Kenya “call-me-Kenny” Williams was the whitest white girl I ever met. Born to two small-town parents, Kenny was oblivious to her surroundings, rash, and swore like a sailor. She was worse as a zombie.

Incidentally, Kenny Williams was also my employee and the first person I ever killed, to boot. Although, “person” could be argued; at least, that’s what the big wigs are doing up in D.C. nowadays, I guess.

They don’t like us to talk about all the killing we had to do during the apocalypse now that everyone is cured and all that.

“Move on,” the President advised solemnly after we first knew the virus had been completely eradicated. “Turn the page and close the book. This story is finished.”

Well, Mr. President, that’s all well and good, but I respectfully decline. The story might be comin’ to an end, but I’m not fuckin’ done reading.

Chapter One - Week One

No kid grows up wanting to be an insurance agent, myself included.

In fact, right up until my 25th birthday, I wanted to be an artist. Then my birthday passed, I got dropped from my parents’ insurance, and my student loans came a-callin’. Real Life stepped in and turned my dreams to dust.

12 months after my quarter-life crisis, I had charmed and sold my way into being the Agent of my very own insurance office. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside (or the inside, if we’re being honest), but I had a solid customer base, lots of plans, and years ahead of me.

Or so I thought.

“Boss, you wanna handle the Hanson case?” Kenny yelled from the front of the office.

I could distantly hear Art complaining about how often she raised her voice and her less-than-polite reply.

“Behave, children,” I said, striding into the open floor. For a minute, I probably looked real professional – shoulder-length dark hair styled cutely, attractive pantsuit, and killer heels – and then I tripped over my killer heels and nearly killed myself.

Kenny and Art snickered meanly.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” I reminded them grumpily, catching my balance on the edge of my desk.

A small office space was all I could afford at the moment, so the three of us were practically on top of one another at all times. Our three desks were wedged as far into each corner as we could manage with two rickety folding chairs serving as a makeshift lobby in the spare corner.

“Right, boss,” Art said with a mocking salute.

“So, the Hanson file?” Kenny asked again. “You wanna handle that one?”

“No, I think you can manage that, can’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. Kenny was going on seven months with us and was still lagging behind in productivity. As small an office as we were, everyone had to be plodding along at top efficiency. Kenny was getting there, but she needed a nudge. Sadistic Mrs. Hanson would be a great nudge.

Kenny didn’t seem to think so.

“But Mrs. Hanson hates me,” she groaned. “Last time we were on the phone, she told me about her cat’s entire medical history. Like, from the time the thing was a baby.”

“What’s its name?” Art asked disinterestedly, poking at his keyboard.

“Charlie,” Kenny mumbled. Then she perked up, “Hey, I’ll trade you – “

“No,” I said firmly. “No trading.”

Kenny pouted in my direction, but I sat at my desk smoothly and made myself look busy with a couple files.

“Kenny, you’ll handle the Hansons. Arthur, you’re on that commercial building for the bar down the street, yeah?”

Kenny groaned aloud again and flounced off for a cup of coffee before digging into the Hanson file.

“No can do, boss,” Art said promptly. “Bar is ineligible.”

Damn.

“Right,” I huffed. “What about his cars? His house? There’s gotta be something.”

“Working on the cars,” Art agreed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good man,” I said distractedly. A brilliant white envelope had fallen out of one of my files onto the cracked plastic of my desk, catching my attention only because of how pristine it was compared to all our other junk.

“The hell?” I muttered, opening the envelope in one quick tug and pulling out the letter smoothly. “’Dear Agent Porter, we are sorry to inform you’ – oh, Jesus Christ!”

“Abigail?” Art asked.

“Who the hell put a goddamn death benefit check on my desk and didn’t tell me about it,” I snapped.

Kenny crept guiltily around the corner, fresh coffee in hand and a wince already etched on her face.

“Ah,” she hedged. “I was meaning to mention that…”

“When?” I asked. “Next year? When did this come in?”

“Last Thursday?”

It was Tuesday now.

