» THIS IS THE STORY OF YOUR RED RIGHT ANKLE; AND HOW IT CAME TO MEET YOUR LEG.

[extramuralise]

Who: Edward Little, John Irving, Kate Marsh, Wynonna Earp, + open to other CR drop-ins in need of temporary shelter!
What: STORMED IN (Winterstille).
When: January 24th - 28th, and/or potentially just before / after
Where: The 41 Mackenzie Street cottage
Content Warnings: 'Does one not bring his habits [aboard]?' — which is to say, all of these characters have their own canon and in-game baggage, shared or otherwise, so please label all threads accordingly!

✒︎ how it whispered ❝ Oh, adhere to me⨾ ❞

» ARRIVALS; GETTING WARM; SETTLING IN FOR THE STORM.

---

The bear-beast alone would have been bad enough (and no question, knowing it was out there somewhere made actually preparing for this storm a beast in itself), but at least the looming presence of such a monstrous creature was sure to drive people indoors before the weather really turned.

As it happens, the cabin on 41 Mackenzie Street (home to Lieutenants Little and Irving, and Kate Marsh) is well-kitted out to weather (ha ha) the coming — now imminent — storm that's been circling, or at least as insulated as possible without knowing precisely how bad the storm will be yet. The windows and doors have been protected, reinforced; candles, matchbooks, and oil lanterns abound throughout various parts of the house; there's plenty of firewood, and food to last about a week if needed (which is not to say plenty of food, but hopefully enough to get them by).

So if you're passing by and need some shelter, come in and warm up by the fire! Have some tea, stay for supper! And hopefully you can be on your way again before the snow really begins to come down, or else you may be stuck here for the foreseeable.

✑ For we are bound by symmetry⨾

» FUN AND GAMES?!

---

If you have been trapped here, never fear! There are still ways to keep occupied, especially for those would appreciate a distraction from the concerning colored strings that have mysteriously appeared on everyone's fingers (because seriously, what's that all about? Well, if you know, you know, or maybe you at least have developed a suspicion or two...), because don't you know? Victorians simply adore parlour games, and surely there are even a few old board games lying around that had been left behind back whenever the great Milton exodus occurred.

So, if you're feeling bored and not yet quite up to socializing about the weather (or, again, especially not those threads which seem to be connecting everyone to each other), take your pick! Gotta pass the time somehow, after all.

Blind Man's Bluff—

Blind man's buff is played in a spacious area, such as outdoors or in a large room, in which one player, designated as "It", is blindfolded and feels around attempting to touch the other players without being able to see them, while the other players scatter and try to avoid the person who is "it", hiding in plain sight and sometimes teasing them to influence them to change direction.

Charades—

The basic object of the game is for a player or team of players to act out clues that will allow another player or team to guess a secret word. Most people today are familiar with the basic concept of the game, but there are different ways to play it. During the 1800s, Charades was played very differently from the modern form of the game. Mohr describes this older form of the game as "complex theatricals" and cites Cassell's Book of Sports and Pastimes (1881), which describes players staging a short play with two scenes in which the actors gave their audience clues to the word they were supposed to guess. This is different from the modern form of the game in which a single player mimes words for the other players to guess instead of speaking out loud and uses certain common gestures to help the other players understand the clues, like holding up their fingers to indicate the number of words in a phrase they want the audience to guess or tugging on their ear to let the players know that the answer is something that "sounds like" what they are about to mime. The only props used for the game are some basic household items that might be lying around, such as items of clothing or furniture. From there, it's just a matter of being clever and creative and acting things out. ( Read more about Modern Charades vs Victorian Charades! )

Forfeits—

One person (called "the judge") is chosen to leave the room. All the other players must place a small personal item into a box. This might be an article of jewellery, or an item from the pocket or handbag, or a small item of clothing such as a tie or shoelace. The "judge" is brought back in to the room. They pick up an item and describe it. The owner must identify themselves and pay a forfeit — do something amusing/embarrassing — to win back the item. The judge chooses which forfeit to award the player. If the player fails, or refuses the forfeit, then the judge keeps the item.

( Suggestions for forfeits: sing a song; dance; stand on your head; tell a story; bark like a dog, do jumping jacks, imitate the person on your left, hold your breath for as long as you can; hug the person sitting opposite you; tell everybody something embarrassing that happened to you; walk around the circle backwards; etc! Many and more ideas can also be found here! )

Yes and No/Twenty Questions—

One person picks a person, place, or thing, and commits it to memory (Mount Rushmore, the ocean, an item in the room). They do not tell what this item is but they say, for example, "I'm thinking of something large." The guests are then allowed to ask yes or no questions. "Is it a building?" "No" "Is it an animal" "No." "Is it a monument?" "Yes." "Is it in Europe?" "No" and so on until one person guesses the item correctly. If the person guesses incorrectly the game still ends and the wrong person must chose a new "something." Players should never guess until they are completely sure they know the answer.

... Not to mention other (more modern!) classics such as Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever, and Two Truths and A Lie (if you can convince your hosts, that is!), or card games, or the much beloved campfire tradition of scary storytelling!

( OOC | Feel free to include in your prompt games that are NOT mentioned here; these are just a few examples, but anything is on the table! If it's a board game, you're welcome to assume your character can find it lying around in a closet or on a shelf somewhere.  )

✒︎ And whatever differences our lives have been⨾

» TEA & FOOD; SHARING CONFIDENCES; OTHERWISE PASSING THE TIME.

