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howlinchickhowl · 4 months

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Ristretto - mini update

Hey! So, uh. I've been working on the next chapter of Ristretto for a good long while now. I'm finding it challenging because it's a lot of spice and that's one of the things I find hardest to write well. The next chapter, May, the lusty month of may, is planned as basically a five + 1 of fucking, and I have completed one section! So I have decided what I am doing for this chapter is mini updates by section here on tumblr, and then whenever I have all the sections complete I will update on ao3. In all honesty I just feel like I need the boost of actually posting something right now.

If you remember this fic and want to read the updates separately as they come, great! If you would rather wait and read them all in one go as one whole chapter, also great!

If you have no idea what Ristretto is, it's my coffeeshop AU I have been writing forever and a day and you can read from the beginning here.

And now without further ado!

Chapter 9(a) - rated E

May

By the time Ian closes the store, Mickey has taken to the break room for a nap, and Ian completes all of his nightly cleaning duties to the sounds of him snoring deep and rhythmic. When he’s done Ian shakes him awake and is treated to a full ten minutes of Mickey yawning and squinting like a sleepy baby while they gather their shit and lock up. They walk to the L and it seems to dawn on Mickey just when they’re getting on the train that he doesn’t actually know what Ian has planned, or where they’re going.

He gripes when Ian refuses to tell him, makes a few guesses but doesn’t get anywhere close. When they get to their stop he looks confused, wary, like maybe Ian’s playing some sort of trick on him. But he follows all the same.

They get off at 47th and cut back across the 90 towards the maze of streets they both sort of call home. Ian leads them through Fuller Park, past the train depot, and the little league field.

“I peed on first base here once.” Mickey tells him, with a childish sort of pride, hooking his fingers into the chain-link fence and stopping to stare out at the spot in question.

“Why?” Ian stops beside him, watching his face as he looks, remembers. Mickey shrugs, like he doesn’t know why, but there is a faraway look in his eyes that suggests that this is not really the case.

“Bet you were a little terror.” Ian jokes, bumping Mickey’s shoulder with his own.

“I was a Milkovich.” Mickey smiles, licks his teeth, kind of feral, and pushes off from the fence. “We got far to go?” He asks, and Ian shakes his head no, pushing off as well and steering them across the little patch of green adjacent to the field so they can hang a right onto Normal.

A couple of blocks and a couple of turns later and they’re there. A road of empty homes, a tiny ghost town in the middle of the night. It’s eerie, actually, Ian thinks as they walk. They reach their destination, two doors down from Lip’s new place, a little square box of a home with faded gray walls, an overgrown front yard, and, crucially, a shitty back door with a broken lock.

Ian leads them through the little wilderness of the yard around to the back, jiggles the handle a little in the way that he has figured out gives him the quickest access, and ushers Mickey inside.

The electricity is out but Ian is prepared, he reaches over to the counter and flips on the camping lantern he had set there for this exact purpose. It’s not bright but it gives off just enough light for Mickey to see the selection of snacks Ian has set out next to the sink, the array of candles he has prepared on most of the other surfaces, ready to light, and through the open door into the next room where he has set up a little nest for them.

Mickey’s back is to him and he hasn’t spoken yet, and it’s making Ian kind of nervous. Was this a weird thing to do? Was it too much? Maybe he should have talked to him about it before? The seconds tick by and neither of them speaks and Ian’s heart starts to pound like that time he and Lip had boosted a car and ended up in front of a cop car at a red light, holding their breaths and hoping like hell that the car hadn’t been reported stolen yet.

Sucking in a deep breath he moves past Mickey and starts to light the candles, just to give himself something to do.

“It’s not much, I don’t know, I thought…”

He trails off, holds his lighter to the wick of a dusty teddy bear shaped candle Debbie had been throwing away and chances a glance at Mickey, nervous, but unable to stop himself from trying to figure out what he’s thinking.

Mickey’s eyes roam around the room, taking in the sight as the newly lit candles cast warm flickering shadows over his impassive face. They land at last on Ian’s, reflections of the flames dancing against the black of his pupils.

“It’s private.” Ian shrugs.

Mickey cocks an eyebrow, drags his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment and nods.

“Private, huh?” He asks, stepping closer so their bodies brush against each other. Ian reaches around past him to light another candle, no noise but their breathing and the soft swish of his sleeve against Mickey’s.

He lights the candle, and the one next to it, placing them gently back in place on the counter, and when he turns his head towards Mickey he is right there. Their faces are inches apart, so close he could count the individual freckles on Mickey’s eyelids, could extend his tongue and lick the tip of his nose.

Their eyes lock onto each other’s and his breath is suddenly coming in shallow little huffs that blow the stray hairs hanging over Mickey’s forehead up.

“Tell me Gallagher,” Mickey’s voice is hushed, a low rumble of a thing that gets Ian’s nerves tingling as Mickey squares up to him, getting his body even closer and laying assured hands on Ian’s belt buckle. “What do we need somewhere private for?”

His eyebrows tick up again, suggestive, knowing, and his fingers find stronger purchase on Ian’s belt, the backs of his first knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of Ian’s stomach while his thumbs trace the outline of the buckle. Ian sucks in a sharp breath, Mickey draws in his own, long and slow and he waits.

Ian moves first, slamming his face into Mickey’s with enough force to push him back into the counter and latching his lips onto Mickey’s with almost desperate fervor, and after that it’s pointless trying to say who is kissing or grabbing or undressing whom.

Tongues and lips and teeth all slide and catch and drag, Ian pulls Mickey’s jacket down his shoulders, Mickey gets Ian’s pants open and shoved down over the swell of his ass. They move as one frenzied unit, pulling and grabbing and pushing and shoving, until Ian’s pants are around his ankles and they are tripping and stumbling and laughing into each other’s mouths trying to stay upright.

Mickey grabs a fistful of Ian’s shirt and yanks it up in an entirely ineffective attempt to get it off him, growling when he is unsuccessful.

“Fuckin’, take your fuckin’ shirt off asshole.’ Mickey yanks again and Ian pulls away just enough to get his shirt over his head, tossing it blindly and praying it doesn’t land on a lit candle and start a fire. He should be more careful, he knows, but he can’t focus on anything but Mickey right now, Mickey who is looking him up and down and licking his lips like Ian is a big juicy steak he’s looking to devour.

“Fuck, yeah.” Mickey breathes, getting both his hands on Ian’s traps and sliding them, firmly, down over his chest until just his fingertips are brushing over Ian’s abs. He rests there, and the muscles in Ian’s stomach jerk under his touch.

“This is the most of you I’ve seen all at once.” Mickey tells him, breathless, giddy, running his eyes up over Ian’s chest and shoulders and then down to where his hands are resting, plucking gently at the elastic waistband of his underwear, index finger rubbing idly over the little thatch of coarse red hairs that line it.

Ian leans in to drop a kiss on his open mouth, slack and wet and eager against Ian’s own. He moves over to leave kisses against his cheek, his jaw, nosing up behind his ear into his hairline and breathing in the scent of his skin, intoxicating and so intense just there that Ian can hardly bear it.

“You want to see more?” He asks, pushing the flat of his tongue against the skin of Mickey’s neck and dragging, slowly, as Mickey shivers against him.

“Wanna see it all.” Mickey’s voice catches as Ian flicks at his earlobe with the tip of his tongue, and he shoves his whole hands down into Ian’s shorts, palms flattening over his hips and fingers digging into the flesh of his ass in retaliation. The movement pulls them right in close, and Ian’s cock ends up shoved right up along the length of Mickey’s where’s it’s hard in his jeans.

It’s like a whole series of flashbulbs go off in Ian’s brain, one after the other. Flash. Flash. Flash. His whole brain lighting up with the contact, a full-body shudder running through him, forcing his breath right out of his chest in short little vocal puffs that he can’t contain. He shoves his forehead into Mickey’s shoulder and breathes there, letting the soft, musty scent of Mickey’s skin soothe him until he has a better hold of himself.

Mickey’s fingers twitch, urgent, and it is that impatience helps Ian focus, helps him find it in himself to drag his mouth up Mickey’s neck, take his earlobe between his teeth in a sharp tug and then whisper.

“Take them off then.”

That’s all the permission Mickey needs, he shoves Ian’s shorts down and the two of them are off again, hands and tongues and lips everywhere at once. Ian gets distracted running his hands all over Mickey’s back and shoulders and waist, feeling the warmth of his skin seeping into his palms and getting lost in the sensation so much that he barely notices Mickey huffing and puffing about having to take off his own pants, since Ian isn’t gonna do it for him.

They laugh together when he can’t get enough room to open his fly button. Ian leans his hips back to make some space and gets with the program enough to help Mickey get his jeans and underwear down until there is a matching pool of fabric restricting his ankles as much as Ian’s. And then they laugh again.

“Should probably take our shoes off.” Ian murmurs, pressing kisses to Mickey’s lips, pressing the whole length of his body along the whole length of Mickey’s and trying not to hyperventilate at how good it feels to feel him.

“Later.” Mickey grunts, shoving his hand between them and grabbing hold of Ian, firm in the way he’s come to learn that Ian likes best. He slides his tongue sloppily into Ian’s mouth in time with his thumb rubbing over the head and it’s almost enough to make Ian’s knees buckle.

“Mickey.” He tries to say, muffled against Mickey’s lips, hindered by his seeking tongue and his clever little hand starting to stroke.

“Mickey!” He succeeds this time, firmly, grabbing whole handfuls of Mickey’s ass and pulling him tight to Ian’s body, trapping his hand between them and halting his movement with a grunt. Mickey’s answering huff is petulant and it’s pure instinct that has Ian pulling him in even harder, letting his fingers pull at Mickey’s ass-cheeks so that they part, exposing him to the open air, letting him feel it until his panting breaths turn vocal and he stops trying to move.

Mickey’s eyes catch on his, they’re dark with want, pupils blown wide enough that Ian can barely make out the blue in them. Up to now their encounters have been marked with both an overwhelming intensity of desire and a level of humor Ian never knew could be a part of sex. Sex has never really been fun in this way, before. Fun in the way where you get your rocks off and it feels really fucking good and someone thinks you’re hot and that feels amazing or you’re super high or out of your head and everything you do is fun. But fun like this, stupid fun where you’re held captive by your pants and your lover won’t let you do anything about it kind of fun, that’s a new thing. That’s a Mickey thing. It’s the best thing Ian’s ever had.

But now it feels like they are teetering on the edge of something else, something new. Not wholly new to Ian, he’s dangled his feet in these waters a couple of times before, and the heat in Mickey’s eyes suggests that it’s not his first dip in this particular pool either, but new for them, together, and just the thought that they might be on the same page, compatible in this as well, it’s a whole new thrill.

“I had a plan.” He tells Mickey, low and serious, letting his thumb rub over the swell of one ass cheek, feeling the fuzz of the surprisingly light colored hairs that grow there. “Got a mattress all set up in the next room, comfy pillows, soft sheets.”

“Not a fuckin’ princess Gallagher.” Mickey grumbles, and Ian clenches his fingers harder, pulling his cheeks further apart. He can’t see, but from the sharp grunt that Mickey lets out he can tell the tension is starting to stretch his hole open ever so slightly.

“No.” He says, easing up just a little. “Just thought you might appreciate getting fucked without getting carpet burn on your ass.”

Mickey’s mouth turns up in a smile that is somehow equal parts flirty, filthy, and sweet, and his tongue flicks out over his lips slow, tantalizing.

“Awful thoughtful of you.” He tilts his head up into the space below Ian’s chin and Ian shivers as the flat of his warm, wet, tongue slides over the underside of his jaw.

“Yeah, I’m nice like that.” His focus is split, the sharp spikes of Mickey’s stubble following the path of his tongue like tiny electric shocks against the sensitive skin of his throat, but he manages to loosen his grip and slide the fingers on his right hand all the way into Mickey’s crack and stroke them up and down a couple of times, fingertips catching gently against his rim as they move.

“Hmm.” Mickey sucks in a slow breath, and Ian can feel all the muscles in his ass twitch, uncontrollably. He likes that. “Other ways too.”

“You think I’m nice?” Mickey’s teeth join the party, scraping over the hinge in Ian’s jaw, adding a new sensation to the wet and sharp in a way that makes Ian’s knees threaten to give out. Ian rewards him by allowing the tip of his middle finger to sink in, breeching the tight circle of muscle just enough that it clenches around him. Just enough that he can now officially say he’s been inside Mickey Milkovich.

A soft vocal puff of breath blows out against Ian’s neck, wet with saliva and just a little itchy where Mickey’s been working it over with his lips and tongue and teeth.

“What’s that?” Ian inclines his head, pushing their temples together. He pushes his finger a little deeper and then pulls it back almost immediately, Mickey’s body moving with him, unconsciously trying to keep him in. Mickey grunts. Ian pushes at his cheek with his nose, lays soft kisses on his cheek, against the corner of his lips. “Say you think I’m nice, Mick.”

He gets at Mickey’s lips, hot and wet, slides his own over them, breathes a hot breath into his mouth, swallows the breath that Mickey gives him back. He lets his finger push back in, as far as it will easily go.

“Mickey.”

Mickey kisses him, one sweaty hand coming up to grip at his shoulder and the other grabbing him at the hip. He kisses him dirty, lips and tongue dragging hot over Ian’s own, slow and wet and it’s so fucking hot Ian makes a sound he’s never heard outside of porn, like a grunt and a moan had a filthy high-pitched baby and it gets Mickey grinning against his mouth until he’s basically kissing teeth.

“Nice guy, huh?” His lips pluck at Ian’s again, nose bashing nose as he draws his head back so their eyes can meet. “That what you think you are?”

“What else?” Ian shrugs, drawing his finger, still resting just inside of Mickey’s ass, in tight little circles, just the tip really, swirling around, feeling his walls, the heat, the jolt of Mickey’s muscles as they pulse at the contact. He could just stay there forever, just rubbing at him, feeling him, but at the same time he’s desperate to get a rhythm going, add more fingers, taste him, get something else inside him, he wants everything all at once and it’s like he’s just feeling too many things, he can’t take it.

He buries his face in Mickey’s neck and clenches his hands, one holding steadfastly to Mickey’s ass-cheek, one spread so that he can keep his finger inside, but still clenching against the sheer strength of what he’s feeling.

It’s a lot, he thinks, as Mickey gasps against his ear, he must be pulling at him pretty hard, dragging him from the inside. He tries to relax, tries to think about releasing his muscles and slowing his breathing, think about things that calm him down. Soft music, going for a run, the sound of Mickey’s voice lately.

“Mick.” He about manages to grind out against the flushed pink skin of Mickey’s shoulder. “What else?”

“What, if you ain’t nice?” Mickey’s voice is soft, kind of high right there against the shell of his ear, soft lips mouthing at his earlobe as small warm hands run up and down his sides in slow, firm strokes. It must be clear to Mickey that Ian is on the brink of falling the fuck to pieces. He manages a juddery kind of nod, face still buried in Mickey’s skin, hands still fighting to tense, and he feels Mickey’s chest rise and fall in a deep breath, feels him relax his body against Ian’s.

The kisses that follow are gentle, soothing, along his hairline, down his forehead, over his cheeks and jaw, and punctuated with that sweet, husky voice, not quite whispering, but not quite talking aloud either, talking him down with each pointed breath.

“Well you’re really fuckin’ hot. So there’s that.” Kiss. “Funny. When you’re not trying to make a dumb pun joke.” Kiss. “Strong.” Kiss. “I like that you’re strong.”

He can feel it working, feel himself settling back into his skin, his heart slowing back to a regular (if aroused) rate. He manages to press a kiss into the ball of Mickey’s shoulder and is rewarded with a questioning “hmm?”

He gulps in a breath and focuses on relaxing his hands, soothing his thumb over Mickey’s almost certainly bruised ass-cheek, retracting his finger in a long, slow, slide that has Mickey’s breaths coming in short sharp vocalisations, almost giggles, like the sensation is more than his body can bear.

He drags his face up to Mickey’s for a kiss, and as he melts into that mouth it’s like he’s fully back inside his body again. He can feel every place where his skin is sticking to Mickey’s, pulling in little painful drags as they move against each other. He is aware once more, of Mickey’s dick, resting, a little twitchily, beside his own, pressed between them both and dribbling into his pubic hair. Ian enjoys how wet he gets, can’t help but reach between them to feel along the sticky length of him and give a couple of short tugs, coating his fingers in pre-come and sucking in the little huffy breaths that Mickey puffs out as he does.

“What else?” He asks, dragging his hand back around and sliding his finger back inside, crooking his knuckle to stretch out the rim a little before diving properly in.

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes against him, and Ian swallows it, his words, his breath, the intoxicating smell of him swirling inside Ian’s mouth and resting against his palate.

“What else?”

“Jesus Christ you uh.” Ian licks at his lips as he is trying to form the thoughts, a little more sensation, wants to see if he can get Mickey to shake out of his skin just the way Ian almost just had. “You kiss good.”

He licks him again, closes his lips over Mickeys in a reward of a kiss, rubbing at his rim with the tip of his ring finger, testing the waters to see if they’re there yet. Mickey’s moan is loud, fills Ian’s mouth with its neediness as he throws his arms around Ian’s shoulders and presses himself as close to Ian’s body as he can get. Second finger it is. On the next draw back, he pushes two in. Mickey’s whole body shudders against him.

“Mickey.” He loves the feel of Mickey’s entire weight hanging off him, pressed against him, clinging to him like he’s a life-raft and Mickey’s adrift at sea. “What else.”

Mickey whines, and it is such a sweet sound. Ian buries his fingers as far as they will go and swallows the noises his lover makes.

“Christ, Ian, I don’t know, if I say you’re nice will you stick your fuckin’ dick in me?”

If he’d thought laughter would break the horny spell he’s under, he would have been wrong. He’s so turned on he’s not quite sure what to do any more. He’s laughing straight into Mickey’s mouth and buzzing with desire and fighting the instinctual thrust of his hips all at the same time, so many sensations warring for attention he hardly knows how he’s still standing up, except that Mickey’s body is supporting his as much as Ian’s own is supporting Mickey’s. And God does he want to stick his dick in Mickey, more than anything he thinks he’s ever wanted. There’s only one thing stopping him.

He pulls his mouth from Mickey’s and unceremoniously drags his fingers out of his ass, grabbing a cheek in both hands and squeezing.

“Not without lube.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, leaning back in, but Ian stops him short with a hard smack and pushes him away.

It’s only when he makes for the little nest he’s set up in the next room that he remembers his pants are still around his ankles and he’s still wearing his boots. It’s Mickey’s turn to laugh as he very narrowly escapes tripping over his own feet.

“Shut up and get your shit off.” Is all Ian says, working on freeing his feet and admiring the lines of Mickey’s body as he hops about pulling his own boots off and shaking his legs out of his pants until at last he’s standing in nothing but his socks, a mile and a half of pale skin lit only by the soft glow of the candles and making Ian’s breath catch in his throat.

He has to kiss him again. His pants have barely hit the floor and he’s got Mickey gripped by the hips and is smashing their lips together even as Mickey’s shit-eating grin gives way to open-mouthed laughter.

He keeps kissing him as he uses his body to move them through to where he has stashed the lube, keeps kissing him as he backs him toward the mattress he has topped with piles of blankets and pillows gathered from every corner of the Gallagher household (and washed on a super high heat to remove any trace of Frank that might have been lingering), keeps kissing him, though not with a whole lot of finesse as he lowers them both down horizontal and reaches blindly around the side of the mattress for his little kit of supplies, and Mickey just keeps kissing him back.

Back when Mickey had first come around the Tamp and Grind, refusing to order his drink the way he wanted and barely looking Ian in the eyes some days, he would never have imagined, in a million years, that Mickey loved kissing as much as he does. But he really fucking does. He’s almost always the first one to lean in, and never the first one to pull away, he leads with his lips, a total kiss slut, and Ian loves it, loves that he is maybe the only person to know it. He kisses him and kisses him and gets hold of the lube and kisses him and vows that he will never deny Mickey a kiss when he wants it. He deserves all the kisses.

Although maybe he needs to take a breath, his thoughts are getting a little loopy.

He gets the lube on his fingers and fumbles around beneath them, sliding two straight back in to Mickey’s hole without much pre-amble and smiles when Mickey gasps beneath him.

“Yeah?” He asks, not really pulling his face back from Mickey’s, their mouths still connected though not quite in a kiss.

“Fuckin’ warn a guy” Mickey murmurs, lipping at Ian’s bottom lip a little, not quite a kiss, not anything really but some contact.

“How’s this for a warning?” He brings his ring finger into play, running it along Mickey’s rim to position it in the sort of ridge formed by his other two fingers and pushing, just a little, before pulling back again.

Mickey sucks in a deep breath, blowing it back out warm over Ian’s mouth as the finger slides in next to the others. There are so many sensations, warm breath on his face, soft hairs against his cheek threatening to tickle, sticky skin pulling against his own wherever they move, and the sucking heat surrounding his fingers, Ian revels in in, how completely physically consumed he is by this man, how absolutely lost he is to anything outside of his body and Mickey’s body right now.

He twists his fingers and pulls out a little before pushing back in, trying to give him a little stretch on every move, he grins at Mickey, thinking about why he needs the stretch, and Mickey’s returning grin is filthy and harsh.

“You gonna fuck me Gallagher?” He grunts as Ian makes his two main fingers into a scissor inside of him.

“Uh-huh.” Another kiss, another thrust, and now Mickey’s hand is worming in between them to grab at Ian’s dick, firm and sure in a way that makes Ian jolt.

“Think you got what it takes?” He starts up a stroke, nice and light, not letting his hand catch where Ian is sticky from pre-come, and Ian gives him a couple of thrusts in time with his fingers and fuck it feels really fucking good.

“Fuckin’ know I do. You’re desperate for it.”

Mickey licks his grinning lips, thumbing at the head of Ian’s dick.

“That right?” He squeezes a little, and Ian jerks.

“Fuckin’ greedy for it, you think you can take it?” He needs a condom, where did he leave them? He knows it was close by. He throws his arm out over their heads, feeling blindly as he sucks on Mickey’s lips. He comes up triumphant, waving it between their faces with a grin which Mickey returns, eyebrow cocking up toward his hairline.

“Only one way to find out man.” Mickey says, and all at once they are moving together, getting the packet open, getting Ian suited up and ready, and then both of their hands are there, covering him together, guiding him together, until he is finally sinking into the sucking heat of Mickey’s body and the both of them stop breathing for a minute as he slides all the way in.

It’s like time stops still. Like the whole world shrinks down to just him and Mickey and the points of contact between them, the heat that surrounds his cock and the light hairs tickling his elbow where it is bracketing Mickey’s arm, the short bursts of air that are passing between them as they kind of gape open-mouthed at each other, adjusting, feeling.

He thinks he could stay there like that forever, just locked inside Mickey for the rest of time, and be perfectly content with his lot in life. Mickey, though, he senses, is about to get restless.

