The rest of the semester seems to fly by, and before she knows it, Wynonna's sitting end of class exams again. She feels the most confident about World Civ, with English second and Physics third, and Calculus a dead last. She's only about sixty percent confident she passed that one, and if she did, she doesn't expect to get a very high score.
After exams, there's still a few days of class, something that's never made sense to Wynonna, but since they've gotten through the curriculum, the professors mostly just let them do their own things. Wynonna's recently started reading books for fun, having discovered she really likes sci-fi due to a unit in English, so she's been working through an anthology of sci-fi short stories.
She's just pulled her book out from her bag when she glances up to find Doc standing on the stairs. "Wynonna," she says, taking the empty seat next to her, "I have a proposition for you."
"Most of my dates at least lead with dinner ," Wynonna says teasingly. "Maybe you're not as much of a gentleman as you'd like people to think."
Doc rolls his eyes, looking fond. "It's regarding our good friend, Dolls," she says. "Now, as you may have gathered from her countenance, she is not one to typically ask for events centered around her. Her birthday is soon, and I wanted to ask if you'd help me with planning it. Nothing to ostentatious," she assures Wynonna, "but I want to do something , seeing as how last year...well," she grimaces, "let us just say that last year it wasn't possible to do anything."
"Ah," Wynonna says. "Okay. Wait, one question—why me? I mean, I'm sure you guys have other friends."
"We do," Doc says, easily. "However, of them, two are going abroad at the end of this week, and the other is...well, not the planning type."
Wynonna scoffs. "If you want the planning type, you're talking to the wrong Earp," she informs her friend.
"And," Doc adds, "I believe you possess intuition that would be helpful in this matter. If I were to try and plan it on my own, I am afraid that I would accidentally create something too elaborate to pull off, or something that was simply too overwhelming."
"You? Elaborate? Never," Wynonna says drily, gaze sweeping over today's outfit—another vintage cowboy-esque one, but in tones of blue this time. She's even got a fancy cravat with a glass-bead pin sitting proudly on it.
Doc scowls at her, an expression that looks a little too fond to be cowing in the slightest. "Just say yes," she says.
"What's the magic word?" Wynonna says, because it's fun to watch Doc get progressively more exasperated. Her eyebrows draw together slightly, and her cheeks flush slightly, which is exactly what's happening. It suits her.
"Fine. Please help me, Wynonna," she asks. "I'll even throw in some danishes, to sweeten the pot, as it were."
Wynonna sticks out her hand. "Consider it done," she says. "We can meet up this weekend and hash out the details—how does Sunday at ten sound? Down at the little park behind the Dollar Tree—you know the one, with the tire swing?"
"I do indeed know the one," Doc says. "And that sounds good—I don't work until three on Sunday."
"How did you wind up working in a bakery?" Wynonna asks. It's been something she's wondered about for a while, hand in hand with wondering how Doc ended up in middle-of-fucking-nowhere-Montana Purgatory. Then, realising it's probably a kind of personal question, she hastily adds, "You don't have to answer that, by the way."
Doc waves her off. "I've always had a knack for baking," she says. "When we came to Purgatory, Dolls' friend, Eliza, was able to get me a job with Mayflour, and in the year or so since then, I've become one of the senior bakers."
"Mayflour?" Wynonna says, raising a brow. "Shit, you must be really good. They have the best stuff in town."
The other shrugs, uncharacteristically modest, and rises. "Well, practice makes better and all. Now, I do believe I interrupted your reading, so I shall be on my way—"
Wynonna reaches out, grabbing her hand; shakes her head. "You don't need to go," she says. "I like your company, and I can read my book just fine with you here. I mean," she adds, realising that she's probably being a bit blunt, "if you want to, that is."
Doc smiles; a sight that still manages to make Wynonna feel a little weak-kneed. "I enjoy your company as well," Doc says, sitting back down. "What is your book about?"
Wynonna smiles back, and launches into an explanation of her favourite stories so far.
When they go their separate ways at the end of the class, they've ended up talking about their music tastes, Doc revealing that she has a soft spot for folk music, especially pieces played with violins as the main instrument, a fact that Wynonna finds oddly endearing. Wynonna, for her part, tells Doc that she likes classical and alt rock, which has Doc smiling once again and telling her that it fits her perfectly.
The bus ride back to the house is one of the nicest Wynonna's ever had, texting back and forth with Doc and Dolls both—Dolls' strict adherence to proper punctuation is kind of amusing—and trying to decide whether or not it's worth using one of the blank CDs she's got squirreled away to create a mixtape for Doc. In the end, she winds up deciding the answer is an emphatic yes, which isn't terribly surprising.
The door's unlocked, and since there's no cars in the driveway, that means Waverly's home. "Hey, Waves," Wynonna calls out as she opens the door. "Do you want to have veggie pot pie, or scalloped potatoes?"
