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. ]
Uh huh. [ Her tone makes it plain that she doesn't buy that assessment in the slightest, though she's not feeling inclined to prod him in the shoulder to verify just how accurate those words are β in fact, the impulse to tease him doesn't really rise at all, replaced instead by the desire to linger near to him, to quietly tip her head into the slow, easing movements of his fingers across her neck.
Somehow she's graduated to touching him similarly without realizing it, fingertips running lightly across his stomach, drawing random invisible shapes across the unclothed expanse; he's warm and smooth in a way she couldn't have imagined and she curves in with a small wriggle of her hips, fitting herself into that space that feels like it was carved out for her specifically. ]
Hmm? Yeah. I talked to her. Told her you were okay. That you were just worried about her. [ It's like her train of thought is being pulled in two different directions β the one she should be focusing on and the one she wants to stay in, here with him, nothing but the idle sounds of the town outside filtering in through that open window. Absently, she rubs at her own nose. ]
She's gonna stop by mine soon. I think she'll be back here eventually, too. [ She's been murmuring, reflective, cheek pillowed against the round of his shoulder, but now she tilts her head back to look up at him again. ] She just needed some alone time, you know?
I know. [ He knows it because he's always been much of the same, always retreating into his own head, too stubborn, too frightened to share it with anyone else. Even Curtis always had a hard time prodding the cycle of thoughts from him ("don't be a wallowing asshole"), his withdrawn nature less about his feelings of trust, and more of the instincts to let himself drown in that loneliness because it's all that he's worth these days.
Those urges don't linger now, finding he doesn't feel lonely at all, the warmth of her body felt thoroughly across his chest where he can feel the tickle of her shirt brushing firmly against smooth muscle. ]
I just didn't β [ His unbusied fingers trail to his stomach to meet hers, brushing loose strokes over the peak of her knuckles, his eyes directed there with his thoughts. ] I didn't want her to get too lost in her own head, you know? I β I know what it's like. I know what that kind of shit does to you. 'Specially as a kid.
[ He might not have had claws unsheath from his hands, but he was just as frustrated, just as angry, with an actual urge to strike, to hurt anybody, mostly because he never knew what to do with himself. Laura's too good to fall into that trap.
But his eyes find Wynonna's again and he swallows, that lump visibly rolling with the shift of his Adam's apple, something of a bashfulness in his gaze. ] Wynonna, I β I can't tell you what it means to me. What you're doing for her. [ His fingers gently wrap around hers, not quite committing but testing that urge to entangle them together, his voice soft and almost inaudible if it weren't for how close they remain. ] What you're doing for me.
Yeah. I know too. [ Her gaze drifts elsewhere, even while she doesn't tip her face away, to find a random point on the wall across the room; there's no way he knows what kind of memories the last couple of days have managed to dredge up for her, not unless she tells him, and she's not sure she wants to open that can out of fear that it'll change things, shift them away from where she wants them to be β because she doesn't want to surrender the feeling of his hand on hers.
She's quiet for a long time β it seems like that, but it's probably only the span of a few breaths before she offers any further context, a whisper of a confession. ]
When I was around her age, there was... an accident. Nothing I meant to do, but β after that, everything changed. How people looked at me, how they treated me. Like I wasn't even better than the mud on their shoe and way easier to scrape off. [ Her voice drifts again, but she's somehow emboldened by the slide of his fingertips across the ridges of her knuckles, like the cocoon of their shared warmth wordlessly means that no part of this will leave the room. ]
No one told me it was gonna be okay. Honestly, no one really gave a damn what happened to me after that. [ And, after that, it was a lot of ricocheting between foster homes and juvie β for one of the Earp girls, anyway, while the younger one seemed to thrive in spite of it all. She turns her hand into his like she's trying to steady herself, drawing strength right alongside savoring the closeness. ]
The way you care about her, I didn't realize β [ Even as close as they are, her voice wobbles subtly, before she can get more of a handle on herself, and there's a beat where she's the one who has trouble meeting his eyes with hers for a change before she settles, blue into brown unblinking. There are a hundred different thoughts dangling on her lips, but only one of them actually slips out to hover in the slight space between them. ] You're a good man, Pete.
[ Following an already existing silence, he quiets as he listens to her, to the shifting beats of her breaths, the hesistance as she confesses something that he can gather doesn't come easy to her. Even with the vagueness of details, he can sense the weight it holds on her with every word, parallel to the very thing he'd worried that Laura would have to face, carrying a mistake that would shape emotions much deeper than the surface.
