed to care if she's nearby, been glad for it): ]

I'm glad you came.

[ She's glad he came, and she's spent a bunch of time talking to other people before and should probably now let him go off to do the same, but she doesn't want to, she wants his time and his attention. She wants to stay right here at his side, teasing him into enjoying himself. ]

I wouldn't have pegged you for much of a party person.

Edited 2024-12-26 16:10 (UTC)

( When she moves to stand next to him, and they become one joined thing instead of two separate ones, he's immediately aware of how much she feels — closer than she's ever been (no, just closer in a new way), her arm tucked into his, a little taller than she normally would be at his side, loose dark hair and tight red fabric and buzzing with life and vibrance. Her fingernails are just as red, she's a presence that couldn't possibly be snuffed out, blaring hot.

It's so much, but somehow it isn't too much. It just isn't, she just isn't, even if his heart continues to pound so foolishly, and he doesn't know what to say or how to say it. This goes against every norm he knows, this lack of structure and planning — no rehearsed dialogue, no set direction for the situation to follow. They'll get him a drink and then... and then what? He doesn't know. He doesn't know a lot of things. What he does know is that now that he's found her, he wants to keep her.

(And even now, when she's all red flame, Little feels her glow beside him, not burn. Like soft flickering heat, warm. She doesn't hurt at all.)

He invites her closer and she accepts, right away. Something flutters up under the coil of nerves, a fresh little blossom of pleasure — that not-quite-but-almost sense of pride. It's too strange and difficult for him to ever fully be proud of himself, but... she makes it just a little bit easier to be. By wanting him here, being glad he's here, when he's always so very sure that it would be better for anyone at all if he were gone.

'I'm glad you came.'

It's dangerous to turn his head to look at her, she's so close to his face now, and the movement is slight, subtle, still polite, a dip of his head forwards just a little, and a flicker of his eyes sideways to her. His mouth purses with some amusement he barely tries to conceal, still mindful of his expressions, but eyes sparkling bright, as though a laugh lingers in them. )

Truthfully, this sort of thing usually holds little appeal for me. ( He's not much of a partier... imagine that..... The last party he attended, not counting the little October festival here, he had to be coaxed into it and even then, there was no real enthusiasm... Of course, it ended as bad as it ever could have, and truthfully, there's some part of him that might flinch from all the lanterns and candle here, the soft flicking glints of flame. The space is open, though, there are no canvases to become trapped in, no labyrinth to claw desperately against— )

But Captain Crozier has put in so much effort. I hope there will be no incidents.

( He tries to keep it positive, to not tumble down into his own fears, though— for many reasons, he's glad he's bumped into her. If something were to happen.... she'd be right there. He could make her safe. )

Are you having an enjoyable time, so far?

( He smiles at her, still without turning his head fully to face her, an almost sneaky, careful little glance over. There's a hitch of something oddly-shaped as he remembers seeing her dancing with Mr. Givens, whom he doesn't know well but has taken notice of as a seemingly respectable member of the community — he'd hosted a game night once (which shows initiative!), and he's quite handsome and seems very charming. Which is fine, of course!

—Actually, you know, perhaps he really could use that drink. )

Edited 2024-12-29 23:59 (UTC)

[ Parties are absolutely not Little's natural habitat. She could have said that with perfect certainty the day they first met, without knowing anything else about him. And over the last year he's only made that argument even more convincing: he's never been someone who jumps at the chance to socialize and have a few laughs. He keeps to his routines and to his little cabin and to his quiet activities, for the most part.

But not with her. Ever since the day she showed up with a bottle of bourbon that they drank together, he has, slowly but steadily, unfurled around her. He's still terrible at parties — even now, he's making polite small talk and walking genteely around with her on his arm — but he doesn't look miserable doing it. There's a lightness to him, a brightness; it's there in his normally sad brown eyes that right now glance her way with something quick and laughing in them. The corners of his mouth are softer, more ready to smile. He hasn't let the full force of it shine out, but she can feel it there, banked somewhere behind the trim uniform. He's holding himself differently; she likes it.

