[ (It'll be easier, in the days that follow, to blame it all on the product of some pollen infestation that had caused her brain to go all loopy for a hot minute, making her say and do things she'd never be caught dead saying and doing if she was feeling even remotely like herself.
That's what she'll attempt to convince herself of, anyway, even while she tries to forget about what the heat of his kiss feels like.) ]
Mmhmm. I kinda like it here. [ She watches his eyes fall shut in the wake of that lull that settles over them again, the peace of the moment, just basking in the ability to lay in his arms like this without the need to make it anything more, to drift off with him still holding her.
But then he's looking at her again, and without her even realizing it her gaze has dropped to his mouth, tracking the sweep of a pink tongue that moistens a lower lip and makes her tilt her chin up a fraction of an inch, as if she intends to chase it, to seek it out for herself. ]
Oh, I know so. [ It takes only the slightest shift of her weight for her to give him her mouth again, a soft press that isn't lacking in a kindling heat β a casual hint, maybe, of what he's in for if he does make that greater effort later, after more of him has healed. ]
[ There's a lot that can be carried in those words, a promise silently transferred in the lingering press of her kiss. His palm finds her cheek, cupping it firmly as his mouth parts, another slow swipe of his tongue dancing on her lip, dangerously close to losing himself in that hypnotizing distraction.
(How honest was it really, to kiss her and want it to last, to have something to hold on to, to linger in something that made him stop feeling so alone?)
Before the heat can be ignited further, he breaks the rhythm of caressing lips with a soft chuckle, a low vibrating sound that gets lost to the seam of her mouth, a spread smile present before he can sneak another swift peppered kiss. ] Guess I'll need that rest then.
[ Fingers slip between them, thumb gently stroking over the lines of her mouth, swiping that wet line of evidence on her lip where his tongue had lingered. ] But you might want to work on not being so distracting.
[ Right now, she's feigning ignorance over anything she might or might not be promising in the play of her lips over his, edging more than a little past teasing with how they readily part for his tongue, and likely that gives her away, that and the soft groan that slips out of her as that kiss deepens, an intense build attained more quickly given that this isn't the first time they've done this now.
He chuckles and so does she, smiling too broadly to enable another, lingering kiss after her initiation, and she's grinning from behind closed eyes right up until the moment they flutter open to take in the details of him from this close.
(She'll remember it later, that smile, more than anything else made hazy by the particles currently floating in the air around them, and more than anything, think about ways to coax it out of him again.)
Her lips, already half-parted, go slack beneath the slide of his finger, let him smear that moisture across the swell of her lower, her gaze magnetized to his as if she can't even consider anywhere else to look, and she can't explain why her breath suddenly catches, why warmth suddenly floods through the very center of her. ] I'm distracting? You're lucky I manage to get anything done when you look like you do.
[ Even with the play of his fingertip, the curving stroke that draws a damp line against her lip, he isn't intent on steering this to a warmer direction, even under the air of her focused gaze. Bright eyes trap him under their spotlight without a reliable hideaway, and he won't be able to conceal the bashful turn of his expression, smile still present with an air that almost isn't suitable for someone so prone to stoic grimaces under public watch.
Yet, she catches him in a moment that is so private, so personal, because it's not the polite kindness of Pete Castiglione, nor the ferocious rage of the Punisher β she snaps a brief flicker of Frank Castle, in all his naked sincerity, even if she isn't entirely aware of that secluded corner of him.
(But Frank Castle is dead, and all that's left is the mask of Pete Castiglione to veil the scars left in the wake of the Punisher. She can have his smile for those fleeting minutes, but it was never made to last, even if he yearns to find it again with the memory of that fantasy.)
He hums with her question, gnawing at his lip as a way to tire out their helpless spread. ] Well, shit, is that so? And how exactly do I look that it has you all ... distracted?
[ It's almost more electrifying, the knowledge of possibility, of more to come even if either of them isn't eager to direct this into a more intimate territory, instead toeing the line between something closer to innocent and just bordering on implicative. She can't hide the effect this is having on her β the subtle dilation of her pupils, breath hitched just drastically enough to be apparent. She can't let it go without some kind of answer too, tongue briefly flicking out to catch the pad of his finger as it drifts by.
She knows that right now, with him, she's glimpsing more than he's ever allowed her to see before, and that in itself feels like its own draw, the invisible rope that pulls her into him from somewhere in the vicinity of their hips β and maybe she lets some of her own guards go too, emboldened by his choice to reveal.
(Blaming all of this on that mysterious pollen will be much easier than admitting that even the smallest part of her had wanted an excuse to do it.)