He isn't adept at console, not any that he would find confidence in, but the hand at her back wraps itself more securely around her, curving over her shoulder as if to draw her in somehow closer than she already is, to let that warmth that soothes him offer the same comfort to her lingering scars.
The words are on his tongue, to tell her it is going to be okay, because even if he holds no proof of it, he knows her, or rather, as much of her as he's observed closely these months, the way she responds to conflict, how she holds herself in the midst of an overwhelming situation, the strength in which she's held him up more than one occasion. Whatever it was she's had to face, it's shaped her into someone he wouldn't have admitted out loud to be quite ... admirable.
And he wants to tell her, because she deserves to hear it, because for all that he tugs at her strings, there's an honest fondness too, a respect, a trust. And just as Laura shouldn't bear her weights alone, neither should Wynonna.
But then she follows her confession further and he begins to tense where he lays, something gripping suddenly at his chest, a ferocious guilt plunging through as she gazes up to him with soft, honest eyes. And because of her intent to meet his, he struggles to look away, desperate to conceal the ache that his gaze gives away. ]
I'm not. [ He confesses in turn, the simple words a strain in his throat, all the more prevalent because he doesn't want to sacrifice this safety nest they've cradled themselves into, this secure bed where he can hide himself away from the truth that lingers on the ground right at its edge. But it pesters him even here, too guilty to let himself have something he isn't deserving of. ] If you knew the kind of man I really am, the things that I'm β the things I've done. [ He raises his fingers to her face, the tip of his index stroking gently to her cheek. ] You wouldn't be looking at me like this.
[ Even she's unclear on why she doesn't just come out and say it all β lay out the full details of that night for him, everything from the sound of snow crunching under the Seven's boots to shattering glass to Willa's screaming and that one shot fired, the shot that had taken Ward Earp away before the revenants could drag him off the homestead.
Pete draws her in carefully against him and she moves with a roll of her shoulder, a twist of her waist, and there's so much unknowable about how he'd react to the whole story but she does know this instead, what his touch feels like along her spine, the rhythm of it enough to soothe her, to resist any tensing that might come as a result of the remembering. ]
Look, I'm not β I'm not saying any of this to get sympathy, or to make you feel sorry for me, or anything like that. [ Because she'll always have to backtrack somehow, won't she? She can never just let it lie without trying to diminish the sentiment after the fact, or undercut anything that verges too close to the vulnerable. It's nothing that has to do with him, personally; she's never been able to let anyone in like that, and she doesn't anticipate that she'll be given enough time here to even consider it. ]
I wanted you to know because I understand what she's going through. Maybe not the full extent of it, because whatever happened to her in the first place that was bad enough to give her those nightmares, I can't even imagine, but β I get being scared. Afraid that you've done something so unforgivable that no one will ever want you anymore, and so you just β you run. Because it's easier, safer, than facing them after causing so much pain. [ She props herself up then, elbow pressed firm into the mattress to look at him directly; it's like the truth is tumbling out of her now but the strange part is that she doesn't mind it, not when he's still touching her like this. ]
And you, you were ready to haul ass out of bed looking for her, already forgiving her, and... not everyone gets that. So when I say you're a good man, it's because I've seen how much you care about her. Regardless of whatever other shit you've done, there's no faking that. No way. [ Instinctively, she tips her head into the slide of his finger along the indent beneath her cheek, but there are myriad emotions in her expression, lips parted as if she's on the cusp of further words.
And she doesn't turn away either, or redirect the conversation to something safer; her hand shifts, mindful of his shoulder, to find a resting place on his chest, arm tucked in close between them. The question is quiet when it comes, nearly a whisper. ] How am I looking at you?
[ She praises him more than he deserves and if it weren't for the vulnerable state he'd been draped in, already too exposed to succeed in much disguises, he might have gotten a little more frustrated over the fact, lodged up a strong ring of protests to counter her proclamations. But the way she exposes herself in turn, confessing those deeper dents of herself where fear and regret linger, twisting itself into altered shapes, he can't find it in him to fight her as much as he would, not when she's unveiling something so naked that he isn't worthy to be witness to. ]
I guess β I guess we're all just running, huh? [ Because he's been doing it even here, always planning his escape, always ready to steer himself away before he can linger for too long, before too much of him is seen. He'd stopped once, turned at a stop light to redirect himself to a place he'd found worth staying, worth forgiving himself enough to remain steady. In the end, when his mistakes only continued to hurt, he'd found himself on the road yet again.
And he can't deny her when she curves herself into him the way she does, the light press of her cheek prompting him to uncurl his fingers to cup over her skin directly, dipping along her jaw, thumb dangerously close to the corner of her lips.
