Work Text:
At least the sunsets are beautiful.
The clouds are streaked orange and red, lit from below in the last moments before darkness. They’ve never been this vivid before. Sometimes there’s a pillar of smoke, or a flash of white followed moments later by a low rumble. You stopped counting the seconds a while ago. You don’t need to anymore; instinct does a good enough job judging the distance on its own.
It’s not anybody’s idea of a good time, but you’ll take what you can get. And right now, you get beautiful sunsets.
——
The first time she asks if it’s going to be ok, you tell her of course it will. These are professionals, they’ve trained their whole lives for this moment, they will hold the line.
You believe it at first, you really do. But the explosions get closer, and your reassurances more hollow.
She hasn’t asked you in more than a week.
——
You don’t have time to think about that. There are rations to inventory, people to feed. You swore an oath and you meant every word of it, even if you didn’t really understand it until now. Maybe you still don’t understand.
Maybe you don’t need to.
The world has changed. The work has changed. The work is the same. People have needs. You will meet them.
——
She holds out longer than you expected. Longer than you wanted - unspoken - you both know. She’s too sick to fight, too sick to work, but she can be there for you, and you can be there for her.
You made a vow. You swore an oath. The oath wins.
She agrees to leave the day that you see them digging trenches behind the city.
You prepare her the best you can. Give her both your rations, pack as many of your keepsakes as she can carry.
You make promises. She doesn’t believe them.
And then you kiss her. And then she’s gone.
——
You sleep less. You work more.
She always hated how easily you fell asleep. You can’t sleep at home now. Not in your own bed. You sleep in your office, after working twelve hours, fifteen hours.
The work is good. It keeps you busy. There’s no time to think. You work until you’re exhausted, then you sleep, then you work again.
——
Eventually, the rations run out.
The work doesn’t.
The other women at the shelter call you a saint, an angel. You’re not. You’re just doing your job, that’s all. Keeping a promise until there’s no one left to keep it for.
The holdouts are leaving now - slowly, too slowly, but they are leaving.
Every one that leaves alive is a victory. Eventually, last of all, you.
——
They’re not all victories, but enough of them are.
You don’t bother counting the seconds between light and sound anymore. They’re too close to matter. It’s a constant refrain, a background noise you couldn’t consciously notice until now.
There are so many things you can finally notice now.
Last one out, just like you promised. Your day will come tomorrow, god willing. Or it won’t. It’s out of your hands now. There’s nothing left to do.
You sit alone on the roof and watch the sunset.