Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All 11 can smell is the stench of a slow death.

She has not fought in over a year, and she feels like she lost her life somewhere along the way.

For two years, Trigger has been dead and the raw, dreadful sensation coursing through her ribs has gotten worse with each second. She cannot fathom the thought of her decay. She was hardly able to know her, and was only able to understand her better as a corpse.

11 has made amends with her “sibling” and still feels uncomfortable in her own skin. Her brain itches - crawls all over with genetics that aren’t truly hers, thoughts poked and prodded until everything is numb and forgotten. Life is harder when she’s alone, but it’s manageable. She is designed to outlast, to endure, so it has to be. Trigger is chipping away at her, regardless.

Remembering her smile cuts through her like a blade. She can feel the phantom of it, unrelenting to the bone and painfully ripping her organs.

She won’t go a week without visiting Trigger’s grave. She utterly refuses - her body always rejects the reluctance to do so. There’s a souring, aching guilt that always makes it seem like it was her fault she’s dead.

But that might be because she’s spending too much time in her room these days.

(It’s 0500 hours, she tells herself. Wake up.)

11’s heart twitches with a seamless vigor, invisible in her chest and sullen. Daylight creeps against the veils of her curtains, threatening to pierce and illuminate her room with each second. There’s no alarm, no blaring of sirens or ringing of bells. By now, everything is a reflex, and she would much rather be awake than remain asleep. First, she folds the blankets, then fluffs the pillows, then the curtains are perched aside. The windows are preferred half-open, and while they're cooling breezes that she’d prefer to keep shut, they always remain open to remind herself she’s alive. And, when she keeps it up long enough, it starts to dry the cold sweat dampening her sheets. Call it merit.

In the morning, wind slides through the city streets and the world sighs in response and she’s already tired of it. The city is terribly lackluster, uncouth and foreign to her. She’s learned that this life, this peace - is a boring thing, coursing through her veins like a poison with the intent of making her weary. She isn't suited for it, and believes she never will be.

She is in the worst of her years, her nightmarish flashbacks, her loose interpretation of spite and despair. She is retired, and she is depressed.

Despite that, any soldier should follow a code, shall they not?

There should be less differences between then, and now. Time should not change a thing. Her hand runs against her mussed, silver hair, and all that is on her mind is the art of war. These days, she has too much time to think, even when her routine is far from over. It starts with a hot bath to ease old scars, soothing her skin. 11 tries not to stare too much. Still, there’s something gratifying about the shallow cuts in her abdomen compared to the gashes she gave the enemy. She swears she can make a documentary, recalling each and every battle with detail since Trigger was alongside her, granting her enemies passage to a sea of graves.

She pauses.

11 is doing it again: staring at her scars. Every morning, without fail. Then, like boulders, anxiety sinks in her stomach, and it doesn’t seem like it’ll ever go away.

11 cannot shake this habit. She’s certain there’s something wrong with her. She needs to get dressed.

Soon, she drifts around her place like a ghost. It’s quiet and dull through her menial chores. Humbling, maybe. She’s done it far too many times, it almost feels like a type of training. Some kind of exercise to keep her physically stable. 11 has always worked hard, she thinks she can be content with this. But still, the nightmares persist. She can distinctly sense fatigue washing over her body as she works. She tends to gag on air; she’s so tired she can feel her body tremble against the labor, but she pushes through, feral and persistent.

After hundreds of cruel missions, it is only now, when she is alone, that she is terrified to shut her eyes. She is convinced that she is growing weak, and this life is only proof of it. A lack of mental fortitude could ruin any soldier. This was a fact, one she knew all too well - her mental health has been gnawing at her constantly. She hasn’t held a conversation in months.

If her comrades saw her now—

(“Why do you care what they think?” Trigger asked, and Soldier 11 was able to hear anger simmering in her voice as she faced her.

It was the birth of another winter, and all she can feel is the warmth of Trigger’s breath on her face, and the sight of glistening, fluorescent red from her eye mask through a blizzard. She was upset, but not with her.

“I don’t care,” 11 said.

“They’re beginning to see all of us as tools. We don’t have to fight this for them.”

She folded her arms, having grown tired of this conversation. “It’s our duty,” she returned, dourly. “You know this as well as I do; our mission is to suppress this Hollow disaster, no matter the cost.”

“What concerns me is ‘no matter the cost.’ I don’t want to risk casualties by refusing to abandon protocol,” she told her. “I don’t want to risk…”

“Then you shouldn’t have come.” She shuddered, likely to have been from the cold, but Trigger knew it to be from something else.

It ran through her like barbed wire, but Trigger stifled the blow. She’s hurting, and the woman beside her refused to notice. “You don’t mean that. You’re not expendable - not after everything you had to put up with. Not even before that.”

“Since when do you put labels on me?” 11 asked, almost offended.

Trigger smiled, faint and mirthless. The glowing red begins to dim from her mask. “It seems like one of the only ways of getting through to you.”)

—They’d have to understand why.

Why she retired so young, why she lost the will to fight for anything good, anything of meaning following Trigger’s demise. She was there when it happened. There was blood and no body, and she spent days searching for one.

These days she thinks it’s in her best interest to never find one. The nightmares that would chase her after seeing her teammate turned into a monster would hurt her too much. It’s been hundreds of days, thousands of seconds, and they still manage to scar her. It’s not as if she didn’t know what she was in for; people die in her line of work. It’s nearly natural, and anything personal with Trigger would’ve been ill-mannered to begin with.

Still, 11 didn’t know it would hurt this bad. The lasting taste of bile in her throat with regret plaguing her recollections. The countless nights she’d be up late, thinking about her. She didn’t know she could be this desperate for conversation, even if she had brought it on herself. She could’ve just tried to listen to her. Maybe then, she’d be full of life rather than mourning her for years.

She doesn’t do much until evening. The taste of unreasonably hot noodles is a convincing reason for her to go out.

Call it comfort food, a guilty pleasure, her favorite meal. She still likes it a lot, despite everything she’s been through. The head chef, General Chop heartily says, “It’s good to see you’re still around, kid!” Which is easily drowned out by 11 stuffing her face.

There’s always something satisfactory about the numbing taste of loads of chili peppers that she can’t find anywhere else in New Eridu, and refuses to learn how to cook it herself. Calmly, she requests, “Another bowl, please.”

When she finishes that one, she really does want to ask for another, but instead is throwing up in the back of an alleyway. It’s a short and putrid thing, and she knew she didn’t have the stomach for this stuff right now, but she believed that she was fine enough to handle it.

Then she turns and sees her sister, casually stalking. Anby’s silver hair is just how 11 remembers it, and her demeanor is as toneless and plain as it’s ever been. 11 stands tall by instinct.

“You again,” 11 mutters.

“Stomach bug?” Anby asks. “Or bad food?”

She crosses her arms, glaring at her like she’s roadkill. It’s another reflex. “Are you going to lecture me on what a bad diet is?”

Considering Anby’s preference for burgers, that would be way too hypocritical. “No. I’m just wondering about your health.”

“I can handle my own,” she says firmly, trying to bury the fluids trying to crawl back up her throat. Anby had a feeling she’d be difficult, but at least more understanding compared to the other versions of herself.

11 never told her what happened; she’d never confide in her. She wouldn’t be comfortable with doing that. But Anby knew anyway. “Survivor’s guilt is a common movie trope,” she mentions offhandedly, like that wouldn’t make 11's blood run cold. “Especially in war films.”

“Get to the point.”

Anby lets out a light sigh, her gaze pointing at the ground beside 11, then back at her. “I… know what kind of person you are, and I know that I can’t tell you to move on. But this life won’t suit you.”

Every word that comes out of Anby’s mouth has 11 seething. She can’t suppress that animosity; it’s burrowed deep within her conscience, with no hope of getting it out. “What life suits me then, Zero?”

“One where you can be loved.”

And, 11 hopes - she prays for there to be some silver lining, something hidden underneath Anby’s words, because it can’t be that simple. But it never settles in front of her, and Anby reminds her, “Also, don’t call me ‘Zero’. It’s Anby.”

11 wants to scoff, but she doesn’t want to risk throwing up again. “Fine.”

She’s missing a usual bite in her tone that leaves Anby… worried? Concerned.

“I’m serious,” she says. “It’s important not to hide in the past.”

“I’ll take your advice,” she replies, leaving like they never talked to begin with. She thinks she’s going to pass out if she stays outside any longer, so she needs to go to bed.

—

It’s been a while since she had a normal dream - a reasonable one that wasn’t also a piece of history - and tonight was no different.

(“This won’t be the last time we meet.”

Trigger told her that years ago. It was one of the last nights they were in the same dorm, that same base, and soon, they’d never be in this room again. It sounded gentle and clean from Trigger’s mouth - like it were certain, or as if she could see the future. As though she’d made a promise with all the wrong words, and only in the way Soldier 11 would understand.

“You don’t know where I’ll be heading.” She said, but it was coated with a self-inflicted misery; pain lingered in her voice. “If the squad disbands…”

“…We will disappear. I know,” she said dismissively. “But there’s no shame in seeing you again. You will still be among the living.”

Shame applied to a traitor, an enemy derived from dirty tactics, an act of insubordination.

But never to Trigger.

It couldn’t have possibly been for Trigger. Warmth blossomed in 11’s chest so easily; it can’t be helped. 11 wanted to spill out words - where she plans to live, what she plans to do with her life. That way Trigger can find her. Though tempting, she wasn’t supposed to. There was supposed to be confidentiality amongst retirees.

She knows what she signed up for, but…

It’s a dumb rule. Stupid. Trigger would agree with her on that. It’s not right for them to forget their comrades, like plumes of smoke against an endless wind. Fading until it was like they had never existed at all. It wouldn’t be right.

“When will we meet again?” 11 asked, and Trigger smiled softly. She liked when 11 asked questions. Her smile was always bright and full of teeth and it was something she’s done for years, and it’s always been able to make 11 ache. It’s supposed to be softening the blow for what she had planned to say next.

“…I don’t know. I would have told you hundreds of times if I did.” That’s honesty; the kind 11 doesn’t want to hear, which leaves her startled for a short moment - she wants to mask it somehow, and fast. She bites her tongue until she can taste blood.

She was so used to Trigger having the right thing to say, and this lack of closure made her feel defective.

“Don’t worry,” she continued, and 11 would insist that she hadn’t to begin with, but the slight hitch in her breaths entailed a different story. “You won’t feel alone. Not forever, at least.”

It felt like the first time Trigger had lied to her. But it sounded so sweet to hear as the truth.)

The rest of her dreams are not as tolerable.

11 is forced up with a stifled gasp at the crack of dawn. She finds her pulse pounding in her throat, with untimely staccatos serving as her heartbeat, reverberating and uncontrollably loud. She snaps to full awareness, combat-ready with a firearm from her bedside drawer. Then she scours the area, her palms itching to identify the source of her trauma.

A songbird, hardly grown. Tapping on her window this early morning, and chirping occasionally.

It was never an ambush. Never the scent of foul betrayal or deception. Never an enemy with the plan of killing her in her sleep.

It’s only a bird.

And—oh, god, she had every intention of shooting it. She puts the gun away, clinging onto a vague sort of shame with that itching sensation lingering. Her vision dims, and the creases of her eyes go back to a weary, tired state. The sudden flashes of gunshots and rugged shouting ripple through her for a bit longer. Memories of an unpleasant life she knows she won’t live through again.

Breathing is so difficult, she almost forgets she has lungs and lets the tension flow for a moment. Slowly, she reminds herself that none of this is what her body thinks it is. She should get out of bed, since staying asleep was looking to be impossible. Begin her routine. She’s rifling through her chores slower, making sure the time lengthens.

She throws up more often. Either before thinking of Trigger, or after. It’s bad and the colors seem to bend in her sight until they all look bleak. Her insides are hollow and cold, seeming to worsen with her departure. Almost as if being occupied with her was the only thing keeping them warm to begin with. This can’t be what death feels like, she thinks. It can’t be this terrible. She’s familiar with people going out in a blaze of glory or receiving merit post-mortem, but not this. This was unbecoming, and she’d rather actually die than let it continue.

So she considers killing herself.

She really does, and it begins to make sense for a short while. Vividly, she can conjure images of blood gently painting her silver hair. She’s left to perish here, soon to decay and her brain is a mess, scattering across the wooden floor. But, maybe she wouldn’t be thinking after it’s all said and done, and that is so comforting to consider.

There’s a looming feeling in her stomach that brings that idea to a halt. 11 finds it cowardly above all, so she can’t resort to that. She knows she won’t - she can’t bring herself to. She thinks about the lack of proper burial, and how she’d be no better than an Ethereal.

Today, she misses Trigger’s voice, so she calls her. It’s supposed to have Trigger’s voice telling her to leave a message. Sometimes 11 leaves one, sometimes she doesn’t. But she knows no one’s there, and she knows Trigger will never be there.

She clutches onto that phone like it’s her lifeline anyway. She knows her number by heart, and when it’s ringing, someone actually picks up. The receiver only picks the hitch of a breath. 11 can acknowledge the awkward silence, harsh and widening with each passing second.

“Long time, no see.” Trigger eventually says, and 11 believes she can hear it perfectly against the staticky bits of the phone connection. A lasting mark of delusion, like the sound of a ghost to haunt her.

She thought it could be a ruse. A sick joke, one where there’s no punchline and all it does is make her blood boil. But she knows this voice; it’s etched into her mind with no chance of it ever leaving. It’s soft, infectious. She’s heard it alongside the crease of every smile, every laugh, and every mission.

“Are you alive?” She asks, but she also wants to ask how she isn’t dead, and why it’s taken so long to see her. She feels dozens of thoughts crash over her like tidal waves, but she wants to ask this one for now.

“Yeah,” she starts, slowly. “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting so long. I know it’s not your style.” Then, after a moment, “I want to see you.”

“You don’t—!”

She stops. She wants to reel in the emotions flooding her chest. The relief. The dismay she’s felt. The bubbling anger that could spray itself all over the phone. Either she’s changed, or she’s deathly tired.

“You don’t have the right to ask that of me,” she starts, trying to be strong but her voice breaks at the same time. “How can I ever trust you after all this time, or not to lie to me again.”

“I never lied to you,” she says. “I just… never told you.”

“I mourned you.”

And she wants to add, do you understand what that’s done to me?

“I’m sorry.” 11 can hear her voice quiver and that’s when she begins to hesitate. Trigger would know what it must feel like, to never be able to talk to someone again. To experience loss. To witness everyone she knows begin to drop like flies.

Trigger wouldn’t want to feel that again. Not on purpose, at least.

Like the rest of her emotions, 11 buries these ones for now. This phone call will start to kill them if they let it.

“I want to apologize better,” she says. “In the same place as you. If you’re still angry…I’d want to feel that as well.”

“I…” she hesitates, clings onto the closest place, the best answer she can think of for that. “The ramen place on Sixth Street, midnight.”

There’s no goodbyes, no need to say anything else. 11 doesn’t need to tell her to be on time. The receiver clicks, and that was it. 11’s heart is bleeding, and she already feels nauseous again.

She doesn’t do anything for the rest of the day. She gazes at the sunrise, waiting. All she can think of is endless strands of blonde hair, the sound of a soothing voice, and gentle, calloused hands.

(There was a thick, syrupy delay in her conscience. It tugged at the edges of her mind, closing in like it was all 11 knew.

They were in a Hollow that day; it was drizzling, dreary. The sun was gone, and soon, Trigger would be.

“I don’t think you’d want to die all by yourself.” Trigger said. “Nobody does.”

Soldier 11 felt fingers intertwined with her own. Trigger didn’t ask for permission. She was facing her, giving her that needy, flushed expression that made 11 feel uncomfortable but warm all at the same time. It was almost crippling in a place like this. 11 always made it rather clear that she shouldn’t be touched, and yet.

She doesn’t feel tempted to push her away.

Trigger was caressing the digits, savoring the outline of her fingers. It made 11’s ribs ache, while her stomach unfurled like a wildfire. Trigger was admiring her. Smiling when she feels a firm knuckle, grinning when she can sense 11’s heartbeat soar. It was an unwarranted intimacy, and one that they’ve never had.

