It’s not just the utter desolation of a house left to the prairie winds and the whims of teens trying to show off for girlfriends and boyfriends, chests puffed, adrenaline and hormones running like a river in flood, creeping into the abandoned shell of the house the demons attacked. They can sweep and dust and mop and vacuum; Wynonna backs the truck up to the front porch and together she and Waverly load it with trash, with broken furniture, with the chair that shattered the night Willa went screaming through the window and Daddy died.
Gus refuses to come, and Wynonna really can’t blame her. She can’t even explain why it’s so important. It’s not just the protection on the land, although it’s nice to feel like there’s one scratched out piece of earth in this godforsaken place where the revs can’t come, no matter how hard they try. She can’t even rightly say that she missed it. All the good memories she has of the homestead are paired up with bad, with that one worst memory of all hanging over them the way storm clouds sometimes settle, low and menacing, over the prairie.
It could be that she and Waves needed some time together after everything that went down. They’ve had time, unloading furniture and putting up curtains and sitting out by the firepit in the evenings, and things still aren’t quite right. But they're getting better.
Probably it’s sheer bullheadedness that sees them through it. There’s something they have to do, so they do it. Besides that, it’s a good excuse, gives her a way to keep a little space between herself and Doc, herself and Dolls. She and Waverly make beds and stock the fridge while the thin red line Augie Hamilton left on her throat heals into a memory, one with just as cold a sting as that razor blade.
Also, even she has to admit that there's something about the wide, sad, lonesome sweep of the prairie under that deep blue autumn sky, arcing high, slashed here and there with long, trailing clouds, like strands of wool caught on a brush. The way she feels, wrapped in a blanket as she sits on the porch with a steaming mug of coffee and her eyes on the distant line of the horizon, is too complicated to be called happy or peaceful, but there's something in this place that calls to her. That digs in its claws and kneads at her like an avaricious cat with a mouse it keeps letting go only to drag back again. This place will never release her, but, goddamn– it's pretty.
The fresh wind has the beginning of winter's bite to it as it tugs at her hair, brushes color into her cheeks, and she's lifting her coffee to her lips when – wrenching her back into reality – her phone starts vibrating in her pocket. By the time she's finished talking to Dolls – or, more accurately, being talked at by Dolls, her coffee's gone cold and she's dragging the door to the house open, making a beeline for her room and Peacemaker on the little bedside table there.
Purgatory PD picked up a call, says Dolls again in her head. Someone out on the prairie. They might be heading out in the direction of the homestead, Wynonna. I'll be there soon.
She's got a piece of toast stuck into her mouth as she buckles the gunbelt around her hips, and when Waverly asks what the hell is going on, she mumbles, incomprehensible around her breakfast: ]
Gottagobye!
[ Her jacket cold against her back when she tugs it on, the seat of the old blue and white Ford cold under her ass when she gets in, turns the key to kick the ancient truck's engine into life.
No revenant creep is coming near the homestead ever again. Not while she's still breathing. She sends the truck out along the drive in a screech of dirt and rocks and guns it, squinting, peering as she gets closer to the location Dolls had pinpointed for any break in the smooth fields of dry autumn grass. Any motion. Any sign of anyone at all. ]
– rain won't fall from an empty sky
Easier said than done.
It’s not just the utter desolation of a house left to the prairie winds and the whims of teens trying to show off for girlfriends and boyfriends, chests puffed, adrenaline and hormones running like a river in flood, creeping into the abandoned shell of the house the demons attacked. They can sweep and dust and mop and vacuum; Wynonna backs the truck up to the front porch and together she and Waverly load it with trash, with broken furniture, with the chair that shattered the night Willa went screaming through the window and Daddy died.
Gus refuses to come, and Wynonna really can’t blame her. She can’t even explain why it’s so important. It’s not just the protection on the land, although it’s nice to feel like there’s one scratched out piece of earth in this godforsaken place where the revs can’t come, no matter how hard they try. She can’t even rightly say that she missed it. All the good memories she has of the homestead are paired up with bad, with that one worst memory of all hanging over them the way storm clouds sometimes settle, low and menacing, over the prairie.
It could be that she and Waves needed some time together after everything that went down. They’ve had time, unloading furniture and putting up curtains and sitting out by the firepit in the evenings, and things still aren’t quite right. But they're getting better.
Probably it’s sheer bullheadedness that sees them through it. There’s something they have to do, so they do it. Besides that, it’s a good excuse, gives her a way to keep a little space between herself and Doc, herself and Dolls. She and Waverly make beds and stock the fridge while the thin red line Augie Hamilton left on her throat heals into a memory, one with just as cold a sting as that razor blade.
Also, even she has to admit that there's something about the wide, sad, lonesome sweep of the prairie under that deep blue autumn sky, arcing high, slashed here and there with long, trailing clouds, like strands of wool caught on a brush. The way she feels, wrapped in a blanket as she sits on the porch with a steaming mug of coffee and her eyes on the distant line of the horizon, is too complicated to be called happy or peaceful, but there's something in this place that calls to her. That digs in its claws and kneads at her like an avaricious cat with a mouse it keeps letting go only to drag back again. This place will never release her, but, goddamn– it's pretty.
The fresh wind has the beginning of winter's bite to it as it tugs at her hair, brushes color into her cheeks, and she's lifting her coffee to her lips when – wrenching her back into reality – her phone starts vibrating in her pocket. By the time she's finished talking to Dolls – or, more accurately, being talked at by Dolls, her coffee's gone cold and she's dragging the door to the house open, making a beeline for her room and Peacemaker on the little bedside table there.
Purgatory PD picked up a call, says Dolls again in her head. Someone out on the prairie.
They might be heading out in the direction of the homestead, Wynonna. I'll be there soon.
She's got a piece of toast stuck into her mouth as she buckles the gunbelt around her hips, and when Waverly asks what the hell is going on, she mumbles, incomprehensible around her breakfast: ]
Gottagobye!
[ Her jacket cold against her back when she tugs it on, the seat of the old blue and white Ford cold under her ass when she gets in, turns the key to kick the ancient truck's engine into life.
No revenant creep is coming near the homestead ever again. Not while she's still breathing. She sends the truck out along the drive in a screech of dirt and rocks and guns it, squinting, peering as she gets closer to the location Dolls had pinpointed for any break in the smooth fields of dry autumn grass. Any motion. Any sign of anyone at all. ]