She's grinning too, lips pulling tight in that shift, both indents in her cheeks irrepressible and undeniable, and her hand skims up along his side to brace against his chest, heel and fingertips resting there lightly. ] Come on. All those times you've been conveniently shirtless in front of me? You think I didn't notice all of β this? [ Her hand waves vaguely in the air, gesturing in his general direction, before resuming its original placement on his warmth. ]
[ He feels that brief flicker of a tongue against his finger, the motion making him chew once more on his lip as he takes in a sharp breath, but ultimately he draws his touch away from her mouth, if only because he doesn't want to shield that widening smile from his gaze, warmed in a different manner by the press of her dimples.
Instead, his palm finds a new safe haven in the curve of her neck, thumb brushing over the soft skin behind her lobe. ]
Conveniently. [ He repeats, another light chuckle shaking him, as if the word alone was enough to garner it. ] Oh, I know you notice. Did a good deal of complaining about it that it was hard to miss. [ His lips briefly purse, memory obviously drawn to the extended complaints she offered in relation. ]
If it helps, I'm not β I'm not actually trying to show anything off. [ His shoulders present a vague shrug, for as much as they could move where he's positioned on the bed, free fingers running circles to the exposed skin where her shirt had ridden up on her back, more an absentminded gesture with distracted thought than anything intentional. ] I'd ... I'd rather you didn't see.
[ It isn't the sculpted lines of muscle that rouse that uncertainty, but the exposure of scar tissue, marked lines and molten skin that expose a different kind of truth, one that he still hasn't entirely unveiled. ]
[ Leave it to her to be physically unable to let anything slide without making it dirty, at least in part; when he relinquishes the thumbing over her mouth to lightly cup her nape instead, she has to repress another shiver, the sensitivity of that area surprising even her for a minute. ]
Yeah, well. Maybe it's something you should be aware of, because it's kind of a problem. [ Her voice, however, holds none of the insistent protestings he's likely become well-accustomed to in their shared time here; instead, she's soft in her declaration, feigning annoyance, a brief narrowing of her gaze ruined by the twitching at the corners of her mouth.
That all fades, though, when his tone drops, that shrug preceding his real admission, and her brow furrows lightly, less with confusion and more with concern β because for all her teasing, she'd never once considered the possibility that he might be bothered by it, that he's uncomfortable with those certain aspects of himself being on display.
And in response, she eases herself up, one elbow bearing the weight of her upper body. ] So I sort of already figured you weren't just some guy who knew a thing or five about fixing sinks, even before I saw these. [ And he might have another scar to add to that number now, depending on how his shoulder heals; her fingers find the circular one beneath his clavicle, trace its shape absently. ] But that doesn't mean I don't like what I see.
[ He shudders with that touch, the scar itself not bearing any pain, but the light trace over it enough to draw on a sensitivity that isn't entirely physical. Eyes shut during the brief seconds that follow, taking in a breath before they open once more, their gaze peering down to her gentle fingertips reaching over a different corner of himself. ]
Marine Corps. [ It's a whisper, a simple answer that might fill in some of the present blanks, even as more remain without their filling. Even the next word falls even quieter, ] Some.
[ His own fingers draw back to rest over her wrist, but he doesn't grip it, doesn't try to nudge her touch away. Still, he doesn't look to her, seemingly distracted with an inner battle in his own thoughts. The comfort in this bed has been lasting, the continued warmth of her still, continuing to lure him into that quieter space of his mind. But the air feels heavy, and he wonders if the dishonesty is tugging at him, both inside and out, taunting. ] If you really saw, I don't β you won't like it. And you shouldn't.
Yeah? [ Lying this close, she can't not pick up on the twitch of skin beneath her hand, just like she can't help wondering if the same sensitivity carries over to the other places on him marred by reminders of injury, trauma, those ones on his arm that clearly look like knife wounds, whereas the one under her fingers β well, she knows what a gunshot leaves behind, even if she wishes she didn't. ]
Guy I worked with, he's β he was a Marine, before. [ He'd had his scars too, but he'd also had those demons both literal and metaphorical, the former having followed him all the way over from his time in Afghanistan; she swallows, eyes distant and a little glossy at thinking of him now.
But Pete reels her back in with that murmur, the closure of fingers around her wrist, and she tilts in, brings her forehead to the edge of his jaw; she's not moving to separate them either, much as the decision of whether or not to tread forward genuinely terrifies her. ] I've got my own shit too, you know? Stories I don't tell people. Because I'm afraid of how they'll look at me after. Because I don't want it to change anything after the truth comes out. So β we can just meet each other in the middle on this. Whatever you want to tell me, or don't, it's β that's okay.
