[ Even in his state, he notices how she falls quiet, but he doesn't necessarily know the source of it, applying it merely to the sight of a disturbing display, his skin molten from heat, flesh still crisp at the edges. But he isn't able to let his mind wander too much in that contemplation, distracted with his own weak condition, trying to keep himself awake and alert despite how much his insides try to grip him again towards unconsciousness.
She dabs at the edges of his wound and he winces briefly, biting down on his tongue to cease the slipping groan, fingers curling against the bedsheets to keep his body from arching instinctively at the stinging pain of it. ]
Y-yeah. [ He mutters again, eyes shut tight, his lips pressing together in visible strain as he breathes sharply through his nose. ] I know. I know.
[ He hates it, hates that he falls useless like this. If he were on his own, he'd find a way to coat the wound himself, to bear and grit through the pain of it to drag his body out of this bed and do what needs to be done. But he falls victim of Wynonna's tending fingers, the reality that she sets in with her reminders, and he can't garner the strength to fight back and argue. ] I need you β [ He swallows, trying to return his expression towards composure. ] I need you to find her. She needs someone right now. She shouldn't be β she shouldn't be alone. And it's not fair to drag you into this, I know that, but ... [ Fingers curl up against her forearm, not quite the grip from before but still partially clutching as his eyes flutter open, seeking hers. ] Please.
[ She can only imagine the helplessness he's feeling; if it were here lying in the bed like this, she wouldn't have been able to fall back on remaining prone, or even sitting still long enough to be tended to, and she has to believe that the only reason she's been able to coax him into it as long as she has is because he's dizzy, lightheaded with all the blood he's no doubt lost. But she can seize advantage while he remains distracted, while he fights not to slip under again; the sensation of alcohol flooding his wounds with that flagrant sting is definitely going to keep him awake a little longer. ]
Sorry, sorry. [ That doesn't mean she takes any pleasure in causing him pain, though, and tries not to inflict any more of it than she has to.
She wads up the dirty gauze and tosses it back into the bag, reaches for the bandages next, pressing a clean piece of cotton against his shoulder before coaxing him into lifting his arm for her so she can wrap that length around and underneath, beneath his shirt, a repetitive motion that starts to soothe even her in the middle of it, over and over. But then he makes mention of something he needs her to do, and she halts midway through pinning the bandage to itself, eyes widening. ] No, you don't want me β
[ His hand settles on her arm, a firm grasping, and her eyes drop to that link, and she knows, goddamn it, she knows that she's not going to be able to refuse to do this. ] Okay. Okay, I'll see what I can do. [ She checks the edge of the wrap job, makes sure it's secured tight in front, and her hand presses firm against the mattress as she leans forward. ] But you need to rest, Pete. Promise me you'll do that.
[ Despite the degree of pain, the unintentional presses to his wound with the wrapping of the bandage, he makes for a cooperative patient, keeping a fair amount of control over any possible instinctive reactions, biting hard on his lip, swallowing on the drawn blood there every time he feels the urge to make a responsive noise.
It's with her affirmation, agreeing to his plea that he finds himself breathing easy again, the weight of his body sinking against the mattress with a loss of a its natural tenseness. The mere promise of it is enough, because he knows, once she says she'll follow through, that she will, and he doesn't know when he'd begun to formulate the confidence of that trust in her, whether it'd been when she'd aided him in his transformation or just after the accumulation of enough shared breakfasts or somewhere in the middle of it all, but he does.
Wynonna Earp may be many things, but she's saved him, not once, but twice, and he can confide in anyone to save Laura in his place, she takes the spot without a doubt in his mind. ]
Okay. [ Keeping still isn't in his skill set, and he isn't entirely confident in his own ability to follow through, but she earns that deal on his part, struck through all the more with the sincerity of her eyes on him. He gazes up to her with a soft nod, managing to hold the contact. ] Promise.
Okay. [ And for lack of anything else to do at this juncture, she nods, a swift and more decisive motion from her, like she's sealing it somehow, voice firming more now that there's something they've agreed upon, that she's committed to seeing through. She doesn't miss the release of that tension from his frame, as though her giving her word was all he needed to finally relax for more than a single second. ]
You should take something. It'll help you sleep. [ She explains it out loud, more of a murmur under her breath than any kind of instruction he really needs to hear. She's seen the scars that decorate his skin, ones that run from faint silvering lines to darker, new reminders of injuries sustained. He's no stranger to pain. He'd tolerated every swipe of that disinfectant against ragged, burned flesh, quiet grunts barely forced past gritted teeth, and she can't even envision the kind of person who would be able to endure something like that over and over and over.
Well, maybe she can, because he's lying right here in front of her.
She redirects toward the pill bottles sitting on the bedside table, grabbing a couple at random and tilting them up towards the light to try and read the labels, to see if she can decipher what's intended for what. ] I'll leave the first aid stuff here, if you need it. What am I saying, you're definitely gonna need it. [ She smiles wryly, her eyes shifting to him for a brief second. ] But don't think you have to be big tough guy and change the dressings all by yourself. If you need help, I'm here. Alright?
[ The shift of the conversation is silently appreciated, a fair tinge of awkwardness in the acknowledgement of just how much of his vulnerabilities have slipped through the cracks, the height of his worry leaving him unsheltered and bare for her to pick apart. It isn't the first time that she's witnessed these pieces, and he isn't confident it'll be the last, either.
As she sorts through the bottles at his bedside, already listing off her instructions to pair with the eager promise, he manages weak laughter, a raspy sound of a chuckle with a visible roll of his eyes. ] Look at that. Got me my own personal Nurse Judy, don't I? [ Because despite everything, there's still this side to them, always fluttering back to the surface even when he's a useless lump upon the bed.
His fingers curl upon the ripped hem in the center of his chest, putting in a fair degree of strength to stretch the fabric further, letting it rip in a vertical line until it tears completely at the bottom. ] Sorry. I know we made a deal about this too, but β [ Dark blotches of crimson stain at the lower part of his chest where the blood had dripped down from the original wound, the stench of it still strong as Frank scrunches his nose. ] Think you can, uh, get me a wet rag? Would appreciate it.