He opens his mouth, no doubt to give Ian some patented Milkovich sass, so Ian takes his moment, right before Mickey speaks, and strikes, pulling out almost all the way in one swift movement, before grinding his way back in, pushing even further when he bottoms out so that Mickey’s hips tilt up off the mattress and a short grunt comes punching out of Mickey’s mouth.

He seems to like that move, so Ian goes with it, adjusting his weight so that he is able to grab hold of a seductively thick thigh in each hand and push upwards, holding Mickey’s weight so he can pull out again and grind back in, using every ounce of muscle control he’s worked so hard for to tilt his hips at just the right angle and push himself forward at just the right pace to get Mickey’s knees to twitch and his thighs to clench around him.

He goes at it like that for as long as he can, sweating and gasping and rolling his hips, rewarded for each thrust with a soft breathy ‘uhn’ from Mickey and the occasional half-hearted bite to his jaw or his ear or, at one point, his nose, though he does wonder if that was just bad aim. He doesn’t know how long he manages, maybe a minute, maybe less, before he starts to get that tight feeling in the base of his spine and his toes start to tingle and clench. His movements grow less smooth, less sure, jerking forcefully instead of gliding with purpose and he hopes he’s done enough to get Mickey there as well because this is apparently going to be a short performance.

‘Mick,’ he manages to gasp, eyes zeroing in for a second on a sweaty lock of hair that’s dangling out of place, ‘Mick, I’m—’, the force of his breaths blows the hair away again and Mickey’s face, flushed and glistening with sweat, comes back into focus.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Mickey says, hushed and dark and right there with him, thank fuck. Glassy eyes lock onto Ian’s for just a second before Mickey’s reaching down between them to get a hold of his own cock and the sensation forces them closed, head tipping back, hips jolting upward with a force that nearly knocks Ian sideways. He pulls back, bringing Mickey with him so that he’s resting back on his knees, Mickey splayed basically in his lap. He does his best to grip Mickey’s hips despite the sweat and his waning co-ordination, juddering through the last thirty seconds of thrusts as Mickey urgently strips his cock, bringing himself to the edge and throwing himself off it seconds after Ian shudders and jolts and grinds to a seizing halt. He empties into the condom with great heaving groans, laughing as Mickey’s face twists up in bemusement at the noises he makes. A whole body shiver runs all the way through him and he leans into it, shaking his shoulders and head like a dog, spraying sweat everywhere and arching his back into a stretch.

It’s only when Mickey grunts and gives him a half-hearted kick against his right side that he realizes all of this movement is probably a bit much for the man he’s still inside of thirty seconds after he’s blown his load.

‘Fuck.’ He breathes, running his hands over Mickey’s hips in a way that he hopes is at least a little soothing. ‘Sorry.’

Mickey’s whole body seems to go limp, legs flopping down, head tipping back onto the mattress as his breathing slows. There is a small bruise starting to come through just beneath his clavicle, a dark blue just beginning to bloom, and Ian is struck with the overwhelming urge to taste it.

He tips forward, softening cock slipping out with the movement and earning another grunt out of Mickey, whose hands are covering his face now but who adjusts his body to the shifting weight of Ian leaning down over him. He brings his arms down around Ian to run light fingers over his back as Ian mouths gently at the darkening mark. They catch their breaths with soft touches and light kisses, Ian can hear the slowing thud of Mickey’s heart beneath his skin and he tries to match his own against it, breathing slow into his chest, contemplating what it might feel like if they were to somehow become one single being.

Mickey’s fingers in his hair tug him back to reality, and his brain suddenly starts whirring in a different direction, one that plants the seed of worry as he goes back over the last half hour, cataloguing everything he could have done different, better.

“Sorry.” He says again, propping his chin up on Mickey’s chest so he can look up at him. “That was—I can do better than that.”

Mickey waves a dismissive hand between them before planting it back in his hair.

“Nah,” He says, twisting a damp curl just starting to form around his middle finger, “you’re a fucking stud Gallagher.”

It’s dumb, and it pulls a groaning laugh out of Ian, but it’s enough to quiet his doubting mind and he buries his face in between Mickey’s pecs as the both of them give in to a few giggles.

“I can do better, though.” He says eventually, “I got a bit overwhelmed but usually I don’t just lose my shit like that.”

Mickey pulls at his hair, forcing him to look back up and meet Mickey’s eyes, cool and sharp, assessing Ian as they look him over.

“Alright,” He says at length, dropping his head back and giving Ian a couple of gentle pats on the shoulder, “well give me a minute to get the feeling back in my legs and you can prove it to me.”

...

part b coming soon??

#fic #my fic #gallavich #ian x mickey #gallavich fic #ristretto #wip #about ristretto #update

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missredherring · 7 months

Text

A Flower in February

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: T

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When he’s finished cleaning the scrapes on your face his thumb swipes tenderly over the curve of your chin once.

“I'll take care of it.”

Contents: Boston QZ!Joel. mugging. hand-to-hand violence. whump. wound cleaning.

A/N: This is a my Secret Valentine gift for @hoeruiner.

I hope you like this, Sarah! I tried to keep it in line with the info you gave.

Thank you @covetyou for reading over this. <3

You only notice the date because you glance at the calendar to check when your next shift is on your way out of work. The calendar is old and yellowed, from before when holidays were still celebrated as special occasions and not memories. The red of the “14” is faded too, but the color still draws your eye and sparks recognition in your brain.

February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Huh. It’s depressing that your plans haven’t changed after 20 years and an apocalypse: going home after work with a good chance of spending the night alone.

The ration cards stuffed in your jacket pocket cheer you up a little. Payday hasn’t changed either, and the ability to trade for questionably fresh groceries at the market tomorrow is something to look forward to. You head out into the dark streets of the QZ towards your apartment.

It’s fucking cold this time of year. The temperature barely rises even with a full day of sun, and it’s windy tonight too. There are piles of snow caught in the nooks and crannies of buildings and alleyways, radiating even more cold air. At least it isn’t tinged the same dirty gray-brown shade from before, with car exhaust and dirt kicked up by tires discoloring everything it touches. You’ll still find some of that on the main road, but not here in the backways that twist around the city.

A gust of wind blows through and goes right through the heaviest jacket you own, chilling you to the bone. You grit your teeth and hunker down, trying to cover as much exposed skin as you can. That’s the only way you see it: the flash of vibrant color so out of place in a city that only has faded colors available.

There, sticking through a chain link fence bordering what must have been a parking lot at some point but has grown over into a meadow, is a purple bloom of a flower. You take a few steps closer to get a better look. You’d crouch down, but with this cold seeping into your joints you might not be able to get back up, so you bend over awkwardly and try not to lock your knees.

It’s dark, but there’s just enough light from a streetlamp in the distance that you can make out the shape of the petals. They’re too sharp and close together to be a pansy, and facing up instead of down like a snowdrop, not to say anything of it being purple and not white. So… most likely a crocus, you think. Being able to identify the small bloom brings a happy feeling, with the bittersweet memory of when you had time to indulge in a frivolous activity like flower gardening. You could pick it and bring the spot of color into your apartment. It’s a happy thought that dies and quickly as the flower would.

“Idiot.”

It’s the only warning you get with the wind howling in your ears masking the shuffled steps behind you. They’re right: you’re an idiot for standing in an alley looking at a flower alone at night.

You aren’t the only one happy about payday.

At least they’re quick about it. You don’t know how many there are, but one grabs you from behind and another delivers a fast, brutal punch to your middle. While you heave and gasp they rifle through your pockets and take your ration cards. They give you a few more hits for good measure, and it’s not the blows to your face that does it; it’s the momentum with which they send your head smacking back into the brick wall that makes your vision swim and dim.

At first all you can make out is ratty shoes and pants with more holes than them, but then you force your eyes up up up when all they want to do is close and you catch glimpses of their faces in the same weak light that had bounced off the crocus and caught your attention. The QZ is a contained area with a small population, and they aren’t even wearing anything to cover their faces, just worn beanies tugged down low. You don’t know their names, but you recognize the faces of the group of thugs who like to crowd people at the market and intimidate them into giving up whatever they have to leave them alone. You still can’t hear them when they run away, the ringing in your ears is loud until you finally give in to it and pass out.

You don’t know how long it takes for your body to shake itself back to consciousness. Taking stock of your body as you get up is easy: everything hurts, but nothing hurts more than everything else. You don’t give the flower another look as you start to drag yourself home.

The wind is quiet now and you hear the heavy footsteps coming this time. Fear zips through you, freezing you in place; had they come back to take even more from you? But then your name is called out in a voice that makes your body start moving again. That voice means safety and warmth and you’re stumbling towards it on shaking legs until you crash into Joel Miller’s solid body.

He grunts as he absorbs your impact and his hands come up on your shoulders to keep you standing.

“What’re you still doing out here?”

You open your mouth to answer him, but your teeth are chattering too much to get anything out. Great clouds of hot breath steam out of him as he jerks his head back towards your building.

“C’mon.”

Joel’s dark form is easy for your aching eyes to focus on. It’s a mindless act: following where he leads. Your feet could follow his lead in your sleep, so being cold, beaten up, and maybe concussed is no problem.

The lights are on in your apartment when you get in. You’re pretty sure everything had been off when you left, and wonder how long Joel had been here, waiting for you. You sit down at the kitchen table and close your eyes, safe in this room with him.

The sounds of Joel moving around the kitchen are nice. You play a little game, trying to ignore the throbbing, painful points on your body by guessing what he’s doing based on the sounds he’s making.

Water from the faucet filling the dented kettle and the clank of setting it on the burner. The click of the stove knobs as he turns it on. The creak of his weight on the floorboards as he waits for the water to boil. His hum at the creaking cabinet door when he reaches in for the bottle of alcohol he keeps there. The slosh of the bottle as he takes notice of how much has been emptied since he last poured himself a drink. If he asks, you can account for every swig you’ve taken on the nights when you want to dull your senses, on the nights when he’s not with you.

The noises are domestic and soothing, but the kettle’s whistle is like another blow to your temple and you can’t smother the noise of discomfort you make.

Joel’s footsteps pause, but then the noises of him pouring you a mug of the hot water continues and those footsteps continue until you can feel him in front of you.

You let yourself have the few extra seconds it takes for him to set the mug on the table before you force your eyes open and look at him.

He’s already frowning, suspicious about the entire situation, but he gets his confirmation when you have to tip your head back to make eye contact and your face is illuminated in the harsh overhead light.

His big hand is on your jaw before you can blink, but his grip gentles when you wince and he gently turns your face this way and that to see the extent of the damage. His eyes trail down your neck and across the stretched out neckline of your shirt, all the bare skin he can see, and his jaw rocks hard enough to capsize a boat on a turbulent ocean.

“What happened?”

There’s no getting out of this. The demand in his voice and the anger sparking in his eyes makes you feel warm for the first time that night. It stokes dark emotions, the ones you don’t like to dwell on too much, and the first thread of satisfaction unfurls in your belly. You know giving him names will mean bad things for those men, but you can’t find it in you to care. Maybe they knocked it out of you with their fists.

So you tell him, giving him the identifying features you remember. He’s quiet as he lets you talk uninterrupted, but the emotions that cross his face are enough to give you an idea of his thoughts. He snatches a clean washcloth from somewhere and wets it with the alcohol, the fumes curling into your nose when he presses it to your cheekbone.

His brows furrow when you mention the flower, and you’re thankful that you can use the firm press of the washcloth on scraped skin to camouflage the wince at the reminder of how unsuited you are for a world like this.

When he’s finished cleaning the scrapes on your face his thumb swipes tenderly over the curve of your chin once.

“I'll take care of it.”

You don't even have the urge to protest, to tell him he doesn't have to. You want him to take care of it, to take care of you. You want someone to care. And while it’s not bouquets of flowers and candies that melt in your mouth, the warmth from the mug is seeping into your hands and his touch wipes away the violence that clings to your skin. He’ll take that violence and return it tenfold, you know it.

His movements are filled with purpose and he only pauses with his hand on the door to give you a stern look.

“Lock up behind me.”

The next day is just like the one before it. Unable to do anything else without a fresh supply of ration cards, you go to work and try to ignore the pain that has settled in your body. You don’t even mind it that much, it’s nice to feel something else.

You’re not stupid though, so when your shift is over you make sure to leave from the front entrance when a few others are heading out as well. It’s a small group, but they scatter and go their separate ways, their steps quickening after they notice the figure leaning on the corner of the building. From that spot he’d be able to see both exits, and when he sees you he pushes off to stand tall, waiting. Your feet move on their own before you completely register the surprise of his presence, falling into place beside him and matching his uneven stride.

A nudge at your hand snaps you out of your whirling thoughts and makes you look down. His hands are always ruddy from the cold, but now dark purple joins the red and there’s a couple of places where the skin broke over the hard bone of his knuckles. The stack of ration cards trembles just once in his grip, maybe from the wind or a movement of his muscles, but you take it from him and stare down at it. There, tucked into the string securing the cards together, is the crocus blossom. A droplet of moisture that had clung to the snapped stem transfers to your fingertip when you touch it. He must’ve done it while he was waiting.

“Thank you, Joel.”

Joel is watching you when you look up from the cards. His dark eyes are calm, his jaw moving as he takes in your expression. He chews on the sentiment he sees there as if working it over will make it more palatable, something easier to swallow, and you hope he doesn’t spit it out.

#Joel Miller x F!Reader #Joel Miller x Female Reader #x Reader #Joel Miller fanfiction #Pedro Pascal Character Fanfiction #SpaceSistersSecretValentine

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writeforfandoms · 1 year

Text

State of My Head 3

Find the series masterlist

Here we are folks! The final chapter! There will be a bonus scene soonish, so keep an eye out for that. But this is the last actual chapter, with the promised happy ending.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, blood, injury, death of a minor character, swearing, shifter behavior, cat behavior, Gaz finally realizes he was an idiot.

Word count: 4.7k

You still hated the helicopter rides. Even though they were necessary. But you still huddled into your seat, holding tight to the grips. At least Gaz and Soap had stopped teasing you, most of the time.

This op was a little less straightforward. They didn’t have as much intel on this location, which was why Price was sending you in first. There were supposed to be weapons, but there was no clear intel on how many weapons or exactly which kind.

That was part of your job. To find the weapons and report back.

The heli landed and you hopped out, taking a moment to look around. You’d been dropped off away from the objective - there was a bit of a hike to the buildings. Apparently this was normal for them.

You were just looking forward to shifting so you could run ahead.

Price motioned for you to follow him, which you did. By now, this was routine. You weren’t combat trained, so you stayed in the middle of the group. This time, Gaz covered your back.

Price halted in a good cover spot, and you immediately shifted.

“Straight back here,” Price reminded you as you crawled out of your clothes, though he didn’t need to and you both knew it. By now, it was just habit.

You meowed softly at him and lifted one paw, tapping his boot twice. And then you trotted off towards your destination.

The set of three warehouses were a bit removed from the road, big parking lots nearly empty. They had that dilapidated look about them, run down and tagged with spraypaint. They were set outside of town, far enough away that you doubted anyone would be able to hear things going on here. Good for the people of the town, at least. The route from Price’s chosen spot to the parking lots was covered in vegetation, trees growing tall and wild, bushes providing plenty of cover spots. A series of hills rose behind the warehouse, providing further cover.

It wasn’t a bad location for a secret weapons cache, really. Unremarkable. Isolated enough to operate without suspicion, but still with easy access to a major road. Not bad at all.

The chain link fencing around the area was new. Still easy enough to squeeze under. Sometimes you were glad you weren’t any bigger.

The lack of outside lights worked in your favor, allowing you to get close. You paused outside to listen.

Definite movement inside. Footsteps. Murmuring. The click of a lighter. A side door opened several feet from your hiding spot, letting out a guard, and you held very still.

“Think they’re gonna show?” The guard had an accent, sounded Russian to your ears.

“Boss thinks they will.” A second guard stepped out of the building, lighting a cigarette. This one sounded American.

“What makes him so sure?” The Russian didn’t sound disbelieving, just bored.

“Eh, who knows?” The American blew out smoke, rolling his shoulders. “Not like I’m the boss’s right hand man.”

The two both laughed at that, and you tensed. There was something wrong here, very wrong. Who were they expecting?

A radio crackled on the Russian’s hip. “Got movement from the northwest,” someone reported in, muffled but audible. Also American. Northwest. You froze, not quite sure which direction you’d come from.

“Guess the boss is right.” The American grinned, teeth very white in the darkness. “We better finish up if we wanna get in on the fun.”

“Assuming the snipers don’t get the bastards first,” the Russian agreed. “But who knows? They are supposed to be very good.”

“It’s the same assholes that blew up the cache two weeks ago. They’re good.” The American sounded almost eager, thirsty for bloodshed in a way that made all your fur stand on end. He put out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, free hand reaching over to smack his companion in the shoulder. “C’mon, man, hurry up.”

You’d heard enough. You remembered the cache two weeks ago - Soap had come back exhilarated and smelling of smoke.

They were expecting your guys. Somehow, they knew.

This was a trap.

You bolted, running as fast as you could, no longer quite so worried about stealth.

But you did pause outside the fence, because they’d mentioned snipers. Okay. Think like Ghost. Where would you set up if you were a sniper?

A quick look found at least four spots you could check. After you warned the team.

It took a lot less time to get back to them, since you were less concerned about stealth and more concerned about speed. Consequently, when you arrived in front of Price, you were panting. Shifting took only a moment, leaving you crouched in front of them.

“They know,” you gasped, not giving them time to ask you questions. “Expecting you. Snipers, guards.” You waved back at the building.

Price’s eyes narrowed. “You sure?”

You nodded rapidly. “Heard two of them talking.” You swallowed against your dry throat, ignoring the chill of the night air against your skin.

Price blew out a slow breath, gaze flitting between you and the buildings in the distance. The other three all stood still and silent, waiting on his orders.

“Right. No use walkin’ in to a trap. Get back to exfil.”

There was a ripple through the group, the tension of a thwarted op paired with the knowledge that they’d been given bad intel. You, at least, couldn’t think for a moment of anything other than the fact that if you hadn’t gone first, they’d have walked blindly into that trap.

You swallowed, glancing between them. Gaz was already reaching for your clothes, Soap and Ghost on alert. Price was not going to like what you did next.

So you just wouldn’t give him a chance to yell at you.

“Meet you back there,” you said, and shifted. You were gone again before any of them could try to grab you, and you knew they couldn’t risk shouting after you.

You ran ahead of them and veered off course. It was dark, but your eyesight was better in the dark than any human’s, especially shifted. So you saw the movement of a sniper, likely scanning for your guys.

You launched yourself at the sniper, yowling. You were no bigger than the average housecat, but you had surprise on your side, and claws. He yelped as your claws dug into his shoulders and arms around his tac vest. A gunshot briefly deafened you, but rather than run off, you lunged for his hand, biting down as hard as you could. He dropped the rifle, swearing, trying to shake you off.

You let go of him and ran again. You doubted he’d go after you, and you were too small a target to shoot at with any accuracy. Especially as you zigzagged away.

So you went on, following the sounds of a radio and check in calls. Your ears flickered, pinpointing the source of the noise, before you crept up.

This one was a woman, tense and alert, scanning for enemies. Your tail flicked back and forth as you debated your approach. You could get to her hands first, incapacitate her. But you’d have to move fast, both to catch up with your guys and to not get shot.

Her radio crackled again and she turned towards the sniper you’d already attacked.

You leapt at her hands, scratching and biting. You thought it would work.

It sort of did.

She yelled and swore and swung away from you. But she didn’t drop the gun.

Instead she swung it at the same time you jumped for her.

Pain burst in your side, sharp and sudden. You tumbled out of the air, landing on your feet and howling. For a moment you wondered if you’d be able to move, if you’d even be able to make it back to exfil–

“Fucking animal,” the woman spat, and aimed the rifle at you. You scrambled for cover, the shot so loud it hurt your ears. Warmth slid down into your left ear, muffling your hearing. Another shot and your back right leg buckled under a line of searing heat.

A third shot. For a moment you expected to feel pain, to keel over.

Instead the sniper went down, blood and brain matter sprayed across the ground behind her.

One of your guys must have shot her. Which meant they were still here.

Running was immediately out of the question. Your ribs shifted, and that crunching feeling should probably be very concerning. Your injured leg didn’t want to hold your weight.

Leaving you to limp along on three legs, woozy, struggling a bit to breathe. There was no way this was going to end well for you.

A soft call of your name had you jerk, swaying a little on your feet, before you looked up at Gaz. He hissed out a soft curse, scooping you into his arms. You did your best to not make pained sounds, and failed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, holding you securely even as he ran back to join the others. “You could have been killed!”

“You’re explaining that later,” Price growled, ushering Gaz into the heli before him. “Damned foolish.”

You managed a weak meow, shaking your head, trying to unblock your ear. Blood spattered across Gaz’s front and the seat, but you could hear better at least.

“Fuck,” Gaz breathed, buckling in quickly. “Cap, should we–?”

“I don’t know.” Price sat next to him, also buckled in. A moment later the heli was lifting up, the faint lighting inside allowing you to see the captain’s jaw clench tight. “Not a damn vet.”

The motors were so much louder as a cat, and you pinned your ears back, still sensitive from the gunshots. And then meowed pitifully at the sharp pain from your left ear.

Price called your name, and you jerked your gaze to him. Your jaws had parted so you could pant, trying to get more air.

“Shift back,” Price demanded, firm tone mostly masking his concern. “We can’t help you like this.”

You thought about that for a moment. Shifting was going to suck. Your ribs were almost definitely broken, and would not magically be fixed. Not to mention the sheer strain of shifting that much - coupled with the blood you’d already lost, there was a good chance you wouldn’t be able to stay conscious.

Then again, if you didn’t shift, there was no vet on staff. And it was a lot easier to bleed out as a cat than as a human.

So you shifted, immediately gasping in pain at the jostling on your ribs, tears springing to your eyes.

“Easy, love,” Gaz soothed, shifting his grip on you to keep you securely against his chest. “What hurts?”

“Ribs,” you gritted out, shutting your eyes. “Ear. Thigh.” Your heartbeat pounded in your head and at your throat, far too fast. It was getting hard to focus.

“Thigh is still bleeding,” Soap pointed out from across the way, frowning.

“Yeah, spotted that,” Gaz gritted out. One big hand pressed a cloth down onto the seeping wound on your thigh, hard. You whined, hands scrambling for something to help anchor you. The heli jolted, not a lot, but enough to make you bite your tongue to hold back a shriek.

It was too much - the burning in your ribs, the ache in your thigh, the pounding of your pulse. Your eyelids fluttered - you knew you should stay conscious.

But it hurt, and it was hard, and you were less inclined to fight as the adrenaline left you. Shivering hurt, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Hey, hey, don’t you dare fall asleep on me.” Gaz sounded more panicked than angry. Someone wrapped a blanket around you, and you blinked slowly.

