[ His first gift to her is a bracelet β a coral snake, banded white and red, the colors of the coat he wears. Solid gold is already creeping up the length of its tail as it winds about her wrist, freezing it into place as a charm rather than a creature of its own, the spell cast of it inexorable in its progress. Its tongue flickers in and out of its mouth, and in its last breath, it tells her in a hiss (softly, sweetly, as snakes do): that man has the devil in him.
Its jaw snaps shut as the gold overtakes it. There's no sign, after, that it had ever been a living thing at all.
Eleanor Guthrie is nearly burned at the stake on the charge of witchcraft. Nassau embraces magic; London denies it. It doesn't bear the same root, there, much less when it comes to its practice by women. At the very least, it's a different kind of magic β it's born not of the earth but of some ecclesiastical beliefs. God and the Devil, as it were. (It goes a long way, later, towards explaining exactly what Black Jack Randall is. He doesn't belong in Nassau β his influence there is like the soak of blood through fabric.)
Randall saves her from the pyre. It's not pity that moves him; rather, it's opportunity β one thing in exchange for another. He wants Nassau. She can help him get it.
He captains a fleet to New Providence, and he grants her a cabin on his ship. There's nothing in his manner that is anything but genteel (and she has not been among the English long enough to hear the rumors about him). He speaks kindly to her despite the superstition that some of his men harbor with regards to having a woman on the ship, and he listens to what she has to say about Nassau. He asks her to show him what she can do, too, when it comes to magic.
The first warning comes on one such occasion. He is well into his cups, the scent of wine heavy on his breath as she brings flames to life in the amber of her earrings. He leans in close enough to envelop one of the stones in his hand, feeling the warmth beat against his palm. For a long moment, he simply stares at her, his gaze dark even in the light of the candles that are scattered across the cabin. His grasp is firm, and it becomes cloyingly evident in the space of a long, slow beat, that he could rip the jewel from the flesh of her ear in a single movement if he so wished.
The moment passes after what seems like an eternity. He smiles, lets out a breath of laughter as his fist opens and he leans back in his chair.
You really are a beautiful creature.
(Flint's first gift to her is a bouquet. It's a labor of love, and not a gift he gives to her directly. They speak over a vase of dead sunflowers, just outside the doors to her father's office, the sun beating down upon them and everyone else on the island. They talk of everything and nothing, of the winds, of the charms he has brought to sell after his latest venture away from Nassau. Of magic. (She is still a child, but he does not speak to her as such.)
Later in the day, she will look down from one of the balconies and see him still sitting there, coaxing each and every one of those flowers back to life.)
He invites her to his cabin for dinner. (It's become a habit by now, something that walks the line between cordiality and chess, a way of getting a read on her without being so explicit about it.) He's standing near the windows when she comes in, a bottle of something bright red in his hands. The table's already been set, the meal richer than anything that's ever graced the plates of a pirate ship.
At the sound of the door, he turns, smiling as he holds up the bottle and gestures at the glasses set on the table. ]
[ There is another life in which she meets a man with his face and his name. But magic does not work the same way for mortal men the way that it does for witches, and when Ingrid Beauchamp meets Frank Randall, he is no reincarnated soul but his own man. Sweet, kind, in a way that his ancestor was not.
(Not that that keeps her mother from telling her, once β blood will out. Of course, it's not a conversation that Frank is privy to β he doesn't know of her true nature, after all β though one wonders what he'd say, if he were. Not a soul on this earth does not possess its share of darkness. Frank Randall is no exception.)
They meet before the outbreak of the Second World War, and they suit each other well. Bookish, quiet, romantic at heart despite the skepticism that comes part and parcel with an interest in science and history. It's a match made inβ well, whatever heaven one might believe in. He has not asked for her hand, yet, but the sense exists that it may only be a matter of time. (But time can be such a tricky thing.)
It's fall when he takes her to Sussex to visit what would have been his family's estate. Green foliage is turning to gold and red, all of it blurring into one canvas from the car and turning, piece by piece, into something clearer when they take to the country on foot. Being who they are, they don't quite register the passage of time until the sky has already begun to grow dark, a slow fog rolling into the woods around them.