11 tasted a ball of saliva run down her throat. “I don’t…think we get the right to choose.”

Trigger made a short, soft sound in approval. “Mm. I wish we could change things.”

11 wanted to agree, but what she told her is, “I can’t. Not with you.”

“Why not?” Her fingers stopped.

“We’re in this for a reason. I don’t want to change that.”

“What if you’re given the opportunity to be something you’re not?”

There was no nice answer that she knew of, and she couldn’t afford to get sidetracked. “That would be too much of a distraction,” she murmured.)

—

11 may be a little hard-headed, so she tries the extra-extra-extra spicy noodles again, with the same result as before. She is so upset by it.

But she also sees Trigger approach.

Trigger, out of military clothes, still donning that metallic blindfold, unseeing but still vigilant. Her blonde ponytail still reaches down to her waist, and everything’s complemented with a small, faint smile by default, which seemingly brightens up the dark abyss 11 was just being pitiful in. She’s glad she’s in the right place, despite not fully being aware of what’s happened.

Something inside of 11 is aching because in her eyes, she hasn’t changed a bit.

“You’re early.” Trigger says, her voice holding onto something tentative and nervous.

So are you, 11 wants to say, but she feels so awful after throwing up again. For now, all she can muster is a shallow breath, still trying to register her appearance in her mind.

“…Did something happen? Allow me to come closer.”

“I’m sick,” she admits, shortly. “Keep your distance.” Trigger is quick to disobey. She can already “see” images of her sick, silver-haired comrade sourly approaching her lack of sight, as soon as she takes another step. Right now, 11 detests that - the immediate visions which Trigger has. It makes her skin crawl endlessly because she can’t hide how terrible she appears. Her vitals are on full display, and they’re akin to a walking corpse.

It’s a first for Trigger, and she tries to not seem too surprised, but it’s so easy to fail at that. “You wanted to meet here to get noodles?”

“Under better circumstances, but the plan remains the same.”

“Can you stomach anything at all? How did this start?”

11 knows she’s not dying, despite feeling that way, and Trigger’s concern feels like salt in a wound. “Let’s talk anywhere other than here.”

11 is leading Trigger, she’s taking Trigger to her car, and the realization begins to coldly creep up from her feet to her chest that Trigger is alive, that she’s never been dead and the past two years were almost meaningless. She knew she would always care about another soldier killed in action, but this sensation, this feeling where she wanted to die just to get closer to Trigger…

It scared her. And she’s not the type to get frightened by anything.

She doesn’t know if she wants to hug her or scold her, and her body feels weaker even considering the slightest action. For now, she’s only relieved. But she feels underdressed; naked. She’s grown defective without her and she knows that for sure.

The frown that’s been painting Trigger’s face is a bit easier to see against the moonlight. Trigger comes out and says it:

“I faked my death,” there’s a dark blue light from her mask. It deepens her expression, looking like something sorrowful. “But it was for you. I wanted to convince you to quit, because I wanted to start again. And I know that would never work with me talking to you normally. So I tried something terrible in the Hollow.”

“…Was it worth it?” 11 already has made up her mind on that.

“I don’t think I’ll ever have the answer for that.”

“I don’t think you’ll ever have my trust again.”

“It was selfish,” she admits, while her heart feels like deflating. “I was selfish, wasn’t I? But the truth is that… I might’ve been afraid of losing you. And watching you fight for your life every day was getting unhealthy for me. I couldn’t stand it.”

The thought of forgiving Trigger makes her feel even more sick. But she feels like forgiving her is all she can do. Maybe she was in the right, maybe she wasn’t. It didn’t matter now, it was all such a long time ago. She couldn’t bring herself to come to a conclusion so easily.

“Do you have a weapon?” She asks, trying to create anything resembling a conversation to take her mind off it. Anything she knows well, anything she can rely on. The military.

“The sniper’s stashed where I’ve been staying. But…”

“Unless you’ve planned to betray me, there is no reason for you to bring one.” She says coldly, and Trigger’s demeanor hardly changes.

“If that were the case, you wouldn’t have seen me coming. A gun just makes me feel comfortable.” 11 stares, and Trigger adds, “I feel like you have a weapon, too.”

She tries not to get too stiff in her seat, ignoring that she did, in fact, keep a combat knife at all times. “Spicy noodles are enough to keep me comfortable in most situations, which is why this meeting point is adequate.”

“The noodles that made you puke, right? How come? I thought they were your favorite? Unless something’s happened—”

“Nothing’s happened,” she cuts her off. “It’s likely to be food poisoning. It’ll be sorted out soon.”

“There’s bile on your breath, too...”

11 wrinkles her nose at that. Why did she care to smell what’s on her breath? “It’s unnecessary to be so concerned. I’m fine. I can handle everything, so let’s just… sit.” Trigger follows her lead, trying not to sigh in response.

So they just sit there, quietly, letting the chatter of cicadas fill in the void of their conversation. This isn’t much of anything - there’s still something lacking and this night is endless and the silence between them is growing rotten.

“You’re struggling to be alone,” Trigger eventually says, and it’s strikingly evident from how the girl beside her just twitched.

11 stares into the night sky for what seems like an eternity, dazed from the remark and trying to crush any mounds of frustration boiling inside of her. Years of discipline in the making, and it’s only this that makes her want to crumble and sob like she’d never been hurt before. She knows she’s ruined, like many of her “siblings,” and it’s completely Trigger’s fault.

Once she catches herself, she soon says:

“I wouldn’t allow myself to struggle.”

It’s an easy lie to tell. But, Trigger’s face changes to something mixed; it’s dull and almost appears disappointed in her, like she has a feeling there’s more to it. “So you’re merely alone. Just like me,” she replies, somber against 11’s bluntness.

“I’m not like you,” she snaps, tone low and black. “I’d never do what you do - what you’ve done.”

But her heart begins to squeeze because she knows there’s a difference. There weren’t any signs of exhaustion that marred Trigger’s pale skin, nor was there any bitterness in her voice. They were both soldiers, yet one had come out better than the other in the end. What 11 couldn’t understand was why she was so flawed. She thought she had done everything right.

“I know.” A pause. “But everyone has regrets, right? It wouldn’t make them human, otherwise.”

“I’m assuming you still do?”

“Why do you think I came early? I regret abandoning you, not just faking my death.”

11 finds something hot, spiraling in her chest like an inferno. 11’s had years to think about it all, and yet, she still tells her, “It’s never been in my mind to change how things are.”

Trigger purses her lips, on the verge of saying something against that. Hesitating, she says, “That should bother you more.”

But it doesn’t, and now 11 isn’t too surprised that she’s been sick to begin with.

She admits to one thing, “I don’t like where I’m living.”

“Tell me more.”

11’s first thought is to tell her it’s empty, because she lives all by herself. What comes out is, “You’re not my therapist. I’m not telling you anything of value. Anything that would leave me vulnerable, you’re not getting.”

Trigger’s lips part in disbelief. “You have a therapist now?”

“No.”

“Well, you don’t have to tell me as a soldier, or as a therapist.” There’s a dubious, awkward smirk, like she’s afraid to lighten the mood. “We’re strangers, after all.”

“That’s false,” she says, and Trigger sinks a bit further into her seat. “In no world would I be a stranger to you. We’re comrades-in-arms.”

There’s a fleeting sensation, like butterflies inside of Trigger’s stomach, but disappearing in an instant. “That’s not what I meant,” she says gently. “I just want to witness the difference in your life, without anything attached. Doesn’t everything we’ve done feel like a thousand years ago?”

The silver-haired woman beside her feels ice pressing up against her spine, because it felt so much longer than that. 11 tries to pry her mouth open. Softly, she murmurs, “It does. But the world moves on regardless.”

“Let me apologize now,” Trigger says. “I’m…getting too personal. I’m still in the wrong here.”

“I don’t want your apology.” A beat. “You could’ve stayed dead. Why did you come now instead of sooner?”

There’s a long pause, and Trigger feels her lungs beginning to seize up. “I thought it would be better if we had some space.”

And, all 11 can hear is white noise after that. A state of shock. It’s like her skin had turned to glass and all it took was a few words to break it into dozens of pieces.

She looks back into those shattered bits, and wonders, would I have been that bad if I saw you?

She knew she’d dislike Trigger’s actions. What she doesn’t know is what she harbors for her now. The disdain she would’ve kept is withering, and all that remains is an ache that makes her bones feel heavy. “I can forgive you,” she manages to say. “But I can’t treat you the way I knew you before.”

“Then…what do you plan to do with your life?”

“I’ll take you with me.”

–

There’s a shift of gears, and the roar from an engine.

It’s two turns, a handful of miles, and just on the speed limit. Trigger wants to bring up something light-hearted, like how 11’s heartbeat raises when she overtakes someone, or how she can sense her anger flare when she’s being tailgated. But the feeling fades, quick and easy. She’s not the same person she knew from two years ago, and 11 would probably find her well-being to be the top of her priorities rather than entertaining a dry joke.

The more Trigger thinks about 11’s health, the worse she feels. A searing, spoiled sensation begins gripping her insides. Trigger asks, “How long have you been ill?”

11 responds blankly, saying, “I’m not kidnapping you, if that’s what you’re implying. My mind is stable.”

“That isn’t what I...”

11 grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “I know what you mean. I had a sore throat a year ago, then it became a fever, then…I don’t know what it’s like now.” She doesn’t want to say more, and she’s already hitting the brakes. Shifts the gear into park, clicks the seat belt loose, and says, “We’re at my place. Come inside and get situated.”

11’s house is compact. It’s brimming with necessity. Everything has to have a use, which is why there weren’t a lot of things to begin with. There are pills and needles, empty and thrown away, and don’t seem to have helped.

Trigger follows her inside, and 11 nearly collapses on the house steps, but Trigger catches her. 11’s pulse is weak; it’s not what Trigger is used to. She can’t understand how cold her hand is, and 11 pulls away, scowling.

“Don’t touch me more than you need to,” she warns. “If I get any worse, then it’ll spread to you, and we'll both be in this state.”

Before she said that, for the briefest moment 11 felt warm again. But it hardly mattered to her, since the skinship they used to have was breathless, lifeless. Two years on, and it's all meaningless.

Trigger tries not to apologize. It wouldn’t help anything. 11 wouldn’t want one. But there’s a constant shred of guilt because she knows this is her fault. She left 11, broken and shattered by her “death,” with no hope of finding peace again. She doesn’t know if she can fix this.

That makes her want to cry.

11 passes out on the bed. She was out for less than an hour, and she’s completely exhausted. Trigger could barely sense her fatigue - it just happened. Suddenly, like her heart stopped or her brain turned off.

She’s put up with this before, when 11 fell into her arms in a Hollow, skin pale and heart rate fading. It was the first time Trigger was truly worried for her, and was when she vowed to protect her, no matter what. Even if 11 had been forced to forget, one of them would always remember.

“I should’ve protected you better,” Trigger says, soft and clipped, like her voice is breaking up. She moves up onto the bed alongside her, petting 11 gently. She feels so bad when 11 starts to twitch. “I promised Anby - I promised you’d have something better. I’ll spend the rest of my life with you, trying to fix that.”

11 can’t hear her, and maybe that’s okay. Trigger had a vague idea on what she needed to do. How they could forge a better life together, amidst the heaviness of their burdens, restraining them, shackling them like prisoners. All it took was a few years to understand. But there were some things that time could never heal. At least, that’s what she thinks.

She can’t bring herself to sleep with her. She only manages to watch over her, like she always has.

–

It’s still hours before daybreak. Too early to be called morning, but Trigger can sense 11 wanting to wake up. The slow stir of her heartbeat, the sharp changes in body temperature. She places a damp towel on 11’s forehead.

11 was right, it was a fever, but it’s kind of hard to say what it is now. All she thinks she can do is lay with her until she wakes up. Truly, there was no plan here. All she has is a woman, sick to death of being hurt and led astray.

The question gnaws at the back of her head: has she always been like this since she left?

No matter what she thinks, Trigger can try her best to comfort her. She owes her that much, as a comrade. 11 would do the same for her.

In the midst of her haziness, one eye open, 11 groggily asks, “You’re… really not dead?”

Immediately, Trigger says, “No, I’m not. I’m alive. We’re both alive. Please try to rest properly.”

She looks like she has something else to say, but when her lips part, nothing comes out. Trigger slowly wipes the sleep from 11’s eyes.

“Painkillers…” demands 11, coming from a raspy early morning voice, then Trigger finds the outline of a hand, slender and fragile, reaching for a pill bottle. She picks it up for her.

“You take these first thing in the morning?”

11 nods slowly, and Trigger says, “You know I can’t really see when you do that.” She examines the pill bottle, shaking it. By the sound of it, there’s maybe three, four remaining. She’s not too sure how well these would work on 11, but if she’s taking them, they must have some effect. Shortly, 11 makes a small, strained noise, like she has a headache that’s about to split her in half. “How many do you usually take?”

“They are almost useless,” 11 says half-heartedly.

“Almost?”

“They only help when I think of you.”

Trigger swallows, thick and fondly tasting like acid. Another wave of guilt washes over her, and she can’t help but feel ashamed of herself, writhing in her own mistakes. She opens the bottle, takes two out, and asks 11 to sit upright.

“Here. It’s not the same as an anaesthetic, but I assume most pain-relieving drugs wouldn’t work on you to begin with…”

11 gives her a peeved, confused expression, as if Trigger just spoke a different language. She makes a noise when Trigger pries open her mouth with her thumb, and humiliation begins to settle in once her saliva trickles down onto her nail. The painkillers land in her mouth, and she’s quick to close it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she mumbles, while Trigger offers her a bottle of water. “I’m not thirsty, either.”

“You’re still thirsty,” she notes, like she can tell exactly how 11 is feeling. “I don’t want you to overexert yourself, so let me do most of the work.”

11 swallows the pills dry. “You think I’m weak?”

“No, I think… you’re much stronger than me. That’s why I don’t like to sleep by myself. I think there’s always someone who can breathe easier than me. I find that a little comforting, so I try to remember that.”

“I remember our dorm.”

Trigger smiles softly. “You remember how restless I’d get until you settled in for the night.”

11 blinks. “You were restless?”

“You never noticed? I would wait until I could tell all of our squadmates were about to sleep. That’s when I’d get comfortable.” She sighs, taking a sip of water. “But I don’t know what to call you now, though. We haven’t been in the Defense Force for a while.”

11 considers for it a moment - a lack of labels, something defining her, but the ideas disappear in her mind. “…I’m still Soldier 11. Any other name is meaningless, Trigger.”

Trigger fidgets with the bottle cap. “You know… I don’t really go by ‘Trigger’ anymore.”

“It’s been that long?”

“No,” she says gently, but it comes off as a white lie for some reason. “It didn’t really make sense anymore. So I started using my real name—”

“Don’t tell me,” she demands instantly, and the words fall out of her mouth like loose teeth.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

It stings when 11 adds, “I don’t.”

“Is there anything you want to know? I still feel like I haven’t been completely open to you.”

“I want to know what’s wrong with me. You said something about pain relievers being ineffective.”

Trigger starts with, “That’s hard to explain.” At the same time, Trigger thinks what isn’t, and she assumes the best time to talk to 11 is right now, while she’s still bedridden.

So she tells her all about the things she shouldn’t. Memories she didn’t know existed, an admiration for someone she thought she hated, and all of it makes her feel disoriented by the time Trigger is done talking. There’s a chilling detachment in the air, one that manages to fall into 11’s spine through Trigger’s story.

11 begins to feel hot, salty tears streaming down her cheeks, before telling Trigger, “I understand.” But she can’t even feel sad when she cries, and that’s what hurts her the most.

“I feel like I should have told you sooner, but…you can get why I didn’t, right?”

“No,” she replies, wiping her tears with her hand. “There were pieces of me missing. Lives I’ve lived, but unsure of their purpose…don’t you think I deserve to know?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You’ve already done that,” she says, trying to get out of bed, but feels tied down, presumably by Trigger’s voice.

“Anby wanted it this way,” she insists. “She was okay with you seeing her as a traitor. She allowed me to fake my death, but we—I didn’t know it’d be this hard for you. If I knew, I’d change so many things.”