---

However long it's been by now, know that there is an ample enough store of tea, biscuits, and sandwich fixings to help keep a person from going too stir-crazy... not to mention a reasonably well-equipped bookshelf, and whatever other elements of personal entertainment the hosts may own, or that a guest may have brought along. Music, radio, handheld TV? Let's not succumb to cabin fever yet here, people!

Or maybe it's finally time to take someone aside and speculate amongst yourselves (or God forbid, even gossip) about the bear-monster, or even the strings... likely you've noticed some very telling colors and/or connections by now between others that you'd like to discuss in private, if not yet necessarily — or maybe exactly that! — with one of the concerned parties yet themselves.

✑ We together make a limb⨾

» WINDING DOWN; CONFRONTING THE UNSPOKEN... (OR NOT).

---

Some people may end up having to shelter overnight, or possibly even more than one night, so make sure you know what your sleeping arrangements will be if it comes down to that. Not a problem, if so; these things happen, and there's a comfortable sofa, plenty of blankets, and (maybe?) even a spare room for guests to avail themselves to.

But let's also circle back a moment, because maybe this will also demand confronting your string situation head on in some way; if you're sharing a room with someone you're connected to, for instance, that's a hard thing to miss, let alone ignore. Maybe it's time to talk about it, or talk about something else that you hope can eventually lead into talking about your threads in a more casual, natural way— if such a thing is even possible.

It could also be that you're struggling to sleep, and find yourself "alone together" with someone else who is experiencing the same problem... offering, again, the ideal moment to confront the connection privately, or else talk around it until you finally build up the courage to address it, talk about it by not talking about it, exactly, or simply avoid the subject at all costs. Ultimately, in the end, that part is up to you... but remember the storm, remember that privacy is hard to come by in such a claustrophobic situation; maybe it's not the worst idea to take advantage of it while you have it.

Comments

[extramuralise]

Last I knew.

[ He confirms with a nod, although "last he knew" could really mean anything from five minutes ago to three hours— Irving isn't exactly avoiding Little, it's nothing like that, but he's felt hesitant to be left alone with him for too long, maybe more so than anyone else in the cabin.

Rather than make eye contact, he moves to check that the pipes haven't frozen — not that it matters especially, as he makes a point of keeping filled pitchers and basins around mainly out of habit — then fills and put the kettle on. He's wary of the question, even though he's mostly sure Wynonna's only asking for her own sake, and not for...

Some other reason. ]

So you're not to disturb him, [ he adds sternly, right on the heels of what he'd said last. ] I consider it enough of a miracle already whenever he just manages to sleep through the night.

[ Belatedly, he's now especially glad that he had the foresight to separate the beds.

Almost as an afterthought, he adds: ]

And I didn't want to wake him, either. Sleeplessness is a condition that needn't be contagious.

[pacificator]

I wasn't gonna do anything, [ she says, stung into defensiveness. He's on the back foot, she can feel it through their thread, and she's feeling just as off-kilter. She doesn't know how to navigate any of this shit. ]

I want him to get some sleep.

[ It's something they can both agree on, and yet there's a vibrating line of tension between them that she doesn't want to look at too closely, just like she still doesn't really want to think about the way her whole chest gets clogged up with a confused mix of affection and longing and blind panic whenever she even thinks about Little.

What the fuck is wrong with her.

But she does want him to sleep, because the alternative is him being up and worried and exhausted and also around, which is something she both desperately wants and just as deeply wants to avoid.

None of which explains why Irving is acting almost as squirrely as she is about it. She ventures a touch along their thread, trying to get a read on him. ]

So what's got you up?

[extramuralise]

[ Irving knows neither how to navigate what's happening, nor even to identify the queasy, tangled knot of confusion, panic, shame, and yearning that's so recently made a home of him, smothering him every so often with a sudden, inescapable totality. He's felt things like this before, he's almost sure, but never quite this strongly, never quite as... concentrated as now, yet still no more clear to him than its ever been.

But maybe that's because he's been avoiding examining these feelings too closely, all but certain they can lead him nowhere that's good or safe.

Or maybe, even, he's only feeling these things because Wynonna is. How can anyone know for sure? What he can feel from her seems more... straightforward, in a way (but then, Irving always knew there was something between her and Little), if surrounded by a cloud of apprehension and bemusement that is somehow uncomfortably familiar.

Irving remains standing for the moment, glancing aside to check on the kettle's progress. No real point in sitting down before it boils, which should be nearly any minute now. ]

Good. He'll still be there in the morning, [ he says, crossing his arms despite the slightly more agreeable (less defensive) tone. ] Though we'd best to keep our voices down.

[ If Irving already seems tightly wound on just any other random, normal day, then currently he must seem even more tense than a wooden nutcracker— fingers flexing and fidgeting, drumming against the nearest surface or idly messing with his hair.

The kettle whistles, and Irving leaps to take it off the hob before it can get any louder. He lays out a small tea service and carries it out on a tray, the dishes rattling slightly as he sets it down on the coffee table. ]

The storm, [ he says cryptically, stirring in some cream and sugar to his tea. ] I'm finding it difficult to sleep in all this chaos.

[pacificator]

[ There's a slight scoff from Wynonna, still curled into herself on the couch, as she settles her chin on the arms she has around her knees and stares into the glowing coals of the fire. He'll still be here in the morning. ]

If you say so.

[ That's never a guarantee, although she has to admit it's more likely to be true of Little, with all his stubborn loyalty, than almost anyone else she's ever met.

