open post for pic prompts, starters, and texts. f/m or f/f for shipping. see here for more permissions. please link nsfw images. compatible with all seasons of wynonna earp.
( There's a storm, and they stand in the badlands. In truth, though, Yasha's pretty sure any lands she's in could count as the badlands. She's told her, tried to be honest, reveal herself for a coward: the problem is that Wynonna is always charming and funny, no matter how awful she makes herself out to be.
She worries that, sometimes, it might rely on Wynonna not wanting her, more than it relies on her not wanting Wynonna, and Wynonna's always deserved better than she's wanted.
So there they are, a place that's both cold and a desert, looking at a skeletal corpse of something awful. )
Uh—
I think— this might be a cleric thing.
( You know. Religious stuff. She's only kind of an angel, that hardly count. )
[ If only it wasn't the umpteenth time Wynonna's seen an awful corpse. Really, once you've seen one set of skeletal remains of something that is decidedly not human, you've seen them all, but as it turns out, they all tend to smell the same way, that vague, non-descript odor that more often than not makes her start craving a cheeseburger. She still doesn't know what that says about her.
Right now, she's staggered down to a crouch, bracing her forearms on her knees — mostly to get a better look, although she's actively trying to hold her breath so she doesn't take the first exit to the closest fast food joint once they're on the road again. Those cravings are real and sometimes unavoidable, and sometimes she thinks Yasha obliges her a little too often.
She pushes herself back up to standing with a soft grunt, swipes her hands over her jeans, and when she turns it's to nudge fingers against the inside of Yasha's wrist. ]
( A quiet response, before the contact registers, and she looks to Wynonna. ) Yeah, I mean— y'know.
( Illuminating, as ever. She squints at the body, fingers reaching out before she stops herself short. At some point she needs to remember that touching is not always the sensible choice. Instead she leans her face down close to it, frowning as she blows some of the sand covering it away.
This is gross, and her fingers tap over the symbol of the Storm Lord on her belt, the jagged overlapping thunderbolts. However, she knows Wynonna, so: ) I'd kill for some fries.
( A heavy drop of rain falls on the back of her hand, and she glances to the sky, dark clouds rolling in heavily. )
[ She doesn't anticipate a lengthy answer, and she doesn't get one, but out of the two of them Wynonna's the one who will always earn the superlative of "most likely to fill the silence by running her mouth off," which somehow hasn't been enough to steer this partnership awry.
They're going to have even fewer answers in front of them once the rain starts, so she fishes in the back pocket of her jeans and comes up with her cell phone, snaps a few quick photos and tries to zoom in for a few close-ups. Waverly's always way better than she is at documenting this kind of evidence, but she's going to do her best even as those first fat drops of rain start to come down overhead. ]
Just oooone more.
[ Thunder cracks, loud and sudden and hard enough to rip the sky open and she's jamming her phone back in her pocket and uselessly holding her arms over her head, turning tail back towards where they've got the truck parked. Maybe she'll make it back before she gets totally soaked through. ]
( full disclosure: oliver doesn’t move in with wynonna after they finally sit down to hash out a contract. he’s very specific about including that clause and having his ( limited ) freedom even if all it boils down to is an illusion. he won’t infringe on wynonna’s privacy or other relationships, he won’t ask questions, and if they decide somewhere down the road that they want to have sex, it’ll be like two consenting adults. they don’t own each other ( she doesn’t own him ) on anything other than paper — and yeah, he knows she isn’t like that or else this wouldn’t work in the first place.
fort harmony confuses things. bodies drop. people are executed in broad daylight and after. . . after, oliver disappears.
when he shows back up months later like nothing happened ( everything has ) and he’s still in the process of lying to every single person around him, he doesn't avoid wynonna. he doesn't want to see felicity in person longer than he has to, nor is he interested in having coffee with ray or kendra; they all do know that he's returned, presumably with the same memories as before. oliver doesn't tell them differently. he keeps his secrets like his vodka: neat. it's what he's nursing in a corner stool, far enough away from the crowds that he can watch the entrance out of the corner of his eye without seeming paranoid. he doesn't mind watching wynonna work ( if you can call it working, she sometimes seems to have as much fun as her patrons ) or sitting in silence, undisturbed by the clinking of glass and ice cubes. yeah, it helps that his glass is never empty despite how determined he is to drain it.
as the evening goes on, oliver loosens up. he leans forward on the bartop, stops drinking so fast, even makes conversation with total strangers. it's when wynonna wanders near him, bottle in hand, that he covers the top of his glass with his hand and shakes his head once. ) I think I'm good for right now.
( a beat. time enough for an objection or a taunt. )
So, what time are you off? ( not. that he's waiting or anything. wow. that would be weird. not as embarrassing as raising your voice right when the song abruptly stops and shouting that for everyone to hear but still weird. )
[ Really, independence is the one thing she'd tried to make explicitly clear between them when she'd approached him for that contract — something Felicity had suggested, though she's never openly broached that subject, having been sworn to secrecy on that front. She wants to give him as much freedom as he's able, to not encroach on his territory; she knows how much she'd chafe in the role if their designations were reversed and so even though she knows, to some extent, she'll be viewed as responsible for him, she doesn't want them to feel the weight of that unspoken obligation.
They're about to sign on the dotted line, submit the paperwork, do whatever they have to to make it official in the eyes of the city — and then he vanishes.
On the one hand, she's relieved; if their kidnappers are to be believed and a glitch in the system sent him home, then he's back where he's supposed to be, far removed from this hellhole. But she mourns his disappearance the same way she does all of her other friends who have gone — quietly, privately, with a glass of whiskey in his honor — and then a few months later, he's back again, though she can't tell if it's with more life lived in the process or not. He's not talking about it, and she's not pressing for details, which is pretty much how it's always been with them. But she can keep serving him drinks, and she can lend an open ear if he ever decides he wants one, and the good news is she can do both of those things while she's working.
