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A week since London. A whole, terrible week. You haven’t been sleeping or eating all that much because everything is still cracked and still purple—just like your scraped knuckles, elbows, knees. Heart.
You’ve managed to stumble out of bed, half-drunk on the nightmare, and make it outside of your dorm. Into the misty, cold night. You ended up somewhere in between the comms shack and the hospital, leaning on a rusted chain-link fence, but you’re not sure. Because you can't see—not really.
Flooded with fragments of the sound of Simon screaming, agonized, the crack of Moonchild's body on ground the far below and how you couldn't stop her (and how, god, maybe it felt a little bit good watching her body break), with the heavy weight that holds you down of bodies in the ocean, an axe in your hand, with Archie, Sara, Chris, the Major—
You lean on the fence, hard. It’s the only thing keeping you from collapsing. Curling up. Mouth covered with your hand, smothering the sobs. Don’t cry, come on, you’re okay, you’re fine, you’re Runner Five, remember? Stoic, steady, not—not this. Never this.
But your body doesn't care about Runner Five, it cares about you and how this apocalypse keeps taking, and taking, without ever giving back. Your muscles tremble, held tight. You don't know what to do. How to cope with so much death. What the hell are you supposed to do with all this loss? Why them, and not you? How many do you—
“Five? Are you okay?” A voice interrupts everything. Sam, he's next to you. Oh, god, Sam is next to you.
You let out a half-gasp, half-sob, and turn your head away from him. Wipe away the tears.
“What are you doing out—Oh.” He noticed. Of course he noticed. “Hey. What's going on?"
“I'm fine, Sam, really.” Your lower lip trembles. Traitor. “A-okay, yeah?”
A dog barks in the distance.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
Fuck. You’re gonna make me start crying again. But you don’t say that. An airy, pained laugh erupts from your mouth, and you can't stop the words from tumbling out.
“What’s there to talk about? That everyone I care about keeps fucking dying? That I still don’t feel like myself, even though we saved the world, again? I can’t talk about it anymore, Sam. I just want—I want some goddamn peace for once!”
That was too sharp, voice too loud. Anger—not at Sam, but at the world—flares hot like a flare in your chest, and you could choke on it.
He’s quiet for a long pause. So long you start to get itchy, but then he gives you a gentle smile and breaks the silence.
“How about we go make some tea? It’s freezing out here, yeah?”
Tea. You don’t feel like tea, but. But you don’t have it in you to fight.
“Yeah. Okay.”
You head to Janine’s farmhouse. Don’t say a word the whole way there, hands shoved into pockets and teeth gnawing the inside of your cheek. Sam stays silent, too, until you reach the kitchen. Janine’s probably still asleep, so you’d better keep quiet unless you want to face her grumpy anger later. Sam starts opening cupboards as you sit down at the dining table. Tense. Thoughts trailing back to rain-soaked London, the smoky air.
“Hmm, let’s see. You feeling Earl Grey or something more like chamomile or peppermint?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”
A minute, or maybe it’s ten, and a steaming mug of chamomile tea is placed in front of you. You grip the warm sides, letting your cold palms heat up.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
You stare at the honey-beige tea.
Sam sips it, tapping his fingers slow on the ceramic.
Rainy pavement. A splinter dug into your thumb, the horizon ash-choked.
A wave of something that's vicious like panic but worse grips you by the throat. Your eyes well up, hot and blurry. Fuck. Fuck.
“How many, Sam? How many do we have to lose before—before it’s enough?” You whisper, still staring at the mug. “It hurts, and I just I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”
“I know. God, it hurts like hell. And nothing can make it better, you know? We can't bring them back.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. ”But I’m still here, yeah? So many of us are still here. I know how much it hurts to hold on after losing so much. I'm so sorry for all the loss. If I could give you everything back I would. I would.”
His hand is on the table. You grip it, hard, as the tears spill out and leak down your cheeks, but you're still holding back the worst of it. The enormity of everything, the weight of it all keeps working through you, awful, intolerable. You need to focus on him. You need to—
“Keep talking. About anything. It helps.” You swallow. "How was your day?"
"Okay. Okay, yeah. I guess my day was good? Especially with the warm weather. I got up early-ish, and helped Owen through a supply run. He's getting really fast—almost as fast as you." He half-whispers it, and you breathe into your belly. This is gonna pass. It will. It will. That’s what they always say, right? This can’t last forever. Right? But it sure as hell feels like a permanent state. Like something that you'll never get out from under.
"Then, I had lunch with you guys. The expression on Maxine's face when she tried one of the Marmite Quail Eggs was the best thing, remember? My god." You let out a stuttered chuckle that sounds more like a sob, and nod, not trusting your voice enough to speak. "After lunch, I checked Rofflenet, and tried to find another picture of that puppy you love from that settlement up north. Stitch, right? There weren't any, but hey. At least I got to think about puppies for a few minutes."
"Stitch is the. The cutest."
"Yeah. He really is. After doing that, I helped Jody organize supplies for a bit. Which is obviously super entertaining to hear about."
You hum, wiping your swollen eyes. You focus on what you can feel here—the scent of chamomile and honey, Sam's fingers tracing your hand. The deep notes of his voice. How he smells faintly of coffee, of chocolate.
"And then?"
"And then I played Mirror's Edge with you, remember? You helped me get past the whole Ropeburn level. Thanks, by the way. That fight was kicking my ass."
You let out a small, fragile laugh that hurts like glass in your throat. "It wasn't that hard. You just need practice."
He chuckles, and the notes of his laugh crawl into your chest and tug at the weight, smooth over the sharpest edges.
You both sit there until your thighs go numb and your tea goes cold. He tells you all about the little things of his life before, like how he got into D&D, or what his first day as radio operator at uni was like, or why he thinks Marmite is better plain than on bread. Eventually, you can breathe in easy again. The weight resigns itself to lifting, like it always does, and your hands ease some of their trembling. You remember all the times he's comforted you through the heaviness of the apocalypse—like in the orchard right after Moonchild when you thought the guilt was going to kill you; or in the supply room after Eight’s death; and warmth spreads through you. What the fuck did you do to deserve a friend like him?
The mist outside starts to lift, the sky a deep violet with the coming dawn. With daybreak.
He follows you over to the sink, mugs in hand. You turn towards him. Vulnerable. Exposed. "I should try and get some rest. I, uh …"
"You'll be okay?"
"Yeah. I will. Thanks, Sam, for staying up with me. I'm—well. I'm sorry you had to see me like that. I shouldn't break like that. I'll try to not do it again."
Sam's eyes soften. "No, Five. You're human first, and after everything you've been through, it's okay. Don't apologize. Please."
A stiff shrug. "Yeah. Okay. I'm okay now. And I'll be okay, don't worry. Thanks again for helping me through that."
"Whenever you need me, I'm here. You know that."
"Yeah. I know."
A heavy, slow second passes. A fragile sense of relief settles inside you, and you loosen your tense muscles. You leave Janine’s kitchen, and make your way back to your respective dorms. The air is chilly against your skin. Smelling like fresh grass and dew.
"We really should go get some sleep—Janine will kill us if she finds us still up. Goodnight, Sam," you say, standing in your doorway.
“’Night, Five. Take care, okay?"
"You too."
Sleep comes a little easier that night.