[ She can't linger in this for a second longer β it's too close, too neighboring to those exposures she does her best to avoid at the first available opportunity, and there's a feeling that floods over her when he finally makes that switch with her, something she doesn't elect to examine too deeply. But it's comfortable, and it's familiar, and it's the only thing she can really handle right now. ]
Call me that again and I'll poke you in your shoulder holes. [ But even while she narrows her eyes at him, it's probably pretty evident that her threat only carries so much weight, the tight press of her lips securing the hide of a wider smile. She's already glanced back down at the pill bottles when her attention's grabbed yet again by the sound of fabric tearing, the now useless halves of his shirt falling to either side of his abdomen, dried crimson streaks running along the ridges of muscle. ]
Uh, special exception made for severe blood loss. [ She needs to grab him water for the pills, anyway, and rises to her feet to secure both, filling up a glass in the kitchen and then uncovering a hand towel that looks like it's seen better days, running it under warm water before wringing out some of it so she isn't leaving a dripping trail in her wake. The temptation to just let it fall against his stomach with a wet slap is there, but she gingerly resumes a seat next to his hip and slips the towel into his hand instead, wrist turning along his chest. ]
[ Whether or not there's any sincere malice in the threat, which he knows doesn't have a shred of it, it's the kind of easing banter that soothes him into something more comfortable, rather than lingering on the heavy weight of his guilt. At the very least, it's enough to tend to his larger frustrations, keeping him composed there upon the mattress while he waits for the recovery that will get him back on his feet. ]
I'll make a note of it. [ When she briefly departs, he carefully lifts his upper body, enough to roll his good shoulder back to allow the dirty sleeve to slip off of it, before reaching behind him to drag the fabric to the side, removing it slow from his injured side, crumbling the useless shirt into a ball and setting it upon the table.
His eyes follow her as she seats herself at his side, gaze lingering even as she slips the damp cloth into his hand, somehow still surprised for her continued presence despite her routine streak of always remaining at arm's length whenever he finds himself in the midst of a conundrum. He rolls the towel along the creases of muscle, rubbing at the skin to scrub at the dry flakes of blood there, insistent that he take care of this particular task on his own. ]
Really are my knight in shining leather, huh? [ It's meant to play as a joke, but there's something quiet in his tone and his eyes don't lift to meet hers, distracted with his task as if it requires more attention than necessary. ]
[ She knows what she'd said about him taking his shirt off in front of her β half in jest, mostly sincere β but she's not about to be too great of an asshole at this stage, because getting that ruined, stained thing off is the best thing for him anyway, to give his skin a chance to breathe, to heal. She doesn't think he's running a fever at all, doesn't spot any risk of infection, but it's going to be something to keep an eye on β and for the first time since she showed up, she considers whether or not it would be a good idea for her to just stay a little while longer.
As he scrubs himself off, she busies herself with those pills instead, screwing open one of the bottles and shaking two out into her hand, the water glass braced between her thighs while she waits for him to have his hands free again.
And that remark β there's something about it, something in the way he doesn't quite meet her gaze, like maybe he didn't even mean to say it out loud but he's been made woozy by getting stabbed and all that. It's what she'll tell herself, later, when she thinks back to the low tones of his voice, the softness in it, a timbre she's come to realize he's entirely capable of even if he doesn't equip it often. ]
Yeah, yeah. [ She tries to brush it off with a wave of her free hand before holding out both glass and pills to him, fingers settling into his palm and then opening to drop the latter in. ] Well, don't you forget it. [ She'll give him a moment to take them β and to drink more water, if he needs β until she says anything else at all. ] Any other special requests? You need me to tuck you in? Bedtime story? Goodnight β um. [ Shit. It'd been a whole lot funnier in her head, but she's just going to have to commit to it. ] Goodnight kiss.
[ The blood had several hours to stick onto his skin but the scrub of the wet rag against his flesh drags up enough of the stain, even if some indention of muscle require a bit of a more thorough rub. But the routine is familiar enough, having had to overcome worse cleanings than this, enough clothing ruined by the abundant soaking of blood, not always his own.
He sets aside the newly dirtied rag upon the table, in a damp pile with his shirt, before his eyes are directed to the offered cup, palm uncurling to allow her to drops the pills on it. When he takes that sip of water to follow taking them, it's when he realizes just how dry his mouth has become, a soothing freshness when it pours down his throat that he keeps drinking as she makes her offered suggestions, that by the time she makes that last one, he's mid-swallow.
It's a light coughing and there's no real danger of him choking on water, but there's an extended moment where he pauses to clear his throat, eyes downcast to the cup in his hand, just to have somewhere to focus his gaze.
The accompanying silence is longer than it should be, but his brows stitch together for that sharp line between them and when he turns up again, he's seemingly sincere when he says, ] You know what? Yeah. [ He gives a light nod, eyes still in a light shift, a brief lick light on his lips. ] How about that story?
[ Even her light jabs about his shirtlessness had been in a wildly different context than this one, and she can't bring herself to make a comment in the same vein when she gets a good look at just how much he's trying to scrub off, the damp cloth uncovering more clean skin with every pass even if he doesn't manage to fully wash himself off short of actually hopping in the shower β and that's not going to be happening right away.
She predicts that he'll be thirstier than he realized, and the steady gulping sound serves as a backdrop to her, once again, not being able to quit while she's ahead. When he coughs, not quite spluttering, she realizes she's still staring at his face and lets her gaze drift up to a point on the ceiling, inwardly cursing herself for that poorly-timed attempt at humor as she pushes a silent breath out between pursed lips. ]
Jeez. Okay. Putting me on the spot a little, Castiglione. [ But she reaches over to pluck the glass from his hand and sets it down on the table next to him, close enough for him to grab if he wakes up just as parched later.
Her eyes land on him expectantly, because she's waiting for him to settle in after all, to ease back against the pillow β and maybe, by the time she gets even a third of the way through this entertaining anecdote, he'll be fast asleep. ] Let's see, there's the time I was a part of my very first hostage situation. Or the skin-walker who was actually the head of a local cult. Oh! No, wait. The demon barber who liked to travel around town using mirrors to kill people with his straight razor. [ Clearly all of these are quality bedtime story material. ]
[ It's strange to be watched like this, to feel the weight of the glass in his fingertips disappear as she takes it from him to set it aside, her gaze somehow expecting him to settle in for an actual authentic "bedtime story" setup. He isn't accustomed to be looked after like this; even if he's been scolded plenty to take better care of himself, to not get into so many situations that end with more wounds than the already decorated scars of his body, he hasn't received this level of attention, and he wonders if it's an act she does out of instinct, the beats of it more comfortable than he'd anticipate.
But he adjusts himself on the mattress, sliding to ease himself further on the pillows, fingers reaching down to tug the sheets just over his hips as he turns his head to keep his attention directed on her. ]
Jesus Christ, Earp. [ His brow raises in height, uncertain of whether he's just bewildered or actually amazed. ] You weren't kidding about all that supernatural junk, huh? You sure you aren't actually a local? [ Which he knows she isn't considering that the actual locals here are ... unique. Still, even knowing there's plenty of strange in his own world, his encounters with the mystic aren't quite so ranked so high. ] Well, you lived to tell the tale, right? How'd you pull that mirror shit off?