Price nodded once to you, though he didn’t speak, since he was on the phone with someone else. Of course he was on your left - you couldn’t hear him quite right, things still muffled on that side.

Trying to focus was way too much effort anyway. You just wanted to sleep.

Vaguely, you could hear Gaz behind you, chanting, “No no no–” But it was too much to keep your eyes open, to ask him what was wrong.

Your eyes closed as everything faded.

Soft, rhythmic beeping drew you out of sleep. Opening your eyes was a monumental task, one you accomplished in increments until you could see the boring white ceiling above you.

Didn’t look like your room, though.

Huh.

You felt like you should be freaked out about that, but you felt too weighted down to get freaked out about anything. You blinked slowly, trying to remember what happened.

The soft breathing in the room finally registered, and you blinked again and lifted your head.

Gaz was asleep next to you, head pillowed on his arms at the edge of your bed. That looked uncomfortable. No way he should sleep like that.

But parting your lips to try to call to him just made you cough, your throat dry and scratchy as sandpaper. Coughing jostled your ribs, pain flaring bright and sudden, clearing the last of the cobwebs from your brain. With the side effect of tears leaking from your eyes as you tried to calm down.

Big, warm hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs smoothing over your skin. “Easy, love, easy does it,” Gaz murmured, gaze flitting over you, as if he could do anything to help. “Best thing to do is to breathe normally, yeah?”

You stuttered through the first few breaths, slowly calming down until you were relaxed again, Gaz still leaning over you. You blinked slowly up at him, lifting one shaky hand to cover his.

“What happened?” You barely got the words out as a whisper, but you managed.

“Water first.” Gaz released you with one hand, slowly, as if he was reluctant, and pushed a button to lever the bed more upright. He held the water for you, making it easy for you to just drink through the straw.

You slow-blinked at him again when he set the water aside. That was better. Not great, but better. You tapped the back of his hand gently.

“Right.” Gaz blew out a slow breath, gaze darting from you to the side table to the machines next to you. “You’re in a hospital, Price is wrangling the doctor. You remember getting shot, yeah?”

“Thigh,” you agreed.

“And the tip of your ear.” His fingers strayed, brushing against the left side of your head, which did feel thick and muffled. Huh.

“Damn.” You huffed. “Gonna look like I got caught in a spay and release program.”

His snort was surprised and a tiny bit wet. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Still got my pride,” you mumbled, tipping your head a little to nuzzle into his palm.

“Yeah, well.” Gaz cleared his throat. “You… almost didn’t make it, love.”

You blinked at him, feeling incredibly slow. “How?”

“Not sure.” Gaz scrubbed his free hand over his face. “Guess you lost more blood than we thought, or something. But you were struggling by the time we got you here.” He swallowed hard, looking haunted.

“Too many shifts,” you muttered, trying to grab him with your free hand, and then glowering at the tug and pinch of the IV there. “Must’ve drained me more than I thought.”

“Have you been hurting yourself to help us?” Gaz sounded a little appalled, his gaze somehow more frantic as he looked you over.

You shook your head a little. “Doesn’t hurt,” you reassured him. “Normally not a problem. Just… takes energy.” You hummed softly, nestling your cheek further into the warmth of his hand, nose near his wrist. He smelled much better than the hospital room.

Gaz huffed softly, shoulders relaxing again. “You’ve got stitches in your leg,” he murmured. “And a few broken ribs.”

“Called that one.” You fought to keep your eyes open. You didn’t want to go back to sleep, didn’t want to lose the warmth of his gaze, the feel of his skin on yours. Didn’t want to go back to the distance he held you at.

“It’s okay if you wanna sleep more,” he murmured, leaning in closer. “You need to heal.”

“Don’t wanna sleep.” You nuzzled into his palm again even as your eyes closed against your will.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gaz murmured, low and solemn, like a promise. “Just rest, love.”

As stubborn as you wanted to be, you obeyed, his scent soothing you back to sleep.

He was still there when you woke next, as was Price. This time, you felt less groggy, but definitely still not normal.

“We will have a conversation about that stunt,” Price said as soon as your gaze focused on him. “When you’re not stuck in bed.”

“Joy,” you drawled, though you relaxed a little at the knowledge that you weren’t about to be reamed. Not yet, anyway.

“Another few days here and you should be fine to come back to base.” Price tipped his head, watching you carefully.

“‘Kay.” You grimaced as you tried to breathe deeper, the ache in your ribs reminding you why that was not a good idea.

“That’ll take a while,” Gaz murmured sympathetically. “Ribs are the worst.”

“Be easier as a cat.” But you just made a face, displeased with the prospect of months of recovery.

“After the stitches come out,” Price interrupted, giving you a stern look. “Not before.”

“I know.” You couldn’t help but pout a little.

Price snorted. “Get some rest,” he ordered, taking a single step forward to pat the top of your feet. He shot a look at Gaz that you couldn’t decipher before he turned and left.

Leaving you with Gaz again.

“How’re you doing?” Gaz shifted closer to you, his knees knocking into the side of the bed.

“Okay,” you said slowly, watching him. Now that you were less out of it, the sudden closeness and concern were… odd. You knew it was him, you knew his scent anywhere. Even in your sleep. Had he hit his head at some point? No, Price wouldn’t let him get away with not getting that treated.

“What?” Gaz blinked at you, gently curling his hand over your free hand.

“You’re… different.” You stopped yourself from saying more. Kinder. Softer. More like you remembered from the beginning, when you’d decided he was your person.

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and looked down at your linked hands. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “I, uh. I’m sorry. Been a real ass.” He rubbed the back of his neck, managing to look up at you from under his lashes.

You slow-blinked at him again, resisting the urge to headbutt him. For multiple reasons. Not least of which because it would hurt to move. “Coulda been worse.”

“You’re not supposed to excuse my shitty behavior.” Gaz frowned disapprovingly.

You shrugged and then hissed as your ribs reminded you that yes they were still broken. “It didn’t change anything.”

Gaz looked at you like you were a little crazy. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” You licked your lips and swallowed. Your turn to be nervous. “I wouldn’t have… I mean, I still… Hm.” You pursed your lips. Damn humans for being so insistent on words. Any cat would have known by now!

“You still… what?” Gaz leaned closer, eyes focused on you.

Soap saved you from having to explain, waltzing into your room with water and pudding. “Price mentioned ye were finally up! How ye feel, hen?”

“Alive,” you grumbled, tilting your head to look at him. “You brought food?”

“Just some pudding.” He offered it up and even opened it for you. Because he was a good friend.

“When are these bandages coming off?” you asked in a grumble, already annoyed at the reduced hearing in your left ear.

Soap shrugged. “Couple more days. Leg will take longer.” He tipped his head. “Why?”

“Wanna see how bad it looks.” You grimaced. You were a cat, after all. You had some vanity.

“Badass, more like.” Soap reached over to touch you, paused, and redirected his hand to very gently pat the top of your head instead.

“Not made of glass.” You looked down at your lap, scowling a little.

“Hen. Broken ribs suck. Ah ken.” Soap crouched so he could catch your gaze. “Ye’ll hurt for months. No need to go lookin’ for more hurt.”

You blew out a breath and then winced. Okay. Right. “Good point,” you admitted.

Soap grinned. “Has this dafty even tried t’ keep ye entertained?”

You blinked at Soap. “Uh. Define entertained.”

“Means no.” Soap reached over you to swat Gaz’s shoulder. You half-expected them to devolve into tussling - you’d seen it happen before. But they didn’t, this time. Instead Soap snagged another chair, pulling it up to your bedside with a flourish. “Right! Have I told ye ‘bout my sisters?”

The days passed slowly, but they passed. The hospital was boring. But you did rest, because you were forced to. Gaz was there every time you woke up, even in the middle of the night. Trying to get him to go had earned you the most pathetic puppy eyes you’d ever seen, and you were a bit ashamed of how quickly you caved to him.

Which was part of the whole problem, really. He was still your person, even if you weren’t his.

Gaz was the one who helped you from the bed to a wheelchair to make it out of the hospital. Gaz was the one who sat in the backseat with you, helping brace you and talking you through the pain of every bump in the road. Gaz was the one who brought you back to your room, who sat with you and insisted you boss him around telling him what you needed.

Honestly, it was baffling. Completely baffling. It still felt a bit like he’d been replaced with a pod person, or something. (Except your nose would’ve picked that up.)

The bandages around your head finally came off, and you examined the rough half-circle taken out of the top of your ear, completely silent, while Gaz hovered over your shoulder.

“It’s not bad,” you grumbled at last. “Still looks like I got caught by a spay and release program.”

“Have you ever?” Gaz held your gaze in the mirror.

“No one ever caught me,” you said with a haughty sniff, lifting your chin. “Until you. All. You all.”

Gaz drew in a deep breath, his hands settling very carefully on your shoulders. “We never finished our conversation.”

“Which one?” You didn’t quite have to feign ignorance - you’d fallen asleep talking to him more than once, recently.

“About what a shit I was.” He paused. “And why you’re so eager to sweep it under the rug.”

“Oh. That.” You swallowed, gaze skittering away from him.

“Yeah, that.” He shifted closer to you.

You hummed a soft note, not quite sure how to get out of this conversation, not sure if you should. Then you sighed softly. “For the record. You are an idiot.” You clenched your jaw and then released it. “If you were anyone else, I’d hold that against you for a long time.”

“What about Price and Ghost?”

“Trust me, I’ll be reminding them that they hated me and use it to my advantage.” You smirked. “Cats have long memories when we want.”

“So why aren’t you holding it against me?”

And therein lay the problem. You fidgeted, making a face. “Alright. So. There is one major way we differ from, say, house cats.”

“Okay…?” Gaz looked bewildered but rolled with the apparent change of topic.

“We choose one mate for life. Usually the female chooses. ‘S why Mama’s the matriarch.”

Gaz blinked and then his eyes blew wide as he breathed out your name.

“I made my choice three days into my stay here.” You forced yourself to hold still, to hold his gaze.

“You… But… Even when I…?” He looked… a little devastated, a little hopeful. Pained, definitely.

“Yes.” You shrugged carefully. “The whole damn time.”

Somehow, you weren’t quite sure how, Gaz managed to move around you, getting to your front and kissing you, soft and sweet. His fingers trembled against your cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed, moving back just enough so he could speak. “I’m such a damn fool. You nearly died and I–” His breathing hitched.

“Easy,” you murmured, lifting one hand to cover his. “I’m okay.” You paused. “Well. I will be okay.”

“Made me realize what an idiot I’d been,” he continued, pressing his forehead to yours. “Made me realize I love you.”

Your breath caught, your eyes going wide. “You… do?”

“I do.” He huffed, breath warm against your lips. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Already forgiven.” You smiled slowly, carefully nuzzling his cheek. “Told you. Can’t hold a grudge against my person.”

Gaz smiled. "Feel like I should scold you for being so forgiving about this, but it works to my advantage."

You chuckled and then winced. Right. Ribs. "I'll be happy when those stitches come out," you grumbled, glowering down at your leg.

"Just a few more days," Gaz soothed. "Are they bothering you? Itching?"

"No. I just want to shift." You made a face.

"You don't like being stuck, do you?"

You swallowed hard, because that was… a little too accurate. "Right."

Gaz kissed you again soft and slow and sweet. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing, you'll give me a complex." But you smiled, leaning in very carefully to nuzzle his cheek. "Just don't do it again. My forgiveness has its limits."

"Promise I won't." He kissed you again, apparently unable to help himself.

Not that you were complaining.

Your only real complaint was that anything more was out of the question. For the moment.

Gaz held your hand as the stitches were removed. The on-base medic gave you some advice (that you didn't actually pay attention to) before leaving.

You waited until the door was shut to shift. It hurt. It hurt more than you expected, left you panting softly.

But you were once again on four paws. Much better.

"You alright?" Gaz crouched down to be on your level, concern clear in his eyes.

You chirped and licked the tip of his nose, smug. This felt much better.

He chuckled quietly. "Can I pick you up?"

You chirped again, walking carefully closer to him. Walking hurt, but not as badly as when you were human.

It took a little figuring out, but Gaz picked you up and cradled you against his chest, one arm securely under your paws. You started purring immediately, rubbing your cheek against his chest.

The only times he put you down the rest of the day were when he absolutely had to.

Best of all? He went back to hand feeding you, grinning through the teasing from Soap.

You purred the entire meal.

Finally, he headed back towards your room for the night. "You ready for bed?" He asked softly.

You mrrped at him and tapped his hand. He blinked down at you. You looked very carefully down the hall, towards his room.

"You… want to stay with me?"

You chirped an affirmative.

"Well… alright. Just for tonight." He continued down to his room, setting you gently on the bed.

You gave him privacy to change for bed, padding up to his pillow to lay down next to it. Curling up was a no-go, so you laid carefully on your uninjured side.

Gaz settled down with you, kissing the top of your head. "Sleep well, love."

You closed your eyes, purring gently. There was no way you were just staying in here tonight. If you had your way, you'd never go back to your room.

You could be very persuasive when you wanted.

#state of my head #shifter au #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #f!reader

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pedrito-friskito · 2 years

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strawberry wine - joel miller x fem!reader

during - part eight

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

hope is a dangerous thing.

a/n: it’s heeeeeeeeere. full disclosure - it might be a few days until part 9 goes up; as far as I know, tonight’s ep shows some flashbacks which means I might have to do a bit of revamping! plus I really don’t wanna burn myself out with this one, there’s still so much ground to cover!!

word count: 4.5k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, angst, canon-typical violence and injuries, death, blood, yearning, nightmares, mentions/allusions to sex, if I missed something let me know.

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

The days bleed into months, and before you know it, the snow comes. Winter.

You haven’t left the mall. Or, haven’t been allowed to leave the mall. Every time you cross paths with Cowan, it’s the same conversation.

“Let me through the gate.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You’re nothing if not persistent, but you try your best to make yourself useful. You and Deanna have formed some kind of friendship, and you help her out as much as you can. At first, you don’t know much about treating injuries besides the bit you remember from an old first aid course, so you pay close attention to her movements, handing her supplies when she needs it, taking her orders in stride.

She was an army nurse, you learn, and lost her husband long before the outbreak. “Just as well,” she told you, a sad smile on her face. “He barely came back to me after Vietnam. I don’t think he could have survived this.”

They never had kids, but she tells you her niece and nephew may as well have been her own. “They live in Cape Cod, on the coast.” Her face went dark. “Lived.” Then she looked at you. “You remind me of my niece, you know. Fierce little thing.”

She teaches you how to dress wounds and clean them, when something needs stitches and when glue will do, how to stretch the materials you have left as far as possible. When injured soldiers show up after the first snow, she puts you to work.

Cowan’s among them, a ricochet bullet in his shoulder. Deanna hasn’t shown you anything like that yet, and you balk a little as he pulls off his gear, blood pouring down his arm. “Wait here.”

You sprint across the floor to where Deanna is literally elbow-deep in another soldier who clearly hadn’t been as lucky as Cowan. “What d’you need, kid?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, spying a pair of forceps on the table nearby and grabbing them. “Just these. I’ll come help you after—”

“You go take care of Nicky,” she orders, her voice almost stern. “You don’t leave his side until you know he’s all right, you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You sprint back to Cowan, finding him hunched over, hand pressed to his arm, blood staining his knuckles. You grab a pair of scissors from the tray beside you, hooking your arm under his shoulder and getting him upright. “Fuck!” he shouts, and you grit your teeth.

“Sorry.” You cut away his t-shirt, pulling the fabric from where it’s wedged between his fingers, and his other hand curls into a fist on the table. “What happened?”

“Bunch of runners,” he breathes out, and you yank his hand away from the wound quickly, replacing it with a thick scrap of towel, pressing your hand into his shoulder. He winces, tipping his head back. “Came right up over the fence.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “I told you that chain link wouldn’t hold forever.”

“Yeah, yeah, you should run the world.” He meets your gaze, holds it. “You ask me to let you through the gate again, and I swear to god—”

“I wasn’t going to,” you say quickly. It’s not entirely the truth, but it’s not a lie either. “But I want to help, if I can.”

The towel has already soaked through with his blood, and it makes your gut twist. “Help?”

“Teach me to shoot,” you say. You’re trying to distract him, and grab his hand, pressing it against the towel. “Hold this.”

“Bat’s not enough for you?”

“No, but the rifle I found in the sporting goods shop upstairs will definitely help,” you reply, grabbing the forceps and wiping them down with a bit of antiseptic. “Especially once I get out of here.”

Cowan stares at you, that hard gaze he’s become famous for. “Why d’you wanna get out of here so bad? You’re—”

“If you tell me I’m safe here, Corporal, I’m leaving that bullet in your shoulder.”

He actually laughs. “God, you are something else, you know that?”

You freeze, for a moment. Suddenly, you’re standing in your kitchen, in Austin. Joel Miller is handing you a bouquet of daisies and telling you you’re beautiful and kissing your cheek. The memory catches you off-guard, and you only come back down to earth when Cowan squeezes your wrist, peering at you.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” you reply instantly, shaking your head. “We need to get that bullet out.”

You hold up the forceps, bracing your hand on his collar. “This isn’t gonna feel great, is it?”

“Well, it sure as hell won’t tickle,” you admit. “Is this the first time you’ve taken a bullet?”

“No. Second.”

“Pull this away, when I say,” you instruct, tapping the back of his hand. “I gotta be quick.”

“Have you done this before?”

You lift a shoulder, a nervous little laugh falling out of your mouth. “I watched Deanna do it a couple weeks back. It was in the guy’s gut though, not his shoulder.”

“Did he live?”

You go quiet. “Move your hand.” He hesitates. “Now, Cowan.”

He moves his hand, pulling the towel away, and you push the forceps in. The air seems to go completely still as you fish for the bullet. Cowan’s face is screwed up in pain, both hands curled around the edge of the cot, white-knuckled. “Did the guy live?”

“No,” you admit finally, feeling the soft clink of metal hitting metal. Bingo. “But we found a bite on his leg after, so the internal bleeding was probably the better way to go.” You twist the forceps, and he hisses in pain. “Tell me about the first time you got shot.”

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Is it working?” you quip, and he actually smiles.

“It was basic training,” he starts, and you nod, focusing on his shoulder. The forceps pinch around the bullet, and you pull ever so slightly. “My buddy and I were just fucking around. He didn’t know the thing was loaded.”

“He shot you on purpose?” you ask, brows raised. You pull a little more, making sure the grip holds.

“Not on purpose,” Cowan replies, and you can feel his eyes on your face. “We were just kids, then. Just screwing around, trying to fill the time. And now…”

“He still around?” you ask, prompting him further. “Your buddy.”

“I hope so,” he replies. “He moved to California, after we finished basic. I really hope he—motherfucker!”

You pull the bullet all the way out with a flourish, dropping the forceps onto the tray and grabbing a fresh piece of gauze. He hisses again when you press the new gauze to his shoulder, and you scoff. “Baby.”

“You just pulled a bullet out of me.”

“I’m aware,” you throw back, pressing a little harder. “I still think you’re a baby.”

He gives you the signature Stare before glancing down at his shoulder, taking over the pressure you’re holding, and you step away to get an actual roll of gauze. “Meet me at the south entrance tomorrow, and I’ll teach you.” You turn back, your brows raised. “To shoot, I mean. Bring the rifle. You have ammo?”

Your jaw nearly drops. “Yeah, managed to find a few boxes.”

“Good.”

You nod, unable to hide the grin that pulls your lips. “Good.”

They’re somewhere near Nashville. He thinks; Tommy’s been navigating, Joel’s just been following his brother. The weather has held up mostly, but now they’re holed up in some shack Tommy found in the woods, hiding from the rain. It’s been constant, nearly three days now, and Joel can’t fucking sleep.

He hasn’t slept well since they left Austin, not that he expected to. The few beds they’ve found have been heaven, but every time he closes his eyes, the dreams come, and he’s reliving that night all over again. Doesn’t matter how many days go by, and he knows it doesn’t matter at all how much time passes. He’s never gonna forget.

He took first watch, told Tommy to get some shuteye and parked himself on the front porch, watching the rain slide of the metal roof, pooling in front of the shack, running downhill like a river. There’s mud caked on his boots, and he feels dirty down to his bones. It’s been a few days since they had real shelter, though, and he revels in the silence, being away from the main roads.

But the silence lets his mind wander, and when that happens, it lands on you, more often than not. Sarah is always there, in the back of his head, the sound of her voice forcing him further, but when he gets a moment alone — a rarity now — he lets himself remember you.

Your last conversation still haunts him. The fear in your voice, the way you’d sounded so out of it when you first picked up, and he’d brought you back down, focused you. Patch yourself up. Take what you can and go. Get the hell out of Boston.

I’ll find you, baby.

Sometimes, the hope invades his heart like a disease, branching through his limbs and making his chest ache with it. He has to hope that you made it out, that you’re alive somewhere, that your paths are leading straight towards each other. Every time they come over a hill or turn a corner, he feels that tug in his gut, a quiet promise that this time, you’ll be heading straight towards him, a big smile on your face.

But Joel knows that hope is a dangerous thing to let in, to nurture. As hard as he wishes you alive, he knows the opposite is more than likely. He sees it when he does manage to get some sleep, nightmares infiltrating his brain until he wakes up panting, the phantom feeling of his daughter’s blood on his skin melting away far too slowly.

Right now, he’s forcing himself to remember the good.

That last week, before you’d left for Boston. He took you to that open field every night, almost, held you in his arms, kept you close and never let your mouth get too far from his. He’d buried his face in your neck and memorized the smell of you, the feel of you, the taste.

You pulled on his hand, led him away from the truck and into the open field. You laid down in the grass side by side, the sound of crickets and the soft wind the only thing you could hear. He’d leaned over you, cupped your cheek in his palm, rubbed his thumb over your bottom lip. You kissed his fingers, giggling when he rolled himself on top of you a moment later, his mouth chasing yours.

He planted his hands either side of your head and you reached for his belt, dragging your hands down his chest. He could feel your heartbeat, when he pressed himself against you, the twitch of your knees along his ribs as you held him closer. That’s how it always was between you two, who could get the other closer, how much could you pull until the space between no longer existed?

Joel still remembers the noise you made when he pushed into you, right there in the grass. The way you’d dug your nails into his back so fucking hard it made him moan louder, the sound echoing through the night. The blissful smile on your face as the pleasure ripped through you, and Joel felt it, the tightness of your body, the way he could taste it on your tongue.

God, he loved you so goddamned much.

A clap of thunder yanks him out of his head, and he flinches hard, the gun in his lap sliding onto the wooden porch. He’s on his feet in a moment, shoving both hands through his hair, and without another thought, he steps out from under the shelter of the roof. The rain pelts him instantly, soaking through his clothes, making goosebumps rise on his arms.

It feels good. He tilts his face towards the sky, feels the water drip down his arms.

He hears your voice, in his head. What you said that night, under the stars, laid out on his chest, your eyes glassy. “I won’t ever stop thinking about you, Joel Miller. Not for a million years.”