(The better question is: will she still be here in the morning? But then she remembers another storm, over a year ago, and how sure she'd been that he wouldn't come out to Lakeside where the bear was most active just days ago, and has to admit it's probably not worth the hassle of him almost certainly deciding to come after her. Not to mention the shit fit Irving would throw if she got him hurt, somehow.)

She glances up, just a shift of her eyes and eyebrows, as Irving comes over with a tray full of tea things, without uncurling herself to reach for any of it yet. Not that sitting like this is exactly helping; somehow she still feels almost seasick, between the wash of her feelings and his. A flicker passes over her features; the slightest tightening of brows and eyes, wondering. The stuff she's picking up from him... it feels weirdly familiar. Which maybe isn't surprising for the stress and discomfort and awkwardness, but it is a little weird to feel a twinge of bewildered want from him, definitely not directed at her.

Interesting. ]

You must have had to sleep through storms at sea.

[extramuralise]

[ Never a guarantee, no, but Irving is a man of faith, after all— if, granted, rather more out of necessity than actual choice, these days. Even while on the ice, one could never really know who would still be alive, come the morrow, but for simply keeping faith that surely all hope had not yet been lost.

For some men, it's as much another form of surviving as anything else.

If Irving knew what a heart monitor was, then it might seem like an appropriate enough simile for how the thread connecting them seems to pulse and tremble with secret meaning, but since he (obviously) doesn't know it, he can instead only once again observe that uneasy familiarity which seems to thicken and congeal between them like butter that's halfway curdled into cheese.

He glances up at just the wrong moment, accidentally meeting Wynonna's gaze in the dim, flickering firelight with a directness that he didn't intend. ]

Not particularly well, I should say, [ Sleeping well on a ship is already enough of its own challenge, storms or no storms. ] But men can adjust to almost anything, given time. Especially while at sea.

[ Irving's spoon clinks faintly against his teacup as he continues to stir, more just to have something to do with his hands than because the tea still somehow hasn't mixed.

He adds quickly, awkwardly, almost as an afterthought: ]

I am sorry you've been stuck here, we can... we'll try digging you out tomorrow, if the snow has stopped by then.

[pacificator]

[ She does unfurl, now, releasing her knees to straighten her legs so she can lean forward and make a cup of tea for herself, adding both cream and sugar. She's stirring the mix when he moves on from talking about life at sea — which she's marginally interested in hearing about, mostly because it's the complete antithesis of almost everything she's ever wanted to do, except for how it would have kept her the hell away from Purgatory — and instead brings up... hm.

Wynonna picks up her cup and gives him a considering look over its edge. ]

Trying to get rid of me?

[ It's possible. More than possible, really. This is his living space, and it's not like he knows her the way Kate and Little do. Whatever connection they have is largely due to being lumped into this strange little group by dint of those two drawing them both in. She doesn't know if Little asked him if it would be okay if she stayed here, and she doesn't know how okay it actually is.

But there's more awkwardness than she would have expected, rifling down the thread between them, and if it's not because of her then she's... pretty much out of ideas. ]

Is it weird for you that I'm here?

[extramuralise]

[ A spike of paranoia, cold and brutal, bluntly pierces through Irving's heart, threatening to somersault it into a plunging free-fall. Why would Wynonna say that— no, why would she think it? Wide-eyed, he looks at her, pale irises nearly invisible in the low firelight. ]

N-no, not at all, [ he says quickly, shaking his head like the notion was absurd. ] Of course not, why ever should I be trying to be rid of you? I-I just... I can only imagine that you must be longing for a good deal more privacy than we have to offer here at the moment, is all.

[ He forces a faint, rueful smile, taking a deep, slow sip from his tea. His heart is racing suddenly as if from a burst of adrenaline, although he can't fathom why that would be— he hardly used that much sugar. ]

Miss Marsh has never complained, but I expect that your preferred lifestyle must rather... significantly differ from hers, if you'll forgive my saying so.

[ An assumption, sure, but one Irving feels relatively safe in making; Wynonna is obviously very... er, bold, as women go, whereas Kate isn't terribly different from the kind of women one might meet back in his day, or even Irving himself. ]

[pacificator]

[ A jolt of anxious worry comes arrowing down the string between them, dull and heavy, and — oh, shit, maybe he really does want to get rid of her.

She frowns at him as he stammers through a bunch of excuses and rationalizations, and he's not wrong, exactly, but it feels like he's trying to cover for something. He always seems tightly wound, even more so than Little, but the guy looks and feels like he's about to pop from sheer internal pressure. ]

You're gonna wake everyone up if you don't relax.

[ Your preferred lifestyle. There's something there that reminds her all too annoyingly of the smug and judgemental people of Purgatory, all the ones who looked down their noses at her when she was a kid and who eyed her with cautious disdain when she was a teenager. But Irving doesn't know about any of that — well, most of it, anyway — and she'd always gotten the impression that he... maybe doesn't like her, but doesn't dislike her, either.

But there's something here, a grain of sand niggling at something soft and internal, and she narrows her eyes at him. She's used to Little talking around things, but he always seems relieved, if a little startled, when she cuts right to the chase. Irving, on the other hand, keeps throwing out verbal smokescreens that make her want to take out a leaf blower.

So to speak. ]

My preferred lifestyle involves sitting on a beach with a coconut full of liquor in my hand and absolutely zero things trying to kill me, so I don't think it really applies here.

Besides, even if I tried to go spend the rest of the storm back in my cabin, I think you and I both know I'd lose that fight.

