by Laila Blake
He did look like a child, for once, not a tiny old man with ancient eyes, when he drifted off, his head warm and solid on her shoulder.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead, but let Aaron lift him up onto the couch so he could sleep through the night. He barely stirred as the man did so, rolling his face towards the worn cushions and even snoring a bit. Aaron rubbed his hand over the little boy’s head with a small smile before straightening up, stretching, looking over at the fire.
“Thank you...” Emily said quietly, looking at the back of his head. With the new haircut, she could see his ears sticking out all the better and she almost smiled. “You made him really happy today.”
His expression was somewhat startled when he looked at her; clearly he’d been in some form of thought, either about Song, the trip, or even stoking the fire. It was often difficult to read him.
“It was fun,” he said, shrugging, running his fingers through his hair, hooking on an ear. “He's a good kid.”
Nodding, Emily got up from the sofa. She checked on the tea and then poured herself the last cup with an apologetic smile.
“I’ll make a new batch...” Licking her bottom lip she exhaled a sigh, feeling out of place again. “He really needed a good day.”
“Glad I could help,” Aaron answered, honestly. He was a great deal taller than she was, and, even as carefully as he held himself, he towered over her then, hazel eyes on hers for a long second before he was looking over at the fire again.
“He’ll be okay. We’ll get to a place where gettin’ to play even gets boring,” he added, reaching for another gnarled piece of wood.
“I hope so,” Emily replied, her confidence in him apparent. Her eyes flit over to Song, then her drawing peeking out from her clothes. She wanted to shake herself, wanted to run but didn’t.
“Where abouts are we now?” she asked, moving a little closer almost in spite of herself. Squatting, he made room for her, though he didn’t really edge away.
“Southern Ohio, I think. Not that far to the state line if I got my directions right. Should start seein’ trees bloomin’ soon.” He gave her a small smile, the light of the fire reflected on his face; it was a little wind-burned, darker red on his forehead and nose.
“Last snow we’ll probably get, in fact,” he added.
“That would be nice,” she admitted, recalling a map of the states in her mind’s eye. It was easy: both Song and she had spent all too much time staring at maps.
He watched her, quiet for a moment, before licking his lip. “Getting’ closer to where I’m from.”
“Georgia?” she asked, frowning a little as she tried to imagine a map of the states again, but as always, her memory grew hazier the further south she tried to remember.
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate, and looked back at the fire, rubbing the back of his neck once more. Emily watched him, his strong shoulders, the sweeping line from his the back of his neck down to his legs, remembered where her hands had held onto the night before. Sullivan hadn’t looked much different from behind—a little skinnier, but just as tall, projecting that same worried darkness all too often.
“You know... I don’t think it makes you broken, or anything bad,” she whispered, picking up a strand of conversation long lost, like reaching for a fluttering piece of ribbon.
“What part?” There was actually a question in that, as tense as his shoulders got, as curt as his voice went.
“The part where you like guys, too?” she asked, suddenly not entirely sure that was what he meant at all.
He gave a little laugh and finally looked over at her. “Neither do I, actually.”
“Good... just checking,” she managed a sheepish smile even though her chest felt tight and painful.
Aaron sat up and stretched his back before reaching for a stick to poke at the fire.
“That’s not what I meant, Em,” he said, after a long moment. “That’s not the broken part, I don’t think. Ain’t thought that since I was really young, fifteen years, maybe. It’s the running away, maybe, the part where you think you’re a chickenshit.”
“I ran away,” she shrugged, “sometimes it’s brave, sometimes it’s survival, sometimes it’s just what you have to do. It’s only cowardly if you make it so.”
“When’s it turn cowardly then?” He finally sat where he wasn’t looking over his shoulder at her, but his expression remained mostly impassive.
“I suppose...” She thought about for a moment or two and then gave him a wan little smile. “Do you feel like there was unfinished stuff?”
“‘Course I do. Otherwise it wouldn’t be something that fucks you up for years, would it?” He wasn’t angry, and didn’t sound it, but a sort of sadness settled over the both of them, a silence only broken up by the crackle of the fire.
“What happened?”
He shrugged, that gesture she’d discovered said almost more than his words ever did. “Nothin’ really.” His smile was a bit crooked, small. “Not like I got my heart broke or... whatever. Just... I’m from Georgia,” he finished, with a little wink.
Emily shook her head softly, sometimes despairing of ever truly figuring out what was going on inside that head of his. She moved closer, leaned against his shoulder.
“Right. Sounds very unfinished.” There was a weak teasing glint to her eyes when she looked up at his profile, fingers on his chest.
“Suppose not.” He bit at his bottom lip for a second before speaking. “I’m from Georgia. Augusta’s not a bad town, just... I didn’t know what to do with it. Still don’t, though I guess it don’t really matter at this point. But I was eighteen, you know? I couldn’t stay there, and then I didn’t feel like it’d ever be okay to go back.”
“Do you miss it?” she asked after a beat, herself not sure whether she meant Augusta, or men.
“Home?” He seemed unsure of her question, too. “Yeah. My whole family stayed down there, not a one moved. I’d go back for Christmas, Thanksgiving, when I wasn’t over in the desert. Always felt like a visitor, though.”
