Archive of Our Own

Ashley! Ashley Graham!

Her eyes snap open. For a second, she holds her breath. Two. Three. Sunlight filters through the gauze curtains, a suncatcher sends rainbows across the ceiling. Outside, a security guard laughs. The window is open. Someone opened the window in the night. The air smells fresh. Mown grass. Morning dew evaporating under the autumnal warmth of the sun.

She lets the breath out. Slow. Slow. Closes her eyes, grinds a knuckle into the inner corner. The scratch of grit.

Gunshots echo behind her ears, the crack of wooden boxes, the throaty laugh of minor victories. A few more bullets. The clink of them being loaded. Clink-thunk. Clink-thunk. Clink-thunk. Rain-cool fingertips on her cheekbones, a thumb smearing dirt. Blood. A flick to her chin.

Let's go.

She tosses the covers aside, leaps to her feet, legs sore. Feet aching, ankles throbbing. Straight to her wardrobe, yanking the door open. It creaks, twists, hinges pushed too far. She strokes the edge of the door, an apology. She's home. Safe. She doesn't have to move quickly now. Hiding is not a priority. Clothes hung neatly, pressed, in dress bags, scented sachet hung for freshness. Shoe boxes. She yanks them out, scattered over the floor. Heel, heel, heel. She kicks them into a pile to deal with later. Audrey can have them. Samantha. She's learnt her lesson. Practicality. Trainers. Sturdy boots. He'd had toe caps. She wants toe caps. She'll speak to Brannigan. David. Someone. They have to exist in her size.

For now, trainers. New, still in their box. She'd been intending to start a new tape when she got back from Amherst. Homecoming had been nice, but she'd felt. She hadn't felt right, and she wanted to get fitter. Tone up. She's pretty enough, always enough, nothing extra, just enough. But she knows better now. She was slow, out of breath, detrimental. Weak.

Shorts, bra, tank, socks, trainers. Hair scraped into a half ponytail, out of her eyes. Watch. Earrings out. iPod mini, earbuds, clipped to the waistband. Still charged. Chart hits loud in her ears.

Stretch before movement. He'd taught her how. Flex toes, side stretch, twists. The rain got into their bones, the exhaustion crept in, crouching made way for cramping. Her feet ache. Blisters are going to come, she knows. She already has some on her toes. Rubbed raw by the pressure of the heels. Another kick to a shoe box and she's making for the door, down the stairs, bass pounding in her ears.

She cannot get far, but she can loop the gardens, the paths, round and round and round, stirring herself crazy with the same hedgerow, the same gravel track.

She cannot go back to Amherst. She cannot go back. She cannot leave here. They won't let her out of sight. Baby Eagle. She cannot fly the nest. Roost has made sure of that. Condors line the route, the walls, perched up high to keep their eyes on her. Eyes. Eyes everywhere, staring, staring, staring, red raw and unseeing but always on her. Kindness, sometimes. The laugh of times long gone.

A whisper of her name and she yanks the earbuds free, skids to a stop. What had he said? One foot before the other. Opposite fist leading. Swing through.

He's long gone, had been pulled into a separate car when they landed. She'd screamed bloody murder and she thinks she'd seen him reach back for her, but they were home now. Safe. His mission done. He no longer had to fight for her. They would reassign him, she knows this. She will argue with her father later.

I'm here to help.

She wishes she could see the laser sight, see it pick out the monsters in the shadows. The crack of the trigger. Bang bang bang. She couldn’t do it, but the red dot was a comfort. A sign he was there even if they'd separated. It was always near her. She'd had to turn cranks and open doors and stay back and it had always been nearby. There is no red dot now, and her eyes scam the hedge, the path, the windows. There are no eyes, but her skin crawls with the cool breeze.

Earbuds back in, bass thrumming in her blood, and off she goes again, again, again.

She had promised herself that she wouldn’t run. She had said. But this is not running. This is.

It’s fighting.

