Plagiarism

For, Sheets and Thunder

Fog, Sheets and Thunder

theopteryx

Summary:

Not as grey as it seems. A post-apocalyptic postal service AU.

Notes:

Written for the no_tags challenge for the prompt of 'post-apocalyptic postal service.' Thank you to my beta, mrsronweasley.

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

The small bell by Gerard's head rings once, twice, as someone pulls heavily on the wire down the hall. They're going to miss the drop. He writes frantically, but it's difficult to go any faster when the woman in front of him keeps pausing to weep.

"It lasted for hours," she says, blurred, her arms boneless across the top of the small table. "Hours. By the end he couldn't recognize my face, couldn't remember who I was."

Gerard nods, the ache in his hand mounting.

"How could I do that? How could I bring a child into this? We shouldn't have to bury our children. I shouldn't. I can't. I can't." She's weeping again, head down, like she can't support the weight of it.

Bury - the word sticks at Gerard, almost makes him pause, pen nib pressed to paper. Bury. They haven't buried anyone in years. A turn of phrase from years ago - she shouldn't have to burn her own children. Burn would be more correct.

He says nothing, and continues writing. The bell by his ear rings again, insistent.

Eric passed quietly in his sleep, Gerard writes. It was without pain, and for that, I am thankful.

He signs the woman's name at the bottom - Sara, her tag says - and scratches her ID number into the paper below it, then quickly folds the paper in his hands but without pressing too hard, so the still-damp words don't smear. He adds it to the stack at the side of the desk, and reaches out a hand to encircle her wrist, squeezing gently.

"I'll let them know," he says, but she keeps her head down, wrist limp.

//

"Storm's coming in," Saporta says, squinting at the small meter in his hands. He shakes it slightly and it beeps sluggishly in answer.

"He'll be here," Gerard says. The window is cracked a little around the edges, and some of the black frost has already started to accumulate in the seams. He leans against the wall to peer through the scratched glass and the stone is bitterly cold, even through the plastic bag of letters in his crossed arms and the thick quilting of his coat.

The sky outside the window is dark, darker than usual, and there's a low howl mounting on the horizon. It's a big one, heavy with static - even inside the tunnels Gerard can feel the hair on the back of his neck start to prickle, and he fights the urge to run a hand over it.

"You sure about that?" Saporta asks, watching him now. The meter in his hands goes dead, powering down. Gerard ignores it and stares ahead.

"Yes," he says, but it's swallowed by the wind and sounds weak, far away.

//

The first time they'd met, Gerard thought that he was dying, that Frank had killed him, had done something to him to make his heart drop in his chest.

Frank had blown in through the east door without following protocol and almost killed them all, actually, with the storm on his heels blowing sticky ash down a hundred yards into the tunnel. The others had rushed to shut the door closed behind him, but Gerard had gotten the brunt of it, had almost choked on the burn in his throat.