Work Text:
Ghosts linger longer in Shorty’s than anywhere else in Purgatory. (Well, save for the Homestead. Clearly.) Sometimes Waverly likes the company, likes the occasional pocket of cold air she walks into as she moves to take another order, likes the figure in her peripheral that vanishes as soon as she spares a glance. If they stay the night, and a lot of the time they do, she talks to them.
“It’s Friday, friends,” she says to them tonight as she sweeps behind the bar, preparing to close for the evening as a final patron loiters by the doors, likely mustering the courage to brave the storm outside. Rain assaults the building like bullets, unrelenting sheets of water threatening to upend the establishment and carry it far, far away.
Sometimes Waverly thinks that wouldn’t be so awful an outcome. A little Biblical, and by consequence a little ironic given where she lives, but not bad. She and the ghosts could use a change of scenery. Then, she supposes, they chose to settle in Purgatory for all of eternity; she was stuck.
All they had in common was their loneliness.
She leans against the bar, watches the rain as it hits the windows. “Well, friends, I hope you brought your better half with you tonight because it looks like Noah’s about ready to sail her arc.”
No one answers. No one ever answers.
The radio, which was playing a Patsy Cline tune on a low hum, switches channels on its own. Waverly looks to the doors, notices the patron has gone, and then glances at the radio. It is in the same place she left it hours ago, still serenading the empty saloon at a barely audible register. She walks over to where it sits, wiping the bar as she does, turns the dial, and listens.
In a buildin' tall
With a stone wall around
There's a rubber room
When a man sees things and hears sounds that's not there
He's headed for
The rubber room
She shrugs. It’s catchy enough. A little too kitschy for her taste, too much like the one souvenir shop a sad soul started a few years back that boasted nothing but plastic pistols and the Welcome to Purgatory! billboard plastered on every T-shirt, mug, and keychain available.
As far as Waverly knows, no one had bought anything from the store. Ever. It closed within seven months.
Just as she turns to put away the remaining glasses she washed earlier, the volume increases.
Illusions in a twisted mind to save from self-destruction
Hmm, it's the rubber room
Where a man can run into the wall till his strength makes him fall and lies still
And wait for help
In the rubber room
“All right,” she says, stepping away from the radio with her hands on her hips, rag hanging limply at her side. “Very funny. If you didn’t like my music, you could’ve just said so!”
Lightning cracks as soon as the last word escapes her lips. She shrieks, jumping back and colliding with the shelves. Nothing falls, thankfully, except her dignity and the rag she throws to the ground with a huff.
“God, Waverly, it’s just a little lightning. Don’t be such a baby,” she mutters as she turns to straighten the bottles she disturbed—and then shrieks again when thunder booms and the lights flicker for a few seconds before shutting off, bathing her in black.
All the while the radio continues playing. It echoes off the walls, sinister and encroaching.
From his blurry vision of doom
A psycho in the rubber room
The man in the room right next to mine
Screams a woman's name, hits the wall in vain
He's in the rubber room
Another flash of lightning, illuminating the inside of Shorty’s for just a second, but it only takes a second for Waverly to see the shadow standing by the basement door.
“Bolshevik!”
Yet another flash of lightning, but this time Waverly crouches behind the bar, catching only a glimpse of the shadow before it disappears behind the door. She stays there for a few minutes, waiting for her pounding pulse to calm, listening to the rain against the rafters and the song on the radio.
I hear footsteps poundin' on the floor
God I hope they don't stop at my door
Hmm, I'm in the rubber room
“This is ridiculous.” With a sigh, Waverly straightens. She looks around the room but can only see the outline of tables and chairs thanks to the few street lights trickling in from outside. Nothing—no one is there. “I’m being ridiculous.”
Something in the basement crashes. It’s loud, loud enough to be heard over the rolling thunder and the relentless rain, and it’s accompanied by a groan.
A decidedly human groan.
