Over the few weeks, things between Doc and Wynonna start to ease back into the way they were before, which is good, because Wynonna doesn't know how much longer she could have dealt with the stilted conversations and the way that Doc refused to look at her, gaze slipping to the wall behind her, or off to the side. Not that she has a problem with people not looking at her, it's just—Doc always looks at her, so to have her suddenly not feels...jarring. Discomfiting, if she wants to use more precise terminology.
Doc easing back into their old dynamic coincides right about with the time that Wynonna's manager starts getting on her ass about setting up a direct deposit. It was an optional piece of paperwork that Wynonna had left blank when she signed on after her fifteenth birthday, and no one had given her any grievance over it, because it was still reasonable at that age to not have a bank account.
She's just about to clock out of work, drained from six hours of telling people to stop—stop trying to dive off the shallow end, stop sitting on the kickboards, stop hanging on the lane lines, stop walking around with flippers on, and, for the love of god, stop fucking running. When she had been told in her two week on the job training that she'd have to tell people to stop running all the time, she hadn't really realised just how much she'd have to repeat it—when Jonas looms over her out of nowhere.
"Jesus fuck, " Wynonna says, nearly tripping over her feet as she tries to stop herself from slamming into him. "What's up?"
"Finance wants you to set up your direct deposit," he says, crisply, holding out a sheet of paper. "There's instructions at the top, so you should be able to figure it out. Even Julian managed to work it out after a bit."
"Wow, thanks, " Wynonna says, sarcasm coating her tone. "But I'll pass." She tries to step around him, only to be stopped by a firm grip on her arm. "Listen," she says, exasperated now, "I've picked up my check once a month for over two years, now. It's more convenient for me this way." Specifically, it means she can go cash in the check at the bank, and have it on hand for expenses. Recently, it's been even more useful, because it means she can give Waverly money for her lunches every day.
Jonas shakes his head. "No can do," he says. "Finance has been getting more and more testy about it since you turned eighteen. It's more convenient for them to have you do a direct deposit. Also, it's not a choice—if you don't get it set up, you can turn in your two weeks. There's plenty of high school students looking for a part time job for us to choose from."
Wynonna jerks her arm free from his grasp. "Fine," she snaps, snatching the paper from him; and then, feeling particularly petty, flips him the bird.
"That's going to affect your performance review!" he calls after her.
She rolls her eyes. "Like I give a fuck," she mutters to herself, slamming the door behind her, and stomps into the locker room; shoves the paper in her bag.
Dolls is waiting for her when she gets out front, the windshield wipers doing their level best to battle against the large, wet flakes of snow that are plummeting from the deep, grey sky above, the heater going full blast. Wynonna yanks the door open and sits down, knocking her boots off as an afterthought; drops her bag on the floor. Dolls gives her The Look, the one she gets whenever Wynonna or Doc get particularly prickly—brows raised, lips pressed into a disapproving line. "What wasp stung you? "
"My fucking useless boss," Wynonna grumbles, jerking the door shut and cutting off the cold air; peels her gloves off and shoves them into her pockets. "You know, I used to think that having a job would be good—you deal with assholes, sure, but you get paid for it, at least, which is a step up from being in public."—
Doc hums. In the silence that reigns after her complaint, Wynonna can pick out the faint sound of saxophones emanating from the radio, just above the noise of the car tires on the asphalt. Despite her best efforts to remain upset, she finds the anger draining out of her, only leaving behind a yawning cavern of embarrassment, and the emptiness of having missed out on the things her peers probably don't even consider important. "I don't have a fucking bank account, " she mutters, tears stinging at her eyes. "It's—it's stupid, I know, like, I'm a grown adult, I should have at least a bank account, right? But I—none of my foster families ever thought it was an important thing for me to have, so it just...never happened."
