Night Shifts
–
As the moonlight streamed in from the window, tinting her brown hair back (again) into that curious shade of silver-white, he clutches her to his chest.
She cries of death, blood, friends and enemies. Her tears seep through barely-open eyes, and he wonders if she's awake at all. He considers those screams she let out, and if they'd be more haunting if they came from her subconscious, or if she were fully awake. Welkin idly thinks, absently strokes her hair, swallowing his own breaths in a manner he'd much rather not. (He decides that either way, those screams would still be jarring in the midnight air.)
Tonight, she opens her eyes, mid-sob, and screams.
(He wonders if its her own scream at all, or a reenactment of someone else's.)
The day before, far less vocal, she kicked and shook as trembles wracked her small frame (a frame, he thinks, that was not meant for drills and sniping, but for kneading of dough and picking flowers), her skin cold and clammy against his. Welkin just holds her, running calloused hands over sweaty skin, attempting to soothe the spasms.
A week ago, she hollers the names of the deceased, as though her cries alone could wake them and bring them back. (And for more than a moment, more than an hour, he wishes that they would) He simply lay beside her, letting her voice ring in his ears, as the room seems far too small to contain all that has spilled from her mouth.
And tomorrow, she will wake up, make bread, and smile at him.
"Did you sleep well, Welkin?"
He can see the red crescents on her arms, the scratches near her neck (all somehow managing to be foreign, for even his scars healed two months back), an oblivious smile on her face, and eyes that cloud over as Welkin walks in her direction, and brushes a stray lock into her headscarf.
"No, not really," He hesitates, warm bread in hand, as he takes a bite.
"What? Why not? You didn't go back to work in the middle of the night, did you?" So thoroughly confused, he tries to focus on the girl standing in front of him, and not the one bathed in silver light the night before.
Work. He considers the notion of it, and what constituted of the term.
(He wonders if brushing stray tears, restraining hands and soothing cold skin could be thought of as "work".)
Swallowing, Welkin somehow manages a chuckle (how he does so, even he does not know). "Yeah, I guess so. Guilty as charged?"
Alicia clucks her tongue at him, visibly annoyed. "What have we said about working late? I-I mean, the reason why I," she swallows and looks away briefly, "I- er, t-take you to bed, is so that you won't work till the break of dawn! I mean-"
"I'm sorry. Can't help it. Work... Calls to me."
She furrows her brows, wondering if she should take it literally (for all she knew, there was some species of nightingale or something which came out only in the wee hours), and turns away instead, handing him a glass of milk.
"Don't make a habit of it."
He looks at her, long and hard (he spots another fingernail-type scratch on her forearm), and manages to choke out a reply.
"I won't, if you won't."
–
A/N:
The things I do when I'm supposed to be studying. I promise to update everything else, but I just really wanted to write something, and I just watched the last episode of Valkyria Chronicles, so... Heh. Comments and criticism? This short fic takes place after the war ends, when both Welkin and Alicia are back in Bruhl.