The Punkcop Revival

Beth is an avid collector of mugs. How could she not be? She drinks enough coffee that there’s always more dirty ones than clean ones before the dishwasher is full enough to warrant running.

But beyond that, she likes to think herself a coffee connoisseur. Her coffee is expensive, she grinds it herself every morning (the grinder is what wakes Sarah up), has four different brewing methods (pour-over, French press, Keurig, and stovetop espresso maker), and uses them on a frequent cycle. That’s the importance of the grinder, which she explains to Sarah every morning when Sarah emerges from the bedroom with a growl; because each brewing technique takes a different grind setting.

“Just turn the bloody thing off,” Sarah grumbles as she sets about making her tea.

Sarah pulls a mug down from the shelf, a mug that Beth can’t remember ever buying. A Starbucks mug. Starbucks with their burnt espresso and industrial atmosphere and overly-sweetened beverages. Beth frowns and folds her arms across her chest.

“What’s that?” she asks, her voice small but firm.

“A mug,” Sarah, yawning, replies. “Need some tea before you interrogate me about your dishes…”

“That’s not mine.” Beth counters adamantly. “I would never - “ she swings her hand in a broad gesture, sending the (thankfully empty) mug skittering across the countertop with alarming force.

They both brace for impact, but only the handle, now severed, clatters to the floor. Sarah and Beth exchange a look.

“Well, now it’s never leaving,” Sarah remarks dryly.

I am actually the voice of punkcoprevival, so… hello again, friend! :)

Beth had once fantasized about having children - before things were so… messy. Before she felt like she was losing her mind. Before.

Back when she was sane, when she was normal, when she wasn’t seeing these women - reflections of her, hearing them talk, watching their mannerisms, piecing together the different fragments of her that hadn’t quite fit right in her own skin.

But they do in Sarah.

And it’s so easy to watch Sarah - dark, brooding, British Sarah - crack a grin and laugh, throwing herself whole-heartedly into pillow fights, constantly touching, touching, touching. Like if Sarah can’t touch it, then it isn’t real.

She’s that way with Kira - Sarah, not Beth; Beth stays away, afraid of ruining the smiling, the laughter, the happiness (like she always does). Sarah constantly has a hand on Kira’s back, is hugging her, lifting her off the ground, using pet names (Beth swears she can hear Sarah chanting ‘Monkey’ in her sleep).

Sarah is Beth’s favorite. It’s not right to say so, but it’s that combination of Sarah and her beloved daughter Kira. It’s that sense of rightness, of being special, different from the rest of their batch. ID numbers and patents aside. Sarah is a person, a real one, and Beth envies her.

Beth watches Sarah when she feels most vulnerable, conjuring up images of Kira with her mother, laughing, playing, smiling, sleeping, anything at all. Because that’s how her life (Beth’s life) should have been. But it wasn’t.

It isn’t.

Because that life went to Sarah. And Sarah isn’t real.

Morning, babe.

A text, the usual response to whatever Beth’s greeting is. Though, of course, it won’t be long before Sarah rolls over and goes back to sleep. Beth knows she should stop shooting a greeting every morning when she gets up (because that’s an ungodly hour in Sarah’s world), but Sarah doesn’t seem to have any trouble recovering from the disturbance.

Up to?

Never a complete sentence. Not when she’s barely conscious. Yet she asks anyway.

About to go for a run. Beth sends, then, pausing, adds a follow-up: You should go back to sleep.

In a bit. What’s the route?

Sarah asks this every time, even though she wouldn’t know where Evanston park leads or the specific wooded trail that Beth is considering heading out to this particular morning.

Does it matter?

Coffee when you’re back. Which Beth assumes means something along the lines of “I’ll make you coffee for when you come back” - probably trying to formulate how long the run will be.

You’ll still be sleeping when I come back, dipshit. Beth replies, but she smiles anyway. Sarah says that all the time, even though Felix’s loft is across town and her brother would probably kick her out of she even considered brewing coffee before 7am. Besides, I have work.

Saturday?

Of course, Sarah can never remember that Beth’s job is independent of the days of the week.

Just go back to sleep.

The reply doesn’t come until 10am, when Beth has had her run, a shower, a coffee (or three), and started making a dent in her paperwork.

So I like to think that Beth hates to be called Elizabeth but for some reason gets really turned on when Sarah does it? And then Sarah doing it on purpose to her all the time and like Beth can’t control herself when it hapepns and i ju s t cannot deal?! Like I would pay to read this???!!?! 

