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His breath hitches when he sees her, features warped through the fisheye lens—golden curls and high cheekbones paired with doe's eyes, twinkling in the twilight.
She’s as radiant as he remembers her, so much so that he stills under her scrutinizing gaze, squinting at him through the spyhole as though she can see him through it. Even with the solid door between them, it takes conscious effort not to wither. The attention makes the soft hairs on his neck prickle, like a rabbit pinned beneath a leopard’s paw. Being perceived is an unnerving feeling, but there’s something thrilling when it's her.
She tilts her head slightly, as though listening through the wood. He imagines she can hear him cowering behind the door, heart drumming in his chest. It’s a ridiculous notion, but he’s beginning to think anything is possible nowadays. The sun is burning people alive, visitors are crawling from the ground, and—
His fingers curl against the doorframe, nails biting into old varnish.
—Her presence here, in the cataclysm, is as bewildering as it is paradoxical. She left him.
Her brow furrows as she straightens, ringlets bouncing on her shoulders. Her fingers flex, and she awkwardly raises an arm before letting it go limp at her side, as though she can’t decide whether to knock again. Instead, she settles on resting her forehead against the wood, eyes slipping shut.
“…I know you’re in there.” She says plainly, syllables falling in a familiar, rhythmic cadence. The sound alone does something to him, smoothing and tearing all at once.
“Vera…” He swallows thickly, a dry, tight lump scraping the hollow of his throat. His voice comes weary and quiet, echoing faintly through the hall: “How are you here?”
He has never been concerned with pleasantries, and neither has she. She pulls her head back, lips twitching at the question. “I walked. It was a long trip,” Her eyes glitter with something like amusement, and she idly adjusts her petite coat. “It’s hot out.”
Hot is an understatement. Pavements are boiling; the roads to the city are melting.
He swallows again, tongue clammy in his mouth. “...You said you were leaving.” The words are jagged, awkward, and bitter, but he can’t help himself, like a dog that loves pulling out its own teeth and lapping the bloody cavity left behind.
“I said I didn’t want to die in that house. I’m surprised you stayed,” Her eyes rake over the porch, drifting from the rotting boards to the rickety, termite-eaten pillars. “But I suppose it worked out for you. With your luck, a bomb could drop, and this place would still be standing.”
The ‘unfortunately’ remains unspoken, but it’s felt all the same. The barb stings more than he’s willing to admit, knotting in his gut like brambles despite sharing the sentiment. He’d like to see this accursed house burned down more than she does; he hates how much of himself he’s staked into it, but it’s all he has. His bed is made, and now he has to lie in it; dig his heels in until the floorboards are gouged.
He exhales a thin, humorless breath. “I guess so.”
A lull wedges between them, stuffy and uncomfortable, but she seems unmoved by the atmosphere. There’s no drone of cicadas or chirping crickets to distract him, reduced to chitin shells in the heat. The fisheye seems to warp the world around her, centering on her person. He knows he should question her further, pick apart her answers, and demand clarity, yet it’s hard to find the energy.
Nobody could trust anybody. She could easily be a visitor; she probably is a visitor, no one in their right mind would come back after their messy separation, but to a distant, tightly muzzled part of him—blistering with puppy love and an eagerness to not die alone—the idea of turning her away is worse. Despite his pitiful attempts to purge her from his thoughts, he’s ashamed to admit that he spent the first night of the cataclysm fretting over her, his mind conjuring images of a charred corpse with its bones picked clean and unrecognizable. Seeing her alive eases some of the tightness in his chest, if accompanied by the same ache that chewed at him ever since she left, nipping with renewed vigor.
If she isn’t a visitor, turning her away sentences her to death.
If she is, then he’ll have sentenced himself to death, and all those who are staying with him. She’ll pick his bones clean instead. Worryingly, he finds himself less perturbed than anticipated.
If she is, what does it matter? His stomach twists; he almost hopes she does. It’d save him the trouble of a bullet, and he’s tired. A recognizable face, her face, would be welcome in a house full of strangers, visitor or not.
Her lips purse, “Can I come in?”