[ Thing is, she's not exactly used to this either, at least from a caretaking standpoint, though it's not like she has any fond memories of Mama Earp taking her temperature and reading to her until she fell asleep. No, the last person she remembers doing this for, in any serious sense, is Waverly, back when Willa had been too busy training to be the heir and Daddy had been too deep in the bottle β so yeah, there's a bit of an amusement factor present in the fact that she's not about to tell this story to a grown-ass man instead of a stuffed bunny-clutching baby sister.
But he sinks more definitively against the pillows, bedsheets tugged up just shy of his mostly clean torso, and when she tilts her hips to adjust her weight, thigh pressed into the mattress, her knee nudges the outside of his leg, the fibers of the blanket gently tickling the skin exposed by the small hole in her jeans. ]
What, did you think I was just saying all that before to try and make a good first impression? [ She clicks her tongue against her teeth, a feigned sound of offense, before shaking her head enough to send pieces of her hair swaying across her shoulders. ] Not my style, Pete. And yeah, I'm sitting in front of you now, aren't I? Though it was a pretty close shave there for a minute. [ Get it? Do you get it, Pete? ]
Think you said a lot of things trying to make a good impression. [ It's a return of that deadpan humor, his lips pursing into an unamused pout to counter her offensive mockery, though he makes no indication on whether or not there was some level of success with whatever impressions he claims she'd made at attempt at.
Of course, while he has his own form of humor, she has her, particularly in the way of tacky pun usage to which he offers her a blank stare in judgement, squinting his eyes followed with a slow shake of his head. ]
Yeah, I made a bad call. I take it back. I'll just go to sleep instead. [ He'll exaggerate on that roll of his eyes before he plops his good arm over them to shield them from her, feigning a wide yawn, meant to play into the teasing scene, only for it to shift into an authentic one, the exhaustion still taking effect over his body. ]
Oh, you think, huh? [ She doesn't think about how seemingly easy it is for them to fall back on their usual mode of communication, that verbal volleying that involves her quick serve and his unexpectedly quick return, but it's a good sign of something β maybe that he's feeling improved enough to manage it, rather than relying on more terse replies.
Both eyebrows rise in the wake of his reaction, and she'd hardly guessed that a laugh would follow her terrible pun but when he eases an arm over his face, blocking out the light (and her, by extension), her mouth drops in mock indignation. ]
Come on, it wasn't that lousy. [ And this time she actually does jostle him with her bent knee, tilting her hips until she can plant her hand down against the mattress on the far side of him and prop herself up across his legs. She couldn't have missed that wide yawn even if she'd tried, and it prompts a quiet, subtle smile, her voice dropping to a lower volume. ] Okay. Well, his name was Augie Hamilton, but he was known in revenant circles as the Barber. Creative, right? Anyway, turns out people liked to use their time in his chair as confession hour, so he wound up hearing everyone's sins.
[ He can't see her with his eyes blocked so he hopes her attention isn't directed to his face when she nudges him with her knee, the motion prompting the brief slip of a smirk along his lips, one that he quickly rids himself of to return to the more stoic line of his mouth.
She hovers over his legs, seeming to get comfortable in her own way, but the closeness of it doesn't disturb him, keeping his arm in its same position, the rest of him also remaining still, but keeping his ears working as she continues to speak, even if he doesn't display the full efforts of his attention.
His jaw eventually clenches unintentionally, extensions of the story being shared, and with that additional detail, something stirs in him almost uncomfortably as he can predict its connection. ]
Let me guess β based on the sin, he'd decide whether or not to kill them, right? [ It's more familiar than he'd like it to be. ]
[ In some ways, it helps that he's not looking at her, leaving her with the sense of having only a part of his awareness while he tries to focus on relaxing instead. Better that he fall asleep midway through her story than fight to stay awake just out of politeness; she might pretend to be pissed off about it later on, but she might only be able to voice her pretend disgruntlement for so long.
She lets her own gaze drift downward, to the fabric of the blanket between them, the hand that isn't bearing her weight finding a loose thread to pluck at with her fingers. If she's startled by his deduction this early on into her story, she doesn't reveal it beyond a small widening of her gaze. ]
Well, he didn't really start getting all murdery until after he died and got resurrected, but his whole shtick was giving people a window of time to confess to those they'd wronged and earn their forgiveness β real forgiveness, not just phoning it in. If that didn't happen, he'd pop out of the nearest reflection and β [ She pauses to mime it, drawing a thumb across the column of her throat while she offers her best version of a slicing knife sound effect. ]
Got to a good handful of not-so-innocent citizens that way before we caught on to how he was getting away sight unseen. Well, sort of. And then yours truly had the bad luck of winding up in his crosshairs, which β don't even get me started on how many people I would've had to chase down in Purgatory to even try and save my own ass.
[ There's plenty differences between the Barber and the Punisher, starting obviously with the absurd method, his mind still not fully connecting how, or why, it'd been done through mirrors (self reflection? Jesus Christ, it's ridiculous).
But what stands out to him most of all is that chance window in between, that allowance for forgiveness. Frank Castle was never about granting chances, not when he's seen the scum for what they are, knowing that it was a rotation of the same bullshit, the same bastards getting back up to repeat every crime, every dirty rotten habit. Besides mostly, there was no one to ask forgiveness from in his list of targets β most of the innocent victims were dead by their hands, earning them a mutual return of the very same.
He doesn't voice any of this, not to her. The man in front of her now is Pete Castiglione, who isn't meant to have his hands dirty, not while he hid from himself behind the name. Not that he was any safe from it like this, not that he even wanted to be.
Instead, he hums a noise, indication of him registering the continuation of her tale, easier to disguise his thoughts when the only thing remaining visible is the shift of firm lips. ] Don't believe it. Gal like you? You're as pure as they come, Judy. [ Another tease, for his own selfish disguise. ] So how'd you take care of Sweeney Todd?
[ If any piece of her story hits too close to home for him, she's too caught up in her own retelling to pick up on any of those mild reveals β partly because half of his face is still covered up by his arm, leaving her to gauge his responses solely from any shapes his mouth might form over the course of her sharing. With what she knows of him, though, that doesn't necessarily signal anything good or bad, and it doesn't stop her from continuing on.
