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singillatim2024-11-10 12:15 am
singmod) wrote in singillatim2024-11-10 12:15 am
Entry tags:
- *event,
- arthur lester: maniette,
- billy prior: karen,
- casper darling: mimi,
- charles rowland: giz,
- chloe frazer: tess,
- cornelius hickey: kates,
- edward little: jhey,
- eren jaeger: lyn,
- francis crozier: gels,
- john irving: gabbie,
- kate marsh: cheryl,
- konstantin veshnyakov: jhey,
- levi ackerman: dem,
- levi jordan: cirape,
- michonne grimes: cloude,
- randvi: tess,
- reiner braun: kas,
- sameen shaw: iddy,
- snow white: carly,
- the doctor: kris,
- trixie: gels,
- wynonna earp: lorna
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:
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
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.
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.
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.
no subject
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. )
no subject
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.
no subject
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. )
no subject
[ Case in point: she just made fun of him, and all he did was laugh and make a joke back at his own expense. He no longer blushes and looks away when he sees her in tight jeans; they've hung out plenty of times alone, after dark, in situations she thinks he probably couldn't have even imagined back home, in his own time.
And yeah, he's been a stickler for his routine and his uniform... but she doesn't think that's because he's stuck in an older era (it's about him, not about the time he's from; it's all tied up in his sense of self, she gets it. She has a uniform, of sorts, too). The only times she even hears him reference the differences between what he knew and now, mostly, are when he's apologizing for not being more advanced, not knowing things that he couldn't possibly be expected to know. He's never used it to build a wall between them. He's always reached out, curious in his shy way, wanting to know more.
So maybe it doesn't make him modern, but it at least makes him willing to learn... like Doc had been. Another man out of time.
Another example: she can only imagine Irving's reaction to her trying to dance with him like this, but Edward — like he so often does with her — lets her come closer, lets her shift it until they're so much closer than before. There's a moment where she waits to see if he'll pull back, give her some polite excuse—
But then she feels his hand shift, so slightly, on her back, instead. Fingers spreading against the satiny material of her dress, and how had she not noticed how thin this material is, before? There's just the barest whisper of fabric between his hand and her skin, and it's so gentle that for a moment she feels sore, like he's touching a bruise that covers her whole back, aches in every muscle, has left every part of her raw and tender. Her heart, never a steady target, stumbles against her ribs. Her breath hitches, quick and uncomfortable.
He doesn't pull her closer — it's just the barest sensation of pressure — but she goes anyway, drawn in by some tidal force that's wrapped around her, tangling inside her, and won't let go. Instead of keeping her bent arm there between them, a barrier and a brace, she lifts her elbow just enough to slide it around his upper arm, where a braid might hang on a different sort of uniform. Her palm presses to the back of his shoulder, her fingers curve gently over it back towards herself. The whole movement is small but it changes everything: the way she's holding him, the way he's holding her, now dancing nearly cheek to cheek, what was left of their dance frame collapsing almost completely, softly in on itself.
She's still so aware of his hand on her back. She can feel the brush of his breath on the bare skin of her neck. ]
What?
[ Christ. Focus, Earp. Why does her mouth feel so dry? She either needs way more or way less of the pine wine right now. She thinks back, trying to remember what jewelry he could be talking about. She's not wearing her usual necklace, just— right, the ring. ]
Oh, it's March's.
[ She doesn't give any real heft to the words: this is normal, for her and Holland. ]
It came to him, not me. I got something... different.
I'm just holding onto it for a little while for him.
no subject
And the others from here think it of him, too. Perhaps not John... who still looks to him as a leader, as a trusted guide, and that means everything, but... he knows the others don't think of him in that way. Why would they? He's only failed them. And as they've adapted, finding ways to adjust and in some instances even thrive (Mr. Hickey and Mr. Gibson have even... married....), Little has been stagnant. Whether it's an odd sort of resilience or, paradoxically, some act of giving in... it doesn't matter anymore. He's nothing, really.
But if she says it — and he knows she wouldn't say it to spare his feelings, she wouldn't say something she didn't mean; for all her mischief and teasing, Miss Earp is earnest, at times even bluntly so — then.... then one person thinks it to be true. 'I think you're adapting okay.'
It means more than he can adequately convey. He dips his head down a bit again, just barely, breathing quietly towards her jaw, her neck. He wants to say thank you but it wouldn't even be enough. Later, maybe he'll try. For now... there's something tender in the unspoken, and then Wynonna's somehow, somehow, even closer. Her arm around his, her chest to his own, and he's more vulnerable than he usually is, in this uniform. He isn't hidden, tucked under layers of long wool coat. When her body brushes his more tightly, he feels her. And when they sway so slowly like that, rocking, he feels her then, too.
