![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
WHO: Kit Pryde & Emma Frost
WHEN: Sometime in the 1880s, probably not too long before the Quantum Leap
WHERE: Wolf's Gorge, AZ, Earth-1883
WHAT: Kit comes back from a job to find that Emma has made a mess of the saloon.
WARNINGS: Blood + discussions of death.
Emma is scrubbing blood out of her favorite skirt in the back of the bar, looking none too pleased about it. It wasn't even some hold up gone wrong - it was a rowdy bar customer with psychic blocks that needed taking care of. And, without the ability to just make him go with her powers, and with Kit out running errands, she had to escalate the whole thing a little more quickly than usual. It's fine. Except for her skirt.
At least she can sense the young woman returning. She can help clean up the mess in front.
Kit does not arrive quietly, even though she easily could. She slams through the double saloon doors to the mess inside, and her irate but resigned, “What the hell happened here??” can probably be heard all the way in the back of the bar.
She floats through there now, and is both surprised and not at what she finds. Kit lets out a little huff, leaning against a wall to announce her presence to Emma. “Seriously, I was gone for an hour.”
Emma clicks her tongue in sharp scolding at Kit's tone of voice because she is the adult here. Even so, there's a little wrinkle to her nose as she looks up, not ashamed but a little apologetic.
"Well, sweetheart, you could've been gone for 10 minutes and the same thing could've happened. Sometimes a man gets shot."
She's back to trying to coax out a deep spot of blood.
"Hand me some baking soda, hm? How was your errand?"
There’s a little tin of baking soda on a shelf nearby, and Kit does oblige this request, dropping it next to Emma’s hand on the sink, alongside a small sack of bills and coins. This is the result of her errand, which had been to collect payment for their protection from some of the locals.
“Weren’t happy to give it, but they did. And I didn’t even have to shoot anybody.”
This time, at least. Kit hovers by the sink, watching the red leave the skirt fabric with calm interest. “Did he deserve it?”
While there's an urge to check Kit's work (not due to distrust, just due to the satisfaction of money in her hand), Emma's skirt is more pressing. After a bit more washing and working some baking soda onto the stain, she leaves a layer of it on to sit, satisfied that it shouldn't be a problem. All the while she's quiet, scanning her companion's mind for how her encounters went.
"Never are happy, but they're always glad to be out of the crossfire, aren't they?" She dries her hands, finally able to pick up the sack of money to peer into it.
"And when do I ever shoot someone who doesn't deserve it?" she jokes. It can be a toss up, honestly. "But you know me, I wouldn't bring this mess in here unless it was warranted. He was getting a little rough and was about to do some damage. Couldn't abide by that. There's enough proof that even if the marshals come sniffing there shouldn't be any concerns."
After all that trouble, Kit reaches into the baking soda and the skirt fabric, experimenting with her power. She should be able to remove stains like this, by making the skirt intangible and pulling out some blood. "Don't mess up the weave," Emma hisses. Her fingers do come up red. “Huh.” She says, wondering at it, and wipes it on to her coat, which is just red anyway. Only then does she look up at Emma, grinning mischievously.
“Please. I’m never that worried about what you’re able to talk the marshals into.”
All of the children she took in are trouble, but Kit, being the oldest, has become her own sort of handful. Emma doesn't really mind, most of the time — she's good at what she does and mostly listens, and it's nice to have a partner in all this. She examines her skirt for damage after setting aside the money. It seems to be fine, easing some of her annoyance.
"I'm glad you have so much faith in me. And in the softness of the law. I wonder if that Marshal Summers will ever be sensible." She highly doubts it. "Let's take care of the body, shall we?"
And by we, she means Kit.
"Even if I can sweet talk them I'd rather not leave that sitting around too long."
“Marshal Summers would probably say we’re breaking the disposal code, already.”
Kit, obedient to a point, takes off her hat and coat and rolls up her shirtsleeves. This is not the first body she’s removed from the establishment, and it won’t be the last, but Emma’s right in not wishing it to be there very long. It’s a respectable bar. There hadn’t been much to be proud of in her life, so far, but she’s proud of this place. It’s the first real task that Emma had left to her, and she’s a little bit obsessive about it being perfect. She still must balk,
“Fine, but you’re helping me. That’s a grown man. He’s heavy.”
"He is a stickler for rules. No one will miss this man, at least. He's not from around here, which is maybe why he was so forward." And Emma is certain that their marshal friend will see that she was only defending herself and her establishment, if it comes to that.
