Summer comes in full force, hot and dry, in late August. Wynonna spends most of her time outside, biking on the outskirts of the town, going as high into the mountains as she can in an attempt to chase the cool breezes. The rest of her time is split between lifeguarding at the YMCA and at the house, cooking for herself and Waverly.
She's on her bike again, pedalling against gravity and a steep incline, taking a route she hasn't gone before, the wind whipping her face.
She stops to pull her water bottle, taking in gulps of lukewarm water; wrinkles her nose slightly at the sensation. It's better than nothing, though, as she doesn't know of any springs within the vicinity. Tucking it back into her backpack, she starts up the hill once again.
The grade seems to become progressively steeper, sweat beading her brow, and she wipes at it when it threatens to drip into her eyes. Finally, she reaches the top, a small outcrop of rock and hardy, snaggly evergreens, trunks weathered into greyness.
Dismounting, she puts the kickstand down, and goes to the edge of the outcrop; sits down, legs dangling over the edge; presses her palms to the sparse grass, feeling hard rock beneath it. There's a haze over Purgatory, like a thick blanket, comprised of smoke; but up here, the air is clear and cool, and it tastes like freedom.
Pulling off her backpack, she takes out the snack bars she grabbed on her way out of the house; peels one open and bites into it.
For a while, she sits there; eating and looking over the town. Despite the gaze of smoke, the town is still slightly visible, just enough for her brain to make up the remainder. In her mind, it almost looks beautiful.
She checks her watch, eyes widening. "Shit!" she hisses. Coming up here has taken longer than expected—if she doesn't get going now, she's going to be late to work.
She pedals back down the hill and down the winding streets of old Purgatory as fast as she can; breath coming out fast and hard, lungs burning. When she gets off her bike to lock it up outside the YMCA building, it's half a stumble, and she has to brace herself against the green metal.
She gets inside and changes into her uniform with just a few minutes to spare; shoves her clothes into the tiny locker and makes her way out into the tile of the pool. Kyle York is in the break room, and he glances up when she enters, before returning his gaze to his phone, disinterest rolling off him in waves.
Wynonna pulls on her fanny pack, settling it onto her hip; pulls her whistle over her head and makes her way around the pool to rotate Kyle's brother, Pete.
She goes through six rotations without incident, or anything very interesting happening. There's a swimming class, comprised of elementary students, taking up two of the far lanes, and the others are lap swimmers, lazily going from shallow end to deep and back again.
On her second break, she ducks into the changing rooms to use the bathrooms, and nearly runs into Dolls—quite literally, because her gaze is focussed on the pattern of tiling and not in front of her.
"Woah!" comes Dolls' voice, and she quickly steps to the side to avoid the collision.
Wynonna glances up, taking in her attire—green swim trunks and a burnt orange shirt, and blurts out, "You look like you're trying to imitate a parrot."
Dolls smiles, huffing softly in amusement. "Nice visual," she says. "But no, actually, I'm here for the lap swim hour. That's still going, right?"
"Until seven," Wynonna confirms. "Your first time at the Y?"
She looks sheepish. "Yeah—I was on the swim team in Georgia for years, but I never got around to coming and swimming here once we moved."
"Well, life happens," Wynonna says, reasonably. "Break a leg, or whatever."
"I'd really rather not," Dolls says, but she's still smiling as she pushes open the door and makes her way out to the pool.
When Wynonna goes back on rotation, she finds herself tracking Dolls' movement through the water. Even from the elevated guard stand, she can see how precisely Dolls' strokes cut through the water, barely creating a splash. She can imagine muscles rippling beneath dark skin; wonders how it would feel to press her hands against them.
"Jesus fucking Christ, " she mutters, cheeks flushing and neck hot; yanks her gaze away and forces herself to scan the rest of the pool.
She manages to finish the rest of her shift with minimal guilty glances at her friend; unclips the pack on her hip and drops it on one of the hooks with the others in the break room; makes her way to the changing rooms, pulling her stuff out of her locker.
