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The neon sign for Pussy Willows buzzes with a low, agonizing hum that vibrates right through the soles of Nicole’s boots. Inside, the air is a thick soup of cheap cologne, stale beer, and regret. Nicole sits at a sticky laminate table, gingerly picking at the edge of a damp coaster, entirely out of her depth in a venue that feels several hundred miles outside her comfort zone.
"I still don't understand why we couldn't just have a normal stakeout at Shorty’s," Nicole says, raising her voice over the thumping bass of a track that sounds like it was recorded in 1993. "You know, where the floors aren't actively trying to steal my shoes."
Wynonna leans back, lacing her fingers behind her head, entirely unbothered by the ambient sleaze. "Because, Officer Hot Pants, Shorty’s doesn't have the ambiance required for this specific brand of dirtbag hunting. Besides, this place holds historical significance." She pauses, a wicked, slow-burning smirk spreading across her face as she delivers the bombshell with entirely too much relish. "In fact, right on this very stage, before I was a demon-hunting savior of the Ghost River Triangle... I used to dance. Under the stage name 'Aphrodite'."
Nicole freezes. She blinks once, twice, looking from Wynonna to the neon-lit pole on the main stage, and then back to Wynonna. Her hand shoots out, grabs her own pint, and drains it in three massive swallows before immediately reaching across the table, snatching Wynonna’s drink, and downing that one too.
Wynonna watches the whiskey vanish, her smirk widening. "Whoa, there. Pace yourself," she draws, her voice dripping with sadistic glee. "There's a lot more to judge, and we just got here. I haven't even told you about the tassel incident of 2012."
Nicole groans, burying her face in her hands to blot out the mental image, but Wynonna is already distracted. Pulling out her phone, her thumbs fly across the screen, keeping a watchful eye on a visibly buzzed Nicole while texting a play-by-play update to the Earp homestead.
WYNONNA: Just told your girl about my glory days as Aphrodite. Pretty sure she’s trying to drown herself in well whiskey.
Miles away, Waverly’s reply pops up instantly, the rapid-fire banter practically vibrating off the screen.
WAVERLY: Wynonna! Leave her alone! She’s sensitive! Also please tell me you didn’t tell her about the body glitter.
WYNONNA: Not yet. Saving that for the third round. She’s already down two drinks and questioning all her life choices.
WAVERLY: You’re terrible. Bring her home in one piece, please. And don’t touch the buffet.
Wynonna privileges a chuckle, already typing a sarcastic retort about the structural integrity of the Pussy Willows buffet, but the digital joking grinds to an abrupt halt. Her posture goes rigid. Her thumbs freeze over the keyboard, her eyes locking onto a greasy man walking past the stage.
It's Jonas.
A memory hits her—a deeply uncomfortable, deeply regrettable, and entirely unprotected sexual encounter from her recent past. And then, like a physical blow to the sternum, the secondary realization hits like a freight train: Jonas is a Revenant. Which means, mathematically, biologically, and horrifyingly, that the father of the baby growing inside her could be a demonic cowboy, making her child half-Revenant.
The playful text thread instantly mutates as Wynonna’s thumbs smash into the keyboard in a desperate, caps-lock panic.
WYNONNA: WAVES. SOS. ABORT MISSION. JONAS IS HERE.
WAVERLY: Who’s Jonas? Wait, the guy from the tractor pull?
WYNONNA: YES THE TRACTOR PULL GUY. HE IS A REV, WAVERLY. HE IS A REVENANT. DO THE MATH. BABY MATH. CODE RED BYE.
Wynonna shoves the phone into her pocket, her heart hammering against her ribs as the digital screen goes dark. As Jonas begins to thread his way through the crowded tables straight toward them, Wynonna leans over the sticky table, her voice dropping to a frantic, harsh whisper to reiterate the sheer, cosmic horror of the situation. Nicole listens, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated panic, before she looks around for a waitress. Finding none, she simply opts to reach for the next closest glass on a neighboring table, determined to get significantly drunker as fast as humanly possible.
Within an hour, the alcohol hasn't numbed the discomfort enough. Jonas is leaning over their table, getting entirely too close, his sweaty hand sliding a little too far up Wynonna’s arm. His behavior is repugnant, his breath smelling of decay and cheap gin, and neither Wynonna nor Nicole can stand it for another second.
