#everestw

Now the cold is getting to her, the silence of the still, stale air deafening, and as she looks up and down the station, she realizes how quickly she’s running out of options. Her hands start to shake as they sit hidden in her pockets and she wills her feet to move forward again: down the platform, toward the pacing woman, all the while wondering how this lady could be frantic and cracking and wearing such a pristine business outfit at the same time. It doesn’t matter. This square’s bound to have change, right?

So Sarah gives in, that urging feeling to approach returning and propelling her forward. Just. Slowly. The woman is still crying and Sarah is most definitely about to interrupt something. She doesn’t belong in this situation, she’s not supposed to be here, she’s really not supposed to be doing this. Desperate times, she figures, but her head tilts forward and to the side, engaged but timidly submissive, her steps unsure and cautious and it’s the slowest she’s moved in weeks.

In, out. In, out. Sarah starts to tell herself this as she weaves through the platform’s central pillars, following the pattern of the woman’s pacing closely, before biting back a laugh. She should be able to breathe just fine, even while raw instincts war with budding apprehension. It’s her who needs to take deep breaths. In, out, in, out, in…oh. She stopped crying.

The woman has also stopped pacing, and as Sarah gets closer she notices a rigid calm sweep over her. It’s forced, Sarah can see that easily, but the sudden lack of sobs, the sudden lack of noise, makes the empty platform air all the more stagnant. Sarah shivers but keeps moving forward.

Because the woman stands there in place and steps out of her shoes. She stands there in place and slowly peels off her jacket. She stands there in place, silent and still and determined and breaking, and a visceral roar is building at the back of Sarah’s mind. What’s she doing, what’s she thinking, why is she…why is she giving up is she giving up is this it, what’s her plan, what do I have to do to stop… The woman places the carefully folded jacket on the ground.

By the time denial catches up with her racing mind, closing up her throat and keeping her feet in motion, “are you alright?” on the edge of her teeth and eyes on the verge of bleeding forward to somehow stop the woman’s detached movements, the woman is turning. Sarah is aware of a sudden rising panic, a strange kind of concern, an urge to run away but also toward: all filling up her chest and making her heartbeat resound loudly in her ears, and this woman is turning. Turning to face her.

With shoulders high and then limp, deep breaths entering and exiting haphazardly from cold lips, tears are clogged now and sobs are suppressed and any hitches of breath have no means of escape. The woman seems sure of this fact, and Sarah…Sarah can…see it in her face. Her face. Because her face and her face are one and the same and this woman has Sarah’s face and maybe then again it’s nothing like Sarah’s face because Sarah’s face has never looked: so tired, so slack, so empty of…of anything and everything and…and.

Sarah is frozen in place, joints locked up and hands clammy, but she knows she can’t be still. Movement, movement, movement is necessary right now and Sarah needs to engage right now and…and. The blood rushes from her face and her expression blankens into an arresting surprise and her body leans back almost on its own accord, but she needs to explore. She knows she needs to investigate and discover and push forward and this is scary and this is new but something potent and undeniable draws her to this woman with the same face, this woman who obviously is connected to her somehow—some twin sister? Could this be it? Could this really be it, the moment that Sarah’s family erupts from the shadows on a dark train station platform, a completely unknowable phenomenon, a one in a million chance at something real, something meant to be?

And yet everything is moving slow. On the very precipice of self-discovery, time is crawling down the mountain slope and Sarah is trying…trying to make sure this is real. She wants to reach out and touch her, just ever so slightly, just ever so much enough, but there’s a wall between them. Or maybe a door. And as they stand there in that sliver of a moment, quiet and still, Sarah waits for her throat to open up again so her tongue can open it and she can move forward, forward, forward.

The problem is that they’ve run out of time. The woman’s expression has solidified now, the epitome of steadfastness, as if this meeting simply confirms her suspicions or strengthens her decision. And then she’s turning again, turning away, turning to her left, posture slack and painfully open and feet moving as if heading towards a dead end. It’s plain in the way she carries herself: there’s no need to fight this anymore and no reason to either, no energy to take back control and no means of using it even if she could. This woman is losing, or maybe she’s winning, or maybe she’s just refusing to play the game.