Even when she catches a glimpse of the two of them in a darkened window, their reflected blurry and wavering, her first reaction is something like smug pleasure; they look good, him in his navy and gold and her in the dress that sweeps to her toes. It's immediately followed by a wash of something else, a tightness in her stomach (they look too close, she looks too comfortable; refined actually isn't a bad word to describe their appearance and she's got no idea what to do with that, how to hold it in her hands without breaking it—

and why would she even want to? He's so.... Little, upright and polite and she now knows some of his reservation is just shyness, but neither of those things are things she likes

— and yet here she is, her arm tucked into his, and she doesn't want to let go, drift away, find someone else) that lingers even as he keeps talking and offers her a welcome distraction. ]

Nothing's gonna go wrong.

[ Well, that might not be true — the potential for a fight with this group is never zero — but she says it anyway, remembering the blank fear in his eyes the day they explored Milton House and it burst into flame around them, remembering his soft words as he told her the story of the doomed Carnivale. Wynonna squeezes her arm towards her own body, pressing his arm and herself a little closer to his side in the process, wanting to keep him in the here and now. With her. ]

And if something did, we'd get everybody out.

[ Because he has to be worried about that, right? She knows he is. He's always worried about the people here, their safety. She drops the reassurance with a shrug, casually aligning them in case of crisis: if something happens, they'll take care of it. It'll be fine.

They've reached the drinks, and she slips her arm free from his to reach for a bottle of pine wine and a cup, pouring him a drink and handing it over before topping her own off. ]

And yeah, it's been pretty good so far. Nobody's tried to murder me, which makes it better than the last party I went to at home. And I never thought I'd get a chance to go dancing here.

[ She lifts her refreshed drink to watch him over the edge of the cup, a little of the mischief she'd had when she grinned at him from above the opened root cellar in that abandoned house a whole year ago sharpening her smile, sparkling in the glance she gives him through her lashes, almost coy. ]

So now my question is: what can we do to give this shindig a little more appeal for you, huh? Anything you want to do?

Edited 2024-12-30 03:37 (UTC)

( Admitting that he hopes there will be no incidents is a severe understatement — but even then, it's still letting out some of his trepidation, even if it's kept light-hearted. Still, it's there, a small bud of anxiety that could threaten to blossom into something uncontrollable, so easily. If someone were to start shouting, or any of the flames to catch hold of something.... Little feels fear, or maybe dread, creeping and crawling up under his skin, more active in this particular environment. Even the sound of someone's laughter from somewhere way across the space, a little high-pitched, makes him oddly on edge, even if just for a moment.

Wynonna's response, however, makes him look back over at her again, not just towards this time, but actually at, for a moment. She meets his little flicker of trepidation with assurance, confidence, which are certainly never atypical for Wynonna, and yet it catches him freshly each time.

He never asks for it. That reassurance. He never has to. It's just there, a part of her existence beside him, the same as any of the other times. (Her hands pressing tight to him as she leads him through the smoky remains of a house, his lungs screaming for air and his mind frozen with shock; her hands pressing tight to him as she drags him through the snow, bleeding out and barely conscious.)

She does it here, too, even if the situation is far less harrowed than any of the others before it. Squeezes him tighter, presses herself to him tighter, solidifies their presence together. Keeps hold of him. (He's not alone. It's safe.)

'And if something did, we'd get everybody out.'

That part is what causes his pause to linger with a soft exhale of surprise. We'd get everybody out. As matter of fact as anything. And— it emboldens him, that reassurance not just for him, but in him. She trusts him to help, they'd do it together. )

You're right, ( he breathes with quiet relief. Whatever was coiling tight in him softly loosens, leaving him with only his original layer of nerves, the ones belonging simply to the fact he's here with her while she's dressed like that. Little takes a moment to breathe again when she fixes him up a cup and then takes it carefully into his hand, gazing down at it for a moment as he listens — a brief and purposeful lift of brows when she alludes to murderous intent at a party from home; surely she's joking, but knowing Wynonna..... maybe not. But hey, he can relate, offering a hapless smile that's quickly hidden once he takes a polite sip of his own pine wine.

