[ 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. ]
[ It falls back into that instruction, that shared guideline she'd presented to him, no more running. Because for all that their lips shift and seek the continued pursuit of wet warmth, there's a stillness in the way they lay together, a tangle of sheets separating their legs and the lethargic motivation to simply remain in the closeness. The wrap of her body pressed against him, thighs perched around his and trapping that blanket tight over his legs, leaves him with an overwhelming heat, strong enough that the incoming breeze from the open window isn't enough to soothe away.
But there's no rush to steer this in any other direction except where they already are, only testing smaller boundaries like the playful roll of his tongue proding hers and the firm grazes of his fingertips at her bare skin. There's time, he thinks, whether or not it actually exists, but simply because they proclaim it does, content to stop β for now β the persistent running that their minds and bodies are trained for.
Still, it's only natural for other instincts and physical urges to be stirred, a passion in their noisy mouths, exchanged moans falling free between them without filter, and the eventual nip that leaves her pressing into him a little more firmly, including that clutch to his shoulder.
When he groans this time, it isn't a pleasured one, a pained gasp that breaks their kiss from the instinctive reaction. ] Shit. [ He mutters under his breath, usually more in control over his responses to pain, but distraction lets the curse slip in the beat of that second.
Though his nose scrunches, wincing a little at the pulsing throb that lingers, he manages an honest chuckle, leaning his forehead to hers. ] Shit. [ He says again with a sigh, suddenly trapped in a bashful smile he tries to hide by dipping his nose against her cheek. ]
[ She's conscious of him everywhere β the glance of his fingertips across that expanse of skin recently exposed by the rise of her shirt, sensitive spine and the small of her back, not to mention the intermittent tangling of their tongues, evolving the kiss from soft and careful to passionate, probing. And it doesn't occur to her to stop, to pull away from him right up until the moment that he tears his mouth away from hers with a sharp hiss and she figures out exactly where her hand's fallen, immediately relinquishing her grip on him with a wordless sound of alarm before actually stumbling through an apology. ]
Oh my God, I β I'm so sorry β [ Her gaze instantly shoots down to that tender area, wondering if she's pressed hard enough to aggravate his injury beyond a sudden throbbing, but before she can even check in with him he's bringing their faces together, prompting her to drop out of her frantic, worried tone into a softer hum. ]
You okay? [ It seems there's no significant harm done but she doesn't want to neglect the possibility that he's stifling down a stronger response; he's handled the sting of alcohol against a wound and probably more than that besides without even offering so much as a wince to signal any discomfort. ] Here, let me β [ Either way, she gently slides her hips away from him, easing over onto that uninjured side again, knee half-bent as her thigh notches over his.
And then she briefly hides her face against his shoulder, nose and cheeks buried there, and she laughs too, mostly at herself, shoulders shaking with it until she's recovered enough to lift her head again, to find him, cheeks hurting with how much she's trying to subdue the intensity of her grin. ] I'm pretty sure this isn't part of the normal treatment for serious stab wounds.
[ Despite the persistent throbbing at his shoulder, the sting where she'd pressed the bandage unintentionally hard against the still healing skin, he doesn't fully withdraw from the apparent spell they've put themselves under. He's still so prominently aware of all of her, the panic that flutters into her eyes with genuine concern up until she's burying herself into his opposing shoulder, the press of her nose notched at that juncture, her laughter vibrating over warmed skin. ]
Not too sure, doc. It was a fierce stealth attack. She got me good. Can't say I'll survive it. [ His own soft laughter seems to aid in a pleasant distraction from the lasting pain as it begins to ease back gradually to something more hummed and steady from before. When she readjusts herself to his side, he moves subconsciously in tugging at the sheet over his legs, loosening them free to drape over both their bodies, tucking it to her opposite side.
Sinking himself back against the pillow, his fingers roll up to the back of her head, light caresses petting at her hair as he peers down to her glancing face, his own lips curved into a soft smirk. ] I'd argue that. Think your methods have been working pretty well so far.
Well, damn. [ It wouldn't be wholly accurate to say there'd been tension between them before, in those moments when the conversation had floated a little too closely to a space that couldn't entirely be considered platonic, but in the aftermath of kissing him all she feels now is relaxed, comfortable even if the latter end of that had started to kindle a different kind of warmth from low within.
It becomes even cozier once he tucks her in under the blanket with him, both of them sharing that space, recirculating all that body heat, and her hips tip forward as he bunches it behind her, effectively swaddling her into him. ]
If you're not gonna make it, any last wishes before you go? [ That brand of question would be better off delivered in the midst of one of those Eastwood movies he likes so much; here, with her obviously amused tone and the smoothness with which she wraps her arm around him, it adopts a significantly less serious implication.