But Sarah is losing this chance, this strange and wonderful chance that burst from thin air, and she’s telling herself to move. She’s enraptured by this woman and everything about her and suddenly there’s a light growing brighter in Sarah’s face but she’s trying to ignore it, trying not to blink, trying not to miss anything, screaming at herself to goddamn move. There’s a rumbling somewhere, violent vibrations building and coursing through the ground and into her feet, and Manning, move move move mo—

“Hey, wait.” The words tumble out of her mouth as she reaches forward and grabs the woman’s wrist and pulls back. Pulls back, away from an oncoming train, letting it pass them, as the woman’s chin collapses against her chest.

The suspicion of suicide stopped becoming important the second Sarah saw the woman’s face, but now, now that the immediate danger is rolling to a harmless stop and opening its doors to benevolent passengers, it’s the only thing crowding her mind. She isn’t sure if… Are you supposed to apologize for stopping a stranger’s suicide?

Sarah doesn’t know but the woman isn’t moving, doesn’t seem to care about her wrist in a stranger’s hand, doesn’t seem to be aware of much of anything besides the sobs that are attacking her chest again, in earnest this time, with no hope of a dam or safety net to hold them back.

“Wait…” Sarah’s words are fading and growing less sure of themselves, forming circles on her tongue, never really getting anywhere. But neither of the two even register the clumsy sound the words make. They simply stand in the aftermath of an event that was never supposed to happen and try to make sense of the stagnant silence and frigid wind that envelop them and separate them and bring them closer all the same.

Once Sarah realizes she’s still holding the woman’s wrist—tightly, securely, maybe overwhelmingly—the need to apologize bubbles back up into her throat. She just isn’t sure for what, or maybe where to start. She can’t find her voice, and her balance feels off. Better to keep holding onto the woman. For both of their sakes’.

Sarah drags them both to where the woman’s clothing and purse still lie on the ground, glancing around to make sure no one is paying attention. Only a trickle of a crowd is heading toward the idle train, not enough to be concerned about, so Sarah moves on. Her hands need something to do, they need a task to keep them busy, and this is how she steadies herself.

“Sorry, I just…” The words are scratchy and useless as they drift through the stale air. Sarah is rummaging through the woman’s bag and despite not hearing any signs of protest, she apologizes. Her chest feels full of sorry’s she can’t really comprehend, but she pushes the rest back down for now. Better to just find a wallet…look at the ID…confirm this is all really happening. “Um, Miss Childs? I want to…well, we should…”

“I-It’s Beth.”

“Beth? I’m Sarah.”

“I know.”

“I, uh…we should talk, but…for now is there, um…a place I could take you or…”

When an hour or so had passed, her feet protesting loudly in the shabby boots she was certainly not used to wearing yet, she turned the corner on a small dock she hadn’t noticed before. There were only three ships stationed there and the place seemed abandoned; the sudden transition from constant noise to an almost silence made Beth’s skin crawl.

Still, there was the target in question and it looked exactly as dilapidated as the patrol had reported. There was so much scrap metal threatening to fall off the ship, so much chipped paint covering the sides, Beth had to pause and take a deep breath before she could force herself to approach.

“Manning?” She called out, knocking hollowly on the hull before taking a generous step back from the loading bay door. Hearing her voice sound clear and foreign, her shoulders loosened further and her posture fell into something more casual. She allowed herself a small smile. Perfect, so the voice disguise works then. “This Sarah Manning’s ship?”

“Who wants to know?” Beth spun around and tried not to seem too startled by being faced with…well, almost myself. Dammit, I’ll never get used to this. Her only solace was that Sarah Manning—there was no question about it being her—just looked suspicious and irritated, not shocked or taken aback or like she’d seen a ghost. All the tech works then, even facial configuration.