[ He catches the change in the midst of her words, the minor strain that reveals the possibility of her own loss, and on instinct, his fingers at her back wrap over against her side to squeeze her in a little closer.
As she carries on, his eyes shudder close once more, allowing that press of her forehead to his jaw lure him into that focus that only encircles her. He isn't the only one with scars, even if his happen to have a more prominent physical presence, and he knows she carries something she isn't unveiling, knows it has something to do with the way she'd been abandoned as a kid, how concerned she is to make sure Laura doesn't face the same path.
They don't know their secrets, and he can't guarantee that whatever comes out on either side won't change what's happening in this bed now, that the aiding comfort they hold in one another's arms won't slip at further confessions. But it won't last forever.
(And it shouldn't.)
He tilts forward, brushing his lips against the top of her head, not quite a kiss but just as close, taking in a breath with the consideration of her words. Whatever you want to tell me, or don't, it's β that's okay. When he draws back slightly, his eyes open to peer off to an altered corner of the room, there's a weight of confessions on his tongue, the debate of what should slip off from it pouring through his mind. But when he parts his lips, there's only a single word that falls. ]
Frank. [ It's soft, almost a breath, a swallow following afterwards. ] My name. It's Frank Castle.
[ She hadn't intended the slip, just like she doesn't intend it to trigger some kind of response from him in turn, the tighter curve of fingers against the base of her spine, but it's not as if she's objecting to it β the opposite, in fact.
She has the reminders of her own battles to look back on, after all, but it's not like some of them are visible, like his; they all reside in her memories instead rather than on her skin. She'd once said that she'd be lying if she claimed she doesn't torture herself with those twisted souvenirs, the repetition of her ghosts; it didn't end the night she accidentally pulled the trigger on Ward. No, as it turns out, life was just getting started ensuring that she'd have many more names to add to that list. And she doesn't know when, or if, she'll ever make it around to confessing all of them; when she'd made that offer to Pete, to take it all one step at a time, it hadn't been a completely selfless suggestion.
No, that's not right, she realizes, not when he retreats enough to put more space between their faces, the sensation of his lips pressed against her crown abiding right up until the second he says the name β his actual name, not the one that she's learned to attach to his face over these last few months.
And she feels β well, she doesn't know what she feels about it at first, because that confession sends her mind spiraling in about a hundred different directions to a thousand unique questions: when he changed his name, or why. There are the obvious jokes, of course, about whether he's been in some form of witness protection this entire time, and if whoever's trying to kill him hasn't been able to follow him here. There's the part of her that almost wants to be mad about the lie, or unsettled, but instead, she just looks at him, exhaling deeply.
(When she recognizes this for the honest truth that it is, she'll be forced to wonder exactly how much of the rest had been a part of it too.) ]
Wow. Uh β [ She's still processing, but that doesn't mean she's going to stop talking, because it's her. ] Well, I gotta be honest, you never really felt like much of a Pete to me to begin with.
[ It isn't a lot, just a name, but so much of himself is carried in that name even if it doesn't expose the truth of all of his scars just by speaking it. But somehow, all the same, once it slips from his lips, he feels a grand weight lifting from his shoulders for just that small step, despite not knowing why he shares it, why he ever feels a need to tell her, when she doesn't seek to bring it out of him.
She isn't even the first to hear it; Red knew who he was in an instant, plus there was the whackjob in red leather who knew much more than he should. Chloe knew something, though she was fairly convinced that he wasn't the same man that she knew, which name or not, was actual truth. Yet it's the first time he feels that instinctive need to share it, to have this be honest, because she deserves to know it, wherever this entanglement of theirs ends up leading.
(He won't regret it, but he'll still wonder if he should have spared her from it, from being taken in a step further towards the truth of his reality. Or if she'd seen more than enough of his scars that anything further would be entirely dangerous for them both.)
He isn't certain of what reaction will come, but it isn't quite that either, and with it comes a raise of his brow, an extended pause before the release of a soft held breath. ] Can't tell if that's an insult or a compliment. [ Whatever it is, he'll take it. ] Can't really change this one, so I hope you ain't too disappointed by it.
[ He doesn't need to say much of anything at all; she can tell by the way he lets that breath go that he'd been waiting for some kind of response, any response, to revealing that to her. The truth on her end is that she'll be mulling over this for a while afterward, long after they've parted ways and she's gone back to that rundown house they've made her responsibility here.
She'd assured him that he only has to go as far as he's willing in regards to his secrets, but she won't deny that she's curious, especially in regards to why he felt the need to use an alias in the first place. And she can't help but wonder how many people have been clued in on this secret of his, aside from her.
