the wine, the beer, the whiskey are the only things that fix me

[pacificator]

Who: Wynonna Earp & you!
What: recuperating after March-April, reaping consequences, etc
When: backdated to late April-May
Where: the Saloon (the old Post Office)

Content Warnings: Alcoholism, a little light cannibalism, others to be listed as needed

Comments

My friend named Jack, he's got my back — OTA

[pacificator]

[ She'd had to spend some time scrubbing the floor and wall after the altercation with Konstantin and his squirmy, disgusting parasite, but by the time Easter comes, the saloon is once again shabby but clean, neat, and open for business.

Patrons and friends who come in may find Wynonna putting up thick dark blackout curtains, turning the inside of the saloon into a candle- and firelit cocoon, all slivers of the now near-constant sun blocked by heavy cloth. Interlopers with a new affinity for darkness who brave a few moments out in the sunlight will be rewarded with a dark, cozy place where they can hang out with a drink and do their best not to snack on any of the other patrons.

But sometimes the windows are left open, and the sun streams in. If an Aurora swirls overhead, Wynonna can be found taking advantage of the electricity to play music on a boombox she'd brought back from Lakeside, playing a few CDs and tapes she's collected over the months.

As for drinks, the usual pine wine is on offer, but so are a few new varieties, flavored with wintergreen or other forageables, while jugs of hillbilly wine flavored with canned fruit ferment in the back room. And if you're really nice to the proprietor, she might even share some of her secret stash with you: real bourbon or gin squirreled away behind the bar. Maybe don't mention the way the clinging aura of colors around her flickers, shifting from one to the next without warning.

Just be sure to read the sign on the bar — management reserves the right to refuse to serve assholes' — and behave accordingly. This management takes that shit seriously. ]

[desperate_times_right]

[It's pretty late when Chloe slinks down to the new saloon she's heard so much about. She's still reeling from the results of that strange dream, and is hoping there will be fewer people around at this time. She isn't sure how she might react in a whole crowd of people with powers.

Sure, she's still a little wary of Wynonna, but she's happy to see her instead of March. He's still giving her shit about the whole “switched bodies with a cowboy” thing.]

Hey. Nice place.

[pacificator]

Sup.

[ She looks around from where she's by the fireplace, collecting a couple of dirty glasses, trying to see the place through someone else's eyes. It's in pretty good shape, all told, aside from the long jagged crack in the wall from the earthquake that Wynonna had spent an afternoon patching with plaster. ]

Thanks. Kinda seemed like we all could use a place to drink.

[ She heads back to the bar, glasses dangling from her fingers, and tosses a question over her shoulder at Chloe. ]

What can I get you?

[meadqueen]

[Randvi isn't typically the type to share her sorrows, but she can't bear to be shut away in her house right now.

She always looks serious, but tonight she looks truly miserable as she approaches the bar.]

I don't suppose you two serve mead here.

[The honey might make her too nostalgic, but she wants to forget how to have thoughts.]

[pacificator]

Sorry. Tell me how to make it and I'll give it a shot for next time.

[ She leans on the makeshift bar, shifting her weight to the leg that doesn't currently have a still-healing bite wound in the thigh, and sets her chin in her hand as she looks at the other woman. ]

For right now I could put some honey in some whiskey for you. Make a hot toddy with some tea, if you're into that.

[tinstar]

[It wasn't Jack but Jim that accompanies Raylan into the designated saloon, guitar in his other hand, wearing a smile as he swaggers into Wynonna's new spot. It was good to have a bar, even if they didn't have enough of the real stuff to go around and he was happy to support it.]

So you really did it huh? Here- [The bottle is set down on the flat surface in front of her.]

An openin' gift. Every bar needs some 'good stuff' to hold back.

[pacificator]

[ She grins at him, nocking her hip against the makeshift bar as she reaches for the bottle, turning it in the candlelight. God, she wants to open it right now. ]

Well, well, well. Look what bad news blew into my part of town.

[ Thunk goes the bottle back down on the bartop, and her smile crooks. ]

Every bar could use a cowboy, too. Thanks for providing.