Beth walked over and outstretched a hand, unsurprised that Sarah didn’t take it. “Um, I want to know.” Confident, but not too confident. Let her take the lead on this, let her think you’re submissive enough to only barely be a threat. “I’ve heard stories about you and I was wondering—”

“Stories?” Sarah scoffed and rolled her eyes, everything but her shoulders feigning relaxed control. Beth could see she was ready to react at any second, reflexes coiled like a taut spring, the decision between fight and flight apparent and familiar. Like constantly looking in a mirror. “What stories. I’m a nobody from nowhere, and so are you by the looks of it. Whatever you want, you’re not gonna find it here.” She started walking past and toward her ship when Beth grabbed her wrist and was pierced with a glare so sharp she almost let go immediately. Is that how I would look like…? No. Different people.

“Wait, please hear me out.” Beth kept the grip firm, but loosened it just slightly. Sarah pulled away with a jerk. “I need to ask you a favor. Well, no, I mean, I can pay you. Er, up front and everything. But this is…this is life or death and I think you’re my best bet.”

Sarah was hesitating and Beth couldn’t ask for more. “What makes you say that?” Beth almost huffed in frustration, it wasn’t like they had all the time in the world here. And she hadn’t expected Sarah Manning to be nearly this oblivious of her local fame.

“Because I know you.” Beth bit her lip. “Well, of you. You’re Sarah Manning, the grifter. The con artist, the runaway.” The unmonitored trap, as I’ve often heard. That’s why I’m here. The return of her glare made Beth speed forward quickly. “But you’re also a legend. Sarah Manning, the wild type, the best and the bravest.” And let’s hope for my sake, a very, very good sister. “I need help and I’m coming to you because I know you can give it to me. Look, I just…I need you.” Manning, I swear, you need me more than you can know.

Sarah was looking away, not at her shoes, not somewhere so low so her guard could fall, but clearly avoiding Beth’s gaze. Did the speech come out too personal? Did I make myself more suspicious? Silence lapsed between them thickly and Beth struggled to keep her posture from slipping into a form rigidly at attention. “What…what is it you even want me to do for you, exactly?”

As the paper in front of her filled, Sarah found herself drawing further and further away from the original muse.

The real Beth was rooted securely in the chair before her, engrossed in some worn paperback, slouching and comfortable, hair worn down and straight. The corners of her mouth tugged just slightly into a ghost smile, an almost smile, or her eyebrows pulled together to discuss whatever complicated plot-line she was sure to be reading.

But the Beth on paper was grinning or smirking or laughing or sticking her tongue out. Her posture was bouncy and aimed high, loose and animated. Only one Beth had her hair straight while the rest wore it wet and curly or messily braided or just barely pulled back. And where her expressions were all heavy lines and stark contrasts, her eyes exacting and easily recognizable, her shoulders fluid and effortless, her hair seemed less certain of itself in comparison. The outlines were faint and constantly changing direction, always varying, most of the time spiraling, losing themselves in each other before being found again in a completely different place.

But every shaky strand or sloping muscle line served solely to highlight her face: a curl just above the smile in her eyes or a wave laying against the trembling laugh in her jawline, the tilt of her head following the upward pull of her cheeks or the asymmetry of her shoulders mirroring a crooked smirk.

Guiltily, Sarah would admit Beth looked like a completely different person on paper. Because on paper, she was the mere glimpses Sarah rarely saw, the moments she had to guess at, the spaces needing to be filled in. Beth was an endless supply of possibilities and while Sarah wanted to explore every one of them, she wasn’t sure she had— that anyone had enough paper for it.

When the page was full, she set her pencil down. Beth’s hand had moved. Shifting away from propping up her chin, it settled itself lazily across her book, fingers curled protectively around the corner. Sarah immediately started mentally tracing over the outline of her knuckles.

But Beth noticed. She glanced up when Sarah stopped moving and made an overly apparent effort to avert her eyes from the hollowed sketchbook. “What, you done already?”

