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immersional · 2 years

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strawberry wine - joel miller x fem!reader

during - part nine

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

everything changes, and then everything changes all over again.

a/n: COME AND GET IT Y’ALL. we’re getting closer and closer…and just for the record, now is when things are more than likely going to deviate a lot harder from what’s canon. I had to revamp a lot of my plan to fall in line with ep 3 (check the main masterlist if you’re curious), but at the end of the day, this is fanfiction y’all! plus this show is still airing so not everything is gonna be spot on! ya girl is trying her best!

word count: 6.1k (longest part yet!)

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, angst, canon-typical violence and injuries, scars, blood, depictions of loss and grief, I’m making up a lot of shit okay

✨follow @friskito-library for updates on new works/chapters!✨

“No, no, I can’t. You do it.”

“What?”

“You do it,” you say, feeling tears spring into your eyes. “I can’t.”

Cowan peers at you. He’s pulled his helmet off, and shoves his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face as he bends to your level. Definitely not a regulation haircut, but does FEDRA really care about that shit anymore?

“Are you sure?”

You shake your head, holding the headset towards him. He takes it from you wordlessly, and points to a piece of paper and a pen that’s sitting on the desk beside the radio.

“Write down their names.”

You chew the inside of your lip until you taste blood, uncapping the pen and scrawling your family’s names across the paper. You almost don’t write his name down, his voice a low murmur that rings through the base of your skull. I’ll find you, baby.

Your hand is shaking as you form the letters.

Joel Miller.

Sarah Miller.

Tommy Miller.

Once you’re done, you slide the paper towards Cowan, and he gives a curt nod. He puts the headset over his ears, reaches for the mic attached to the radio, holds down the red button like Melissa said.

“This is Corporal Nicholas Cowan, Boston QZ, over,” he says, his voice brimming with authority. “Requesting civilian information, Austin QZ, over.”

As he waits, his brow goes tight, and your stomach follows suit. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your breathing growing shallow. You lean forward, elbows propped on your knees, hands steepled at your mouth. The words sound muffled to your ears, the response from Austin garbled over the headphones, Cowan’s response barely audible even though you’re sitting right there.

When he says the names though, that you hear crystal clear. Your head perks up, eyes glued to Cowan’s face, his unreadable expression. His eyes dart to yours only once, and he swallows, his throat bobbling. “Confirmed transmission, Austin QZ, over. Cowan out.”

The air feels still as he sets the mic down, takes the headset off. You’re just staring, watching his movements, unable to read what’s coming. Why doesn’t he just tell—

Cowan reaches out and takes your hand between both of his. His hands are warm, his knuckles calloused, palms rough. His brow pinches hard as his thumb swipes over the back of your hand, and he won’t meet your eyes. He says your name, barely a whisper.

Oh.

You straighten, your free hand falling into your lap. You want to wrench your other hand from his grip, but you’re frozen, your limbs almost limp. He opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head slightly.

“You have to say it,” you whisper out, your voice cracking on every other word. “Tell me what they said.”

He blows out a breath, and you can feel the warmth of it on your skin. You feel cold, all over. “They…they had nothing on the Millers, none of them. But your family…” He trails off, closes his eyes for a long moment that makes everything in you stall. “There is no record of Anna. Your sister?” You manage to nod. “But your parents…they were in a shelter. Austin was…Austin was overrun three days ago, and FEDRA ordered it levelled. The shelter was destroyed, and everyone inside was killed.”

The rug has been pulled out from under your feet, in a sense. Your stomach is in your toes, that bottomless feeling of falling forcing bile up the back of your throat. You’re lightheaded. You can’t see straight. The edges of your vision are ringed with black, darkness webbing across your line of sight. Cowan drops your hand, slides off the desk and sinks into a crouch in front of you. You can feel his hands around your biceps, fingers digging in.

“Look at me.”

Aren’t you? You thought you were, but you slide your eyes towards the sound of his voice. His face is blurry, a smudge you can’t quite make out. He keeps talking, his voice sounding muffled again, a jumble of letters your brain can’t suss out.

All of them? Gone?

Joel…

I’ll find you, baby.

You’re really falling then, the world tilting sideways. You let the darkness take you.

You don’t know where you are.

You blink slow, eyes focusing on the plain ceiling above you. There’s a crack in the paint, the orange shadow of light coming in through a window. The blanket pulled to your chin is not one you recognize; you’d nicked a thick flannel one from the mall, and this one isn’t as thick, or as soft. It’s a duvet, you think, the material almost scratchy against your cheek. Where…?

Rolling over slowly, you push the blanket back. You’re still fully dressed beneath, but your boots have been removed, sitting on the floor in front of the bed you’ve been tucked into. You lean up on your elbow slowly, swinging your legs over the edge of the mattress. Your head throbs a little, but you blink past it, taking in the space around you.