His cheek is practically to hers; if he were to turn his head at all now, there would be no space left between them. He doesn't dare try it. He can feel her breathing. She feels nice against him, warm, alive. Everything he knows says to back away.
He doesn't.
But— )
Mr. March's? ( There's quiet confusion in his tone, though he's still speaking very softly. He hasn't noticed the ring part, only knows it as a long chain, which is... well, not very common for a man to wear, although Mr. March's taste has always seemed... colourful. )
I wonder why this place should give him a necklace. But I suppose it has its reasons...
no subject
And yet, for some reason, he hasn't pulled back in a fluster, unable to make eye contact with her. He's still here, and they're so close that her voice has lowered, and every time he says something in that pleasant low rumble that's been a problem from the very first day she met him she feels like she needs to go stick her head in a snowbank to regain what's left of her sanity. ]
It's not the necklace, it's the ring.
[ She turns her body now, a little, letting go of his hand so she can catch the thin golden chain with her thumb, lifting the ring hanging from it into his field of view. It glints in the light, a simple gold wedding band; it matches the one March has worn every day since he arrived here. She can still remember how he looked, sitting there on the porch, staring at it, when she arrived. ]
See?
[ She can carry this for him, for as long as he needs. That's the deal they'd made: she'll carry the ring, and he'll hold onto her daddy's badge. Maybe no one else here would trust Holland March with something so important... but no one at home would trust her with it, either.
She knows that's important to Little, too; she'd told him months ago that he'd earned her trust, that she could leave Peacemaker with him. Maybe if March hadn't been the one she found first, he'd have been the one she'd asked to protect the thing that's so dear and so hateful to her at the same time. ]
no subject
When she lets go of his hand, some kneejerk response has him aching for it back — something he can't control, can't suppress, can't keep in a nice, polite, proper space. His body likes having her close, likes the way her hand feels in his, likes the way when he breathes, he can feel himself rise and fall against her.
It's absolutely terrifying, and his hand, momentarily freed, lingers there in the air for a moment before lowering so that it isn't just hovering beside her head. The movement draws him to a natural sort of stop for a moment, so that he can see what she's showing him (his body reacts to this, too, weirdly cold, weirdly aching, much preferring the soft warmth of movement against her. But his hand stays at her back.)
He blinks down at the item, shimmering a sharp golden against the softer glow of candles and lanterns. It doesn't take long to recognise it; he's been around March well enough, accepted drinks from him, watched him write modern words down in attempt to teach him a thing or two... Edward's had plenty of opportunity to notice the man's hands. They've been here.... over a year together.
At first he's confused, gently so, head tilting slightly. It's a polite curiosity through that confusion, but his eyes stay locked onto it. )
Isn't this— It's Mr. March's wedding ring?
no subject
[ She glances down at it too, then back up at him as she releases the necklace and lets it fall back against her collarbone and chest. In actuality, she has no idea if the ring belonged to him or to his wife; she doesn't know which one he's been wearing around his own neck this whole time.
But that's March's stuff... she's not going to talk about it even to Little, not without him around, not without him giving her the okay. It's a representation of the worst night of his life, the loss he can't get over. She gets it.
With her hand free, she reaches for his again, fingers sliding over his palm and curling once more around his hand. She can feel the gold warm against her skin. It's almost comforting to have it sitting there against her breastbone, honestly. ]
My other necklace didn't exactly go with this dress, so I just wore this one tonight.
oh i'm dumb af, pretend i said nothing about hands, march has been wearing it around his NECK...
This is strange. He doesn't know why, exactly (well, it is objectively a bit strange to be wearing someone's wedding ring, and the whole matter of wearing a wedding ring around one's neck is also objectively strange, isn't it.)
But that's not why something coils oddly in his gut, combating the more pleasant things that have been swimming there. No, he hasn't spoken with March in some time, hasn't noticed that he's no longer had his usual adornment on.
But why is Wynonna wearing it now...?
She takes his hand again, and like before, he lets her, but his heart's skipping a different sort of beat, something sudden and tight and strained. What's wrong with him? What is this? Why— )
I see. ( Still as polite as ever, reserved for now, though a nervous slickness seems to coat the back of his throat again. )
Forgive me for voicing such a brash observation, but you and Mr. March are quite close, aren't you?
