✟ 𝟹𝚁𝙳 𝙻𝚃. 𝙹𝙾𝙷𝙽 𝙸𝚁𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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singillatim2025-01-16 10:10 pm
extramuralise) wrote in singillatim2025-01-16 10:10 pm
» THIS IS THE STORY OF YOUR RED RIGHT ANKLE; AND HOW IT CAME TO MEET YOUR LEG.
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!
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⨾ ❞
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.
» 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⨾
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—
Charades—
Forfeits—
Yes and No/Twenty Questions—
... 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. )
» 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 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⨾
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.
» 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⨾
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.
» 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.
no subject
And really, that's it. That's the thing that stops his manic, rhythmic to-and-fro, the silent-as-he-can-make-it stalking from the frame of the window to the little study desk (and the dog bed at the foot of the desk). Tim swallows down the amusement- marred and muddied by aggravation, it is amusement, because he could blast Big Bottom...
...but damn it, it just wouldn't fit.
It wouldn't fit in with the lack of cold draft, with the creep of overheating now that Tim's spent time inside and as he refuses to shed layers, with the ease of a cabin inhabited by others who (get this:) don't worry about getting their throats slit in their sleep. There's indistinct chatter downstairs, and Tim can smell something cooking. And he doesn't think Vulcan shit would be appreciated by the home, either. Less because someone would have to explain the allure of The Final Frontier to (potentially) too-eager Sea Men, and more because crap would be as equally frowned upon as The S Word that Wynonna just muttered and.
Oh my god.
Tim's been still for way too long, and he's at risk of dissecting-- no.
If he keeps fidgeting then he keeps flooding Kate with all of these unwavering and unwanted things that are him now, and the least that Tim can do is...
"Can you get me a plastic bag?"
--the snowmelt.
He can clean it up, but his boots and his--
he's like, trying to surrender to his neuroses responsibly.
(And Wynonna doesn't know how to cut off the silk of the spiderwebs either. So distance- for a second, just one second- would be great. Or else he'll be doomed to this ache between his eyes and ears for weeks. )
no subject
If they do, she's never seen them, probably because neither Little nor Irving would have any idea what they are. "I can get you a towel."
Which will mean leaving him alone in this room for a minute, and turning her back on him, but Tim hasn't tried to attack her in a while, so maybe they'll all manage to make it out of this with minimal bloodshed and wet all over Kate's bedroom floor. "And me swearing doesn't do anything except give Irving something to look judgmental about. Say 'fuck' around him, go ahead. It's fun."
Potentially Irving would be more likely to scold Tim than her — she is still a lady, by his reckoning, even if he never seems totally convinced by that label for her — but one thing Tim's never had a problem doing is mouthing off to people. He'll be fine.
She shakes her head and turns to the door, deliberately giving him a decently long amount of time to go for her back, if that's what he wants. She doesn't think so, but you never really know. "Give me a second."
no subject
He's never attacked her, he's never attacked anyone (not matter how much he's wanted to and fuck it maybe he should (he won't)).
(Maybe he could have done the stick retrieval arc better. But he'd needed it back. There were shadows and images of who they all could be haunting the corners of their vision. And if he's going to harpoon anyone...)
"No?" Tim squeaks.
The only person he's spat curses at has been du Lac. Jason. March. --fu
--fudge, maybe he oughta rein it in.
He sits, wet and pitiful. And he reminds her, "Don't tell anyone."
Not that she would rat him out, for Kate's sake. But you never really know.
no subject
Her voice is sugar-sweet as she bats her eyelashes at him, annoyed. "Don't tell me what to do."
Has Tim ever actually managed to be in control of a situation he so desperately wants to control? She remembers him standing up at the Community Hall, lecturing, and has to wonder if that's ever actually worked for him. "You should know by now I'm the contrary-just-for-kicks type."
Will she tell? Not likely. Fortunately for Tim, a teenage boy sneaking through a girl's window is pretty wholesome as far as teen boy activities go, at least based on what she remembers from her own years as a teenage delinquent. And she can rest easy that Kate's not about to stand for anything stupid from him, and she's pretty sure he knows getting thrown into a snowbank would be the least of his worries if he ever really fucked up and hurt Kate.
So she closes the door behind herself and heads off down the hall to the linen closet to grab a towel: clean but with that scratchy feel that comes from line drying them inside. Christ, she misses modern appliances. Next Aurora, she's gonna see if she can get a dryer to work.
