[ 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.
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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.