He's standing next to her when he lets out a laugh, gaze directed down at his pocketwatch. ]
Would you look at that.
[ He holds the watch up for her to see, his brow furrowed in mild consternation though there's still a smile on his features. ]
It's running backwards. What the devil do you suppose would've gotten into it that would make it do that?
[ in this life, ingrid is given a chance of her own, like freya before her, to travel. she takes what she refers to as a leap of faith, her mother watching with a full heart as she sidled historical texts alongside her most precious herbs and spell books. gripping her belongings tight and only looking back to cast a final glance at her mother, she stepped upon a boat that would change her world for the better part of ingrid's forever.
frank randall is as familiar as he is foreign to her. she writes to her mother of his appearance, of a randall she knew in a distant time, a photograph accompanying the script, and the two work tirelessly across an ocean to discern whether or not he is what he appears to be. which is, what ingrid comes to realize, a man that challenges her own mind and provokes in her a sense of adventure that seems to traipse at her heels in this life.
days pass and her infatuation does not waver. time repeats itself in a way that comforts, rather than harms. what little she knows of the randall that had come before, bears no appearance in the way frank bends over historical maps and genealogical finds. as the world spins on, ingrid sees only safeness in his mortality, always a mystery to be solved. it suits them well.
she keeps her magic from him β though whether she does this for his safe-keeping or the satisfaction of his world value, his firm belief in the science of mankind, ingrid doesn't put a reason to the act. it surges through her, entirely, though, as she sits at his side, traveling through the countryside. her fingers trace his chest while they drive on and his insides are a deep rumble as he explains the world he's come to love through portraits and pictures.
her eyes are alight, taking in the sights of a changing, shifting season. ( there's a moment when they pass a tree whose leaves have all but scattered. frank consults his compass and ingrid twists her wrist behind her back, allowing the colors to move through them and around them, riding an eager gust of wind. ) a witch returning to her roots, ensconced in the world for what it is. she breathes in deep and for a moment, wonders if this is what it's like to live as freya does, free of restraint, free to be, free to love.
frank brings his attention to his pocketwatch, then, and she leans in at his side. her fingers move to the outstretched object, taking it in her hands. ]
Well, that can't be right.
[ the arms move backwards, surely. ( always a mystery to be solved. ) with wide eyes and a curious gaze, she brings it closer, observing it with a smile of her own. ]
There's only one logical explanation, of course. [ ingrid clasps her hands around it fully, pulling it lightly away from him. her expression is playful, eyes wide and tone chiding. ]
[ In fairness, Frank's life has become more magical since meeting Ingrid Beauchamp, though he'd ascribe it to infatuation rather than anything so literal as what she's suggesting now.
To wit, he laughs, though there's no derision in the ring of his voice. ]
Magic, [ he repeats, pretending to give it some thought. (He's not an utter skeptic, to his credit, though she's not wrong in thinking that solid proof of the existence of what he'd otherwise thought to be fantastical would come as something of a shock.) ] Fairies in the wood, is it, Ms. Beauchamp? Are we about to travel back in time?
[ His hand finds her waist, though he steps closer instead of pulling her to him. He looks at her the way he always does β warm, adoring, whatever might be perceived as harsh about his features softened simply by the affection that he bears for her. His other hand settles upon hers, gently shifting her fingers back so as to take another look at the watch's errant hands.
(How the war will affect them, only time will tell. It changes him, as it changes all men, but not necessarily for the worse. He tells her, early on, that he regrets having tied her to a war zone, with the theater of war so much closer than it would have been had she never stepped foot on a boat to England, had she not had him as a reason to remain. It's not a platitude, but it's not completely true, either β who would he be, had she never entered his life?) ]
It'd be a sight more than we bargained for, coming to Sussex, butβ what's a holiday without a little adventure?