When he lowers it again, he's watching her, feeling freshly flushed from the inside out as she mentions the dancing— which almost certainly isn't due to taking one single sip of alcohol. No, it's not that at all, and he shifts, holding his tongue for a moment. Just a moment.

Her eyes are sparkling, brighter, playful and maybe something else. There's maybe something especially dangerous about what he thinks to say in response to her question, what he wants to say. Wants to do. )

Well, I thought— it might be nice to try my hand at dancing, as well. I haven't done much of it, ( he adds, quickly (big surprise there, Edward Little hasn't done much dancing or anything remotely fun.)

Another breath, his grasp on his cup tighter, worn glove squeezing the back of his hand. It's hard to hold eye contact with her when she's looking at him like that. )

Would you— would you care to join me? Later on, if you like, if you're tired out from it now, of course.

[ He looks nervous.

Well, he always looks nervous, even now, even with her, even after everything they've been through. Maybe it's because they aren't sitting alone by the fire right now, in a comfortable, quiet space that somehow always manages to feel like a delicate bubble drawn around them, keeping out the dark and the cold and the danger— she doesn't know when the memories of sitting there with him, talking on the couch into the long hours of the evening, turned into such a comfort. She used to do the same thing with Waverly, over a year ago now: when night fell, they'd curl up in front of the fire with a drink or hot chocolate and it felt like even the curse couldn't touch them.

Not that they've, she and Little, having been curling up — god —

Just the thought is as embarrassing as if she'd accidentally said it aloud. Christ, she needs this drink.

But there is something similar here, really, with the warm, glowing light of the candles and lanterns all around them. The light is soft and orange and it touches him gently, blurring away the worry lines she knows are still there. There's something almost magical about this light, from dozens upon dozens of flickering candles. Waverly would love it.

And whatever he's nervous about, it doesn't seem to be causing any real problems. He takes the drink she offers and sips at it; they're talking, just like they've done so many times. It comes so easily now, she never would have expected it, not in a million years.

Also unexpected: what he says (no, she's not surprised he hasn't done much dancing... if anything she'd be surprised to hear he'd done any) and then the question he follows it up with, after bracing himself like he's dropping a bombshell.

He kind of is. For a moment, she just blinks at him. ]

You want to dance with me?

[ That can't be right, can it?

What would that even be like? She tries to wrap her head around the thought and comes up with nothing but static.

And yet, even through her surprise, a slightly bemused smile starts tugging at first one corner, than the other, of her lips. It's... cute, and it takes only a heartbeat more for her to decided she's into the idea. Little deserves to have some fun, too, and they may as well hang out on the dance floor as here by the drinks table or just standing around. ]

Yeah, okay.

[ Her smile is something unruly, impossible to tamp down. She tries, but only halfheartedly, and it flashes out again when she laughs at the thought of being tired already.

A few golden strands of his epaulet have gotten twisted as they walked her; she reaches out to untangle them, brushing them against his uniform shoulder before pulling her hand back to her drink again. ]

It'd take more than one dance to tire me out. I'm ready when you are.

( Once again, Wynonna takes his shy, careful, fumbling words and shapes them into something simple and clear: 'You want to dance with me?'

His heart knocks again, and he nods as he manages to hold eye contact with her, teeth worrying his bottom lip slightly, ridiculously shy all over again. Really, he's being ridiculous, he must seem foolish, and he doesn't even know why he's so— flustered. Of course there are the obvious reasons; he's unused to this, and she's wearing that, but it's.... there's something else there, up under everything, in the same place where up under everything she's still just the Wynonna he knows.