Sarah looked up at the expression that finally faced her, taking in as much as she could in the moment she was given. She realized she might have drawn Beth’s hairline a little off when the subject in question cleared her throat to prompt an answer. “Uh, no. Not yet. Just finished a page.” Sarah made a point of making the papers rustle together as she flipped to the next blank white.

“How much do you need exactly?” Beth raised an eyebrow and Sarah took careful note of the angle, the way it arched, the way it bowed.

“More.” Sarah said simply as she turned back to the sketchbook. Absently she started sketching the outline of a face in case Beth was peeking. “Not sure with this teacher, so, better safe than sorry.”

“Right, well,” Beth turned back to her book and Sarah took the opportunity to hastily erase the budding sketch. “That posing offer is still on the table.”

“I’m keeping that in mind, trust me.” Sarah said with sarcasm heavy and heartbeat light. Her pencil sketched two hands, opposite hands, one folded gently over the other, one more calloused than the other, one resembling a nearby hand flipping the page in a book, the other resembling a nearby hand trying to keep a captured pencil from shaking.

“Hello, Sarah. It’s Alison.” Her next breath left like a cool breeze on a hot day: the epitome of relief. “Which I wouldn’t have to mention if Cosima hadn’t let it slip that you never put my number in your phone. Very mature, Sarah, very considerate.” She almost hung up right then and there, relieved or not. Deleted the message with an eye roll and focused on getting ready to pick up Kira from school. She really didn’t need a lecture. But Alison continued and her voice dropped low and something like warning bells went off in the back of Sarah’s mind. She let it play.

“But that’s not what I…I, um, I wanted to talk to you about Beth. Actually.” The words slipped around her head like colorless fog until she felt numb, the blood-metal taste of guilt returning with a vengeance.

“I know you had good reasons for leaving, and I know you were doing what you thought was best for you and Kira. And I’m not judging, I might have considered the same myself if I was in your situation. But even, so you can’t ignore that Beth…well, I can’t ignore that she can’t…er, I mean to say, running away isn’t always the best…” Alison was struggling to find the right words and her uncharacteristic uncertainty didn’t help in the slightest. Sarah’s stomach was in her throat and her lungs felt overcrowded by breaths that refused to leave.

“Just— look. Beth, she’s…she’s not doing well, hasn’t been for a while now, and I think you should come to visit. Just for a…a-a weekend maybe. I think it’ll really help. Her, I mean. Because I’ve tried talking to her, especially in the beginning and all, but after a while…well, you know Beth. Determined to figure out things on her own. I just…I can’t imagine it’s working this time.” Sarah’s hand was tangled in her hair and she found herself leaning heavily against the nearest wall, pressing the phone to her ear all the more closer.

“So please call me back and we can figure out all the details. I suppose I can lend you the money for tickets and you can stay by me if you need to, that way Kira will be out of the way and can play with the kids in the meantime. I don’t think you should bring her by Beth’s, to be honest.” There was a slight pause and Sarah’s breath would have caught if she had any room left in the cluttered jail cell of her ribcage. “I completely understand that this is very out of the blue, but I’m worried, Sarah, and I’d rather not be. Especially not about this, not about Beth. Just call me back. Please. Bye.”

Beth’s phone wouldn’t stop beeping. A pillow clamped down over her head only helped so much and pulling the blankets over her face did next to nothing, but the damn thing was across the room. And it was cold—Beth was so tired.

But it just wouldn’t fucking stop.

Eventually she dragged herself up and out of bed, rubbing at her eyes violently, shivering despite the hoodie and sweatpants she had fallen asleep in. She unlocked the phone and glanced through the notification bar. It was a long list:

missed call: Art

voicemail: Art

missed call: Art

voicemail: Art

missed call: Art

voicemail: Art

missed call: Art

missed call: Art

missed call: Alison

missed call: Art

missed call: Art

voicemail: Art

She groaned and put it back down, turning the ringer off and heading back to bed. She hadn’t even pulled back the covers to bury herself in warmth again when the doorbell rang.