“Please tell me that’s one of you guys,” Waverly whispers to the nothingness around her.
When the same groan answers, she reaches underneath the bar for the shotgun Gus sometimes keeps upstairs in anticipation of a rowdy bunch. Friday evenings notoriously bring the worst of the worst, but it was surprisingly tame tonight, so much so that Waverly moved the shotgun.
She closes her eyes, hands coming in contact with nothing but empty space and old wood. “To the basement.”
There is little time to bemoan what she thought was clever foresight, though, because it sounds like something—someone is now climbing the steps from the basement to the bar.
“Stop right there, shit-ticket, or you’ll be in a world of hurt!”
Now, Waverly is no damsel in distress. No, waiting on the sidelines for someone else to be the knight in shining armor was never her jam, will never be her jam. The armor fit her just fine, better than she or others thought, and she liked the way it made her feel. Strong, secure. Like her fate was in her hands, not in the hands of the man who thought he was saving her or the sister who thought she was protecting her.
So, Waverly is no damsel in distress, but she is smart. She has no weapon save for her hands, some bottles, and the radio, which she would love to chuck at anyone’s head about now. Shorty’s is black as pitch and now apparently host to more than one unwelcome guest. Slow, heavy thumps make the floorboards creak, their screeching sounds complimenting the lightning and thunder that seems to only be worsening. The radio joins in their cacophonous orchestra, just mocking her.
Now they've come to get me but they find
I'm a screamin' pretty words tryin' to make 'em rhyme
I'm in the rubber room
She is, to put it simply, screwed.
Her only other option, it would seem, is to call the number on the card she just so happened to run her fingers across as she searched for her shotgun.
“Officer Haught. It’s Waverly. Waverly Earp? I have a, uh, situation.”
xx
It’s another long, lonely night at the Purgatory Sheriff Department, and Nicole Haught wants to do anything but think about how it’s another long, lonely night at the Purgatory Sheriff Department.
Life had been lonely for some months now, and it was the cause for a lot of habits Nicole had some decency to be ashamed of: rock climbing alone through unfamiliar terrain, nothing to accompany her but some ropes and cables and a sufficient sense of spatiality; saving a tabby cat from a shelter on a whim; and thinking about Waverly Earp at the most inopportune of moments.
Like now.
Of that one habit she was particularly ashamed, the thought alone that she was about as subtle as a double rainbow in June enough to cause her colossal embarrassment.
True to who Purgatory claimed Waverly to be, which was an endless ray of sunshine seeping through the perpetual gloom that was the town, she was nothing if not pleasant to Nicole. There were donuts and coffee, which Waverly brought for BBD but shared with the station, always setting aside a sprinkled strawberry one Nicole was almost afraid to eat. There were smiles, soft and shy whenever she noticed Nicole in the station. There were conversations, too simple to really even be considered that, that somehow never ended, just paused with an unspoken promise whenever they were interrupted that they would soon begin again.
Everything was indirect, but Nicole was a lady who fancied ladies. Indirect was a blessing and a curse. Telling apart one from the other was the only trouble, but she liked a little trouble.
Waverly Earp was causing her a lot of trouble.
“Trouble, trouble, trouble,” Nicole hums through a yawn, the tenth in three minutes, willing the exhaustion away with a promise to herself that she will sleep more than a few hours after this week working nights is over.
It was to be expected, the exhaustion. Starting anew had its perks, but the lack of familiarity had begun to take its toll on Nicole. Add to that an innate desire to show Sheriff Nedley she was worth his recruitment and Nicole had hardly slept in weeks. With working overtime, unpacking her house, and dealing with Purgatory denizens, she figured sleep would evade her for much longer.
The night shift did allow her a few minutes to doze, though, which is what she decides to do, Lonnie too busy combing through a paperback romance novel to notice, seconds before the phone rings.
Nicole reaches for the phone, reluctant to even stretch, and stifles another yawn before answering. “Purgatory Sheriff Department. Officer Haught speaking.”