She sighs, staring out the window, unable to look at Dolls, who she just knows has that stupid, compassionate, slightly pitying look on her face. "I hate it," she half-whispers. "I hate being an adult but not knowing or having done all these things that I'm supposed to have. Which sounds whiny, I know, but—"
"It's not whiny," Dolls says, cutting her off firmly; takes one hand off the wheel to settle it onto Wynonna's shoulder. "It's normal to feel upset about having missed important milestones in your life."
"You sound like my psychiatrist," Wynonna says. "Did you sign up for that psychology class for second semester like you were thinking about?"
Dolls huffs; clearly, despite herself, amused. "Yes," she says, "but that doesn't change the truth of the matter. The good news is, most things don't have an expiration date on them—you can do them later than you're 'supposed' to have. For example, you could set up a bank account today, if you want."
Wynonna hesitates; slumped down in the seat; pretends she can feel the warmth of Dolls' hand through her jacket. "What about Waverly?" she asks. "She needs to be able to buy lunches at school."
"You can load money into her school account," Dolls says. "There's an online portal, the same one that displays her grades—she'll know the login information. We can get it set up on the computer." She squeezes Wynonna's shoulder, just slightly; just enough to reassure. Wynonna lets out a soft, shaky breath.
"Okay," she says. "Um—can you...can you come with me?"
"Of course," Dolls says. "We can go now, if you want—Doc's working late tonight, so she won't miss us. It won't even take that long—half an hour, maybe." She eases the car to a stop at the stop sign, flips the turn indicator on; waits for the car before her to go before she turns. Her hand is still on Wynonna's shoulder.
The snow's slowed by the time they pull up in front of the credit union, barely a smattering of white particles. They duck inside, Dolls leading her towards one of the less populated lines. When it's their turn, she strides forward, Wynonna trailing behind.
"Good afternoon, how can I help you?" asks the woman behind the desk sunnily. Her nametag reads Maggie, and her nails are a bright purple, with green tips. She's got a little clay pumpkin with a black cat painted on it with pens in it.
"Hi," Dolls says, "my friend here needs to set up an account." She gently pushes Wynonna forward with an encouraging smile.
"Okay, great!" Maggie says. "Follow me, and I'll get everything sorted for you quick as this." She snaps her fingers, and then pushes her chair out, emerging from behind the desk and leading them towards one of the office rooms.
It does go by quickly; and Wynonna peers at her brand new debit card with no small measure of fascination. She's used them before, of course—one of the foster families they stayed with was... controlling about money, and on a few occasions, Wynonna had to borrow a debit card to buy necessities for herself and Waverly—but there's something about holding her very own that feels...different. Weightier.
"This is weird," she admits to Dolls. "I know it should feel—normal, but it really doesn't. It feels like I won some sort of competition."
"Whatever your feelings are, they're valid," Dolls says, firmly. "And given what I know of your past experiences, I'd say that your feelings are understandable." She dusts a few of the flakes of snow that fall off the tree they're walking under off her cheeks.
There's a light dusting of red from the brisk breeze across her nose and cheeks, and a few snowflakes have caught on her eyelashes, suspended on them like stars on the night sky. It makes her look ethereal—like an angel, or something similar. Too otherworldly to be of the earth. Wynonna wants to tell her that; wants to stand on her tiptoes, take Dolls' face in her hands, and kiss her.
She shakes herself violently. Those are dangerous thoughts. Those are bad thoughts. Wrong thoughts. She shouldn't be thinking of her friend like this. Guilt rises in her chest like bile; burns at her throat, sickening. She swallows and licks her lips in an attempt to get rid of it; averts her gaze from Dolls; hurries ahead towards the car. "Come on," she calls, "I'm ready to get out of the cold."
Dolls follows after her, unsuspecting; and that just makes Wynonnona feel dirtier.
Mercedes Gardener catches her after Advanced Construction on a Wednesday in late May. She only has the one class at the CC, and it's not until three-fifteen—a bit more than three hours after Advanced Construction ends. She's grown a few inches since Wynonna last saw her face to face, in sophomore year, but she's just as eye-catching as ever.