She resumes the use of his good shoulder as a makeshift pillow, but her face remains tilted up to hold that gaze, absorb that delivery he punctuates with fingers trailing through her hair and the upturning at one edge of his mouth. ] You don't think you might be biased just a teeny-tiny bit?
[ It isn't the first he finds himself unguarded in front of her, those little previews of a more relaxed form, muscles lacking their more common tenseness, when he'd revealed smaller trivia of himself or let her briefly explore the surface of his most tragic loss. But he's much more aware of it here, conscious of the ease he finds in laying here with her, in wrapping her beneath the blanket with him because it instinctively feels right, because it only makes sense that this would be how they find themselves after that intimate brushing of mouths, passioned kisses that have left his lips warm and his spirit lifted in a way that he isn't prone to. ]
Eh. [ He makes a doubtful noise at her implication of being biased, nose scrunched as if to be offended by the accusation. ] Considering the circumstances, I think I'm allowed to be a little biased here, right?
[ In fairness, it has played a bit of a satisfying distraction, only jostled again by it with that accidental press, which he's already moved on from even if at ghost pulsing from it still lingers faintly. It's also an improvement to however he would have bothered taking care of it in the first place, her bandaged up work possibly the most effective treatment he'd allow to it with his brand of stubbornness. ]
But if we're talking wishes here β coffee. [ He peers away to the edge of the bed, almost wistful in his gaze as if the word alone could steer him into a dreamlike state. ] Won't lie, Judy. Think you might have nailed it with the best coffee in town.
[ Strong, just how he likes it. Though with the way he keeps his arm well pressed over her shoulder, locking her to where she's nestled at his side, he's no intentions on making her actually fill him up a pot. ]
[ She remains convinced that part of this thing between them is due to this town, the power of a place that brings people together in spite of themselves β because none of them would be able to survive otherwise if they tried to go it alone, solitude less of a powerful ally than aligning themselves with one another instead. Nothing forces folks to bond like a common goal, a common enemy β even if the evils that have reared their terrifying and ugly heads have only been partially within her wheelhouse of expertise.
But more than just collectively agreeing to have each other's backs, they've confided in one another too, revealed some harsh truths and brutal traumas, and she can't say she ever planned on letting it go that far.
She's careful now, more mindful of his injury than she'd been before, but still conscious of the closeness, her curves nudged along his firmness, the scent of his skin when she casually nuzzles her cheek into his shoulder. The thought that her hesitation to remove herself from his bed could be a result of anything else hasn't even occurred to her; he's just so warm and solid and overall really nice to cuddle up to.
She smiles, the expression creating tension in her face from where she has it pressed against him, but there's a laugh in it too when his voice goes distant, yearning, like he and that potential mug of java might need to have a minute alone; it quiets down when that compliment slips in about how she makes it, though, and her fingers curl instinctively to hug him to herself, an act of expressing her thanks for it when she doesn't get around to actually saying the words. ]
If this is your way of trying to flatter me into making you some, Harry, you might have to try harder. [ The tease leaves her freely, no second thought behind it, although she knows that brewing a fresh pot means she'll have to get up and she's really not a fan of anything that would force her to have to do that β not when there's a security that accompanies the sensation of being held between his arm and his torso. ]
[ He doesn't consider the implications of anything outside of this bed; what it all means that she's here, that they're this tangled together under the sheets, doesn't cast a weight on his shoulders with the why's and how's, and he finds he'd rather distance himself from that reality. The warmth that she provides to his left side, the shifting of her lips to his shoulder, leaves him selfish, clinging to a safety that's only ever slipped free from his fingers when he's tried to grasp it.
Perhaps a part of him, a flicker deep within his chest, is prepared for the worst, for the inevitable departure of the feeling, knowing its habits of being fleeting before being forcibly ripped away. But she steers away the fears when she embraces him tighter, his fingers curling to her shoulder as his nose bruses gently at her forehead.
He smiles at the accusation, humming a soft, rather pleased noise. ] Me? I'd never. [ A vibration of quiet laughter follows, a gentle kiss pressed to her hairline and followed with a sigh that seems to release any remaining hints of tension left in him. ] I think I β I think I like you right where you are. [ Right here, with him, for however much longer it can be allowed. ]
But I'll definitely be trying harder later. [ The grin curves up against her skin, his own tease as easily exchanged as hers. ]
[ (Much, much later, she'll look back on this and continue to question just what percentage of it had been her after all, whether what she's breathing in now with every inhale had twisted the scope of respect and reliance she already possesses or if it had intensified a feeling she hadn't even been consciously aware existed. There'll be no way of knowing, no means of trusting that this was anything but a manipulation β and they'll be the ones who will have to pay for it in doubt and confusion.) ]
Mmhmm. [ She infuses that sound with enough emphasis to make it evident that she doesn't believe him for a single second, but doesn't move to make any other type of counterargument β or move, period, for that matter, rendered loose and peaceful. She closes her eyes at the press of lips to the crown of her head, a quiet sigh leaving her in the wake of his. ]
Yeah, I guess it's not so bad here. I could stick around. [ She tries to muster a breezy version of the words, turning her face against his chest to hide her smile from his view.