[computation]

[ Root eventually finds the saloon. By now she's settled in a bit, and she feels confident enough to arrive without Bear even though she's left her cochlear implant turned off, leaving her deaf in one ear. While she's in Milton it seems safe enough to take the chance since she knows the environment now, knows there's people around and thinks she could probably coerce some do-gooders into helping if she needed it. It's lower risk than when she was stranded out in the wild on her own with just her dog, and she desperately needs to conserve the battery.

Now she's intensely curious and actively exploring, and she ducks into the darkened tavern with a bright spark of interest, a tall lithe form in practical layers and with a sensible braid. She swans up to the counter and reads the sign, approving. ]

How's this work? Do you give out alcohol for free to people who aren't assholes?

[ Root smiles winningly, turning on the charm as if to demonstrate she is not an asshole. ]

[pacificator]

Why, yes I do.

[ Largely because there's no point in taking money when there's nowhere to use it. Maybe she should start, though. Get a pile to just lounge around in, Indecent Proposal-style.

She's been here so fucking long that even she, avowed person-hater, brightens up a little at the sight of someone new. It's easy to get sick of the same old faces, especially when so many of them are so annoying, so the newcomer's smile gets a mirrored one from Wynonna. ]

But we do accept donations, should you be overcome with the desire to support our little venture.

[flambeaux]

Wynonna isn't the only one to have had an altercation with the worm, but Louis has kept quiet about that. He wanted to avoid any awkwardness with Konstantin, and also how the hell would he even begin to explain that? Even after Konstantin explained it to him, Louis doesn't know.

Everything tastes like sand to a vampire, but Louis keeps up the appearance of being human. He has been known to occasionally be seen drinking spirits, and the heart wants a place of familiarity. And there's one person who, if she were in the mood, would allow him to truly drink. (Whenever Louis hears about someone becoming allergic to the sun, he wonders if this time it will prove to be another of Lestat's fledglings, nevermind that Louis has been freer with his fangs.)

He only comes out at night. Louis doesn't like looking like a Christmas tree, but it is what it is. The pink can be safely stowed away unless Lestat were to walk in. Louis is hardly happy, so gold is right out too. But tired gray is often present, even sad blue or introspective purple. He takes off his old-fashioned hat and coat. His bright green eyes are clear, but not too clear. He knows, better than some of the newly minted night creatures, not to walk into a human establishment starving.

"Evenin', Miss Wynonna. Finally got someone to mind the store some nights." Those nights might be commandeered for Dungeons and Dragons, but Louis can't complain.

[pacificator]

She looks up as the door opens, waves of chestnut hair tossing back over her shoulder as she straightens from picking up a couple of glasses left on the mantel. Her own aura shifts, from a muted teal to something warmer, more orange. She's pleased to see him. "Hey, Louis."

Wynonna nods to a rack of coathooks by the door and heads back around behind the bar to set the used glasses into a bin for washing later. When she straightens, she lifts her hands in a wide gesture at the little homemade saloon, shabby but as comfortable as she and March could make it. "Check it out, I'm going legit."

Just like him, their pre-eminent small business owner here in Milton... for whatever 'business' is worth when no cash ever passes hands. The grin she tilts his way is crooked and full of her usual slyness, like they're both in on a joke, but there's something real behind it, too. She's never managed to build anything before. "Even getting some classier clientele, looks like."

[shoving]

[ The sun never goes away these days and Bruce hates stepping out into it. The sickness always starts out like a general malaise. An ache in his bones, stiffness in his joints, an unsettling feeling in his belly. The longer he's out, the weaker he feels and there's rarely shade for reprieve. But he keeps walking because he doesn't give his body a choice but to endure it. He's been through worse. This is nothing, even if it feels like he's being torn to ribbons on the inside.

When he finally reaches the saloon, this pale, clammy man finds a place out of the way to sit where it's darkest and he can recover, grateful for the blackout curtains. It's only a few minutes before he gets up and strides to the counter. Anyone who's known Bruce or just have seen him around knows his gait used to be strong, confident, self assured. But there's something a little unsteady in how he moves. When he reaches the counter, he leans on it and offers the bartender a smile. ]

I hope you have something strong back there.