[extramuralise]

[ Having no sufficient counterargument to make, Irving hmphs softly, looking about as pleased to be told to relax as Wynonna likely would being told to calm down. Easier said than done, particularly when he truly has no good reason to feel as agitated as he does— or rather, nothing specific he can think of, since the overall broader sense of stress he nearly always feels is nothing new to this storm, or even to Milton. ]

Point taken, [ he says with a curt primness, setting down his teacup. ] I'm sure likely none of us would have chosen to find ourselves here, of all places.

[ Irving means Milton, and this whole... realm(?) in general, although the same could probably be said of the cabin as well, for some people: those who don't already live here by choice. ]

By no means am I suggesting that you try to leave, [ he adds, turning his doll-like gaze back upon her, before gazing towards one of the whitewashed windows. ] At least not until the weather relents. It would be nothing short of suicide, before then. Never mind that it's the middle of the night.

[ Not that the night or day part matters so much at this time of year, in this part of the world...

But maybe it's good he has the opportunity to clarify and emphasize this part further, because he is sincere enough about not wanting to kick Wynonna out into the raging storm. Of course he would be; he wishes her no harm, no ills in particular, regardless of how aggressively she sometimes manages to grate against his nerves. ]

Then, if the storm happens to clear up by morning, I'm sure Edward— Lieutenant Little, will be glad to escort you home.

[ Since somehow, Irving just gets the feeling she was thinking about Little just then, so it seems like the right thing to add to help reassure her. He knows how the two of them are... well, something, after all, and truly, Irving has no real basis to disapprove, other than Wynonna is far from being the kind of woman he would have envisioned as a match for Little. Where — or rather, when — they come from, a woman like her would make for a rather difficult marriage prospect, let alone with a Royal Navy Officer.

Then again, he supposes he never actually has envisioned such a thing for either Little or himself. Because what would be the point, really? ]

[pacificator]

[ She's still holding onto her teacup, but she hasn't taken more than a sip since they started talking. It's just something to do with her hands, and it helps warm them; even with the glowing coals of the fire and her own multiple layers of clothing, she can feel the chill that drifts through the boarded-up windows and thick walls. No, it wouldn't be a good idea to try and go anywhere right now, even without the almost certain result of Little coming out to try and drag her back again.

She made him do that once already. However strange this feels, however awkward and uncomfortable, she'd put up with a lot worse if it meant he didn't stubbornly chase her headlong into danger. ]

Yeah, I'm sure he will.

[ He would anyway, but she wonders if any part of him, somewhere below the anxiety and uncertainty, would jump at the chance to actually get some time alone, the way she would. She's still not quite used to looking this thing in the face, but the few glimpses she manages to take without panicking leave her feeling warm and warily curious. She can't look at the depth or width of it without getting a sense of vertigo-like animal fear, but that doesn't mean it isn't there.

She also thinks she's going to go crazy from wanting someone so badly it hurts and not getting more than a few seconds alone to do anything about it, especially when the person in question is so skittish about the idea of wanting at all. So maybe it isn't a bad idea to see if he'd walk her back to her cabin, once this is all over.

But there's a weird, knotted sensation in her stomach when Irving talks about it, along with a feeling of faint... what is that, disbelief? It doesn't feel like rejection, exactly, but there's something about Little... or maybe it's about her and Little. ]

It's not like there's any rule against it, right?

[extramuralise]

[ For Irving, too, the tea is mostly to have something to keep his hands busy, something to keep them still rather than give into the impulse to let them fidget— he never used to think much about this habit, before, but ever since all his dealings with Hickey he's become all too aware of the myriad ways his (or any) body will constantly signal distress and weakness.

He takes a slow breath inward, then releases it, lifting up his teacup to sip from again. The tea he makes here is usually somewhat weak and without much flavor, but it's more about the ritual than the taste.

Then there's a flash of... something from Wynonna, or maybe it's one of his own memories spontaneously coming to the fore: Little in danger? But God only knows there must exist dozens of such examples within either of their memories. Irving shakes his head, preferring not to linger on the image, nor how loud his heart now seems (to his ears) to be beating.

Then another emotion suddenly, though briefly, has gripped him so powerfully that his chest hurts, his head spins; a pang of painful, conflicted longing, something that brings heat and color to Irving's face unbidden.

He sets his tea back down, wondering where that funny turn could have come from— Wynonna, of course, being the most likely answer, but what if the feeling isn't exactly unfamiliar to him? ]

I'm sorry, any... rule? Against what?

[ The question has him genuinely puzzled, not only because he isn't quite sure he understands what she's asking — maybe he misheard her during to that brief dizzy spell — but also because Wynonna, to him, has always seemed like probably one of the last people in Milton to care much about "rules."

Irving crosses one leg over the other and rests his free hand upon his knee, regarding her with a raised eyebrow. ]

Walking you home?

[pacificator]

It seems like the kind of thing you might worry about.

[ She doesn't, and as far as she can tell, Little cares about it more for appearances and politeness than for any other reason. They've spent plenty of time together, alone, either sitting together long after the sun's gone down or walking around together. He's been to her cabin before.

She puts her own teacup down and shifts on the couch, curling one leg under her and letting the other hang over the edge as she turns a little more towards him. Her eyes are almost as pale as his, but they're narrowed in intent scrutiny, not wide and doll-like; she can't figure him out. Whatever clicked with her and Little, the things that made them understand each other, get in each other's heads well before this string that just solidifies the connection that's been there for months, hasn't clicked with him.