The pride in Kit's mind brings a smile to Emma's lips, even as she's being recruited into helping move the body. "You can make him intangible, why should I have to do anything?"
“It’s nice to at least pretend you’re going to help.” Kit snipes, for actually no real reason beyond she’s nineteen, and while Emma’s not exactly a mother figure to her, she’s certainly the closest thing to an authority figure to rebel against. Emma laughs at this, and makes no move to do anything.
“Where am I putting him, then? Do I have to dig a grave, too?” (She probably would do that, if asked.) For the first time, though, she seems to remember that Emma was in danger from this, enough that she shot someone. She looks with new eyes at her friend, checking to make sure she’s not hurt. Not that anyone could. But if someone could get past her abilities, it makes danger a lot more likely. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
"Sharon's already dug it for you, out in that old busted up paddock shelter." Her amusement wanes somewhat as her companion shows concern, and she reaches to gently cup her chin in her hand. They do have to look after each other, but it remains sweet that she worries.
"Darling, he barely had a chance to put a hand on me. You know I can handle myself. Plus he was drunk, so an even easier target." Still, she sighs, glancing towards the front. Scrubbing the floors is going to be annoying. "He had the decency to have a nice watch on him, at least."
Although of course Emma could take of herself, the word barely makes Kit think this man possibly did put a hand on Emma, which takes her vague sense of moral guilt away from this situation entirely. He did deserve to die, in fact. So as not to appear a baby in front of Emma, she doesn’t dwell on things like this worry for long, and shakes her head away from the hold.
“Do I get the watch? For the burial?” She tests, instead.
There's no resistance to Kit shaking loose her grip, but Emma tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear before she fully retracts her hand.
"A woman has to protect herself," she asserts to the unspoken thought of whether this man deserved death. There may have been another way to deescalate the situation, but this had been easier. And it's one less person around that can defend against her abilities. Kit fixes her with a soft stare at this, as though she’s trying to bore the point into her head like this, “You know I’m glad you did.”
But then Emma continues, "I'll consider it. You have been very obstinate about the whole thing…"
And to that, Kit rolls her eyes, because she thinks by now Emma should predict her obstinance. She makes sure to think that aloud, too. “I just got back. I’m doing it now!” And indeed, she walks into the front part of the saloon and pointedly lifts the man (who is intangible) with the nonchalance of having lifted way too many bodies before.
Emma, with a small laugh, follows leisurely out to the front as Kit goes and watches as she does the work asked of her. There is a swell of affection and pride in her but she keeps it to herself, instead going to grab a mop to take care of the unpleasant amount of blood left in the wake of the body. A customer is about to push through the doors, but Emma sends them away with a flick of her wrist backed by her mental powers.
"My poor thing, I make you do so much. Why don't you dump him in the hole and then come back here? We can get the saloon sorted first and then I'll help you with the burying, like the kind person I am."
Kit snorts, unladylike and unkind at that assessment of Emma’s character, but does as she’s told and takes the body to the back, dumping as instructed. She returns a little more thoughtful. Not morose exactly. She washes her hands in the sink and then sits on a barstool to watch Emma mop.
“If I died on the job, where would you bury me? Don’t say with that guy.” She asks, more conversational than anything else. Death is a possibility in her line of work. It’s really quite shocking she’s lasted this long.
Not looking up from her task (which is involving a little more work than she would like - she'd left him too long), Emma hums thoughtfully. It is a possibility, of course, one she's considered for everyone under her care. But she tries not to dwell on it too much, because she knows she'd find much more softness in herself than she's willing to acknowledge most of the time. Their lives are not ones where they have the luxury of safety.
"In the cemetery, darling. And anyone who took part in the deed wouldn't even get the courtesy 'that guy' was given. I'd leave them to the beasts in the desert."
Kit smiles at that. Not so much at the idea of a grave in the cemetery with her name on it. That’s a little predictable and safe. But still, nothing that she thought she’d get, growing up in the streets of Chicago. This is still a better life than that. She pretends to be affronted, regardless, “You’d leave enough of them for desert beasts to eat?”
Emma is glad that Kit sees this as a better life for herself, because it is. She is loved and cared for here. Protected. The work they do does not feel at odds with this to her at all. While she is not a good person, she is a caring one.