She looks at the watch. Twenty minutes. It’s nothing, but her legs cannot carry her further. There’s nothing left. Her feet are bleeding, blisters rubbed raw, ankles scraped. Muscles screaming. There is no adrenaline to carry her now. He cannot carry her.

He’d tell her to rest, to take the time. She cannot rest. There is too much to do.

The condors watch from their roost as she stretches her hamstrings, her quads, her calves, runners’ lunges to keep herself walking, and the eyes on her neck make her want to vomit. One step, two, keep going, get back inside. Away from the eyes. Five steps, six, ten, twelve. You can do this.

She breathes through her mouth, clutches the stone railing, beautifully moulded for its age, and ducks her head, her shoulders, stares between her feet.

Her father raised her better, but the word that gets spat out of her mouth is not a polite one, it’s the worst she can think of.

She isn’t sure who it’s aimed at. Herself? Saddler? The bitch that had – that had – she had helped, in her way. The monsters?

Leon?

No. No. That’s harsh. He has been anything but. He had done everything he could for her, and he has not abandoned her now. This is not abandonment. He has been reassigned.

Saviour syndrome, maybe. Is that what it’s called? Stockholm is caring for your captor, but Leon was anything but. He’d saved her. They’ve taken him away to give her a chance to – to – to what? Not be completely insane? She’s not sure it’ll help, maybe she’s already insane.

Clawing in the back of her head. Scratch-scratch-scratch, the whisper of a voice now gone. Dead. Burned to ash. There is nothing of Saddler left.

Lost lambs.

She shudders. A shower. A shower, hot, scorching, burn the voice out of her head.

A knock at the door when she’s wrapped in a towel, telling herself that painting her toenails is a worthwhile endeavour. She won’t have bare feet for months now. Boots. Trainers. Sensible shoes. She’s smudged the polish twice already. Hands shaking. She doesn’t answer the door, and silence reigns for a minute. Then a knock again.

One. One. One-two-three. A coded knock. Should she know it? Is this a trick?

A knife under her pillow, snuck away from dinner. Long sleeves hiding it. No appetite was more distracting than no cutlery. She leans to reach it. The doorknob turns. She holds her breath.

Dad. It’s just Dad, looking haggard, looking tired. Looking scared.

Her, sprawled over her bed, one foot half-painted, the other twisted in the sheets to push her further up the mattress, hand under the pillow, the other balled into a fist. Eyes wild, scanning the environment, the doorway, the shadows.

‘Sweetheart,’ he says, and salt dries her throat, tightens it until she cannot breathe.

She bites her lip, tears through it. Eyes wet.

‘Ashley,’ he says again, that same tone. Gentle.

He approaches the way he’d go to a wounded animal, wild and feral in a bear trap, ready to attack, to bite, to scratch, to howl. The dog. Leon had told her about a dog. She hopes he’s well. Away from the village.

She needs a dog.

Her fingers close around the knife.

It’s just Dad. It’s just Dad. Search his eyes. Blue, blue, blue. No redness, no burst veins. No horrors lurking, kept under cover.

‘Where is he?’ she croaks, and her father tilts his head. Plays dumb. He knows who she means.

‘Receiving specialist care,’ he tells her. ‘The human body can only take so much.’

Uncurling her fist, she touches her neck, her collar. The beat of her heart feels too loud, too strong. Is it her heart? Hard to know.

‘He’s alright?’

‘Last I heard.’

He says nothing else, and she searches the doorway. He will not walk through. It was a miracle he was walking at all. She looked him up. Knows what he’d done, where he’d been, what he’d survived.

The human body can only take so much. His has taken more than most.

She licks her lips. Lets go of the knife, withdraws her hand. A deep breath.

‘’Kay.’

‘He asked after you,’ her father says, gentle, fingertips touching the back of her hand, testing the boundary. She flinches but does not move her hand. It’s her father. He will not hurt her. The parasite is gone. It’s gone. There is no danger to him. He is safe. She cannot hurt him.