It’s a goddamned bachelor pad.

You get to your feet slowly, brow furrowed as a noise reaches your ears. Running water, someone clearing their throat. The place is nice, much nicer than the apartment you’ve been staying in with Deanna and the kids, but it still shows a bit of the destruction and decay of the outside world, one of the windows cracked, the split you’d noticed in the ceiling crawling down the wall. Your face must give away your exact feelings as you walk towards the noise and come face to face with Cowan.

“I know,” he says quietly, an embarrassed look on his face. “But there’s running water. For now, anyway. You can take a shower, if you want. How are you feeling?”

He looks…different.

You’re use to the soldier, with the rifle on his back and the bulky gear. Instead, the version standing in front of you is much…friendlier? Grey sweats and a plain t-shirt, feet still stuffed into his army-issue boots, but the laces are loose. There’s a tattoo around his bicep you’ve never seen before, like barbed wire wrapped all the way around.

And the look he’s giving is the polar opposite of the Signature Stare you’ve grown so used to.

“Here,” he says, his voice dropping low, handing you a bottle of water. “How are you feeling?” he asks again, and you crack open the bottle, take a long sip. “Scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, half into the bottle, sipping again. “Thank you.”

He just nods.

“How long was I out?”

“Couple hours,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. Something in the back of your mind twinges; his hair looks soft, and you wonder how it would feel if you—

Nope.

“I should go,” you say, capping the bottle again. “Deanna is probably—”

“Ready to rip you a new one,” Cowan tells you, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “I went and told her what happened, after I brought you back here. She’s less than impressed with you.”

You groan loudly, tipping your head back on your shoulders. “Fuck.”

“You can hide out here a little longer,” he offers, shrugging, arms crossed across his chest. You find your eyes lingering on the bulge of his bicep beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt and immediately rip your eyes away. He’s good-looking, there’s no getting around that, but… “Take a shower, like I said. I’ve got patrols in a few hours. I told her about your family, too, so I’m sure she’ll go easier on you than you think.”

Your family.

The realization sets in almost anew, the memory sending a shiver surging up your spine. Your hands tighten on the water bottle, and you blink hard, willing the tears away. You nod so hard your neck hurts with the movement, swallowing hard. “Shower sounds good.”

Cowan leads you across the apartment, opens the bathroom door for you. “There’s towels under the sink,” he says, pointing to the most-intact vanity. It’s clean —the cleanest bathroom you’ve seen since the the outbreak — but still has that little tinge of destruction. The mirror’s cracked, the glass shattered in its frame, spidering outward like someone tried to put their fist through it. Bad luck. “Use whatever’s in the shower, the hot water lasts thirty minutes tops but…” He trails off, rubbing his bicep. “Take as long as you need. I’ll grab you a change of clothes.”

You just nod, stepping into the bathroom. The tiles feel almost foreign under your feet, and you get undressed, your hands almost shaking as you go. You catch a glimpse of your bare form in the cracked mirror, the spidery lines shattering the reflection. You can see the scars on your shoulder, from Dean, and the spot seems to throb, a phantom reminder of what happened, what brought you here.

Meeting your own eyes in the shards of glass makes something in you ache, your mind spinning as you remember the information Cowan had relayed. It sits heavily in your chest, a dark mark across your heart that makes everything in you ache. Tearing your eyes from the mirror, you cross to the shower, crank the heat as high as you can tolerate and step under the spray, pulling the curtain into place behind you.

The hot water makes you cry, the feeling of being truly clean making every emotion you’re already feeling turn overwhelming. You plant your hands on the tiled wall, bend your head beneath the water, letting it pour down your body, washing away the dirt that you couldn’t seem to rid yourself of no matter how many wipes they gave you. It wasn’t the same.

It’s a comfort, standing under there for as long as you do. Something you’d taken for granted, before. Your mind wanders as you wash your hair, digging your nails into your scalp and savouring in the bubbles that pour down your arms.

You think about Joel.

He swore he’d find you. His voice lingers in the back of your head almost daily, a reoccurring whisper that pushes you forward. He knows you’re in Boston, so it made sense then, that he wouldn’t be in Austin, that they wouldn’t have record of him. But that still doesn’t mean that he made it, that he’s still alive. You know he’s capable, knows how to protect himself. If he’s still with Tommy, they’ll take care of each other, and Sarah.

You don’t know where they are. You don’t know what path will bring them to you, if any. Cowan’s voice joins the volley in your head.

You will die out there.

You know he’s right. And now…there are people here that are starting to depend on you. Deanna could handle herself, you know that, but it doesn’t mean she should have to. And the kids…

Maybe leaving Boston isn’t the right answer.

