[ Wynonna's dedicated most of her time after disembarking the Maria to looking in on others — Diana first, though she's never been very worried about her suitemate's ability to fend for herself, and then others, like Barry. (The irony that she's checking in on self-described metahumans who are actual, real-life superheroes in their own world isn't really lost on her, but some habits are harder to break than others. Like the instinct that demands she drop in on the ones she's found herself caring about, in spite of all attempts to not build those types of connections.)
The rest of the time, she's been at the bar, electing to keep it open throughout the city's emptiness, mostly so people have somewhere to go, but it's been a little jarring to walk down the block and see so many other businesses dark, shuttered, a reminder of how few of them there really are here, in the aftermath.
It may be why, when her device dings with an incoming message, she's almost relieved at the sight of a name she recognizes instead of some anonymous order from the establishment intended for her to obey, to play along with. With the city as dead as it is, embracing any kind of attachment she's formed here, whatever that looks like, feels a hell of a lot better than being alone. And so she doesn't hesitate to extend an open invitation for the doc to come over whenever he's got a spare moment, with a promise of more whiskey besides.
She's already poured herself a glass to sip slowly while she lounges on the sofa, taking stock through the tall windows of how many buildings are still creepily dark, unoccupied. Lost in her thoughts, she almost doesn't pick up on the sound of a soft knock at the door, but once it repeats a little louder she's untangling her legs and setting her glass down to pad across the room on bare feet. There's no armor of her leather jacket, no shitkickers to make her tread heavy. If anything, she feels more stripped down in her t-shirt and leggings than if she'd answered the door naked, but there's a smile playing up the corners of her mouth even before she opens the door to him with a soft, familiar greeting. ]
[ stephen usually brings a drink for house calls, but she'd been the one to promise from her own supply, so instead he has something else in-hand: one of those garishly torso-sized wrapped gift baskets of cheese and charcuterie. from behind it he lifts a scarred hand in mock surrender. ]
Before you say anything, I stole this. We're in a "no gods, no masters" situation.
[ She makes an exaggerated show of zipping her lips shut and turning the invisible key before tossing it over one shoulder, but there's also no missing the way she reaches out to said basket with what could only be described as "grabby hands." ]
What's a little bit of light theft next to all the shit we've been put through, anyway?
[ Once she's taken it off his hands, she steps aside to let him pass fully inside, nudging the door closed with a bump of her hip. ]
The best cheese is five-finger-discount cheese. [ The basket is promptly deposited on the island in the kitchen, at which point Wynonna jerks her head towards the already-opened bottle of whiskey sitting close by. There's a beat, however brief, when she very nearly settles into the stance she assumes behind the bar, hands braced against a marble surface instead of lacquered wood, as if waiting for a drink order. ]
[ stephen isn't usually prone to petty crime—quite the opposite, actually, preferring to stay well below the radar of man's law. but, well, they've had a unique month so far.
he follows her in, picking up the bottle of whiskey to eye it with approval. (bare hands for the first time, distinctive raised scars on every finger and every knuckle.) and then he looks up at her, mouth quirked. ]
At ease, Wynonna. You're not at work. [ a pause. ] Are you still working? With all this going on.
[ A basket of pilfered charcuterie doesn't even come close to registering on the looting scale, not when she knows one person who'd made off with about half the inventory from one of the city's many, many sex shops during Tumenalia. But few are actually clued into the fact that one of the true ways to Wynonna's heart is through cheese, or ice cream, really any dairy product of any kind, so Stephen's already earned himself a considerable amount of brownie points.
She grins, a little sheepish, both shoulders hunching, the movement shifting the neck of her t-shirt to expose one before she idly shrugs it back into place. ] Old habits.
[ She reaches for an empty glass and slides it across the island to him, since he's got the bottle at his end, and if she notes the scars that run along the backs of his hands she's not going to comment on them — not yet. ] Thought it'd be a good idea to keep the bar open. The literal end of the world could be knocking, but folks are still going to want to have a place to drink. I should know. [ What with at least one averted apocalypse under her belt. ]
[ he catches the glass smoothly, but he doesn't hold it fully, instead letting his fingertips rest on the mouth of the glass and then moving to uncap the whiskey. ]
What do you mean, you should know?
[ once the bottle is open he reaches for her glass as well, to pour for them both. ]
Don't tell me you're in dire straits back home. Though I'm aware in this town that may not place you in select company.
