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. ]
( Yasha doesn't move so quickly, or apparently grasp the urgency. As the rain falls she stays looking at the body for a moment, before looking back to the truck - and the figure of Wynonna scuttling back to it.
The rainfall is getting quickly heavier, and Yasha turns her face up to it, savours the scent of the earth when the rain hits, the way the air changes. Thunder rumbles in the sky, and she smiles as she turns to face it. Another crack of thunder far closer snaps her focus back to Wynonna.
She starts to bolt after her, trying to catch up to her path back towards the truck, that just got struck by lightning. The hood is immediately charred, metal warped and buckled, and the front window is less smashed and more bubbled and melted, a hole right through it. )
Come on!
( Did Wynonna just get hauled up over Yasha's shoulder? Maybe a little, yes. )
[ The sound that follows is a very sharp, uncharacteristic, undignified squawk, but that's what happens when Wynonna finds herself unceremoniously hoisted off her feet in the middle of a torrential downpour, neck craning to look back at the truck that now boasts a large, smoking hole smack dab in the center of its hood — and the next sound she makes is a cry of protest, maybe almost a whine, because goddamnit, she literally just sent the thing in for a tune-up and she's pretty sure her mechanic isn't going to be able to fix lightning damage. ]
Wait, where are you going?
[ Anything might be safer than the truck at this point, but they're also still out in the open, and she can't really get a good glimpse at where Yasha's headed when she's basically bumping and jostling over her shoulder. ]
Is this 'cause I took a few pictures of the body? Did I make a thunder god angry? Because I wasn't going to 'gram those, I swear!
( 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. ]
Yeah. I’m sure you’ve heard of the concept before. That thing people do when they’re alone together. ( he’s not nervous, although that the charged energy that’s being reflected with his obtuse phrasing. don’t worry, he hears how it sounds. people do all kinds of things, particularly one when they’re in private. ) Over food or drinks — while they’re doing other things.
( if he stresses a portion of that sentence for emphasis, it’s only because he doesn’t wynonna to think that he’s applying pressure where there is none. oliver turns on his stool and drops his elbow on the bartop, giving her a view of his profile while he casts his eyes out towards the other patrons, the exit. virtually anywhere else. once, he was good at this sort of stuff. now, he struggles to remember who that young man was. he understands the lack of comprehension though, considering he isn't a man of many words and as for the few times when he has been, he's still careful. selective.
when he first arrived, he'd been different. he thought he'd seen and done everything. the truth is that he wasn't as stripped down to the bare bones as he is now, after losing everything, again and again. he thought ra's al ghul was bad but that was prior to damien darhk, adrian chase, and ricardo diaz smashing every aspect of him into pieces ( and where they failed, they let oliver deconstruct his relationships himself ). he's not looking for a substitution or for someone to listen to him vent. wynonna just strikes him as the kind of woman that can roll with the punches, grab life by the reins, and not get attached in the same sense that other people do. tracking her down is as casual as it is with purpose. maybe it's messed up—resting any portion of his baggage on her shoulders without permission—but oliver wants the kind of raw, human connection you can't spring on a stranger. when he's willing to give her his undivided ( albeit semi-embarrassed ) attention, he taps his knuckles on the bar. )
Are you? Free? For talking — at length, uninterrupted, deep into the night?
I might've maybe had reason to hear about it before. [ And she, in turn, is keeping her tone light, breezy, limited to the kind of casual flirting she tends to fall back on that can be as much of a defense mechanism as it is to prevent herself from treading into certain territory faster than she's ready for. Her face, however, is more of a giveaway, breath halting somewhat as she pivots back to face him where he's seated, hands coming to brace down against the bartop as she briefly studies him in profile.
He's changed, she knows he has; he doesn't need to tell her anything for her to see that, because the hints of it play across his face even when he glances away from her. She hasn't had to look long and hard to see that he hasn't been seeking out the company of those he knows from home — with Felicity a shared friend between them, she's heard that side of things too — but she's positive that it remains more complicated than she'll ever likely know. And maybe, right now, he doesn't want complicated, and she gets that too.
If she stopped to think, really paused and thought about it, she'd realize that being on the receiving end of that stare, wavering as it is sometimes, still makes a subtle heat unfurl low within her, to say nothing of how her body unconsciously responds to his question, fingers curving against the wood beneath her hands, between them, and suddenly all she can think about now is how to pass the time until those, well, about seventeen minutes or so are up. It's nothing explicit, because that's just not them, but it's enough to do something for her.
She nods once, a quick jerking of her head, because she doesn't really see the point in hedging her answer when honesty will work better in her favor. ]
Think we might be overdue for some catching up, anyway.
( he keeps felicity as close as he can — miles away from him, clear on the other side of the city ( until she isn’t ). he’s capable of surviving this way because of the chain around his neck with his wedding band on it, perpetually hanging near to his heart. enduring here, dreaming of some day arriving at living means putting parts of yourself away. she needed to do that. oliver will need to before he’s through and he suspects that wynonna is no different. she makes it look like a cakewalk but he’d bet money ( if he had any ) that there are aspects of duplicity that chafe against her softer edges.
wynonna’s hands are a point of fascination for him. they’re always moving. that in and of itself captures him, creature of paranoia that he is, and while her hands are more than capable of making the transformation into weapons, she seems to use them more for telegraphing things. what, precisely, he’s still pinpointing. he nudges his glass forward with his knuckles, pushing it towards her side of the bar and stops when he's close enough to brush his pinky against her thumb; he doesn't. he's tempted. )
Something like that. ( he withdraws, fishing in his pocket for his wallet and settles up with borrowed money. he scrubs a hand over the lower half of his face, rubs his mouth, before announcing: ) I'll be outside. I could use the air. Come find me when you— ( get off, really? ) When you're through in here.
( what? it's the truth. he does need the cool breeze on his skin. also, if he's outside she can't refuse payment for the drinks, someone else will swipe it if she does. that's simply that, except for the glance he casts over his shoulder on the way out the front door. it's a lingering look and maybe, if she's observant, she'll catch that they flick downward and take in more than her face. he may not be lewd but he's only subtle when something requires a delicate touch. he's generally fairly straight forward in what he's after. when she does come looking for him, assuming she doesn't slip out the back, he'll be leaning over the railing outside or leaning against a wall ( or whatever the exterior happens to lend itself to ). )
[ She likes to joke that she works at the bar because it's one of the few things she's actually skilled at — after years of drinking alcohol, she's bound to have picked up a few tricks for serving it along the way, right? — but the truth is she needs a place like this to ground her, a room that bears enough reminders of Shorty's back home to tether her amidst the chaos, the sex-fueled mindset that seems to plague whoever runs this city. Yet somehow she's found real connection here too, in spite of it all or maybe because of it, those people who have been thrust into a less-than-ideal situation needing those cornerstones to reach for.
She'd tried the emptiness routine when she first got here, tried losing herself in a pattern of too much drinking and casual sex, but all it had served to do was make her feel more and more like she was abandoning her purpose. Now, with people she cares about here — not just Waverly and Dolls, but the ones who don't exist for her back home as far as she knows: Frank, Felicity, Sam, Quill, Oliver — she's got more to endure for, more to roll out of bed for, more to consider when she thinks about her designation and what that means for the ones she needs to be looking out for. And maybe, every now and then, that involves shutting her brain off and not thinking about any of it. It doesn't mean she'll tune it out forever, but for the next few hours at least, she doesn't need to wallow.
Really, it doesn't take much to care about Oliver Queen; it takes even less to be curious about what he's thinking, and he doesn't stray far from her thought as she works through the end of her shift, definitely replaying the gaze he'd left her on the receiving end of (had she imagined that brief sweep down over the length of her, or not?), and by the time she clocks out and fetches her coat from the office, shrugging it over her shoulders and sliding a hand beneath her hair to clear it from the collar, he's there waiting for her.
She isn't quite holding her breath on approach, but she's very conscious of the lack of a bar between them now as she stops to stand in front of where he's leaning, tilting her head back to glance up at him under the streetlights and resisting the urge to shove her hands into her jacket pockets. ] Found you.
I had every faith that you would. ( light but with conviction. intensity tends to seep out of him, he’s trying to keep somewhat of a handle on that. he pushes away from the rail and straightens up, also acutely aware of the lack of a divider between them. they’ve always had something to fall back on: running, sparring, dancing, drinks. there aren’t any distractions left. it’s oliver and wynonna, and the night. just because he’s had a fair amount of time to put himself back together and cool off ( so to speak ) doesn’t mean he’s taken himself out of the mindset he’d been in on that stool. )
Do you want to get out of here? ( he presents wynonna with the crook of his elbow, raising his arm; she doesn’t have to take it and loop her arm through his but he’ll give her a few moments to decide. whichever she chooses, he wants to travel away from the 13th step and head somewhere else. destination anywhere, just somewhere less populated.
oliver likes wynonna’s company. he’d enjoyed her presence before he knew her and while there’s still so much to learn and absorb and take in, he trusts her. for keeping felicity close, for being a friend to her, for being there for him, and for never making anything that cropped up seem like as huge of a deal as it could have been. as a man that’s seemingly vetted his friends and allies, that’s a vital quality to him. )
There’s just one thing I have to tell you first. ( it’s time, isn’t it? star city knows and it goes beyond that with the fbi involved, who he is and what he’s done is known nationally. ( and truthfully, if this progresses the way he hopes and he loses his shirt, the amount of scars on his body isn’t going to match up with: i took a few self-defense classes. ) this can go any number of ways and perhaps he doesn't owe her this explanation because he'd never planned to stick around long enough for anyone to find out, but he wants to. ) When we were sharing our collective pasts, I didn't tell you everything. I'm not a philanthropist and I'm definitely not a pacifist.
Although, I did get elected for mayor somewhere in there, so... ( kinda wishy-washy hand gesture? not a total lie? jesus, why is he so bad at this? he's kept this from a dozen people and he's had to drop the truth bomb on all of them; he should have a perfected speech. ) What I'm trying to say is that this is me. This guy you've gotten to know. It's a part of who I am, but the bigger part is the Green Arrow. I'm a ( super hero??? shut the front door. ) —vigilante. And I should have told you that a long time ago, before you were willing to draft up a contract with me. But I'm telling you now, Wynonna.
( and he's prepared for anger, annoyance, her being upset, or point blank laughing in his face. )
[ There it is, that seemingly all-too-easy rhythm they manage to fall into — conversationally-speaking, of course, because she can't speak to any other rhythm between them save for those times they step into the ring down in the Arena, those fights marked by just the right timing and the uncanny sense she can't seem to shake that he's still holding back from giving her one hundred percent in that scenario, not that she can actually prove that he's pulling his punches or has even directly called him out aside from a few sidelong glances. Besides, maybe she's been keeping herself at a distance too, letting the drinking and the sparring serve as a substitute for getting too close, letting him feel like he's got the space to breathe whenever he does want to do the actual talking thing.
He offers her his arm and she doesn't know what it says about her that she actually considers taking it; there's almost no hesitation in her glancing down to view the held-out crook of his arm and the moment when her fingers twitch at her side, like she almost may not stuff her hands away before giving one to him instead, to create a further tether between them in the time it takes them to go from here to anywhere else, but the second she actually ditches thinking about it and decides to just do it, his follow-up stills her altogether.
And she almost makes a crack before he can get through his spiel ("no wait, don't tell me, you've got a deep dark secret you've been hiding from me this whole time"), but the more he goes on the more she realizes that maybe she's veered a little closer to the truth in her perception, however teasing, than she realized. He ventures that confession out loud and it all hits her like a ton of bricks in terms of how the puzzle pieces start to slot together, everything he's told her that hadn't added up before doing it all at once now, and for a few seconds all she can do is look at him dumbly, gaze sweeping over him and then back up to his face, trying to reconcile what he's telling her with what she'd seen, sensed even — and finally she just pushes out a breath, soft and slow and between slightly pursed lips. ]
Uh, okay. You're gonna need to give me a minute here, just to — to process all of — [ She gestures to him with the hand that would have reached out to slip through that extended arm, vaguely indicating his entire situation before her hand smacks back down against her thigh. ] — this.
[ Granted, he is talking to the girl for whom demons are a regular phenomenon, literally on the days ending in Y, so in the grand scheme of things a guy with basically a superhero moniker — shut up, he's totally a superhero, don't deny it — and a penchant for inhabiting the midnight hour isn't really that difficult for her to wrap her head around. ]
Goddamn it. Everything makes sense now. It's — [ And she does laugh, now, but it comes out more as a slightly dazed chuckle while she shakes her head, somehow understanding but still partly at a loss — and then she reaches out to gently prod her fingers against his shoulder, a shove of protest. ]
Okay, why the shift into honesty hour? I'm not naive enough to think it completely has to do with the fact that we were just in there hinting around between-the-sheets action.
