Wynonna Earp (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pacificator) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2025-05-12 11:49 am
pacificator) wrote in singillatim2025-05-12 11:49 am
the wine, the beer, the whiskey are the only things that fix me
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
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
Wwwwildcard
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
If Kate was hu-- or worse, in the quake... Wynonna wouldn't have flared red. She would have killed him.
So Tim-- fades. Cyan turns to dirty navy, and the shift invites a lonely, bruised purple. The orange stays. Clashing with the grays, the black. Bright in a way that isn't warm, but missing even amongst the rough sea of Other.
Tim doesn't care.
He spots some large glass bottles and plants himself there, standing with his back to the wall. (He's so tired that it forces him to realize- it's dark in here. Even in this backroom. That helps.)
"I haven't seen her," he says.
The orange churns and searches and it's all alone.
Tim... glares, his heart thudding loud enough that he's sure it's in the room with them instead of inside his body. "Where is she?"
no subject
Wynonna pushes the door closed — more to keep the warmth in than to suggest to Tim that he should stay — and turns towards him with her hands on her hips. It allows her right hand to brush over the ivory grip of the revolver at her right hip, but she doesn't do more than that.
March already reamed her out once. And so far, Tim hasn't done anything stupid enough to get himself shot.
(She's not putting Vegas odds on that continuing.)
"She's heading to the coast." There: question asked and answered. "And you probably haven't seen her because the last time you saw her, you did your best to murder the guy who's basically her guardian. I think she's still a little peeved about that."
Maybe she didn't need to to editorialize just there, but Tim always wants information, right? "And before you ask, she's fine. She's with Irving and Fitzjames and she's been checking in with me. She's fine."
cw self harm, mentioned past burn injuries, discussion of suicidal thoughts
Tim doesn't say a damn thing.
He's not here for-- himself, to soothe over that desperation of wondering (forever, then, so be it) what he's missing.
He hadn't tried to murder Little. He doesn't get how she's so ridiculing when-- he--
Tim flushes red. Both with the ghost of the hatred over his trembling shoulders and through the overwhelming heat on his face. He swallows- hands fists at his sides. His eyes burn with wetness so suddenly it hurts, hurts about as much as it does when he slams that fist into the meat of his leg with all the lack of restraint he wishes he could have when he has to make his case despite a hot and wavering voice:
"You know she's not!"
Tim is something to stay away from, so be it-- it hurts-- he's on fire, he thinks, charred and with glue for skin and-
he's cyan and white and yellowgreen and redredorange and fuchsia and mournful blue and he doesn't fucking care. Not anymore. His face crumples. He'a crying and babbling, maybe, he doesn't fucking care.
(He's so scared.)
"You- you know that, right? She's not okay. She's going- she wants to kill herself. You know that. Right?"
cw: reference to accidental patricide
It's not just anger.
She can't remember the last time she saw a teenage boy cry, but it turns out it's a lot like seeing a teenage girl cry. His face crumples up and flushes hotly beneath his kaleidoscope colors, his eyes go shimmering and watery, his voice shakes and chokes up. It's so full of tears and snot and more emotions than she (or, apparently, the colors chasing around him) know what to do with that the words don't actually register for a minute. And then they do, and her whole body flushes shocked yellow that flicks rapidly through a range of her own colors: deep blue, a horrified chartreuse, worried violet.
No, she hadn't known that. And now that she does, she wants to smack herself for never seeing it before.
But Kate isn't here — and despite everything Tim's wailing at her, she doesn't think Kate's in danger right this moment — and Tim is, this kid that she's never really been able to click with. They keep sliding and scratching against each other like a key that keeps missing its slot. She's not good with him, she knows that. She wasn't that great with Kate to begin with, either, though, and she's somehow managed to stumble her way into something that shares a passing familiarity with a decent relationship with her.
Mostly what she thinks of is herself, twelve years old and fresh off the worst thing she had ever done or would ever do in her life, watching as the adults petted and comforted Waverly. Not one of them turned to her, opened their arms for a hug, and told her it's all right, Wynonna, we know it was an accident. Nobody wanted to touch her, the crazy girl who killed her own father. And she grew up surrounded by spikes that made sure no one else ever tried, either.