Still, she won't inquire further along those lines, not while his arms are still wrapped snug around her frame, but she does peer up at him, a faint narrowing of her eyes like she intends to study him further until her expression relaxes, shifts into a half-grin at his comment. ]
Frank. [ She tests it out first, quietly and almost to herself, before repeating it a little louder, for his hearing. ] Sorry, I don't have any replacement names to give you, though. Still Earp. [ Or Wynonna, or Judy, or whatever other names he feels like ascribing to her depending on the time of day; she lowers her head until her chin presses against his chest, all of her bobbing slightly when she talks. ] Nice to meet you, Frank.
[ It's strange to hear it on her lips, even more so considering he'd hesitated to give even his falsified name to her at all when they'd first met. There'd been so much resistance than to allow their conversations to proceed beyond a few exchanges of banter, to let it rest with just some mere confessions of useless trivia (which they've allowed to be constantly reminded with the survival of Harry and Judy).
Perhaps it's been since the way she'd been so open, so strangely comforting when he'd been faced with the reliving of his family's deaths, when an animalistic nature had pierced into dragging those memories fresh and almost rid him of any last shred of humanity. She hadn't shut him away then, and he wonders how much more before she finally reaches that limit, when she's seen too much of the monster and is ready to turn her back on whatever they've begun to kindle here in this bed. He has the wonder, but he isn't certain of how much his curiosity is willing to test it.
But it's a start, even if it's only in the form of a name, and already he feels more secure, safer here, having said it. She repeats it with a softness he hadn't realized he craved and he slips into the smallest smile when she presses her chin to his chest. ]
Pleasure's all mine, Wynonna. [ He won't retire the other set names he's labeled on her, each having their own set of purposes, but just as she speaks his name in all its bare truth, it feels natural to let hers live on his own tongue in this moment. Quietly, he adds, ] The name, it's β it's different, but ... it's still me. I promise.
[ (Parts of him. Darker fragments of himself still lingering in secret. And though he intended then, to share them with her someday, to let herself see the rest of his scars, he'll come to realize maybe it's for the best that he keeps her far and away from it all.)]
[ She doesn't completely understand what had prompted him to confess to her to begin with β maybe he'd been tired of living a lie here, even under something as minor as an alias, a false name given for whatever reasons he has that belong to him alone. Maybe now that he's choosing to stay here, to join in this mysterious mission they've been tasked with, he doesn't see the point in keeping that secret anymore. She won't ask, just like she won't ask him who else he's shared this with β mostly because she's finding she doesn't want to shatter the relative peace they've still got a hold on, just like she doesn't want to remove his hold from her in any way.
It's not the first piece of himself he's shown her, and she doesn't want to take it for granted, doesn't want to dismiss it alongside anything else β his confession about his family, whatever happened to take them away and trigger that anger, that fury from him when he'd inadvertently torn their photograph, misjudging his strength in animal form. Those are parts that she's not entirely convinced many other people have been able to witness, but when was the last time she can remember confessing as much as she has to anyone, let alone the same someone?
It might take some getting used to, referring to him by a different name, and she's still unsure how publicly she's even allowed to use it if he needs to stay under the radar for now β but she gently tilts her head in response to his words, a few strands of her hair trailing across his skin with the adjusted angle, to feign some new scrutiny of him. ]
Hmm. I'm not sure about that. How do I know this Frank is the same person? [ The lightness in her pretend confusion is more than enough evidence to clue him into her tease about it, always her first instinct but not attempting to diminish the meaning of the moment by any means. ] I might have to make sure. Just, you know, for peace of mind.
[ He's placed a fair amount on her shoulders these days, and it'd never been his intention to have her get involved in any of it, her presence somehow stumbling in either on accident or on someone else's insistence (he has to wonder why it is that Laura looked to her in the first place to look after him). There's been more than enough unmasked for an afternoon and it'd only be overwhelming to place even more on her shoulders without that space to breathe.
Still, it hasn't been nearly enough to draw her away, and he's a bit relieved when she continues to sink her weight across his chest, only adjusting herself as she carries on the conversation.
Initially, he squints, a fold of the skin between his brows with brief confusion before he registers the path of her tone, a huff of breath shifting into a soft smile that peers away with a scrunch of his nose. ] Oh, you do, huh? And, uh, how exactly you intend on doing that?