It means that when she agrees, with that growing, spreading, happy smile, something that's much more than simple relief sweeps through him, and it's the same shape as when she'd complimented his appearance. So warm it almost overwhelms him, but nothing bad. No, it's a pleasurable sensation (if he could be so brazen to admit such a thing.... no... that's quite inappropriate...!) It's frightening, but it's pleasurable, like the softest morning breeze against his skin, a little cool to the touch, stirring gooseflesh and a quiet shudder.

Her fingers brush the strands down his shoulder, she touches him like this in such small, comfortable ways. It doesn't feel inappropriate. He takes another swallow of his drink, a little heartier, before he realises that there's no hurry and slowly lowers it again. They can come back to their drinks, there's time for that, but in the moment, what he wants.....

Little moves to set his own down at the end of a table, and turns back to her, at once professional, even if he's still very nervous. He bows politely towards her with one hand pressed to his torso and the other behind his back, straightens, and extends his left hand almost delicately. )

Then— would you grace me with your hand?

( He's..... trying..... )

[ Little's not exactly a man of action, and she'd kind of thought it would take him longer to work around to the idea... but nope, he's setting down his drink and... bowing (unexpected, but sweet in the way he so often is, shyly and carefully). Wynonna takes a last sip of her own drink — she gets the feeling she's going to need it — and reaches without hesitation to slip the fingers of her right hand into his palm. There's a moment where she wishes he wasn't wearing those ever-present knitted gloves — and, really, it's absurd that he's still wearing fingerless gloves, haven't they been over this? — before she dismisses it. It's not like it matters. ]

Not sure how much of a grace it is, but sure.

[ It's no grace at all, and she knows it, and he knows it... he knows how much blood is on her hands, he's seen her fight and shoot and kill with them. Her hands, long-fingered and strong, fit more naturally around Peacemaker's grip than they do curling around his fingers — and yet it feels nice. The brush of his fingers over hers, how easy it feels to take his hand and let him take the lead for once, even if it's so very briefly.

He is, in his own way, being bold just like she'd encouraged. She likes it, just like she likes the way the soft candlelight gleams off his epaulets and buttons the same way it shines off the ring she wears on its chain around her neck as she lets him lead her where he will. ]

...Do we actually know any of the same dances?

[ Almost definitely not. Maybe she can teach him the same two-step Raylan taught her. ]

( As much as they've truly touched one another, it's been fervent, hurried things — desperate. Hands curling around the material of clothing, an embrace that slammed them both together with the shuddering ache of near-loss, tugging, grabbing, holding. It's never been like this, he's never touched her hand like this. It fits so easily, her fingers around his, and he lets his own curve gently right back. It's a careful grasp. Quickly, his other hand relinquishes his cap to join his drink on the table, freeing himself fully for her.

As he moves, and now that he's not so stiffly avoiding looking too directly at Wynonna, his eyes roam ever so slightly, and he finally properly catches that glint hanging at her neck. He doesn't dare look too closely, not yet, eyes flickering down and then back up as quickly as an insect. (Wynonna might feel his hand suddenly squeeze hers a little tighter, like an involuntary pulse.)

He moves out away from the drinks, though not in the center of things, still a little bit off to the side. Still a little private, even if none of this really can be. He isn't too concerned with others noticing them, somehow, he just wants to be in a space that's quiet, for them.

Finally he comes to a halt again, taking a breath as he looks back up at her. Beat. That, he hadn't considered. )

Admittedly, I have never danced with anyone before, ( he can't help giving one of his careful, self-deprecatory laughs. He knows the basic movements of some, but not intimately. )

But— I saw you dancing with Mr. Givens.

( Of course, admitting to watching her is another of those unthinkable things, but it's becoming easier and easier to think of doing them anyway. He doesn't think she'd mind knowing, even if he's shy all over again to admit that he was watching her at all. )

I believe that, I can do. Perhaps with some practice. ...Though I'll not claim that you won't simply become frustrated with me.