The teen's comment makes her scoff affectionately. "What, you want me to set them on fire? Blow them up? You're far too demanding."
“That’s too demanding? For me?” Kit balks, wrinkling her nose to communicate how mortally offended she is. “I’d explode everyone who even thought about your death.” She’s not lying. It’d be easy.
The floor is looking much more respectable as Emma runs the mop over it one more time and then splashes some water down. Barely a tinge of red to the wood, and anyways the floor in the saloon has never exactly been pristine. She wrings out the mop and sops up the water.
"It's a bit more effort for me to go around exploding people." She lifts her gaze, clearly amused. "I do appreciate it, though. I assume you'd also bury me in the cemetery? Come cry over my grave once a fortnight?"
“I’m not worth effort???” Kit practically explodes now, wildly offended. She crosses her arms across her chest and thinks about knocking all that bloody mop water across the floor. Again, she’s forced to huff out a soft puff of air with the revelation of how fond she actually is of her partner in crime. Sister figure. Whatever she is. “I’d bury you somewhere prettier than a cemetery, but I’d never cry there.” That’s a good mix, she thinks.
Emma laughs outright at this, fully straightening and turning her attention to Kit. If she didn't care so much about her she'd be chastised for talking back, but… well, she lets her get away with things more often than not. "I'm sorry darling, have you forgotten the amount of effort I've put in already? Like I haven't been taking care of you for years."
She lets out a dramatic sigh, as though wounded, before starting to gather up the mop and bucket.
"And you wouldn't even cry for me."
“We’ve been taking care of each other for years.” Kit is quick to snap back, because she’s not just one of the orphans who Emma has taken under her wing. She’s been with her since they had to travel halfway across the country, built this gang from the ground up. She won’t let her pull rank or forget it without a little pushback.
“And you wouldn’t cry for me, either.” She accuses, which she knows is probably not true, but she doesn’t really want to think about Emma crying.
Kit's annoyance, as always, amuses her. "Now, yes. But I seem to recall when you were a child, and I fed you, and clothed you, and let you ride on my horse with me…"
Emma goes to clean her hands on a rag, already dirtied with blood, before tilting her head towards the door. They might as well get to burying. They don't want wild animals sniffing out the body and dragging it out.
"I'd cry endlessly." She only says this because Kit doesn't want to think about it.
Despite all of Kit’s contrarianism, she follows Emma to the door with just that gesture, the way she’s followed her a hundred other times. “Who asked you to? I would’ve been fine without you. You’re lucky I joined you at all, or I would’ve had a rival group by now.”
All of this just leads up to Kit imagining Emma crying, after all, which makes her brow furrow. “Liar.” She accuses, aloud.
"You would have been dead," Emma states, matter-of-factly. "But that doesn't matter, because you're not. You're here with me, my sweet little Kit." She slows after they both clear the door, reaching out to pinch at the girl's cheek.
"My sweet little nightmare child Kit. Calling me a liar, being so cruel to me after all I've done for you."
“I wouldn’t have been dead. You’re so dramatic.”
Kit complains, swatting the hand away. On impulse, or just to forever be the more obnoxious one in this relationship, she volleys her full (slight) weight into Emma’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around her neck.
“I think you’re glad you found me. Imagine how bad you’d be doing at the saloon without me.”
"I would certainly be more bored."
This obnoxious show of both affection and hindrance makes Emma laugh and twist around to try to grab Kit up by the waist to carry her at least a few paces.
Kit squeaks out an unflattering protest, allowing herself regardless to be carried for a little ways before kicking down her feet. She tries extremely hard to not look like a child around Emma which is really difficult when things like this keep happening. Emma really has known her for at least a third of her life, so roles get strange. As evidenced by Kit ceasing her giggling, taking a few paces and picking up a big shovel. “….I guess we should bury this guy.” She sighs.
Emma does not fight Kit's release, taking a moment to quickly smooth her hair before she goes to retrieve a shovel herself. Their roles are definitely muddled now, and while a small part of her resists the idea of her first ward truly being grown up she has mostly made peace with it. It's not like they're that far apart in age, anyways.
"Yes, darling, let's go bury him. And then I'll make us all dinner."
Kit throws her first shovelful of dirt into the hole, obliging. No use arguing. Emma’s to-do list reminds her of the kids, who are probably getting hungry.
“As our cowboy friends would say, yeehaw.” She says in a grumble, but then stands at Emma’s side, ready to do one more task.