It’s time for Black Badge mode. Despite the fog of the alcohol, Nicole’s protective instincts override her intoxication. Moving with sudden, brutal speed, a drunk but fiercely determined Nicole drives a targeted strike straight into Jonas’ windpipe. While the Revenant wheezes and stumbles backward, gasping for air, Wynonna acts fast. She reaches into Nicole’s jacket, unholstering her partner's hidden backup gun. Wynonna aims high and fires, blowing out the main switchboard on the wall. Sparks fly, killing the lights instantly and plunging the club into pitch blackness. Capitalizing on the chaos, the two women make their exit in the dark—because as far as Wynonna is concerned, all the best exits are made in the dark.
The cool night air hits them, but the reprieve is short-lived. Jonas, coughing and furious, pursues his possible baby momma right out into the gravel parking lot. He isn't just angry; he’s bloated with a sudden, sickening excitement at the grand prospect of spawning a new race of human-Revenant hybrids. He corners Wynonna against the side of a parked sedan, a grotesque grin on his face. Wynonna, profoundly less excited about the prospect of demonic co-parenting, reaches into her coat and pulls Peacemaker. The barrel glows a faint, warning blue as she aims it dead at his chest, ready to send him straight back to hell.
Sensing his imminent demise, Jonas bolts, sprinting across the gravel toward the edge of the lot. But fortune favors the Earps tonight. Having raced over after receiving those frantic texts, Waverly arrives just in time to curtail Jonas’ escape. Driving up in her car, she throws the door open with maximum, violent force, smashing the heavy metal square into Jonas’ oncoming face. The impact cracks loudly through the night air, and the Revenant drops like a stone into the dirt.
Waverly steps out of the car, completely uncaring about the groaning demon writhing on the ground. Her entire focus shifts instantly as she takes in the sight of her girlfriend. Nicole is leaning heavily against the hood of a nearby car, her uniform slightly disheveled, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Are you alright, babe?" Waverly asks, her voice softening into pure, protective tenderness as she rushes to her side.
Nicole looks up, her expression melting. With big, glassy puppy-dog eyes and a wide, goofy, thoroughly drunk smile, she gazes at Waverly as if she’s looking at a literal angel. "You are so pretty," Nicole slurs affectionately, reaching out a clumsy hand to pat Waverly’s cheek. "And I like you so much."
Despite the adrenaline still pumping through her veins and the literal demon groaning at their feet, Waverly can’t help but smile. It is, without a doubt, the absolute best thing she's ever heard. She kisses Nicole's forehead, then turns to help a smirking Wynonna hoist the heavily impaired officer into the backseat of the car. Once Nicole is safely tucked in and softly humming to herself, the sisters turn their attention to the dirt. Grunting under the weight, they haul the unconscious Jonas off the gravel and carry him over to the trunk, slamming it shut with a satisfying, metallic thud.
Wynonna takes the wheel, driving them out to a secluded, overgrown field on the lonely outskirts of Purgatory. The headlights cut through the tall grass as they drag Jonas out of the trunk. There is no trial, no negotiation. Wynonna raises Peacemaker, the barrel flaring a brilliant, blinding white-hot gold, and fires. The bullet connects, and Jonas erupts into a spectacular shower of hellfire and ash, permanently eliminating him from the pool of future daddies.
Satisfied and breathing a sigh of relief, Wynonna drives the bumpy dirt roads back to the Earp homestead. The house is dark and quiet when they pull up. Together, Wynonna and Waverly form a makeshift crutch, dragging a now completely dead-weight Nicole out of the backseat and hauling her up the porch steps. They barely make it through the front door and into the living room when Nicole's knees give out entirely. She slumps heavily over the arm of the couch, her long limbs tangling in the cushions, and with a lazy, stubborn tug of her hand, she pulls Waverly right down with her.
Waverly doesn't fight it. She goes willingly, letting out a bright, breathless giggle as she lands squarely on top of her girlfriend's chest, Nicole’s arms immediately wrapping around her waist like a vice.
"Rrrrrr," Nicole drunkely rumbles against Waverly's chest. "Imma kittycat..."
Wynonna stands in the doorway, tossing the car keys onto the kitchen counter. She looks at the tangled mess of limbs and flannel on the sofa, rolls her eyes, and points a warning finger at her sister. "Don't have sex on my couch," she commands dryly, before turning on her heel and heading upstairs, leaving the two of them to drift off in the quiet dark.