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sheriffaxolotl · 10 days ago

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Off the Ledge (Chapter 1) Abby Anderson x Reader

⇒ Jump forward!

Tags: Slow burn, parkour, attempt at humor, compulsory heterosexuality, coming out Wordcount: 6.7k

Summary:

You knew better than to fall. But Abby was gravity.

It’s been a rough week—or, well, that feels like an understatement. It’s been boring as hell.

The rooftops are slick with moss and rot. Rain hasn’t touched them in over a week, but Seattle never really dries. The wet seeps in and stays—beneath shingles, between bones, behind your eyes. You’ve had to learn the texture of each surface: the slippery crunch of broken tiles, the wet grit of rotting tarpaper, the sharp sway of old satellite dishes that can tip if you don’t land just right.

You know this route like muscle memory. Six rooftops, two alleyways, one rusted catwalk, and a drop through an old skylight that still smells faintly of fire and mildew. It’s all mapped into your body now.

Ankles flex before your brain registers the ledge. Fingers brush crumbling brick as you climb. Breath tucks tight in your lungs when you crouch too close to the edge.

You leap from one roof to the next—

and immediately regret everything.

Your foot hits a slick patch of moss, slides out from under you, and you do a spectacular, slow-motion flail. Arms pinwheeling. One boot in the air. Gravity snickering like a school bully.

You land with a grunt and a wet splat, flat on your back in a puddle the temperature of bad decisions.

You just lay there for a second, staring up at the dull gray sky, listening to water seep into every fiber of your clothes.

“Graceful,” you mutter to no one.

The radio crackles at your hip. “Copy that, route clear?”

You thumb the mic. “Totally. Nailed it.”

No one needs to know how literally you nailed it—with your spine.

You sit up, wiping moss and dirt from your sleeve like you meant to spend the last week face-first in the forest. Your left leg protests, a dull throb from the miles you've logged, but it’ll pass. Parkour: the glamorous art of making near-falls look cool and pretending bruises don’t exist.

The final stretch is ahead—down a fire escape, then through a narrow gap between two old, rusted cars and some overgrown bushes. You step lightly, cautious of your aching joints, and finally clear the last obstacle. You take a breath, the scent of damp earth and leaves still thick in your lungs. The tall lights of the stadium base are in the distance. Home.

The WLF base, once an impressive stadium, now a fortress of sandbags, barricades, and floodlights. The high stands of the arena are long abandoned, the field a patchwork of makeshift living quarters and training grounds. The wide concourses echo with the sounds of soldiers and civilians alike, but it’s quiet now, still, as you make your way to the entrance.

The gates creak open with their usual complaint. Metal groans in protest as you slip through and head toward the concrete ramps that lead up to the higher levels. The stadium’s massive, but it’s solid—secure. Safe.

You pass a pair of WLF soldiers posted at the entry, one nodding at you in recognition while the other glances past you at the rest of your patrol, now trudging in behind you. Boots scuff against concrete, tired voices low as they file in—soaked jackets, muddied gear, shoulders heavy with a week's worth of movement and too little sleep.

A few familiar faces call out greetings or crack jokes as you move through the stadium’s interior. Someone whistles low when they see the state of your pants—ripped at the knee and caked in dirt. You don’t bother with a comeback. The scent of oil, wet canvas, and overcooked rations hangs in the air, oddly comforting.

You make your way into the main area, damp and tired. The buzzing of conversation fills the wide concourses, but your focus is on the familiar faces. You don’t stop walking until you spot Mason—leaning against the chain-link fence near the sign-in station, looking as polished as he did when you left. Same confident smile. Same hair that’s never out of place. His combat vest looks like it came straight off the store shelf.

“You’re late,” he says, the words light, like you’ve been gone a few hours instead of a full week.

You snort, brushing past him toward the sign-in area. “Yeah, well, I had to take a scenic detour. Ate shit on the moss again.”

The clipboard is waiting, smudged with ink and fingerprints. You scrawl your name, the motion practiced, the pen familiar in your hand. There’s a strange comfort in that—something routine after a week of chaos.