When he turns away the offer of another refill, she immediately tips the bottle upward so the contents don't splash across his knuckles, mouth twisting in consideration. ] You don't sound all that sure.
[ It is a tease, likely as he's come to expect from her, but she'll only offer that gentle ribbing before his question prompts a rise of both eyebrows and a sigh exhaled between slightly pursed lips. ] Uh, well — [ Cue her reaching into her back pocket to fish out her device so she can glance at the time. ] About twenty minutes from right this second.
( he appreciates that. wynonna has been straightforward from day one, something that has always made her incredibly approachable. he chafes under pressure and while he can bend and keep bending when most would break, he can only tolerate so much for so long. ( case in point: not taking to the rooftops, not tracking down criminals, not working this out in the numerous ways he's defaulted to over the years. a part of that is because of how that will come down on the heads of his friends and the other is that he's already been unmasked at home—by personal choice—so there's a bit more understanding of what his choices lead to. ) oliver’s grateful for her knack for letting it be — and maybe it’s disconcerting, maybe it means he isn’t as vital to her as the rest of the people around her and that’s why she doesn’t dig to uncover a secret. whatever the case, it’s why he chooses to be in her company and not with people from his earth. ( out of all of them, caitlin’s probably the safest bet but he’s just not ready. ) )
I’m sure. ( he flashes a more certain grin to disarm her and to convince wynonna that he’s relaxed enough. not a difficult sell when he's pleasantly buzzed. )
Any plans for twenty minutes from now? ( delicately navigating a conversation, tip-toeing as opposed to cutting to the point. he traces the rim of his glass, not intentionally avoiding her gaze but it does happen as a result of restlessness. he's being polite and trying to assess the situation; being back in duplicity doesn't mean she owes him a moment of her time or that she should cancel anything because he's asking her to. oliver won't ask that, not for something as inconsequential as wanting to see her in a less public setting. he raises his eyes, trepidation begetting vulnerability. ) Because if you do, it's okay.
If you don't, I was wondering if we could ( he telegraphs it like he's plucking the word out of thin air )talk?
( spoiler: he doesn't want to talk. )
Edited (oops idk.... if we want them to go back into contracting, shh i knows it's a psl) 2019-06-13 22:44 (UTC)
[ The reason she doesn't ask is because, more often than not, she knows he'll choose to share with her when he's ready. She gets trying to keep secrets closely guarded, whether because it's safer to sidestep or because it's not exactly the right time to bring the subject up, and it's not like they've really been in an ideal scenario that lends itself to honesty hour. She's considered extending the invite to him to drink at hers again sometime, the way they used to, both of them occupying the couch while taking sips of whatever comes out of a glass bottle — but that opportunity hasn't presented itself either. They're just doing their dance, small talk and any other subject that comes up casually, and every now and then she pours him another. ]
If you say so. [ The crookedness of her smile betrays the fact that that grin might have just worked for him after all, but she tries to shrug it off — literally — with the roll of a shoulder. No skin off her back if he's reached his nightly limit.
And she turns so that the bottle gets placed back on its shelf, her device resituated in her back pocket before she glances back over her shoulder at him, curiosity in her features. They've definitely skated around one subject at least, never going there regardless of how many scenarios this city enjoys throwing them into, food and drink and broken elevators and other incentives to try and encourage below-the-belt action; she can't say the thought has never crossed her mind, but she's always been left with the impression that it would take a very specific kind of mood to initiate that between them.
So really, he could just mean talking. Or he could mean something else. The expression on his face is, for the moment, characteristically inscrutable, and she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, inwardly questioning. ]
You wanna — talk? [ It's testing, maybe as much as his offer might be. ]
[The longer he's done this secret agent thing the more dangerous it seems to become. James was more than ready to relax in his hotel suite and forget about the past couple of hours. He'll never get used to having a gun pointed at his face, or in some cases a knife.
He takes off his jacket and shoes before plopping onto the bed. His eyes wander to his phone and a certain someone flashes through his mind. With a small smirk he dials Wynonna's number, waiting for her to pick up.]
[ She's at home, but not exactly alone; the homestead is always hosting at least two to three people in addition to her and Waverly, especially if it's a night Haught is sleeping over or there's something up with Dolls' hotel room again. She's used to a crowded living space, but that means it can be difficult to get any kind of "alone time," if you catch her meaning.
When the call comes in she only has to glance at the caller ID once to know who it is; it's the only call she gets from an unknown number but she figures it's got to be because he's calling from some kind of encrypted device, fancy spy gadgets being what they are. She carefully glances back over her shoulder before stepping out of the living room and into the main foyer, leaning against the staircase that leads up. ]
So, can you tell me where you are right now, or is that still top secret info?
[The moment she picks up the phone James feels that familiar little surge. He always has the caller ID on unknown for safety reasons. The rules of being a spy.
He makes himself more comfortable before responding.]
Berlin. They really don't kid around here, Wynonna. [Best not tell her about the near fatal encounter. No need to worry her when there are all these miles between them.] What are you up to?
[ She's curved in against the homestead's main staircase, voice lowered so she doesn't run the risk of anyone overhearing her conversation; it's not that she wants this to be a secret, but there are at least three people here right now who are bound to ask who she's talking to and she doesn't need the interruption right now. ]
Yeah, I figured, considering they were involved in at least two of those World Wars. [ She also did terribly in high school, so maybe don't take her word for it. ] Not much. Just hanging out at home. I'm guessing you've got some downtime?
[ He always finds a way to reach out to her when he's between missions. ]
[ Dean's tired. Of all the emotions he's feeling right now tired probably is the stronger of them all. Everything else takes a backseat to the sheer exhaustion he's running on right now. Between Michael being in his head for so long, Jack's issues, the loss of their friends and his mother it's a miracle that Dean is still even going. But he can't stop. Not when God's pissed and he's basically decided to start the apocalypse because you pissed him off when you wouldn't participate in his story. Fighting your way through risen undead just to get the hell out of there wasn't his first choice, but it was the safest. They couldn't take them all down and still walk away breathing. He wasn't gonna sacrifice Sam or even Cas just to prove a damn point. That he could keep going.
