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“Fuck, we need to shower,” Travis grunted, looking down at himself. He was certain none of that fungus crap had gotten on him, but he was covered in dirt and dust. A sickly combination of rot, mildew, smoke, and rubber clung to his skin, wafting around him with every movement.
Naomi was leaned into his side with her daughter curled up in her lap, sound asleep now that she’d gotten her energy out. The little munchkin apparently didn’t care about the state of her mother, nor her mothers new friend. She sighed, “Yeah.” and didn’t make any motion to get up.
Travis leaned against her harder. They were each other's rocks now, it felt. The only thing keeping them tethered to the real world, “You first,” he said after selfishly basking in it for just a bit longer. He pulled away, “I’ll, uh. Wait out here for you. Obviously.”
Naomi stared at him for a long moment, until he averted his eyes and shifted uncomfortably. He was about to open his mouth to fill the silence when she said, “Let’s put her to bed.” and stood, lifting her six year old onto her hip with practiced ease.
Travis followed obediently, “She’s a heavy sleeper,” he observed, keeping his voice low despite it, “Has she, uh, always been like that? Most kids I’ve met wake up at, like, the drop of a hat.”
She gave him an analyzing look, “I bet most of the kids you’ve met had good reason to be light sleepers. She’s always been like this, it’s a blessing,” she smiled softly down at her daughter. Travis stepped in front of her to open the bedroom door, “Thanks. I’ve heard horror stories of kids who wake up at nothing and then just cry and cry, but she’s been sleeping soundly since she popped out.”
“Dodged a bullet then,” he quipped. He didn’t follow her into the room, it felt like a step too far. They barely knew each other– they met less than twelve hours ago– and he was hunkering down in her apartment, no way to drive home. He wasn’t gonna intrude on the innocent space of her little girl. It felt like his past would somehow taint the light pink walls and My Little Pony bedding.
Naomi slipped out of the room, shutting the door gently, then headed down the short hallway, “Sorry. Again. About the mess,” she acknowledged, gesturing loosely to the dirty clothes on the floor, “Been busy.”
He eyed the dishes on her nightstand, “No kidding.”
And then Naomi threw clothes at him that he fumbled to catch, “Here, these were Mike’s,” she said, tossing more at him, “Not like he’s… getting them back.”
He watched her take a steadying breath, leaning against the dresser. He averted his eyes, looked at the simple grey outfit she’d passed toward him. They were soft and well worn. Fidgeting with the seam of the shirt led him to finding a small hole along the side, “...Thanks.”
There was another moment of silence, this one tense like they were both waiting for something to happen; someone to pop out of the closet or knock on the window. Nothing broke the silence until she slammed the dresser drawer shut, rocking it back into the wall, “Can you come with?”
He blinked at her, “...Uh, come with where?”
Her eyes flickered behind him to the hall, then back to his face, “To shower.”
Travis pursed his lips, “You want me to go with you… to shower?”
“Not like that!” She gestured, “Just… I don’t want to be alone. Not right now. Not after… all of that.”
He worked his jaw. He got it. He didn’t want to be alone either, really. He just didn’t want to burden her or anything with all his crap. The guys used to tell him he was a pansy, a snowflake, because he was so easily upset. God, he hated those words.
“Yeah, sure.” he shrugged, keeping it casual. She didn’t need to know how he was feeling. He’d kept it together this entire time, and he was fairly certain that if she hadn’t asked him to come with her he would’ve unravelled, sitting on her living room floor.
She shuffled awkwardly, then grabbed her bundle of clothes tight to her chest and led him out into the hall. The bathroom was on the opposite wall, messy with evidence of a child all over it. Bath toys were along the rim of the tub, what looked like the remains of not quite washed off shower crayons all over the walls. The towels were decorated with patterns of princesses and fish.
The sight made him smile, a soft warm feeling filling his chest.
She reached in and turned the shower on, fighting with it from the sounds of it. She hesitated for a minute, “I’m not sure if I’ll have enough hot water for two showers,” she said.
He shrugged it off, “It’s fine. Showers in prison aren’t usually very warm.” She frowned at him, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. In what world would that bother her? It meant he was used to lukewarm or cold showers, it made things easier.
“I’ll be quick, promise. Turn around so I can change.” He did as he was told, even going so far as to cover his eyes, “Can you, uh… talk?”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
He hesitated, listening to the shower curtain open and close before he turned around, sliding down onto the ground. He held his hands out in front of him, watched them shake against his will and tried to think of something to say.