“Officer Haught. It’s Waverly. Waverly Earp? I have a, uh, situation.”
Nicole is suddenly very, very awake.
“Are you in any danger, Ms. Earp?”
“Waverly, and no, I don’t think so.” A pause. Nicole strains to hear anything telling in the background. “Is there any way you can come to Shorty’s to … investigate? Or another officer, although I’d much prefer you if I’m being honest.”
The phone nearly falls from Nicole’s hand at that. She fumbles with it for a second, cheeks burning with embarrassment she is beyond glad Waverly cannot see. “Yes, I—Shorty’s. But, Waverly. If this is an emergency, you ought to— ”
“No, no. It’s just—the power went out and there are strange noises coming from the basement.”
“Strange noises?”
“Yeah, like a … like a ghost, honestly. I can’t describe it any better than that. I don’t know, you were just … you were the first person I thought of. I’m probably wasting your time. God, or worse, I’m taking you away from someone in real danger— ”
“No, no. Waverly, no. Hey.” Nicole waits until she hears a shaky release of breath, then smiles, hoping it registers on the line. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Tops. Okay?”
Waverly sighs again, sounding more relieved. “Okay.”
“Are you safe?”
“I mean, I think so.”
“Okay. Can you do me a favor? Can you take shelter somewhere far from the basement? Maybe in the space between the doors to the street and the doors to the bar?”
It sounds like Waverly is shuffling, and Nicole can barely hear through the thunderstorm the creak of a door. When she speaks again, Nicole can certainly hear the tease in her tone. It sounds like trouble, and Nicole listens to it like a lullaby.
“How many times have you been in Shorty’s, Officer Haught?”
“Just the once.” Nicole clears her throat uselessly. “Are you there yet?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Good. Do you have a flashlight?”
“I have a phone.”
“Right. Waverly. Are you sure this isn’t an emergency?”
“Officer Haught.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”
Nicole forgets her Stetson as she bolts through the doors to her cruiser, ignoring Lonnie and his idle pleas to stay dry.
xx
It takes Nicole seven and a half minutes to arrive at Shorty’s, going about eighty kilometers through the thirty kilometer stretch onto Main Street, lights flashing and tires screeching when her cruiser skirts to an abrupt stop ahead of the doors. Waverly waits and watches from the small lobby that separates the outside from the bar because Nicole told her to. Had anyone else suggested she barricade herself somewhere safe, she would have scoffed and waltzed into the basement in sheer defiance. Something about Officer Haught, though, made Waverly obey.
What it was she doesn’t have the wherewithal to think about now, not with someone in her basement and someone at her door, stepping in with an urgency Waverly thinks is a tad unnecessary until she hears another groan.
“Officer Haught.” Waverly smiles, and Nicole smiles back, so wide Waverly notices she has a single dimple. Lightning strikes again, and she blames the way her heart thuds wildly in her chest on that natural phenomenon.
When they recover from the sudden flash of lightning, Waverly ushers Nicole, who guides them with a flashlight, inside. “Um, thank you for coming.” Nicole opens her mouth to speak, but Waverly continues before she can say anything. “I mean, I guess it is your job. But like, thank you still. You didn’t have to. Well, okay, you did, but— ”
“Waverly.”
She bites her lip, chances a glance at Nicole, who looks at her with such a soft smile that the chill she has felt all evening fades. There are dark circles under her eyes, or so it seems in the limited light they have, but even so she looks radiant, alert, prepared to do anything and everything to protect Waverly from the noises in the basement. “Yeah?”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything.”
It’s said with such conviction, such raw honesty, that Waverly has to look away lest she embarrasses herself by showing how good it feels to have someone be there for her without conditions. Police officer or not, she is here because Waverly called. It may very well be a projection to try and cure her array of symptoms from perpetual loneliness or not, but knowing someone cares beats being her own knight in shining armor any day.