11 still wishes she had the strength to spit venom. To call Anby a coward, to claim Trigger disgraced herself with such a terrible act. All she can really say is, “I can’t hate you, Trigger. It’s the only thing that makes sense, but fighting you seems pointless. All it would prove is that I am exactly who I was made to be.”

There’s a long silence, aimless and everlasting, that proves that she isn’t.

“Thank you,” she says, “for not hating me. I never wanted to hurt you.” Then, she asks, “Do you need something to eat?”

Reluctantly, she says “Yes,” but not due to any semblance of trust or newfound respect; but because Trigger would know that she is starving much faster than 11 could even notice. Almost on cue, her stomach growls and she winces, because she hasn’t had a proper meal in months and for the better half of a year she’s been eating less and less to soothe her pains.

—

Trigger can cook, but it’s strange to watch - she doesn’t know the ingredients, but she knows the measurements. It’s all done by scent and taste-testing. 11 hasn’t moved from bed, lethargic and only watching Trigger from the slight angle of a doorframe.

There’s a sweet, smoky aroma in the kitchen that she’s unfamiliar with. The soup is served to her in a small portion, and it smells inviting. Warming and tasteful, and 11 hasn’t even tried it yet.

11 sniffs, trying not to salivate like some starved dog. “It’s…”

“I’m not sure how good it is. I was eyeballing the ingredients. Or, not ‘eyeballing,’ but I can’t guarantee the taste. It should taste better than a ration.”

And 11 feels her lip twitch, almost her way of preening. Hardly a smile. Everything she’s acquired as a taste is vomit and military rations and that spicy ramen bowl she’s beginning to develop a toxic relationship with. She’ll take her chances with this. Slowly, she puts a spoonful in her mouth.

She’s greeted with the softness of a carrot slice, then creamy, decadent soup sliding down her tongue, blissfully, and it makes her want to cry again because it's the best thing she’s had in years and it’s coming from someone she thought was buried not too long ago. Trigger has never cooked for her, but it doesn’t seem to matter all that much.

Now, it’s surprising how easy Ether vision can detect dopamine. Trigger never thought she’d see it in 11, of all people.

11, in a best attempt to appear placid, offers Trigger a spoonful. “You need to try some. I wouldn’t let anyone provide me a meal unless they’re licensed professionally.”

“Something about not wanting to be poisoned?”

“If I were poisoned, I’d take them with me.”

Typically, Trigger would smirk at that, but it’s sad to consider that 11 doesn’t even trust her enough to not poison her at this point. She does take a spoonful - they share that spoon. “It’s a little salty.”

“Are you implying that you can cook even better than this?”

Trigger does a half-shrug, with yellow lighting from her blindfold to complement. “It’s not the perfect kitchen. I work with what I have,” she says affably, and it all blends into the faintest smile.

“The kitchen is far from acceptable. I do remember mentioning how I despise this place. It’s worse than a Hollow,” she grouses, stirring the bowl of soup with her spoon. “It’s like infiltrating an enemy base, then deciding to live there.”

Trigger, against all odds, chuckles at that.

Actually, it’s not really a laugh - she tries her best to stifle it, because there was nothing funny about 11’s condition. She covers her mouth with a closed fist, so it sounds much closer to a cat choking on a hairball. In this case, 11 would’ve preferred to hear her laugh.

Still, the silver haired woman issues her a pissy expression: furrowed brows, clearly annoyed, and so petulant that Trigger would be able to effectively feel it, despite her lack of sight. “It wasn’t intended as a joke,” she says.

“I know. I just think you might have cabin fever, and when you brought up living in the enemy base, I thought about…never mind. It’s ridiculous. I think all my time away from the Defense Force has made me lose some of my discipline. Sorry.”

“Tell me.”

“I assume you remember the Mr. Mole operation. The script that was provided for your infiltration of the rebels?”

“You saved my life by the end of it, showing precisely why fostered trust prevails against ill intent. A shame you couldn’t maintain it,” she says, sipping on some of the soup.

It’s so excruciatingly calm how much 11 can deliver hatred that Trigger would prefer to be disemboweled than feel the dark pit sweltering in her stomach.

She feels another apology wedged in her windpipe, wanting to fall off her tongue. “I was thinking that we could move to a farm,” she says. “Somewhere far, with the dog Thiren maid, or something…something that isn’t this. For your sake.”

There’s a pause. Trigger feels like a valve in her heart gets clogged off with each passing second.

“…I like it.”

“You do?”

“The soup,” she mentions plainly. “It’s good, even if it's not spicy. Your idea is ridiculous. I don’t want a maid, but I’m okay with moving.”

“Well, as long as you’re fine with it.”

—

They move out of New Eridu that same day. By noon, 11 feels okay enough to drive properly, and Trigger packs up all of her stuff to go with her. A property is bought in the middle of nowhere with tall grass and fertile soil with a big house in the middle.

At least, that’s how it looks in the photo 11 saw.

“You like it,” Trigger says, like it was obvious.

11 doesn’t even smile. “It’s acceptable.”

“You know…I have a little issue with my sight. Mind describing it?”

“It’s…soft,” she intones, staring at the picture of the farmhouse again. She imagines herself and Trigger in it. A daydream.

“That’s a feeling,” she says, unimpressed.

“It’s not for me.”

“But you like it.”

11 feels something in her ribs. Not warmth, not longing.

Maybe it was what a home felt like.

“I won’t choose anywhere else.”

Later, Trigger sleeps when 11 drives. She’s lulled to sleep by 11’s sharp and slow breathing, and the constant noise of tires against asphalt, then dirt.

11 was expecting noise. Small-talk, or a car conversation, but then she thinks about how Trigger must’ve been watching over her, worried, and that’s how she fell asleep. And that digs into her skin; unwelcome feelings that she thought were long gone. Someone who still cares for her. Even through all this, she still wasn’t merely disposable. Not to her.

They’ve done something similar before, where it’s a late night excursion to an extraction zone or a cruise through enemy territory. 11 would pick up Trigger in an unmarked military vehicle, then drop her off somewhere secluded. The perfect sniper’s nest, and things would connect so smoothly after that. The squad clicked together so seamlessly, they had worked so well.

11 misses that.

She was stronger back then, she had a purpose. She lived for something. Fought for it, as well. These days she can’t tell if she’ll unravel at the slightest hindrance, and that fear of death is still hanging over her like a knife. Her chest can’t help but constrict when she drives, because even if she’s starting fresh, that will never mean anything while she’s lost in the past.

“We’re here,” she says, shoving the gear shift into park.

“Mm.” Trigger yawns, and rolls down the window. “So is it sunset, or sunrise?”

“It’s sunset,” 11 replies, opening the car door. There’s a distant seabreeze, while orange palms stretch over the skyline. Trigger hops out the car, and she takes a big whiff of the area. She touches the grass with her fingertips, stands firm to acknowledge the ground she’s on. Takes a few steps all over the place just to see what this part of the world is like.

11’s eyes dart towards her. Trigger is grinning. “It’s the best season to grow something,” she says. It’s encouraging, but 11 just can’t understand. She’s never grown anything - she’s never cultivated anything. She’s a clone. She’s Anby’s sister. All she knows is the basis of being artificial. This is another thing that scares her. Humanity. She’s not truly afraid though, she knows that. It’s simply a weird feeling that comes while everything else fades that she can’t quite put her finger on.

The house itself is in desperate need of renovation. There’s chipped tiles and tacky paint and the porch has rotting wood that makes Trigger think twice on where she steps. All the appliances seem like they were designed prior to the Old Capital’s demise. Another decade and the whole place would fall apart, 11 is convinced.

There’s a garden out back which catches Trigger’s attention. Terribly overgrown but there’s hints of something fresh that have long been overdue; abandoned. It reminds 11 of herself and Trigger can sense that self-degradation eating away at her, like some of her other siblings. “We should be able to grow vegetables here,” she says conversationally, trying to keep 11’s mind off it.

“I’m going upstairs,” she replies, and she fights the urge to pass out again. The bedrooms are the only good part of the place, and seem to be the only thing that have persisted through its age. The season makes it so the floorboards creak with noticeable noise and it’s a tiny bit narrow on the way up.

Trigger follows her, saying, “It’s okay if you’re not okay with it yet.”

11 freezes for a second, but the gears in her head begin turning again. “I’m okay with it. I’m just not sure if it’s for me.”

“It’s all a learning experience,” she says. “It might never be for us, but I want to be here for you.”

11 can’t get her mouth to move, and Trigger finds her being reluctant despite her words, so she also asks, “Do you want the painkillers again? For tonight, you can have them and maybe tomorrow we can start working on the farm if you’re feeling alright.”

“Okay.”

Trigger keeps them in her pocket and the pills rattle a bit when she opens it, then 11 is quick to fall into the bed. Trigger doesn’t know what she’ll do after she gives them to her - doesn’t know the next time they’ll be in New Eridu to buy medicine.

Like last time, Trigger basically has to force it into 11’s mouth. She can’t tell if 11 is being stubborn on purpose, but her hands are more of a mess this time and Trigger is just so tired of trying to get 11 to do anything. She pins her down and shoves the pills down her throat and makes sure she swallows them. “I don’t know why you make that so difficult,” Trigger says.

“Maybe I’m not used to you being around yet.”

“We’re out of painkillers, anyway.” She replies, wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead. “I think we’ll grow peppers and have a vineyard.”

“A vineyard…”

“Yeah.”

“It…sounds nice, but there’s something missing.”

Trigger sighs. “You know, I already miss red bean buns. Maybe we should head into New Eridu every now and then after a harvest? I brought wheat seeds so I could make you noodles, eventually.”

“Providing a form of sustenance for a teammate…are you trying to get back on my good side?”

Trigger comes up with a short and sweet laugh in response, and gets a bit more comfortable with her. “I just want to keep ourselves busy. Would you want to help with the peppers?”

11’s lips curl into a light smile. She can already imagine Trigger cooking noodles for her by the end of the year. She can imagine the feeling of raw heat in her hands and for some reason, that tells her everything is going to be okay. “I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

There’s no curtains in the bedrooms. The house is still hardly a home, and all they’ve done is plant seeds and pour water. On occasion, they wait for rain. They have a handful of unopened boxes, they haven’t fully moved in, and they’re just trying to get adjusted.

11 can hear the soft pat-pat-pats of water on the roof long before she gets the urge to get out of bed. Trigger is sharing a room with her, even though there’s plenty of empty ones. She uses a sleeping bag while 11 gets the main bed.

11 is woken up from a strike of thunder in the middle of the night. Light flashes over her bed for a second, then the loud boom follows.

“That one was three miles away from us,” Trigger complains, in a voice too soft and sleepy to be her own. “Do you think we should be worried it’ll hit the house?”

She doesn’t say a word in response. She wraps the blankets around her tightly, coiling it around her like a second skin and shuts her eyes. Lightning crashes again and she feels her heart spike, and she’s hoping Trigger can’t “see” that.

“You’re afraid of thunder?” Trigger asks.

“No,” she says automatically. “It’s—”

There’s another strike, delayed and just as noisy. 11 feels her body jolt in surprise and she can’t stand it. She sees the lightning dance over the clouds, light shining over the horizon for only a second. She’s watching it happen, she’s watched it dozens of times before, and it’s still making her jump out of her skin.

“It’s just ridiculous for a soldier to be afraid of loud noises.” She says it like a fact, candidly. Years ago, this wouldn’t happen. She’d even sleep through it. She doesn’t know why her body wants to humiliate her while she’s next to Trigger.

“I can take your mind off it,” she already hears Trigger ruffling against her sleeping bag, fingers running against her mattress, then against her thigh–

“Don’t.” 11 snarls, and the lasting bite is muted against the covers. Her hands tense when Trigger touches her. “I don’t need this.”

“Sorry.”

“You aren’t,” she says, “I thought I’d die alone. Do you know how that feels?”

Trigger can say she does, so this pain was easy for her. Familiar. But the words feel out of reach, and she can’t bring herself to say them. “I haven’t felt the way you have,” she says instead. “I still missed you, though. Even now, I feel like I miss you because I haven’t touched you, I don’t know your outline anymore.”

Trigger is on the mattress, 11 is teetering, her heart is, her brain is on fire. “You can touch me,” she says, and the rest of the words sit in her mouth like ash. “You can touch the places that matter.”

She feels Trigger’s fingers. Their palms pressed together, and together it feels smooth. It’s not damaged. They’re not damaged at all.

“You should hear the name I like to go by,” she says, and 11 lets her guard down—maybe it’s exhaustion begging her to listen to Trigger. The earnest tone, the pleading lips that she’s spent too much time wondering what they feel like. “It’s Charon.”

And it just sounds right. Charon is genuine and sincere, and it makes sense that 11 can’t live without Charon. That she needs her affection to drive out the lasting bits of her hatred and weakness. Charon’s love will be part of the life she is satisfied with.

She lets a breath push away some of the strands of golden hair covering Trigger’s lips. Then she’s kissing her, pressing against her, passionately and it feels real, she feels alive when she kisses her. She’s missed the way her hands make her feel when she touches them, the endless warmth that envelops her heart and makes her ache.

She feels like she died for Trigger, she felt in her ribs how much she was hurting for her, and this chance to touch her meant so much.

No, it’s one of those nights when she remembers she’s always been alive, and she only needs Trigger to prove it.

There’s a flush that trickles across their pale skin, around their necks, near their cheeks, and 11 feels as if she needs to do more. Her lips feel swollen and unrelenting; she uses more teeth, more tongue, and Trigger is melting, breathless, surging with relief and warmth. She considers never letting go, but when she does, she’s met with panting, and a constant wanting.

Her silver hair drapes over Trigger’s golden strands. They’re met with desperation, hunger, and a lasting silence.

11 takes a sharp breath, Trigger takes slower ones. She has 11, holds her a little tighter, makes sure all she can hear is everything bottled in her chest. 11 sees pink from Trigger’s goggles, it shines onto her. She’s so close, they’re so connected.

11 admits, “I…need you to stay tonight. I just can’t let you— I need personal space.”

“I get it,” Trigger says. “I won’t try anything.”

She hears Trigger’s heartbeat, a slow rhythmic sound - she’s never gotten the chance to study it, but it’s so soothing that she’d never forget it. She can feel her chest rise and fall, and the outside world begins to fall on deaf ears.

There’s nothing else but them.

—

The sun follows the dusk in what seems like minutes. 11 is choking on air. Her heart feels like it’ll fall out of her chest, and everything feels impossible to grasp. She reaches for a gun that isn’t there, invisible and leaving her even more unstable. There’s a hoarse, rugged breath, she’s quietly wheezing under her chest, then Trigger pulls her in closer. “I’m here,” Trigger says. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

She feels weak. Weaker than usual. The tips of her fingers feel numb, her heart rate sharp and erratic, like there’s rot against the valves making them beat painfully. She recalls the rain and the thunder so easily, a constant reminder of her military trauma. It subsides in minutes, but there’s a lingering sting, even with Trigger’s presence.

There’s tears falling from 11’s eyes. She really hates how sensitive crying can be. “I know. I’m still not used to you being here yet.”

“We should get out of bed,” she says.

Trigger’s hair is disheveled and unkempt. 11’s eyes trace around her body, and her hands are in her hair. It’s worse than that, actually—her fingers have been twirling locks in Trigger’s hair, making them a little curly.

“It’s fine,” Trigger says calmly, sensing 11’s heart drop. “I’ll just have to brush it later.”

“It isn’t fine,” 11 says as she peels her hands away, “I’m…”

“You’re enjoying yourself,” she finishes. “That’s a good thing, and I don’t mind if you touch it.”

“I should brush your hair as compensation.”

“Compensation?” She repeats, incredulous. She can taste the weight of 11’s tongue in her mouth hours after, and it makes everything she hears sound like she’s dreaming.

“Yeah. Isn’t it only right to support a teammate after they’ve supported you?”

“That’s… not needed.”

“Charon,” she starts, fighting the instinct to call her Trigger again, “I want to make sure that all the time you took from me… I can get it back, and more. I don’t want to regret anything. I don’t want to forget anything.”