WHEN: Sometime in the 1880s, probably not too long before the Quantum Leap
WHERE: Wolf's Gorge, AZ, Earth-1883
WHAT: Kit comes back from a job to find that Emma has made a mess of the saloon.
WARNINGS: Blood + discussions of death.
Emma is scrubbing blood out of her favorite skirt in the back of the bar, looking none too pleased about it. It wasn't even some hold up gone wrong - it was a rowdy bar customer with psychic blocks that needed taking care of. And, without the ability to just make him go with her powers, and with Kit out running errands, she had to escalate the whole thing a little more quickly than usual. It's fine. Except for her skirt.
At least she can sense the young woman returning. She can help clean up the mess in front.
Kit does not arrive quietly, even though she easily could. She slams through the double saloon doors to the mess inside, and her irate but resigned, “What the hell happened here??” can probably be heard all the way in the back of the bar.
She floats through there now, and is both surprised and not at what she finds. Kit lets out a little huff, leaning against a wall to announce her presence to Emma. “Seriously, I was gone for an hour.”
Emma clicks her tongue in sharp scolding at Kit's tone of voice because she is the adult here. Even so, there's a little wrinkle to her nose as she looks up, not ashamed but a little apologetic.
"Well, sweetheart, you could've been gone for 10 minutes and the same thing could've happened. Sometimes a man gets shot."
She's back to trying to coax out a deep spot of blood.
"Hand me some baking soda, hm? How was your errand?"
There’s a little tin of baking soda on a shelf nearby, and Kit does oblige this request, dropping it next to Emma’s hand on the sink, alongside a small sack of bills and coins. This is the result of her errand, which had been to collect payment for their protection from some of the locals.
“Weren’t happy to give it, but they did. And I didn’t even have to shoot anybody.”
This time, at least. Kit hovers by the sink, watching the red leave the skirt fabric with calm interest. “Did he deserve it?”
While there's an urge to check Kit's work (not due to distrust, just due to the satisfaction of money in her hand), Emma's skirt is more pressing. After a bit more washing and working some baking soda onto the stain, she leaves a layer of it on to sit, satisfied that it shouldn't be a problem. All the while she's quiet, scanning her companion's mind for how her encounters went.
"Never are happy, but they're always glad to be out of the crossfire, aren't they?" She dries her hands, finally able to pick up the sack of money to peer into it.
"And when do I ever shoot someone who doesn't deserve it?" she jokes. It can be a toss up, honestly. "But you know me, I wouldn't bring this mess in here unless it was warranted. He was getting a little rough and was about to do some damage. Couldn't abide by that. There's enough proof that even if the marshals come sniffing there shouldn't be any concerns."
After all that trouble, Kit reaches into the baking soda and the skirt fabric, experimenting with her power. She should be able to remove stains like this, by making the skirt intangible and pulling out some blood. "Don't mess up the weave," Emma hisses. Her fingers do come up red. “Huh.” She says, wondering at it, and wipes it on to her coat, which is just red anyway. Only then does she look up at Emma, grinning mischievously.
“Please. I’m never that worried about what you’re able to talk the marshals into.”
All of the children she took in are trouble, but Kit, being the oldest, has become her own sort of handful. Emma doesn't really mind, most of the time — she's good at what she does and mostly listens, and it's nice to have a partner in all this. She examines her skirt for damage after setting aside the money. It seems to be fine, easing some of her annoyance.
"I'm glad you have so much faith in me. And in the softness of the law. I wonder if that Marshal Summers will ever be sensible." She highly doubts it. "Let's take care of the body, shall we?"
And by we, she means Kit.
"Even if I can sweet talk them I'd rather not leave that sitting around too long."
“Marshal Summers would probably say we’re breaking the disposal code, already.”
Kit, obedient to a point, takes off her hat and coat and rolls up her shirtsleeves. This is not the first body she’s removed from the establishment, and it won’t be the last, but Emma’s right in not wishing it to be there very long. It’s a respectable bar. There hadn’t been much to be proud of in her life, so far, but she’s proud of this place. It’s the first real task that Emma had left to her, and she’s a little bit obsessive about it being perfect. She still must balk,
“Fine, but you’re helping me. That’s a grown man. He’s heavy.”
"He is a stickler for rules. No one will miss this man, at least. He's not from around here, which is maybe why he was so forward." And Emma is certain that their marshal friend will see that she was only defending herself and her establishment, if it comes to that.