Which reminds her.
“So, the basement.” Waverly points to the door and Nicole turns her flashlight towards it. “Something’s in there.”
“What do you keep in the basement?” Nicole asks, taking a step toward the door. Waverly follows, tentatively.
“It’s our storage room, so basically everything needed to run the place. Mostly liquor though.”
“And there are no other employees working tonight that could be down there?”
Waverly almost takes offense until she remembers Nicole is following protocol; Nicole is taking her seriously.
“No, I was closing, and then the lights went out, and I looked to the basement door and saw a shadow, which now sounds really silly because your mind plays tricks on you in the dark, but then I heard a crash and groaning and honestly, I was prepared to go down there with my shotgun and take care of it myself because I am more than capable, but I’m a dummy and brought it to the basement before closing and— ”
Her rambling is cut short by another crash. Nicole reacts fast, guarding Waverly’s body with her own as her hand flies to her holster. Waverly tries not to seem as spooked as she is, allowing Nicole to shield her but still standing on her toes to see the door from behind her shoulder. Now really is not the time to marvel her stature either, but Waverly has to stare in awe at how strong Nicole looks above her, shoulders squared and jaw set, prepared to fight whatever it is wreaking havoc in Shorty’s.
“You ought to go back into the lobby,” Nicole whispers, retrieving her weapon and aiming it toward the floor. “In case things go awry.”
The radio, which has been playing the same song on repeat for reasons unbeknownst to Waverly, increases in volume yet again.
Hmm, a psycho, I'm in the rubber room
Boom boom
The rubber room, boom boom
The rubber room
“No way!” Waverly whispers back, harsher, spurred by the lyrics or the spitfire Earp attitude she had learned from Wynonna. “I can’t just leave you here alone.”
“Yes, you can. That’s why I’m here, remember? I can’t have you getting hurt.”
For the briefest of moments, Waverly considers stomping her foot on the ground. What good that would serve her she doesn’t know, but it’s better than feeling small and useless. Then again, appearing as a petulant child would sooner make her look small and useless than just listening to the police officer trying to do her job.
“Fine, but if you— ”
No matter, though, because the basement door opens then and there. It slams against the wall from the force with which it was opened, threatening to smack the shadow standing behind it. Waverly jumps, Nicole aims her flashlight and her weapon, and the shadow steps forward.
“Purgatory Police, keep your hands where I can see them!” Nicole shouts with so much authority and bravado that Waverly tingles. The sensation worsens when Nicole blocks Waverly entirely, using her whole body to obscure her.
“Please do not shoot, Officer,” the shadow drawls, slow and smooth and uncannily similar to—
“John Henry?”
The lights flicker back on, and then there he is: John Henry Holliday in all his cowboy glory. His eyes are barely visible from behind the brim of his hat, and his hands are raised in obedient surrender. When he tips his head upward, he at least has the decency to appear sheepish, mustache twitching with his lips as he curls them in a timid smile.
“Evening, Waverly.” He nods at her, then Nicole. “Officer.”
“No.” Waverly points a finger at Doc, who flinches as if she shot him with invisible bullets. “Do not ‘evening, Waverly’ me. What the hell were you doing in my basement?”
Doc shrugs. “Looking for libations.”
Waverly is about ready to unleash the world of hurt she promised earlier in the evening when Nicole, who has now lowered her weapon, prompting Doc to visibly deflate, staggers backwards.
“Holy calamity,” she breathes, and before she can go anywhere else, Waverly takes her arm to hold her steady. “Shorty’s is being haunted by the ghost of Doc Holliday.”
xx
Nicole is practical, pragmatic. She has to be. Her position requires her to be. Without a level head, an even temper, and an inquisitive but resilient mind, she would hardly be able to manage a traffic violation, let alone an armed and dangerous criminal on the loose, a rarity but a reality she had encountered a couple of times.
