I do not own any of the character within this fic. Whedon and Laurel K are lucky bitches.
Yes I do know I do not write my fics grammatically correct. I am aware. I know, really I do. However, I do not particularly care.
She called today.
She needs a sister.
Her mother is dead, her father has omitted her from her life and her little brother is an innocent.
Her friends blind themselves and her men are too involved.
Sometimes you just need to be told you aren’t crazy, you aren’t a psychopath, you aren’t alone and you’re not paranoid; there really are just that many people that want you dead or under their control.
It’s that paranoia that has kept you alive.
Checking under the bed and loving your weapon.
Hearing a voice confirm what you believe in can be as comforting as a priest absolving your sins.
When you find someone who truly can understand and empathize, because they could very possibly have already or will soon experience your life, you can’t let go.
That is why she calls.
Even when nothing is “wrong”.
When no one is in immediate danger, or celebrating something, those times are when you can soak in the words of a sister.
And so she calls once a month, or every few.
It matters little.
Every time she hears your voice you know you can make it through another season with your humanity intact.
Because you aren’t alone.
At least one other person out there has the same thoughts, similar fears.
There’s no embarrassment or caution in these calls.
There’s only the touch of one protector to another, weathering different storms separately, never really helping each other.
But the sparse contact with each other helps retain both of their will's to endure, and to fight.