gullemec

[gullemec]

Reunion

Golden Ruin - Chapter Eleven

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You've finally been reunited with the man you love and the people you call family. Will it be enough for you to make it out unscathed, or will Homelander get what he truly wants?

Warnings: canon-typical violence and gore, description of injuries and torture/abuse, Homelander, description of a reader having a panic attack, death/dying, smut, unprotected P in V, fluffy butcher, HEA (like i promised <3)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 13.9k

Seeing him again feels like falling back to earth.

You knew he was coming, knew he was alive, and still, there was some part of you that refused to truly believe it until you could lay eyes on him yourself. He looks healthy, maybe a little thinner than when you saw him last, and the shadows under his eyes are more pronounced but… He’s your Butcher all the same.

It hits you then, what he’s here to do. To sacrifice himself for you, for the Boys. Your freedom in exchange for his life. There’s no plan here, no daring rescue. This is the end.

You hold his gaze, trying to let him see everything you can’t say aloud.

I love you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

You can’t say for sure, but you think he understands. Tears prick your eyes before you can stop them. Whatever happens next, at least you got to see him one more time, to feel his presence in the room with you. 

You realize Homelander is watching this silent exchange between you, and his smirk falters. His eyes narrow, assessing Butcher before flicking over to Soldier Boy. He seems displeased, almost, but he quickly recovers, contorting his face back into his signature dead-eyed smile.

“Well, well. The gang’s all here,” he coos, leaning casually against the table, like he’s hosting a dinner party and not a hostage situation.

Butcher stops in the middle of the room, his dark eyes scanning the group. When his eyes sweep over you, they linger for a fraction too long, and it feels like a condemnation and a blessing all at once. He’s assessing you, making sure you’re okay. You’re not and he knows it, and it kills him. Then his eyes shift to Homelander.

“Let’s get this over with,” he growls.

Homelander saunters forward, hands clasped behind his back, like a predator circling prey. “Oh, no need to rush, Butcher. We were just having such a delightful chat. Your little crew here is such a lovely bunch. So loyal. You must be so proud.”

Butcher’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond. His silence is louder than any threat could be.

Homelander chuckles, shaking his head. “You know, I’ve got to hand it to you. You lasted a hell of a lot longer than I expected. Most people fold after the first crack in their little team. But not you. Not even when I dragged Annie out of that little charity event, or when I had Frenchie and MM’s arrests broadcasted on every news channel. Radio silence. Impressive, really.”

He stops directly in front of you, leaning down so his face is level with yours. “But then I got her,” he says, dropping into a satisfied whisper. “And you came running. Just like I knew you would.”

You clench your fists under the table, forcing yourself not to shrink away from him.

Homelander straightens, turning his attention back to Butcher. 

“You’re a sentimental old dog, aren’t you? But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean…”  He pauses, his smirk sharpening, becoming crueler and hungrier. “I didn’t realize you were a family man. If I’d known she was pregnant, I might’ve put more effort into finding her sooner.”

The words detonate like a bomb.

The room freezes.

Butcher’s eyes snap to you, widening in shock. His mouth falls open, his brows pulling, like he doesn’t quite believe the words at first, like he’s looking for the truth in your face.

But you can’t lie to him. Not here, not now.

You mouth I’m sorry.

His face falls, just for a fraction of a second, before hardening again into a mask of pure coldness. His hands clench into fists at his side, eyes swinging over to Homelander, pure malice radiating off him in waves.

Homelander’s grin grows impossibly wider, his eyes sparkling with glee. “Oh?” he says, tilting his head like an amused child. “You didn’t know? Oh, this is just… delicious. This day keeps getting better and better!”

A sob breaks free from your chest, tears streaming down your cheeks as your heart pounds against your ribs. You feel every pair of eyes in the room turn to you, but you can only look at him. 

“Butcher…” Your voice cracks. “I-I’m sorry. I–”

“I’m sorry,” Homelander mocks, affecting a high-pitched falsetto. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Didn’t think he deserved to know? Or were you just waiting for the perfect moment to drop that little bombshell? Gotta say, this was a pretty good one.”

You ignore him, keeping your eyes locked on Butcher. If this is the last time you ever get to see him, he needs to know. “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I should’ve told you. I-I didn’t know how, and then everything happened, and –”

“Enough,” Butcher growls. His eyes drop to the floor, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks ready to snap.

Homelander claps his hands together, the sound loud and jarring in the tense silence. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. This is riveting.”

“Homelander,” Butcher spits. He lifts his head, his eyes blazing with barely contained fury. “You’ve had your fun. Now, let’s get this over with.”

Homelander raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show. “So eager. Don’t you want to savor the moment a little longer? I mean, come on, Billy. It’s not every day you find out you’re going to be a daddy.”

Butcher doesn’t respond, his silence more damning than any words could be.

Finally, Homelander sighs, feigning disappointment. “Fine, fine. But it’s fitting, you know? Her being knocked up. Because, you see, this really is a family reunion. Stanley?”

With a casual wave of his hand, Homelander gestures toward the door. It creaks open slowly, and your heart nervously skips a beat.

A man appears in the doorway.

Your father.

The Boys seem to inhale all at once, a collective gasp of disbelief echoing through the room. There he stands. Or rather, he’s being held upright by guards. The once imposing Stanley Morgan is unrecognizable. His clothing, always impeccable, his armor of arrogance and power, are now crumpled and stained. His hair is stringy, his skin pale and waxy, and his eyes… empty. Hollow. Like he’s not even fully alive, not entirely present in his own body.

A cold chill passes through you, like you’ve seen a ghost, because, for all intents and purposes, you have.

“Dad?” The word falls from your lips in a broken whisper.

His head turns slowly, almost mechanically, his lifeless stare landing on you. But there’s no recognition in his eyes, no flicker of familiarity.

“What the fuck is this?” MM mutters from beside you, disbelieving.

Homelander claps his hands together, the sound echoing sharply, jarring you back into the moment. The bastard is basking in the chaos he’s created. “Surprise!” he crows, absolutely fucking gleeful with cruel amusement. “Don’t you just love a good family reunion? So heartwarming.”

He gestures toward Stanley, who wavers on unsteady legs. “The long-lost father, back from the dead. Well… not quite dead. But close enough.”

The room stares in stunned silence. Confusion and disbelief and horror ripple across the faces of everyone present. Even Soldier Boy, who up until now seems wholly unaffected by the scene, narrows his eyes at Stanley, his expression twisting into disgust.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe. If it weren’t for the stutter of your heartbeat and the sensation of tears on your face, you would swear you were dreaming right now. God, you wish this was all just a nightmare, that you’ll wake up and find yourself back on the springy mattress of the cottage.

“How…” Hughie squeaks out. “How is this even possible?”

Homelander doesn’t answer right away, savoring the fear and confusion like it nourishes him. He steps forward leisurely, stopping in front of you. 

“Funny story, actually,” he begins, all faux sincerity. “Turns out, ol’ Stan here didn’t quite die in that little CytoGenix explosion, did he? No, he survived, thanks to being injected with V2. But you didn’t even bother to look for him, did you? Just thought he was dead and buried, nice and neat.”

Anger and grief storm inside you, threatening to consume you. 

“Why are you doing this?” you force out through gritted teeth. “What did I do to you?”

Homelander chuckles, low and menacing, the sound crawling under your skin. In one swift, terrifying motion, his hand darts out, grabbing the back of your neck. His grip is like iron, unyielding and cold. You see Butcher jump in your periphery.

He leans in close, his breath hot and venomous against your ear. “Why?” he hisses.  “Well, sweetheart, you screwed me out of a lobotomized Supe army, so jot that down.”

His grip tightens for a brief, agonizing moment, and then just as suddenly, he releases you with a shove. The force sends you reeling, and the room tilts around you. Before you can hit the ground, MM’s strong hands catch your shoulders, steadying you.

“But more importantly…” he continues, spreading his arms wide like he’s delivering a grand proclamation. “I’m doing this... because we’re family.”

The air is sucked from the room. The silence is deafening. Every eye in the room is on him, trying to parse the meaning of his words.

Homelander’s smile widens, a predator savoring its cornered prey. 

“You see,” he chirps, “when I dragged your dear old dad off the streets and brought him back to Vought for a little... cleanup, I got curious.” His tone is casual, conversational, but his eyes are black and shark-like as they flick between you and Butcher, his hatred on full display.

“Now, I already knew V2 was powerful,” he continues, pacing leisurely, hands clasped behind his back like a smug professor giving a lecture to an enraptured classroom. “Hell, I personally funded half of the V2 trials. But becoming a walking bomb? Now that’s different. That’s... special.”

He pauses, turning to face the room, his expression theatrically contemplative. “So, naturally, I started digging. And oh, did I find some fascinating things.” 

His smirk deepens, his eyes locking on Soldier Boy. “Turns out, Stanley Morgan isn’t just your average Supe experiment gone wrong. Oh, no, no, no. He’s... well, let’s call him a legacy project.”

Soldier Boy steps forward, his jaw tightening. “What the hell does that mean?” he growls.

Homelander stops pacing, turning to face Soldier Boy with an expression of mock innocence, like the answer is painfully obvious. “Oh, I thought you’d have figured it out by now, big guy. After all, it’s your legacy I’m talking about.” He lets the silence stretch before twisting the knife deeper. 

“Stanley here isn’t just any Supe. He’s your son.”

In an instant you’re plunged into unreality, the world around you moving in slow motion, sound filtering to your ears as if through water.

Soldier Boy’s face slackens, confusion twisting his features into a grimace as he takes a step forward, fists clenched. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” he snaps. A guard shifts to block his path, but he barely notices. “I don’t have a son.”

Homelander’s grin only widens, a Cheshire cat delighting in its game. 

“Oh, but you do,” he purrs. “Back in the ’60s, you had a little... Let's call it an indiscretion with a Vought secretary. What was her name? Susan? Sally? Ah, it doesn’t matter. Ring any bells?”

Soldier Boy’s brows furrow as his mind races, the gears turning. But he says nothing, his silence betraying a sliver of doubt.

Homelander seizes on the moment, circling him like a shark scenting blood. “Of course, Vought couldn’t let a juicy little scandal like that go public, could they? Oh, no. So they covered it up. Took Stanley here away from his mommy before he could even crawl. Kept him in one of their labs, experimenting on him. They wanted to see if your incredible genetics could produce something... Extraordinary.”

He waves a hand toward your father, a silent, broken shadow of a man. “They were disappointed, of course. Turns out, whatever powers he inherited from you were... Underwhelming. A little enhanced intelligence here, a bit of extra durability there, and, ooh, the ability to heal faster than your average Joe. But nothing flashy. Nothing marketable. A dud.”

You feel the blood drain from your face, your stomach twisting into knots. The room starts to close in around you, suffocating and cold. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head like that could undo the words hanging in the air. “No, that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

Homelander doesn’t even glance at you, his focus still fixed on Soldier Boy. “When he didn’t meet expectations, they dumped him in some foster home and wiped all traces of his existence. But here’s the kicker, folks.” 

He spreads his arms, turning to address the entire room like a showman at the climax of his act. 

“Stanley’s existence... his heritage... gave Jonah Vogelbaum an idea. A little experiment of his own. If Supes could pass on their powers through genetics, why not build the perfect Supe from the ground up? Using your DNA.” 

He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. 

“And that’s where I come in.”

The revelation hangs in the air, suffocating. Soldier Boy looks like he’s been punched in the gut, his eyes wide as he stares at Stanley, who stands silent and broken, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the truth. You feel tears sting your eyes, your hands trembling as you grip the edge of the table. This can’t be real, there’s no way.

“You’re lying,” Soldier Boy finally spits, but he lacks any conviction. “This is bullshit.”

Homelander shrugs, a smug smirk on his face. “Believe what you want. The DNA doesn’t lie. Stanley here? He’s your kid. And because of him, I exist. So, in a way...” He points a finger at Soldier Boy, his smile turning venomous. “You’re my daddy and my granddaddy.”

The room explodes into chaos, voices colliding into a fray of rage and disbelief. MM shouts furiously at Homelander, curses flying from his mouth, and Annie’s eyes flicker, glowing with defiance despite her dimmed powers. Across the table, Kimiko and Frenchie frantically communicate in hurried gestures, clearly trying to communicate to find a way out of this.