She even pauses outside the door when she gets back and raps lightly with her knuckles. "It's just me. Plus towel."
no subject
When the door closes behind her, Tim exhales: again, she's too much like Kon in that invisible moment, thinking being loud is supposed to mean more than just noise. But with the gift of privacy (and what a gift- ten outta ten- the gunslinger missed her true calling as Curator and Concierge) he has to wonder... and it's not that he means to, it just colors his thoughts in the same natural way that he casts a shadow on the wall as he sheds his jacket and boots and gloves to contain everything that drips into one bundle: does Wynonna know about what Kate keeps under her bed...?
Tim can stay still and silent (he likes being calm, likes the quiet). Weirdly, his thoughts go all dull too.
Weirdly, Tim thinks he's too good at shutting down because his heart's in his throat when someone knocks on the door- he hadn't seen the shadow approach- hadn't heard the footsteps- he thinks it's one of the guys because who else-
Oh my god Wynonna, what the f...lip is he supposed to do? Chirp up, come on in?
There's a paperclip on the floor and Tim chucks that at the door in response. In a massive show of... trust, Tim is where she left him. Blinking back the heaviness of sleep and very much not... hiding. Behind the bed. In the closet. Just outside the window. Just between the window and the window curtain.
She has a towel and Tim, relieved, mumbles, "Oh, cool. Thanks."
no subject
Well, it could be worse. And maybe Kate's read Twilight and thinks weirdly possessive teenage boys who climb in through bedroom windows are romantic, who knows.
She comes close enough to toss him the towel, then sets her hands on her hips. "Do me a favor and don't go sniffing around for her diary, or whatever, while you're in here. And just so you know, I've been sleeping in here with her, so if you were planning on staying the night things might get a little crowded."
no subject
that's funny. They could'a just talked to each other.
In comparison to the bone-chilling bitter cold of the storm, this is a safe harbor. Tim keeps the towel over his head, over his shoulder.
And Wynonna is... being Wynonna, and any amusement is gone. And he's not sure if she brings up the diary because of what he had wondered before- it's uncomfortable. But he's not sorry. "That's not something that you ask as a favor," he drawls.
He wouldn't root around and trespass that human need.
And he hopes nobody else would either.
A lurch in his stomach makes Tim looks ruefully to the window. He's not possessive, he wants to argue but can't. He'd been worried. But-
"I throw pebbles," he settles on, to scatter the restlessness and make it feel less like it's coming right from Wynonna's judgement and more like it's an inevitable part of him being, like, alive. He even extends a hand from his- blankie, and he mimes a toss. He's always a little too desperate to be a fool. "I couldn't find any today, so I..."
You know. On account of the. whiteout.
(Note to self, start carrying pebbles.)
Tim sobers.
"I didn't know where to go after- I got booted from the Farm. Kate said I could stay for the night. It wasn't supposed to be..."
(it wasn't supposed to be: a saga in 3 parts.)
"Like, a regular thing. I don't know." And now here he is, looking forward to it again, now that he can. And now here Kate is, looking forward to-- maybe. Tim loathes it, feeling so stupid so often.
"Don't worry, I'm going to Lakeside when I can, anyway."
But maybe he hates it less than the idea of being invisible.
no subject
Not unless he gives her a reason to care or to make it her business. So far the worst thing he's done is sit here and leak sadly onto the hardwood floor. "My only point is that if you planned on being here tonight, you should know that I'll be here, too."
With her hands on her hips like this, maybe she's unconsciously imitating March. She's picked up plenty of his mannerisms after all this time. "If you need to stay over, just go downstairs or go back out and knock on the door. Little would literally give you his bed and sleep on the couch himself. I guarantee it."
how tf are they so bad at missing The Point (i say knowing damn well why, smh)
He knows there's a front door.
He's not drip-- but with a little noise, Tim admits he is indeed sadly dripping, which is hugely uncomfortable phrasing, just F.Y.I., and he parts with the towel to set it under his gloves and coat and boots as he'd said he would. So at least that's the hardwood floor protected from his dumbassery. Give a cheer. Alert the goddamn press.
Like the spark of light at the notion of a gesture even vaguely approaching the likes of the offensively garish PI, the actual mention of Little- how familiarly the name just rolls off her tongue- shuts him down.
There are several black strings on Tim. The Lieutenant's screams: no.
It's vast and cold and rolls like a wave about to crest.
And Tim's not interested in seeing through anybody else's perfect storm, isn't interested in watching what that tsunami will ruin, destroy. (There's one person he's trying to get to higher ground.)
Stupid fucking spiderwebs. Because of them, Tim's almost certain, can guarantee it: Wynonna can't not feel... the depths of that ocean, the disquiet and dread.
"Fine," he challenges back.
"I will."
Boldly go where no man has gone before: the Front Door. Just to get her off his back.