Take as much time as you need. ( something to put out there. obviously, she doesn’t need his permission to deal with what he’s confessing after omitting it. he nods and lowers his arm, hands at his side, resolute in his patience. he’s been here before and while nearly every time holds crippling fear ( what will happen, who it will hurt ), he isn’t afraid. every single person in his life knows. he’s been held accountable for his actions and decisions, his duplicitous life, and he’s tried more recently to act in the light of day. he looks down at the ground, their feet, biding his time. he won’t rush this. just because he assumes wynonna is capable of handling and accepting the truth does not mean that she has to get on his projected timeline to do it — if she ever does.
she laughs and he looks up, allowing a smidgen of hope to slip through. he rocks with the shove but overall, he takes it and remains planted in front of her. how does he even begin to answer that? he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth to hide a smile at being called out and the rush of being put under a spotlight is like being stuck with pins and needles. )
That’s not completely why, no. ( he rubs at the side of his face, like he can physically force the words out. ) When I left, I went home to Star City and for me at least, years went by. ( from the way that he’s heard it, he’s been missing from this city for mere months. ) My secret doesn’t belong to me anymore. I turned myself in on national television and because of that, because of the deal I made, I went to prison. When I got out, I worked alongside the SCPD — I was deputized. ( he shrugs. ) I've changed since the last time you saw me. I'm not living in the shadows anymore. I don't really see the point of going back into them here.
( he has kids. )
You're the first person I've told about what I remember from home. ( he crosses his arms then, not because he's drawing some imaginary line between them. it's an unconscious action, one meant to bind the mixed emotions he's experiencing. he knows what he's placing at her feet or wrapping around her shoulders. oliver's not asking her to keep it for him, to be complicit in his burial of the truth, but he's also not not asking her. ) Considering the kinds of choices we're forced to make and the secrets about us that come to light, I thought I'd be upfront with you this time around. I don't want to hide who I am from you.
( a forced admission of sorts but then again, oliver feels it's long overdue. )
I would have told you, at or after the fort. ( no, but it would have come out in very violent and telling ways, so same difference. )
Edited (i forgot to finish a damn sentence :|) 2019-06-24 06:20 (UTC)
[ It's not the first time Wynonna's heard a story like this one — when Frank disappeared for only a week, he went back and somehow managed to live a whole year out on the other side, came back to the return of all of his memories from this place and plenty of new ones added in to boot. They haven't gone into all the ins and outs of what he went through there, but she's seen enough to know that it's changed him, helped him to bury some ghosts in the process, brought him back to her more whole than he was before he left. But he also doesn't have those touchstones from his past here to wrestle through, people who don't necessarily know what's to come from a future they haven't yet lived.
And so she can't help thinking that this might be the reason she's the one hearing the truth from Oliver now — because it's not her world he's telling her about, because she doesn't come from a place that knows the Green Arrow or what he'd given up in finally owning up to his other half. He tells it to her straight and in one sense, she appreciates it more than he might realize; she's used to people hedging the truth, stopping just short of actually being fully honest with her, and regardless of how long it's taken him, how much he might've weighed over whether or not to reveal this to her before actually doing it, the point is that he's doing it now without any caveats or attempts to downplay it.
She can see how much it's taking from him to even get this far out loud, the folding of his arms across his front reading very much like what she tries to do to close herself off when she's trying to grit through the truth, the unspoken part that's requesting she keep it buried from their mutuals — at least as long as he decides to withhold it on his end — and she presses out another sigh, idly casting her gaze down the street ahead of them for somewhere to put it that isn't his face. ]
Not to make this sound like any kind of corny line, but — [ When she reaches out to him finally, it's to curve her hand around his forearm where he's still got them folded across his chest, an imperceptible squeeze that only the two of them are going to pick up on. ] The truth goes a long way. Regardless of however long it takes you to feel comfortable with saying it, the point is that you said it, so — thank you.
[ Okay, maybe she's lightly trying to pry his arms free after a beat so she can sway closer into his space, but she isn't moving to do anything beyond the small circle of her fingers around his wrist — a small tug, a promise on her end. ] You don't need to worry about hiding, alright? Not with me.
( full picture: there are things oliver still withholds, details he doesn’t find significant enough to uncover. he’s married, he has a son and a daughter he will never get to watch grow up, and he’s working alongside a man that calls himself the monitor to save a world that will, eventually, vilify him and the people he cares about. ( and he knows that he’s meant to die in 2019, so there’s that, too. ) none of that seems quite as relevant here in duplicity — not his marriage, not his children, not the future. he won’t lie to wynonna if she asks but he’s not interjecting it into the conversation because he’s already decided those things can’t matter if he’s to have any chance here.
she steps towards him and gets a hand around his arm and he softens, feeling less like someone weathering a storm and more like he’s going to come out on the other side. it’s a nice gesture on her part. oliver doesn’t glance down to confirm their connection because he’s watching her face, reading her lips and searching her eyes. it feels impossible somehow, to make a friend like this in a universe that isn’t either of theirs, but here they are.
he exhales when she wedges his arm down and away from his body while the other follows, giving her the room to do as she likes. they haven’t crossed this line yet — standing this close, walls down. )
Yeah. ( as if confirmation alone is an adequate reply. he nods once, gives her a tiny reassuring smile and then turns his hand over from where she's holding his wrist so that he can grab hers in return. they must look weird, holding wrists instead of hands but oliver doesn't care. tethering himself to wynonna feels so much more intimate than the other actions he could take that spring to mind. he attributes that to brushing his fingertips over her pulse. ) But if anyone should be grateful, it's me.
( he could do it. one pull and he could try and yank wynonna right into him but he doesn't. he cocks his head slightly, needing to know first. )
You're more understanding than I thought you'd be. Must be all that revenant-wrangling you were telling me about. You're—hah—sort of unbelievable. ( and it's less of a laugh, more a means to offset his nerves again. ) And I say that while recognizing that I'm the one admitting to fighting crime and egomaniacs.
( he may not believe he deserves wynonna's kindness but he basks in it, and that is the biggest difference between who he was and who he is. )
[ And real talk: there are still plenty of people here in Duplicity that don't know what Wynonna's had to give up, what she had to send away to protect back home, who she still thinks about when the nights are quiet enough to bring back the memory of that new baby smell and a tiny hand closing around her finger. Some people have shared her memories unwillingly, bear the weight of them right alongside her, but it's nothing she really chooses to offer up front and chances are it won't necessarily swirl to the surface between them either. Sometimes she has to content herself in the knowledge that a partial picture is better than being kept in the dark — or being lied to, which somehow hurts even more than omission.
He might still be withholding things from her but she doesn't get that sense of him trying to deliberately mislead her, or making the choice to tell her the truth based on what he thinks she can handle. She's never been a fan of that decision being made for her and she never will be, especially considering how often it's happened; people want to spare her, think they're acting in her best interest, but it takes away her right to decide for herself and it has never not ended badly for everyone involved.
But here they stand, establishing that tether, and she's not sure she can feel his pulse stuttering in his wrist but she's pretty positive hers does, especially when he slides his fingers over that point and looks at her with a tilt of his head, almost questioning. Her breath catches in her throat and she glances down to whatever stretch of space still exists between them. It's not much anymore, certainly no closer than they've necessarily been when sparring before, but she's even more aware of what it would mean to close that distance altogether now.
He turns her words back around on her and she chuckles, a self-deprecating sound paired with a duck of her chin before she lifts her gaze to him without tipping her head back, gazing up from underneath her eyelashes. It's supposed to be a product of her hesitation; she's nervous. They both are. ]
Look, I've been lied to more times than I can count. You get pretty sick of it after a while, so — it makes the reverse stick out even more, when it happens. And I'm really not one to judge what people get up to in their spare time, unless it's something that affects me and mine. [ That's code for Waverly, especially; anyone who comes for her is going to have to deal with big sister wrath; she pauses, as if she's trying to work up the nerve for what comes next. ]
So why don't we just skip past the part where we argue over who's the more tolerant between the two of us and come back in right around you kissing me instead?
( he respects wynonna too much to handle her as though she’s some sort of equation on a white board that he’s worked out every possible variable of. oliver’s seen firsthand what keeping people in the dark to his crusade does to them — tommy, most notably. as with laurel, quentin, and thea ( two of whom are deceased ), he also knows what bringing them into the fold does. it doesn’t get any less terrifying, wondering if someone is going to reject him for the person he’s become, for failing to be who they thought he was but he’s learning that relationships mean more when people choose to open or shut a door with all of the facts.
if he’s supposed to be brushed off by the duck of her head and the bittersweet laugh, she misses her mark. he’s only more enamored by her. an honest display for a vulnerable topic, it seems fair. the realization that he ought to glance away, ease the tension for her, dawns on him but he doesn’t lessen the awkwardness for her. though it would help assuage her of her nerves, it feels rude somehow to disengage now. )
I know what you mean. ( as often as he’s been the man cultivating his secrets, he has also had his heart and organization infiltrated by people he cared for and trusted blindly. he likes to think that means he won’t trust with his eyes closed anymore but which is worse? seeing shadows where there aren’t any, enemies in the faces of friends, or never again lowering that wall? ) It's been a really long and winding road to get me here, but if I've learned anything from those struggles, it's that I can't expect trust without giving it first.
( that's all he has time to insert into wynonna's pause. she casts out a line, hooking him, and he feels the slow drag of being reeled towards her down to his bones. there's no shrinking back. she calls it like it is and oliver grins freely, unwilling to mask it. his hand around her wrist briefly clenches in order to enact his previous impulse. he pulls her into him, precise and quick, while his other hand finds the small of her back to balance her out if she needs the assist. just because it happens in a span of seconds doesn't mean she can't react, he gives her that moment when he releases her wrist to cup the side of her face, caressing her cheek with the pad of his thumb. )
But for the record, you'd win. ( although he feels like he's the one that's victorious here, once he leans down and does as he's told. he finally gets to discover what her lips feel like upon his and he can put a name to what she tastes like. kissing her feels slightly like flirting with disaster—she isn't one, he is—because oliver's emotions and desire are a lot like a damn and once something slips through the cracks, everything does. he's all or nothing. curiosity grips him, keeping him temporarily reined, so that he's catching her upper lip between his and then trading it for her lower lip in the lingering press of his mouth instead of rushing to swipe his tongue along the divide of hers. )
[ Even from their first meeting, when she'd approached him back on the cruise ship before everything had gone ghosty and she'd had the feel-good side effects from one too many glasses of whiskey coursing through her, their conversation had felt easy. Sure, some of that had definitely been the alcohol, which tends to make even the less talkative of their twosome (not her) feel more inclined towards sharing; maybe a piece of it had been her, she of the eternally inclined towards self-effacing humor and the tendency to wheedle others into just loosening up. But even after that conversation and the dancing that had followed, they'd continued to seek each other out, coaxing out pieces of one another in the process.
So he probably knows that when he voices a compliment like that, she's going to try to brush it off, to downplay it as is her tendency, sidestepping anything that could border too close to sincerity in favor of keeping things light, chill, not too genuine. But try as she might, they're veering into that territory, prompting a small shrug from her, a reflexive curve of her fingertips to tuck some of her hair back behind her ear with the hand that isn't currently grasping onto him. ]
Yeah. Next we can totally do some of those falls they always tried to make us pull off in gym class. [ Guess who always got dropped because no one wanted to stick their hands out to catch the weird Earp girl? It's a joke to try and mask the quickening in her breathing, especially when he goes and tugs her into him in a move she definitely would've paused to give him props for if she hadn't felt entirely uninclined to pump the brakes. One second there's still claimable space between their bodies and the next, she's right up in his business, and she can't disguise the flutter of her eyelashes or the way she unconsciously tilts her head into the touch of his hand, the sweep of his thumb across her face. ]
That's — [ She doesn't get far enough to argue her case, damn it, because he's already leaning down to cover her mouth with his, warm and tasting of vodka, and she can't help it, she practically melts, curving into him with a soft sigh that gets lost somewhere in the middle of it all. He kisses her like he's been curious about it for a while, learning her lips with his own, and she doesn't rush it either for once in her life, tilting her head slightly to deepen the kiss in a firmer press before inviting him further with the subtle part of her lips. ]
( he hopes that wynonna will forgive him for keeping the i’d catch you in his head. perhaps it’s one of those unspoken truths shared between two people. truthfully, oliver’s style of bonding consists of breaking people to pieces over the rocks of reality—life is tough, be tougher. luckily, wynonna isn’t a friend trying to get on his level on the battlefield. she doesn’t seem to require the reassurance, judging by how she leans into him; her sigh a vibration that almost tickles upon his lips. oh, but it’s perfect. her unhurried pace, how she turns her face to give or take more, and oliver surrenders even as a part of him compartmentalizes how wrong ( right ) this is.
his fingers twist in the back of her jacket, anchoring himself to his decision and to wynonna. they’re out in the open and that means he can’t participate with reckless abandon, but he can respond to how she opens her mouth under his by doing the same. he brushes the tip of his tongue through that divide, seeking hers, and pushes his palm across her cheek back into her hair. it’s as soft as it looks — which is great, except that oliver gets more of a thrill from her mouth than that tidbit about her. it’s up to her, really, how far she wants to take this out on the street. he’s content with learning how to navigate this new territory, how the wet heat from her tongue sparks the beginning of a new hunger ( one that’s cropped up during banter or sparring ) and fans those flames gently.
this is a yearning he’s felt since that first dance and again, later, when each person discovered their dualcam counterparts. not to mention the risqué photograph that had been sent to him by mistake. actually doing this sends him spinning because it’s heady and wonderful, and exactly what he needs. unfortunately, he does kind of have to breathe eventually. barry and kara got all those pesky superpowers. oliver’s only human so he breaks for air, not far enough to put a stop to anything. )
[ It speaks to the possibility that she's maybe thought about what this would be like already, because she doesn't move to do anything just beyond kiss him while they're still standing here right out on the street — but jeez, she's really not complaining about this part of it, his hand fisting a grip in the leather of her jacket hard enough to make it squeak between his fingers and the other sweeping back into the waves of her hair, combing against her scalp and making her turn into that touch with a tilt that doesn't seek to peel her mouth away from his.