Sometimes it surprises even her, how far she's come β taking on the Barber was one of the first things she did after becoming the heir, when so much was still left unsaid between her and Waverly, that resentment her sister rightfully harbored about not being the chosen one even though everything pointed to her to take that role. She's not sure how much of that she wants to share, but at least his question has an easy, simple answer. ] I know. You're thinking, "That Wynonna Earp? She's beyond innocent. Never done a bad thing in her whole goddamn life."
[ Her fingers abandon their plucking of the blanket's string to rest against her leg instead, head tipped to one side along her own shoulder. ] Mmm. Turns out he'd been killed and dumped in a nearby lake, and that was how he was able to move within mirrors. He was using the reflection of the water as a starting point. Don't ask me to explain the magic behind that ability, because I'm still not sure I completely understand it myself.
[ And she doesn't mention the moment where she'd been held by the Barber, knife to her throat, pleading with Waverly to forgive her β even if that forgiveness had come between them, in the end, something for them to move on from together. ]
Yeah, none of that shit makes damn sense. [ What being dumped in a lake has to do with some sudden spontaneous movements between reflections, and he doesn't need to be a science guy to know none of it is actually possible in regards to actual physics and biology. But that was where he was the actual amateur, only knowing the truth in the sturdy physicality of a gun within his palm, how to tell the count of ammunition within it just by the change of weight in the weapon, the careful accuracy required to land a shot even from a multi-mile distance.
Throw him into a magical-based set of circumstances, and he was nothing more than a struggling man trying to read through a set of Ikea instructions.
The more he offers responses, the more muttered they become, his voice a low rumble with a minor parting his lips on every word, breath going shallow, an indication of his failing consciousness. ] 'Sides, you're our resident expert on batshit magic phenomenons, so you gotta start studyin' up, Earp.
You're telling me. [ And she'd actually lived it, somehow managing to put the pieces together herself even if they'd accidentally raised another demon in the process, one that would lie in wait until returning to make their lives a new hell. But none of them had realized that at the time, so focused were they on just trying to get rid of the Seven, the ones who had rolled up on the homestead that night, the ones who had snatched Willa and left two little girls behind. ]
See, this is why I never went to college. I don't have a researching bone in my body. That's Waves. [ And then, because she realizes she doesn't think she's ever offered him that name before, she adds: ] Waverly. My sister.
[ She can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breathing starts to even out, to deepen, hear how his words start to drift into one another, less enunciated β and her expression goes soft-shelled for a moment, because he just looks smaller somehow, untroubled, none of the careful vigilance that she's used to visible now as his features start to slacken. ]
[ Waverly. He hears the name, hears the label of it being her sister, and he's sure he offers some sort of response to that, something to continue the exchange of their conversation, but he utters nothing more than a soft grunt, a slurred noise that provides no content at all and it's then that it's clear he's drifted off, either by way of the pills or some gradual takeover of his exhaustion finally taking command of his consciousness.
Perhaps it's simply from being drained of his energy, of his injury still keeping him in a weaker state than he's prone to be, but he's rather still for the minutes that follow his initial doze, sleeping soundly that the only movement is the eventual drop of his arm, rolling over his cheek to plop unaware over his chest and unveiling the view of closed eyes, the typical stern glance exchanged for something more momentarily peaceful.
And he'll sleep, needing the hours that are usually lost to him, never earning more than three of four in a single night, now having it forced upon him, whether he's seeking it or not, much to the satisfaction of Wynonna or Laura or anyone else who just needs the man to get his damn rest. ]
[ It goes exactly like Wynonna's guessed it will β he mutters something entirely incoherent, an attempt at an answer, but nothing makes it out beyond a small sigh, a deep exhale, and then he's out. She's not sure if he'll be dozing lightly for those first few minutes, so she eases up gently from the bed first, moving in slight increments so as not to jostle him, and then plucks up the stained rag and ruined scraps of shirt to trash them. It takes a couple trips β first to discard used bandages, then to refill his water glass, and each time she's careful not to tread on any creaky floorboards so she doesn't disturb the sleep he desperately needs at this juncture.
She doesn't leave the apartment right away, first making an attempt to reach out to Laura with the Fluid's equivalent of voicemail, then quietly conversing with the girl from the living room β and when she does finally slip out, it's after checking in on Pete one last time, finding his arm resting limp across his middle, his head lolled to one side and his breathing slow. She does have an eventual return in mind, but it won't be right away, not until after she's had a chance to look in on Laura, not until he's further into the mending process.
By the time she pops in on him again, the room smells like someone's been having sweaty nightmares, stuffy and bordering on a little too warm, and when Wynonna crosses the room toward the window she doesn't even notice the light coating of yellow dust that's settled onto the sill, the fine particles stirred and floating inside when she unlatches it and pushes it open to let some fresh air in. Either he hasn't counted on her showing up or he's drifted off again, snoozing in the bed β and she sneezes, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth, and glances back over her shoulder to see if that sound's enough to wake him up.
He doesn't slip back to consciousness, and she wonders just how little sleep he's been getting lately, stepping over to one side of the bed and reaching out to lay the back of her hand against his forehead. No fever. It means nothing's infected, at least, which is a small mercy considering his cauterization job had been performed by a small child β and don't think she hasn't forgotten to bring that up at the first available opportunity.
But she hasn't realized, in all her thinking, that her hand's drifting, fingers trailing along his temple and the side of his face, tracing the hard angles now relaxed in slumber, and she doesn't catch herself so much as simply withdraw, straightening up to work her arms out of her jacket and lay it over the back of a nearby chair. The boots come off next, toed off one at a time, and then she's settling into the bed next to him without being entirely sure why β only that she wants to, curling up along his side with her head nestled on his good shoulder and her arm slid across his midsection.
She doesn't plan on falling asleep either, but there she is, cheek pressed into the edge of him, her own breaths slowing to become somehow perfectly timed with his. ]
[ The nightmares are always there, a drift that falls in and out, varying between the scattered laughter at the carousel or Maria's soothing caresses at his cheeks as she wakes him within a dream. No matter the location or which body ends up bloodied in his arms, the rhythms and beats never change, and he can practically feel the beads of sweat that conjure with his own consistent stirring, somehow always aware of the false reality but being too consumed to fight his way out of it.
Yet, exhaustion has had enough of its effect to where they aren't quite as loud, and he can somehow slip past the nightmare every so often to simply have dreamless sleep, an actual rest of his eyes while he has the sacred opportunity for it.