“Bloody hell.” The words just slipped out, but there was no one around to apologize to for them, not anymore. So she left them hanging there, hovering limply in an accent they were never meant for. She tried to ignore the bitter taste ghosting over her teeth as she headed for the front door.

Sarah hated planes. They moved fast, carried a lot, were relatively comfortable. But there was also a sense of permanence and loss of control that made her uneasy. Not only was she at the complete mercy of modern technology and the very air itself, but she had to endure that for six hours. So she pretended to be asleep, pretended to be interested in the movie that was playing, pretended to distract herself, pretended not to think about what would be waiting for her when she landed.

At least she didn’t have to worry about Kira. Too much. The little girl asked her fill of questions when she found Sarah packing once they got home earlier that day. Granted, most of the questions received one-word, non-answers, but she didn’t push farther than that. Now she was nestled on another plane, watching the Atlantic stretch out beneath her, and her mom was fidgeting. Nothing was new and there was nothing to say.

“You honestly had to pick me up like I was a goddamn child?” Beth hissed as she dropped herself into her desk chair, sending Art a glare he didn’t register. He was busy gathering a stack of paperwork and wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Well when I call you eight hundred times and you don’t pick up, yeah.” His voice was gruff, nothing out of the ordinary, but it seemed more hushed than usual. “Apparently I do.”

Beth gritted her teeth. “I was gonna take a sick day, alright? Thought you’d have the decency to cover for me.”

“Sure you were. Probably missed your alarm or didn’t even put one on. I know what playing hooky looks like.” Art walked over and dropped the paperwork on her desk with a heavy thud. “So if you really want to do nothing all day, why don’t you file these for me? Just got a new lead on the case, but obviously you think you have more important things to do than showing up for work. Perfectly fine.” He turned to nod at Angie before reaching over to grab his coat.

“Wait, Art.” Beth called after him, only dimly glad he glanced back at her. “What did you say to Alison? She called me too this morning.”

He shook his head and frowned. “Have a nice day, Beth. Here. At work. All day. I’m serious.”

As he left, Beth noticed the other officers watching her, keeping an eye on her. Great. More goddamn babysitters.

“You get enough sleep on the plane, monkey?” Sarah asked gently, holding Kira’s hand tightly as she lead them through the crowded airport. Kira shrugged, rubbing slowly at her eyes, and Sarah bit her lip. “Sorry, baby. When we get to Auntie Alison’s you can go to bed early, yeah? Maybe if you’re good she’ll make you pancakes in the morning. Mmmh, I can taste them already.” She smiled, looked down at her daughter, but Kira didn’t take the bait.

Just kept walking. Walking and rubbing at her eyes, walking and yawning a little, walking and finally speaking up in a small whisper. “You said Beth is sick and that’s why you want to come visit her.” It wasn’t a question but Sarah nodded anyway, whispered a soft affirmation a beat later. “And you don’t want me to come because I might get sick too?”

“No…no, it’s just…” Sarah resisted the urge to run a hand through her hair, knowing Kira would pick up on the nervous tick. “It might be better if she only sees one visitor at a time, you know? We don’t want to overwhelm—”

“Will you get sick too?”

Sarah fell silent but something was screaming at her. Across the airport, she spotted Alison waiting impatiently and she headed over there with Kira’s hand still in hers and quietness blanketing the space between them, but something was screaming at her. Screaming, hissing, growling, roaring. It didn’t matter what it sounded like, it was just loud and hard to ignore. Incredibly hard to ignore. It wasn’t an unfamiliar noise either.

“No. I won’t. Of course not.” The words were final, but empty. Hard and cold to anyone who didn’t know her well enough, but Kira recognized it only went surface-deep. She didn’t question it, though, and the thing just screamed all the louder.

You decided a while ago you were going to protect Kira over Beth. Even longer ago, you realized she came before you too. How dare you think you can change that now?!