[ ( it's a step we've chosen to take together, she returned, aware of the gravity of their exchange. in time, it is ingrid who will choose to sit by the bedside of the wounded. she will heal, she will mend, but as she reaches the forthcoming age wrought by her grandfather's curse, there will be no more of this time left and the hands of her own clock will cease in their movement. ) ]
And why not?
[ ingrid's words are filled with soft laughter. she watches frank's face, remembering every line, every smile, the way his eyes light up at the prospect of adventure. his hands are warm as they hold back her own and she looks to the watch, then. ]
I see it every morning.
[ her chin tilts toward his, her shoulder nudging his tenderly. she smiles, the act coy. ( romance had never seemed a particular option for ingrid. freya excelled where she always fell short. try as she might, love as she did, nothing brought to her heart what frank is capable of. ) ]
If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were brimming with it even now.
[ but she does know better β she knows that while frank might not possess the magics of his ancestor, she has fallen nowhere short but under the spell of his own cast.
another gust of wind fills their space, moving around them, inviting them. ingrid steps to his side fully, then, her forehead against the side of his face. her nose grazes his cheek, the smell of him comforting, reminding her that so long as she is with him, she is truly home. ]
(He tells her, later, that Frank is short for Franklin, but he doesn't really mind the misnomer, as it were. There's something endearing about it.)
He appears soon after his doppelganger does (or is he the mirror image?). A dead man all the same, and not quite a revenant, either, but different in nearly every other respect. There's no mission he's on, no unfinished business β at best, it seems like he's just been brought along for the ride given the amount of power that Black Jack seems to be harnessing. A side effect, if you will. He doesn't belong here.
The first time they meet, she almost shoots him on sight. (She shoots through a window, instead, showering him in broken glass.) Not too long after, Black Jack comes after them both.
It's not particularly surprising that his fixation on Wynonna extends to Frank. It's collateral damage, even if it weren't also directly tied into a sort of narcissism. Then, there's this β the first time Wynonna manages to wound Black Jack, Frank's image flickers. He's not a ghost, he's flesh and blood, but all the sameβ the lines of his frame pass briefly in and out of vision, as if he were only a fleeting memory.
Nothing for nothing, it seems.
They run, after that, holing up in a motel room on the outskirts of Purgatory. (He tells her he's sure jokes about the town's name are overplayed.) She sits on the floor facing the window, her profile silhouetted against the darkening blue of the sky and her gun in her hand, and Frank sits with his back to the wall, all the while simply looking at her. It's with Black Jack's same intensity, but there's a different timbre to it, something a little more open, more malleable than that inexorable, narrow focus. ]
Wynonna.
[ His hand finds hers in the dim light. (He knows what has to happen, has made peace with it.) Once more: ]
[ she decides immediately that the randalls are a pain in her ass.
first, there's good ol' bj, firebug and, what she's decided to be, a possible foot soldier to the goddamn devil himself, who's willing to do just about anything to get his hands on a wynonna earp-flavored gatorade. then, it's his alter-ego, francis, the mild-mannered historian who smells nice and decides to go all marty mcfly when she shoots randall number one.
it's not every day she's put in a situation with doppelgangers. let alone decides to care for one of them. ( the moment she saw it, she knew what had to happen. they all did. it's why she did something she hadn't done for months now: she ran. ) time passed, slowly, as it always did in purgatory and frank just had to become something of an asset to the black badge division. helping them with intel on black jack, using some of his old mi6 tricks to slip in and out of bobo's trailer park.
when it happened, she made a grab for his hand β using it as an excuse to both throw him into the truck and assure herself that he was still there β and didn't bother to look back at the damage she had done. ( it's always been easier. drive. don't see what you've left behind. don't think about it. )
the motel sink leaks and the lights are kept off even as the sky turns color. purgatory is quiet, but her mind has never been louder.
it's frank's hand that finds hers now, pulling her back into the room. she turns her head sharply, her name hardly registering in her ears. wynonna. ]
What? [ her voice is softer than usual, wynonna tightening the rope so as to keep it together. so as to not let her tether break. ] What do you want me to say?