Eventually, the warmth begins to pull at him, and he wonders just how long Maria's been asleep, if she'd readied the kids for school and found her way back at his side to simply escape the remaining hours of the morning, hidden within their bedsheets. The turning of his head almost feels heavy with how long he's been still, but he makes the effort so he can brush his nose to the height of her scalp, nudging among the strands of hair to find the scent of a shampoo he's never known her to have.
But he hums, a serene air found in holding her, arms freeing itself from beneath her to instead curve around her back to her shoulder, thumb drawing circles against the dent where the bones shift together.
When his eyes flutter open, he's quick to piece that it isn't Maria at all, even as he can see the blur of dark hair in a nest of waves. Tilting his chin to rest on his collar, he can make out the sharp nose and strong cheeks, thin lips that seem to quirk even in her sleep, and he has to wonder how the hell Wynonna Earp ended up in his arms.
But he doesn't stir to move her, his own nose wrinkling when he feels a sudden tickle there, ignoring it in favor of simply gazing down at her dozing figure, that minor cling where her arms wraps at his middle. Somehow, despite recogizing that the woman here is by no means his wife, his fingers don't cease the soft caress to her shoulder, merely extending the light massage to the nape of her neck, fingertips providing a ghost touch beneath the strands of hair that he tucks to the side with the aid of his wrist.
When the tip of his nose presses to her hairline, he sighs there, breath warm to the smooth space of her forehead before his lips perk to place a kiss not at all firm but still fairly tender. ]
[ She doesn't dream β or, if she does, none of the details linger in her mind's eye upon waking, replaced instead by a warm firmness beneath her, steady respiration lifting the weight of her arm with every intake of breath, the repetition of it so constant that it's probably what enabled her to slip into dozing and eventual deeper sleep to begin with. At least, that's what she'll claim later on, much later, after her awareness at the addition of small particulars, lingering touches, begins to lure her back to waking.
There's just enough of a breeze coming in through the open window that she doesn't get too warm, doesn't run the risk of sweating thanks to the heat that reverberates from every place her skin directly touches his: the length of her bare arm resting across his torso, her cheek still nuzzled into his shoulder, that place toward the end of the bed where her feet unconsciously bump his.
She doesn't dream, but if she had been it'd be images of home interspersed with the sense of gentle caresses β fingers stroking along the arch of her shoulder, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt, before making the ascent over the vulnerable exposure of the back of her neck, beneath the hair that falls freely in a sleep-mussed tumble. She musters a soft sound β maybe protest at being roused, maybe enjoyment, it's tough to distinguish when it's that faint, more of a sigh than a whimper β and shifts in that much closer, her hand curling along his ribs.
The air feels thick, somehow, and that's what inevitably wakes her a few moments later β she rouses with a quick inhale and then a soft groan as she stretches, one hand rising to rub at her eyes before she squints against the bright light streaming in through those billowing curtains, curious about how long she's been napping for. Her head shifts across his shoulder then and she tilts her chin up, finds his face, and definitely has the sense to look a little sheepish when she sees his eyes open, but she also doesn't immediately pull away. ]
Hey. [ The word is lower on her voice, almost like her throat's kind of scratchy; it doesn't occur to her that there might be a reason for it apart from just having woken up, something other than that rasping that happens from lack of use, from not talking his ear off for however long. ] How're you feeling?
[ There's everything strange about this, and yet nothing at all, somehow recognizing that however she happened to end up perched across his torso, leg nestled along the height of his own, she fits there, as if he'd purposely left that excess space on the bed for her to find her place right beside him. When she stirs, her eyes directed upward and catching his, he almost feels regretfully for aiding in waking her at all. ]
Brand new. [ It isn't the answer he intends to give, but it's the one he offers, rolling casually off of his tongue in a low rumble that would match her own if he didn't already have that very distinctive gravel.
But he does feel much more repaired than he had been the last time he was conscious, the pain at his opposite shoulder having dwindled to only a slight pulse of ache, credit primarily to whatever medicine she happened to force into his palm. Even the rest of his body feels some level of refreshment from the rest he'd accumulated over the last several hours, though there's still no real desire to leave this bed nor is he rushing to have her lift the soft press of her weight against his side.
Even still, his thumb rolls circles at her nape, tickled by the smaller hairs grown at its center as he kneads a gentle massage. ]
Did you, uh β did you find her? [ Laura, he means, though his thoughts remain a mixture in regards to attention, trying to try himself back to the state of things before he'd fallen asleep, but finding himself almost pleasantly distracted by his current positioning. ]
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She dabs at the edges of his wound and he winces briefly, biting down on his tongue to cease the slipping groan, fingers curling against the bedsheets to keep his body from arching instinctively at the stinging pain of it. ]
Y-yeah. [ He mutters again, eyes shut tight, his lips pressing together in visible strain as he breathes sharply through his nose. ] I know. I know.
[ He hates it, hates that he falls useless like this. If he were on his own, he'd find a way to coat the wound himself, to bear and grit through the pain of it to drag his body out of this bed and do what needs to be done. But he falls victim of Wynonna's tending fingers, the reality that she sets in with her reminders, and he can't garner the strength to fight back and argue. ] I need you β [ He swallows, trying to return his expression towards composure. ] I need you to find her. She needs someone right now. She shouldn't be β she shouldn't be alone. And it's not fair to drag you into this, I know that, but ... [ Fingers curl up against her forearm, not quite the grip from before but still partially clutching as his eyes flutter open, seeking hers. ] Please.
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Sorry, sorry. [ That doesn't mean she takes any pleasure in causing him pain, though, and tries not to inflict any more of it than she has to.
She wads up the dirty gauze and tosses it back into the bag, reaches for the bandages next, pressing a clean piece of cotton against his shoulder before coaxing him into lifting his arm for her so she can wrap that length around and underneath, beneath his shirt, a repetitive motion that starts to soothe even her in the middle of it, over and over. But then he makes mention of something he needs her to do, and she halts midway through pinning the bandage to itself, eyes widening. ] No, you don't want me β
[ His hand settles on her arm, a firm grasping, and her eyes drop to that link, and she knows, goddamn it, she knows that she's not going to be able to refuse to do this. ] Okay. Okay, I'll see what I can do. [ She checks the edge of the wrap job, makes sure it's secured tight in front, and her hand presses firm against the mattress as she leans forward. ] But you need to rest, Pete. Promise me you'll do that.
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It's with her affirmation, agreeing to his plea that he finds himself breathing easy again, the weight of his body sinking against the mattress with a loss of a its natural tenseness. The mere promise of it is enough, because he knows, once she says she'll follow through, that she will, and he doesn't know when he'd begun to formulate the confidence of that trust in her, whether it'd been when she'd aided him in his transformation or just after the accumulation of enough shared breakfasts or somewhere in the middle of it all, but he does.