[ Really, they have Laura to thank for a lot of this, at least in recent days; Wynonna's never been the kind of person who readily spills on any part of her past, let alone the most traumatic moments of her childhood, and yet trying to consider even a fraction of what the girl had gone through had launched her right back to that night so vividly that she'd been unable to hold it in. He doesn't know the full story yet β and she isn't sure what specific set of circumstances are going to prompt her to offer more detail β but even giving up a shred of it feels like the release of a tension she hadn't even been aware she was bearing on her shoulders. ]
Uh huh. [ With as much as she's told him, he's still holding her β and her him, to an extent, as firmly as she can manage while being mindful of that tender shoulder β and she's careful as she navigates her ascent along his side, wiggling up those few extra inches. ]
I just have one small test. [ And she's attempting to hold the most seriousness in her expression right now β mouth straight, gaze determined, nothing generally giving away her intent save the slight hum that leaves her seconds before she brings her lips to his, a soft brushing that evolves to a firmer press. After a few beats, she pulls back to let her eyes search his face. ] That's you, alright.
[ He has a general idea of where she's leaning towards, even if she tries to veil it over with serious consideration as she slides herself further up across his body. Predictions are confirmed when he's met with her lips, softness in the kiss that contains more sweetness than he'd have garnered for after his confession.
Yet, even anticipating it hadn't steered away the surprise entirely, not when she follows it up with a simple response, that's you, alright, and he's returning to that quiet laughter that can't conceal itself when she's this close to his mouth. ] Jesus Christ. [ He mutters it like an annoyance, but the reality of his amusement is spelled in the sharper lines from spread lips.
An index finger finds her cheek, a light tap across the gentle swell as his eyes find hers in a brief gaze of sincere affection, soon turning them away when the arm wrapped around her waist gets a firmer grip to roll her onto her side as he follows suit, weight placed entirely on his healthy shoulder.
Still nestling her close in against him, he adjusts his head on the pillow with the shutting of his eyes, lips pursed in signal that he isn't entirely finished with the conversation despite his dramatized display. ] You're really something, Wynonna Earp.
[ She's really not being subtle at this point, but what part of this entire series of events could even claim that? Her residency in his embrace, her arm loosely slung across him as if she's been doing this for weeks, months already instead of the very first time, her consciousness of everywhere they're pressed together, soft into firm. The sound of his voice, his laugh β a low and intimate sound, one that precedes the huff he tries to keep somewhere in the vein of mild exasperation but fails to muster.
She laughs too, a chuckle that breathes across his mouth where she's hovering enough to track the mirth in his eyes, his inability to maintain a straight face, and it spreads to the curving of lips that eventually pull back to reveal teeth in that full grin.
But that drifts away too, when his fingertip finds the tension in her face with the width of her smile, causes it to dissolve with a single downward swipe, and she shifts as he does, inching down until her head finds a place to rest on the pillow beside his, until she can track the peace in his features as his eyes fall shut. ]
Yeah, and don't you forget it, Frank Castle. [ She can't avoid a yawn then, ducking down to cover her mouth with the back of her hand before that same palm curves at the prominence of his hip, maintaining that tether between them even while sleep might threaten to overtake her again. ]
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That's what she'll attempt to convince herself of, anyway, even while she tries to forget about what the heat of his kiss feels like.) ]
Mmhmm. I kinda like it here. [ She watches his eyes fall shut in the wake of that lull that settles over them again, the peace of the moment, just basking in the ability to lay in his arms like this without the need to make it anything more, to drift off with him still holding her.
But then he's looking at her again, and without her even realizing it her gaze has dropped to his mouth, tracking the sweep of a pink tongue that moistens a lower lip and makes her tilt her chin up a fraction of an inch, as if she intends to chase it, to seek it out for herself. ]
Oh, I know so. [ It takes only the slightest shift of her weight for her to give him her mouth again, a soft press that isn't lacking in a kindling heat β a casual hint, maybe, of what he's in for if he does make that greater effort later, after more of him has healed. ]
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(How honest was it really, to kiss her and want it to last, to have something to hold on to, to linger in something that made him stop feeling so alone?)
Before the heat can be ignited further, he breaks the rhythm of caressing lips with a soft chuckle, a low vibrating sound that gets lost to the seam of her mouth, a spread smile present before he can sneak another swift peppered kiss. ] Guess I'll need that rest then.
[ Fingers slip between them, thumb gently stroking over the lines of her mouth, swiping that wet line of evidence on her lip where his tongue had lingered. ] But you might want to work on not being so distracting.
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He chuckles and so does she, smiling too broadly to enable another, lingering kiss after her initiation, and she's grinning from behind closed eyes right up until the moment they flutter open to take in the details of him from this close.
(She'll remember it later, that smile, more than anything else made hazy by the particles currently floating in the air around them, and more than anything, think about ways to coax it out of him again.)