[pacificator]

[ Wynonna looks up from where she's leafing through a three year old copy of some magazine, her pale eyes shifting as she studies the newcomer. She's seen him around, a little, but to be honest her focus has been pretty well distracted for the the last month and a half or so, and she hasn't spent as much time around the rest of Milton since Easter.

He's good-looking — a strong jaw and dark eyes and charm in his smile that's a little less ostentatious than the cosmonaut (who isn't allowed back into the saloon, no way) — but definitely a little pale and peaky. ]

Everything we've got is strong.

[ Mostly because it's homemade moonshine and hillbilly wine, but beggars can't be choosers. ]

How do you feel about amateur-made moonshine? Wintergreen or rosehip flavor's what we got right now.

[bigbaddy]

[ Bigby goes out to the saloon during the Aurora. Maybe it's the fact that he's got so many different powers swirling around inside of him at this point, but they now make him feel kind of weird. And he knows that if he's going to seem off, then Wynonna will for sure call him out on his shit.

But, really - maybe more than just that, it's that he wants to hang out with a friend for a bit. And get a drink on top of it. Sounds good to him.

Maybe that's why there's a very faint hint of smile on his face as he steps into the saloon. ]

Damn, Wynonna. It's kind of like you've got a real business going here, music and all.

[pacificator]

[ She glances up from where she's restocking glasses behind the bar, and as her smile flashes, so too does the ripple of color around her, turning yellow and orange at the sight of Bigby. ]

Don't sound so surprised. You think I haven't been in enough saloons to know how to run one?

[ Waverly had been the one to work at Shorty's, but it's not like Wynonna's only ever been on one side of the bar. ]

Thanks for coming.

[brushoff]

You are my new favorite person, [ Dorian says, as he announces his entrance. Fortunately, his round of bullshit (looking like a burn victim fresh out of an appendectomy) is over and he looks like his normal, young, beautiful, slightly calloused and chapped because he has to do actual work now, self.

He still only comes to the saloon in the evening, as close as it can be to fully dark here. Sorry that your clientele is a lot of weird vampires, Wynonna. ]

A pub! Precisely what this place needs, and I say that with absolutely no sarcasm in my voice what so ever. [ He really wants a fucking drink. ] I'll be more than happy to donate whatever spare change I manage to find beneath the seat cushions but we aren't doing paper money and coinage in this economy, are we.

[pacificator]

As much as I like the idea of finally hoarding enough money to roll around on a bed in it, Indecent Proposal-style, that's pretty much the only use it would have, so nah.

[ She straightens from where she's just finished putting a couple of new logs on the fire and brushes pieces of bark from her hands. ]

But if you want to drink anything other than what we've got on hand, we're always taking donations for shit to flavor the shine with.

[kidproof]

[ The kind of news that captures Joel's interest varied. He was a hard guy to pin down under the best of circumstances but in a frozen wasteland, he fell into the hermit routine all too easily. He didn't need to make more friends just to watch 'em waste away or die.

Still sporting a slight limp from the damage sustained in the bear attack he brings Callus over and pins him to the side of the old postal docking bay for refuge from the winter elements under the overhang and between two walls. He cared as much as a guy could and considered the horse an unfair casualty of a life he didn't deserve to deal with.

He walks around and up the steps slowly, making measured efforts not to make matters any worse, and when he swings open the door a bell announces his arrival and he tips his head in the direction of it nostalgic for the sense of normalcy it brought to the establishment. ]

Well, lookit here. I came for the hooch and found the house guest.

[lieutenantsteward]

[Thomas' own aura is a steady blue haze around him, an unwavering testament to his mood. There are flickers of gold as he steps inside the saloon and spots Wynonna, the first time in what feels like forever. He'd been at the Jackrabbit, pining away, withering away, and he knew he had to get out. He's got a backpack over his shoulders and a duffel bag at his side, though he sets the latter down as soon as he steps through the door.]