Your father crumples to the ground, his legs buckling under him, jaw going slack. The guards quickly move to keep him upright, each holding an arm like a puppet dangling from fraying strings. His head lolls forward, and for a moment, you fear he’s gone, until you notice the shallow rise of his chest.

Homelander, of course, stands tall at the epicenter of the chaos, drinking it all in. His laughter rings out, sharp and grating. He basks in the discord he’s sown, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, like every raised voice and horrified expression is fuel to his fire.

You turn to look at Butcher. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t move. He just stands there, a marble statue amid the storm. His eyes burn with an intensity that freezes you in place, calculating as he silently dissects the scene. You know that look. It’s the look of a man meticulously plotting something, his mind running a thousand miles a minute. That realization keeps you grounded, even as the floor feels like it’s falling out from under you.

Homelander rounds the table, and you feel his presence by the hairs rising on the back of your neck. He stops behind you, leaning down until his lips are almost brushing your ear. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t look so shocked,” he coos. “You’re Vought royalty. That makes you my niece. And Soldier Boy here? Your dear old granddaddy.”

The words hit you like a sledgehammer. For a moment, it’s all too much – the chaos, the revelations, the overwhelming sense of unreality. But then the anger kicks in, burning away the shock. You whip your head around, glaring at Homelander with every ounce of hatred you can muster. “Fuck you,” you spit, the venom in your voice almost surprising even yourself. “You’re a lying piece of shit.”

Homelander’s grin widens, reveling in your disbelief. “Oh, come now. Don’t be like that,” he says, faux hurt lacing his words. He tilts his head, studying you like you’re an entertaining curiosity. “I mean, look at you. Gorgeous, stubborn, full of that little spark of Supe potential. It all makes sense, doesn’t it? Just think about how powerful your baby will be once we start pumping them full of Compound V.”

You shake your head violently, like the motion itself could somehow dispel this nightmare. Your body trembles with rage as you hiss, “I’ll kill you.”

Homelander laughs darkly, a sound that seems to reverberate through the room. “Who would’ve thought? My own niece, threatening to kill me. How delightfully ungrateful.”

He straightens to his full height, his expression shifting from mockery to calculated menace as he turns his attention to Butcher. 

“And you, Butcher.” He shakes his head, looking at Butcher like he’s just stepped in dog shit. “You’ve spent your whole miserable life trying to wipe us out, and here you are, standing shoulder to shoulder with one of us.” He gestures toward you. “You shacked up with a Supe. Let her worm her way into that hollow little heart of yours. And now…” He pauses for effect, his grin widening into something truly vile. “Now your little one is going to have our blood — my blood — running through their veins.”

Butcher’s face twists into something feral, his teeth bared in a snarl as his fists tremble at his sides. You can feel the rage radiating off of him, a palpable force threatening to detonate at any moment. 

“Shut your bloody mouth,” he warns, eyes like blades.

Homelander, unfazed, takes a step closer to him, his smirk practically daring Butcher to make a move. “Or what?” he sneers. “Go on, Butcher. Do something. Hit me. Try me. Show your new Supe family what you’re really made of.”

The air in the room is electric, like you’re in a stormcloud about to clap. Every muscle in Butcher’s body tenses, and for a moment, you think he might actually lunge at Homelander. But he doesn’t. He stays rooted to the spot, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists tighter, the fury in his eyes tempered by cool control.

Homelander begins to pace again, his boots thudding against the smooth floor. “You know,” he starts casually, as if recounting a fond memory, “This wasn’t easy for me. No, that bitch Ashley fought me every step of the way, begged me to stop what I was doing. Offered me whatever I wanted if I’d just let go of my preoccupation with finding you. The lengths we go to for family, huh?”

He lowers his voice, eyes on Soldier Boy again. “So I took my dear brother on a little... World tour. Russia, mostly. Had to follow the trail of breadcrumbs left behind after Vought dumped you in that freezer. Oh, and the fun we had there. Dragging Stanley from lab to lab, watching those scientists scramble for answers while his skin started to burn.” He chuckles darkly, almost fondly. “Of course, most of those labs didn’t have what I needed. But that’s the beauty of being me – I don’t leave loose ends.”

He raises a hand, miming an explosion with a flick of his fingers, accompanied by a soft boom sound he makes with his lips. “One blast from Stan. Lab gone. Scientists gone. No one left to squeal. Over and over again. Russia’s got a lot fewer labs now, thanks to me.”

You glance toward your father, who remains limp in the guards’ grasp, motionless save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Once a force to be reckoned with, a corporate juggernaut, reduced to a weapon for the selfish whims of a narcissistic super villain.

“And then your little band of merry fuckwits had to go and ruin it.” His voice hitches into a childlike whine. “We were this close to waking him up, to having a little family reunion of our own. And then you clowns came storming in, dragged our father out from right under our noses.” He stops then, shaking his head like he’s amused by the whole thing. “I’ll admit, I was mad about that at first. Really mad. But then I thought, ‘You know what, Homelander? Maybe it all worked out in the end.’” 

He spreads his arms wide, as if to present the room itself as evidence. “Because look at us now. One big, happy family. Grandpa Soldier Boy, Uncle Homelander, dear old Dad Stanley, and you, sweet little niece.” He punctuates the last word with a patronizing smile aimed directly at you.

The room feels like it’s about to implode, either because of the tension or the pure, unbridled rage billowing off you in waves.

“And the best part is…” Homelander continues, taking a moment to glare at each member of the Boys. “We get to celebrate the only way a family like ours knows how. By tearing apart every last one of you.”

Your heart drops.

Homelander’s eyes sweep over the group, his expression brimming with cruel anticipation. “We’re going to take our time. Make it... memorable.” He snaps his fingers sharply, the sound like a gunshot in the weighted silence. The guards immediately stiffen at attention.

“Out,” he orders.

One of the guards hesitates. “Sir, are you sure —”

“I said, out!” Homelander roars, walls practically shaking with the sound. The guard snaps to attention and ushers the others out, none of them willing to test his patience further. And then the door is swinging shut behind them, leaving only you, the Boys, and your father, a crumpled heap on the floor, in the room with Homelander and Soldier Boy.

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the rasp of your father’s breathing and the skittering of your heartbeat. Homelander turns back to you all.

“Now,” he says gleefully, “Where should we start? Decisions, decisions. Should it be MM first? The mouthy one always gets it bad.” He points a finger at Frenchie and Kimiko. “Or maybe those two, they’re adorable, aren’t they? You guys sure do like to fuck the other members of your squad, don’t you?”

He moves toward Butcher, his grin growing impossibly wider. “Or maybe the big bad himself, Butcher. I can’t decide if I should save you for last so you have to watch your team die one by one, or if you should go first, so they all have to see it.”

Butcher doesn’t flinch. “You think you’re so bloody clever. But you’re just another sad little wanker desperate for someone to love you. And your dear ol’ dad here don’t love you.”

Homelander’s smile wavers and in that instant, you see the way his eyes darken, his jaw tightens, as the mask he clings to so desperately slips.

The room holds its collective breath.

“You’ll regret that,” Homelander says, and he’s so calm, too calm, and it terrifies you.

He turns on his heel, pivoting toward Soldier Boy. For a moment, he is a child again, petulant, on the verge of a tantrum, a storm of uncontrolled emotion raging beneath a perfectly manicured facade. 

“Alright, then, Dad,” he says. “Would you do the honor? Show him how we take care of rotten bastards like him in our family.”

Your eyes snap to Soldier Boy, and your breathing quickens. You don’t know this man, not really. He’s a stranger whose blood courses through your veins, a ghost of the past you never asked to confront. He might be your grandfather in the biological sense, but that means nothing. No loyalty, no connection.

Whose side is he on?

You search his face for an answer, but all you find is hesitation. His brows draw together, his jaw shifts, and with a sick twist in your gut, you realize he’s actually considering it.

Homelander steps closer to him, his face softening, demeanour turning into coaxing, pleading. “Listen, I know what it’s like to have your team betray you. But with you and I together, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Nobody would.”

Soldier Boy’s face remains stoic. “Unless we kill each other first.”

Homelander flinches. “Why? Because he says so?” He jerks his chin toward Butcher. “He’s nothing. He’s human.”

The walls seem to constrict, the tension boiling higher as Homelander’s voice falters in a way you’ve never heard before. The invincible god, the untouchable force, sounds... small.

“He ain’t your kid,” Butcher spits from behind Soldier Boy.

“Yes, I am!” Homelander snaps, and a lock of hair falls free from his perfect coif. His fists clench at his sides, his lips curling down in his fury. “I am your son! I am your blood! That’s all that matters!”

“Maybe,” Soldier Boy murmurs.

Homelander drops to one knee beside your father’s slumped body. He drapes an arm around Stanley’s shoulders, propping him up like a broken doll. “And this is my brother,” he says softly. “We’re your sons. And her,” he adds, tossing a glance your way. “Your granddaughter. You have a family now. You have us.”

There’s a childlike vulnerability in his voice that makes your stomach churn. For all his power, his cruelty, his monstrous actions, you see him now for what he is. A boy who never stopped yearning to be loved.

And with a sickening clarity, you realize how alike you are. The methods may differ, but the hunger is the same. The need to be wanted, to be seen, to be enough. How much destruction have you left in your wake chasing the same elusive dream?

Soldier Boy’s face shifts, softening as he regards Homelander. For a moment, you think he might give in. “It’s a shame I’ve missed... so much,” he says, almost regretful. “I wish I could’ve raised you. Taught you, father to son.”

Homelander’s face crumples. Tears stream freely down his cheeks now, and his jaw quivers as broken sobs escape him. 

“Me too,” he chokes out. “That’s okay. We’re not alone anymore. We have each other.”

The room stills, every breath held, every eye locked on the scene unfolding before you.

Soldier Boy steps closer, closing the gap between them. He places a hand on Homelander’s shoulder, fatherly, almost gentle. “Maybe if I’d raised you...” His voice trails off, and for a fleeting moment, it seems like reconciliation is within reach.

Then he twists the knife.

“Maybe I could’ve made you better,” Soldier Boy says, hardening. “And not some weak, sniveling pussy, starved for attention. But there’s no fixing that now.”

The words are a thunderclap.

You can’t suppress the shocked laugh that bursts from you, half gasp, half giggle, before you slap a hand over your mouth.

Homelander’s expression shatters. His tears freeze mid flow, and his face falls, twisted in disbelief. His lips part, but no words come out. Finally, he whispers, “Weak? I’m... you.”

“I know,” Soldier Boy replies without hesitation. “You’re a fucking disappointment.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Homelander stares at Soldier Boy, his expression hollow, his mind visibly fracturing under the weight of the words. And then, slowly, the hollow look fades, replaced by something far more terrifying.

Pure, unbridled rage.

With a roar that shakes the very foundation of the building, Homelander lunges at Soldier Boy, a blur of red, white, and blue fury.

The impact is explosive. They collide like titans, Soldier Boy throttling Homelander and throwing him across the room, and Homelander landing on V-shaped table, the center of it splintering beneath his weight. The polished wood explodes into shards and shrapnel, fragments blowing into your face, slicing your skin.

Chaos erupts.

Everyone scrambles for cover, chairs screeching against the floor as people dive behind whatever protection they can find. Kimiko pulls Frenchie to safety behind an overturned chair, while Annie grabs Hughie, shielding him as they duck behind a column. Screams and the sound of cracking wood fill the air as Homelander and Soldier Boy grapple, each trying to overpower the other.

But you’re frozen.

Your mind refuses to process the chaos surrounding you, your body paralyzed as your eyes dart around the room, taking it all in. The splintered remains of the table, Homelander and Soldier Boy locked in a frenzy of punches and screams, your father lying on the floor, the sheer carnage of it all. It’s too much, too fast.

A deafening crash pulls your attention back to the center of the room. Homelander’s fist slams into Soldier Boy’s jaw, sending him reeling. Soldier Boy counters with a brutal punch to Homelander’s ribs that sounds like a thunder clap. The floor beneath them groans under the weight of their fight, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the impact.

Your eyes flit frantically, searching for something — anything — to ground you. Your eyes find Butcher, almost instinctively.