Maybe all you can do is hope and pray to whoever’s still listening that Joel makes it, that they get to Boston, that he keeps his promise. It’s a thin thread of hope, you know, and it tugs at your heart all the same, pricking tears in your eyes, and you let them fall, let them mix with the water as it swirls down the drain.

You can keep hoping, keep praying, keep dreaming, but there are no guarantees, not anymore.

You use up all the hot water, and stay under the spray even when it goes cold. The shock wakes you up, clears your head some, hardens your decision. When you finally push back the curtain, there’s a stack of clothes sitting on the edge of the sink, an army green t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants, thick socks. You pull it all on, towel dry your hair, steal some of the lotion on the edge of the sink, coating your hands and rubbing it into your face, your chest, your shoulders. There’s mouthwash on the counter too, and you savour the burn of the mind, the tingling behind your teeth.

The apartment is darker when you step out of the bathroom, more of the lights turned off, and the world outside the windows is a lightening shade of orange, the sun rising in the sky. Cowan stands by the window, a walkie-talkie clipped to the waist of his sweats, arms crossed over his chest. He’s just staring out, his brow hard, jaw set. Only when the floor creaks under your socked feet does he look up, and just stares at you as you cross the floor, joining him by the window.

“Feel better?”

“Best I’ve felt in weeks,” you admit, pushing your fingers through your damp hair. “Given the circumstance.” You feel heat rising in your face, the weight of his gaze almost too much. “Thank you, Cowan, for what you did.”

He reaches out, catches your free hand with his, and you freeze, watching his fingers curl around yours, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, almost the same as he had in the radio room. “Call me Nick.”

You inhale slightly, feeling the air between you grow thick. You swallow around the lump in your throat, finding you can’t pull your hand from his. You don’t want to.

It’s a comfort.

“I’ll take you back to the fence in the morning,” he says, eyes trained on your linked hands, “if you still want to go.”

“No,” you say, and the word falls so heavily out of your mouth you think for a moment you might topple over. “I…I’m gonna stay. Here. In Boston.”

Cowan’s — Nick’s — eyes lift, and you’re surprised to see the dark shade of blue seems a bit brighter. “Really?”

“You’re right,” you continue, finally pulling your hand from his, tucking your hands against your sides and turning towards the window. “I’d die out there. Who knows if I’d even make it out of the state.”

He huffs a laugh. “I think you’d get that far, at least. But beyond that, it’s anyone’s game.”

You nod slowly. “Besides, there are people here now that…the kids, Deanna, I…I can’t leave.” Nick’s mouth quirks in a grin. “People’d miss me too much.”

The grin widens slightly. “You’re right. They would.”

You avert your eyes, staring out the window instead, at the city below. The building is in the heart of FEDRA’s set up, the ground below crawling with trucks and soldiers. The sky is slowly getting brighter, and you rub at your eyes; you’re exhausted.

“I’d miss you,” Nick says, his voice low, almost hoarse. “Just so you know.”

You turn your head slowly, arms still wrapped around your middle. “Would you?”

“Yeah,” he replies, almost sheepish, still grinning, a blush rising in his cheeks. “My patrols have gotten boring without you.”

Your brow twitches. “You kept your distance.”

“I knew you’d try to make a break for it again,” he says and you suddenly realize the space between you has gotten a little smaller. “Didn’t wanna get attached.”

He’s close. Too close. Close enough that you can feel his breath on your neck, and a shiver wracks through you when his palm lands on the small of your back, fingers tapping against your spine. You let your eyes flutter shut, breath hitching in your chest. Nick bends his neck, lowers his face closer to yours, and you inhale sharply when you feel the brush of his mouth over yours. You freeze.

“I can’t.”

He pulls away instantly, straightening, his cheeks a fiery red now, that same brightness in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he tells you, and puts more space between you again, removing his hand from your back. “Can I ask you something?”

Your curl your fingers in the fabric of the t-shirt, over your ribs. “Yeah.”

“Was it Tommy Miller,” he starts, and your chest prickles, “or Joel?”

“Joel,” you reply, almost instantly, and his name tastes almost sour on your tongue. “It was Joel.”

“You and him…?”

You nod. “Yeah. Me and him.”

“I get it,” he says, and when you finally find it in you to look at him, his face makes you freeze again. “I had someone too. Before.” He shakes his head, and you don’t mis the fact that his eyes are almost glassy. “You’re just…”

You’re not quite sure what makes you do it. Your body is not your own for a moment, thrown off-kilter by the infinite loop of thoughts running through your head. Joel. Your parents. Anna. Tommy. Sarah. Deanna. Henry. Emily. Nick. On and on it goes, making your blood thrum.