And if she'd wondered about what kissing him would actually feel like, those early thoughts pale in comparison to what he actually does, making both her scalp and her lips tingle from the intensity of it, his tongue dipping into her mouth to taste her and prompting another quiet sound from her in turn. She rocks up onto her tiptoes to close more of the height difference between them and her arms wind around his neck, fingers of one hand gently stroking across the short hair down across his nape.
It's where she hovers when the kiss inevitably breaks, but she doesn't shift back down right away, hasn't even opened her eyes yet to take him in from this close, so when she whispers across his mouth it's relying on everything by feel alone, the tip of her nose barely brushing his. ] You know, I might be a little biased, but my place is pretty good for more of this talking thing.
( sometimes, what you build up in your head doesn’t live up to the actuality. that’s not the case here. more often than not, oliver’s body is like a taut wire with no slack, pulled tight and fixed. he relaxes when wynonna’s arms come up over his shoulders and around his neck. her fingers are hypnotic and the sole point of focus with his eyes shut. is she looking at him? is she waiting for him to open his eyes? is she as comfortable as he is? oliver can’t quite bring himself to open his and discover the truth.
he chuckles, more air than depth, and drags her upper lip between his. one more languid kiss, selfish and warm; he tries to avoid to get around the scratch of his facial hair on her skin though it’s somewhat unavoidable. when he pulls back a second time, he retracts his hands from the small of her back and her head to lower her arms from around his neck delicately. he’s fairly certain he could scoop her up in a fireman’s hold, however he’s also convinced there’s no way, no how that she would allow that for the entire length of the walk to her place. )
I see your bias and raise you: then what are we waiting for? ( oh, sorry. did she think he kept the illusion of being prim and proper up 24/7? he's polite because it's beneficial to him. if he's perceived one way, then it's incredibly simple to conduct his private life in another. ) I've wanted to be alone with you from the moment I stepped into your bar.
( closer to the truth. he's not positive he wants to be so forthcoming with himself, let alone wynonna, to admit he sought her out with one purpose in mind. he can be himself around her, now more than ever. )
[ He might be trying to avoid the scratch of facial hair against her chin but she doesn't lean away from it, doesn't avoid the instinct to slant their mouths together solely because she's worried about a little razor burn; if anything, it only adds to the sensation of what kissing him already feels like, that rasp that somehow works in tandem with the firm warmth of his lips on hers for those few minutes that they're entwined like this, standing out on the street bathed in lamplight.
He's slowly winding her arms down from around his neck but not moving to separate himself from her beyond that; she can faintly perceive the warmth of his skin where her front just barely grazes his, permeates through the thin cotton of her shirt, tantalizingly close enough to make her want to draw in even more, to peel all the layers away until there's nothing between his body and hers anymore. ]
Honestly? Might have been even earlier than that, for me. [ If he's going to fess up to feeling a certain way about wanting to see her naked after tonight, then she can raise him even more truthfulness; she'd be lying if she said this hadn't been on her mind, playing somewhere in the background, even if it hasn't necessarily rocketed to the forefront of her awareness until now, when she knows what his mouth tastes like.
But they're not waiting anymore, if that's the agreement they've each navigated towards, and when she finally rocks back onto her heels it's with an accompanying jerk of her head down the street; she's never not appreciated that the bar is a short walk away from the high-rises, and she appreciates it even more at a time like this one. ] But we can get even more alone than this.
For how long? ( try as he might not to come across as overeager, the curiosity cuts through effortlessly. her body serves as a stronger temptation, right there, even as his hands retract from her wrists. he’d forgotten in a way, what this felt like with someone new. a current of excitement and anticipation so varied from being with someone you have mapped out. he wonders idly ( though it doesn’t particularly matter when ) if it had been as early as out on the dance floor or if it had been during his endless drills of exercise. sex is a pretty inarguable defense against running another mile. it would have worked.
he hates himself for breaking away from her and for living in the reality of the moment, for needing privacy and four walls. wynnona doesn’t seem too bothered when she indicates their direction with a tilt of her head and oliver falls into step with her with ease, delighting in the allure of her invitation. more alone than this is what he's after. is that fire going to dwindle on the walk over? is she going to cool off and change her mind? is she going to be the sort of person that needs a glass of wine to jump in once the moment's in front of her and it's not impulsive? there's a lot of details he doesn't know about wynonna at all. ) Because I'll admit after seeing that photograph, which I deleted, I was curious.
( he shrugs, not ashamed of the truth albeit a little awkward in regards to being the first to take the plunge and confess. )
[ Her hands almost instantly slip back into the pockets of her jacket — not to preserve any warmth, since it feels like it's radiating out of her now in a way that's almost impossible to ignore in the immediate aftermath of their kissing, the drink she still tastes on her tongue, but rather for lack of anything to do with them in the right now. She'll have plenty to do with them eventually, but right now, she curves her fingers in against her palms and casually sweeps her tongue across her lower lip, as if trying to subdue her reaction to the rising anticipation of it all, the spreading crookedness of her grin. ]
Maybe I was curious if you'd actually done anything with that picture after all. [ She knew he hadn't, had taken him at his word when he'd said he'd gotten rid of it then, but the thought of what it could have potentially led to had given her more than one image to dwell on. ]
Before that, though, the sparring. Watching, learning how you fought, how you moved. Sort of made me wonder how you'd handle yourself some other way. [ And how they'd move together by the very nature of a different tangling of limbs; if he'd let her bear him down or refuse to go easy on her, apply that same kind of concentrated focus once her thighs were wrapped around his hips or if he'd let himself lose control a little more like she knows he's capable of, had glimpsed hints of down in the Arena. She shrugs one shoulder, hair spilling forward across her profile with the movement, forcing her to toss her head slightly when she finally gives him a sidelong glance, trying to gauge his reaction to what she's implying by not saying. ]
[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. ]
[ She might be taking steps to keep her conversation private, but there's definitely no keeping her steps quiet when she finally starts to ascend the stairs up to her room, figuring she can at least have the benefit of a closed door between her and the rest of the homestead if they're going to be playing catch-up.
The house itself is creaky, the stairs even moreso — she'd had to master the art of keeping her steps light whenever she'd tried to sneak out past curfew, but these days she doesn't care so much about getting caught — but it's notably quieter when she finally slips into her room, and she raises her voice out of a whisper. ]
You know you can't just up and say things like that. My ego's already inflated plenty. [ But there's a grin evident in her voice as she sits at the foot of the bed. ]
[The spy holds the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pours himself a drink, smiling to himself when he spoke the next words.]
Remember that whiskey you talked about, Wyn? The one that's almost impossible to find? I got you a bottle. [It wasn't something he did for just anybody, going around hunting down special gifts for them. Wynonna was a special woman and James didn't go anywhere without carrying the thought of her with him.]
[ The sound in her voice probably makes it plain that she isn't complaining about his honesty — in fact, it's a refreshing change from her track record of getting involved with guys who can't seem to tell the truth to save their life. The irony that it's coming from him, where deception is basically a part of his regular gig, isn't lost on her either, but she's not going to point that out to him now. ]
I'm guessing you don't have to worry about sneaking that through customs. [ Another tease, considering he probably has his own methods of shipping alcohol that she doesn't know about. ]
There's no way I'd leave here without a gift for you.
[Lying might have become his expertise but he kept it exclusively within work. Wynonna had the permission to smack him upside the head if he ever deceived her.]
I have my ways. Just don't mention it to the higher-ups. [James chuckles.] But tell me something, Wynonna.. What are you wearing? [A cliché question, but the little detail would make sense in a moment.]
[ Her first instinct is always to tell him he doesn't need to bring her back anything from his travels because she's not used to being thought of as a priority — not like that, anyway, not in the middle of whatever crazy mission he's got going on.
She doesn't know when she'll stop thinking of herself that way. Some habits are just harder to kill.
His question prompts a laugh, and she glances down at herself for a moment. ]
Well, do you want the sexy, made-up answer, or the truth?
[James has some knowledge of not feeling worthy of praise or affection. His mother made it clear how his brother was so much better and how he made her so proud. If he didn't have his work and if he hadn't met Wynonna, he'd still be feeling those feelings. Although sometimes there's a tiny glimpse of those dark days.]
[ But she isn't going to sugarcoat it, or hype up her own appearance, because right now she's literally wearing what she usually does when she's chilling around the house and she's got company around — otherwise, she'd be more inclined to make herself comfortable in next-to-nothing. ]
It's a totally sexy, skimpy... oversized sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. [ She's basically in vegging mode right now, and when she reaches that status she's always dressing for comfort and not necessarily taking a spontaneous call from the guy she's periodically seeing into account. ]
Yes, I'm going to be making a ton of best-dressed lists in my sexy, sexy pajamas.
[ He had wanted honesty, of course, but she's never going to be the kind of girl who's all that comfortable in a fancy pair of lingerie. The closest she gets to anything along those lines are her thongs and even then, she'll err more on the side of cotton than anything she has to spend a ton of money on.
It's times like these she knows she's not the type he spends most of his time around, has to wonder why he wants to keep slumming it with her because she's never been accused of being fancy in her life. ]
Why do I get the feeling you're already thinking about something specific?
[ James finds himself imagining all kinds of things he wants to do to her. It's been a while since their office encounter and he wants more of her.]
If I were there, I'd start with kissing your soft lips. Slow, deep and lingering. My hands moves gently on your clothed body, sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt.
Maybe. [ She slowly tips back to lay across the bed itself, cradling her phone against her ear with a few fingers, gaze directed up at the ceiling as her voice turns soft for a second. ] Maybe I'd like to know more about you than I already do.
[ It's a burst of unexpected honesty from her, but she doesn't have time to linger on it because he's already starting to paint a very vivid picture for her about what he'd be doing if they were in the same room together, and a smile slowly starts to curve up the edges of her mouth as she listens to him. Good thing she's already closed the bedroom door. ]
I'd be happy to tell you more when we meet again. I'm quite curious about you as well.
[The images in his head become very vivid as he focuses fully on her and the memory of her perfume from their previous encounter, and the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.]
They start with a slow, teasing caress. Slowly moving towards your soft breasts where they linger. I whisper how beautiful you are as I kiss the spot right beneath your ear, where I know you love to be kissed.
[ 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.
[ His smile doesn't quite reach the look in his eyes, but it's still there — whatever this is hasn't found a way to take it from him yet, hasn't beaten him down enough for the hope to be gone altogether. It warms her to see it, a reminder that even after all that's been taken from them, they still have things worth holding on to, hope and each other and a will to keep fighting even when it feels damn near pointless sometimes.
She's checked in on the others — Waverly's hunkered down at Nicole's place, Jeremy's with his honey bun and had definitely sent her way too many emojis in his reply back, and Doc is holding things down at Shorty's, because there's nothing like the oncoming apocalypse to make people want to drink. It's been her and Peacemaker here for the past several hours, the homestead idly settling around her with a few creaks and groans, and she's got a bottle of whiskey sitting just beside the glass she'd poured herself not too long ago.
But she makes the joke when she sees him because it's all she knows how to do; she's not good at these moments, the sincere ones where her brain is already trying to come up with at least thirty different ways to underscore it so she doesn't have to live in the meaningful for too long. She only has enough time to process his remark before he's stepping forward to wrap his arms around her — and she doesn't crumple, doesn't break, because that's not her either, but she does slide her arms around him too, tucks her face into his shoulder without care for the dried blood on his skin and clothes, and breathes him in, slow and easy. ]
You too. [ She might even let herself hold on to him for a few extra beats before withdrawing, hands gently cupping the underside of his arms as her eyes find his. ] No. Whatever he's cooked up hasn't found a way to spill over here yet. Maybe it's competing curses, I don't know. All I know is we're safe here, for now.
[ Dean makes sure to breathe her in. It's been a long time since they've gotten to be in the same area code. Before Michael killed the hunters. Before his Jack killed his mom. Before Chuck killed Jack. One long conga line of deaths. It's the Dean Winchester way. People get close to him and then they die. He told Sam before. He's poison. He's a fool for convincing himself that maybe he could have just a few good things going on in his life. If he had just convinced Sam to put him in the damn box (that he neglected to Wynonna about) then Michael never would have got out. Things wouldn't have spun out of control. Hunters would be alive. Jack never would have burned a huge part of his soul off taking Michael out. His mom wouldn't be dead. Maybe Chuck woulda just left them alone.
Right now she's just about his last leg. Because everything else may be gone, but she's there. Sam's alive and safe. Cas is somewhere doing angel things while he tries to figure out what's happening with Heaven and the chaos that Chuck has caused. When you piss off God? Make sure you have some way to maybe kill him for real so he doesn't come back and completely fuck you. Who knows how many spirits or demons are out there right now. He called Bobby on his way here and he told Dean he'd start rounding who was left up to make sure Chuck didn't get extra vindictive with them.
Her hands on him are good. They ground Dean right now. They remind him that they still got a chance maybe. They gotta figure out a way to stop what they made happen. Easier said than done though. ] That'll piss him off. Hope you're ready for when he finds a way to crack through. [ Because it's gonna be some holy fucking vengeance. They didn't go by his script. ] Cas is in town trying to figure some things out. He'll meet us here later. [ He's also likely trying to stalk Wynonna's family to make sure they're safe. But he probably looks creepy doing it.