[ She tilts her head slightly, but then the realization dawns that she may not have gotten around to sharing that particular detail of her life the last time they talked over whiskey, before talking had dissolved into something else involving mouths. ]
Well, no time like the present to drop this truth bomb. [ Wynonna doesn't anticipate a skeptic's reaction, at least; she nudges her glass with a few fingers this time, watching it slide and then lifting her gaze to his with a small breath. ]
The place I'm from is really known as the Ghost River Triangle. It's a piece of land that wound up all cursed a while back, and now it acts as an un-fun breeding ground for... supernatural creepies. Keeps the ones we've already got in and draws outsiders to it because of the energy it gives off.
[ She's definitely going to need that drink. ] It's what I do — what I've been tapped to do. Family inheritance and all. Defend the Ghost River Triangle, keep the territory safe as the Earp heir. Send demons back to Hell, yadda yadda yadda.
[ he listens attentively, gaze steady on hers as he pours a couple of fingers for them both. it's only once she's done that stephen slides her glass back to her, leaning on a hand against the countertop and rubbing the lip of his glass with his other hand.
of course, it's almost impossible to assume every non-native to this city is exactly what they seem. he's been surprised on a consistent basis by what the multiverse has drummed up for others in worlds most unlike his own. there's a second where it's difficult, standing across from wynonna in her kitchen, to imagine her regularly in the thick of danger—she's been easygoing, fun, sexy, all in ways that seemed for the most part normal.
but, well. if danger's been her normal that probably explains a lot about why stephen liked her from the start. ]
[ Her glass goes untouched for the moment. Non-typical of her? Maybe, but there may have been a slight amount of pre-gaming before he showed up and she wants to keep a relatively clear head while she's trying to explain the deets of her... somewhat unique family history. It's getting more and more tricky to remember who exactly around here knows more of the ins and outs of what she really does for a living — not really to earn one but more to ensure that everyone around her still gets to have one. ]
You ever hear the stories about Wyatt Earp and the OK Corral? Back in those Wild West days? [ And here her voice adopts a light, somewhat exaggerated Southern twang; she normally wouldn't even bother if this was some fanboy creaming his jeans at getting to talk to one of Wyatt's living heirs, but she can't resist it here, with him, the ends of her mouth tilting upward in a barely repressed smirk as she points a finger towards herself. ]
Turns out when great-great-granddaddy Wyatt found himself on the receiving end of a curse, it'd get passed on to almost all his descendants, too. Along with this.
[ She shifts down the island to reach for the gun resting holstered a short distance away, pulling it out and putting it to rest in the space between their glasses. It's definitely a family heirloom, though the faint symbols carved down the length of the barrel haven't illuminated since she got here — and won't, unless she comes into contact with some kind of demon. There's still an energy in Peacemaker, once she's always felt attuned to, but this might not be the right time to share with company all about the special, maybe mystical connection she feels with her firearm. Oh, and this is the point where she finally reaches for her whiskey, taking a short sip as she gives Strange time to digest the info. ]
[ the accent makes a smirk quirk his own mouth, but he's never been easily distracted. when wynonna slides the gun across the table his eyes follow the motion, assessing the gun itself. ]
It may not be the best idea. I haven't held a firearm since I was a teenager.
[ but stephen does reach out after a moment. the tips of his scarred fingers brush over the symbols on the barrel first and only, and sure enough, there it is—something old, inherited, cursed. he lets it subsume his awareness briefly, but in that short glimpse he can't quite pin down where it comes from. there's always the urge to untangle the threads of magic unknowns when he encounters them, his relentless desire to learn, to investigate.
but it's not his gun, so. he draws his hand back. ]
... it's a hell of a bequest. [ his tongue poking the inside of his cheek in thought. ] But a lifelong duty and a gun on their own don't make a curse. What's it end up looking like for you, other than these responsibilities?
Well, I never thought I'd find myself a responsible gun owner, but here we are.
[ Responsible being the key word because it definitely doesn't apply in most other instances where she's concerned, so there's a bit of a smirk in Wynonna's voice as she watches him stretch out a hand towards the gun.
And it's not as if she feels it, per se, that inspection that goes beyond surface-level touch, but there's a beat when her gaze snaps up to his face and she draws in a breath, sudden and slight, as if something's nudged gently against her own consciousness, tracking the unspoken bond between herself and Peacemaker. She's never voiced her own suspicions that the gun might be sentient, but it does tend to be very particular about when and where it fires, almost as if it could have a mind of its own.