He’s not diving for cover like the others. He stands perfectly still, his body rigid, his eyes locked on you. For a moment, you can’t breathe. His face is unreadable, but there’s something in there that forces you to release a breath you didn't realize you were holding. A reminder of why you’re here, why you’re all here.

He’s on you in an instant, cutting through the chaos. His hand grabs your arm and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s pulling you into his chest.

“Come on, love,” he mutters, but there’s a tremor there that betrays his composure.

You barely have time to react before he’s dragging you toward one of the larger pieces of the broken table now toppled on its side. He pushes you down behind it, his arm wrapping protectively around your shoulders as he crouches down beside you.

The sounds of battle rage on around you, the deafening explosions of their fight tearing through the room. But all you can hear is the frantic pounding of your own heart, the world narrowing to the shelter of Butcher’s arms and the broken piece of wood shielding you both.

He pulls you closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, “Stay down. No heroics, alright?”

You nod, though you’re not sure he even sees it. Your whole body is trembling, the adrenaline coursing through you like fire.

Butcher peeks over the edge of the splintered table, eyes scanning the chaos unfolding in front of him. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, and you can barely hear him over the roar of Homelander and Soldier Boy’s clash. His hand tightens on your shoulder, anchoring you, pulling you back from the edge of panic.

His touch sends a jolt through you, equal parts comfort and pain, grounding you in the moment but still tearing at the wounds you’ve carried since the day he walked away. His proximity is overwhelming, the very sight of him blurring everything around you into nothingness. All these months, you’ve thought about this moment in your mind, this reunion, wondering and wishing and weeping. And now, as he crouches beside you, he is both impossibly real and a spectre, a figment conjured by your desperate, delusional mind.

You can’t help yourself. Trembling, you reach up, your fingers brushing against the rough stubble of his jaw, like touching him is the only way to confirm he’s real.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Tears spill unabashedly over your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Billy. I should have told you. I should’ve said something before I left. If I’d known… If I’d known —”

 “Hush, love,” he cuts you off gently, his voice a stark contrast to the carnage around you. The softness in his tone is a balm and a blade all at once. He leans in closer, so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. “None of that, alright? Ain’t the time for regrets. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Before you can respond, he dips his head and presses a kiss to your hairline, lingering there for a moment. His breath shudders against you as he inhales deeply, like he’s committing this small, fleeting moment to memory. When he pulls back, his hazel eyes meet yours, and what you see there terrifies you.

Tears glisten at the edges of his lashes, though he blinks them back quickly. His face is a study in contradictions. There’s tenderness, an aching kind of care that you’d almost forgotten he was capable of. But behind it, there’s fear. Not for himself, but for you. A fear so visceral, so consuming, it makes your stomach turn.

You know what he’s thinking. He doesn’t believe he’s getting out of this alive. But he’s made peace with it. He made peace with it the moment he walked into this room. He’ll gladly give up his life if it means saving yours.

“No,” you say, the word escaping you in a breathless whisper. You shake your head, gripping his face tighter like that might anchor him here, keep him tethered to you. “No, Billy. Don’t do this. Don’t you dare leave me, not again, don’t you dare.”

He swallows hard, his eyes flicking away for the briefest of moments before returning to you, steady and resolute. “Ain’t got a choice, love. You know that.”

Your heart cracks open, the weight of everything you’ve left unsaid crashing down on you all at once. 

“I love you,” you blurt out, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. Your lips tremble, but you force yourself to keep going. “I love you, Billy. I’ve always loved you. I love you so much it hurts, and I-I don’t care if you don’t want this baby, or if you don’t love me back, or if we both die in here tonight. I just need you to know. I love you.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, and your heart lurches painfully. Then, slowly, something shifts in his expression. His lips part, his breath catching, and for the first time, the steely mask he always wears shatters.

“Oh, you silly girl. I love you. Of course I love you,” His voice cracks, a tear falling quick right down his face. His hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away the tears staining your cheeks. “How could I not?”

The question is rhetorical, but it steals the air from your lungs.

“You think I’ve spent all this time fighting, bleeding, losing everything worth a damn in this world, just to let you walk out of it? You’re all I’ve got, love. You always have been. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt that for a second. I love you, I love you.”

Your breath hitches, and for a beautiful, blessed fraction of a second, the world outside the shattered piece of wood shielding you both ceases to exist. There’s only him. His voice, his touch, his love. You grab onto both sides of his face and press your mouth to his, and your bodies collide like you need each other more than air.

“Now,” he says, pulling back as the sounds of battle roar back into focus. “We’re gonna get out of here. Both of us. You hear me? No bloody heroics. Just you and me. You fight like hell, and I’ll do the rest.”

You nod, your lips trembling into a weak smile despite the tears still falling. “Okay,” you whisper.

Butcher’s grip on you tightens, and he presses a quick, desperate kiss to your mouth before glancing back over the edge of the broken table. The fight rages on, and you know the moment of peace is over. But you’re no longer frozen. You’re no longer afraid.

The sound of cracking bone pulls you from the moment, and you dare to peek over your cover. Homelander has the upper hand now, forcing Soldier Boy onto his back and slamming him into the ground with enough force to crack the floor beneath them. The  other half of the table is reduced to little more than shards and rubble, scattered across the floor like a  mosaic.

Homelander presses his forearm against Soldier Boy’s throat, his face twisted up in rage and desperation. "Stay down, old man!" he snarls. Soldier Boy struggles beneath him, his teeth bared, but the weight of Homelander’s power bears down on him.

Then, Homelander’s eyes dart across the room, landing on Stanley’s crumpled body. “Stanley!” he bellows. “Get up, you useless piece of shit!”

You flinch at the venom in his words, your breath catching as your eyes dart to your father. He’s still slumped where the guards left him, his head hanging low, his body slack. For a fleeting moment, he doesn’t react, doesn’t move, and you pray he’s too far gone to hear.

But then, slowly, he stirs. His head lifts, his eyes glassy at first, but something in Homelander’s voice seems to ignite a spark.

“Did you hear me?!” Homelander snarls, his grip on Soldier Boy tightening. “I said get up! Do something for once in your pathetic life! You’ve got my blood in your veins, and all you’ve ever done is waste it. You’re a joke. A failure. You’re not even worth saving!”

The taunts hit like blows, each one eliciting a flinch from his crumpled body. You feel a lump rise in your throat, your stomach twisting in knots. Your father, beaten and broken, is responding to the words. You see his hands twitch, his shoulders tense, and then his head jerks up fully. His eyes burn with an all too familiar anger. 

You glance down at his hands and see a weak red glow pulsing beneath his skin. It flickers like an ember, growing brighter with each passing second. 

How fitting, you think. Anger was always his greatest weapon, his power even before V2 coursed through his body. 

Butcher catches the shift in your expression and follows your gaze to your father. He sees it too. The red light rippling just beneath the surface of his skin, spreading like a slow burning fire. "Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath.

"Stop him," you plead, gripping Butcher’s arm tightly. "Billy, you have to stop him. If he goes off —"

Butcher’s jaw tightens, and he looks at you with resignation. “There’s nothin’ we can do, love," he says quietly, his eyes flicking back to your father. “Not now.”

Your father rises unsteadily to his feet, his movements jerky, like he’s hardly in control of his own body. He is wracked with violent tremors, and the red glow intensifies, spreading across his arms, neck, and face.

“That’s it,” Homelander shouts. “Come on, Stanley. Show them what you’re made of. Show them you’re not just some worthless reject. Fight, goddamn it!”

The taunting pushes your father further. His fists clench at his sides, and a low, guttural sound escapes his throat. The air around him begins to hum, vibrating with an unnatural energy. His skin pulses now, the red glow pulsating in time with his racing heartbeat.

Butcher pulls his arm around your shoulder, ushering you out of the room, away from the intensifying heat, but you can’t. You can’t walk away, not yet. You duck out from under his arm. 

“No!” you cry out. “Dad! Don’t do this. Please, you have to stop!”

He can’t hear you, your words are being swallowed by the roar of the fight. His head tilts back, and he roars, a sound so powerful it reverberates in your bones, shaking you to your core. The red light explodes outward, casting the entire space in a neon red glow, and for a moment, everything slows, like the world is holding its breath.

It’s like you’re watching a sick, twisted home video of the worst day of your life almost a year ago.

The lifeless chrome and mahogany of your father’s office. His body sprawled on the ground, shirt torn open exposing his chest where Monica had plunged the vial into his heart. Her screams echoing in your ears. The sickening scent of burning flesh invading your lungs. Smoke choking you, sweat dripping into your eyes. The wet, nauseating crack of your arm shattering.

You feel the air rush from your lungs, like the room is closing in. Your throat claws for breath, your hands trembling as the wave of impending doom crashes over you.

Not now. Not again.

But then, like an anchor tethering you to reality, you hear his voice. Butcher.

“Breathe, baby. You need to breathe,” he says. “We need to get out of here. Come on.”

He’s pulling at you, trying to gather you into his arms, but you shove him away instinctively, your hand pressing to your chest like you can physically force yourself to calm down. The heat rolling off your father intensifies, turning the room into a sauna.

It flashes before you. All of it. Every earth-shattering blow life dealt you, every jagged piece you’ve had to stitch back together. Every time you rose from the ashes, battered but unbroken. For what? To die here, in the Seven’s fucking meeting room? Or to run away, a coward?

No.

No.

You gasp, a heaving breath that scorches your lungs, and brace yourself against Butcher’s steady frame as you force yourself to stand.

“Dad!” you scream. “Look at me! Right fucking now!” You channel all the anger you’ve ever kept inside. Every belittling word, every missed birthday and recital and Christmas. Every time you heard your mother weeping to herself late at night and cursed your father’s carelessness. 

The volume of your voice surprises even you, but it works. His head snaps toward you, his glowing eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you see nothing but rage, blinding, consuming rage. But then, in there, there’s something else. Recognition.

“I don’t know what that asshole’s been telling you,” you continue, fighting against the shakiness of your words. “But you need to listen to me now, okay? I’m your daughter. You remember me. I know you do.”

His eyes flicker, like he’s struggling to process your words. And then, so quiet you can hardly hear it, he says your name. It’s rough, broken, but unmistakable. A question. A prayer.

Your heart clenches, but you push forward. “That man,” you say, pointing a trembling finger at Homelander, “is trying to kill me. He’s trying to kill my friends. And I can’t die right now, okay? Because… I’m having a baby.”

You cough as the heat steals the air from your lungs. It’s unbearable, searing, but you don’t stop. You place a hand over your belly, cradling the life within you, and meet your father’s glowing eyes.

You swear you see a glimmer of knowing, of softness. You know it. It’s rare, but it was there. In those fleeting moments of love he sprinkled throughout your childhood like it cost him greatly to do so. You saw it when he told you to run out of CytoGenix, to leave him behind and save yourself.

“I have a feeling it’s a girl,” you say, softening. “I’m going to name her Katherine. After Mom.”

For a moment, his glowing eyes dim, the red light faltering.

“I’m going to be such a good mom to her, Dad. I just know it. I’m going to be there for her in every way you couldn’t be there for me. And I know why now. I get it. You were never shown how to love the right way. And I’m sorry for that.”

Your body heaves with a sob, tears streaming down your face as you take a step closer. The heat is almost unbearable now, sweat dripping from your brow, but you don’t stop.

“But I can’t do that if I don’t get out of here alive.”

His eyes shimmer with something you’ve only seen in fleeting moments, something buried beneath the rage and pain. Love. You see it in the way his face softens, the way his lips tremble like he’s trying to form words his brain won’t let him make.

“I need your help,” you say, your voice breaking. “Just one last time. Please, Dad. Help me.”

All at once you are both a little girl asking her father to love her, and a mother protecting her own child.

His tears spill over, evaporating into steam the moment they leave his eyes. He takes a step toward you, his glow dimming as his trembling hands reach out.

“Please,” you whisper.

For a moment, the room stills. The chaos fades into the background. It’s just you and him, father and daughter, standing at the edge of the abyss.

And then, with a shuddering breath, he nods.

He turns around and advances toward Homelander.

“Stanley, stop!” Homelander is frantic now, the cocky bravado stripped away. He staggers to his feet, his pristine uniform torn and bloodied, his supreme confidence replaced with pure desperation. “Please! Don’t do this!”