You have turned this into a respectable business, Miss Earp. And to think I placed my bets against you.

[Seeing her again is like...seeing the sunshine after perpetual night. Seeing her again is like feeling warm again after a cold winter. He starts to walk quickly towards her.]

I'm not saying it's a problem I could stop it if I wanna — Edward Little

[pacificator]

[ Night isn't really a thing that happens right now, as the sun barely grazes the horizon and true darkness remains elusive, but it's plenty dim inside the little post office saloon, thanks to the blackout curtains she's put up and fastened along the windows. According to the clock, it's nighttime, even if the sun disagrees, and the last patron had headed out half an hour ago, leaving Wynonna wandering around the one-room saloon she and March had put together, wiping down counters and collecting glasses. It's such a normal thing to be doing, but after... everything... the last thing she feels is normal.

Tonight, the colors of an Aurora sweep overhead, mirrored in the colors that have been swirling around her since she dreamed the other night, and when she wanders by the boombox she has set up on the bar, she pauses for a moment with empty mason jars dangling from one hand to change out the CD that's inside, swapping Patsy Cline for a different disc she'd found weeks ago, back before any of what happened at Easter happened. She slips the disc into place and closes the top, and as she moves off, a wistful classical piece comes drifting into the air behind her. She's got no idea who it is (it's Bach), but it's not really for her, is it?

No; it's for the very last other figure still here with her in this makeshift bar. Probably putting on a collection of relaxing classical pieces won't help much with everything he's dealing with, but she's got to work with what she's got.

She wanders over to seat herself on the arm of his chair, familiar and relaxed as she reaches past him to collect another empty glass. ]

Want another round?

[ Of... tea, probably. But that's fine. She knows why he's here, and it's not to drink. ]

[fidior]

[ He's halfway lost in thought, but only because it's safe to be right now. He can let his mind drift, away from its tendency to latch on to every bad thing and ache from it, weighing him down more and more, stones in his pockets.

Here, the colours that have been glowing from him aren't their usual cool shades of grey and moody dark blue and sometimes cold empty black. They shift to other ones: mostly warmer tones of yellow and orange, like steady comfortable flame. (And orange bleeds so easily into a pleasant, dusty pink, and sometimes that ripples around him too.)

The sound of movement, the clink of glass, the shuffle of footsteps — it's all an easy background noise that Edward can settle into. He likes it here, with her. Everything's still so strange and sad and he feels loss like an old familiar wound, like a hole that won't stop bleeding. But here, with her... he doesn't feel alone.

The music changes, and it startles him because he realises he recognises the piece that plays. It's rare that happens, and he shifts out of his half-thought, looks up and around as Wynonna comes to perch on the seat of his chair. He offers a faint, almost-there smile, and nods up at her, close to him. Pink swells again for a moment, puffing across his other colours like a sudden flush of cheeks. ]

Please. Tea will be fine, thank you.

[ Yep, more tea.... as The Englishman drinks away his sorrows the best way he knows how.... But he doesn't want to let his mind slip any more than it already does, these days. He's terrified to lose control of himself again. Alcohol might make him worse. He's still very hungry. (It helps, even if only psychologically, to eat and drink other things and try to ignore what he's hungry for up underneath those.) ]

Bach... [ His eyes flit to the boombox with an almost yearning familiarity, an odd contrast to how novel the thing actually is for him. But it's incredible to hear a piece of music he's familiar with coming from the thing. Like... some glimpse of his home, his time. ] I can't believe it will play on that little device... It sounds as though the instruments are right there.

wildcarding this shit (just after tim tells him some Things)

[questioningmermaids]

There's a roiling feeling he has in him, the badge on his hip that's not his feeling particularly weighty. March's jaw is clenched as he moves forward in the snow, step after step precise and a lot quicker than he normally is. He's walking with a purpose.

His jaw unclenches to bite down hard on the toothpick between his lips, completely lacking one of his usual brightly coloured overcoats. He'd abandoned them quickly, rushing out of his cabin with an amount of alacrity that he usually only reserves for running for his life.

