Ink and Paper Hearts: Part One
I wanted to write something for Valentine's Day, and wound up with over 8k words in the first part alone. Sheesh! Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being here! Be kind to yourself and others. 18+ only. Violence and sexual themes. Angst, fluff, etc.
Raised on a cattle ranch, you spent your early days on horseback tending to the farm and living off the land. When disaster left you orphaned, a ragtag group of survivors embraced you as one of their own. Over time, they had become your family, and together, you’d endure natural disasters, famine, and hordes of infected.
It only took one sweep of malevolent raiders to destroy your home and turn everything you’d ever known to dust. You escaped the attack within an inch of your life.
Isaac was the one who discovered you withering away in an old diner off the freeway, fending off the infected with nothing but your integrity and a baseball bat. His medical team, which accompanied him as they moved between compounds, took care of your recovery, and nursed you back to health.
The leader of the Washington Liberation Front admired any person who possessed the strength to fight and the compassion to care for animals simultaneously, and in exchange for a safe place to lay your head, you promised to do just that.
It was a relinquishment of power; you learned early on. Anything involving Isaac came at a cost. Your bond with him was duty-bound, but he offered you another chance at having a family and a purpose. After being all alone in that desolate place, you’d been more than willing to fall in line.
Still, you were a different person when you first arrived in Seattle.
Some would say naïve. You saw yourself as a practical optimist. Now, you’re not so sure.
It’s truly astonishing how a year of unrelenting conflicts with the Scars can diminish the brightness of your silver lining.
The ability to find distraction in your work is a double-edged sword.
A jack of all trades, you spend most of your time working with the four-legged soldiers of the WLF. You have extremely limited patience for the human variety, on both sides of the fence. You tolerate a handful of your comrades, but between assignments, you’re happiest with your nose in a book, savouring the quiet and escaping into distant realms.
The drive for escapism hasn’t been a difficult undertaking lately.
A group of thirty soldiers left the grounds on assignment last month, and only two returned.
It left the stadium halls quieter, heads hanging lower than what you’d ever witnessed. Interactions that would otherwise leave you with a sunny lilt, instead left you carrying a heaviness that you couldn’t quite shake.
Few civilians choose to dive into surface level banter like they used to and the collective fear and sadness shrouding the compound has kept it that way for some time.
It serves as a reminder that even with extensive training and the most advanced military equipment, tragedy can strike without discrimination.
Unchecked and alone, the infected will forever wander through the shadows, driven by an unending quest to find their next victim. Maybe the same idea is true for all adversaries.
Your primary objective is to ensure the community remains united and intact. If you manage to stay sane, that’s a plus.
“How are you today, my little sunflower?” Manny asks, mischievously tugging your jacket.
“You better be talking to the dogs.”
“And if I’m not?” he asks, kneeling to offer unlimited ear scratches to the newest litter.
“Well, then I guess I’ll have to refer you to every other time you’ve ever asked,” you say, giving the bottom of his boot a kick. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
A woman’s voice booms from the other side of the unit, and Manny forces a smile.
“The bane of my existence.”
You chuckle at his misery, knowing little about his relationship with Abby outside of the kinship they portray in combat and their supposed insufferable roommate arrangement. Something you’re only privy to after running into her after hours at the library as she was trying to catch some shuteye on the couch there.
“Will you quit harassing pretty girls and grab a damn dog already?”
As she approaches, tails of all shapes and sizes wag with incredible speed, exuding pure happiness. You wonder how much time she has spent in the kennels when you’re not around. Isaac has her spearheading every mission from here to Chicago, so you rarely see her. But the dogs never forget a kind face.
You exchange a few pleasantries with Abby before she drags her unenthusiastic partner to work. Manny’s womanizing ways at the stadium serve as a constant reminder of your boundaries in relationships.
You’re safer by yourself.
Abby does seem like a sweetheart, though.
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“We ship out tomorrow morning,” Abby says, handing you an empty canteen and a backpack, a clipboard braced to her side by her white knuckled grasp.
Her abrupt tone makes you jump when it normally wouldn’t. She’s struggling to keep her voice steady, but you suspect she has more important things to worry her mind about.
“Right,” you nod. “Any idea how long?”
As she’s rushing to complete the next task, your query hits her at the worst possible second, adding to her already teetering stress load. You recognize it a moment too late and your teeth ache at the back of your jaw when she spins on her heel, pinning you with a glare.
“Do you expect a serious answer, or are you just trying to piss me off?”
“Promises around here are as worthless as the ETA themselves, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Promises? What did that have to do with anything?
“I’m sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”
“Anything else I can assist you with, soldier? Or can we finish wasting my time?” Abby bellows.
You knew it would be a mistake to leave the K9 unit, but circumstances with the Seraphites have forced your hand. They not only invaded WLF territory, causing destruction and casualties among your people, but they’ve also been blocking your teams from conducting supply runs, leading to a rather grim situation in the reserves.
“You don’t have to bite my head off,” you say, feeling the tension rise as you widen your stance against her more imposing one. “We’re all stuck in this mess.”
“Oh, really?” she seethes. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to hand you a shovel next time our people turn up in body bags. Give you a break from scooping dog crap to help us grownups with the actual shit.”
Abby is your superior and you know better than to test the hierarchy. The moment you denied Isaac’s advances, you tumbled from the top spot. But you’re no chump.
In a split second, Abby’s body looms over you as she detonates, “You’re my problem,” her breath hot against your face.