Beth dragged herself through the front door later that night, eyes ready to close and fingers ready to shatter. Typed numbers and words still danced across her eyelids but she couldn’t find it in herself to blame Art for it. Obviously if he made the effort to light up her phone so many times, call Alison about it, and personally take her to work, it was because Beth was fucking this up. Royally.

The first thing she did after hanging her coat and dropping her purse and relieving herself of her bun, was set an alarm on her phone. Dutifully she picked the most irritating noise she could find and set it for six in the morning. She was going to do better from now on. She had to.

—Her fingers were still threatening to combust, a headache roared into existence somewhere behind her eyes, she was thirsty—

But it wouldn’t hurt to go slow for now. Recovery is a process, isn’t that what they always say?

So without another second to consider, Beth drew herself up from the couch and into the kitchen. She headed toward the alcohol cabinet like there were railroad tracks of dust on the hardwood and she was just a train car following the only route laid out for her. It wasn’t like she could risk derailing herself all at once, after all.

Once the second drink hit the back of her throat, she laughed at the irony of the analogy. She didn’t want to derail herself, but she certainly wanted the feeling of spiraling out of control. And maybe it took longer than it used to, took much more drinks this time, much more close calls with the floor, but she got there eventually.

Stumbling and careening and roaring along to music that wasn’t hers, breathing through lungs that had felt broken and battered for weeks now, typing out a number she was sure she lost the right to call a long time ago. It didn’t matter (well, it didn’t matter on weekdays around two in the morning, but it wouldn’t on a Friday at ten either). She’d gotten used to throwing herself off the side of the waterfall-dialing stage, ebbing the pleasure away from the cool-relief/familiar-voice waiting at the bottom. It all felt the same anyway, it all ended the same.

Sarah wasn’t sure what she was expecting, exactly. Maybe at least one sign that nothing was the same anymore. Broken windows or tilting mailboxes or haggard bushes or graying grass, something. But then again, Sarah supposed the landlord could afford a gardener, and that steel and glass boxes like these were built to keep up appearances.

But the place was dark, the window shades were drawn, and it would have been eerily quiet if it hadn’t been for the pounding, repeating bass line and the building, transparent drum kit. The Clash. Unmistakable.

A pit was growing in her stomach and it didn’t help that her phone started ringing. Probably Alison, worrying (the thing was starting to scream again as she ignored the call). She couldn’t afford more worrying as she walked up and pressed the doorbell.

Her phone was dialing away, but the screen was spinning. Sarah’s name was shaky and blurry and there was no point in calling if Beth couldn’t read it. With eyes never wavering and focus struggling to stay singular, she fell against her couch with her phone clutched tightly in her hands.

Alison told her once that when you’re spinning or you feel like you’re spinning, you should concentrate on one spot in front of you and it‘ll help steady you again. Beth wasn’t sure this was the right kind of spin—

Somewhere far off she could have sworn she heard the doorbell ring. She froze, phone flashing in her hand, and looked up. Tried to glance through a crack in the shades behind her. There wasn’t a car out front.

If it was that jogger lady “checking in on her” again, reeking of suburbia and not-belonging pressed against so much concrete and that same brand of headbands Alison wore, she was going to scream. Or not answer the door. Her place was dark, she could get away with it, couldn’t—

Oh. The music. It was probably a complaining neighbor instead.

Scrambling to stand up (shit, shit, too fast, too fast, fuck) and make her way to the hallway mirror, she gathered up her hair in the best bun she could manage. Her hands were shaking, her fingers were emptily threading through limp strands, her phone abandoned somewhere back at the couch. Numbly, she turned off the CD player in her room and took two pills from the bedside table, throwing them back and chasing them with a stick of gum.

It would have to do.

Dimly aware that her phone was still lit up across the room, trying so pathetically, so desperately to continue making the call, she almost walked over and hung up. But the action would feel too unfamiliar, too final.

She answered the door instead and didn’t notice there was a phone ringing outside until it stopped and her own phone flashed dark at the same time.