Wynonna Earp may be many things, but she's saved him, not once, but twice, and he can confide in anyone to save Laura in his place, she takes the spot without a doubt in his mind. ]
Okay. [ Keeping still isn't in his skill set, and he isn't entirely confident in his own ability to follow through, but she earns that deal on his part, struck through all the more with the sincerity of her eyes on him. He gazes up to her with a soft nod, managing to hold the contact. ] Promise.
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You should take something. It'll help you sleep. [ She explains it out loud, more of a murmur under her breath than any kind of instruction he really needs to hear. She's seen the scars that decorate his skin, ones that run from faint silvering lines to darker, new reminders of injuries sustained. He's no stranger to pain. He'd tolerated every swipe of that disinfectant against ragged, burned flesh, quiet grunts barely forced past gritted teeth, and she can't even envision the kind of person who would be able to endure something like that over and over and over.
Well, maybe she can, because he's lying right here in front of her.
She redirects toward the pill bottles sitting on the bedside table, grabbing a couple at random and tilting them up towards the light to try and read the labels, to see if she can decipher what's intended for what. ] I'll leave the first aid stuff here, if you need it. What am I saying, you're definitely gonna need it. [ She smiles wryly, her eyes shifting to him for a brief second. ] But don't think you have to be big tough guy and change the dressings all by yourself. If you need help, I'm here. Alright?
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As she sorts through the bottles at his bedside, already listing off her instructions to pair with the eager promise, he manages weak laughter, a raspy sound of a chuckle with a visible roll of his eyes. ] Look at that. Got me my own personal Nurse Judy, don't I? [ Because despite everything, there's still this side to them, always fluttering back to the surface even when he's a useless lump upon the bed.
His fingers curl upon the ripped hem in the center of his chest, putting in a fair degree of strength to stretch the fabric further, letting it rip in a vertical line until it tears completely at the bottom. ] Sorry. I know we made a deal about this too, but β [ Dark blotches of crimson stain at the lower part of his chest where the blood had dripped down from the original wound, the stench of it still strong as Frank scrunches his nose. ] Think you can, uh, get me a wet rag? Would appreciate it.
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Call me that again and I'll poke you in your shoulder holes. [ But even while she narrows her eyes at him, it's probably pretty evident that her threat only carries so much weight, the tight press of her lips securing the hide of a wider smile. She's already glanced back down at the pill bottles when her attention's grabbed yet again by the sound of fabric tearing, the now useless halves of his shirt falling to either side of his abdomen, dried crimson streaks running along the ridges of muscle. ]
Uh, special exception made for severe blood loss. [ She needs to grab him water for the pills, anyway, and rises to her feet to secure both, filling up a glass in the kitchen and then uncovering a hand towel that looks like it's seen better days, running it under warm water before wringing out some of it so she isn't leaving a dripping trail in her wake. The temptation to just let it fall against his stomach with a wet slap is there, but she gingerly resumes a seat next to his hip and slips the towel into his hand instead, wrist turning along his chest. ]
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I'll make a note of it. [ When she briefly departs, he carefully lifts his upper body, enough to roll his good shoulder back to allow the dirty sleeve to slip off of it, before reaching behind him to drag the fabric to the side, removing it slow from his injured side, crumbling the useless shirt into a ball and setting it upon the table.
His eyes follow her as she seats herself at his side, gaze lingering even as she slips the damp cloth into his hand, somehow still surprised for her continued presence despite her routine streak of always remaining at arm's length whenever he finds himself in the midst of a conundrum. He rolls the towel along the creases of muscle, rubbing at the skin to scrub at the dry flakes of blood there, insistent that he take care of this particular task on his own. ]
Really are my knight in shining leather, huh? [ It's meant to play as a joke, but there's something quiet in his tone and his eyes don't lift to meet hers, distracted with his task as if it requires more attention than necessary. ]
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As he scrubs himself off, she busies herself with those pills instead, screwing open one of the bottles and shaking two out into her hand, the water glass braced between her thighs while she waits for him to have his hands free again.
And that remark β there's something about it, something in the way he doesn't quite meet her gaze, like maybe he didn't even mean to say it out loud but he's been made woozy by getting stabbed and all that. It's what she'll tell herself, later, when she thinks back to the low tones of his voice, the softness in it, a timbre she's come to realize he's entirely capable of even if he doesn't equip it often. ]
Yeah, yeah. [ She tries to brush it off with a wave of her free hand before holding out both glass and pills to him, fingers settling into his palm and then opening to drop the latter in. ] Well, don't you forget it. [ She'll give him a moment to take them β and to drink more water, if he needs β until she says anything else at all. ] Any other special requests? You need me to tuck you in? Bedtime story? Goodnight β um. [ Shit. It'd been a whole lot funnier in her head, but she's just going to have to commit to it. ] Goodnight kiss.
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He sets aside the newly dirtied rag upon the table, in a damp pile with his shirt, before his eyes are directed to the offered cup, palm uncurling to allow her to drops the pills on it. When he takes that sip of water to follow taking them, it's when he realizes just how dry his mouth has become, a soothing freshness when it pours down his throat that he keeps drinking as she makes her offered suggestions, that by the time she makes that last one, he's mid-swallow.
It's a light coughing and there's no real danger of him choking on water, but there's an extended moment where he pauses to clear his throat, eyes downcast to the cup in his hand, just to have somewhere to focus his gaze.
The accompanying silence is longer than it should be, but his brows stitch together for that sharp line between them and when he turns up again, he's seemingly sincere when he says, ] You know what? Yeah. [ He gives a light nod, eyes still in a light shift, a brief lick light on his lips. ] How about that story?
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She predicts that he'll be thirstier than he realized, and the steady gulping sound serves as a backdrop to her, once again, not being able to quit while she's ahead. When he coughs, not quite spluttering, she realizes she's still staring at his face and lets her gaze drift up to a point on the ceiling, inwardly cursing herself for that poorly-timed attempt at humor as she pushes a silent breath out between pursed lips. ]
Jeez. Okay. Putting me on the spot a little, Castiglione. [ But she reaches over to pluck the glass from his hand and sets it down on the table next to him, close enough for him to grab if he wakes up just as parched later.
