@throughfires.
Jackson is different to Seattle -- it’s more communal than she’d have imagined, and while there are shifts which start at the crack of dawn and people shouldering twice their weight to keep it all together, the boot-polishing and the bed-making feels a little more relaxed. Abby keeps her distance, keeps glove-clad fingers tight down at her sides and the knot in her neck still aching each time she turns it, but she’s here. (She can almost taste it. Sleepless nights of staring at the ceiling, or running into the dark because this place is so fucking... fenced-in that there’s been pretty much no risk of Infected ever since she first arrived... it’s almost over. Joel is there. He’s fucking right there.)
She has to bide time. She has to stare at the gun on the makeshift side table she’d been put up with, and shimmy in and out of the sleeping bag she’d been given when she got there. (Running into Joel was a fucking karmic moment. Heading back with him because Owen and the rest of them balked in the face of the dozens of lights blaring out from the closed-in compound was like a stone stuck in the pit of her stomach. It’s about preparation at this point.)
“You guys got a library or something?” It half comes out of nowhere -- half from the fact that sleeping in a bed that doesn’t feel like a rock on the floor, and half staring over at Dina for the past two minutes whilst barely blinking (very cool, Anderson).
