boogie wonderland; ota

[questioningmermaids]

Who: Holland March + open, Holland + Huaisang
What: March spends some time contemplating, talks distilling with Huaisang
When: Nov 2nd
Where: Community hall

Content Warnings: usual cw for alcoholism

i. Weapons cleaning + contemplation;

His supplies are running low. There's only so much you can scavenge in a place like this, but when you chain smoke like a chimney and drink like a fish eventually what you can scrounge up is going to disappear. He's got a little left, sure, courtesy of a gas station raid and the basement Huaisang's got, but supplies aren't infinite.

It gets him thinking. Makes him antsy. March enters the community hall like he usually does, a frequent visitor like most of the small little community they've all managed to put together, but he's never really done much. Drank some coffee, chatted. It's hard to tell if he even realizes he's the village idiot.

Today, though, he's set up in a little corner and is making sure his gun is cleaned along with sipping his morning caffeinated sludge. He's less animated than usual, less talkative, simply staring into space as his hands go through the motions. If not interrupted, he'll eventually speak.

"We're really fucked here, huh? Completely." Holland knows he should curve the negativity, but it's starting to get to him more than he'd like admit. He's been adamant they're all probably going to die within the month since day one but there's less of a joking tone towards it this time.

He wants to help sure. Pitch in, even. Mostly he's just worried about how tiny his booze stash is getting.

After coffee there's a far less depressing revelation, said just as solemnly.

"...Should I hunt?"

ii. Huaisang;

"We gotta do something."

March doesn't bother to announce himself when he opens the door to Huaisang's place, spending far more time there than he probably should. His scarf is taken off, the hat is dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Hey. Huaisang? Huaisang, we gotta do something. You know what I did today? Math. You know what that math was for?"

He's already flopping onto the nearest available surface, aviators still on.

Comments

[pacificator]

"Aren't you the ray of goddamn sunshine we all need right now?"

Wynonna is slouched in a chair nearby, legs stretched out and feet crossed on a crate, Peacemaker tucked cozily into the shaft of her boot next to her calf. The coffee's okay; she's had worse. There aren't any donuts, though, and that is a real problem.

But he's not wrong. They are fucked, probably. Winter in the Ghost River Triangle is only bearable because they have power, and heat, and donuts. Stocked grocery stores. A saloon.

She aims a skeptical glance at him over her cup. "Can you hunt?"

[questioningmermaids]

What is with highly attractive women giving him attitude in this place? March glances over at the woman with a deep frown and a crease in his brows, trying to simultaneously puzzle out his initial thought as well as a new second thought: has he seen this girl before?

It doesn't work so he mentally sets both aside for now, twists his body a bit to face her properly, and answers with an incredibly sincere question.

"Do I look like I have before?" His gaze dips down briefly to her gun, brows smoothing from their furrowing and raising in approval.

[pacificator]

Here's thing about glancing down from her face to Peacemaker: that one glance has to journey all the way along her body, and by the time he looks back at her face, her eyebrows are arching up toward her hairline. "You look like the only thing you've ever hunted for is your other sock."

Actually, that's being generous. She's not sure this guy is together enough to have matching socks.

[questioningmermaids]

"Nope," March answers smoothly, and decides that since Wynonna didn't immediately punch out otherwise dissuade March from talking to her while he was eyeing her he's probably safe. The gun and existential doom are temporarily forgotten as he leans to one side, elbow on the table with a proud, confident look etched onto his face.

"Hunted for loose change in the couch cushions a few times, so. Hope you like being wrong."

[pacificator]

"Wow, can't believe I read you so wrong." Fair's fair; she's giving him elevator eyes in return. Under the scruff and the general air of haplessness, he's not all that bad, himself.

"Yep. You're ready for the big leagues. I say skip the rabbits and squirrels and go straight to hunting bear. What could go wrong?"

[questioningmermaids]

March's brows lift, lower, and then lift again in the span of roughly 4 seconds.

"Hey. Maybe I could. You think this little lady," he lifts up his pistol, fully unloaded and still in the middle of being cleaned, "is for show? I'm very experienced."

[pacificator]

Wynonna gives the pistol an unimpressed glance. Sure, it can do plenty of damage – she's seen firsthand what Doc can do with a six-gun, but Doc was the greatest gunslinger in the West.

"I think the most that little lady will do to anything larger than a raccoon is piss it off."

[questioningmermaids]

"Bears aren't that big." March rolls his eyes, half a step away from full on scoffing as he continues his work. He's angling himself towards Wynonna, finding her candor not only appreciated but incredibly familiar. It's nice, even if she's clearly unimpressed. He kind of misses that kind of energy being thrown towards him. It's more 'you're insufferable' and less 'you're going to get us all killed.'

Not that anyone's said that, but March isn't as stupid as he looks when it comes to spotting the vibes. Mostly. Sometimes. This specific time.

[pacificator]

Wynonna leans her head back, eyes closed, and laughs.

It's not an especially nice laugh – she's absolutely thinking, yes, he was right, they are all fucked, sideways – but it feels good. Might be the first real chuckle she's had since she wound up here. "Yeah. Tell you what, I'll come with you. Not to help; just because somebody ought to be there to say I told you so when you get mauled by an apex predator."