Jonathan and Franklin Randall are both men shaped by war. Black Jack tells her something he'd once told Claire Beauchamp, back in Fort William, though he leaves the part about redemption because they both know that he has no interest in it. He tells her how he'd changed, when he'd been dispatched to war. (Though maybe changed isn't the right way of putting it β the monster had always been living in him, it just hadn't had the opportunity to come out.) Frank tells her β as time passes β about his service in the Second World War, about his time with MI6.
The emotion that dominates his memory β his entire being through the years of wartime β is guilt. (How many deaths was he responsible for?)
Whatever else runs in his blood β however far or close the apple may have fallen from the tree β that truth remains. He's earnest. Painfully so, considering the circumstances. He's warm, all-encompassing in his attention in a way that makes his visage seem miles away from that of his ancestor despite how near-identical they are.
He's still holding onto her hand when she turns to look at him. ]
I want you to say you won't hesitate, if you have the chance to kill him.
[ There's no waver in his voice, but he can't quite hide it in his gaze. No one who has returned from the dead wishes to go back again, though it's not selfishness on his part as much as it is fear. There's something terrifying about being erased from existence, especially when he's finally gained a foothold here (when he cares forβ), but it is what it is. He needs to say it, knows he has to, if only so that they both hear it. ]
[ wynonna tilts her head at a light angle β her expression grim, but attempting for humor. ]
Wynonna Earp, how ya doin'?
[ she chuckles, though there's no sound. instead, it comes as a soft thing in her chest, thoughtful, distant. her eyes fall and she looks down at her lap in the darkness. her knee protrudes from a hole in her jeans and while she evades his glance, wynonna's thumb catches frank's, fingers turning in his to lace each one between the other.
she licks her lips, brief, the notion unsaid. purgatory carries on beyond the window. it would take black jack a few days to find them, sure, but they could be worth it. this could be worth it. turning tail and getting the hell out of dodge.
the thought's a selfish one and she regrets it almost as soon as it springs to mind. leaving all of this behind? waverly, dolls, doc, gus: she couldn't let them suffer. ( it's exactly what he'd do. promises mean nothing to a man who's willing to stop at nothing in order to achieve his means. that night on the homestead feels ages old now. ) ]
You know, you've got some nerve, showin' up here like this.
[ making yourself important. to the team, to the city, to β ]
Just for that, I've got half a mind send you back myself.
[ it's a joke, but it splits down the middle when she looks his way again. ]
[ They're camped out in the middle of nowhere β out in the American prairie, not even in a motel anymore β when the fireworks start. They take him by surprise, in part because time has seemed to pass so haphazardly since his arrival in Purgatory and in part because it's not a holiday he's ever celebrated. They light up the sky with a sharp crack (like gunfire), red and white and gold, momentary shock fading away into the singular kind of joy that comes with that kind of spectacle.
(To be clear, they're not running away, justβ beggars can't be choosers, and circumstances dictate their current whereabouts. It's not abandonment, though the distance sometimes makes it feel like it is. On the other hand, he's strangely grateful for the time that they have, something he'd have wished for if he were more selfish than he is.)
It makes Frank laugh. He's wearing two cardigans to ward against the cold, Wynonna wrapped up in a blanket, a fire burning between the two of them, and the fireworks β while not particularly close to them β shift the shadows cast on their faces.
As he slips a bookmark into what he's been reading: ] βLook.
[ The smile remains on his face as he keeps his head tilted up, watching each successive color dot the sky. They come in different shapes and sizes, leaving trails of smoke in the air as the next firework lights up. It's a beautiful sight, though there's still an undercurrent of anxiety that runs in his blood. ]
I seem to have lost track of the date, I didn't realize it was already Independence Day.