His hands slip to the handle before he can think further, undoing the lock with a soft clunk. It’s warm beneath his palm, everything is. The heat leaches at his rationale, turning any resolve he might’ve had soft and malleable. He missed her.
He lets the door swing open, shuffling to the side to let her slide past him.
“Still a gentleman,” She murmurs, words prickling down his spine. Her arm brushes against him as she enters, sending a barely concealed jolt through him. A wall of heat rushes in with her, carrying the burning scent of the outside world as he lets the door shut. He could smell her, too, in the narrow hallway: the dizzying perfume of flowery shampoo and sweat trailing after her. Her nose twitches, eyes briefly gliding to meet his own before resuming her scan of the interior, flickering from the curtains to the window, and snagging on the hallway table. It takes him a moment to follow her eyeline, distracted by the coat she shrugs off her shoulders and easily drapes beside his own over the hanger, but when he does, he can’t prevent the flush creeping up his neck.
The photo sits where it always does, neatly framed on the table’s center. He forgot it was there; he didn’t have the heart to remove it when she left, and over time, it simply became part of the furniture, something he occasionally gazed at and admired. If she were never returning, then she’d never know he kept it. Or, he never thought she would. Now, he feels like a teenager caught with a dirty magazine.
He opens his mouth, willing an apology, explanation, something, but the words catch in his throat. There’s no explanation that doesn’t sound pathetic. His eyes search the floor instead, half-hoping it opens up to swallow him. Abruptly, he’s acutely aware of the dust mites collecting in the corners, the uneven rug, the mess. There was no way of knowing she was coming, no way of predicting the apocalypse, but he wished he tidied up regardless.
She steps toward the table, the heels of her shoes clicking against the floor until she’s looming over the frame. Her head tips, humming: “I didn’t know you kept that. You always liked that one.”
His throat tightens. He doesn’t trust himself to speak coherently. His face is surely cherry red, blushing up to his ears, and not just from the temperature.
She spares him a backwards glance. “Don’t look so embarrassed,” She teases, “I have one of you.”
That almost makes him choke. “You…do?” He didn’t think she even thought about him once she left.
“Of course,” She tells him simply, as though it should’ve been obvious, as though it were ridiculous to ask. Of course she keeps a photo of him. Of course.
She doesn’t elaborate further, turning her attention back to the house with finality. Her fingers trail along the edge of the table, stirring dust into the air. She pauses, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together with a frown, inspecting her painted nails. In the din, he can see the faint sheen of sweat at her temple, curls clinging to her neck. Her lassitude mirrors his.
“May I wash up?” She asks.
He manages to muster the composure to respond, “Sure.” He doesn’t know why she bothered to ask; it used to be her house, too. Courtesy, he supposes. Either way, she doesn’t wait to be told twice, navigating the narrow space with practiced ease. Her footsteps steadily recede until she shuts the bathroom door behind her.
He remains where she left him, staring dumbly at the bathroom door. He hears the old tap sequel, followed by running water and the dull clink porcelain. He reaches up to pinch his nose, letting out a shaky sigh.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. He’ll check her tomorrow.
He stands guard at the door for a little while longer, but no more people come. The night remains still, the porch empty save for the persistent shimmer of heat and the distant, indecipherable noises of a dying world. His shoulders sag, vigil giving way to tiredness. He moves to return to his room for the night, habitually triple-checking the locks on the windows and doors as he goes; he doesn’t want anything unwanted wriggling in, but the picture that greets him when he reaches the bedroom is more staggering than any visitor.
The sight of Vera in his bed—what was once their bed—makes his brain stutter.
She’s propped against the headboard on her side of the bed, one leg drawn up beneath the thin sheets and an open book in her hands, the spine kept partially upright by her knee. The yellow lamplight casts a warm glow over the familiar slope of her shoulders and the delicate column of her neck. Her shoes have been shucked in the corner, and she’s rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, looking settled in a way that makes his heart hurt, like they never separated. It’s his bedroom, yet it feels like he’s intruding on her.
She looks up when he stops in the doorway, eyes flickering over to him, quick and assessing, then creases faintly at the edges. “Done for the night?” She lilts, as though he’s merely come in late from work. It’s startling in its domesticity.
He just blinks at her, stupefied. “...You’re here?”
