Honestly, it's just a bit of rain, and he'd been fine. He's relieved to have gotten Daisy Johnson out of the weather and into Bucky's organic and inorganic arms, even though her current state worries him. He doesn't mind at all, reforging their friendship. But she's been around in Mathias for as long as he had, back when hardly anyone else was in this town and they only had the Grey Gull as the focal gathering point. He doesn't know what Mathias had done to her to make her forget.
Even when he'd run himself off his feet looking for Ellie, having brought some food over and finding her to be gone, he was still fine. He tried not to think of the worst possible scenarios, especially after what happened to Claire. He tried to convince himself that he'd done his best. He was there for Ellie when she needed him. He gave her all the opportunities to talk to him if she wanted to. He had held her as long as she could have tolerated being held. Of course it frustrates him to no end that he keeps losing these girls. But he keeps reminding himself she's smart, and she's good, and if she can survive whatever hell her home world had turned to, she can handle some rain in Mathias. Dead and missing and amnesiac girls are not at all a reflection of his own worthlessness, or what kind of man he is that he can't keep these young ladies out of harm's way.
Well, not that it matters. His own little girl is gone.
By the time he's sitting alone in a puddle of water in the garage in the middle of the night, a dark silhouette indistinguishable from anything else with the light switched off, he's run out of things to tell himself. He's prepared for a number of disasters. The stockpile of food will last them a few days. He's strapped furniture down and kept fragile items properly to save them from the quakes. Unfortunately he didn't think they might be needing sand bags, and water is coming in from under the garage door. He's drenched from running around in the rain looking for Ellie. Water is dripping from his hair. The puddle he's sitting in that is ever so slowly growing larger is soaking into his jeans.
He should maybe get up. He still has the energy left for that. Sacrifice some old towels, stuff it in the gap where the water's coming in. But all he can think about is that maddening drip, drip, drip at the bottom of the well, the futility of everything, the fear gripping and settling in, with the sound of his heavy breathing breaking up the monotony of the water flow.
Doc Holliday | Wynonna Earp
Honestly, it's just a bit of rain, and he'd been fine. He's relieved to have gotten Daisy Johnson out of the weather and into Bucky's organic and inorganic arms, even though her current state worries him. He doesn't mind at all, reforging their friendship. But she's been around in Mathias for as long as he had, back when hardly anyone else was in this town and they only had the Grey Gull as the focal gathering point. He doesn't know what Mathias had done to her to make her forget.
Even when he'd run himself off his feet looking for Ellie, having brought some food over and finding her to be gone, he was still fine. He tried not to think of the worst possible scenarios, especially after what happened to Claire. He tried to convince himself that he'd done his best. He was there for Ellie when she needed him. He gave her all the opportunities to talk to him if she wanted to. He had held her as long as she could have tolerated being held. Of course it frustrates him to no end that he keeps losing these girls. But he keeps reminding himself she's smart, and she's good, and if she can survive whatever hell her home world had turned to, she can handle some rain in Mathias. Dead and missing and amnesiac girls are not at all a reflection of his own worthlessness, or what kind of man he is that he can't keep these young ladies out of harm's way.
Well, not that it matters. His own little girl is gone.
By the time he's sitting alone in a puddle of water in the garage in the middle of the night, a dark silhouette indistinguishable from anything else with the light switched off, he's run out of things to tell himself. He's prepared for a number of disasters. The stockpile of food will last them a few days. He's strapped furniture down and kept fragile items properly to save them from the quakes. Unfortunately he didn't think they might be needing sand bags, and water is coming in from under the garage door. He's drenched from running around in the rain looking for Ellie. Water is dripping from his hair. The puddle he's sitting in that is ever so slowly growing larger is soaking into his jeans.
He should maybe get up. He still has the energy left for that. Sacrifice some old towels, stuff it in the gap where the water's coming in. But all he can think about is that maddening drip, drip, drip at the bottom of the well, the futility of everything, the fear gripping and settling in, with the sound of his heavy breathing breaking up the monotony of the water flow.