There’s something about the way she says it, the way her lips for around those four syllables that Beth has so often rejected. It’s not the eyeroll-inducing horror that is Sarah’s pronunciation of her shortened name. Somehow, Sarah doesn’t take the time to pronounce “th” so it turns to “Bef.” And, of course, Beth gives her endless amounts of shit for it.

“Oh piss off,” is Sarah’s regular response. And then she’ll slip into as close to Beth’s own accent as she can and over-articulate: “E-liz-a-beth” with a very hard “th” and punctuating head movements.

And Beth stops. “Say it again,” she almost whispers, wanting to hear Sarah - without the mockery or the bullshit.

“What?” (Though, of course, it sounds more like “wot” - Sarah’s accent comes hard when she’s confused.)

“Say my name again,” Beth says, taking half a step closer.

She notes the movement of Sarah’s eyes: roving up and then down her body. Sarah’s mind is processing her body language, codifying the slight arch of her back, the twitch in her fingers, the tightening of her jaw. And then Sarah smiles, a gradually building smirk.

It’s late. Even by Sarah’s standards, the night is drawing on. She doesn’t wait up for Beth past 2am. There’s no need, she’s out playing cops and robbers. But her girlfriend always kisses her cheek when she comes home and comes to bed. To their bed. Because Sarah has a home now. A home, a family, a life.

The aggressive vibrations of Sarah’s phone against the grain of the bedside table stirs her. She fumbles and it slips to the floor. Sarah had slept through the night, only noticing the cold, Beth shaped space next to her when she reached out with a confused hand.

“‘Ello? Beth?”

Silence.

“Beth?”

Sarah sits up and flicks the lamp on, her stomach is a dead weight. Something’s wrong.

“Sarah… it’s Art.”

“Art, the hell is going on?”

He hesitates, Sarah can feel him choosing his words.

“Can you come down the station?

“What. Why? Where’s Beth?”

It starts with a text, as it so often does: Going on an adventure.

Beth can’t help but think, But you’re already on an adventure, which is true, because Sarah has been in the UK for… a while now, going on “some mission of self-discovery or some shit.” Said with a smirk, of course. But when Beth uncovered that Sarah and Helena were born in Wales, well… Sarah had felt compelled to go.

And Beth had let her.

Now that Sarah’s been away for so long (though Beth’s phone does ping with the occasional update), Beth is starting to wish she’d taken off with her. After the “going on an adventure” text, Beth sets her phone aside, ever-so-slightly bitter that Sarah is having adventures while she’s sitting behind a desk doing paperwork.

An hour later, she gets a picture. The foreground is empty, a rocky beach spreading out into gray ocean, a lighthouse in the left third, white paint peeling off to reveal the black iron beneath. The sky is a whorl of large, white clouds, curled like claws, and blue-blue nothing.

And Beth, who hasn’t done much traveling for pleasure in her life, feels a pang of longing. Even though she’s not a beach-y person, even though the water is probably freezing, even though, even though. She glances around at the cubicles and the wood paneling, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

She replies with, The beach doesn’t look particularly barefoot-friendly.

And Sarah, straight to the point, answers, Adding this to my list of favorite places.

Beth sets her phone aside without replying. Part of her is bitter, childishly so (and she knows it), and part of her is aching for the smell of salt and sand, the tug of a sea breeze on her hair and clothes, the frigid water swirling up around her ankles.

S - Ghost.

Beth could have been a ghost.

But.

Sarah pulled her back from the brink of damnation. Rebuilt her and reshaped her. Loving Sarah is like loving the wind. Gentle breezes. Gale force storms and everything in between.

Their bodies don’t crash together anymore. Touches ghost, lips pass, words whisper. Sarah is vacant, is absent. She comes and goes. Beth knows the look in her eyes, the feeling of helplessness. No enlightened person is truly happy; as awareness grows, the sense of self diminishes. Beth sees it in each phone call, in each trip to DYAD, in each mission they send her on. Because even Sarah, tremendous lioness Sarah can only fight so hard for so long.

She’s sat on the kitchen counter. Legs swinging, head lolled back against the sleek cupboard. Sarah doesn’t look at Beth who pads out into the cold air, feeling smaller than usual in the finite space.

“I ain’t been high in years, Beth…”

“What?”

And as Beth crosses the kitchen, even in the  3:12am shadows, Sarah’s blown pupils catch in the low lighting.