Yet, since moving to Purgatory, her perception of “normal” has changed considerably. It’s no secret something is off about the town. The other day she witnessed an old woman talking to a crow perched on the train tracks, which would’ve been wholly unsuspicious, if not a little odd, had the crow been alive. It lay dead on the tracks, carcass boiling in the sun, and the old woman kneeled by it, stroked its feathers and spoke to it like it was an old friend.
When she told the story to Nedley later, he had dismissed it as nothing.
“Probably batty,” he said, like he was talking about the weather or what he wanted for lunch.
“I don’t know, sir.” Nicole made a face. “She didn’t seem sick.”
“Not a lot of people seem like anything here. Don’t worry about it.”
In retrospect it was nothing to worry about, but what Nicole didn’t tell Nedley was that the old woman had taken the crow into her hands and bit into its rotting flesh like it was a sirloin steak before stuffing the rest of it into her purse and walking off.
The image haunted her for days. It may have even added a little necessary flavor to her usual nightmares on the off chance that she slept long enough to even think about dreaming.
Something tells her the image—or rather, the apparition—of Doc Holliday will be good nightmare fodder too.
“I don’t know if you were joking about ghosts or not, but please tell me you’re seeing what I’m seeing,” she whispers to Waverly, who presses a hand to her forearm and to her back, apparently attempting to keep her upright. “Because that is the spirit Doc friggin’ Holliday.”
Any other evening and she would’ve fancied him another drugstore cowboy. The Ghost River Triangle has a lot of those characters, the wannabe Westerners with their bolo ties and Stetsons, pretending to manifest their destiny in a cheap shot of whiskey at a saloon that boasted a colorful past.
But this man, this entity standing before her is not that. She knows that with confidence. A few years traveling through Texas, Colorado, and Arizona with her absent parents made her somewhat of an aficionado in the mythos of the Old West. The books she grabbed at gas stations gave her something to do when her parents went off and did God knows what in the desert. Purgatory is also more than a little obsessed with the Wild West, profiting off of a past that includes the infamous gunslinger, for better or for worse. The image of John Henry “Doc” Holliday was seared into her memory right and good.
And that was who stood before her now. Or maybe she is much more tired than she thought.
“No, no. Officer Haught.” She laughs, but it sounds nervous. Forced. “This is, uh. This is Hank. He’s a friend of mine. Big Doc Holliday fan. Hence the, uh.” She gestures vaguely at Hank, who tips his hat toward her again. “ … everything. Not a ghost though.”
A flash of lightning a little too close for comfort hits and the lights go out again. Nicole reaches for Waverly without thinking, but Waverly can get no closer it seems, her hands holding so tightly onto Nicole that she can practically feel her pulse through her shirt. Her own skyrockets, as loud in her ears as the thunder roaring outside.
“Fudge nuggets,” Waverly whispers, shifting impossibly closer to Nicole in the dark.
If Nicole was still not wholly convinced she was in the presence of a ghost, or worse , having a hallucination induced by lack of sleep, she would find the not-swear adorable. But as it were, Nicole is grappling with either reality right now and cannot see literally and figuratively beyond the precipice she is dangerously toeing. That is until someone strikes a match and illuminates their small space.
The ghost of John Henry Holliday, or Hank, stands before them, hand holding the lit match toward them. He somehow looks more dubious in this light, the fire casting weird shadows against his ashen face, but Waverly seems unperturbed.
“We have a flashlight, D—Hank.” Waverly gestures to Nicole, then pulls her phone from her pocket and waves it about. “And a phone.”
Hank furrows his brow, tilts his head. “What?”
Waverly ignores Hank, who extinguishes the flame with a flick, and grimaces, looking around the dark saloon. “Okay, guys. This place is giving me the heebie jeebies. Can we go? The main mystery has been solved, but I’m not keen on learning why that damn radio keeps playing the same song over and over.”
As if on cue, the song restarts and Waverly shakes her head with a shiver Nicole can feel against her.
