singillatim | open & closed | if I get too close and I'm not how you hoped

i. Milton

[ There are new people in this little town. That means more mouths to feed, more Interlopers tossed into the harsh reality of survival in this frozen, wooded expanse. Some of them may still be out in the woods, wandering and alone, while others are just starting to find their way around. Or maybe someone comes across him, crouched by a makeshift campsite, a fire crackling in a cleared patch of ground and a lean-to staked against the wind.

Fraser has gravitated more towards his brown uniform since the boar so graciously gifted it to him over the holidays, but for the first few weeks after the arrival of the new Interlopers, he dons his red serge, making himself a vibrant and easily spotted figure against the snow, in the woods. He spends a good portion of each day hiking through the nearby woods, keeping a sharp eye out for any lost or wandering Interlopers, Diefenbaker trotting by his side. He may also be found ice fishing on the Basin, or occasionally stretching his legs by tying on some hockey skates and practicing his slapshot into a snowdrift.

One day, he tromps back into town with a deer slung over his shoulder: venison for everyone. He spends some time dressing and skinning the carcass, then works to smoke the butchered meat before wrapping it up and delivering it around town to anyone who might need any, Diefenbaker and the three half-grown wolfdog pups at his heels. He is also always willing to stop and talk to anyone, answering questions or offering directions as needed. Bewildered by your sudden arrival in the frozen North? Your local Mountie is Here To Help! ]

ii. 16 Thompson's Drive

[ Fraser isn't always out in the woods or around the town. This house he originally shared with Heartman has become something more than just a shelter, a warm place to sleep: with Sveta's presence, it's become a home. Someone walking by might hear the rhythmic sound of chopping wood and come across the dressed-down Mountie, now in flannel shirt and jeans, out back with an axe and wood pile. Or they might hear him singing to himself as he works to repair the damage from January's storm to the roof, windows, and walls.

Someone wandering by in the evening may hear the gentle sound of a guitar being played and smell supper cooking. Go ahead and knock— guests are always welcome! ]

Edited 2025-03-04 19:02 (UTC)

The pups — Brock, Mackenzie, and Boris — are too small to be harnessed, and will remain that way for almost another whole year, but that doesn't mean they can't begin their training. Fraser has all three of them out in the yard of 16 Thompson's Drive, Diefenbaker watching from where he's lazing in the long, slanting rays of the afternoon sun.

Someone watching might be excused for not realizing that the tableau before them consists of serious training methods: it looks just like playtime. Fraser, dressed down in jeans and a flannel shirt over a turtleneck, mittens on his hands and his boots caked with snow, twists and jukes and runs, playing what seems like a chaotic game of tag with the three half-grown pups, who jump and chase and mouth at him, tails up and wagging.

As training goes, it seems fun for everyone involved.

Location is everything... or so people probably thought back before this world did its best to end. Wynonna shoulders open the front door of the third cabin they've looked at today, and coughs as a rain of dust showers down over her, stumbling slightly as the door gives way in a sudden lurch. "What're we gonna do if we even manage to find a decent spot? Build a bar?"

Well, maybe they can get one of the handier Interlopers to help them out with it. She looks around at the room, waving away dust motes, and lifts her eyebrows. "This one isn't bad."

Whoever lived here had gone all in on the 'open floor' concept, and the front room is a large, mostly empty space broken up by a large fireplace. "Kind of 'old-style' pub vibes."

Edited 2025-03-10 18:40 (UTC)

[ Frankly, she's been feeling weird all month.

It started after waking up from that long sleep — or could it more accurately be called a coma — after tangling with the bear in March, but it hasn't gone away. She feels strangely out of joint with her body, and after a week or so it's clear it isn't just the new vitality and strength that had come after the dream of the bear. She feels... disconnected, somehow. Like sometimes she's floating just outside her own body, unable to really feel the things she's touching.

And then, one morning, she wakes up and finds that not feeling like herself has taken a terrible and all too literal turn.

It starts with stretching under the sheets, before she's even opened her eyes: something feels... weird. Her shirt is all rucked up and tight around her chest in a way it almost never is unless she's been tossing and turning all night, and her underwear feels weirdly constrictive. She slides a hand under the sheet to wrangle her clothes back into place, and instantly freezes as her eyes snap open, horrified.

It's not just different. Things — two very important things that she likes a lot — are just gone, and something... else... has taken up unexpected residence. ]

What the fu—

[ The yelp starts and stops almost as suddenly. That's not her voice. It's too low, feels too strange in her throat, and — most importantly — it's too masculine. Wynonna scrambles out of bed, leaving behind a muddled mess of sheets, and runs to the full-length mirror in the corner of the bathroom, too-flat chest heaving with shock and adrenaline. She skids to a halt, and the person — the man — in the reflection matches her movements exactly.

Slightly mussed brown hair, a little lighter and much shorter than her own chestnut. Two horrified pale eyes, so close to the color she's used to seeing in the mirror that it's honestly a worse shock to find them not quite right than if they'd been brighter or darker. A chin scruffy with stubble. A —

She glances down, then back up again as rapidly as possible. Yeah.

In the mirror, John Irving stares back at her with an expression she's never seen on his face. Not because she's never seen him look horrified, or shocked, but because it's her expression stamped onto his features and oh god this is the worst morning she's ever had. And here she'd thought nothing could beat Ibiza. ]

Crap, [ she says, in John's smooth English voice.

A little while later, she slams out of the cabin, moving awkwardly in a body that's way taller, heavier, and more muscled than her own. It's not like she has clothes that really fit him, but she does her best. He might hate how tight her flannel pajama pants fit on his hips and ass and legs, but it's better than no pants, right?

Maybe no one else is up yet. Maybe she can get to the cabin without anyone seeing her... him.

Maybe the Darkwalker will show up and eat her and she won't have to worry about it anymore. That's starting to sound like the best possible alternative, if she's honest. ]

Edited 2025-04-15 23:02 (UTC)

[ Her new strength and stamina is helpful in her human form, but it doesn't make Wynonna any better at hunting the small, agile animals that make up the bulk of her protein intake, and besides — she likes being the wolf. There's a simplicity about it that she desperately needs, considering how complicated everything's gotten since Christmas.

(It helps that it's easier for Little, too, sometimes. They can change, and go hunt and run and play in the woods, and when he's the wolf it's easier, natural, to nose at him, lick his face, wind herself around him like a secondary fur coat. There's a freedom to it, an ease that's still lacking when they're together as their human selves. Everything is different, but it's all the same, too.)

She'd been out for an hour or so before picking up the scent of something warm and living and shifted gears from wandering to hunting. When she finds the little clutch of ptarmigan, she attacks silently and with the comfort of practice, then delicately breaks the neck of the bird she has pinned and picks it gently up in her mouth to carry it back toward the cabin. The scent of blood drifts through the woods in her wake, and she keeps her ears pricked. The last thing she wants is to get attacked by some other predator trying to grab her prize for its own. ]

—OTA

—Sveta

—March

— John Irving (cw: dissociation, flagrant abuse of italics)

—Hickey