Somewhere inside, Sarah heard hurried footfalls, a thud and an accompanying curse, the music clicking off, and then that one floorboard creak by the front door. At last, it was the locks. Several of them. Several more than she remembered there ever being and something lodged itself in her throat. Her heart was racing, its aftermath pounding just beneath her skin and coursing through her fingertips like fire. Her feet did not want to stay still.

But there was the door swinging open and…and it was her. It was her without a doubt, frayed at the edges and in the midst of crumbling and Sarah couldn’t imagine looking much better herself, but it was definitely,

“Beth.”

Just…just not…all of her. Something was missing in Beth’s eyes, her fingers turned milky as they gripped the door frame, something was missing in the position of her shoulders, her chest drew into itself and expanded in small bursts of wasted energy, there was a hollowness there Sarah couldn’t wrap her head around.

Her blood seemed to be determined to march right out of her skin and she almost growled at herself, Forget the fucking heart, Manning.

Beth opened the door and saw a dream. Saw some sort of lioness-like mythological creature before her and she didn’t realize she was that drunk or that the pills could go into effect that quickly but there it was. Because Sarah Manning couldn’t possible be at her door right now.

But she was and Beth should probably say something. Preferably sooner than later. Not that she had had much experience with hallucinations, but she did with dreams (dreams and nightmares and nightmares and nightmares and dreams and night…). She knew if she didn’t get a hold of…of whatever this was quickly, it would go away.

If she waited too long, Sarah Manning would fade and be lost from her sight for forever again and Beth knew she wasn’t drunk enough to handle that. Not this time.

Her tongue felt swollen and thick but she had to say something and yet nothing came to mind and then everything came to mind and she was counting the seconds until Sarah Manning would turn into smoke. Or maybe mist this time. Either way, something intangible and fleeting and slipping through Beth’s fingers. But then,

“Beth.”

And she laughed.

And she choked. She sounded like she was choking, at least. Like her voice was breaking, like her breath met garbled bubbles in her throat, like she was keeping a sob from escaping.

And Sarah’s fingers itched forward, longed for forward. Needed to move and drift through the space between them and ghost over Beth’s cheek or tug at a strand of hair or rest her hand against a drooping shoulder but she was afraid. She was afraid because the more Sarah stared, the more she was sure that Beth would only collapse into herself if expected to hold up the weight of Sarah’s touch.

And with her tongue deadened between her teeth, her hands limp and useless at her sides, there was nothing Sarah could do to rekindle the spark she remembered Beth used to wear. Deep, but still there. Before, at least. But now…

“Did you, um,” Beth’s voice caught her off guard. The slippery nature of it was foreign and it sounded higher. It’s been a while, how much money would you honestly put on her voice being different all of a sudden? Maybe you just don’t remember it right. “Did you want to come inside?”

Sarah’s chest was filling and burning and she wanted to hide. Or run. Or pull up her hoodie, become invisible, or all three. Because if she went inside…no, stop. If you go inside, then you go into an apartment where there’s just you and Beth. There’s no monsters hiding under the bed, nothing itching from inside the closet. Just you and Beth. It’ll be fine. But that didn’t help.

And maybe that screaming had faded away now and maybe her blood and her silence were working together to write a steady rhythm for her to think to, but she had a feeling that the screaming hadn’t stopped, it was just waiting.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

Beth felt like she was stumbling over her words, stumbling over herself, but they were her words, and it was herself, and this vaporous creature replied to it, to her, with an affirmation. That was more than enough.

She tried to ignore the gnawing in her stomach as she swung the door completely open—something told her that she didn’t want Sarah Manning to see the current state of things. But the other, more prominent part of her wanted to laugh again. Who cared about a dark, messy apartment. Sarah Manning was going to evaporate any second now and if she wasn’t inside by the time she did, the damn atmosphere would absorb her. How could Beth risk that?