Her eyes land on him expectantly, because she's waiting for him to settle in after all, to ease back against the pillow β and maybe, by the time she gets even a third of the way through this entertaining anecdote, he'll be fast asleep. ] Let's see, there's the time I was a part of my very first hostage situation. Or the skin-walker who was actually the head of a local cult. Oh! No, wait. The demon barber who liked to travel around town using mirrors to kill people with his straight razor. [ Clearly all of these are quality bedtime story material. ]
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But he adjusts himself on the mattress, sliding to ease himself further on the pillows, fingers reaching down to tug the sheets just over his hips as he turns his head to keep his attention directed on her. ]
Jesus Christ, Earp. [ His brow raises in height, uncertain of whether he's just bewildered or actually amazed. ] You weren't kidding about all that supernatural junk, huh? You sure you aren't actually a local? [ Which he knows she isn't considering that the actual locals here are ... unique. Still, even knowing there's plenty of strange in his own world, his encounters with the mystic aren't quite so ranked so high. ] Well, you lived to tell the tale, right? How'd you pull that mirror shit off?
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But he sinks more definitively against the pillows, bedsheets tugged up just shy of his mostly clean torso, and when she tilts her hips to adjust her weight, thigh pressed into the mattress, her knee nudges the outside of his leg, the fibers of the blanket gently tickling the skin exposed by the small hole in her jeans. ]
What, did you think I was just saying all that before to try and make a good first impression? [ She clicks her tongue against her teeth, a feigned sound of offense, before shaking her head enough to send pieces of her hair swaying across her shoulders. ] Not my style, Pete. And yeah, I'm sitting in front of you now, aren't I? Though it was a pretty close shave there for a minute. [ Get it? Do you get it, Pete? ]
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Of course, while he has his own form of humor, she has her, particularly in the way of tacky pun usage to which he offers her a blank stare in judgement, squinting his eyes followed with a slow shake of his head. ]
Yeah, I made a bad call. I take it back. I'll just go to sleep instead. [ He'll exaggerate on that roll of his eyes before he plops his good arm over them to shield them from her, feigning a wide yawn, meant to play into the teasing scene, only for it to shift into an authentic one, the exhaustion still taking effect over his body. ]
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Both eyebrows rise in the wake of his reaction, and she'd hardly guessed that a laugh would follow her terrible pun but when he eases an arm over his face, blocking out the light (and her, by extension), her mouth drops in mock indignation. ]
Come on, it wasn't that lousy. [ And this time she actually does jostle him with her bent knee, tilting her hips until she can plant her hand down against the mattress on the far side of him and prop herself up across his legs. She couldn't have missed that wide yawn even if she'd tried, and it prompts a quiet, subtle smile, her voice dropping to a lower volume. ] Okay. Well, his name was Augie Hamilton, but he was known in revenant circles as the Barber. Creative, right? Anyway, turns out people liked to use their time in his chair as confession hour, so he wound up hearing everyone's sins.
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She hovers over his legs, seeming to get comfortable in her own way, but the closeness of it doesn't disturb him, keeping his arm in its same position, the rest of him also remaining still, but keeping his ears working as she continues to speak, even if he doesn't display the full efforts of his attention.
His jaw eventually clenches unintentionally, extensions of the story being shared, and with that additional detail, something stirs in him almost uncomfortably as he can predict its connection. ]
Let me guess β based on the sin, he'd decide whether or not to kill them, right? [ It's more familiar than he'd like it to be. ]
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She lets her own gaze drift downward, to the fabric of the blanket between them, the hand that isn't bearing her weight finding a loose thread to pluck at with her fingers. If she's startled by his deduction this early on into her story, she doesn't reveal it beyond a small widening of her gaze. ]
Well, he didn't really start getting all murdery until after he died and got resurrected, but his whole shtick was giving people a window of time to confess to those they'd wronged and earn their forgiveness β real forgiveness, not just phoning it in. If that didn't happen, he'd pop out of the nearest reflection and β [ She pauses to mime it, drawing a thumb across the column of her throat while she offers her best version of a slicing knife sound effect. ]
Got to a good handful of not-so-innocent citizens that way before we caught on to how he was getting away sight unseen. Well, sort of. And then yours truly had the bad luck of winding up in his crosshairs, which β don't even get me started on how many people I would've had to chase down in Purgatory to even try and save my own ass.
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But what stands out to him most of all is that chance window in between, that allowance for forgiveness. Frank Castle was never about granting chances, not when he's seen the scum for what they are, knowing that it was a rotation of the same bullshit, the same bastards getting back up to repeat every crime, every dirty rotten habit. Besides mostly, there was no one to ask forgiveness from in his list of targets β most of the innocent victims were dead by their hands, earning them a mutual return of the very same.
He doesn't voice any of this, not to her. The man in front of her now is Pete Castiglione, who isn't meant to have his hands dirty, not while he hid from himself behind the name. Not that he was any safe from it like this, not that he even wanted to be.
Instead, he hums a noise, indication of him registering the continuation of her tale, easier to disguise his thoughts when the only thing remaining visible is the shift of firm lips. ] Don't believe it. Gal like you? You're as pure as they come, Judy. [ Another tease, for his own selfish disguise. ] So how'd you take care of Sweeney Todd?
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Sometimes it surprises even her, how far she's come β taking on the Barber was one of the first things she did after becoming the heir, when so much was still left unsaid between her and Waverly, that resentment her sister rightfully harbored about not being the chosen one even though everything pointed to her to take that role. She's not sure how much of that she wants to share, but at least his question has an easy, simple answer. ] I know. You're thinking, "That Wynonna Earp? She's beyond innocent. Never done a bad thing in her whole goddamn life."
[ Her fingers abandon their plucking of the blanket's string to rest against her leg instead, head tipped to one side along her own shoulder. ] Mmm. Turns out he'd been killed and dumped in a nearby lake, and that was how he was able to move within mirrors. He was using the reflection of the water as a starting point. Don't ask me to explain the magic behind that ability, because I'm still not sure I completely understand it myself.
[ And she doesn't mention the moment where she'd been held by the Barber, knife to her throat, pleading with Waverly to forgive her β even if that forgiveness had come between them, in the end, something for them to move on from together. ]
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Throw him into a magical-based set of circumstances, and he was nothing more than a struggling man trying to read through a set of Ikea instructions.
The more he offers responses, the more muttered they become, his voice a low rumble with a minor parting his lips on every word, breath going shallow, an indication of his failing consciousness. ] 'Sides, you're our resident expert on batshit magic phenomenons, so you gotta start studyin' up, Earp.
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See, this is why I never went to college. I don't have a researching bone in my body. That's Waves. [ And then, because she realizes she doesn't think she's ever offered him that name before, she adds: ] Waverly. My sister.