Something is bugging him about this whole thing. And if it isn't some prim disapproval at her flouting whatever stupid social mores drove the society that built him, then she can only think of one other reason why he might be so squirrely about her and his friend. ]

I mean, I don't care. But I guess he might.

Not that it's stopped him in the past.

[extramuralise]

Something I—?

[ Hand to chest to indicate himself, frowning now in confusion.

It's no wonder that stripe of gunmetal grey discolors their otherwise gilded thread; they'll probably never manage to actually connect, these two, let alone intuitively, although it's relationship growth in itself they can tolerate each other enough to get along by now. Perhaps even, at times, somewhat fondly.

At the moment, he regards her warily, trying to work out what these so-called "rules" are that she mentioned, when the answer — or at least, an answer — manages to occur to him, albeit an answer to a question he would have never expected Wynonna, of all people, to be asking him... of all people. ]

If you're referring to the proper etiquette of... of courting, then yes, I... imagine that should be appropriate.

[ Walking the lady home, especially given she has no husband or brother here to do it instead. ]

Though it's really less an act of true courtship as much as it is one of simple chivalry.

[ Unless they meant to do more once they reached her house, but Irving would truly rather not assume as much— anyway, a walk, a stroll, let alone escorting someone home after a storm, was not in itself necessarily scandalous without other factors to consider, such as was it before or after dark; were they truly alone, or did they walk the main, generally populated streets? So on and et cetra.

He only drops his gaze briefly while speaking, a flush of embarrassed consternation spreading up from his neck to his face to his hairline. Then his eyes, large and nigh-unblinkingly, raise up to meet hers again, his expression guarded and uncertain before he puts a hand up in flustered panic. "Not that it's stopped him in the past" seems like more than he needs to hear. ]

But I don't— I-I don't need to know any more details, thank you!

[pacificator]

What? Courting?

[ Her face scrunches as she watches him flush and fluster, but for once his sense of equilibrium, knocked askew and all surprised, matches her own. ]

We're not courting.

[ She barely even knows what that means, aside from a kneejerk reaction to avoid it as a label. This is all so new, even if it also isn't, really, at all. She doesn't totally know what to call the way they've been orbiting each other for over a year; they were wary of each other, and then cautiously trusting, and then friends, seemingly out of nowhere, and now...

And now he feels like a line that keeps her tied steadily to shore instead of blowing away at the first sign of a storm. Even now, as she reflexively pulls back from any possible label, any name for whatever this is that will make it real and not some fever dream brought on by the way they'd collapsed into each other in Lakeside, she feels that connection, now a glowing red string, tug her back. ]

Are we?

[ Her only familiarity with the word itself — courtship — is from rewatches of the BBC Pride & Prejudice miniseries and a few of Doc's stories, all of which are way more lascivious than she thinks Irving could ever even imagine. ]

What does that even mean?

[extramuralise]

[ Recoiling slightly from the initial denial, now Irving looks at her with what is probably the closest thing he has to an are you stupid? expression, suddenly livid with disbelief and frustration (and, for just a moment, something vaguely hopeful...? But no, surely not, because that would make no sense). ]

Forgive me if I refrain from using any of your words for it, [ he responds at length, speaking each word carefully. ] but if the two of you haven't been courting one another all this time, then I suggest you—

[ Irving's jaw clenches, searching for the right way to finish that thought. Taking a moment to re-compose himself, while he's at it. ]

... I suggest you both begin writing down your feelings for the other in a letter, and then decide whether or not that's a letter you'd care to send. [ He primly adjusts his posture, sitting up straighter. ] Courting is when you seek out someone else's company, Miss Earp. Something I'm sure you're already well familiar with.

[ Okay, that came out a bit cattier than intended. Irving blushes at his own rudeness, covering his mouth as if even he's surprised by it. More softly, speaking in a rush, he adds: ]

I-I apologize, that was... inappropriate.

[pacificator]

[ He stares at her in helpless frustration, an expression she's intimately familiar with, but there's a whole mix of other things in there that come merrily singing along the string between them: disbelief, something almost angry, and something else cautious and quickly stamped out. ]

What the hell do you mean, 'all this time?'

[ It's only been a few days since he came and found her in Lakeside and brought her back here, and as far as she can tell that's where the count should start, even if she'd been wrestling with all of this for... okay, for way too long, probably, but still.

But that's not the really interesting thing, and neither is the advice he gives her — writing down her feelings, yikes —

The really interesting thing, the thing that makes her sit up from where she's been slouched on the sofa, some light of clarity flashing through the fog they've wound around themselves through this conversation, is what he snaps at her afterwards. It's bitchy as hell, just this side of calling her a slut, and she's both impressed and intrigued, even as the hit lands.

Look, it's not like he's wrong. She hasn't been hurting for company even here, even if Edward is... different.

He knows it, too; he flushes with embarrassed color, heightened by his loss of temper, and brings a hand up like he could keep the words from coming out. Wynonna shakes her head at him, the waves of her hair pulling at her shoulders with the motion. ]

Oh, uh-uh. Nope. We are not letting that slide.

[ She leans forward, peering at him with new interest, like he's some new kind of bug she's never seen before. John Irving, with a spine. Who knew? ]

Look, if you don't think I'm good enough for him, just say so. Chances are I'll agree with you.

[extramuralise]

All this time.

[ Irving repeats it dryly, as if to draw an underline below the words: by 'all this time,' he meant all this time. ]

Since before I— [ Turned up here? Awoke? Came back to life? ] Before we were introduced. What else could I have meant?