Silence hangs in the air for a moment, but it's something he knows that he's gotta touch on with her. He's got a body in his trunk and it's been in there for hours. He can't just leave Jack in there over night. He looks away from her for a moment and then steps back. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and looks down. ] Chuck killed Jack. I uh--[ There's a shaky breath and a unstable look to him when he makes eye contact again. ]--don't know what to do with his body. He's just a kid. I couldn't leave him behind.
[ It takes being confronted with the sight of him like this for her to realize that she's just grateful to have him here in one piece, real and warm and under her hands, even if she doesn't know the full story leading up to tonight and everything that's on their tail right now; she assumes that Sam and Cas are at least somewhere nearby, if not waiting out in the car themselves, and at some point they're going to have to take inventory when it comes to their own, especially if this is going to be the place where they make their final stand, but she can't find it in her to be mad about him for bringing this to her doorstep.
She'd told him once before that she'd have his back for whatever came next, whatever they had to face, and she'd meant it even in an end-of-the-world type scenario; it's not her first time dealing with one of those and she knows he's got a few apocalypses under his belt, so between the two of them and the others maybe they can even keep their shit together long enough to survive a little longer. They've cheated Death before, sometimes literally, so who says they can't pull it off one more time?
Either way, they're not going to figure it out at whatever the hell time it is now, when most of Purgatory is sound asleep in their beds completely ignorant of what's coming; in the morning, they'll put some coffee on and put their heads together and Sam and Waves can hit the books and maybe they can stumble across a fix, but for now it's just the two of them in the old house idly settling around them, the fire crackling in the other room and a bottle of whiskey to get through.
She breathes out a sigh when he mentions Jack, and for a minute there's nothing to say at all; she just closes the space between them to hug him again, guiding him to her shoulder with her cheek tucked against his. ] Do you wanna take care of him now, or — maybe we can wait for everyone else, bury him in the morning? [ Up on the hill, maybe. Near where she had to bury Dolls. ]
[ 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. ]
[ He's not dead, he can't be, she won't let it happen — not after being this long without him, not after he'd gone in to protect Waverly. Her head snaps up then as if she half-expects to see her sister somewhere here, and when her eyes aren't met with another familiar sigh she has the sinking feeling that somehow, wherever Waves is, she hasn't made it out. She's still trapped in there.
But then he rears up towards her, snapping wildly, and she braces her hands against his chest, slowly easing him back down against the sidewalk. ]
It's okay, it's me, I'm right here —
[ He's looking at her without really seeing her, blinking through the drops pelting down onto his face, onto hers, shuddering at the tip of her nose and along her jawline, dissolving into his mustache; she slides her hands up along his features again and tries to reel him back to her, to the sound of her voice — because she wouldn't be her if she didn't stop talking throughout, more of a frantic rambling now. ]
What happened? What do you remember? [ And then, fighting through the knot in her gut: ] Where's Waverly?
[ 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. ]
[ Neither of them has tried to put a label on what this is — which is frankly just fine as she's concerned, because no one would ever look at her and see someone who could thrive in a committed relationship — but if she really had to go and admit it to herself, she'd probably fess up to the fact that this has definitely progressed past the point of a casual hookup. Sure, he comes to see her, sometimes even stay with her when he's in town, and yeah, they spend a good chunk of that time in bed, but maybe they're treading a line here between something without strings and being tied together by a few loose knots.
She can't deny that the first thing she feels upon seeing him is relief, relief that he's okay; she knows what he's been gone doing and how dangerous it is because of who he is, because of who doesn't want people like him to exist. But she hopes he's figured out that he's safe here, with her, and that it would never even occur to her to give him up to anyone. ]
You know me. Always been kind of a night owl.
[ She realizes she's standing out on the porch with him in what are essentially her pajamas with her fingers still threaded in his shirt, but she doesn't have it in her to be embarrassed as her eyes search his. ]
Yeah, everything's good. I'm in one piece. [ not a bruise of a scratch on him this time. that hasn't always happened but life was a dangerous thing for both of them for different reasons. maybe he joked about quiet trips being boring but he did appreciate them because he liked coming back and not being in constant pain for however long he was here. ]
You?
[ he doesn't really know what she's been up to since he's been gone but it's been a few weeks. longer than planned but not the longest time he's been gone. even though he wants to just step into her and go inside, he wants to know what she's been up to before he does that. ]
Looks like. [ Yes, she might be using the opportunity to get in a sly mention of how much she enjoys looking over at him — and maybe taking advantage of the situation to step back and let her gaze rake over him, but if he calls her out on it she's just going to pretend she was checking him out for cuts and bruises, obviously. ]
Same old same. Protecting a town isn't an easy job, but someone's gotta do it. Even if that someone is the town's black sleep.
[ Maybe that's why they'd been drawn to each other in the first place; she knows a thing or two about being an outcast, being ostracized, being hated because of a misconception and not because anyone bothered to get to know her for who she really is.
She shrugs one shoulder, finally taking a step back into the house. ] You planning on standing out there all night?
I would've if you'd been out here with me. [ but no, he was going to go inside. it's been a long drive, a long few weeks, and he wants something familiar to surround himself. so, once she steps back, he follows, crossing the threshold and shutting the door behind him quickly.
he shrugs out of his coat, tossing it on a nearby chair or table or something (he's barely paying attention to anything but her her) before moving closer again. ]
I like that you got dressed up for me. [ he likes the pajamas, he means. ] You look good.
C'mon, it's too cold out there. [ Spoiler alert: it is not cold out there, it could barely even be considered chilly, but she wants to bring him inside and maybe see exactly how far they get inside the house before she's throwing herself at him.
Not that she's excited to see him or anything along those lines. ]
Shut up. [ But her grin splits her face before she can help it, as she turns her head to attempt to mask it behind the fall of her hair, and when she finally tilts her chin up to bring him into her view again it's with an undeniable fondness in her gaze. ] You look good too.
I look like a homeless person. [ he'd heard that once or twice over the last few weeks. he doesn't mind because it makes it easy to blend in and look like anyone else but he knows the image he presents. ]
Maybe you just like scruffy vagrants. [ he doesn't step closer but a smile does inch its way onto his face and he tucks his hands into his pockets, watching her from across the short distance. ]
Not that I mind, of course. [ before she says anything in response to that. ] Benefits me if you do.
But a sexy homeless person? [ She ventures a shrug of one shoulder, giving him a sly expression — because it really is a question of which one of them is going to move to close the distance first, and maybe she wants to find out exactly who breaks first.
In response to that remark, she laughs, because it's true; maybe she does have a type and maybe that type is slightly scruffy-looking dudes. (She's always had a little something for Harrison Ford, even if she'll never admit it.) But the sight of him slipping his hands into his pockets, as well as that slightly knowing look he gives her, prompts a broader smile. ]
So does that mean I can tell you you're not allowed to shave the beard? [ Okay, she's losing her own challenge for sure, already stepping forward as she gently slips her arms around his neck. ] Because it's a good look.
Are there such things as sexy homeless people? [ if there were, he'd take it. he knows he's got a little better than an actual homeless person and he's not taking what he has for granted at all but he knows he could also clean up a little. ]
You can tell me. Maybe I'll even listen. [ he probably would. when she slips closer, he pulls his hands out of his pockets and winds his arms around her waist. ]
Sure there are. I'm looking at one right now. [ But her lips tilt up in a smile that makes it plain she's still just teasing him for that nerf herder look, and her fingers latch together at the nape of his neck, keeping herself tethered to him by that much before the slip of his arms around her waist draw her even closer against him. ]
You? Disappointing?
[ She clucks her tongue against her teeth, offers a small headtilt, and then dips in slightly to nudge her nose against his. ]
It'd take a hell of a lot for you to disappoint me, Diaz. Even more than that if you make good on your promise to take me into that bedroom and do filthy, filthy things to me.
[ he noses against her, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent and savoring in her touch for just a second before he starts backing her towards where he thinks the bedroom might be. ]
All I've been thinking about while I've been driving is all the filthy, filthy things I want to do to you. Going down on you, fingering you, teasing you until you beg for more, you on top, you on your hands and knees...
[ he trails off and bites his lip. ] Made driving hard sometimes. Literally.
You know, I'm having trouble thinking of an example right now. Then again, you're being really distracting right now.
[ Her voice leaves her a little hushed, a subtle hitching in her breath when he so thoroughly fills the space between them, pressing against her in all the right ways already seconds before he starts walking her backwards in that slow, even pacing of their feet. ]
How do you do that? [ There's a subtle marveling in the question she poses to him, the way she tilts her chin up to keep their faces close together. ]
How do you just continue to be this insanely sexy?
Well, I wouldn't wanna show up and just be boring. Then, you might not want me to come back.
[ hopefully not. hopefully being boring wouldn't have been the dealbreaker between them. doesn't mean he's going to show up and just wanna sit on her couch and sleep but still. ]
It's called being too lazy to shave and wearing clothes that come from a thrift store and passing it off as being rugged. [ her face tips closer and he can't resist pressing a light, quick kiss against her lips. ] The dirty talk I picked up from truckers at rest stops.
I think I'd be just as into you even if you were a little boring. Could kind of use boring for a change, actually.
[ Especially considering the life she leads; boring is downright refreshing.
She won't withdraw from him as he leans in, gives her the soft press of his mouth; she hovers close to let her lips brush against his even while they continue talking in those low, hushed tones. ]
And here I thought you came up with all your own material. You mean to tell me you've been stealing all your best dirty talk from somewhere else?
Oh yeah, I steal everything good. This beard? I decided to grow it because I read somewhere that women love a man with a good beard.
[ and while that was actually true, it wasn't the reason why marcos had grown his beard. he'd been lazy, mostly, and then in a place where it was smart to grow a beard because he'd been cold and then he'd just kept it. ]
The dirty talk? It's from the porn I watched in the last hotel I stayed in. Really good porn. Lots of great dirty talk and acrobatics.
[ he grins at her, leaning forward to capture her mouth for a proper kiss. ]
Smart and well-read. Remind me again how I managed to snag you?
[ She says it half-jokingly, because it's not like they've ever actually had a DTR (define the relationship) talk, what with the both of them being propelled into life-or-death situations on the regular, and who has time for that anyway?
But maybe she's thought about it here and there, about what something real between them would look like. ]
Acrobatics, huh? Did you learn anything you want to show m — ?
[ It's all she manages to get out before his lips are on hers again, and she sighs softly into it, arms winding more firmly around his neck as she lifts herself up on her tiptoes to meet him; he's got her beat by more than a few inches, but she never objects to having to insert herself more fully into his space. ]
Were you about to ask me if I learned anything from the porn movies I might or might not have watched and wanted to see?
[ he pulls away just enough that he can move his lips to talk but his mouth is still mostly pressed against hers and he whispers the words to her. his lips then pull into a smile, smug and devious. ]
Wouldn't you like to know? Or see. [ and he would absolutely show her, of course. ] Had to do something to get off when I couldn't get you on the phone to hear your voice.
Well, I figured you might have picked up one or two things you'd be interested in trying out.
[ And she keeps their faces close, lets her lips brush against his on every other syllable in that way that only draws out how badly she wants him, raises the anticipation of the moment.
They've always had a knack for this, at teasing out things until they're both desperate and practically clawing at each other, ripping each other's clothes off, and maybe now is no exception even while they're already moving in the direction of her bed. ]
You should show me that too sometime. [ Now that she has him here, it feels like permission to be bold, to voice her desires, to ask for what she wants. ] How you get yourself off when I'm not around.
[ far be it from him to not give her a show. he wasn't terribly shy, not when he was in private with her but it wasn't something he'd with just anyone either. ]
You want to watch me jerk off? Fuck into my fist while I think of you? I'd be happy to show you that whenever you want. It'd be fun to see how long you could keep your hands to yourself.
[ But at this very moment especially, she's too damn impatient to keep her hands to herself, and that's probably evidenced by the fact that she's already sliding her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers spindling across the firm ridges of his abdomen where she can feel his skin directly — not necessarily attempting to remove that layer fully, but just taking the opportunity to feel him.
And maybe she drags her nails across his skin in retaliation, because he knows her too well already to know she won't be able to watch very long without trying to participate. ]
Right now, though? Right now I'd rather have you fucking me instead.
Hmm. Maybe in the shower, too. Show me how you touch yourself with all that water running over you.
[ But wow, abs; those are going to distract her pretty well right now and she lets her hands roam over all that uncovered skin, the rounds of his shoulders and the planes of his chest before sliding across his stomach to gently tease beneath the waistband of his pants.
One of her hands dips low to find the outline of his arousal, the ridge of his erection nudging against the front seam, and she caresses over him with palm and fingers, curling a half-grip and watching his face while she gently strokes. ] Like that?
[ yes, just like that. except when marcos tries to say that, he just moans instead which is probably pretty telling anyway. he bites down on his lower lip, trying to muffle some of the sounds but when she reaches down and starts stroking over the front of his pants, he exhales noisily and laughs. ]
Yeah, like that.
[ duh. ]
I'd prefer if my pants weren't in the way but we'll get to that.
[ once they got on the bed or something or he woke up enough from her touching him to take her clothes off. just give him a second or two or ten. ]
Okay, true, but let me pose a counterargument, and that's taking my time with this because I haven't seen you in a freaking long time.
[ She's not about to waste a single minute of this, but she also doesn't know how long she has him — it could be tonight, it could be tonight and several days after. The impatient part of her just wants to rip his pants and drop to her knees right here and now, getting him off with her mouth to start.