"Mercedes," Wynonna greets. "What do you want?"
With Mercedes it's always something she wants from you—your boyfriend, your newest shirt, the signed baseball your dad left you when he died. It's just the way she is, something that Wynonna accepted years ago.
Mercedes scowls at her playfully. "Don't be such a bitch," she says. "Maybe I just wanted to talk to you."
"Last time you 'just wanted to talk' you stole my date for prom," Wynonna says, "so I think we have different definitions of just talking. "
The redhead rolls her eyes; raises her hands, her jewel-encrusted clutch refracting the light. "Okay, okay, you got me. Look, I'm throwing a party at my place tonight at nine, and Beth bet me fifty dollars that I couldn't get you to come, so be a good friend and turn up, won't you? There'll be lots of booze."
"You and I are friends in the same way that the Earps and the Clantons were friends," Wynonna says, drily. "You shouldn't have made such a stupid bet. Now, excuse me, but I have an actual friend I'm going to meet, and I don't want to be late."
She can feel Mercedes' pout even as she turns on her heel, but she's learnt to ignore it in the years she's known the other, and she's mostly impervious. She pulls out her phone; texts Dolls, ran into someone, might be a bit late, because while she was being pestered by Mercedes, the bus she was going to catch pulled away, and the next one doesn't come for ten more minutes.
Dolls' reply comes a few minutes later. Don't worry about it; I can wait a few minutes for you.
Wynonna's heart jumps at the words; and she scolds herself. She didn't mean it like that, idiot. Still, she feels a bit warmer than usual despite the brisk breeze.
The next bus pulls in on time, and Wynonna boards; swipes her bus pass and takes a seat, watching the scenery outside smear together as the bus pulls away from the stop and picks up speed. Soon, it's pulling to a stop at the main stop a few blocks from the Mayflour Bakery, doors opening with a soft hissing sound almost lost among the noise of passengers disembarking.
Wynonna shoulders her bag, and makes her way down the street; pauses for a moment beneath the bakery's sign to check the time. She's running late, but not too much—only a couple of minutes, which, if you consider her relationship to timeliness historically speaking, is pretty good.
She pushes the door open and glances around for her friend; finds her at one of the tables towards the back. They've both been busy with classwork and regular work lately, and they haven't really seen each other much, outside of the few minutes between eating and getting into bed, and so they decided to meet up and just...talk. They've chosen Mayflour both because it has really good baked goods, and also because Doc has a shift, so they might be able to see her if she takes her break in the next hour or so.
Wynonna slides into the seat across from Dolls; takes her bag off and sets it next to her. There's a few paper bags on the table, folded neatly and set to the side, and Dolls has taken the food out of them and set them on napkins—a few powdered doughnuts, a slice of cake, and a large, soft snickerdoodle.
"Hey," Wynonna says, smiling at her. "How are you?"
Dolls returns her smile; breaks a bit of the cake off. "Tired," she admits. "The computers crashed at work today, and I spent an hour on the phone with the IT guys trying to figure out what happened. Turns out that someone spilled water on them last night after I left and didn't notice, and it shorted out some of the circuits, so I've got the rest of the day off while they fix things."
"That sucks," Wynonna says, and takes one of the doughnuts—the raspberry jelly filled one with a fine dusting of powdered sugar on the top, her favourite, as Dolls knows; bites into it, closing her eyes to savour the flavour. "Did you ever get that thing with the student counseling guys sorted out?" They've been assigning Dolls as a tutor to students who are taking classes Dolls hasn't got the first clue about, like business and music, which is a huge headache for her to deal with, since she has to explain to the students that she can't, actually, help them, as well as go through multiple repeats of the same conversation with the people from student counseling.
"Yeah," Dolls says, sounding relieved. "Only took seven students, but they finally fixed whatever glitch was in the system that was putting me down as available for tutoring for those classes."
