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Allison comes to, aching and sore. She blinks slowly, trying to remember where she is and why; memories slotting haphazardly into place as the familiar ceiling comes slowly back into focus. The infirmary, then.
Quiet sobs reach her ears and it suddenly feels as though room is rife with them; stifled, wounded things that pierce the air in small, hiccupping breaths. Allison moves her head delicately so as not to disturb the bandage on her neck, grimacing in discomfort at the twinge of pain, and takes in the sight of her sister seated beside her: shoulders shaking, small hands gripping her own where it lies atop the blankets. The sigh of relief the escapes her lips comes unbidden – Vanya’s home. Vanya’s safe.
Allison gives Vanya’s hand a soft squeeze, the barest of pressure, meaning it to be comforting, for herself or her sister she’s not entirely sure, but it does exactly the opposite - Vanya flinches back like she’s been struck, chair screeching against the floor.
It feels like an eternity with them staring at each other, neither quite sure how to react. Vanya looks like a wraith, pale and hollowed, and Allison couldn’t say for sure but she can’t imagine that she doesn’t look equally as shit given the circumstances. She wants to make a joke about it, some friendly ribbing that could ease them into familiar ground, perhaps even surprise a light laugh out of Vanya as so few are ever pulled from her.
Allison tries but only an odd, painful gurgling sound emerges – it hurts like fuck and on top of that it makes Vanya curl further into herself, sobs coming so fast now that it must be hard to breathe. Even in this Vanya tries to make herself invisible, trying to quiet her crying to the point she’s almost choking on her own breath.
Allison can’t stand the sight.
Vanya shifts away when Allison reaches for her but Allison won’t allow her to escape so easily, catching her chin and refusing to let go.
She does her best to wipe softly at her sister’s wet cheeks, stroking with the pads of her fingers as if drying her sister’s tears could erase the last 24 hours of their lives and the words and actions that were shared in between.
It’s an exercise in futility, fresh tears spilling over Allison’s knuckles despite her efforts and it hurts somewhere deep as she notices Vanya’s hesitance to lean into the touch, cautious in the face of affection just the way their father taught her.
Vanya bites her lip and casts her eyes down and it’s the first time Allison notices what she’s cradling in her lap and Allison releases a shaky breath: it’s her new writing pad.
Vanya grips it tightly, knuckles white, and from her view from the bed Allison can see enough of her own chopping ‘L’ to know what message has caught Vanya’s attention.
At the time Allison wasn’t sure why she had lied. She had looked up into Luther’s big, doe eyes with every intention of telling him the truth of Vanya’s powers, so he’d understand, so that he would know all the elements in play when he attempted to rescue their sister from Leonard and yet…
She hesitated.
She hesitated, brought pen to paper and sealed the lie in black and white, easier than any rumour.
Vanya stares at the message now like she can’t piece together the words, a puzzle with mismatching parts. She turns to Allison, eyes searching and confused.
“I don’t understand.”
Vanya speaks softly, voice cracking in the middle, and Allison feels helpless without her voice to explain.
But maybe that had always been the problem between the two of them; voices that lacked substance, carried without action and words that stretched and pulled this way and that with no real heart to anchor them.
She reaches out again, slower this time so Vanya has no need to shy away, and takes the curve of her cheek into the palm of her hand and just smiles.
Yes, you do, she wants to say with that smile, tears springing in her eyes, and gripping Vanya just a little firmer. Yes, you fucking do.
And maybe Vanya does. Because after one quiet, earth shattering moment she reaches up and places her hand over Allison’s, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and leans into Allison’s touch.
It’s enough when she smiles back.
Epilogue
Somewhere that’s neither here nor there, a woman sits at her small desk - neat as a pin, clean as a whistle - as she pours herself over a report with fervour, muttering to herself incessantly in a voice that begins to rise steadily until finally with a contained, frustrated scream she launches the report into the air, paper exploding and floating down around her as she tries to catch her breath.
Two gentlemen sitting at their own equally small desks, exchange a sympathetic glance before shaking their heads and getting straight back to work.
Free will strikes again.