But as soon as it's there, it's already retreating, right around the time that Stephen pulls his hand away. ]
It's what the gun is cursed to do. Every outlaw Wyatt ever killed back in the day gets themselves a free ride out of Hell each time the new Earp heir steps up to the plate. Peacemaker's the only one that can send 'em back. Only thing is none of the heirs have ever managed to check off the full list before, you know. [ She draws a thumb across her neck. ]
[ it's a morbid gesture, the way her thumb lines her throat. stephen grimaces and returns his own hands to his tumbler.
he has opinions, about destinies, and most of them are fatalistic. stephen had a destiny, has committed his life to its pursuit, and while he can't imagine any other life he's given up a lot in the process. the idea of a normal life seems storybook quaint, something meant for someone else. ]
And if you cross off the entire list, do they stop?
[ She'd been under the impression that she was destined for normal, or at least as close to normal as she could achieve given her lengthy arrest record and the slightly lawless habits that refuse to die. She hadn't counted on what would happen when she crossed back into town, how she'd essentially signed her own name on the dotted line of a mystical will — and inherited all the perks and pain-in-the-ass demons that came along with it.
And, now that she's here, who knows how everyone in Purgatory is handling it without her? Now it's her turn to go all contemplative, plucking up her glass again and tilting it in her fingers to watch the way the light bounces off the surface, leaving a brown kaleidoscope on the marble between them. ]
That's the hope. But other creepies have started popping up too. Vampires, right before my untimely kidnapping. Seems an heir's work is never really done.
[ In other words: she'll sleep when she's dead, literally. ]
[ that's stephen mostly musing out loud as wynonna contemplates her own glass. he lets out a low sigh and bends his head. it's a depressing thought, that someone like her has to go out and guard a place from increasingly nastier supernatural threats every day when she seems like she'd be better suited to—having fun, living out her best days normally.
he polishes off the rest of his tumbler and reaches for the bottle again. ]
Being here must feel like a dereliction of that duty. I hope it doesn't keep you up at night. [ he pours himself another couple of fingers and arches an eyebrow up at her. ] Or maybe it's your only shot at a vacation?
Until my expiration date, whenever that comes around.
[ She's never been anything less than a straight-shooter when it comes to conversations about being the heir; her actual ability to shoot straight, however, has been a work in progress. But she's not anticipating that the harsh reality of her unique circumstances will hit him too, picking up on the breath he exhales while she lifts the glass to her lips and downs the contents in one fell gulp. ]
I can think of better things to ruin my REM sleep over. [ She draws in her own breath through gritted teeth while the whiskey slides down smooth and then prods her own tumbler over to him, since he's already pouring. ]
Don't get me wrong. 'Soon as there's a way out of here I'll be on the maiden voyage. But in the meanwhile, what's a girl with a demon-killing gun supposed to do when there aren't any demons around in need of killing?
[ She points a finger in the direction of the bottle and then shrugs one shoulder. ] It's one way to pass the time.
[ he pours for them both, then, and sets down the bottle again with a heavy thud. ]
That's a good question. The problems this city has presented so far haven't exactly been suited to my skillset either. [ he flexes his hand experimentally, a long stretch of his perennially aching fingers, a slight wry smile curving his mouth. ] And I'd make a poor bartender.
[ he looks back up at wynonna, takes her in for what feels like the dozenth time and yet still the first. ]
Not to keep beating the dead and continually resurrecting horse, but ... I'm sure someone's tried breaking the curse. [ a pause. ] If there are curses, there must be people proficient in their study. Or am I thinking about this all wrong?
Well, speaking as someone who wound up slinging drinks out of a sheer lack of other marketable job skills, I’d say you’ve got the first and most important part down already. [ Her gaze does drop to his hand then, with the flexing of his fingers; she hasn’t made a point to stare at the visible scars that run along the back of each digit but his movement draws her attention for a brief moment before it returns to his face. ]
Oh, sure, they’ve tried. [ Once her glass is secured in her hand again, she doesn’t sip from it right away, instead letting it idle in favor of mulling out loud, her mouth absently twisting to one side. ]
Or so I’m guessing. We Earps are known for many things, but thorough bullet journaling isn’t one of them. [ Waves is the one who’s done most of the research pertaining to the curse, and even her studious sister had only been able to unearth some info about the curse’s origins, much of it vague and non-helpful. ] Any chance of breaking the curse probably lies with the demon who laid it down to begin with. Bulshar. Used to go by Sheriff Clootie before he went the fire and brimstone route. He’d just rolled back into town right before I left.