Your father doesn’t stop. His skin glows brighter, the red hot intensity flickering across his body like molten lava. The very air around him shimmers with heat, warping reality, and the low hum of his energy crescendos into an ear splitting whine. He’s a walking bomb, seconds from detonation.

Homelander stumbles back, his hands raised, pleading. “I’m your brother!” he shouts. “I’m your blood! I’m your legacy!”

Your father’s eyes remain locked on Homelander. Steam rises from his clenched fists, his jaw tight like he’s bracing himself for what he knows he’s about to do.

“Dad…” you cry, but it’s too late. You can see it, feel it. The point of no return

Homelander’s hands are raised in surrender, braced forward like they might keep your father where he is. “Don’t do this! We’re family, damn it! I’m all you have left!”

But your father doesn’t hesitate. He picks up speed, his shoes cracking the floor beneath him, the glass walls vibrating with every move. The heat is unbearable now, the room an inferno. You feel Butcher’s arms tighten around you, shielding you from the worst of it, but it doesn’t matter. Your focus is entirely on the unfolding nightmare.

“No! No, no, no! Don’t you dare!” Homelander screams.

Your father lets out a guttural roar, a sound that drowns out everything else. With terrifying speed, he charges at Homelander, the ground quaking beneath him. Soldier Boys ducls away at the last second, and before Homelander can react, your father slams into him, his arms locking around him in an ironclad bear hug.

“Dad!” you scream, lunging forward, but Butcher grabs you, pulling you back behind the broken table.

You watch in helpless horror as your father, glowing like a living sun, pushes Homelander back, crashing into the massive sheet-glass window. The glass shatters into a million shards, the sound pierces your ears as the glass rains down, and the two men disappear into the night sky.

Time slows as you run out from behind the table and rush to the edge, your hand outstretched like you could somehow stop them. But all you see is their silhouettes tumbling together, locked in a deadly, burning embrace, falling toward the city below.

“No!” The word tears from your throat.

A blinding flash of red erupts in the air, followed by a deafening boom that rocks the entire building. The shockwave tears through the room, shattering every remaining piece of glass, ripping paintings from the walls, and knocking you backward.

The heat of the explosion washes over you, searing your skin even from a distance. For a moment, the world is nothing but light and sound, chaos and destruction. 

And then… Silence.

You lie on the floor, shaking, ears ringing, the smell of smoke and burning debris filling your lungs. You manage to push yourself up, your vision swimming, your heart pounding against your ribs. Through the shattered remains of the window, you see the glowing remnants of the explosion fading into the night sky.

Butcher is at your side, gathering you up in his arms, tilting your face up to him. His face is grim, his jaw tight, but his eyes are soft as they meet yours. “You okay?” he asks, searching your face. You nod limply.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says, pulling you in tighter.

You can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t think. All you can do is stare out into the night, where your father, your complicated, broken, infuriating father, sacrificed himself to save you. Again.

The room is a shattered ruin, the air hazy with dust and smoke, but you don’t care. All you feel is the ache in your heart, the unbearable weight of loss, and the flutter of life beneath your hand as you press it to your belly.

The child you carry, his grandchild, will never meet him. But you will tell her. You will tell her everything.

~~~

The night air cuts through you like a knife, but you hardly notice. The cement block beneath you is cold as death, leeching away what little warmth you have left, but you refuse to move. You sit with your arms wrapped around yourself, shivering, your eyes locked on the long dirt road that winds through the dark expanse of the lumber yard. Every shadow catches your attention, every sound a false promise of their arrival. Behind you, the warehouse looms, its rusted walls and broken windows rising like a half-buried skeleton.

It was Butcher’s idea to come here, this old lumber mill tucked away in the middle of nowhere. He said Mallory used it back in the day for covert ops, back when they still had to operate under strict secrecy. Though, you suppose, perhaps it’ll be that way again now. Now that your faces have all been plastered on the news and branded terrorists. 

The place is a goddamn wreck. A cracked asphalt lot stretches in front of the building, weeds sprouting in haphazard lines through the concrete. It’s mind-achingly silent, save for the occasional groan of rusted metal in the wind and the sound of Butcher and MM talking inside.

After your father and Homelander fell, things happened quick. Butcher had bundled you into the van so fast it still feels like a blur. One moment, you were high above Manhattan, surrounded by the carnage of Vought Tower, and the next, you were in the backseat, crammed in with MM and Soldier Boy as Butcher drove like a madman through the city. His orders were quick, and no one had time to question him. Split up, disappear, and regroup here. Safety in numbers would have to wait.

That was hours ago. And still, they haven’t arrived.

You pull Butcher’s jacket tighter around yourself, the leather stiff but warm, its smell, smoke and tobacco, grounding you even as your mind races with worst case scenarios. Your teeth chatter, and you can see your breath in the air in front of you, but you won’t go inside. Not until you see them. Not until you know they’re safe.

The warehouse door groans open behind you, and Butcher steps out. The sound of his sigh reaches your ears before he does, but when he crouches beside you, his presence beside you feels like a barrier against the cold. Without a word, he adjusts the jacket around your shoulders, his touch tender.

“You’re gonna freeze your bloody arse off sittin’ out here,” he mutters. “C’mon, love. They’ll be here.”

You shake your head, your eyes never leaving the road. “I can’t. I need to see them. I need to know they’re okay.”

“You’re too stubborn for your own good, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’ve heard that before.”

Before Butcher can respond, MM and Soldier Boy emerge from the shadows of the warehouse. 

“You still out here?” MM asks. He glances at you, then at Butcher. “Man, you’re gonna catch pneumonia or somethin’.”

“Leave her,” Soldier Boy drawls. “If she wants to sit out here and freeze, let her. Builds character.”

“Shut up, Soldier Boy,” you snap. But there’s no anger there. You’re just exhausted.

You just need to see them, to know they’re safe. To apologize and beg forgiveness and say all the words you wanted desperately to be able to say to them in the cells but couldn’t.

Time stretches unbearably, every second dragging like an eternity. Then, finally, in the distance, a pair of headlights. They’re dim at first, flickering like dying fireflies, but they grow steadily brighter as the ancient sedan crawls up the dirt road, its engine sputtering and coughing. The car looks like it’s held together by duct tape and prayer, rust coating it like armor, one headlight cracked.

Your breath catches. “Is that…?”

Before anyone can answer, the car screeches to a halt, and the doors fly open. Frenchie is the first to emerge, his movements slow and uneven, his face pale. Kimiko follows closely behind, and Annie and Hughie climb out last, both looking worse for the wear but unmistakably alive.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, Butcher’s jacket slipping from your shoulders as you sprint toward them. Your legs feel like lead, but you push through, your heart fluttering wildly.

“Annie!” you cry, throwing your arms around her the moment you reach her. She stiffens at first, startled, but then her arms come around you, holding you just as tightly.

“I’m so happy to see you,” you choke out, tears streaming down your face. “I’m so sorry, for everything. For not telling you about the baby, for running into that tower, for —”

“Hey, hey,” Annie interrupts, pulling back to look at you. Her face is streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but her eyes are soft and full of understanding. “Stop. You don’t have to apologize. You did what you had to do. I get it. I was angry, but… I get it.”

“I put you all in danger,” you insist. “Everything they did to you and you never folded, and I just —”

“You’re here,” Annie says firmly, gripping your shoulders. “We’re all here. That’s what matters.”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. She pulls you into another hug, and this time, you let yourself sink into it, the weight of your guilt easing just a bit.

Behind you, Frenchie limps toward Kimiko, his hand brushing hers as they exchange a silent look. Hughie leans heavily on the car, and MM is already moving to help him inside. Butcher watches the reunion silently from a distance, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his eyes unreadable.

“Well, isn’t this a Hallmark moment,” he drawls. “Can we move the group hug inside before the sappy music starts playing?”

“Shut it,” MM mutters as he walks past, shaking his head.

You laugh, the sound wet and shaky but real, as the group begins to make their way inside. You glance back at the road one last time before following them, the cold night finally starting to feel just a little less unbearable.

~~~

The inside of the warehouse is no warmer than the night outside, but at least it shields you from the wind. The air stinks of mildew and wood rot, the remnants of sawdust still clinging to the corners of the massive room. Old crates are stacked haphazardly against the walls, and a rusted, broken-down forklift sits abandoned near the back. Overhead, steel beams crisscross, their shadows dancing under the light of a single, exposed bulb swinging from the ceiling.

Kimiko is already moving, her eyes scanning the space with practiced efficiency. She finds an old supply locker against one wall and pries it open with surprising ease. Inside are scraps of the past, dusty bandages, bottles of antiseptic long past their expiration date, and a few rolls of gauze. She holds them up, giving you a small nod.

You nod back, grabbing an empty crate and pulling it over to use as a makeshift table. Together, you and Kimiko sort through the supplies, discarding anything too degraded to be useful. Frenchie limps over, his face lighting up when he sees her, despite the obvious pain etched into his features.

“Mon cœur,” he says softly, brushing his fingers against her arm. “Always the resourceful one.”

Kimiko gives him a smile before gesturing for him to sit down. He complies, easing himself onto another crate with a wince.

You grab a roll of gauze and kneel beside him, inspecting his foot. It’s swollen and bruised, clearly broken. You glance up at him, eyes wide.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

Frenchie chuckles, though it’s strained. “Ah, do not apologize. It was not you that did this to me.”

Distantly, you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling so much guilt for what happened to your friends. 

Kimiko places a gentle hand on his shoulder, her silent reassurance grounding him. You grab a couple of splints from the pile and begin wrapping his foot, your movements careful but swift.

Across the room, Annie sits next to Hughie, her hand resting lightly on his arm. He has a gash running along his forehead, and she’s using a damp cloth to clean away the dried blood. Hughie winces, but he doesn’t complain, his eyes never leaving her, like he needs the constant reassurance to make sure she’s really there.

MM sits on the ground nearby, his arm cradled against his chest in a makeshift sling you helped him fashion earlier. He watches Butcher warily, the tension between them a palpable undercurrent despite the exhausted calm.

Butcher, for his part, leans against a stack of crates, his arms crossed. His sharp eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail, every movement. He meets your gaze, his expression softening for a moment before he looks away.

“You’re next,” you tell him, nodding toward the shallow cut along his jaw. It’s not deep, but it needs cleaning.

Butcher smirks. “I’ll live.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather not risk it. Sit,” you order, pointing to an empty crate.

He hesitates, his eyes narrowing, but then he pushes off the wall and sits down. You grab a bottle of antiseptic and a clean piece of gauze, standing close as you dab at the small cuts on his face from the exploding glass. He doesn’t flinch, his eyes fixed on you the entire time.

“And what about you, hm?” he asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” you reply, trying to sound calm despite the hurt in your heart. “Just a couple scratches, that’s all.”

His jaw tics, but he doesn’t respond. The silence stretches between you, swirling with unspoken words, before you step back, tossing the bloodied gauze into a nearby trash bin.

“All done,” you say, trying to sound casual.

Butcher grunts in acknowledgment, rising to his feet and resuming his place against the wall.

The quiet buzz of activity continues as you and Kimiko move from one person to the next, patching up cuts, wrapping sprains, and doing your best with what little you have. Despite the somber mood, there’s a warmth in the room, a sense of rightness in all of you being together again, even after everything.

Annie catches your eye from across the room and gives you a small, tired smile. You return it. You glance at Hughie, who nods at you. MM offers a quiet thanks as you adjust his sling, and Frenchie pats your arm affectionately when you finish with his foot. Kimiko squeezes your hand briefly, her silent way of saying she’s grateful for your help. You squeeze back.