He never should have let you leave Austin. Not in a million years.

Cowan stays true to his word. He teaches you to shoot, not just the rifle you’d stolen from the mall, but other guns, too. Shows you some tricks with the hunting knife you’d found in Dean’s bag, even teaches you how to build a fire. You stop asking him to let you through the gate, and he stops giving you the Stare. After a few lessons, he starts bringing you along on patrols. You carry the rifle and the bat, the hunting knife strapped to your thigh. The temperature is dropping, the snow sticking consistently, and the UPS jacket you’d stolen months back comes in handy, keeping you warmer than you expect.

There’s not much conversation to be had between you two, and when you do talk, it’s light shit. You avoid the subject of families, partners and the like. You mostly talk about music, and you laugh the hardest you have in a long time when Cowan admits to you that he’s seen the Backstreet Boys in concert three separate times. You’re bent in half with laughter, tears in your eyes, and he starts laughing along with you.

The laughter stops, however, when you circle back to the mall. There are four trucks outside, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up when you see Deanna step through the doors. Everyone else who’d been inside, faces you recognize, people you’ve met, they’re all coming out of the mall. Deanna has blood on her scrubs, a strange look in her eye.

“McCoy!” Cowan calls once you’re close enough, and a soldier turns. “What’s going on?”

Both the soldiers step to the side, and you make a bee-line for Deanna, swinging your rifle onto your back. “What happened?”

The older woman looks shaken, and she grabs you once you’re close enough, her hands digging into the sleeves of your coat. “T-Tim,” she stutters, and your brow hardens. You know who she’s talking about; Tim, his wife Marcy, their two kids. Their cots weren’t far from yours in the department store. You’d helped their youngest son, Henry, when he’d cracked his forehead on the tile, tripped on his own feet chasing his little sister, Emily, around the mall. Hell, you’d had dinner with them just the night prior, you and Tim had made the kids giggle slurping your noodles. “He just…” Deanna trails off, and fear twists your stomach in an iron vice.

“Are the kids okay?”

She nods furiously, still holding onto you tightly. “But…but Marcy, she…he just…” She looks back towards the mall, gestures for a moment before clapping her hand over her mouth. “I’d never seen one up close before.”

Deanna collapses into your arms, and you hug her tightly, half worried she’s passed out, but the worry passes when you feel her hands fist in the back of your jacket. Over her shoulder, you see a soldier leading Henry and Emily outside. Henry still has a bandaid on his forehead, and Emily is clutching his hand, tear tracks on her face. Your heart aches.

“I’m gonna go with them,” Deanna tells you, pulling away after a moment, and you just nod. She jogs after the kids, and you turn back to where Cowan and McCoy are still talking. Cowan has a hard look on his face, and his jaw tightens as you approach.

“What the hell is going on?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “We’re supposed to be safe in the mall, Corporal. That’s what you said. I could have been halfway to Texas by now. Hell, I could have been in Texas by now.”

“I know what I said,” he bites back before heaving a sigh. “We got an update, from FEDRA HQ.”

You lift a brow. “And?”

He glances at the stream of people still filing out of the mall. “The fungus, the thing that’s causing this, it’s in the food. We need to check everything that was in the mall, everything that was handed out. Production dates, expiry dates, it’ll give us an idea of what needs to be destroyed, but—”

“But there’s a chance everyone in there ate something contaminated,” you finish, swallowing back the bile that rises in your mouth. “There’s a chance we’re all already infected.”

Cowan’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

“What do we do now, then?” you ask, jutting your chin towards the people filling the street outside the mall. “Where do we go? Standing around here like this, it’s just gonna attract them.”

“There are buildings that have been deemed safe,” McCoy tells you, and Cowan just nods. “The quarantine zone has been marked off. We take everyone there, separate you for now, keep an eye out for anyone changing.”

Cowan nods. “Check everyone for bites, again.” He meets your eyes for a moment before calling for two other soldiers. He starts barking orders, and you turn to McCoy.

“I thought the city was the quarantine zone.”

He shakes his head. “Too much space. FEDRA gave us the borders, showed us where to go. The walls’ll go up soon, and we’ll be that much safer.”

You balk. “More chain link bullshit?”

McCoy shakes his head again. “No, ma’am. Bricks. Guard towers, barbed wire. The whole kit and caboodle.”

You swallow hard. Shit.

The chain link stays up. The walls of the quarantine zone press deeper into the city, and as promised, you’re shuffled into apartment buildings. There’s still blood everywhere you look, damaged ceilings, broken windows. It’s not perfect by any stretch, but the building itself is intact, and that’s apparently good enough for FEDRA.

They put you in separate units, the number of survivors taking up less than half the building. You stay with Deanna and the kids. Emily clings to your side, her arms wrapped around your leg more often than not. She hasn’t said a word since you left the mall.

The soldiers patrol the streets and the hallways, and after a week, six more people turn. They’re put down without a second thought, their bodies carried out of the building. The food supplies are carted from the mall to a warehouse within the new zone limits, and everything that was given to you is taken back for inspection. It’s a lot of waiting, of pacing the floor of your new home, of trying to come up with ways to distract the kids from what’s happening.

Shortly after you’d been evacuated from the mall, they’d brought out Tim and Marcy’s bodies, and your hands had started to shake violently when you saw the blood on Tim’s face, the deep gouge in his wife’s throat. Bullets in both their skulls. It had all happened so fast.

And you’d been eating the same things they had.

The worry gnaws at your stomach. You’d protested, at first, when Deanna insisted you come with them. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t bear to see the pain on the older woman’s face deepen when you admitted you feared the worst. She still managed to pull it out of you, later that night, after you’d put the kids to sleep in the only bedroom, the pair of you sitting at the kitchen table.

“If it happens, it happens, kid,” she said, gripping your hand tightly. “And we deal with it. That’s all we can do.” You’d nodded, and she’d reached into her bad, producing a bottle of gin. “Something to take the edge off.” You nodded again.

A week passed, the six were put down, and you were safe. Your mind started to wander. Trucks filled with construction material arrived at the edges of the quarantine zone every day; you could see them from the apartment. More FEDRA soldiers, some venturing into the city to find usable materials. Soon enough, the wall was starting to take shape.

And if the wall went all the way up, that meant you were never getting out of Boston. Never getting the opportunity to find your family, or Joel.

But, the wall has only just begun, which means there are still holes in the boundary, and with more soldiers assigned to the quarantine zone itself, that means the chain link is left unguarded, for the most part.

They announce curfew hours and the consequences for breaking those hours, and you start planning. Collecting things, weapons and food that won’t spoil, refilling your first aid kit. You take what ammo you can find, nicking a few boxes from the FEDRA tents when no one’s paying attention. You still have the maps from the bookstore, your hastily-drawn path still marked on the pages.

You wait for nightfall, and you run.

You leave Deanna a note, tell her you’re sorry, tell her you’ll try to send a message that you’re safe, once you are. The kids are fast asleep, and you kiss their heads before you go.

Your path through the city leads you right past your apartment, and your heart nearly stops. The entire front of the building has been exploded inward, no doubt a result of the bombings. If you look hard, you can see the edge of your living room, behind the twisted rebar and broken bricks. You want to linger, but you don’t, the shout of an Infected pushing you forward, gripping the bat tightly.

The construction of the wall left a lot of tools laying around, and it was all too easy to find a pair of large wire cutters. You found a piece of chain link in an alley within the quarantine zone, and tested it out. Sure enough, a clean cut.

There are still patrols along the chain link, but they’re more sporadic. The guard posts have been dismantled, dragged further inwards, set up again along the new walls. You see a soldier pass by the spot you’re aiming for, and wait until he’s completely out of sight before bolting across the pavement to the fence, pulling out the wire cutters.

You have one foot through when you hear a familiar voice.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Cowan’s kept his distance, since you moved into the building. It bothers you and doesn’t at the same time. But in a way, you got what you wanted from him; you’re more confident that you could make it beyond the fence now. Especially with the rifle strapped to your back.

Your head drops, and you pull your leg back out, straightening and turning on your heel towards him. “You really thought I wouldn’t try it?”

“I really didn’t think you were this stupid,” he shoots back, and you scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m serious. You will die out there, why don’t you get that?”

You grip the chain link, the metal rattling beneath your shaking fingers. “I can’t just sit around here for the rest of my life, Cowan.”

“So you’d rather waste it, out there?” He gestures towards the fence with his rifle, to what lays beyond. “What good will that do? You’re smart, you know there’s a good chance your family is dead.”

“But until I know—” you start, and your voice betrays you, cracking on the word. You swallow hard. “Why can’t you just let me go? What difference does it make?”

His strange dark eyes narrow at you. They’re blue, you’ve come to learn, but a dark shade that sometimes looks black. “Come with me. There’s something I want you to see.” You open your mouth to protest, and he lifts a hand. “Come with me first; if you still want to leave afterward, then I’ll take you through myself.”

You stare at him for a long moment before slinging your bag from your shoulders, pulling out a length of rope. You thread it through the split fence, yanking the metal back into place and tying it off. Once you’re done, you get back to your feet, and when Cowan turns to leave, you follow.

He takes you back to the quarantine zone. A few soldiers shoot you looks, since you’re out past curfew, but Cowan waves them all off. “She’s with me.”

You keep following him, heart hammering in your throat as he leads you into one of the buildings they’ve cleared out. Down a long hallway, a few more soldiers giving you looks, before Cowan ducks through a doorway, waving at you to follow.

“What is this?”

There are tables everywhere, cords spilling out of boxes, hooked along the walls. On the walls, all sorts of maps and notices, FEDRA orders staring back at you. A soldier sits in the middle of it all, headphones hooked over her ears, twisting the knobs on a gigantic radio, adjusting the antenna. When she sees you and Cowan standing there, she pulls off the headphones, a grin on her face. “Hey, Nick.”

“Melissa,” he nods, and juts his thumb towards you. “Can you set it for the Austin base? And give us a sec?”

She just nods, her face falling slightly, and twists more of the knobs. Her brow furrows a bit until she gets the right frequency, and then she gets up out of her chair, holds the headphones towards you. “Hit the red button to talk, and let go once you’re done, or else they can’t talk back.”

“Thank you,” you say, taking the headset from her. You look at Cowan. “What is…?”

“It’ll connect you with the FEDRA base in Austin. You can give them the names, of the people you’re looking for. They’ll be able to tell you if they’re in the shelters there. If they’re not there, there’s no telling if they’re alive or dead, but at least you’ll know if they’re safe or not.”

Your brow furrows. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“I can’t reassure you,” Cowan says bluntly, and as you sink into the chair, he perches on the desk beside you. “No one can. The world is a fucking minefield, and while yes, I’ll admit you’re a good shot and you clearly know what you’re doing with that bat, you will die out there. If your family isn’t still in Austin, I can almost guarantee you, they are dead.”

You rip your eyes from his face, turning your gaze to the radio, the little flashing lights and the knobs. “You don’t know that.”

There’s a hand under your chin a second later, and Cowan turns your face towards him again, drags your eyes back to his. “I meant what I said. If you still want to leave, I will take you through the gate myself, no more bullshit. But talk to the base first. Find out if they’re still there before you throw your life away on hope.”

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#my fics #strawberry wine #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #the last of us #the last of us fic #the last of us spoilers

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

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𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞-𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐩 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐊

Pairing: FEDRA!Javier Peña x firefly!reader

Genre: slice of life, smut, romance, angst, enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, TLOU AU, minors dni

Summary: Javier, a former member of the Federal Disaster Response Agency in Kansas City, is haunted by the guilt and violence he indirectly caused by not taking action when he should have. After fleeing Kansas City in the aftermath of Kathleen's violent overthrow of FEDRA, you and Javier seek refuge in an abandoned train in the middle of a forest.

As you and Javier turn the train into a living space and learn to navigate the dangers of a post-apocalyptic world, you gradually overcome your differences and form an unlikely bond. But when your pasts catch up with you, you must confront the demons that haunt you and make a choice that could mean the difference between life and death. Will you choose to protect each other and find a way to build a new life together, or will the ghosts of your pasts tear you apart?

word count: 4.3k

chapter summary: heavy words are exchanged, and swallowing your pride, you try to make it up to Javier. Scouting for supplies doesn't go as planned.

warnings: canon typical violence, no y/n, mentions of suicide/attempted suicide, heated arguing, mention of side character deaths, angst, mentions of blood

Whistle-Stop - A small station where a train stops only on request, typically for rural or low-traffic areas.

You wonder what this train might’ve looked like when it was up and running.

The grunts Javier makes while securing the fence fade into the background. You stare at the rusting vehicle. How many people did it used to hold? Where did it go to? When the sun shined through the moving train just right did the people that occupied it felt mesmerized by its beauty? Did they feel like they were in a movie? Were there couples who sat and listened to music together? An old lady sitting with groceries between her legs?

Is the train happy that it’s only you and Javier who occupies it now?

You will never know the answers to these questions.

“What are you doing?” Javier hisses between clenched teeth. Your eyes slowly drop down to him. He’s glaring at the rusty chain links. You hear him angrily muttering something in Spanish. “If you don't start holding that properly, I’m going cut myself and get fucking tetanus in the damn apocalypse.”

You hold the chain links higher and he shakes his head, his tongue tight between his lips. “But I guess you’d like that.”

“Not as much as you think,” you answer. “I would feel obligated to look after you. It wouldn’t be that fun.”

“Why?” he snorts. “Because I saved you? Just end my misery if I ever get sick. I don’t think you’d make much of a nurse. No offense.”

“Offense fully taken. I totally could.”

“Nurses are compassionate,” he emphasizes, rolling his tongue. “They look after you and tell you everything is going to be alright.”

“So you want me to lie to you?”

“I want you to make my last moments bearable.”

Javier stands up, brushing his hands off on his pants. "Just, give me that," he grumbles, taking the chain links from your grip. He walks over to where the posts have already been secured in the ground and starts to attach the links to the posts.

“You’re not actually sick, you know that right?” you ask, following him. Sweat clings to your skin.

“Hm?” he turns to you briefly before turning his gaze back to the fence. “No, I guess not.”

He begins by using U-shaped fence staples to secure the links to the posts. He hammers them in with a mallet until they're tight and secure. Once he's finished securing the links to the posts, he stretches the chain links across the length of the fence, making sure they're taut.

And all you do is watch.

Before the outbreak, you might’ve been mesmerized by his face, his neck. Even now it’s hard not to be entranced, but you feel disoriented with your thoughts. You don’t feel like you’re a part of the world, but you also don’t feel like a part of yourself, your mind churning on its own without a soul in it. It’s like a constant fog in your head. Clouding your judgment.

Javier uses pliers to twist the links together at the end of each row, connecting them to the next row of links. He repeats this process until the entire fence is complete. Finally, he adds a top rail to the fence, securing it to the posts with brackets.

“That should do it.” he says, turning to you and clapping his hands together. You can tell that he’s proud. “It should at least keep us safe from wandering animals.”

You look around. The wind blows warm. Surprisingly enough, you don’t feel trapped. You feel free. Safe. Secure. These are emotions you aren’t used to, for years you haven’t felt safe with anyone, not even the fireflies.

“What about infected?” you ask, meeting his gaze.

Javier, chewing on his bottom lip, comes closer. The space between you and him is paper-thin, almost non-existent. Your skin prickles as you feel his need to touch. If you just leaned in, move a bit closer, you know that he’ll wrap his arms around you in an instant. The air is heavy with his longing need to comfort you.

You’re still not sure if this habit of his has something to do with you specifically or if he’s just generally like that with women.

“We’ll be safe,” he says firmly. He’s trying to convince himself more than you. “Besides, I think the one you ran into was a one-time thing. Just…” he sighs and drags his thumb down the bridge of his nose. “Just don’t go on any late night strolls and you’ll be fine.”

“I wasn’t strolling,” you say, for some reason defensive.

Javier’s brows crease, his frown deepening. “Then what the hell were you doing out there?”

“I don’t know. I guess I couldn’t sleep in the uncomfortable fucking seats.” you shake your head with frustration. He takes a step back, pulls out a cigarette, and stuffs it between his lips. His movements are rigid, yet he’s buzzing.

You meet his glare and he lights his cigarette. Takes a deep inhale. You watch as his chest expands.

“I don’t answer to you.” you remind him. “This isn’t some FEDRA mission where you have foot soldiers working under you. I can do what I want.”

“You almost died.”

“Yeah? So? What’s it to you?” you lift your chin, relishing in the defiance of his words.

His jaw is set tight, molars grinding together. He takes another inhale of his cigarette. He answers as smoke pours down like a waterfall from between his chapped lips. “You’re a goddamn pain. A thorn in my side ever since—”

“You met me?” you bark a laugh. “You’re doing the same thing I said I would do if you ever got sick.”

His brows pinch with confusion. “What?”

“You feel obligated to take care of me,” you explain. “Because I dragged your ass away before Kathleen could hang you. Before she could put a bullet through your head. Just like she did with your friends.”

He takes a sudden step forward and you flinch back, your stomach drops.

Your eyes are round with shock. As if you were burned, your hands move to cover your mouth but upon noticing the instinct, you lower them. You said what you said. Your heart sinks into the dark pits, and your gaze falls to the ground. You don’t want to look at him. He’s right, you are a pain.

You feel the heat of his anger on your skin like ashes raising with the wind and kissing your cheeks. He’s glowering at you. A bit too long for comfort. You only hear the gravel crunching as he takes a slow step back. A noise vibrates in his throat.

“We’re going to go and find some mattresses. Rip the seats out, try to modify them.” he suddenly says. You refuse to look at him. “If that’s alright with the righteous rebel?”

You’re far too stunned to come up with a witty response.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he mimics you, and flicks the end of his cigarette to the ground. He steps on it. You’re positive he’s imagining it’s you when he does it. “Maybe you’ll stop being so fucking unpleasant all the time if you get some sleep.”

You look back to the train and you wonder.

Is it happy that it’s you and him occupying its metal walls?

He doesn’t talk to you.

It’s kind of funny that he’s giving you the silent treatment. Like either of you is close enough for that to have an impact. He walks ahead, you a couple of steps behind. The cabins you came across so far were rummaged to death, only rubble and one can of Chef Boyardee’s ravioli left behind. He wrinkled his nose when you showed it to him. You shrugged and put it in your pack.

The cabins were basically falling apart, one had a tree going through the roof, and the other had some parts of its wall stolen for—what you assume at least—use.

Javier suddenly stops and points ahead. Following his finger, you notice another cabin. Nodding, you follow him.

Is he actually not going to speak to me?

Oh, the guilt. It comes crawling back. It rakes your skin from your feet to your head, leaving uncomfortable lingering blossoms of pain. He blames you for it. That much you can say with certainty. And to a degree, even if you didn’t know what Kathleen was capable of, it was your fault.

The soles of your feet ache, burn, every time you take a step. It would be great if you could find some new insoles. Your pretty sure the inside of your boots is filled with blood.

A soft hiss of pain rattles in your throat. Javier slows— he doesn’t look back, doesn’t say a word, but he does slow down. But you might’ve be imagining it, you have no idea. Maybe you sped up without knowing and it looked like he slowed down. Why would he care anyway? He hates you. You hate him. The silence shouldn’t be bothering you.

However, you are a decent person, at least in these conditions, and you are grown-up enough to acknowledge that you’ve gone too far with your words. This man isn’t a punching bag. You had no right to vomit your anger at him.

“Javier,” you speak up and he actually does slow down, leaving only a step or two in between. Still, he doesn’t turn around to look at you. The cabin looms closer now. “I’m…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right, I’m just being unpleasant.”

His steps come to a full halt. Your breath hitches as he turns to you. You think he’s going to come closer, cup your cheeks and whisper that everything is going to be alright—But he doesn’t. He remains rooted just a bit ahead. Observing you, his brown eyes a shade darker. He tilts his head, and a chill settles at the bottom of your spine.

“I don’t hate you,” you blurt out, his look feeling like an uncomfortable second skin stretching over your body. “But I still can’t fully trust you either. I—” you swallow and close your eyes. “I don’t know what to think of all of this, Javier. One moment I was trying to save the world, and now I’m…playing house with a FEDRA officer. I’m…it’s hard. But it’s not fair of me to put that on you. Especially since—”

You shake your head, the rest of the words dying on your tongue. You don’t want to think about what happened in Kansas City. You don’t want to even verbalize it. You bury it down. Force yourself to forget what you had unknowingly contributed to. Javier seems to understand that because instead of acknowledging your sudden loss of words, he says something else.

“We’re not playing house, we’re surviving.” he says bluntly. “The fireflies lied to you. FEDRA lied to me. We were both promised something impossible from the start but believed it anyway. I…I don’t…” he lets out a deep sigh. “I don’t know how to talk to you. There’s this—this fucking ball of fire sitting on my chest, and whenever I think too hard about…everything, I get so fucking angry with you. I shouldn’t.”

He takes a step forward, you fight the urge to back away like you did earlier today. You raise your brows when he opens his palm, and without much thought, you place your hand on top. Javier gently curls his fingers, sliding them up so he’s holding your wrist. The pad of his thumb lies directly on top of your pulse. He can feel your rapid heartbeat.

“I don’t want to be mad at you,” he states calmly. “But you need to stop treating me like the enemy. Like every dialogue between us is an ongoing war. It’s not. We’re not on the battlefield anymore. It’s over.” he turns and starts walking again. You’re left behind, staring at him with wide eyes.

“I trust you, you know.” he calls out. “I might be angry, but I do trust you.”

Javier has always been good at noticing details.

Before FEDRA, before the outbreak, he didn’t have much of a life other than his job. He would’ve thought dealing with cartels and working at the DEA would prepare him for all of this. For the violence, for the inhumanity.

But it didn’t.

He takes the first step inside the weathered cabin. Details. It’s all in the details. He doesn’t need to look to see. You walk in without a thought, you don’t see it. You don’t see the small armless doll on the floor, the broken shards of glass on the coffee table, the splatters of blood on the window.

But you do notice the stench. You see the bodies. There are two of them, a woman and a man decaying, their hands still locked together. Javier sees the gun and his skin prickles.

It smells god awful. His gaze moves towards you. You don’t seem bothered— No— That’s not the right observation. You look like you’re used to it. There’s a difference. However, you’re definitely bothered. He can tell by the way your nostrils flare, by the way your eyes move a beat faster around the room.

You move closer to him unconsciously. He wants you to feel safe so he gets close enough so that his shoulder is touching yours. You visibly relax.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he murmurs. “Maybe there’s something there.”

When they stand at the bottom of the set of stairs, a loud banging echoes. By pure habit Javier slides in front of you, his arms slightly outstretched with the intent to keep you away from whatever lurked in the house. He pulls out his gun, and he notices you doing the same.

It’s a slow climb. The sound gets louder and louder, screeching and clicking bouncing off the rotting walls. Your breathing is fast and uneven, his probably isn’t that much better. In hindsight maybe leaving the cabin as soon as they noticed there was an infected inside would’ve been a better choice, but where they resided isn’t that far off. It wouldn’t be a stretch for more infected to come this way if they don’t get rid of it.