“I get why you used them. Can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking, can’t do this anymore.”

Beth’s fingers graze Sarah’s lips. She can’t speak, because verbalising it makes it real. Excuses it. Because all Beth wants to say is I know. So she says nothing.

But she a single thought runs around and around and around her head.

A - Fire, flames, or excessive heat &  R - A deafening sound.

“You know there are so many elaborate ways to coax information from people, Detective Childs. I like to  consider myself a traditionalist.”

Ferdinand looms over her in the sterile lab, immaculate in appearance with a blaze behind his eyes. A blood lust she knows will never be quelled The reason he is so very good at his job.

“You know I’m not going to say a damn word.”

“Yes, insubordination is genetic. You’ll die before you reveal anything.”

He lets it hang, he smiles. Not a false smile, but a genuine show of happiness.

“Watching someone you love die for you… That’s different isn’t it?”

As if on practiced cue, Ferdinand’s mutt of a bodyguard drags Sarah into the room.

“… you’re fucking hands off me.”

He restrains her, arms pinned behind her back, and oh, how she struggles. But Sarah’s joints are locked in place with heavy hands. Her lip twitches with a rage she will not be able to contain.

“Glad you could join us Ms.Manning. I was just talking to our friend here about pain. Think you have the steel for it?”

“Eh?”

He moves slowly, turning on a gas tap, setting light to the flame. Sarah may have flunked school, but she knows a bunsen burner when she sees one.

“I am sorry to have to do this, Sarah Manning, but Elizabeth has been less than cooperative.”

And Sarah has been here before. She’s flashes back to Daniel. For reasons she cannot fathom, Ferdinand scares her so much more.

“Piss off. You can’t kill me.”

He holds a gleaming scalpel to the flame.

“My dear, no-one said anything about killing you.”

“Sarah, Sarah, baby it’ll be ok…”

He steps across and with a fist of Sarah’s hair, cranks her head back to rest on his shoulder. Ferdinand kisses her cheek and whispers.

“Who’s a dirty clone?”

And as he ploughs his red hot scalpel into Sarah’s ribs, his eyes don’t move from Beth. He twists the handle.

There is no comfortable way to sleep in a car. Sarah was presented with that reminder as she jolted awake as the vehicle tumbled its way over a pothole. The country roads reminded her exactly how dark the world gets, away from the light pollution and familiar tones of any city scape.

Beth had the wheel, she’d always loved driving. Just the idea that you could start an engine, drive, and keep driving. What a way to escape.

“How far off are we?”

Sarah stretched out her joints as best as the front seat would allow.

“Couple hours.”

Beth’s tone was clipped, anger, desperation, tiredness all seeping through.

“Beth…”

Reaching out, Sarah set to place her hand on top of Beth’s but was shrugged off.

“Lets just get there, ok?”

Sarah buried her hands in her pockets, rejection - though only slight - irritating her skin. Shifting herself she rested her head against the side window and closed her eyes, the glass cool against her skin.

Both Beth and Sarah were fully aware that she wasn’t asleep. But they’d pretend. That way they didn’t have to talk. Didn’t have to talk about their mistakes and the damage they had inadvertently caused.

It starts with the sky, as it always does, shifting from blue to white to gray to green. It starts with the wind whispering through the grass and the trees, scattering whatever debris littered the sidewalk, tossing it haphazardly into the street. It starts with the stillness that follows the wind, when all the world seems to pause, taking in a breath and holding it.

Thunder, a distant growl that seems more like a suggestion, preludes the rain. The sound slips casually beneath Beth’s notice as she continues to scribble on the files, taking notes and spreading papers around, emanating the same sort of powerful stillness. A center of calm that could be on the cusp of exploding.

Sarah fidgets. Adjusting her position on the sofa again and again. Often enough that the rustling distracts Beth. She sets her pen aside and glances over.

“Tea?” she asks, because it’s the exact right thing to ask whenever Sarah is in any way agitated.

Sarah doesn’t answer, looking down at the floor. When the thunder rolls in from the distance, bringing with it the sound of leaves whispering together, Sarah brings her knees to her chest.

Beth gets up from the kitchen table.

The rain comes all at once, from pseudo-silence to the loud, incessant hammering of millions of tiny droplets. The windows light up as lightning strikes somewhere nearby, its companion lumbering along behind.