“Nick,” you say, simple, short. He lifts his head. You reach out, curl your fingers in the collar of his shirt, and haul him against you, your mouth seeking his. It’s a hot kiss, a desperate one, and when his hand fists at your hip, your blood sings louder.

It’s a comfort.

FIVE YEARS LATER

You wake up with a start. You fell asleep.

Fuck.

There’s a heavy arm around your waist, blankets tugged up to your chest. You rub the sleep from your eyes, crack your wrist, glance at your watch. Nearly half past six. Shit.

“Fuck,” you whisper out, and push at the arm around you. “Wake up.”

Nick stirs, but only barely, nosing at your shoulder, grumbling against your skin. You push harder, planting a palm against his shoulder and nearly shoving. His eyes are still shut, stupidly long lashes fanning his cheeks, and you kick off the blanket, grabbing your jeans off the floor of his bedroom, immediately standing and pulling them on.

“Get up, Nick,” you say, your voice still thick with sleep, but louder. “We’re late.”

He rolls into the space you’d been occupying, bunching your pillow under his head. “Not me. Switched shifts with McCoy.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky.”

You grab your shirt next, pulling it over your head. Jacket after that, bag looped over your head, gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans. Socks yanked on, feet shoved into boots, laces yanked tight.

“Got some coffee yesterday,” Nick mumbles, face half-buried in the pillow. “That good shit you like.”

“I don’t have time,” you say, stepping out of his reach when he lifts a hand towards you, eyes raking over you. “I wasn’t supposed to stay over. You know that.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Best kept secret in the QZ.”

You scoff. “Maybe not the best, but close.”

“Tell Deanna I say hello.”

“Sure.”

His eyes slip closed, and you head out of the bedroom. McCoy’s bedroom door is closed, and you go straight past it, walking towards the living room, the window beyond. You jimmy the lock, slide up the glass, and slip out onto the fire escape.

It took them almost a year to put up the wall. More Infected showed up, drawn to the lights and sounds and smells of the city. They bombed again, heavier the second time, and a few of the buildings toppled, their construction weakened to shit. You watched it from your window.

They moved the survivors into the low-rise buildings towards the middle of the QZ. FEDRA soldiers took the apartments around the outside. Over time, more people showed up — survivors — and once FEDRA had scanners to find out if someone was infected or not, the numbers grew.

So did the bodies.

The curfew stuck, though people cut it close more often than not. It started with a little slap on the wrist, a stern warning from a soldier, but as time wore on, it got worse. Service fines, ration cuts, nights spent in FEDRA lockup. After a few years, it became public beatings, weeks in lockup instead of days.

You made it a point to learn every route in the city. The bombings from before the wall went up had still left some destruction, and you used it to your advantage. Including a route you discovered went right under the wall, popping you back up right on the other side.

You push the limits. You venture out as far as you dare — always with the bat in hand — and start to sift through the rubble. There are things to be found, stuff that hasn’t been taken yet. Stuff that could be worth something, to the right people.

Shortly after the Baltimore QZ falls, FEDRA revamps their communication. The radio room where you’d learned the fate of your family is abandoned by the soldiers, but the civilians are quick to swoop in and pick at what’s left behind. An older man named Abe, who came to Boston with his family from Rhode Island, takes over. He’s good with the connections, knows how to work the wires from his own time in the army, and starts sending messages for people, in exchange for ration tickets and other things.

Abe likes to smoke, you learn, and you stop by the radio room once a week, every Monday at noon, and in exchange for a pack of cigarettes, he sends a message to each of the remaining QZs, and asks after the Millers. You find a whole carton in an abandoned gas station outside the wall to keep the habit going. Abe also shows you how to use the radio, how to send out the transmissions, and you start finding other people beyond the wall, people that want to trade, people who are just doing the same thing you are. Surviving.

You don’t tell Nick. Not at first.

Things with Nick just…happen. He doesn’t push, neither do you. It’s a lot of sneaking around. He figures out what you’re doing, that you’re going beyond the wall, testing the limits, smuggling things in and out of the border. You know it puts a target on your back, which means Nick can’t be seen with you. If the higher ups in FEDRA knew, they’d take you both out, no questions asked. You time your moves right, using Nick’s patrols to your advantage, occasionally finding things for him to sweeten the deal. Maybe it’s an abuse of power; you know he has feelings, feelings you don’t — can’t — reciprocate, but everything else is just…

It’s a comfort. A warm body. A guilty pleasure, heavy on the guilt.

Every time someone new walks up to the wall, gets shuffled through the gates and processed by the FEDRA system, spat out the other side if they’re clean, disappeared if they’re not, you hope. Every single goddamned time, you hope it’s Joel. Or Tommy. Sarah. Your sister. Someone. It crawls up your throat unbidden; you can’t help it. You’ve stopped asking Nick on the days he works the gate; he just tells it to you straight. “Not today.”