Wynonna hums; takes another bite of her doughnut, letting her gaze slide around the room, over the new local artwork, and settles on a familiar figure emerging from behind the counter. "Oh, hey, look, it's Doc."
When she turns around, though, it's not to Dolls looking over at Doc; rather, her gaze is fixed intently on Wynonna; and she says, voice so, so fucking soft, "You've got powdered sugar on your nose," fond and amused and with a warmth that she's only heard in the other's voice when she's talking to Doc in the mornings before she's woken up fully, all gentle and loving, and wrong. She should not sound like that. Not about Wynonna, and especially not when Doc is only a few feet away. She's got a tissue in hand, reaching out towards Wynonna to brush it away.
Wynonna jerks away. "I have to go," she says; grabs her bag and hurries away, ignoring Dolls' confused calls after her.
She spends the rest of her time before her class wandering around the opposite end of downtown, trying to think of nothing, and more or less succeeding. When she runs out of places to walk, she finds one of the older buildings; ducks behind it and scales the fire escape onto the roof; sits there, above everything, the wind whistling in her hair.
When she finally gets down to catch the bus, it's more or less calmly. The bus rumbles beneath her feet, and everything's fine. It has to be.
The class passes in a blur; and suddenly, Wynonna's standing in front of Rays, walking around the building and to the tree in the back with the bench that Waverly usually waits for her at. She's there, legs swinging, hand in hand with Nicole. "Hey, babygirl," Wynonna says, pasting on a smile that feels hollow; takes out the lunchbox from her bag and holds it out to Waverly.
Waverly frowns. "Are you okay?" she asks; taking it and tucking it into her backpack. "You seem...not okay."
"I'm fine," Wynonna dismisses; but her voice cracks on the second word, and tears sting at her eyes. She scrubs at them desperately. "Just—stuff's happened with my friends." It sounds—pathetic, honestly, but she can't bring herself to care.
It's Nicole who speaks. "You should do something to take your mind off of it," she says, firmly. "When I feel shitty, my mom has a slumber party with me."
Wynonna pauses; the memory of Mercedes' earlier invitation springing to mind; and says, "Actually, that's a good idea. Thanks, Nicole."
"I hope you feel better," Waverly says; and grabs her hand, pulling her down for a hug. "I miss you."
"I miss you too, Waves," Wynonna murmurs, hugging her back tightly. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
The next few hours are spent walking around, avoiding anything in the vicinity of the apartment; and by nine-thirty, she's bored out of her skull; so she makes her way to the Gardeners' townhouse; knocks on the door, an excuse at her lips for turning up so early. When she opens the door, though, loud music hits her like an arctic blast, and Wynonna shuts her mouth.
"Wynonna!" Mercedes says, sounding delighted—probably because she just won that fifty bucks. "Hey, Beth, look what the cat dragged in!" she calls over her shoulder; gestures for Wynonna to enter. She does, head already throbbing with the volume of the music; and, a moment later, Beth appears; catches sight of her and scowls. "I told you she'd come," Mercedes says gleefully, and holds out a hand.
Her sister digs out a few bills and then says, "We need more beer," and disappears down the hallway she came from.
Mercedes rolls her eyes; pockets the money. "Come on," she says. "You look like you could use a drink."
She follows Mercedes into the living room. The music is pounding, now, vibrating her very bones; and people are packed into the room, some dancing, some 'dancing', and others on the couches. Almost everyone has a red Solo cup in hand, and Mercedes summons one out of seemingly nowhere to press onto Wynonna's hand. "Drink," she says. "You've got that look on your face where you either want to burn something or drink a river dry, and drinking is the better option here."
Wynonna nods, finding herself pressing the cup to her lips; feigns taking a drink. The bitter scent of beer rushes against her face, and she nearly gags. It's been years since she last drank.
Mercedes pats her shoulder patronisingly; and when the doorbell rings again, she disappears off the way she came, leaving Wynonna in the centre of the crush of guests; sound and motion pressing against her like a thousand pound boulder. Gripping the cup tightly, she edges towards the small empty stretch of wall visible on the far side of the room; flinching when she bumps into people along the way.