She flinches when you lose your balance and stumble backward, narrowly catching yourself. If her instinct was to rescue you, she restrained herself just in time, her hand frozen in mid-air. A twitch nags at the corners of her tired eyes.
“You’re no different from the rest,” you say, walking backward, chest heaving. “It’s all the fucking same.”
You’re down the hall and veiled by the four walls of your room before the opportunity to fumble your conversation further buries you in shame.
It’s going to be a long night.
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Manny runs through his roll call sheet twice, inspecting each soldier with every measure but a squat and cough. If he thought he’d catch you on a minor clothing infraction, hell, a mismatched pair of socks, he’s sadly mistaken. You wouldn’t give Abby the satisfaction and besides, you hadn’t slept a wink preparing for this assignment.
“Where’s Anderson?” Manny asks under his breath. The team surrounding him dip their heads and you try to avert your attention. Brush it off like you had been too busy inspecting your gear to overhear him.
“We’re not going blind, are we, Alvarez?” Abby says, shouldering through the group to drop her bag on the tailgate of the Humvee.
When her arm brushes yours, you recoil, your fist hitting your stomach with a muffled thud. Her head snaps in your direction, but her gaze is less volatile than before. You make a point not to place too much trust in that emotional assessment, finding solace in the familiar sensation of your twisting hands.
“Alright,” she shouts above the murmurs of your unit, the quiet chatter falling into silence. “You will work in pairs, at all times, even when we are in proximity to each other. This is unnegotiable, so don’t ask me if you have to bring a friend to the pisser. The answer is yes.”
The group’s attention is undeterred, even as a faint chuckle escapes them, their eroded black boots facing her commanding presence.
“If you hear something, say something,” she continues, her chin bowing slightly. “It may save a life.”
You swallow thickly and lean against the armed vehicle, its cold steel biting into your back. It’s possible that your sleepless night will affect your performance, but you decide not to emphasize it and hoist yourself upright before anyone notices.
“Our destination is approximately sixty miles from here, and we will cross into Scar territory temporarily, so we’ll need to be cautious. Eyes on rooftops, balconies, you know the drill.”
The group divides between the Humvee and a military truck, and it’s only after twenty minutes of driving that you realize Abby has chosen you as her combat partner for the time being. You feel the weight of her thigh against yours, as she adjusts her legs to accommodate her backpack, and you’re left pondering her decision.
There is a clear sense of trust between her and Manny, making him not only her closest friend, but a lifeline in warfare. Does she think you’re weak and in need of a stronger match? You gnaw on your bottom lip at the notion, focusing on the greenery flitting past your window.
“Come on, Anderson, your balls aren’t that big,” Manny teases, gesturing to her outstretched posture, particularly the way her legs take up enough room for two. You shift toward the door to free up some real estate between you and concentrate back on the road.
As their banter fades into background noise, your attention shifts to observing the deserted surroundings, vigilant for any indication of danger. Apart from a pair of rabbits hopping around, the streets are completely motionless.
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The cavalry parks outside a derelict warehouse, its craggy roof adorned by a lush carpet of moss. Rust-bitten chain link fencing surrounds an expansive lot at the rear, cube vans with faded labels scattered throughout. It’s a tempting location to scavenge, but the prospect makes your stomach lurch.
The presence of tall grass and the lack of windows on each vehicle creates ample opportunity for trouble. A lurking enemy, dead or alive, is something you’d like to avoid. It’s possible that someone has already searched the vans, despite their undisturbed appearance.
“Let’s break this down into teams and tackle it all at once,” Abby announces, nodding at the parking lot and the adjoining building. “Six outside, inspecting the trucks, and six inside. We’ll scour the property first, and then we can set up for the night.”
She blows out a frustrated breath.
The temptation to tell her to fuck all the way off is intense.
“Maybe we should put a couple scouts up high, search the grounds together,” you say, pointing to the safest vantage points. “Eyes in the sky.”
“Any other suggestions?” she asks.
“I mean, no—but,” you begin.
Abby interrupts, holding her hand up. “Like I said. Six and six. We don’t need to be out here longer than necessary.”
She guides you toward the building, her palm on your lower back, and you jerk away from her grasp. She may have the authority to call the shots, but you decide where you place your neck on the chopping block.
“I’m with them,” you say, trudging toward the trucks.
“Oh, Jesus Christ. What?”
She gives you a once over, gritting her teeth.
You throw your hands up and let them slap against your sides, waiting for her to hurl her discontent at your head, clearly eager to tear a strip off you in front of your squad. With a distant gaze, she fixates on the hollow space behind you before heading towards the warehouse.
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It took several hours to secure the perimeter and set up camp inside.
Your heavy eyelids rejoice at the promise of rest. The team in charge of the mail trucks uncovered a mother lode of undelivered packages, chock full of useful supplies. It was almost as impressive as the haul the WLF brought back from the airport a few months back.
Within the building, soldiers set up their bedrolls among a labyrinth of cluttered offices. It’s quite comical to overhear the entertainment value of some dusty, redundant telephones and keyboards. You catch snippets of the amusing conversations while rearranging your own space, the sound of playful jabbering rising from the ashes, finally allowing you to release a deeply trapped breath.
Abby eases up on her protocols to make the rounds and ensure everyone is okay. You make use of the time alone to freshen up and explore, gathering candles from various boxes to arrange in your shared office, the wax and wicks a rare, comforting find.
Abby spots them as soon as she returns.
“Nighttime always feels darker away from home,” you explain, worried she might find them frivolous.
“Candles are good,” she says, picking one up to roll in her hands. She scrapes her thumbnail along the wax base and shifts on her feet. “I like them.”