The pride in Kit's mind brings a smile to Emma's lips, even as she's being recruited into helping move the body. "You can make him intangible, why should I have to do anything?"
“It’s nice to at least pretend you’re going to help.” Kit snipes, for actually no real reason beyond she’s nineteen, and while Emma’s not exactly a mother figure to her, she’s certainly the closest thing to an authority figure to rebel against. Emma laughs at this, and makes no move to do anything.
“Where am I putting him, then? Do I have to dig a grave, too?” (She probably would do that, if asked.) For the first time, though, she seems to remember that Emma was in danger from this, enough that she shot someone. She looks with new eyes at her friend, checking to make sure she’s not hurt. Not that anyone could. But if someone could get past her abilities, it makes danger a lot more likely. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
"Sharon's already dug it for you, out in that old busted up paddock shelter." Her amusement wanes somewhat as her companion shows concern, and she reaches to gently cup her chin in her hand. They do have to look after each other, but it remains sweet that she worries.
"Darling, he barely had a chance to put a hand on me. You know I can handle myself. Plus he was drunk, so an even easier target." Still, she sighs, glancing towards the front. Scrubbing the floors is going to be annoying. "He had the decency to have a nice watch on him, at least."
Although of course Emma could take of herself, the word barely makes Kit think this man possibly did put a hand on Emma, which takes her vague sense of moral guilt away from this situation entirely. He did deserve to die, in fact. So as not to appear a baby in front of Emma, she doesn’t dwell on things like this worry for long, and shakes her head away from the hold.
“Do I get the watch? For the burial?” She tests, instead.
There's no resistance to Kit shaking loose her grip, but Emma tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear before she fully retracts her hand.
"A woman has to protect herself," she asserts to the unspoken thought of whether this man deserved death. There may have been another way to deescalate the situation, but this had been easier. And it's one less person around that can defend against her abilities. Kit fixes her with a soft stare at this, as though she’s trying to bore the point into her head like this, “You know I’m glad you did.”
But then Emma continues, "I'll consider it. You have been very obstinate about the whole thing…"
And to that, Kit rolls her eyes, because she thinks by now Emma should predict her obstinance. She makes sure to think that aloud, too. “I just got back. I’m doing it now!” And indeed, she walks into the front part of the saloon and pointedly lifts the man (who is intangible) with the nonchalance of having lifted way too many bodies before.
Emma, with a small laugh, follows leisurely out to the front as Kit goes and watches as she does the work asked of her. There is a swell of affection and pride in her but she keeps it to herself, instead going to grab a mop to take care of the unpleasant amount of blood left in the wake of the body. A customer is about to push through the doors, but Emma sends them away with a flick of her wrist backed by her mental powers.
"My poor thing, I make you do so much. Why don't you dump him in the hole and then come back here? We can get the saloon sorted first and then I'll help you with the burying, like the kind person I am."
Kit snorts, unladylike and unkind at that assessment of Emma’s character, but does as she’s told and takes the body to the back, dumping as instructed. She returns a little more thoughtful. Not morose exactly. She washes her hands in the sink and then sits on a barstool to watch Emma mop.
“If I died on the job, where would you bury me? Don’t say with that guy.” She asks, more conversational than anything else. Death is a possibility in her line of work. It’s really quite shocking she’s lasted this long.
Not looking up from her task (which is involving a little more work than she would like - she'd left him too long), Emma hums thoughtfully. It is a possibility, of course, one she's considered for everyone under her care. But she tries not to dwell on it too much, because she knows she'd find much more softness in herself than she's willing to acknowledge most of the time. Their lives are not ones where they have the luxury of safety.
"In the cemetery, darling. And anyone who took part in the deed wouldn't even get the courtesy 'that guy' was given. I'd leave them to the beasts in the desert."
Kit smiles at that. Not so much at the idea of a grave in the cemetery with her name on it. That’s a little predictable and safe. But still, nothing that she thought she’d get, growing up in the streets of Chicago. This is still a better life than that. She pretends to be affronted, regardless, “You’d leave enough of them for desert beasts to eat?”
Emma is glad that Kit sees this as a better life for herself, because it is. She is loved and cared for here. Protected. The work they do does not feel at odds with this to her at all. While she is not a good person, she is a caring one.