"Wynonna?!" He's shouting it from halfway across the street, voice unusually high. "Wynonna!"

[pacificator]

She's made sure Kate got back to Irving safely, and she's made sure Edward isn't anywhere near anyone he could hurt, accidentally or otherwise, and if she just thinks about those two facts and focuses for a moment on cleaning up the mess she made high-tailing it out of the saloon earlier, maybe she'll be able to hold it together for long enough to get through the next few hours.

...Except then she hears March shouting from outside, and she's going to open the door just as he comes storming up. Her head is still aching from the shock of Little's screams, and his bellowing only earns him an annoyed glare. "Jesus, what now?"

Wwwwildcard

[ployboy]

Tim waits for the bruises to flare, then fade. Evidence of a kick to his jaw is now barely there and the soreness of his nose is gone from where he'd been smited by God himself; but he landed wrong, he thinks. He landed wrong when he was in the wrong body, when instinct had begged him to flip and try to land with four legs under him instead of doing the safe thing of letting himself roll as he went down with too much force. Tim had learned he had bruised ribs. But they were easy to hide. They were turned a purple-yellow. But it didn't matter.

He had woken up with purpleyellowgreen and black, and he hadn't wondered what this new humiliating little effect of Interloping was- Enola had made herself clear. And then- an earthquake. And Tim had fended off the deep reds and highlighter yellows of remembering No Man's Land and all that it did to Gotham. And then-

and now he couldn't find a blonde and spirited girl among the known and unknown faces here.

And No Man's Land was so... tame, in comparison to the gang wars, the War Games, and the tests only became harder, the goal posts moving, moving, and Tim, then, had had the idea to... stop. Stop everything.

Because clearly Nothing was going to work; Tim had done Everything and it hadn't helped, so logically--

there's a certain type of man that wins these games, because they're the ones who conceive them in the first place. Tim, again, decides: he is going to stop. Stop everything. Because nothing is going to work.

(But before then he has work to do, he has a list he can't not get to,  he has to know... that Kate will be okay.)

(Maybe.)

Tim knocks on the door.

The back door.

Of the... bar.

He knocks with purple-blue-red knuckles. The air around him is an obnoxious cyan. Tim feels positively toxic.

He wants it to stop. Oh my god he needs it to stop.

His lips are pulled to a tight line. His every nerve is on fire. He's hyper-aware of the healing (not healed) scratches down a cheek from where the Lieutenant had clawed at him. They make his eyes sting, want to water. He won't let his own damned weakness distract from--

Tim is hyper-aware: this is also something he is going to do wrong.

But it's something he has to do.

He knocks on the door. Cyan and blaze orange and yellowblack. And when the door begins to crack open- Tim cracks too. "I need to talk to you." Rushed and blaze orange and magenta and limeyellow and painful, because Tim doesn't care anymore.

About anything.

But he needs... to talk... to her. at her.

(He'd be deluded to believe he'd talk with her.)

"It's about Kate."

[pacificator]

Tim isn't the only one lighting up with his own personal Aurora. Wynonna's not expecting the knock on the (back) door of the one-time post office, now semi-popular local watering hole, but she's back there to check on some of the newer offerings left to ferment in large glass bottles, so she hears it.

The mild blues and greens that had been drifting around her flare into something brighter and darker all at once when she opens the door and sees who it is.

(He knocked. That's gotta be a first.)

A flush of red blooms across her, and she blinks, thinking fast: maybe not for the reason's Tim might expect. But the thing is, quiet as the saloon is right now, she does have one patron, the same one that's there almost every time she is. And the last time Tim saw him, he was doing his best to kill him.

But Tim says it's about Kate and fucked up as it all was that Easter in the church, she does think he was trying to protect Kate.

He fucked it up, but it's not like she's got a leg to stand on there. (She's still furious about it. She'd accepted her own hypocrisy a long time ago.)

Wynonna steps back, opening the door a little wider, giving him room to come in. Just to here, though. She doesn't know what might happen if he and Edward see each other. "What about Kate?"