Her gaze lingers, puzzled. “We were married,” As though it explains everything. “I didn’t think it’d be an odd arrangement, and I didn’t want to disturb your guests.” She dogears her page and closes the book, fixating on the cover. For the first time since her arrival, her composure falters, pink dusting her cheeks. “I don’t mean to overstep. I’ll take another room—”
“No,” He cuts her off embarrassingly quickly, “You can stay.”
She studies him for a moment, squinting, but seems to accept the answer with a small nod of her head. She settles back down and reopens the book, flush slowly draining from her face.
He lets out a quiet breath, closing the door behind him with more care than necessary, and toes off his shoes, setting them neatly by the bedside. He discards any ideas of undressing as swiftly as they arrive; his sweater would make the heat miserable, but he isn’t keen to press further. It’s already a miracle she isn’t dead. Still, he idly fidgets with the fabric and takes extra time removing his belt to give the illusion of busyness, if only to gather the courage to lie beside her.
When he finally does, he lies stiff on his side and clicks the lamp off, the moonlight bleeding through the curtains their only source of light. He’s careful to keep to the narrow margin of space he’s claimed as his own, facing the door as though she were a stranger. It feels safer in that regard, less personal. It’s cowardly, perhaps, but he liked not having to see her rip his throat out if she turns out to be a visitor. He occupies his time counting patterns in the wood like sheep, waiting for his pulse to slow.
The mattress creaks and dips whenever she shifts, pages crinkling with every flip. Accustomed to seclusion, every little movement is thunderous in his ears, maddeningly close. He nestles further into his pillow, letting the cushion swallow the noise, but it does little to dampen his awareness. Her presence, novel and exciting, is impossible to ignore. Nevertheless, he settles on staring listlessly at the wall until exhaustion makes the grain blur.
Just as his own breaths begin to even, and his mind dulls, the bed groans behind him, sheets rustling. Tentatively, she presses against his back, a warmth along his spine, knees softly tucked into the bend of his legs. She snakes an arm around his waist, spidery fingers splaying flat against his stomach.
A shameful noise startles from his throat, and she immediately stills, breath ghosting the shell of his ear.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” She whispers, not sounding particularly apologetic. “It’s chilly.” She moves to nose his nape, mumbling into the skin, and adds, almost as an afterthought, “Is this alright?”
He shudders at the sensation, jaw clenching tight. If he were a wiser man, he’d refuse her. He can’t be sure she’s human. The words gather in the back of his throat, but he can’t push them out despite his rationale encouraging him otherwise. ‘It's too sweltering for her to be cold,’ briefly flickers through his mind before being promptly snuffed out, the notion chased away by the fingers absently tracing circles into his abdomen. Unfortunately for his better judgment, he is a fool. He barely suppresses an involuntary tremor at the contact. It feels like so much.
He exhales sharply and tries to relax.
“It’s fine,” He manages, his voice thin. Disquietingly, it’s not a lie. He hasn’t been properly touched in a long time; he’s kept to his lonesome ever since she left, never seeking out anyone for anything. He had contented himself to bask in his self-imposed isolation and misery. How quickly he yields may as well be obscene.
She sighs, a small, pleased sound, and eases further against him. Her hands flex into his sweater, loosely fisting the fabric, and she lowers to nestle her head between his shoulder blades.
He will check her tomorrow, he repeats to himself.
Tomorrow.
She’s gone when he wakes, and he’d believe her to have been a pitiful fantasy if not for the smell of her tangled in the sheets, floral and powdery.
A glance at the clock tells him that it’s early—too early, just before dawn. It’s still dark over the horizon, the blistering temperatures having somewhat abated in the cool night.
It takes him a minute to work up the energy to stand, straining his ears to listen to the faint breathing, murmuring, shuffling of his newfound housemates. Barely, he can pinpoint the house groaning, old creaking, and the low, conversational chatter of guests who ought to be sleeping. If not for the circumstances, it’d be an almost domestic backdrop. It’s practically become white noise to his ears. If the world were different, and he were a different man, one more tolerant of people, he thinks he could’ve liked their company.