[questioningmermaids]

"Wow." March would be offended if he wasn't so delighted there seems to finally be someone who seems to go at the same pace as him. There's a rapport, a certain flow to conversation that's been solely missed in the past month or so.

Not that he blames anyone else--survival, blah blah, the works--but the back and forth is refreshing.

"Thank you so much for how much faith you have in me. I'll have you know I'm a very capable and competent and serious person, but my skillset isn't exactly the best for the Great White North."

[pacificator]

"Yeah?" Wynonna lifts her eyebrows at him from where she's slouched down in her chair, sipping her coffee with an obnoxious sluuuuuuuuuuuurp. "What skillset is that, exactly?"

Everyone here is so damn serious; this guy is at least a breath of fresh air. He's taking her barbs and tossing them back, and it almost – almost – feels familiar. "Talking out your ass?"

[questioningmermaids]

That slurp feels like an insult but March decides to take what very little amount of pride he has left and just not comment on it. There's more things he should be taking personally from what she's saying, after all.

"Hi, my name is Holland, it's so nice to meet you."

His head tilts to the side, and while his face is mostly deadpan there's an amused (and a little insulted) gleam in his eye.

[pacificator]

Despite the lazy way it tugs at the corner of her mouth, there's something edged to the smile Wynonna crooks at him. She tips her own head, mirroring his motion, and lifts her coffee in greeting. "Wynonna," she tells him. "Earp."

Not a name she's given out to many here, yet. Hell, she isn't sure most of the people she's met would even recognize it. She watches him over the edge of her coffee cup, waiting to see if he will. "Pleasure."

[questioningmermaids]

March can't help the smile, nodding at the name--it's not something he's familiar with but that doesn't matter when you like who you're talking to--and he breathes in, exhales, and begins to re-assemble his pistol.

"I'm a detective, by the way, to answer your question. Private Investigator. Got proof." He's not sure why he'd need proof, but he's got proof.

[pacificator]

That explains the gun, anyway, and his familiarity with it. She watches as he begins putting the thing back together; it's a little snub-nosed pistol, definitely not big enough to do more than annoy a bear or a larger-than-average deer; plenty if any of the people around decide to give him trouble. "A private dick, huh?"

No one calls them that anymore, except Wynonna, to whom the word dick is always funny. "I dunno that you're gonna find that many cheating husbands to tail out here, bud."

[questioningmermaids]

The dick comment is sadly almost completely lost on March because it's still semi-used in his time period. That and the amount of times he's been called a dick is, realistically, way too many for him to be scandalized.

It's the other comment that gets another deadpan look, fractions away from being a bit more neurotic than March cares for but still nicely schooled.

"You got any other ideas, Little Miss Helpful?"

[pacificator]

"Oh, lots, yeah."

That look bounces right off her; all she does is quirk a sardonic half-smile at him and toss her hair back over her shoulder. "But helpful ones? No, definitely not."

She shrugs and tips her chin at his pistol before sipping again at her coffee. "Seems like you've got plenty of ideas of your own, honestly, so..."

A click of her tongue; a lazy fingergun aimed his way. "I wouldn't want to get in the way."

[questioningmermaids]

The fingergun gets March to clasp at his heart automatically like she's just shot him, rocking back in his seat. Yeah. This banter makes him feel less like he's three hours away from completely losing his mind.

"Oh, I'd love to hear them though," he responds, and he leans forward once more, elbow on the table. "Your, uh, ideas."

[pacificator]

He leans on the table and for a second she could be at Shorty's, flirting with an out-of-towner who doesn't yet know he's dealing with the crazy Earp, the one that comes with a warning label.

Damn, she wishes she were at Shorty's. At least then she could get a drink. "Here's one."

For now, she sets her feet on the floor and curls forward in her chair to reflect his posture, folding her arms on the tabletop as she leans in. Oh, she's got ideas, alright: Doc and Dolls both as good as gone, no revs, no rules. She opens her mouth for a pregnant pause, then whispers: "If you're going to go hunting, get a bigger gun."

This shell dropped between them, she gets up, lithe, to get more coffee. But she pauses in her step and looks back at him over her shoulder. "Look at that, it was helpful after all. Hey, Holland: come back alive, and maybe I'll give you another one of these little gems. Or maybe I'll show you, instead. That sounds more fun."

[questioningmermaids]

Oh, shit.

Goddammit, she's perfect. March's response to the revelation is to laser focus on his gun and try his damndest not to think about things like 'symbolism' and 'double entendres.'

"Uh-huh," he manages, jaw so tight it might as well be wired shut, a sharp contrast to the general loose, languid sort of way he tends to move. She gets up but March is glued to his spot, knuckles white.

"That does sounds fun," he hisses in agreement, unable to get his eyes away from the table. "Extremely helpful advice, thank you very much."

[pacificator]

"Here's another piece of advice." It comes floating back from where she's sauntering off, hair bouncing over her shoulders, the fringe on her jacket swinging with each swaggering step. "Your missing out on a way better view than the one you've got of your gun."

Whether he can look up at all seems unlikely in the extreme – is he playing dead? – but it doesn't matter. Wynonna heads back to the carafe of coffee and fills her cup back up, then heads for the door, sipping idly.

Who knows? Maybe he will live after all. But she's not putting down money on it.