( He's always known that. They remind him of one another, for all their similarities. He can certainly see why they would be drawn to one another. But why does it— why does his stomach ache, suddenly? There's no reason for this. It's almost similar to when he'd noticed her dancing so easily with Mr. Givens, only worse, somehow. )
no subject
(It's actually not at all unlike the way March squints at people when he's trying to work them out... maybe she's picked up more from him than a ring. ) ]
You're gonna have to try harder than that if you want to register on my "brashness" scale.
[ That's not a thing—
She shrugs at his question, willing to admit it. It's not like everyone here doesn't know she's buddies with March. They make the pine wine together, they hang out and drink together, they've... sometimes done other things together, but the main point is: March is... March. A year later, she still doesn't really know how to put what he is to her into words, but she's never had to. He gets it. He gets her. ]
Yeah. He's like half the reason I can still stay even sort of sane in this dump.
[ As much as she wants him to be able to get home, to Holly and his work and L.A. and the sun and the seventies, if she lost him she thinks she's lose her goddamn mind. The delicate balance of her sanity here is held, annoyingly, in the hands of a few very different people.
(Even now, she can feel the snow melting under her knees, soaking her jeans, when she'd fallen to Little's side and begged him not to leave her—) ]
So when we all got those little "gifts"... we made a deal. I'm holding onto his and he's got mine. It's just easier on us both, you know?
no subject
He doesn't know how to read her relationships with others. He's painfully aware that his perspective's different, that's something he's learned through this past year. The world that comes after his own ended is... so different. It changed, people changed, and then of course, Wynonna's not English to begin with, there are sure to be cultural differences there.... He's no stranger to seeing her being close with others, with men, and while it was originally a shock, it soon enough smoothed out into something that was just a part of her normalcy. Little understands it's different, for her.
But how does he... read this? Perhaps... perhaps he should have read it more clearly, perhaps it's been obvious; Mr. March has, thankfully, always seemed to be there to help her, often in ways and times Little wasn't able to. The man had taken her back to his home after the scuffle, kept her safe. He's safe, he's reliable, trustworthy; Little's immensely grateful for someone watching over one of his most— his most precious people here. But it's clear there's more, some deeper attachment, and perhaps.... could it be that Wynonna and Holland are courting? In their... especial modern way...?
Now he is starting to feel alarmed. Perhaps he's made a mistake with.. tonight, with asking her to dance, with looking at her in ways he shouldn't, saying things he shouldn't. Has he done something unthinkable? Apology gathers in him, towards both her and March, he would never— he hadn't meant to seem as though he would dare to—
To do what? What has he actually done? Why has he done those things?
His eyes sweep to the side, gazing off for a moment at a small group of people in the distance chatting, but it's without really seeing them. He's afraid to look her in the eye now, for too many reasons.
There's been an attraction to Wynonna for... a long time. He knows that, somewhere beneath all of the subduing he's done. One casts such thoughts out, doesn't dare nurture them.
But it's happened anyway. And perhaps for a man like Edward Little, ever led by his heart, it was inevitable that his would lead him to her. As much as he's obstinately kept his... physical feelings towards her under check, reduced them to something quiet and hidden, the emotional bond his heart feels towards her has only grown. He's never quieted that one. Not since the day they vowed not to cut one another out anymore. His heart has stayed open for her, warm and inviting and perhaps all of that.... has formed something that he's just now truly realising, tonight, when the smallest particles of himself felt stirred by her, when being physically close was at once a want that's surprised even himself. It's as though being near her tonight has opened something from the inside out, his heart's affection and fondness bleeding towards.... other forms of affection, and fondness.
And now that he's been allowed physically close... No. God, no. He's being inappropriate. Little looks back to her then, head dipped towards another nod of understanding as he stays polite and a little tense, some quiet dose of safe detachment even if it's only in the form of a subtle tensing of his hand, and his body language no longer so relaxed and easy. For a brief moment he wonders about her own little 'gift', but he won't dare ask. Surely, it was something painful, the way his own was. )
That's a precious thing. I'm deeply glad that you both can find a sort of solace from it. This world is not always... kind, in its choice of gift.
( He winces a little, knowingly, before that apology leaks into his expression, pooling out into his eyes and making his mouth tug down slightly at the corners. It's so hard to look at her. He's rarely known what it is to want anything, it's such a foreign concept for a man whose life has been dedicated to purpose, not want. He's been comfortable that way, and before the expedition went so wrong, he was happy living that way. ....If not happy, then very content, which was very much fine with him, even preferred, much safer, much more sensible.