"Uh, either's fine!" Waverly calls, her voice slightly muffled, and Wynonna frowns, kicking off her shoes. It doesn't sound like Waverly's upstairs, and she's not in the kitchen or living room either, which only leaves the bathroom.
The door's open, so Wynonna peeks inside, eyes widening as she catches sight of Waverly's shirt tugged up in one hand, the other awkwardly attempting to squeeze a neosporin packet onto a nasty gash that goes from her hip, around her side, and disappears onto her back. Wynonna quickly takes the packet from her, grabbing some toilet paper and soaking it in water, wiping at the dirt and blood crusted on the wound. "Babygirl, what happened?" she asks.
Waverly winces, hissing slightly at the touch. "I got into a fight with Cleo Clanton," she says, finally. "Don't worry—it was after school, and none of the teachers saw, so I'm not in trouble."
"I don't give a shit about that," Wynonna says, wiping away the last of the grime, and begins to reapply the neosporin. "I'm worried about you, Waverly. You scared me."
"Sorry for worrying you," Waverly mutters. "I'm not sorry for getting into a fight with her, though. Cleo was...she deserved it," she says, firmly. "She was saying really nasty things about Nicole, like, slurs. I tried to tell the teachers but they just told me that since it wasn't Nicole making the complaint, they weren't going to do anything about it." Angry tears have started spilling down her cheeks, and she says, "They're—ugh!I hate them so much, Wynonna."
Wynonna sighs, taping gauze over the wound. "I'm sorry, Waves. That's really shitty."
"Yeah," Waverly mutters, and leans against Wynonna, burying her face in her shoulder. Wynonna gently puts her arms around her, careful not to hold her too tight.
In an attempt to lighten the mood, Wynonna says, "Hey, in a few years, you'll have guys flocking to you 'cause of the scar. Dudes dig scars."
"...do girls?" Waverly mumbles, pulling back and wiping at her face.
Wynonna smiles, taking her hand and squeezing it. "Pretty sure," she says. "And even if they don't, you're pretty great, so I think they'd dig you anyway."
That makes Waverly laugh. "Stop it," she says, grinning. "You can't butter me up—I got into a fight."
"Uh huh," Wynonna says, grinning back. "And you probably kicked Cleo's ass, so I think I get to butter you up as much as I want. Now," she says, putting the first aid stuff away, "come on. I need your help peeling the potatoes."
Wynonna goes to the park on Sunday. It's started getting into the high eighties, but the air is clear—fire season hasn't started yet. Clouds drift lazily in the sky, occasionally shading the sun.
She's brought snacks, and arrived early, so she indulges and has a go on the tire swing for old time's sake. When she was younger, she used to beg Willa to push her on it. Now she's old enough that she can push herself. It feels bittersweet.
"Indulging in the recreational activities of the youth, I see," comes Doc's honeyed voice from behind her; and Wynonna twists in the swing to see her standing, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a paper bag, hat atop her head as usual. She's not wearing her usual vest and coat, only a dress shirt and suspenders in an understated deep brown, but she pulls it off excellently. An easy smile is stretched across her features, her stance loose.
"Gotta indulge occasionally," Wynonna says, smiling in return; stands up. "I brought some dried fruit and trail mix, if you want any."
"I could be convinced," Doc says; holds out the bag.
They take a lap around the wood chip-filled playground, passing the plastic container of food back and forth, Wynonna downing the danish in what's probably record time. When they get halfway through the second lap, Doc says, "I was thinking a surprise party. Have her walk into the darkened room and we flip the lights on and yell 'surprise!'."
Wynonna snorts. "She'll hate that," she says, bluntly, and takes a few almonds, peeling the skins off before she eats them. "No darkened rooms. The surprise aspect isn't a bad idea, though—just needs to be toned down a bit. Maybe more of a 'walk through the door and find a banner with happy birthday! written on it'."
Doc hums. "That is more her style," she admits. "Not quite as satisfactory from the planner's point of view, though."
"Put that bang into the cake," Wynonna suggests. "You should make it yourself—go all out with the decorating. Fancy flowers and shit, or frosting calligraphy. Or both."
"That, I can do," Doc says, grabbing a dried apricot; chews on it for a moment, and then heads for the swings.
Wynonna follows after; and for a few minutes, they sit there, swinging gently. Then, Doc says, "I feel I haven't made it clear how much your friendship and help means to me."
"I know it means a lot," Wynonna dismisses. "You don't need to get soppy on me." Still, she finds part of herself hoping she does.
Doc reaches out, taking Wynonna's hand between hers. "You've been a true friend," she says, "and I cannot explain to you just how valuable that is. Most of the people Dolls and I have tried to befriend since coming to Purgatory..." She hesitates, before continuing, "Many of them either only got close because they wanted something, or, once they found out who we were, began to demand things of us. You, though—the only thing you've asked for is friendship. Thank you for that, Wynonna."