They reach the door and Javier’s stomach churns. On top of the molding door is written “ALICE’S ROOM” with stickers covering the rest of the wood. His eyes snap to you, your gaze glued to the writing.

Bile coats his tongue, his stomach lurching uncomfortably. By looking at you, he’s reminded of the younger FEDRA soldiers. The ones that had nothing to do with anything. They were fresh out of school, orphans, mostly.

As soon as Javier opens his mouth, the door shakes with a bang, and both of you jerk away. His heart beats in his throat. He meets your gaze, he lifts three fingers.

“On three,” he mouths without making a sound. You nod.

For the first time, he’s pleased that you used to be a firefly. He doesn’t want to imagine being in this situation with someone without any experience. This whole thing would be much harder then.

It all happens in a flash. Javier kicks the door open, you aim and shoot it right between its eyes. The small body drops, the sound of it making his skin crawl.

“Shit,” you murmur, exhaling a shaky breath. “It’s just a fucking kid.”

It is. A girl, probably seven or eight. She’s wearing a polka-dot dress and a pink neon slap bracelet around her tiny wrist. Her face is indescribable, the fungus had corrupted her from the inside out, bursting from her skull.

“I guess they couldn’t…” Javier swallows, his fingers twitch and he goes to feel the outline of his cigarette pack. “They couldn’t. And locked her in here, then took their own lives.”

“That’s a shitty thing to do.”

He scowls as he turns to face you, you’re quick to shake your head and raise your hands.

“That came out wrong. I meant leaving your kid to suffer like this and escape. We…” you close your eyes, hold them like that for a while before opening them again. “We all thought about it, one way or another, to take a way out. That’s not something I judge. But why make her suffer alone?”

“I imagine it was more complicated than that.” he licks his lips, and follows his jawline with the pad of his thumb. “But…I do agree with what you’re saying.

We all thought about it, one way or another, to take a way out.

He doesn’t like the images his brain flashes at him. You, with a gun in your hand, aimed at your head with tears flowing down your face. He’s felt the same, tried the same, so it’s hypocritical of him to get angry at you for going through something similar. But he can’t help it. His blood boils, the skin underneath his nails itching.

“I want to bury them.” he says suddenly. “They were a family. They deserve to be together.”

He’s not sure if you’re giving him a look of pity or compassion. Your brows are turned upward, lips stretched into an affectionate smile. He expects you to say no. That’s all you’ve done after all. Get angry with him, chew him out. He deserved it. But still, it hurt. He didn’t expect all that to happen, he wasn’t aware he was just a clog in a fucked up machine. Javier grinds his teeth, goosebumps flare over his skin. Unknowingly he had closed his eyes. He was weak. He was—

“Sure.”

His eyes shoot open but he doesn’t look at you. His gaze glued to the child infected that lays in a puddle of blood, threads curling out of the poor girl’s bloody lips.

Javier closes his eyes, lets out a deep breath, and answers.

“Thank you.”

The sun was hell. Javier never actually liked the heat. He was used to it, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed being under it for hours non-end. The fabric of his shirt felt like second skin.

Images of him peeling it off flashed in his mind. It was a bit gross to think, but he imagined himself feeling relieved after it. Like a snake shedding skin. The cool air would caress his overworked muscles, his body would feel a thousand times lighter.

Then he would hop into the shower, wash away the residue of the sweat and grime.

Javier's gaze drifted towards his father, Chucho Peña, who was regarded as a pillar of the community. Always willing to lend a helping hand, he was a trusted confidant to many in town. Javier, too, had received his fair share of unsolicited wisdom from his father, who never shied away from imparting his knowledge to his son. It didn’t matter if Javier asked for it or not. His dad was always eager to push his son in the right direction.

His father came out of the ranchhouse holding two sandwiches and two beers. Javier watched as his father took a seat on the stairs, creaking under the old man’s weight.

At first glance, the younger Peña could see the similarities between him and his pop. The eyes, the lips, the stubbornness on world views. They never seemed to see eye to eye. A fact of life he grew up knowing, something that made him acutely aware of other sons and their relationships with their dads.

Their noses were different though, a stark reminder of Chucho’s once other half, his better half, as he liked to put it.

The thought tugged at his heartstrings. He wondered what his mother would think of him now. Would she be proud? Or would she share a similar disdain for Javier’s choices in life like his father did? Would she be worried? Would she clutch the phone whenever something came up on the news about the cartel?

Javier's dad grunted, clicked his tongue, then tapped the pre-packaged sandwich against Javier's calf without looking.

“You sure you don’t want one?”

“I’m good dad, thanks,” he answered. “Those taste like shit by the way. I’m pretty sure they put plastic instead of actual cheese.”

“Well sorry we can’t accommodate to your taste buds son,” he pushed his sunglasses up and gestured next to him. “Sit.”

Javier did what he was told and picked up a bottle. The cold condescension chilled his fingertips, made him almost drop the bottle. He cracked it open with his lighter, then opened his father’s beer as well, placing it next to him.

He took large gulps as Chucho peeled off the plastic of his sandwich.

“Seriously pop, don’t eat that.”

Side-eyeing his son, Chucho sunk his teeth into the bread. He winked at Javier when he swallowed.

Javier let out a low chuckle and shook his head.

“It’s your funeral.”

Javier brushes his hand over the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. His sunglasses, perched on the bridge of his nose, start to pinch uncomfortably and the skin on his nose begins to itch. He takes them off and hangs them over the collar of his shirt.

“What was your family like?” you ask.

Javier stills mid-shovel and looks down to the ground. They had buried the parents first, now it was Alice’s turn. The sight…isn’t pretty, to say the least—not like burying bodies is ever is pretty. He looks over to you, his stomach flipping as you look at him with expectant eyes. He’s not sure what it is that you’re expecting, but he resumes his shoveling, covering the girl’s face first.

“I lost my mother when I was young,” he answers, matter-of-factly. “I lost my dad on outbreak day. We were just done fixing up the fences. He asked me to come over so I could relax a little,” with a smile, he shakes his head. He hadn’t realized his voice started to tremble. “But of course his understanding of rest was work. Bless him. He ate one of those crappy gas station sandwiches.”

“Then…you were there when he turned?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t need to say more. What else can he say? It was obvious what he did. Javier had blacked out and when he came to, the gun was already in his hand, smoke twisting out from the nuzzle, his body acting by instinct.

Now that he thinks about it, if it wasn’t for his trigger-happy finger, he might’ve rather gotten bitten instead.

But his dad had probably preferred to go out the way that he did. Still disagreeing with him, even after death.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Javi.”

Javi. It’s the first time you called him that. His stomach twists and his muscles tense. You always went the more official route in referring to him, which makes him believe he looks like absolute shit right now. So much so that he was garnering your pity.

The way you sound reminds him of clouds, a softness that would disappear as soon as he decided to jump into it. He sighs and instinctively touches his sunglasses without the intent to put them back on.

“Your father’s?”

He jerks at the question, his skin prickling at how intently you’re observing him.

“How about we keep our histories to ourselves,” he mutters without any real emotion behind his words, his chest heaving as he piles dirt over the tiny body under him.

He feels you coming closer. The dirt moves under your boots as you take the shovel from him. His fingers twitch at the sudden emptiness, his lips parting with surprise when you look to him. It’s been a while since a woman gazed at him like that. Like he’s more than what he is. You’re seeing him for the first time. The hurt, the helplessness. Or you’re only now choosing to see it, your anger and hatred towards him finally fading.

Javier’s not sure if he likes that. Some masochistic part of him wants you to treat him the same way that you had for the last couple of days. It’s what he deserves. You’re supposed to be his divine punishment, not a blessing.

“Sit down,” you say. “I’ll do the rest.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap and say that he can do it himself, or that this was his idea and he should be the one to bury them. He drops down from where he’s standing, crossing his legs and pulling a cigarette to his lips. You’re slower than him. And he notices you struggling with the shovel, your knuckles white as you put more pressure on your fingers so your soft palms don’t chafe against the worn-out wood.

The sun beats down on them both and he wonders when the autumn chill will start. He desperately craves the caress of cooler weather.

As he watches you, he takes mental notes of what the two of you would need for the coming winter. Before carrying out the bodies, Javier couldn’t help but check the master bedroom, the bed there was somewhat intact. It should do you good for now. The seats of the train didn’t bother him that much.

Javier shakes his head, taking a deep inhale, he fills his lungs with nicotine. He’d gotten quite good at lying to himself. His back cracked with protest, but his mind conjured up other reasons why his bones might be aching.

You’re almost done. He remembers the guilt he had in not being able to bury anyone as he ran away with you. Not that Kathleen left him much time to think it over. Some part of him still wishes he had some fight in him back then. Maybe he could’ve at least found Steve, bury him someplace nearby the city, but it would be impossible to carry someone his size, maybe even heavier.

You throw the last patch of earth and turn to him, you’re out of breath, your chest moving up and down as you lean against the shovel.

He glances at the graves, his lids feeling heavy over his eyes. He wonders if they were at peace now.

Javier muses to himself, he thinks about the daughter running up to her parents in the afterlife, hugging them, crying.

It’s stupid, but he likes to believe it to be true.

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier pena x reader #javier peña x y/n #fedra!javier p #javier peña fanfiction #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #narcos fanfic #narcos x reader #javier pena x y/n #javier pena x you #scheduled post

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wistfulweaverwoman · 9 months

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The Apothecary’s Daughter- chapter four

The empty streets are haunting, like we’re the only two living people in the world. The caw of a raven sounds in the distance. Echoes from the thumping wheels fling themselves back at us sharply. The sky darkens when a threatening cloud covers the sun.

The road worsens as we move away from the merchant district of town; the surface now compacted dirt, pitted and uneven. The cart groans with every dip and rock it crosses, the jolts knocking my teeth, biting the inside of my cheek. I clutch the lip of a trunk with one hand and grip the rough wooden edge of the cart with the other, my elbow locked to keep me from pitching over the side.

Today, we two are alone in this journey, the road desolate, not even any small comfort in shared grief. While we wordlessly cross the district with only the sound of grit crunching beneath the wheels, the rest of the district is forced to dance and imbibe, raising their cups to our good fortune.

For years now when a new husband is carting his bride to their new home, along with all of her worldly possessions, the roads are choked with small over-burdened wagons and pale-faced lasses. That first year all the new marriages happened in one mass ceremony, but it took weeks to sort out the housing assignments. So after, couples were bonded in groups every year between May and July. Ours is the only singular marriage in the district since the genetics program was introduced.

An ear-splitting boom of thunder rips through the air. A moment later a flicker of lightning zips across the horizon. All my hair on my arms stands on end and I peer up at the sky with contempt. I’m rewarded with a fat drop of cold water plopping on the skin between my eye and nose.

The wind promptly picks up as a second clap of thunder rolls over us, causing a whole cloud of ravens to take flight off to our right, their screams echoing around us. An involuntary shudder cleves through me and my skin prickles almost painfully.

The small wagon abruptly turns, and Peeta guides it down a street leading away from assigned housing. From any housing, as far as I know. He steers through the oldest part of the district, and I twist my head to watch the direction he’s bringing us, startled. Past blocks of abandoned warehouses to what seems like the fence bordering the district, overburdened with some kind of green creeping plant.

When we approach closer some kind of iron work becomes visible, not the regular chain link variety. He lowers the cart carefully and pulls open a gate that I didn’t even realize was there.

Peeta pushes the cart through and closes the gate as the sky unleashes a torrent of rain.

AO3

#wistfulweaverwoman #the apothecary’s daughter #lilymaid #everlark #ao3

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adelaidedrubman · 9 months

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(reformatting for top post maxing) wip whenever i fucking say it is

i was tagged yesterday by my beloved @g0dspeeed for wip day and scrambling in a day late to say yeah, it is.

here’s an older bit from hook, line, and sinker chapter 4 (which will happen eventually). also apologizing because i believe i have posted small excerpts of this before but i needed to share the full scene for reasons.

It never came — instead he felt his back slam into the metal net of the fence as hands caught beneath his arms, shoving him against the chain link. “A-Ah!” his hands found the gaps of the chain link, and he hurried to curl his fingers around the wire to stabilize himself. He heard a low growl, then felt the hands gripping below his arms slide down his sides to squeeze his hips, pulling them toward her only to slam him harder against the fence. “Look what you fucking did!” she screeched at him, pressing her thumbs down against his hips so hard they ached from the ridges of bone cutting against skin. He finally blinked his eyes open at the command, finding her furious, smoldering glare and following it to the place it pointed at the ground, aimed at the glistening cascade of ice and fish sliding along the hill as if the entire school had chosen to swim downstream in a hurry. “That was an entire fucking day’s catch! Gone!”

John narrowed his own eyes before fixing them back on her scowling face. He tightened his grip on the fence and attempted to straighten his legs and gently lower himself to the ground to beat her to her undoubtedly intended punch of dropping him — his efforts quickly thwarted as her hands shifted to the backs of his thighs to keep him propped up and at her mercy, hanging there wriggling for freedom like a fish dangling from her hook. But he wouldn’t helplessly gape and flounder like one. Instead he stretched his back to push against her and test her force as he replied, plastering a pleasant and casual smile on his face in spite of the situation. “We’ll add it to our ledger then, hm?” he hummed, tilting his head to the side with a sweet flutter of his eyelashes. “I owe you one plastic cooler — does forty-eight quarts sound right? Plus fair market value for all the fish — I’ll trust your inventory, fishermen are famously honest. And let’s not forget the $2.99 for the bag of ice, of course. And you…” He dropped his smile, neck snapping forward. “You owe me a fucking boat!” “You owe me your fucking life,” she hissed, lunging forward with teeth bared in turn. “I didn’t have to catch you,” she grumbled, glare darting suddenly downward as she did. “I could have caught the fuckin’ cooler…” “Yes, well…” he glanced to the side at the cooler laying on its side and spilling its contents onto the pavement. She could have caught it instead, and he was rather surprised she didn’t — but he wouldn’t waste time speculating on what misfired reflex led to the result, because it certainly wasn’t a matter of human compassion. “I wouldn’t have needed catching, had you not wrecked my —” “Enough fucking yapping!” she barked authoritatively as she shoved him back, chain link clinking and screeching as it stretched with his weight pushed against it. He felt the hard bends of the metal dig into his back, cold air hitting his stomach as a fast and forceful hand shoved the hem of his shirt up past his collarbones. “Mouth open.” “Wha —”

sending belated and good for whenever wip day tags out to my beloveds @wrathfulrook @fourlittleseedlings @galaxycunt @cassietrn @florbelles @g0dspeeed @unholymilf @belorage @shallow-gravy @roofgeese @socially-awkward-skeleton @corvosattano @inafieldofdaisies @direwombat @afarcryfrommymain @poetikat @blissfulalchemist @deputyash @confidentandgood @captastra @voidika @just-another-wasteland-merc @strangefable @8bitpizzacoupons @stacispratt @orionlancasterr @v0idbuggy @jackiesarch @strafethesesinners @henbased @simplegenius042 @clicheantagonist @firstaidspray @quickhacked @miyabilicious @nightbloodbix @thedeadthree @shellibisshe + join/unjoin my wip day tag list by liking/unliking here!

#wip #had thought i had shared the entire thing before but not according to a scroll through my wip tag

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catharrington · 6 months

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@harringrovemicrofic

Steve’s face has healed, mostly. Just as Billy’s own face has healed, mostly. He’s still ever the werewolf he felt like that night. The grotesque, ravenous teeth he bared still reflect back in the mirror. Under the tan, the blue eyes, the smile he’s practiced so well… waits the wolf Billy Hargrove is.

But Steve, his face has healed human. His hair is growing longer and his smile comes easier.

Around them the deep Indiana snow has melted out to a brilliant green spring. Steve seems to be thawing out with it. Billy cannot wait to see what gold summer is going to bring into Steve’s cream colored skin.

For Billy, he’s trying to bloom. He’s taking long drives down the backwoods winding roads, driving fast but not fast enough to miss the way wildflowers bloom right on top of last year's rot.

He wants more than anything to let go of his monster, of his rot, but it’s harder than it looks.

Anytime Billy makes an effort it feels unfamiliar to him in a way he can’t stand. In California he was effortlessly golden in summer. It’s just moving, dammit, it shouldn’t have changed him as much as it did!

But it did.

“Hey, Harrington.” He’ll force the words out anytime he passes Steve. He smiles with it, but he’s got a mouth full of fangs.

Steve smiles back at him, a line of sunlight between bare branches that’s magic enough to let the flowers grow.

Billy does the same to every kid who was in that house that night. All the kids he scared and hurt, all the kids who saw the yellow of his eyes. He nods at them in a way that he hopes makes them feel included, that his beast will protect them instead of harm them anymore. That he’s a dog with a collar, for fucks sake.

He doesn’t know if it’s working. His stepsister, Max, hasn’t treated him any differently. The kids… Steve… hasn’t treated him any differently.

It’s his birthday, and there’s flowers growing outside next to the chain link fence of the football field. Billy’s sitting inside listening to his teacher but watching the flowers. The leaves and stems seem so dark green here in the Midwest, Billy thinks the ones back home were lighter. Or maybe not.

The bell rings and he ditches lunch for a smoke break. Slinking under the bleachers to be alone.

“Hey, Hargrove.” The voice is melodic as it interrupts him. Perfect, and horrifying.

Steve stands there, holding out a half crumpled pack of cigarettes that’s colored gold. Billy’s hand shakes as he lifts it to accept one, grinning cruelty as he pulls two and places the second one behind his ear.

Steve clicks his tongue at him for doing it, but still lets him. “Sure, one for later.”

“It’s my birthday, after all,” the words pour out with the smoke after his first puff, he can’t stop them, “so thanks, pretty boy.”

“Fuck, really?” Steve asks. His voice pitching up in a cute way.

Billy pulls another drag, exhaling smoke from his nose as he only grunts in reply.

“Here, you should be the one to take this, then,” Steve’s hand slips the pack back into his pocket and fishes for something. “Since it’s your birthday.”

He holds out a skimpy looking white flower, with short and cute petals only a little roushed. It’s got dark green leaves on a dark brown stem only about as long as a palm. And Steve’s hand looks huge as he offers it to Billy.

“It’s called a salt and pepper, or a harbinger of spring. I’ve been told.” He laughs as he searches over the tiny thing. “El— oh, well, one of the kids gave it to me. But I think she’d be okay with you having it.”

Billy takes it slowly. Worse than how he took the smokes. Shaking and nervous, his fingers bump into Steve’s as he picks the flower. He pulls it close and it smells like rich-boy cologne, it smells like hair spray, it feels like heaven.

He blows more smoke out his nose.

“Do ya wanna skip the rest of the day with me?” He asks the flower. The harbinger of spring, Steve had called it. Billy’s got to remember how his mother pressed flowers so he can keep this for his whole life.

“Hell yes,” Steve answers. And Billy’s smile doesn’t feel forced.

#post season 2 my beloved #sorry I know word count should be 400 but I can’t help my word count when it’s comparing billy to a monster that’s my bread and jam #but please enjoy a little recovery and friendship fic!!#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #my fic #harringrove microfic

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fullofgutsndopamine · 6 months

Text

shake up the scenery (know you love the greenery)

or or: Hasan is the reason you're going to fail out of class, you're entirely convinced

You flick the light on at your desk, crack your knuckles, and take a deep breathe.

This exam has been weighing heavy on your shoulders, too frozen in fear to even study for it-finally talked yourself into studying, got out the highlighters and pens and notecards-ready to at least try studying now.

You opened the digital copy of your textbook, a groan coming out of your lips the second it loaded and you saw the amount you had to read-

and right on cue, as if he was planning it, deep in his basement rubbing his hands together waiting for his masterplan to work, loud music thumps outside.

"You have got to be-"

the music thumps under your feet, can feel it radiate down your body

Look, you aren't a confrontational person-really, you aren't-but this is the last class you have, so you gather up your courage and stomp across the yard

You don't even have to knock, the door opens as you stomp across the yard-Half empty beer bottles laid on their sides in the grass, stepped on cans of beers in between bushes and lining the steps

"Well, well, well-"

He smirks as he opens the door, practically takes up the entire doorframe, crosses his arms in front of his body-

"Finally decided to join our parties?"

"I'd rather pull my teeth out one by one-" You huff out, "The music, Hasan-"

"It's pretty good, right?"

He leans in to you, into your ear so he can really be heard, and you just know he can feel and see the pink on your face, even if it's dark in the house-

"Join us," He pulls on your sleeve. His voice drops, gets a little softer, is harder to hear him over the music. "Come on. Have some fun, finally."

And this isn't the Hasan you know-the loud mouth abrasive guy who's ready to fight with anyone, make them repeat themselves so he can show them what an idiot they are-this Hasan is soft around the edges; kinder. His voice drops and his shoulders slump, like he's trying to make himself smaller for you.

"If I fail, it's on you-"

"If you fail," He smirks, "I'll make it up to you. Take you out."

His voice borders on slurring, is obviously drunk, and you roll your eyes, "Turn the music down, asshole."

and before you can make a fool out of yourself anymore, you turn around and disappear

It's around 4 in the morning when you give it a rest. Eyelids are heavy with sleep, and you know you held onto none of what you just read-climb into your too small bunk, pillow pressed against your belly as you set your alarm to go off in an hour and a half, hoping Hasan will eventually give it a rest.

Walking into the classroom feels like death march; slow and steady, can feel the war drums behind you as if they're wishing you one final goodbye and thanks for the expensive tuition prices-

three hours later, one exam down (that you definitely failed)

"Hey!"

You could recognize Hasan anywhere-and no, not like that-the long hair that desperately needed to be cut, the backwards baseball cap for baseball teams and sports you know he didn't watch or know-

"Hey-you!"

and before you can stop yourself, you're throwing the chain link fence of the basketball court open, making his friend Connor, who holds the ball in his hands as he's about to pass it-pause, smirk and throw his head:

"Hasan," His voice is honey and you hate it, the sarcasm drips, "Another groupie."

Sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead but if it bothers him, he makes no effort to move it-instead stops, a smirk slowly creeps on his face:

"We can't keep doing this."

The bastard is enjoying this.

And that's enough for you.

Finding some confidence you didn't even know existed you march over to him, shoving a finger into his chest

"You're the reason I failed my biology exam."

He laughs, the kind where he throws his head back and the laugh comes back more of a giggle: "I'm the reason?"

And as you realize how much you're looking up to him to speak, noticing his freckles in the sunlight and the different colored nails on his hand as he holds a hand to his chest in mock horror-you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, can't believe you're doing this.

Like sure, you and your roommate spent months practicing what you'd both say to him to get him to shut up: the insults and how hurt he'd look but that was just for fun-mostly for when you were slightly tipsy over cheap, bottom shelf wine-

"Y-Yeah!" You shake your head, "Your stupid fucking music and-and-"

You shake your head again, before you can stop yourself from saying something stupid, show how you've been watching him-

He laughs; "My music right. Well-"

He leans down, closer to you, his voice a whisper: "Sounds like I owe you that coffee, eh?"