“Did you know that praying mantis’s can see in 3d? And, y’know, obviously that means most bugs can’t so they’re all neat ‘n shit. Oh, and–”
The topic was meaningless. An endless stream of talking about bugs, of all things. But the only other thing he could think to talk about was the night of horrible shit they’d experienced and probably wouldn’t ever be able to talk about with anybody but each other. And he’d much rather pretend it didn’t happen.
She commented, sometimes, but mostly she just let his words wash over her. Filling the oppressive space with life and energy. They both ignored the way his voice shook sometimes, and how much he stumbled over his words; so much worse than it usually was when he let words pour out of his mouth.
Naomi interrupted him after ten minutes, “Hang on. Can you hand me a towel?”
He snapped his mouth shut, “Yeah. Yeah, sure,” he moved to stand, pressing into the ground with the wrong arm and grunting at the achy-sting of pain in his bicep. Her head peaked out from around the curtain.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” he used his other arm to push himself up, then gestured toward the bandaged wound. He grabbed a solid color towel off the wall to hand to her, “Forgot. Here, want me to turn around? Obviously, I mean– I’m not tryna see you naked or nothin, promise, just wasn’t sure if you were, like, gettin’ out now or what, y’know?”
She looked at him with a small, amused smile, “That’d be great. Water was still warm when I shut it off, so it should be good for you.”
He nodded, working his jaw.
“Covered up,” she announced. He nervously peaked out from behind his hand, and found that she was wearing a baggy t-shirt over a pair of shorts, looking particularly comfortable, “Your turn.”
He couldn’t help quirking a smile at her covering her eyes, her lips turned up much the same as his. It felt so… domestic. The two of them sharing the room while they showered, being respectful about each others privacy and shit.
His hands had stopped shaking so bad when he was talking, but in the silence he found he was struggling to get the button undone on his pants. He scowled down at the grime coated skin, flipping them over like if he glared hard enough they would cooperate, “Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He tried again, and with slow, careful movements, managed to get them off, leaving his clothes behind in a pile. He wondered if there was somewhere they could burn it all, he never wanted to wear them again, “What?”
“Hands won’t stop shaking,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady, slipping in behind the curtain, “Left is hot?”
“Yeah,” she sounded pensive around the sound of him turning the water on, “I can’t get mine to stop shaking, either. It’s like… It’s stupid. I held a gun without shaking at all– I shot a gun without shaking, and now that I’m home they won’t stay still?”
“It’s stupid,” he agreed. The silence lapped at his feet. He eyed the soap bottles, trying to figure out which ones he should use, “Do you mind if I keep talking? Or if you do? It’s just, I dunno. It’s like the silence is trying to eat me, or something.”
“What? Of course,” Naomi said it like it was obvious, like he was an idiot for thinking he couldn’t talk. Like people hadn’t been telling him to shut up since he was little, “I never asked you to stop.”
So, he talked.
When he got out she did the same for him that he’d done for her, covering her eyes until he gave the all clear. He shook his hair out, making her squeal and lightheartedly yell at him for getting her wet. Then the two of them shuffled out of the bathroom into the cold hallway, damp with thick steam wafting out around them, toward her bedroom.
She flopped onto bed with a pleased groan. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, fondness seeping through to his bones at her antics. She peeked back at him, “You comin’?”
“What?” He blinked, “Oh. I thought– Uh, I was just gonna, like, take the couch. I don’t wanna intrude or nothin, sorry for lingerin’.” He went to back out of the room, gesturing behind him.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” She sat up, waving her hand in a hold on motion, “I meant– I want you to stay,” she looked away, gesturing toward the empty space in her queen sized bed, “Is that weird?”
“Maybe,” he allowed, “I won’t make it weird if you don’t?”
“I won’t. It’s just, like… am I really supposed to sleep after all that? Alone, in the dark?”
He crossed the room in a few short strides and carefully laid down beside her, atop the covers just like she had, “Yeah, I get it,” he nodded, curled up so the two of them were facing one another.
They stared at each other like they were taking in every detail of their faces, like they weren’t ever gonna see them again, until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore and she forced them to get under the covers. The thick layers of two duvets and a top sheet weighed down on him, so much different from his own bed and its singular blanket.
She took his hand in the darkness, and he didn’t say anything, just squeezed to show he was there. He was still alive. He wasn’t infected. They were both okay.