Sam's guilt between Michael slaughtering half of the hunters they knew and Jack taking out of their mom finally wore him down. Exhaustion kicked in once they were clear of danger. Neither one of them were in any shape to take anything on right now. Dean would insist he was fine, but he's trying to look out for Sammy who finally conked out when they entered Purgatory. He was snoring when they passed Shorty's. Cas didn't say a word the entire drive. Possibly wary of how he was going to approach Dean. His mom's been dead for a few days now. More than that. Their fight is in the back of his mind, but it's covered up by everything else. Apologizing and making things right with him isn't the most important thing in his eyes. At least not until they get somewhere safe. He doesn't trust the bunker. Chuck knows where it is and there's no telling what kind of hell he could bring down on them there.
Before they reach Wynonna's Cas asks to be let out of the car to get some insight about God. Duma's dead and apparently there's no telling what's happening. Jack's body is in the trunk and when Dean pulls up to the homestead he doesn't know what to do about it. Part of him says a hunter's funeral, but the hopeful part wants to bury the kid. Maybe they get lucky. Maybe someone other than God fixes him and brings him back. It's strange to think he might want that when he was okay with killing him originally. But deep down he knows that with no soul that Jack isn't himself. If he was fixed then maybe it could be repaired. They could be repaired. It's wishful thinking, but maybe Dean's just tired of losing people he cares about.
He kills the engine and for a moment he just listens to Sam breathing next to him. After a moment he reaches a bloody hand up to turn down the mirror visor and get a look at himself. It's not just his bloody that's on his face and hands. He's got cuts and bruises, but typically this is how Dean can look after a hunt. Banged up, but there's something in his eyes. He can see it. Anyone who knows Dean can see it. A huge hole is inside of him. Ripped open when Jack killed her. Made worse when he held the husk of her that Jack brought back. He did cry, but he made sure to do it on his own. He didn't need to have another heart to heart with Sam about shit. He didn't need him to analyze him anymore.
Finally he climbs out of the Impala and with a slight limp he gets up onto her porch and to the front door. Sam's still sleeping in the front seat. She knows they were on their way, but now comes the hard part of having to look her in the eye and explain things in more detail. Dealing with Jack's body is high on the list, but he's still not sure what do. Kid deserved better than to have this crappy end. He came so damn far. After another beat he finally knocks. Hard and with purpose. He takes a step back once he does so. ]
[ She's here, ready and waiting for them. "Ready" might be the operative word, though, because when you get a text from the guy you're kinda sorta seeing with news that a literal army of the undead is hot on his tail, it's not exactly like you're breaking out the wine and cheese plate and welcoming him with open arms. She's prepared, inasmuch as she can be, even though it's something that has never once been used to describe her in any serious sense.
Purgatory turns out to be the safest place they can go, when all is said and done, because the same energy that gives the Ghost River Triangle its curse also seems to offer some kind of protection from the heavenly forces. Whether it's because the land's overrun by demons, vampires and everything else drawn inside town limits is unclear, but it's a better place for Dean, Sam and whoever else is tagging along to rest and lick their wounds for a few days. She's under no illusions that they'll stay for good this time. They never have before, and she's learned to abandon anything resembling hope for a happy ending, especially where she's concerned. She doesn't get to have that either, not until the Earp curse is broken.
One upside to living on the edge of town, though; you hear people coming from miles away, and the Impala's always had a distinctive sound to it, that kind of purring rumble that you feel in the soles of your boots when you're standing close enough to her. If she hadn't been warned they were coming, she would've figured it out now, long before the engine shuts off and the sounds of heavy footfalls on the old, creaky steps of the front porch reach her hearing. She's been nursing the same glass of whiskey for who knows how long now, and she sets it aside when the knock comes, maybe rushing to the door a little faster, giving her worry away in that haste.
She throws the door open and looks at him; it's not the first time she's seen him bloody — some of it his, some of it not — but it's the haunted expression on his face that stops her dead in her tracks, gives her pause, makes her curve her fingers around the doorframe instead of reaching out to him right away. That's the face of someone who doesn't know where to begin, but she can tell whatever it is, it's definitely not sunshine and rainbows. ]
[ Dean's gotten used to appreciating the little things. In his line of work that's all you can really do. Because usually something is trying to kill him. You have to enjoy things when they happened. Cold beer six pack and a few hours on his own without anyone wanting something. When things are quiet he's usually the first one to find something to do until that boredom does creep into Dean. He's contradictory that way. Little things can really make Dean just smile sometimes. Which is why when the door opens and he sees her in the flesh he actually feels his lips tugging up into a smile.
The world is literally on a crash course to ending and he knows it. Dean can feel it. They left the horde behind, but they'll find them eventually. Who knows. Chuck'll probably give them some divine guidance or something. They have time though. Easy to outrun the dead when you have a car that can go a hundred. But no matter how fast Dean drove he couldn't outrun the body of Jack in the trunk. Killed in front of them. He couldn't do anything to stop it and he feels the weight on his shoulders. Crushing him.
There's a half nod from Dean and for a moment he considers just letting it lie there with the drink joke. Just entering and taking that drink. He'll go out and wake up Sam eventually, but for now he wants him to rest. He needs him at a hundred percent. ] Got the whole bottle? [ But the words don't hang in the air for too long before Dean actually makes a move forward. He steps towards her and pulls her into a hug. She's in one piece. Chuck didn't get to her. He'll have to check on the rest of her group, but he knows she'd have told him if anything happened when he texted her. ]
It's damn good to see you. [ The words are softer than Dean intends. It's the first time he's stopped moving though. Everything in his mind still. His body still. ] I uh--started thinking maybe Chuck worked his freaky Chuck Almighty magic over here or something.
[ It's been three months since the garden took them — well, more specifically, since the garden took Waverly and Doc went in after her — and Purgatory's all but ground to a screeching halt since then.