She poses her question and, though he'd direct himself away if he had the strength to, he's locked on her eyes to continue that exchange of something silent, the slip of her fingers on his chest bringing him to sigh, a heaviness lifting without notice. ]
Like β like I'm better than I am. Like I'm good enough. Like I can be forgiven. [ The hand at her back splays out, fingers stretching as they flutter a stroke over her spine, gentle pushes that keep her cradled against his weight. He swallows again, a rhythm of breaths taken in first as his eyes linger on uncertainty. ] Like maybe we don't ... we don't need to keep running for now.
[ Just this much is more than she ever anticipated revealing β half-truths about her past, if not full ones, and even those are weights that she didn't anticipate exposing, even if it amounts to little more than paint peeling at the corners. If either of them keeps pulling at it, there's no telling what they'll eventually uncover and she isn't sure she wants that, but she hasn't left the bed and neither has he, those lingering points of contact between them making her breath hitch, and she knows it's loud enough for him to pick up on.
She hums, a thoughtful sound, agreement to his words; she'd been running, before Purgatory, before winding up in the last place she ever wanted to be again, but she'd eventually accepted her role in defending a town that needs her and somehow the same exact thing's happened here. Whatever this one needs from her is still uncertain, but she can't help thinking she has been pulled in for a reason, just like he has. He'd made the choice to stay, told her as much, and she's made the exact same one without even realizing it.
It feels too good to ask him to stop, and though there's a faint piece of her awareness that recognizes she should she moves without thinking, turning her face toward the center of his palm until the apple of her cheek nestles there, like it was made to fit.
No, she should be worried about this, about everything she's left unprotected about herself and then some β the exposed nape of her neck, how instinctively she leans into every stroke of fingers, those presses against her back that coax an unconscious arching β and it's so weird that she isn't, that the only sense she has is one of overpowering calm and the complete lack of motivation to tear herself away from him. ]
No more running. [ She's breathing until she isn't, air held tight in her lungs; the first time, she'd found his face tipped down to hers with the chill of icy water soaking clothes against skin, but now she leans over him, drifting forward into stillness at the moment her mouth finds his, soft and tentative. ]
[ No more running. He's still very much aware that actual stillness won't be likely for him, not when he knows there'll never be an end of the tunnel, not in the endless ride that always keeps him fighting, keeps him doing what he does because at the end of the day, he's the only one who will.
Yet it doesn't stop him from yearning for it all the same, still recalling how at peace he'd felt for the span of those hours with Beth in his arms, that casual normalcy he'd had with her and her son the following morning over a couple of plates of pancakes. He'd been ready to walk away from all of it, like natural habit, a nomad with no destination, but when he'd made that decision to take a chance, to find that stillness to breathe again, it'd all crumbled beneath him, and she'd almost died for his selfish stubbornness at actual happiness.
There's never been a plan to have that here, not in this town with its curses and unpredictability, but it hasn't been the expanse of a full nightmare, not on days that he watches Laura twirl her crayons along the surface of his living room wall, doodling galloping horses sprinting under the sun, or when Wynonna always keeps a fresh pot at the ready when she finds some new component of her house for him to repair.
This would be the last town that he'd run to, but on some days, he isn't entirely motivated to run from it either.
No more running, and his breath seems to stop at the precise time that her does when he feels the shift of her body with her lean, and he's instinctively shutting his own eyes even before he feels the gentle press of her mouth to his. After a sigh to her lips, that breath he'd been seeking for ages, he turns his head in response, angling for a more fitted caress, still lingering in that initial softness, even as his fingers steady at her cheek more firmly and his arm ropes around her waist to tuck her more securely over his body. ]
[ No more running. It doesn't even occur to her to quantify it with a for now because that probably goes without saying, this understanding they've both reached about staying here until their collective mission is done; once this place is through with them, they'll go back.
The running theory she keeps going back to, over and over again, is that she must be dreaming this β that this town and everyone in it is part of this world that exists only in her subconsciousness, that she's living out this entirely separate life while she sleeps and sooner or later her eyes will snap open, back to her actual reality.
Maybe there's a guy named Pete dreaming this from wherever too, and Laura, and Chloe, and Jesse, and everyone she's met in this shared landscape who continually face the monsters that should only exist in nightmares. After spending several months in a REM sleep that would rival even Rip Van Winkle's, nothing is out of the realm of possibility for her anymore.
