singillatim | from enemies of mankind to their protective spirits (closed)

Entry tags:

from enemies of mankind to their protective spirits (closed)

Who: Tim, the Bats, potential others
What: December catch-all
When: Month of December to early January
Where: Lakeside

Content Warnings: Keep an eye on thread headers (animal death, casual suicidality, past injury to start us off:)

It's been a week since-

Well, whatever, it's best to start from the beginning.

The beginning: it's dark. Not your average everyday darkness: advanced darkness. Because of this, and because of a lame(ish) leg, the trek to Lakeside takes longer than Tim would've liked. But he had been to Lakeside before (Kieren knows) and he had swapped out locks to the Blackbear resort cabin: out with the old, in with the new seemed fitting and it was always top of the lists of things to do when searching for tips for a big move.

So: new town, same darkness, same snow, new locks.

(Tim, being Tim, had been unable to resist rigging his bear traps to launch themselves to any successful intruder- boobytrapping is illegal but who gives a fuck? This is Canada.)

It's freshly December, he thinks, when he knows he's been followed.

It would be less unnerving if he didn't have the nagging suspicion of who stalked him- Tim distinctly remembers praying for a grizzly attack when his suspicion turns to certainty. But he needs to hunt, and the bo staff with the retractable blade makes for a fine spear (and after so many month of maintenance he had been unable to find a substitute for keeping the thing ready that's as effective as keeping it in use). He returns with two rabbits, dead and tied to his pack, and Blackbear cabin has yet to procure an actual bear to maim him. Tim digs out his keys to the front door, simply because he has keys to the front door, and so: suck it.

He wonders if his brothers are aware that this is what his nightmares are made of:

Jason Todd and Damian Wayne are in this house Tim's been convinced he'll be using, and Tim knows he's outgunned. He remembers the pirate Edward's cabin, had popped in there every once in a while. But it was tiny and unsafe. And this resort cabin is now very unsafe, and tiny.

(It's not tiny.)

Tim unlatches the rabbits from his pack and decides to not acknowledge-- (oh, who is he kidding-?)

"This is the worst intervention I've ever seen."

There's not even a banner.

And Tim hates himself, because he's frowning (he's always frowning) and as he lays out the rabbit to skin and dress, he can't even grasp his one knife as he turns to the yahoos and asks, loathing the words- "Is everything okay?"

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The kid starts shedding layers, dropping them directly onto the floor — did you grow up in a barn lifts to mind, ascerbic — and stalks past, studiously ignoring her in a way that makes her certain he's all too precisely aware of her. How she's sitting, the way she watches him. "What exactly makes you think I'd come find you if they weren't?"

He's not at the very bottom of the list, but neither is he anywhere close to the top. Tim's left hovering somewhere in the middle third of choices. She wonders, for the first time, where he sits in his family hierarchy. There's something to the way he's always stuck in the middle of things here that feels familiar to her from long, long ago; from the days when she was a middle child and not oldest one left.

Hell, he's just a kid. "I think the better question is: are you okay?"

Does she really care? She'd probably better decide before he tosses that question at her like a dart. Tim aims to wound; she's seen it before. A defensive trait more than an offensive one, maybe — something else she knows well. Just like this empty, lonely cabin. She never got up in front of a bunch of strangers to pontificate at them about how they should survive — idiots — but it's not like she's saying they're the same. Just that she knows this, slouching and snowmelt on the floor from outside boots that don't belong inside. She can almost hear Mama's voice in her head, telling her to clean it up.

And Kate likes him. Which means Wynonna needs to keep an eye on him, hard as he makes that. She can't tell if he's a loner by design or if this is all some year-long cry for help, but either way she's in the soup now. "You have food?"

He's shaking, because he just spent days hunting down the Big Pig and learning it just might be better to create shelter than to haul it with you, at least in these months where breathing freeze-dries the lungs and hauling an ounce more than is necessary is too much energy spent for nothing worthwhile. He had tried to take that truth from Crozier and had fucked it all up, in the end blocking the old man out and retreating into the winter anyway- Tim's done his time with masters of preparedness, but he's a city kid.

So he's by the fire, shivering and turning his hands over themselves to bring any feeling back into them that isn't hurt. He's not sure if he's ever going to recover from his thrice-broken arm (Jesus Christ, what had he been thinking?) because he swears it's all icicle where the bone should be. The slosh of snow is too quickly starting touch his skin, and it's a wonderful distraction.

The last time he saw Wynonna, she'd been genuinely stunning in red. At the party.