Before you can even set the pen down, Mason appears at your side, pressing a steaming mug into your hands. “You always do,” he says, grinning around the rim of his own cup.

You take the mug, its warmth already sinking into your fingers. “And yet I always come back in one piece. Mostly.”

He snorts, and for a moment, the stadium feels a little warmer. You take it. Sip. Bitter as hell. But warm. You let it burn your throat, the heat a welcome change after the cold silence of your time on patrol.

“Some new folks showed up while you were out,” he says casually. “Big group. One of the guys said they’re from Salt Lake. They’ve been here about a week now. Another smaller group too—came down from the north. Scars trashed their outpost. Nasty business.”

You nod, eyes still on the board. “More mouths to feed.”

“More hands too,” he adds with a shrug. “One’s got some medical experience. There’s a girl—kind of intense, but cool. She helped unload the whole truck, then ran back for more. Real high-energy.”

You glance sideways. “Weird metric for likability.”

“You’re just worried she’ll beat your run time.”

That earns a reluctant smirk. Not enough to change your day, but enough to shift the weight on your chest. Just a little.

He sees it—thinks he’s winning—and presses the moment. “You’re coming tonight, right? We’re throwing a welcome thing. Liam roped me into cooking duty, so I roped you in. Rooftop garden. Lanterns. Music. Might almost feel like something out of one of those magazines from Before.”

Your stomach knots. Cold. Quiet. “I’ll think about it.”

He touches your arm—gentle, like always. Like he knows how to be careful with you.

“Think faster. I’m claiming you for my team in cards.”

Of course he did. You were his girlfriend. And he was your boyfriend, apparently. Or that’s what everyone calls him. The label never quite fit—not the way it should. But you haven’t corrected anyone. Haven’t corrected him.

And then he’s gone, already walking backward with that smile like it belongs in some old snapshot. Back when smiles didn’t cost anything. He peels off toward the water truck, slipping into a group of scouts like he was born there. He’s laughing before he even reaches them—loose shoulders, confident voice, like the world hasn’t ended five times already.

He’s good. He’s kind. He’s safe.

And still, your chest aches with something you don’t have a word for.

Because how do you explain to someone who likes you so much that you feel nothing?

That his warmth doesn’t sink in. That you’ve tried. Really tried.

Kissed him once, eyes closed, thinking maybe if you let it happen, the feeling would catch up. That your body would stop flinching at the quiet expectations packed into a gentle hand on your back, or the way his voice goes soft when you’re alone together.

It never did.

There’s comfort in being seen. In being wanted. But comfort isn’t connection. And it sure as hell isn’t desire.

You sip the last of the coffee, grimace, and glance down at the mug like it betrayed you.

Cool. Burnt feelings with a hint of emotional constipation. My favorite roast.

A breeze rattles the gate behind you. You glance toward Mason again—he’s still laughing, probably already telling someone how you trip over your own feet when you're distracted.

(Which is true, but rude.)

You rub your hand over your face.

“God, I need to lie down. Or fake an illness. Do people still get consumption? Maybe I’ll just develop a cough and dramatically exit stage left.”

No one hears you, of course. Just the clipboard hanging from its nail, the sound of boots on gravel, and your own dumb heart beating too quiet and too loud all at once.

You sigh and start walking toward the barracks.

Rooftop garden. Lanterns. Music.

Great. A post-apocalyptic Pinterest party.

You linger by the railing next to the supply board, mug cooling between your hands, and watch the scene unfold across the yard like some kind of cheerful propaganda film. Mason’s right at the center of it, as usual—laughing too easily, catching a tossed deck of cards mid-air like he’s done it a hundred times. Someone whistles off-key. Someone else fumbles a plate and gets a cheer for it.

You wish you could join in. Or want to join in. Or hell, even fake it with a little more sincerity.

Instead, you just stand there, thinking about how strange it is—to be loved by someone and feel absolutely nothing in return.

Well, maybe not nothing. There’s a fondness. A kind of “thanks for the coffee, you’re emotionally available, but please don’t touch me” warmth. Like how you feel about your favorite hoodie: safe, soft, and not remotely sexual.