[ He clears his throat again, in an uncomfortable way that likely evokes the image of collar-pulling in accompaniment— bashful now, humbled by his own indiscretion.

After setting his teacup aside, he laces his fingers together over his knee, tented there slightly pressed fingertip to fingertip. ]

And I-I only— all I meant to suggest is that Edward's history is a great deal... different from yours. To my recollection, he's never once mentioned having any lady friends, nor a fianceé, waiting for him at port, in either the present- or past-tense.

[ Which is not to say such women don't — didn't — exist, of course, but if they did, Irving certainly never heard Little speak of them— either that, or else he's somehow managed to tune it all out. ]

But it's certainly not up to me to remark upon your character on his behalf, [ he adds, quickly. ] Edward must choose his own companions.

[ And really, it isn't that Irving thinks ill of Wynonna... exactly, but that she's very, very different from any of the women they might have met back home.

Yet in spite of all that, Little is clearly drawn to her, and has been for quite some time. Irving has known — well, suspected — as much for ages, anyway, but now he acknowledges this to himself with a sense of calm, almost bittersweet resignation. ]

"Good enough" makes nearly no matter here, besides, seeing as none of us bring along with us any sort of means or assets.

[pacificator]

[ She opens her mouth to protest again, but closes it almost as abruptly. She hadn't been lying; there hadn't been anything... formal or spoken or acted on. But there had been something, hadn't there? Even if his word doesn't seem to fit it, and neither do any of the ones she knows? Something had dragged them into each other after the madness of the summer, when they clung to each other and couldn't let go. Something had pushed him to confess what he'd considered his greatest crimes to her on that same day, and something had possessed her to not only draw him into an embrace but to run her fingers carefully through the waves of his hair.

That hadn't just been to try and soothe him. She'd touched him then, like that, tenderly and carefully, because she'd wanted to.

And it's been aching deep under her ribs, her lungs, her diaphragm, ever since, that sore and tender feeling. She feels it now, remembering, and swallows, before blinking back out of memory and into the present, where at least she can offer some kind of information. ]

There weren't any. He told me he was more focused on his career, he never had time for all that stuff. Or maybe never wanted to, I don't know.

[ I'm not certain I would have made a very adequate husband, anyway, he'd said; typical self-deprecating Little, making the world's tiniest joke at his own expense while they danced. Her lips twitch into a smile thinking about it, warm and amused and fond; how nervous he was, how her own stomach had kept clenching and flopping over in her gut. But he'd relaxed, and so had she, and it had been... nice, right up until it wasn't. ]

And yeah. My history's different. But it's not like you really knew that, right? You don't know that much about me.

[ Aside maybe from seeing her with March, maybe, or getting the wrong idea from the ring she wears on its chain around her neck. ]

So whether you're remarking on my character out loud or not, you've clearly got an opinion that's got nothing to do with whatever material crap I've got to my name. Which isn't much of anything even at home, by the way.

[ The real question is, why is he tying himself up in knots about it? Is it really just the concern of a friend and colleague for someone they know and respect? Why would that tinge of resignation come pooling gently into her chest if that's all that's going on? ]

Maybe it's not up to you to say anything, but you did say something. Why?

[extramuralise]

You asked me what courting was, [ he reminds her pointedly. ] and I told you. The outburst was only incidental, I can assure you.

[ And while Irving could apologize again, he'd prefer to move past that moment now, if possible, as quickly as possible.

But of course, he'll apologize again if she needs him to. Shame has already overtaken whatever disconnected yearning has localized behind his ribs, not outright replacing what had come before, but muting it like a hand that's been firmly clapped over a mouth. It had been a slip of the tongue, in so much that he hadn't at all meant to comment on her so-called proclivities.

(Focused on his career rather than a marriage sounds about right, though; the same is also true for Irving, as well. That, and how he didn't want to marry to begin with.)

Ahem. He flushes again, slightly anew, but holds his head high, trying to recover some sense of dignity despite all the confusion and conflict that continues to simmer and roil inside him. ]

As far as your history is concerned— [ he repeats the word as if she can somehow intuit its true meaning that way, ] I'll allow that perhaps I was... mistaken in my presumption. Hasty, yes, assuredly. But Edward is my... my good friend, you understand. And so I shouldn't much care to see him at risk of potential heartache.

[ Because yes, he suspects there's likely something more between Wynonna and March other than simply making their basement bootleg wine, and then what about Jopson, too?

Oh, how the mind truly could reel were Irving to actually allow it to... but he thinks that he's (hopefully) made his point. Take it slow, he could say, and be patient with him, except that's not exactly advice (let alone the language or vocabulary such advice would be given in) one might find being dispensed by the typical Victorian guidebooks, never mind from actually typical Victorians.

Slow, fast, casual, complicated, unbalanced, transactional, mismatched, love without congress, or congress with love— it's not that these sorts of relationships (as well as many, many more) didn't exist back then, too, but the relationship standard approved of by both society and God isn't one with much room left for interpretation. ]

[pacificator]

If it was really just 'seeking out someone else's company,' then I seriously doubt you'd be that worried about it.

[ But it's not. Even she knows all the connotations that come with courting, which is why she'd had a reflexive moment of panic to begin with.

But. If she's being fair, she has to admit that, yeah, his assumption was just that, but that doesn't make him wrong. She's bounced from guy to guy for years, never letting any of them get too close, never letting any of it become anything like real. Maybe a small handful out of the bunch could ever have been considered boyfriends, and she'd handily sabotaged those before they ever managed to hit anything like serious.