But for now, she's steadily backing up in the direction of the bedroom with her hand literally still cupping his cock, thinking that will be enough incentive for him to follow her, giving him the press of that steady massage to feel him swell further from her touch. ] Gotta take some of my shit off first too, you know.
[ all marcos can really do in answer to her leading him back to the bedroom with a hand on his cock is to let off a string of spanish, some curse words, some exclamations and some incoherent babbling.
but, he follows along dutifully, catching up sometimes to grab a kiss from her but mostly just walking and trying not to push his hips into her hands because goddamn does he want to. ]
I will take every single thing you're wearing off with my teeth. [ that was a promise that he intended to keep. he groans a bit, squirming into her hand as they finally push past the bedroom door. ]
[ Even if he did, even if he couldn't let her touch him without finding a way to seek out more of it with that eager shifting of hips — she likes that he isn't afraid to let himself be eager in front of her, wants to show her how much he's been aching for her, because then it makes her feel a little less self-conscious about reciprocating.
And once they're over the threshold and inside the bedroom, she reaches out to close the door carefully, turning the lock in case Waverly gets the idea to barge in all of a sudden, completely heedless of any sounds that might be going on within — and that's the thing, she and Marcos sometimes get loud in here too. ]
That's a pretty tall promise. [ She presses up into him, fingers abandoning his clothed cock to finally start working open his belt, gaze sweeping up to his face while she does. ] I'd like to see you try.
[ he will no matter how long it takes. if he has to take hours upon hours while he uses his mouth to get her clothes off (and maybe get her off once or twice), he will. but if it got too hard (ha ha) or he wanted more, he'd just give up and admit defeat.
he wasn't afraid to do that. ]
And I'll do it slowly so you're writhing around and wanting it so badly by the time I get our shirt off.
I know better than to pose you an empty challenge.
[ Or, at least, she knows better than to pose him a challenge and not expect him to follow through to the best of his ability, especially when they're in a bedroom together; the worst part of it is that she might be too impatient to let him get that far on his mouth alone before she's begging for something else instead, and she knows he'd stretch it out even longer just to spite her. ]
But I already want you too badly to wait. [ Her gaze lingers on his as she thumbs open his jeans, draws down the zipper. ] And I want you in that bed doing all kinds of filthy things to me.
[ when there was more time. when there wasn't an urgency in the air that meant even he probably wouldn't be able to stick with that challenge long because he'd want her too much. even now, when she's getting right to taking off his pants, he wants to reach down and help her.
but he also loves this part, letting her take his clothes off so he can do the same to her so he waits. ]
When there's more time. When I don't want to lick you until you come screaming.
[ And she doesn't know why that exchange fills her with something that kind of feels like hope — that's a lie, she knows exactly why it does, because it sounds like a promise, a guarantee that they'll be able to have this for a little while longer, even amidst the dangers that threaten his doorstep as well as her own. Maybe they can still make this work somehow, even if she doesn't really know how she'd describe it to anyone else.
Besides, she's pretty well-distracted now by shoving down his jeans, giving him a chance to step out of them before her fingers tease along the waistband of his underwear. ]
God, it's like unwrapping a present with you or something.
Is that a subtle way of saying you don't like the layers that I'm wearing?
[ he snickers, watching her get his pants undone before he steps out of them. when her fingers slide against his skin, he shivers, licking his lips and pressing forward to try and feel a little more of that for a few seconds. ]
Just means you have to work harder to see what you want.
[ and he knows you can make that effort, wynonna. he's seen it for himself. ]
That's my not-so-subtle way of saying that you look even better when you're naked.
[ It's not all about looks with him, but it's definitely a little bit about looks, and she can't ignore the slight shiver her touch elicits from him when she runs her fingers over his abdomen, dipping that touch beneath the waistband that keeps that last remaining layer on, keeps him from being completely bared to her. ]
Besides, what if I want to do more than look?
[ If he thought her touching him through his pants was distracting, it's probably going to be even worse when she steps in to press herself against him and brings her hand down between their bodies to cup over his cock through his underwear, mapping the size, the heat of him with her strokes. She still hasn't touched him directly yet, but even as quickly as they've moved from the front door to the bedroom, she's still about savoring this a little. ]
[ marcos starts to answer the question, starts to quip something witty and cute but then her hands maps out the size of him and all he can do is growl, thrust forward into her hand and shiver.
it hasn't been that long since she's touched him but it's long enough that having it happen now is intense and overwhelming, heady in the best possible ways. he's started to get hard just from being close to her since he'd gotten there but the hand on his cock gets him the rest of the way there. ]
God, I missed you. Te extrañé mucho.[ their lives were hectic, dangerous and spun them apart sometimes but he never stopped missing 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?
[ It's not a lie when she says it, because the truth of it is that Wynonna hasn't really thought through what she'd do if she walked into this place and saw all those rumors confirmed in front of her, saw the one revenant who'd practically been at arm's length this entire time without her knowing it. Saw the woman who tried to take her baby from her while she was still lying there hurting ten ways to Sunday and all of them from her damn cooch.
But she's also not about to give Rosita the impression that this is purely a social call, either, and after a beat she takes a few more steps forward to approach the bar, keeping her hands visible and away from the holster at her hip before she can rest them on top of that lacquered, weathered wood. ]
Why don't you make mine a double. [ The words don't leave her as a question, not the way she says them. ]
( She hates how much that still stings. That who she was didn’t matter at all, only what she was. With a brittle smile, Rosita slowly turns to reach for a second glass, setting it down in the worn bar before her gaze settles on Wynonna. )
Why else would you be here?
( Jeremy’s a great chemist. Maybe not as good as her, but able, and well-verses in whatever Dolls’ situation is. She shakes her head very slightly, and pours Wynonna that double, mirroring it with one of her own. )
Don't see any reason to stray from that plan, either.
[ And maybe she'd meant part of it to sound as cruel as she'd intended it, but there's another part of her — much, much deeper down — that wants to stay her own hand because of what she knows will be in store for Rosita once she pulls that trigger, another lifetime in hell before the next heir comes along.
And, in spite of everything, she's gonna stop just shy of sealing that fate for her.
She chuckles, but the sound is a little empty, a little hollow, and she plucks the glass between her fingers and tilts it slightly until the dark liquid within catches the light. ]
Still asking myself that question, honestly. [ How many times had she thought about what she'd say if their paths ever crossed again? But all those appropriately badass and vaguely threatening lines fly out of her head when she's confronted with the reality of it now, and instead, she moves to take a sizable swig of her drink, setting the glass down on the bartop with a solid thunk. ]
Working on a methadone adaptation. Trying to make it so it has a more stabilising long-term effect. The regular stuff doesn't always work so well with non-human physiology, so.
( She shrugs. Wynonna probably won't believe her, and if she does, why would she care? Rosita shakes her head, and has a sip of the bourbon. Shit, if there's every chance she could die tonight, may as well enjoy the good stuff?
Looking to Wynonna, it's almost a dare. Daring her to question her, to impose whatever assumption Wynonna has about all of them who aren't human or who are unlucky enough to be linked to the curse. Or maybe she isn't daring her, so much as desperately hoping that she'll be a dick so Rosita can gladly embrace reminder for why she's had to go off alone. )
[ 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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The rainfall is getting quickly heavier, and Yasha turns her face up to it, savours the scent of the earth when the rain hits, the way the air changes. Thunder rumbles in the sky, and she smiles as she turns to face it. Another crack of thunder far closer snaps her focus back to Wynonna.
She starts to bolt after her, trying to catch up to her path back towards the truck, that just got struck by lightning. The hood is immediately charred, metal warped and buckled, and the front window is less smashed and more bubbled and melted, a hole right through it. )
Come on!
( Did Wynonna just get hauled up over Yasha's shoulder? Maybe a little, yes. )
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[ The sound that follows is a very sharp, uncharacteristic, undignified squawk, but that's what happens when Wynonna finds herself unceremoniously hoisted off her feet in the middle of a torrential downpour, neck craning to look back at the truck that now boasts a large, smoking hole smack dab in the center of its hood — and the next sound she makes is a cry of protest, maybe almost a whine, because goddamnit, she literally just sent the thing in for a tune-up and she's pretty sure her mechanic isn't going to be able to fix lightning damage. ]
Wait, where are you going?
[ Anything might be safer than the truck at this point, but they're also still out in the open, and she can't really get a good glimpse at where Yasha's headed when she's basically bumping and jostling over her shoulder. ]
Is this 'cause I took a few pictures of the body? Did I make a thunder god angry? Because I wasn't going to 'gram those, I swear!
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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( if he stresses a portion of that sentence for emphasis, it’s only because he doesn’t wynonna to think that he’s applying pressure where there is none. oliver turns on his stool and drops his elbow on the bartop, giving her a view of his profile while he casts his eyes out towards the other patrons, the exit. virtually anywhere else. once, he was good at this sort of stuff. now, he struggles to remember who that young man was. he understands the lack of comprehension though, considering he isn't a man of many words and as for the few times when he has been, he's still careful. selective.
when he first arrived, he'd been different. he thought he'd seen and done everything. the truth is that he wasn't as stripped down to the bare bones as he is now, after losing everything, again and again. he thought ra's al ghul was bad but that was prior to damien darhk, adrian chase, and ricardo diaz smashing every aspect of him into pieces ( and where they failed, they let oliver deconstruct his relationships himself ). he's not looking for a substitution or for someone to listen to him vent. wynonna just strikes him as the kind of woman that can roll with the punches, grab life by the reins, and not get attached in the same sense that other people do. tracking her down is as casual as it is with purpose. maybe it's messed up—resting any portion of his baggage on her shoulders without permission—but oliver wants the kind of raw, human connection you can't spring on a stranger. when he's willing to give her his undivided ( albeit semi-embarrassed ) attention, he taps his knuckles on the bar. )
Are you? Free? For talking — at length, uninterrupted, deep into the night?
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He's changed, she knows he has; he doesn't need to tell her anything for her to see that, because the hints of it play across his face even when he glances away from her. She hasn't had to look long and hard to see that he hasn't been seeking out the company of those he knows from home — with Felicity a shared friend between them, she's heard that side of things too — but she's positive that it remains more complicated than she'll ever likely know. And maybe, right now, he doesn't want complicated, and she gets that too.
If she stopped to think, really paused and thought about it, she'd realize that being on the receiving end of that stare, wavering as it is sometimes, still makes a subtle heat unfurl low within her, to say nothing of how her body unconsciously responds to his question, fingers curving against the wood beneath her hands, between them, and suddenly all she can think about now is how to pass the time until those, well, about seventeen minutes or so are up. It's nothing explicit, because that's just not them, but it's enough to do something for her.
She nods once, a quick jerking of her head, because she doesn't really see the point in hedging her answer when honesty will work better in her favor. ]
Think we might be overdue for some catching up, anyway.
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wynonna’s hands are a point of fascination for him. they’re always moving. that in and of itself captures him, creature of paranoia that he is, and while her hands are more than capable of making the transformation into weapons, she seems to use them more for telegraphing things. what, precisely, he’s still pinpointing. he nudges his glass forward with his knuckles, pushing it towards her side of the bar and stops when he's close enough to brush his pinky against her thumb; he doesn't. he's tempted. )
Something like that. ( he withdraws, fishing in his pocket for his wallet and settles up with borrowed money. he scrubs a hand over the lower half of his face, rubs his mouth, before announcing: ) I'll be outside. I could use the air. Come find me when you— ( get off, really? ) When you're through in here.
( what? it's the truth. he does need the cool breeze on his skin. also, if he's outside she can't refuse payment for the drinks, someone else will swipe it if she does. that's simply that, except for the glance he casts over his shoulder on the way out the front door. it's a lingering look and maybe, if she's observant, she'll catch that they flick downward and take in more than her face. he may not be lewd but he's only subtle when something requires a delicate touch. he's generally fairly straight forward in what he's after. when she does come looking for him, assuming she doesn't slip out the back, he'll be leaning over the railing outside or leaning against a wall ( or whatever the exterior happens to lend itself to ). )
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She'd tried the emptiness routine when she first got here, tried losing herself in a pattern of too much drinking and casual sex, but all it had served to do was make her feel more and more like she was abandoning her purpose. Now, with people she cares about here — not just Waverly and Dolls, but the ones who don't exist for her back home as far as she knows: Frank, Felicity, Sam, Quill, Oliver — she's got more to endure for, more to roll out of bed for, more to consider when she thinks about her designation and what that means for the ones she needs to be looking out for. And maybe, every now and then, that involves shutting her brain off and not thinking about any of it. It doesn't mean she'll tune it out forever, but for the next few hours at least, she doesn't need to wallow.
Really, it doesn't take much to care about Oliver Queen; it takes even less to be curious about what he's thinking, and he doesn't stray far from her thought as she works through the end of her shift, definitely replaying the gaze he'd left her on the receiving end of (had she imagined that brief sweep down over the length of her, or not?), and by the time she clocks out and fetches her coat from the office, shrugging it over her shoulders and sliding a hand beneath her hair to clear it from the collar, he's there waiting for her.
She isn't quite holding her breath on approach, but she's very conscious of the lack of a bar between them now as she stops to stand in front of where he's leaning, tilting her head back to glance up at him under the streetlights and resisting the urge to shove her hands into her jacket pockets. ] Found you.