You watch him laugh again. He glows when he’s surrounded like this. And you—

You just kind of… flicker.

You glance down into your cup. Cold. Bitter. Accurate.

What would it even feel like? To look at someone and just know—that pull, that heat, that certainty. You've never had that. Instead, you've been duct-taping yourself to whatever looked close enough. Admiration? Sure. Affection? Sometimes. But that full-body, heart-thudding want?

Still waiting on it.

Something in you feels... off. Tilted sideways. Like everyone else got the manual and you’re just guessing your way through.

You didn’t have a name for it, not exactly—just a slow, twisting guilt that settled in your gut and never really left. Every time someone kissed you and you smiled through it. Every time you said, “I think I like you too,” and it tasted false in your mouth, even when you meant it—especially when you meant it.

You haven’t said anything. Not out loud. You’re still trying to figure out what, exactly, there is to say.

But it’s there. In the way your stomach knots when someone gets too close. In how Mason calls you his girl, and it echoes wrong in your chest, hollow and off-key.

The wind picks up and wraps around you like a blanket someone forgot to warm. Camp’s winding down—clanging pans in the mess area, the soft thunk of targets getting reset out by the range, boots crunching gravel in a rhythm you know by heart. Everything smells like sawdust, old oil, and rain-damp wool.

You stay a minute longer, mug hanging from your fingers, wondering if Mason’s going to come find you again. He probably will. With another mug. Another smile. Another gentle nudge toward fitting into a shape you don’t belong in.

He wants you to try.

You have tried.

You just ran out of pretending.

New arrivals are still trickling in: crates, bags, strangers, and that weird blend of adrenaline and exhaustion that hangs off people who’ve barely survived their last stop. You tell yourself you’re not snooping. Just… surveying. Making sure they’re not letting in anyone who looks like they’ve never held a gun or heard of soap.

You’ve earned your spot here. Others should too.

The place is a familiar chaos—makeshift crates, busted wheels on trolleys, stacks of med kits held together with duct tape and prayer. Two WLF soldiers are having an existential crisis over the difference between “2A” and “A2” on a cargo manifest, and a small knot of newcomers stands nearby looking like they just got dropped into the wrong college orientation.

You start to turn, fingers still grazing the edge of a crate, when the cold, clammy feeling settles in.

The wetness on your back—where you definitely didn’t stick the landing earlier—is creeping its way down your spine, a slow, unpleasant reminder of your less-than-graceful rooftop moment.

Great.

Your clothes, still soaked from the slip, cling uncomfortably to your skin. The dampness works its way in through the thin fabric, making your movements feel sluggish and awkward as the chill creeps across your shoulders. It’s not just wet anymore—it’s cold. So cold it’s almost worse than when you fell.

You suck in a breath, trying to ignore the sticky sensation of the fabric sticking to your skin and focus on the noise around you. The truck doors creak open again, someone grumbles about the weight of a crate, and the air smells faintly of wet wood and mildew.

You press your lips together and give the storage bay one last glance, feeling more like a lost kid than a scout.

"Alright, time to cut it," you mutter under your breath, shaking your head.

Your boots clack against the concrete, the sound filling the empty space around you as you turn back, heading toward the barracks. At least in there, you can peel off these soaked clothes and pretend you're not freezing from the inside out. If anyone notices how wet you are, they don’t mention it. Probably because everyone else is too busy with their own brand of miserable to care.

You move, neither fast enough to seem casual nor slow enough to appear like you’re dragging your feet on purpose. It’s the kind of walk you’ve perfected—the in-between, where you don’t want to stand out, but you also don’t want to fit in too well. The side door to the stadium creaks open under your hand. You’ve made this journey so many times that it feels like muscle memory now.

The place smells like dust, concrete, and old sweat. You don’t even have to think about it. Boots on the stairs echo against the bare walls. It’s a slow climb. Stairs, more stairs. You know exactly how many there are—each step a little reminder that you’re still here. You never count them, though. Or, at least, you never have successfully before you lost track.

