morning dreams are just like memory.

[fidior]

who: Jhey's Freaks + YOU!
what: various catchall things, inbetween threads, backdated logs, etc.
when: December - February
where: various locations

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HMU TO PLOT A THING! @ HAGFISHS

Comments

[pacificator]

[ She listens with more patience than anyone back home would ever think it possible for her to show — but, hell, she's curious, and he's... sweet. Much sweeter than any man she's ever been with before, much sweeter than she's ever deserved, being so sour and sharp herself. She's pushed and prodded and needled him, and he responds by staying steadfastly at her side, by warming to her with shy smiles that each feel like a gift she alone gets to unwrap... with flowers. Flowers, here in this hellacious icebox they live in.

They'll be dead or wilted in days, won't they? And yet she doesn't care, just keeps lifting them to her face to breathe in their clean, sweet scent. It smells like long days, like the first few days of summer, like Mama's garden all abloom under the Alberta sun. The scent alone is so heady it almost distracts her from what he's actually saying.

Almost. Her glance flicks up over the blossoms to study his face as he licks his lips. He's looking a little more squirrelly than usual, even wearing that splendid uniform, golf fringe swaying gently at his shoulders. Wynonna has the absent idea that maybe he'd like those even more if she was wearing them — if she was wearing only them — before her brows crease into a frown. admiration, appreciation, affection... budding feelings of the heart...

Gross. Ugh. She lifts her head, mouth opening to stop him — what is he saying — but he cruises steadily forward. He can be stubborn at the most inconvenient times.

Her glance drops back to those flowers, warily flicking between them as he names them. The pink roses get a sharp glance of betrayal and the blue morning glories suddenly feel like they might be poisonous. She's got a bad feeling about where this is going, even before he gets to the last part. Just as you and I are bound.

It's a mark of how much she's grown, she thinks, that she doesn't fling the bouquet into his face and hurtle out the window to flee into the woods. The thing is, they are bound together; literally so. There have been times over the last few months when she's been lying awake next to him, idly studying the way his lashes smudge against his cheeks while he sleeps, when she could swear she's seen that red thread from a year ago come slowly winding around them again: twining around fingers and coiling around wrists, looping itself around their bodies.

Still, her breath is coming a little more quickly than is exactly cool. ]

Little, what exactly are you trying to say?

[ Her gaze falls back to the bouquet — there's one more flower he hasn't named. ]

What... are the red roses?

[fidior]

[ It's all much more talking than he's used to in one go — and again, there's a certain awareness that this is not exactly how things are done, with the... all the explaining and whatnot. But it's a requirement in this instance, that he conveys the meanings to her adequately enough. That he tells the significance of certain choices paired together, that he makes it known, doesn't leave room for doubt. (As he has historically done in the past....)

And then there are the red ones. And he has intentionally left them for last. He's watching Wynonna, he's breathing in the questions, and then he's taking a moment to answer them. The red, in particular, represent things that a man might never say aloud, not so directly. ]

Ah. Those represent... the passions. The romantic... desires. [ Dear lord. It's almost comical how nervous he is to voice all of this when he and Wynonna have engaged in... passions many times by now, of a variety. He's never behaved with such outward carnality in all of his life...! ]

....The deepmost affections. [ Beat, and then it comes softly, with one hand lifted to touch the edge of the wooden counter nearest him, fingers curling against it. Here, too, is another word that he's never voiced aloud, amongst so many others. But it doesn't rack his nerves quite as much as the others have, because his heart has known it for some time now, and accepts it with warm welcoming, like an old friend. He smiles, the gesture filling up his eyes, warming them to a richer brown. ]

Love.