“Jesus, Kenny, that’s almost like a week!”

Kenny winced again apologetically, sipping quickly from her cup and skirting around the sharp corners of our desks to hide behind her computer monitor.

“Sorry, boss, I forgot. Won’t happen again.”

I huffed in agitation, but there wasn’t anything to be done for it.

“I gotta get on this right away,” I sighed. “Art, I’ll be busy for a bit.”

Art knew to field my calls from that point on, so I picked up the heavy packet of paperwork and started to read through it again.

“Dear Agent Porter, we are sorry to inform you of the passing of one of our esteemed customers. Enclosed you will find…”

Ethan's been doing his own laundry for nearly all his life. It's become a comfort of sorts, a ritual. He enjoys keeping his things clean, and he especially enjoys folding his warm, scented clothes. He usually does it all at once on a Sunday. He'll bring a book down to the bare, dusty laundry room in the basement of his apartment building that no one else ever uses and load up just about every washer they have - which isn't very many, for the record. Washing, drying, and folding usually takes him about three hours, but it's three hours that he enjoys. 

So. That's what Ethan's doing one Sunday when Ben, Ethan's brand new next door neighbor, shows up with a man bun, a sheepish half-smile, and two full baskets of dirty clothes. 

"Ethan," Ben says in greeting. Ethan nods in response, folding his favorite navy blue sweater with care. He doesn't take his eyes off the other man. He likes Ben, don't get him wrong, but he's still cautious. Ethan's other neighbors have a lot to say about the newest tenant in their close-knit building. Stories of Ben's time in the army, rumors of trauma, and whispers of PTSD fill the older ladies' Saturday bingo tournaments. So he's cautious the way people are cautious of a flame - always aware of the other man's presence, always curious. 

Ben busies himself with one of the washers. Ethan watches, amused, as Ben kicks and swears under his breath and even tries cajoling it to get it working. 

"Can't bribe a washing machine, Ben," Ethan drawls lazily. He gets nothing but a stink eye from the man. Ethan snorts and sets down the jeans he's folding. "Lemme see it." 

"You don't have to," the other man mutters. "I'll get it eventually, I always do."

Ethan "hmm"s like he believes him and then flips a few of the switches once he's had a glance at what exactly it is that Ben'll be putting in the washer. Hot water, heavy cycle for the whites and cool water, normal cycle for everything else. 

"Why're you using two?" 

Ethan stills just as he's about to push the start button and throws Ben an incredulous look. 

"Don't tell me you've been throwing everything in all together?" 

Ben shrugs, "What else would I do?" 

Ethan rolls his eyes and pushes the start button, and then he begins a lecture on the right way to load a washing machine and how to separate by color.

~~~

Ben joins him pretty often after that. Ethan's not sure why, but Ben shows up at the laundry room every Sunday just a few minutes after Clint gets there himself. They work mostly in silence now that Ben's got a handle on the whole washer situation, but every one in a while one of them starts up a conversation about something. 

One week they talk for nearly an entire washing cycle about that TV show that plays reruns every night at 11 - turns out they've both got a taste for dragons and blood.

Ethan very carefully doesn't hover too long on any of the militaristic aspects of the show, and Ben doesn't say anything either. 

And then they realize they both love crime television. 

"It's dumb, though," Ben grumbles. "It's the same thing every time. Someone dies or gets beat up, they can't find the guy, they look for the guy, they eventually find the guy, and then they go to court." Ben shakes his head and mumbles again, "Jus' dumb."