But still, every single time, you hope. Even as months fade into years, and before you know it, half a decade have passed since the outbreak, since the start of what felt like the end. You’re still paying Abe with cigarettes to send your messages, still waiting for the day he tells you he got a response.

You’re still here, so why can’t they be too?

The sun is just peeking over the edge of the wall as you slip down the fire escape. You really weren’t supposed to stay over with Nick. It’s a bad habit, one you know makes him happy, and part of you wants to give it to him, as some kind of repayment for your own selfishness. Doing it puts you both in harm’s way, but…guilty pleasure.

It’s spring, the snows long melted, grass sprouting between cracks in the sidewalk. You keep your head down as you drop into the alley, boots crunching on the gravel that covers the pavement. You’re forever kicking shards of glass out of the way, picking them from the soles of your shoes.

There are already soldiers out doing the rounds, some perched on street corners, guns close at hand. You pull up the hood of your coat, make sure the back is covering the waist of your jeans, the handgun sticking out. You pull your shirt down too, just to be safe.

It’s a quick trek from the soldiers barracks to the citizens housing. Especially since you have all the shortcuts memorized — FEDRA has blocked off more than a few buildings, for “safety concerns”, but that hasn’t stopped you from finding ways through.

When you moved to the new housing, they gave you your own unit. Deanna stayed with the kids, a few floors up, and you stayed over most nights. Your own place became a cache of sorts, most of the floorboards loose, all manner of goodies you’d found over the years stashed beneath the worn hardwood. The floral-patterned wallpaper was a bit of an eyesore, but you didn’t much care. It was yours.

You stop at your own place first, change your shirt, stash your gun, clean your face. You’d done a deal down in the subway tunnels the day before, and you weren’t fool enough to go unarmed. You only wasted ammo on people; you saved the bat for the Infected.

By the time you make it up to Deanna’s place, you can hear them all awake, having breakfast. Henry’s in a mood, shouting, “I just think it’s stupid!” by way of greeting. Emily jumps up from her chair the moment you’re through the door, running to you and through her arms around your leg.

“Hi, kiddo.”

She just grins in response. After the mall, she hadn’t said a word, and no matter what you or Deanna or the FEDRA doctors did, she wouldn’t. It wasn’t until Henry finally talked about it, months after you’d left the mall, that it started to make sense. She’d been sitting right there, when Tim turned. She’d watched her father kill her mother, right in front of her.

But you’ve always been able to make her smile. It’s something.

Deanna pushes a mug of coffee into your hands as you sink into the kitchen chair besides Henry. Emily takes the seat next to you, returning to her crayons and colouring but still holding your free hand. “What’s stupid?” you ask, sipping the coffee. It’s instant stuff, nasty, but you’ll take whatever caffeine you can get after the night you had.

“Math,” Henry groans, tipping his head back and glowering at you. “Did you have to learn this stuff, when you were in school?”

“I did,” you agree, nodding, reaching out and running your palm over Emily’s head as she focuses on her colouring. “I didn’t like it either.”

Deanna looks over her shoulder at you from where she’s stood at the stove. “Don’t encourage him, please.”

You wink at Henry before pulling the notebook in front of him towards you. “What are you working on? Fractions?”

He nods. “It’s stupid. The world ended, why do I have to learn math?”

You can’t stop yourself from chuckling, sipping your coffee as Deanna makes for the table, handing you a plate of eggs. “World’s not over yet, kid,” she tells Henry, reaching over and pinching his cheek. “We’re still here.”

“That still doesn’t mean I should have to learn math,” he grumbles, but returns to his breakfast, picking up his pencil again.

Emily tugs on your hand, pointing to her picture, and you lean over, grinning at the butterfly she’s drawn, the page loud with colour. “Pretty!” She slides the paper for you and you gasp. “For me?” She nods, grinning broadly, and you lean over and kiss her cheek. “Thank you, sweet pea.”

Deanna glances between the kids, waiting until they’re too engrossed in their fractions and crayons to listen to either of you. “All clear?” she asks, peering at you over the rim of her coffee cup.

“No issues,” you reply, sipping your coffee again and setting the mug in front of you. “Subway’s still empty. I gotta make a run through the museum next week; guys from Providence are bringing the good stuff.”

“Pills and bullets?”

“Bullets and pills,” you agree, pushing a hand through your hair. “Nick says hello.”

Deanna’s eyes go hard for a fraction of a second. She’s never really approved of your…situation with Nick, especially not after you started the smuggling. Yes, it benefited the civilians in the QZ, but you traded with some of the FEDRA soldiers too, in exchange for ration cards, medicine, whatever they had to offer. It made the target bigger, and she didn’t like the idea of you in the line of fire — though she knew she couldn’t stop you. Dragging Nick in with you just made it worse, in her eyes.

