Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Breadcrumbs
Word Count: 311
Note: Non-canon, from a previous version of the novel.
"Aur?"
Her small apartment was near-silent when he let himself in, save the sound of running water. Heading in that direction, he found himself stepping over her discarded uniform, the black fabric coated in dust and blood, left in filthy piles like a trail of breadcrumbs toward the bathroom.
"Aur?" he called again, slowly pushing the door open. A cloud of steam billowed out at him, and when it cleared he didn't see her. For a moment he thought she'd left the water on and gone to bed, and was about to go check her bedroom when he spotted the bright red of her tank top behind the semi-opaque shower curtain. "Hey," he said gently. "It's me."
She didn't respond, or if she did, it was too faint to be heard over the water. Edging forward, not wanting to startle her, he edged the shower curtain out of the way and found her sitting in the bottom of the tub in a tank top and her underwear, her bruised legs pulled to her chest, scraped arms wrapped around them, her forehead pressed to her scabbed knees. Sighing, he reached out and rubbed her shoulder.
"Aura," he said gently. "Kiddo, come on, talk to me."
"I don't want to talk," she whispered miserably, tightening her grip on her legs, her long-fingered hands clenched into fists, a familiar strip of shimmering silver fabric woven between her fingers. He was so used to seeing her in her bulky jacket, her baggy clothing, that he'd forgotten just how small she was - curled up in the bottom of the bathtub like this, she looked absolutely tiny. "Just leave me alone."
"You know I can't do that," he told her.
"Why, because I need to fill out another fucking report? Or because -"
"Because you're my friend," he interrupted evenly. "And I love you."
Word Count: 311
Note: Non-canon, from a previous version of the novel.
"Aur?"
Her small apartment was near-silent when he let himself in, save the sound of running water. Heading in that direction, he found himself stepping over her discarded uniform, the black fabric coated in dust and blood, left in filthy piles like a trail of breadcrumbs toward the bathroom.
"Aur?" he called again, slowly pushing the door open. A cloud of steam billowed out at him, and when it cleared he didn't see her. For a moment he thought she'd left the water on and gone to bed, and was about to go check her bedroom when he spotted the bright red of her tank top behind the semi-opaque shower curtain. "Hey," he said gently. "It's me."
She didn't respond, or if she did, it was too faint to be heard over the water. Edging forward, not wanting to startle her, he edged the shower curtain out of the way and found her sitting in the bottom of the tub in a tank top and her underwear, her bruised legs pulled to her chest, scraped arms wrapped around them, her forehead pressed to her scabbed knees. Sighing, he reached out and rubbed her shoulder.
"Aura," he said gently. "Kiddo, come on, talk to me."
"I don't want to talk," she whispered miserably, tightening her grip on her legs, her long-fingered hands clenched into fists, a familiar strip of shimmering silver fabric woven between her fingers. He was so used to seeing her in her bulky jacket, her baggy clothing, that he'd forgotten just how small she was - curled up in the bottom of the bathtub like this, she looked absolutely tiny. "Just leave me alone."
"You know I can't do that," he told her.
"Why, because I need to fill out another fucking report? Or because -"
"Because you're my friend," he interrupted evenly. "And I love you."