The last time he heard her, she had told him to go to hell.

And now Tim is unaffected by the slight despite only ever wanting to help people-- because- he gets it. It's fair. He is an imbecile, thank you. He's worked very hard to become one. It means a lot to know he's been on the right track, painful as it's been and will be. He's got his mouth set now in a thin line that's not a pout, but something kin to a pout. It's what would be expected of him, he thinks:

Big damn hero turns out to be a glory hound, good for nothing, burden- still manages to get all butthurt over the fact.

And then he turns his eyes to her and he can't figure her out.

He can't figure out what's so wrong with him that he can't have a single (not. one.) home where he doesn't have to hear what a disappointment he is; he had just wanted to let himself fall on the bed.

But that's life-- real life, not that idealistic version he'd been clinging onto despite it all. Tim doesn't have all of the answers and he doesn't need them. He feels the ugly crawl of anxiety under his skin anyway, maybe because he's almost waiting to hear his dad's words out of her mouth and he's ready to snarl a highly predictable What do you care?

He's too hungry to be hungry.

And she doesn't deserve to be asking him to answer something so-- loaded, just like that, without even giving him a role to play, a script to recite.

Tim Drake can be (and is) an incompetent bastard of a kid, a real son of a bitch (sorry, Mom) but God... he shouldn't be the only one explaining things to himself that he doesn't understand.

He wants to change clothes.

He unholsters his gun (no longer a gun, his gun) and leaves it on an end table. Says, lamely, distantly, "If you're here to borrow a cup of sugar... I don't know. Try the pantry."

Because

Jason's weird.

Maybe there is sugar in the pantry-?

Tim, weird and tired and cold and tired, looks towards his-- towards the room.

With Wynonna here, his legs feel deep in cement shoes. His heart's going to thrum out of his damn ribcage. But damn it... he's gotta change-

"Wait. Here. I'll be right back."

And

because he's an idiot, truly, belatedly, he snaps,

"Don't touch anything."

Damian has... books. Around.

Anyway-

"Too late," says Wynonna, no stranger to being an ass for the hell of it, herself. "I already licked it all."

Would anyone be surprised if she had?

The rest of it she ignores, in favor of letting her glance follow him as he moves around: to the fire, looking tired and cold and snow-damp, and then toward another room. She doesn't move. He might go out a window, in which case she'll just have to track him down again, but that would be pretty hypocritical of him, considering how many times he's broken into other people's homes and shelters. This is only the first time she's done it back to him. "If you're hungry," she calls after him, "Jopson always makes extra."

Thomas would feed pretty much anyone here, she thinks — always excepting Hickey — and she's pretty sure he'd see the same things she does: the bags under the kid's eyes, how thin he is.

She looks at the gun he'd set down. It looks strange on him; he lacks the appropriate swagger. Or maybe it's just that he's too aware of it. It's weird to see Tim Drake with a gun.

She does, eventually, move. Just over to the fire to toss another log on, to stir up the coals and get some heat really pumping as she waits for him to come back. No need for them both to be cold and uncomfortable with this.

"Ew," he hears himself reply-- it's mortifying, even, because his hand drops its grasp on the doorknob and Tim sees himself cover his hand with over-long sleeves as if to avoid the cooties and it's all automatic. Instinctive.

And then he shuts the door behind him and chucks a bear trap to the doorway in an attempt to convince himself she will not be coming in here, and that it's fine if she picks the lock- it'll be gnarly, and overkill, and he's going to hate himself for having to watch her bones snap, but he has nowhere else to retreat and he needs to change.

He changes into dry shirts and pants and socks and it's not a big deal.

And Wynonna is still there, Tim hadn't heard her leave. Soon enough he's emerging from his room and his eyes are anywhere but on her. He notices, with a headache of a surprise, that she didn't even move the handgun. So she's not here for a fight- again, Tim had several opportunities to know this, but the woman had had no way of knowing whether he had asked for an uzi for Christmas and it can't hurt to be cautious. Jopson, Tim guesses, is the Officer's name. Reaching behind his mess of a head to tame some hair, to show he's unarmed and has nothing she might want, he answers, "I grabbed a bite when I was out."

Like it's a Wendy's run and not an unending fight for the lives.

"Don't worry. I'm not keeling over on your watch." He says, sighing with resignation that this has to happen. "But tell Jopson I said thanks for the offer."

He's dead on his feet but with her standing, he's not sitting.

That's

well, that's just how it is, now.