Beneath the ambience are quiet footsteps, carefully padding along the wooden floors in a manner similar to his own. He can only think of one person who’d be up at this hour; none of his guests tend to wander from their chosen rooms until daybreak.
A sheet of ice grips his innards. A new thought arises, deeply unwelcome: she wasn’t here to stay. It makes sense, particularly to the resentful, addled part of his brain; burn in the sun, or make a quick pit stop before going to wherever it was she intended to go. It’s practicality at its finest, and she’s always been a practical person, but—he tries to reason—never intentionally cruel. He likes to think she wouldn’t have come back, wouldn’t have held him like that, just to leave before the sunrise. She wouldn’t have time to find another shelter.
Or, she’s stalking, prowling around the house like a starving animal. He’s lost a few guests that way, to visitors mauling them in the unflinching night. There’s no dread quite like waking to the scent of death, nothing as terrible as cleaning up the visceral remains of what was once a human, and few things as brutal as putting down someone covered in gore as though they were nothing but a dog, stuttering how they don’t want to die. He’s never caught a visitor in the act; they’re silent in the dark, driven by what he can only assume is a predator’s instinct.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and slips on his shoes.
She can’t go anywhere at this hour, but it never hurts to check.
He fixes the strap of the shotgun across his chest. He wants to believe he won’t need it, not for her, but its solid weight gives him a modicum of comfort. If she were a visitor, she probably wouldn’t have woken him, accident or not.
He pauses long enough to drag a hand down his face, weakly wiping the sleep from his eyes, then steps into the hall.
The footsteps still, but he already knows where she’ll be. The house is cloying in its smallness.
The hall is dim, lit only by the faint, purple-blue watercolors of morning peeking through the window adjacent to the front door. Vera sits there, perched on a chair she must’ve dragged from the kitchen. She’s partially turned away, head leaning against the curtains. A cigarette is tucked between her lips, illuminating her face in an amber glow. The window is cracked just enough to let the smoke drift outside, thin ribbons of soot coiling along the sill before dissolving into the dark.
She jumps when she notices him, shoulders tensing, cigarette flaring a bright orange, before she settles, recognition flashing in her eyes. Her posture eases, mouth quirking in a small, uneven smile.
“Hello there, tall, pale, and spooky. You startled me.” She titters. “It’s rude to sneak up on a woman, you know. I ought to put a bell and collar on you.”
She plucks the cigarette from her teeth.
“I know I’ve just been waking you since I got here. I don’t mean to. It’s just—we all have our vices.” She taps the body of the cigarette, tobacco sprinkling from the tip. “Do you know how hard cigarettes are to find these days?”
“I don’t,” He tells her plainly. He’s been hoarding far before the cataclysm, and For Rest’s deliveries keep him from running low. He wonders if she even knows about it. She’s never been the type to keep a close eye on the news. It had always been his unspoken job to keep her informed; it once served as one of their most avid conversation starters—usually mocking whichever up-and-coming, red-faced politician tried their luck on the big screen that week.
“Well, know that you’re sitting pretty,” She pauses, studying him, then crooks her finger in a lazy beckon.
“Have a smoke, will you? If you’re going to loom, at least don’t make me look like an addict.”
She waggles the cigarette. He’s not really a smoker, never was, but he finds himself stepping closer on regardless, reaching to nip the cigarette from her fingers.
Or, trying to.
She easily circumvents his attempt, pulling back to cup his jaw with a free hand. Gently, almost absentmindedly, she grazes her thumb underneath his cheekbone, thumbpad circling a mole before dropping to his mouth, dipping between his lips to pry them apart. She takes a drag, and he thinks that maybe she’s trying to check his teeth as she suddenly leans in and exhales.
He chokes on the smoke, warm, acrid, and laced with her breath. He flounders, coughing into his fist as she retreats with a muted chuckle. He can feel himself blushing, ears burning hot.
“Still terrible at that.” She presses the cigarette in his hands, subduing her snicker.
He just stands there dumbly, flushed and blinking, heart kicking in his ribs like a jackrabbit. When he regains some semblance of his bearings, he takes an awkward puff, more so to reclaim his dignity than anything else, and immediately regrets it, spurring into another coughing fit. She watches him with open amusement, bracing an elbow on the windowsill as he sputters. He sees the edges of her teeth as she flashes him a quick smile; it reminds him, if fleetingly, that he should check them—check anything—but it’s smothered in a heady blanket of smoke. It’s not like he’d be able to know anyway; her teeth are stained with nicotine.