“Alright,” you say, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
You try to ignore the intensity of her gaze as it grazes over you, but beads of sweat build along your lower back. It might be time to crack a window. Occupying yourself with that activity, you grow increasingly frustrated as the most accessible ones refuse to budge.
“Let me try,” she offers.
“Suit yourself,” she huffs, and you glimpse her crossing her arms over her broad chest.
You reckon Abby isn’t used to being turned down, and it sours your stomach a little to be the outlier.
By climbing the desk closest to the wall, you gain some leverage and drive your palms into the ridge of the window. You feel the sharp edge digging painfully into your flesh, your back muscles tightening to an impossible degree.
“For fuck’s sake,” you grunt, putting all your might into another attempt, the image of a bottle smashing through the pane something you’d seriously consider acting upon if you were alone.
“Stop being stubborn and let me help.”
“I don’t need your help,” you groan, the tickle of sweat now threatening to break into a full stream down your spine.
“Sure seems like you do,” she says, the arrogance in her tone combined with the weight of her gaze on your back, sending your lid rocking chaotically over a burgeoning boil.
You suck in a rigid breath and ignore her remark.
“Abby!” you say, jolted by your own shout.
Manny must overhear the commotion, slinking against the door frame to clear his throat. As they murmur behind you, you bow your head and brace your hand against the glass, waiting to be reprimanded.
When you twist your body to offer an apology, the room is empty.
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Even as the sun disappears below the horizon, the air in your office, as well as the rest of the building, becomes oppressively warm. You dig through your bag for a less cumbersome shirt but resort to stripping down to your sports bra and a pair of boxers. Abby hasn’t come knocking for a while, long enough for a clicker to obliterate you ten times over, but you temper your outrage.
Downstairs, there’s a treasure trove of unopened loot piled on racks, beckoning your interest. Abby abandoned her rule of two and frankly, you couldn’t care less.
Truthfully, she never wanders too far from her pack.
It’s possible she’s unaware of your whereabouts while you gather boxes from the metal racks downstairs in your underwear.
But it’s also possible she has eyes on you wherever you go.
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“What’s all this?” Abby asks, lingering in the doorway.
Lost mail spills from the bins surrounding you. You’re captivated by the untold stories inside them. A peek into a world you’d never known.
“Letters, mostly,” you say.
Just inside the entryway, Abby slouches against the wall, absentmindedly playing with the fibers of the carpet using her socked feet.
You’ve torn through dozens of envelopes, the contents of each one wildly different. It’s almost disturbing to imagine how many people had an entire universe they experienced through their eyes only.
You’ve already envisioned yourself journeying from one post office to another, gathering historical accounts and breathing new life into forgotten tales.
“I’m a bit lost with most of them,” you say, credit card debt and bank statements flying straight over your head. “Structures before the outbreak are a lot different from ours.”
Abby clicks her tongue, moving further into the room to sit across from you. She’s careful not to encroach on your space and a twinge of remorse worms into your belly. You offer an olive branch, handing her a photograph.
“But then there’s stuff like this,” you continue.
Abby’s eyes widen at the provocative image of a woman, her slender figure draped across a pristine silk sheet, the vibrant red of her lace panties and sharp stilettos creating a striking contrast. Attached to it is a note that reads:
When you’re alone, close your eyes, and I’ll be whispering your name.
Abby puffs a quiet laugh as a flush of pink creeps along the high points of her cheekbones.
“Who’s it addressed to?” she asks.
You search for the envelope among a sea of scribbled addresses and realize it’s a futile endeavour.
“I’m honestly not sure,” you admit. “I think I lost it.”
“Damn,” Abby smirks, running her thumb over the curled edges of the polaroid. “Lost in transit twice.”
You give a half shrug, noticing how enraptured she is with the picture. Her blonde lashes catch the candlelight at an angle that cast long shadows across her freckled skin.
“Manny would lose his mind,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. “He’s obsessed with shit like this—women in general, really. Horny bastard.”
You can feel the giggles bubbling up inside you, and you clamp your lips together to keep them from escaping. Abby Anderson, the most revered soldier of the Washington Liberation Front, sitting criss-cross applesauce talking smack about her best friend.
It is about the funniest thing you’ve seen in weeks.
“Have you—ever sent one?” you ask, treading dangerous waters and bracing yourself.
She blows out a ragged breath, pocketing the evidence.
You wonder if it’ll be a gift for Manny or something she keeps for herself.
The notion causes vicious heat to rise across your forehead and down the bridge of your nose.
“Not a chance. It’s not really my thing.”
The mountain of mail between you becomes a welcomed distraction, and you make use of having a focal point to stare at.
When she tosses the question back your way, it throws your stuttering heart into a full gallop.
“Have you?” she whispers, leaning back to study you with a leg outstretched. The heel of her foot rocks to a slow tune only she can hear.
Her muscular arms bulge as she balances herself and you do your level best to pretend you don’t care. You expect her to wriggle uncomfortably or try to change the subject, but she doesn’t. Instead, she waits on you to bounce the ball she has rolled onto your court.
It’s you who can’t stop squirming.
“I haven’t found anyone worth the effort,” you say, and it feels a little embarrassing, maybe, but you figure honesty goes a lot further with Abby. “People suck.”
“Would you?” she asks. “If you found someone.”
Your racing heart leaves you dizzy.
It’s too goddamn hot in this office. You crane your neck to fire silent vitriolic arrows toward the stubborn windows, desperate for a fresh gust of air to grace the back of your damp shoulders. Abby stumbles to her feet, stepping over you to solve your problem once and for all.