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Do you want to get out of here? ( he presents wynonna with the crook of his elbow, raising his arm; she doesn’t have to take it and loop her arm through his but he’ll give her a few moments to decide. whichever she chooses, he wants to travel away from the 13th step and head somewhere else. destination anywhere, just somewhere less populated.
oliver likes wynonna’s company. he’d enjoyed her presence before he knew her and while there’s still so much to learn and absorb and take in, he trusts her. for keeping felicity close, for being a friend to her, for being there for him, and for never making anything that cropped up seem like as huge of a deal as it could have been. as a man that’s seemingly vetted his friends and allies, that’s a vital quality to him. )
There’s just one thing I have to tell you first. ( it’s time, isn’t it? star city knows and it goes beyond that with the fbi involved, who he is and what he’s done is known nationally. ( and truthfully, if this progresses the way he hopes and he loses his shirt, the amount of scars on his body isn’t going to match up with: i took a few self-defense classes. ) this can go any number of ways and perhaps he doesn't owe her this explanation because he'd never planned to stick around long enough for anyone to find out, but he wants to. ) When we were sharing our collective pasts, I didn't tell you everything. I'm not a philanthropist and I'm definitely not a pacifist.
Although, I did get elected for mayor somewhere in there, so... ( kinda wishy-washy hand gesture? not a total lie? jesus, why is he so bad at this? he's kept this from a dozen people and he's had to drop the truth bomb on all of them; he should have a perfected speech. ) What I'm trying to say is that this is me. This guy you've gotten to know. It's a part of who I am, but the bigger part is the Green Arrow. I'm a ( super hero??? shut the front door. ) —vigilante. And I should have told you that a long time ago, before you were willing to draft up a contract with me. But I'm telling you now, Wynonna.
( and he's prepared for anger, annoyance, her being upset, or point blank laughing in his face. )
Before we— Before anything else happens.
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He offers her his arm and she doesn't know what it says about her that she actually considers taking it; there's almost no hesitation in her glancing down to view the held-out crook of his arm and the moment when her fingers twitch at her side, like she almost may not stuff her hands away before giving one to him instead, to create a further tether between them in the time it takes them to go from here to anywhere else, but the second she actually ditches thinking about it and decides to just do it, his follow-up stills her altogether.
And she almost makes a crack before he can get through his spiel ("no wait, don't tell me, you've got a deep dark secret you've been hiding from me this whole time"), but the more he goes on the more she realizes that maybe she's veered a little closer to the truth in her perception, however teasing, than she realized. He ventures that confession out loud and it all hits her like a ton of bricks in terms of how the puzzle pieces start to slot together, everything he's told her that hadn't added up before doing it all at once now, and for a few seconds all she can do is look at him dumbly, gaze sweeping over him and then back up to his face, trying to reconcile what he's telling her with what she'd seen, sensed even — and finally she just pushes out a breath, soft and slow and between slightly pursed lips. ]
Uh, okay. You're gonna need to give me a minute here, just to — to process all of — [ She gestures to him with the hand that would have reached out to slip through that extended arm, vaguely indicating his entire situation before her hand smacks back down against her thigh. ] — this.
[ Granted, he is talking to the girl for whom demons are a regular phenomenon, literally on the days ending in Y, so in the grand scheme of things a guy with basically a superhero moniker — shut up, he's totally a superhero, don't deny it — and a penchant for inhabiting the midnight hour isn't really that difficult for her to wrap her head around. ]
Goddamn it. Everything makes sense now. It's — [ And she does laugh, now, but it comes out more as a slightly dazed chuckle while she shakes her head, somehow understanding but still partly at a loss — and then she reaches out to gently prod her fingers against his shoulder, a shove of protest. ]
Okay, why the shift into honesty hour? I'm not naive enough to think it completely has to do with the fact that we were just in there hinting around between-the-sheets action.
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she laughs and he looks up, allowing a smidgen of hope to slip through. he rocks with the shove but overall, he takes it and remains planted in front of her. how does he even begin to answer that? he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth to hide a smile at being called out and the rush of being put under a spotlight is like being stuck with pins and needles. )
That’s not completely why, no. ( he rubs at the side of his face, like he can physically force the words out. ) When I left, I went home to Star City and for me at least, years went by. ( from the way that he’s heard it, he’s been missing from this city for mere months. ) My secret doesn’t belong to me anymore. I turned myself in on national television and because of that, because of the deal I made, I went to prison. When I got out, I worked alongside the SCPD — I was deputized. ( he shrugs. ) I've changed since the last time you saw me. I'm not living in the shadows anymore. I don't really see the point of going back into them here.
( he has kids. )
You're the first person I've told about what I remember from home. ( he crosses his arms then, not because he's drawing some imaginary line between them. it's an unconscious action, one meant to bind the mixed emotions he's experiencing. he knows what he's placing at her feet or wrapping around her shoulders. oliver's not asking her to keep it for him, to be complicit in his burial of the truth, but he's also not not asking her. ) Considering the kinds of choices we're forced to make and the secrets about us that come to light, I thought I'd be upfront with you this time around. I don't want to hide who I am from you.
( a forced admission of sorts but then again, oliver feels it's long overdue. )
I would have told you, at or after the fort. ( no, but it would have come out in very violent and telling ways, so same difference. )
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And so she can't help thinking that this might be the reason she's the one hearing the truth from Oliver now — because it's not her world he's telling her about, because she doesn't come from a place that knows the Green Arrow or what he'd given up in finally owning up to his other half. He tells it to her straight and in one sense, she appreciates it more than he might realize; she's used to people hedging the truth, stopping just short of actually being fully honest with her, and regardless of how long it's taken him, how much he might've weighed over whether or not to reveal this to her before actually doing it, the point is that he's doing it now without any caveats or attempts to downplay it.
She can see how much it's taking from him to even get this far out loud, the folding of his arms across his front reading very much like what she tries to do to close herself off when she's trying to grit through the truth, the unspoken part that's requesting she keep it buried from their mutuals — at least as long as he decides to withhold it on his end — and she presses out another sigh, idly casting her gaze down the street ahead of them for somewhere to put it that isn't his face. ]
Not to make this sound like any kind of corny line, but — [ When she reaches out to him finally, it's to curve her hand around his forearm where he's still got them folded across his chest, an imperceptible squeeze that only the two of them are going to pick up on. ] The truth goes a long way. Regardless of however long it takes you to feel comfortable with saying it, the point is that you said it, so — thank you.
[ Okay, maybe she's lightly trying to pry his arms free after a beat so she can sway closer into his space, but she isn't moving to do anything beyond the small circle of her fingers around his wrist — a small tug, a promise on her end. ] You don't need to worry about hiding, alright? Not with me.
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she steps towards him and gets a hand around his arm and he softens, feeling less like someone weathering a storm and more like he’s going to come out on the other side. it’s a nice gesture on her part. oliver doesn’t glance down to confirm their connection because he’s watching her face, reading her lips and searching her eyes. it feels impossible somehow, to make a friend like this in a universe that isn’t either of theirs, but here they are.
he exhales when she wedges his arm down and away from his body while the other follows, giving her the room to do as she likes. they haven’t crossed this line yet — standing this close, walls down. )
Yeah. ( as if confirmation alone is an adequate reply. he nods once, gives her a tiny reassuring smile and then turns his hand over from where she's holding his wrist so that he can grab hers in return. they must look weird, holding wrists instead of hands but oliver doesn't care. tethering himself to wynonna feels so much more intimate than the other actions he could take that spring to mind. he attributes that to brushing his fingertips over her pulse. ) But if anyone should be grateful, it's me.
( he could do it. one pull and he could try and yank wynonna right into him but he doesn't. he cocks his head slightly, needing to know first. )
You're more understanding than I thought you'd be. Must be all that revenant-wrangling you were telling me about. You're—hah—sort of unbelievable. ( and it's less of a laugh, more a means to offset his nerves again. ) And I say that while recognizing that I'm the one admitting to fighting crime and egomaniacs.
( he may not believe he deserves wynonna's kindness but he basks in it, and that is the biggest difference between who he was and who he is. )
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He might still be withholding things from her but she doesn't get that sense of him trying to deliberately mislead her, or making the choice to tell her the truth based on what he thinks she can handle. She's never been a fan of that decision being made for her and she never will be, especially considering how often it's happened; people want to spare her, think they're acting in her best interest, but it takes away her right to decide for herself and it has never not ended badly for everyone involved.
But here they stand, establishing that tether, and she's not sure she can feel his pulse stuttering in his wrist but she's pretty positive hers does, especially when he slides his fingers over that point and looks at her with a tilt of his head, almost questioning. Her breath catches in her throat and she glances down to whatever stretch of space still exists between them. It's not much anymore, certainly no closer than they've necessarily been when sparring before, but she's even more aware of what it would mean to close that distance altogether now.
He turns her words back around on her and she chuckles, a self-deprecating sound paired with a duck of her chin before she lifts her gaze to him without tipping her head back, gazing up from underneath her eyelashes. It's supposed to be a product of her hesitation; she's nervous. They both are. ]
Look, I've been lied to more times than I can count. You get pretty sick of it after a while, so — it makes the reverse stick out even more, when it happens. And I'm really not one to judge what people get up to in their spare time, unless it's something that affects me and mine. [ That's code for Waverly, especially; anyone who comes for her is going to have to deal with big sister wrath; she pauses, as if she's trying to work up the nerve for what comes next. ]
So why don't we just skip past the part where we argue over who's the more tolerant between the two of us and come back in right around you kissing me instead?
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if he’s supposed to be brushed off by the duck of her head and the bittersweet laugh, she misses her mark. he’s only more enamored by her. an honest display for a vulnerable topic, it seems fair. the realization that he ought to glance away, ease the tension for her, dawns on him but he doesn’t lessen the awkwardness for her. though it would help assuage her of her nerves, it feels rude somehow to disengage now. )
I know what you mean. ( as often as he’s been the man cultivating his secrets, he has also had his heart and organization infiltrated by people he cared for and trusted blindly. he likes to think that means he won’t trust with his eyes closed anymore but which is worse? seeing shadows where there aren’t any, enemies in the faces of friends, or never again lowering that wall? ) It's been a really long and winding road to get me here, but if I've learned anything from those struggles, it's that I can't expect trust without giving it first.
( that's all he has time to insert into wynonna's pause. she casts out a line, hooking him, and he feels the slow drag of being reeled towards her down to his bones. there's no shrinking back. she calls it like it is and oliver grins freely, unwilling to mask it. his hand around her wrist briefly clenches in order to enact his previous impulse. he pulls her into him, precise and quick, while his other hand finds the small of her back to balance her out if she needs the assist. just because it happens in a span of seconds doesn't mean she can't react, he gives her that moment when he releases her wrist to cup the side of her face, caressing her cheek with the pad of his thumb. )
But for the record, you'd win. ( although he feels like he's the one that's victorious here, once he leans down and does as he's told. he finally gets to discover what her lips feel like upon his and he can put a name to what she tastes like. kissing her feels slightly like flirting with disaster—she isn't one, he is—because oliver's emotions and desire are a lot like a damn and once something slips through the cracks, everything does. he's all or nothing. curiosity grips him, keeping him temporarily reined, so that he's catching her upper lip between his and then trading it for her lower lip in the lingering press of his mouth instead of rushing to swipe his tongue along the divide of hers. )
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So he probably knows that when he voices a compliment like that, she's going to try to brush it off, to downplay it as is her tendency, sidestepping anything that could border too close to sincerity in favor of keeping things light, chill, not too genuine. But try as she might, they're veering into that territory, prompting a small shrug from her, a reflexive curve of her fingertips to tuck some of her hair back behind her ear with the hand that isn't currently grasping onto him. ]
Yeah. Next we can totally do some of those falls they always tried to make us pull off in gym class. [ Guess who always got dropped because no one wanted to stick their hands out to catch the weird Earp girl? It's a joke to try and mask the quickening in her breathing, especially when he goes and tugs her into him in a move she definitely would've paused to give him props for if she hadn't felt entirely uninclined to pump the brakes. One second there's still claimable space between their bodies and the next, she's right up in his business, and she can't disguise the flutter of her eyelashes or the way she unconsciously tilts her head into the touch of his hand, the sweep of his thumb across her face. ]
That's — [ She doesn't get far enough to argue her case, damn it, because he's already leaning down to cover her mouth with his, warm and tasting of vodka, and she can't help it, she practically melts, curving into him with a soft sigh that gets lost somewhere in the middle of it all. He kisses her like he's been curious about it for a while, learning her lips with his own, and she doesn't rush it either for once in her life, tilting her head slightly to deepen the kiss in a firmer press before inviting him further with the subtle part of her lips. ]
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his fingers twist in the back of her jacket, anchoring himself to his decision and to wynonna. they’re out in the open and that means he can’t participate with reckless abandon, but he can respond to how she opens her mouth under his by doing the same. he brushes the tip of his tongue through that divide, seeking hers, and pushes his palm across her cheek back into her hair. it’s as soft as it looks — which is great, except that oliver gets more of a thrill from her mouth than that tidbit about her. it’s up to her, really, how far she wants to take this out on the street. he’s content with learning how to navigate this new territory, how the wet heat from her tongue sparks the beginning of a new hunger ( one that’s cropped up during banter or sparring ) and fans those flames gently.
this is a yearning he’s felt since that first dance and again, later, when each person discovered their dualcam counterparts. not to mention the risqué photograph that had been sent to him by mistake. actually doing this sends him spinning because it’s heady and wonderful, and exactly what he needs. unfortunately, he does kind of have to breathe eventually. barry and kara got all those pesky superpowers. oliver’s only human so he breaks for air, not far enough to put a stop to anything. )
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And if she'd wondered about what kissing him would actually feel like, those early thoughts pale in comparison to what he actually does, making both her scalp and her lips tingle from the intensity of it, his tongue dipping into her mouth to taste her and prompting another quiet sound from her in turn. She rocks up onto her tiptoes to close more of the height difference between them and her arms wind around his neck, fingers of one hand gently stroking across the short hair down across his nape.