The door opens as she's about to peel herself out of the synthetic hell that is the red uniform shirt, revealing Dolls, towel slung over her shoulders. Her swimwear is wet and pressed against her skin, revealing the outline of her bra and the breadth of her shoulders.
"Hey," Wynonna says, weakly.
"Hi," Dolls says, smiling. "You look very... professional. Red is good on you."
"Um." Wynonna blinks, trying to come up with a response that isn't also an innuendo; settles on, "my coworkers would probably disagree with that. I've, uh, gotten into a few shouting matches with patrons before."
"If they weren't following the rules, then they probably deserved it," Dolls says, dismissively; drops her towel on the bench and hooks her fingers under her shirt. Wynonna averts her gaze. "The rules are there for their safety," Dolls continues. "If you wound up yelling at them, it was probably because you already asked them politely multiple times."
"Tell that to my boss," Wynonna snorts; and tries not to imagine what Dolls looks like without her shirt.
Dolls hums. "I just might call them up and tell them what a wonderful lifeguard you are," she says, tone light. When Wynonna glances at her, unable to keep her gaze fixed on the stretch of wall she's been staring at, she finds her fully dressed, and tries not to feel disappointed. "Well, I'd better get going," Dolls says, thankfully oblivious to her inner thoughts. She offers a smile to Wynonna before stepping out from the lockers and disappearing around the corner.
Wynonna stands still for a moment, and then remembers she's supposed to be getting changed and getting back to the house, and scrambles into action.
A few weeks after school starts, in the middle of Advanced Construction, Wynonna feels dread wash over her. There's no specific trigger, or anything—one moment, she's feeling fine, and the next minute, she gets a wash of what almost feels like vertigo, butdarker. The saw in her hand judders, and veers off course, carving a chunk out of what was supposed to be a square panel. "Fuck!" Wynonna hisses, and powers it off mostly by muscle memory, because she can barely concentrate on it through the swamp of disease.
Setting it to the side, she takes a deep breath; tries to think of what could be happening. She's been getting plenty of sleep, and eating fine, and taking her medications, so there's no logical reason for her to feel this way.
Grimacing, she sticks the now-useless piece of wood in the scrap bin and grabs another, trying to keep her hands steady despite how much she just wants to curl up into a ball under a warm blanket and hide from the world. Her stomach is churning, and she has to lean against the work table for a few minutes before she can continue.
The feeling follows her through the day, and by the time she gets to World Arts and Culture, her nerves are frayed thin, and she's slumping in her seat, eyes pressed shut, barely paying attention to what the professor is saying.
When she gets on the bus, the feeling only grows worse; and Wynonna grits her teeth; starts breathing four by four in an attempt to counter it.
Both cars are in the driveway when she comes around the block, and Wynonna pushes the door open, a heavy stone in her gut. The sound of raised voices drift through the door, and then she hears Waverly say, "Dad, please, just put down the knife—"
She rounds the corner into the kitchen to find Sam waving the knife around, a snarl on his face. Cathy's pressed against the wall, a reddening handprint on her cheek, and Waverly's between them, clearly trying to reason with him. "Get out of my way," he barks. "She's my wife, and I'll do to her what I want, you bitch."
Wynonna's eyes narrow, the dread spoiling into anger and determination. "Get that knife the fuck away from my sister, you bastard," she growls, lunging at him in an attempt to grab the knife away.
Waverly tells something she can't understand, maybe stop! , but she ignores it. He's trying to stab her, and she shoves him, hard, managing to knock his head against the open cabinet. He lets out a howl of pain, eyes narrowing, and sweeps his arm out, the tip of the knife only just barely missing her as she ducks.
He overbalances, the knife going flying from his grasp, and Wynonna snatches it up, holding it like it can ward him off. He's got scratch marks on his arms and face, and he's rubbing his head, lips pulled back in a sneer.