The town itself is abandoned, people having fled in anticipation of Bulshar's rise even if they didn't realize it at the time, but those who have ventured back seem to have shut their homes up tight, windows boarded and doors secured with triple locks. The only business that shows any signs of life at all is Shorty's, and that's because Wynonna herself is the one still keeping the lights on, with Nedley usually the only one at the bar while they try to go over their next game plan. Plans A through G have failed; now, they're working their way around to H.
But just because the bar's been open doesn't mean anyone else has been coming around; Wynonna stays because the liquor is technically free, and because here is the place that reminds her most of the two of them.
It's late, too late for anyone to be coming around, so the sound of something banging against the front door makes her jump up from where she's sitting on a lone stool, nursing a glass of whiskey; she almost reaches for Peacemaker before remembering it's not there anymore, not the way it used to be, and finally she settles for grabbing Shorty's old rifle from behind the bar, making her way one step at a time to the front entrance and throwing open the door.
There's a figure crumpled on the sidewalk in the pouring rain, and Wynonna sinks to her knees, the rifle carefully placed at her side before she reaches down to cup that familiar face in her hands, turning him towards her. ]
God, please don't be dead. Or, well, more dead. [ Can she even give him CPR? Would that work? ]
[ The darned memories come in flashes: a garden overrun by vines and thorns, bleedin' hands from him tearing a path toward Waverly, some sort of ungodsly shivering whenever he ripped another vine out of his way. Seemed like whenever he got close enough, the shivering turned to hisses. He hissed back plenty of times.
And then he bit and drank when vines slithered into the first body. Hooded, cloaked bodies not unlike Bulshar's beekeepers. What happened to a time where followers showered their faces, and when a gunslinger could pick his way through the rabble? Simpler times though they were not, at least Wyatt's enemies held a face and a name.
He recalls the days bleeding together with no sun or moon hanging up in the sky. An aching hunger deep in his belly. Sickness when he realized it wasn't blood he consumed, but something rotten and twisting his gut until he fell to his knees and was swarmed. Waverly's frozen face when he gets close enough —
With a jerk, he bears his teeth and hisses. There's a wildness to his unfocused eyes. Vines on his face again, wrapping around him like a noose. He won't be falling this time, even if his bones ache something fierce. ]
Wet. [ The word's drunk sounding and muffled behind that annoying pat-pat-patter all around his head. What is that sound? ] Water?
[ No water in the garden with the vines and hoods. But that's water on his lips and tongue. Enough of it to blur his sight that's become so painfully sharp these days. It's not Waverly's face looking down on him. Even blurred by the rain — for that is what it must be — she wouldn't look at him like this.
Wynonna. His eyes slip shut and his head thunks back. ]
[ it's late when he finally rolls back into town. he'd driven straight through the night with the intent on getting back here as soon as he could. it's been a few weeks now since he left and while he's kept in contact via phone, it's not the same thing as being here.
he considers calling her before he shows up but decides against it at the last second. if she's asleep, he'll wake her up and then go back to sleep with her. if she's awake, well, he'll talk to her a bit and then probably insist she go to sleep.
or maybe they'll do something else. who knows.
he stares at her door for a few seconds and then, eventually, knocks. while he waits, he brushes his hands through his hair and then through his beard to try and look presentable. it's been a long night and he's been driving for hours.
he just hopes she's home. if she's not, then she's gonna find him sitting outside her door and looking like a vagrant. ]
[ She’s up late when she hears the truck pull up to the front of the house, tires moving across the gravel drive; she doesn’t want to hope against hope that he’s here but she can’t help but wonder if it’s him, if he really has driven all night to get here and she’s going to throw the door open to find him standing there on the front porch.
The knock at the door comes and she won’t bother to slip on more layers, instead moving to answer it in the clothes she usually sleeps in — a tank top and a pair of shorts — but she briefly shoves a hand through her hair, giving it a good tousle before finally turning the handle.
And the smile that emerges on her face is immediate, when she sees him; she sways into the doorframe slightly and peers up at him with a note of fondness in her features, but before either of them can say anything she’s reaching out to grab a fistful of his shirt, using it to tug him in close as she slants their mouths together.
There, only after greeting him with a kiss, does she whisper a greeting: ] Hey, you.
[ she opens the door and, for a second, all he can feel is relief. relief that she's there, that she's awake, and that she seems pleased to see him. he hadn't really doubted it but time and distance can do strange things to people and their...relationships.
if this was a relationship. he's not really sure what it is but he likes it and he hadn't wanted to come back to it being changed.
there's a smile on his face when she pulls him in and she'll probably feel it when her mouth meets his. he responds eagerly, immediately, unable not to feel anything but contentment. ]
Hey.
[ the tension in his shoulders eases and he smiles crookedly at her. ]
( It's been months since she's been in Purgatory. Being confined to the Ghost River Triangle didn't really leave many places to run, but at least she could be a little way out, keep a low profile. Working shitty jobs in shitty bars was exactly what she was used to. It just felt—
it didn't feel like enough, anymore. Keeping alive when she'd had friends and people who counted on her, who had been ready to turn on her the second they found out the truth despite all those things she'd done for them. I'll shoot you last, those were the words that would creep into her head when she was trying to sleep, and then the sight of Wynonna and Waverly begging and crying. She'd screwed up in literally every sense. Hadn't managed to steal the child, and had destroyed her relationships with the only people who had really mattered in a long, long time. Now it back to running and surviving, same way she had been for over a hundred years.
The bar is almost closed, last orders up, and she's wiping down the counters. There's barely anyone left in here, now, and she's making herself at least wait until the last couple of old guys are out of here before she cracks into the bourbon. )
[ There aren't a lot of places to run when you're a revenant — at least, not within the Ghost River Triangle, when trying to step outside the boundaries of the cursed land mean you're in for a whole world of pain and longing for the mercy of a bullet from an equally cursed gun, a quick death and a return to Hell all in the same breath. Wynonna hasn't given much thought to the one who tried to steal her baby from her arms since it happened, because she's been too busy trying not to think about Alice, period, drowning herself in whiskey and beer and more whiskey and taking down rev-heads in the interim, whittling down that number as summer turns into fall turns into winter.