The teen's comment makes her scoff affectionately. "What, you want me to set them on fire? Blow them up? You're far too demanding."
“That’s too demanding? For me?” Kit balks, wrinkling her nose to communicate how mortally offended she is. “I’d explode everyone who even thought about your death.” She’s not lying. It’d be easy.
The floor is looking much more respectable as Emma runs the mop over it one more time and then splashes some water down. Barely a tinge of red to the wood, and anyways the floor in the saloon has never exactly been pristine. She wrings out the mop and sops up the water.
"It's a bit more effort for me to go around exploding people." She lifts her gaze, clearly amused. "I do appreciate it, though. I assume you'd also bury me in the cemetery? Come cry over my grave once a fortnight?"
“I’m not worth effort???” Kit practically explodes now, wildly offended. She crosses her arms across her chest and thinks about knocking all that bloody mop water across the floor. Again, she’s forced to huff out a soft puff of air with the revelation of how fond she actually is of her partner in crime. Sister figure. Whatever she is. “I’d bury you somewhere prettier than a cemetery, but I’d never cry there.” That’s a good mix, she thinks.
Emma laughs outright at this, fully straightening and turning her attention to Kit. If she didn't care so much about her she'd be chastised for talking back, but… well, she lets her get away with things more often than not. "I'm sorry darling, have you forgotten the amount of effort I've put in already? Like I haven't been taking care of you for years."
She lets out a dramatic sigh, as though wounded, before starting to gather up the mop and bucket.
"And you wouldn't even cry for me."
“We’ve been taking care of each other for years.” Kit is quick to snap back, because she’s not just one of the orphans who Emma has taken under her wing. She’s been with her since they had to travel halfway across the country, built this gang from the ground up. She won’t let her pull rank or forget it without a little pushback.
“And you wouldn’t cry for me, either.” She accuses, which she knows is probably not true, but she doesn’t really want to think about Emma crying.
Kit's annoyance, as always, amuses her. "Now, yes. But I seem to recall when you were a child, and I fed you, and clothed you, and let you ride on my horse with me…"
Emma goes to clean her hands on a rag, already dirtied with blood, before tilting her head towards the door. They might as well get to burying. They don't want wild animals sniffing out the body and dragging it out.
"I'd cry endlessly." She only says this because Kit doesn't want to think about it.
Despite all of Kit’s contrarianism, she follows Emma to the door with just that gesture, the way she’s followed her a hundred other times. “Who asked you to? I would’ve been fine without you. You’re lucky I joined you at all, or I would’ve had a rival group by now.”
All of this just leads up to Kit imagining Emma crying, after all, which makes her brow furrow. “Liar.” She accuses, aloud.
"You would have been dead," Emma states, matter-of-factly. "But that doesn't matter, because you're not. You're here with me, my sweet little Kit." She slows after they both clear the door, reaching out to pinch at the girl's cheek.
"My sweet little nightmare child Kit. Calling me a liar, being so cruel to me after all I've done for you."
“I wouldn’t have been dead. You’re so dramatic.”
Kit complains, swatting the hand away. On impulse, or just to forever be the more obnoxious one in this relationship, she volleys her full (slight) weight into Emma’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around her neck.
“I think you’re glad you found me. Imagine how bad you’d be doing at the saloon without me.”
"I would certainly be more bored."
This obnoxious show of both affection and hindrance makes Emma laugh and twist around to try to grab Kit up by the waist to carry her at least a few paces.
Kit squeaks out an unflattering protest, allowing herself regardless to be carried for a little ways before kicking down her feet. She tries extremely hard to not look like a child around Emma which is really difficult when things like this keep happening. Emma really has known her for at least a third of her life, so roles get strange. As evidenced by Kit ceasing her giggling, taking a few paces and picking up a big shovel. “….I guess we should bury this guy.” She sighs.
Emma does not fight Kit's release, taking a moment to quickly smooth her hair before she goes to retrieve a shovel herself. Their roles are definitely muddled now, and while a small part of her resists the idea of her first ward truly being grown up she has mostly made peace with it. It's not like they're that far apart in age, anyways.
"Yes, darling, let's go bury him. And then I'll make us all dinner."
Kit throws her first shovelful of dirt into the hole, obliging. No use arguing. Emma’s to-do list reminds her of the kids, who are probably getting hungry.
“As our cowboy friends would say, yeehaw.” She says in a grumble, but then stands at Emma’s side, ready to do one more task.