reading away my sorrows

It doesn’t surprise you that Abby isn’t here, but Lev still provides an explanation. “She said she might drop by before night watch.”

You ruffle his hair, all dark curls. He’s so much more alive than the boy Abby turned up with just over two years ago, when they’d both been emaciated and haunted.

It was his fondness for you that finally won Abby over, too, and after sharing patrols for over a year, air between you always pregnant with a tension neither of you were brave enough to comment on, the sex just… happened. And kept happening. 

Until last week, when an I love you slipped out of your mouth. She hasn’t talked to you since, not even to tell you it’s over. You guess that means the feeling is not reciprocated. Which is fine. You’ve been through worse things. Hellish things. You threw yourself into the most demanding assignments, tried to move on, only your bedsheets still smell like her and you found her shirt in your drawer and you don’t know why it ended. Why it’s such a bad thing to to be loved by you. Why you’re not even worth an explanation. 

“I made you a gift,” Lev says with a timid smile, producing something wrapped in paper from one of the tables piled high with presents. 

You brighten up. “Yeah?”

“Open it now?” he pleads, shifting from foot to foot. You smile, though it hurts your bruised jaw, and try to tear the paper delicately so that it can be reused — probably for his gift, which you only realise now you haven’t brought with you. 

“Oh, Lev. This is beautiful,” you whisper when the gift is unveiled. It’s a hand-carved bow, etched with the Firefly logo on the upper limb. He’s been teaching you archery in exchange for sharpshooting practice. 

“It was not easy to wrap,” he jests. “Abby had to help me.”

You force a chuckle. “Thank you so much. Seriously. I’d better hide this, otherwise everyone will want one.”

That rosy smile of his almost chases away the scars on either cheek. “It’s not that great. I’m still practicing how to carve.”

“It’s perfect.” Tears prickle in your eyes, and you blink them away quickly. “I actually left your gift in my room. Give me ten minutes?”

“Okay.” He nods, but then stops you. “Hey. You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Your voice comes out high-pitched and wobbly, and you’re quick to dash away before he can point it out. You won’t let this thing with Abby come between you and him. You’re one of the only people outside of her he’s opened up to, and his trust means something. Everything, knowing what he’s been through. You were the one who cut his hair when it started growing too long. The one who told him about binders and fashioned him one out of scrap fabric. He talks to you about things, and you him, and if that was gone… 

You’d have nothing left. 

You allow yourself two minutes of wallowing in your room, tears slipping and then wiped away just as quickly when you have to brush past Abby’s stocking to get to Lev’s in the drawer, and then you’re back out the door — and almost walking straight into Abby’s fist, raised and ready to knock. 

“Um…” The sight of her brings just as much pain as the times before, enough to dash the wind out of you. You struggle to find the right words, and so does she, her eyes wide and jaw tight as she takes you in.

She huffs on a mirthless laugh, hands rising instantly to your jaw to tilt your bruise towards the dim overhead lighting. “What the hell happened?”

Her touch stings like bleach on your skin, heavy palms rough and more familiar than you’d like them to be. “Hello to you, too,” you grit out. 

“I’m serious,” Abby speaks tersely. “Where else are you hurt?”

“Can you just… not?” You nudge her hand down, stepping away to put the threshold between you again. Her on one side, you on the other. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You should be in the infirmary.”

“You should be ignoring me, still, probably.” 

Her features shutter back to that unreadable granite she’s hidden behind since the moment you told her you loved her. It scares you, how quickly she can change. You’re sure it’s a defense mechanism, given how worried she was just a second ago, but she should know she’s safe around you by now. And if not that, haven’t you at least earned a right to the truth with her?

“You were gone,” she says, muscle in her jaw ticcing. “For four days.”

“You’re observant.”

She narrows her eyes. She hates when you’re short with her, although there was a fine line between hate and love when you were sleeping together. She liked to fuck the attitude out of you, then.

You still feel it, that want. It never ebbed, not after months of exploring each other. Her body feels half yours. You’d never been that close to somebody until her. She took care of you in ways nobody else would. You regret knowing how good it could feel, because living without it is like walking around with a bullet in your gut. 

Abby presses her hand into the doorframe, thick muscles tense. An angry vein protrudes from her forearm. “You’ve never been gone that long before.”

“We needed a lot of resources. Look, I’m not really in the mood tonight, and Lev is waiting for me — and you, for that matter — so, whatever you came here to say, just say it. Unless it’s that you’re breaking up with me, because I sort of already deduced that all on my own.”

She bites into her cheek, eyes dipping to the carpet. “I just came to see you were okay. Nobody told me it was gonna be such a long run.”