( He has to laugh again, but this time more of a deeper, robust thing, genuinely a little amused. )

[ He's never danced with anyone before— yeah, that tracks. Fortunately, she doesn't require him to have any experience, not for this. It's just a way to spend some time together, to do something purely for the fun of it instead of because they need it to survive. His fingers tighten on hers, and she squeezes back reflexively, even as she half-turns her head to listen. ]

Oh— Raylan.

[ She laughs, amused at the memory. It had been great, dancing with Raylan Givens, with his lazy drawl and great smile. For a moment she could almost have convinced herself that she's home, wandering around the dance floor at Shorty's, a buzz of whiskey and music in her veins.

She likes him. And she's not surprised Little noticed they were dancing; they were out there for a while, covering almost every inch of the dance floor. It wasn't like this, picking out a corner out of the way — smart, if he doesn't really know what he's doing — and trying to figure out what's next.

Wynonna turns to face him, her hand shifting in his as she does: palm pressing to palm, fingers curving over the soft space between his thumb and index finger. It brings her closer than she had been; almost eye-to-eye with the heels she's wearing. She feels a flush of something warm flood through her; she grins again when he laughs for real. No one can say Edward Little lacks self-awareness, at least in this area. ]

Don't worry. I'll make it easy on you.

[ ... the question is, how is she going to make it easy on herself. They haven't stood this close to each other in months; it feels so strange to be doing it deliberately. Her glance flickers over his face — the long straight line of his nose and the soft bow of his mouth — before returning to his eyes, still warm and brown and thickly lashed. Nothing's different, aside from him being a little more groomed than usual. Everything feels different.

She wets her lips, presses another smile to her lips. This one feels uncertain, awkward. She really hadn't thought this far ahead. ]

Do you want to, just...

[ She gestures at herself with her free hand, unsure how (or even what) to ask. ]

Did you see how...?

( She says the name easy and happy, laughing as though re-living it for a moment, and Little finds another sweep of warmth move through his stomach — he likes seeing her happy. Things have been so... they've been a nightmare, an everlasting sequence that never stops, just wanes at times. She's suffered much here, even if she doesn't show it as much as some. He knows she has.

It's nice, to see Wynonna looking happy. Even if there's a small pinprick dose of ache, foreign and weird and shameful and too-human. (It'd be nice if he could make her happy, like that.) He tries to brush it off, this shameful, silly little thing. He really is being ridiculous. Why is he so out of sorts about her? )

Ah— Yes, that is— ( Little slowly lifts their joined hands up into the air, into something more poised. He does know the basic etiquette to dancing, and what she'd been doing with Mr. Givens wasn't terribly different from the waltz movements of his own time, even if he'd never had a chance to use them. Basic, steps forwards and back. Except of course, for him, it's all going to be more formal, and after an odd pause, he lifts his other hand, delicately bringing it to her waist. Slow and cautious, eyes dropping down to watch his own movements, breath bated.

Gently, he lets his hand settle there, although it's truly just resting, not daring to cup or curl or squeeze. His palm barely settles around the curve of her, fingers brushing her back. )

I believe I'm to hold you this way.

( ....All right, this is a little different from when she'd been twirling around with Raylan. Little's got them ready to dance like they're at a formal ball, shuffling neatly around. )

Just— steps forwards and back, then? I believe I'm meant to lead, if that's all right, ( he adds, awkwardly, unsure. He's never led Wynonna anywhere. If anything, she's been the one doing the leading. And while it is the right etiquette for him to guide, he almost feels as though he should ask for her permission here, as well.... )

[ 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. ]

Forward and back, you got it.

Edited 2025-01-04 19:49 (UTC)

( For how proper and careful it is, it is close. Facing Wynonna, her stature a little taller in her heels, bringing her that much closer to him, almost eye to eye, it's—

She's close. It's very different from being close to her in all of those other ways he has been. There's no frightening circumstance looming around them, no screams and bloodshed, no effects from the Darkwalker to work heavily through. It's just— the two of them. Again, like back when they were wolves, when the world felt so wide and open around them, and the pair of them formed something small and intimate within.