Her head is throbbing from the sound of the music and the people talking, and Wynonna's skin feels clammy, and her movements are jerky, uncoordinated. She finally reaches the wall; presses herself against it; tries to let the chill of it seep into her.
She used to like going to parties, inasmuch as they allowed her to get drunk and forget how shitty her life was, and how they sometimes allowed her to find someone to forget herself with—girls, guys, whoever would give her the time of night for a drunken makeout session or a bit more. In the middle of sophomore year, though, she got back from one and then got violently sick, forcing Waverly to stay up all night to care for her. She still remembers her sister's terrified expression as Wynonna threw up for the fifth time in an hour, shivering violently. She hasn't been to a party since.
This is a bad idea. She shoves herself away from the wall, intent on throwing away her cup and getting outside; but someone stumbles into her, their cup upending, and dirty yellow liquid spilling across her shirt. "Shit, sorry!" the girl yelps, trying to find her balance; but all Wynonna can feel is the fabric of her shirt sticking against her skin, and the overwhelming scent of beer assaulting her senses. Her breath quickens; bile rising in her throat; and her hands are sweaty, her heart jackrabbiting; vision spotting black. Everything sounds like it's underwater.
She manages to make it outside somehow; slumps against the wall, the siding digging into her back; swipes a piece of hair away from her face and winds up tugging at her hair, hard, which only provides a momentary distraction. Her messenger bag is still on her shoulder, since she hasn't been back home yet, and the strap bites into her skin. Wynonna closes her eyes; tries to breathe.
She manages it, eventually; long, slow breaths, four by four; counts the things she can hear and feel and see. No one else has come up to the door, which is good—Wynonna doesn't know how she would have reacted.
Her mind is empty, and Wynonna decides to count it as a blessing. She checks her watch; finds that, somehow, it's eleven already. Her body aches, and she just want to sleep for a year. It's probably late enough that, if she walks, Doc and Dolls will be asleep by the time she gets back.
So she walks. The pavement stretches out before her, the exhalation of her breaths matching the soft tapping of her shoes against the ground. In this part of town, the street lamps are few and far between, and the main source of light is that of the full moon, shining balefully above, the sky dark and dotted with stars. Most of the houses are dark, blinds drawn, and they loom on either side of the street like giant teeth, colours washed out in the darkness.
Finally, the apartment building comes into view. Wynonna slows her step, wariness creeping into her veins; takes the stairs slowly. There's no sounds from inside the apartment when she pauses at the door, so she slots the key into the lock; opens the door.
Light floods out; and Wynonna catches sight of Doc and Dolls sitting on the couch, clearly waiting for someone— her —but it's too late to turn back; she's already crossed the threshold.
"Hey," she says; the word dwarfed by the silence pressing in from every corner. "Um—I'm really tired, and my shirt is dirty, so I'm going to go and change and get into bed."
"We need to talk," Dolls says. "Sit."
Wynonna laughs nervously. "Not exactly a comforting thing to hear," she says. Neither Dolls or Doc take the bait; just watch her. Wynonna purses her lips; debates going to her room anyway; decides it's better than having whatever conversation they want to, and turns.
Suddenly, there's a hand on her arm—Doc's, and Wynonna marvels for a moment at how quickly she can move. "This is important," she says, firmly. "Please, Wynonna. Do this for us." There's a note of pleading in her voice, and Wynonna—well, she's always been weak when it comes to them.
She takes the armchair, and Doc reclaims her place next to Dolls. Wynonna's leg starts bouncing; and she presses her hand against it in an attempt to stop it. "Sorry," she mutters; and makes the mistake of looking up.
Doc and Dolls are looking at her again; soft and awed and filled with love, and Wynonna snaps. "Stop! Just stop! You're not supposed to be looking at me like that! I—I refuse to be the person that gets between you two!"