(He'll return with a re-frozen coat, and a yellow blister of frostnip.)
"But I told you I'm looking for Kate. That's it. Because I don't know about you-" and it's somehow going to end up being his fault, what he brings up next, but there's nothing else for Tim to do but say it. "My threads don't exactly come with built-in GPS. So it's like. with the... it's like with the damn Demon Spawn. I only feel there's people on the other end. I don't know where they are."
The exhaustion of yapping without making any progress is worse than literally marching in circles.
He won't stay here. He'll go to Lakeside.
Wynonna should understand the silent screaming going on at the thought of having lost the freaking baby brother, but-- Tim's neither supposed to know or assume about those things. He looks to the window again, too eager to bolt. But the wind is howling viciously.
He'll get the chance to get the hell out of here soon.
(Always an optimist.)
"I can't just tune in to someone's frequency and suddenly know everything."
So he worries.
About everything.
no subject
She lifts her hand and waves it back and forth, and the charcoal string between them moves with the same motion. "A visible line you can just follow."
And, whatever, she doesn't know why a simple mention of the least offensive Victorian here would make him shutter like that, but he'd pick it up from her thoughts anyway, so she adds: "That's how Little found me."
And if Little can manage it, following the string all the way from here to the open woods of Lakeside, finding her like the proverbial needle in a haystack, she's pretty sure Tim can, too, unless whatever string he's got with Kate is a lot harder to see.
But then her head cocks to the side, like she's just heard something interesting (she has). "Your little brother was here?"
Because he's correct in his assumption: that does mean something to her, someone with a baby sister of her own. Waverly's not here, thank God, but she gets the stress it would put him under.
no subject
Tim wiggles his fingers, sees that charcoal string bob up and down and side to side with their combined efforts to make it visible, and he has never wanted to flip someone off more.
True to himself, and peppered with that scornful amusement because what does that even mean?, Tim does not flip her off.
"That brat is here," he stresses with a lackadaisical shrug. And another waggling of his fingers.
The threads. do not. tell him. everything.
The blizzard responds.
"But do you know what happens when someone stays outside for too long in this weather? They die." And, "Fat lot of good that'll do."
In the tone of: fuck it, maybe it would do a fat lot of good. Damian may think so, and that prince does know Everything.
In that case, sucks for him and sucks for everyone here. Tim won't do it, won't strike out to become a corpse for The Big Brother to either mourn or gloat over. Or both. Tim pulls a face- he's sick of siblings, he's sick of them wanting him dead and then, magically!, not.
Fuck these spiderwebs. Tim scratches at an arm. Ponders therapy. And cows.
Two out of three missing persons accounted for. Well, closer to one-and-one-half. He still hadn't seen Kate.
Tim scratches at his arm. Whatever.
Defeated, summarizes the whole damn thing with a purposefully anticlimactic, "So yeah."
Funny, that people believe he prances through deadly winter storms for fun. That's just fine.
no subject
Cherry-red, ugh. Like she wanted to know whatever the hell is going on between Kate and this kid who stubbornly thinks the worst of her no matter what she says or does or tries to do. Like help him. "Why do you think he's outside in this weather? Is he an idiot?"
Seeing as Tim clearly thinks she's an idiot — and apparently everyone else who isn't him — it seems like a reasonable question to ask.
cw death mention
(gosh darn it, her flipping him off is funny; Tim ducks his head to wipe his forehead on that sleeve he'd been tugging mindlessly at or else he'd, like, crack)
Tim was sure he'd explained himself. Explained what Kate had told him.
He had told his side. Wynonna had told him to quit the shit.
So he's grown wearily accustomed to the ebb and flow that comes with never finding his sea legs. But, again with the stupid moment of amusement snatched away as quickly as it had come, Tim just shakes his head and wills his mind to blank.
It breeds a headache to accompany his permanent headache and Tim thinks, for a blink, that he sees stars.
Regarding Damian, if he expands on literally anything more, then it's dangerous because--
He'd rather get shot than be fucking talking. is the problem here.
He went to a funeral where a girl had been buried; she had never died. No, she had been held and hurt. She had been alone. Fought and survived. And then, still, kept away. And there's a pain to that powerlessness-- and here Wynonna calls it possessiveness to insist to see the body, as if any of it, of this compulsion, was pleasant.
"Listen. I don't know. I've been telling you that I don't know what the hell is going on. I don't know if the kid is going to go outside or if he's going to think he needs to go outside. I know he's not at the Center and that made two people I cared about who were unaccounted for."
It's always the simplest things that he can't figure out.
But it's not simple, is the thing.
"Idiot or not, I don't think you would have been just fine waiting for the storm to blow over before you went looking for them."