With a soft click, the lock releases, and the window glides open, allowing the cool evening breeze to sweep through the space.
You squeeze your eyes shut and groan.
“I didn’t want to say anything,” Abby smirks, dropping back down to her spot on the floor. This time, she lies on her side, head propped up by her arm. “You almost had it.”
The crooked smile quirking up on her mouth hits you like a flashbang.
“I kind of hate you right now,” you say without venom. “But I should probably say thank you, huh?”
“Probably,” she grins, teeth raking slowly over the pout of her bottom lip.
She has freckles there too, and you’re suddenly envious of them.
“I won’t,” you blurt, tearing open another envelope. “Say thank you.”
“I wouldn’t either,” she laughs, and it’s a deep, warm cadence. A laugh meant only for your ears. She gestures to the letter in your hand. “What’s that one?”
The grin you’re desperately trying to hide causes your face to ache.
The brash woman you’re hardly accustomed to sharing a home with at the stadium is full of surprises, it seems. There’s a side to her that isn’t militant and melancholy, but rather the opposite.
She’s playful and witty. Her eyes, a staggering blue lake, are gentle and kind.
You could fall madly, painfully in love with a woman like Abby.
Abby herself, even. If she wasn’t an unstable box of dynamite.
You skim the handwritten letter with the tip of your finger, and another wash of warmth blooms inside you at the bulk of the sentiment.
“It’s a confession,” you explain, fixing your attention on the last paragraph. “He’s been in love with her for a long time, since they were kids.”
“Will you read it to me?”
Her gentle query sends a shiver of sunshine down your spine. Her eyelids are heavy like yours, and the shadows beneath hers speak volumes about the burden she carries. The weight of the world.
“Only if you promise to read the next one.”
“Deal,” she murmurs, sliding your bag over to use as a pillow. She snuggles into it and your whole body vibrates.
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The trip home is lighter, despite the nearly crippling load. Clothing, toys, garden seeds, tools, home goods, toiletry items — the list is a mile long. You couldn’t take everything, but the mass of what hadn’t deteriorated or spoiled made it through the gates.
It’s a hopeful thing, not only to witness your group returning home unharmed, but with enough supplies to ease the strain taken from a new fruitful avenue.
The moment you and your squad walk into the chow hall together, you’re met with a chorus of cheers and applause. As Abby vanishes amidst the swarm of people, you exchange a few handshakes before seeking escape from the cacophony.
Your sleeping quarters are the chaotic aftermath of hurried packing and abandoned reading material, with your mattress being the only semblance of order in the disarray. It was Manny who taught you how to make your bed to military standards and perhaps his goal was to inspire more in you than routine, but either way, the habit stuck.
Gratitude simmers for it now more than ever, the crisp, clean sheets offering respite. Freshly showered and dead on your feet, you crawl into your cozy bed and drift away.
A thunderous crash shocks you awake.
You blink against the abyss, immediately comforted by the stadium lights leaking through your curtains. It drives other citizens insane, the absence of darkness, but you’re thankful for it.
Someone appears to be banging your door down.
“Cool it, already,” you say, scrambling for your cotton robe. The brutal assault on your sleep at this hour deserves to be outlawed—prohibited by the laws of the WLF. “Holy hell, are you trying to wake the whole neighbourhood?”
You tear open the door and any visceral anger coursing through you evaporates at the sight. Tall, fierce, and devastatingly gorgeous, all blended with the rich spice of amber liquor.
Loose tendrils of hair cascade along her shoulders and collarbone in protest of her braid.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have something for you. Can I come in?” Abby asks, and it’s not a question.
Before you can even request a moment to compose yourself, she unceremoniously dumps a heavy grey bin on your living room floor, adding to the chaos, before collapsing onto your couch.
She may be a delightful, luminous drink of water when she wants to be. But damn, can she ever snore the walls down in record time.
You plop yourself onto the bin beside her and try to make sense of her unexpected visit. Should you venture down the hall to wake her roommate? There’s likely a sock hanging from the doorknob by now, but it’s an option.
The sound of your hands drumming on the sides of the plastic container fills the room, while you contemplate the amount of bourbon your crew has consumed from lunchtime until now. An indulgence that landed on your doorstep all the same.
When Abby whimpers and curls in on herself, you resolve to drape her in your heaviest blanket, hoping to help her tackle the unsteady beats of her sleep cycle and a looming hangover. She bundles the fabric in her fists and clenches it underneath her chin.
Captivated by her klutzy aura, you nearly trip on the forgotten bin.
The lid doesn’t want to come apart from its secured spot and you have the presence of mind to check for a locking device, just to be sure. There isn’t one, of course, but you’ll never let yourself live down the office window debacle.
It’s going to require elbow grease and a hefty tug. You hiss as it separates in several loud pops. Luckily, the noise only costs the weary girl on your couch a flinch or two.
Letters fill it to the brim, and you’re enthralled by Abby’s decision to bring them back with her. Your instinct is to open each one, but it doesn’t feel right without her there to chirp commentary at you.
“I don’t get it,” you breathe in disbelief, expecting your words to meld with the shadows and disappear.
Her ghost-quiet voice turns the thermostat up a thousand degrees.
“I was mean,” she stammers. “You didn’t deserve it.”
It appears that you’re tapping into her guilt-ridden subconscious, which feels so delicate you consider shaking her awake. You doubt she’d want to lay it all bare.
Does she always talk in her sleep?
“No, it’s okay,” you say. “Water under the bridge.”