You want to punch the smirk off his face.

"No, Hasan-"

"One coffee," He says, "And if I say something stupid you can leave, I promise."

"You won't last two minutes."

"Try me."

It's quiet as you both stare eachother down.

"Fine. 6pm. The cafe. Don't be late-"

"Right," He smirks, "See you there, sunshine."

The sunshine is obviously a jab, but you take it as you walk away, hoping your feet don't give out as you make your way to your dorm, now having to figure out what to do with yourself for the next five hours.

#caroline writes #hasan #hasan piker #hasan piker fanfic #hasan piker ff #hasan piker imagine #hasan piker fanfiction #hasan piker fic #hasan piker x reader #hasan piker x y/n #hasan piker x you #hasanabi #hasanabi x y/n #hasanabi x reader #hasanabi x you

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boygiwrites · 6 months

Text

Harley D. Dixon 27

Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

Wow, you guys. I got carried away with this one. It's a biggun!!

Kick.

The soccer ball rebounds off the tyre.

Kick.

I pretend it's a walker head.

We haven't seen one of the dead in weeks, but I know they're out there.

Kick.

Buried in the snow.

Kick.

Just like everything else.

KICK.

It shoots off into the car yard.

I watch it bounce down the aisle of rotted vehicles, bumping up against the chain-link fence. A sigh escapes my chapped lips and blows away in the wind. For what must be the tenth time today, I pull my scarf up and trudge over to the ball.

Aside from day dreaming, this is about the only thing I can entertain myself with nowadays. I can't play so well without a partner, but the afternoons slog on otherwise. It was a couple weeks ago that people stopped wantin' to talk, or tell a story, or try their hand at makin' a joke, a couple weeks before those ones that Rick stopped talkin' altogether. I just don't think any of us have the energy. The only thing we can waste it on is breathing in and out and lighting the campfire every morning. Some days, like today, I even waste it on the ball.

Besides, we don't got anything interesting to say. There's only so many times you can comment on the weather.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, go my boots in the packed snow.

Thinking back on it, the last time I heard Rick say anything that weren't a barked order was the night we slept in an abandoned house. It was the first time since the farm fell that Dad had come back without any game on his shoulder. Carl had tried eatin' an old can of dog food for dinner. I still remember the way the brown meat exploded against the floor when Rick threw it, and we were scared then, too.

So, we went hungry — And almost every night since then, we've gone hungry.

I wonder if Dad's gonna try go huntin' again today, but I doubt it. Ain't worth it, no more.

It'll be a handful of burnt mushrooms for dinner again, tonight.

I bend and pick up the ball, dusting off the snow.

Some months ago, Rick told me that if he had to hear the word mushroom one more time, he'd go crazy. I almost smile to myself at the memory, the day we shared fruit and worked on the fence. If only he knew he'd be eating them every day; that he'd go crazy, anyway.

It was also the day we lost everything, is the souring thought that comes after, just like it always does.

Movement.

I look up, peering through the hexagonal webbing of the fence, out onto the street.

There it is. A white blob with a black marking.

Well, a dog.

A dog sniffs around one of the cars. I ain't seen a dog since before. I realize that for some reason I'd thought they'd all disappeared, and maybe they have, but not this one. He's a stubby little feller. Barely tall enough to see over the walls of snow, but he manages. His pink nose traces down the tyre, taking him underneath the rusted shell. I watch him cram himself through the gap with little effort.

My empty stomach rumbles to me that I should shoot it from here and we can roast it over a fire.

Is it okay to eat the thing that eats the dog food? Is is different from a squirrel?

When he wriggles back out, a dead mouse hangs from his teeth.

Oh. He caught somethin'.

Outta the corner of my eye, Dad approaches me, a sore frown below the brim of his beanie.

He makes a pincer gesture with both hands, shaking them slightly. 'What are you doing?'

I slap my thigh a few times, the sign for, 'Dog.'

When I point, he turns to look.

The dog clumsily gnaws at the skin holding the mouse meat together, letting the head plop onto the ground.

Dad tenses slightly, glancing out at the empty street; the trees beyond it. He thinks the dog might not be alone. Squirrels, possums. They don't got owners. They're too wild and nasty. But dogs do. We wait for a moment for someone to appear, but nobody does.

We're both thinking the same thing, but I'on think Dad will say it before I do.

'We should eat him,' I sign; the smart thing to do. We should eat him. But, 'I don't want to.'

He pauses. He don't want to, neither.

People are predictable like this. The world has up and ended, but we still pray before we eat, we remember our birthdays for no good reason, and we refuse to eat pets. All the bolts in Dad's bow and all the bullets in my pistol are stayin' right where they is.

Dad moves past me, undoing the gate latch and pilling it open, mutely snapping his fingers.

The dog's head snaps up.

Fresh blood paints its lopsided, gaping grin, dripping small jewels into the snow.

It considers the both of us, unsure if it wants to abandon its dinner. His head is droopy and egg shaped, undeniably ugly but in an adorable way, with two black dots for eyes and a chest like a body builder. Bull Terriers, I'm sure they're called. Rodent killers.

Stepping over the little pile of organs, the dog makes up its mind and trots over to us.

Dad kinda flinches when it places its nose in his outstretched hand, relaxing, letting it nuzzle at him.

Luckily, he ain't a human killer.

'It's okay,' He's concluded, guiding the dog inside and latching the gate closed.

I drop to my knees, giggling softly as I cradle the dog's big face, scratching behind his ears. Oh, he loves it. He must'a been lonely.

I mouth up at Dad, Keep him?

Food is scarce, and Lori is sick an' pregnant, but I still hope we can keep him. I'm already preparing a list of reasons we should.

'Everyone's decision,' He signs, before nodding us back the way we came.

Standing up, I follow behind him, and the dog makes sure he don't get left behind.

The garage stands firm in the onslaught of snow. We've made it a sort of home for now, but it's far from paradise. It's old. Small. It don't keep the wind out. Beth, Maggie, T, and Glenn are huddled around the campfire in a patch of melted sleet, the four of 'em the first to notice our return, and our new friend. They perk up at the sight of the dog, before breaking out in smiles.

Kneeling next to Glenn, I help him welcome the dog with pets and cuddles.

Rick's marching over to us before I can even wonder where he is, 'cause ain't nothin' happens without him knowing.

I expect him to be angry. He's always angry when it comes to mouths to feed.

But after exchanging some words with Dad over my head, he surprises me by nodding, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, watching us. I think I must've got it mixed up, but nope, he sends me the slightest, weightiest of smiles and nods again.

A foreign sort of relief flushes through me at the realization that I don't gotta persuade him.

I'm happy, for free.

Grinning up at everyone, I bask in the wonderful sight of their silent chuckles.

Glenn makes finger guns and taps them together.

'Name?'

I glance down at the dog; give it a good think. If I were a weird little rodent killer, what would I want my name to be?

I know. Dusting off the end of my nose with my finger, I share my decision with the group.

'Mouse.'

I startle as the dog licks my knuckles.

Maggie pouts, mouthing the word, Cute.

'When I found him,' I sign, trying and failing to keep my hands clean of dog-slobber, 'He caught a mouse.'

'He's a hunter,' Dad agrees, approving.

I lead Mouse into the garage to meet the others, ducking under the shutter doors and shivering off the sting of the snow. I wish we could light another campfire in here to keep warm, but Rick says the smoke would kill us faster than the cold will.

Not that it mattered much to my hearing aids.

As it turns out, the cold kills batteries, too.

I've learnt to manage without 'em by now, but I miss it. There were even days where I could hear my own laugh.

At least when the thaw comes back around, I'll be able to use them again.

I step over the piles of blankets scattered across the concrete floor, mindful not to cross paths with any of them. I wouldn't be a very popular person if I trampled somebody's stuff. Any little thing will cause a fight nowadays. We're stacked on top of each other in here. Chickens in a slaughterhouse cage. I learnt that it's easy to lose yer temper here, even if we do love each other, when I woke up durin' the first night. Glenn was apparently muttering in his sleep, sum' about, No, please, this is all I have, before T-Dog shook him awake with a pair of angry hands, growling at him to, Shut the fuck up. Nobody slept after that, but nobody ever really sleeps.

Mouse sniffs around the many makeshift beds, his tail beating back and forth against his muscly legs.

I already know how to study somebody's face to see which side of them I'm getting that day. I did it with Merle all the time. I knew the exact angle of his brow when he was drunk, about to start plottin' murder and makin' loud phone calls to people that owed him whatever it was he got scammed outta that week, the exact angle when he was gettin' mad, when he was asleep, or high, or both.

It's a talent to read closed books. Living like this for so long, I ain't the only one good at it, no more.

'Hey,' I wave to Lori. She's sat against the wall, wrapped in blankets. Not angry today. Safe to talk. 'We found a dog.'

Her bleary eyes widen.

Mouse plods up to the table, where Herschel and Carl are sitting. It's like they think he's a baby polar bear at first, but they soon realize it's safe. He soaks up their attention before slipping through their legs and approaching us, expecting some from Lori, too.

Cautious not to lose her fingers, she sneaks a hand out from under her many layers, stroking Mouse's long snout.

A smile graces her pale lips.

'Where did you find him?', Herschel signs to me, his veiny hands moving fast and precise, 'cause he's the best outta all'us. It ain't all that fair, since I'm the deaf one and all, but this old man has known sign language longer than I've even been alive.

'At the fence.' I answer, watching Carl stand from his seat and join his Momma on the floor, reaching out to pet the dog with her. I stare at the top of his head, tryna remember the last time we spoke. When I look back up at Herschel, I add, 'I was playing.'

'Have you named him, yet?'

Nodding, I make the sign. 'Mouse.'

'Mister Mouse.' He chuckles heartily, reminding me of Santa Claus. It's dim in here from the total lack of windows, but I can still see the way his cheeks crinkle around a mellow smile. I can always count on Herschel to make me feel like there's bread baking in the other room and I can smell it and everything is going to be okay. 'I'm sure he would love to play with you sometime.'

I return his smile, suddenly craving warm bread. 'I hope so. Tyres are bad at soccer.'

'Goodness. I'm sure.'

Calling Mouse over with a few kissy sounds, the two of us duck back under the doors in search of the soccer ball.

'Hey. Watch this.'

'We're watching.'

At the thumbs up Glenn sends me, I turn, focusing on holding the soccer ball in front of me. One, two, three. I drop it onto the toe of my boot and give it a small kick. It flies. Mouse pounces on it like a cat with a ball of yarn, slipping and sending it rolling away.

We been practicing that move for ages.

Looking back at everyone, I notice that they're all clapping for us, cowering their faces into their poofy scarves.

'Did you see?', I ask, just to make sure.

Another thumbs up from Glenn. 'Very cool.'

It weren't very cool at all — In fact, it was total garbage — but it was fun putting on a show.

'Thanks.' As Mouse chases after the ball, I leave him be and return to the campfire. 'I'm so tired, now.'

I really shouldn't be. I'm only a kid, and kids are supposed to have a lot of energy. I'm sure of it, since our neighbour Betty used to complain to Dad about her boy havin' too much of it whenever the two of 'em smoked together on our porch after work. His eyes would droop like a slow-blinking frog's whenever he got back from the mechanic shop, sometimes sleeping for a whole day, even at the dining table, while he was halfway through a meal. All the adults I knew were tired, but not like this. We's starving; hollow.

I'm jealous of my past self, who used to be able to play soccer for hours on end.

Maggie sends me a sad smile. 'Me, too, honey.'

'Sorry,' Glenn signs to me, 'cause he always says that. 'Come rest. It's warm here.'

'Can I sit next to you?', I ask T-Dog, pointing to the empty seat between him and Glenn.

Like the others, there's two moon-shaped craters hanging below his eyes, bruised an ugly purple against the brown of his skin. The man sends me a deadpan look, as if the cold's gone to my brain. 'No,' Then, sassily; 'Of course you can.'

Rolling my eyes at his attitude, I sit down and lay my head against the canvas backing.

My bones have been replaced with rope, loose and heavy.

I know we're gonna be leaving soon.

That pensive look on Rick's face is easy to recognise, even if he tries hiding it behind his scarf as he stands watch.

According to the map, there ain't no drug stores or doctor's offices for nearly five miles around us, and we're gonna need one. The medicine, what little we'd scrounged up, has ran out. Lori ain't suffering anything worse than a sniffly nose and a cough, but out here, — In the snow and the wind and the rain, with nothin' but a flimsy bitta metal to shelter us from it all — Well, we all know. I asked Dad if the baby in her belly could get sick, too, and all he told me was that none of this is ideal. I understood. When things ain't ideal, people die.

That place Rick was talkin' about, the one that we can fortify and make a life for ourselves in, it's still out there somewhere. He lectures us about it so often it's as if he can't think about anything else, a dog with a bone dangling just in front of his nose.

I bet there's lots of food and medicine there. And even beds. Proper beds, with mattresses and everything.

Maybe even a little mat for Mouse.

Yeah. That would be ideal.

Nobody would die in a place like that.

I tear my gaze from Rick, turning it onto the one big cloud in the sky.

I still think about Shane, sometimes. It comes and goes. Most of the time, he's alive. We're sitting at the picnic table back on the farm, coloring a meadow of flowers together, and then there's an ebbing swash of time where something inside me hurts real bad like I've been shot, and then he's holding my hand in a forest because I'm scared. I'm showing him the frog I've caught, mirroring his grin.

Suddenly, none of the muscles in his face are working and he's looking at me with milky eyes.

I don't wanna shoot him.

Bringing my hand up to my locket, I squeeze the thousand-pound weight between my fingers.

The spot he's taken up in my brain was supposed to be mine, and so was Momma's, and Merle's, and everyone else's.

Even in death, as Andrea said, He's still a fucking asshole.

I wonder if she's still alive.

A girl went missing from our town, once. My Daddy was in the kitchen washing dishes while I watched her Momma cry on TV.

I didn't know Andrea too well, so all my tears are staying inside my face for now. It's not like it was with Sophia. No, we packed into our cars and we fucked off North to a place called Newnan, leaving everything, including her and any chance of finding her, behind.

A bit stupidly, I hope the cows made it out alright.

Then, a hand is waving over the sun.

Lifting my head, I realize it's Dad trying to get my attention.

'How are you?', he signs as I stuff the locket under my sweatshirt.

'Hungry. Tired.' The usual answer; then, 'Everything okay?'

'Yeah. Taking a break.'

'I think Rick wants to leave.'

As Dad eases himself onto the crate beside me, he sneaks a glance at him. 'He does. We were talking.'

The others must be reading our signs, 'cause Maggie butts in, talking with Dad for a minute. I wait 'til they're done.

'We need medicine,' I comment quite uselessly when his attention is back on me.

'That's right. And better shelter. This place is shitty.'

'Do you want to leave?'

'I want you to be safe and happy. So, yes.'

'Are we walking again?'

He makes a face. 'No. We're riding bicycles.'

'Funny, Dad.'

'He wants to head East. The next town is close. Nine miles. There's a hospital there. Might have medicine.' His hands slow down. They hover, unsure. When he picks one back up, he finger-spells the word, 'S-h-a-r-p-s-b-u-r-g.'

The blood in my neck rushes up into my cheeks, and for just a moment, I'm warm.

I wonder if her house still looks the same. With the gravel path leadin' up to the porch, lined with weeds before any of this even began. My bike chained to the wire fence, asking itself where the little girl that loves it has gone as it grows rustier every weekend that passes. The grass was always scratching my knees, wild and forgotten, a bit like me. We made the most of what we had.

I hope the mirror in her bedroom is broke. I hope the kitchen is rotted; loungeroom filthy.

It don't deserve to be the way it was before, 'cause ain't nothin' the way it was before. That was for us.

Dad is waiting for me to say something, but I got nothin'.

Being that close to that house again might just make me start believing' in ghosts, but we need to do it. For Lori.

'No choice.' I sign, plain and simple. 'We need to go.'

He studies me for a moment, torn on something, before nodding and rubbing his fist over his heart. 'Sorry.'

I shrug, playing with the pebbles of lint on my mittens.

I think about Momma, too. She weren't all that different from Shane, especially not in the end. Both were sick, but not in the way that Lori is sick, not with germs. Even now, I don't quite know if it'd be worse knowin' whether or not she turned and lost her mind one last time. At least in the picture in my locket, she ain't ever gonna turn. I'll keep her safe from everythin' outside her little bronze door.

'Forget about that.' Dad waves off the imaginary town, sneering. 'I'm going hunting. You coming?'

I hear that right? Hunting?

All the rabbits are hiding at the bottom of their burrows at this time of year, the squirrels either dead or holed away. Even my Dad, the best hunter and tracker I know, who can shoot a field mouse out a tree, ain't been able to catch nothin' in this weather.

'You tried,' I remind him. 'Many, many times.'

'I know. But,' He nods over his shoulder, where Mouse is rolling around in the snow. 'Now we have help.'

Mouse. Of course.

Our last chance at catchin' a proper meal.

He reminds me of Tank a lil' bit, but smaller, whiter; with all four legs.

I'm willing to give it a chance. 'Okay. I'll come.'

Since we started to catch onto the fact that the cold slows the walkers down, we all been allowed out more.

A pat on my knee. 'Good girl. Let's go.'

He asks Glenn if he wants to come as well, and 'cause he got nothin' better to do and we make a good team, he agrees.

I'm inside a giant snow globe, waiting for the glass to break.

It was about a month ago now that I woke up one morning with my head in my hands, holed up in a gas station, crying snot and tears and dribble 'cause the ringing in my ear had turned unbearable. I didn't believe Herschel at first. My hearing couldn't deteriorate. I didn't even know what that word meant. But no matter what words I did or didn't know, their voices kept getting foggier and the ringing kept getting louder, until one day there was a pop beside my brain, a burst of pain, and then the world went silent. And then I believed him.

I was scared, at first. How could I hear a walker comin', now? Would I never hear my Dad say, I love you, again?

But it didn't take long for us to learn enough sign language to talk to each other, I love you, included. Nothin' would've stopped us. Maggie found a little ASL guidebook with pictures in it while we were passin' through a library. Go, Be quiet, Hide, Run, were the first words Dad made sure I knew. Good morning, Goodnight, and all the other things I'd wanna say. Thank you. Have mine. Fuck off.

Even now, whenever I wake up during the night, I always find one person studying the book, pages cradled by a flashlight.

As the three of us follow after Mouse, snow drifts through the thicket of naked branches like ash, catching winks of sunlight before they kiss the ground. It's hard to feel like I've lost anything when it snows. It's one thing that's always been silent. So have ripples in water, or a smile on a loved one's lips. I've made a place for myself in the silence, and I fit well here. Nobody else is allowed in my snow globe.

Glenn squeezes my mittened hand as I'm watching the falling snow, pulling my gaze up to his face.

With his free hand, he signs, 'Ringing?'

I shrug one shoulder, pinching my fingers. 'A little.'

It never really goes away. It's the one last thing I can hear, but I tune it out.

He attempts a smile, the curve of his cheekbones a raw shade of pink. 'Sorry.'

I always feel guilty when I have to answer that question. I'on know why. It ain't my fault.

'You always say sorry.'

'Sorry.'

Holding back a smile of my own, a real one, I ignore him in favor of watching the snow again.

The memory of that morning we had on the roof of the RV swells in front of me now, pretty and sun-colored, a cherry on my tongue. It was the mornin' after we found out I wasn't dying. I had a life. I had a chance to live it just like everybody else. Equals. Whenever I look at Glenn, I remember that morning. Happy and alive, with a group of our own. A friend. The first one in a long, long time.

When it's just the three of us like this, I always feel like I'm betraying Merle. It's a slimy feeling, one I force myself to swallow it down each time, but I ain't done nothin' wrong. I ain't replaced him on purpose. If I lie, I can say I ain't replaced him at all.

The worst part about it is that Glenn fits better into the void Merle left behind than Merle himself ever did.

My thoughts are interrupted when Dad puts an arm out in front of us.

I jolt, following his gaze.

Ahead of us, Mouse furiously investigates along an invisible trail at the end of his nose. He, too, goes still all at once. He's found something. We watch him square up with a lump in the snow, his tail an exclamation mark. Then there's a rabbit, a bite, a struggle. I squeeze Glenn as snow goes flying. Dad lifts his crossbow. A single bolt is released, and the rabbit is pinned to the ground by its heart.

It twitches around the bolt once, twice, tryna run away like all rabbits do, and then it goes limp.

That's our first kill in weeks.

'Dinner!', I exclaim to Glenn with both my hands, as Dad moves to pluck the bolt out, shaking off the snow.

A long, fat rabbit.

Dad was right. Mouse done spoiled us. Him bein' such a great hunter must be how he's survived this long. Everybody's got a reason. Mine is that I have people who love me, both dead and alive, who have fought tooth and nail to protect me every day.

Dad slings the rabbit over his shoulder, gesturing onwards. 'Let's keep going.'

Taking Glenn's hand again, I have a thought. 'Is his name Rabbit, now?'

He shakes his head, no, both of us falling into step with Dad and Mouse. 'It's Mini Daryl.'

Pssh. Whatever. 'Bad name.'

'Great name.'

I point side-long at Dad, as if saying, Go on, then. Tell him.

He cringes. 'No, thanks.'

'See? Bad name.'

'Are you bullying me?'

'Yep.'

Unamused, Dad gives us a look. 'I'm not blind. I can see your hands.' A pause; glance. 'She's right. Bad name.'

Like I always do when I'm giggling around Dad and Glenn, I say a silent, Sorry, Merle, because he's always been inside my head.

By the time we're walking back through the car yard gate, Mouse has caught us three more rabbits.

Beth's jaw drops.

'Dinner!', I sign to her, grinning, turning to sign the same thing to T and Rick who are stood on watch, their eyes going wide when they notice the bounty. I duck under the shutters and sign it to everyone else huddled in the garage, too. 'Dinner! Come on!'

They follow me out to the campfire, not wasting any time skewerin' and roasting the rabbits as the sun begins setting.

'Well done,' Maggie signs to the three of us, thoroughly impressed.

Dad nods to Mouse, as if to say, Thank him.

Thanks, Mouse, Everyone obliges, and even though he don't understand Human, he still grins his silly, gummy grin. I take a seat next to Dad on the wooden pallet, basking in the delicious smell of bubbling fat and the sight of my smiling family.

The moon is waning over our heads like a pretty marble, passin' through the stars, as we slurp up our greasy, mouth-watering rabbit meat. Even Lori has come out of hiding to enjoy the meal, her thin body curled up next to Rick in the broken car seats, shivering as she nibbles a meaty thigh. There's a bump under her blankets, right on top of her belly, that makes it look a bit like she's hiding my soccer ball under there. Really, it's the baby. Some nights, she lets me put my cheek to it so I can feel the heartbeat from the outside. It freaked me out at first. It's like she swallowed an alien. There's a tiny human in there, separated by only a few layers of skin. I hope it likes rabbit.