His breaths come shallow and unsteady, but light.
Later. He can check her later.
‘Later’ comes hours after, when the sun has risen high in the sky, and is followed by the savory smell of broiling meat.
The aroma instantly makes his irritation spike. All things considered, he imposes very few rules on his guests, and they’re loose at best. He only fully enforces three: don’t make a mess, don’t start fights, and most importantly, don’t touch his things. His ‘things’ in question are hardly extensive—his radio, his gun, anything in his room, and food. He may have stocked up before the cataclysm, hoarding any easily stored goods he could get his hands on before he even knew about the solar flares, but he isn’t keen on burning through them so soon; there’s no way to know how long they’ll be holed up for.
Vera had called him a dragon then, sitting on trinkets for no other reason than to have them, but being a recluse had its perks in the end, if only to draw out their demise.
Nevertheless, he thinks someone is taking advantage of his laxness. He’s never denied anyone food, but he prefers the courtesy of asking. Moreso, it’s careless to light the stove without at least telling him; he’d like to know if his house is about to go up in flames.
He’s already composing a sharp rebuke when entering the kitchen, but the words scramble when he sees her bent over the stove, her sleeves pushed to her elbows. She’s hunched over a simmering pot he barely remembers owning, its lid skewed to one side as steam rises out in whipping funnels. It’s a bewildering sight, and he half thinks it’s a mirage until he blinks—finding her still standing there, brewing. He can’t think of the last time he genuinely allowed someone to use his utensils.
He technically didn’t allow her, but given her pre-existing knowledge of the house, she might be the only person in their shared shelter who knows how to work its temperamental oven aside from him.
Still, he asks: “What are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
Fair enough. Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers.
His gaze drifts to the countertop, raking over the cutting board littered with potato peels and splatters of myoglobin. The meat looks like it was cut raw enough to leave juices behind. He doesn’t remember buying many canned meat products; they spoil faster, attract pests, and tend to come pre-cooked.
He can’t fathom where she got it from, and he tells her as such, but she only smiles.
“It was tucked at the back of your freezer. It’s freezer-burnt, but still good.”
She idly stirs the pot, broth frothing at the sides. “You can’t live off a diet of potatoes forever.” She muses, turning her head back to look at him, eyes deliberately scanning over his figure. “You’ve already gotten thinner, a little gaunt in the face.”
“I’m fine,” He frowns. It’s hard to muster an appetite at the end of the world.
She shoots him a knowing look, but seemingly lets the matter drop. “Come here and try this.”
“Vera—”
“Indulge me a moment.”
He does, stepping forward to stand at her side, an arm’s length away. From there, he can see the contents of the pot easier—amber broth rolling at a gentle boil, and threaded with something distinctly metallic beneath the herbs. Chunks of meat bob among the potatoes and carrots riffled from the basement, vegetables cut into careful cubes.
She hums with his approach and removes the lid to dip a ladle into the stew, scooping a hearty portion into the bowl. She brings it to her mouth to gently blow across the surface, liquid rolling.
Her eyes find his. “Open up,”
He blinks and looks away, “I can eat myself,”
“Sure,” She agrees breezily, but presses the ladle insistently to his lips, cutting off any more protests before they can form.
He lets out a quiet harrumph, yet surrenders nevertheless, letting the broth tip into his mouth. It coats his tongue with warm, tangy saltiness, and he swallows before he can ruminate on it further. It tastes like pork.
Her whole body seems to vibrate in excitement. “There we go,” She murmurs, “Good boy.”
Oh. He pointedly decides not to dissect how that makes him feel, and resists the urge to wring his hands together.
She dips the ladle again. “Is it good?”
He manages to choke out a strangled “Tastes fine,” in response, and the gleam in her eyes is practically lionish.
She scoops another glob into the bowl, giving him a closed-lipped smile. “Maybe you should have another. Just for my peace of mind.”