For a moment, the world outside feels distant, its dangers held at bay by the fragile bubble of love and family inside this derelict warehouse. It won’t last, you know that. But for now, it fills the emptiness in you.

~~~

The hum of low voices and the clatter of footsteps echo through the warehouse, but now that everyone has been patched up, you’re left with the reality of your situation. The relief of everyone being here, being safe is soothing, but it doesn’t erase the reality of what lies ahead.

The choices you made, the consequences you will face. 

Butcher stands by the open front door, quiet, his eyes scanning the dark expanse of the lumber yard outside. He exhales, before finally stepping toward the door.

“Back in a tick,” he mutters to no one in particular, pushing the metal door open. It groans loudly, the sound grating, before he disappears into the night.

You exchange a glance with MM, who raises a brow but says nothing. Soldier Boy doesn’t even look up from where he’s rummaging through an old crate. The tension is palpable, though no one dares voice it.

Minutes pass before the door creaks open again. Butcher steps back inside, brushing a hand over his jaw, glancing at each of you before finally speaking.

“Mallory’s on her way,” he announces. “She’ll want to debrief all of us, figure out what’s next.”

That draws murmurs from the group, Frenchie grumbling, while Hughie and Annie share a brief, wary look. MM nods, and Soldier Boy just snorts, clearly unimpressed.

You, however, feel a different kind of tension brewing, the kind that has nothing to do with Mallory or plans or even the dangers outside. Because Butcher’s eyes linger on you now, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression. He scratches the back of his neck, an uncharacteristic hesitance in his movements.

“Oi,” he says quietly, jerking his head toward the far end of the warehouse. “Need a word. Just us.”

The butterflies you’ve been ignoring suddenly take flight, a wild, uncontrollable flurry in your stomach. You knew this was coming. You’ve known it since the moment you saw him enter the room, blessedly alive, back in Vought Tower, when everything was falling apart, and yet… you still aren’t ready.

The others don’t say anything, though MM shoots you a sidelong glance as if to gauge your reaction. Swallowing hard, you nod and follow Butcher as he leads you deeper into the warehouse, away from the others.

He stops in front of a small office tucked into the corner of the building. The door hangs crookedly on its hinges, and the single window is smashed out, but it offers a sliver of privacy. He pushes the door open, the rusted metal protesting with a screech, before stepping inside.

The room is barren, like the rest of the warehouse, dust coating the surfaces, and the remnants of old office furniture are scattered haphazardly. A desk leans against one wall, its surface littered with scraps of paper that look decades old. 

Butcher stands near the desk, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, watching you as you step inside. His gaze is steady, but there’s something in it that makes your heart race, a vulnerability he rarely shows.

You close the door behind you and the butterflies break into a frenzy, battering against your ribcage with a force that makes you dizzy.

This is it.

“Figured we should talk,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “About time, after everything, don’t you think?”

You nod, your throat too tight to form words. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt, the only sound in the room the creak of the old desk as you rest against it.

Butcher sighs, running a hand through his hair before leaning back against the desk. “Look, I ain’t good at this… this talkin’ shite. Never have been. But after everythin’ that’s happened, I reckon we owe each other a bit of honesty.”

Your palms grow sweaty, tears already threatening to form. You knew this was coming, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier.

Butcher exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. His usual bravado is nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a vulnerability that you’re not used to seeing from him.

“We’ve made a bloody mess of this, haven’t we?” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Dragged you into all this chaos, all this pain. Should’ve kept you out of it. Should’ve…” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

You take a hesitant step forward, wrapping his jacket tighter around yourself. “Butcher… You didn’t drag me into anything. I made my own choices. You know that.”

“Maybe. But it don’t change the fact that you deserve better. Better than this… better than me.”

The words land like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. You’ve heard Butcher push people away before, have seen him do it time and time again, but hearing it directed at you feels different. Feels worse.

“I don’t need better,” you say firmly, stepping closer. “I need you. Us.”

He scoffs. “Christ, love, you don’t know what you’re sayin’. I’ve got more blood on my hands than most people’ll ever see in a lifetime. And I’m not done, not by a long shot. The things I’ve done, the things I’ll keep doin’... It ain’t a life fit for you. Or the kid.”

You flinch at the mention of the baby, your hand instinctively resting on your stomach. “You think I don’t know who you are, Butcher? You think I don’t see every piece of you, the good and the bad? I don’t care about any of that. I care about you. I love you. And I know you love me too.”

His jaw tightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He doesn’t deny it. He can’t. But the war inside him bleeds through in the way his shoulders tense, the way his eyes dart away from yours like he’s afraid of what you’ll see.

“You don’t understand,” he says finally, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will. “I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared about. Becca. Lenny. Everyone. And every bloody time, it’s my fault… I’m cursed, love. Everythin’ I touch turns to ash. I can’t… I can’t let that happen to you.”

You take another step forward, closing the distance between you until you’re standing just inches away from him. Your heart is pounding, but you force yourself to stay steady, to hold his gaze.

“I’m not afraid of you, Butcher,” you say softly. “I’m not afraid of what might happen. I’m afraid of losing you because you’re too scared to try. You think you’re protecting me, but all you’re doing is pushing me away. And I won’t let you.”

His breath hitches, and for a fleeting moment, you see his armor crack. A flicker of vulnerability flashes across his face. Vulnerable, scared, human. His jaw clenches, but it’s clear he’s fighting a losing battle with himself.

“And the baby?” he whispers, the words small, like he’s afraid to speak them out loud.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you —” you begin, but he cuts you off, shaking his head.

“I ain’t mad about that,” he says quickly. “Truth is… I don’t blame ya.”

He runs a rough hand over his face, pausing to scrub at his eyes. When he looks back at you, there’s glimmers of unshed tears. It takes your breath away. Butcher doesn’t cry, doesn’t let himself. But here he is, stripped bare before you.

“I’ve got this… this habit, yeah?” he continues. “Of pushin’ people away. ‘Cause I know I’m no good. I’m a bad man, love. Always have been. I ain’t got no business raisin’ a kid.”

“Butcher —”

“How the hell am I supposed to be a father?” he cuts in, a hair's breadth from despair. “Look at me. I’m a bloody monster.”

Slowly, deliberately, you reach up and cup his face in your hands. He flinches at first, his muscles tensing, bracing for something, but when you don’t pull away, he leans into your touch. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, he is a man on the brink of breaking.

“You’re not a monster,” you say firmly. “You’re a man who’s been hurt. A man who’s lost more than anyone should ever have to. But you’re still here, Butcher. You’re still fighting. And that’s all I need. That’s all our baby needs.”

His eyes snap open, and the look he gives you is so intense it feels like it might swallow you whole. For the first time, he’s not looking at you as someone he’s trying to shield or someone he’s afraid of losing. He’s looking at you as his equal. His partner. Someone worth fighting for.

“Christ,” he mutters, letting out a shaky laugh. “You’re bloody relentless, you know that?”

A smile breaks across your face, tears prickling at your eyes. “I learned from the best.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t deserve you, love. Not even close.”

“Maybe not,” you tease gently. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”

For a long moment, neither of you speak, the silence filled only with the sound of your breathing. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. His hold is strong, desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.

“I’ll try,” he whispers into your hair. “For you. For the kid. I’ll bloody try.”

Tears spill over, but you don’t care. You hold him just as tightly, letting yourself sink into the moment, into the promise of something better, even if it’s messy, even if it’s uncertain. It’s enough.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of everything you’ve been through hangs between you, but there’s a quiet understanding now, a truce in the war you’ve both been fighting within yourselves. Butcher holds you, gently swaying, his breath warm against your hair. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his chest, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment.

When he pulls back, his hands frame your face gently, like he thinks you might break. His thumb brushes across your cheek, wiping away a stray tear you didn’t realize had fallen. The tenderness in his touch is disarming, a stark contrast to the roughness you’re so used to from him.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmurs.

Before you can respond, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours. The kiss is tentative at first, testing, but when you don’t pull away, it deepens. His mouth moves over yours with a fervor that takes your breath away, like he’s pouring everything he can’t say into this single act.

You respond in kind, your hands slipping up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. It’s desperate, consuming, but beneath the urgency is something deeper, an unspoken promise, a silent acknowledgment of everything you’ve been through and everything you’re willing to fight for.

Butcher pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. “Are you sure, love?” he asks, almost a whisper. His eyes search yours, looking for any hesitation.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I’m sure.”

He exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Then, without another word, he captures your lips again, this time with even more intensity. His hands trail down your sides, warm and rough against your skin, and you shiver under his touch, not from the cold, but from the heat building between you.

The two of you move together as if guided by instinct, the rest of the world fading away until all that exists is the space between you. He walks you backward until your back meets the edge of the old desk, the wood creaking under your weight as he lifts you onto it. His hands skim under your shirt, the rough pads of his fingers grazing your bare skin, igniting a trail of heat wherever he touches.

You help him shrug off his coat, the fly of his pants, your hands trembling as you tug at the buttons and zipper. He lets out a low chuckle, the sound rough and heady, but there’s no teasing in it, just a shared anticipation that sends a shiver down your spine.

His lips move to your neck, then lower, each kiss a silent confession, a piece of himself he’s giving to you. You arch into him, your hands roaming across the broad planes of his back, holding him to you like you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go.

Every touch, every kiss, every whispered breath feels like a salve against the wounds you’ve both carried for so long. In this moment, there’s no pain, no fear, only the certainty of each other right here, right now.

When he finally presses into you, it’s like the culmination of everything unsaid in the past months between you. His movements are slow at first, savouring it, but they quickly become more urgent, more desperate, like he’s trying to convey everything he feels in the only way he knows how.

You cling to each other like lifelines, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that feels timeless, instinctual. The old desk groans beneath you, but neither of you cares. The world outside might be falling apart, but here, in this moment, you’re whole.

When you finally come undone, it’s together, your breaths mingling as you collapse against each other. He holds you close, his hands stroking your back soothingly as your heartbeats slowly return to normal.

Finally, Butcher presses a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulls back just enough to look at you. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it, the hard edges of his face softened by vulnerability.

“You’re somethin’ special, you are,” he says quietly, eyes glittering with a wet sheen.

“So are you,” you reply, reaching up to rub a thumb across his cheek.

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe you, but he doesn’t argue.

As the two of you hold each other, tangled in the quiet aftermath, Butcher’s hand slowly slides down your side, his fingers grazing the curve of your hip. For a moment, the stillness between you feels like it could last forever. But then, his hand moves lower, hesitating just before it reaches the small swell of your belly.

You feel the heat of his touch before his fingers make contact, and despite everything, despite the weight of what you've just shared, you tense. His touch is tentative, like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to be this close, this gentle.

"Love," he murmurs, his hand hovering above your belly, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed. "Can I…?" His words trail off, and for a second, you think he might withdraw, retreat back to the walls he’s so carefully built around himself.

But then you take his hand, guiding it gently to your stomach. The warmth of his palm spreads over your skin, and you hold your breath for a moment.

Butcher’s eyes soften, and there’s a tenderness you’ve never seen before, something he hides so well behind his tough exterior. He presses his hand against you, like he’s trying to feel the life growing inside you, trying to believe it’s real.

A few seconds later, you feel it. A gentle flutter, a kick, small but undeniable. The baby, responding to the world outside, to the sound of Butcher’s voice, to the touch of his hand.

Butcher freezes. His eyes widen, and you see a shift in him. His fingers move, tentative at first, but then with a surety as he presses gently against your belly again, trying to coax another movement.

“Did you feel that?” His voice is breathy, like he can’t quite believe it. His thumb traces the outline of your belly, and it’s like the weight of everything, his regrets, his pain, his doubts, melt away for a moment.

You nod, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah. It’s really happening, Billy. We’re really going to be parents.”

His hand lingers on your belly, and for a long moment, there’s only the quiet sound of your breathing, of his hand against your skin. His expression is soft,in awe as he lets himself feel the reality of it, the life that’s growing, the life he’s part of, the future he’s afraid to believe in.

“I never thought I’d be… This,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. “Never thought I’d be the one to… I don’t deserve this, love. I don’t deserve you, or the baby. I’ve fucked up too many times.”

You turn your head to meet his eyes, your fingers brushing over his jaw, silencing him with a soft, reassuring touch. "You don't have to be perfect, baby. You don't have to have everything figured out. You just have to be here. That's all you need to do."

He lets out a shaky breath, and for the first time, you see him truly allow himself to be vulnerable. There’s no bravado, no masks. Just a man, a father-to-be, feeling the weight of everything and yet… still here. Still willing to try.

“You’re already a good father,” you say softly. “Just by being here. Just by loving us.”

Butcher lets his hand stay there, on your belly, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of the baby’s kick, a piece of the future that feels too fragile, too precious to let go of.