Tim pockets his hands and gets on with it, with this Mexican standoff of theirs. "You're going to have to make up your mind about whether you want me to believe that you care if I live or not."

The good people of Lakeside, Captain Crozier had warned him, will keep him alive whether he wants them to or not. Tim, listening, gets ahead of that because, "So I'm just reminding you that I've made it this far without your help." Much to what's going to be her disappointment (stop. it. hisses some part of his mind-) "What do you want? You're going to rub it in my face that we're neighbors?"

She stands a moment longer by the fire, then moves back toward the table and chairs. He's unlikely to go warm himself up while she's in arm's length — smart of him, seeing as she'd pulled a knife on him the last time they chatted — and even with dry clothes he's probably cold. There's no sunlight anymore; of course he's cold. They all are, constantly: cold and hungry and lonely. "Yeah, I don't care if you believe me or not."

Her hand curls over the back of one chair and she drags it out, letting the legs bump and scrape against the wood before she slouches back down into the seat. She stretches out her legs, one boot crossed over the other, and doesn't go for Peacemaker there at her hip as she watches him. "And if I told Tommy you were out here, he'd probably feed you whether you wanted him to or not."

Tim can fling his teenage drama at her all he wants; she doesn't bat at eye at it. "You've made it this far without pretty much anyone's help. So what's your deal? You trying to make some kind of point? Convince yourself you're some kind of survivalist? Read Hatchet one too many times as a kid?"

March has an interest in the kid, she knows, but he's never mentioned much about Tim asking for any kind of help. She's never heard of Tim asking anyone for help. Honestly, that's the kind of suicidal sense of misplaced pride she can get behind. If it hadn't been for Tommy pretty much dragging her under his umbrella and for Little's stubborn refusal to just leave her the hell alone, she'd probably still be living just like this: alone, cold, angry. "If somebody actually offered you help — not me, obviously, but somebody — would you actually take it? Because as far as I can tell, this whole year, you've done your best to make sure nobody tries."

His other question she ignores for the moment. She can interrogate him about Kate anytime, it doesn't have to be right this second. "Props for managing to dodge all the do-gooders around here, though."

She still hasn't told him what he's supposed to expect here; Tim becomes familiar with the tension ache at the base of his skull and behind his eyes. Regardless of whathe wants, the Sparknotes flashes through his brain like some scrolling marquee. Brian Robeson is the 13-year-old son of divorced parents. He doesn't roll his eyes, and keeps the frown as she deliberately turns the chair to get a reaction from him. But what is he supposed to bark at her? Her loss for not telling him who, what, he should be- her loss for not telling him anything.

He bites his tongue and doesn't mention Kate, or March. Goodsir. Randvi. Du Lac.

The Robins.

And figures that if she's cozy then he can thaw out, a little. And he stalks towards the fire, like he's not even sure he's entitled to that much without criticism.

He doesn't sit. He just crosses his arms, faces her fully. (He couldn't be threatening if he tried, so Tim doesn't try. It's a new thing for him. To not try. He battles against shifting weight from his bad leg to his good leg, but he's stuck like this now.) "What do you want?" He asks, thin, but knowing the words carry through the echo of a wooden room. He doesn't know when- or how- he stopped being able to speak plain English. But he swears no one ever understands him when he says the simplest things.

Some people got to turn into werewolves with the Aurora. And Tim just learned he only managed to stay as this thing, this blemish that doesn't want to happen but does. Not even the wolves want him.

Which Tim thinks,

Fair.

He's tired, and he shifts to his good leg- "I can leave." Though it would hurt to be so hurt again. But, Tim realizes, he can. He can leave.

And become no one's problem. And create no problems. And be-- at peace, maybe, God, wouldn't that be something.

(Isn't placidity one of the first symptoms of hypothermia? Go fucking figure. That's almost funny.)

"I'm not here to run you off."

Probably. She's reasonably sure she isn't, anyway. She's not even sure she could, given Tim's stubborn ability to burrow himself in head first and refuse any attempts at dislodgement, like a tick in the summertime.

Of course, the question then remains: what does she want? Why is she here? It's precisely that kind of thinking ahead that she generally just doesn't bother with before acting. Why think too hard about reasons when she can act recklessly on impulse? "Kate told me about what happened at the party."

A moment's silence weighs between them. "With you."

Perhaps strangely, the words lack any kind of murderous frigidity. She's mostly gotten over her shock — and, honestly, if Kate were a slightly different kind of girl, she would have expected this about six... maybe eight months ago. There just aren't that many teenagers around. Who else was she gonna kiss? "And since we now happen to be neighbors..."