Despite a moment’s hesitation, he eventually obliges. The second mouthful scalds his tongue, but he welcomes the sting; the pain keeps his mind from wandering, from considering the implications of whatever this is. A few stray thoughts cropped up here and there, but they were quickly derailed by her hand steadying itself on his chin to keep his head centered, thumb resting just under his lower lip.
In such proximity, he can’t help but observe her fingers, nails painted a vibrant cherry red. There are dark crescents under the bed of her nails: crusted seasonings and dried herbs, dirt from the potatoes, additives that were ground fine and worked into the meat—it makes sense, she’s pulled half his neglected spices from the shelf.
He swallows, and she scoops another spoonful before he can object.
“One more,” She insists, and when he swallows that too, she dips the ladle again.
And again.
With each bite, she purrs a hushed “Last one,” with a conspiratorial lilt that immediately renders the promise moot.
By the time she lowers the ladle for good, he feels dizzy and off-center, as though the kitchen has tilted a fraction off its axis. The world is a little blurry at the edges, softened by the simple act of being tended to. He cannot remember the last time he was so tenderly worried over; embarrassingly enough, he thinks it was her then, too, before their separation.
“See? That’s better,” She hums after the fourth or fifth offering. “You look less like a gust of wind will knock you over.” She wipes the rim of the pot with a rag and turns back to her work, satisfied.
“You’re free to go now.” She ushers, “I’ll call everyone when it’s ready. Off you trot.”
He nods automatically, unthinking and pleasantly warm.
The hall seems longer than before when he steps into it. He can faintly hear his housemate’s muffled voices from each room, indistinct and faraway. He thinks he means to do his usual rounds—checking eyes and teeth and hands—but it slips his mind. Instead, he simply walks past the office, then the living room.
It’s not until he reaches his bedroom that he realizes he forgot what he came to do at all.
It takes him the entire night to realize someone’s missing.
When he makes his rounds the following morning, she tells him they left while he was asleep. He chooses to accept the answer—it’s better than the alternative.
He doesn’t fully remember how he got there, dry heaving over the rim of the toilet, but he’s sure he was trying to drink his sorrows away. The sharp sting of it still burns at the back of his throat, mingling unpleasantly with bile. He’s gripping the porcelain so hard his knuckles are bleached white, vision swimming in watery blurs. The bathroom treacherously tilts and wavers between blinks.
He had been feeling overwhelmed, and turned to liquid courage to forget himself—the house was too small and claustrophobic, and every moment not spent in the sanctity of his room forced him closer and closer to inevitable confrontation. He’s been avoiding it for as long as he can, too scared to ask why now, and too spineless to learn the truth.
He doesn’t want to know if she’s human. The possibility that she isn’t is too much to bear. So, he found solace in a familiar place: the bottom of the bottle. Or, in this case, a beer can.
He feels her hand running along his back, delicately smoothing his shoulders and upper back in tight, soothing circles. Her other hand grazes his scalp, combing down stray strands. His hair is too short to hang in his face, so he surmises she’s doing it for nothing more than comfort.
“You’ve never been great at holding your liquor.” She comments, though not unkindly. “I’d drink you under the table. What were you thinking, drinking all that?”
Light reflects off the tile, haloing her in white when he dares glance up. She resembles an angel in the glow.
He spits weakly into the bowl, breath shuddering. He’s never been the type to willingly, metaphorically, spill his own guts. Still, the words seem to please her more than any clever retort might have; her fingers skirt the knobs of his spine through his sweater, as though counting each vertebrae.
“I wasn’t,” He settles on hoarsely. Despite his attempts to elude himself, he’s acutely aware of how he must look: pathetic and shaking. He’s reduced himself to something small and inelegant—incapable of even drinking itself blind.
She’s silent for a moment, debating, but her caresses don’t falter. She seems to study him, eyes narrowing in thought before emitting a soft, almost indulgent sigh. She moves her hands to his shoulders to pull him away from the toilet, easing him onto his haunches.
“You look miserable,” She flutters, “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better.”
He dimly registers the rush of water as she turns the tap, the old, creaking pipes groaning in protest. A bath was probably needed; he must reek of stale beer and sick, but the fact that she felt he needed tending to fills him with a belted sense of shame.