By the time you reach your floor, you’re starting to sweat under your jacket, the weight of your damp clothes clinging to you like they’re trying to hold you in place. The air up here is always colder, with less body heat from the masses below. You close the door behind you, not that it locks, and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your space is simple, but it’s yours. A spectator’s room turned into a makeshift bedroom. Or kind of like an apartment? Whatever it was, it’s home to you. You walk further into the room and down the stairs to the lower level, which you’ve claimed as your space. A bunk bed with a thin, worn blanket that’s seen better days. A small shelf next to it, cluttered with what feels like all the things you’ve picked up along the way—coins from a time long forgotten, a half-finished crossword puzzle you started last week, and a few mismatched candles that haven’t been lit in months.

The corners of your space are littered with personal things, some important, some just because. A knife you’ve held onto because it reminds you of an old friend. A book you started reading and never finished. Mason’s sweatshirt, the one you borrowed months ago and forgot to give back, tossed over the edge of your bed like it’s part of the furniture now.

The other half of the room? Neat, almost sterile. Just a cot with a tidy blanket and a couple of supplies stacked along the wall. It’s exactly how you’d expect someone who’s still trying to hold on to a sense of order to keep it. The division between the two spaces is like a visual reminder of everything you’ve let go of and everything you still pretend to control. It also reminds you of your lack of roommate.

You toe off your boots, not caring where they land, and drop the mug onto the desk with a soft thud. The room feels smaller tonight, like the walls are a little too close. You sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees. The silence presses in around you like a blanket you didn’t ask for. Sometimes, it’s a relief, but today, it’s like the quiet’s got teeth.

Your eyes wander over to the clutter in your corner—the small pile of forgotten trinkets, things you didn’t need but couldn’t leave behind. The cracked picture frame with a faded photo from Before that’s been collecting dust for months. A piece of driftwood you found during one of your patrols, shaped like something out of a storybook. A few old drawings, barely visible under the pile of empty ration packs and scavenged odds and ends.

You could pull the crate from under your bed. Go through your field journal. Maybe look at something that won’t remind you of the mess you’ve been trying to keep from spilling out everywhere. Instead, you just sit there, your fingers absently brushing over the edge of the crate, feeling the edges of things you’ve tucked away.

For a moment, the clutter in the corner feels like the only real part of you left.

You lie back on the cot, arms draped over your face.

The mattress groans under your weight. The wind taps against the old, sealed window. Somewhere far below, someone’s picking at a guitar, the low hum of strings barely reaching you.

You don’t want to go to the rooftop gathering. You don’t want to sit next to Mason, pretending like everything’s fine, like you’re actually a part of this whole routine. You don’t want to smile at new faces and nod along with the casual chatter, pretending this life is normal.

But you know Mason’s going to ask. And worse—you know you’ll probably say yes.

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By the time the sun sinks low behind the stadium walls, you’ve changed your shirt twice and still feel like you’re either overdressed or underdressed. It's hard to tell with everything sitting wrong. Nothing feels like it fits today. You tug at the edges of your clothes like it’ll somehow make things more comfortable, but it doesn’t. Everything itches.

The rooftop garden isn’t far—just two staircases and a short walk down a hallway that smells like damp soil and the faintest hint of wood smoke. You tell yourself you'll drop by for five minutes. Maybe ten. Just long enough to show your face and dodge the “Where were you?” from Mason.

You can already hear the sounds before you reach the door—laughter, music low through scavenged speakers, voices chatting over one another, their tones light and easy. It’s too warm for a fire tonight, but someone lit one anyway. Just for the look of it, you guess. You step out into the fading gold of early evening, squinting against the light.

It’s busier than you expected. At least two dozen people, new and old faces scattered in loose, haphazard groups. The air smells like cooked food and a little too much cologne, but that’s just how it is now. You scan the crowd.

Someone’s brought bread. The smell of it hangs in the air, mingling with the rich, warm scent of something simmering in a pot over a controlled flame. You can almost taste it. A few kids are darting between the raised planter boxes, their laughter like the sound of a distant memory, while one of the older recruits watches them with a tired but soft smile.