I know she needed this. I think we're all relieved to see her eating a good meal after all this time, something fatty and heavy, something to fill out her caved-in cheeks. If we're gonna leave for Sharpsburg at some stage, she'll need the energy. We all will.

Carol says that if it don't come out early, the baby's gonna be born in Spring. I've always thought of the seasons as a clock for huntin', just like my Daddy does. Summer's when all the coyotes come out, and you can stay out late 'cause the sun don't go down 'til after dinnertime. In Fall, the migratory birds start to fly over Georgia to reach warmer places further South. I've always liked watching the V shapes glide across the sky, wishing I could grow a pair of wings and join 'em up there. Spring is baby season. When everything gets born again, from the grass under the mud to the leaves inside the trees to the baby deer, called calves, inside they Momma's bellies.

Babies are good at bein' born in Spring, I told Carol when I could see a tick of worry in her brow, especially after Carl brought up naming the baby Sophia again, You'd think they's dumb, since they's babies an' all, but they know.

I's talkin' outta my ass a lil' bit, 'cause I was a baby once and I was born in Summer, but it made her feel better.

And then there's Winter. Everything's dead in Winter, except for the things that know how to hide.

Swallowing a juicy bite of rabbit, I glance at Mouse.

He lays at my Dad's boots in the snow, both of 'em gnawing away at their scraps of meat like long-time buddies.

Sucking the meat off the warm bone in my hand, I click my fingers to get the dog's attention. He perks up, craning his neck to look at me, his eyes bulging as I toss the bone in his direction as thanks. He catches it midair, crushing it between his teeth.

When my gaze meets Dad's, he gives me a thumbs up and a questioning look. 'Tasty?'

I nod, my own greasy thumb glistening in the light of the fire as I give him one back.

His lip twitches upward, as if he's about to smile, but then he remembers something. 'We're talking about leaving.'

Looking around, I see the whole group deep in conversation as they eat.

'What they saying?'

'Glenn thinks we should stay. He goes to Sharpsburg with T-Dog and they come back with medicine.' He tells me. 'But we can't split up. Dangerous. Could get lost. And we can't stay here. Cold. Not secure. Both; too risky.'

'So we all go.'

He nods, with not much else to say. We all go. 'We leave tomorrow.'

I don't remember voting for that decision, but things ain't worked like that in a long time.

Nine miles. That would be nothin' if we were a flock of birds. Birds can fly twenty-five miles an hour, don'cha know. I know lots of animal facts like that one. Whenever I can't sleep, I try and see how many I can remember until I'm blinking myself awake and the sun is rising. But we ain't birds, and we ain't even got the cars no more. I'on know how fast humans walk, but I guess I'll find out.

Pushing away my thoughts, I sign, 'It's kinda funny. We're surrounded by cars and none of them work.'

'This place is shitty,' He says for a second time, agreeing.

As we make our way through the meal, Dad, Glenn, and T-Dog keep forcin' their food into my hands. They act as if they can't see my signs telling them to save it for themselves, 'cause they're a bunch of assholes. I give up on changing their minds after a while, 'cause I've learnt it never works. Rick and Maggie do the same to Carl, Lori, and Herschel. We're all just a bunch of assholes who love each other.

That night, it's the same routine. Pull down the shutter doors. Tie a shirt through the padlock loop. Switch on the lamps.

I get comfortable in my pile of blankets that I share with Dad, digging through our bag. Wind rattles the garage walls, bullets of rain and hail battering the thin metal. For once, the rumbling of my stomach ain't here to join 'em. I pull out my journal and pencil, starting my ritual of shaving the wood away from the lead using Merle's knife, dwindling it down to the size of a used cigarette. Blowing the dust off, I sheathe my blade and flip to a page I can write on. Ain't no blank ones left, but I can squeeze what I wanna say into the gaps.

As everyone lays down, they keep clutching at their bellies like Lori does all the time, stuffed full of dinner.

Hello, diry, I write, 'cause Lori taught me how, Today was a grat day.

Mouse comes and inspects our blankets before plopping himself down next to me, resting his chin on his paws.

We faund a dog. I named him Mows becoz he kils mise and he is cyut. He caut for rabbits for us. He is my frend.

Dad lays down on my other side, giving my arm a squeeze and closing his eyes.

We are leeving again tomoro. Dad spelt it, Sharpsburg. My Muma uset to live ther but she is ded now. I wont to leev but also I dont. Im a bit scered. Dont tell nobode. At leest we are leeving the car yard befor it gets the chans to kil one of us.

As olways, Rest in peece, M, T, A, M, O, S, S, J, J, P.

I snap the book shut and place it back into the bag, zipping it up and rolling onto my back.

Dad throws a blanket over me as the wind blows in through the slash in the wall, pulling me into him with a strong arm.

Somebody clicks off the last lamp.

Squirrels can jump ten times their body length, I think to myself, focusing on the beat of Dad's heart and the warm weight of Mouse slumped against my legs, before I'm opening my eyes again and there's a band of cool sunlight on my face.

I watch a bird fly past the gap.

We never stay in one place for long.

I hover near the gate along with the rest of the group, clutching the straps of my backpack.

Lori got worse overnight.

I'm looking at her right now, as Rick peels off his coat and wraps it around her. Her face; it's paler than the snow, her nostrils two rings of puffy, red skin, leaking snot onto her lip. She wipes it away, fingers shaking. I almost want to tell Rick to call this whole thing off, but that would be stupid. The sky's cleared up some, making way for the sun. If we don't go now, we'll be stuck here forever.

Threading the last button through the loop, Rick turns and rallies all of us to follow him outta the car yard.

We file out into the open, a trail of footsteps carving a line through the snow.

Rick takes up the front of the line. Dad, the back. When wolves travel in packs, the two strongest of the group do this, too. This way, one can flatten the terrain for everyone else, while the other can keep an eye out, make sure nobody falls behind. That's why I'm in the middle, trailing behind Lori, Carl, and Herschel. We're the smallest and the weakest and the sickest, but I can still trace the treeline with my gaze and watch for danger, grabbing for the hilt of my knife every time a shrub shivers in the wind.

Mouse walks alongside us as we journey, 'cause I think he's decided he doesn't wanna be alone, anymore.

With every step I take, I find myself missing Dad's truck more and more. I know it was just a hunk of old, blue metal on two pairs of wheels, but it's still gone, and I still miss it like I'd miss a person. It's true that it'd been through its fair share of bumpy rides through the forest and countless tyre changes, but ain't nothin' short of an army tank would'a made it outta what happened to it in the end. They came out of nowhere, is how T tells it. We were cruising along the streets of a small town when a group of people jumped us. Way I tell it, they came out from behind some cars that were spilled out across the sidewalks. A gunshot. We veered, straight into the window of a store.

Dad and Rick killed those ones, too. Four people; two men, a woman, and a sorta-kid — A teenager.

I remember the boy's face. Caramel-colored with a nose that looked like a bird's beak, maybe a few years older than my cousin, Tobias, but people always said he had a baby's face. I couldn't figure out if they deserved it. They'd tried to rob us, a small group with two kids and a pregnant woman; our medicine, blankets, water. But back in the beginning, Dad and Merle did the same thing to other groups. Lone cars on the highway, pairs of people as they walked, sleeping camps. It was awful, but it was how we stayed alive.

There was this one night that Dad asked Merle if they should stop while he thought I was asleep.

We're doin' it for her, was all my Uncle had to say.

Every bad person I ever met probably had somebody they was doin' it for.

Their blood pooled onto the tarmac as our blue truck smoked, wedged between a scattering of debris and rubble. The men tried pushing it free for over an hour, but it was stuck there, well and truly. Eventually, we accepted we had to leave it behind.

After that, Rick's truck shut off one afternoon and refused to turn back on no matter what Glenn did to it.

We couldn't all fit into the grey car, or onto the back of Dad's motorbike, so that's how we were left with nothing.

Still, Dad swears up and down he's gonna go back for his bike as soon as he can, soon as we're settled someplace proper. He hid it real good and took the cylinder head with him, so there's a very good chance ain't nobody nabbing it before he can get back there. My Dad's a smartass like that. I think he'd sooner pull all his teeth out 'fore he lets somebody else have his precious bike.

On a little street sign just ahead of us that reads, Poplar, a tiny bird perches.

It chirps and flies off when we get close.

Poplar Street. Two miles down.

Herschel looks at me over his shoulder, his brows made even fluffier than usual by the snow that's gathered on them.

'Doing well?', He asks.

I nod, yes. My feet are achin', but I'm sure I ain't the only one. 'You? I have water if you need.'

'That's okay, sweetie. I'm not thirsty.'

I give him a bit of a stern look, one that Rick would be proud of, but he just turns to face forward again.

Hmph. I'm suddenly appreciating how the others must feel when I refuse their food.

Glancing behind me, I extend the offer to Carl and Lori. When they accept — Well. When Carl accepts and forces Lori to do the same, — Dad alerts Rick, and guides us off the road, into a little eating area beside a kiosk station to take a break. I drop my backpack onto the seat of a wooden table and pull out my bottle of water. Lori and Carl sit down as I unscrew the cap and hand it to them, waiting for Carl to take a small sip first, holding it to his Momma's cracked lips after. Her neck gulps twice before he passes it back to me.

Most everyone else settles down at the other tables, catching their breaths.

Dad approaches the three of us. He points at the bottle with a no-nonsense expression. 'Drink that.'

I'm about to stash it, but do as he says. I am a little thirsty.

'How are you?'

'I'm okay.' I zip the empty bottle away. 'My feet hurt.'

'You can handle it.'

I nod. I can. 'You?'

'Feet hurt.'

'You can handle it.'

He huffs a chuckle. 'Don't be smart. I'm going to check the—.'

I follow his gesture over to the kiosk, nodding and taking the seat next to Carl.

The boy glances at me a couple times, as if it's hard to look at me, like how it's hard to look at the sun for too long before you start seein' shapes. He awkwardly points at my bag. Huh? He touches his fingers to his freckled chin, swiping forwards.

'Thank you.'

He knows how to sign?

All this time, I ain't seen him pick up the guidebook even once.

I ain't sure what to say, so I just nod until he looks away again, and then we're both just watching Mouse sniff the ground.

Boy, do the two of us know how to hold a grudge. Ever since our squabble that afternoon before Dale died, we been holdin' so tight onto 'em we ain't even know what to do with 'em anymore. You're a stupid baby, Harley. I hate your guts, Carl. I'm glad you're not my sister. I'm glad you ain't my brother. Stupid. That was months ago, now, and I might still be a stupid baby — I'll give him that — but I don't hate his guts. I just hate sayin' sorry. My teachers used to say bein' able to apologise is a life skill, but I never saw how it keeps ya alive.

Mustering up the courage to give it a go anyway, I sign to him, 'Back on the farm. I was just—.'

Wait. He's looking at me all confused. He don't understand.

I deflate, embarrassed. Never mind.

'Are you okay?', Beth signs to me from the other table.

'Yeah... My feet hurt.'

'Mine, too.' She sighs wistfully, her blonde hair flying around in the wind. 'We need a massage.'

It forces a giggle outta me. She makes me feel like such a girl, sometimes.

When Dad comes back, T-Dog in tow, it doesn't look like they found much in the way of food or water — Just what looks like a crumpled granola bar and a couple newspapers that we could prolly use to make a fire. Mysterious Infection Hits France, is one of their headlines, not even worthy of a bold font. Dad stuffs the little bar into Lori's coat pocket before he helps her stand from the bench, gently passing her off to Rick. He runs a hand up and down his wife's back, murmuring to her as I sling my backpack on and get to my feet.

I'm okay, I think she's assuring him, trying to brush him off.

Maggie shares a worried glance with Carol, then with Dad.

Before I know it, I'm walking over Rick's footprints again.

There's the river.

I saw it on the map, but it's bigger in person. It's not just a white strip of ink bent around laddering terrain lines. It's a flat, blue sheet of ice wedged between two frozen shorelines, snow scuffing over its surface as the wind pushes it around.

Like I said, I saw it on the map. That's why I know the only road that passes over it is miles away.

We're gonna have to cross it on foot.

'We need to be careful,' Rick turns to address us. He makes sure to sign as he speaks, very obviously struggling to match the volume of the wind. 'I'll go first. Make sure it's safe. Then, Harley, Lori, Carl, and Herschel. Then, the rest.'

There's no option for any of us to dispute the plan, so he goes ahead and nods to himself, sighing and turning toward the thick bank of snow. This is what Rick does. He risks his life, risks falling into rivers and freezing to death, 'cause he's got a few screws lose and he's brave, and some months ago, on the side of the road after our home burnt down, he told us, This isn't a democracy, anymore. I grab onto Dad's hand, squeezing it like a stress ball at the doctor's office before they stick the needle in ya arm, as our leader surfs down the hill.

Fringes of snow break off and roll down as he goes, eventually landing at the bottom.

Okay, I think I can see him mouthing to himself, Okay.

He takes his first step. He holds his arms out on either side of himself. Another step. Another; delicate, as if he's testing out whether or not he's gonna burn his feet, learning he won't, and then doing it all over again with the other foot.

When he reaches the other side, he pulls himself up onto the shelf of snow.

He plops onto his ass.

He made it.

When he realizes this, he raises his hand and waves us over.

I take a deep breath.

Harley, Lori, Carl, and Herschel, is what he said. Harley. I'm next.

'Go slow,' Dad signs to me, looking at me in a very serious way. 'Don't walk exactly where Rick walked. It could break.'

I nod, repeating his instructions in my head as I let go of his hand, forcing myself to approach the ledge.

Sitting down and sliding all the way to the bottom, I push myself to my feet, staring out onto the ice.

Oh, shit.

I swear it ain't look this far from up there.

'It's okay,' Rick's signing to me from across the river. 'You're light. You won't fall.'

'You promise?'

'I promise.'

Okay. Okay, I can do this.

I take my first step. Shit, it's slippery. I almost lose my balance, catching it right at the last moment. My gaze snaps back up to Rick. It's okay, He signs again. I look over my shoulder, where up on the hill, Dad signs the same thing. It's okay. It's like a tight rope. Taking care to mind the puddles of sleet sitting on the ice, I walk the rope one step at a time, water rushing underneath my boots.

When I'm close enough, Rick braces himself on one leg and reaches down for me, hooking his hands under my armpits. He lifts me onto the shelf of snow, setting me down beside him. I clutch his arms, my legs shaking. Oh, solid ground. It's never felt better.

Well done, He mouths, giving both my shoulders a firm squeeze before letting go.

Looking back at the other shoreline, I see a small Glenn and Maggie both sending me thumbs' ups.

'Proud of you, baby,' Dad is signing beside them, as Carol cups her own cheeks, relieved.

'I made it,' I reply, heart pounding.

'Yeah, you did. With sore feet, too.'

I wish I could let out a laugh, but I can't. Not yet.

Lori is next.

Lori, sick and frail, with the baby in her belly.

T-Dog slides down first and catches her when she reaches the bottom, holding her hands to steady her. She carefully steps onto the ice, alone. Her fingers leave T-Dog's. She's so skinny these days, I'm worried the wind might just knock her over. I feel Rick tense against me. Slowly, and cradling her belly, she ventures further out. There's a moment or two I think she might trip, but she makes it.

Rick pulls her up, and then it's Carl's turn; then Herschel's.

The four of us help the old man climb up onto the bank. The worst of it is over.

We wait for everybody else to cross. Glenn and Maggie set out next, keeping a good distance between them the whole way, before Beth makes her way down behind them, doing the same. Everyone calls out encouragement and praise, egging them on. One by one, we work together to pull them up. Glenn. Then, Maggie. Beth, who's shaking like a little lamb. And Mouse, who don't even need our help.

As Rick and Maggie pull Beth up, the last ones to begin their crossing are Dad, T-Dog, and Carol.

They're halfway across when Mouse starts barking.

A head appears over the hill behind them. Shoulders. A fleshy ribcage. It's a walker. An actual walker. It don't know where its goin', blindly trudging forward, skirting the ledge. It's gonna fall down. Everyone realizes this at the same time, suddenly pointing and shouting things. The three of them stop in their tracks. They turn to look behind them, just as the thing takes its next and final step. With no more ground to stand on, it falls head-first into the slope, tumbling, once, twice. It smacks into the ice, a cannon ball of limbs.

A line as thin as a hair shoots out from under its body.

A crack. The ice is cracking.

My body lurches as if I'm about to do something, about to climb down there and help, but we can't.

The only way we can help them is by staying off the ice.

The line grows longer and longer. It's under Dad's boot before he can even take a step. His chest heaves, staring down at it. Carol and T-Dog linger nearby, terrified, as if any flinch or gasp from them will send them all under. He pulls his crossbow off his shoulder. I'm not sure if he's about to shoot the walker, or maybe ditch the bow to lessen his bodyweight, but he don't get to do either.

His leg goes straight through the ice.

He falls onto his forearms. His weight splits the line into three; snaps the surface into pieces.

SPLASH.

Both he and Carol are suddenly neck-deep in the water.

I think I squeal a little bit, 'cause I feel it in my throat.

The walker lifts its head.

T-Dog looks back at us, shouting and holding his hand out. He wants something. Rick catches his meanin', unholstering his pistol and rearing it back, hurling it as far as he can over the river. T-Dog told us he used to be the best player on his baseball team in high school, so he catches it with one hand, pulling the slide back to check the chamber. I guess we can stop callin' him a liar, now.

The walker drags itself forward, clawing marks into the ice.

Dad reaches under the water, teeth bared, face scrunched, hauling his crossbow out and slinging it across the ice.

It spins across the slippery surface, coming to an eventual stop someplace that don't matter anybody.

T-Dog raises the gun.

He pulls the trigger.

There's a flash of light, and at the same time, a spurt of black blood.

As soon as the walker is dead, he takes a step toward, but Dad shouts at him and he stops.

Water goes flying as he grabs for purchase, setting his elbow on the ice. He puts his weight on it. The ice crumbles like a cookie. He tries again, this time keeping his body as flat as he can, and manages to pull himself up onto his stomach.

I can only imagine how much it hurts, but he pushes through it, army-crawling over to Carol.

They lock hands.

With what little strength he has left, he drags her out, too, letting her collapse beside him.

They both lay there, the wind blowing over their bodies as they struggle to suck in a full breath, curled up like shrimps.

T-Dog wastes no time. He teeters and slips around on the sleet as he kneels, grabbing a fistful of their coats and pulling them further away from the broken ice. They're not moving. It's like they've turned into the frozen walkers, their joints all locked up from the cold, unable to hinge. T-Dog gets Carol to her feet first. As Rick, Glenn, and Maggie hurry down to the shoreline, I follow after them and grab onto Carol the moment she's within arm's reach. We all help pull her up, as T-Dog spins around, waddling back to Dad.

Carol's legs give out. Her body lands in the snow, her arms wrapping around her stomach.

Over her hip, I watch as T-Dog, strong as an ox, gets all one-hundred-and-ninety pounds of my Dad to his feet.

When they reach the bank, we all grab for him.

Even through the layers of fabric, I can feel the deadly cold seeped all the way through his skin. As we lay him in the snow, he winces, his hair frozen stiff and his cheekbones redder'un cherry popsicles. I cup them with my mittened hands, crouching at his side.

I'm grateful I can't hear any of the panicking around me.

I just hold him, waiting for him to open his eyes.

When he does, they're blue, like the river.

Then, Rick and Glenn are pulling him up. I give them space, letting 'em hook each of his arms around their shoulders. Maggie and Beth follow suit and with Carol, hugging their arms around her waist, frantically looking for direction from our leader. He points. We all follow his finger. There's a couple tiny buildings just up the road, not too far. That's where we're going. We need to get Dad and Carol warm. We start making our way over there without a second thought, bracing ourselves against the snow coming down on us, now.

We reach the yellow security barriers. Carl helps me force them upwards, letting everybody through. It looks like this place was a ticket and security checkpoint. There's two little booths, the windows smeared with old blood, and a bigger building in the middle. Rick kicks that one's door in, making way for us to spill inside the kitchen-sized room, as they set Dad down on a dirty bed in the corner.

The two girls gently lower Carol down next to him, helping her peel off her wet clothes.

Taking Dad's coat zipper in my fingers, I rip it all the way down and pull him out of it, quickly doing the same with his shirt.

Rick casts about. He spots a wastebin in the corner of the room and moves it to the middle, taking the newspapers that T-Dog is offering him from his backpack. Glenn passes him a lighter as he stuffs it down. Flick, flick. He cups it; holds it there.

It catches.

—hould be contained within a week, according to the French Health Ambas—, it reads, before curling around the flame.

As warmth begins to emanate, I move down to Dad's boots, unlacing them, tossing them away with his socks. He's left in just his jeans, with barely enough energy to hold his hands out to the steadily burning pages of the Washington Post.

Taking off my own coat and cuddling up to his side, I hope I can give him some of my body heat. I don't have much of it, but I don't need it all. I'm happy to share it. Already, he looks a little less awful just by being outta the wind. Carol has been stripped down to her bra and cargo pants, shivering as Maggie fits her into a spare sweatshirt. Pulling my beanie off, I fit it onto Dad's head. He looks silly. Shirtless with his edgy tattoos on display, wearing his daughter's pink hat. When Maggie passes me another sweatshirt, I help dress him in that, too.

As I work, T-Dog approaches us, setting the crossbow against the wall.

A pearl of water drips off the end of Dad's nose as the man leaves.

I study him, feeling guilty. 'I wanted to help.'

He frowns at me.

I add nothing more. There was nothing any of us could do, but I still wanted him to know.

Everyone finally settles around the tiny fire, absorbing every last ounce of heat it has to offer.

Rick signs to me, 'We can stay the night.'

'Thank you,' I nod.

As he moves his attention elsewhere, I sneak a glance at Lori.

She's coughing. A yellow glob falls into her hand, before she wipes it on some newspaper. I know that ain't good.

We stay like this for a while. The only way to tell that time is passing at all is every minute or so, when someone adds a fresh wad of newspaper to the fire to keep it alight. Paper burns fast, but it also creates a lotta smoke. We eventually have to open all the windows to let it out, which in turn lets the cold in, but our only other choice is to suffocate to death. Ain't nobody in the mood for that.

Once Dad and Carol have both fallen asleep, I take out the little ASL handbook from my bag, scooting back to sit against the wall. I might as well get some studyin' in, if we ain't leaving for a while. I rest it in the crook of my thighs, flipping to a dog-eared page.

To sign, IMAGINATION, it reads, Start by extending both pinkies.

The little hands in the picture look like they's holdin' invisible teacups, so copy them, and it's easy enough.

To sign, OPINION, the picture directly below it reads, Start by creating a circle shape with one hand.

A kick to the bed frame.

Startled, I look up at the attacker.

It's Carl.