Your response seems to placate her overworked brain. You can relate, as your own tries to lure you back to the land of lonely slumber.
You notice her face doesn’t relax, even when her breathing slows, the lines in her forehead streaked with dirt. To never find peace, even during sleep, must be exhausting beyond what most can fathom. It seems cruel to disturb her, even if she’s restless. You settle for leaving a glass of water on the side table for her before settling in at the end of the couch. If she startles awake, you’d rather she doesn’t do it alone.
Cramped onto the only slice of cushion she hasn’t claimed, you let the commotion of the day pull you under.
As morning greets you, you find yourself back in your bed.
The familiar scent of Abby drenches your blanket, but she’s long gone.
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It’s your first day off in months, but you check the work assignment list to confirm. On your way back from the bulletin board, the classrooms are abuzz with joyful energy. Children eagerly play with the toys and delve into the books your squad brought home, and it gives you a sense of belonging. A goal beyond surviving.
Until now, you have thought little about your life beyond protecting the community. It always made sense to put your neck on the line for the greater good. While casually strolling past the gym, not in search of a certain soldier, you can’t help but wonder if there might be other adventures awaiting you.
Abby’s breath tickles your ear, and you leap a mile out of your skin.
“Son of a bitch,” you wheeze.
She doubles over with laughter, imitating the strangled noise you make when you’re caught off guard. She takes a minute to catch her breath before she gives you a generous shove.
“You’ve got quite a potty mouth,” she teases, wrinkling her nose impishly at a passing group of young ones. “There are little ears around here, you know.”
“Yeah, well, they probably know better than to sneak up on a person,” you say, finding Abby’s laughter rather infectious. You bite back a grin. “Who does that? Is an apocalypse not enough for you people?”
Abby breaks into another bout of giggles, seeming to enjoy your newfound passion for merging the old world with the new one.
“Is it our apocalypse though, if we were born into it?”
“Yes, Abby, it is,” you huff, eager for your heart rate to return to baseline. “We’re in an active apocalypse and you’re awful.”
As she leans against the large window you’d been peering through, the sounds of the gym fade into the background. She tilts her head at you, eyes sparkling with intrigue. Clad in workout gear that accentuates her sculpted body, she doesn’t appear sweaty.
You must’ve caught her on her way in.
“Not really,” you say, fidgeting with a frayed string on your sleeve. “Are you?”
“Okay,” you say, staring at a scuff on your sneaker before catching her gaze.
“Okay,” she mimics, directing her nose scrunch at you this time, turning your mouth dry. “Feel like being busy later?”
It’s not as if her tone is explicit or even her language, but this woman is a supernatural force. So, tingles rise into gooseflesh from your head to your toes, regardless.
“What do you have in mind?” you ask.
The roars of a lively group of soldiers reverberate through the gym, their spirited chants urging their champion to hurry her ass up. They beckon to her as if they are a part of the kindergarten cohort, causing both of you to snicker and shake your heads. One of them wolf-whistles, the rise and fall of the pitch echoing into the hallway. Abby wastes no time throwing up her middle finger in response.
“I can come by around seven. Does that work?” she asks, reaching for your wrist. She gives it a quick squeeze and slowly pulls away, her fingers sliding to the tip of your pinky.
Her simple touch is unexpected, and it electrifies you.
She beams, walking backwards through the gym doors, brows jumping at your frozen form.
You amuse her. This much is obvious.
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A rhythmic tap grabs your attention, a stark difference from the first time Abby came knocking. But to keep with tradition, she doesn’t arrive empty-handed.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, gesturing to the dishes balanced precariously in her arms.
She sets the meal fit for an army battalion down onto the counter and searches your kitchen cupboards for something to drink from.
With a single, forceful movement of her forearm, she clears space by shoving your knick-knacks aside to make room.
The way she effortlessly makes herself at home in your space leaves you speechless. You nod.
“Good,” she says, a repentant grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Pretty sure I’m off booze for the rest of my life.”
With the same delicate touch she used to tidy your countertop, she pours the freshly squeezed liquid, causing both glasses to hover on the verge of spilling. Abby takes a step back to assess the situation before bending over the rims, producing the most obnoxious slurping noise. It nearly sends you into hysterics as she levels out both glasses.
She hands one to you with droplets of orange decorating her chin and the collar of her shirt.
“Thanks,” you chuckle. “Quality service right here. Plus, I love germs.”
Balancing the glass to the best of your ability in your right hand, you pull your sleeve over your left and use it to pat her face dry. Abby snorts, her normally lively body becoming static under your ministrations. She swallows heavily, and a calmness settles over you.
“I don’t have germs,” she pouts. Her eyes drop to your mouth for a split-second before her cheeks erupt in swaths of vibrant pink. “I swear.”
“You’re a mess,” you scoff, enamoured by this clumsy woman, blazing a path directly into the pit of your stomach. “Did you know that?”
As she nods, her broad shoulders relax, and her frenetic breathing begins to slow.
“Nobody else sees it,” she says, her words hanging heavy in the air.
The pressure of that emotional cargo would cause any person to buckle under the weight sometimes. It’s a strenuous life for everyone on base, but the expectations placed on her are especially burdensome.
Your confession doesn’t offend her; instead, it seems to liberate her.
She sighs an exhale of relief, and it makes your heart squeeze.
“I can live with that,” she whispers.
The food was prepared with love as is anything set aside for Abby, and she tells you all about the cook who put it together. An original member of the Salt Lake crew, and a phenomenal chef, he got them through their bleakest days.