“What about … Hank?” Nicole turns her flashlight toward him and he stumbles back with a groan, hands flying up to shield his squinted eyes.
Waverly turns to Nicole, though she hardly has to move anyway, still latched onto her with both hands. “What about him?”
“He was in your basement.”
“Oh. Well, he’s harmless.”
Nicole raises a brow. “Is he?”
“He is.”
Nicole says nothing, just stares at Waverly and tries not to focus on the way her fingers flex mindlessly against her forearm. The silence seems to break the spell, though, because she finally pulls back—fast, as though she touched fire—and forces a smile.
“I’ll, uh. I’ll see him out, Officer,” she says, taking a step toward Hank and away from Nicole. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time with this … nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. Hank here could be charged with breaking and entering.” Both Hank and Waverly go slack-jawed at that, aghast with worry that Nicole is quick to dispel with a shake of her head. “If you choose to press charges.”
They exchange a look that Nicole senses means more than the mere gesture lets on. It makes her feel uncomfortably present.
“And anyway,” she continues, calling their attention back to her. “Weather’s bad. Really bad. Why don’t I give you both a ride home?”
“Oh, that is not necessary,” Hank says as Waverly says, “No, you’ve already gone out of your way,” and Nicole raises a hand to silence them both.
“It’s only an offer,” she assures and Hank visibly relaxes. Waverly still appears hesitant, working her bottom lip between her teeth in thought.
“You’d be doing me a favor,” Nicole tries, lowering a little to catch Waverly’s eyes. When she does, she smiles and shrugs a shoulder. “It’d give me some peace of mind, knowing you’re safe.”
Nicole waits to straighten until Waverly gives her a clear signal, watching Nicole carefully, not necessarily with suspicion so much as confusion. Finally she nods, allowing a small smile that Nicole takes as a victory.
“Fine, but we can’t let Wynonna hear us. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
xx
The ride to the Homestead is quick, quiet. Waverly wants to make small talk, wants to thank Nicole for doing so much more than she has to, wants to say something, anything, but she stays silent, afraid to speak lest she stutters through another silly admission of admiration.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” she had asked Nicole as they walked to the exit together, Doc following distantly behind.
“Ah, well.” Nicole had laughed, hands that rested on her utility belt fidgeting with the buckle. “Depends on what your definition of a ghost is. I let my imagination get the best of me back there.”
It was still dark, but Waverly needn’t see Nicole to know she was embarrassed, her cheeks likely burning as brightly as her hair. She had no reason to be, so right that it took Waverly, who was wildly impressed, almost too long to remember she ought to be worried instead. Never had she wanted throw caution to the wind quite like in that moment, sensing something in Nicole she couldn’t yet name but was willing to uncover one letter at a time.
“Can I say I haven’t slept much lately so you won’t think any less of me for thinking Hank was … well, you know.”
Nicole had smiled at her, shy and unsure, and Waverly thought she needed a hug.
Instead, she said, “I wouldn’t ever think any less of you, Officer Haught.” Then, softer, stepping a little closer, “I don’t think I could even if I tried.”
It was too much, and Waverly has been thinking as much for their whole ride, at a loss for words that would convey emotions not even she was aware of yet. It was supposed to be her field of expertise, language in all its idiosyncratic forms, but something about Nicole stifled all her ability to communicate. Maybe it was simply one of the many fatal flaws her family passed unto her like an heirloom she never wanted, never asked for; Wynonna wore hers proudly, pride itself being what stopped her from saying sorry, but Waverly was never one for tradition.
It also helps her none that Doc fudgin’ Holliday is in the backseat.
Nicole, as lovely as she is, asks Doc one too many questions, but he answers them with the swagger of a man she knows for a historical fact won plenty of poker games in his day.
“Where are you from, Hank?” she asks nonchalantly.
“Georgia, ma’am,” he answers as nonchalantly.