“You won’t,” Trigger promises.

“Then let me do this.”

So Trigger lets her. She sits upright and 11 fetches a comb. It’s different now; she wasn’t subconsciously touching it, and Trigger was fully awake now. Her heart is in her ears, and she needs to steady her breathing. The last thing she wants to do is make this complicated.

She feels the tension of 11’s fingers, the woman strangely holding the brush, apprehensive and calculated, like she’s wielding a new weapon. “Take your time,” Trigger says, and it’s spoken with a level of patience that makes it seem like they have all the time in the world.

And, 11 thinks hazily, while the sun is still shining, that might be true. Trigger wasn’t going anywhere. She tries to remember how she used to do her sister’s hair. It’s all vague memories, out of reach, but she remembers Anby’s easier than others. “Do you want it braided?”

Trigger tries not to let pink lights shine from her goggles. She’s probably overthinking this, if anything. “No,” she says. She sounds softer here. “I don’t think I’d look good with braids. Something loose fits me better.”

“You’re the kind of person who can fit alongside anything. Even before… as a sniper, you were able to adapt to so many situations.”

Trigger offers her a warm smile, simpering, and it molds into a sleepy chuckle. “Thank you,” then she asks, “did you really mean what you said last night?”

11 feels static under her skin. Last night was so many things. She felt devotion and longing for someone she couldn’t quite understand yet. She knew those feelings had everything to do with Trigger, though. “I want time to think about it,” she says, running the brush along Trigger’s hair. It looked worse than it actually was.

“You’ve changed,” she says, then 11 stops, the back of her neck feels warm. “As a person. It’s nothing… noticeable but, I see it.”

“I don’t want to feel like I did before,” 11 says.

“I know. I don’t either. Do you ever feel like you’ve… nevermind.”

“Like what?”

11 can see her mind racing, her lips a thin, pale line, trembling. She wishes she could see her eyes, read the emotions in between them, the stress, the hurt, the sadness. The best she can do is close the distance. “Trigger?” She asks again.

“I never really told you about this,” she says. “I’m not a fan of talking about it. But my old squadmates…” The rest of the words make her feel dizzy. 11 puts down the brush, holds her hand and squeezes.

“You think it’s your fault?”

Trigger doesn’t say a word.

In lieu of an answer, 11 squeezes her hand tighter. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel her pulse on her own. “If you were there with them, it can’t be your fault.”

“I know,” she says, and she’s really trying hard to not cry. Her throat feels clogged up and she lets out a small gasp when she tries breathing again. She wants to smile through it, because today really isn’t a bad day. Today shouldn’t hurt. “It’s just…”

“Survivor’s guilt,” 11 says. “Not your fault, but it feels like it is. Anby told me when you… ‘died.’ I hate how it feels.”

“You felt that way? You talked to her?”

“No, she talked to me,” she says, “but I understood what she meant. I think I understand what I mean to you.”

She yearns differently than 11–she longs for the impossible, the warmth in a blizzard, the solace in a war zone, because that’s what she thinks she deserves. It’s the only thing she can grasp, but she yearns regardless.

Trigger wants to care for 11 in a way that makes sense, but the only thing she has for her is a hug because she feels so hopeless when she’s with her. “I don’t know how I lived without you,” she says wistfully, and 11 is startled by how emotional she gets. “I won’t leave your side like that ever again.”

“I know,” she says, and she wants to say that she won’t leave her side either. But Trigger knows that. Instead, she only brings up her task: “Let me finish with your hair.”

She is thankful for 11’s way to make things less complicated. Her ability to detach herself is a bit of a blessing.

—

11 comes to a conclusion when she finishes brushing Trigger’s hair. She catches her heartbeat, fast and unruly from their closeness. She likes the way her hair shines against the early-summer sunlight, face bright and charming.

Trigger is pretty.

Or, it’s the subtle kind of alluring that 11 can’t put her finger on. She doesn’t have a way with words, and everyone she’s ever met knows that she is terse and, arguably too tactical at times, so the sweet words she’d harbor for her would never find a way out of her mouth.

Trigger is also beautiful, and she makes that rather clear when her voice is filled with sleep and when it hardly matters to 11’s heart. Her voice is light and easy, memorable like a song.

The sweet words insist on staying in 11’s mind, but she tries to change the subject. “Why have I never seen you with your hair down?” She asks.

Trigger makes a noise like that isn’t true. “Mm,” she answers, then she holds a piece of her straightened hair with her fingers, and it’s like silk in her hand. “You have seen it like this a lot,” says Trigger. “It just always ends up tied for combat purposes.”

11 reminds her, “We won’t be fighting anytime soon.” And Trigger can see where this is going.

“Do you want me to have my hair like this, then?”

Being able to choose makes 11 feel awkward. Trigger was allowing her to do this, after all. And, while she would never admit to it, Trigger could tell 11 was enjoying brushing the whole thing. “It’s just some advice,” she says heatlessly. “Our most dire threat is mosquitos and hot air. It isn’t anything we haven’t dealt with before.”

“You could just say what you want from me,” but Trigger knows that’s way too difficult for her. It comes off a little wry, but it doesn’t downplay how 11 feels. “I don’t mind until we head to the farm, then I’ll tie it again.”

11 gathers the courage to say it. “I… think it’s nice, and it should stay like this.” Trigger couldn’t possibly say no, so that was that.

They have breakfast together, they spend their day unpacking the rest of their things, they miraculously manage to enjoy each other's company and things feel good. They’re content with what little they have.

Surprisingly, 11 enjoys farming. She enjoys the beating heat from the sun against her skin, the plucking of weeds. She’s sweaty and the work feels endless today. Trigger reminds her to go at her own pace, being sick and all, but 11 feels fine. There’s a numbing simplicity to it; she likes it just as much as her comfort food. She knows this won’t end easily, it has to be nurtured and watered and plucked then grown again.

Trigger plays her harmonica in the background. 11 thought she wouldn’t like it, or that it wouldn’t be necessary, but she’s beginning to find it endearing.

“I found it when we were unpacking,” Trigger says. The sun shines like a halo behind her head. There’s a tinge of jealousy that prickles the edges of 11’s stomach. It’s unfair to be that pretty, to still harbor that subtle innocence, to have that dulcet tone that makes her ears hot. “Something tells me you missed the sound.”

“…I think I missed you,” she says, unsure of her words.

“I know,” she says, and 11 can’t explain why Trigger is kissing her.

Trigger pushes against her, it’s nothing like the night before. She feels her lips, barely chapped though supple skin, then hot breaths puffing up against her face. 11 can hardly control her breathing, and Trigger can be so assertive, so strong when she wants to be. Her body lets out a sigh, and 11 is wanting to be impenetrable, wanting to be the one who pushes, and Trigger is already against her neck when she gets the chance.

11 has a whine at the base of her throat, chaste and raw, she tries not to keen when Trigger sinks her teeth in. She can’t stop the embarrassing noises she makes when Trigger is in her flesh, digging into her, marking her, making sure she remembers this feeling above anything else. The slight hint of pain that follows arousal, the way she can’t help but gasp when Trigger’s teeth go deeper.

They’re in the dirt, they’ve trampled over what they’ve grown. She lets a hand run under 11’s shirt, groping, pinching, wanting to see what she can do to her.

“I missed you, too,” Trigger says, she coaxes a reaction from her, she makes her voice so filled with want and utter need for her, sultry and 11 is sure she’ll crack.

Trigger is kissing her again, it’s deeper, more desperate— she has her tongue in her mouth and, god, 11 feels herself getting sloppy and she can’t keep up. Trigger makes her twitch involuntarily, she makes her heartbeat race when she’s into her. 11 likes how hot she feels against Trigger, her inner thighs begging to be sedated, for Trigger to do something about it.

She peppers the rest of her skin, the visible parts, the places 11 lets be tampered with. She feels marks in her shoulder, and she has been using her free hand to tease, to jut out more obscene noises from 11’s throat, her skin like feathers and lightly petting her heart. She wonders for a moment if it was always like this, or the added time away from each other, the moments they spent staining each other’s memories that made things so sudden.

“Tri- Charon,” 11 exhales, and it echoes into Trigger’s ear. She’s panting, they both are. They take a moment to breathe.

11’s skin is sleek with sweat, and Trigger can tell her face is red and fierce, like she’s been defiled and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“11,” she says, a breath in between, “I really want another name for you. Not a number.”

“I’m bleeding,” she tries to say clearly, but it sounds more like a pathetic whine. Trigger smells the faint scent of iron from 11’s neck, the taste on her tongue.

Then Trigger begins licking the wound, rubbing her tongue along the side of her newly-made bite, while 11 shivers and her breath hitches. She feels hot, like her neck’s been set on fire and goosebumps run up against her skin. It doesn’t really hurt, and if it did, Trigger is trailing kisses over her neck to soothe the pain. She wants to stifle her noises, because they’re becoming unbearable to her own ears— the softness gives her eyes a hunted look, like she’d kill for this to end but she wouldn’t dare make it stop on her own.

She thinks she’ll cum like this, smothered in heat and dirt. She wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She feels the tight knots in her brain come undone and Trigger is digging into places she shouldn’t, grinding herself against 11’s knee, trying to satisfy herself after years of hesitation.

“I’m close,” Trigger moans into her ear, a little delayed, and she has the gall to come off shyly. “11..!” She’s kissing her again, sliding her tongue back into her again, making sure 11 can taste bits of herself, her saliva and blood mixing in her mouth. Trigger gives in easily, she lets 11 see her cum, she shakes and comes off of her with a sob. She’s so wet and 11 can feel her spasm and she can’t stay still even if she tries.

11 is tired, body exhilarated with the sight, sparks flying off in her head. She’s left with her, and the heat dies down with a fond petrichor to fill the air. She listens to Trigger breathe. They let the eventual weariness settle into their bodies, and it begins to feel quiet, aside from their beating hearts. She shuts her eyes for a moment and she thinks she can pass out right here.

Then she opens them because she realizes they’re in their garden. “We need to get cleaned up,” 11 says staunchly, and her knees feel weak.

“Yeah,” Trigger agrees, 11’s saliva having a glossy look to her lips. “We really should.”

—

The adrenaline fades - they don’t talk until they’re in the bathroom. 11’s head is buzzing, and her mouth feels bone-dry. She considers drinking the tap water but the way the pipes moan and gurgle makes her have second thoughts. She wipes her face with a washcloth and Trigger runs warm water into the bathtub.

“So you’re with me, then?” Trigger asks, like she was expecting 11 to leave.

“I have to tend to my wounds,” she says absentmindedly. She’s busy putting gauze on her neck, feeling lightheaded. 11 wants to try justifying this in her mind, something sensible that would explain why she’s ended up this way.

“Do you need me to..?”

“No,” 11 says, wrapping up the finishing touches. “I just don’t know if it helped me.” There’s only a strange hollowness inside of her now, like a match dipped in cold water.

“It took your mind off things, right? I feel a little… nauseous,” she admits, “but a little better, too.”

“It’s not a permanent fix,” 11 curtly says. “There’s no point in thinking about what it was.”

Trigger tells her, “A distraction.”

There’s a shade of 11, darkly-lit and half-dead, that wants to say that it was a good distraction. Instead, she tugs at her shirt, then rubs a tuft of her silver hair, both covered in specks of mud. “We’ll have to redo that part of the garden.”

“One thing at a time,” Trigger says, testing the water again with her finger. “I have a feeling you’d hate cold water, so we have to hurry up.”

11 strips all of her clothing in front of her and Trigger is blissfully unaware of the sight. Trigger enters the bath first. She undoes her blindfold, dipping into the water, then 11 comes inside. She lathers soap on her arms, gently coating 11’s skin. 11 shudders, but leans a little further back onto Trigger, letting her run warm water against her nape and scalp.

She doesn’t know when this became so natural - she’s never questioned it. She anticipated a visceral reaction to being so close to Trigger; something along the lines of a scowl or a cold leer, but it never came. She feels like she can only relax when she has someone else touching the faint indentations of her scars. Another distraction.

11 lets Trigger do this for a while, the steam from the water comforting and it’s soothingly quiet save for their shallow breaths. “I didn’t know you had so many,” Trigger comments. It’s only now that she’s able to realize how damaged 11 is when she feels her forearms.

11 doesn’t speak in return. It was normal for them both to have scars. They were used as trinkets for violence, always summed up to some kind of job that 11 never questioned. An unwavering loyalty that 11 followed to her heart’s content, while leaving her body and her mind to suffer the casualty.

“These are newer scars,” Trigger says, fingers idly running against 11’s wrists. 11 stares, horribly confused, as she doesn’t recognize them. There’s a reddening hue in comparison to the others— burn marks? No, the cuts are too focused, too vertical. 11 draws in a short breath, she feels nauseous when she stares. Something crawling into the back of her eyelids, itching with fear and panic.

Her lips part, and Trigger freezes altogether. “Why can’t I remember what happened here?”

Trigger feels it, she knows, she senses this burgeoning guilt as if she’s the one who caused it. She takes her hands off 11, trying to fight back tears. “This is my fault,” she says, voice cracking. She feels overwhelmed with grief, the sheer shock running through her ears so loudly she thinks she’ll go deaf.

It ceases when 11 asks, “How? You couldn’t have been around.”

She hesitates, swallowing the stone in her throat. It lands all jagged and acrid in her stomach. “You lost some of your memories after being left in a critical state,” she manages, and 11 studies her flayed wrists some more. She must’ve tried killing herself. The wounds healing improperly, the veins damaged, skin torn apart and frantically sewn back together. Her expression is strained, mortified by her past actions, stiffening as she considers her next ones.

She tries to think about how many times she’s wanted to be a corpse, mind swimming with thoughts on how horrifying things could have become without Trigger. The memories fade, solely because she doesn’t have them to begin with. That in of itself is a foreign torment, one that makes her face coated with puce and she thinks of throwing up in disgust.

11 leaves the bath abruptly, putting on clothes, ignoring the way emotions crawl in her skin. Trigger waits a moment, not long. Just enough time to think, and enough time for her resolve to fizzle out and for the tears to begin flowing. She doesn’t want to leave her side, though. She doesn’t think she can afford to.

Trigger finds 11 in a field. The tall grass reaches up to their waists, it’s miles of dry vegetation. 11 stares, horizon changing, sun dropping away for the moon to chase after it. In her eyes, the world’s meadows seem like a grey blur; colors fading along a woman she’d been bleeding for, a lie she’s told herself far too many times, and facing ground she’d rather be buried in.

She looks at her wrist again, the slit scars being a sickening sight. She’s graced death before, and she can’t even feel a thing, unsure of what to make of her mind, oddly empty. She knows Trigger’s touch by now. She can tell when she reaches out for her, and she pulls away before Trigger could make contact with her skin.

“You don’t seem to understand,” 11 says, unwavering. “I never wanted this.”

11 can hear her crying behind her. She turns, and sees Trigger’s shirt soaked with tears, she’s sobbing, finding it hard to breathe normally like her lungs are about to burst. Her breaths are too fast, as if she’s hyperventilating. She dragged herself out here, wordlessly telling 11 that she’s sorry, that she can’t apologize enough, and that this pain was never for her to endure. “I wanted us to be whole,” she says. “I didn’t know– I didn’t understand what it would be like. I didn’t want to lose you, but I feel like I have.”

11 notices her throat visibly spasm. She wants to say more, but her vocal chords feel ripped to shreds. 11 embraces her only then, letting the quiet and the subtle breeze and the warmth settle into Trigger, evening out her breathing. She tells her gently, “You haven’t lost me. Not at all.”

11 holds her firm and tight, as if that’s the only truth she’ll ever know. Trigger burrows herself into her neck, panting quietly as she collects her composure.

She leads her back home. She’s never seen her this distraught, and she tries to do what she would do for her.

They sleep early that night, against their better judgement, despite the root of their nightmares taking place there. 11 can pity her, amongst the many things she’s drawn in their respite. She provides food for her that evening, she keeps her calm through holding her hand during everything. Her hands tremble so, so easily — but this feeling too, will disappear. She hopes it does.