But Little isn't March. He isn't Doc, as good for a frantic roll in the woods as he is with casual smiles and easy compliments.

(Except Doc had wanted something more, hadn't he? And she'd been the one to shut it down again. I think I'm better off traveling solo. The last thing she'd said to him before getting dragged to this place.)

She's conscious of her ability to hurt Edward Little, how easy it would be. They've hurt each other in the past, even without any of this — or, at least, without it being something anyone realized or acknowledged — and it would be even easier now. She knows how deeply he feels things. She's completely aware of his loyalty towards her. It scares her half to death to even think about it.

And now here's Irving, giving her some version of the same talk she'd given the Doctor and Tim: please don't hurt my friend, he's asking, and she knows it's a possibility, maybe even a probability, even as the very thought feels like she's stabbing herself in the gut. ]

I didn't ask about the rules because I care about them. Or... courting, whatever. I still don't even know that's actually what's happening, [ she adds, with a warning glance at him.

Little might be able to answer that question, but she can't. ]

I mean, from his end, anyway. I only know what I...

[ Nope. That's a bridge too far, and she fidgets, clears her throat, her glance falling to her lap before she lifts it to meet Irving's gaze, clear as a pool of still water. ]

But if I know what he'd expect, what's normal, maybe I can... you know, do something. To make him more comfortable. I don't...

[ Ugh. She's stubbornly dragging every word, reluctant and struggling, from somewhere deep down. ]

He's already anxious enough about literally everything. I don't want him to be anxious about me, too. About this, I mean. He's probably always going to be worried about the other stuff.... that's not the point.

[ Why. ]

Just. Okay?

[extramuralise]

Seeking out someone else's company as— [ But no, sorry, he just can't make himself utter the word "lover," or any of its synonyms, in front of a lady. ] As a companion.

[ Because apparently it doesn't simply go without saying that men and women being just "friends" is not normal? Which is, quite honestly, probably the primary — if not only — reason here that Irving of all people happened to suspect something was between them so much earlier than even they have.

(Well, though actually, what's Little's excuse?)

The emotional roller-coaster that follows makes him light-headed and vaguely queasy, although some of it he does manage to follow even as the rest of it feels much too much for him: guilt, fear, trepidation... something which seems adjacent to both longing and heartbreak while being exactly neither. The buzzing anxiety he can feel collecting around thoughts of Little like so many swarming bees, though, Irving can somehow understand— it isn't so far removed from how he feels sometimes, although never predictably. As for the compulsion to be alone...

He thinks of trying to make friends aboard a ship, and of keeping himself at a constant remove because of knowing how the other men will continue to call him anchorite and "Holy Ghost boy" behind his back no matter how kind, patient, or tolerant he tries to be, no matter how generous he is with loaning out his own things for others to use.

And as for romance, well, Irving has never felt any particular need or rush to settle down and marry; if ever he should want to, the option will be still there, but as yet, his mind has never changed much on the subject. For one thing, he already has a family, and the thought of trying to build up such an intimacy with anyone fills him with something very akin to dread, if not abject terror. Satisfying some base, physical urge just isn't worth such vulnerability and self-loathing— and if ever it actually was, well, sailors make do. One way or the other.

How easy it would be, and even easier now. It's a possibility, maybe even a probability, even as the very thought feels like—

Irving can feel his gut clench and turns over, as his heart vibrates wildly like a bird that's found itself trapped indoors. He breathes in and out slowly, then takes a measured sip of tea, but no amount of deep breathing can prepare him for Wynonna (sort of) asks him next.

Something about which he couldn't imagine feeling any more at a loss how to advise. ]

That's precisely why so many old friends and newly besotted sweethearts alike choose to exchange regular correspondence with one another— to properly and appropriately help make their attentions clear. I...

[ He hesitates, suddenly awash within a strange self-consciousness, before he adds more quietly, deliberately: ]

By now you must know him half as well as I do, Miss Earp. If not more.

[pacificator]

[ For a moment — and not for the first moment during this increasingly awkward chat — the emotions that ripple back and forth along that gold-and-gunmetal thread feel like they line up, like matching soundwaves. It's not as complete an understanding as the red string offers — she doesn't feel like she gets him on a cellular level — and it's not the free radio broadcast of thoughts she picks up from the black threads, but for a second there's a brief flash of clarity and commiseration.

Maybe she shouldn't be so surprised that Irving's as gunshy about opening himself up to another person as she is. And those frustrated feelings of loneliness, of being other, with that embarrassed and aggravated tinge that she knows all too well from her own memories of never being normal enough, being the butt of every joke — well, she can read those like newspaper print, and for a moment the string on her end pulses solid gold, without any of that darker gray binding it.

And that distress he feels, conflicted and contained, mingled with resignation — it's not the first time she's felt that from him, either. ]

I'm not really much of a letter writer.

[ To say the least. She hadn't sent even Waverly so much as a postcard in years, and the thought of trying to put down on paper, to make even more real and solid than even just speaking words into the air, everything she feels and wants drives an ice-pick of dread deeply into her stomach. Even though he's right. Over the course of the year, she's gotten to know Little better than almost anyone else she's ever known. She's told him things she never thought she'd tell anybody. And, of course, there's her current cheat sheet. ]

I definitely do right now.

[ She lifts her hand to indicated the glowing red string that winds its way across the room and disappears up the stairs before she remembers: ]

Right, you can't see it.