Her lips, already half-parted, go slack beneath the slide of his finger, let him smear that moisture across the swell of her lower, her gaze magnetized to his as if she can't even consider anywhere else to look, and she can't explain why her breath suddenly catches, why warmth suddenly floods through the very center of her. ] I'm distracting? You're lucky I manage to get anything done when you look like you do.
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Yet, she catches him in a moment that is so private, so personal, because it's not the polite kindness of Pete Castiglione, nor the ferocious rage of the Punisher β she snaps a brief flicker of Frank Castle, in all his naked sincerity, even if she isn't entirely aware of that secluded corner of him.
(But Frank Castle is dead, and all that's left is the mask of Pete Castiglione to veil the scars left in the wake of the Punisher. She can have his smile for those fleeting minutes, but it was never made to last, even if he yearns to find it again with the memory of that fantasy.)
He hums with her question, gnawing at his lip as a way to tire out their helpless spread. ] Well, shit, is that so? And how exactly do I look that it has you all ... distracted?
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She knows that right now, with him, she's glimpsing more than he's ever allowed her to see before, and that in itself feels like its own draw, the invisible rope that pulls her into him from somewhere in the vicinity of their hips β and maybe she lets some of her own guards go too, emboldened by his choice to reveal.
(Blaming all of this on that mysterious pollen will be much easier than admitting that even the smallest part of her had wanted an excuse to do it.)
She's grinning too, lips pulling tight in that shift, both indents in her cheeks irrepressible and undeniable, and her hand skims up along his side to brace against his chest, heel and fingertips resting there lightly. ] Come on. All those times you've been conveniently shirtless in front of me? You think I didn't notice all of β this? [ Her hand waves vaguely in the air, gesturing in his general direction, before resuming its original placement on his warmth. ]
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Instead, his palm finds a new safe haven in the curve of her neck, thumb brushing over the soft skin behind her lobe. ]
Conveniently. [ He repeats, another light chuckle shaking him, as if the word alone was enough to garner it. ] Oh, I know you notice. Did a good deal of complaining about it that it was hard to miss. [ His lips briefly purse, memory obviously drawn to the extended complaints she offered in relation. ]
If it helps, I'm not β I'm not actually trying to show anything off. [ His shoulders present a vague shrug, for as much as they could move where he's positioned on the bed, free fingers running circles to the exposed skin where her shirt had ridden up on her back, more an absentminded gesture with distracted thought than anything intentional. ] I'd ... I'd rather you didn't see.
[ It isn't the sculpted lines of muscle that rouse that uncertainty, but the exposure of scar tissue, marked lines and molten skin that expose a different kind of truth, one that he still hasn't entirely unveiled. ]
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Yeah, well. Maybe it's something you should be aware of, because it's kind of a problem. [ Her voice, however, holds none of the insistent protestings he's likely become well-accustomed to in their shared time here; instead, she's soft in her declaration, feigning annoyance, a brief narrowing of her gaze ruined by the twitching at the corners of her mouth.
That all fades, though, when his tone drops, that shrug preceding his real admission, and her brow furrows lightly, less with confusion and more with concern β because for all her teasing, she'd never once considered the possibility that he might be bothered by it, that he's uncomfortable with those certain aspects of himself being on display.
And in response, she eases herself up, one elbow bearing the weight of her upper body. ] So I sort of already figured you weren't just some guy who knew a thing or five about fixing sinks, even before I saw these. [ And he might have another scar to add to that number now, depending on how his shoulder heals; her fingers find the circular one beneath his clavicle, trace its shape absently. ] But that doesn't mean I don't like what I see.
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Marine Corps. [ It's a whisper, a simple answer that might fill in some of the present blanks, even as more remain without their filling. Even the next word falls even quieter, ] Some.
[ His own fingers draw back to rest over her wrist, but he doesn't grip it, doesn't try to nudge her touch away. Still, he doesn't look to her, seemingly distracted with an inner battle in his own thoughts. The comfort in this bed has been lasting, the continued warmth of her still, continuing to lure him into that quieter space of his mind. But the air feels heavy, and he wonders if the dishonesty is tugging at him, both inside and out, taunting. ] If you really saw, I don't β you won't like it. And you shouldn't.
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Guy I worked with, he's β he was a Marine, before. [ He'd had his scars too, but he'd also had those demons both literal and metaphorical, the former having followed him all the way over from his time in Afghanistan; she swallows, eyes distant and a little glossy at thinking of him now.