[ she calls it strategy. in truth, it's another few set of days she allows frank to enjoy day on his face, and for her to selfishly soak in the sight of it. ( dolls is hesitant, but covers them on their way out, providing them with an outpost out of sight for safekeeping. still, of course, within the triangle. ) time passes in shades of dusk and dawn and slowly, but surely, the guilt sets in again.
wynonna wraps herself up tight as they wander into the wilderness. the fire keeps her fixated, her eyes watching the flames as they kick upwards and spark. frank reads as the sky turns and the quiet is odd for wynonna, but paradoxically comforting. somewhere along the way, she placed her head to his shoulder, the daze allowing her to breathe in his scent for safekeeping.
when he speaks, the spell is broken, wynonna jumping lightly at the words, rather than the sound of the fireworks themselves. blinking her eyes once, twice, then widening them dramatically, she tilts her chin upward, looking at colors dart against the cloudless canvas overhead. ]
Wouldja look at that.
[ her lips pull down, thoughtful, and she glances at him as wind lightly tickles her cheek with strands of her hair. playfully, she nudges his arm with a fist through her blanket. adopting a dramatic southern accent, she leans back just as another rocket launches and says: ]
We're free, ya filthy Brit! Hoo-rah. Frickin' 'murrica.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
AU MEEEEE.
casually writes woodes rogers out.
Its jaw snaps shut as the gold overtakes it. There's no sign, after, that it had ever been a living thing at all.
Eleanor Guthrie is nearly burned at the stake on the charge of witchcraft. Nassau embraces magic; London denies it. It doesn't bear the same root, there, much less when it comes to its practice by women. At the very least, it's a different kind of magic β it's born not of the earth but of some ecclesiastical beliefs. God and the Devil, as it were. (It goes a long way, later, towards explaining exactly what Black Jack Randall is. He doesn't belong in Nassau β his influence there is like the soak of blood through fabric.)
Randall saves her from the pyre. It's not pity that moves him; rather, it's opportunity β one thing in exchange for another. He wants Nassau. She can help him get it.
He captains a fleet to New Providence, and he grants her a cabin on his ship. There's nothing in his manner that is anything but genteel (and she has not been among the English long enough to hear the rumors about him). He speaks kindly to her despite the superstition that some of his men harbor with regards to having a woman on the ship, and he listens to what she has to say about Nassau. He asks her to show him what she can do, too, when it comes to magic.
The first warning comes on one such occasion. He is well into his cups, the scent of wine heavy on his breath as she brings flames to life in the amber of her earrings. He leans in close enough to envelop one of the stones in his hand, feeling the warmth beat against his palm. For a long moment, he simply stares at her, his gaze dark even in the light of the candles that are scattered across the cabin. His grasp is firm, and it becomes cloyingly evident in the space of a long, slow beat, that he could rip the jewel from the flesh of her ear in a single movement if he so wished.
The moment passes after what seems like an eternity. He smiles, lets out a breath of laughter as his fist opens and he leans back in his chair.
You really are a beautiful creature.
(Flint's first gift to her is a bouquet. It's a labor of love, and not a gift he gives to her directly. They speak over a vase of dead sunflowers, just outside the doors to her father's office, the sun beating down upon them and everyone else on the island. They talk of everything and nothing, of the winds, of the charms he has brought to sell after his latest venture away from Nassau. Of magic. (She is still a child, but he does not speak to her as such.)
Later in the day, she will look down from one of the balconies and see him still sitting there, coaxing each and every one of those flowers back to life.)
He invites her to his cabin for dinner. (It's become a habit by now, something that walks the line between cordiality and chess, a way of getting a read on her without being so explicit about it.) He's standing near the windows when she comes in, a bottle of something bright red in his hands. The table's already been set, the meal richer than anything that's ever graced the plates of a pirate ship.
At the sound of the door, he turns, smiling as he holds up the bottle and gestures at the glasses set on the table. ]
Join me in a drink?
frank.
surprise me.
no subject
(Not that that keeps her mother from telling her, once β blood will out. Of course, it's not a conversation that Frank is privy to β he doesn't know of her true nature, after all β though one wonders what he'd say, if he were. Not a soul on this earth does not possess its share of darkness. Frank Randall is no exception.)