And, of course—there’s Mason.

He spots you immediately. Of course he does.

“There she is!” He calls, raising a beer bottle like it’s a flag. “I was about to send a search party.”

You manage to force a smile and make your way over. Mason’s already clearing a spot next to him on an overturned crate, the space beside him looking like the kind of invitation you can’t really refuse.

“I saved you a seat,” he says, voice warm, and you sink into it because resisting is too much effort right now.

Someone hands you a drink. Someone else offers a plate. You nod, say thanks, even laugh once or twice. It’s all just background noise, the kind of white noise you’ve gotten used to, but there’s something familiar about it. The clink of bottles, the buzz of conversation. You’re here, you’re present. And for a few moments, you almost forget how much you’d rather be anywhere else.

Then, you spot them. The new people Mason had mentioned earlier in the day.

They’re scattered across the rooftop in loose, easy clusters, already slipping into the rhythm of the place like they’ve been here for months, maybe even years. Some are cleaned up now—less dust, fewer edges—but they’re still new. You can see it in the way they move, the way their eyes scan the space like they’re taking inventory, still a little on guard.

There’s a guy with a few days-old stumble and a laugh that fills the air. He’s telling stories, the kind that make people snort into their drinks. Two people are beside him, hanging on to every word.

Farther into the garden, you spot a small woman with a pinched mouth talking to someone you recognise around base, trying to make friends. Behind them, there’s another figure—broad-shouldered, curly hair tied back, silent, standing guard like it’s second nature. Arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd without ever stopping.

And then, there’s her.

She’s tucked away near the back edge of the rooftop, half-shadowed by the concrete wall. Her hair’s braided back messily, damp at the temples like she didn’t have the time or the patience to fix it properly. She’s talking to someone else, unfamiliar to you, another one of the Salt Lake group you guess. The low murmur of their conversation blends with the background noise, their shoulders bumping every now and then. Her smile’s small, like she’s giving him half her attention, but there’s something easy about it—like she’s not trying to hide anything.

You don’t think she’s laughing, but maybe you’re just not close enough to catch it. Still, there’s this flicker of something in her eyes, soft and unguarded, like she’s actually enjoying the moment. It’s clear they like one another.

Her arms are bare, a scrape on her forearm visible, but it’s not the wound that draws your attention. It’s the way she stands—confident, grounded, like she’s part of the space around her, like she belongs here.

You find yourself staring.

You’re trying not to stare, but your eyes keep following her, tracking her every movement—how she carries herself, the way she stands with that effortless strength. She doesn’t seem to need to do anything to draw attention, but somehow, she does. You’re caught in the gravity of it, drawn in.

Then she shifts.

Just a small movement—her head turns slightly, scanning the crowd, her eyes sweeping over the rooftop. And then they land on you.

For a split second, your breath catches. Time stops. It’s a fleeting moment, but it feels like it lasts forever for you.

Before you can even process it, she turns back to the person she’s talking to, and you’re left frozen. The heat floods your neck and face, panic squeezing at your chest, a rush of embarrassment and something else that feels a little too close to longing.

Great. You were staring. You were definitely staring.

You can feel the burn of her gaze even though it’s already passed, like an echo you can’t shake. Your heart races in your chest, and you force yourself to take a long sip of your drink to steady the nerves that have suddenly gone haywire. The edges of your vision blur for a moment as your pulse thunders in your ears.

Mason’s talking again, but you’re not really hearing him now. The words sound like they’re coming from a distance, muffled by the ringing in your head. You focus on him because it’s easier to look at something else than face what just happened.

You can’t be this obvious. You can't keep staring. You try to shift your gaze, but it's like the pull of gravity keeps bringing you back to her. It doesn’t help that every time you look, she’s moving, shifting slightly, her presence like a weight in the air. You watch her for a second longer than you should, and your stomach does a weird flip when she glances up, but this time, it’s not directed at you.