Sleep came easily.
“Naomi?” Teacake’s voice was nervous and light. He held a gun in his hands, low and pointed to the ground. Heavy footsteps echoed in the empty storage unit hallways. He dared to lean around the corner.
Inches from his face was Naomi– bloated, green digging into her skin, exposing bone and thick rivulets of red. Her eye had been eaten out by the fungus like that woman they’d run into before, leaving a black hole with green lining the bone.
He yelped, jerked back and held out the gun in front of him.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Tra~-vi-s,” her broken voice said, too loud and too quiet. A hiss behind her throat and scream in his ears. The gun rattled in his hand, clicking against his rings.
“No. No, you–,” he stumbled away from her, tripping on something. He fell back, and the lights went out around them, leaving only the dull halogen yellow backup lights in their place, “Stay back! I– I don’t wanna hurt you, Naomi!”
“Tra~-vi-s!” she repeated, louder this time.
He pulled the trigger.
He jerked awake with a yell, lurching forward. He heaved, stomach cramping, hand flying up to cover his mouth. The blankets– too heavy, too hot, he could feel sweat running down his skin in burning streams– tangled around him, constricting his movement.
“Travis?” Naomi’s voice was rough with sleep. He jerked away from her, and tumbled off the side of the bed. He hit the ground with a groan, aches aggravated by the hard landing, “Shit– Travis?!”
His throat burned, his chest pinched. He couldn’t breathe.
A light turned on, making him flinch from the sudden brightness. Violently shaking hands wiped down his face, wiping away sweat and tears. Naomi stumbled off the side of the bed, getting tangled in the blankets just the same, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. What’s going on?” She sounded frantic, hovering over him but not touching.
He sat up, looking down at himself, then at her. They were both fine. No green fungus dug at their skin, making their veins stick out and skin degrade. He reached for her and she fell back, just like he had at the sound of her voice, “I’m not infected,” he wheezed, after a second of processing, of trying to remember how to breathe.
She blinked at him, then looked to his hands, like she hadn’t even realized that was why she was reacting. He watched her slump, “I know.” She took his hands, holding them tight, “Can you not breathe? Asthma?”
He shook his head, swallowing hard around sharp, quick intakes of breath, “Anxiety?” He got out, like it was a question. He gestured loosely, their hands still entwined, “Sorry.”
He forced air in through his nose, out through his mouth. He squeezed her hands in a 4-4-4 pattern, kept fingers to her pulse point just like she was doing to him. She was quiet, but she was there. She shuffled forward, pressing her knees against his thigh, squeezing his hand in sync with his breathing.
Her being there, breathing, moving, thinking, helped more than he could say. So he didn’t try. He leaned forward, where she met him in the middle, their foreheads pressing into one another like they could project their thoughts.
Their breath mixed together, and he got the feeling he was calming her down as much as she was calming him.
“Nightmare?” he croaked, when he felt like he could safely stop breathing to talk without feeling like his chest might cave in. She nodded. He let the silence fester a moment longer, “This shit sucks.”
She choked out a watery laugh. He blinked his eyes opened, and realized she was crying, “One night,” she shook her head against his, moving him with her, “One night, one horrifying, awful fucking night.”
“Just one night,” he echoed, raw and exhausted, “Trauma sucks, don’t it?”
She sniffled. He squeezed her hands, and she squeezed back, “I don’t want to go back to sleep,” she said.
He didn’t either. But he was so tired. At the same time, nervous energy thrummed under his skin, twitchy and anxious from the rude awakening. The longer he dwelled on it the more his heart raced, thinking about trying to go back to sleep in the dark room. How something could get in at any time, infected with that crap…
“It’s gone,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, “All of it. We fuckin’ nuked it, it’s not gonna get out here. We gonna be just fine.”
She nodded again, swallowing thickly, “Robert said it was the only sample they took. It’s gone for good.”
“It’s gone for good.”
He pulled away, and so did she. They herded each other into bed with the light still on, leaning on one another, always touching somewhere– holding hands, pressing into each other's sides, bumping shoulders–, reassuring themselves they weren’t alone.
They slept so close he could feel her breath on his face, the warmth radiating from her skin. When they woke to a little body jumping up on the bed some several hours later, it was without nightmares anywhere near as bad.
This is what love is, he’d thought, laughing at Sarah’s enthusiasm to get the day started, his and Naomi’s ankles entwined and her shoulder pressed into him like it was designed to fit there.