But so much of it feels real, those impossible details that she isn't positive she'd be able to conjure up from her own memory β the planes of his face, the strength of them when she smooths her hand over the edge of his jaw, fingers spreading wide across the shell of his ear. She wouldn't be able to fill in every single scar on his torso, his shoulders, his chest, the one that runs almost the full length of his forearm, visible when he rolls his sleeves up to start working on a project. She wouldn't be able to imagine what his mouth tastes like this vividly, a soft sigh breathed across his cheek when he drags her up and over him, her hand pressing into the mattress on his other side.
No, she thinks, as she kisses him β lazy, unhurried, slow movements, not deepening it yet beyond that overall sensation of her lips flush to his, because last time she barely had a second to know what it felt like β she's not dreaming any of this at all. ]
[ This could easily be considered as spontaneous as their first kiss, the sudden spell he'd fallen under beneath the harsh cold spray of the shower leaving him to act without true thought, to snatch her lips on a whim when they'd begun to linger close. A difference now is in the lack of interruptions, no drunk teens bustling in through the door (he hopes) to steer the mood off course. Yet, it doesn't feel as sudden as it possibly should, as if it was only inevitable that he'd find her mouth again somehow, whether it be he or her to initiate it this coming time.
How long had they been playing this game, from the moment they'd sat across from one another at that table, exchanging teases too casually, sharing more intricate details they should have known better than to allow the other to peek into it. He'd sensed something dangerous even then, when his fingers lingered tentatively at the button that would spell out something far more complicated if they'd both pressed it.
He'd passed it off then, as nothing more than frustrated ticks at her invasive and persistent personality, but if they bothered him then, he doesn't show evidence of it now, hasn't in some time, her sarcasm commentary met less often with well-timed eye rolling and instead the soft breath of a chuckle he tries so hard to keep tame.
But the sound in offering now is a soft noise against her lips, something low with a gentle rumble that almost seems to unknowingly prompt his parting mouth. A teasing tongue brushes over the wet seam, non-forceful and merely testing, merely tasting as though there's still no real understanding of what this all even is.
And he doesn't understand, nor does he try to, because her back feels firm beneath his palm, a kneading touch at the small of her back that practically tangles the fabric of her shirt as he keeps her steady and balanced above him, letting her weight trap him without any real intention on leaving it soon. ]
[ She wants to believe that this wasn't always what they were moving towards, that even after that first conversation where they were literally blind to one another had ended with her revealing more than she'd intended she would've assumed her distance β but then she'd figured out who he was, and from that point on, there was something about him that had piqued her curiosity enough to keep her coming back to find out more.
Maybe it was in how he'd looked at her, that quick darting of his gaze toward her face that had eventually been replaced by steadier, longer glances. Or in all those subsequent convos with a diner table in between them that had gradually teased out more and more of his humor β his willingness to humor her, at the very least.
She could've partially blamed their first kiss on other influences, alcohol and that candy newly dissolved on her tongue when she'd responded to the press of lips against her own, heated in spite of the intense and sudden chill. She'd been looser, more pliant, more responsive to the idea of being touched and running her hands over someone else in exchange. Her judgment had basically been nil, allowing her to write it off later as a product of a desire to impulsively lose herself in a strong mouth and surprisingly gentle hands.
But, as far as she knows, she can't point the finger at anyone else for this save herself, especially not once the kiss deepens and she moans into his mouth, a softer, higher-pitched thing in contrast to his deeper tones that cause her to feel the vibrations of it in his chest where she's pressed flush against him. And her lips part for him too, as her hand clutches more firmly along the side of his face, fingers pushing up and into the longer strands of his hair. That first graze of tongues makes her greedy, but she doesn't chase it right away, choosing to tease it out more instead through that delicate rhythm.
If she had more of a sense of herself, this would be the moment where she'd remember that she hadn't come over to do this, to wind up in his bed, on top of him, kissing him with heat and intent, the blankets a decisive barrier between more of her body and his. But she doesn't think about any of that when the edge of his palm skirts across her lower back and her hips unconsciously press forward, unconcerned with whether she might be crushing him with her weight.
[ He'd always been better with control, with keeping himself from falling victim to selfish emotional urges like this, to focusing his intents solely on whatever self-assigned mission he's placed himself on, such as the initial one in which he'd concentrate on the task of getting out of this town. Exhaustion had been his proclaimed excuse for kissing her that first time, and though she'd been the one to initiate it now, he can't find enough evidence to pin the blame of his responding lips simply to the medication.
Something still feels foggy in his mind, a haze that makes the entire scenario seem disconnected from sense, such as the question of how she'd ended up in his bed in the first place, or rather, why she would have curled herself some comfortably against him at all. And how had it been so easy to accept this as an alternative to everything else he's regulated himself to prior, restraining himself from seeking spontaneous romances, from settling into something safe when all he knows is a life of war, the fight constantly alive and preventing him from basking in moments like this.
