Work Text:
On the second day she remembers to ask her cameraman his name. They’ve been crouched together for hours, stray bullets and debris flying past them. Overhead, explosions pock the sky like stars. It’s Mark.
Her reports are jumbled at first. Battles don’t start and end; there are always dead bodies at the side of the road, and noises just behind her head. She looks at her lens and talks as fast as she can.
By the time she comes home her hair is halfway down her back, and her shoulder blades show through all her sweaters. Mark doesn’t come home.