Clove hitch (n.)
A knot commonly used by cowboys to tie a rope or lariat to a post.
If I hear 'I'm sorry for you loss' one more time I'm going to scream. That's all there is to it. It'll just be me, screaming like an insane person in the middle of the bar, making everyone uncomfortable.
Waverly sighs and pulls her arms a little closer to her chest.
Maybe if they changed up the words a little bit, added a little variety. Or maybe a different language! Me paenitet. Lo siento. Je suis désolée.
She sighs again, shakes her head. This whole train of thought is a deflection, and she's smart enough to recognize it for what it is, even if part of her welcomes the distraction. Like when you get an injury and the pain is too overwhelming for the body to handle - the brain changes your perception of where the pain originates in an attempt at crisis management like some sort of slick sleight of hand.
Shorty's gone. No amount of "I'm sorry's" will bring him back. There's no prayer, no supplication that will alter the outcome. No matter how well-intentioned, the words remain hollow, and they fail to ease the chill settling in her bones.
In one moment she lost a boss, a landlord, and a friend.
Closing her eyes, Waverly admits to herself that those terms don't quite cover it all. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Shorty was family. It always struck her as ironic that the most noteworthy thing about her was her family name, but when it comes right down to it, her family is the most messed up part of her life. A mom who left when Waverly was only four years old; a father and sister killed when she was six; and Wynonna, who was...well, Wynonna. Not exactly "Leave it to Beaver" material.
But then she has Gus. And she has Shorty, and...
She stops.
Had Shorty.
Had.
A tear escapes, unbidden and unnoticed.
As she grew into her own skin in the fishbowl of Purgatory, Shorty stepped in to fill the void left by the departure of her blood family. Sure, there was Gus and Uncle Curtis, but it wasn't the same. Smiling softly, Waverly thinks back on the evolution of their relationship. She knows he had seen her as a daughter every bit as much as she considered him a surrogate father. They never put a name to it. They didn't have to.
Particularly over the last few years, Shorty filled in as an advisor. Of all the hats he wore, though, he particularly embraced his role as Waverly's Protector™. With Wynonna in and out of trouble, in and out of town, in and out of her life, he took that mantle for himself, and he took it seriously.
Waverly's mind reaches back, landing on the memory of a night last summer. She had been sick in bed, incapacitated by a particularly cruel summer cold, but she could have sworn she heard the tell-tale sound of Champ's truck outside. You could hear the stupid pipes on his truck half the town over. But her head was muddled with medicine and sleep, and she couldn't be too sure of anything. When a few minutes had gone by with no Champ in her doorway, Waverly had stuffed her feet in her PowerPuff Girl slippers and shuffled down the stairs to investigate. Or at least to get a snack. Who knows.
Off to the side of the bar, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light, Shorty stood menacingly in front of Champ, burly arms crossed over his chest.
"Kid, I saw you out there...at the rodeo."
Champ grinned toothily. "Didn't I look good? My time was pretty decent tonight, right?"
Unamused, Shorty's response was terse. "No, kid. I saw you. With the blonde...who was definitely not Waverly." A muscle twitched in his jaw.
What ensued was the most impassioned lecture Waverly had ever witnessed from Shorty. Truth be told Shorty was generally more of the stoic type, so it's not like there was a lot of lectures to use as a measure. He kept using words like responsibility, respect, character - words that made Waverly's cold-addled brain even fuzzier while warming her heart through and through.
Champ at least had the decency to look shamefaced during the dressing down, replying with "yes sir" and "no sir" in all the right places.
She tiptoed back up to her room after a few moments, her head spinning, her heart a sickly combination of warm and cold. Her sleep that night was fitful.
The next day, Champ brought her flowers. Roses. "Just because," he told her.
They never talked about it. He surprised her with bouquets on two more occasions since then. Always roses.
She's come to the conclusion that she hates roses.
"Oh hon, I'm so sorry - we'll all miss him." A woman Waverly recognizes from the hair salon interrupts her train of thought. Donna something-or-other. Waverly nods politely and looks once more at the memorial poster she'd been staring at for the last few minutes before heading back behind the bar at the center of the room.
Her protector.