‘He did?’ Her heart flutters a little too loudly, too quickly, makes her breath catch, and it chokes out of her, croaking.

He looks at her with a creased eyebrow, a frown. He does not understand.

‘Making sure the job was done,’ he says, missing the point. She tells herself that this is the point.

If you say so.

Can’t you take a compliment?

She closes her eyes, breathes, breathes, breathes. In, out, in, out, sat on the rail car to the audience chamber, his thumb drumming a steady rhythm into her knee. His pulse a steady beat against her skin. He was so calm, able to make quips and roll his eyes and react without hesitation. He’d pant and pant and dry heave, but he never once flagged, never once panicked. She envied that in him. He’d spoken, briefly, of another mission, though it hadn’t been a mission then. It had been life-or-death, with no objective beside get them out alive. Girls then, too. He doesn’t speak to either, can’t do it. Just checks in on the periphery, makes sure they’re still alive.

That’s sad.

Is it?

Her father is holding her hand. Warm, paper-callused, enough of a squeeze to comfort, not suffocate, trap, hold. His thumb rubs across the fat of hers, and she misses her mother.

‘I want to go,’ she says, and he hums, looks up from their hands.

‘Where, sweetheart?’

But he knows, he can see it in her eyes. She can see in his that he knows, sees the resignation, the grief, the understanding.

‘I can’t go back,’ she adds.

‘No,’ he agrees.

‘Nowhere would be safer,’ she says, and he shakes his head.

‘You’re safest here.’

There are condors lining the walls, the roof and the paths and the corridors, stifling, suffocating, always fucking watching. She licks her lips, swallows. It’s dry.

‘I know,’ she nods. ‘I know. But I could do better out there. This isn’t the first time.’

His eyebrows skyrocket then, gaze wild, uncontrolled. That temper again, but undirected, scared. He’s frightened. He took power only a term ago, is about to face another election. Would this jeopardise the campaign?

‘Raccoon City,’ she says, and his lip quivers, clamps into a thin line.

‘He told you,’ he says, but it isn’t an accusation or condemnation. It just is.

She nods. ‘He said enough.’ She breathes. In, out. ‘There have been others, right? Incidents.’

He heaves a sigh, pats her leg. ‘Get dressed,’ he says, but it is not a dismissal. ‘We’ll talk.’

It’s too much to take in. She is a quick study, but her eyes burn. Her throat. Her chest. She absorbs the details without listening. Racoon, Rockfort, Europe. A dozen places in between.

‘They wanted you,’ she says, eventually.

Days have passed, weeks. No news of him, but she’s assured he’s well. She stares out of the windows. Is he on the field again? Back out there, facing the next one? Saving the next damsel?

She cannot afford to be a damsel. She turns back to the papers. Names, dates, names, dates, chemical formulas, dates, names, formulas. There are reams of it.

‘How do we stop this?’ she asks, but there is no answer. She is alone in the room. Bass thrums in her ears. It drowns out the whispers. Whispers, whispers, whispers, constantly behind her ears.

Lost lambs, a sacrifice waiting.

She shakes hot breath from her neck, swallows.

Her watch beeps. Time to run.

Days, weeks, months. Her father wins the re-election campaign. She suspects her abduction and rescue played a part. She did not attend rallies, trails, meetings. She stayed away. Read the dates, the names, the places, the formulas. She read, read, read, blurred and aching, knows the details she can get hold of. More, too. Details not available publicly. Privately. Details only lived experience has.

Her phone ping-ping-pings. Messages, photos. She breathes, breathes, breathes. Picks up the phone. Her hands have stopped shaking. The image is grainy, distorted. She’s taken it on the move. A notebook, a date, a place, a name. A business about to explode, a charity organisation seeking public acknowledgement, funding opportunities.

Another four years of Graham administration. She has time.