She ignores it, setting her mug on the table too. “You working today?”

You nod. “Food bank. Full day, pays well. I’ll bring you some cards tonight.”

“Good,” she agrees, nodding. “I need you to go by the pharmacy, if you can. Math genius over here needs a new inhaler.” She juts her chin towards Henry, and he glares at her, earning a laugh from the older woman as she pinches his cheek again.

You down the rest of the coffee, wincing when you get to the dregs and the remnants grit your teeth. “Orange or blue?”

“One of each, if they’ve got ‘em,” she answers, rubbing at her brow. “I asked when I was in the clinic the other day. They said they didn’t have any, but I call bullshit. Heard the other nurses say they got fresh shipments in earlier in the week. No way they got through it that fast.”

“Or traded it all away,” you say, getting to your feet. You cross the kitchen, put your mug in the sink.

“Either way, you know how to work those assholes behind the counter. They see me coming and they try to charge me double.”

“I’ll get it done.”

Deanna gets out of her chair, comes and stands beside you at the sink. She puts her own mug down, flicks on the water. The pipes rattle. “I know you will, honey.” Her face pinches. “See if you can find something good, for the kids? Em’s having a rough go. That’s the first smile I’ve seen in days.”

You nod, repeating yourself with a hand on Deanna’s shoulder. “I’ll get it done.”

The day goes mostly normal.

You work the first half of your shift at the food bank before one of Abe’s sons comes looking for you. You cut your shift short, take what cards you’ve earned, and head for the radio room. Abe’s busy with someone when you walk inside, but slides a notepad towards you, words scrawled in red ink.

Providence - museum - TODAY.

“Fuckers,” you grumble, but take the note, nod in thanks to Abe and make a mental note to find a new carton of cigarettes while you’re out. You stuff the paper in your pocket, heading to the pharmacy next. You recognize the soldiers behind the counter; you’ve traded with both of them before. “I need two inhalers.”

Like Deanna said, they try to charge you double the number of cards you know to be the price, but you’re not about to let that fly.

“You kidding?”

One of them puts a hand on the pistol strapped to her thigh. “We don’t make the rules.”

You scoff. “The fuck you don’t. They’re for a ten-year-old orphan. You should be giving them to me for free.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel bad?”

“You should feel bad,” you throw back, leaning on the counter, giving her a hard stare. “You should also remember that I have dirt on you, Angie. So I’d watch your mouth before you try to screw me any harder. I’ll pay half. That’s it.”

Her throat bobs, and the other soldier stares at her expectantly. She slides the inhalers across the counter. “Half.”

You pull the cards out of your pocket, toss them towards her. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

You stash the inhalers in your bag and leave before they can give you any more shit.

The trade with the guys from Providence goes off without a hitch. Few bottles of pills, couple baggies of something…stronger, and an array of ammunition. In exchange, you give them first aid supplies, rations that’ll actually last on the road, a few books they’d requested specifically, vegetable seeds, and to sweeten the deal just a tad, a few porno mags, of…varying appetites.

You do some scavenging while you’re out, having traded your handgun for the baseball bat. The leather around the handle has frayed over the years, and you’ve wrapped it up with tape. You still wipe it down when you can, keep it by your bedside every night.

Your bag is full by the time you’re headed back for the QZ; you hit the jackpot in one of the little boutique shops near the museum. A bunch of knickknacks you’re sure someone will appreciate, yarn for Deanna, and for the kiddos: board games.

It’s cutting it close, when you make your way back. You have both McCoy and Nick’s patrol routes memorized, and as per usual, you time it right, taking a path that leads right from the top of the wall and through the top level of one of the closed-off buildings. He’s standing on the pavement when you slide down the ladder into the alleyway, boots splashing in the rainwater. He keeps his back to you, gun brandished in that casual way only FEDRA soldiers can. You pull up the hood of your jacket, wipe the rain from your cheeks as it pelts down on you.

Nick doesn’t look at you as you walk out of the alley, pausing on the sidewalk beside him. You don’t chance a glance at him, bending to retie one of your laces. “You good?” he asks under his breath.

You just nod, disguising it as a nonchalant look across the street. “Yep.”

“Deanna’s looking for you,” he says, still not glancing at you, keeping a good few feet between you two. “Sounded urgent.”

That grabs your attention, and you turn to face him. “Are the kids okay?”

“Yeah, they’re fine,” he answers, his tone going softer. “She came by about an hour ago, asked if I had seen you, said to tell you to find her once you got back. Wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

Your brow crinkles, and you nod. “Thanks.”

