There is a tongue tracing the bones of her face.

Rose cannot stand to think of tongues; too vividly she can recall those things with gaping mouths and scarlet tinged muscles writhing within them, bulbous and gross with their shrieks cutting the air.

She cannot think of the blood which is pumping so hard and fast through her veins, curling in her belly and sending warmth spiraling outward. Blood reminds her of the stained ground they stood on, the corpses rotting nearby, how her skin has been torn open and her shirt soaked red.

She does not wish to remember the daughter taken, the husband left behind, the monstrous world around them. So she doesn't think; she moves, runs her hands through short blonde hair, nails scratching against Cybil's scalp. Her toes curl in her boots as the officer's hand descends, and for a moment she laughs at the image they make: the officer, still in uniform, pushing her hand beneath the skirt of the woman she pulled over not a few hours ago.

She stops thinking again when that hand trails over her underwear, something plain and now, she fears, perhaps matronly. At home, she has panties made of lace and feminine colors; she wonders when she stopped wearing them, when she stopped trying.

Then those fingers move past that last barrier and she stops worrying, stops remembering her last words with Chris, stops imagining the horrors her daughter could be experiencing right now - because she's experienced so many horrors of her own, she's about to fall and shatter on the ground and she needs this, this release of adrenaline to push back the tide of fear, so she can pick herself up and do what must be done.

For just these few minutes, all they can spare, she is Rose, a woman terrified out of her mind, stomach roiling with hunger and hands blistered and callous from gripping her weapons tight, soaked in blood, mess, and sweat, tear lines staining her face though her tears have long dried out. Cybil's fingers dive and twist and make an instrument of her flesh, and her head falls back as a breathy sigh breaks the air. Lips descend upon the offered skin of her neck, but they don't leave bruises. They both have bruises enough.

Soon, she will be Mother and Wife again, devoted and determined, the savoir who will scour Hell to find her daughter. Her terror and her pain will evaporate as sure as she does, for she will not exist to feel them. Rose will be gone; sent Heavenward by bliss never to return. This is what must be sacrificed in Silent Hill, she realizes. Any sense of self, of self-preservation, must be thrown aside to make it through.

"Stop thinking," Cybil's lips climb a ladder of kisses to her earlobe. "Be with me, here."

She'll try; she knows this is her last haven, the port before the storm. She should feel it as strongly as she can, for it might be the last she ever feels of joy. Yet, even as she allows herself this, a part of her drifts away, looks down upon them as if she is outside herself, watching some other woman gasp in ecstasy.

How long has she been divorced this way? Between the woman and the lover, between her duty as Rose DeSilva and her own happiness? She can't feel it; not all of it, not as passionately as she could. Briefly she feels regret that she can't give Cybil the attention she deserves, but as she thinks it, the officer leans away and smirks at her.

"It's all right," She whispers smoothly, smugness radiating in her tone. "I'll just have to work harder."

She does; thin fingers delve deeper and reach further than her husband's roughened hands ever could; lips caress gently and softly and come away without leaving a trace of nicotine and irritation behind. There is no conflict, no disagreement, and no disapproval in her eyes.

There is no Sharon standing between them, pulling them apart. It's just the two of them.

Climax comes slowly, steadily, higher and higher, reaching a plateau and snapping like a band, with Cybil smiling against her neck and teasing it with that tongue. Rose doesn't think of tongues.

When the fog lifts and the stars fade from her eyes, Rose flies at Cybil, teeth clashing and nails digging in where grips had been so gentle. As they trade saliva there is blood traded too, inevitable in this place that cuts them so often and so deeply. Hands grip her ass beneath the skirt, squeeze tight, and pull her harder against the other woman. Buttons are snapped off, zippers undone, clothes pushed to the side.

Rose falls to her knees and kisses the flesh between her legs, worships it, thinks of the last time she gave her husband head, how he came in thirty seconds and she brushed her teeth in the first floor bathroom, pleasure unrealized. Sharon had come out of her room to ask mommy what she was doing, and mommy gave bitter lies with the bitter taste still on her tongue.

This is not bitter; it is the only holy act this un-believer will achieve, the closest to any kind of worship she will get. She is whispering prayers into the creases of Cybil's skin, tracing the letters against wet flesh, and loving every breathless cry of her commanding voice. It is so different from the harsh outcries of Scottish brogue; and the thin hand pulling her hair tight so unlike the broad palms which were always hovering above her head, wavering in the air, unsure of whether or not they were welcome.

wwwwwwwwwwWWWWWWWwwrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrwwwwwWWWWW rrrrrr

It does not take a moment's thought; both are on their feet and running, throwing clothes back together, racing from the alleyway and out into the streets. They find a building and dive in, huddled in the dark, weapons raised and flashlights lighting the way.