She shrugs, a loose and expansive motion. "I figured I'd come get your side of the story."

(Wynonna, that makes it sound like Kate told you something bad—)

Leave it to Kate to time that slap to the face so well. Tim had been nonplussed but unconvinced, standing his ground if only because he's had his share of burns across his backside and he's (still) in no rush to invite that abuse again. Wynonna's grandstanding can't even be grating when he's spending the time in between her deciding her reasons with rolling back his shoulders, rubbing feeling back into his arms.

As far as Tim is supposed to know, nothing happened and he's prepared to say as much, every appropriate expression passing through his features at every appropriate time.

He didn't know, never expected, there were supposed to be different sides.

As much of a disaster as Tim had turned the fumbling and too-sweet thing to, he had... been under the impression that...

That they had understood it was a mistake, nothing less- or more.

And Tim-- red with the spread of a hideous flush that's born more out of humiliation than ugly teen transparency, sits. Because he can't feel his legs, not really, because that's just the kind of breathlessness that comes with a good hit to the gut when you're already down. Because he hadn't thought Kate would reject his company, outright, right after the-- but now she's

and Tim doesn't know, and he knows that's his fault.

He's got his eyes on the hardwood and then he lifts his gaze to her. In case she thinks to kick him into the fire or whatever. And he says what he knows, which is, "I don't know what she told you. Nothing happened."

Kate had been outside without a coat. Tim had trailed her, given her his jacket for a minute.

Then they had gone back inside.

(But separately. Because Tim can't so much as be seen with her-- and now she's talking about- what, exactly?)

"I didn't know she was coming to Lakeside. I wouldn't have- I can leave. Just give me a minute. I just got back."

Edited 2024-12-30 16:49 (UTC)

"Let me ask you something," she says, after a long moment of staring at him. "Are your ears vestigial or something? What part of I'm not here to run you off are you not getting?"

And she thought the teenage boys in Purgatory were in dire straits. This kid doesn't need her as an enemy; he's doing fine in that regard all on his own. She's tempted to hand him his gun just to see if he really would shoot himself in the foot.

Wynonna sighs and leans an elbow onto the table, leaning towards him where he's standing there by the fire. "Would you for two seconds quit assuming I'm here to fuck with you? If I were, I'd have done it by now. I'm not that patient and you have really annoyed me in the past.

(Wynonna you're not helping— )

"Look, I don't care if you and Kate are getting your dumb teen hormones all over each other. Mazel tov. Just try to be decent to each other about it, everyone's already dealing with plenty without adding teenage angst to the mix." Now she does get up, pulling out a package poorly wrapped in newspaper and setting it on the table. "God, if I leave, will you relax a little?"

He snorts, defensive, derisive. Because he hears things just fine and that's one of his many problems, that the things he hears very often don't align with what happens next. But he's not glaring daggers at anyone- if anything the amusement, misplaced as it is, has loosened the tension from his shoulders and Tim picks artificially at the laces of his boots.

What he does do, is bite his tongue.

It's like when Dad would get after him and Tim would be unable to defend himself, someone else having the power in the dynamic and enough of it to seal his lips when Tim could...

Tim thinks

fuck that.

But, y'know,

"She didn't want to see me," he says and it's not a proud thing to put forth and it's just... the fact of the matter. Right after Wynonna had finished with her point that no one is going to have time for stupid-- for his stupid-

Tim cringes.

Nevermind.

Fuck that.

And now Wynonna is leaving and Tim looks dumbly on at the... newspaper. Dropping (heh).

And if he asks what the hell, she's going to tell him it's

she's going to leave and Tim's fucking stupid face hasn't stopped burning since well before the word hormone was uttered and would he relax

"Not really," he tells the dark. In case she wants him to think she might care, he adds the small, "But it's fine. Sorry."

He just won't make it a problem. Got it. He gets it. Damn.

He says, in a quiet and slow and private panic, "You can take more blankets if you want. I didn't know there were... three of you. Over there."

As neighbors. (It's a lie.)

He speaks. Interesting.

Wynonna nocks a hip against the table and folds her arms, then shakes them loose when she remembers that doesn't look casual, it looks like you don't give a shit about what the other person is saying, and if she's trying to convince Tim she does give a shit, she can just keep her fucking hands at her sides.