“Georgia, huh? You’re a long way from home.”
Waverly bites her lip, bemused at the slight accent she hears coming through the longer Nicole speaks to Doc.
“Yes, ma’am. Had some business to tend to.”
Nicole nods, seems to take him at his word. “Strange place for business.”
“You’ll find Purgatory is a strange place for everything, Officer Haught.”
Waverly turns as subtly as she can to look at Doc. All he does is shrug, tries to mouth something, then abandons all thought to regard Nicole through the rear view mirror as she starts speaking again.
“Where do you live, Hank?” she asks, and it’s then Waverly notices the mailbox with their name so inconspicuously written across it, the only other indication besides a long and tired history of tragedy that they have arrived at the Homestead.
Before Doc can incriminate himself any further, Waverly turns forward in her seat again and blurts, “Hank is staying with us.”
Nicole drives as far as she can onto the property without arousing suspicion, shutting off her headlights before parking. “Earp hospitality?”
Waverly nods a little too enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. Exactly. Earp hospitality.”
“Hm.” Nicole eyes her for a moment, then nods and exits the vehicle to unlock the rear passenger doors. Doc scrambles to escape, nodding his farewell with a tip of his hat before rushing in the rain toward the barn. Waverly catches the confusion on Nicole’s face before she shrugs, rounds the cruiser to where Waverly sits, opens her door, and offers her hand—and her raincoat. “Ready?”
They run, hand in hand, to the porch, laughing for no other reason than the weather makes random fits of unadulterated happiness acceptable to have. Once under the awning, Waverly makes to take off the raincoat, but Nicole shakes her head, droplets of water falling from strands of red hair that escaped her braid during the run.
“Well now, if I take my jacket back, I’ll have no excuse to see you again,” she says through a smile, wiping water from her face with her equally as wet sleeve.
There again she hears the drawl. Barely noticeable, less so than the dimple Waverly can see deepening the longer she lets the silence build between them. She clears her throat, brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, lets the jacket and the intoxicating scent of something like vanilla warm her.
“Thank you again, Officer Haught.”
“Nicole.”
Waverly tilts her head, cheeks now hurting from the strain of trying not to smile. “Huh?”
“You can call me Nicole.” Nicole breaks first, flashing a megawatt grin that blinds Waverly with its suddenness alone. “I’m off duty.”
Waverly frowns. “Since when?”
“Uh.” Nicole lifts her left hand, looks at the watch on her wrist. “Since about forty-five minutes ago?”
“Nicole!” Without even a second thought but more than a little giggle, she shoves Nicole, hand coming in contact with the sewn Purgatory Sheriff Department badge on her uniform. It’s still wet with rain, and Waverly once again wants to hand her the jacket—or invite her to share it. “I cannot believe you.”
“No?” Nicole smiles, too shy for it to be smug, the way she dips her head and looks at Waverly through long lashes a little too bashful for it to be anything but tender. Still, Waverly purses her lips in faux annoyance and shakes her head. “Am I as unbelievable as the ghost of Doc Holliday?”
Waverly rolls her eyes, still smiling. “You’re as ridiculous.”
“Mm, I guess I deserve that.”
“You deserve a thank you. Well, a lot more than a thank you, but— ”
“Hey now, why don’t you save all that thanks for when you bring me back my jacket, yeah?” Nicole says before Waverly can start in on another ramble, stepping off the porch and onto the first step, squinting through the rain still pouring onto Purgatory. With a small nod and that same, dimpled smile, she shouts as thunder cracks in the distance, “Goodnight, Waverly Earp!” and then bolts into her cruiser.
Waverly waits until she can no longer see her headlights to whisper back, “Goodnight, Officer Nicole Haught.”
Only the lingering ghosts hear her.
xx
Nicole thinks about the way Waverly said her name all the way home.
“Trouble, trouble, trouble,” she hums, such a lovely lullaby for such a stormy night.