Well (n.)
The center of the spin of a bucking horse or bull. Riders may get into the well and not be able to regain their balance. To be "down in the well" describes a situation in which a bull is spinning in one direction and the force of the spin pulls the rider down the side of the bull into the vortex. A dangerous situation.
Tracking the sound of the footfalls through the homestead, she knows the instant the feet find the stairs - the sound changes minutely, the flat tread suddenly deep and resonating, but with a distinct hollowness to it. Once the footsteps pass the fifth or sixth stair step, they become too faint to be easily audible, in spite of the hush that's fallen over the rest of the house, so instead she counts along in her head, calculating progress. She takes no pride when, right on time, a low-pitched creak reverberates down the stairwell, around the corner and into the kitchen, confirming the individual's passage into the upstairs hallway.
That board has creaked since time immemorial. She remembers hearing its harsh rasp in the middle of the night as a child, startling her out of a silent slumber repeatedly, the kind of thing ready-made for childhood nightmares - until one night, when a stifled giggle followed the groan of the wood, the sound of either Willa or Wynonna sneaking into her sister's room for mischief. Probably Wynonna. Sneaking has never been her strong suit; she's more the bull in a china shop sister. That night the creak lost its power to fuel her nightmares, lost its ability to create monsters and boogeymen outside a young girl's bedroom door. Instead, it became the sound of loneliness. The sound of the being left out, the invisible sister. The fear in her bones gave way to pain, a constant dull ache, until eventually her bones hollowed completely.
When she hears the soft click that signifies Willa has shut the door to her room upstairs, Waverly relaxes fractionally, releasing the breath she's not even aware she's been holding. The medical tape high on her rib cage pulls uncomfortably against her skin, and she curls her fingers into a loose fist to keep herself from reaching up to pick at it.
With a softness belying her urgency, Waverly pads out of the kitchen, and after a quick deliberation, turns toward the back door, whose hinges had gotten the WD-40 treatment a few months back when Doc was ingratiating himself with his handyman routine. With a twist of the wrist, the porcelain of the antique knob cold against her bare palm, the back door swings opens with minimal protest, the escape route clear before her. Stopping once more on the threshold, her head cocked slightly to the side, she evaluates the sound of the house behind her, checking one more time that the way is unimpeded. All is quiet.
The silence is suffocating.
Slowly, torturously, she pulls the door closed behind her, careful not to let the latch rattle in the frame, and steps into the yard, one foot meticulously placed in front of the other. The barn comes into view when she rounds the corner, and with a few more steps, she spies the squad car still parked in front of the house. A quick glance up toward the second story window and she increases her speed, aiming straight for the outbuilding. Her feet crunch sharply on the snow.
It's the third time in as many days they're having to resort to "popping out" to the relative seclusion of the barn, bitterness etching itself on her face at the thought. With Willa haunting the homestead, the house is changed. Rooms that have sat empty for years are suddenly crowded. The windows have sprouted eyes, the hallways ears. And now the doors have a tongue - to lash, to judge. To remind. Always to remind. On the surface, everything appears the same. Waverly's shitkickers are still by the backdoor, the smudges on the wall marking off the growth of the Earp sisters remain, her room still has enough books and flammable paperstuff to give a fire marshall a heart attack. But it feels...off. There's a feeling in the pit of her stomach when she's home now that never quite goes away.
She's trying with Willa. She is. Here lately she's been swallowing her concern like it's a fine wine, pushing it aside to make room for the return of the prodigal daughter. But for all of her dogged efforts, for all of her overtures, the unease remains. The wine starts to sour.
For the last several years, Waverly's life has been nothing if not predictable. Work, Champ, online courses, Chrissy & the girls - the thrilling day to day reality of living in a place like Purgatory, where the livestock outnumber the people. Her existence was stationary, a celestial body alone in the night sky. Life was steady, calculable. Boring. And then Wynonna came strolling back into town, wrapped in sarcasm and leather, and just like that Waverly was thrown into motion, her sister's gravity pulling her out of stagnation, setting the two of them spinning together in the night sky. She couldn't fight physics. But with Wynonna, the change brought balance. After an initial adjustment period, they began to move in tandem as the Earp sisters settled into their orbits, each exerting a pull on the other, keeping the other on their trajectory, keeping the other close.
Willa, though - Willa is different. Her arrival is a perturbation, another gravitational force thrown into the mix, pulling and stretching Wynonna and Waverly both out of their established paths, their established relationship, and creating new patterns of her own. For all of them. She's been back for a blink of an eye, but she's changed every parameter, every system that existed before. The effect on Wynonna, at least from what Waverly can see, is outsized, pulling her close, the two oldest Earps' paths now closely entwined, while Waverly herself has been left spinning on the outskirts, her new solitary orbit.
Or maybe it's an old one. Maybe everything else was the aberration, and this...this is a return to the natural order of things, the order of childhood. Maybe this is just the galaxy righting itself.