“Why would they?”

“Jesus, can you stop? I was worried about you. I still fucking am.”

“Well, you don’t have to be. I got checked out already.” 

Her nostrils flare on a long exhale. And only then does she seem to see the stocking in your hands, embroidered with Lev’s name. It’s made of patchwork granny squares, crocheted from any yarn you’ve been able to get your hands on. It was your mother who taught you, locked away in the dark midwest winters, in a different Firefly base, a different life. Her sweaters and blankets kept you warm until the stitches frayed and fell apart, and you’ve been trying to get pieces of her back whenever you have the time. 

“What is that?” she asks quietly. 

“It’s Lev’s gift.” When she says nothing, you chew on your bottom lip, thinking of the remaining stocking tucked into your drawer. It has her name on it. Can’t give it to anyone else. May as well get rid of it so you never have to see it again. You turn and retrieve it, shaky and filled with dread. “I made them before… So, you may as well take yours, too.”

It’s hard to enter her space again. Hard to look her in the eye as your throat fills with hurt. You shove it into her hands and hope she won’t laugh in your face, or worse, walk out the way she did last time. 

“Merry Christmas, Abby.” 

“You…” She clears her throat, fingers squeezing around the red wool you’d spent painstakingly long hours crocheting with. You’d missed a stitch halfway up the heel. Only realised five rows later, and so had to unravel and start again from the mistake. So stupid, to care so much about something she likely didn’t want. “You made me a stocking.”

“Yeah. The idea was to put actual gifts in them, but maybe you and Lev can do that next year or something.” 

“This…” She blinks like she can’t comprehend it. You don’t know why. She can’t know just how hard you worked on it, and even then, it’s just a damn stocking. “I don’t deserve this.”

It’s such an odd thing to say that you can only frown. “Like I said, I made it before you decided to give me the cold shoulder.”

Her head shakes faintly, and she dangles it between you like she wants to give it back but can’t. You suck in a pained breath, wishing she could go back to not talking to you at all, because this is infinitely worse. 

“I’ve got to get back to Lev, so…” Move, you want to say, but can’t find it in you to be rude even now. 

Especially not when you see the tears dancing in her eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Are you allergic to cotton or something?”

“No.” She huffs again, this time amused. “I just… I can’t believe you made me this. Why?”

“Why?” Your patience begins to fray, words stuttering thick in your mouth. “Abby, I’m really trying to give you the distance you so clearly want from me. What the hell do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, a hint of weariness tinging her voice. Suddenly, all of those defenses are down. She’s yours again, even if she’s reluctant to be, scarred chin quivering and throat bobbing. “I’m sorry.”

Silence stretches between you. Eventually, you have to give it up. You can't do this, can’t get your heart broken a second time. You sidestep her, closing your door and making to head back down the corridor — until she says, “I’m sorry for all of it. Please…”

Abby Anderson is not a small woman, but she looks it when you turn around to see her under the yellow light, stocking in one hand, other curled into a fist. That damn downturned pout makes your knees weak. You want to scream at her to stop: stop looking at you, stop talking with that low, delicate voice, stop playing with you like this. 

But you can’t, because there’s something dark and wrong in her eyes, and you want to know what so you can make it go away. 

So you fold your arms, tiredness weighing on your shoulders. “Please what?”

*

Abby doesn’t know how to articulate it, what this thing in her hand means. How sorry she is for hurting you. How little she deserves the love you’ve so freely given her.

She tries anyway. “I freaked out. You shouldn't love me. I'm not good for you.” 

You sneer, and she deserves it, but it still cuts into her. “Probably should have told me that a year ago.” 

She grinds her teeth together. Tries again. “I’ve loved people before, and it didn’t end well for them.”

Your brows knit together. “What d’you mean?”

“I was the reason they died,” she says, a sudden bite to her words, because she’s thinking of the blood on the aquarium floor, and even though that threat is gone, there will always be another. If not now, then later. She’d make a thousand enemies for you, and that makes her dangerous. She never wants to be dangerous again, not as long as she’s in the walls of this base, with Lev and you. “I can’t ever…” She shakes her head. Looks down at the gift again. There are pompoms stitched to the cuff and her name is embroidered into it and— “Jesus. You made me a stocking.”

“It’s not, like, an engagement ring or anything.” 

She closes her eyes, knowing she probably looks and sounds insane. Flashes of that stupid conversation with Owen, so long ago now, echo in her mind. 

I wish someone loved me enough to make me a stocking.

You don’t deserve one.