But Pete reels her back in with that murmur, the closure of fingers around her wrist, and she tilts in, brings her forehead to the edge of his jaw; she's not moving to separate them either, much as the decision of whether or not to tread forward genuinely terrifies her. ] I've got my own shit too, you know? Stories I don't tell people. Because I'm afraid of how they'll look at me after. Because I don't want it to change anything after the truth comes out. So β we can just meet each other in the middle on this. Whatever you want to tell me, or don't, it's β that's okay.
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As she carries on, his eyes shudder close once more, allowing that press of her forehead to his jaw lure him into that focus that only encircles her. He isn't the only one with scars, even if his happen to have a more prominent physical presence, and he knows she carries something she isn't unveiling, knows it has something to do with the way she'd been abandoned as a kid, how concerned she is to make sure Laura doesn't face the same path.
They don't know their secrets, and he can't guarantee that whatever comes out on either side won't change what's happening in this bed now, that the aiding comfort they hold in one another's arms won't slip at further confessions. But it won't last forever.
(And it shouldn't.)
He tilts forward, brushing his lips against the top of her head, not quite a kiss but just as close, taking in a breath with the consideration of her words. Whatever you want to tell me, or don't, it's β that's okay. When he draws back slightly, his eyes open to peer off to an altered corner of the room, there's a weight of confessions on his tongue, the debate of what should slip off from it pouring through his mind. But when he parts his lips, there's only a single word that falls. ]
Frank. [ It's soft, almost a breath, a swallow following afterwards. ] My name. It's Frank Castle.
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She has the reminders of her own battles to look back on, after all, but it's not like some of them are visible, like his; they all reside in her memories instead rather than on her skin. She'd once said that she'd be lying if she claimed she doesn't torture herself with those twisted souvenirs, the repetition of her ghosts; it didn't end the night she accidentally pulled the trigger on Ward. No, as it turns out, life was just getting started ensuring that she'd have many more names to add to that list. And she doesn't know when, or if, she'll ever make it around to confessing all of them; when she'd made that offer to Pete, to take it all one step at a time, it hadn't been a completely selfless suggestion.
No, that's not right, she realizes, not when he retreats enough to put more space between their faces, the sensation of his lips pressed against her crown abiding right up until the second he says the name β his actual name, not the one that she's learned to attach to his face over these last few months.
And she feels β well, she doesn't know what she feels about it at first, because that confession sends her mind spiraling in about a hundred different directions to a thousand unique questions: when he changed his name, or why. There are the obvious jokes, of course, about whether he's been in some form of witness protection this entire time, and if whoever's trying to kill him hasn't been able to follow him here. There's the part of her that almost wants to be mad about the lie, or unsettled, but instead, she just looks at him, exhaling deeply.
(When she recognizes this for the honest truth that it is, she'll be forced to wonder exactly how much of the rest had been a part of it too.) ]
Wow. Uh β [ She's still processing, but that doesn't mean she's going to stop talking, because it's her. ] Well, I gotta be honest, you never really felt like much of a Pete to me to begin with.
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She isn't even the first to hear it; Red knew who he was in an instant, plus there was the whackjob in red leather who knew much more than he should. Chloe knew something, though she was fairly convinced that he wasn't the same man that she knew, which name or not, was actual truth. Yet it's the first time he feels that instinctive need to share it, to have this be honest, because she deserves to know it, wherever this entanglement of theirs ends up leading.
(He won't regret it, but he'll still wonder if he should have spared her from it, from being taken in a step further towards the truth of his reality. Or if she'd seen more than enough of his scars that anything further would be entirely dangerous for them both.)
He isn't certain of what reaction will come, but it isn't quite that either, and with it comes a raise of his brow, an extended pause before the release of a soft held breath. ] Can't tell if that's an insult or a compliment. [ Whatever it is, he'll take it. ] Can't really change this one, so I hope you ain't too disappointed by it.
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She'd assured him that he only has to go as far as he's willing in regards to his secrets, but she won't deny that she's curious, especially in regards to why he felt the need to use an alias in the first place. And she can't help but wonder how many people have been clued in on this secret of his, aside from her.
Still, she won't inquire further along those lines, not while his arms are still wrapped snug around her frame, but she does peer up at him, a faint narrowing of her eyes like she intends to study him further until her expression relaxes, shifts into a half-grin at his comment. ]
Frank. [ She tests it out first, quietly and almost to herself, before repeating it a little louder, for his hearing. ] Sorry, I don't have any replacement names to give you, though. Still Earp. [ Or Wynonna, or Judy, or whatever other names he feels like ascribing to her depending on the time of day; she lowers her head until her chin presses against his chest, all of her bobbing slightly when she talks. ] Nice to meet you, Frank.