“I can do it m’self,” He insists, attempting to climb to his feet. The floor swims beneath him, and he clamors onto the nearby sink for balance. His legs feel like rubber, weakly supporting his weight.
“You could,” She agrees, “But you’d probably tip over.”
She doesn’t even give him the chance to test her theory before she wraps her arms around his torso and forcibly straightens him out, bracing him against herself. She steadies him with surprising strength; her posture remains firm when he leans his weight into her, as though he were being propped up by a solid wall. He doesn’t know when she became so strong—maybe the cataclysm demanded it, or maybe he just became thin—either way, she maneuvers him to the tub with staggering ease, and gently positions him to sit on the rim, hands braced on his waist to keep him upright.
She fumbles for his belt, and he suddenly sobers up fast.
“What-are-you-doing—?” His question comes out thinner than he intends, fragments slurring together and rushing, but her fingers only pause long enough to glance up at him with a mild look.
“We were married. I’ve seen you naked a thousand times,” She responds simply. “And if I left you here, I think you’d bust your head on the porcelain.” She raps her knuckles on the tub for good measure. “Let me help.”
The buckle gives with a muted metallic click, the sound indecently loud in the small bathroom. He’s certain his face is burning beet red, blush flooding down his neck and pooling low in his stomach with uncomfortable insistence. If there’s a merciful god, they’d strike him down. His shotgun has never looked more tempting.
Her hands are efficient and unperturbed. When she manages to tug the fabric down and off, he can’t help but curl in a little on himself, self-conscious and all too present in the moment.
He jolts when she playfully pinches his side. “Arms,” She instructs.
After a minute of slow deliberation, he complies.
By the time she wrangles him out of his sweater, the tub is nearly full, water opaque and shiny with soap. She assists him with a steady hand on his lower back as he slips under the water. He half-hopes it’ll dissolve him, if only to spare him from the embarrassment that will hit in full force come tomorrow.
In some regards, it might be his own fault; he shouldn’t have drunk nearly half as much as he did. At the very least, it’s not bad—he won’t have to wake up smelling like beer, and with all the company, it’s been difficult finding time for himself.
He sinks until the water laps at his ribs, drawing up his knees for some semblance of modesty.
Vera kneels beside the tub, nicking a washcloth from the countertop. It’s only when she dips it in the water that he realizes she isn’t going anywhere.
“I remember how much you hated being fussed over,” She remarks idly, dragging the soapy cloth over his shoulder. “You could’ve been dying of the flu, and you’d still glare like an alley cat.”
He vaguely remembers what she’s reminiscing about. He had been too sick and miserable to do much, brain slow-cooking from fever, but even then, he hadn’t been able to comprehend her worry. It felt wrong to have someone care so much; it feels wrong now.
He doesn’t tell her any of that, settling on a filler answer. “I didn’t glare.”
A grin ghosts her cheeks. “You did. You’d hiss too, and claw at the curtains, and scratch at the walls.”
She’s pulling his leg, but the sheer absurdity coaxes a small smile from him.
They fall into a semi-comfortable silence as she works, wiping away the scent of stale alcohol and sweat. He occupies his time watching the wall, focusing on the hairline crack in the plaster rather than the sensation of her hands on his skin. The body betrays, and he doesn’t trust himself to remain decent, especially with the way her touches linger a fraction longer than necessary, soaking up heat.
She reaches for the shampoo, and he lets his eyes fall shut. Her fingers comb over his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp as she works it into a thick lather, pulling a quiet, stifled noise from his lips.
“I took up gardening,” She muses, pleasantly conversational. “Did you know that?”
He makes a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t think she’s expecting a response, rhetorical as it is. She didn’t garden when they lived together, and he didn’t keep tabs on her when she left, too wrapped in his own hurt. He wouldn’t know.
She continues undeterred, “I liked tending to them, seeing them bud and blossom when it was just right. It made me feel like I accomplished something, however small.” She rubs the lather partly down his neck, thumbs briefly pressing into the sensitive creases behind his ears in a way that makes him jump. “Sometimes I’d fantasize about you while I worked, wondering what it’d be like to coax you open, petal by petal.”