~~~

He has to teach Ben about dry-cleaning after the man washes a very expensive suit with a couple pairs of sweat pants. The outcome is horrific.

~~~

"I heard something interesting yesterday," Ben finally says after nearly two and a half hours of silence. Ethan's been slightly concerned because after nearly three months of Sundays with Ben, he usually can't get the man to stop talking. 

"Oh?" Ethan tips his head and eyes Ben carefully. He's been twitchy - well, twitchier than normal. He worries a t-shirt he favors between his hands and can't seem to look Ethan in the eye. It takes a few minutes for Ben to respond. 

"Heard you were married," Ben mutters eventually. Ethan cocks an eyebrow. 

"Was married," Ethan corrects. "Didn't stick." 

Ben nods and folds the t-shirt slowly. "Just - just didn't realize you'd been married to a man, is all." 

Ethan's hands - which up until now have been busy smoothing wrinkles and tucking buttons - still. He hasn't been hiding the fact that he'd been married to a man - an abusive son-of-a-bitch that he hadn't wasted more than three years on - but Ben was in the army and Ethan knows the overall attitude towards guys like him. 

"That isn't a problem," he says carefully, "is it?"

Ben shakes his head firmly, clenching the t-shirt tightly. "Surprised me, that's all."

And that's the end of it. 

~~~

At least, that was the end of it until the next Sunday. 

Ben seems nearly obsessed with asking about his previous marriage, questioning how and why and where. 

Ethan tells him about the short ceremony in Canada. He talks about proposals and un-shined shoes and even smiles fondly recalling how nice they'd looked together. He talks about the kiss at the end, all hard teeth and grasping hands. The officiant had laughed and shooed them out of her office. They hadn't bought rings until later because the ceremony itself was very much a spur of the moment thing. Ethan tells Ben about his family's disapproval, all the warning signs he'd ignored, the slow descent into a hell of hiding bruises and making excuses. He tells Ben about how it ended, bitterly and as quickly as it had begun. He finds it easier and easier to talk as time goes on. They've been doing laundry together every Sunday for nearly five months, and he almost considers Ben a close friend. 

~~~

It's been seven months of Sundays and Ben is not okay. His breathing is ragged, his hands are shaking, and he looks like he hasn't slept. 

With a jolt, Ethan remembers the Fourth of July barbecue the day before, hours of time spent with his distant family and the fireworks at the end. He remembers the whispers of PTSD from months ago and kicks himself for not realizing. 

"Ben - " he begins. His throat dries up, though, and he looks down at the white t-shirts in front of him as he tries to find the right words. When he looks up again, Ben is shoving clothes into one of the washers and looks downright lost. 

"I lost everyone," Ben nearly gasps. He abandons the clothes in favor of gripping the rim of the machine with both hands. There's a squeal of metal as the machine wobbles dangerously and Ben releases it quickly and stumbles backwards. Ethan abandons his laundry and moves forward to push Ben gently into one of the rickety chairs set up in the corner. 

"Take it easy," he murmurs, crouching in front of the dark-haired man. 

"Take it - " Ben coughs out a broken laugh. "Take it easy? They all died!"

"But you didn't." 

"I should have," Ben says, fire in his eyes. 

Ethan reaches out a hand and curls it around one of Ben's slumped shoulders. "I'm glad you didn't." 

Ben's eyes are definitely lost when he finally meets Ethan's gaze. "That's not what I expected to hear." 

Ethan smiles sadly, "I know." 

~~~

"I've killed people," Ben admits abruptly a few weeks later. 

"I figured." 

"And?" Ben asks challengingly. 

"And what?" 

"And it was wrong, and I shouldn't have survived, and - "

"Everyone's done something they shouldn't have," Ethan reminds gently. "Everyone's got skeletons, everyone's got a past." 

Ben shakes his head, "Not like what I've done." 

"I dunno," Ethan busies himself with the dryer. "I did some things in my teenage years that still give me nightmares even fifteen years later." 

Ben smiles uneasily and cracks a joke about old age. It falls flat. 

"Ben, I had someone to help me up after I'd fallen so far that I couldn't see the sky for all the walls around me," Ethan says carefully, facing the other man full on. "They knew I was better than the worst thing I ever did, and that was all they needed to love me." 

He looks at Ben pointedly. "I know you're better than the worst thing you ever did." 