He has not called. She couldn’t expect him to. He is elsewhere. Christmas is coming. She should write a card.

Wish you were here. Would he appreciate the joke? The sardonic tone of her handwriting?

A roll of the shoulders; the throw hurt. She’s been practising. Condors have uses in the roost, now. She’s practising her rolls, her jumps. She can take the stairs three at a time. The toe caps are wearing in. Trousers are getting comfortable, creasing to the shape of her knee. Her fingers prune in the water as she counts, thirty, forty, fifty. A minute under, two. She needs to try again. Longer is safer.

CR. Paint your nails blue.

She’s due an appointment. Her hair needs a trim. The ends never recovered. She has to look her best. A full makeover. She has time. Her wardrobe has changed over the months, longer legs, arms, thicker, sturdier. Jeans, leather jackets. Protection. Boots, not heels. She needs to make a good impression. One pair of heels left, black, low, thick soled. She can run in them. She’s practised. Up and down the stairs, up and down, up and down. She’s learnt to cartwheel in them. Photos of her rescue made it across the magazines, paparazzi everywhere, cameras flash, flash, flashing. The clothes had been burnt, never replaced. A pantsuit will do. Sensible. She can run in it. Loose blouse, light blue. She’d said blue. She can do blue. Light blue, tucked into dark blue trousers, tailored carefully. Extra pockets. Jacket tied by a ribbon belt. A Barbie doll in blue, not red. Not red. Blood on her hands, sprayed across her face, clinging to her lashes, in her mouth, between her teeth.

She spits into the sink, rinses the toothpaste out. She has things to do, no time to dwell.

You ready?

Almost. She’s learnt to drive, but Baby Eagle cannot leave the roost alone.

He is elsewhere, Europe again. She has not heard officially, but she knows. There are rumblings in Hungary, in Estonia, Russia. The BSAA are demanding presence in the assignments. She video-called the relevant parties, and they all rolled their eyes, talked with their fingertips tapping together, and cited bureaucracy. She can do that. She can do bureaucracy. They’ve seen horrors enough, point-blank with knives in jaws and teeth gnashing at their throats. They’ve done it. Let her do this.

Tighten the belt, concealer under the eyes. Stockings, shoes. A kitchen knife in her clutch. Switchblade on her ankle. He taught her that. Trousers shaken, blade hidden. She can drive herself, if she has to.

  She will never have to. They will drive her, condors with their eyes on nothing and everything. They are not as observant. He had seen the ganados miles away, eyes on the scope. They do not watch. They have not had teeth skim their throat. Whispers in her ears, but she cannot have the bass thrumming. Eyes on the road, on the skyline, on other cars. Colour, make, plate. Colour, make, plate. Red, Honda, private plate. The car is unmarked, unobtrusive, inoffensive. If you hadn’t seen her get in, you’d never know it was secret service. She’s just some young businesswoman heading for a meeting.

She’d never be just. The way she’d never been enough, she will never now be just anything. The shadows linger behind her, and she adjusts, checks the mirrors. A delivery vehicle, a bread company’s lorry, a motorbike. It lingers too close for several seconds, but then it overtakes, and she breathes. In, out.

Keep moving forward.

The Mayflower is beautiful, if you care for that kind of thing. She used to care. Now, she looks at the windows, the doors, examines the map. Routes in, out, around. The nearest point of escape, lockable doors, cabinets. In, out.

There are dozens lingering in the foyer, waiting to schmooze. She looks, tries to see, but the faces blend together. Red eyes, burst veins, drool. Sallow skin, heaving breaths, rot. Whispers behind her ears. Count to ten, back again.

A hand on her elbow. She flinches, hands too far from her clutch, her ankle. She clenches her fist, prepares to twist, but the face that smiles at her is familiar. Safe. She has to believe safe.

‘First crowd since coming home, huh?’ Claire asks, and Ashley breathes.

In, out.

‘Last one tried to kill me, so.’ Cluck of the tongue, a flippant shrug.