[ The weird thing was that she had wanted to get to know him. She'd wanted him to feel comfortable enough to talk to her about the things he doesn't talk about; she wanted to hear his stories and worries and hopes even before she figured out what that weird feeling was in her stomach when he lightened into a smile around her. ]

But you're right, even without this thing, I guess I know him pretty well.

[extramuralise]

[ He can't see it, no, but the way Wynonna indicates her spirit string prompts Irving to glance down at his own, a fan of varying colors extending from his fingers in many different directions. Most are gold — all the ones that connect him to someone here in this cabin, anyway — Wynonna's and Little's being the main exceptions, one flecked with grey (though much less than he remembers there being) and the other with spots of what looks like rust, or maybe blood.

It's this last one that he examines now, concerned of what the discoloration might indicate; something bad? He can't see how it could mean anything good, but... what, then? His relationship with Little is as good as its ever been, as far as he can tell. The two of them now actually consider themselves friends rather than merely colleagues.

No sense in worrying about it, he tells himself. Maybe the colors don't actually mean anything at all (although he can't quite convince himself this is true).

Irving breathes out, focusing instead on the frustration he feels at being asked for advice only to have it discarded. Does he seem like an expert on courtship, some officious, matronly meddler? As much as he wishes he knew so-called simple things like how to make another person comfortable, he doesn't even know how to be comfortable himself, let alone less anxious about, yes, basically anything. ]

If not a letter... [ He sighs, turning his gaze back towards her. ] Then I suppose you could always try to demonstrate as much in your actions, instead.

[ Notice he doesn't suggest to just "talk about it," because to Victorians, that kind of emotional vulnerability is acceptable in a letter, whereas in person it's... well, there's a reason Brits are known for their stiff upper lip. One doesn't talk about personal things, not when they can express themselves much better, more distantly, in writing.

It's an important distinction, at least for more avoidant types like Irving. Little has less trouble expressing himself in the wardroom than Irving did, but as far as his private life goes, he can be almost more shy. ]

People like writing letters because they can take time to think of how best to express themselves, [ Irving decides to add, patiently, realizing Wynonna might not be the sort to have grasped the implications of this distinction. ] And you can take your time to consider your response. Whereas it'd be very forward of a man to speak his intentions to a lady directly and expect her to answer them.

[ Impolite, in Irving's opinion, and not to mention arrogant, but some men (and women) do prefer the bolder approach, so he bites his tongue against describing it that way. Maybe, indeed, Little would — does? — prefer a woman who's less ... traditional, so to speak, but it's harder to imagine him imposing his attentions on a lady (even Wynonna) in a way she'd struggle to politely recuse herself from.

(Not that rejection is anything a man like Little should have to worry about, Irving imagines, but still. There's a way to how things are done, after all.) ]

[pacificator]

[ The annoying thing is, she thinks Little probably would like a letter. She's seen the effort it takes him sometimes to say things she wouldn't think twice about saying; the way he prefaces them with caveats like if I may be so bold, if I might, if you will allow.

Which isn't to say he hasn't occasionally said things that seemed like a spotlit glance into whatever he really thinks, feels. She might even argue he's done it a lot, with her. But he does always seem to need to work up to it, like he has to screw up his courage to say things like a man would be fortunate to be so close to you. Similarly, he's never told her not to say things to him that are clearly well past the bounds of whatever he's used to, but he gets embarrassed, shy. So she can see how maybe he'd like to have the words written down, thought out and presented in a quieter, more private way. And a letter, especially a hand-written one, which it would have to be, always feels more intimate; a message explicitly created, thought over, and meant for only one person's eyes.

She's got no idea what she would even say. She's barely able to put any of this into words for herself, let alone enough to set pen to paper and make them real in a way that makes her breath come short and shallow for a minute. It's bad enough saying something aloud, giving it shape and weight but letting it evaporate into thin air. Writing it down feels like taking the string that runs delicately from her fingertip and tying it around her own wrists.

She's stuck. Even aside from it apparently being a thing Little might be familiar with, she thinks it probably would, overall, give him something grounding, something to help with his own anxieties. But it would be hellishly hard for her. She's spent years focusing only on self-preservation. This would feel like, instead of putting up walls for protection, she's just slicing herself open, baring every soft and vulnerable thing inside. She wouldn't be able to absorb a hit. She'd be drawing a target on her own chest.

She wrenches herself out of the circling thoughts, focusing instead on Irving and the way he looks as he studies his fingertips and the threads she assumes he has there, like he's caught in some similar loop. It's a good distraction, and she lunges for it. She catches his eye and glances meaningfully down at his fingertips, then looks back up at him. ]

Something wrong?

[extramuralise]

[ And just like that, he snaps back to attention like being roused forcibly from a trance, the briefly distracting lull of examining his strings while also awash in that strange mixture of conflict, obstinacy, and tenderness coming from Wynonna (but which is somehow familiar to him, too... yet, in a deeply unfamiliar way?) shattering like a brick through a window. ]

What? No—

[ He blinks, needing a moment to untangle the knot of inexpressible feelings — both hers and his own — wrestling within him before his thoughts can properly come together.

Still, as if for emphasis, he shakes his head as well. ]

No, not a thing. [ His fingers curl inward to his palms, hands moving to his lap. ] Why should anything be wrong?

[ Besides, she's the one who looks vaguely tortured (and maybe sick to her stomach) at the moment, however Irving struggles to belief that all this anxiety and reluctance could be about just writing a simple letter, timing notwithstanding.

His lips purse into a pensive little pout, eyebrows furrowing in consideration. ]

I was only wondering if there's meant to be any significance to their... to the colouring on them all.