"Do not ever threaten my sister," Wynonna hisses, stalking towards him; presses the knife to his throat—possibly a bit harder than necessary, because a droplet of blood beads on the steel. "If you do, I'll make shit you heard about me being a psychotic maniac look like breadcrumbs. "
He's managed to grab his phone from his pocket, and she only notices when the operator says, "911, what is your emergency?"
She steps back, hands suddenly shaking, the knife dropping from her grip as she remembers how the buntline had felt just as hard and cold before the bullet had buried itself in Ward's back.
"—went psycho," Sam is saying, loudly, rubbing at his throat. "Held a knife to my throat."
Waverly's hand is on her arm, and she's saying something, but Wynonna can't hear her, just sinks to the floor, holding her head in her hands.
She remains there until Nedley swims into view, a put-upon expression on his face as he pulls her to her feet, slipping cuffs around her hands. "When are you gonna change, Wynonna?" he asks, but it sounds more rhetorical than anything. This isn't the first time he's been called to deal with her.
She can feel Waverly's frightened gaze on her; wishes she hadn't seen Wynonna do that; wishes she could say something to her, but the words are trapped in her throat, and she follows Nedley out to the squad car, lets him manhandle her into the back.
The car hits a pothole, and Wynonna finds her voice. "You going to send me back to juvie for a few months?" she asks.
He huffs; amused. "Not for you, Earp. You're eighteen today, remember? No—it's a five hundred dollar fine, and jail until you can pay it."
Five hundred. "Shit," Wynonna says. "Shut, shit, shit!" She doesn't have five hundred to throw at the fine, not unless she wants herself and Waverly to go hungry. "Nedley, come on, you know i wouldn't have actually done anything, just—just give me a warning and let me go. Please. "
"No can do," he says, and turns to radio up so far the car vibrates to drown out her pleas, leaving her head pounding, hands trapped behind her back and unable to cover her ears, panic mounting higher and higher.
By the time they get back to the station, angry tears are streaming down her face, and her motions are jerky. "Come on, kid," he says, impatiently. "I gotta get you inside so you can have your call."
"Call," Wynonna repeats, and then her eyes widen. It's a long shot—she has no way of knowing if she'll even be willing, but...Wynonna has to try.
She takes a deep breath, trying to calm the panic boiling in her blood; let's Nedley lead her to the phone. Her hands shake as she dials the now-familiar number, heart beating louder with each ring.
Finally, it stops. "Doc Holliday speaking," comes the familiar, deep voice.
Without meaning to, Wynonna lets out a sob of relief. "Doc," she says, "Doc, I—I made a mistake, and I don't have anyone to ask—I—Doc, I can't pay five hundred bucks—"
"Woah, there, darlin', slow down," Doc says, "start from the beginning."
Wynonna does; or, at least, tries to. The words tumble out, out of order more often than not, and tears are choking her voice, fear like a beast prowling around her. When she finishes, there's a silence, and then Doc says, "I'll be there soon."
Wynonna sags against the wall in relief. "Thank you," she croaks, and waits for Doc to hang up before, hand shaking, she puts the phone back on the receiver.
Nedley sticks his head around the corner. "You done? Okay, come on, Earp."
The cool grey of the the cell greets her not long after; and she sits on the hard bench, trying not to cry; scrubs at her eyes. I shouldn't have gotten so worked up, she thinks, ruefully. Should have just taken Waverly upstairs and let them have it out. It doesn't matter, though—she already made her choice, and it landed her here.
She leans her head against the wall; closes her eyes, and tries to breathe through the panic still choking her.
Some time later, the sound of keys jangling startles her out of a fitful half-lucidity; and she looks up to find Nedley scowling as he unlocks the door. "Friend of yours paid the fine," he says. "You're free to go."