Claire nods, sage. She looks tired. Older than her years. Leon said she was nineteen. She’d be – twenty-four, now? Twenty-five? Older. Nineteen is too young to face that. Twenty isn’t much older. Twenty-one. He’d been twenty-one, he’d said. First day. It never leaves you.

‘I’ll be honest,’ Claire murmurs, like she’s sharing a secret in a campus bathroom, ‘this crowd couldn’t kill a sandwich, and I mean that with full respect.’

‘Of course.’

In, out. She smells of soap, clinical, not perfumed at all. Her own perfume applied too thick, cloying, sticking in the back of her throat. She won’t wear it again.

‘Come on, I’ll show you where to sit. Leon called, about twenty minutes ago, checking in. Seemed surprised that you were coming.’

‘Yeah?’

He said he didn’t call. Didn’t check in. Has she changed that? Made him care to know?

You have to trust me.

Easier said than done.

Claire chatters in the way of someone who never has anyone to talk to. The who’s who, the minutiae of the table dressings, the catering options, the hassle of PowerPoint.

‘You got a PowerPoint?’ she asks, and Ashley stares at the wall.

‘Was I supposed to?’

‘No, it’s probably good that you don’t.’

She nods. Checks the exits.

‘Does it ever go?’ she asks, and Claire hums.

‘Go?’

‘The look.’

Claire follows her gaze but doesn’t see it. A moment passes. Two. Three. Ashley wonders if she needs to rephrase.

‘The exit strategy? No. It’s not left me.’

In, out. Whispers behind her ears, blood thrumming. Cameras flash flash flash, headlines in the making.

ASHLEY GRAHAM SUPPORTS NGO CHARITY AGAINST TERROR.

PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER USES KIDNAP TO ADVANTAGE.

ANOTHER LIPSERVICE CHARITY ENDORSEMENT FROM THE ELITE?

She shudders. Turns from the cameras. Hand over face. She knows how to hide herself. She does not need to hide, not really, she has nothing to hide. What happened, happened. It is not her fault. She survived, that is enough. His hand, warm on the back of her neck, thumb heavy against her pulse. The weight of his breath against her temple, the brush of his rain-cool nose. A second’s reprieve, pressed tight into a corner to catch their breath, to decompress. A close encounter, his skin buzzing with adrenaline, her fingers itching. His trigger finger tap-tap-tapping against her throat.

In, out. Check her clutch, the knife. Claire has a butterknife on her plate of vol-au-vents. There is schmoozing to be done. Claire does not. Ashley does not move until it is her time to speak. She talks of her experience, as much as she can choke it out. In, out. This needs to stop. There has to be an end to it. And there has to be an after. The things that come next, that needs thinking about. Schools, homes, hospitals. Care. Survivor’s guilt. There is survivor’s guilt in making it out. Those that did not survive, those that died. They need to be remembered.

A round of applause. Polite. Whispers across the chairs. She’s put a cat amongst the pigeons. A flash grenade in the middle of burst heads. Blue light. She needs to buy a blue light. The darkness haunts her.

‘You did well,’ Claire says. ‘You want a burger?’

The car is waiting. Condors line the walls, eyes on her. She looks at Claire. Looks at the abandoned plate of untouched pastries. The knife is not there.

Easy with that.

‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘yeah, I could go for extra fries.’

Claire laughs. She could be nineteen again. They both could be. Girls on main street, hunting down a decent burger, skipping class to consume carbs. A run later, burn it off. Fries and ketchup and diet soda.

‘It doesn’t stop,’ Claire admits around a mouthful of fries.

They’re sat by a lake in a park. A girl feeds the ducks. Condors wander, linger obviously. She’s grateful, but it isn’t the same. People live their lives, unaware of what else lingers just behind the veil of ignorance, blissful and wavering. It gets thinner every day, every outbreak, every cover-up. There is no need for a laser sight. She misses it anyway. Claire’s eyes dart about, the memories too fresh, too raw. There had been a terror attack just months before her kidnap. Claire had been involved, somewhere along the way. Leon had mentioned it. He’d just got his arm out of the sling, he said.