~~~

Eventually, after a long while spent in your warm little cocoon, the two of you meander back out to the rest of the group.

The door to the warehouse creaks open again, everyone’s heads snapping to attention. Mallory steps in, her sharp eyes sweeping over the group, assessing, calculating. Despite the weariness in the air, there's that familiar, unmistakable authority about her. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing she’s here now.

“Right, listen up,” she starts. “There’s a crater in downtown Manhattan, right outside of Vought Tower. Big enough to swallow half a damn city block. From what we can gather, the impact came from Stanley Morgan and Homelander’s crash. It’s still a fucking mess, but the blast was so powerful that both of them are MIA, presumed disintegrated.”

The room falls into a heavy silence. The words hang in the air, and despite the brief flicker of relief that Homelander might be gone for good, a gnawing uncertainty settles in. No one’s ready to accept the idea that Homelander could be gone, especially when they haven’t found his body. And you certainly aren’t ready to believe your father is dead, not after what happened last time.

“Not confirmed,” Mallory adds. “We can’t rule out that one or both of them survived. We’ll need to start making moves, finding out where they could have gone if they’re still out there. I’ve got people looking into it.”

She looks over at everyone, her eyes lingering on each of you in turn. Soldier Boy, MM, Frenchie, Kimiko, Annie, Hughie. Everyone nods, acknowledging the grim task ahead.

But not Butcher. 

He clears his throat, and everyone turns to look at him.

“I’m out,” he says simply.

The room stills again, his words sinking in like stones in still water. For a moment, no one moves. Everyone's eyes snap to him, confusion and disbelief flickering across their faces.

“What do you mean, you’re out?” Mallory demands, her eyebrows knitting together in disbelief.

Butcher turns to face her, his eyes hard. He stands tall, his broad shoulders set, but there's no arrogance in him now. Only a man who’s made up his mind.

“I started this thing because I had nothing left,” he says. “Vengeance was all I had. I had nothin’ else. But that’s not me anymore. I’ve got a purpose now.” 

He glances at you now, a softness in his eyes that threatens to send more tears cascading down your cheeks. "The woman I love, and our child she’s carryin’."

The room is silent, the implications of his words hitting everyone.

Mallory looks at him, disappointment flashing across her face, but it’s quickly replaced by something else. She’s… impressed. She gives him a long, hard look, like she’s seeing him in a new light, something she never thought possible.

“I didn’t think you had it in you, Butcher,” she says quietly. She then nods at you, then Hughie. “And I will admit, I owe the two of you an apology. I thought I was making the right call removing both of you from the equation but… I fear if you hadn’t gone in when you did, we might not all be standing here right now.”

Mallory watches you, and she can see the weight of everything on your shoulders. After a long moment of quiet contemplation, you speak up.

“I’d like to take you up on your offer,” you say, meeting Mallory’s eye line. “For an official CIA position, once I’m ready to start working again. Given... Well, I’m not really in a position to be on missions anymore.”

Mallory studies you for a moment before the corner of her mouth lifts, nodding. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. And you’ve always been more than just a fighter. You’ll do well.”

You nod, the weight lifting off your shoulders. It’s not the life you thought you’d have, but it feels right.

Butcher stands beside you, a hand resting on your shoulder. There’s no bitterness between the two of you anymore, just a shared understanding. The past can’t be undone, but the future is something you’re both determined to face together.

One by one, the others rally around the two of you, giving their congratulations in their own unique ways. Frenchie and Kimiko pull you both into hugs, telling you they’re going to miss you both. MM pulls Butcher into a bear hug, making him promise to reach out with questions about fatherhood. Soldier Boy gruffly mutters something about family values and that Butcher better marry you now.

Then Annie and Hughie step forward as well, and this particular goodbye hits harder than the others. Your two best friends, the ones who protected you and cared for you at your lowest. Who believed in you. You’re going to miss them the most, if you’re honest with yourself.

Annie’s eyes glisten with tears as she pulls you into a tight hug.

“We better be the godparents,” she whispers into your ear, and you both laugh.

When you pull away, Hughie places a hand on your shoulder.

“We’ve been through a lot, you and I,” he says.

Your first ever mission with the Boys, when you and Hughie broke into the CytoGenix lab. Running through the subway in your pilfered Lost and Found outfits. The mission that, in hindsight, should have been your first warning sign you were pregnant. And the two months spent in each other’s constant presence. 

“You’re family now, you know that right? Both of you.” You want to blame the tears cascading down your cheeks on the pregnancy hormones, but that would be a bold-faced lie. “This baby is going to have the best godparents ever.”

You know they’ll protect your child the same way they’ve protected you. 

“Guess it’s official then,” MM says, and you swear you can see a sheen of tars in his eyes now too. “You two are on your way to something different now.”

You nod, and you allow yourself to feel the weight of what you’ve gained, not just the baby, but the love that’s surrounded you in a way you never thought possible. It feels strange, in a way, but also like the first step toward a new chapter.

You may be in a cold abandoned warehouse, but right now the space hums with love, like a patch of warm sun in the wintertime. People who have loved and lost and decided, boldly, to love again. People who have been through the worst things imaginable and found that little spark of hope and clung to it like hell.

It’s not over, not by a long shot, but you’ve survived. Together.

End.

A/N: I promised I'd deliver on a HEA! I have a wee epilogue coming next week as well! Thanks for the love and support on this little series <3 xoxo

taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @buckybarnesbestgirl

[gullemec]

"Joel killed 19 people." ok?? Am I supposed to care?? God forbid a man has hobbies 🙄

[gullemec]

Together

Golden Ruin - Chapter Ten

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: In the belly of the beast, you find yourself reunited with your lost family. Will you be able to find strength in numbers, or will you find yourselves pawns in the wicked games of Vought?

Warnings: canon-typical violence and gore, description of injuries and torture/abuse, Homelander jumpscare, lactation kink (from Homelander lol), misogynistic language, description of reader having a panic attack, alcohol use

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 11.1k

A/N: Alright we're in the final stretch here folks - only one chapter and then epilogue after this! Thanks for sticking this one out with me!

You move through Vought Tower like a shadow, silent and deliberate, your every step filled with purpose. Like a black cat stalking prey, like a poison dart ready to strike, you cut through the pristine corridors with deadly quiet determination.

The hate, the darkness, the wrath you’ve kept chained up for months slithers free, oozing out of you like a noxious gas. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear it was tangible, rolling off you in suffocating waves, infecting the sterile air of Vought’s inner sanctum with the venom of your fury. The office workers you pass hardly pay you any attention, unaware of the storm brewing just under the surface.

Every step takes you deeper into enemy territory, your very presence in this space setting your body on edge. You try to concentrate, to keep yourself on task, but the memories surface still. You think back to Monica’s confession, the malice woven through her words as she spilled her secrets. She never thought you’d be leaving the office that night, never would have said anything if she had any inkling of what was to come.

Homelander was right, getting involved with your dad was not worth the  hassle.

Vought’s very good at making inconvenient things disappear.

The thought twists like a knife in your belly. If it weren’t for Vought, Monica never would have crossed your father’s path. She’d never have darkened your doorstep, never wormed her way into your life and married your dad and forced you to wear ridiculous outfits and tried to kill you.

If it weren't for Vought, your mother would still be alive today.

You turn to Hughie, who stands behind you, pale and tense. He’s been quiet since you walked in the building, but you can see the growing fear in his eyes, the way his hands are jammed into his hoodie pockets, gripping tightly to stop them from trembling.

You feel a strange sense of responsibility for Hughie in this moment. You dragged him into this. It’s up to you to get him out safe.

“Stay here,” you say, firmer than you feel. “Keep watch. I’ll go in and talk to him. Once we get what we need, we leave. Fast.”

Hughie nods, swallowing hard. “Got it.”

For a moment, you hesitate, searching his face. You want to tell him to leave, to run if things go south, but the words catch in your throat. There’s no time for sentiment, no room for second-guessing.

You cast an exploratory glance down the hallway, ensuring the coast is clear, before turning the knob and slipping into Adam’s office.

He’s seated at his desk, back to you, his silhouette caged by the pale blue glow of his computer screen. A mess of dark hair framed by endless rows of Excel spreadsheets.

“Adam,” you say, announcing your presence as calmly as you can, though your voice wavers.

Adam jumps in his chair, nearly knocking over a coffee cup as his wide eyes snap to you. He looks gaunt, paler and thinner than you remember, like he’s been living on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

“You —” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard, setting the coffee cup down with trembling hands. “What are you doing here?”

You study him for a moment. He seems… off.

“Adam, I need you to tell me what you know about my father.” You shut the door behind you and step closer, ignoring the way he shrinks into his chair. 

His gaze flickers to the door behind you for a split second before he looks back at you, his hands clasping together like he’s trying to hold himself steady. “I-I don’t know anything. I swear. I just sent the text. That’s it.”

“Please, Adam, I just need you to tell me what you know,” you beg, veering toward desperation. “You saw a dead man and didn’t ask any questions? You’re better than that. I know you are.”

Adam flinches but doesn’t answer. His eyes dart to the door again, his breath coming quicker now.

“Adam.” Anxiety claws at you like a beast. “Don’t lie to me. If you don’t start talking, I swear —”

“I don’t know anything!” he blurts out. He looks at you with desperation, his hands raised as if to shield himself from your anger. “I swear, I don’t! I just sent the text! I didn’t have a choice!”

His words hang in the air, the edges of your frustration giving way to confusion. “What do you mean you didn’t have a choice?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes keep flicking behind you, more frequently now, and you feel it, a shift in the air. The fine hairs on the back of your neck rise, and a shiver runs down your spine. The room feels colder, heavier, like a predator has entered the space.

You don’t have to turn around to know.

“Adam,” you say slowly. “What did you do?”

His face crumples, guilt and regret twisting his features. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Then, a voice sounds out behind you, smooth and amused, sending ice through your veins.

“Now, now. Don’t be too hard on poor Adam here. He was just following orders.”

You freeze. Your body goes rigid, your breath catching in your throat. You know that voice. Calm, playful, but with an undercurrent of darkness beneath.

Homelander.

Before you can move, before you can even think, strong arms wrap around you from behind. It’s not a hug; it’s a cage. His grip is unyielding, his grasp suffocating. You struggle instinctively, but it’s like trying to fight against a steel vise.

“Easy there,” he says, his tone mocking as he leans closer, his breath cold against your ear. “You don’t want to hurt yourself now, do you?”

Your lungs seize up, panic bubbling up as you thrash again, to no avail. Homelander chuckles, the sound sending a chill down your spine.

Adam looks away, his shoulders hunched, his face pale. He won’t meet your eyes, his guilt written across his face.

Homelander tightens his grip just enough to make your breath hitch, his tone turning darker. “You’ve been a very bad girl, haven’t you? Breaking into my house, snooping around. Tsk, tsk. Daddy wouldn’t like that.”

Your blood turns to ice, your mind racing with the implications of his words. 

He knows. He knows everything.

And then, like a splash of cold water, you remember Hughie.

You crane your neck, straining to see through the glass panel in Adam’s office door. Your heart plummets.

Hughie stands in the hallway, flanked by two of Vought’s black-suited security guards. He’s slumped, held up at his elbows by the guards, a stream of blood flowing from his nose, eyes wide with terror.

Homelander’s voice is low, a predatory purr. “Now, let’s go have a little chat, shall we?”

The world tilts as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you toward the door. Adam’s expression is the last thing you see before you’re dragged out of the office, guilt, regret, and fear all etched into his face.