When the WLF opened their arms, he committed fully to helping Abby achieve her goals, working tirelessly to support her training and keep himself on the straight and narrow after their tragic end with the Fireflies.
She doesn’t go into detail about what happened, and your instinct is to let that be okay. The heart-wrenching rumours are more than enough to go on for now.
“He’s stoked for me to have a little downtime,” she says, waving her fork at the spread now spilling onto your coffee table across various plates. “Hence the whole smorgasbord situation. As soon as I told him—”
She pauses, letting out a little whimper of embarrassment, seeming to scold herself for being so open.
“Told him what?” you press, detecting a subtle grin playing at the edges of her eyes.
“He wanted to make an impression on my friend, I guess.”
Your neck tickles with heat and you attempt to ventilate by pulling the collar of your shirt away from your collarbone for a moment.
“The man can cook,” you say with your mouth full. It comes out funnier than you expected, muffled by chewing. “Sorry.”
“You’re quite a mess yourself,” she smirks, leaning to drape her arms along the back of your couch, scanning the state of your apartment. “Your poor books.”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my books!”
She hauls herself off the couch to make an example of you, crouching at a cluttered stack. So, an earthquake must’ve hit only your room—what of it?
“I mean, this is just sad.”
“We can’t all have bookshelves and organizational skills, Anderson.”
“Says who?” she chuckles, her attention diverted by a novel that has piqued her curiosity. “This isn’t a lack of skill, either. Where’s your discipline, girl?”
Maybe it’s crouched in front of you, a blonde bombshell waiting to go off and properly reduce you to human rubble.
“I’m plenty disciplined, thank you very much.”
“Yeah?” she says, tongue tucked behind her teeth in challenge.
The audacity, when you’re currently over the moon about this delicious meal, you’ll likely never get to enjoy twice.
“Yeah,” you retort, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve like a feral beast. You strip off your shirt and toss it into the abyss, grabbing a clean one from its home on a toppling lamp.
Her bright bursts of laughter make you giddy, a woman who never finds time to play, sitting on your carpet waiting for you to join her.
“Who even are you?” she asks, and it’s so gentle it stops you midway through redressing to ponder her question.
The cotton tank top falls past your hips and you smooth it out, sensitive to the wrinkles in a way you haven’t previously been.
“It looks good,” Abby blurts, reading you like the sea of books strewn about. “You’re—good.”
There’s something about the fortitude of her honesty that helps you decipher between barbs and a genuine fondness for your idiosyncrasies.
Maybe she’s someone you can trust after all.
She shuffles across the floor to the bin filled with letters and lifts it above her head with ease.
“What on earth are you doing?”
As her brows jump mischievously, she dumps the skeletal remains of a past life onto your floor, filling the room with a waterfall of bones. It ignites a fierce desire to protect this girl—create a time capsule of this moment for the next generation to build upon.
A reminder that not all broken things are hopeless things.
“Well, now you’ve gone and ruined my tidy apartment.”
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Each passing moment feels like tiny punctures in an hourglass, causing time to trickle away. You’re both aware of it, trying to stretch the night. Abby leaves for a spell to hunt down her chef, in pursuit of caffeine. She returns flushed and sleepy, the bitter aroma wafting through the door alongside her soothing presence.
Curiosity and exhaustion get the best of you, and you ask about her friend. His thoughts on your late-night rendezvous with history. She does a goofy impression that makes you want to wrap your arms around her, and you watch her in fascination like an old cowboy reel, projected onto your heart.
“He says you’re a bad influence.”
“Bullshit,” you snicker, tossing her another envelope.
“Okay, so he didn’t say that. But he did tell me to give him a heads up if I decide to run away with you.”
You try to push that thought aside.
“Really, now? And why does he think that’s in the cards?”
“He thinks you’re my dream girl.”
She speaks as if she’s describing weather patterns to you, and you’re bewildered. The blunt force of her words mixed with the softness of her tone leaves you shell-shocked. You search for a tether; silently categorize every reason it can’t be true.
“What did you tell him?” you ask, busying yourself with a letter you read while Abby was away.
A tale of woe between two quarrelling families. It reminds you of Romeo and Juliet, some less violent, modern-day version, and based on the contents of their struggle, you gather at least one of them was grateful for the pandemic.
“Do you really want to know?” she asks, pinning you with her gaze.
You nod, a buzz of energy flitting through you.
“I told him to go fuck himself.”
Cackles burst from your chest, finding her candour rather precious. Of course, Abby told the guy off. But she doesn’t look away after she tells you; doesn’t shrug or scoff. She studies your reaction and holds her breath until a tiny smile breaks her anxious expression.
You forget where you are in proximity to the earth for a second.
“I guess I’ll debrief you on that situation at a later date,” you say.
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The sound of her steady breathing is peaceful as the light of early morning whispers through the fog. She idly sips at her coffee and takes her time, setting each letter into their respective piles. It’s engrained in her to keep things orderly, an obvious clash with your paper heap. Unlike you, she finds the government letters intriguing, even the boring ass mortgage and debt related ones, and reads them all thoroughly.
Your hand catches on an envelope shaped differently from the rest. Inside is a card, with a dozen raised hearts adorning the front in varying shades of red. When you flip it open, it reads:
With you by my side, every day feels like Valentine’s Day. Thank you for being my rock, my love, and my everything.
Your family never spoke of this while you were growing up.
“Valentine’s Day?” you yawn. “What’s that all about?”
You show her the card, and she rubs her eyes, nursing the tail end of her own yawn with the back of her hand.