She realizes that she can’t afford to die, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for Trigger’s pain. She needs Trigger to be happy. She’s only able to feel something when she’s okay.

11 wants them to share a bed, and Trigger can’t argue. She curls into 11, breaths a little moist against her neck. Slowly, it begins to click in Trigger’s head, and she’s breathing a little easier. 11 holds her close, fingers ghosting over her back. She insists it’ll always be like this from now on.

When the night’s visage casts fully over the room, and she is sure Trigger is fully asleep, she inevitably lets her guard down and cries. She cries for her. She cries because she’s worried and that she doesn’t want to hurt her the same way she’d been hurt.

The sun raises its head carelessly. When 11 wakes, she feels as though she’s on the edge of the world.

Her insides writhe and boil, but she doesn’t cling desperately for air. She only hears a harmonica, and it delays the usual ache. Trigger is on the balcony, and she comes inside the moment she senses 11.

“Did I wake you? The harmonica just helps me relax,” she says, a little unsteady. There’s more to it, 11 can assume the worst, but she doesn’t nudge her.

She’s suppressing her pain, yet it’s still easy to see that the past evening has her shaken. Her voice still lingers with a harsh horror, mind in disarray. 11 sees that pain, because she herself has been a victim to it.

“No,” she starts, “I’m glad you’re awake.” She reaches for her, and Trigger takes her hand. It’s warm. Delicate, like she has her heart in her palm, and she never wants to lose it.

Chapter Text

Trigger enters the bathroom just to find 11 is sleeping in the bathtub. The water has the faint smell of iron, her skin is cold, eyes lidded and hardly breathing.

11 isn’t sleeping at all. She’s never wanted to stop dying.

Trigger has to save her. She tries to pick her up, she feels the cuts on her arms and how deepened they’ve become, arteries severed and then there’s the familiar feeling of blood on her hands. She doesn’t have enough time.

It’ll be her fault.

Another dead comrade, and the thought has her choking, something clawing at her lungs. She feels like she’s being tortured, interrogated through a nightmare. How she could’ve been better. How she could have stayed intact.

As the world caves in, she’s gasping once 11 touches her.

“Try to breathe,” 11 says. “You were crying in your sleep again.”

“I thought I killed you,” Trigger says, the words sounding broken from her lips. “I thought you died because of me.”

“I didn’t die.”

“How do you know that for sure?” Trigger asks, and her heart throbs when 11 tries not to break into pieces.

“Because you’re here with me,” she says sincerely. “You made dinner last night. You taught me how to plant flowers.” A pause.

“We’re okay,” 11 insists, voice calm and absolute. “You’ll be okay,” and the sobs wracking through Trigger’s body begin to subside.

Trigger isn’t able to believe her until she holds her hand.

“We’re okay,” she repeats.

—

More often than not, 11 feels like a ghost of herself. Trigger traces her nerves around hers; flits constantly through the house, trying to tell her the right things for home renovations, and she does listen to her in due time.

They try to keep themselves busy. Everything that was once a safety hazard gets replaced, there’s a thin veil that covers the windows and they fix the ominous noises emerging from the water pipes. 11 is more effective than she imagined she’d be - she’s good at following instructions. Trigger is responsible for home decor.

She sets up all the small delicate things that 11 wouldn’t consider, like flowers in a pot or windchimes. They’re admirable essentials, the place looks beautiful with her finishing touches. 11 bites back the urge to kiss her at times, and she is a little uncertain on why she’s still reluctant around Trigger’s embrace. She’ll hold her closer when the day is silent, fingers locked together because she’s sure she belongs in the same space as her.

“Repainting is the last thing we should do,” Trigger says. “I have a few colors in mind, but I really do want to hear your thoughts.”

11 thinks for a moment, pace slow and steady, ambling peacefully around the fence they’d just built. Her fingers feel sore, Trigger’s fingers rubbing the recent calluses. It’s soothing. “Any color should be fine,” she says. “Since this place is secure now… I’d like a pet.”

“Adopting a dog would be good when we have cattle, eventually. I’m sure you’d want to raise kittens, though.”

“You know me well.”

“You’re not an easy person to forget.” From Trigger’s voice, it cuts deeper than 11 could ever know.

11 only understands that Trigger is fractured, same as her, maybe worse.

She thinks about how well they’ve gotten along over home improvements, and how damage of any kind might be one of the only things keeping them close. She’s convinced she has a deep appreciation for her - she wants to do something nice for her. “We should head into New Eridu soon,” she says, her hands already getting clammy.

“Yeah,” she agrees, “our crops are fully grown, so it’d be nice to offload a few.”

11 holds her hand a bit firmer, telling her, “It’s not just about that,” her voice ringing with a bundle of nerves that she can’t seem to shake.

Trigger turns to her, asking, “Then what’s it about?”

She tries swallowing past the lump in her throat, but then her tongue falters and twists helplessly. “We should… nevermind. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Well, now I’m a little interested in this ‘nothing,’” she croons, and 11 now knows that’s a telltale sign of Trigger wanting to tease her. She refuses to let it stand, however. Not for this.

“I’ll tell you later,” she says dismissively, then she adds, “it’s not anything bad. I want time to prepare what I want to say.”

Trigger doesn’t question it on the way to the farm.

Their harvest is bountiful, liberating in a way. They’ve grown more than they can manage, swaths of bluish berries and ripe, firm grapes, a variety of peppers withholding a scalding flavor. Trigger doesn’t frequently taste-test them, but 11 does her best to stomach it.

“I’m happy for you,” Trigger says, plucking another handful of grapes to put in a basket.

“Why?”

“You haven’t thrown up in a while. You might have found something that fulfills you.”

11 stares blankly, while something vehement courses through her veins like hot lead. She assumes it’s self-pity. “I shouldn’t have been throwing up to begin with. But at least now I feel indifferent, and I think you could relate.”

“I’m okay if you’re okay.”

“You know I mean more than that,” 11 says.

“I can’t get over your wrist,” she admits, her voice fragile and her blindfold having a dark, pitiful shade of blue. “I get these sudden panic attacks sometimes, where I feel like that’ll happen again.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, trying not to stare at the scars on her arms. The wounds seem to have faded a little - from a hectic red to a smooth, pale silver, but it’s a bad habit now to look at them.

Trigger tells her, “No, what happened isn’t your fault.”

11 lets out a shaky huff of air. “I was destroying myself,” she admits. Her skin hurts when she thinks about it. “I couldn’t function at all. I should’ve been stronger.”

“You don’t have to be as strong as you were. Neither of us need to be.”

“I just want to have better memories of you,” she says, eyes fixed on another fully grown pepper. She finds it easier than facing Trigger. “I wanted to take you out somewhere when we’re in New Eridu.”

“Like a date?” 11’s face changes, taken aback, like the ground underneath her just shifted.

“An outing,” she corrects, and Trigger is smiling softly when she hears that. “Something you might like.”

“I’m not too picky,” she says. “I’d like to see something that makes you comfortable, too.”

11 eventually faces her, then her eyes almost glint, embers sparking between them. “Have you ever felt comfortable around me? Or do I feel like a loose end? I know I have some issues,” she says, haltingly, “it’s worse than that, but… I will always try to be competent for you.”

“Don’t even say that,” she stresses. “You’re not a loose end - you’ve always been good to me. I just never have the words to describe how I feel. It’s difficult.”

11 responds with nothing. She despises the way doubt pours into her like a flood, questioning her own worth at times. She strangely misses the ability to lie to herself as a soldier. It’s only recently, through bated breaths that she’s honest with herself.

She can relate to how difficult it gets for Trigger, though. The way her ears get red when Trigger melts away some of her trauma. The way her tongue twists into endless knots over frivolous subjects. She wants to say more, she thinks she should, but she would rather soak in the heat’s current aroma than get to the bottom of her feelings. She treats her pepper farm like a safe space.

–

She packs some of their crops into her car, and whatever can’t fit is stored in the house for safekeeping. She finds Trigger inside their room, wearing a simple city dress.

“Sorry you had to see me like this,” she says, unaware of how 11 is currently drowning in the pleasantries. “It’s just some old clothes. I wanted to see if they fit and one of my former teammates had a thing for fashion.”

“It suits you,” she says, stilling the hard thumps of her heartbeat with a deep breath.

“…Really? I’m not too sure on how it looks since I can’t use a mirror.”

“Yes. You should wear it.”

Trigger looks so soft and nervous that 11 can’t help but ache. “Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”

11 finds a worn military sweater in their closet. It’s snug, and she knows it’s not hers, it’s Trigger’s. “Decided to try something nostalgic too?” Trigger asks.

“I needed warm clothes,” she replies, skittish when Trigger picks at the fabric. “They also hide my wrists properly when we’re in public.”

“You’re not okay with people seeing them yet?”

“I’ve come to terms with it, but it’s better to not concern civilians today.”

“I see. We can go shopping after we finish up at the farmer’s market.”

“I like the way your clothes feel,” she murmurs. There’s a rare, tender smile. “They’re nice.”

Trigger kisses her cheek, and 11 immediately feels deprived, the heat that sizzles across her skin dissipating in seconds. It’s not enough, her head heavy with disappointment.

11 pins her down, and Trigger doesn’t say a word - hardly breathes. She lets her eye mask say all the words her mouth can’t, anxious and absently glad with 11’s steadfast nature. She’s okay with being ruined, met with a ravenous desperation, craving this feral warmth the same way she needs air. 11 kisses her, hard and passionate– like she really hasn’t seen Trigger in ages and this will be the last time she kisses her in her life.

There’s something low and primal that keeps her aroused. It’s dizzying. “We won’t be late,” she promises. “This will be quick.”

11’s eyes trace around Trigger’s body for mere moments. Usually, she feels desolate, holding onto a life she once had, but now she senses a slight intensity, one which makes her believe it’s not all truly gone. Silhouettes of emotions that slip through her fingers like grains of sand, but she can grasp them when she’s around her.

11 puts her thumb on Trigger’s lower lip, tugs down to see her sharp canines. She carefully places her finger there. “Bite down.”

“What?”

“Make it bleed,” 11 says, drawing a breath to hold the conviction in her voice. “I think it should hurt.”

Trigger can taste her finger. She tastes the familiarity of skin, but there’s an awkward, bitter aftertaste that leaves her conflicted, given the request. “You’re sure you want this?”

11 feels anticipation begin to pool in her stomach. “I’m certain. I trust you.”

Trigger tries not to hesitate, a few heartbeats in length. The thought of trust makes her chest flutter, her face hot from the close contact.

There’s a scathing flash of teeth that burrows itself into 11’s digits, and she winces, at first, then it mends itself into something on the verge of satisfactory: blood. She feels euphoric because of it, because she’s sure that their love is supposed to hurt, that the culmination of their affection should have thorns that prick and leave marks.

11 pulls her hand away quickly, blood dripping down her palm. Trigger tastes it fondly, picking up the smell easily. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?” She asks, and there’s a pause that feels a little mortifying, because she’s fully aware that she bit too hard, used too much teeth.

“It’s fine,” she says, voice pained. “I won’t forget how nice this was.”

Trigger isn’t sure what to make of it. There’s bandages on 11’s fingertips, but she can tell she’s relieved. Calm. It’s different, maybe. She’s not used to hurting her. She’s not used to 11 enjoying the pain. It’s a quiet drive back to New Eridu, one of the windows open to capture the gentle breeze.

They’re about an hour into the drive when Trigger says, “I don’t think that was healthy.”

“You weren’t opposed to it,” she says.

“That doesn’t mean I wanted to do it.”

“…Just do it or don’t,” 11 says flatly.

Trigger waits for a moment. She lets anxiety linger through the crevices of her mind, before asking, “Does it feel right? To have me hurt you, like some day you’ll be able to go on without me?”

11 feels herself get tense, and that’s how Trigger knows she’s touched on the right place. Her entire body feels taut and uncomfortable. “I just want you to sharpen me. It makes me feel better,” she says.

Trigger holds her arm, facing the window with a languid expression. “I know you can handle it. I just don’t know if I can.”

11 glances at her for a moment, then back to the road. “I didn’t think about how you’d feel,” she says, and she feels her stomach turn inside-out when she thinks about how awful it must be for Trigger to see one of her comrades in pain now. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” she says, and there’s something small in her voice that makes 11’s chest vibrate.

“Maybe I’ve been complicated,” she starts. “Since you’ve come back into my life, every second has been different with you. I don’t know how to enjoy myself. I get confused,” she says softly, the tinge of embarrassment sticking to the edges of her throat like tar.

“You’re not alone. Today we’ll go somewhere and see things more clearly. It'll be nice, right?”

11 doesn’t say anything, but Trigger easily reads it as a yes.

“I think you can take me out for dinner. We can figure out the rest as we go along,” she says casually.

11 rubs her thumb along the steering wheel. “There’s a ramen place on Sixth Street that I like.”

Trigger stifles a groan. “Not there,” she says. “We should get dinner at Lumina Square.”

—

They arrive at the farmer’s market later in the day, a few hours before closing. There’s the cutting smell of spice, pumpkins, aged goods, nuts. The scent of a constant ripening that 11 can’t quite put her finger on, but she has a hunch that everything here is fresh— it’s so full of life that it almost seems unnatural to her.

Trigger’s presence tends to be warm and toasty, so people easily clamor to see what they’re offering. 11 is a bit more secluded. She doesn’t engage in small-talk and she’s apprehensive of her social skills, so she lets the harvest do most of the talking for her. She helps Trigger in any way she can.

11 begins to feel her insides twist after a few minutes. She’s tired of the sea of people and wants to pass out. She takes a seat somewhere nearby, her body beginning to feel cold like the warmth has been drained out of her. The sight makes her shiver and she’s slightly ashamed of herself for being so nauseous. She tries to keep herself preoccupied with the rest of the fruits and vegetables they want to deliver. Still, even that toil turns to be a headache, her heart sinking when she sees someone stare at her for too long.

There’s a stir of thoughts that don’t seem to be her own, as they wander off aimlessly to the parts of her brain she can’t stand. Do people know what’s wrong with her? If they saw how damaged she really was, would they pity her to make it worse?

She wants to collapse, right here. She thinks she has to - if the fondness in misery is all that she’s familiar with, she’d rather be placed there rather than endure anything in her sight.

11 misses Trigger now, because she is afraid of being truly seen.

She misses her in the way that makes her heart spike, and she’s so close to her already. It leaves her feeling distraught like there’s electricity on her skin, endlessly scalding. She misses Trigger as if she’s the only one who can have her, like her very existence was a secret and to anyone else that same person was filled with air.

11 almost feels like hugging herself because she’s wearing Trigger’s sweater. She wonders if it’s alright to feel weak without her.

She only feels her stomach unclench once Trigger returns, holding a handful of grapes.

“I managed to get everything sold,” says Trigger. “Are you feeling alright? Your temperature has gone down a bit.”

Her presence makes 11 flinch, snapping out of her train of thought. She stumbles, albeit briefly - for a beat, but still noticeable to the woman beside her. “I could be tired,” 11 says laconically, but the feeling begins to disappear once she stares at her. “I brought all the crops out of the car and packaged them.”

“I noticed that. Thank you. I kept thinking that I was going to run out eventually.”

“You did run out,” she says.

“I think that’s because I was a little convincing,” she says, taking a seat next to 11. “Someone like me has to really explain how good the crops are.”

11 just nods, pliant and awkward. She feels like she should’ve been there; something trailing along her spine that she should have stayed with Trigger during the whole hour. But at least she’s with her now.

Trigger offers her the handful of grapes. “You seem like you need one.”

“I’m not hungry,” she says. Then, “Didn’t you plan for us to have dinner later?”

“There’s nothing wrong with a snack,” she says, while 11’s mind flickers towards the past. Warm memories of Trigger snacking on red bean buns during a mission, and she’s easily convinced.

11 reaches out to pick one, then Trigger pulls away. “No,” she says, then she plucks one individually, then offers it back to her. “Like this.”

Her face is blank, unamused. Then her expression twists to something dubious.

It doesn’t stop her from eating from Trigger’s hands. Trigger relishes in the way 11’s hot breath lingers across her fingertips.

“Careful about eating the seeds,” Trigger comments, heart skipping once she feels 11’s lips brush over her fingers. “They’re bitter.”