He has none of the answers, but he's ensnared from pursuing them, distracted wholly by her mouth, sighing when he feels the soft rumble of a moan from it, followed by that casual twirl of a tongue that greets his own with a concoction of sweetness and heat all at once.
Hand clasped at her back, the other holds her hair, gathering the strands to keep from falling over his cheeks as she hovers above him, fingers trapping them in a gentle grasp at her neck, tips kneading over her skin in a slow rhythm that matches the steady patient pace of their lips. He won't filter the low sound that evokes in response to her pressing hips, the weight of her warm and welcoming, prompting a gentle nip to her lip. ]
[ She has no deeper motivation in this beyond the desire to be close, however that pans out, though she doesn't necessarily attempt to propel things forward, to push the physical boundary ahead another marker for them, content to remain here as long as it means she gets to continue touching him, gets to feel his touch on her in return. That's not to say that the stroke of his fingers along the underside of her hair, the collection of it in his grasp, doesn't fill her with something, doesn't make her tremble even just a little bit over top of him.
In a normal set of circumstances she'd be frustrated with herself for letting her want be rendered so plain on her face, in the sounds she gives voice to, those whimpers absorbed into the unspoken tempo of their kissing, such bare disclosure of her need and how much she's enjoying this that it almost doesn't feel like her. Usually she's better at not showing her hand like this, at not giving away the signs of the effect he's having on her, but this is satisfying that unconscious longing she has to just be near him in more ways than one.
It could be the heat of the moment that's left her thoughts hazy too, jumbled and non-linear, unable to perceive much apart from this and him and this, ignorant to their surroundings. Maybe they should stay in bed all day, she thinks to herself, just enjoying this unrushed exploration of each other.
She's so caught up in it that she doesn't realize her hand has drifted down from his face to his bandaged shoulder, covering it lightly, a non-offensive contact that won't cause any inadvertent pain until he delivers that teasing nip and she squeezes with her fingers, a reflexive reaction and the product of so much forgetting wrapped up in how satisfied she is solely from their shared proximity, skin against skin. ]
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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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Somehow she's graduated to touching him similarly without realizing it, fingertips running lightly across his stomach, drawing random invisible shapes across the unclothed expanse; he's warm and smooth in a way she couldn't have imagined and she curves in with a small wriggle of her hips, fitting herself into that space that feels like it was carved out for her specifically. ]
Hmm? Yeah. I talked to her. Told her you were okay. That you were just worried about her. [ It's like her train of thought is being pulled in two different directions β the one she should be focusing on and the one she wants to stay in, here with him, nothing but the idle sounds of the town outside filtering in through that open window. Absently, she rubs at her own nose. ]
She's gonna stop by mine soon. I think she'll be back here eventually, too. [ She's been murmuring, reflective, cheek pillowed against the round of his shoulder, but now she tilts her head back to look up at him again. ] She just needed some alone time, you know?
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Those urges don't linger now, finding he doesn't feel lonely at all, the warmth of her body felt thoroughly across his chest where he can feel the tickle of her shirt brushing firmly against smooth muscle. ]
I just didn't β [ His unbusied fingers trail to his stomach to meet hers, brushing loose strokes over the peak of her knuckles, his eyes directed there with his thoughts. ] I didn't want her to get too lost in her own head, you know? I β I know what it's like. I know what that kind of shit does to you. 'Specially as a kid.
[ He might not have had claws unsheath from his hands, but he was just as frustrated, just as angry, with an actual urge to strike, to hurt anybody, mostly because he never knew what to do with himself. Laura's too good to fall into that trap.
But his eyes find Wynonna's again and he swallows, that lump visibly rolling with the shift of his Adam's apple, something of a bashfulness in his gaze. ] Wynonna, I β I can't tell you what it means to me. What you're doing for her. [ His fingers gently wrap around hers, not quite committing but testing that urge to entangle them together, his voice soft and almost inaudible if it weren't for how close they remain. ] What you're doing for me.