She looks it over to confirm her suspicions, and with a knowing smile, sits up straight. She taps the card against her knee.
“My dad told me about this.”
“Yeah, it’s um—it’s a tradition people celebrated near the end of winter. A day to do things for the ones you love, I guess.”
“Like a holiday or something?”
“Sort of,” Abby says, fumbling a bit with her own understanding of it. “Romantic stuff, mostly.”
She rubs her neck, mulling something over while you try to wrap your head around this new information. One day out of the year to do what exactly? Who was supposed to do the things—both people? Did the traditions start after breakfast or were you meant to wait until suppertime? Was it an endeavour meant to last the entire day?
“My dad didn’t really make time to celebrate it,” Abby continues. “He was always too busy at the hospital and then my mom—well, she worked there too, so.”
The veil of exhaustion lifts when you realize she’s peeling back a wound right before your eyes. You suck in a breath and hope she doesn’t mistake it for anything but your desire to let her speak. She drops the card on her lap and wrings her hands.
“They did these small things instead, you know? On regular days,” Abby explains. Her body droops as she seems to pick through her retention of their conversations.
“Like what?” you ask, your voice just a hair above a whisper.
“Like—okay. My dad loved to dance,” Abby says, leaning forward with a sad smile, the slouch of her shoulders regaining composure at the happier memory. “He was fucking terrible at it,” she puffs a laugh. “But he was a music buff and when he met my mom, he said it was the best excuse he could find to get close to her.”
You ache for her to have them here to tell the story, instead.
“So, they danced together a lot?”
“All the time, according to him,” Abby says, her face lighting up. “He told me that my mom was super shy, so she’d always give him hell about it. But he’d ask her to dance pretty much anywhere. Parking lots, gas stations, one time they danced in the middle of the grocery store.”
You try to imagine what Abby’s mom looks like, but your mind can’t seem to conjure up anything beyond Abby’s own image, a showcase of strength and grit.
“Do you remember much about her?” you ask.
“Not really. She died when I was a baby,” Abby explains, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. “She loved being pregnant with me, though, apparently.”
Abby crinkles her nose at you and bites the edge of her smile.
“Dad said her stomach got so big that he started dancing with her from behind. She’d rest her head on his shoulder, and they’d just sway back and forth.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, fondness heavy on her breath.
Abby’s speech becomes slurred as the birds on your balcony greet the dawn.
“Every time they danced, the scent of her reminded him of a cabin in the woods, surrounded by these giant pine trees he used to pass on his way to work. He’d dream up this elaborate plan for them to quit their careers and live off-grid. I think he promised it to her about a thousand times.”
“That sounds kind of amazing, actually.”
“Yeah,” she says, tapping her nose with the Valentine’s card, her sleepy gaze drifting to yours. “He was a sap.”
She finishes with the most outrageously loud, cavernous yawn and you’re too tired to do much more than giggle at her larger-than-life spirit.
“You can crash on my couch again, if you want,” you offer.
She wobbles to her feet, reaching for your hand to help pull you up.
“I’m on assignment in a couple of hours anyway,” she says, supporting your elbows while you try not to slip on the paper graveyard below. “I’ll be MIA for a while, but let’s meet up when I’m back, if you’re up for it.”
“Cool,” she whispers, her fingers tracing patterns on the tips of yours before reluctantly letting go.
As she turns to walk away, her steps falter, and she abruptly spins around to face you.
“Can I hug you goodbye?” she asks.
Before you can blink, Abby’s arms wrap around you, and you’re a puzzle piece, snug in her embrace. She melts you from the inside out, the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat thrumming against your body. The heat of her chest against your cheek lifts blissful sleepiness from the edges of your resolve and a part of you wants to ask her to stay.
As she gently moves to cup your head and support the back of your neck with her warm hands, you instinctively wrap your arms around her waist, afraid she might drift away.
“I feel so safe right now,” you whisper into her shoulder, and she nuzzles closer, squeezing you tight. Your feet are nearly off the ground before she relaxes her grip.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
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Two weeks have passed since your visit with Abby and it’s hard to think about much else. It’s a pleasant distraction, even when the memory of her makes your insides flutter as if she tipped a bucket of butterflies between your ribs and set them free.
An unusually large number of soldiers from different stations have packed the grounds, and you’re grateful to have a unique job to keep you relatively separate from the chaos.
Dogs are coming home, but not all of them, and it shatters your heart to toss out their registration papers. You understand the nature of your contribution to this war machine, but it never gets easier. If you could, you’d gather up all the puppies and take them to the same cabin in the woods Abby’s father always dreamed about. Let them bask in the warm sunlight and frolic together amidst a maze of towering trees.
It’s a lovely thought followed closely by the sobering reality before you.
You drop the leash you were holding, and it clatters on the concrete.
If Abby is a rare sight at the stadium, Isaac is a ghost. You haven’t seen him in months. He has expanded the WLF across several locations along the west coast and the number is only growing. Reports of a nearby prison piquing his interest have been swirling for a while now.
You’re not sure where he rests his head at night, but it’s almost never here.
“It’s nice to see you too,” he says, inspecting the four-legged fleet without getting close enough to pet them. “I hear your training program is working wonders.”
“I try. They make it easy,” you say, noticing that many puppies have tucked their tails between their legs. “What brings you to the stadium?”
“I’m—restructuring,” he explains, his footsteps echoing as he paces the unit, meticulously inspecting the facility.
“What does this have to do with me?”
He exaggerates a smile, and it sets you on edge.
“You always ask the right questions,” he drawls, heavy hands landing on your shoulders. “I respect that about you. There’s never any fat to trim, just straight to the point.”