The offer of blankets she ignores for the moment, though her eyes narrow slightly at what he says before. She wonders if he ever relaxes. If so, she's never seen it. And who could, or would relax, living alone in this freezing dump (it's not as nice as Jackrabbit, as nice as Tommy's made Jackrabbit, and she doesn't know if that's by design or because he doesn't know what to do or because he knows and doesn't give a shit because he's a teenage boy— )

It's the first thing he says that gets her attention, the thing that comes out of him like she'd tapped his knee, trying to get a reaction. "I feel pretty sure she didn't mean that to be not ever."

If only because Kate's a soft touch. Look: she's not going to give away anything Kate said (aside from what happened). The most she'll offer is advice. "Just talk to her, dude."

The thing is, now that she's not up and leaving, Tim's left with the ugly understanding that she won't leave. Not if he keeps yapping. About what she wants him to, sure, but it's insurance that he needs against... that other thing now nagging at him.

Tim makes a conscious noise of protest and he tries out the words "Of course not." when Wynonna clarifies that, just maybe, it might be impossible or inconvenient to not ever see a specific person in such a small jail cell. It doesn't even sound overly bitchy, which is a win-win for someone who doesn't want to hear themselves talk.

He had just wanted to sleep. And now the heat of the fireplace has his back and nape of his neck feel raw.

Oh well.

Tim looks off to the front door- nobody comes in or goes out, not that he really expected them to in this small time. He says, "She wasn't comfortable with it. I asked if she wanted to kiss. She didn't, but she said she did. I wanted to believe her more than- I mean, I shouldn't have kissed her. I know. And she's still uncomfortable about it. She wouldn't want to see me now."

Kate wouldn't have brought out the big guns if she was fine.

Wynonna closes her eyes and lifts a hand when he's finished. Her other hand goes to her forehead, where she starts massaging a Tim-shaped headache that's beginning to form. "Okay, I know I'm talking to a teenage boy, but it's worth a shot. So I'll say this once."

She opens her eyes and drops the hand from her forehead as she lifts her eyebrows at him. "Do everybody a favor and quit trying to assume you have any idea what Kate wants. Don't try to tell me how she feels, and definitely don't try telling her."

He's probably not wrong, about the saying yes without being totally comfortable thing, but Wynonna has been a teenage girl and she'd be willing to put Vegas odds on him not being right, either. "Not that that'll be a problem if you keep hiding from her, I guess."

Which is a different kind of problem in itself. Wynonna tips her head like an inquisitive bird, studying him for a moment with pursed lips, and sets her hand on her hip. "I could let her know you're out here."

But really, where would she get the popcorn? "Look, just try not to be a dumbass about it. Give her a few days and then talk to her. Or, I don't know, wander off into the wilderness and get eaten by a bear. You've got a few options, really."

There's the real, real adolescent urge to scream.

He's doing what she asked he is saying what she said, except now he can't know what Kate did or asked or said because he's being told it's wrong and whether it's all the way wrong or only partially so, is left to him to figure out. Or so Wynonna says, here standing in front of him.

(Maybe?)

(Is that wrong too? With Tim's damn luck it probably is. She hasn't even tried for a fight, has even been putting effort into being a cunning kind of helpful.)

Tim does that thing where it's like he reads minds, or finally tunes in to the human condition instead of patterns. He stands, which is awkward not just because this is an awkward moment between two people who can't stand each other (though he'd like to like Wynonna- shake off that haunting what if that's followed him from the catacombs and maybe find that side of her that made her so popular at the dance, that makes her so chummy with March--) but because there's some stiff stumbling as Tim straightens out his legs under him. Fun fact:

"Bear doesn't want me. I didn't want it to happen like with the Cats. I had a whole tracking collar but then some jackass gave me whiplash and I lost the transmitter. I don't know if I rigged up a good enough replacement but I was going to try it out." Tim shrugs, weak and disinterested in his own voice.

He doesn't like flunking the obvious tests either.

He (pardon him-) assumes she'll be entertained for a second longer if he proves her right.

(Everyone makes accidents when they wrongly assume. Except Tim. Tim makes mistakes, obvious and glaring, and he should know better. He knows.)

(Did Wynonna say this to Kate-? To not assume, to not just take a chance to-- because it's different, when it's someone else's body involved in the-- it was nice, sure, but-- anyway, what does it matter. Tim should have done better.)

He cautiously, curiously, drags himself to the... mildly cylindrical newspaper-wrapped thing.

Last time someone dropped a thing off for him, Tim had lost himself in the agony of gaslighting. So. You know.

He just knows this is going to be fun.

"I can assume this isn't a remotely detonated device and that you still being here means that it doesn't work on a short timer either. So what is it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Don't sell the bears short." Or the cats, or... whatever. There's probably plenty of wild animals here that would love to gnaw on a tasty treat like Tim.