We’d be great as a team, huh? We could protect the US against any and all threats!

Ha, maybe.

He’d known then what she is beginning to know now.

‘I doubt it,’ Ashley agrees. ‘I. I want to help.’

‘I couldn’t do it again,’ Claire says. ‘Jill – she – you know about them? S.T.A.R.S.?’ At the nod, she continues, ‘Jill could do it every day of the way. Her and my brother. They’re fighting on the field. But I – I dunno. I can’t do that. Leon does it, too. I left him behind, initially, he tell you that? I was looking for Chris, and I left him behind, but he – he never let me get that far ahead, not really. He asked me to come with him, once, when he got out on the field. And I nearly did, but I’ve got things I can do here. Never figured I’d be a paper-pusher, but hey! World works in mysterious ways.’

She shrugs, jovial enough. The dark circles under her eyes catch the light. She doesn’t sleep. There are glasses tucked into her shirt pocket; she’d been wearing them during screen presentations. Eyes worn down by the late nights. A dog shudders. Her hand goes to her clutch, Claire’s to her boot. In, out. Count to ten and back again. The dog runs off.

‘Ha,’ she says, breathless.

‘Ha,’ Claire echoes. Their hands return to their food.

They say no more of it.

‘Leon asked about you,’ Claire says eventually, sipping on her drink. Her gaze is middle distance, considering something out of sight.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, when he called to express complete surprise that you’d grace us with your presence.’

‘He didn’t say that.’

Claire snorts, abashed. ‘No, he didn’t say that. He said that he was surprised your Dad let you come.’

‘I’m an adult.’

‘You’re a month out of a kidnap and attempted murder, your age is a little bit irrelevant.’

Ashley blows bubbles into her cola. Pop, pop, pop.

‘He asked me to call him back,’ Claire says, ‘when the meeting was over, let him know how you were. Says you’re a good kid, like you’re not a grown adult.’

There’s sarcasm on her tongue. Subtle, salt on her fries. Dripping from the ends of her hair as she stands in the rain staring at the fire burning against the odds, Saddler turning to a bubbling, melting pile of nothing before their eyes. Pop, pop, pop. A car backfires. They leap to their feet, condors move to converge. It’s nothing.

Baby Eagle will not fly the nest just yet. She’ll still go home to roost.

In, out.

Her throat thick with cola, with salt, with ketchup, she asks, ‘what will you tell him?’

Claire smiles. Genuine, the way Luis had smiled. For a second, they’re teenagers, whispering secrets in mall toilets, hiding behind clothing displays as boys walk past.

‘I’ll tell him not to turn his radio off.’

The condors are watching, approach when she steps away. It doesn’t mean anything. Her skin itches, her palms burning. She looks, but her veins are her own. There’s nothing, just the shine of burger grease. In, out.

We’re going to get out of here. Together.

Duck into the car, seatbelt on, door shut. Stare at the scenery, watch the cars. A motorbike speeds past, red leather, an angel embroidered. Back onto the gravel driveway, condors swarm, check that Baby Eagle is back to roost.

A gilded cage.

Hey, you okay?

A hot shower, burn the feel of grimy hands away, scorch the whispers from her skin. Footsteps in the room, and she barrels out, clutching a lamp. She’d unplugged it, kept it by the door, just in case. Just in case. Something everywhere. Knife under her pillow. There is nobody.

In, out. Count to ten. Scan the entry points. The window is shut, the curtains drawn. The door shut. Bed made. The bed is made. Lamp thrown to the floor, she rips the pillow out of the way. The knife is still there. In, out.

Listen to me, it’s you they want. I’ll do my job.