Passing the porch, a bitter gust pushes against her front, slowing her progress, and she tucks her head and pulls her arms close, a desperate attempt to keep the chill from infiltrating her thin top.
What happened in the kitchen a few minutes ago is just the latest scene in this ongoing play, but it echoes the ones that have come before. The scenery may have changed, but the lines are repeating. There's this casual...awfulness about the way Willa interacts with others. Given what's happened to her in the last fifteen years, it's not unexpected that Willa might have problems adjusting to being back in society and back with them on the homestead. Being abducted, brainwashed, forced into a cult - that'll definitely cripple a person's ability to interact with any sort of tact or aplomb. But it's not that she's just rough around the edges, like she was with Nicole just now in the kitchen, her words brusque and dismissive, spoken with no care for how they'd land. Waverly's watched Willa interact with a handful of people now, and she's treated many of them the same way, all cool and detached, speaking her mind and leaving it at that.
But her words to Waverly tend to take on another tone entirely. Instead of cool or indifferent, they feel cruel. Personal. Intentional. As much as Waverly's been trying to make allowances, to give cover to a sister who wields words like weapons, there are times when it's too much. Fifteen years. Fifteen years have passed, but in some ways it's like it's been no time at all.
With each new scene and each new instance, it's another year removed, like she's some medical marvel, de-aging right before their very eyes. Willa's barbs land sharp and keen on her skin, ripping open wounds from long ago, until finally, stripped of all the years, of all of the things she's made of herself, she's back to being the unhappy little girl she once was.
Growing up, Waverly did what most little girls do when they have older siblings - she idolized them. She wanted to be best friends with them. She wanted to be just like them.
In reality, though, she was the tagalong, the half-sized Earp straggling and stumbling after her older sisters as they took on the world together, forever in their shadows but still grateful when they looked back her way. There were happy moments. Even at her most melancholy, Waverly can remember laughing like a maniac that one time when all three of them planned and schemed and executed a practical joke on their father. In hindsight, they were lucky he was sober at the time, taking the prank in his stride and good-naturedly teasing his girls in return. All of his girls.
But for every memory like that, warm and bright and tinged with sun, there are three more shaded in angry reds or cold grays. There's Willa holding Waverly's beloved teddy bear hostage...again. Or Willa forcing Waverly to walk the plank in the barn in return for keeping a secret from their father. In a million ways and a million times, there were teasing names, cruel words, and crueler actions.
But surprisingly, what inflicted the most pain was when there were no words at all.
A few days ago, Willa followed an angry Wynonna out to the barn, and Waverly, unbeknownst to them, followed them both. Watching Willa tell Wynonna she didn't have to be alone anymore, watching Wynonna sink into a hug, hopeful and comforted and content - in that moment, Waverly felt her bones hollow and her heart wither.
Fifteen years later, and she's back to being the invisible Earp. Growing up, she'd watched her daddy line up Willa and Wynonna one by one against the door jamb, her sisters standing up as straight and tall as she'd ever seen, smiles as big as Texas (and probably the most stationary Wynonna had ever been in her life). Using an old pencil from the kitchen junk drawer, he'd mark the wall with their latest height, and together they'd 'ohhh' and 'ahhh' about how far they'd come. No one noticed when, after the older sisters moved out of the way, Waverly would try to take her turn, her shoulders squared, eking out a fraction of an inch more by subtly standing on her tippy toes, only to watch, crestfallen, as the pencil was returned to the kitchen drawer and the others moved out of the room. No one noticed when she'd stand next to the door jamb by herself, tongue sticking out with the effort, trying clumsily to mark her own height using her tiny hand as a placeholder. No one was watching. No one cared. It's been fifteen long years, and in the blink of an eye, it's like Willa never left.
With another dozen feet to go, she takes a second to look down at herself, her arms still crossed protectively across her chest. They're solid. Visible. And oddly reassuring. But it's too late to stop the tears prickling at her eyes or the lump forming in her throat.
She tries to remind herself that the Willa from back then and Willa now are two different people, that she can't hold a trauma victim accountable for every hurtful thing she says or does. Whether intentional or not, she owes Nicole an apology. Again. Having Willa's abrasiveness aimed at herself is one thing. She's used to that. But watching her verbal punches hit Nicole - that's a lot harder to stomach, and Nicole isn't deserving of any of the rancor thrown her way. God, she's only here to support Waverly, and instead she ends up a target herself.
The wound on her side itches, and she fights the urge to scratch and pull and tear off the bandage.
With Willa, underneath it all there are moments when the lines blur. Or maybe blur isn't really the right way to describe it at all. Maybe these are moments of sharpness, where one of Willa's looks, her words, her actions slice Waverly to the bone, the cut precise, almost surgical. These are reserved exclusively for Waverly. Only Waverly, and always when Wynonna is out of range. It's the exclusivity more than anything that casts doubt in Waverly's mind about the intentionality of her older sister's behavior.