"Oh," Ben says quietly. Ethan worries for a moment that he's made it worse, that he's overstepped, said too much, but Ben's hands no longer tremble, and he goes about his usual laundry routine with a tiny smile on his face. 

~~~

Next Sunday, Ben asks him out to dinner and the Sunday after that he shows up at Ethan's doorstep clean-shaven with a bouquet of flowers in one hand. 

She doesn't fight the death sentence.

*

The jury pronounces her guilty, and she fights that. She has a team of lawyers she'll never be able to pay and a family waiting in the rows of the courtroom, and she fights the verdict because she knows she's innocent. 

Her lawyers draw up all sort of fancy documents and drag the process on for months. She sees her two daughters once through a glass window, chained within an inch of her life. She isn't allowed to speak to them. Claire, the little one, presses a drawing against the glass. It's the four of them - two stick figure girls, a blob that must be her husband, and her. The stick that represents her is behind bars. Claire's never known her any other way. 

Her other daughter, the one that is old enough to grasp what's actually happening, doesn't bring anything. Penny watches, dull-eyed, through the glass and only moves when her father asks her if she's ready to leave. Then she shoots out of the visiting room like a bat out of hell. It's not an inaccurate description of this prison. 

Her lawyers ask for a mistrial, ask for evidence to be removed for being unfairly prejudicial, ask for everything under the moon but the moon itself, but nothing comes to fruition. When they're done with their delaying tactics, it's been seven months since the verdict and she's tired of this now. 

They go to the sentencing. She hasn't had a shower in four days, and her lawyers look furious about it, but she's never cared less in her life. She looks out at the courtroom, hopes to see her babies, but, of course, they aren't there. Her husband is, looking paler and thinner than she's ever seen before. His eyes pass right over her at first, and he does a double take when he registers that the frail figure in orange is his wife of eleven years. She's not offended by his surprise.

The judge isn't the same one that presided over her trial. Her lawyers make noise at that, but it's half-hearted protests at best and everyone knows it. The sentencing continues. 

The judge drones on about the facts presented at trial that led to the guilty verdict. She doesn't listen; she's been over the facts with her lawyers a thousand times in the past three years. 

She's been staring at the desk in front of her, tracing the wood grain with her eyes and marveling at how different it is from the cinder blocks that make up her cell when the junior lawyer shakes her arm. The judge has been calling her name. 

She tries to pay more attention. She sits and stands and listens to the judge sentence her to death, and she doesn't say a word the whole time. Her husband shouts from the crowd, screams about their children, their life together. The judge shouts back and the room spirals into chaos for a moment while everyone throws a fit at the announcement. Everyone but her and the families of the victims she didn't hurt seems to have something to say. 

It takes a minute, but order is restored and everyone is seated. 

Her lawyers stand to make one last plea, but she shoots out an arm and stops them. Everyone looks at her in surprise, but she makes eye contact with the judge and no one else. 

"There won't be any more stalling on our side," she announces to the room at large. The air is so still, like everyone is holding their breath to hear her speak. "I'm ready to face my sentence." 

A heartbeat of silence, and then the room explodes again. 

She's maintained her innocence for all these years. Through every interrogation, polygraph, testimony, and cross-examination, she has denied time and time again that she committed those heinous crimes. She wasn't lying - she really didn't do it - but she's tired now. 

She's tired of prison food and prison showers and daydreaming of leaving prison and nightmares of staying in prison for the rest of her life. She's tired of aching to hold her little girls and the soul-deep pain that shoots through her every time Penny refuses to take her phone calls. She's just tired. 

And what does she have to live for anyway? Years of fighting to stay the execution? Years of knowing that little Claire is getting closer and closer to being able to understand what happened to her mother? Years of asking for Penny on the phone those scarce times she actually gets a phone call, of her husband making excuses that really mean that Penny is so furious that she never wants to see her again? 

No. 

She fought while she had a chance. She gave it her all through the years of the trials, through every time she'd been called to take the stand.

She's done fighting. 

So she takes her sentencing to heart and fires her lawyers. She does her time on death row, orders the biggest, meanest steak they can find in the tri-county area for her last meal, and when the needle enters her arm, she is not afraid. 

No, she is not afraid; she's free.