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Perhaps it's been since the way she'd been so open, so strangely comforting when he'd been faced with the reliving of his family's deaths, when an animalistic nature had pierced into dragging those memories fresh and almost rid him of any last shred of humanity. She hadn't shut him away then, and he wonders how much more before she finally reaches that limit, when she's seen too much of the monster and is ready to turn her back on whatever they've begun to kindle here in this bed. He has the wonder, but he isn't certain of how much his curiosity is willing to test it.
But it's a start, even if it's only in the form of a name, and already he feels more secure, safer here, having said it. She repeats it with a softness he hadn't realized he craved and he slips into the smallest smile when she presses her chin to his chest. ]
Pleasure's all mine, Wynonna. [ He won't retire the other set names he's labeled on her, each having their own set of purposes, but just as she speaks his name in all its bare truth, it feels natural to let hers live on his own tongue in this moment. Quietly, he adds, ] The name, it's β it's different, but ... it's still me. I promise.
[ (Parts of him. Darker fragments of himself still lingering in secret. And though he intended then, to share them with her someday, to let herself see the rest of his scars, he'll come to realize maybe it's for the best that he keeps her far and away from it all.)]
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It's not the first piece of himself he's shown her, and she doesn't want to take it for granted, doesn't want to dismiss it alongside anything else β his confession about his family, whatever happened to take them away and trigger that anger, that fury from him when he'd inadvertently torn their photograph, misjudging his strength in animal form. Those are parts that she's not entirely convinced many other people have been able to witness, but when was the last time she can remember confessing as much as she has to anyone, let alone the same someone?
It might take some getting used to, referring to him by a different name, and she's still unsure how publicly she's even allowed to use it if he needs to stay under the radar for now β but she gently tilts her head in response to his words, a few strands of her hair trailing across his skin with the adjusted angle, to feign some new scrutiny of him. ]
Hmm. I'm not sure about that. How do I know this Frank is the same person? [ The lightness in her pretend confusion is more than enough evidence to clue him into her tease about it, always her first instinct but not attempting to diminish the meaning of the moment by any means. ] I might have to make sure. Just, you know, for peace of mind.
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Still, it hasn't been nearly enough to draw her away, and he's a bit relieved when she continues to sink her weight across his chest, only adjusting herself as she carries on the conversation.
Initially, he squints, a fold of the skin between his brows with brief confusion before he registers the path of her tone, a huff of breath shifting into a soft smile that peers away with a scrunch of his nose. ] Oh, you do, huh? And, uh, how exactly you intend on doing that?
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Uh huh. [ With as much as she's told him, he's still holding her β and her him, to an extent, as firmly as she can manage while being mindful of that tender shoulder β and she's careful as she navigates her ascent along his side, wiggling up those few extra inches. ]
I just have one small test. [ And she's attempting to hold the most seriousness in her expression right now β mouth straight, gaze determined, nothing generally giving away her intent save the slight hum that leaves her seconds before she brings her lips to his, a soft brushing that evolves to a firmer press. After a few beats, she pulls back to let her eyes search his face. ] That's you, alright.
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Yet, even anticipating it hadn't steered away the surprise entirely, not when she follows it up with a simple response, that's you, alright, and he's returning to that quiet laughter that can't conceal itself when she's this close to his mouth. ] Jesus Christ. [ He mutters it like an annoyance, but the reality of his amusement is spelled in the sharper lines from spread lips.
An index finger finds her cheek, a light tap across the gentle swell as his eyes find hers in a brief gaze of sincere affection, soon turning them away when the arm wrapped around her waist gets a firmer grip to roll her onto her side as he follows suit, weight placed entirely on his healthy shoulder.
Still nestling her close in against him, he adjusts his head on the pillow with the shutting of his eyes, lips pursed in signal that he isn't entirely finished with the conversation despite his dramatized display. ] You're really something, Wynonna Earp.
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She laughs too, a chuckle that breathes across his mouth where she's hovering enough to track the mirth in his eyes, his inability to maintain a straight face, and it spreads to the curving of lips that eventually pull back to reveal teeth in that full grin.
But that drifts away too, when his fingertip finds the tension in her face with the width of her smile, causes it to dissolve with a single downward swipe, and she shifts as he does, inching down until her head finds a place to rest on the pillow beside his, until she can track the peace in his features as his eyes fall shut. ]
Yeah, and don't you forget it, Frank Castle. [ She can't avoid a yawn then, ducking down to cover her mouth with the back of her hand before that same palm curves at the prominence of his hip, maintaining that tether between them even while sleep might threaten to overtake her again. ]