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What she's doing, Molly hasn't really got a clue. It's been days, though, days with nothing to do but wait even when she hasn't been sure what she's waiting for, and the only thing she can be certain of is that something's got to give. If that means she has to be the one playing an adult, the one to break the silence, then so fucking be it, she will. This whole thing is completely absurd anyway. Admittedly, it was more so when she and Stephen were stuck in the same church for days on end, steering clear of each other even with the world falling apart around them, but it's been close to two full days now without a word, and it's fucking dumb. He can't just ignore her because she got hurt, because they had a fight. All things considered, speaking strictly as far as the two of them are concerned, they've dealt with worse. Just because she gets it, sort of — and because she's been reluctant to say anything either — doesn't mean she's alright with it. If anything, she's pretty sure she has more of a reason not to speak to him, but that's pointless, too. Were she interested in holding a grudge, there are plenty of other things she could have chosen.
Besides, there's enough else that's too fucked up now for her to want to let go of whatever they have. Sleeping hasn't come easily ever since she showed up here, knowing what she did, but these past nights, it's been impossible. The city's gone back to normal, the sun sets on it and nothing changes, but that doesn't make a bit of difference when she's too worried about what might happen, scared to turn off her lights because she doesn't know what will be in the darkness, kept awake by memories of disfigured grey children with knives. She got lucky and she knows it, but it was a close fucking call, and that doesn't make it any less terrifying, anyway, the sort of thing that should never have been possible but was. By comparison, everything else seems inconsequential, and what's more, she'd rather be beside someone than on her own.
Texting Stephen is a whim, and she doesn't really expect him to answer. That doesn't make it any less disappointing when he doesn't, or at least doesn't seem to. When her phone finally goes off twenty minutes later, she isn't expecting it at all, and one word might not be much in the way of reassurance, but at least it's fucking something. It's enough — enough that she doesn't hesitate before putting on a pair of jeans under the shirt she'd worn to get into bed, tucking a t-shirt for tomorrow and a pair of underwear and a toothbrush in her purse, hoping to God that she isn't being too presumptuous. Better to be prepared, though, than not to be, and she'd stay if he'd let her even without sex. That isn't the point. After almost a week of silence, this is just the only way she has to do something, the best chance she's got at actually getting him to talk to her and therefore worthwhile even when it means leaving her apartment for the first time since they all dispersed on Monday morning. That's the hardest part. That, and the walk to Stephen's place itself, the same as the path she took when she was trying to get to the church, the walk alone enough to make her blood run cold. There's no sense in turning back, once she reaches the place where those fucking kids (if they could even be called that) attacked her, but it nearly makes her wish that she hadn't left in the first place, that she'd tried to coax him over to her building instead. She still could, texting him back intermittently as she goes, but it's probably better this way. She was always going to have to leave eventually, no matter how difficult.
Still, she's more shaken than she was to start by the time she gets to his building, timing she couldn't have planned better if she'd tried, since it's starting to look like he isn't going to answer her last text, like he's about to slip back to ignoring her again. She won't let him. Taking the elevator up, a familiar ride by now, she knocks on his door when she reaches it, gentle, just loud enough to be audible. He's awake, she knows he is, or she wouldn't have bothered coming. Even if he's guessed that it's her, obvious as it probably is, she just hopes he isn't so fucking stubborn that he won't answer. She isn't going to humiliate herself by waiting around for the rest of the night for him.
Besides, there's enough else that's too fucked up now for her to want to let go of whatever they have. Sleeping hasn't come easily ever since she showed up here, knowing what she did, but these past nights, it's been impossible. The city's gone back to normal, the sun sets on it and nothing changes, but that doesn't make a bit of difference when she's too worried about what might happen, scared to turn off her lights because she doesn't know what will be in the darkness, kept awake by memories of disfigured grey children with knives. She got lucky and she knows it, but it was a close fucking call, and that doesn't make it any less terrifying, anyway, the sort of thing that should never have been possible but was. By comparison, everything else seems inconsequential, and what's more, she'd rather be beside someone than on her own.
Texting Stephen is a whim, and she doesn't really expect him to answer. That doesn't make it any less disappointing when he doesn't, or at least doesn't seem to. When her phone finally goes off twenty minutes later, she isn't expecting it at all, and one word might not be much in the way of reassurance, but at least it's fucking something. It's enough — enough that she doesn't hesitate before putting on a pair of jeans under the shirt she'd worn to get into bed, tucking a t-shirt for tomorrow and a pair of underwear and a toothbrush in her purse, hoping to God that she isn't being too presumptuous. Better to be prepared, though, than not to be, and she'd stay if he'd let her even without sex. That isn't the point. After almost a week of silence, this is just the only way she has to do something, the best chance she's got at actually getting him to talk to her and therefore worthwhile even when it means leaving her apartment for the first time since they all dispersed on Monday morning. That's the hardest part. That, and the walk to Stephen's place itself, the same as the path she took when she was trying to get to the church, the walk alone enough to make her blood run cold. There's no sense in turning back, once she reaches the place where those fucking kids (if they could even be called that) attacked her, but it nearly makes her wish that she hadn't left in the first place, that she'd tried to coax him over to her building instead. She still could, texting him back intermittently as she goes, but it's probably better this way. She was always going to have to leave eventually, no matter how difficult.
Still, she's more shaken than she was to start by the time she gets to his building, timing she couldn't have planned better if she'd tried, since it's starting to look like he isn't going to answer her last text, like he's about to slip back to ignoring her again. She won't let him. Taking the elevator up, a familiar ride by now, she knocks on his door when she reaches it, gentle, just loud enough to be audible. He's awake, she knows he is, or she wouldn't have bothered coming. Even if he's guessed that it's her, obvious as it probably is, she just hopes he isn't so fucking stubborn that he won't answer. She isn't going to humiliate herself by waiting around for the rest of the night for him.