“…”

11 spits them out, and Trigger offers her another grape. There’s a gentle smile glued onto her face because she never imagined doing this with her. “There was this elderly couple that suggested we make wine,” she hums, a little proud of their harvest. Yellow lights shining from her eye cover in tandem. “Are you even listening?”

11 swallows softly. “Yes,” she replies thoughtlessly, dutifully awaiting for the next grape for Trigger to offer her. She didn’t care much for the taste - they were overly sweet for her liking, but Trigger was tempting and her stomach was growling earlier.

She nibbles on another, and a speck of juice dribbles down Trigger’s fingers. Trigger doesn’t move her hand. She’s seemingly pretending to not care, and 11 stares at her fingers, doe eyed and ears reddening.

11 doesn’t think too hard about it. She gently begins licking Trigger’s fingers. Trigger feels how warm her saliva is, how awkward 11 gets when she tries to use her tongue thoroughly.

It takes away the frigid feeling that 11 had earlier and replaces it with heat; she feels warm all over. It’s the type of fever that she doesn’t want to get rid of. She lets go quickly, just enough for Trigger to feel goosebumps on her skin, the heightened sensation of 11’s saliva sticking on her fingers.

With a quiet breath, 11 mentions, “The wine. We’d need a good course of action to produce alcohol effectively. It’s not my line of expertise, though.”

“Yeah… We’ll have to buy some things. I have an idea where to start.”

11 asks, “Do you have any more?”

“More what?” Trigger asks with a light chuckle. “You want more fruits to eat off my fingers?”

She doesn’t want to cave. “I’m only making sure I finished them all.”

“I don’t,” Trigger says. “I just hope you’re okay now.”

There’s a bridge worth of silence after that; it’s littered with shreds of doubt - the type 11 tends to carry alongside her. She doesn’t know if she is comfortable. “I was worried about you,” she tells her, and there’s a touch of sincerity that betrays the usual strength in her voice.

“I didn’t go anywhere. I wouldn’t leave you behind,” Trigger says, and 11 knows that to be an empty promise, the kind she’s heard before and keeps disappearing in her hands. The kind of promise that’s been lapping around the edges of her mind wanting to fade into oblivion.

“I think by now, I know you well,” 11 says slowly. “If you were to live this life again, you’d still carry regrets to your grave.”

Trigger now realizes, sharply, that 11 can’t help but say that. 11 is more blind than Trigger will ever be. Even now, the regrets she has are not merely from her own mistakes, and the burdens which displease her come from so many places, and are almost mended into her very soul.

“My life was never only about me,” Trigger explains gently. “It was also for the people I’d go to the ends of the earth for.”

“At least now, you won’t have to go that far.”

A smidge of mirth finds its way to Trigger’s lips. Her smile is hollow and bittersweet. “I wish you would’ve said that a long time ago.”

They’re back to the car, as the day is far from over. The weather is light and calm, skin faintly sunkissed through the cloudy skies.

It’s been so long since they’ve been in New Eridu - not once has 11 wanted to acknowledge the shimmering of dead leaves. The trees rattle against the windfall, shades of autumn orange decorating the ground in orderless, lifeless patches.

She finds it disturbing. She finds it familiar.

11 hardly remembers, in spring’s bloom: the sight of her sisters alive, vigor imbued between them. It’s been months and years since then.

“I’d like to ask you something. If you were me,” 11 starts, a little sudden.

Trigger quickly says, “but I’m not you. I could never understand things the way you have.”

“But if you were,” she continues adamantly, “would you be proud of the life I am living?”

A pause. “Where’s this coming from?” she answers.

“I thought about Anby,” she says, words running dry and poisonous from her throat, as though her name was unspeakable.

“Do you want Anby’s approval?”

“Her words are meaningless,” she says.

Trigger faces her with the distressed look that always kills 11 when she sees it. “That’s not what I asked,” she says, but the answer seems to be creeping around the corner, doesn’t it?

11 doesn’t have to tell Trigger a thing about hatred; she can sense the way 11’s pulse points are marked with frustration, for all the things that have been Anby’s fault, and all the things that aren’t, and how it’s turned her into what she is today. Even if she remembers what she’s done, it doesn’t mean she can forgive her.

She thinks it takes too long to begin firming her resolve. “I… want to talk to her, but I don’t know where she is, and I don’t want to spend time chasing after her when I could be spending it with you.”

“When we finish up today, and if you’re still interested in finding her, I can take you to her. I know where Anby would be.”

“You would show me where?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” she says, eyes on the road, but she has an urge to look at her. “I know repaying you for this would be difficult, but I will find you something.

“You don’t need to,” Trigger says calmly. “Just take me out for a good time, and promise me you won’t try to hurt her.”

“I wouldn’t hurt Anby,” she says, but her hands tighten on the steering wheel. Her jaw twitches, and she swears the air between them has been set on fire. “But because of her, I lost you.”

“Even if you think that, I want you to let it go,” she says. “I don’t want this to consume you. Things are different now.”

A beat of silence. Seconds stretching into what seems like millennia, all against 11’s resolve.

“Okay,” she finally grits out, as though she’s trudging along broken glass, “but this is for you. Not for her.”

“This is for yourself,” Trigger says, but it comes off like a farce to 11’s ears. “For us. It’s never one-sided.”

“Fine.”

–

When they park at a clothing store, Trigger buys 11 a scarf as a show of goodwill. 11 tends to check the price tags, but Trigger doesn’t seem to mind the cost of anything they get. The scarf is knitted with wool and has a nice design that complements 11 well. 11 doesn’t know how Trigger managed to get it so perfect for her.

“I have an eye for these kinds of things,” Trigger says jovially. “Let me put it on you.”

So she does. 11 doesn’t argue with the spiraling warmth coiled around her neck. The sight of Trigger so happy feels a little maddening to think about. She still remembers how open Trigger was to being fucked by her, teeth between flesh, and how it disappeared just as easily. This feels so much better, so much simpler with no pain to follow.

11 feels jittery, in a good way. “I think…you make me whole,” she says, a moment in between to bundle her thoughts together. “You make me feel alive.”

And Trigger just smiles– really smiles, like she’s just touched the sun and its rays don’t seem to hurt.

11 knows that there’s nothing attached to disturb this moment - no blood and no bandages, it’s only the person she’s decided to live alongside wanting to comfort her. Trigger smells like citrus and freshly-baked pastries and 11 gets to enjoy that; she gets to confide in Trigger. When they’re together like this, she feels like they’re an elderly couple because they buy niche snacks and gardening tools and eventually a cask to hold wine in.

11 trusts Trigger, she trusts everything they've done today. The cool fall air seems to dwindle in exchange for a warmth radiating all over.

They head through a few blocks for dinner, and 11 can’t seem to hold food down. She has to read out the menu for Trigger and they end up eating something called gnocchi, and 11 can’t be picky since there’s no ramen on this menu.

“What’s wrong?” Trigger asks. “The food doesn’t seem undercooked.”

“I just don’t know if I can eat,” 11 says, eyes trained on the silverware. She feels swaths of butterflies dancing along the edges of her insides and she finds it hard to face Trigger.

It takes seconds for Trigger to understand, deftly considerate. “You don’t have to treat it like a date,” she says sympathetically, and 11’s gaze shoots up towards her.

“It isn’t,” she says. “It’s an outing.”

“Exactly. So you can look at me if you would like. I won’t judge.”

11 doesn’t shy at her persistence. She likes to stare at Trigger anyway. And yet, she notices something off; something erroneous bleeding into the foreground, and it’s only a few tables away.

Anby is also here.

Anby hasn’t noticed her. Trigger hasn’t told her yet because her senses are skewed from the dinner’s aroma, and everyone else in the restaurant seems to be none the wiser. 11 can hang back, pretend she never saw her, and leave the sudden shock to fizzle out of her body like a dying flame. But she’s already getting up from her seat.

“11?” Trigger starts worriedly, but then she “sees” Anby. “Wait, 11. You don’t have to.”

“I need to,” she says. Her hairs are standing on end, a shiver rattling her down to the marrow. She needs closure so badly. “Will you wait for me in the car?”

Trigger is holding onto her hand like she’d sink into an abyss without it. She holds it so hard she thinks it might bruise. It will bruise. She knows this to be a meaningless, useless endeavor. She can’t stop her. “11,” she pleads. “Come back to me the same way. Please.”

11 can’t promise that, and Trigger’s grip loosens.

She finds Anby at a booth, with a few other people she doesn’t know. She easily blots them out as strangers. Anby sees her when she gets close, a little startled and a little confused, both lacking inflection and makes her heart drops in her chest because she knows that 11 has changed; she sees it with a pure, unfiltered panic running through her mind because it seems like 11 remembers everything she’s forgotten. Her past, scornful eyes were now replaced with something heavy, evened out with sentimentality and a lifelong dread that only Anby would be able to truly comprehend.

“We need to talk,” 11 says quietly.

Anby stares into her for miles, bracing for an imminent agony, but the feeling never comes– it blossoms, festers and fades, all at once. Her voice is calmer than she imagined. “Right now? In the middle of this?”

“I don’t care about your junk food,” she says. “It can wait. I want to talk to you.”

“Hold on a minute,” the pink-haired girl squawks from the table, “Anby, you never told me you had a sister? Now this is really a birthday present.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be here,” Anby starts, but explaining it to her would be difficult while she’s drunk out of her mind.

11 doesn’t falter. “Outside,” she says. “I won’t hold you up long.”

Anby says, “Sorry, Nicole. I’ll be back soon.”

Nicole makes a dejected noise in response. “‘Soon’ better mean in five minutes, Anby. Time is money, especially at a place like this.”

Anby follows 11 out of the restaurant into the crisp autumn air.

“Do you know me now?” Anby asks, gravely concerned.

“I do,” 11 says. “I can’t stop thinking about what you’ve done…and what you’ve been.”

Anby feels like she should be sorry, but 11 tells her, “I didn’t come here expecting your apology. I don’t need it.”

Anby says, “I saw you come in at first, but I wasn’t sure if you’d care to see me. So I waited.”

11’s expression snaps - ebbing passivity for venom. “You waited?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Anby asks neutrally, her heart beating furiously in her chest. “If you’ve done all the things I have?”

“No,” she says, firm and from her gut. “Because I’m not you. You were looking for an excuse - a reason to not deal with me.”

“It’s not like that-”

“Why did you let Trigger fake her death?”

Anby blinks, then her face resets. “So that’s what this is about,” she intones. “What do you have Trigger call you now?”

“Why do you care?”

“I just thought…maybe she’s helped you in ways I couldn’t,” she says.

11 looks at her discontentedly. Even now, with what they’ve grown to understand about each other, coming across her seems cruel and unfeeling. Cold, sickly emotions begin scraping the edges of her stomach, because she doesn’t feel like she’s getting anywhere, like she’s trapped in a maze with no exit.

“Do you really think about me?” Anby asks slowly, patiently, and 11 stays tense.

“The times I think of you are the times I can’t feel anything at all,” she says. “That's why I need you to talk to me.”

Anby simply says, “I can’t. I wouldn’t have an answer you don’t already know.”

This also bothers 11. How Anby is so much weaker than she thinks she is, and she doesn’t seem to care, how she’s moved on and 11’s mind is left to suffer in exchange.

“Charon calls me what I’ve always gone by,” she relents.

“You have another name,” Anby says carefully, but 11’s brows furrow regardless.

11’s glare could char skin. “That name is dead. It died when you hid and lied to me,” she says, heavy with pain, and her throat can’t help but incessantly stick. “I feel like I’ve hated you for a lifetime, and I know I can hate you for so much longer. What I don’t understand is why you wanted me to forget.”

“Because I didn’t want to be remembered as the one who saved you,” she says, voice breaking. “I didn’t deserve that luxury– there were so many of us, I was nothing close to a leader, and I was barely your savior.”

Anby’s face is complicated, a mess of emotions. “I wish you never had to see me,” she continues shakily, “I wish I could disappear one day and you’d still be okay when I’m gone.”

11 can’t bring herself to stay upset. “Don’t cry,” she begs.

“Just take her and be happy,” Anby requests. “You care a lot about her, don’t you?”

There’s a silence which lasts for far too long - 11 loathes it because she can’t get her mouth to move. The flames in her eyes dim to something softer. Anby catches onto it like the start of a wildfire. “You love her, right?”

11 stiffens in her hold, then lets out a scoff. “Does that word even mean anything to you?”

She fights the urge to bring up a film out of habit. “Please continue to care for her. I know my words must mean nothing to you, but if she does…then she deserves your best,” her eyes flicker off somewhere, like her saliva has gone bitter in her mouth. “I should be going.”

“Wait.”

Anby doesn’t wait. She’s scared the way 11 gets scared and spins on her heels. 11 grabs onto her wrist, and while her mind prickles with envy because Anby’s wrist has no scars there, she tells her, “I can’t fight you anymore. I won’t.”

“It’s okay if you want to.”

“I want to look past it,” she says. She may never truly forgive Anby, but she could at least try to make her peace with her. Maybe it would help with her nightmares. “Me and Charon… we live somewhere far from here. I don’t know if you’d ever come, but being with her there helped me.”

Anby just stares, because she believes it to be impossible for this situation to ever ensue. She feels a light warmth spreading along her ribs. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Harin.”

Anby leaves her, but doesn’t abandon her. 11 can just barely see the difference, but she sees it nonetheless.

—

Trigger is trying to steady her breathing. Her trigger finger keeps twitching. Her heartrate keeps changing on her, and she feels like she should’ve gone with 11.

Then she hears the faint meow from a kitten, multiple, and the car door opening. Her heart softens and she stirs. “You’re back,” she says, relieved. “And you found the cats.”

“Two soldiers who abandoned their post,” 11 states without much explanation. “Would you like to hold one?”

Trigger’s hands tremble in her lap because her thoughts are so polluted with how things could've gone wrong. “I don’t know,” she says quietly, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea right now.”

11 wants to assure her that things are fine. Truthfully, she says, “It was hard for me, but it was tolerable.” She puts the kittens in the backseat to rest.

“So things were good with her, 11?”

“Things were manageable. Will you call me Harin from now on? I believe it’s more meaningful.”

“That’s a really beautiful name for you,” she says gently. “I will call you that.”

“I invited Anby to the farm,” she says, and Trigger’s lips parts slightly in surprise. “I don’t know if she’ll ever come, but I invited her to keep things okay between us.”

“Harin…”

“And... there’s something else. I want to make it clear,” she starts, facing her with a type of wanting that she feels to be ethereal; to be around Trigger, felt like a dream at times - one where she never wanted to wake up from, and to live without her was to be out of place. “I love you,” she says. “Even when you were dead to me, I never stopped loving you.”

It’s nearly tidal and unbecoming from 11’s lips; she stares at her, wondering if she’ll fade away now that she’s said it, like anyone else she’s ever given a second thought for. But Trigger remains, and she thinks that’s what makes her even more concerned. She is used to the sight of losing people, but not ever to the sight of them staying.

There’s a silence that seems like a kiss of death, fondly necrotic because is this what love is supposed to feel like? Dark, but also smothered by a warmth she abides by is almost cruel, but she yearns for it nonetheless, as it ebbs and flows, one feeling after another.

“Your heart is beating so fast right now,” says Trigger, flushed, trying to lighten the mood. “I wish I could take a picture.”

11 knows she can’t, but she’ll hold onto this memory longer than any camera could last.

Trigger embraces her soon after, a kiss to complement her nerves. “I feel the same way,” she admits. “With you, I feel at home.”

And for what she now prays to have forever, 11 truly feels like herself.

Chapter Text

The soothing symphony emerges from a gramophone during the first sheets of white snow; Trigger had bought one weeks in advance, and she’s grown accustomed to every tune. She’s been dreaming of this moment for months – the numbing silence between the frigid weather. It’s not her favorite season, but it’s still enjoyable. Pleasurable.

Trigger has also been taking pleasure in cooking, since she has just finished with her dough and is turning it into neat lines of noodles for 11, who has been quietly sleeping on the couch for the past hour. Trigger thinks that maybe she can finish these noodles before 11 wakes up. An early Christmas present, but it’s just been hard to tell how fully asleep she is.