But unlike then, his brain is fully human now, not freed from the layers of human emotions and awarenesses, and every piece of those things is fixed on Wynonna now. Every thought, every emotion, every uncertainty, every— shock and pleasure, she's moving them closer, shifting and adjusting them and he lets her, the way he always does, even if it makes his eyes widen a fraction, makes his breathing tighter.

He leaves his hand exactly where she placed it, palm flat to the back of her dress, arm curved that much more around her in the process, body so close to hers. (It is a shock, and it is a pleasure, and Little is not accustomed to deal with either of those things. Somehow, he still does, staring right at her, eyes wide but not afraid. Nervous but not reluctant.)

He swallows again, tips his head forwards like a nod, notices the way the glow around them flutters across Wynonna's features like a ripple of sunlight. Then— he starts to move, leading them by their joined hands, taking a step forwards first, then another one just after it. Then back again. It's a little stiff, awkward, his movements carefully controlled, and not nearly as expansive; he stays in one little corner to begin with, shuffling her around like that.

But it's movement, and after a few moments he remembers how to breathe again, even if it comes out in a staggered exhale. )

So you— you enjoyed dancing back home, Miss Earp?

( I never thought I'd get a chance to go dancing here, she'd said before. It's strange to realise he still knows so very little about her life there, what she'd enjoyed, how she'd spent her time. )

[ Edward steps forward like a man going before a firing squad, but the frame they have is good and she moves with him: stepping back once, twice; forwards once, twice. If it were a waltz she thinks he'd be counting in his head; as it is, he seems wholly focused on the whole act of.... moving, anyway. She's not sure she'd call this dancing, really.

But that's okay. He's out here, trying, and he was the one to ask her, which means he wants to be here, with her — a thought that settles in her stomach like a banked coal, burning and glowing in turns. She can't tell if she hates this or likes it. It's nothing like dancing with Raylan. If anything, it reminds her of parties during her teenage years... not that anyone asked her to dance then, usually. But she remembers seeing awkward couples swaying around the floor; sweating teenage boys and girls dreaming of a romance they'd never in a million years find in Purgatory. ]

Uh, yeah. Sometimes.

[ They aren't alone out here, but it feels like they are, like there's some soundproof, lightproof bubble around them. She's never really... felt that with anyone before. Maybe it's because they've spent so much time together. ]

Honestly, it's been a long time. People weren't exactly lining up to dance with me back home.

[ Part of that long, not very happy story she'd promised to tell him. He knows parts of it now, but not everything. Not all of it. The way he looks at her will change when she tells him she's cursed; she doesn't want to see it. Not yet. ]

But you never really did? I thought stuff like dancing was all part of the 'officer and a gentleman' package.

[ She's smiling now; this feels more familiar, despite the awkwardness of the movements. He just needs to relax, and talking will help. ]

What, you never took some banker's daughter to a ball, or anything?

Edited 2025-01-04 21:15 (UTC)

( This... probably definitely isn't dancing. "Moving" about sums it up, truly. And he isn't sure if this is altogether fun for her, in the moment, but—

—it's some kind of strange new connection, and one he doesn't want to break, and the more he guides them through those simple steps forwards and back, the more he adjusts his grasp on her hand (to something more comfortable, looser but in the right places, fingers easy against hers). The other hand at her back stays in place, not daring to tighten or move his fingers at all there, although there's a slight pressure that he couldn't stop even if he wanted to, palm flat and sturdy and keeping him neatly in place to her.

His eyes don't dare wander too much either, though they keep re-finding hers somehow all the same, softening and then tightening again as he focuses in on what she says. 'People weren't exactly lining up to dance with me back home.' Edward tilts his head just-so, curious but not wanting to ask too directly. But she's— Wynonna, he can't imagine her being nothing but a source of life and laughter back in her world. Wouldn't any man there, any modern man, be drawn to her effervescence? )

Ah — not quite, ( he chuckles again, the sound low in his throat. ) It's.... typical, of many men in service to know they shall never pursue courting, or marriage. Particularly officers, and I'd always had plans to rise in rank. Truthfully, I'm not certain I would have made a very adequate husband, anyway.