Sarah’s mouth tightens, the muscles in her arms flexing. Beth moves with ease, collecting candles and putting the kettle on, noting with vague interest whenever the strobe of lightning illuminates the room. And resisting the urge to look at Sarah whenever the thunder follows.

The whole place rattles after a particularly defined rumble, and when Beth looks over, Sarah is curled up.

The lights click off. Beth totes some candles to the coffeetable, sinking down beside Sarah and resting a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge Sarah’s irrational fear. Because Sarah loathes it, loathes feeling weak and helpless.

Beth has never been fond of birthdays - hers which, for whatever reason, was always forgotten, always skimmed over, always ignored. Every year, she thinks about the dwindling number of people who choose to take the three seconds necessary to wish her “Happy Birthday!” on Facebook. Fifty, forty-six, twenty-eight, twenty-two, twelve. The years ticking by like the series of descending numbers of people who care that something has changed.

She is drinking her morning coffee (though she did call out of work, claiming sick, not wanting to face Art’s teasing about her growing old), not quite tasting it, not really caring what it tastes like, when there’s a knock on the door.

“I swear to god, Arthur, if that’s you…” Beth grumbles, dragging herself up from her chair (even on her birthday she can’t sleep in) and towards the door.

But on the other side is Sarah, looking almost sheepish with a bottle of bourbon - adorned with a bow - and a cupcake, slightly misshapen. “Happy birthday, kid.”

Beth can’t help raising an eyebrow at the bourbon. “You do realize it’s eight in the -” she stops herself. “It’s eight in the morning. And you’re awake?”

“Piss off,” Sarah mutters, easing past Beth until she’s inside. “Had to do something for your birthday, didn’t I?”

Beth closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Secretly, she’s beyond glad that Sarah came bearing only booze and a cupcake. Gifts are… hard to stomach, but Beth isn’t exactly the type to admit it.

“Could have at least slept in.”

Sarah blinks, drawing a dramatized gasp. “You took the day off?”

Beth sighs. Already, she’s regretting opening the door.

But Sarah notices and begins to backtrack. “Okay, okay, look. You obviously don’t like the whole birthday thing; I get it, alright? Let’s just… I dunno, watch a movie, get drunk, relax. Do whatever, you know? ‘S your day. You call the shots.”

Sarah has grown used to waking up to an empty bed beside her rather than a body, a soul, a person. She used to jerk free of the sheets she’d somehow managed to tangle herself in, used to search the house almost frantically (as though she’d be crouching behind the closet door in a game of 3am hide-n-seek). Now she glances at the pillow, trying to read the creases to determine whether it’s worth searching or whether she should roll over and try to slip back to sleep.

But she’s not a palm-reader; creases and lines and wrinkles mean less than nothing to her sleep-muddled brain. She may as well make tea. And wait.

When she pads on near-silent bare feet towards the kitchen, feeling the chill from the wood floors creeping up through her toes, the house isn’t as empty as she anticipated. A silhouette bears down on its elbows, bent crookedly over steepled fingers, perfectly still as if in prayer. But Beth doesn’t believe in God - not anymore.

“I’m really craving something sweet…” Sarah muses into the phone, presumably strolling up and down the aisles at the local grocery store. “What do you think: candy or cake?”

Beth, having been woken from a nap by Sarah’s call, grumbles something that was supposed to be “chocolate” but probably sounded like nothing of the sort.

“Right,” Sarah, fully versed in sleep-speak (because it’s her first language), replies. “Candy it is. What should I get?”

“I could go for something chocolate,” Beth says, finally beginning to sound human.

“But we’re not shopping for you, are we?” She makes a drawn out humming noise. “But I can’t decide what to get. They have Sour Patch, but if I get those I’ll eat the whole thing in one go.”

“Skittles or starburst,” Beth sighs, rolling onto her back and closing her eyes again. “They’re your usual go-tos.”

Sarah nudges open the front door, finally, and Beth stands up. Beth doesn’t know why she does that - standing up whenever Sarah walks in the door - but she does know from Sarah’s dark expression to put the kettle on immediately.

Beth fills the kettle under the sink calling over her shoulder, “How was your day?”

“Absolute shite,” she grumbles, plodding over to the kitchen. She snatches a dishtowel from its hanging position and carries it back towards the fridge. She then yanks open the freezer and starts arranging ice cubes on the towel.

“Making an ice pack, babe?” Beth asks probingly.