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She's quiet for a long time β it seems like that, but it's probably only the span of a few breaths before she offers any further context, a whisper of a confession. ]
When I was around her age, there was... an accident. Nothing I meant to do, but β after that, everything changed. How people looked at me, how they treated me. Like I wasn't even better than the mud on their shoe and way easier to scrape off. [ Her voice drifts again, but she's somehow emboldened by the slide of his fingertips across the ridges of her knuckles, like the cocoon of their shared warmth wordlessly means that no part of this will leave the room. ]
No one told me it was gonna be okay. Honestly, no one really gave a damn what happened to me after that. [ And, after that, it was a lot of ricocheting between foster homes and juvie β for one of the Earp girls, anyway, while the younger one seemed to thrive in spite of it all. She turns her hand into his like she's trying to steady herself, drawing strength right alongside savoring the closeness. ]
The way you care about her, I didn't realize β [ Even as close as they are, her voice wobbles subtly, before she can get more of a handle on herself, and there's a beat where she's the one who has trouble meeting his eyes with hers for a change before she settles, blue into brown unblinking. There are a hundred different thoughts dangling on her lips, but only one of them actually slips out to hover in the slight space between them. ] You're a good man, Pete.
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He isn't adept at console, not any that he would find confidence in, but the hand at her back wraps itself more securely around her, curving over her shoulder as if to draw her in somehow closer than she already is, to let that warmth that soothes him offer the same comfort to her lingering scars.
The words are on his tongue, to tell her it is going to be okay, because even if he holds no proof of it, he knows her, or rather, as much of her as he's observed closely these months, the way she responds to conflict, how she holds herself in the midst of an overwhelming situation, the strength in which she's held him up more than one occasion. Whatever it was she's had to face, it's shaped her into someone he wouldn't have admitted out loud to be quite ... admirable.
And he wants to tell her, because she deserves to hear it, because for all that he tugs at her strings, there's an honest fondness too, a respect, a trust. And just as Laura shouldn't bear her weights alone, neither should Wynonna.
But then she follows her confession further and he begins to tense where he lays, something gripping suddenly at his chest, a ferocious guilt plunging through as she gazes up to him with soft, honest eyes. And because of her intent to meet his, he struggles to look away, desperate to conceal the ache that his gaze gives away. ]
I'm not. [ He confesses in turn, the simple words a strain in his throat, all the more prevalent because he doesn't want to sacrifice this safety nest they've cradled themselves into, this secure bed where he can hide himself away from the truth that lingers on the ground right at its edge. But it pesters him even here, too guilty to let himself have something he isn't deserving of. ] If you knew the kind of man I really am, the things that I'm β the things I've done. [ He raises his fingers to her face, the tip of his index stroking gently to her cheek. ] You wouldn't be looking at me like this.
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Pete draws her in carefully against him and she moves with a roll of her shoulder, a twist of her waist, and there's so much unknowable about how he'd react to the whole story but she does know this instead, what his touch feels like along her spine, the rhythm of it enough to soothe her, to resist any tensing that might come as a result of the remembering. ]
Look, I'm not β I'm not saying any of this to get sympathy, or to make you feel sorry for me, or anything like that. [ Because she'll always have to backtrack somehow, won't she? She can never just let it lie without trying to diminish the sentiment after the fact, or undercut anything that verges too close to the vulnerable. It's nothing that has to do with him, personally; she's never been able to let anyone in like that, and she doesn't anticipate that she'll be given enough time here to even consider it. ]
I wanted you to know because I understand what she's going through. Maybe not the full extent of it, because whatever happened to her in the first place that was bad enough to give her those nightmares, I can't even imagine, but β I get being scared. Afraid that you've done something so unforgivable that no one will ever want you anymore, and so you just β you run. Because it's easier, safer, than facing them after causing so much pain. [ She props herself up then, elbow pressed firm into the mattress to look at him directly; it's like the truth is tumbling out of her now but the strange part is that she doesn't mind it, not when he's still touching her like this. ]
And you, you were ready to haul ass out of bed looking for her, already forgiving her, and... not everyone gets that. So when I say you're a good man, it's because I've seen how much you care about her. Regardless of whatever other shit you've done, there's no faking that. No way. [ Instinctively, she tips her head into the slide of his finger along the indent beneath her cheek, but there are myriad emotions in her expression, lips parted as if she's on the cusp of further words.
And she doesn't turn away either, or redirect the conversation to something safer; her hand shifts, mindful of his shoulder, to find a resting place on his chest, arm tucked in close between them. The question is quiet when it comes, nearly a whisper. ] How am I looking at you?
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I guess β I guess we're all just running, huh? [ Because he's been doing it even here, always planning his escape, always ready to steer himself away before he can linger for too long, before too much of him is seen. He'd stopped once, turned at a stop light to redirect himself to a place he'd found worth staying, worth forgiving himself enough to remain steady. In the end, when his mistakes only continued to hurt, he'd found himself on the road yet again.