You bite your lip, forcing your eyes down to the drink in your hand, trying to keep your head from swimming. The night feels too warm, the sounds too loud, the air too heavy. You're not sure if it’s the music, the smell of food, or just the overwhelming need to keep your hands from shaking.

A laugh escapes your lips, but it’s a bit too sharp, too quick, and it feels more like a cover-up than anything else. Mason doesn’t seem to notice, but he gives you a nudge.

“Relax, will ya?” Mason teases, nudging your side. His voice is light, a harmless jab meant to pull you back into the moment. “You look like you’re about to implode.”

You offer him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Everything feels stretched thin—like the air itself is tight around you. Mason’s voice fades into the background hum of chatter and the low thrum of music, all of it dulled at the edges as your focus slips. You tighten your grip on your drink, anchoring yourself to the weight of the glass in your palm, the soft clink of ice tapping against the rim.

Still, your thoughts won’t settle. Your skin prickles, too aware of the space you’re taking up, of the way your chest tightens every time someone laughs too loud nearby. You shift in your seat and try to coach yourself into calm. There’s no reason to feel like this.

When Mason stands up to grab more drinks, relief filters in like sunlight through blinds. “Be right back,” he says, tossing you a wink before disappearing into the crowd.

You exhale and let your shoulders drop, trying to catch your breath in the pause.

It doesn’t last long.

A few minutes later, you hear him before you see him—his voice cutting through the camp’s murmur like a spark. “Hey! This is her!” he announces, bright and proud, and your stomach knots before you even look up.

He’s not alone. Two people follow close behind—faces you’d just been looking at. The tall guy in the worn-out hoodie steps forward first, eyes warm and expression open, a crooked smile already forming.

“Owen,” he says, offering his hand. “Mason’s been talking you up.”

You manage a half-laugh as you take it. His grip is firm but easygoing, and something about him softens the air around the group. He seems like someone who makes people feel like they belong, just by showing up.

“Good things, I hope,” you say.

“All good,” he grins.

The woman beside him hangs back half a step, arms crossed loosely over her chest, scanning the space like she’s memorizing the layout. She meets your eyes and gives a small nod—not unfriendly, just careful. Like someone who watches first and decides later.

“Abby,” she says.

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Before you can register more than the sound of her voice, Mason drops back into his seat beside you, grinning like he’s just pulled off something brilliant. He slings an arm over the back of your chair, all casual confidence. “Told them I’d introduce them to my girl.”

You freeze for a second. Just long enough to feel those words land like a brick in your stomach. My girl. It doesn’t sit right—tight and awkward, like wearing someone else’s jacket. But you smile anyway, defaulting to what you’ve learned: go along, smooth it over, don’t make it weird. Not now.

The conversation flows easily—at least for Mason and Owen. They fall into talk about training rotations and someone snoring too loud in a few rooms down from them. Owen laughs, warm and effortless, and you catch yourself smiling despite the noise in your head. There’s something easy about him. Disarming. Like he belongs anywhere.

You shift slightly, trying to breathe through the static in your chest. Abby, on the other hand, is quiet. Not distant, just... measured. She hasn’t said much, but it’s clear she’s paying attention to everything.

And then you look up at the worst possible moment.

She’s already looking.

Everything else blurs.

It’s not that she’s staring, but something about her gaze still pins you. Measured. Curious. Like she’s already assessing you in real time, and you weren’t ready to be seen like that. Your whole body tenses under it, and your brain goes into overdrive, scrambling for any shred of normalcy. You need to say something. Anything. You have to be normal.

“Uh,” you manage, voice shaky and thin. “Hey.”

Cool. Real smooth. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and suddenly, the air around you feels way too thick. Your heart’s beating too fast, like it's trying to escape your chest, and you have no idea why. This wasn’t supposed to be weird.

If Abby notices the awkwardness, she doesn’t let it show. She nods once, slow and deliberate. Like she’s clocked something about you and filed it away for later.

And just like that, everything feels louder. Closer. Your skin prickles under her gaze. The conversation around you keeps going—Owen laughing, Mason animated beside you—but it feels like you’re watching it through a tunnel. All you can focus on is her. And why is it so hard to breathe?