It's where she hovers when the kiss inevitably breaks, but she doesn't shift back down right away, hasn't even opened her eyes yet to take him in from this close, so when she whispers across his mouth it's relying on everything by feel alone, the tip of her nose barely brushing his. ] You know, I might be a little biased, but my place is pretty good for more of this talking thing.
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he chuckles, more air than depth, and drags her upper lip between his. one more languid kiss, selfish and warm; he tries to avoid to get around the scratch of his facial hair on her skin though it’s somewhat unavoidable. when he pulls back a second time, he retracts his hands from the small of her back and her head to lower her arms from around his neck delicately. he’s fairly certain he could scoop her up in a fireman’s hold, however he’s also convinced there’s no way, no how that she would allow that for the entire length of the walk to her place. )
I see your bias and raise you: then what are we waiting for? ( oh, sorry. did she think he kept the illusion of being prim and proper up 24/7? he's polite because it's beneficial to him. if he's perceived one way, then it's incredibly simple to conduct his private life in another. ) I've wanted to be alone with you from the moment I stepped into your bar.
( closer to the truth. he's not positive he wants to be so forthcoming with himself, let alone wynonna, to admit he sought her out with one purpose in mind. he can be himself around her, now more than ever. )
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He's slowly winding her arms down from around his neck but not moving to separate himself from her beyond that; she can faintly perceive the warmth of his skin where her front just barely grazes his, permeates through the thin cotton of her shirt, tantalizingly close enough to make her want to draw in even more, to peel all the layers away until there's nothing between his body and hers anymore. ]
Honestly? Might have been even earlier than that, for me. [ If he's going to fess up to feeling a certain way about wanting to see her naked after tonight, then she can raise him even more truthfulness; she'd be lying if she said this hadn't been on her mind, playing somewhere in the background, even if it hasn't necessarily rocketed to the forefront of her awareness until now, when she knows what his mouth tastes like.
But they're not waiting anymore, if that's the agreement they've each navigated towards, and when she finally rocks back onto her heels it's with an accompanying jerk of her head down the street; she's never not appreciated that the bar is a short walk away from the high-rises, and she appreciates it even more at a time like this one. ] But we can get even more alone than this.
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he hates himself for breaking away from her and for living in the reality of the moment, for needing privacy and four walls. wynnona doesn’t seem too bothered when she indicates their direction with a tilt of her head and oliver falls into step with her with ease, delighting in the allure of her invitation. more alone than this is what he's after. is that fire going to dwindle on the walk over? is she going to cool off and change her mind? is she going to be the sort of person that needs a glass of wine to jump in once the moment's in front of her and it's not impulsive? there's a lot of details he doesn't know about wynonna at all. ) Because I'll admit after seeing that photograph, which I deleted, I was curious.
( he shrugs, not ashamed of the truth albeit a little awkward in regards to being the first to take the plunge and confess. )
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Maybe I was curious if you'd actually done anything with that picture after all. [ She knew he hadn't, had taken him at his word when he'd said he'd gotten rid of it then, but the thought of what it could have potentially led to had given her more than one image to dwell on. ]
Before that, though, the sparring. Watching, learning how you fought, how you moved. Sort of made me wonder how you'd handle yourself some other way. [ And how they'd move together by the very nature of a different tangling of limbs; if he'd let her bear him down or refuse to go easy on her, apply that same kind of concentrated focus once her thighs were wrapped around his hips or if he'd let himself lose control a little more like she knows he's capable of, had glimpsed hints of down in the Arena. She shrugs one shoulder, hair spilling forward across her profile with the movement, forcing her to toss her head slightly when she finally gives him a sidelong glance, trying to gauge his reaction to what she's implying by not saying. ]
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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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This has been a particularly draining mission. I'm ready to relax and think of something more pleasant. Like you.
[No matter how busy got, James always found time for her. She kept him sane when things got to be too much.]
I'm free for tonight. My first thought was to contact you. Hearing your voice makes this all worth it.
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The house itself is creaky, the stairs even moreso — she'd had to master the art of keeping her steps light whenever she'd tried to sneak out past curfew, but these days she doesn't care so much about getting caught — but it's notably quieter when she finally slips into her room, and she raises her voice out of a whisper. ]
You know you can't just up and say things like that. My ego's already inflated plenty. [ But there's a grin evident in her voice as she sits at the foot of the bed. ]
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[The spy holds the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pours himself a drink, smiling to himself when he spoke the next words.]
Remember that whiskey you talked about, Wyn? The one that's almost impossible to find? I got you a bottle. [It wasn't something he did for just anybody, going around hunting down special gifts for them. Wynonna was a special woman and James didn't go anywhere without carrying the thought of her with him.]
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[ The sound in her voice probably makes it plain that she isn't complaining about his honesty — in fact, it's a refreshing change from her track record of getting involved with guys who can't seem to tell the truth to save their life. The irony that it's coming from him, where deception is basically a part of his regular gig, isn't lost on her either, but she's not going to point that out to him now. ]
I'm guessing you don't have to worry about sneaking that through customs. [ Another tease, considering he probably has his own methods of shipping alcohol that she doesn't know about. ]
You know you didn't have to get me anything.
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[Lying might have become his expertise but he kept it exclusively within work. Wynonna had the permission to smack him upside the head if he ever deceived her.]
I have my ways. Just don't mention it to the higher-ups. [James chuckles.] But tell me something, Wynonna.. What are you wearing? [A cliché question, but the little detail would make sense in a moment.]
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She doesn't know when she'll stop thinking of herself that way. Some habits are just harder to kill.
His question prompts a laugh, and she glances down at herself for a moment. ]
Well, do you want the sexy, made-up answer, or the truth?
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[James has some knowledge of not feeling worthy of praise or affection. His mother made it clear how his brother was so much better and how he made her so proud. If he didn't have his work and if he hadn't met Wynonna, he'd still be feeling those feelings. Although sometimes there's a tiny glimpse of those dark days.]
I want to imagine you properly.
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[ But she isn't going to sugarcoat it, or hype up her own appearance, because right now she's literally wearing what she usually does when she's chilling around the house and she's got company around — otherwise, she'd be more inclined to make herself comfortable in next-to-nothing. ]
It's a totally sexy, skimpy... oversized sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. [ She's basically in vegging mode right now, and when she reaches that status she's always dressing for comfort and not necessarily taking a spontaneous call from the guy she's periodically seeing into account. ]
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[ James appreciates honesty. He's always liked Wynonna exactly the way she is. How honest she is and how she's never taken anyone's bullshit.
He sets down his glass, smirking to himself. There's the small temptation to turn this into something beyond mere conversation.]
I wish I could be there with you.
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[ He had wanted honesty, of course, but she's never going to be the kind of girl who's all that comfortable in a fancy pair of lingerie. The closest she gets to anything along those lines are her thongs and even then, she'll err more on the side of cotton than anything she has to spend a ton of money on.
It's times like these she knows she's not the type he spends most of his time around, has to wonder why he wants to keep slumming it with her because she's never been accused of being fancy in her life. ]
Why do I get the feeling you're already thinking about something specific?
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[ James finds himself imagining all kinds of things he wants to do to her. It's been a while since their office encounter and he wants more of her.]
If I were there, I'd start with kissing your soft lips. Slow, deep and lingering. My hands moves gently on your clothed body, sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt.
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[ It's a burst of unexpected honesty from her, but she doesn't have time to linger on it because he's already starting to paint a very vivid picture for her about what he'd be doing if they were in the same room together, and a smile slowly starts to curve up the edges of her mouth as she listens to him. Good thing she's already closed the bedroom door. ]
Oh, yeah? Where are those hands going?
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[The images in his head become very vivid as he focuses fully on her and the memory of her perfume from their previous encounter, and the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.]
They start with a slow, teasing caress. Slowly moving towards your soft breasts where they linger. I whisper how beautiful you are as I kiss the spot right beneath your ear, where I know you love to be kissed.
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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She's checked in on the others — Waverly's hunkered down at Nicole's place, Jeremy's with his honey bun and had definitely sent her way too many emojis in his reply back, and Doc is holding things down at Shorty's, because there's nothing like the oncoming apocalypse to make people want to drink. It's been her and Peacemaker here for the past several hours, the homestead idly settling around her with a few creaks and groans, and she's got a bottle of whiskey sitting just beside the glass she'd poured herself not too long ago.
But she makes the joke when she sees him because it's all she knows how to do; she's not good at these moments, the sincere ones where her brain is already trying to come up with at least thirty different ways to underscore it so she doesn't have to live in the meaningful for too long. She only has enough time to process his remark before he's stepping forward to wrap his arms around her — and she doesn't crumple, doesn't break, because that's not her either, but she does slide her arms around him too, tucks her face into his shoulder without care for the dried blood on his skin and clothes, and breathes him in, slow and easy. ]
You too. [ She might even let herself hold on to him for a few extra beats before withdrawing, hands gently cupping the underside of his arms as her eyes find his. ] No. Whatever he's cooked up hasn't found a way to spill over here yet. Maybe it's competing curses, I don't know. All I know is we're safe here, for now.
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Right now she's just about his last leg. Because everything else may be gone, but she's there. Sam's alive and safe. Cas is somewhere doing angel things while he tries to figure out what's happening with Heaven and the chaos that Chuck has caused. When you piss off God? Make sure you have some way to maybe kill him for real so he doesn't come back and completely fuck you. Who knows how many spirits or demons are out there right now. He called Bobby on his way here and he told Dean he'd start rounding who was left up to make sure Chuck didn't get extra vindictive with them.
Her hands on him are good. They ground Dean right now. They remind him that they still got a chance maybe. They gotta figure out a way to stop what they made happen. Easier said than done though. ] That'll piss him off. Hope you're ready for when he finds a way to crack through. [ Because it's gonna be some holy fucking vengeance. They didn't go by his script. ] Cas is in town trying to figure some things out. He'll meet us here later. [ He's also likely trying to stalk Wynonna's family to make sure they're safe. But he probably looks creepy doing it.
Silence hangs in the air for a moment, but it's something he knows that he's gotta touch on with her. He's got a body in his trunk and it's been in there for hours. He can't just leave Jack in there over night. He looks away from her for a moment and then steps back. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and looks down. ] Chuck killed Jack. I uh--[ There's a shaky breath and a unstable look to him when he makes eye contact again. ]--don't know what to do with his body. He's just a kid. I couldn't leave him behind.
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She'd told him once before that she'd have his back for whatever came next, whatever they had to face, and she'd meant it even in an end-of-the-world type scenario; it's not her first time dealing with one of those and she knows he's got a few apocalypses under his belt, so between the two of them and the others maybe they can even keep their shit together long enough to survive a little longer. They've cheated Death before, sometimes literally, so who says they can't pull it off one more time?
Either way, they're not going to figure it out at whatever the hell time it is now, when most of Purgatory is sound asleep in their beds completely ignorant of what's coming; in the morning, they'll put some coffee on and put their heads together and Sam and Waves can hit the books and maybe they can stumble across a fix, but for now it's just the two of them in the old house idly settling around them, the fire crackling in the other room and a bottle of whiskey to get through.
She breathes out a sigh when he mentions Jack, and for a minute there's nothing to say at all; she just closes the space between them to hug him again, guiding him to her shoulder with her cheek tucked against his. ] Do you wanna take care of him now, or — maybe we can wait for everyone else, bury him in the morning? [ Up on the hill, maybe. Near where she had to bury Dolls. ]
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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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[ He's not dead, he can't be, she won't let it happen — not after being this long without him, not after he'd gone in to protect Waverly. Her head snaps up then as if she half-expects to see her sister somewhere here, and when her eyes aren't met with another familiar sigh she has the sinking feeling that somehow, wherever Waves is, she hasn't made it out. She's still trapped in there.
But then he rears up towards her, snapping wildly, and she braces her hands against his chest, slowly easing him back down against the sidewalk. ]
It's okay, it's me, I'm right here —
[ He's looking at her without really seeing her, blinking through the drops pelting down onto his face, onto hers, shuddering at the tip of her nose and along her jawline, dissolving into his mustache; she slides her hands up along his features again and tries to reel him back to her, to the sound of her voice — because she wouldn't be her if she didn't stop talking throughout, more of a frantic rambling now. ]
What happened? What do you remember? [ And then, fighting through the knot in her gut: ] Where's Waverly?
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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She can't deny that the first thing she feels upon seeing him is relief, relief that he's okay; she knows what he's been gone doing and how dangerous it is because of who he is, because of who doesn't want people like him to exist. But she hopes he's figured out that he's safe here, with her, and that it would never even occur to her to give him up to anyone. ]
You know me. Always been kind of a night owl.
[ She realizes she's standing out on the porch with him in what are essentially her pajamas with her fingers still threaded in his shirt, but she doesn't have it in her to be embarrassed as her eyes search his. ]
Everything go okay?
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You?