But when she hears talk of one who sounds pretty freaking familiar working in a bar a few towns over, she doesn't tell anyone else where she's going, just hops on her bike and goes to see for herself, pulling into the parking lot right around last call. And there she waits, leaning against the Screamin' Eagle, arms lightly folded across her chest and breath somewhat visible in the air as the last of the bar's patrons come stumbling out into the night. Meanwhile, she's painfully sober when she slips in behind them while the front door's still open, stepping into the shadows as it shuts with a heavy thud.
She recognizes everything — the tanned skin, the slender arc of shoulders, that damn ponytail even, and there's a bullet in Peacemaker practically burning a hole through her hip but she keeps her movements quiet, measured, right up until she steps under the beam of the nearest lamp. ]
I know what you're thinking. Of all the bars in this godforsaken place, she walks into mine.
She was reaching up for a bottle of bourbon and just about to get her keys when she hears that damn voice, the familiar dip and sway of it. There’s a particular quality to Wynonna Earp’s voice that was hard to put a name on. “Rough” didn’t feel right, but there’s some kinda texture. Probably her life would be easier if she hadn’t spent so much time thinking about Wynonna’s damn voice.
The bottle hits the counter with a thud, and she nods, shaking her head, as she slowly exhales. )
Yeah, well. Fate and I haven’t ever been on good terms.
( Only now does she look to Wynonna. ) You gonna let me have a last drink before you shoot me?
[ There are no real silver linings or bright sides to the War; but if there were, Cash being kept busy at a frantic pace and not having time to think about how much he misses everyone aboard the ship might be one. As it is, he's shot, cut, flung off the sides of buildings, and kept at constant attention for the months leading up to the end of it all. The Mahr stand down, talks move forward, and Cash's Allied task force is disbanded. Fortescue and Wolf disappear into the aether, as he knew they would; Chance and Mattli are dead, the former killed after betraying the group and the latter killed in combat with outrageous mundanity. Alone, Cash slinks back to his apartment in New York and sleeps for what feels like weeks, only leaving for food. The sounds of gunfire and yelling haunt him whenever he closes his eyes, as much as he tries to drown them out with the wailings of electro jazz. The OSS tells him nothing, which means that they have another assignment in mind for him and haven't lined up the pieces yet; it's only a matter of time.
Finally, a former friend reaches out — we should get lunch, catch up, weren't you in Europe? — and Cash reluctantly agrees to meet them. He should go see someone, shouldn't he? Except, as soon as his boots hit the elevator, something in his arm twinges. A white-hot flash of pain rockets up the bone, something he hasn't felt in years. The Celestial Interface that was once there was surgically removed but, for some odd reason, it feels present. ]
What the...?
[ No sooner has he brought his arm up to stare at it, in blank confusion, than something in his vision wavers and the cement stairwell around him is just... gone. The familiar sensation of being hurtled at a thousand miles per hour roars through him, his ears full of the sound of absolutely nothing, and then he —
— manages to land on his feet. Clutching his head, Cash frowns. His attire of a simple brown leather jacket, blue button shirt, and slacks haven't gone anywhere, but the green trees and scrubby grass? The rough wind? That's new. For a second, he wonders if his dream magic has gotten away from him, but no amount of trying to control things works. Instead, rubbing his forehead, Cash heads for the road he can see in the distance. With any luck, it will lead to a town and he'll get there before he collapses from the exhaustion of... traversing the Void? Is that what just happened? It seems unlikely, at the very least, but here he is. Walking alone in a strange place, grateful that he was wearing shoes when it happened. ]
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( There's a storm, and they stand in the badlands. In truth, though, Yasha's pretty sure any lands she's in could count as the badlands. She's told her, tried to be honest, reveal herself for a coward: the problem is that Wynonna is always charming and funny, no matter how awful she makes herself out to be.
She worries that, sometimes, it might rely on Wynonna not wanting her, more than it relies on her not wanting Wynonna, and Wynonna's always deserved better than she's wanted.
So there they are, a place that's both cold and a desert, looking at a skeletal corpse of something awful. )
Uh—
I think— this might be a cleric thing.
( You know. Religious stuff. She's only kind of an angel, that hardly count. )
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Right now, she's staggered down to a crouch, bracing her forearms on her knees — mostly to get a better look, although she's actively trying to hold her breath so she doesn't take the first exit to the closest fast food joint once they're on the road again. Those cravings are real and sometimes unavoidable, and sometimes she thinks Yasha obliges her a little too often.
She pushes herself back up to standing with a soft grunt, swipes her hands over her jeans, and when she turns it's to nudge fingers against the inside of Yasha's wrist. ]
Hey. You okay?
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( A quiet response, before the contact registers, and she looks to Wynonna. ) Yeah, I mean— y'know.
( Illuminating, as ever. She squints at the body, fingers reaching out before she stops herself short. At some point she needs to remember that touching is not always the sensible choice. Instead she leans her face down close to it, frowning as she blows some of the sand covering it away.
This is gross, and her fingers tap over the symbol of the Storm Lord on her belt, the jagged overlapping thunderbolts. However, she knows Wynonna, so: ) I'd kill for some fries.
( A heavy drop of rain falls on the back of her hand, and she glances to the sky, dark clouds rolling in heavily. )
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They're going to have even fewer answers in front of them once the rain starts, so she fishes in the back pocket of her jeans and comes up with her cell phone, snaps a few quick photos and tries to zoom in for a few close-ups. Waverly's always way better than she is at documenting this kind of evidence, but she's going to do her best even as those first fat drops of rain start to come down overhead. ]
Just oooone more.
[ Thunder cracks, loud and sudden and hard enough to rip the sky open and she's jamming her phone back in her pocket and uselessly holding her arms over her head, turning tail back towards where they've got the truck parked. Maybe she'll make it back before she gets totally soaked through. ]
Shit!