They meet before the outbreak of the Second World War, and they suit each other well. Bookish, quiet, romantic at heart despite the skepticism that comes part and parcel with an interest in science and history. It's a match made inβ well, whatever heaven one might believe in. He has not asked for her hand, yet, but the sense exists that it may only be a matter of time. (But time can be such a tricky thing.)
It's fall when he takes her to Sussex to visit what would have been his family's estate. Green foliage is turning to gold and red, all of it blurring into one canvas from the car and turning, piece by piece, into something clearer when they take to the country on foot. Being who they are, they don't quite register the passage of time until the sky has already begun to grow dark, a slow fog rolling into the woods around them.
He's standing next to her when he lets out a laugh, gaze directed down at his pocketwatch. ]
Would you look at that.
[ He holds the watch up for her to see, his brow furrowed in mild consternation though there's still a smile on his features. ]
It's running backwards. What the devil do you suppose would've gotten into it that would make it do that?
no subject
frank randall is as familiar as he is foreign to her. she writes to her mother of his appearance, of a randall she knew in a distant time, a photograph accompanying the script, and the two work tirelessly across an ocean to discern whether or not he is what he appears to be. which is, what ingrid comes to realize, a man that challenges her own mind and provokes in her a sense of adventure that seems to traipse at her heels in this life.
days pass and her infatuation does not waver. time repeats itself in a way that comforts, rather than harms. what little she knows of the randall that had come before, bears no appearance in the way frank bends over historical maps and genealogical finds. as the world spins on, ingrid sees only safeness in his mortality, always a mystery to be solved. it suits them well.
she keeps her magic from him β though whether she does this for his safe-keeping or the satisfaction of his world value, his firm belief in the science of mankind, ingrid doesn't put a reason to the act. it surges through her, entirely, though, as she sits at his side, traveling through the countryside. her fingers trace his chest while they drive on and his insides are a deep rumble as he explains the world he's come to love through portraits and pictures.
her eyes are alight, taking in the sights of a changing, shifting season. ( there's a moment when they pass a tree whose leaves have all but scattered. frank consults his compass and ingrid twists her wrist behind her back, allowing the colors to move through them and around them, riding an eager gust of wind. ) a witch returning to her roots, ensconced in the world for what it is. she breathes in deep and for a moment, wonders if this is what it's like to live as freya does, free of restraint, free to be, free to love.
frank brings his attention to his pocketwatch, then, and she leans in at his side. her fingers move to the outstretched object, taking it in her hands. ]
Well, that can't be right.
[ the arms move backwards, surely. ( always a mystery to be solved. ) with wide eyes and a curious gaze, she brings it closer, observing it with a smile of her own. ]
There's only one logical explanation, of course. [ ingrid clasps her hands around it fully, pulling it lightly away from him. her expression is playful, eyes wide and tone chiding. ]
Magic, Frank Randall.
no subject
To wit, he laughs, though there's no derision in the ring of his voice. ]
Magic, [ he repeats, pretending to give it some thought. (He's not an utter skeptic, to his credit, though she's not wrong in thinking that solid proof of the existence of what he'd otherwise thought to be fantastical would come as something of a shock.) ] Fairies in the wood, is it, Ms. Beauchamp? Are we about to travel back in time?
[ His hand finds her waist, though he steps closer instead of pulling her to him. He looks at her the way he always does β warm, adoring, whatever might be perceived as harsh about his features softened simply by the affection that he bears for her. His other hand settles upon hers, gently shifting her fingers back so as to take another look at the watch's errant hands.
(How the war will affect them, only time will tell. It changes him, as it changes all men, but not necessarily for the worse. He tells her, early on, that he regrets having tied her to a war zone, with the theater of war so much closer than it would have been had she never stepped foot on a boat to England, had she not had him as a reason to remain. It's not a platitude, but it's not completely true, either β who would he be, had she never entered his life?) ]
It'd be a sight more than we bargained for, coming to Sussex, butβ what's a holiday without a little adventure?
no subject
And why not?