By the time the thought courses through her mind, Trigger feels hands gently clasped around her waist.

“This is different,” Trigger says, and she’s not talking about her cooking. This is daring, verging uncharacteristic of 11.

But Trigger certainly welcomes it.

“It is,” says 11 drily, fingers running along the seams of Trigger’s pants. “The gramophone is a nice change of pace.”

Trigger fumbles with the knife she was using to cut peppers. “I can’t finish like this,” she says. “It’s distracting.”

“I’m overseeing your progress,” she says, kissing the back of her neck. “Won’t you hold out for me?”

It settles into her lower back like jelly. “Fraternizing doesn’t suit you,” she scolds fondly.

“I’m off-duty,” she replies. “And the past few weeks have been…more than nice.”

Trigger spills out a noise, small and embarrassed when 11 licks the shell of her ear. “Are you just saying that so you can get into my pants?”

11 stops. “I’m saying that because I love you.”

Trigger turns to her, slightly off-pivot. “Do you really?”

“I used to open my eyes and see nothing,” 11 says. “But now all I can see is you.”

Then 11 kisses her again, slow and tender as if it were a question:

Is that not love?

“That feels like a dangerous thing to say,” she tells her.

11's voice is quiet, restless, puffing the words up towards Trigger’s lips out of habit. “I should see how you handle a threat.”

“Is that what you are?” Trigger asks, hand gently placed on her cheek.

“I have to be,” she says. “I’m yours.”

She is aware that they can take everything from each other, in this very second. It’d be fitting. It would be satisfying, and it would befit their own anticipation. 11 hears their adopted kittens begin to meow and—

“I forgot to give them dinner,” she says, peeling herself off of Trigger without much forethought.

Trigger’s lips are smeared with exasperation, saying, “You do know what it’s like to kill the mood, right?”

“They need to be strong and healthy,” she says. “I want them to live the way we do.”

“You want them to be happy.”

11 doesn’t answer right away. “I want them to feel loved. I think…it means more than satisfaction.”

And Trigger knows that to be so much more important. There’s moments when she’s sure 11 would’ve died without her; when she couldn’t feel anything at all, and grief found its way to her own throat on every word. But she knows 11 by now. She longs for her the same way air seeps into her lungs on every breath.

Trigger says, “I hope I give you both of those things.”

“You do,” she says quietly, as the kittens begin meowing less when she feeds them.

There’s something that always keeps her mind tightened like pulled strings, because she doesn’t think death fulfills her - not any longer. She can barely find herself upset these days while Trigger is here.

There is another thought that arises in her mind, however, and it’s themselves. Eachother. What they’ve been together. They’ll fade, but they’ll always remain. And yet their time together always feels like unfinished business — sometimes 11 still feels as though the ground deserves to swallow her whole forever.

These thoughts, the weightless ones that elude her wanting for Trigger, are the ones she can’t manage to let go. She can’t bring herself to tell Trigger about them.

“I’m done feeding Styx,” 11 says, trying to keep herself distracted. “Acheron is resting.”

“It’s the other way around,” Trigger corrects. “Acheron doesn’t make that purring noise when she sleeps.” 11 stares at them for a second, and Trigger seems to be right.

11 heads to the sink to wash her hands, and she can smell the familiar aroma of spicy ramen throughout the kitchen.

She feels her lip curl upwards almost instinctively — the bare semblance of a smirk, but she’s clearly pleased with the scent. She turns to Trigger and says, “You perfected the recipe.”

“Harin, you haven’t even tried it yet.”

“I know. But I can tell it’s of a high standard.”

Trigger smiles, preparing a bowl for her. “I’d have to trust your judgement on that.”

11 takes the first bite of ramen and it’s just perfect. Heat roars against her tongue and she downs it without a problem.

“Don’t eat too much,” Trigger requests gently. “There is something I want to do with you after. I don’t know if you’d be up for it on a full stomach.”

11 fidgets with her chopsticks. “Is it…something we haven’t done before?”

“It’s something you haven’t done before,” she says.

“Okay,” she says. “I’m interested.”

“Thank you.”

—

“I can’t dance,” 11 says, apprehension slowly beginning to pour onto her face. “You’re asking for the impossible.”

“You said you’d try to care,” Trigger says. “Just do your best.”

The gramophone hums a soft gentle tune throughout the living room. It’s nothing 11 knows, but she concludes that it’s beautiful. She locks fingers with Trigger, and slowly she is dancing with her through the living room. Somehow, someway, it works. She doesn’t believe herself at first, but Trigger is guiding her softly, like she tends to do.

Trigger’s blindfold is lit with pink. 11 isn’t surprised when there's a deep, blooming red along her cheeks. “It’s a little ridiculous, right?” Trigger asks quietly.

11’s eyes adjust themselves towards Trigger’s shoulders, her hair, anything that isn’t her face. She can’t manage “eye” contact with her. “What is?”

“Our hearts. I can feel yours all over the place. I think it’s a little more obvious for me.”

11 can’t help but be sensitive– or rather, she’s vulnerable. She’s nervous. It’s inevitable.

She forces herself to clear her throat. “It’s insufferable when you point it out, Trigger.”

Trigger can only manage to chuckle, heartwarming and peppery, a little nervous too. “It’s a bad habit.”

11 thinks about herself - her searing indifference, the pain that settles in her stomach she can’t express emotions properly. She has problems that run deep. “There are worse ones,” she says.

“No, you’re right, it definitely kills the mood,” she says softly.

“…I don’t think there’s a mood. It’s just us.”

Trigger’s jaw locks in place for a second. “That feels like a problem,” she says under her breath.

11 stares, her posture a little awkward when she tries to understand what Trigger meant.

“Nevermind. It’s fine,” she continues evenly, brushing off the indifference like she’s done it her entire life. “Just focus on me.”

Every second feels off-kilter, detaching and reattaching because this is not what 11 was made to do, and yet she feels like she’s fulfilling something. She’s entertaining a fleeting indulgence, one which keeps Trigger happy the entire time. That has to count for something.

“Isn’t it fear?” 11 asks, heart still pounding. “Maybe I’m afraid of my love for you.”

“I think you have a better grasp on this subject than me.”

“That can’t be true,” she says. “You’re more human than I am.”

Trigger’s expression twists to confusion, and 11 meets that agony easily, as she knows she’s misspoke. “I didn’t mean it like that,” 11 adds, but she feels as if the damage has already been done. She feels an ageworn shame jamming up her throat because she doesn’t want this dance to feel forced, and yet her mind keeps circling back to how it possibly is.

“You’re very human,” Trigger says, their waltz stiffening up to a halt, and she has that gentle hand on her face again to prove her point. “Please don’t sell yourself short.”

11 can feel her own face crumpling and she hates it. This should be easier. She said it herself; it’s just them. Why is something gnawing at her psyche, and why does it have to be now, of all times? Her mental health seems to have infiltrated their intimacy, and she’s beginning to question her purpose in life again. “Forgive me,” she manages, throat dry.

“Harin,” Trigger starts gently, “you’ve been apologizing more ever since you’ve gotten to know me.”

“It’s a bad habit.” Trigger’s lips twitch, before unravelling into a careful smile.

“I know,” she says. Her hand slides down to 11’s palm again. “We should keep going.” And it’s spoken with a level of encouragement that makes 11’s stomach feel light.

“We should,” she decides.

When they eventually do, Trigger says, “You worry me sometimes.”

There’s a part of 11 that tends to stay hoarse, and that’s because she doesn’t want to scare Trigger. I worry about myself, too, she thinks, but the words stick in her mind like inkblots, with the intention of them never coming out. Instead, she says, “It’s not on purpose.”

“I’m glad it isn’t.”

“Where did you learn to dance?”

“I never really learned,” she steps on 11’s toes on accident. “See? I’m still a bit of an amateur.” But the rest of her strides are perfect, soft and enchanting, like she’s memorized this song and it’s etched into her heart.

11 finds herself to be graceless. “You’re not telling me the full story,” she says.

“Even before,” she replies, and 11 knows she is referring to her eyesight, “I didn’t have this kind of opportunity. You’re seeing a once in a lifetime experience.”

It’s one of the flowery moments when Trigger runs true to form; when 11 realizes Trigger wasn’t made for the military like she was. 11 knows it’s what separates them. “But, I do have some memories of my mother. She used to tease my dad a lot into situations like this.”

“She sounds nice,” says 11.

“She was nice,” Trigger says. “They both were. They… loved each other a lot. They never argued.”

But life seems to stammer in 11, hesitation grasping her pulse, where her brain winces at the subject of having parents, raised from the ground up by someone who loves her. But that feeling disappears, just like the rest. “I feel dizzy,” she says, her breaths short.

“We can take a break,” she replies, music fading once she goes to turn it off. “It wasn’t bad, right?”

“It wasn’t. I just… need a minute.”

11 spends the rest of the afternoon in their room, unsure of herself the entire time. It probably isn’t healthy. She knows it isn’t. She just wants to disappear completely. 11 is disgusted with herself because she is flawed. She will never understand the world the way Trigger does, because her emotions are strewn from blueprints and labs and lies that made her the way she is.

She opens the windows and the world is dead. The fields are buried in sheets of white. 11 detests winter, she despises how sick she is becoming. She doesn’t think she can love Trigger like this. She is only in love with the way she hates herself. It doesn’t take long for her to realize she can’t do this anymore. She thinks she’ll have an episode and push Trigger away. She wants to love her but she doesn’t think she should touch her.

So she finds a frozen lake and decides to drown in it. She exhales before she enters, she can see her breath in the air when the ice cracks and shatters.

Drowning is easier than she thought. Her body fights harder than she does, but she doesn’t regret this. What she wants to apologize for is how she treated Anby. How she treats Trigger, and the facade that’s been running for the better part of a year.

11 will die like this: life bubbling out of her, the chilling grip of dolour as her life flashes before her eyes. She tells herself that she’s satisfied, and that she’s done enough as a person.

This can’t explain why Trigger is dragging her out of the lake. Her body is slack and on the brink of hypothermia - something worse than that, because she can taste the innocence of ice on her lips but also salty tears that aren’t her own. 11 can’t hear Trigger properly, but if she could—

“Why would you do this? Are you crazy?”

11 doesn’t have an answer by the time she passes out.

She wakes gradually, in the dark, in what she assumes to be the afterlife.

It is far too warm.

Her eyes flutter open and she feels layers of blankets on top of her. She smells flaming wood and ash from a fireplace. She is still alive and her head is heavy and pounding while the rest of her body feels light. She feels like she’s been asleep for a week.

Trigger is sitting next to her, hands unthreatening but trembling all the same. 11 keeps scarring her, damaging her in pursuit of losing herself.

11 hardly moves, but Trigger senses that life is no longer sapped out of her. “I didn’t mean what I said,” she says instantly, even with weariness sagging throughout her tone. “But I feel like you’re making me ill.”

That hurts to hear. It almost feels like the loudest thing she’s ever heard. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” 11 says, and her voice is so, so tiny - drawn from exhaustion and humility, the former also showing on the delicate curves of her eyelids.

“So I was just supposed to find you dead one day? I thought you knew how I feel.”

“I do.”

“Then you know I can’t let you do that!” She cries. “One moment you’re fine, then the next you want to die after everything we’ve become together. Why can’t you talk to me about it?”

11 feels weak. Feels like a coward burrowing away somewhere, using death as a means to an end. She can’t talk, her voice is broken and she feels obliged to listen.

“And I’m not saying that because I’m mad at you,” she continues. “I’m saying that because I need you and I care about you. You feel like every person I’ve ever lost. I just don’t know what to do when you’re…” she trails off, voice clipped, and 11 is breaking slowly, like rotting wood or decaying skin. She wants to be so much less so Trigger won’t have to care about her, but then she realizes that only makes things worse.

In her train of thought there’s a gap that makes her breath catch. She is crying when she admits this:

“I think there is something wrong with me,” she whispers. “But I don’t know what it is and I’d rather die than find out and hurt you.”

Then she’s sobbing; shattering into a million pieces and it feels like the only emotion she knows well - guilt and anguish on every breath, while the rest are locked behind her life as a soldier, or somewhere farther than that, somewhere she will never find.

“Oh, Harin…”

Trigger is quick to wipe her tears. They flood 11’s face and she just can’t help but let them fall. “You’ve already hurt me,” she says quietly. “I just want to put things back together with you.”

11 can only let her try.

She does not protest, she does not writhe in Trigger’s subtle charm nor seethe in her warmth. She lets her do what she thinks is best. She knows that - written on the back of her eyelids, or maybe it will be etched onto the first and last letter of her grave - that she cares for her.

The rest of their night is quiet, filled only with relief and regret. Trigger sleeps with 11, locks her in her arms gently until she falls asleep too. When things are like this, 11 doesn’t quite feel disgusted with herself and anxiety cannot find a way to churn through her skin. In the morning she does not look at any mirrors. She stays with Trigger the entire time, cuddled up next to her in a cozied respite. She notices that Trigger hasn’t slept at all.

She needs to stop doing this to her. Burying the lede. Leading her halfway down the world, stranded on a desert island on the verge of no return because it’s almost as horrible as what she does to herself. It’s collateral. Trigger shouldn’t be a part of that.

“You should try sleeping,” she says, rasping until she swallows.

“I’ve been trying all night,” Trigger replies. “It’s never been easy for me.”

11 can’t help but ask. “Have you ever felt the way I have? This feeling of…helplessness.”

And Trigger wants to be honest. “It’s always like that. But I don’t let it hurt me.”

11 inhales and her chest becomes tight. The exhale is just as bad.

“I’ve been here before,” she adds. “But… I found it easier to love my flaws. Maybe we aren’t the same in that way. Maybe you want to leave me because it’s the easiest thing to do.”

“Why can’t you come with me?”

There’s a shade of light red on the mattress from Trigger’s metallic blindfold - somewhat disturbed from the remark. It shines on 11 for a second, before Trigger says, “What?”

11 is trying to connect the words in her head properly. She is still unwell; skin a ghastly pale and lips still bloodless as she lies with her. “If you feel a similar way, and I also feel a similar way, why don’t we end it together?”

“You can’t say that,” she returns quickly. “That isn’t what I meant at all.”

“If I can’t live without you, why should I die without you?”

“Harin, stop. Aren’t you hearing yourself?”

“I am. It’s just… back when I was going to end my life, I couldn’t stop thinking of you. It made me think of if I’d ever see you again.” She has her hands in Trigger’s hair again, fidgeting idly with the strands, breathing in her exhales, her voice shaky when she speaks to her. “I thought there would be nothing when I die because I didn’t have enough of a soul. But if there is an afterlife, I should only go there with you.”

She says it all at once. One reckless, freeing thought for her heart’s chambers to work normally again.

Trigger finds it uncomforting. “I don’t know if I could face them again,” she tells her, lungs bated in tow. Her voice is sensitive, like the air between them could start tearing it apart.

“Wouldn’t your comrades like to see you?”

“I think that’s what worries me,” she says. “Like, I kept them waiting for too long, or they wouldn’t expect me so soon.”

There is now something biting at 11, an ugly feeling in her stomach when she considers saying there’s only one way to find out. This can’t roll off her tongue easily though, so she instead tells her, “I would like us to spend our last day together.”

“When would that be?”

“When you are ready.”

“And if I said tomorrow?”

“I will be there, waiting.”

“Then I want it to be today,” Trigger says, without much hesitation. “I don’t want to force you into a life you’re uncomfortable with. But I don’t want to be left behind.”

11 feels her heart beating hard in her chest again because maybe Trigger wanted this more than she did. She assumes that it’s fear again - she’s afraid of Trigger dying no matter what. 11 wants Trigger to talk her out of it.

She thinks she should talk them out of themselves, searching for something more rational along the way. 11 doesn’t want Trigger to die from stubborn pride or scattered feelings or a faint shame that she can’t describe all too well. Why can’t it just be her, or if it has to be with Trigger, then why can’t their ending be gentle and slow? She sorts out her emotions with a shallow breath; it doesn’t help since her heart is still being tortured.