You can’t know what it means. She’s watched with awe so many times as your crochet hook glides through yarn. Aren’t you tired yet? she’d ask, because you’d usually pick it up in the middle of the night, after a heavy patrol or a few orgasms, and yet you wouldn’t put it down for hours. You’d told her, later, about your mom. How she’d taught you. How this craft had helped you survive bitter winters. You paused making things that people need to keep warm so that she and Lev had stockings to hang this year. 

And Owen was right all along. She doesn’t deserve it, because she pushed you away, and if she pulls you close now, she doesn’t know if she’ll survive it. 

Her cheeks are wet. She swipes at them, but it’s too late. You’ve seen. You’ve softened. For that, she knows she can’t walk away. Not from you. Not even if it kills her. 

“Abby, whatever happened to the people you loved before… that’s not going to happen to me,” you whisper. “If you’re pushing me away because you’re scared, I need you to stop now. I need you to tell me how you really feel, because I… I meant what I said. And I understand if you don’t feel the same, but I don’t understand why you’re crying over a stocking.”

You’re wrong. You’re already hurt. She’s not a fool. She knows you threw yourself into that assignment to avoid her.

She takes a steadying breath and inches closer. You stiffen but don’t retreat.

“I liked it when Lev was the only person I had to be responsible for. I can take care of one person. I can keep one person. I can just about deal with the fear of losing him, because I know that, as long as I keep training him, and as long as he keeps me around, I won’t let anyone touch him,” she says. “But you… I can’t…” Why is it so damn hard to find the words? “With you, I have to wonder if you’ll come back every time you leave. You were gone for four days, and I lost my fucking mind. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think about anything but whether or not you were bleeding out somewhere, and it made me want to…” Another sob threatens to escape. She swallows it down. “I almost went off base to come find you.”

“Abby…” You soften, and that means she's said the right thing, which is actually the wrong thing, because being honest with you is selfish. Keeping you is selfish. More than that, it’s terrifying to have this thing she could so easily lose. She would break without you. The I love you didn’t change that, only ensured it, and so all she wanted was to reverse the fall. Keep you at arm’s length so she could go back to the safety of before. 

Except the bruises on your jaw, and the stocking in her hand, and the way you are so understanding even now, all confirm that there is no going back. She’s in this, and she’s a fool for thinking that could change with the silent treatment.

God, she’s a dick. 

You cup her face, then, and she feels the air reenter her lungs, just like that. “You think I’m not scared, too? God, I told you I loved you, and you stopped talking to me. You think that’s not fucking terrifying? You can hurt me so easily…”

She takes your hand in her free one, turning her face with the urge to kiss your palm. Only she isn’t entitled to that. Not now. “I know. I’m so sorry.” 

“You said that already.”

“Because I mean it.” She dips her chin, forehead resting against yours. 

“Then where do we go from here, because honestly? I’m confused.” 

She doesn’t know the answer, or maybe she does but she’s still afraid. But then she looks down. Thinks maybe the fact that she stands with a stocking in her hand is proof enough that you are different. 

That, this time, it will be different. 

Nobody can take her from you, because she won’t let them. You’ve chosen her, told her she deserves this thing that only ever taunted her before, and she doesn’t want to keep making you regret it. 

“I messed up,” she says. “I want to make it right. Will you let me?”

“I don’t know. What’s in it for me?” You smirk, and she already knows that means your answer is yes.

“I can think of a few things.” Gently, she tucks your hair behind your ear. “I got you a gift too. It isn’t nearly as good as a stocking, but I think you’ll like it.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. 

“And what does that make us? Are you going to freak out on me if I accidentally tell you I love you again?”

“No. I’m going to tell you…” It’s hard, uprooting the words from the cave they’d been planted in, deep inside her, but for you, she curls both fists around them and yanks. “I’m going to tell you that I love you, too.”

It’s worth the fear for the wobbly, lopsided smile you give her. “Well, what an unexpected turn of events.”

She snorts, swiping over that bruise with ever-niggling concern. “Don't be so fucking smug about it.”

“Why not?” 

And then she kisses you, and it feels like a part of her has been rewritten, the stocking soft in her hand and you softer still. 

Later, you’ll go back to the party and you’ll force her to dance with Lev. Then, when the rest of the base is asleep, she'll take you back to her room and kiss sorries all over your skin, and you will get teary-eyed over the gift she got you — a basket of bright and wonderful yarn and a book of new patterns. She’ll teach herself how to crochet with clumsy fingers so that, the following year, your stocking will be hung with hers and Lev’s in your little corner of Catalina Island, and it will not be like it was before. She will come to realise that maybe she does deserve her stocking after all, but only because you keep making her new ones, a tradition that spans longer than she thought would be possible.