She watches as he makes his careful approach toward the package she'd left on the table, eyebrows lifting and pinching inward. "Remote detonating device would be way too much trouble when I could just shoot somebody," she points out. "What do you think I am, a Bond villain? It's a Christmas present, you paranoid twerp."

....Maybe not the best way to get him to believe she'd brought something for him with no expectation of return and no intention to harm, but he's been rubbing on her last nerve for almost a whole year.

It works in his favor when he raises his brows at Wynonna's straight-forward solution to the Is It A Bomb problem: "Oh, right. Well, I thought I wasn't supposed to assume."

Makes an ass out of you and me.

Not feeling particularly clever, just mildly and irritatingly vindicated, Tim feels his body angle more towards her regardless as he tentatively reaches for the-- huh? Did he hear that right? Christmas present?

(IEDs are not that hard to make and yeah, yeah it's a ridiculous accusation. Even Tim seems dryly amused at it.)

The thing has some heft, has an irregular shape under the makeshift gift wrap.

"What is this, like... coal?"

It is not.

Boyish, Tim forgoes any fanfare as he begins to tear at the paper. He hears himself mumble, "What caliber is your gun? Colt, right? So... 40-something?"

".45," she says, a bubble of wry amusement rising through her at the way he attacks the package, like a... well, like a kid at Christmas. "Yeah, it's a Colt."

The last time he asked about her gun, he'd broken into her house while she was busy being haunted by the memory of her murdered sister. It hadn't gone very well.

This time, there's a lift to the words that suggests... or maybe very warily hints... that she'd be willing to tell him more. She's almost always willing to talk about Peacemaker with someone who knows even a little bit about guns. In fact, she even relents enough now to volunteer: "Buntline Special."

She lets him have the assume thing — if it means he'll ask questions instead of deciding based on who-knows-what kind of mental equations he's got running through that hamster wheel brain she'll take a small loss for a greater win — and just hangs out with her hip tucked against the side of the table. "And no, it's not coal."

Which would actually be pretty useful around here, and thus a decent present. But it isn't coal.

"Yeah," Tim says absently, distractedly, agreeing...ly. Yeah, it was a Colt. Some single-action revolver, some replica or hand-me-down of the early modern wars. Or cowboys. The piece of ivory was hard to forget; Tim wouldn't even need to glance at it now to see it. He doesn't glance at it anyway, because he has binoculars in his hands.

His first instinct is to raise the things, entranced as he is. He wants to see if... the lens don't look too bad, not in this light, not considering all of the wear they must have... but his second instinct is to wipe at the eyepieces. His face is serious, like maybe he's not convinced this isn't going to blow up on him after all.

It's kind of negated by how he bunnches up the front of his sweater to scrub away any would-be residue from the eye-holes. Like, is he not supposed to suspect (sorry, assume) he's walking right into raccoon eyes? Fat chance.

Tim doesn't think his heart's worked this hard for the past four minutes, at least.

Maybe not for the reason one would think. _Assume. He gets the joke- his ears burn red at the slight. But it's the barely there tremor that gives it away, as he fiddles single-mindedly with the focus controls: the burn of dying resentment, much the way that the fire in the fireplace will burn and turn to nothing but cool soot eventually.

Tim is just not worth a damn unless he's associated, somefuckinghow with someone better.

He gets it.

He tries to say something, gives up. Tries again. Asks, "Uh. What. Why?"

Because he's eloquent, y'know.

"You could use this!"

In the end, she hadn't thought all that hard about whether to pick something up for him or not. Tim's doing plenty of over-thinking for them both, which is nice because it frees Wynonna up to just do stuff.

Like break into the cabin where he's staying.

Like bring him a Christmas present.

He stares at it now, more than half suspicious, and she can even manage to forgive him for not wanting to talk about Peacemaker because: oh, she nailed it.

She watches as he scrubs at the eye-holes (smart, and if she'd thought of it, she absolutely would have put soot on them) and looks the binoculars over. They're decent ones, she thinks; liberated from the mostly picked-over outdoors store. And even if they weren't, they're still better than his bare eyes.

His outburst has her shrugging one shoulder, crossing her arms as she lounges against the table. "So?"

(Let's be real: when would she ever use binoculars.)

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from enemies of mankind to their protective spirits (closed)

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cw some alluding to previous SA

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cw allusion to SA, some previous mindfuckery of the gaslight variety, always w the rampant paranoia

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