"Don't let the envy kill you," Wynonna snaps, though it comes out more pathetic than she intends. She slips past him and out into the office area, expecting to see Doc, only to be greeted with Dolls.
"Doc called me," she says. "She couldn't get off work, or she'd have come herself. Come on."
Wynonna follows after, guilt and embarrassment warring within her. It would have been easier to stomach if it had been Doc, but with Dolls, it just feels like she's let her down, somehow.
Dolls' car is a beat-up sedan, deep blue with scratches on the bumper; but the seats are soft leather, and Wynonna lets her head fall against the headrest; pulls out her phone to call Waverly, and is greeted by a wall of texts. Most of them are Waverly assuring her things are okay, but there's a few telling her not to come back—apparently, Sam's hellbent on pushing for a restraining order if she does.
Wynonna's eyes sting, and she scrubs at them. Dolls turns to her, concern clear in her tone. "What's wrong?"
"Besides everything?" Wynonna laughs wetly. "I just got kicked out of the house, and I made you pay my fine, and my sister's stuck there with the guy who threatened her with a knife and I can't go check up on her unless I want to be slapped with a restraining order. God, I've had shitty birthdays before, but this one definitely ranks in the top two." The last bit comes out a choked whisper, and Wynonna shoves the phone in her pocket, burying her face in her hands.
There's a long silence; and then Dolls says, "You didn't make me do anything. I came because you're my friend, and you needed help."
Wynonna sniffles. "Doesn't make it feel any less like I'm taking advantage of you, though," she mutters. "What the fuck am I going to do, Dolls? I—I don't have anywhere I can stay." She swallows thickly, trying to fight back panic at the realisation.
Dolls reaches out, settling her hand on Wynonna's arm. "You can stay with us," she offers. "We have a guest bedroom. Doc won't mind—actually, I can confidently say she would have made the same suggestion if she were here."
Wynonna peers at her. "You're joking."
The other shakes her head. "Not at all," she says. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need. I'll warn you, though, Doc's really grumpy in the mornings before she has her coffee. Regular Grinch, really."
That startles a laugh out of Wynonna, and she says, "Okay. Um...thank you, Dolls. Really, I—I don't know what I would have done if not for you guys. You're—you're really, really good friends." She takes a deep breath, and leans back in her seat. "Okay. We can—we can go now."
Dolls nods, pulling her hand away; and Wynonna misses the contact. Starting the car, she flips the radio to jazz, and it fills the silence between them for the rest of the drive.
The sun's well past set when they get to the apartment, the moon and stars high in the sky, and Dolls leads her up the stairs, unlocking the door; and then herds her to the couch. "Turn on whatever you want," she says, and disappears into the kitchen. When she returns, it's with spoons and a carton of ice-cream. "It's your birthday, remember?" she says. "We have to do something nice for you."
That gets a laugh out of Wynonna, tremulous as it is; and she sinks into the sofa, taking the carton and a spoon. Dolls settles down next to her, letting Wynonna lean against her; and soon, Wynonna finds her eyes drifting shut. Dolls gently repositions them so Wynonna's head is in her lap, and, too tired to protest, Wynonna lets her. She finds herself gazing through heavy eyes up at Dolls' face; the dark skin dotted with tiny scars along her jaw, her cheeks full and soft. Wynonna wants to reach out and run her hands over her friend's features, but exhaustion—and a hint of sense—stops her.
Time seems to smear together; and, some amount of it later, she hears Doc and Dolls talking in hushed tones over her head, before someone picks her up. She peers through cracked eyes up at Doc. "You're...really strong," she mumbles. "'s hot."
Doc smiles down at her. "Thank you, darlin'," she says, and sets Wynonna down, adjusting the pillow so her head's not propped up at an awkward angle. "Now, get some rest."
The last thing Wynonna sees is Doc and Dolls, standing in the doorway, expressions gentle, and she tries to puzzle out what that could possibly mean; and then darkness claims her, cutting off her thoughts.