“Yeah, me too when I went back. I dunno if that’s a bad thing, though. I mean... where we’re born is just... you know, a place. And then we choose where we want to live, don’t we? Or... did, I guess.”
“New York City,” he said, accent gone thick and slow, a recitation of a long-lost commercial, before cracking another smile.
“New York City...” she echoed, softly, then puckered her nose and gently nudged his stomach: “Yes, I’m a cliché, Mr. Army boy.”
“You ain’t a cliché,” he corrected her. “I don’t think you could be if you tried.”
That gave her pause for a long moment as she drew in a crackling breath, not sure why her eyes filled with tears all of a sudden. Her fingers found his lips, carefully touching his cupid’s bow, then his chin. It was almost too easy to get lulled back into his voice and his closeness and their lips met mostly of their own accord, it seemed, with nothing much else to say or do in that moment. It was easy to quell concerns or guilt a second time, repetition had that effect. And this time, Emily knew exactly how much it could chase the pain away at least for a while.
Their lips locked harder and soon, Aaron carried her out of the room, back to where they had been the night before. She didn’t ask him to, and he didn’t seem to need any other confirmation outside her arms clinging to his neck, sweeping a blanket up and sending her book clattering to the floor.
The table was in place where she’d left it, but Aaron laid her on the old carpet instead, the blanket bunched under them, kisses returning hungry and needy the instant their faces realigned. There was enough light from the moon through the cracked window above them to illuminate them both, their eyes and hands, and where Aaron pressed both of hers above her head as he entered her.
This time, they ended up in a tangled heap on the floor, sweaty and dizzy. They lay there and just like that, the world was peaceful, just for as long as it took their heart rates to slow down. Aaron was he
avy on her, even with most of his weight feathered off, and it felt perfect to Emily. For Aaron, too, that continued connection made his mind wander less, and certainly far from the cold and blankness of the world, the jittery feeling of the day that had driven him out into the drifts for hours despite the stinging wind and numbness in his fingers.
He kissed her neck, and breathed her in, and that was almost painful, but sweetly so. She was breathing, steady and warm, and when he finally lifted himself fully off of her, he pulled the blanket up and around her shoulders, gathering her close to his chest.
Emily could have fallen asleep like that, easily, but their sleeping bags were in the other room and the more time passed the more thoughts slipped back into her mind.
“That was... that was good,” she told him, more awkwardly than she had intended.
“Yeah?” The implication of questioning almost added itself in, and where his fingers were on her hair stopped there, as if unsure of where to go now.
“Yeah,” she echoed, more assuredly. She resisted thanking him again, but she didn’t quite know what else to do, when the better she felt, the more fantastically he fucked her pain away, the worse she felt in the aftermath. In the end she mimed a shiver, bit her lip and reached for her sweater.
Aaron lay where he was, now much colder and unsettled, a sudden and drastic change from just moments before. He watched her pull her sweater on, and then root for her underwear, and found his mind completely unable to locate anything to say.
Emily slipped into underwear and leggings, and squeezed his hand once before she handed him his shirt as well.
“Wanna... go back to the fire?”
He nodded without saying anything, finally sitting up to pull his shirt over his head; Emily stood and gathered the blanket while he pulled on his boxers and jeans, staring down at his bare toes with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Song was asleep, curled like a mouse on his makeshift bed, and though the fire had waned slightly, with the addition of another log, it crackled back to life, warming the room almost to the edges, against the cold of the night. Emily curled herself beside it, wriggling her toes against its heat with an over-enthusiastic sense of enjoyment. Something was off—everything was off.
“So,” she said, as though simply picking up a strand of conversation. “Just a few more days to those farms?”
“Should be,” he said, pouring water into the pan, putting it on the fire, both needing something to drink, to settle him, and something to do with his hands, itchy all of a sudden.
“Shouldn’t hit any more snow between here and there. Warmer climate.”
Nodding, Emily watched his large hands on the pan, then looked away. She had the distinct need to go for a walk but she knew that would neither be safe nor appropriate in the situation.
“So... that’s good. What... will you do? I mean, if we find the farms and everything... works out?”
He didn’t answer immediately: there was something in that question that made it quite hard to answer, when, maybe, it wouldn’t have been just a few days before.
“Don’t know,” he said, finally, rolling his lips over his teeth and watching over the water with entirely too much concentration. “Depends, I guess.”
Emily nodded as though that made sense. She even hummed assent, then ran her fingers through her hair until she dared: “On what?”
His gaze flicked to hers for only a moment: she was drawn in on herself, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and he could still taste her on his mouth.
He looked back at the water, wishing it would finally boil.
“If I’m needed. If I’m not.”
“Right.” Again she nodded, then drummed her fingers on her knees and she suddenly wished she hadn’t asked, had kept the future in that nebulous cloud of ignorance, of disbelief, that it had been in all along.
“Right,” he echoed, lifting the pan off the fire and pouring it into the cups they’d left near it on the floor. He could see the drawing clearer now, illuminated by the fire, suddenly quite easily visible with how his chin was tilted and he swallowed the sigh that came with recognition.