His follow-up coaxes her back into looking at him, though, lips moving through the formation of a series of different answers to that comment and not being able to settle on anything remotely appropriate considering the places her thoughts are taking her to. Eventually, one makes it out. ] Well, you're gonna need your rest for that, then.
[ (It's a feeling he'll shut away, trap within a box, and store away to remain untouched and untampered. The truth of whether it's an honest emotion or some false fantasy doesn't ultimately matter, because it won't be something he pursues, not when he's already accepted that a peace like this, the serene stillness with that gentle embrace, isn't what he deserves, isn't the life that he's meant for. He's been denied it enough already β Maria, Karen, Beth β that this won't be any different.
Whether a part of him, small as it may be, wants to consider the possibilities of its truth, or not. ) ]
Oh, you'll stick around, huh? [ His laugh is more of a soft easy breath, the heat of it sighed over the skin of her temple where he lingers, even as his eyes shut to let himself sink into the moment, into the warmth she supplies better than the blanket draped across them both.
But he peeks an eye open again when he senses her movement, and the response that follows instantly prompts the subconscious raise of his brow, the soft swipe of his tongue over his lip more an indication of his concentration than anything actually intentional. ]
Yeah, you think so? [ The question sprouts before he has the sense to think it over, but he keeps his gaze on her nonetheless, index finger gently stroking back loose strands of her hair from her face. ]
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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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But there's no rush to steer this in any other direction except where they already are, only testing smaller boundaries like the playful roll of his tongue proding hers and the firm grazes of his fingertips at her bare skin. There's time, he thinks, whether or not it actually exists, but simply because they proclaim it does, content to stop β for now β the persistent running that their minds and bodies are trained for.
Still, it's only natural for other instincts and physical urges to be stirred, a passion in their noisy mouths, exchanged moans falling free between them without filter, and the eventual nip that leaves her pressing into him a little more firmly, including that clutch to his shoulder.
When he groans this time, it isn't a pleasured one, a pained gasp that breaks their kiss from the instinctive reaction. ] Shit. [ He mutters under his breath, usually more in control over his responses to pain, but distraction lets the curse slip in the beat of that second.
Though his nose scrunches, wincing a little at the pulsing throb that lingers, he manages an honest chuckle, leaning his forehead to hers. ] Shit. [ He says again with a sigh, suddenly trapped in a bashful smile he tries to hide by dipping his nose against her cheek. ]
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Oh my God, I β I'm so sorry β [ Her gaze instantly shoots down to that tender area, wondering if she's pressed hard enough to aggravate his injury beyond a sudden throbbing, but before she can even check in with him he's bringing their faces together, prompting her to drop out of her frantic, worried tone into a softer hum. ]
You okay? [ It seems there's no significant harm done but she doesn't want to neglect the possibility that he's stifling down a stronger response; he's handled the sting of alcohol against a wound and probably more than that besides without even offering so much as a wince to signal any discomfort. ] Here, let me β [ Either way, she gently slides her hips away from him, easing over onto that uninjured side again, knee half-bent as her thigh notches over his.
And then she briefly hides her face against his shoulder, nose and cheeks buried there, and she laughs too, mostly at herself, shoulders shaking with it until she's recovered enough to lift her head again, to find him, cheeks hurting with how much she's trying to subdue the intensity of her grin. ] I'm pretty sure this isn't part of the normal treatment for serious stab wounds.
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Not too sure, doc. It was a fierce stealth attack. She got me good. Can't say I'll survive it. [ His own soft laughter seems to aid in a pleasant distraction from the lasting pain as it begins to ease back gradually to something more hummed and steady from before. When she readjusts herself to his side, he moves subconsciously in tugging at the sheet over his legs, loosening them free to drape over both their bodies, tucking it to her opposite side.
Sinking himself back against the pillow, his fingers roll up to the back of her head, light caresses petting at her hair as he peers down to her glancing face, his own lips curved into a soft smirk. ] I'd argue that. Think your methods have been working pretty well so far.