The moment is over; it is done. Officer Bennett and devoted mother and wife Rose DeSilva are ready. The monsters are coming, and when they arrive, they will not find lovers writhing in the dark.

Only moments before, she had been not thinking of everything on her mind, of her family, what she had to do. Now, she finds herself not thinking of the taste, the smell, the touch which sent her flying, the woman standing a foot away on her side who she will never know so intimately again - even should they survive.

Something stumbles in the dark; there is a bang, and a howl which makes hands tremble. Rose's heart begins to pound, the pleasant rush lightening her mind already being flushed away. Terror takes its place.

A hand touches her shoulder – those fingers still wet from what never happened, what will never happen again – and pulls her behind Cybil. The officer raises her gun, and Rose is snapped out of her moment of delirium, raising the pipe in her hand.

Sharon needs her, now. What Rose needs no longer matters.

The smell of burning flesh hits her first – the reality of Cybil Bennett's death second.

Her stomach turns over and instinctively a hand comes to her mouth, but she catches herself. Now is not a moment for mourning, or falling apart. Sharon needs her. The anguish building in her chest at the horrific nature of all of this, of this place, these monstrous people, what's happened to Cybil because of her, none of that matters now.

It does not matter as she speaks to the damned, it does not matter as Christbella thrusts the knife into her chest. The agony spiraling within her means nothing next to the high pitched squeal of her daughter's concern.

Nothing's more important than flying to Sharon's side as the monster is released, covering her eyes as the demon takes its revenge. But then – only then – as she holds Sharon safely in her arms and clamps a hand over her eyes, do the tears fall. But they fall silently, because nothing matters more than Sharon.

It takes time, and more dedication from her weary heart, but she finally finds a way to send Sharon home. Chris will take care of her; for all that he could not take care of Rose, could not understand what she needed, she trusts he'll find a way with Sharon.

Now, she is weary. Now she can rest among the ruination and the beasts. Ash still falls from the sky every day, and she is free to fall down into it and sob against the concrete.

Cheeks wet, eyes red, she lifts her head and looks up to the grey sky, she waits whatever thing will come along and find her, end her loneliness and misery and finally kill what is left of Rose. She's done her duty – she's exhausted herself in doing it, emptied her heart and soul and stained them both with blood.

She does not expect the sound of boots against the ground, even and solid. She knows the sound; memorized it while they were running for their lives, so she could tell her partner apart from everything else.

Rose's head shoots up. There is Cybil, standing right there, with the same smug smirk and bright eyes and helmet hair. This can't be true. Stumbling to her feet, Rose repeats to herself, this can't be true, because if she starts to believe it and it's not it will break her even more, when she thought she could no longer be broken.

"Is this for real?" The hoarseness of her voice is repugnant, and she flinches to hear it leave her lips. Hardly attractive; in fact, though Cybil looks as fresh and clean as she had when she'd first arrived in the town, Rose is splattered in nastiness, soot covered, wounded all over and greviously tired. There is nothing left in her to want.

Hands touch her dirt-laden cheeks, fingers drift down to caress dried split lips. Cybil feels real, and she's smiling at Rose.

"As real as it can get in this place," She mutters, and it sounds like something Cybil would say. But Cybil is dead – burned alive. This Cybil's skin is not charred and burning, it is alive. Rose backs away.

"But – you died. This can't –" Is this how she will end? Taunted and tempted one last time?

"A lot of things 'can't' and do in this godforsaken town." Cybil mutters, but she does not move closer. She places her hands in her pockets and waits, content to allow Rose her fears. "I could hardly believe it either, but," She shrugs. "I think it's a thank you."

"What?"

"For getting her revenge." Cybil nods over her shoulder and Rose's eyes follow to the dark haired girl standing on the street corner across from them. "I guess I'm the consolation prize."

Rose's eyes dart back, her heart pumps faster, and she begins to believe. "Do you want me to be honest?" Something impulsive sets her words free.

"Yeah."

"I'd rather have you and this place, then be set free to go back to them." For a moment she thinks to feel regret but she can't manage it.

She loves her daughter. Sharon was why she stayed, why she tried for so long. But there is nothing left back there for her, in that empty home and cold bed with meals eaten separately and a few texts traded during work their only communication for entire days and weeks. A shadow of existence, peaceful but false and empty, compared to a life of struggle and pain but a life lived fully?

Sharon is free, and has her whole life ahead of her. Rose's life is over, given in service to her family. She's allowed to be selfish now.

They meet in the middle, arms flying round each other, lips descending so fast they miss but they don't care, they kiss what skin they can reach. Fumbling with each other they almost don't hear the siren – and when they do, they clasp hands and run, together, darting through the falling ash.