“I want you to get some rest,” she eventually says. “We can discuss this later.”

“I’m not too tired–”

“You haven’t slept all night.” It’s a fact, and it’s spoken as one.

“Don’t worry. My eyes have been closed,” she replies, smiling. 11 feels her heart throb because she may not see it again. She grazes a panic attack and tries not to show it too much.

“That… doesn’t count,” she says.

“Okay. I’ll spend a few more hours here,” she concedes, fluffing her pillow. “I want you here, though. I think you’re also tired.”

11 can’t be tired, and she is aware that she is not, and yet Trigger snuggles next to her, tantalizing and overly sweet. She will never know how Trigger is still able to smile so easily and yet she wants to kiss her. She thinks she should.

“I want your consent,” 11 says, seemingly urgent.

“…For?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not,” she lies. “I’m just curious.”

11 traces a finger up from Trigger’s abdomen to her chest, and it slowly begins to bleed out her stress and tension. Her voice is a low rumble, an exasperated timbre when she says, “I… plan on making it up to you. Last night. Last evening.” Her throat feels sickeningly tight, and it makes her silent. Nervous.

“Planning on taking advantage of me while I’m vulnerable?” 11 nearly chokes on her own saliva because Trigger is teasing her. Making a mockery out of her conviction, shining a tinge of blithe on each syllable. It’s infuriating.

11 swallows the lump down her throat. She won’t let Trigger talk anymore, so she’s kissing her instead out of habit. She plants wet kisses all along her neck, she wants to tear the fabric off Trigger’s body and litter marks on her breasts. She feels goosebumps prickle across her skin and she can’t help but press on, a finger running down to the inside of Trigger’s thighs. Trigger lets out a small gasp and 11 wants to know how soft she can get.

“Charon,” she says, trying to make her point clear. “I want— I need…”

“You have me,” she says softly, making a noise once she feels 11’s finger begin to slip between the folds. “You can take me, Harin.”

Trigger is red-faced, blooming with love, and 11 finds it to be the perfect opportunity to be the one that guides her for once. 11 is tired already, fingers cramping, still weary from the night before, but she insists on pleasing Trigger. She slides her finger into her, rough until she finds Trigger panting, hips stuttering. She’s wet, hardly clothed once 11 tugs at her nightgown.

There’s an almost mindless expression that rolls across Trigger’s face as her clit is throbbing. 11 is so rough, so callous when she runs her fingers deeper, so 11 when she’s into her. She’s moaning softly into 11’s hair, a constant reminder of how pleasurable this is.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpers, begs, amidst the thin, helpless noises she makes when she feels the wetness of 11’s fingers push in and out of her. The noises are all obscene, and it’s the only thing Trigger can hear between 11’s breaths.

“I won’t.”

11 sticks two fingers in Trigger’s mouth, saliva coating the insides of her digits and Trigger feels like she can cum just from the way 11 treats her. It’s slick and messy, yet 11 is so focused when Trigger’s noises become suppressed yet still vulgar; it’s almost glorious how Trigger’s whines mix with her breathing - 11 has a distinct adoration for the sound. It’s all uncalculated, all very much unlike her and 11 can’t help but feel hot when Trigger makes these stifled noises, like an animal in heat.

“Mm..!”

Trigger craves 11’s touch. 11 hears her mewling from the sensation, Trigger’s hands on 11’s body, encouraging each and every thrust of 11’s fingers. She likes being used like this, 11 doing everything she can to satisfy her, not letting up for even the slightest moment.

11 is in love with Trigger’s skin. She is soft, her lips are, her tongue— everything about her is. She just knows that she needs more. If that’s alright with Trigger. To be this selfish, to want her so badly.

Trigger keens from the way 11’s fingers crook inside of her, so wet that she gives out a cry and her orgasm shocks her so badly, she feels her calf cramp up from the sensation. She sobs out 11’s name, barely, delirious and whiny for the whole moment, muscles tensing like she doesn’t know if she wants to let 11 go or not. 11 takes her fingers out of her mouth and kisses her, rutting herself against Trigger’s thigh until she’s satisfied.

Then they breathe, hair tangled together, bodies on top of each other. Trigger eventually gives her a dazed smile, saying, “You’re beautiful.”

And that leaves 11 startled over anything, a vague wave of nausea washing over her. “If you say so,” she says, eyes wandering off somewhere that isn’t her face, nor the pink lights shining off her mask.

“I know so.”

“Will you go to sleep now?”

“Do you love me?” It’s less of a question, and more of an answer, and 11 doesn’t get enough time to steel herself.

Her mouth suddenly goes dry. “Why are you asking me that?”

Trigger says, “Just to make sure.”

“Then…I do. I can’t sleep without you - I can barely eat without you here. I won’t live without you by my side.”

Trigger’s expression becomes skeptical. “But you nearly did something worse. Do you truly want me around?”

“I am not scared of anything you do for me,” she says, after a moment of pause, but that also feels like a lie scraping her throat. Then, “I just don’t want to wake up and push you away.”

She sighs into her neck. “All we have ever been is close.” From her, it just sounds unfathomable to be anything but.

And yet, 11 says, “That’s what worries me. That’s why I thought dying alone was easier.”

“Harin, no… that’s just ‘Soldier 11’ talking. You’re much more than that.”

“Am I really?”

“Yes,” she answers. “Because you have someone who’d die just to see you again.”

Trigger falls asleep promptly after that.

11 creeps down the steps, into the kitchen and takes a moment to think. She is throwing up again. The sight of Trigger being suicidal; bleeding the same way she does is disgusting. She feels like she’s been hit, hard, in the stomach because they are going through with this. They’ll die together.

She doesn’t want to let it show. She cleans up the floors she just puked on, getting rid of the bile the same way she tends to wipe away her emotions. Now she feels really sick, maybe guilt or another illness she’s unaccustomed to - it makes the inside of her neck itch. She wants to say something to change things.

—

“I want to carve our initials into this tree.”

Trigger tells her that, knife in hand, later in the afternoon. They’re at an oak tree, bristling with snow, huddled near each other in jackets, trying to maintain each other’s body heat.

“It’s a big tree,” 11 comments aimlessly.

“It’s not going to be a big initial,” Trigger says, faintly disappointed at the remark.

11 feels ice crawl into her lungs. She hasn’t been outside since she tried to drown herself. The temperature is similar, but a little different with Trigger here. “What is the meaning of doing this?” She sees her breath puff into the air on each word.

“It’s… a memento. A memory. Lovers do it all the time.”

“Lovers…”

“Would you help me write it? I would do it myself, but I haven’t been good at writing for quite some time,” she says innocently.

11’s face is red; coated with blush, all over her cheeks and ears. She blames the weather. Any other thought would be pathetic. “I will help you.”

Trigger offers her the knife and she takes it. 11 herself will never fully understand the subtle intricacies that lie within Trigger’s heart, but she concludes that this is necessary. They will die today.

She starts this like she would any other weapon: firm. It chips then breaks the wood, splinters of oak falling down onto the snow at their feet. Pulls out the knife, starts again. Two lines. Another in the middle. “H.”

“Harin,” 11 says.

Trigger’s smile goes limp. “Not ‘11’?”

“Why ‘11’?” says 11, puzzled. “This name suits me far more. I will always remember what you call me.”

“I see,” and her smile beams again, while the air seems a little warmer to 11.

“What should I add next?”

“A plus sign. Then a ‘T.’ Or a ‘C’ for Charon. I think you know what suits me best.”

11 will admire anything that runs under Trigger’s name. She is conflicted. Maybe she can put both there, and so she does. “I’m writing both,” she says.

“Thank you. Can you… draw a heart around them?”

“I can’t draw.”

“You said the same about dancing. And, I’ve seen you form plenty of schematics while under fire from enemies.”

“In my head,” 11 corrects, picking off a splinter from the tree. “Not on paper. Have you ever seen me with a drawing book?”

“In all honesty, I haven’t seen you with much of anything.”

11 stares, unblinking for several seconds, then quickly diverts her gaze and covers her mouth with her free hand. She either snorted or choked on thin air, but she felt her lip twitch and has to block out any sign of Trigger, which was practically impossible.

Trigger, visibly confused, reads the room rather quickly and grins. “Was that a laugh?” She asks, blissfully in awe and a little proud of herself.

“No,” 11 says automatically, but her body shakes like a tree in the wind and she fights back a giggle with all of her strength.

“It was a laugh.” Trigger accuses. “It’s okay you can– I never thought I’d hear you laugh. Is this your first time?”

“I don’t know,” 11 says, taking a breath of air. “The blind jokes. They shouldn’t be funny.”

“You know I do them on purpose. It makes me feel better.”

“I’m aware. Can we finish this?”

Trigger feels out the initials, the deepened grooves of the oak tree, and eventually comes to a conclusion in mere moments. “I’ll help you draw it,” she says. “Come here, give me your wrist.”

They slowly trace a heart shape around the initials. A little crude, but 11 recognizes the shape once it’s all said and done. Trigger touches it just to make sure. 11 feels warmth stir in her heart. She bears witness to this affection like no other; a lasting mark of their endearment– when this tree is cut down dozens of years from now, their initials carved into the growth rings, and when people will absently wonder why its fire burns so bright.

–

The world turns to sunset. They’ve had dinner together. They’ve been together for what feels like eternity, till death does them part. But even then, they wouldn’t be truly separated.

11 curls up to Trigger on the bed, soft, somber, and quiet. She hears the slow drum of Trigger’s heartbeat, the melodic beats that twitch within her. She knows it well. Then she’s rubbing the indentations of her scars - the dumb ones - the ones where she’d been selfish and envying the departed. Maybe this is worse. Her blood feels cold, metallic and gross under her skin.

She tears the sadness away from her eyes and looks over to Trigger. Her mouth opens, words can’t find their way out.

“You don’t want it to be today,” Trigger exhales.

11 shudders. It will be today. They settled upon it, a knife on the nightstand, a note scribbled away underneath it. This is planned. 11 just can’t find a shell to hide under. “I’m scared,” she says, her heart lodged in her throat. “For you.”

Trigger’s expression is unreadable. Rare, impossible to grasp, impossible for 11 to believe, but there’s no lights, just a thin line on her lips. She takes off her eye mask. “Will you look at me?”

And of course 11 will. She has seen her before; bare and exposed, the vulnerability running through Trigger’s lungs like a toxin. Trigger’s eye sockets are strewn with Ether, pieces of a ceased monstrosity coursing through her pupils. It is horrifying; a rancid heat runs against her stomach, along the sack of rocks that lay waste to the rest of her guts. 11 doesn’t say anything now, she doesn’t think she could.

“I’ve been afraid of myself for a long time,” Trigger continues. “There is no need to delay the inevitable. But… if I had the choice, then I am willing to do it with you.”

Trigger takes 11’s hands. Her own are cold and thin. Nausea sinks into 11’s throat. She can’t fight her. She can’t fight herself. For once, a battle is lost before it’s even begun. “Okay. Then I’m ready if you are.”

Trigger holds the knife, traces a finger over her veins–

But something is screaming at 11 to not let this happen.

–and cuts herself, slow and vertical.

Trigger inhales sharply, immediately pained, yet still offers the knife to 11. 11 is mortified, she wants to cry and the air turns vitriol in an instant, because she feels like she’s just poisoned Trigger, and guilt is finding its way to her eyes and making tears stream out of them. Her body freezes shut, the insides crumbling down more than she could have ever imagined.

“Do you need me to do it for you?” Trigger asks, wincing between the words. The blood is beginning to drip and stain her shirt.

11’s eyes are fleeing from the sight, trying to digest this properly. She is unable to. “I need help,” she croaks.

So Trigger delicately takes her arm, using the very same knife they had used to carve their initials into the tree not too long ago, and cuts 11 with it. Now they are both bleeding, and 11 is trying to mask her tears with the sharp pain against her wrist. She wrenches her mind towards her rugged breathing, feeling life slowly sapped out of her. Memories dissipate throughout her conscience, since that all fades to black much faster than she is able to.

11’s mind quickly goes numb. Indistinct scalpels picking at her brain once more. She’s forgetting things already.

“...Trigger?”

Trigger focuses down at her, 11’s head burrowed in her chest, voice low and confused. “Yeah?”

“Why am I bleeding so much?”

Trigger swallows, thick. “Did you–”

“And why are you bleeding so much? We need medical attention, immediately.”

“Harin,” but 11 doesn’t hear her, already trying to scramble off the bed, so she tries, “Soldier 11, wait.”

11 doesn’t really stop until she finds the note on the nightstand.

(Please bury us together, it reads.)

11 stiffens, can hardly breathe from the sight, then looks back at Trigger. “Come here,” Trigger says gently, like she’s coaxing a frightened animal. “How much do you remember? You remembered my name.”

There’s too long of a pause. She feels like she’s choking. “I remember you. But the rest is foggy, like a soldier left under a dark haze. Not even a flashlight would help traverse the terrain.”

Trigger offers her a tired smile, yet 11 is instinctively scowling. “I don’t understand. Why smile?”

“There’s not enough time to explain it,” she says. “I think if… you look towards the window, you’ll see a tree. It has our initials on it.”

11 is indifferent, still trying to understand why her wrist is bleeding so terribly. “I hear meowing downstairs.”

“We left the window open. They’ll be able to leave.”

“They?”

“Would you come here with me?”

11 feels drawn to her, like an angel’s voice - a song wedged into the crevices of her mind, set to never, ever leave. She sits back on Trigger’s chest, quietly waiting for it all to unravel against her strained body, the final strands of vigor slipping out of her body like molasses. There is a lack of conscious thoughts, and it feels difficult to move now that she’s lying with her.

“Did we have feelings for each other?” 11 asks.

Trigger tells her, “We did. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” A kneejerk reaction. She wants to say she doesn’t know where that came from. But it wouldn’t matter because she knows it’s clearly true.

“I feel really tired,” Trigger says.

11 only closes her eyes, and the world suddenly seems colder than it has ever been.

Their bodies are found by a passerby during Christmas. They are buried together, as requested, close to the house. Anby learns of this soon after and tearfully leaves flowers at their grave. She adopts their kittens to remember them by.

–

11 is dead. She is acutely aware of this - she recalls death running deep into her marrow, her body denying a pulse as life’s pain and her own blood dripped out of her once and for all.

And yet strangely, she lives.

She smells grass. Fertile and lush. She sits up and doesn’t believe in heaven yet because there’s no bells or harps and no God greeting her. She’s convinced that maybe this is purgatory; judgement before a final verdict. It sounds more fitting for a soldier.

Her mind is shockingly light. She hasn’t felt this way since she enlisted, then she looks at her hands, and is also surprised. They’re less scarred, less callouses surrounding the digits. Her hair is a bit shorter as she runs fingers through the silver strands. Maybe death sent her back a few years.

Then she turns and sees Trigger, right next to her, and her eyes don’t have Ether smothering the retinas. Trigger sees no sun. Just endless blue skies stretching over the horizon. It’s like the perfect summer. Trigger’s eyes can also see 11.

It all clicks into 11’s head at lightning quick speed. She remembers her. She remembers them. What they were.

“Charon?”

Trigger’s eyes widen, then she springs up and hugs her back into the grass. “Harin!”

11 would’ve thought the wind would get knocked out of her, but it doesn’t. She’s perfectly hollow, but she can still feel. Trigger is on top of her, eyes running along on every inch of 11. “You are so pretty. I always knew you’d look nice.”

“Thank you?” She still isn’t used to eye contact, especially now. “Your eyes…”

“I know,” she says, getting off of her. “I can’t really wrap my head around it either.”

“How young are we?”

“Isn’t it too early to ask?”

11 is a little miffed at the response. There should be more questions, if anything. She stands up then she sees an elderly couple in the distance that look vaguely similar to Trigger. “Are those your parents?”

“They are,” Trigger says, elated. “I should introduce you to them.”

11 takes a breath, the air soft in her lungs. She wants to appreciate them the same way she has grown to appreciate Trigger. Another thought chimes in, her sisters could be here - so many others could, filling another void in the process. “Let’s go,” she tells her, lips curved faintly upwards, her heart in Trigger’s hands through life and death - through everything. She is everything to her.