[ Dimly, he registers that she holsters her weapon, and that is a relief, but one he's just barely able to feel much joy in, because his world is spinning. What is happening? How is it happening?
He understands less than half of anything this peculiar, volatile woman does or says and when she turns away from him and begins speaking to someone that isn't there, somehow holding conversation, Edward groans.
He turns, leaning forwards towards the grass, a gloved hand against his knee while the other arm goes outwards to try and keep some sort of balance. He doesn't feel well. Oh, he doesn't feel well. Head dipped down, he feels his cap, already knocked askew, slipping off and hitting the ground, but he doesn't dare reach for it or else he might not come back up.
It doesn't matter, anyway. His stomach revolts even as he stands there, and he's giving a dry heave, stumbling forwards, only he doesn't realise he's stumbled closer to her... trackless locomotive(?) unknown machine thing until he's a mere couple of feet away from it. The startle of realisation makes him jolt with a half-shout, and he abruptly flinches back as though he's just stepped up to a lion, terrified. ]
No—!
[ He wobbles, already dizzy, and then all but collapses into the grass, eyes wide, chest heaving with panic. ]
[ She catches the motion out of the corner of her eye, and she's already turning when the guy cries out in a panic at the sight of her truck and just— drops like a marionette with its strings cut. ]
...I gotta call you back. Yeah— he just fell over. Yeah.
[ She lifts the phone from her ear and ends the call, then slides the device into her back pocket as she takes the few firm steps needed to come to the guy's side. His cap has fallen off, she realizes, and the prairie wind tugs playfully at his head of dark, mussed, softly waving hair. ]
Hey. Little, right?
[ First Lieutenant Edward Little. She's not saying all that. Hell, she doesn't even call Dolls by his rank unless she's making fun of him.
For a moment, she considers reaching down to grab his arm and haul him back to his feet, but that seems like a no-go for at least a solid half-dozen reasons; mostly coming down to the fact that even if she did get him standing again, he'd probably just fall right back over. Wynonna looks down at him for a long moment, then hunkers down into a crouch by his side, hands loose between her knees and her arms resting on her thighs. The same breeze tugs strands of her hair across her face; she shakes her head and blows at them to get them out of her field of vision so she can study this strange man who has somehow all but fallen into her lap. As if she doesn't have enough problems.
This close, she can tell that he's pale not just from shock and fright, but probably from either a lack of sun or some kind of underlying health issue. Despite his neat uniform, he looks ragged and tired around the edges; his hair needs to be trimmed, his sideburns are out of control. There's a heaviness to his expression, like he's been awake for too long but can't find a way to sleep. His chest is rising and falling too fast with breath that's too shallow and too rapid. He looks about as threatening as a baby bird. ]
Little, you gotta calm down. Take a breath.
[ She demonstrates, taking a long, slow breath that bellies out her diaphragm, holding it for a moment before she exhales slow and controlled. She's not exactly the best at managing her own spirals of panic, but she knows the tools, even if she rarely uses them. ]
I promise the truck won't hurt you.
[ She still might, if he turns out to be a danger somehow, but right now she just ducks her head to try and catch his eyes with hers. Right now, his eyes are wide with terror, but they're big and meltingly brown and behind his blind panic there's something soft and wounded.
Despite herself, her tone softens; just a little beneath the exasperation. ]
I don't know how the hell you got lost out here, but you're pretty lucky somebody called it in. This isn't any kind of place to go wandering around.
( It doesn't seem real, none of it seems real, but that insistence by his mind is countered by all of the ways it very much is real, from the loud sound the... thing had made, to its bright lights, to the feel of wind rippling across this impossible landscape. He can smell it too, out here — something dry and clear and clean, something so very different from the ice. Fresh breeze, not cutting, not cruel. Just— quietly alive.
And then there's her. She's very much real, even if he doesn't at all understand how that's possible, and his breaths are progressively becoming not enough. Each attempt seems to draw more and more air out of him instead of push it in, and it's too tight, too painful. He's starting to gasp louder now, giving pained little wheeze-sounds, gloves bare at the fingers, allowing them to feel the dry soil beneath his grasp.
When she crouches down close to him, he's tensing again, shirking back as though afraid — later, he'll berate himself for how rude that is, but in the moment, his body's gone straight towards the outer circles of panic-mode, and he doesn't understand anything.
But it also means that he latches, unthinkingly, onto anything too, and when the woman tells him to take a breath, shows him how, he immediately does with an almost comical obedience, eyes rolling over to stare at her, wide as saucers and petrified but listening to what she says. He breathes in, first attempt shattered by another gasp of sharp pain, but the second one helps a little. It's not full panic yet, thankfully, just. Just a baby amount. There's still time for a true nervous breakdown.
The truck? He meets that claim with a blank, oblivious stare, before grasping onto the woman's next words with a fresh wave of alarm. "This isn't any kind of place to go wandering around", she says, and Little turns his head to stare fully at her, shuddering around the breaths he's still labouring to take. )
What is this place? If I may ask — Where are we, madam?
[ He pulls in air just like she shows him, and though the first one doesn't seem to take, the second one goes down okay, shifting his shoulders and chest and back under that enormous coat he's wearing. She doesn't see how he got here, and she has no idea where exactly he thinks he's supposed to be, but she can at least answer his questions, the poor bastard. A breath huffs out of her, almost a laugh, but it's wry and more than a little pitying. ]
Welcome to the Ghost River Triangle. About as far as you can get from heaven on earth.
And you can drop the 'madam.' My name's Wynonna.
[ He looks a little steadier. She pushes up to her feet, brushing her hands off on her jeans before she leans to hold one hand out to him, offering to help him up. ]
Wynonna Earp. Yes, that Earp; yes, that Wynonna, depending on what you might have heard and who you heard it from.