Aaron edged her cup closer to her. “Don’t have to get out too early,” he said, voice gone soft again, but certainly weary. “Let the sun warm up the roads a bit.”
“Thanks,” she mouthed, taking the cup. Her tongue sneaked out over bottom lip and she stared at the barely colored water in her cup. If I’m needed, if I’m not echoed in her mind like a lighthouse searchlight, round and round hitting her in the face on each turn. Finally, she picked up her tea, nipped at it and curled in on herself.
Aaron breathed in and out, audibly, shifting on his haunches until his knees creaked painfully. “Hopefully we don’t have to sleep in the van,” he attempted, finally, voice almost lost under the crackle of the fire, as quiet as it was. Emily nodded though, and he took it to mean that she had understood him anyway.
“I s’pose it’s not like we haven’t done it before,” she shrugged, not looking him in the eyes. She could still feel him inside her, like a physical absence—the way you’d feel a knife long after it had left the wound. She breathed into her lower belly and found there that odd pressure valve to her tear ducts. She left it untouched, though, however tempting it felt. “So... I s’pose I’d suggest some kind of supply run before we get there, but we haven’t had much luck with those.” Shrugging, she swished the tea in her cup.
“Yeah.” There wasn’t much else he could say to that: both things were true.
He cleared his throat. “Can’t hurt though, right?”
Emily raised her brows with enough sarcasm to drench the room but then shrugged, not quite ready to get into an argument about it, or even bring the subject of zombie attacks up again. Aaron looked away, though there was really nothing to look at; the fire reflected off the glass of the intact window, and so there was no darkness beyond. Maybe that’s why he stood, stretched, reached for his gun. Or maybe not.
“Sweep the perimeter,” he said, though, naturally, it was unnecessary.
Not for the first time that day, Emily felt that deep sense of loathing and guilt at the way his disappearance out the door made it easier to breathe.
Chapter Seventeen
Aaron started with snow, dumping handfuls over the engine, and steam rose in the air over the hood, past the top of the van, vaporizing into the sharp blue air.
Changing the oil and filling the reservoirs on the damned thing had been the least of his worries, and, thus, overheating was inevitable. It was something he should have thought of, he knew now.
Emily stood shivering at the side of the road: it wasn’t really that cold out, but it seemed like an almost necessary action, watching Aaron lean over the big, ticking engine. There was sweat forming along his brow and a string of curse words suddenly exploded from his mouth in a way she absolutely didn't expect, and never would have predicted. Even as a long time appreciator of curse words, there was something about them coming from him that made her keep her distance and flinch a little before she turned to Song.
“Are you warm enough? Or do you want to wait in the car?”
“I’m bored.” Song kicked at the gravel with shoes that were starting to wear, startlingly, at the toes. There was no novelty left in stopping on the side of the road, and he’d barely moved from his seat to the door, planting himself there and sighing, heavily, every few seconds. It took everything inside her not to join the sighing and the pouting, and she forced herself to smile at him instead.
“I know, Duck,” she said, trying for the gentle tack, although she had a feeling it wouldn’t work. “Do you wanna draw something? I mean, the car isn’t moving... so?”
“No,” Song drew out, using every bit of breath on the word, as if she wasn’t already patently aware he was bored and annoyed, and it was all her fault. “Can’t we go?”
“Go?” she asked maybe a hint too sarcastically, which she’d found discouraged in pretty much any par
enting book she'd ever picked up.
“Aaron’s trying to fix the car first.” And of course, as a Brit who’d left her home country at 17 to live in New York, Emily had never driven a car in her life. It was yet another situation where she was useless, and Aaron was on his own, taking care of all of them.
“What’s wrong with it?” Song didn’t sound interested in anything but hearing the sound of his own voice just then, so she didn’t even bother to reply.
“Are we ever gonna get anywhere?” he asked, confirming her suspicions, kicking a rock hard enough that it bounced off the asphalt and nicked her shin.
Emily flinched hard and sucked a sharp breath through her teeth. It wasn’t the pain, really, it was everything. It was every little thing, and she turned around and walked to the other side of the car to take a few deep breath. There had always been times when she’d lost her temper at Song but not here, not on top of everything else.
“I don’t know, Song,” she said when she came back, the suspicious use of his real first name not lost on the boy. “I think he said something about the oil.”
“Then put some more in,” he said, rolling his eyes hard enough that she was tempted to smack them back into place—but only for a second.
“Working on it,” came the tight, annoyed announcement from under the hood.
“Song,” Emily warned, voice dangerously quiet as she tried one more time. “How about we leave Aaron in peace and go over there and play hopscotch?”
“I don’t wanna.” The whine crept back into his voice, so that the last part was shrill enough to break glass; Aaron grunted but didn't raise his head. Emily, however, felt the noise go through her body like a chainsaw and she grabbed Song by the arm and pulled him away from the steaming hood of the car.
“I know you’re bored, okay? I know you’re fed up and that’s okay, but we are all bloody fed up... so...” She caught herself and breathed again. “Let’s just read a book and let Aaron do his thing, and we'll be back on the road in no time, okay?”