( Yes, the only options are courting or marriage.... and of course, courting is meant to lead to marriage, ideally. He'd certainly never ""dated"". ...He doesn't even know that word in this context... And certainly never casually danced with any woman, even at a more casual sort of event. Mostly because he never really attended them. )

It's common then, in your time, to dance so freely? I cannot imagine that you wouldn't be a popular choice.

( He has to inquire about it, even if he doesn't make it a direct question, a polite smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. )

[ Whoa okay nobody said anything about marriage—

She gets it, it was a different time, a time when people married and had kids as a matter of course (and also because it was the only way to keep the population going during a time when people barely understood what made them sick), but stil — yikes. ]

Yeah, well, I'd have made a terrible wife, so I feel you on that.

[ Talk about things she never wanted. But it's more than that: one way or another, this curse will end with her. She's not going to bring another Earp into the world to be saddled with all of Wyatt's sins. All of Daddy's. All of hers.

It's not a very nice train of thought, and her smile is wry and crooked when it comes. ]

The closest I came to popularity was having everyone in town hate me. I have more friends here than I ever did back home.

[ Not that many, but they exist. Tommy, Bigby. Kate and Ruby. March.

Him. ]

But yeah, people do it just for fun. Saturday nights down at the saloon, they'd play music and clear out the tables and chairs, and people would dance... kind of like this.

[ Kind of... not really. The dancing at Shorty's isn't really anything like this at all, and neither is almost any other kind of dancing she's done through her life. A laugh bubbles up to her lips, crinkles the corners of her eyes; he's doing his best but it's time to step in and help a little. ]

Okay, maybe not quite like this. Want me to show you?

( His smile grows again at that, and there's another exhale of pent-up tension, things easing out the more they speak. At the root of it, that's what this is, a conversation, which— he can do, has done, with Wynonna before. Though it's rare, again, that they're able to really talk, to share some pieces of themselves without some overarching horror at play.

What she says about being hated, about having more friends here than at home, elicits a softer knit of brows, something just as softly wounded stirring up under his sternum. He knows that feeling, even if even assigning the word "friend" to someone is very strange for him still. But... he thinks he does. But he's startled by the knowledge that she was disliked so much. How is it possible? He can see how she can be a bit... intimidating, but that seems to be a staple for many Modern People. Look at Mr. March.... (Edward, Wynonna and Holland aren't exactly the typical standard of Modern People to gauge by.) )

I can't say I had much in the way of friendships, either. ( He offers. Co-workers and maybe companions among some of them, but certainly not after he'd been promoted once, twice, three times. No, it's only after coming here that he's really been able to share time with the men from his own expedition in new ways. He and John are still a bit at odds with how to define their relationship now, but it's... he thinks they're friends. He thinks that would be nice.

Pause, as he reflects momentarily to her offer, but not for too long. He smiles again, his own eyes crinkling up a little at the corners in the face of hers, a mirror to Wynonna. )

Please do. I should like to learn the ways of the modern man.

( Is that another playful teasing sort of thing? Always rare, from him, but a little less so with her. )

[ He admits he hadn't had many friends either, and she can't help herself, the quick lift of her eyebrows, the teasing edge to her smile. ]

Your idea of a really fun time is sitting quietly and maybe, as a real treat, discussing the officer's manual, so this is in no way surprising to me.

[ The real surprise is that they somehow managed to become friends, in spite of it all. He's like five neuroses bundled into that wool greatcoat of his and yet somehow what she keeps coming back to isn't his anxiety or his self-deprecation; it's the way he relaxed with her on his couch all those months ago. It's this: him smiling at her in a way that makes her gut lurch with an unpleasant sudden swerve into seasickness; it's the way he agrees without hesitation, because he trusts her.

She doesn't understand how he can trust her so completely. She's terrified that one day he'll wake up and realize he shouldn't.