[ Maybe he doesn't know the Triangle, maybe he's lost, but even an Englishman has probably heard of Wyatt Earp... maybe. Either way, she waits to see if he'll let her haul him to his feet and tries to figure out what the hell she should do with him. ]
You look like you could use some water. Or maybe a stiff drink.
[ Maybe she should have waited, brought Waverly out here with her. ]
You hungry? Hurt? Miraculously and suddenly aware of how the hell you got way out here?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He understands less than half of anything this peculiar, volatile woman does or says and when she turns away from him and begins speaking to someone that isn't there, somehow holding conversation, Edward groans.
He turns, leaning forwards towards the grass, a gloved hand against his knee while the other arm goes outwards to try and keep some sort of balance. He doesn't feel well. Oh, he doesn't feel well. Head dipped down, he feels his cap, already knocked askew, slipping off and hitting the ground, but he doesn't dare reach for it or else he might not come back up.
It doesn't matter, anyway. His stomach revolts even as he stands there, and he's giving a dry heave, stumbling forwards, only he doesn't realise he's stumbled closer to her... trackless locomotive(?) unknown machine thing until he's a mere couple of feet away from it. The startle of realisation makes him jolt with a half-shout, and he abruptly flinches back as though he's just stepped up to a lion, terrified. ]
No—!
[ He wobbles, already dizzy, and then all but collapses into the grass, eyes wide, chest heaving with panic. ]
no subject
...I gotta call you back. Yeah— he just fell over. Yeah.
[ She lifts the phone from her ear and ends the call, then slides the device into her back pocket as she takes the few firm steps needed to come to the guy's side. His cap has fallen off, she realizes, and the prairie wind tugs playfully at his head of dark, mussed, softly waving hair. ]
Hey. Little, right?
[ First Lieutenant Edward Little. She's not saying all that. Hell, she doesn't even call Dolls by his rank unless she's making fun of him.
For a moment, she considers reaching down to grab his arm and haul him back to his feet, but that seems like a no-go for at least a solid half-dozen reasons; mostly coming down to the fact that even if she did get him standing again, he'd probably just fall right back over. Wynonna looks down at him for a long moment, then hunkers down into a crouch by his side, hands loose between her knees and her arms resting on her thighs. The same breeze tugs strands of her hair across her face; she shakes her head and blows at them to get them out of her field of vision so she can study this strange man who has somehow all but fallen into her lap. As if she doesn't have enough problems.
This close, she can tell that he's pale not just from shock and fright, but probably from either a lack of sun or some kind of underlying health issue. Despite his neat uniform, he looks ragged and tired around the edges; his hair needs to be trimmed, his sideburns are out of control. There's a heaviness to his expression, like he's been awake for too long but can't find a way to sleep. His chest is rising and falling too fast with breath that's too shallow and too rapid. He looks about as threatening as a baby bird. ]
Little, you gotta calm down. Take a breath.
[ She demonstrates, taking a long, slow breath that bellies out her diaphragm, holding it for a moment before she exhales slow and controlled. She's not exactly the best at managing her own spirals of panic, but she knows the tools, even if she rarely uses them. ]
I promise the truck won't hurt you.
[ She still might, if he turns out to be a danger somehow, but right now she just ducks her head to try and catch his eyes with hers. Right now, his eyes are wide with terror, but they're big and meltingly brown and behind his blind panic there's something soft and wounded.
Despite herself, her tone softens; just a little beneath the exasperation. ]
I don't know how the hell you got lost out here, but you're pretty lucky somebody called it in. This isn't any kind of place to go wandering around.
no subject
And then there's her. She's very much real, even if he doesn't at all understand how that's possible, and his breaths are progressively becoming not enough. Each attempt seems to draw more and more air out of him instead of push it in, and it's too tight, too painful. He's starting to gasp louder now, giving pained little wheeze-sounds, gloves bare at the fingers, allowing them to feel the dry soil beneath his grasp.
When she crouches down close to him, he's tensing again, shirking back as though afraid — later, he'll berate himself for how rude that is, but in the moment, his body's gone straight towards the outer circles of panic-mode, and he doesn't understand anything.
But it also means that he latches, unthinkingly, onto anything too, and when the woman tells him to take a breath, shows him how, he immediately does with an almost comical obedience, eyes rolling over to stare at her, wide as saucers and petrified but listening to what she says. He breathes in, first attempt shattered by another gasp of sharp pain, but the second one helps a little. It's not full panic yet, thankfully, just. Just a baby amount. There's still time for a true nervous breakdown.
The truck? He meets that claim with a blank, oblivious stare, before grasping onto the woman's next words with a fresh wave of alarm. "This isn't any kind of place to go wandering around", she says, and Little turns his head to stare fully at her, shuddering around the breaths he's still labouring to take. )
What is this place? If I may ask — Where are we, madam?
no subject
Welcome to the Ghost River Triangle. About as far as you can get from heaven on earth.
And you can drop the 'madam.' My name's Wynonna.
[ He looks a little steadier. She pushes up to her feet, brushing her hands off on her jeans before she leans to hold one hand out to him, offering to help him up. ]
Wynonna Earp. Yes, that Earp; yes, that Wynonna, depending on what you might have heard and who you heard it from.
[ Maybe he doesn't know the Triangle, maybe he's lost, but even an Englishman has probably heard of Wyatt Earp... maybe. Either way, she waits to see if he'll let her haul him to his feet and tries to figure out what the hell she should do with him. ]
You look like you could use some water. Or maybe a stiff drink.
[ Maybe she should have waited, brought Waverly out here with her. ]
You hungry? Hurt? Miraculously and suddenly aware of how the hell you got way out here?