He points to the empty spot next to me. I ain't got any real reason to decline, so I give a nod, making a little extra room for him as he settles down at my side, only to do nothin' but fiddle with his fingers in his lap. I can't ask him what he wants.

Suddenly, he takes the book from me, thumbing through the alphabetical section.

He stops when he reaches S, studying the first picture on the page.

To sign, SORRY, it reads, Start by forming a fist.

My eyes go wide, watching the boy do as it says. Place it over your heart, making a grinding motion. He glances at me, silently asking if he's doing it right. He's not, obviously. You ain't s'posed to leave a bruise. But I get the message loud and clear all the same. He's sorry. Maybe for calling me a stupid baby, or for telling me that even though I know what a chantrelle mushroom is and I can shoot a gun, I still ain't worth nothin' without somebody else around to watch out for me; him around. Or maybe just for what happened at the river.

Before I can decide which one it is, he gets to flippin' again, finding what he wants at E.

He blanches. Got more than he bargained for with this one.

Still, he gives it a go.

It's slightly wrong again, but there's only one sign I know that looks like that.

'Everything.'

He stares at me, boyishly unsure, not looking very much like his Dad anymore like he wishes he did.

You don't need to be sorry, I'd sign to him if he could understand, You were right. I do need help, sometimes.

'Me, too,' I sign instead, reaching over and flipping to the page with the same phrase, and signing it again.

He glances from my hands, to the page, back to my hands again. I'm sorry, too. I think that's all we need to say, but I'll still add this last bit on, anyway. Word by word, I use the book to translate. It's obvious we could use my diary and pencil to write messages to each other. It'd be easier, but easier don't feel right. Anybody can do that. It's only the special ones that will learn your language.

When the sentence is complete, I rest my hands in my lap, watching his face for a reaction.

'You're my brother.'

He's stunned for a moment, and it's a long moment.

But then there's a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Carl is my big brother, and that's just the way things is. It ain't my fault we're in this little family together, that we've seen people die together, been scared and hurt together, that he let me cry on his shoulder one night and never mentioned it again.

He consults the book one last time before lookin' me in the eye, signing back, 'You're my sister.'

Always have been.

When I jokingly flip to the page that reads, To sign, I LOVE YOU, he snaps the book closed. A genuinely disgusted expression plagues his face, looking like he's just eaten rotten broccoli. It makes me forget all about how cold I am as he gets up and walks away.

It's nighttime when I open my eyes.

Lifting my cheek from Dad's shoulder, a yawn parts my lips. The sight of the moon peeking over the windowsill greets me, glass pulsing a faint orange as the fire in the wastebin burns nearby. I can see Rick out there, hugging himself next to a little light.

Scooting off the mattress, the guidebook falls from my lap.

I pull on my socks and boots. I don't think I'll be able to get back to sleep, anyway.

I remember in the Winter, when it was time to get dressed for school and work, Dad used to lay our clothes over the electric heater that we always had plugged into our living room wall. We'd make a game of it, pretending we were cooking steaks over a grill while the sky turned from black to grey, to white, to blue. His boss at the mechanic's shop had him startin' his shifts at six in the morning, while Merle and everyone else in our trailer park was still asleep in their beds. It was unfair, but he always found ways to make sure I never found out.

Grabbing a stick of newspaper, I stand and tip-toe my way through everyone sleeping on the floor.

When I open the door, I shoulder myself into the cold and step out.

It closes behind me.

In the middle of the outstretched road, Rick sits with his back to everything, staring up at the stars.

I wonder if he's got a person up there, just like I do.

As I come to sit beside him, he lowers his gaze; regards me with an empty sort of look.

I don't mind it none, instead opting to study the creative setup in front of us. A metal cooking pot filled with damp sticks, a small flame flickering amongst the ash and dirt at the bottom. I take the paper in my lap and ball some up, tucking it into the pot.

'I thought you might be cold,' I explain as the flames grab onto it, growing larger. 'Your fire sucked.'

He doesn't smile; lips heavy, downturned.

I sign something else. 'Why are you out here?'

'Can't sleep.'

Well, I guessed that. 'Are you okay?'

A sigh leaves his body, sucked into the wind. He's not going to answer that. 'You should go inside.'

'I'm not tired.'

'Doesn't matter. Come on.' He moves as if to stand, holding a hand out for me to take, but I cross my arms over my chest and stay right where I am. He tries waiting me out, but it's useless. Settling down again, he hesitates before signing, 'Stubborn.'

Unfolding my arms, I finally get him to crack a smile as I sign, 'I know.'

It's wiped away when he flinches uncomfortably at something.

'Was there a noise?', I guess, confused.

The horizon gapes emptily at us from afar, a black stripe. I can't see anything unusual.

'Lori.' He supplies, defeated. 'She's coughing.'

A soft, oh, slips from my mouth.

'It's why I'm out here.'

The only thing I can think of to say is, 'She'll be okay.'

It's not much, but Rick still reaches out and takes my shoulder, attempting a smile before dropping his hand.

I'm on the side of the road again, the trees looming over me, tucked between old cobble walls as the farm sits some miles away, whatever that's left of it burning to a crisp. The door is there, is what he snarled at us. Let's see how far you get. The world was an open set of jaws in that moment. While I'm almost certain Dad and I would've made it, because like T says, we're cockroaches, I don't know for sure if the rest of the group would have, if Beth, Herschel, and Carol would have. We've been together since... Everything.

But I do know that we chose Rick, and he chose us. I would say it's like this thing called symbiosis, which I learnt about in second grade. But it's not. My teacher told us that without the egrets and the anemone and the sucker fish, the cattle and the clown fish and the sharks would die. They can't make it alone. But we ain't a family because we'd die otherwise.

We're family because Dale had this stupid old watch while he was still alive, and he said that despite everything, our paths aligned at the quarry all the same, and then I got scratched and a whole bunch of awful stuff happened, like explosions and gunshots and broken fences, and we blinked, and now we love each other so deeply we don't care if we could survive apart.

'You're doing a good job, Rick,' I sign.

It might be the fire, but his eyes go shiny afterwards. Yeah. I'll pretend it's the fire.

He got us to the CDC. Got us out. Killed Sophia. Jim. His best friend, just a few days later. Those four people on the road.

He touches his chin. 'Thank you.'

I can tell he doesn't believe me. M, T, A, M, O, S, S, J, J, P. I don't know how else to convince him. Maybe I can't.

Absentmindedly watching the fire dance, I clutch the locket through my sweatshirt.

'What is that?', Rick asks.

Thinking nothing of it, I pull the thing free, letting it sit against my sternum. 'Shane gave it to me.'

Something about Rick twists at the mention of Shane, making its way onto his face like a curling snake, a nasty scowl. He holds his hand out, wanting to hold it. A little unsure, I thread the chain over my head and carefully lay the pendant in his palm.

Bringing it closer to his lap, he glares down at the olive of metal as if it's his best friend reincarnated.

'When we were at the gas station,' I tell him, trying not to remember the blood, 'We argued. He gave it to me after.'

The BANG, the spike of blood, his arms shielding his face as he lay on the floor.

I think... I think I don't like this.

'Can I have it back now?'

His grip turns white.

Feeling a bit like I'm interrupting something that should be private, I don't bother asking again, just reaching ou—

My hand is knocked away. He rears his arm back — Oh, God. My heart, going cold as the snow. — and throws the locket into the fire. It disappears beneath the flames. I exclaim something, a half-word or maybe a shriek, like I've been burned at the same time as the brown thrasher and the photo of my Momma inside. My hands shoot out all on their own to grab for it, but I reel them back in.

I need to— I need to put the fire out. I've gotta smother it with something.

Frantically starting to scoop up handfuls of the snow around us, I think Rick realizes he's made a terrible mistake. He seems to wake up, pushing himself to his feet to try and help me save it, grabbing more, more, and more snow, dumping it onto the fire.

The light goes out all at once, smoke trailing up into the air, a dreadful, blackened smell.

He claws through the pot, wincing as he touches the metal, pulling out the locket.

When he thumbs the door open, the photo is nothing but a stain of soot.

I stand there, too big to fit inside my skin, my everything shaking with a different type of horror.

It's gone.

Rick stares at me, the smoke blowing past him.

My snow globe bulges in all directions like a pulsing heart, silent as ever. The door to the staff room opens over Rick's shoulder, my Dad hugging himself as he steps out. I was supposed to look after her. She was supposed to be safe in there. He's spewing apologies before my Dad even understands what's happened, but he catches on quick. The thing in his hand is my locket. It's ruined.

You did this?, I think he's needling him, or sum' like it. The Hell is wrong wit'chu?

Rick's shaking his head, cradling it like it's a pile of bones he can put back together. I'm sorry. I didn't know.

Just give it back!, I demand.

It's the first time I've tried to speak aloud since losing my hearing, the syllables an awkward tar in my teeth.

I snatch the locket from his grasp, giving the pot a hard kick before storming away.

SLAM.

It wakes everyone up, but I can apologise later, 'cause right now I'm throwing myself onto the mattress and pulling the blanket over my head, sealing myself away from them all. This ain't the farm. I can't just hide away in a tent somewhere, or take a breather in one of the paddocks. I'm stuck in this stuffy room, where I know I'm being stared at even through the blanket. I know how to ignore it.

The locket is a hot coal in my hands, illuminating the dark pocket as the last of the photo smoulders.

A long while passes.

Then, somebody's sittin' down next to me.

They don't move for a long while, just a comforting heat at my side.

Then they lift the blanket up, and it's Dad, pulling it over his head so we're both hiding under it.

'She's gone,' I fill him in before he can ask, just in case he ain't already know. For real, this time.

He saw. 'I know.'

'It was Rick.'

A pause. 'I know.'

'Did you punch him?'

'Did you want me to?'

I think about it for a moment, tracing the smear inside the locket door, before shaking my head. 'No.'

I know it's stupid. It's just a photo, but it was the only one I had. I won't be able to see her face whenever the feeling strikes anymore, or if I find myself missing her more than usual. I'm already committing the photo to memory so I don't forget her face.

'He said Shane gave it to you.' He signs, more of a musing than an accusation. 'I didn't know that.'

I never told him where I got the locket. It could've been from Beth, Maggie, Lori. Anyone but Shane.

No point lying, now. 'Well, now you do.'

'Why did you keep it?'

I don't know. 'I missed him.'

He fails to say anything for a minute or two, but then he picks his hands up again. 'Do you still miss him?'

You're allowed, Carl muttered into my shoulder that night.

'Yeah.'

'You know he was a piece of shit, don't you? '

I scoff through my nose. That ain't even the half of it. 'Yeah. I know.'

He eyes the locket, as if wanting to take it away from me.

My fingers curl around it protectively, holding it to my chest.

It's mine. He's gonna have to fight me for it.

He studies my face for a while, but we both know he's not gonna fight me. No. Instead, he pulls the blanket down, tucking it around my shoulders. I force out a sigh and rest my head on his chest, feeling him stroke his thumb up and down the slope of my cheek.

After the rest of the group see I'm more or less alright, they lay their heads back down.

The window sits there, pulsing orange.

Both the moon and Rick are exactly where they were before. He's back to consulting the stars, this time, without the light.

Author's Note.

So, I've obviously decided to spend a little more time with the group before we reach the prison. I'm anxious to get us to season three, but I just felt like there's some story beats left over from the farm that could use their own space. I hope you enjoyed it! :)

Heads up - You can expect only one more Winter chapter after this one.

Please let me know what you think of the new dialogue format, with everyone using sign language now. It's not permanent, seeing as Harley will have her hearing aids back once the weather gets warmer, but she's still 95% deaf and will rely on ASL most of the time.

It was a bit of a bold move to fully lean into Harley's disability, but in my opinion, it was the only natural progression. I did a bit of googling, and to the best of my knowledge, everything here is anatomically realistic and accurate. Oh, and so is all the ASL! :)

However, there isn't actually a river separating Newnan and Sharpsburg... Shhhh! ;)

One last thing. This story's playlist has gotten quite a lot bigger. Check it out!

I'll be working hard on the next chapter! Thanks for reading 💙

#twd #fanfic #the walking dead #daryl dixon #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon daughter #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #angst #rick grimes #glenn rhee

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monstraduplicia · 1 month

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when people use the term trauma bonded wrong I become not unlike a feral dog clinging by my teeth to a chain link fence

#its when a person bonds with the person that is traumatizing them and feels they cannot live without their abuser #not when two people go through trauma together and bond #does no one look up definitions anymore and just go by vibes #txt

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timeforbedwolfstar · 2 months

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Finding Home - Chapter 1

One day, it occurred to me that the moving things I had to push out of the way and fight for the rich, warm, life-giving milk were my siblings. I cannot express my disappointment enough.

The day I realized this was the day my blurry eyes opened. As my mother, a pure-black dog with pointed ears, blue eyes, and a thick, double coat, licked my teeny body with her warm pink tongue, I blinked up at her, trying to both clear my foggy eyes and beseech her to get rid of my siblings. I wanted her all to myself, now and forever.

It didn’t happen, and it did no good to dwell on a dream.

As my sight cleared, I grudgingly accepted the others’ presence in the nest. Which was just as well — they were fun to play with when sleeping got boring or I needed someone to chew on.

The first time I tottered out from the warmth of Mother, my paw pads came into a rough, scratchy surface. Several steps later, the rough surface gave way to a surface soft and rough at the same time. It smelled very, very good.

Utterly confused, I tried to return to Mother, but I was disoriented from exploring and I yelped with fear. Sharp teeth clamped down on the scruff of my neck, and I whined in pain. But I was returned to Mother’s warmth, which seemed like the important thing. I buried myself under a sister and fell asleep.

I had learned the hard way that I couldn’t return to Mother without her, so the second I woke up from my nap I left her again. She sighed deeply as she set me down, but I could sense that she liked my adventurous spirit.

There was a man who came by our kennel every day. He had a mop of sandy brown hair on his head, deep amber-gold eyes, and scars criss-crossing his hands and face. Some days he entered the kennel and looked us over, running his hands down our backs and talking to us. Other days, he stood just outside it, strange dogs lashed to his waist, checking something off on a thin slab of wood. The black belt had two rings on its front, and dog leashes extended from each one, ending on the dogs’ collars or harnesses.

From the moment I was old enough to see him clearly for the first time, I was mesmerized by the man. I longed to be one of the dogs by his side, going who knows where and loving every second of it. I longed to feel his hand in my fur every single day for the rest of my life. There was a reason I loved him so much. I could feel it deep inside my tiny body.

As a result, every day, I was the first puppy at the kennel door whenever I so much as smelled him, and the last one to leave after he was gone. The days he didn’t enter the kennel were the worst days of my life.

As we entered that stage of life where we never wanted to be near Mother yet always wanted her around, the man began to let us out of the kennel for short periods of time.

Directly in front of our kennel door was a long stretch of grass that I mentally called the Yard. The Yard was grassy and full of excellent smells, which made me jump inside whenever I smelled the man over them. We had a full run over the Yard despite what seemed like hundreds of other dogs’ smells.

A chain-link fence divided the Yard into two parts. On our side, it was Mother, my three brothers, and my four sisters. On the other side, it was what looked like hundreds of dogs, each of them resembling each other in build and general looks, but each of them being completely different. Some of them had lots of black and very little white. Others had lots of white and very little black. A few were a pale, creamy white color. One of them, who I determined through careful examination to be the Top Dog, was light red-brown with thick strokes of deep red on his shoulders and topline.

Every day after we were let out into the Yard, the man would enter our kennel, clip a leash onto Mother’s collar, and hold her back while he let us run free in the Yard. When we had finished feeding on the soft goop he brought us as food, he would let her run free with us.

As the days stretched into weeks, he began to lead Mother out of the Yard and let her roam in the Big Yard. The first time this happened, we ran like mad on our side of the fence while Mother reacquainted herself with the pack. As this happened more often, we began to not care.

We didn’t notice when Mother never returned.

The man seemed to like me more than the other puppies. He always called me “Prongs,” as if that was a special word I was supposed to respond to. The name felt natural and familiar, and as the weeks stretched into months, I grew so used to the sound that I turned toward him every single time my sharp ears heard it.

The snow we had grown so used to seeing over the course of our short lives was beginning to melt the day everything changed.

The man entered the Yard with a collar and leash in hand. The collar was nylon, and fit close to my neck. He had a stiff leash in his other hand, which, after sliding the collar over my head and adjusting it to fit my neck, he snapped on to lead me away from my siblings.

They rushed the fence after the man closed the gate, but none of them managed to escape. (Which was good — perhaps if they had escaped, I never would have learned my place with the man.)

The man turned his back on the other puppies, and I paced before him. I was unused to being outside the kennel, and it was a strange feeling to have freedom without any freedom.

“Prongs,” the man said, in a tone that was strangely soothing. I had been hearing this man speak my entire life, and yet, this was a way my name had been spoken that I had never heard before.

I decided I liked it.

The man offered me his hand to sniff, and though I knew his scent by heart, I stopped pacing and sniffed it politely.

Trying to understand what he wanted, I wagged, looking up and meeting his deep amber gaze. With his left hand, he held my leash, preventing me from leaving his side. My eyes left his for a moment, drinking in the surroundings that were so familiar from inside the Yard, and so different now that I stood outside it.

“Prongs,” the man said again. I looked up at him and wagged harder. He reached out and rubbed his hand on my head.

I noticed he was wearing the black belt again. (In the days to come, I would think of that belt as The Belt. He always wore it when we were training.) I wagged even harder at his touch.

The man started walking, his hand still gripping my leash. As the collar tightened on my neck, I decided I had no choice but to follow. The shortness of the leash prevented me from walking too far ahead of him, and stopped me from falling behind.

“Good boy, Prongs,” the man said.

The training continued in that fashion until I could reliably walk at his left side at a loose hold. In the first few days, I tried to chew through the leash, but the cable-filled rope was uncomfortable against my puppy teeth, and I stopped.

The man switched out my leash for a looser, more comfortable walking leash. It kept me closer to his side, but I found it didn’t bother me so long as my collar was loose and comfortable. I learned the command “heel,” which translated to “stay by my left side at all times.” I also learned “on by,” which instructed me to ignore whatever I found interesting.

One day the man came to the Yard with a new piece of equipment; a harness. The red harness settled over my chest and shoulders, and was padded everywhere it touched my body. I loved it.

The man snapped a leash to my collar and to the back of my new red harness and taught me a new command that day — “line out.” It meant “put pressure on the harness and stand in front of me.”

The new command was only ever used in harness. I learned to employ the pressure whenever I heard Line Out. It became second nature for me, and so easy to perform I felt as if I’d been doing it my whole life. (Which, in a way, I had, but I didn’t think about that. Such Deep Thoughts were not for a dog to think about.)

The day my brother was taken, everything changed once again.

It wasn’t his fault. The man had been training him as diligently as he was training me. If anything, it was the lady’s fault.

Every so often, new people would come to the man’s house. These people would pace around our Yard, examining the dogs in the Big Yard. Some dogs were shut up in their kennels, while others were let out in the Big Yard. Sometimes dogs left, and sometimes dogs didn’t.

The ones that left never came back.

The first few times the people came, my siblings and I were kenneled together. The fourth time they came, my sisters were kenneled next to us. Shortly after this, I was taken to a place that reeked of chemicals, and for days afterward I was forced to wear a stupid, flimsy plastic collar and my belly hurt terribly. My brothers, fortunately, all suffered the same treatment that I did, and we were all relinquished by the terrible pain soon afterwards.

The people would admire us, and sometimes certain dogs were taken out of their kennels and paraded around by the man. It was never my siblings who were taken out. We were deemed too important to be taken, and it never crossed my mind that we would be. Of course, that was not to be.

The lady pulled up in a blue pickup truck. Our kennels were placed behind the Yard, so the only way to get to the kennels without going through the Yard was by a door leading to a hallway that enclosed the kennel we were raised in, which currently stood empty.

The lady was led into the Feeding Area, as I had mentally deemed it, and was led down the aisle to the kennel I shared with my brothers. The man entered our kennel, slipped a collar around my brother Koda’s neck, and led him out to show the lady. (To this day, I cannot remember what she looked like, only that she smelled like dogs.)

She made impressed noises and took Koda’s leash from the man. “I have high hopes for this one, Remus,” she said, “as I always do for one of yours.”

The man, Remus, made a fake little bow that I saw through at once. “Of course. I do my best with all of my pups.” I hated his tone, and shuddered inwardly. I made a vow to ignore him if I ever heard that tone again.

The lady gave a stupid little laugh and turned away. I never saw her, or my brother, again.

Koda wasn’t my only birth brother to leave. Eventually, I was the only one of my litter to have stayed at Remus’ place. I continued on in my training, eventually improving enough to be given a new harness. This one went from the middle of my withers to the base of my tail, and made an X over my back. I loved it even more than my old one.

The day I was given the new harness, I was attached to a team for the first time. The harness was slipped over my collar, my paws were put through the holes, and it was pulled down my body to rest against my shoulder blades. Remus led me over to a dog he called Hera, one of the older females of the adult pack.

Hera had a predominantly white coat with a few flecks of black and grey along her topline. Her left paw was jet-black, giving the impression that it was coated in something foul. Hera greeted me with a kind wag, allowing Remus to snap me into place beside her.

There were eight other dogs, aside from Hera, on the team. All of them were older and bigger than me. Hera and I were just in front of two big, burly males named Geralt and Loki.

Remus stood behind Geralt and Loki, on a big vehicle that smelled like gasoline and had a thick rope attached to it. The rope ran up between all of us dogs, a black line that kept us running together. Shorter black ropes sprang out from along its length and snapped to the ends of dog harnesses ahead of me. I could only guess that Remus had attached a black rope to the back of my harness as well. A black rope that extended next to me was looped around the mainline and snapped to my collar. Beside me, Hera’s collar was attached to the same black rope. Even though I had grown used to Remus running behind me, and had grown used to pressure in the harness, I had a feeling that I’d be experiencing something entirely different.

And I was correct. “Line Out!” Remus ordered, and I walked forward, placing pressure in my harness. Beside me, Hera did the same, and behind us, I felt Geralt and Loki following the command as well.

“Ready!” Remus called, and suddenly Hera was tensing her muscles. I felt lost. I’d never been taught that word before. I leaned harder into the harness, hoping it was enough. Behind me, Geralt and Loki backed up against the vehicle behind them, pulling the harness even deeper against my body.

“HIKE!” Remus bellowed.

Startled, I jumped into action, straining against the harness. Hera started to trot, and I followed her lead, keeping the pressure in my chest as I’d been taught.

We ran for only half an hour, and it was the best day I’d ever had. When it was over, I danced with pride when Remus came to remove me from the team.

“You liked that, Prongs, didn’t you?” Remus asked, laughing as I jumped up to lick his face. “Yeah, you did. Good boy. Good boy.”

I was a good boy, but I was also something even better.

I was a sled dog.

#the marauders #james potter #prongs #remus lupin #wolfstar #marauders

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