Sarah smirks, holding up her right hand, knuckles out, to show off the redness of a developing bruise. “Got into a bit of a row at the trolley station.” She winks. “Nothing I can’t handle though.” And she closes the freezer in favor of the fridge. And a beer.

“What happened?” Beth asks, tending to the kettle, surprised that Sarah trusts her enough to make her tea; the pressure is mounting to get the order right (tea bag, water, let it sit donottouchit, milk, stir, keep the bag in as long as possible).

“Coupla boys thought they were hot shit - there were about se’en or eight of ‘em - and started goin’ on about how it’s ‘their station’ and shit. I told ‘em to piss off, said they looked like One Direction,” she chuckles at her own comparison. Though, of course, One Direction doesn’t have that many members; but Beth isn’t about to burst her bubble.

“One Direction, huh?” she asks, taking the seat beside Sarah on the sofa and setting the tea on the coffee table.

Sarah smirks again, the chuckles still rumbling forth in her chest. “Yeah, and the lead guy gets all up in my face for it, called me a slag.” Then Sarah shrugs. “So I hit him.”

Beth tucks her ankle under her knee so she can face Sarah more fully. “Was there blood?”

Sarah grins. “Oh yeah, his nose was gushing.” But before Beth can ask her follow-up question, Sarah barrels on, “But I didn’t break his nose or anything; he’ll be fine, the little wanker. Just needed to learn a lesson. His mates all cackled along with me.”

“Did he hit you back?” Beth’s eyes rake over Sarah’s face, but there’s no sign of redness or anything.

“Nah,” Sarah dismisses, going to take a sip of the beer (realizing she left the top on) and opting for tea instead. “Slipped on the trolley before he could react.” She almost cackles. “Waved on the way out o’ the station; he was livid, but his mates were having a great time.”

It takes an impressive amount of energy to climb the steps to her front door. When did I start feeling like an old lady? Beth wonders as she slips her key into the lock. Sure, it’s just shy of ten and she’s only just getting home. Sure, she’s been up since oh-dark-thirty (aka 5:30am). But where did all of her vitality go? All that passion for her career? Now she just wants to flop across the couch with a beer in hand and sleep for a week.

Unfortunately, her couch is already occupied.

Sarah is draped across the chair, her legs dangling over the arm. As if the back isn’t quite good enough for her. The sofa is all but filled to bursting with Felix’s lanky form, stretched out much in the way Beth would have liked to be. He’s even got a beer. One of her beers.

The siblings both sit up rather suddenly, thoroughly engaged by the television. There’s a muted gasp from Felix and a breathless “what?” from Sarah. And Beth adjusts her focus to the television.

Big Brother.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me…” she mutters, letting the door close loudly behind her.

Sarah and her brother both jump, Sarah ending up all the way on her feet and facing Beth’s direction. It takes a long moment of Beth kicking off her shoes (and then sighing, gathering them together, and setting them in their usual place) and then dropping her bag by the couch and then moving to the fridge (they’re out of beer) for Sarah to finally greet her.

“Ay up, square,” she says. “Ole Felix doesn’t have a TV, so I thought…” But Sarah gives up.

“Felix,” Beth gives a polite nod to her guest. “I’m just gonna…” she gestures back to the bedroom with a thumb, letting the words trickle away. “Long day.” And she disappears, shaking her head, shutting the door between them.

It isn’t long before she can no longer hear the shallow reality contestants’ voices through the TV, and it isn’t more than two minutes after that when the front door closes. Sarah appears in the darkened bedroom with two beers in hand.

Paul liberated Sarah from the military. She didn’t ask how. She probably doesn’t want to know. She’s home. That’s all that matters. He has her at the townhouse. He’s out. Won’t tell her where. Just. Out. No matter how hard Sarah scrubs at the grime colouring her skin, she cannot lift the stains. She’s a patchwork of dust, blood and bruises.

Her body has been battered and her mind bears an equal burden. She sits on the end of the bed, fingers anchored to her roots of her hair. Eyes squeezed shut. She just needs a few minutes of quiet. She needs to process, to order the jumble in her mind. Dehydration doesn’t help, it makes her thoughts feel like cement. She needs Felix, she needs S and she needs Kira, but she can’t have Kira. Because Kira is safe. She’s safe, with Cal. She’s out of danger. Kira is the only thing that matters. If she is safe, Sarah will fight another day.

“Sarah?