[ She can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breathing starts to even out, to deepen, hear how his words start to drift into one another, less enunciated β and her expression goes soft-shelled for a moment, because he just looks smaller somehow, untroubled, none of the careful vigilance that she's used to visible now as his features start to slacken. ]
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Perhaps it's simply from being drained of his energy, of his injury still keeping him in a weaker state than he's prone to be, but he's rather still for the minutes that follow his initial doze, sleeping soundly that the only movement is the eventual drop of his arm, rolling over his cheek to plop unaware over his chest and unveiling the view of closed eyes, the typical stern glance exchanged for something more momentarily peaceful.
And he'll sleep, needing the hours that are usually lost to him, never earning more than three of four in a single night, now having it forced upon him, whether he's seeking it or not, much to the satisfaction of Wynonna or Laura or anyone else who just needs the man to get his damn rest. ]
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She doesn't leave the apartment right away, first making an attempt to reach out to Laura with the Fluid's equivalent of voicemail, then quietly conversing with the girl from the living room β and when she does finally slip out, it's after checking in on Pete one last time, finding his arm resting limp across his middle, his head lolled to one side and his breathing slow. She does have an eventual return in mind, but it won't be right away, not until after she's had a chance to look in on Laura, not until he's further into the mending process.
By the time she pops in on him again, the room smells like someone's been having sweaty nightmares, stuffy and bordering on a little too warm, and when Wynonna crosses the room toward the window she doesn't even notice the light coating of yellow dust that's settled onto the sill, the fine particles stirred and floating inside when she unlatches it and pushes it open to let some fresh air in. Either he hasn't counted on her showing up or he's drifted off again, snoozing in the bed β and she sneezes, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth, and glances back over her shoulder to see if that sound's enough to wake him up.
He doesn't slip back to consciousness, and she wonders just how little sleep he's been getting lately, stepping over to one side of the bed and reaching out to lay the back of her hand against his forehead. No fever. It means nothing's infected, at least, which is a small mercy considering his cauterization job had been performed by a small child β and don't think she hasn't forgotten to bring that up at the first available opportunity.
But she hasn't realized, in all her thinking, that her hand's drifting, fingers trailing along his temple and the side of his face, tracing the hard angles now relaxed in slumber, and she doesn't catch herself so much as simply withdraw, straightening up to work her arms out of her jacket and lay it over the back of a nearby chair. The boots come off next, toed off one at a time, and then she's settling into the bed next to him without being entirely sure why β only that she wants to, curling up along his side with her head nestled on his good shoulder and her arm slid across his midsection.
She doesn't plan on falling asleep either, but there she is, cheek pressed into the edge of him, her own breaths slowing to become somehow perfectly timed with his. ]
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Yet, exhaustion has had enough of its effect to where they aren't quite as loud, and he can somehow slip past the nightmare every so often to simply have dreamless sleep, an actual rest of his eyes while he has the sacred opportunity for it.
Eventually, the warmth begins to pull at him, and he wonders just how long Maria's been asleep, if she'd readied the kids for school and found her way back at his side to simply escape the remaining hours of the morning, hidden within their bedsheets. The turning of his head almost feels heavy with how long he's been still, but he makes the effort so he can brush his nose to the height of her scalp, nudging among the strands of hair to find the scent of a shampoo he's never known her to have.
But he hums, a serene air found in holding her, arms freeing itself from beneath her to instead curve around her back to her shoulder, thumb drawing circles against the dent where the bones shift together.
When his eyes flutter open, he's quick to piece that it isn't Maria at all, even as he can see the blur of dark hair in a nest of waves. Tilting his chin to rest on his collar, he can make out the sharp nose and strong cheeks, thin lips that seem to quirk even in her sleep, and he has to wonder how the hell Wynonna Earp ended up in his arms.
But he doesn't stir to move her, his own nose wrinkling when he feels a sudden tickle there, ignoring it in favor of simply gazing down at her dozing figure, that minor cling where her arms wraps at his middle. Somehow, despite recogizing that the woman here is by no means his wife, his fingers don't cease the soft caress to her shoulder, merely extending the light massage to the nape of her neck, fingertips providing a ghost touch beneath the strands of hair that he tucks to the side with the aid of his wrist.
When the tip of his nose presses to her hairline, he sighs there, breath warm to the smooth space of her forehead before his lips perk to place a kiss not at all firm but still fairly tender. ]
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There's just enough of a breeze coming in through the open window that she doesn't get too warm, doesn't run the risk of sweating thanks to the heat that reverberates from every place her skin directly touches his: the length of her bare arm resting across his torso, her cheek still nuzzled into his shoulder, that place toward the end of the bed where her feet unconsciously bump his.
She doesn't dream, but if she had been it'd be images of home interspersed with the sense of gentle caresses β fingers stroking along the arch of her shoulder, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt, before making the ascent over the vulnerable exposure of the back of her neck, beneath the hair that falls freely in a sleep-mussed tumble. She musters a soft sound β maybe protest at being roused, maybe enjoyment, it's tough to distinguish when it's that faint, more of a sigh than a whimper β and shifts in that much closer, her hand curling along his ribs.
The air feels thick, somehow, and that's what inevitably wakes her a few moments later β she rouses with a quick inhale and then a soft groan as she stretches, one hand rising to rub at her eyes before she squints against the bright light streaming in through those billowing curtains, curious about how long she's been napping for. Her head shifts across his shoulder then and she tilts her chin up, finds his face, and definitely has the sense to look a little sheepish when she sees his eyes open, but she also doesn't immediately pull away. ]
Hey. [ The word is lower on her voice, almost like her throat's kind of scratchy; it doesn't occur to her that there might be a reason for it apart from just having woken up, something other than that rasping that happens from lack of use, from not talking his ear off for however long. ] How're you feeling?
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Brand new. [ It isn't the answer he intends to give, but it's the one he offers, rolling casually off of his tongue in a low rumble that would match her own if he didn't already have that very distinctive gravel.
But he does feel much more repaired than he had been the last time he was conscious, the pain at his opposite shoulder having dwindled to only a slight pulse of ache, credit primarily to whatever medicine she happened to force into his palm. Even the rest of his body feels some level of refreshment from the rest he'd accumulated over the last several hours, though there's still no real desire to leave this bed nor is he rushing to have her lift the soft press of her weight against his side.
Even still, his thumb rolls circles at her nape, tickled by the smaller hairs grown at its center as he kneads a gentle massage. ]
Did you, uh β did you find her? [ Laura, he means, though his thoughts remain a mixture in regards to attention, trying to try himself back to the state of things before he'd fallen asleep, but finding himself almost pleasantly distracted by his current positioning. ]
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