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It becomes even cozier once he tucks her in under the blanket with him, both of them sharing that space, recirculating all that body heat, and her hips tip forward as he bunches it behind her, effectively swaddling her into him. ]
If you're not gonna make it, any last wishes before you go? [ That brand of question would be better off delivered in the midst of one of those Eastwood movies he likes so much; here, with her obviously amused tone and the smoothness with which she wraps her arm around him, it adopts a significantly less serious implication.
She resumes the use of his good shoulder as a makeshift pillow, but her face remains tilted up to hold that gaze, absorb that delivery he punctuates with fingers trailing through her hair and the upturning at one edge of his mouth. ] You don't think you might be biased just a teeny-tiny bit?
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Eh. [ He makes a doubtful noise at her implication of being biased, nose scrunched as if to be offended by the accusation. ] Considering the circumstances, I think I'm allowed to be a little biased here, right?
[ In fairness, it has played a bit of a satisfying distraction, only jostled again by it with that accidental press, which he's already moved on from even if at ghost pulsing from it still lingers faintly. It's also an improvement to however he would have bothered taking care of it in the first place, her bandaged up work possibly the most effective treatment he'd allow to it with his brand of stubbornness. ]
But if we're talking wishes here β coffee. [ He peers away to the edge of the bed, almost wistful in his gaze as if the word alone could steer him into a dreamlike state. ] Won't lie, Judy. Think you might have nailed it with the best coffee in town.
[ Strong, just how he likes it. Though with the way he keeps his arm well pressed over her shoulder, locking her to where she's nestled at his side, he's no intentions on making her actually fill him up a pot. ]
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But more than just collectively agreeing to have each other's backs, they've confided in one another too, revealed some harsh truths and brutal traumas, and she can't say she ever planned on letting it go that far.
She's careful now, more mindful of his injury than she'd been before, but still conscious of the closeness, her curves nudged along his firmness, the scent of his skin when she casually nuzzles her cheek into his shoulder. The thought that her hesitation to remove herself from his bed could be a result of anything else hasn't even occurred to her; he's just so warm and solid and overall really nice to cuddle up to.
She smiles, the expression creating tension in her face from where she has it pressed against him, but there's a laugh in it too when his voice goes distant, yearning, like he and that potential mug of java might need to have a minute alone; it quiets down when that compliment slips in about how she makes it, though, and her fingers curl instinctively to hug him to herself, an act of expressing her thanks for it when she doesn't get around to actually saying the words. ]
If this is your way of trying to flatter me into making you some, Harry, you might have to try harder. [ The tease leaves her freely, no second thought behind it, although she knows that brewing a fresh pot means she'll have to get up and she's really not a fan of anything that would force her to have to do that β not when there's a security that accompanies the sensation of being held between his arm and his torso. ]
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Perhaps a part of him, a flicker deep within his chest, is prepared for the worst, for the inevitable departure of the feeling, knowing its habits of being fleeting before being forcibly ripped away. But she steers away the fears when she embraces him tighter, his fingers curling to her shoulder as his nose bruses gently at her forehead.
He smiles at the accusation, humming a soft, rather pleased noise. ] Me? I'd never. [ A vibration of quiet laughter follows, a gentle kiss pressed to her hairline and followed with a sigh that seems to release any remaining hints of tension left in him. ] I think I β I think I like you right where you are. [ Right here, with him, for however much longer it can be allowed. ]
But I'll definitely be trying harder later. [ The grin curves up against her skin, his own tease as easily exchanged as hers. ]
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Mmhmm. [ She infuses that sound with enough emphasis to make it evident that she doesn't believe him for a single second, but doesn't move to make any other type of counterargument β or move, period, for that matter, rendered loose and peaceful. She closes her eyes at the press of lips to the crown of her head, a quiet sigh leaving her in the wake of his. ]
Yeah, I guess it's not so bad here. I could stick around. [ She tries to muster a breezy version of the words, turning her face against his chest to hide her smile from his view.
His follow-up coaxes her back into looking at him, though, lips moving through the formation of a series of different answers to that comment and not being able to settle on anything remotely appropriate considering the places her thoughts are taking her to. Eventually, one makes it out. ] Well, you're gonna need your rest for that, then.
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Whether a part of him, small as it may be, wants to consider the possibilities of its truth, or not. ) ]
Oh, you'll stick around, huh? [ His laugh is more of a soft easy breath, the heat of it sighed over the skin of her temple where he lingers, even as his eyes shut to let himself sink into the moment, into the warmth she supplies better than the blanket draped across them both.
But he peeks an eye open again when he senses her movement, and the response that follows instantly prompts the subconscious raise of his brow, the soft swipe of his tongue over his lip more an indication of his concentration than anything actually intentional. ]
Yeah, you think so? [ The question sprouts before he has the sense to think it over, but he keeps his gaze on her nonetheless, index finger gently stroking back loose strands of her hair from her face. ]
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