You want to scream, to fight, to do anything, but Homelander’s presence is overwhelming, his strength absolute. And as the door swings shut behind you, you realize that you are no more than prey in a trap.

~~~

The room is cold, a sterile office tucked into the labyrinthine halls of Vought Tower. The walls are glass on one side, but the blinds are pulled tight, cutting off the world outside. The hum of fluorescent lights fills the silence, mingling with the smell of disinfectant and burned coffee. It’s like this space was designed to be an affront to all of your senses.

You stand rooted near the desk, your fists clenched, every nerve in your body screaming for you to move, to run, to fight. But Homelander blocks the door, leaning casually against it, his arms crossed. His smile is sharp and dangerous, his piercing blue eyes tracking every flicker of your movement.

“I’ll ask again,” he says. “Where is Butcher?”

You swallow hard, trying to keep yourself steady. “I. Don’t. Know.”

His smile widens, but there’s no humor in it. “Now, see, I don’t believe that. You’re clever enough to get in here. Clever enough to avoid me all this time. And now you want me to think you don’t know where your precious leader is hiding? Your lover?”

Your pulse thunders in your ears. You keep your gaze locked on him, refusing to let him see you falter. “I don’t know. Even if I did, you’d never get it out of me.”

Homelander chuckles darkly. He pushes off the door, strolling closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “Admirable. Really. But you see, I don’t need you to tell me. Not when I’ve already collected your little friends.”

The blood drains from your face as he stops just a few feet away, looming over you like a storm cloud.

“Frenchie and MM, they’ve been keeping each other company in the basement,” he continues, his tone light, conversational. “Kimiko too. Tough girl, that one. And Annie…” His smile sharpens as he watches the shock ripple across your face. “Oh, didn’t know about Annie, huh? She’s been very quiet lately. Hard to be chatty when you’ve got a broken jaw.”

A white-hot wave of anger crashes through you. “You’re lying.”

Homelander tilts his head, mock pity in his gaze. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s healed now. Well, mostly. But wait! It gets better.” 

He leans in closer, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because who else did you bring along, like a present, just for me? Your boy, Hughie.”

The world tilts on its axis. The breath leaves your lungs in a rush, and for a moment, you’re sure you’ll collapse. “Don’t hurt him,” you whisper, the words trembling on your lips. 

But the sparkle in his eyes tells you everything you need to know.

“Hmm, no, I can’t promise that. Poor guy was just so easy to grab. He was just standing in the hall, like a little lost puppy, waiting for you. Adorable, really.” Homelander steps back, giving you space to absorb the weight of his words. “And you know what’s funny? None of them talked. Not a single one. Even when it got… Messy.”

Your hands shake as you ball them into fists, nails biting little crescents into your palms. “What the fuck do you want?”

“What I’ve always wanted,” he says simply, spreading his arms. “Butcher. That smug bastard thinks he can keep hiding from me, but I always get what I want. And if grabbing all your friends couldn’t drag him out of hiding, I know you will.”

You scoff, summoning every ounce of bravado you can find within yourself. “Bold of you to assume that me being here would even matter to Butcher.”

He grins. “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

The room feels smaller, the air thicker, as he takes another step closer. You take an involuntary step back, backs of your thighs hitting the desk behind you. His gaze drops briefly, taking you in, inhaling deeply, and then his smile changes, softening into something almost childlike.

“Oh,” he breathes, a flicker of wonder in his tone. “Well, isn’t that interesting.” His eyes dart to your stomach, and the blood in your veins turns to ice.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s too late. His grin stretches wide, his teeth gleaming like a predator who’s just cornered his prey.

“You’re pregnant,” he says, the words dripping with delight. He steps closer, scrutinizing  you like a specimen under a microscope. “Oh, this just gets better and better.”

You feel exposed, violated, as his gaze lingers on you. The rage that’s been simmering erupts in full force. “Stay the hell away from me,” you snap, voice cracking with fury.

Homelander’s laughter is jovial, downright giddy. “Oh, don’t be like that. You should be thanking me. Do you know what this means? You’re important now. Vital, even. Butcher’s already lost so much. Can you imagine what he’ll do when he hears I’ve got you and… this little one?”

He steps forward, invading your space, taking a deep breath in. “Not lactating yet, though. That’s a shame.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, trembling with anger and fear.

“And you,” he says, leaning in close, dropping to a low murmur. “Are predictable. All I had to do was wave Daddy in front of you like a carrot, and here you are. You really thought you’d just stroll in here and get what you wanted? That’s adorable.”

Your eyes burn as the full weight of his words sinks in. He’s right. You walked straight into his trap, and now everyone you care about is going to suffer because of your blind determination. For a moment, your sense of self-preservation disappears, replaced with vengeful rage.

“You think I’m going to help you?” you snap. “You lied about my father, you tortured my friends, and now you want me to just roll over for you? I’d rather die, you sick, twisted piece of shit.”

Homelander’s eyebrows shoot up, his lips curling into a gleeful, almost childlike smile. 

“Oh,” he says, drawing the word out. “Sweetheart… I didn’t lie about your dad. He’s alive. Alive and kicking… Well, barely kicking, but you get the idea.”

The air leaves your lungs. You stare at him in disbelief. “How?”

Homelander’s grin widens, the corners of his mouth stretching unnaturally. 

“How?” he repeats, mocking your trembling voice. “Oh, that’s the best part. Remember your dad’s little miracle juice? Well, it doesn’t just make Supes, it makes survivors. Your dad, well… He’s a stubborn bastard. Survived the blast, wandered the streets of New York, covered in ash, not a clue who or where he was… ‘Til I found him.”

Your throat tightens, a sick mixture of hope and dread knotting in your stomach. “Stop lying.”

He clicks his tongue, feigning disappointment. “Tsk-tsk. Do I look like I need to lie? I took him in, cleaned him up, gave him a purpose. Showed him the truth. And now, he’s one of us. A little rough around the edges, but we’re working on that.”

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, and Homelander notices. Of course, he notices. His expression softens into something sickly sweet, like a snake pretending it’s harmless.

“Aww, don’t cry,” he coos mockingly, raising his hand to wipe the tear away. You jerk your head away from his touch. “This is a good thing. The family’s whole again! Well… almost. And now, you’re here to join us. Isn’t that poetic?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you fight to keep yourself together. “You’re a monster,” you hiss, the words trembling with barely contained fury.

Homelander’s laughter rings out, echoing in the sterile room. It’s almost cheerful, but there’s no mistaking the malice beneath it. “Oh, I’ve been called worse.” He leans in close. “I’m going to have fun with you.”

The tears come faster now, slipping hot down your cheeks, but you refuse to let him break you. You glare up at him. “You’re not going to win.”

Homelander just smiles. “Sweetheart, I already have.”

He straightens, clapping his hands together once. “Now, let’s go join the others, shall we? I think it’s time for a little reunion.”

You try to fight, to resist, but his hand clamps around your arm with superhuman force. As he drags you toward the door, the guilt and anger boil over inside you. You’ve failed them all, and now you have to face the consequences.

The door swings open, and the hallway stretches out before you like the path to hell. Homelander hums a jaunty tune under his breath, and with every step, the reality of your mistakes threatens to swallow you whole.

As you approach the elevator, he glances at you, his eyes sparkling with cruel delight. “Cheer up, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”

The metallic ding of the elevator doors feels like a death knell as you’re pulled inside, the walls closing in around you. Homelander’s smile never falters. This isn’t just a trap. It's a game. And he’s playing to win.

~~~

You’re dragged through the long hallways of Vought’s basement, the true belly of the beast. The elevator ride felt endless, the numbers ticking downward like a countdown to doom. Homelander stood beside you, his expression smug, his iron grip around your arm a constant reminder of your powerlessness. Every second you spent in that cramped metal box was a battle to restrain yourself, to resist the futile urge to lash out, knowing full well it would accomplish nothing.

When the doors slide open, you know you’re deep underground. The air is colder here, sterile and heavy and oppressive, like the very walls are designed to strip away hope. The holding area is painfully white, sleek and clinical, a cruel contrast to the horrors you know must have taken place here. The hum of electricity buzzes in your ears, and you notice the telltale shimmer of reinforced, Supe-proof barriers lining the hallway.

You arrive at a series of doors. Holding cells, you realize. Homelander marches you forward, and you wince as he forces you to keep pace, dragging you through the corridor. Through the thick glass panes of the cells, faces come into view. Faces you know, faces you love. Your breath catches in your throat, your heart twisting painfully.

MM sits in the far corner of his cell, shoulders hunched forward, his fists clenched at his sides. He doesn’t look at you at first, his gaze locked on Homelander with a venom so potent it feels like it might burn through the glass.

Frenchie is pacing like a caged animal, frantic. His face is bruised, one eye swollen shut, and there’s dried blood crusted along his split lip. He looks up as you pass, his expression flashing from relief to anger in an instant.

Annie is slumped against the wall of her cell, a power-dampening collar strapped around her neck. Her golden hair is dull, her jaw swollen and bruised, but her eyes, those beautiful, faintly glowing eyes, still hold a spark of defiance as she glares at Homelander. You can tell she’s fighting to stay strong, but the exhaustion radiates off her like a physical force.

Then you see him.

Hughie.

He’s sitting on the floor of his cell, his back against the glass, his head tilted forward. Dried blood cakes his pale face and the sleeve of his hoodie hangs limply from where it was torn from his shoulder. When he looks up and sees you, his eyes widen in horror, mouthing your name.

Before you can say anything, Homelander shoves you forward, and you stumble. Your instincts take over, and you twist your body, bracing yourself with your arms to keep from falling on your stomach.

“Careful now,” Homelander mocks. “Wouldn’t want to hurt the baby, would we?”

You whip your head toward him, your stomach turning at the sick grin on his face. He bends down, his lips uncomfortably close to your ear as you push yourself to your knees.

“All the hell they went through trying to keep you safe,” he whispers, his tone mockingly soft. “All that loyalty. And for what? For someone who walked herself straight into my arms. You must be so proud.”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the lump in your throat as he grabs your arm again, yanking you to your feet. You wince as he drags you to an empty cell, identical to the others. White, cold, and empty, save for a narrow bench bolted to the wall.

“Make yourself at home,” he says with a wink, and then the door slides shut behind him, an airlock hissing.

The sound sends shivers down your spine, and you stagger backward, the reality of your situation making you dizzy.

You wait, listening to his footsteps as he retreats. Once you hear the slam of a door signalling his exit, you move forward to press your face against the glass pane in your cell, twisting to be able to see the others. You can see MM, Hughie, and Annie. Frenchie and Kimiko must be on either side of you.

A low, familiar growl breaks through the silence.

“What the hell are you doing here?” MM’s voice filters through. He’s standing now, his fists pressed against the glass of his cell, his glare boring into you. “You should have fucking stay put!”

Frenchie’s voice carries from beside you, lilting as his anger rises. “Ma poupette… What were you thinking? You were safe! This is madness!”

You open your mouth to respond, but Annie cuts through, her hoarse voice slicing through your heart. “He’s using you to bait Butcher. You know that, right? You didn’t… You didn’t have to come.”

You press your hands against the cool glass of your cell, meeting Annie’s gaze first, then MM’s. Finally, your eyes land on Hughie and the sight of his bloodied face makes your heart lurch.

“I came because I thought I could help,” you say. “I thought… I thought maybe I could fix this. I couldn’t just stay hidden while he’s doing this. While all of you are suffering because of me.”

MM scoffs. “This isn’t about you. We’re here because that son of a bitch is a monster. Don’t you dare put this on yourself.”

“Oui, ma poupette,” Frenchie says.  “But now you are here, and that changes things. We are together, no?”

“We’ll get out of this. Together,” Hughie says, and you try to ignore the thickness in his voice, his pain evident. “We’ve done it before, and we’ll do it again.”

Hughie presses his hand against the glass, nodding for you to do the same. His touch is distant, separated by space and Supe-proof barriers, but his gaze is full of determination.

“Hey,” he says softly. “We’re not done yet. Not by a long shot.”

For a moment, you dare to believe him.

You glance at him, then MM, then Annie. Their faces are battered, but it’s the weariness in their eyes that cuts the deepest. “How did this even happen?” you ask quietly. “How did he get all of you?”

MM exhales, shaking his head. “One by one,” he says bitterly. “Like a damn hunter picking off prey. Made sure we never saw it coming.”

“He started with Kimiko,” Frenchie says. “We were in Marseilles. Quiet, laying low, trying to figure out our next move. Then one night, there’s a knock at the door. It was a child. A little girl. Crying, asking for help. I should’ve known, ma poupette. I should’ve known it was a trap. I got away but… mon coeur did not.”

You feel a wave of nausea as you picture the scene. “Why didn’t he just kill you?”

Frenchie lets out a bitter laugh. “Because he doesn’t just want us dead. He wants to break us. Make us suffer. Make us watch him win.”