[ More like “was forcibly kidnapped against her will.” The thought that her friends have all been left to deal with the motherfucker who started it all, with her not there to protect them, definitely earns a couple gulps from her glass, her jaw tensing visibly. ]
[ there's a moment where he understands implicitly the danger of having been snatched up just as the harbinger of some ill came to town: stephen watches her jaw tense, the movement of whiskey down her throat, all suggestive of some immediate danger. ]
Can your people look after themselves?
[ her friends, her family. wynonna can, certainly, at least by most superficially observable metrics; that might is obvious just by looking at her, speaking with her for more than five minutes. but that protective streak in her runs deep and wide, and didn't just spring up fully formed from the earth. ]
[ She cuts herself off, realizing that her tone's a little harsher than she intended — not directed at him, of course, but more towards the situation and the relative helplessness it conjures up for her whenever she stops to dwell on it. A sigh drops into the silence that follows, and her mouth twists. ]
They don't have this, for starters. [ She stretches out her other hand toward the gun that still sits on the counter between them, close enough to let her fingertips touch the long barrel and feeling that small rush of its power that comes whenever she's in direct contact. ]
So it's hard, knowing they're there without the one thing that could seriously tip the scales, give them a W. [ Knowing they're without her is what she won't say, because as the heir, she's pretty replaceable, if not expendable. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
post-boat check-in
The rest of the time, she's been at the bar, electing to keep it open throughout the city's emptiness, mostly so people have somewhere to go, but it's been a little jarring to walk down the block and see so many other businesses dark, shuttered, a reminder of how few of them there really are here, in the aftermath.
It may be why, when her device dings with an incoming message, she's almost relieved at the sight of a name she recognizes instead of some anonymous order from the establishment intended for her to obey, to play along with. With the city as dead as it is, embracing any kind of attachment she's formed here, whatever that looks like, feels a hell of a lot better than being alone. And so she doesn't hesitate to extend an open invitation for the doc to come over whenever he's got a spare moment, with a promise of more whiskey besides.
She's already poured herself a glass to sip slowly while she lounges on the sofa, taking stock through the tall windows of how many buildings are still creepily dark, unoccupied. Lost in her thoughts, she almost doesn't pick up on the sound of a soft knock at the door, but once it repeats a little louder she's untangling her legs and setting her glass down to pad across the room on bare feet. There's no armor of her leather jacket, no shitkickers to make her tread heavy. If anything, she feels more stripped down in her t-shirt and leggings than if she'd answered the door naked, but there's a smile playing up the corners of her mouth even before she opens the door to him with a soft, familiar greeting. ]
Hey.
no subject
Before you say anything, I stole this. We're in a "no gods, no masters" situation.
no subject
What's a little bit of light theft next to all the shit we've been put through, anyway?
[ Once she's taken it off his hands, she steps aside to let him pass fully inside, nudging the door closed with a bump of her hip. ]
The best cheese is five-finger-discount cheese. [ The basket is promptly deposited on the island in the kitchen, at which point Wynonna jerks her head towards the already-opened bottle of whiskey sitting close by. There's a beat, however brief, when she very nearly settles into the stance she assumes behind the bar, hands braced against a marble surface instead of lacquered wood, as if waiting for a drink order. ]
no subject
[ stephen isn't usually prone to petty crime—quite the opposite, actually, preferring to stay well below the radar of man's law. but, well, they've had a unique month so far.
he follows her in, picking up the bottle of whiskey to eye it with approval. (bare hands for the first time, distinctive raised scars on every finger and every knuckle.) and then he looks up at her, mouth quirked. ]
At ease, Wynonna. You're not at work. [ a pause. ] Are you still working? With all this going on.
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She grins, a little sheepish, both shoulders hunching, the movement shifting the neck of her t-shirt to expose one before she idly shrugs it back into place. ] Old habits.
[ She reaches for an empty glass and slides it across the island to him, since he's got the bottle at his end, and if she notes the scars that run along the backs of his hands she's not going to comment on them — not yet. ] Thought it'd be a good idea to keep the bar open. The literal end of the world could be knocking, but folks are still going to want to have a place to drink. I should know. [ What with at least one averted apocalypse under her belt. ]
no subject
What do you mean, you should know?