It’s more than you can say about him, frankly.
“I suspect you’ve heard about the prison.”
“I have,” you say, bending to pick back up the leash. A narrow excuse to put space between the two of you.
Isaac is still standing uncomfortably close, so you wrap the nylon around your wrist as an act of self soothing.
“Well, it’s proving to be an integral training facility. It’s both secure and unaffected by the flooding, which has been my biggest obstacle up to this point.”
You’d never seen the inside of a prison before, but you’ve read about them. A cold cement cage without access to sunlight, its surface striped with iron. It offered zero curb appeal. You made it a priority to give your dogs a comfortable enclosure for that very reason.
“They need me here,” you say, desperate to get ahead of his plan. “This is where I’ll be most effective.”
Your arms tingle with an icy chill as he turns to walk in the opposite direction.
“You said I’ve done well here,” you call out.
“It’s true,” he says over his shoulder. “And your expertise will be crucial. Transport leaves at oh-six hundred.”
---------------------------------------
You should pack to leave, but you’re frozen.
Isaac isn’t one to sugarcoat things and for once, you wish he would’ve.
You curl up in a plastic chair on your balcony and take in the fields below. Neatly organized rows of vibrant crops bordered by fruit trees, bursting with hues of orange and red. Berries snaking through walls of trellis, sweet and ripe. People milling about with baskets of laundry and boxes of produce, keeping society peaceful.
“You should’ve married him,” Manny sighs, dropping beside you. His hand rests on your knee. “Are you okay?”
“No,” you admit, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “All these fresh faces, and I’m the only one leaving.”
Manny moves his hand to your arm, offering a kind squeeze.
“You are not the only one,” he says, handing you a clipboard.
It’s a short list of dogs you’ll be taking with you, and you’re caught between wanting to laugh at Manny’s ridiculous disposition or sob at your utter misfortune. You wish the dogs could stay behind. They love when the little ones throw the ball for them in the afternoon.
“I have a life here,” you say, and it’s a plea to the universe. “This is supposed to be my home.”
Manny offers you a freshly picked apple and you roll the waxy surface between your palms. The image of Abby’s face flashes in your mind. Maybe it’s silly to feel so much, but you can’t stop it. The weight of never seeing her again makes you nauseous.
He wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you in.
“Keep your chin up, Hermosa. Something tells me you won’t be gone long.”
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I’ve tried to write this about a dozen times, and I still don’t know where to start. Fuck it, right?
I barely know you and somehow you made me miss you so fucking much while I was away. When I got home and you weren’t there, it felt like someone shot me in the chest.
Manny brought me your bin of letters and I swear I cried for the first time in years.
How did you get under my skin so fast?
I hear you were sad when you left, and that breaks my heart. It kills me thinking of you being unhappy. I hate that you’re somewhere I know nothing about.
What is it like over there? Are you safe?
I check in on the kennels every day. You’re missed around here a lot.
Keep your head up for me. I’m going to make this right.
You’re busy fixing the fence with a skeleton crew when a delivery truck arrives, and someone throws a letter at you. The thrill of it causes your heart to pound in your throat, a rush of adrenaline washing over you. It takes every ounce of self control to keep from disappearing to read it somewhere private.
Trucks come and go regularly, as they divide resources between stations. Isaac seems to prioritize the prison, especially on the artillery front.
You finish reinforcing the fence and race to your cell to lose yourself in your first piece of mail.
You can’t wait to steal a pen to write her back.
I read your letter every day.
Okay, maybe more like three times a day, but who’s counting? Seriously… this place has no concept of time and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single clock to be found.
It makes me sad you were sad. I feel like we’re on a carousel of sadness! We should change that. (Have you seen a carousel before?)
The dogs aren’t doing too bad. They like the open fields here and they’re allowed to sleep in bed with these smelly ass soldiers, which I think is more for us than them, truly.
Thanks for checking in on my crew there. Means a lot.
My bed feels like a hard slab of steel because it is, but at least I don’t have to make it every day. Don’t tell Manny.
It’s nothing like the stadium here. We don’t have gardens and schools and we definitely don’t have a gym. I know, devastating! How will I ever beat you in an arm wrestle now?
The hot water is a work in progress, so I’m learning how to not die during cold showers. That’s also a work in progress, but I squeal less now. Which is something, right?
Try not to worry your beautiful head. I’m tough. I miss your face, though. There’s so much I want to ask you.
Please tell me something about you that nobody else knows. I promise I’m the best secret keeper, ever.
If you find any letters from actual prisoners, be sure to fill me in. I feel like they’d have some great tips!
You hope she lights up as much as you did when her letter arrives. It’s all you can hope for, aside from her safety and possibly a warmer blanket.
You sure know how to make a girl laugh.
It’s good you don’t have clocks. That way, you can’t obsess over how long you’ve been gone the way I do.
Shit, I should send Manny over there for one of those cold showers. I gave him that polaroid we found, and he hasn’t come up for air in weeks.
It helps a bit to know those pups are there to keep you warm at night. I hope I can be that for you soon. I considered writing another letter because I was afraid to say it, but I think I want you to know. You belong in my arms.
Something I haven’t told anyone before…
Sometimes I miss being a Firefly, especially since things around here are getting worse by the day—but sometimes I guess I don’t want to be anything.
Maybe I’d like to try being just Abby for a while, you know? I’ve never tried that before. What do you think that would look like? Would you want to be a part of it?
I wish you were here beside me.
When you wrapped your arms around me, it felt like lightning.