(She's the first thing he can ever remember wanting. He realises it now, has been realising it tonight, and now it's there, warm and aching deeply. His hand softens at her back but doesn't necessarily loosen, the gesture still affectionate in its way. Even now, he can't fully pull back from her, though he knows he should. Soon he will; this night will be over. Night or morning, time has slipped away, the way it did all those months back on his couch, and for a brief period, he was hers and she was his.) )
I do apologise for inquiring about such a matter, though. It's not my business, Miss Earp.
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And now she can actually feel it, the way he brings the walls of his reserve back up. He looks away from her for a long moment, and when he does meet her glance again, there's something careful and guarded in his own. Even the way he's holding her is changing, back toward something more formal and not so intimate, and if she knew what happened, what she said or did — well, maybe she can't go back and fix it, but she might be able to make it stop. She wants it to stop, the way his eyes are filling back up with that familiar shaded sorrow. His mouth isn't laughing and soft anymore; it's turning back down at the corners again and she can't stand it. He deserves a chance to be happy, to be lighter, to enjoy himself. ]
You really don't have anything to apologize for.
[ Why the hell would he apologize for asking about March— ]
I mean, you know he and I are buddies. It's not like it's a secret.
[ Her brows draw together, puckering the skin between them. His hand is lighter on her back again; she wants to put hers over it and press it down. He's still close but it feels different, it feels like something's gone wrong and sour and she hasn't— had enough of him yet. She doesn't want to let him go. She doesn't want this strange golden moment to end, just to go back to everything she feels and wants that he doesn't.
But, more important than all that: he looks... unhappy. It squeezes in her chest, cooling down the flush of warmth that she hadn't been able to shake off on her own. ]
Hey, are you okay?
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What he does know is that he doesn't want to cause her any distress, or Mr. March.
The other thing he knows is that this feels like loss, somehow, and it's very strange and he doesn't deserve to feel an ounce of longing or lament. Not him. He doesn't deserve anything but loss; Edward knows that.
(And yet, his heart has its own will, not understanding the concept of what's deserved. Wynonna has never been his to keep, in the ways his foolish heart seems to suddenly think she is, or could be — and why would she? He's truly being absurd — but his heart mourns her, all the same.)
Even now, she's asking if he's all right, checking on him, and Edward quietly berates himself for any melancholy showing through in his features. Still, around her... it's so hard to hide himself, now. His eyes are soft and wet and swimming; his heart patters against its ribcage. More than anything, he's filled with some desire to embrace her again, hug her. He doesn't, but he does smile a little at her, shy and warm. )
I am — it's been a very enjoyable time. ( He means that, authentically. She makes him feel more happy, and free, and many other things that for so long, he felt himself incapable of. He misses the moment already.
But something pauses in him, and his eyes themselves seem to hesitate, lashes fluttering softly like a shuddering breath. Then they find her again, falling to the blue-grey pair. He stares at her for a long moment, savouring it — the way she looks at him, the sweep of loose curls. Maybe weeks or months ago he wouldn't have been able to say what he says next, but then again, it's always been strangely easy to be honest around Wynonna, despite all the ways he's tried to hide his honest feelings. But when he looks right at her, his heart has to do the speaking.
His words are soft, and quiet, and for a moment he barely breathes. )
A man would be fortunate to be so close with you, Miss Earp.
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(Can she have that? Can she ask for it? If she can't have him for real, can't she at least have one nice evening where he didn't seem so far away, so proper and polite? But of course she can't. She'll leave here thinking about the way he looks and remembering the way his fingers spread gently over her back and she'll go home. Alone. And it's better that way. If he's stopped looking at her with that unguarded warmth, at least she won't have to worry about him looking at her with disappointment anytime soon.)
His stupidly thick, stupidly beautiful lashes lower over his eyes, fluttering as softly as moth wings, and she feels another lurch in her chest. It's painful, when a heart skips a beat; what it really means is something is wrong. But he looks at her, and he speaks low and with a strange weight to the words — for a second she can't parse them at all, is too busy wrestling down the ripple of warmth that runs through her like a spring thaw at his stupidly sexy voice murmuring things to her from only inches away. Hell. ]
Yeah?
[ Another smile's playing around her lips now, faintly disbelieving. If it were anyone else, she'd say he's teasing her, but Little — though he has shown a sense of humor, buried deep beneath all the protocol and Victorian rigidity — doesn't tease her. He can't know how laughable those words would be to the greater Purgatory population.