One foot in front of the other. Swing through. She swallows. Count to ten and back again. Her phone ping-ping-pings. Emails, messages. She needs to change her number. Nothing from him. She wasn’t expecting anything, but it hurts. A little. Interview invites, job offers, salacious offers. She hits delete, tosses the phone aside. Picks up the lamp. Goes back to the water. Shuts her eyes, listens to the shush of the water. Heavy breathing. Hers. His. The grunt of effort as he stands, her weight on the balls of her feet to not press the heels. She wobbles, almost falls. His hand catches her calf, hot through the leather. She hoists herself over, drops down. He paces, back, forth, the flash of the laser sight. His eyes wild when she unlocks the gate, presents him with a lamp, or a necklace, or an hourglass. Some menial treasure he can maybe make use of. Checking her for injury, for illness, for ill-placed thought. She stares back, lets him drink his fill. He nods, satisfied, palm on her elbow to steer her back. The grunt of raising his gun. He’s tired. The grunt of shoving a door open or shut. The grunt of exhaustion, breathed against her neck as he presses her into an alcove to avoid detection.

In, out.

It’s not under, but she holds for sixty, seventy, eighty. Getting there. Two minutes, three, that’s the most useful. Hard exhale, explosive, relief that she’s alive. Turn the water off, get a towel, get dressed. Amherst tracksuit, slightly too big. She’ll never go back. Communications degree wasted. Postponed. She can pick it up later. Finish it long distance, maybe. Her father will not judge.

 Waiting to be picked up, she’d told him about it. Buffeted by the waves, staring at the sky, waiting, waiting, waiting. She’d talked about campus, about being proud of her 3.9. He’d laughed, admitted he had no idea what his was, or would have been. He’d earned his credits, been accepted into the RPD, and that was that. He never finished his degree. She’d asked what it was, and he’d just laughed, admitted he was a very different person now. He wouldn’t recognise himself at twenty anymore.

 She’d make a quip about how he was probably just as hot, and he’d snorted, turned the conversation to asinine nonsense about the ocean. Dolphins, or seals, or how lazy the bass in the courtyard had been.

She’ll not eat fish for years, thinks about the squelch of flesh, the flap of limbs. It’s a miracle she can stomach a burger.

More ping-ping-ping, more job offers. More invites to interviews. Playboy want an exclusive. Roll of the eyes, deleted.

Three in the morning, her phone rings. She snaps awake, listens to it vibrate on the bedside. Three in the morning, she shouldn’t answer.

Trust me.

She rolls over. Doesn’t know the number.

‘Did I wake you?’

Breath leaves her in a rush, leaves her heady, heart pounding.

Poor, lost lamb.

She jerks upright, clears her head with a shake, answers the same. Hand through the tangles of her hair. Cotton pillowcase. She needs silk.

‘No,’ she breathes, ‘no, you didn’t wake me.’

He snorts. ‘Liar. I’ll call back.’

‘No!’ Too loud. Desperate. She pulls a face, tosses the covers aside. Paces. ‘It’s fine. I – I don’t sleep too well, always half-awake.’

He hums. ‘I just – I wanted to be sure you were alright.’

‘Claire called you?’

‘She said you’re a flash grenade with your finger on the pin.’

‘Is that a compliment?’ she asks.

‘Take it however you want.’

Déjà vu. A chill down her spine. She rakes a hand over her mouth. She knows the dance, but not the moves, has never needed to learn them.

The slurp of a straw. She swallows, mouth dry.

‘Where are you?’ she asks, breathless, a whisper. Desperation tight in her lungs.

‘You know I can’t say.’

‘Are you working?’

’Nineteen questions left, ma’am.’

‘Ma’am,’ she snorts. ‘I prefer señorita.’

‘I’ll be sure to remember that,’ he assures her, a laugh on the edge of his voice. Then, serious, ‘you’re alright?’

She’s quiet for a moment, plays with the toggle of her shorts, stares at the wall. Licks her lips.