[ once the bottle is open he reaches for her glass as well, to pour for them both. ]
Don't tell me you're in dire straits back home. Though I'm aware in this town that may not place you in select company.
no subject
Well, no time like the present to drop this truth bomb. [ Wynonna doesn't anticipate a skeptic's reaction, at least; she nudges her glass with a few fingers this time, watching it slide and then lifting her gaze to his with a small breath. ]
The place I'm from is really known as the Ghost River Triangle. It's a piece of land that wound up all cursed a while back, and now it acts as an un-fun breeding ground for... supernatural creepies. Keeps the ones we've already got in and draws outsiders to it because of the energy it gives off.
[ She's definitely going to need that drink. ] It's what I do — what I've been tapped to do. Family inheritance and all. Defend the Ghost River Triangle, keep the territory safe as the Earp heir. Send demons back to Hell, yadda yadda yadda.
no subject
of course, it's almost impossible to assume every non-native to this city is exactly what they seem. he's been surprised on a consistent basis by what the multiverse has drummed up for others in worlds most unlike his own. there's a second where it's difficult, standing across from wynonna in her kitchen, to imagine her regularly in the thick of danger—she's been easygoing, fun, sexy, all in ways that seemed for the most part normal.
but, well. if danger's been her normal that probably explains a lot about why stephen liked her from the start. ]
Sounds like a dour destiny.
[ his voice is dry. understatement of the year. ]
How long has your family been doing this?
no subject
You ever hear the stories about Wyatt Earp and the OK Corral? Back in those Wild West days? [ And here her voice adopts a light, somewhat exaggerated Southern twang; she normally wouldn't even bother if this was some fanboy creaming his jeans at getting to talk to one of Wyatt's living heirs, but she can't resist it here, with him, the ends of her mouth tilting upward in a barely repressed smirk as she points a finger towards herself. ]
Turns out when great-great-granddaddy Wyatt found himself on the receiving end of a curse, it'd get passed on to almost all his descendants, too. Along with this.
[ She shifts down the island to reach for the gun resting holstered a short distance away, pulling it out and putting it to rest in the space between their glasses. It's definitely a family heirloom, though the faint symbols carved down the length of the barrel haven't illuminated since she got here — and won't, unless she comes into contact with some kind of demon. There's still an energy in Peacemaker, once she's always felt attuned to, but this might not be the right time to share with company all about the special, maybe mystical connection she feels with her firearm. Oh, and this is the point where she finally reaches for her whiskey, taking a short sip as she gives Strange time to digest the info. ]
You can touch it if you want.
no subject
It may not be the best idea. I haven't held a firearm since I was a teenager.
[ but stephen does reach out after a moment. the tips of his scarred fingers brush over the symbols on the barrel first and only, and sure enough, there it is—something old, inherited, cursed. he lets it subsume his awareness briefly, but in that short glimpse he can't quite pin down where it comes from. there's always the urge to untangle the threads of magic unknowns when he encounters them, his relentless desire to learn, to investigate.
but it's not his gun, so. he draws his hand back. ]
... it's a hell of a bequest. [ his tongue poking the inside of his cheek in thought. ] But a lifelong duty and a gun on their own don't make a curse. What's it end up looking like for you, other than these responsibilities?
no subject
[ Responsible being the key word because it definitely doesn't apply in most other instances where she's concerned, so there's a bit of a smirk in Wynonna's voice as she watches him stretch out a hand towards the gun.
And it's not as if she feels it, per se, that inspection that goes beyond surface-level touch, but there's a beat when her gaze snaps up to his face and she draws in a breath, sudden and slight, as if something's nudged gently against her own consciousness, tracking the unspoken bond between herself and Peacemaker. She's never voiced her own suspicions that the gun might be sentient, but it does tend to be very particular about when and where it fires, almost as if it could have a mind of its own.
