A/N: this was written out of a need to see an alternative option even be presented to wynonna. there's an implied poly relationship, so if that's not your thing, you might not enjoy this.
She stares at the two little lines on the display, sinking to the floor, knees hitting cold tile, back pressed against the wood of the door; lets her head fall back, tears stinging at the corners. She wants to cry out, to yell; feels crushed like a ton of lead has landed upon her out of the blue.
"Hey," Waverly says, from the other side of the door; voice half muffled but still soft, "it's going to be okay, Wynonna."
"But what if it's not?" she says, hoarsely; drops the stick of plastic to the floor with a clatter; presses her face into her hands. The tears fall, finally, setting her palms. "I'm not—Waves, I don't want to be a mother. I don't want—" She drags in a juddering breath, trailing off.
They sit in silence for a few moments, and then Waverly says, "Can I come in?"
Wynonna nods, and then remembers she can't see it; scrambles to her feet to unlock the door and tug it open. Faced with Waverly's gentle, sympathetic expression, the tears change from a slow, leaky tap to a cascading waterfall, sobs ripping themselves from her chest; and when Waverly opens her arms, she practically throws herself into them; lets the warmth of her sister, her Waverly, her babygirl, press against her skin like heated ropes; entwining and securing her.
"I'm afraid," she admits; the words tremulous; quiet, and pressed against Waverly's shoulder; her voice cracking with vulnerability. She's not sure Waverly hears it, or, if she does, she's kind enough not to point out Wynonna's failure; just rubs comforting circles against her back.
Finally, Waverly says, "You know, if you really don't want to be a mother...there's always other options."
"What, adoption?" Wynonna scoffs, trying to sound dismissive; but her face is pressed against wet fabric, and it only comes out weak and terrible.
She feels more than sees Waverly shake her head. "No," she says, gently, "I mean terminating the pregnancy. You're not that far along, so it would just be an oral medication."
Wynonna draws in a sharp breath; thinks of being called a whore and a slur and a pill-happy crazy bitch for years; of her father raging about women who had the gall to kill their own child, how they would be damned to hell just like the revenants. Her fingers tighten on the fabric at Waverly's waist, bunching it up, and her breaths come hard and fast.
"Hey," Waverly says, sharply, pulling back; presses her hands to Wynonna's jaw, cupping her face. "Breathe. Breathe, Wynonna."
She tries; she really does; but in the end, it's only Waverly counting out loud that works. When the hazy black film that had spread across her vision finally clears, Waverly is peering at her worriedly. She can't imagine half of what's going through Wynonna's head, she realises. Good. She would never wish her babygirl the horrors and ridicule she faced. Pressing her eyes shut for a moment, she says, "I need to think about it." She's almost proud of how steady her voice is.
Waverly offers a comforting smile. "As long as you need," she promises.
She spends the next three days skipping out on BBD related work, an action that, at any other time, would arguably be inadvisable at best and impossible at worst, but Clootie and Co. seem to have decided to take a break in their evil machinations, and there aren't any stray demons running around, so she lets the calls go to voicemail.
Waverly is an angel, listening to her ramble out loud and not holding against her the embarrassing number of times she finds herself tearing up; just makes her a cup of hot chocolate the way their mom used to and holds her as she shakes.
On the fourth day, Wynonna wakes up with a clearer head than she's felt herself have in days. When Waverly comes down the stairs, she's at the stove, making herself scrambled eggs. "Mornin', Waves," she offers.
Waverly takes her in. "So you've decided, then?"
She nods, letting go of the wooden spoon she was using to stir the eggs. "Yeah," she says, "I think...I don't want to keep it, Waves. I'm not ready—I don't know if I'll ever be, honestly." The last bit comes out tremulous; half a sob choking the words; but it feels so good to say them, out loud; like exhaling dust and sand and drawing back in only pure air. Without thinking, she pulls Waverly into a hug. "Thank you, babygirl," she murmurs, the words half lost to emotion.
Waverly holds her back, tight. "No problem," she murmurs back; and then, "I think your eggs are burning."
"Shit!" Wynonna yelps, breaking away from her and whirling around to turn the stove off, Waverly's laughter trailing after her.
Once the remainder of what was intended to be breakfast is salvaged to what extent it can be, Nicole's come down, and with her help, Waverly manages to pull together waffles and fried sausages to go with the eggs, and they sit around the kitchen table, eating off of communal plates. When they finish, Wynonna puts on her jacket and goes out to sit on the swing, drinking in the beauty of the harsh, cold, snow-peppered landscape that stretches out beyond the homestead's porch.
Soon, Waverly joins her. "Hey," she says. "Do you want me to take you?"
Wynonna shakes her head. "No, you've got that date with Officer Hotpants today, I don't want to—"
" Wynonna, " she says, "you're my sister . I can always reschedule a date—but you needing support is more important—"
She reaches out, putting her hands over Waverly's, swaddled in thick gloves. "Really, I don't need you to," she promises. "Besides, I'll have support," she adds, with a faint smile.
Waverly stares at her a moment, and then raises her brows. "Doc and Dolls?" she asks, sounding incredulous. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but are you sure they're the best people?"
Wynonna nods. "I am. They're..." she hesitates, trying to find the right word; fails, and lets out a sigh. "They mean a lot to me," she settles on. "I can't really—describe it. I wasn't the one who got A-pluses through all of my English and Lit classes, you know. But they're my...they're my people , you know? Like, they're the most important people to me—well," she adds, "besides you, I mean. But I could never care about anyone in the way I care about you, so."