‘It doesn’t feel right,’ she admits, quiet, mouthpiece pressed close to her lips. ‘Without you. Like I’m on edge. Like I’m just waiting for it to happen again.’

For a moment, he’s quiet. She imagines him, sat at a bar, perhaps, or in a booth at a diner. Coke or shake? She can’t imagine him with either, so dour and focused. They hadn’t eaten at all during their little escapade, and though her stomach had growled consistently since, she can’t say she’s been all that interested in food. She knows now that she can survive without, and it won’t hurt her. Skipping a meal won’t hurt, so long as she eats the rest. She imagines he’s the same. Doesn’t eat for days on end, sometimes, if the job doesn’t give him chance for it, but then he’ll eat plenty. A full plate, not just burger and fries. A proper meal, maybe even pie. She thinks he might be a pie type of guy. Apple or cherry? He’s an all around American hero, so it’s got to be apple, surely. Apple pie, handmade, with ice cream, maybe. Vanilla, to keep it simple. He’s a no frills, uncomplicated sort of man, when he can be. Things complicate around him and drag him in. She can see him, hunched over the table, phone in one hand, head on the other, elbow on the table, leaning his weight. Keeping the conversation private, but he’s not expecting danger. He wouldn’t call her if he was. He’s safe. He’s safe.

He's safe.

In, out.

‘It won’t happen again,’ he tells her, sounds so sure that she almost believes him.

‘No?’

‘No.’

 She drinks it in, the affirmation in the negative. A contradiction, a complication. She breathes it out, tastes it. No. She is safe here, without him.

‘I’ve been practising,’ she says, ‘the things you taught me.’

He laughs then. ‘Christ, don’t do that,’ he says, ‘get a professional to show you how to do it properly.’

‘You were taught by the best,’ she argues. She wants to stamp her foot. ‘If it was good enough for you to get us out alive, it’ll be good enough for me.’

She pictures the shake of his head, the flop of his hair, freshly-washed, dried, finger-combed. Not rat-tailed with blood and mud and sweat. He could be a model, if he wanted, the wholesome American Joe that takes up magazine cover space, advertising house insurance and Levis.

‘We were in an unusual position,’ he reminds her, ‘where it was life or death. As long as you listened to the basics, the specifics didn’t matter. They do now, before you hurt yourself.’

‘I won’t hurt myself,’ she avows. ‘You were a good teacher. One foot in front of the other, swing through. I’ve been holding my breath. But it – it makes the voice come back, the whispers. The chanting. I hear it, in the silence.’

‘Yeah,’ he agrees. He doesn’t think she’s insane. He hears it, too.

They’re silent for a minute.

‘Are you coming back?’ she asks.

‘I will,’ he nods. ‘I’ve got a meeting, next week. When I get back. There’s talk of a new.’ He stops, can’t say. She understands and doesn’t press.

‘TerraSave have offered me a position,’ she says. ‘They want me to speak to senators, as someone with lived experience.’

‘I heard. You’d do well at that. You have a certain charm.’

She laughs, doesn’t ask if it’s a compliment, knows it is.

‘Leon?’ she asks, and he hums, another slurp of a straw. The grunt of movement; he’s standing, perhaps, but the warmth of his exhale brushes down her neck, raises chills in it’s wake.

We’ll get through this. Together.

 The moment drags. In, out.

‘Ashley?’

‘Thank you,’ she says, means it.

It isn’t what she wants to say. There are too many things she wants to say. They can wait until she sees him. Phones can be bugged. Conversations can be private.

‘You’re welcome. Go back to sleep, señorita. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

But he’s already ended the call. She puts the phone on the bedside. Lies down. Stares at the ceiling. She is safe here without him. He is close, in his way. Warm fingers on the back of her neck, rain-cold nose against her temple. Gaze on her, hot, heavy, focused. Laser sight beside her, a red streak in her periphery. Never far away. She closes her eyes. In, out.

Count to ten and back again.

There is work to do.