You feel uneasy as you turn on your heel, heading in the direction of your building. The sky is an unkind shade of grey, the rain soaking quickly through your jacket, wetting your hair beneath your hood. It’s sticking to the back of your neck by the time you get inside, and you push your hood back, wiping the droplets from your face as you head for the stairs. You head straight for Deanna’s, your bag feeling heavier on your shoulders with every step.

Your heart jumps into your throat when you approach the door, hearing voices from the other side. The doorknob feels unusually cold in your grip, and when you push it open, you nearly crumble onto Deanna’s kitchen floor.

Tommy Miller is sitting at her table, those big brown eyes instantly shiny with tears when he sees you standing in the doorway.

He leaps out of his chair and crosses to the door, pulling you into the same kind of bear hug he’d once cornered you with in your parents’ hardware store. You can’t stop the gasp that falls out of you, followed immediately by tears, and hug him back hard, curling your fingers in his flannel shirt, holding him tightly to you. “Tommy?” you breathe out, half convinced this isn’t real, that you’re dreaming. Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t—

“You have no idea how good it is to see you, darlin’,” he says softly, the smile evident in his voice. You’re shaking, your eyes squeezed tight, just holding him to you. If Tommy’s here, then that could mean…

You cut the thought short, pulling back enough that you can look at him. He’s the same as you remember, if not a little worn at the edges, but you have no doubt you look the same to him. His hair’s a little longer, facial hair that suits him well long his jaw and upper lip. He looks…intact. Alive.

“What are you…?” you breathe out, almost choking on the questions. “How did you…?”

He cups your cheek his his big palm, giving you a smile that makes everything in you twist tight with happiness. “Heard a rumour Boston was letting veterans into the QZ, thought we’d take the chance.” His grin widens. “It worked out.”

Your mind snags on the we. “You…?” You nearly stumble back a step, held in place only by him. Your heart sinks into your stomach, your breath hitching. “Tommy, is he—”

“He is,” Tommy nods, the movement almost furious. “Joel’s alive.”

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immersional · 3 years

Text

eight - c!wilbur (dream smp)

genre: angst ):

word count: 1454

warnings: blood, character death, explosions, fighting, dream smp election arc & wilbur’s downfall

authors note: uHm so this is my first time ever posting my writing on tumblr… this is genuinely probably the worst thing you’ll ever read so that’s just a preface. also I didn’t know exactly what to put for like - the warnings - so if anyone could help me with those that’d be great! all that aside, i hope u enjoy ): i REALLY recommend listening to eight by sleeping at last whilst reading this! ALSO i didn’t proofread it so if it’s bad or has grammatical errors I am very sorry.

****

I remember the minute,

It was like a switch was flipped -

“Tommy, I am a slow-burning fuse. I am a long, slow-burning fuse, but I’m telling you now, over the next couple of weeks, I’m gonna be a different man the one Schlatt crossed.”

Sounds, sounds of joy and celebration, infiltrated my ears as we clambered to the top of the hill and stared down at the very inauguration that we were dismissed from. Although, some may say, less ‘dismissed’ and more ‘chased away by an entire city with fire arrows and netherite swords’.

Tommy was speaking from his spot beside me, but the words failed to register as I observed the way Niki slid away from the function and began making the journey back to her bakery. The way she furiously wiped at her eyes as she cautiously checked behind her was a painful reminder that she could no longer feel safe in her own country.

How did this happen? We won the war. We won our freedom. Now we had nothing.

God that was so long ago, long ago, long ago…

I was little, I was weak and perfectly naive,

And I grew up too quick.

“I know you’re scared, Tommy, I understand you’re scared. And it’s scary! It’s scary Tommy, but you know what? In a time like this, when a man has nothing to lose, do you know what that means? It means we can do what we want.” The laugh that exited my chapped lips was dark; I could tell by the look on Tommy’s face that he was taken aback by my words.

He stuttered. “Wilbur, I don’t know what you’re trying to say but-”

“Have you not noticed? Everyone who is claiming to be on our side, they’re lying to us! Tubbo?! He’s lying to you! He would drop us the second he realises we’re not in the lead anymore.”

“No, no! STOP IT!”

It was a mixture of unexpected and expected, the fist that flew across my face. As I fell to the solid concrete floor of the ravine I realised that Tommy was still in denial. He still believed there was a route we could take ending with us regaining L’Manburg and going back to the way things were before Schlatt came into power.

“You’re being reckless, Wilbur.” It took me a few minutes to focus on the hand reaching out to me, but in a few fleeting moments I was back on my feet with Tommy watching me with a hard stare. “You’re not the man that came in as president.”

