Apocalypse: Filter? I hardly know her!

[troublewillfindme]

There were many reasons she loved Currer. His energy. His loyalty. His willingness to accompany her on adventures. His complete acceptance of her need to sometimes bury her face in his fluff. The fact that he still would cover her in kisses when she inevitably surfaced.

 

Down the hall, Will shouted at someone, Australian accent ricocheting off the walls. Blindly, she reached up for Currer’s ears, offering them a scritch. Neither liked to see Will this unhappy.

There was a problem with the Senate, though, to be fair, that was the norm, rather than the exception. She wasn’t sure of the details, but then again, she also wasn’t sure it mattered. If it was important, she’d hear about it sooner or later, or catch the details when Kader was inevitably brought into the fray, to Will’s annoyance.

The ADVENT anniversary last week had somehow stirred the gossip rags again, inspiring a new spate of stories she’d rather ignore, and another round of questions shouted at her as she made her way home. She’d long ago given up on the customary “no comment,” instead refusing to acknowledge the vultures at all.

Currer let out a pitiful whine and she sat up. He gazed up at her with big, sad eyes. She shrugged her bag off to the side, and pushed herself to her feet, grabbing his leash from where it lay on the couch.

“Come on, boy,” she said, hooking it to his collar. “Let’s go.”

She was glad that other anniversaries were not nearly as public; she’d rather not have to share more than they already did.

It was still funny to her that she’d been with Will and John almost six years; in all the best ways, it felt much longer. She missed Maman, yes, but it was a dull ache, not a gaping hole. She’d lost one family, and gained another: everything in balance.

She wasn’t sure why he’d thought she was worth it, worth the trouble and the hassle. It’d taken her a month to write in English again, and another several weeks after that to finish working the French out of her speech. But they had understood. Will had understood. They’d given her a life free from ADVENT, a chance to sleep through the night without fear of what might come; a home with dinners and a dog, GravBall games and Jane Austen jokes.

She chuckled. Jane Austen. That alone was a shock.

She loved them, and she was grateful. She just hoped they knew.

She let Currer loose just inside the door, pocketing his leash in her coat. She could spy Will on the couch, rubbing his temples.

“Lydia?” She asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Lydia.”

She shrugged off her jacket and hung it from the hook. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down, dad,” she called, heading for her room.

She stopped short.

Had she really just said that?