[ he doesn't really know what she's been up to since he's been gone but it's been a few weeks. longer than planned but not the longest time he's been gone. even though he wants to just step into her and go inside, he wants to know what she's been up to before he does that. ]
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Same old same. Protecting a town isn't an easy job, but someone's gotta do it. Even if that someone is the town's black sleep.
[ Maybe that's why they'd been drawn to each other in the first place; she knows a thing or two about being an outcast, being ostracized, being hated because of a misconception and not because anyone bothered to get to know her for who she really is.
She shrugs one shoulder, finally taking a step back into the house. ] You planning on standing out there all night?
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he shrugs out of his coat, tossing it on a nearby chair or table or something (he's barely paying attention to anything but her her) before moving closer again. ]
I like that you got dressed up for me. [ he likes the pajamas, he means. ] You look good.
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Not that she's excited to see him or anything along those lines. ]
Shut up. [ But her grin splits her face before she can help it, as she turns her head to attempt to mask it behind the fall of her hair, and when she finally tilts her chin up to bring him into her view again it's with an undeniable fondness in her gaze. ] You look good too.
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Maybe you just like scruffy vagrants. [ he doesn't step closer but a smile does inch its way onto his face and he tucks his hands into his pockets, watching her from across the short distance. ]
Not that I mind, of course. [ before she says anything in response to that. ] Benefits me if you do.
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In response to that remark, she laughs, because it's true; maybe she does have a type and maybe that type is slightly scruffy-looking dudes. (She's always had a little something for Harrison Ford, even if she'll never admit it.) But the sight of him slipping his hands into his pockets, as well as that slightly knowing look he gives her, prompts a broader smile. ]
So does that mean I can tell you you're not allowed to shave the beard? [ Okay, she's losing her own challenge for sure, already stepping forward as she gently slips her arms around his neck. ] Because it's a good look.
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You can tell me. Maybe I'll even listen. [ he probably would. when she slips closer, he pulls his hands out of his pockets and winds his arms around her waist. ]
Wouldn't want to disappoint you.
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You? Disappointing?
[ She clucks her tongue against her teeth, offers a small headtilt, and then dips in slightly to nudge her nose against his. ]
It'd take a hell of a lot for you to disappoint me, Diaz. Even more than that if you make good on your promise to take me into that bedroom and do filthy, filthy things to me.
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[ he noses against her, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent and savoring in her touch for just a second before he starts backing her towards where he thinks the bedroom might be. ]
All I've been thinking about while I've been driving is all the filthy, filthy things I want to do to you. Going down on you, fingering you, teasing you until you beg for more, you on top, you on your hands and knees...
[ he trails off and bites his lip. ] Made driving hard sometimes. Literally.
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[ Her voice leaves her a little hushed, a subtle hitching in her breath when he so thoroughly fills the space between them, pressing against her in all the right ways already seconds before he starts walking her backwards in that slow, even pacing of their feet. ]
How do you do that? [ There's a subtle marveling in the question she poses to him, the way she tilts her chin up to keep their faces close together. ]
How do you just continue to be this insanely sexy?
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[ hopefully not. hopefully being boring wouldn't have been the dealbreaker between them. doesn't mean he's going to show up and just wanna sit on her couch and sleep but still. ]
It's called being too lazy to shave and wearing clothes that come from a thrift store and passing it off as being rugged. [ her face tips closer and he can't resist pressing a light, quick kiss against her lips. ] The dirty talk I picked up from truckers at rest stops.
[ he was a well rounded man. ]
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[ Especially considering the life she leads; boring is downright refreshing.
She won't withdraw from him as he leans in, gives her the soft press of his mouth; she hovers close to let her lips brush against his even while they continue talking in those low, hushed tones. ]
And here I thought you came up with all your own material. You mean to tell me you've been stealing all your best dirty talk from somewhere else?
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[ and while that was actually true, it wasn't the reason why marcos had grown his beard. he'd been lazy, mostly, and then in a place where it was smart to grow a beard because he'd been cold and then he'd just kept it. ]
The dirty talk? It's from the porn I watched in the last hotel I stayed in. Really good porn. Lots of great dirty talk and acrobatics.
[ he grins at her, leaning forward to capture her mouth for a proper kiss. ]
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[ She says it half-jokingly, because it's not like they've ever actually had a DTR (define the relationship) talk, what with the both of them being propelled into life-or-death situations on the regular, and who has time for that anyway?
But maybe she's thought about it here and there, about what something real between them would look like. ]
Acrobatics, huh? Did you learn anything you want to show m — ?
[ It's all she manages to get out before his lips are on hers again, and she sighs softly into it, arms winding more firmly around his neck as she lifts herself up on her tiptoes to meet him; he's got her beat by more than a few inches, but she never objects to having to insert herself more fully into his space. ]
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[ he pulls away just enough that he can move his lips to talk but his mouth is still mostly pressed against hers and he whispers the words to her. his lips then pull into a smile, smug and devious. ]
Wouldn't you like to know? Or see. [ and he would absolutely show her, of course. ] Had to do something to get off when I couldn't get you on the phone to hear your voice.
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[ And she keeps their faces close, lets her lips brush against his on every other syllable in that way that only draws out how badly she wants him, raises the anticipation of the moment.
They've always had a knack for this, at teasing out things until they're both desperate and practically clawing at each other, ripping each other's clothes off, and maybe now is no exception even while they're already moving in the direction of her bed. ]
You should show me that too sometime. [ Now that she has him here, it feels like permission to be bold, to voice her desires, to ask for what she wants. ] How you get yourself off when I'm not around.
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[ far be it from him to not give her a show. he wasn't terribly shy, not when he was in private with her but it wasn't something he'd with just anyone either. ]
You want to watch me jerk off? Fuck into my fist while I think of you? I'd be happy to show you that whenever you want. It'd be fun to see how long you could keep your hands to yourself.
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[ But at this very moment especially, she's too damn impatient to keep her hands to herself, and that's probably evidenced by the fact that she's already sliding her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers spindling across the firm ridges of his abdomen where she can feel his skin directly — not necessarily attempting to remove that layer fully, but just taking the opportunity to feel him.
And maybe she drags her nails across his skin in retaliation, because he knows her too well already to know she won't be able to watch very long without trying to participate. ]
Right now, though? Right now I'd rather have you fucking me instead.
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[ he reaches for his shirt and does the work for her, pulling it off and tossing it aside, leaving him half naked and already stepping closer. ]
Touch me. Please. I've missed you.
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[ But wow, abs; those are going to distract her pretty well right now and she lets her hands roam over all that uncovered skin, the rounds of his shoulders and the planes of his chest before sliding across his stomach to gently tease beneath the waistband of his pants.
One of her hands dips low to find the outline of his arousal, the ridge of his erection nudging against the front seam, and she caresses over him with palm and fingers, curling a half-grip and watching his face while she gently strokes. ] Like that?
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Yeah, like that.
[ duh. ]
I'd prefer if my pants weren't in the way but we'll get to that.
[ once they got on the bed or something or he woke up enough from her touching him to take her clothes off. just give him a second or two or ten. ]
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[ She's not about to waste a single minute of this, but she also doesn't know how long she has him — it could be tonight, it could be tonight and several days after. The impatient part of her just wants to rip his pants and drop to her knees right here and now, getting him off with her mouth to start.
But for now, she's steadily backing up in the direction of the bedroom with her hand literally still cupping his cock, thinking that will be enough incentive for him to follow her, giving him the press of that steady massage to feel him swell further from her touch. ] Gotta take some of my shit off first too, you know.
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but, he follows along dutifully, catching up sometimes to grab a kiss from her but mostly just walking and trying not to push his hips into her hands because goddamn does he want to. ]
I will take every single thing you're wearing off with my teeth. [ that was a promise that he intended to keep. he groans a bit, squirming into her hand as they finally push past the bedroom door. ]
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And once they're over the threshold and inside the bedroom, she reaches out to close the door carefully, turning the lock in case Waverly gets the idea to barge in all of a sudden, completely heedless of any sounds that might be going on within — and that's the thing, she and Marcos sometimes get loud in here too. ]
That's a pretty tall promise. [ She presses up into him, fingers abandoning his clothed cock to finally start working open his belt, gaze sweeping up to his face while she does. ] I'd like to see you try.
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[ he will no matter how long it takes. if he has to take hours upon hours while he uses his mouth to get her clothes off (and maybe get her off once or twice), he will. but if it got too hard (ha ha) or he wanted more, he'd just give up and admit defeat.
he wasn't afraid to do that. ]
And I'll do it slowly so you're writhing around and wanting it so badly by the time I get our shirt off.
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[ Or, at least, she knows better than to pose him a challenge and not expect him to follow through to the best of his ability, especially when they're in a bedroom together; the worst part of it is that she might be too impatient to let him get that far on his mouth alone before she's begging for something else instead, and she knows he'd stretch it out even longer just to spite her. ]
But I already want you too badly to wait. [ Her gaze lingers on his as she thumbs open his jeans, draws down the zipper. ] And I want you in that bed doing all kinds of filthy things to me.
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[ when there was more time. when there wasn't an urgency in the air that meant even he probably wouldn't be able to stick with that challenge long because he'd want her too much. even now, when she's getting right to taking off his pants, he wants to reach down and help her.
but he also loves this part, letting her take his clothes off so he can do the same to her so he waits. ]
When there's more time. When I don't want to lick you until you come screaming.
slides back in 1000 years later
[ And she doesn't know why that exchange fills her with something that kind of feels like hope — that's a lie, she knows exactly why it does, because it sounds like a promise, a guarantee that they'll be able to have this for a little while longer, even amidst the dangers that threaten his doorstep as well as her own. Maybe they can still make this work somehow, even if she doesn't really know how she'd describe it to anyone else.
Besides, she's pretty well-distracted now by shoving down his jeans, giving him a chance to step out of them before her fingers tease along the waistband of his underwear. ]
God, it's like unwrapping a present with you or something.
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[ he snickers, watching her get his pants undone before he steps out of them. when her fingers slide against his skin, he shivers, licking his lips and pressing forward to try and feel a little more of that for a few seconds. ]
Just means you have to work harder to see what you want.
[ and he knows you can make that effort, wynonna. he's seen it for himself. ]
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[ It's not all about looks with him, but it's definitely a little bit about looks, and she can't ignore the slight shiver her touch elicits from him when she runs her fingers over his abdomen, dipping that touch beneath the waistband that keeps that last remaining layer on, keeps him from being completely bared to her. ]
Besides, what if I want to do more than look?
[ If he thought her touching him through his pants was distracting, it's probably going to be even worse when she steps in to press herself against him and brings her hand down between their bodies to cup over his cock through his underwear, mapping the size, the heat of him with her strokes. She still hasn't touched him directly yet, but even as quickly as they've moved from the front door to the bedroom, she's still about savoring this a little. ]
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it hasn't been that long since she's touched him but it's long enough that having it happen now is intense and overwhelming, heady in the best possible ways. he's started to get hard just from being close to her since he'd gotten there but the hand on his cock gets him the rest of the way there. ]
God, I missed you. Te extrañé mucho. [ their lives were hectic, dangerous and spun them apart sometimes but he never stopped missing her. ]
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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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[ It's not a lie when she says it, because the truth of it is that Wynonna hasn't really thought through what she'd do if she walked into this place and saw all those rumors confirmed in front of her, saw the one revenant who'd practically been at arm's length this entire time without her knowing it. Saw the woman who tried to take her baby from her while she was still lying there hurting ten ways to Sunday and all of them from her damn cooch.
But she's also not about to give Rosita the impression that this is purely a social call, either, and after a beat she takes a few more steps forward to approach the bar, keeping her hands visible and away from the holster at her hip before she can rest them on top of that lacquered, weathered wood. ]
Why don't you make mine a double. [ The words don't leave her as a question, not the way she says them. ]
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( She hates how much that still stings. That who she was didn’t matter at all, only what she was. With a brittle smile, Rosita slowly turns to reach for a second glass, setting it down in the worn bar before her gaze settles on Wynonna. )
Why else would you be here?
( Jeremy’s a great chemist. Maybe not as good as her, but able, and well-verses in whatever Dolls’ situation is. She shakes her head very slightly, and pours Wynonna that double, mirroring it with one of her own. )
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[ And maybe she'd meant part of it to sound as cruel as she'd intended it, but there's another part of her — much, much deeper down — that wants to stay her own hand because of what she knows will be in store for Rosita once she pulls that trigger, another lifetime in hell before the next heir comes along.
And, in spite of everything, she's gonna stop just shy of sealing that fate for her.
She chuckles, but the sound is a little empty, a little hollow, and she plucks the glass between her fingers and tilts it slightly until the dark liquid within catches the light. ]
Still asking myself that question, honestly. [ How many times had she thought about what she'd say if their paths ever crossed again? But all those appropriately badass and vaguely threatening lines fly out of her head when she's confronted with the reality of it now, and instead, she moves to take a sizable swig of her drink, setting the glass down on the bartop with a solid thunk. ]
You cooking up shit for anyone else these days?
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( She shrugs. Wynonna probably won't believe her, and if she does, why would she care?
Rosita shakes her head, and has a sip of the bourbon. Shit, if there's every chance she could die tonight, may as well enjoy the good stuff?
Looking to Wynonna, it's almost a dare. Daring her to question her, to impose whatever assumption Wynonna has about all of them who aren't human or who are unlucky enough to be linked to the curse. Or maybe she isn't daring her, so much as desperately hoping that she'll be a dick so Rosita can gladly embrace reminder for why she's had to go off alone. )
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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. ]