It’s a mildly concerning thought, but he finds himself less bothered than expected. Some buried part of him, still nursing on puppy-dog affection, is just happy she still thought about him when she was gone. He hadn’t considered the possibility that he haunted her nearly as much as she did him, whether that be as her partner or her worst mistake.
She tips his head back to rinse the suds away, momentarily covering his eyes with a wet palm to keep soap from getting in them.
He swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.
In the lull, his mind inevitably circles back to the original question, and with the remnants of liquid courage running through his veins, he gathers the will to finally ask:
“Are you a visitor?”
It’s a ridiculous thing to ask outloud. Visitors will lie to survive; humans will lie to survive, too. He wouldn’t find out anything just by asking, but it voices the idea if nothing else. The elephant is out in the open; he couldn’t avoid addressing it forever.
She’s silent for a beat, continuing her methodical work of combing the remaining soap from his hair. He believes that maybe she didn’t hear him over the water sluicing down his shoulders, until she hums, low and contemplative.
“Before my apartment burned down, I hosted all sorts of people. Some of them were visitors, some not.” Her hands glide lower, rinsing suds down the line of his throat. “All of them would swear they were human till the bitter end, even if they weren’t. It must be frightening to not really know yourself.”
She mulls, “Would I know if I were a visitor? Probably not.”
He wants to disagree. Surely they’d know, they must know. How could someone go around killing innocent people without so much as flinching, without the barest acknowledgement?
Actually, he doesn’t want to know the answer.
“They were all so certain of it, too.” She presses on. “They’d cry and beg. One of them told me he had a dog at home.” She shrugs, “Maybe he did.”
She reaches for the washcloth again, dipping it beneath the water before dragging it down his sternum. His breathing stutters despite himself, and he opens his eyes a slit, finding her peering intently at him through his wet lashes.
Her head cocks, “Are you a visitor?” She trails off before he can respond, almost absentmindedly adding: “I think you might be, sometimes.”
The confession nearly blindsides him. It shouldn’t be shocking; people are trying to survive just as much as he is, but he never expected the paranoia to be reflected at him, to find himself scrutinized.
Yet in spite of her concession, her hand drifts lower still, skimming the cloth along the shallow divots of his ribs.
“After all, what were the chances I’d still find you out here, you and the house still standing despite everything? Bodies piled outside your door, no less. So many dead, but not you—what makes you so special? It’s all too perfect, designed specifically to torment me.”
Each word is laced with a bitter, conflicted affection. “You act exactly like him. It hurts.” She halts her movements, gripping the washcloth so tightly her knuckles are turning white. “I was thinking about shooting you when you caught me that night in the hall. I keep a pistol; I could’ve gunned you down even with your shotgun.”
She sounds unhinged. She sounds exactly like him.
He’s not as alarmed as he should be. Perhaps he drank too much, filing down his reactions to only the bare essentials, or maybe he just can’t summon the energy it’d require. Either way, his reply is the same.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had,” His voice is dull, almost curious, as though they were discussing the weather instead of murder. What matters is that she didn’t. “Why didn’t you?”
Her grip loosens in small increments. “Because I don’t know. If you’re human, I don’t want to kill you. If you’re a visitor, you might kill me no matter what I do, so what does it matter? If we’re going to die anyway, it’d at least save me the trouble of a bullet.”
She pauses to let out a deep breath, shoulders sagging. “…Sorry,” She exhales quietly, “I didn’t mean to say all that.”
“S’alright,” He mumbles, and he means it. The thought of dying isn’t so petrifying if it’s by her hands. He’s always been too scared to pull the trigger himself. “You still could,”
She huffs a soft, baffled laugh. “And waste the effort I’ve put into washing you? I think not.” The tone is light, but there’s a brittle edge beneath, oozing and sore. “You’ll simply be the cleanest maybe-visitor in the neighborhood.”
“Do you do this with every ‘maybe-visitor’ you meet?” He says dryly, but without malice.
His meager attempt at teasing must somewhat amuse her, as a fragile-looking smile graces her features. If she turns out to be a visitor, then she wears his wife’s face with devastating accuracy. If he’s one—well, he likes to think he’d know. He doesn’t even want to consider it.
“No, just you.”