Kate. And a mysterious younger sister.
no subject
(Always assuming, of course, that he was reasonably well-adjusted before whatever happened; always assuming there was actually a Before and he hasn't been just Like This from birth, which is always an option—)
But she thinks there was something, because you don't lash out at people asking normal questions (why are you worried, why do you think he's outside) with lance-point strikes, trying to turn it around on them without there being some kind of reason for that to seem like a good thing to do. (She knows, because she does the same damn thing.) He's like a cornered animal striking at her, even though he's far from cornered, even though she hasn't actually been on the attack at all this whole time.
And yeah, she doesn't get Tim, except on that bone-deep, cellular level where surly damaged teenagers get each other — talking to him sometimes has her feeling like she's trying to talk to someone who pulls each word out of a bag, like Scrabble letters, and throws them down without bothering to see whether they make sense — but: whatever, Kate likes him and March seems to like him and he's on her radar now, whether he wants to be or not.
In a good way? In a bad way? Not even she could tell. "Obviously not, but in case you missed it, I haven't gotten on your case about waiting for the storm to blow over before you go out looking for them."
She leans back on her hands and blows out a breath. "So, what: you're not gonna take my word that Kate's fine, you gotta see it with your own eyes. Fine, I can get that. I can even kind of get the sneaking — I guess — even though the only other people here are so fucking Victorian that they wouldn't even get mad, they'd just look kind of disappointed as they give you tea and a blanket— "
Give her a second, Tim, she's trying to figure out where the hell your head is at. "So what's the problem?"
no subject
He likes the quiet.
Until she mentions the men in this house, and there's that involuntary blip of-- avoidance, a cattle fence shock of innate understanding to not engage--
and then the quiet breaks, and Tim narrows his eyes.
He missed something along the line, wasn't paying as much attention as he had thought, he'd been too in head even now when he'd been trying, he
the problem
the what.
He opens his mouth, closes it, stammers through the pregnant silence because you're kidding me. But he can't figure out the joke. "I don't have a problem. What's your problem?"
no subject
Again: too easy.
"My problem is that Kate isn't here for me to tag in, because this shit is exhausting. Look, you keep biting my head off like I'm getting in your way or whatever, but all I've done is try to help."
And maybe tossed in a few snide remarks along the way, but she hadn't: thrown him out, called Little or Irving in, read him the riot act for sneaking in to sleep in Kate's room for who knows how long, and on and on and on. "You think I'm an idiot for asking questions? Fine, I'm an idiot who'd rather ask you than try rifling through your head for the answers. You think I don't know you? Yeah! Understatement! Maybe it's because you take every question like I've just tossed you a grenade with the pin pulled!"
no subject
"I never called you an idiot," he points out despite knowing that it hardly matters. And because of the tug of the idiot puppet strings, he feels compelled to add, "But it's not like I can explain myself in a way that will make any sense to you anyway."
Grenades? Okay.
Tim knows grenades.
He grits his teeth- and sends it. (And God, he wishes she'd be quieter; what if someone was stalking around and heard her-?) Predictably mulish, Tim doesn't raise his sights. Or his voice. But that second bit doesn't mean much for a small space like this. He can modulate his voice and make himself heard.
"And it's not that I'm trying to make things difficult for you," he says.
Imagine? If he had the fucking energy to create these minefield puzzles just to claim his crown as the Village Idiot.
"Or for anyone. They just are."
Ah, freedom of expression. Always so... dull, in practice.
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And maybe her execution could use work, she's never had a light touch or a gentle one, but her intentions have been good this whole time and he could pick that up without even trying so yes. It is fucking exhausting.
I never called you an idiot he says and then immediately contradicts himself by telling her she's too dumb to understand.
(See, Tim? Two can play at the willfully misunderstanding game.)
"Try me," she invites, lounging back on her hands, legs crossed and one foot bouncing in the air. "Making sense of things that don't make sense is a big part of my day job back home."
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Wynonna pushes and Tim bites his tongue and remembers his training. Like a dog told not to bite. "No," he explains. He's already explained. His blue eyes flicker to her, search for that grenade he was promised at age twelve if only he said too much.
No, he won't explain himself in a way that makes sense.
It would be a betrayal to--
(stop.)
His shoulders sag. There's no fight building in him. There's no reason for a goddamn fight. Ducking his head again, this time shielding the light from his eyes, Tim... acknowledges, "Your day job will tell you some part of why I won't. I never said I couldn't."
In fact,
for truce,
the embarrassing truth that is,
"When Anubis needed a confession or blood to spare our lives, a year ago, I broke my arm to make him happy. I don't really feel like doing that again right now. I can answer questions. I just don't think they're the ones you want me to answer."