There’s the gentle rap of knuckles on the bedroom door and Sarah jolts to her feet. It’s not Paul. It’s Sarah. She shakes her head, correcting that toxic thought. It’s a clone, but there are no glasses and no dreads, no Shakira hair, no colour co-ordinated track suit. Who is that?

“Sarah… I…”

Sarah’s head shakes back and forth fractionally, fast enough that she could be vibrating. It can’t be. Shite. She’s finally lost it. It was only a matter of time.

“I didn’t bloody escape did I? I’m still there. It’s just whatever shite they pumped into me.”

She spits through teeth, fingers furling and unfurling. Why does she have so many ghosts and why do they follow her everywhere?

“You did. You’re safe. I have some explaining to do. Why don’t you sit down.”

The woman advances on Sarah who backs away, she’s too close to the wall, she’s letting herself be cornered. She’s meant to be a survivor, a wild one, a criminal, a hero. That’s what they call her, isn’t it?

“You’re not her. You’re not. Please just leave me alone.”

Sarah can feel her mind rupturing, she desperately clings her thoughts. Like patching a leak only to have another spring free. It’s a losing battle.

“Hey, see this. I’m her. I’m Beth, Sarah.”

It’s hard to tell who’s who these days.

Beth(?) turns and angles her neck to Sarah, revealing the remnants of an ugly scar. The mountain bike accident. That badly healed calling card gave Sarah away when she was in Beth’s shoes. Beth’s shoes that should have remained empty.

Sarah reaches for the wall but finds her legs won’t hold her either. She slumps down and rests her head on her knees. The room is spinning, black spots appearing, her world fading. She’s saved from unconsciousness by some deep breathing. Maybe she should have let herself slip. The few seconds she’d be out for could have provided precious rest.

“W-Why did you leave us?”

Sarah’s voice croaks, but it doesn’t phase her. The time for that has passed. Us? There wasn’t an us before Beth, and if she hadn’t have jumped - or whatever the hell she did - there wouldn’t be an us now.

“I am so, so sorry. Sarah. I’ll tell you everything, I will. But not right now, we’ll take it slowly.”

Beth sinks down in front of her, Sarah can only peep up from the safety of her resting knees for a few seconds at a time.

“You knew about it all didn’t you? Leda, Castor, everything.”

There’s no outsmarting the street scally, even in such fragile condition, Sarah will not be fooled. Beth gives a small nod, her eyes are sympathetic, but not pitying. Sincere.

A wounded sob escapes Sarah’s chest. She wants to hate herself for such weakness, but she can’t. She wants to hate Beth, but she can’t. Because there’s such relief in knowing that someone like her is back and is on their side. She feels like she knows Beth, like Beth knows her. That sharing, that taking her life has brought them closer. There’s an understanding between the two of them. An unspoken nod of “I get it.” Beth was aware of the scope of their situation, Sarah is the only other person with such a vantage. Or more likely a curse, a death sentence.

“I needed you. We could have…”

Sarah flits between rage and an almost childlike heartbreak. Beth abandoned her. Abandoned all of them. She’d probably make up reasons as to why. Intricate details of where she was and what she learned and how they’ll make it better. That won’t help Sarah. That won’t soothe the damage of what she has lived through. Because.Beth.Left. Is this what Kira went through every time Sarah closed the door?

“Sarah, you’re not going to trust me for a long time, if not ever, and that’s ok. But I’m going to get us through this. It’s almost over. I swear it.”

“Did.Paul… know?”

The tears steak clean tracks through Sarah’s grimy layer.

“Not until a few days ago.”

Beth’s indifference is not lost on Sarah. She believes her. He was probably part of the reason she left.

“You need a shower and a goodnights sleep, then we can talk. You have my number, just call if you need anything.”

Sarah can’t face being left alone. She doesn’t need Beth to talk, her mind won’t be able to handle it. But she needs to keep the other woman close, to make sure that she’s real, to watch the seconds pass and to watch for Beth to disappear. If she’s there in the morning they can move on. Sarah needs the night to heal.

This connection she feels scares her, she can’t explain it. Maybe there’s a safety in having someone who can hold their own, who Sarah doesn’t have to protect, who is just as weathered, and worn, and broken as she is.

“Can you stay?”

Beth stops at the door and smiles softly, Sarah just about returns it.

“Sure.”

Pulling herself up from the ground, Sarah just needs reassurance on one thing. Just to give her the vigour to keep pushing forward. She needs renewed strength.

“S’almost over, yeah? All this… shite.”