But she wasn't there to protect him when he needed it. She wasn't there to protect Wynonna. She wasn't there to protect Champ. Instead she had been snooping around the trailer park after Henry like she was in an episode of Scooby Doo, another one of those 'meddling kids' stumbling their way through a mystery. Maybe "Doc" was right - she's destined to be the helpless, pitiful little sister, never the one to save the day.
Shorty, though, he protected right to the end. Wynonna had told her how it unfolded, had told her of his selfless heroics. She knows in her heart that it was for her, and in his mind that any other ending was simply not an option. He had told her time and time again that one day Wynonna would figure things out and head home to Purgatory. He'd been right, of course. And in the end, he made sure that Waverly didn't lose another sister.
Always her protector.
"Waverly."
She snaps out of her daze as Officer Haught strides around the bar to her, all purpose and worry.
"I'm so sorry."
So here's the funny thing. This is the first time in the last hour those words haven't grated on her last remaining nerve. Under normal circumstances, that's the type of revelation that would make her sit up and take notice. Her analytical brain should hit the pause button and go back to the instant replay for a closer look.
But grief is a funny emotion. It can dull the sharpest of senses. So it happens that this revelation flits through Waverly's mind like cigarette smoke - it comes and goes, leaving only the faintest of traces in its wake.
"I can't believe he's gone." Her words are choked.
Waverly has managed to maintain her composure all afternoon as Purgatory's concerned citizens paraded around Shorty's bar, commiserating in hushed tones and platitudes. It takes a look and a handful of words from Officer Haught, and she finds herself confessing a truth to someone, who for all intents and purposes, is a total stranger.
But she doesn't think twice about it. She doesn't even think once about it. Officer...Nicole's presence pulls the words out of her with no more effort than breathing.
With her admission, tears burn in her eyes and emotion strangles her voice. She's left herself vulnerable, disarmed.
Without hesitation, Nicole reaches out, and lays her hands on top of Waverly's. There's no pretense - no posturing. It's a simple gesture of comfort and support, and the easiness with which Waverly feels herself settling into the connection should surprise her, but mostly it just feels like safety.
Words...don't always work. But this - this silent connection - it's Waverly's undoing. Tendrils of warmth seep under her skin. They caress the chill in her bones. And they cause her fingers to softly squeeze the ones gently holding her.
Calloused hands grasp her face and she finds her cheeks peppered with kisses. Her hands are left empty; the chill floods in once again. Champ.
It's like being doused in cold water. Waverly sobers immediately, falling back to the composed countenance she wore before, enduring his transparent show of affection with barely disguised apathy.
His lips are chapped. They scratch uncomfortably against her skin. Her quiet protestations go unnoticed, and across the bar Officer Haught looks away, uneasy. She's retreating, and in that moment as Champ places dry kisses to her neck, Waverly wishes nothing more than to retreat with her.
The weight of his chin on her shoulder is suffocating. His kisses smell vaguely of Bud Light, and a thought strikes her with surprising force: I don't want this. I don't want him here. Not right now.
Across the bar, Officer Haught continues to pull away, and without preamble, Waverly reaches out urgently, trying desperately to reestablish their connection. The deputy stares at the hand splayed on the bar, awed, before bringing her eyes level.
It isn't until some point later (well, 43 minutes and 18 seconds later, to be exact) that Waverly deciphers that look. This is the first time that she has taken an active role in an interaction with Officer Haught. When they were here before, separated by the same bar, the deputy had been flirtatious and bold, and Waverly had been a passive participant. Today, though, her hand slams onto the bar. She is reaching back.
Almost immediately Champ's calloused hands find purchase on her outstretched arms and pull them back to him, to his domain. His message is clear, and Waverly doesn't try to break his embrace again.
Instead, looking into Officer Haught's startled face, she tries to make words work.
"I got your voicemail. About Wynonna," she starts.
Champ chimes in, his voice loud in her ear, and for the second time in the span of ten seconds she finds herself wishing that her boyfriend, a guy who is frankly lucky to be alive, would leave her alone.
Redoubling her energy, Waverly continues, "Thanks." Her gaze is unflinching.