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Okay. She can. And yet somehow that doesn't help at all.
The rest of it gets a scrunched up face full of bewilderment. "Anubis? What? What are you talking about?" (She missed that whole thing.)
"I'm not going to break your arm."
Probably? It's not like she can't imagine a scenario where she might, but it seems pretty unlikely. She shakes her head at him and tries not to be just annoyed. "Okay, so what questions do you think I want you to answer?"
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Can't, won't. Slaughter and breaking a broken arm.
They have to wade through the Anubis thing first. The information withheld in the Territories is what's going to be the death of them all and here she's pushing for explanations he's said he doesn't have. (Does have. Won't give. A white hot headache that only pulses at the front of his skull to remind him it's also here to play this game.)
Tim sighs and tries to make it sound less like a yawn.
(Dogs will yawn. as a direct result to stress. this weird little biological phenomenon to signal: stop.)
"Okay, so... it was the first week I got here. Late October. I think. I woke up chained to the slaughterhouse floor and there was someone else. An Anubis-- dog-headed figure showed up. He had a sickle and there was old blood everywhere. He demanded we confess to a secret, or hurt one another, or heads would roll. I broke my arm."
Now here Tim is, and his arm will still not quite work how it is supposed to.
Oh, well.
Tim listens vainly to that promised lull in the storm raging outside.
"Anubis disappeared after that. As I far as I know he hasn't shown up again."
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So she missed Anubis, but — is that a tiny glimmer of something metallic and bright slowly coiling around the charcoal heart of the thread between them — she gets it. The snap of a bone breaking, the sharp cold cut of a razor held to her throat.
She still has a scar, a thin white line pale against the skin of her throat, where Auggie Hamilton had pressed the edge of his blade. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Forgiven? Or not? She knows what it is to dredge the worst parts of herself up to the light, holding them out like fistfuls of mud, knowing there's nothing worthwhile in them but needing the person seeing them to find something anyway, to go panning for gold in the choked, polluted river of her soul.
Mark your calendars, folks: it's the first time she feels like she might actually understand this kid. "Okay."
She sits up, which is a little funny because she's also, verbally, backing down, and lets her hands stay relaxed on her lap. "I get it."
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Tim looks away, because he's not sure if he had any true right to see it.
Because privacy does mean the world to him. Because he does understand what is sacred, no matter how bullish she thinks his methods (by design) are.
Tim looks away because he's uncomfortable in how comfortable he so suddenly is, now having been left no choice but to believe her and her words. She gets it. And like a dog chasing cars, now Tim is reeling. He got what he wanted. She gets it. What now-?
He hadn't known he had held his breath until he exhales, trying to make it seem like all is well and he was never so rattled to hear her say it. She gets it.
"It's not..." she thinks he's conceited. He gets it. Even adding another I into the air makes him want to squirm. But now he owes her. It might be an illogical progression, but it's Tim's and, finally, something fully and only his. "It's not about me. It's about so many other people. I can't put them all in danger just to make things easier for myself. I won't do it. I won't even risk it."
cw: mention of (poorly administered) electroshock therapy
She couldn't talk about hers even if she wanted to, not for years, not without feeling the ghost of electricity arcing through her body, not without tasting burned toast on her tongue. Everyone in Purgatory already knew who she was and what she'd done; they just didn't believe her when she tried to tell them why, when she tried to tell them what happened that night, about the things that have hunted her and her family for so long. Keeping her secrets has never been about protection. What could anyone she tells do worse than what her family has lived with for generations?
But she keeps it close to her chest anyway, half out of habit, half out of the memory of past violence and incarceration. And part of it is sheer stubbornness, too; a habit that drilled into her bones and became a rule.
So, once again, she recognizes this. And maybe a therapist would disagree, but if he's going to tie himself into knots to protect other people, if he wants to be his own sacrificial lamb, if he considers himself the price he needs to pay for their protection, well—
She gets that, too. "Good."
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Maybe things would be different without the evil magic that is in them, in the air and water and blood. Maybe it would have changed the nature of their perpetual standoffs. It wouldn't have changed everything (he's an ornery one and he knows it), but what if it would have changed just enough? Irrelevant. And anyway,
"Looks like we played right into it."
The scheme, the ploy, or whatever it is that The Powers That Be demand of them this week. Why the threads, March had wondered. Because they're connections.
Because they can be severed. Or changed.
But they, the Interlopers, had needed that reminder that something more powerful than them... knows.
Tim is fine with silence, and he can adapt to queasy calmness.
With nothing else to tell, he asks a lazy, "So what do we do now, chief?"