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duplicity au since i'm making the rounds
fort harmony confuses things. bodies drop. people are executed in broad daylight and after. . . after, oliver disappears.
when he shows back up months later like nothing happened ( everything has ) and he’s still in the process of lying to every single person around him, he doesn't avoid wynonna. he doesn't want to see felicity in person longer than he has to, nor is he interested in having coffee with ray or kendra; they all do know that he's returned, presumably with the same memories as before. oliver doesn't tell them differently. he keeps his secrets like his vodka: neat. it's what he's nursing in a corner stool, far enough away from the crowds that he can watch the entrance out of the corner of his eye without seeming paranoid. he doesn't mind watching wynonna work ( if you can call it working, she sometimes seems to have as much fun as her patrons ) or sitting in silence, undisturbed by the clinking of glass and ice cubes. yeah, it helps that his glass is never empty despite how determined he is to drain it.
as the evening goes on, oliver loosens up. he leans forward on the bartop, stops drinking so fast, even makes conversation with total strangers. it's when wynonna wanders near him, bottle in hand, that he covers the top of his glass with his hand and shakes his head once. ) I think I'm good for right now.
( a beat. time enough for an objection or a taunt. )
So, what time are you off? ( not. that he's waiting or anything. wow. that would be weird. not as embarrassing as raising your voice right when the song abruptly stops and shouting that for everyone to hear but still weird. )
gasps!!!
They're about to sign on the dotted line, submit the paperwork, do whatever they have to to make it official in the eyes of the city — and then he vanishes.
On the one hand, she's relieved; if their kidnappers are to be believed and a glitch in the system sent him home, then he's back where he's supposed to be, far removed from this hellhole. But she mourns his disappearance the same way she does all of her other friends who have gone — quietly, privately, with a glass of whiskey in his honor — and then a few months later, he's back again, though she can't tell if it's with more life lived in the process or not. He's not talking about it, and she's not pressing for details, which is pretty much how it's always been with them. But she can keep serving him drinks, and she can lend an open ear if he ever decides he wants one, and the good news is she can do both of those things while she's working.
When he turns away the offer of another refill, she immediately tips the bottle upward so the contents don't splash across his knuckles, mouth twisting in consideration. ] You don't sound all that sure.
[ It is a tease, likely as he's come to expect from her, but she'll only offer that gentle ribbing before his question prompts a rise of both eyebrows and a sigh exhaled between slightly pursed lips. ] Uh, well — [ Cue her reaching into her back pocket to fish out her device so she can glance at the time. ] About twenty minutes from right this second.
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I’m sure. ( he flashes a more certain grin to disarm her and to convince wynonna that he’s relaxed enough. not a difficult sell when he's pleasantly buzzed. )
Any plans for twenty minutes from now? ( delicately navigating a conversation, tip-toeing as opposed to cutting to the point. he traces the rim of his glass, not intentionally avoiding her gaze but it does happen as a result of restlessness. he's being polite and trying to assess the situation; being back in duplicity doesn't mean she owes him a moment of her time or that she should cancel anything because he's asking her to. oliver won't ask that, not for something as inconsequential as wanting to see her in a less public setting. he raises his eyes, trepidation begetting vulnerability. ) Because if you do, it's okay.
If you don't, I was wondering if we could ( he telegraphs it like he's plucking the word out of thin air ) talk?
( spoiler: he doesn't want to talk. )
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If you say so. [ The crookedness of her smile betrays the fact that that grin might have just worked for him after all, but she tries to shrug it off — literally — with the roll of a shoulder. No skin off her back if he's reached his nightly limit.
And she turns so that the bottle gets placed back on its shelf, her device resituated in her back pocket before she glances back over her shoulder at him, curiosity in her features. They've definitely skated around one subject at least, never going there regardless of how many scenarios this city enjoys throwing them into, food and drink and broken elevators and other incentives to try and encourage below-the-belt action; she can't say the thought has never crossed her mind, but she's always been left with the impression that it would take a very specific kind of mood to initiate that between them.
So really, he could just mean talking. Or he could mean something else. The expression on his face is, for the moment, characteristically inscrutable, and she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, inwardly questioning. ]
You wanna — talk? [ It's testing, maybe as much as his offer might be. ]
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He takes off his jacket and shoes before plopping onto the bed. His eyes wander to his phone and a certain someone flashes through his mind. With a small smirk he dials Wynonna's number, waiting for her to pick up.]
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When the call comes in she only has to glance at the caller ID once to know who it is; it's the only call she gets from an unknown number but she figures it's got to be because he's calling from some kind of encrypted device, fancy spy gadgets being what they are. She carefully glances back over her shoulder before stepping out of the living room and into the main foyer, leaning against the staircase that leads up. ]
So, can you tell me where you are right now, or is that still top secret info?
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He makes himself more comfortable before responding.]
Berlin. They really don't kid around here, Wynonna. [Best not tell her about the near fatal encounter. No need to worry her when there are all these miles between them.] What are you up to?
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Yeah, I figured, considering they were involved in at least two of those World Wars. [ She also did terribly in high school, so maybe don't take her word for it. ] Not much. Just hanging out at home. I'm guessing you've got some downtime?
[ He always finds a way to reach out to her when he's between missions. ]
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if you're unhappy and you know it clap your hands
Sam's guilt between Michael slaughtering half of the hunters they knew and Jack taking out of their mom finally wore him down. Exhaustion kicked in once they were clear of danger. Neither one of them were in any shape to take anything on right now. Dean would insist he was fine, but he's trying to look out for Sammy who finally conked out when they entered Purgatory. He was snoring when they passed Shorty's. Cas didn't say a word the entire drive. Possibly wary of how he was going to approach Dean. His mom's been dead for a few days now. More than that. Their fight is in the back of his mind, but it's covered up by everything else. Apologizing and making things right with him isn't the most important thing in his eyes. At least not until they get somewhere safe. He doesn't trust the bunker. Chuck knows where it is and there's no telling what kind of hell he could bring down on them there.