Waverly squeezes her hands; the sensation dulled by the intervening layers of fabric. "No, I know," she says, softly. "It's the same for me with Nicole. So...I guess if you trust them with this, I trust them with it, too."
Wynonna picks up a box of doughnuts on the way to the station—mostly powdered cake doughnuts, but with a few pumpkin spice ones thrown in, because they're her guilty pleasure, and by god she deserves to indulge right now.
When she walks in, Jeremy is leaning over the microscope, muttering to himself as he peers at something on the glass slide, while one-handedly scribbling away on a note pad. Dolls is typing up something on the computer, and Doc is sprawled out on the office chair like he owns the place, boots up on the desk. When he spots her, he tips his hat. "Wynonna," he says, drawing out her name into lengthened, honeyed syllables. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"
She sets down the half-empty box; clears her throat. Instinctively, she finds her hand resting on Peacemaker, rubbing her thumb against the antique, polished surface in an attempt to calm the sudden wave of nerves that have welled up in her. "Actually," she says, "Doc, Dolls, would you mind coming into the office for a moment? There's something I want to talk about."
At the last sentence, Dolls' attention snaps to her, and he and Doc both frown, almost in unison. It's kind of cute. In an attempt to stop herself from getting trapped by the sight, she grabs a doughnut and hurries into the adjacent office.
A few moments later, Doc and Dolls enter; Doc pushing the door closed behind them. "This isn't some world-ending revelation, is it?" Dolls asks, sounding altogether too serious to be kidding.
"It is perfectly alright if it is," Doc assures. "I'm sure we can solve whatever it is with a few shots to the head, maybe some dynamite—I never did get to use any last time—"
"No dynamite," Dolls vetoes quickly. "And you don't even know if the problem will stay down if we shoot it."
Doc shrugs. "Couldn't hurt," he says.
Wynonna clears her throat. "As fun as it is to watch your guys' old married couple banter, it's not actually a 'shoot first, ask later' kind of thing. Actually, I'd rather you didn't shoot," she adds. "That would be kind of inconvenient for me. As in, 'dead on the floor' inconvenient. And not in an artsy, indie film sort of way."
"Another possession?" Dolls guesses. At his words, Doc's face goes harsh and he opens his mouth, clearly about to voice an opinion.
She cuts them both off. " No, it's not a—god, why is it so hard to just say it straight out? Jesus." She takes a deep breath; bites into her doughnut, letting the cinnamon and ginger flood her senses. "I'm pregnant, okay? And I'm going to get an abortion and I want you guys to come along as, like, emotional support, or whatever."
Silence reigns. Wynonna finishes off her doughnut, body kicking up from moderate threat; be alert to extreme threat; run! , which is just inconvenient. Especially the hyperventilating. She forces herself to breathe through it; manages to get it mostly under control.
"You're...pregnant," Doc says, slowly; and it looks like he's doing the math in his head. "Is it...mine?"
"Well, it's not going to be anyone's, considering I'm off to end it," she snaps; and then grimaces. "Sorry. Yeah."
He nods. "Alright," he says. "I will admit, I would be overjoyed if you had decided to carry to term, but...it is your choice. And I will support you in it."
"As will I," Dolls adds; and then: "I get why you want Doc to come with, but why me?"
She presses her eyes closed. Emotional talk. Ugh. "Because you're both, like, integral parts of my life, or whatever," she mutters. "Don't either of you get soppy on me, I think I might actually kill someone if you do. I've had too much emotion the last three days to last my life. I'm driving, by the way." And with that, she shoves the door open and marches out.
The car seats have gotten cold in the time she was inside, and she leans back against it; presses her hands to it, trying to drown out the jackrabbiting panic and fear that's taken up residence in her throat since she left the office room.
The doors open, and she starts; looking up to find Dolls and Doc standing at the open door, concern writ clear on both of their faces. "I'm fine," she mutters, shoving herself up. "God, I don't even—why am I feeling all of this? I know what I want to do, I already made my decision. This is—this is stupid. " She slams her hands against the steering wheel, accidentally triggering the car horn; the sharp sound cutting through the air like a hot knife through butter.
It's Dolls who slides into the seat next to her; takes her against him; says, "Even if you're certain about what you want to do, it's still a big decision. Feeling afraid is normal."
"Damn you for seeing through me," she mutters, sinking against him. The tears dry before they fall. She pulls herself away, running her hand through her hair; taking a deep breath. She feels...better.
Doc's clambered in during the interim, and he reaches out across Dolls to squeeze her shoulder; a silent, comforting action that unwinds what's left of the tension within her.
She turns the key. Pulls away from the curb.
As it turns out, it's anticlimactic as hell . Afterwards, as they walk back out to the car, Wynonna finds herself laughing. "God. I was nervous for that? " she asks. In all her father's rantings and ravings, he'd always made it seem like some sort of monumental, curse-calling action. Not something so quick it barely took fifteen minutes, with talking to the doctor beforehand.
She wants to—to yell at the sky; scream about the happiness left behind with the burden lifted. Wants to turn to Doc, to Dolls, to press kisses to their lips, to thank them for coming with her. Instead, she takes their hands as innocuously as possible, and says, "How do you guys feel about going and having Chinese for lunch?"
They exchange glances; something unspoken passing between them; and then Doc smiles at her. "Whatever makes you happy, darlin'," he says; squeezes her hand. A moment later, Dolls echoes the action; small and comforting. We're here for you.
Wynonna smiles. Yeah. They're here for her.