The silence stretches just a bit longer than you’d like, the sound of Owen’s laughter and Mason’s voice buzzing in the background like white noise. Abby’s still looking at you, eyes steady, like she’s waiting for something. Your stomach flips, and you feel your palms sweat. You shift in your seat, feeling like you might combust from the weight of her gaze. What is this? Why does it feel like this?

Finally, the air feels like it clears enough for you to speak again. You force yourself to focus, willing your brain to calm down, but your thoughts keep slipping away, spinning in circles.

You focus on the first thing that pops into your mind, something easy. You shift in your seat and look over at Abby, trying to ignore how your skin feels like it’s buzzing with electricity.

“So, uh,” you start, your voice a little too high-pitched for comfort. “How are you finding your first week with the WLF?”

There. You said something normal. Maybe. Right? God, you can’t tell if you’re going to pass out from the tension or throw up.

It’s a neutral question, safe—at least, that’s the plan. You’re genuinely curious, though. The WLF’s operations aren’t the easiest to get a grip on at first, especially for new recruits. The base, SoundView Stadium, is a maze of corridors and concrete, more organized chaos than anything else. But it works. It’s been working for years, and if Abby is here, it means she’s proven herself to be useful already.

Abby tilts her head just slightly, considering your question. Her eyes flick to the side for a moment, like she’s weighing her words. She’s not quick to offer up anything, not that you blame her. There’s a guarded quality to her that you’re starting to get a sense of.

“It’s... been alright,” she says after a beat, her voice low and deliberate, like she’s choosing each word carefully. “Getting used to the layout, figuring out how things run here. It’s a bit of a mess, but I’m starting to get the hang of it.”

You nod, trying to offer some sense of solidarity. The WLF has been through a lot—rebuilding after all the infighting, trying to keep things afloat after the fallout with the Seraphites. The SoundView Stadium isn’t a home in the sense you might wish, but it’s functional. And the people here, for all their flaws, make it work.

“I hear you,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I still get lost sometimes, and I’ve been here for a while.” You let out a small breath, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. The conversation’s shifting, taking a quieter, more natural rhythm. It feels like the knot in your chest is loosening, just a little. “But if you need tips on how to remember patrol schedules or where to find the quieter spots, let me know. I’ve learned a few tricks.”

Abby gives a small, appreciative nod. “Appreciate that,” she says, her lips curling into the slightest smile. It’s a subtle thing, but you catch it. “I’ll take you up on that.”

For a moment, the conversation lingers in comfortable silence. Neither of you seems in any rush. Abby’s careful with her words, measured, like she’s waiting to see how much to share. It’s a familiar dance, and you’re not complaining. You’re not exactly an open book either.

“So,” you start again, shifting the drink in your hands, “you came here with a group, right?” You pause, then add, “I’ve been gone for a week, so I’m kinda playing catch up.”

Abby nods, her gaze steady as she answers. “Yeah, a few of us. Came down from Salt Lake, group we belonged to got hit.” She tilts her head, like she’s weighing whether to elaborate. “Not much left up there. Just—yeah, nothing.”

You feel the shift in the air. A weight to her words, but she doesn’t let it linger. Instead, she takes a small sip from her own mug, eyes scanning the surrounding area as she talks, like she’s always half-watching for something.

“Sorry to hear that,” you offer quietly. “Sounds like a rough start.”

Abby shrugs, but there’s a quiet fire in her eyes. “It is what it is.” Her tone is blunt but not unkind. “We adapt. We’ve all been through worse.”

You nod, not quite sure what to say to that. The quiet fire in Abby’s eyes tells you all you need to know about her—she doesn’t need pity or words that don’t mean much. She’s been through things, probably more than you can imagine. The kind of things that don’t go away with a few kind words or gestures.

Instead of responding right away, you take a sip from your mug, letting the warm, bitter taste settle in your chest. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but you can feel it stretching, the weight of it lingering between you.