And he can't deny her when she curves herself into him the way she does, the light press of her cheek prompting him to uncurl his fingers to cup over her skin directly, dipping along her jaw, thumb dangerously close to the corner of her lips.
She poses her question and, though he'd direct himself away if he had the strength to, he's locked on her eyes to continue that exchange of something silent, the slip of her fingers on his chest bringing him to sigh, a heaviness lifting without notice. ]
Like β like I'm better than I am. Like I'm good enough. Like I can be forgiven. [ The hand at her back splays out, fingers stretching as they flutter a stroke over her spine, gentle pushes that keep her cradled against his weight. He swallows again, a rhythm of breaths taken in first as his eyes linger on uncertainty. ] Like maybe we don't ... we don't need to keep running for now.
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She hums, a thoughtful sound, agreement to his words; she'd been running, before Purgatory, before winding up in the last place she ever wanted to be again, but she'd eventually accepted her role in defending a town that needs her and somehow the same exact thing's happened here. Whatever this one needs from her is still uncertain, but she can't help thinking she has been pulled in for a reason, just like he has. He'd made the choice to stay, told her as much, and she's made the exact same one without even realizing it.
It feels too good to ask him to stop, and though there's a faint piece of her awareness that recognizes she should she moves without thinking, turning her face toward the center of his palm until the apple of her cheek nestles there, like it was made to fit.
No, she should be worried about this, about everything she's left unprotected about herself and then some β the exposed nape of her neck, how instinctively she leans into every stroke of fingers, those presses against her back that coax an unconscious arching β and it's so weird that she isn't, that the only sense she has is one of overpowering calm and the complete lack of motivation to tear herself away from him. ]
No more running. [ She's breathing until she isn't, air held tight in her lungs; the first time, she'd found his face tipped down to hers with the chill of icy water soaking clothes against skin, but now she leans over him, drifting forward into stillness at the moment her mouth finds his, soft and tentative. ]
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Yet it doesn't stop him from yearning for it all the same, still recalling how at peace he'd felt for the span of those hours with Beth in his arms, that casual normalcy he'd had with her and her son the following morning over a couple of plates of pancakes. He'd been ready to walk away from all of it, like natural habit, a nomad with no destination, but when he'd made that decision to take a chance, to find that stillness to breathe again, it'd all crumbled beneath him, and she'd almost died for his selfish stubbornness at actual happiness.
There's never been a plan to have that here, not in this town with its curses and unpredictability, but it hasn't been the expanse of a full nightmare, not on days that he watches Laura twirl her crayons along the surface of his living room wall, doodling galloping horses sprinting under the sun, or when Wynonna always keeps a fresh pot at the ready when she finds some new component of her house for him to repair.
This would be the last town that he'd run to, but on some days, he isn't entirely motivated to run from it either.
No more running, and his breath seems to stop at the precise time that her does when he feels the shift of her body with her lean, and he's instinctively shutting his own eyes even before he feels the gentle press of her mouth to his. After a sigh to her lips, that breath he'd been seeking for ages, he turns his head in response, angling for a more fitted caress, still lingering in that initial softness, even as his fingers steady at her cheek more firmly and his arm ropes around her waist to tuck her more securely over his body. ]
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The running theory she keeps going back to, over and over again, is that she must be dreaming this β that this town and everyone in it is part of this world that exists only in her subconsciousness, that she's living out this entirely separate life while she sleeps and sooner or later her eyes will snap open, back to her actual reality.
Maybe there's a guy named Pete dreaming this from wherever too, and Laura, and Chloe, and Jesse, and everyone she's met in this shared landscape who continually face the monsters that should only exist in nightmares. After spending several months in a REM sleep that would rival even Rip Van Winkle's, nothing is out of the realm of possibility for her anymore.
But so much of it feels real, those impossible details that she isn't positive she'd be able to conjure up from her own memory β the planes of his face, the strength of them when she smooths her hand over the edge of his jaw, fingers spreading wide across the shell of his ear. She wouldn't be able to fill in every single scar on his torso, his shoulders, his chest, the one that runs almost the full length of his forearm, visible when he rolls his sleeves up to start working on a project. She wouldn't be able to imagine what his mouth tastes like this vividly, a soft sigh breathed across his cheek when he drags her up and over him, her hand pressing into the mattress on his other side.
No, she thinks, as she kisses him β lazy, unhurried, slow movements, not deepening it yet beyond that overall sensation of her lips flush to his, because last time she barely had a second to know what it felt like β she's not dreaming any of this at all. ]
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How long had they been playing this game, from the moment they'd sat across from one another at that table, exchanging teases too casually, sharing more intricate details they should have known better than to allow the other to peek into it. He'd sensed something dangerous even then, when his fingers lingered tentatively at the button that would spell out something far more complicated if they'd both pressed it.