[ ingrid's words are filled with soft laughter. she watches frank's face, remembering every line, every smile, the way his eyes light up at the prospect of adventure. his hands are warm as they hold back her own and she looks to the watch, then. ]
I see it every morning.
[ her chin tilts toward his, her shoulder nudging his tenderly. she smiles, the act coy. ( romance had never seemed a particular option for ingrid. freya excelled where she always fell short. try as she might, love as she did, nothing brought to her heart what frank is capable of. ) ]
If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were brimming with it even now.
[ but she does know better β she knows that while frank might not possess the magics of his ancestor, she has fallen nowhere short but under the spell of his own cast.
another gust of wind fills their space, moving around them, inviting them. ingrid steps to his side fully, then, her forehead against the side of his face. her nose grazes his cheek, the smell of him comforting, reminding her that so long as she is with him, she is truly home. ]
Shall we answer its call, Mr. Randall?
bring the bastard.
francis.
no subject
(He tells her, later, that Frank is short for Franklin, but he doesn't really mind the misnomer, as it were. There's something endearing about it.)
He appears soon after his doppelganger does (or is he the mirror image?). A dead man all the same, and not quite a revenant, either, but different in nearly every other respect. There's no mission he's on, no unfinished business β at best, it seems like he's just been brought along for the ride given the amount of power that Black Jack seems to be harnessing. A side effect, if you will. He doesn't belong here.
The first time they meet, she almost shoots him on sight. (She shoots through a window, instead, showering him in broken glass.) Not too long after, Black Jack comes after them both.
It's not particularly surprising that his fixation on Wynonna extends to Frank. It's collateral damage, even if it weren't also directly tied into a sort of narcissism. Then, there's this β the first time Wynonna manages to wound Black Jack, Frank's image flickers. He's not a ghost, he's flesh and blood, but all the sameβ the lines of his frame pass briefly in and out of vision, as if he were only a fleeting memory.
Nothing for nothing, it seems.
They run, after that, holing up in a motel room on the outskirts of Purgatory. (He tells her he's sure jokes about the town's name are overplayed.) She sits on the floor facing the window, her profile silhouetted against the darkening blue of the sky and her gun in her hand, and Frank sits with his back to the wall, all the while simply looking at her. It's with Black Jack's same intensity, but there's a different timbre to it, something a little more open, more malleable than that inexorable, narrow focus. ]
Wynonna.
[ His hand finds hers in the dim light. (He knows what has to happen, has made peace with it.) Once more: ]
Wynonna.
no subject
first, there's good ol' bj, firebug and, what she's decided to be, a possible foot soldier to the goddamn devil himself, who's willing to do just about anything to get his hands on a wynonna earp-flavored gatorade. then, it's his alter-ego, francis, the mild-mannered historian who smells nice and decides to go all marty mcfly when she shoots randall number one.
it's not every day she's put in a situation with doppelgangers. let alone decides to care for one of them. ( the moment she saw it, she knew what had to happen. they all did. it's why she did something she hadn't done for months now: she ran. ) time passed, slowly, as it always did in purgatory and frank just had to become something of an asset to the black badge division. helping them with intel on black jack, using some of his old mi6 tricks to slip in and out of bobo's trailer park.
when it happened, she made a grab for his hand β using it as an excuse to both throw him into the truck and assure herself that he was still there β and didn't bother to look back at the damage she had done. ( it's always been easier. drive. don't see what you've left behind. don't think about it. )
the motel sink leaks and the lights are kept off even as the sky turns color. purgatory is quiet, but her mind has never been louder.
it's frank's hand that finds hers now, pulling her back into the room. she turns her head sharply, her name hardly registering in her ears. wynonna. ]
What? [ her voice is softer than usual, wynonna tightening the rope so as to keep it together. so as to not let her tether break. ] What do you want me to say?
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Jonathan and Franklin Randall are both men shaped by war. Black Jack tells her something he'd once told Claire Beauchamp, back in Fort William, though he leaves the part about redemption because they both know that he has no interest in it. He tells her how he'd changed, when he'd been dispatched to war. (Though maybe changed isn't the right way of putting it β the monster had always been living in him, it just hadn't had the opportunity to come out.) Frank tells her β as time passes β about his service in the Second World War, about his time with MI6.