Because if she was gonna evaporate, Beth wanted it to be inside her apartment. Where Sarah Manning could be absorbed by a pillow or a chair or the microwave. And then that pillow or chair or damn microwave would feel more like home than anything she had ever had in weeks. And she would love that thing to death.

The image of herself hugging a microwave struck her and she laughed again.

“Did you want a drink? I think I still have a few bottles of that one beer you like.” Beth made her way inside, sticking close to the wall, making sure her arm brushed the plaster at all times. The spinning was back again.

“I, uh.” Sarah Manning’s voice sounded. It was behind her. Beth turned to look at her lips shaping the lilted words. Sarah Manning was closing her door and hesitating over her locks before deciding not to turn any of them and the fluidity of her movements was a vision. “I’ll get it. You sit.”

Beth obeyed and went to the kitchen, setting herself down in one of the high chairs (almost tripping into it on the first try) and watching Sarah Manning open her fridge. She leaned in to grab a beer as her light illuminated the shelves and Beth tried to watch but her head was drooping.

There goes that feeling again, Beth thought absently with a lingering smile. Like falling, falling, always falling…

“Beth…? Beth? Beth.” Sarah didn’t touch her, couldn’t touch her, so raised her voice until the clearly drunk cop’s head snapped up.

Eyes opened, lips frowned, Beth slowly leaned back in her chair. “You…you’re still here.”

“Y-Yeah, I—” Sarah was caught off guard but tried desperately to hide it. She needed to stay on task. “I was just saying that maybe this isn’t the best time to…m-meeting like this, it isn’t what I…I didn’t know you were…I’ll just come back in the morning, yeah? Maybe we could, uh, talk better then.” Beth’s stare was duller than she had ever seen and yet it still pierced straight through Sarah’s lungs—she didn’t dare take another breath until Beth replied.

“You’re still here.” She repeated as if trying to convince herself and patted the chair next to her, ran her fingers over the countertop, rubbed a corner of her shirt between her thumb and index. “Still…”

Sarah cleared her throat. “Right. But you should probably get some sleep, so I’ll…I’ll leave you to it, yeah? See you in the morning?” She stood, her beer forgotten and hardly-touched between them. Neither of them moved.

Never not ever. The words came back to Sarah like a scolding reminder, annoying and limiting and best left in the background. Never not ever again. Sarah lost herself in Beth’s eyes anyway, tried once more in vain to count every fleck of gold, tilted her head ever slightly to catch the forest-ringed undertones. The screaming inside her had stopped, but something was wailing instead.

“Here…” Beth’s voice drifted, muffled, as her chin fell into the crook of her arms. “How long will you stay?” There was no mention of “can”, it wasn’t “how long can you stay?”, there was no question of Sarah’s ability, and she felt the choice’s weight fall heavily on her shoulders.

Never not ever, you promised, you liar, vs. wailing, howling, shivering, needing. Sarah’s hands hid themselves inside their pockets. “Not long,”

Beth nodded like the answer was expected as her expression drew soft and blurred at the edges. “Will you wake me up when you leave then?”

The answer came after a beat, its ending broken and its beginning too loud. Sarah Manning’s form leaned against the counter, but something about her shoulders screamed defiantly against exhaustion. She was at war with herself, Beth could still recognize the signs. Things were tugging at her corners, but her answer still came like there was no question to its ability of being. Just in its staying, just in its honesty. “Only if you actually wake up when I try. I’ll promise if you will.”

Beth’s eyes closed around the familiar phrase like an affirmation and she heard Sarah Manning let out a soft sigh, a loud sigh, a sigh that filled the space between them with smoke and dust and a comfortable kind of remembrance. Of nothing, really. Or of everything.

She wasn’t tired, not in the urgent sense, and instead was hyper aware of what lay unsaid between them. There was still a feeling of vertigo to it, to it all, but Sarah Manning was walking around the counter and coming to sit next to her. She could feel the vibrations of footsteps like a long-forgotten lullaby. And then the invisible line between dream and reality broke with a ghost of a touch.