He'd passed it off then, as nothing more than frustrated ticks at her invasive and persistent personality, but if they bothered him then, he doesn't show evidence of it now, hasn't in some time, her sarcasm commentary met less often with well-timed eye rolling and instead the soft breath of a chuckle he tries so hard to keep tame.
But the sound in offering now is a soft noise against her lips, something low with a gentle rumble that almost seems to unknowingly prompt his parting mouth. A teasing tongue brushes over the wet seam, non-forceful and merely testing, merely tasting as though there's still no real understanding of what this all even is.
And he doesn't understand, nor does he try to, because her back feels firm beneath his palm, a kneading touch at the small of her back that practically tangles the fabric of her shirt as he keeps her steady and balanced above him, letting her weight trap him without any real intention on leaving it soon. ]
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Maybe it was in how he'd looked at her, that quick darting of his gaze toward her face that had eventually been replaced by steadier, longer glances. Or in all those subsequent convos with a diner table in between them that had gradually teased out more and more of his humor β his willingness to humor her, at the very least.
She could've partially blamed their first kiss on other influences, alcohol and that candy newly dissolved on her tongue when she'd responded to the press of lips against her own, heated in spite of the intense and sudden chill. She'd been looser, more pliant, more responsive to the idea of being touched and running her hands over someone else in exchange. Her judgment had basically been nil, allowing her to write it off later as a product of a desire to impulsively lose herself in a strong mouth and surprisingly gentle hands.
But, as far as she knows, she can't point the finger at anyone else for this save herself, especially not once the kiss deepens and she moans into his mouth, a softer, higher-pitched thing in contrast to his deeper tones that cause her to feel the vibrations of it in his chest where she's pressed flush against him. And her lips part for him too, as her hand clutches more firmly along the side of his face, fingers pushing up and into the longer strands of his hair. That first graze of tongues makes her greedy, but she doesn't chase it right away, choosing to tease it out more instead through that delicate rhythm.
If she had more of a sense of herself, this would be the moment where she'd remember that she hadn't come over to do this, to wind up in his bed, on top of him, kissing him with heat and intent, the blankets a decisive barrier between more of her body and his. But she doesn't think about any of that when the edge of his palm skirts across her lower back and her hips unconsciously press forward, unconcerned with whether she might be crushing him with her weight.
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Something still feels foggy in his mind, a haze that makes the entire scenario seem disconnected from sense, such as the question of how she'd ended up in his bed in the first place, or rather, why she would have curled herself some comfortably against him at all. And how had it been so easy to accept this as an alternative to everything else he's regulated himself to prior, restraining himself from seeking spontaneous romances, from settling into something safe when all he knows is a life of war, the fight constantly alive and preventing him from basking in moments like this.
He has none of the answers, but he's ensnared from pursuing them, distracted wholly by her mouth, sighing when he feels the soft rumble of a moan from it, followed by that casual twirl of a tongue that greets his own with a concoction of sweetness and heat all at once.
Hand clasped at her back, the other holds her hair, gathering the strands to keep from falling over his cheeks as she hovers above him, fingers trapping them in a gentle grasp at her neck, tips kneading over her skin in a slow rhythm that matches the steady patient pace of their lips. He won't filter the low sound that evokes in response to her pressing hips, the weight of her warm and welcoming, prompting a gentle nip to her lip. ]
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In a normal set of circumstances she'd be frustrated with herself for letting her want be rendered so plain on her face, in the sounds she gives voice to, those whimpers absorbed into the unspoken tempo of their kissing, such bare disclosure of her need and how much she's enjoying this that it almost doesn't feel like her. Usually she's better at not showing her hand like this, at not giving away the signs of the effect he's having on her, but this is satisfying that unconscious longing she has to just be near him in more ways than one.
It could be the heat of the moment that's left her thoughts hazy too, jumbled and non-linear, unable to perceive much apart from this and him and this, ignorant to their surroundings. Maybe they should stay in bed all day, she thinks to herself, just enjoying this unrushed exploration of each other.
She's so caught up in it that she doesn't realize her hand has drifted down from his face to his bandaged shoulder, covering it lightly, a non-offensive contact that won't cause any inadvertent pain until he delivers that teasing nip and she squeezes with her fingers, a reflexive reaction and the product of so much forgetting wrapped up in how satisfied she is solely from their shared proximity, skin against skin. ]
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