Before they reach Wynonna's Cas asks to be let out of the car to get some insight about God. Duma's dead and apparently there's no telling what's happening. Jack's body is in the trunk and when Dean pulls up to the homestead he doesn't know what to do about it. Part of him says a hunter's funeral, but the hopeful part wants to bury the kid. Maybe they get lucky. Maybe someone other than God fixes him and brings him back. It's strange to think he might want that when he was okay with killing him originally. But deep down he knows that with no soul that Jack isn't himself. If he was fixed then maybe it could be repaired. They could be repaired. It's wishful thinking, but maybe Dean's just tired of losing people he cares about.
He kills the engine and for a moment he just listens to Sam breathing next to him. After a moment he reaches a bloody hand up to turn down the mirror visor and get a look at himself. It's not just his bloody that's on his face and hands. He's got cuts and bruises, but typically this is how Dean can look after a hunt. Banged up, but there's something in his eyes. He can see it. Anyone who knows Dean can see it. A huge hole is inside of him. Ripped open when Jack killed her. Made worse when he held the husk of her that Jack brought back. He did cry, but he made sure to do it on his own. He didn't need to have another heart to heart with Sam about shit. He didn't need him to analyze him anymore.
Finally he climbs out of the Impala and with a slight limp he gets up onto her porch and to the front door. Sam's still sleeping in the front seat. She knows they were on their way, but now comes the hard part of having to look her in the eye and explain things in more detail. Dealing with Jack's body is high on the list, but he's still not sure what do. Kid deserved better than to have this crappy end. He came so damn far. After another beat he finally knocks. Hard and with purpose. He takes a step back once he does so. ]
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Purgatory turns out to be the safest place they can go, when all is said and done, because the same energy that gives the Ghost River Triangle its curse also seems to offer some kind of protection from the heavenly forces. Whether it's because the land's overrun by demons, vampires and everything else drawn inside town limits is unclear, but it's a better place for Dean, Sam and whoever else is tagging along to rest and lick their wounds for a few days. She's under no illusions that they'll stay for good this time. They never have before, and she's learned to abandon anything resembling hope for a happy ending, especially where she's concerned. She doesn't get to have that either, not until the Earp curse is broken.
One upside to living on the edge of town, though; you hear people coming from miles away, and the Impala's always had a distinctive sound to it, that kind of purring rumble that you feel in the soles of your boots when you're standing close enough to her. If she hadn't been warned they were coming, she would've figured it out now, long before the engine shuts off and the sounds of heavy footfalls on the old, creaky steps of the front porch reach her hearing. She's been nursing the same glass of whiskey for who knows how long now, and she sets it aside when the knock comes, maybe rushing to the door a little faster, giving her worry away in that haste.
She throws the door open and looks at him; it's not the first time she's seen him bloody — some of it his, some of it not — but it's the haunted expression on his face that stops her dead in her tracks, gives her pause, makes her curve her fingers around the doorframe instead of reaching out to him right away. That's the face of someone who doesn't know where to begin, but she can tell whatever it is, it's definitely not sunshine and rainbows. ]
You look like you could use a drink.
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The world is literally on a crash course to ending and he knows it. Dean can feel it. They left the horde behind, but they'll find them eventually. Who knows. Chuck'll probably give them some divine guidance or something. They have time though. Easy to outrun the dead when you have a car that can go a hundred. But no matter how fast Dean drove he couldn't outrun the body of Jack in the trunk. Killed in front of them. He couldn't do anything to stop it and he feels the weight on his shoulders. Crushing him.
There's a half nod from Dean and for a moment he considers just letting it lie there with the drink joke. Just entering and taking that drink. He'll go out and wake up Sam eventually, but for now he wants him to rest. He needs him at a hundred percent. ] Got the whole bottle? [ But the words don't hang in the air for too long before Dean actually makes a move forward. He steps towards her and pulls her into a hug. She's in one piece. Chuck didn't get to her. He'll have to check on the rest of her group, but he knows she'd have told him if anything happened when he texted her. ]
It's damn good to see you. [ The words are softer than Dean intends. It's the first time he's stopped moving though. Everything in his mind still. His body still. ] I uh--started thinking maybe Chuck worked his freaky Chuck Almighty magic over here or something.
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The town itself is abandoned, people having fled in anticipation of Bulshar's rise even if they didn't realize it at the time, but those who have ventured back seem to have shut their homes up tight, windows boarded and doors secured with triple locks. The only business that shows any signs of life at all is Shorty's, and that's because Wynonna herself is the one still keeping the lights on, with Nedley usually the only one at the bar while they try to go over their next game plan. Plans A through G have failed; now, they're working their way around to H.
But just because the bar's been open doesn't mean anyone else has been coming around; Wynonna stays because the liquor is technically free, and because here is the place that reminds her most of the two of them.
It's late, too late for anyone to be coming around, so the sound of something banging against the front door makes her jump up from where she's sitting on a lone stool, nursing a glass of whiskey; she almost reaches for Peacemaker before remembering it's not there anymore, not the way it used to be, and finally she settles for grabbing Shorty's old rifle from behind the bar, making her way one step at a time to the front entrance and throwing open the door.
There's a figure crumpled on the sidewalk in the pouring rain, and Wynonna sinks to her knees, the rifle carefully placed at her side before she reaches down to cup that familiar face in her hands, turning him towards her. ]
God, please don't be dead. Or, well, more dead. [ Can she even give him CPR? Would that work? ]
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And then he bit and drank when vines slithered into the first body. Hooded, cloaked bodies not unlike Bulshar's beekeepers. What happened to a time where followers showered their faces, and when a gunslinger could pick his way through the rabble? Simpler times though they were not, at least Wyatt's enemies held a face and a name.