But as soon as it's there, it's already retreating, right around the time that Stephen pulls his hand away. ]
It's what the gun is cursed to do. Every outlaw Wyatt ever killed back in the day gets themselves a free ride out of Hell each time the new Earp heir steps up to the plate. Peacemaker's the only one that can send 'em back. Only thing is none of the heirs have ever managed to check off the full list before, you know. [ She draws a thumb across her neck. ]
Tends to be a gig with a lot of turnover.
no subject
he has opinions, about destinies, and most of them are fatalistic. stephen had a destiny, has committed his life to its pursuit, and while he can't imagine any other life he's given up a lot in the process. the idea of a normal life seems storybook quaint, something meant for someone else. ]
And if you cross off the entire list, do they stop?
no subject
And, now that she's here, who knows how everyone in Purgatory is handling it without her? Now it's her turn to go all contemplative, plucking up her glass again and tilting it in her fingers to watch the way the light bounces off the surface, leaving a brown kaleidoscope on the marble between them. ]
That's the hope. But other creepies have started popping up too. Vampires, right before my untimely kidnapping. Seems an heir's work is never really done.
[ In other words: she'll sleep when she's dead, literally. ]
no subject
[ that's stephen mostly musing out loud as wynonna contemplates her own glass. he lets out a low sigh and bends his head. it's a depressing thought, that someone like her has to go out and guard a place from increasingly nastier supernatural threats every day when she seems like she'd be better suited to—having fun, living out her best days normally.
he polishes off the rest of his tumbler and reaches for the bottle again. ]
Being here must feel like a dereliction of that duty. I hope it doesn't keep you up at night. [ he pours himself another couple of fingers and arches an eyebrow up at her. ] Or maybe it's your only shot at a vacation?
no subject
[ She's never been anything less than a straight-shooter when it comes to conversations about being the heir; her actual ability to shoot straight, however, has been a work in progress. But she's not anticipating that the harsh reality of her unique circumstances will hit him too, picking up on the breath he exhales while she lifts the glass to her lips and downs the contents in one fell gulp. ]
I can think of better things to ruin my REM sleep over. [ She draws in her own breath through gritted teeth while the whiskey slides down smooth and then prods her own tumbler over to him, since he's already pouring. ]
Don't get me wrong. 'Soon as there's a way out of here I'll be on the maiden voyage. But in the meanwhile, what's a girl with a demon-killing gun supposed to do when there aren't any demons around in need of killing?
[ She points a finger in the direction of the bottle and then shrugs one shoulder. ] It's one way to pass the time.
no subject
That's a good question. The problems this city has presented so far haven't exactly been suited to my skillset either. [ he flexes his hand experimentally, a long stretch of his perennially aching fingers, a slight wry smile curving his mouth. ] And I'd make a poor bartender.
[ he looks back up at wynonna, takes her in for what feels like the dozenth time and yet still the first. ]
Not to keep beating the dead and continually resurrecting horse, but ... I'm sure someone's tried breaking the curse. [ a pause. ] If there are curses, there must be people proficient in their study. Or am I thinking about this all wrong?
no subject
Oh, sure, they’ve tried. [ Once her glass is secured in her hand again, she doesn’t sip from it right away, instead letting it idle in favor of mulling out loud, her mouth absently twisting to one side. ]
Or so I’m guessing. We Earps are known for many things, but thorough bullet journaling isn’t one of them. [ Waves is the one who’s done most of the research pertaining to the curse, and even her studious sister had only been able to unearth some info about the curse’s origins, much of it vague and non-helpful. ] Any chance of breaking the curse probably lies with the demon who laid it down to begin with. Bulshar. Used to go by Sheriff Clootie before he went the fire and brimstone route. He’d just rolled back into town right before I left.
[ More like “was forcibly kidnapped against her will.” The thought that her friends have all been left to deal with the motherfucker who started it all, with her not there to protect them, definitely earns a couple gulps from her glass, her jaw tensing visibly. ]
no subject
Can your people look after themselves?
[ her friends, her family. wynonna can, certainly, at least by most superficially observable metrics; that might is obvious just by looking at her, speaking with her for more than five minutes. but that protective streak in her runs deep and wide, and didn't just spring up fully formed from the earth. ]
no subject
[ She cuts herself off, realizing that her tone's a little harsher than she intended — not directed at him, of course, but more towards the situation and the relative helplessness it conjures up for her whenever she stops to dwell on it. A sigh drops into the silence that follows, and her mouth twists. ]
They don't have this, for starters. [ She stretches out her other hand toward the gun that still sits on the counter between them, close enough to let her fingertips touch the long barrel and feeling that small rush of its power that comes whenever she's in direct contact. ]
So it's hard, knowing they're there without the one thing that could seriously tip the scales, give them a W. [ Knowing they're without her is what she won't say, because as the heir, she's pretty replaceable, if not expendable. ]