Even worse: those crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lightening his whole face and making him look ten years younger. It's not the full-blown smile she's only seen once before, the smile that felt like sunrise in the middle of the long dark night, but it's more than enough to make some restraint in her head snap cleanly through. That must be what happens, because instead of teaching him a few simple steps that can work with what they've already got going, she says: ]

Sometimes I think you're more modern than you might think.

Okay. Stop, and relax a little. Just let me...

[ Wynonna softens her arms, letting herself shift a little closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to feel his breath puffing against her cheek. ]

Now we just kind of go... like this.

[ Instead of the front and back motion of before, she shifts her weight to one foot, then the other in small, slow steps, side to side, coaxing him to turn as she does. It's languid, far from the neat two-step she and Raylan had been moving around the floor with; it's meant for waltzes on the jukebox and the dim lights of the bar just before last call. It's not even a real dance, exactly, it's just an excuse to be close to someone.

She hates how nice it feels to be close to him. ]

Side to side, in a circle. Just turning in one spot. Easy.

( There's another soft laugh, a quiet chuckle, and he doesn't have to think about it. Little, who takes things so earnestly more often than not, knows she's teasing him from the expression on her face, the subtle movements, and it further eases up the shyness in him. )

There is much to be learned in the officer's manual, you know. I lament I don't have it here with me.

( ....And then guess who's going to be making an appearance soon? Guess what Edward will now be inspired to ask for from that very hog? Thank you, Miss Earp, for the inspiration. )

Am I? ( More modern than he might think. It's a strange thought, he's so often felt out of place here, even among the others from the expedition. John is the only other one who still holds so firmly to his "past"(?) self. But then Wynonna's adjusting things again, and Little lets her, and she's so close now that he's afraid she might be able to feel him breathe in, then out. His heart skips at least one beat, his pulse quickens, mind padded in some static buzz.

But he lets her guide him, following her movements. It's slow, and intimate — very intimate, for his time; again, he reflects on the fact he can feel her body brushing his. There's maybe a single moment where he worries deeply for the eyes of others upon them, mostly for her sake, her reputation....

....But it slips away faster than it probably should. She's even warmer against him now, solid and secure. And he has to turn his head a little to the side so that he isn't too close to her face, leaning slightly in over her shoulder, eyes sweeping to the column of neck exposed beneath her thick, loose hair. He shouldn't look there, shouldn't gaze there, but he does.

He's never been this close, in this way, to anyone. It's almost like hugging her — which he has done before, in one frantic, desperate moment. But that was fast and slow and devastating. This is so much more gentle. His heart is back to pounding, and he should be mortified by the thought that Wynonna could hear, or even feel it. Some part of him might be, but—

Slowly, gently, his fingers spread out more against her back, palm flush, and exerting pressure so slightly it's almost nothing at all. It's not at all insistent and doesn't push her tighter against him really, just the ghost of a thing; perhaps he's only adjusting his own position, settling more into it. But maybe what it actually is, is a quiet dose of affection; underneath everything, Little is an unexpectedly affectionate man, when the time is appropriate for it.

He's afraid to move much more after that, though, oddly aware of how hot his blood feels, as though something's slowly building. He swallows, feet slowly moving along with hers, and finds words are hard to come by.

Then something does, because he feels the soft brush of her necklace against him, and he still hasn't really gotten a good look at it, certainly can't now, but it's something to voice. )

Your jewelry — I haven't noticed it before. ( He shouldn't have said that, either. He shouldn't have done or said a lot of things tonight. But this, at least, is something to talk about, to keep his voice going so that he doesn't fall into complete and utter silence, and there's only the sound of his own thudding heart to fill it. )

Was it gifted to you? By this place?

( ....He was recently "gifted" a pocketwatch chain, but let's not speak about that. )

Edited 2025-01-05 03:37 (UTC)

this empty northern hemisphere

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oh i'm dumb af, pretend i said nothing about hands, march has been wearing it around his NECK...

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