The emotion that dominates his memory β his entire being through the years of wartime β is guilt. (How many deaths was he responsible for?)
Whatever else runs in his blood β however far or close the apple may have fallen from the tree β that truth remains. He's earnest. Painfully so, considering the circumstances. He's warm, all-encompassing in his attention in a way that makes his visage seem miles away from that of his ancestor despite how near-identical they are.
He's still holding onto her hand when she turns to look at him. ]
I want you to say you won't hesitate, if you have the chance to kill him.
[ There's no waver in his voice, but he can't quite hide it in his gaze. No one who has returned from the dead wishes to go back again, though it's not selfishness on his part as much as it is fear. There's something terrifying about being erased from existence, especially when he's finally gained a foothold here (when he cares forβ), but it is what it is. He needs to say it, knows he has to, if only so that they both hear it. ]
We can't run forever.
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[ wynonna tilts her head at a light angle β her expression grim, but attempting for humor. ]
Wynonna Earp, how ya doin'?
[ she chuckles, though there's no sound. instead, it comes as a soft thing in her chest, thoughtful, distant. her eyes fall and she looks down at her lap in the darkness. her knee protrudes from a hole in her jeans and while she evades his glance, wynonna's thumb catches frank's, fingers turning in his to lace each one between the other.
she licks her lips, brief, the notion unsaid. purgatory carries on beyond the window. it would take black jack a few days to find them, sure, but they could be worth it. this could be worth it. turning tail and getting the hell out of dodge.
the thought's a selfish one and she regrets it almost as soon as it springs to mind. leaving all of this behind? waverly, dolls, doc, gus: she couldn't let them suffer. ( it's exactly what he'd do. promises mean nothing to a man who's willing to stop at nothing in order to achieve his means. that night on the homestead feels ages old now. ) ]
You know, you've got some nerve, showin' up here like this.
[ making yourself important. to the team, to the city, to β ]
Just for that, I've got half a mind send you back myself.
[ it's a joke, but it splits down the middle when she looks his way again. ]
whoops this is for frank.
francis!
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(To be clear, they're not running away, justβ beggars can't be choosers, and circumstances dictate their current whereabouts. It's not abandonment, though the distance sometimes makes it feel like it is. On the other hand, he's strangely grateful for the time that they have, something he'd have wished for if he were more selfish than he is.)
It makes Frank laugh. He's wearing two cardigans to ward against the cold, Wynonna wrapped up in a blanket, a fire burning between the two of them, and the fireworks β while not particularly close to them β shift the shadows cast on their faces.
As he slips a bookmark into what he's been reading: ] βLook.
[ The smile remains on his face as he keeps his head tilted up, watching each successive color dot the sky. They come in different shapes and sizes, leaving trails of smoke in the air as the next firework lights up. It's a beautiful sight, though there's still an undercurrent of anxiety that runs in his blood. ]
I seem to have lost track of the date, I didn't realize it was already Independence Day.
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wynonna wraps herself up tight as they wander into the wilderness. the fire keeps her fixated, her eyes watching the flames as they kick upwards and spark. frank reads as the sky turns and the quiet is odd for wynonna, but paradoxically comforting. somewhere along the way, she placed her head to his shoulder, the daze allowing her to breathe in his scent for safekeeping.
when he speaks, the spell is broken, wynonna jumping lightly at the words, rather than the sound of the fireworks themselves. blinking her eyes once, twice, then widening them dramatically, she tilts her chin upward, looking at colors dart against the cloudless canvas overhead. ]
Wouldja look at that.
[ her lips pull down, thoughtful, and she glances at him as wind lightly tickles her cheek with strands of her hair. playfully, she nudges his arm with a fist through her blanket. adopting a dramatic southern accent, she leans back just as another rocket launches and says: ]
We're free, ya filthy Brit! Hoo-rah. Frickin' 'murrica.