The earnestness of her gaze is like a yoke; and shame wells in Wynonna. She wants to tell Doc that's not true, that she has wanted more, since the day she met them; but she just remains silent, feeling like a liar and a fraud; mumbles something appropriately witty.
That evening, she makes a trip to Walmart for gifts for Dolls. She doesn't have much money to spare, but she has just enough to buy embroidery floss—Dolls makes embroidered patches—and some tools for creating woodcut stamps. She only has a few cents left over, and she has to wrap the gifts in the balloon patterned wrapping paper she got for Waverly to wrap Nicole's gifts in a few months earlier, but she tucks them into the brown paper bag with as much care as she can.
Dolls' birthday is after the end of the school year, in mid June. Wynonna's been working six days a week at the YMCA as a lifeguard, but she takes the nineteenth off; spends an hour worrying over whether her usual get-up is sufficient—she's never worried much about what she wears, but now, standing before the closet, the prospect of seeing Doc and Dolls again hanging over her, she suddenly finds fault with her worn jeans, second-hand t-shirt, and scuffed black jacket. Thankfully, Waverly's at Nicole's, so Wynonna doesn't have to suffer through the ordeal of her sister teasing her.
She goes through three more outfits before she comes back to the first, and even then it only sticks because she checks her watch and realises she has to get going right now if she wants to be on time.
When the bus pulls to a stop in front of the apartment building, she takes a deep breath, and, clutching the gifts, gets off, making her way up to the third floor.
She checks her watch again, nerves feeling frazzled—she's been here before, but something about the fact that it's not for academic purposes this time makes it feel different. She hesitates for a moment, and then knocks on the door.
It swings open, and Doc greets her. "Wynonna! Come in—set the gifts on the table and help me hang up the banner up."
Wynonna does; watches Doc grab the banner off the bar counter, movement graceful and cat-like as ever. She grabs one of the stools, standing on it so she can reach the overhang. "Hand me a piece of tape, will you?"
Wynonna grabs the roll of tape quickly, flushing slightly over the realisation that she'd gotten distracted; cuts a piece off and holds it up to Doc, who smiles at her and takes it.
Soon, they have the banner up, and Doc has her get out the cake from the back of the fridge while she gets the candles and lighter. "How did you manage to hide it from Dolls?" she asks, setting it on the counter. It's not exactly a discreet cake—an orange and red marbled frosting coat, with frosted flowers on top piped in such a way as to mimic embroidery.
Doc laughs. "It was no easy task, I assure you," she says. "I had to start it yesterday, and she very nearly saw it twice." She sticks the candles—a one and a nine—in the centre, and says, "There. Perfect."
Her hat's askew, and a lock of hair's escaped its confines, dropping down across her face. "Hang on a minute," Wynonna says, stepping forward and reaching out to take it off, brushing Doc's hair back without even thinking about it; and then freezes as she realises how close they are; how intimate it looks. She can see the light smattering of freckles on Doc's face, the scar beneath her left eye; the slightly darker hair above her upper lip. Desire heats her ribcage, but she can feel Doc's gaze like a brand; and Wynonna bites it back with a sharp no not for you hands off and drops Doc's hat back on her head, stepping back and smiling weakly. "Gotta have you looking your best for when Dolls gets here," she says.
There's a beat; and then Doc nods, slowly. "Well, I appreciate it," she says; and picks up the cake, brushing past Wynonna.
Wynonna leans against the counter for a moment, heart pounding; and then shakes her head, following after.
They get the presents stacked neatly at one end of the table, the cake in the middle, before Dolls opens the door. She stares for a moment at the banner, and then says, "You really didn't have to." She sounds pleased, though; and there's the barest hints of a smile at the edges of her lips, lighting up her features despite its subtlety.
After Dolls blows the candles out, Doc grabs the plates and serves them all; and they sit on the couch, Dolls in the middle. Doc makes her open the presents before she digs in to the cake, and Dolls rolls her eyes and makes a token protest, but she takes them readily.
Wynonna has to look away when Dolls opens her presents, but rather than the falsely sincere thanks she's expecting, she feels a hand on her arm; turns her head to find Dolls' hand resting gently on the black of her jacket. "Thank you," she says; and squeezes her hand lightly. "They're perfect."
A flush heats Wynonna's cheeks. "No problem," she mumbles. "I'm glad you like them."
The rest of the party passes easily, conversation flowing in between pieces of cake and, eventually, the film Dolls puts on. Wyonna finds herself pressed against Dolls' side, and a pleased warmth battles with an icy guilt, making her feel sick; but she doesn't say anything, for fear of ruining the comfortable atmosphere.