These are dark moments - honest moments, really - where she finds herself torn, wishing things could go back to the way they were, without Willa, back to when she felt like she and Wynonna were finally figuring out how that they made a great team. Back to when her world felt steadier.
And then the guilt rushes in, fierce and hot, her lungs filling with shame at her selfishness. Willa's been through some unbelievable trauma, and Waverly can't begin to imagine how terrified and alone her sister must have felt for years after that night so long ago. Beneath the coolness and the cruelty, she's a victim, and Waverly has to remind herself of that repeatedly. She tries to stick to her plan - be nice, be open, be a good sister. Turn the other cheek when Willa does or says something hurtful. Watch out for her as best she can, just like she does for Wynonna. Because they're family. And she of all people shouldn't take family for granted.
But she can't help feeling like Sisyphus, pushing the rock up the hill, her muscles straining and trembling with the exertion, hopeful that today's the day it slots into place at the top. Hoping today she doesn't have to worry about losing her grip and feeling the boulder flatten her to the ground. It's overwhelming and exhausting, and in the end, will it even matter?
As she opens the door to the barn and steps inside, the stress catches up with her. Looking up from her spot on the bed, Nicole observes. Waverly, still fighting frustrated tears, starts her apology. "I'm sorry, Willa j-" Her voice strangles in her throat as her emotions finally boil over, and she closes her eyes.
In an instant, she senses Nicole's approach by the warmth rolling off of her body as she gets close, and it's in that moment that Waverly realizes she's been shivering, her two minute excursion in the snow enough to chill her thoroughly. Strong arms encircle her shoulders and pull her in. Automatically, her own arms snake around Nicole's waist, her hands bunching in the sweater, and she buries her face into the soft fabric, letting the warmth soak her skin.
It's hard to say how long they stay like that, wrapped up in one another, the lines between them indistinct. No questions, no talking - not really. Nicole occasionally murmurs words of comfort, the sound meant to calm. But with Nicole's chin resting against her forehead, and Waverly's ear pressed close to the taller girl's chest, what she really hears is a heartbeat, strong and steady, and she feels the vibration of words more than the words themselves. The combination of the two is one of the most soothing sensations she's felt in her entire life, and her arms constrict, pulling Nicole impossibly closer.
A couple of weeks ago, Waverly's life was turning upside down. They'd finished off the seven, and Wynonna and Nicole had nearly died in the process. Gus was in the middle of selling Shorty's. And she and Nicole...well, that was quickly coming to a head as well. Each on their own was daunting and unnerving, but coming all at once? It had been terrifying, and the worst part was that she felt like she had to face it alone. Always alone.
But here she is again, the world once again turned on its head, leaving her lost and hurt. The difference is that this time, though, she has someone in her corner. The homestead is losing its comfort, losing its status as a safe place. Instead, her home is becoming a house. In its void, she's seeking refuge with Nicole, a harbor to ride out the storm, and Nicole has opened her arms, offered sanctuary.
The arms around her constrict momentarily, before one of them loosens its grip, sliding over to travel slowly up and down Waverly's spine, giving comfort. When the hand travels up to her hair, stroking softly, Waverly smothers a smile in the folds of Nicole's sweater and goes back to listening to the steady beat of the heart beside her ear.
Over the past few days, Nicole has given Waverly strength when she flagged. Yesterday was particularly bad, and Nicole had held her then, much like this, while Waverly cried, venting about Willa and choking on tears in equal measure. She listens, she comforts, she makes Waverly laugh and draws her attention elsewhere when she starts to tailspin. She makes it so easy. All Waverly has to do is lean in, claim sanctuary.
None if it will solve Waverly's problems, no matter how much she may wish is were so. But what it does is make Waverly feel like she matters.
Nicole sees her. And that...means everything.
Maybe she really is Sisyphus, doomed to roll this boulder up the hill day in and day out. But now - now she's got another set of hands helping her push.
When her breathing calms and the room steadies itself around her, she slowly pulls away from Nicole and paces haltingly around the enclosed space before coming to rest against the foot of the bed. In her periphery she can see Nicole leaning into the wall to her right, her brow furrowed, giving her space but watching attentively.
It feels like a breaking point is coming. Waverly's not the same girl she used to be. As a child there had been no recourse. No options. But she's no longer a child. While she still feels every cruel jab just as keenly now as an adult, she's learned from the harsh world around her the use of being guarded, of not letting her walls down too far or too early.
Willa's here - she's home. As long as she's got energy, she's got to keep trying to make things work. It's her duty as an Earp - as a sister - to push the boulder up the hill. But what happens if she runs out of strength?
Her eyes are unfocused but dry; they look ahead but see nothing. The sigh from her lips carries the weariness of ancients.
"I'm exhausted."