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.
[ 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?
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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? ]
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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?