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They leave the party early that night.
They pretend like it is spontaneous, but truly it was planned. Everyone sees through it, though; it’s obvious they want to be alone tonight, and their stolen glances aren’t exactly subtle. So they all nod when Waverly gives their excuse, returning it with polite goodbyes and warm hugs. Dolls wraps his arms around the Earp’s small form, glancing over her shoulder to give Nicole a knowing look. All of them there notice. All except Wynonna.
Waverly knows she will not wait. She feels that desperation again, like when she first kissed Nicole, and that heat begins to burn too quickly and for too long so that when that door closes behind her with a careless shove, she thinks only of red hair and pink lips. More importantly, she isn’t thinking about locks, and how necessary they are in moments such as these -- especially in Wynonna’s world. Because if they’re being honest, that is where they are living, and nowhere is safe. At least, not until she learns to knock.
However, as bad as Wynonna’s timing could be, they realize it really could be worse. As much as she has interrupted them, she has never stepped in at the point of no return, never seen anything too regrettable, because usually she stops them before they really have a chance to get started. And maybe today, it gives them a false sense of security, because all they can hear is each other’s panting breaths, their brains moving faster than even their hands can follow.
A shirt in one corner. A bra on the dresser. Her pants...they put up a fight, tripping her as she mindlessly tries to kick them off with urgency. But she falls back on the bed, Nicole finishing the job for her and tossing them aside. Now, a pair of jeans at the door.
The collection grows, like paint splattered over a canvas, the results and the remnants of the real work of art -- a medium of which they have mastered.
Perhaps this art is cubist: the shapes simplified but complex in their relationships, fitting together perfectly on the canvas. Or maybe it is impressionistic: visible, loose, and thick strokes, full of color and movement, capturing the rawness of a scene -- the inflection of the moment. Or maybe it is something new altogether. Something that belongs to them. A movement their combined colors have created.
After all the haste, the heat of the fire, they find themselves pressed together now, the tone changing, slowing down. The communication is wordless. They will take their time. For once, they have it.
The first stroke is long, beckoning, drawing from Waverly’s skin. The second is shorter, thicker, filling her with color. Her brush strokes are generous, yet delicate, decisive with each point of contact, gliding over the surface with impossible clarity and feeling. It moves from one end to the other, building a foundation until it starts to streak, starts to need more, so she moves it down, down the canvas, and dips her brush. Deeply. Until they are both full.
They continue to hold each other through the finishing touches, taking in its completion together, and soaking in each layer. Waverly’s fingers find her red hair again as they meet each other’s eyes.
“You think they’re having fun without us right now?”
A partial laugh escapes her lips and the redhead grins up at her from where she lay.
“You know, I’ve had a lot of things on my mind other than what our friends are doing right now,” she jokes, “but yeah, I’m sure Wynonna did somethin’ real memorable and everyone’s gonna tell us how we missed out on it.”
They share a laugh now, Waverly pulling a blanket up over them. She snuggles in closer, humming slightly.
“Mmh, yeah. And Dolls will give us that look and ask us how our….what did I tell them we were doing, again?”
Nicole starts to laugh hard now, from her belly, struggling to get the words out.
“You said we had groceries. A long list, apparently.”
“Oh my god.”
She moves onto her back and covers her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter. Nicole, on the other hand, is less concerned about her volume, laughing openly at her girlfriend’s state.
“Such a stinkin’ doofus,” Waverly scolds herself, and Nicole grabs her hands in her own.
“The cutest freakin’ doofus I’ve ever seen. The only doofus who I actually would have ditched a party with just to go grocery shopping.”
The appearance of her dimples makes Waverly convinced that this is the truth, and it is the most terrifying and wonderful feeling. Mundane, everyday life never looked so alluring than with Nicole.
She watches as she kisses her hands -- their hands-- joined together in the blankets, and it somehow feels more intimate than any of their previous activities. She closes her eyes.
“I don’t know how you do that,” she whispers, barely audible.
“Do what?”
Nicole sees the look in Waverly’s eyes and knows the mood she is in -- one of her favorite sides of the youngest Earp. So soft, so sentimental, and so romantic. She already knows her next words will play her heart like a piano, and she welcomes it -- prepares for the melodies she will write.
“Make me forget everything like that.”
She moves to kiss Nicole softly on the cheek, inhaling deeply as if she could take in her essence.
“Make me feel like everything has never been less than perfect. Like everything will somehow be okay -- more than okay -- no matter what comes at us next.”
She connects their lips now in a culmination of her words, a completion of the feeling she is trying to communicate. Nicole returns it with renewed energy, with a need to capture this moment somehow in the Brunette’s lips. They move like that together, with an increasing fervor, that same heat from before now reigniting. It pushes and pulls, breaking and building with each kiss, until their whole bodies are in it, moving in sync. It moves naturally, a hand on a hip, legs up and around, hair tugging almost painfully as Waverly ends up on top, pinning Nicole to the bed with purpose. She traces and retraces her kisses, their whispers becoming meaningless utterings, yet words that need to be spoken. It urges them, fuels them to feel more, do more. And they do — or they would have — and actually, they should have stopped sooner, if only they had heard the creak of the stairs before the turn of the door knob.
Waverly reaches for the blanket as if to shield a bullet, rolling off Nicole with impressive speed. But then, she has had some practice in detaching herself quickly.
“I got sent home with WAY too many brownies so I’m gonna need some h-” Wynonna starts before she has the door open fully, stopping when she steps on the previously discarded jeans. Unfortunately, the realization does not hit her fast enough to keep her from fully entering and looking up. She spots them there, scrambling to cover themselves with the blanket, and is immediately filled with horror as she covers her eyes with the Tupperware of baked goods.
“GOD-”
“Wynonna!”
“Sorry-”
“Get OUT!”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
The doors slams shut and there’s a moment of silence before Wynonna’s voice rings out.
“Grocery shopping,” she states simply, hysterically, before breaking into peals of laughter.
‘SHUT up, Wynonna!” Waverly calls out, unable to hold back her own laughter as Nicole chokes under the blanket.
“Did you check everything off the list?” She adds, the temptation to tease her sister now irresistible.
“I’m starting to think we never will, what with you interrupting us all the time,” she shoots back, now jumping up to collect fresh clothes from her closet. Nicole groans, slightly uncomfortable with the exchange but a smile still on her face.
Wynonna bangs once on the door.
“Hey, consider it a part of the curse; I sure do. Can you two just put some clothes on and get your asses down here? I was serious about these brownies and I don’t plan on watching Gilmore Girls alone.”
Waverly bangs back.
“Well can you give us five minutes, Wynonna? Is that possible?”
She just hears her sister’s laugh fade down the stairway, satisfied now with how she has hijacked their night. She turns to look at her girlfriend, who is now sitting up on the edge of the bed, her hair an adorable mess and her eyes wide.
“I love Gilmore Girls.”