Red vs. Blue: Valentine's Day

“So when I finally see her again, I think I've narrowed my lines down to like two options, okay? Here they are: One, hey there Carolina, if I said I liked your armor, would you hold it against me? Or two-“

“York, please focus.”

The recording cuts out.

“You want me to play it again?” Church asks quietly, appearing as hologram on the bar, looking at the red-haired freelancer sitting in front of him, leaning on the bar. The bar is quiet, with an atmosphere of melancholy in the air. A few people are sitting around the room, quietly talking amongst one-another, in the twilight hours of the day. The woman is the only one who sits directly at the bar.

She sits there in a cyan sleeveless dress that reaches her knees; her head slumped and her hair unbound, flowing down her back and shoulders. She sits there silently, staring with eyes of regret at a lighter in her hand, which she flicks on and off.

“That’ll be all,” she replies quietly, slightly choking back the tears that are beginning to form, not moving her eyes from the lighter, which she now closes.

At that moment a barman walks over, placing two shot glasses in front of her: one filled, one empty. She pulls out a photograph, which she then places next to her on the bar, putting the empty glass, overturned, on top of it. The picture is of her, in a cyan shirt, giving a humorously scornful look to a man, who stands behind, with his arms around her. He is slightly taller than her, wearing a light brown shirt, with skin as light as hers, short brown hair, a cheerful smile, and a blank left eye, with a scar that runs through it.

Both Church and Carolina stare at the photo for a few moments in silence, the melancholy ever present.

“For what its worth, I miss them, too” Church utters quietly, breaking the solemn silence, looking to the freelancer as he speaks.

“I miss him” she barely chokes out in reply, her eyes focused on the picture. Church silently acknowledges and fades away, looking once more at the picture, and then her. She quickly reaches for the filled shot in front of her, drinking it in one go, before placing it back on the bar. Her somber gaze returns to the picture, staring with both love and regret.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, York,” she utters in almost a whisper, her love and sadness intertwined with her words. Tears begin to roll silently, without a sob or a cry, down her pale cheeks, as the melancholic silence envelopes her once more.