Champ echoes unnecessarily. Her heart beats harder, and emotion colors her voice. "It was really sweet." Tears burn in the corners of her eyes, but she doesn't blink them away, instead seeking desperately to recapture the intimacy of their stolen moment by maintaining eye contact.
"Yeah...sure," Officer Haught responds softly, her face sweet, awed, returning Waverly's gaze. The air crackles. And then her eyes dart to Champ, whose chin still rests heavily on Waverly's shoulder. Her half smile drops instantly. "Of course," she whispers, her voice laced with something indecipherable, before stepping back and withdrawing from the now too-crowded tableau at the bar.
With every step of the deputy's retreat, Waverly feels the chill from before seep back into her bones. She aches. Every cell in her body is screaming at her to give chase.
"I don't know. Something about her rubs me the wrong way." Waverly ignores him and continues to follow the deputy's movements with her eyes. "Officer...what's-her-name," he says dismissively.
When she finally speaks, ice creeps into her voice. "It's Haught," she snaps. It's an odd sensation - the chill in her bones grows simultaneously as anger simmers in her bloodstream - fire and ice coexisting.
"She…" Waverly can't seem to get the words out. Her mind is spinning back to the voicemail on her phone, the one she has yet to delete.
"Waverly...it's Nicole. Um, Officer Haught. There's a situation. Wynonna, she's in a hostage situation at the surplus store. I, uh, I think Champ is in there, too. But Dolls is here, and the entire Sheriff's Department is on scene. We're going to take care of them. OK? We're going to get them home safe to you. Both of them. Don't worry."
If she hadn't been so busy skulking through Bobo's trailer park like a junior detective, she could have taken the call. Maybe she could have helped. Maybe Shorty...maybe he would still be here. Waverly has listened to that message a dozen times. When she finds herself starting to drift in grief and regret, she dials her voicemail. Nicole's voice is concerned but strong - reassuring - a safe place to anchor herself while the world reels around her.
"She…" The tears well in her eyes, and her face draws in upon itself. She can't properly articulate what that message means to her. She can't vocalize what the silent comfort of a few moments ago means to her. If she says it aloud, if she names it...
"Oh baby, baby it's OK! Don't cry! I'm OK!" His words have a sobering effect. Her tears stop in their tracks. The fire in her veins flares.
Of course. Of course he thinks this is about him.
"Wynonna and I were almost human sacrificed. Shorty saved us."
And just like that, her anger dies down. It surprises her, how quickly she forgets he was involved yesterday. Guilt mars her features, and she shakes the remaining vestiges of her anger and ambivalence away before reciting the cover story Dolls crafted to hide the role of the curse and the revenants in the events of yesterday. "Wynonna tells me you were really brave," she continues, her voice warmer than before. It's a half-truth. Wynonna had told her that exact thing, but, well...it was the way she said it. Wynonna isn't a master of concealing her true feelings, and while the words themselves were meant to placate Waverly, to comfort her, Wynonna's delivery led her to believe a different story.
"I was," Champ agrees. She can't manage to look him in the eye, but she feels his smile. "One thing's for sure. I'm never leaving your side again, OK?"
He resumes kissing her cheek, her temple, her neck, anywhere he can find access. She endures it, but there's no comfort in the contact, at least not for her. This is about him. In spite of herself, the chill in her bones begins to leach into her muscle tissue, wiping any show of sympathy from her face. Wrapped in the arms of someone who cares about her, Waverly feels alarmingly alone.
Is this...it? Is this really what I want?
Death brings change. It's inevitable. While the dead finally rest, the living are left to adjust, pick up the pieces, and reevaluate the trajectory of their own paths in light of a new paradigm. Standing here in the middle of Shorty's bar, Waverly finds herself teetering on a precipice, unsure what lies beneath.
From her spot by the door, Nicole watches Waverly detach herself from Champ's embrace and seek out Wynonna. "She said she was glad I called," she half-whispers.
Off to her side, Deputy Marshall Dolls watches Officer Haught watch Waverly. He might as well be on another planet - the deputy only has eyes for the girl sitting at the bar with her arms wrapped around herself. The longing on the officer's face is transparent.
"I bet," he says matter-of-factly.