He recalls the days bleeding together with no sun or moon hanging up in the sky. An aching hunger deep in his belly. Sickness when he realized it wasn't blood he consumed, but something rotten and twisting his gut until he fell to his knees and was swarmed. Waverly's frozen face when he gets close enough —
With a jerk, he bears his teeth and hisses. There's a wildness to his unfocused eyes. Vines on his face again, wrapping around him like a noose. He won't be falling this time, even if his bones ache something fierce. ]
Wet. [ The word's drunk sounding and muffled behind that annoying pat-pat-patter all around his head. What is that sound? ] Water?
[ No water in the garden with the vines and hoods. But that's water on his lips and tongue. Enough of it to blur his sight that's become so painfully sharp these days. It's not Waverly's face looking down on him. Even blurred by the rain — for that is what it must be — she wouldn't look at him like this.
Wynonna. His eyes slip shut and his head thunks back. ]
Not dead. [ Not yet. ] Wouldn't have you in hell.
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moseys in
he considers calling her before he shows up but decides against it at the last second. if she's asleep, he'll wake her up and then go back to sleep with her. if she's awake, well, he'll talk to her a bit and then probably insist she go to sleep.
or maybe they'll do something else. who knows.
he stares at her door for a few seconds and then, eventually, knocks. while he waits, he brushes his hands through his hair and then through his beard to try and look presentable. it's been a long night and he's been driving for hours.
he just hopes she's home. if she's not, then she's gonna find him sitting outside her door and looking like a vagrant. ]
hayyyyy
The knock at the door comes and she won’t bother to slip on more layers, instead moving to answer it in the clothes she usually sleeps in — a tank top and a pair of shorts — but she briefly shoves a hand through her hair, giving it a good tousle before finally turning the handle.
And the smile that emerges on her face is immediate, when she sees him; she sways into the doorframe slightly and peers up at him with a note of fondness in her features, but before either of them can say anything she’s reaching out to grab a fistful of his shirt, using it to tug him in close as she slants their mouths together.
There, only after greeting him with a kiss, does she whisper a greeting: ] Hey, you.
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if this was a relationship. he's not really sure what it is but he likes it and he hadn't wanted to come back to it being changed.
there's a smile on his face when she pulls him in and she'll probably feel it when her mouth meets his. he responds eagerly, immediately, unable not to feel anything but contentment. ]
Hey.
[ the tension in his shoulders eases and he smiles crookedly at her. ]
Wasn't sure if you'd be awake.
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slides back in 1000 years later
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( It's been months since she's been in Purgatory. Being confined to the Ghost River Triangle didn't really leave many places to run, but at least she could be a little way out, keep a low profile. Working shitty jobs in shitty bars was exactly what she was used to. It just felt—
it didn't feel like enough, anymore. Keeping alive when she'd had friends and people who counted on her, who had been ready to turn on her the second they found out the truth despite all those things she'd done for them. I'll shoot you last, those were the words that would creep into her head when she was trying to sleep, and then the sight of Wynonna and Waverly begging and crying.
She'd screwed up in literally every sense. Hadn't managed to steal the child, and had destroyed her relationships with the only people who had really mattered in a long, long time. Now it back to running and surviving, same way she had been for over a hundred years.
The bar is almost closed, last orders up, and she's wiping down the counters. There's barely anyone left in here, now, and she's making herself at least wait until the last couple of old guys are out of here before she cracks into the bourbon. )
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But when she hears talk of one who sounds pretty freaking familiar working in a bar a few towns over, she doesn't tell anyone else where she's going, just hops on her bike and goes to see for herself, pulling into the parking lot right around last call. And there she waits, leaning against the Screamin' Eagle, arms lightly folded across her chest and breath somewhat visible in the air as the last of the bar's patrons come stumbling out into the night. Meanwhile, she's painfully sober when she slips in behind them while the front door's still open, stepping into the shadows as it shuts with a heavy thud.
She recognizes everything — the tanned skin, the slender arc of shoulders, that damn ponytail even, and there's a bullet in Peacemaker practically burning a hole through her hip but she keeps her movements quiet, measured, right up until she steps under the beam of the nearest lamp. ]
I know what you're thinking. Of all the bars in this godforsaken place, she walks into mine.
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She was reaching up for a bottle of bourbon and just about to get her keys when she hears that damn voice, the familiar dip and sway of it. There’s a particular quality to Wynonna Earp’s voice that was hard to put a name on. “Rough” didn’t feel right, but there’s some kinda texture. Probably her life would be easier if she hadn’t spent so much time thinking about Wynonna’s damn voice.
The bottle hits the counter with a thud, and she nods, shaking her head, as she slowly exhales. )
Yeah, well. Fate and I haven’t ever been on good terms.
( Only now does she look to Wynonna. ) You gonna let me have a last drink before you shoot me?
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Finally, a former friend reaches out — we should get lunch, catch up, weren't you in Europe? — and Cash reluctantly agrees to meet them. He should go see someone, shouldn't he? Except, as soon as his boots hit the elevator, something in his arm twinges. A white-hot flash of pain rockets up the bone, something he hasn't felt in years. The Celestial Interface that was once there was surgically removed but, for some odd reason, it feels present. ]
What the...?
[ No sooner has he brought his arm up to stare at it, in blank confusion, than something in his vision wavers and the cement stairwell around him is just... gone. The familiar sensation of being hurtled at a thousand miles per hour roars through him, his ears full of the sound of absolutely nothing, and then he —
— manages to land on his feet. Clutching his head, Cash frowns. His attire of a simple brown leather jacket, blue button shirt, and slacks haven't gone anywhere, but the green trees and scrubby grass? The rough wind? That's new. For a second, he wonders if his dream magic has gotten away from him, but no amount of trying to control things works. Instead, rubbing his forehead, Cash heads for the road he can see in the distance. With any luck, it will lead to a town and he'll get there before he collapses from the exhaustion of... traversing the Void? Is that what just happened? It seems unlikely, at the very least, but here he is. Walking alone in a strange place, grateful that he was wearing shoes when it happened. ]
Shit, [ he sighs. ]