Maybe Tim's gotten more hugs in his life. She doesn't know. All she knows is she's all the poor kid's got, right now, and no matter how annoyed she gets with him, he is, in the end, a sobbing kid who can't seem to catch a break.
She's moving in the next second, a little awkward: hands come up, drop, reach out again to go around his shoulders and pull herself close. She can feel every inch of him shake.
no subject
Tim shakes his head and steps back-- and tries to step back, but he's up against the wall. And so he knocks the flat of his hands against the wood in a panicked and rough way, and he feels so impossibly stupid.
He knows. He knows he did wrong.
But he had tried to... help. And. "I thought you..." he doesn't hear himself whine, "I thought you knew she... that you knew what happened."
His legs want to give.
Tim feels a whole lot of nothing new. It's repulsive, the lukewarm hatred of everything that's kept him alive to live this moment. His eyes are screwed shut and all he sees is red-black as he throws himself at her. Wynonna's reach is hesitant. Tim's isn't.
He's dying, feeling as dead as dead can be, and he's holding on to her as he stammers out what he can, voice raw and hard. He doesn't fucking care he doesn't care he doesn't care, but oh my god it's hard to breathe when nobody's going to catch Kate when she falls.
"She wants to- to-"
Nobody's going to catch Kate when she falls.
Except, maybe, Wynonna.
Tim won't let go until he hears something.
"She was hurt. She was hurt! She already tried- wanted to die, to kill herself. And she still does. She told me she still does."
So because she wants to die, he was supposed to let Edward Little kill her-? Tim sobs, and one would think he'd never trained for situations such as--
"I don't know who else to tell," he sobs, like a kid, his voice is barely there though high, and Tim is the color of something sick and yellow and tiresome, green and nauseous and white like the vast nothing that's the garrote around the Territories.
"And I don't know who else to tell."
no subject
She doesn't let go. If anything, she tightens her awkward arms and lets Tim fall apart on her, a sloppy, whimpering mess that's honestly the most relatable she's ever seen him, and tries not to think about all the opportunities Kate's had here to try and end it all. His words come out in a rush, pitched so high she thinks a dog might have a hard time hearing them, and he might be forgiven for startling when she raises her right hand up toward the back of his neck — she's scruffed him twice already, maybe third time's the charm — but all that happens is that her palm settles on the back of his head, fingers curving there, and yes: Wynonna can be gentle, sometimes. "Okay."
Her own voice is low but steady. She can't fall apart; what would happen then? Little comes back here to investigate and finds them both shattered and sobbing on the floor?
So she's calm, and she lets him curl against her, and her voice stays steady. "Okay, Tim. You told me. Okay? I can help."
Can she? She'd better, if she's going to make this promise, otherwise the next throat Tim comes for if Kate gets hurt will be hers. "I'm gonna help, all right?"
no subject
He cannot- will not- think about it.
He can't stop trembling, his shoulders pitched forward and painfully rigid and his hands grip at the back of Wynonna's shirt with the uninhibited despair of a drowning man. He's already begged Kate. He thinks--
he should have killed Little, how dare he--
"Please, not her too," he whimpers, and he hates that he says it because he's selfish and wrong and he's asking for help for all the wrong reasons. His head is splitting in half; Tim feels too hot, like he had in the fur coat with a mouth of red.
Now he needs to wait for the shoe to drop and the dread always eats at him, always leaves him humiliated and bleeding.
Tim remembers another blonde girl he'd loved, who had wanted to die, and
he can't breathe and so he shakes his head, and it's not fair that he's thinking of catacombs and dark-haired women with hands in his hair, so Tim steps back in a blind stumble, arms shooting up nearly immediately to wipe and scrub and pull at his face. He's grimy and disgusting and wet and--
and--
stay away!
"She t-trusts you," he reasons through his own irrational fear of green and gold and purple and heirs. (He's so angry.) "She trusted him too!" (He's no good at this.) "I'll do anything. Please. Please. I don't know what else to do. I had to do something. I don't know what." His head is going to split in half.