But she knows he feels that way, that somehow over the last year he's started to enjoy having her around. She thinks, anyway. They're friends; she saved his ass during the Forest Talker attack and he was grateful for it, so yeah, maybe he does feel fortunate that they've gotten close.
(So close, though... is that different? Should it be?) ]
I'll be sure to let everybody know. I think they mostly feel the opposite way.
[ There's a sinking feeling in her chest, and after a moment, she recognizes it for what it is: this — this nice moment, this dance, this thing where she was holding him gently and he was hold her back...
It's over, isn't it? She knows it is, she can feel it, even as she wets her lips, the familiar muted taste of lipstick on her tongue, and takes a breath. ]
Do you want to keep dancing? Or we could....
[ She flounders for a second, trying to think of other options. Maybe this part is done, but that doesn't mean the whole night is, right? And she— doesn't want to let go of him yet. She still wants his attention on her; she wants his shy smiles and long thoughtful glances; she wants him to look at her. Just her. Just... for a little while longer. ]
Get a little air.
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His heart aches to reassure her, to give her softness and warmth, to tell her that she's wonderful, that she's one of his most precious people here, that he likes being with her (but it's so dangerously close to yearning to be with her, and— he can't. He shouldn't.)
He catches the slight, quick movement at her mouth, and his eyes flicker downwards to there again in one of those blink-and-you-miss-it moments, eyelids immediately shuddering as his gaze travels back up. She's offering to keep him for a while longer, and there's plenty they could still do together — he'd like to have that drink, properly, with her, to converse, to laugh, to look at the sparkling little world around them, sheltered from the worst parts of it all, just for a few hours.
But he can't do this, either. He shouldn't.
He doesn't trust himself to, and he's afraid that he's already crossed some line. And of course, he doesn't deserve any of her warmth. What has he been thinking? There's a man's wedding ring hung from her neck. The gesture, whatever its complex truths may be, surely means that Wynonna keeps someone within her heart, doesn't it? Little's been such a fool, selfish and indecent and all he can hope is that he hasn't hurt either she or March in some way. )
Ah — I don't want to steal too much of your time, though.
( He smiles again, still polite and a little self-deprecatory, as though it's a sacrifice for her to be here with him instead of to be anywhere else. His hand doesn't dare keep lingering, so he awkwardly lets it drop from her back in one motion.
He isn't immediately exiting, or saying he will exit, but he takes a purposeful step back to free her from the proximity of himself, at least. )
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And then it doesn't work anyway, because his hand is falling from her back and he's stepping away. Her fingers slip out of their gentle hold as he opens his hand and lets hers go, and then she's just standing here, by herself on this makeshift dance floor, feeling like an idiot in a dress she can't believe she'd hoped he might like, or at least be visibly alarmed by. ]
Right.
[ Even though it's the middle of the winter and this dress bares her arms to the shoulders, she hadn't felt cold until just this moment. ]
Sure.
[ He smiles a little, apologetic, and she bites down hard on the inside of her bottom lip to keep the words that want to bubble up and out locked away inside. They sit there, growing sour in her stomach: that he could never steal her time, because here she was offering it up to him with both hands. He just doesn't want it, and she's an idiot for so many reasons she can't even begin to list them all out.
Because it's not just her time, is it; not really. It's her, and how different she is from... everything he probably finds normal and desirable and safe. He's polite about it, because of course he is, but this is the first time she's reached out to him and he hasn't reached back, and it hurts in a dull, aching kind of way, somewhere behind her breastbone. He's never pulled away from her before. Not like this, not since they agreed to quit putting up walls between them.
Her jaw works as she swallows, before she tosses her head, lips pressing together with a flattened attempt at indifference as she gives him the only thing she really can: a way out.
That she gives it to herself, too, is just icing on the cake. She's got to... get out of here. She can't stand to look at him and see that melting apology in his eyes. If she walks away first, she doesn't have to watch him leave. ]
I should probably go check in on... some other people.
[ And miracle of miracles, that doesn't even have to be a lie, because off to the side she can see Kate Marsh making her way back through the room, her face looking uncharacteristically flushed. Wynonna takes a breath and sticks a smile onto her lips, tugging them with a flicker into a brief curve. It feels strange and plastic; it goes nowhere near her eyes. ]
Have fun with the rest of the party, Little.
[ She doesn't give it another second before she's turning and making her way through the crowd, wishing she couldn't still feel him there at her back.
It's fine. It's enough. And in the morning, this stupid world will go on just like nothing ever happened. ]