Finally, you let out a slow breath, looking over at Abby again. “Sounds like you’ve got a good handle on things, though. I mean, you’re already here. Not many people can say that, not after everything.”

Abby glances at you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something softer behind her guarded exterior. It’s fleeting, but you catch it. “I guess we all just do what we can to survive, huh?”

You tilt your head, meeting her eyes for a second longer than usual. There’s something in that sentence. It’s not just a throwaway line. Abby’s didn’t hit you as the type to say things she doesn’t mean. “Yeah, that’s true,” you say, voice quieter now, like the weight of it is sinking in.

You let the silence stretch just a little longer, your mind catching up to the quiet weight of Abby’s words. It’s odd, how the two of you have managed to slip into this unspoken rhythm. A soft, steady rhythm that almost feels... familiar, even though you don’t know her that well yet.

You shift in your seat again, trying to shake off the strange feeling that’s bubbling in your chest—something between nerves and something else that you’re not quite sure how to name.

Finally, you clear your throat, the nerves now bouncing in your stomach like little sparks of electricity. You raise your mug in the air, a small, tentative smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. It’s not much, but it’s something. A way to break the quiet.

“Well,” you say, keeping your voice light, trying to sound casual, but the words feel heavier than you intended. “Welcome to WLF, Abby.” You give her a little nod, like it’s some kind of unspoken toast. “Cheers.”

She looks at you, and for a moment, there’s that softness again—those few seconds where the walls seem to lower just enough. Abby clinks her mug against yours, the sound of it almost too loud in the quiet of the moment.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice steady, but there’s a slight warmth to it now. “Guess I’m stuck with you guys for a while.”

You laugh, the sound a little too high-pitched for comfort, but you don’t care. The air feels lighter now, less tense. Abby’s lips twitch into a smile—genuine this time, not the guarded kind that she been offering a few moments before. It’s small, but it’s there, and it makes something in your chest loosen.

“Well, I guess that means we’re kinda friends now,” you say, trying to keep it cool. You don’t know why you’re nervous—maybe because she’s new, or maybe because you’re definitely not used to having these kinds of easy conversations with people. Hell, you barely know what you’re doing.

But Abby seems to get it. She gives a slow nod, eyes softening just a bit more. “Guess we are,” she says, voice warmer now, almost teasing, like she’s not entirely sure how to handle the casualness of it either, but she’s willing to try.

You’re not sure what to say after that, so you take another sip from your mug, feeling a little more comfortable in your skin. You glance at Abby again, and this time, you catch her looking at you, a faint glimmer of something in her eyes.

The tension—whatever it was—feels like it’s finally starting to slip away, and you’re... okay with that. More than okay. You’re grateful, even, that this is turning into something easy. Something that doesn’t feel forced.

“So,” you start, glancing at her, trying to keep things light, “now that we’re friends, I gotta warn you—if you’re ever on patrol with me, you will get lost. It’s kind of my thing.” You smirk, nudging her lightly with your elbow, feeling the electricity buzzing in your skin again, but this time it’s not quite as sharp.

Abby chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind. Don’t want to be the one who gets stuck with the ‘lost’ patrol.” She lets the words linger for a second before adding, “But I’m not complaining. You seem like good company.”

You laugh, feeling your chest lighten. There it is again—that smile, and it does something to you, makes your heart skip just a little. It’s dangerous, this feeling, but you let it sit there, just for a moment. No rush.

“Well,” you say, leaning back in your seat, “we’ll make sure you don’t get too lost, then. But, uh, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And for a little while longer, the conversation meanders, shifting from topic to topic, the earlier tension now just a distant memory. It’s almost normal, and for a fleeting moment, you forget how strange it feels to let someone in. To let someone see you, like this.

And for the first time, in a long time, you don’t slip away back to your room.

You stay, just a little longer, because for once, it feels like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Notes:

With season 2 coming out for the TLOU show, my hyper fixation for Abby has literally crawled back and thrown me off the deep end. Add in my obsession with parkour and I want to write some lesbian romance.

#abby anderson #abby tlou #abby the last of us #abby x reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson tlou2

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