Another dark chuckle. “I told you, Tommy. What did I say to you the night we were exiled from L’Manburg? I said I was a slow-burning fuse, and right now I’m closer than ever to exploding.”

I’m all in, palms out, I’m at your mercy now and I’m ready to begin.

“Do you know what happens to traitors, Tubbo? Nothing good.”

Tommy was visibly shaking. A crossbow, wielded by Technoblade, was pointed straight at Tubbo’s forehead. One shot, one life lost.

The button.

Without another thought, my legs began carrying me from the top of the building and down to the mountains behind L’Manburg. Chaos was ensuing behind me, but that was fine. It could all be fixed by the button. The button connected to stacks upon stacks of TNT underneath the country I built from the ground up.

My fingers clawed urgently at the dirt as sweat began to gather in beads on my forehead; grime and filth began to cover my body as I raked through the mountain in search of the room. Where was the button?

What seemed like hours, but was only minutes, passed by before my arms gave out and I collapsed against the mountainside. It hurt to breathe and the rain began pouring from the sky, battering down on me like a thousand punches.

I laid there until I heard the distant cries of the citizens of L’Manburg. A L’Manburg that was no longer mine. My unfinished symphony.

And I’ll give all I have, I’ll give my blood, give my sweat -

An ocean of tears will spill for what is broken.

Blood coated the floor from where my knees were being cut open by the cobblestone. My breathing was uneven and my nails were leaving deep red indents on my palms. With every sound, sounds of joys and celebration, that filtered down through the walls, I came one step closer to pushing the button.

Would it even work? Was the TNT even connected anymore? My battered hand hovered sadly over the wooden square.

“The thing that I built this nation for doesn’t exist anymore. Th-The thing that I worked towards… doesn’t exist anymore. It’s over.”

A gust of wind swept through the room. “What are you doing?”

I didn’t need to turn my head to know who was behind me. He’d come to persuade me to make the ‘right’ decision, the ‘better’ decision; just like Tommy had endeavoured towards many times before.

“Do you know what this button is?” My voice was shaky, and it was then I realised my eyes were beginning to cloud and become blurry. “Have you heard the song? On the walls? Have you heard the song. I was just thinking that there was a special place where men could go, but it’s not there anymore. You know?

Footsteps. “It still is there. You just won it back, Wil!”

“Phil.” I spun around to face him, and by the look in his eyes I saw that I was nothing but the shell of the boy he watched grow up. “I’m always so close to pressing this button, Phil. I’ve been here - like - seven or eight times now.”

Fireworks began to go off outside, followed by terrified screams and the clanks of swords being unsheathed. They were fighting. Ten minutes ago, they were rejoicing in the face of a new government and now they were trying to kill each other?

“You fought so hard to get this land back… you fought so hard.” He was pleading, begging at this point to get me to change my mind. Phil was trying so hard to coerce me to leave the room, remove the TNT and go back to the way things were.

Nothing would ever go back to the way things used to be. If nothing changed, then history would just continue to repeat itself. Although I could hear Phil speaking to me, it seemed like the button was speaking louder. Pleading, begging me to press it and end everyone’s suffering once and for all. End my suffering once and for all.

“Phil…” I turned away from him for the last time. “There was a saying Phil. By a traitor. A traitor who used to be a part of L’Manburg - Eret?” With every word spoken, I felt my throat begin to close up.

“He had a saying, Phil,” A sharp exhale. “It was never meant to be.”

There was a moment. A moment that I thought it hadn’t worked. Had Tommy or Dream removed the TNT? What if Schlatt had realised and gotten rid of it before he died?

An incredible amount of thoughts ran across my mind, but they came to a halt when the first piece of TNT went off. As the city I created and once ruled began to detonate, as the bawls of the citizens of L’Manburg increased and became fiercer, I just threw my head back in euphoria.

The ground shuddered and broke beneath my knees. Phil’s exclamations of horror were heard behind me as the button room was unveiled to the perplexed and panic-stricken faces of old acquaintances, friends and enemies. Tommy’s eyes were wide and full of tears as he gaped at the damage the explosion had done. Niki’s face held an expression of extreme despair whilst she fought to pull a distraught Tubbo away from the massacre.

As the smoke began to drift up from the rubble, I quickly realised that my job was done.

‘Phil, kill me. Kill me, Phil.” I pulled out the diamond sword I carried with me and slid it towards the man who’d raised me. “Stab me with this sword, murder me now, kill me. They all want you to, so do it.”

“I- You’re my SON!”

“Look at how much work went into this.” Ignoring the searing pain from my bloody knees, I stood and gestured towards the broken country. “Look how much time and effort went into this and it’s gone. Do it. Do it.”

Wilbur Soot was slain by Philza

Now you won’t see all that I had to lose,

And all I’ve lost in the fight to protect it.