Dolls frowns. "Wynonna," she says, quietly, "you're not getting in between anyone ."
"That's exactly what's happening," Wynonna hisses, fingers curled into fists; nails digging into her palms. "It's—you're not supposed to look at me like you want me, especially not when your girlfriend is sitting right next to you. "
"You think we don't know?" Dolls asks; so fucking calm it makes Wynonna want to strangle her. "We've been aware for months. It was just— complicated , so we never addressed it."
"It's still complicated," Wynonna mutters; tears stinging at her eyes. "Can we keep not discussing it?"
This time it's Doc who speaks, shaking her head. "I'm afraid not, darlin'," she says, gently. "It's hurting all of us, but especially you, to avoid it. We need to...clear the air, as it were. To put it simply, Wynonna, the heart is a singularly complicated beast, and it wants what it wants—and for us, that is you, as well as each other. Do you understand?"
Her heart stutters; brain moving sluggishly. Clearly assuming it's a rejection, she adds, "Of course, since you do not reciprocate, we'll do our best to keep our relationship with you platonic. Dolls and I simply wanted to correct you assumption that we were somehow being unfaithful to each other—"
"No," says Wynonna, loudly; earning a startled expression; and hurries to add, "no, I mean—I feel the same way, I just—I'm surprised. Shocked, actually—I didn't expect..." she swallows; licks her lips and tries to continue; finds she can't, not with them right there, saying things like that, looking at her like that .
Dolls shifts to the side, leaving an open space between the two of them. "Come here," she says; and, like in a dream, Wynonna finds herself obeying; slotting neatly between the two of them; finds the anger and fear and guilt and self-loathing melting away like dew beneath the sun.
"That's it, love," Doc says, smiling at her; takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, gently; and Wynonna can't look, not unless she wants to combust; so she turns towards Dolls; only to find the other's hand on her jaw, coaxing her forward into a kiss; sweet and simple; thumb sweeping across her cheek.
Tears pool at Wynonna's eyes; slide down her cheeks, and Dolls pulls away, frowning. "Is that okay?" she asks; concern clear in her tone; and Wynonna nods, tears coming faster; drags a hand across her eyes. Her chest is full to bursting with emotions, and she can't speak; so she just lets herself stay there, between the two of them, comforted by their presence. She loves them, so damn much.
Finally, she says, voice cracking a bit, "I'm fine. I'm just—really, really happy."
"Good," Doc says, decisively. "You deserve it."
"Um," says Wynonna, suddenly remembering the state of her clothing, "I should probably get changed. Someone spilled beer on me—long story," she says, cutting off their questions. "I'll be—I'll be right back."
"We'll get you out something to eat," Dolls says, and Doc nods; and they let go of her at the same time. Wynonna instantly misses the press of their hands, but she pushes herself to her feet and makes her way into her room.
It only takes a few minutes to change, and soon enough, she's wearing her grey tank-top and old blue shorts, the fabric of them well-worn and soft; and when she comes back out, Doc and Dolls are in the kitchen, hands interlocked, standing in front of a pot on the stove. For a moment, Wynonna hesitates, and then, taking a deep breath, steps over the threshold. "Hey," she says. "Is that mac and cheese?"
Doc smiles sheepishly. "I may be a good baker, but I'm afraid that I cannot cook half as well as you, love," she says.
Wynonna shakes her head. "I love mac and cheese," she says; and rises slightly on her toes, reaching out hesitantly. Doc doesn't move, but her expression softens; and when Wynonna brings their lips together, heart beating hard, Doc kisses her back like she's been waiting to do so forever.
"An excellent form of thanks," Doc says, when they pull apart; slightly breathless; and Dolls laughs lightly beside them.
Wynonna grins. "There's more where that came from," she says. "But you should probably turn the stove off so the food doesn't burn."
Doc looks panicked for a moment, before letting go of Dolls' hand turn switch the stove off, and Wynonna grins. It feels...perfect.