Annie speaks next. “He got me next. I was making an appearance at a Vought charity auction. I thought I was safe.” She shakes her head, her bruised jaw tightening. “He showed up in front of everyone, pretending to be the hero. Said he was taking me in for treason against America. And… People cheered. They believed him.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. Homelander didn’t just want to destroy you physically, he wanted to strip you of all of your dignity, your humanity.

“Then it was me and Frenchie,” MM growls. He doesn’t move from his spot against the glass, his shoulders tight with anger. “We thought we were being smart. Tracking one of his PR teams, looking for dirt on Vought, trying to find a crack in there. Thought we were ahead of the game. Turns out, we weren’t. He let us think we were winning, let us lead him straight to our hideout. Came crashing in, grinning like the smug bastard he is. Next thing we knew we were on the news being called terrorists.”

The bile rises in your throat as you imagine it. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, the tears streaming freely now. “For everything. For not telling you about the baby, for coming here. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… I thought I could fix this. Instead, I’ve just made it worse. All of your pain, everything you’ve gone through… It’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop it,” MM snaps. He stands straighter now, his glare directed at you through the glass. “This ain’t on you. This is his fault. Don’t let him twist this. Don’t let him win.”

You turn to look at Annie. Your best friend. A broken, bruised shell of herself. You can’t even begin to think about the suffering she endured in the name of keeping you safe. She could have flipped on you at any time, repaid you for your own dishonesty. You hardly could’ve blamed her, but she didn’t. You think that if you ever get out of here, you’ll spend the rest of your life making this up to her, if she’ll let you.

Annie nods. “That’s what he wants. For us to turn on each other. To lose hope. We can’t give him that satisfaction.”

If there weren’t walls of Supe-proof metal between you, you’d wrap your arms around her right now.

Frenchie is resolute when he speaks again. “He thinks he’s won. That we’re just pieces in his little game. But games have rules, ma poupette. And rules can be broken.”

Their words are meant to reassure, to rekindle some spark of hope within you. But another thought worms its way into your mind.

“Have any of you… heard anything? From Butcher?”

Silence. Uncomfortably long silence, the kind that says more than words.

“What if he comes?” you murmur. “What if he sees we’re all here, and he tries to… to save us? What if he walks into the same trap?”

Hughie’s voice cuts through. “He won’t just rush in. Butcher’s smarter than that. He’ll find a way. If we don’t save ourselves first, he’ll save us. All of us.”

The others murmur in agreement, their faith in Butcher unwavering. But you can’t shake the seed of doubt that’s buried itself deep inside you.

What if Butcher doesn’t come at all?

The thought blooms in your mind, leaving little room for anything else. Homelander’s so sure of himself, convinced that Butcher hasn’t come yet because the stakes haven’t been high enough. Because the others, MM, Frenchie, Annie, even Hughie, don’t mean as much to him as you do. Homelander thinks your capture will finally break Butcher’s resolve, that the knowledge of you locked up here will drive him into a reckless, guns-blazing rescue.

But what if that’s not true?

What if you don’t matter to Butcher, not the way Homelander believes, not the way you foolishly let yourself hope?  He doesn’t love you, doesn’t even think of you as a girlfriend, let alone someone worth risking his life over. 

The possibility buries itself in your chest like a thick suffocating blanket.

You pull your knees up to your chin on the cold, sterile bench, curling into yourself as the thought sinks its claws deeper. You’ve spent so much time convincing yourself you could be someone important, someone worth saving, that the idea of being anything less feels unbearable.

You can’t decide which would hurt more, Butcher charging in and getting himself killed for you, or him not coming at all.

The silence of the cell feels heavier now, pressing down on you like a weight you can’t lift. And for the first time, a new fear seeps in, like poison.

What if this is exactly where you belong?

~~~

The two months spent in hiding had been some of the darkest of your life. Fresh off the heels of earth-shattering news and a pregnancy you hadn’t planned for, followed swiftly by the loss of everything you’d held dear. Your home, your safety, and the man you loved, all lost in a matter of weeks. You’d been thrown into the isolating delirium that was exile. The cottage had been no haven, not at first. You’d fought bitterly with Hughie, made up, then fought again. But somehow, against all odds, he’d become your closest friend, the only tether you had to a life that now felt like a distant memory.

Two months to sit in stillness, to stew in the wreckage of your life, the heaviness pushing you deeper into the abyss every night as you stared up at the dark, unfamiliar ceiling. Two months to meditate on the chaotic, relentless series of events that had flipped your life on its head and left you wondering if anyone else in your shoes could have done better.

As you think on it, you wonder, could anyone really blame you?

Your mother’s murder. Your father abandoning you, marrying a woman barely ten years older than you. The hazing from your new stepmother, every barb and sneer cutting deeper than the last. The kidnapping. Bargaining with the Boys to survive, agreeing to spy on your own family just to earn your freedom. Falling hopelessly in love with a man so damaged it was a miracle he hadn’t disintegrated under his own weight. And then finding out he hadn’t trusted you from the start, that you’d been a mark to him all along. Pushing him away because anger has always come easier to you than vulnerability.

Discovering that your stepmother, the woman who’d tormented you, had been the one to kill your mother. Surviving her attempt to kill you. And then, in a single fiery moment, losing your father as he took her with him, shouting at you to save yourself as the world burned down around you.

What would someone better than you have done in those circumstances?

You breathe out slowly, letting the thought dissipate into the stale air of your cell. You’re in rare air here, the kind of chaos few people ever have to face. Judgment, you think bitterly, can afford to take a back seat.

Now, lying here on this stiff mattress, your hip bones digging into the hard surface, you find yourself missing the cottage.

You miss the sting of salt air on your face, the way it seeped into your soul and stuck to your skin. You miss the sand, its stubbornness as it clung to your boots, your hair, and the floorboards, refusing to be swept away. You miss the crackle of the fireplace and its comfort as you and Hughie settled in for another evening with lukewarm tea and semi-decent books. You even miss the sagging springs of that ancient mattress, the one that groaned under you as you fell into another restless night, haunted by dreams of the man you weren’t sure you’d ever see again.

But you made your decisions. Deliberately, willfully, in the face of logic and reason and countless warnings. You’d told yourself it was for justice, for revenge, for survival. But in the quiet of your own mind, you know the truth.

You’d done it in the name of an inane, fragile, all-consuming thing called love.

Love that, for all you knew, was completely and utterly one-sided.

~~~

You don’t know how much time passes, exactly. The conversations between you and the Boys lull into silence, no one wanting to speak openly in an environment you know is bugged. Every word you share is rendered fodder for Vought’s pursuit of Butcher.

There is speculation, of course, half-formed plans shared in conspiratorial whispers. A mad rush for the doors when they open. Gaining the trust of a guard and stealing the keys. Finding some way, any way, to remove the collar from Annie’s neck and reignite her powers.

Nothing with any promise, any weight in reality. The ideas are flimsy, their chances of success thinner than a breath. They float in the cold air like smoke, dissipating before they can take shape.

You try to be supportive, offering murmured encouragement whenever someone speaks, even though the words feel hollow in your mouth. But you don’t contribute any plans of your own. You can’t. Your mind is too fogged with exhaustion, too broken to summon the strength to entertain hope.

The truth is, you’ve been humbled. No, shattered. You thought you had answers. You thought you could fix things. But look where that certainty got you. You’re caught in a war that’s much bigger than you, one you’re only beginning to understand, up against enemies whose power and cunning make you look like a child playing pretend.

You sit on the hard bench in your cell, a broken, discarded, unwanted toy on a shelf. You hate yourself for it, but you feel small, helpless. Like a little girl again, longing for the strong, warm arms of her mother, whispering reassurances in your ear.

It’s okay, baby girl. Nothing’s going to hurt you, not while I’m around.

The memory comforts you, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself sink into it, clinging to the ghost of warmth it brings.

But the moment shatters as the hiss of your door’s airlock releasing pierces the silence. The sound yanks you back into the harsh reality of your imprisonment.

Your heart stutters, your body stiffening instinctively.

Homelander strides in, the very sight of him sending a pang of nausea to your gut. He’s beaming, holding his phone up in front of him like a prize.

“You seen the news lately? What am I saying? Of course, you haven’t!” He laughs, a sharp, grating sound that sends a shiver down your spine.  He grins at his own joke like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

He steps closer, lowering himself into a crouch next to you. His proximity to you is suffocating, and before you can pull away, his arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. You recoil instinctively, but his grip is ironclad, tightening, reminding you who’s in control.

“Don’t be shy,” he says. “You’re going to want to see this.”

He shoves his phone in your face, the brightness stinging your eyes. Blinking, you take in the image on the screen.

It’s Homelander, ever the smug bastard. Standing in front of Vought Tower, the very picture of the All-American Hero. The sun catches the golden highlights of his hair, his cape rippling dramatically in the wind like something out of a fucking movie. The camera is deliberately positioned to look up at him from below, a forced perspective calculated to make him look larger than life. And it works.

Everything about Vought is disingenuous, right down to the camera angles.

Your heart clenches as you recognize the scene. It’s the same setup as the broadcast when he announced MM and Frenchie’s capture. You already know what’s coming, but you brace yourself for it anyway.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Homelander booms from the phone, commanding, polished, grating. “I come to you today with another update on our efforts to dismantle the terrorist group known as the Boys.”

Bile rises in your throat.

“Earlier this morning,” he continues, “Vought’s dedicated security forces apprehended a key figure connected to this dangerous organization. She is none other than the daughter of the late Stanley Morgan, a respected businessman and former Vought affiliate.”

The world stops. Your breath hitches, your vision narrowing.

No.

No, no, no.

A photo flashes on the screen. Your face. An old headshot from your internship days, polished and professional. You stare at the photo, this version of you still so infused with hope. So young, so eager. So unaware of the shit storm awaiting her. That girl is a stranger to you now.

Homelander continues, smooth and rehearsed. “This individual has been working with the Boys to orchestrate attacks against Vought and its heroes, both domestically and overseas. But, as always, Vought is committed to keeping America safe.”

And then his tone shifts, an undercurrent of menace creeping in.

“She is currently in custody, and I want to make something very clear…”

You feel the shift before you hear it. The way his smile in the video tightens, the edges pulling.

“William Butcher, if you’re watching, and I know you are, it’s time to come out of hiding. Let’s have a little chat, you and I. It doesn’t have to be this way. Do the right thing… for her.”

He delivers the final line staring directly into the camera, then turns his head just enough for the sunlight to glint against his teeth. A perfectly calculated image. With one last smug smile, he turns on his heel, his cape flicking behind him as reporters shout questions he has no intention of answering.

The screen fades to black, leaving you staring at your own reflection in the glass, pale and stricken, juxtaposed against Homelander’s shit-eating grin. Like you’re in the middle of taking the world’s most fucked up selfie.

“See? Isn’t it great?” His voice cuts through the fog in your head, far too chipper as he pockets the phone. “Talk about a win-win. Vought looks like the hero, America gets to sleep soundly, and Butcher gets the privilege of deciding just how much you’re worth to him.”

He leans in closer, his breath brushing your ear. “If he doesn’t show, you’re screwed. If he does, he’s screwed. Either way... I win!”

Your vision blurs and panic sets in, fast and overwhelming. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps, and your ribs tightens like a vise around your lungs. It’s too much. Your face plastered on the news, the public humiliation, the knowledge that you’ve become bait dangling in front of Butcher.

The walls of the cell start to close in. It’s happening again.

“Oh, don’t go falling apart on me now,” he says, crouching down to your level, crystal blue eyes sparkling with amusement at your distress. “Deep breaths, sweetheart. You’ve got a baby on the way, remember? Gotta take care of yourself. Don’t want to hurt little Butcher Junior there, do you?”

His words barely register as you claw at your collarbone, trying to loosen the suffocating grip of the panic.

The world narrows, your senses going haywire. The sterile white walls, the hum of the fluorescent lights, the cold seeping into your skin from the floor, all of it amplifies the abject dread that fills you.

You’re transported back to that day, your first mission back in the field. Only now Butcher can’t see you, can’t come to your rescue and wrap his arms around you and take you away from here.

“Breathe,” you tell yourself, but it comes out all choked. “Breathe, damn it.”

Homelander chuckles, standing and straightening his cape. “Ah, but maybe you were right. Maybe he won’t come. I bet he’s sitting in some dive bar right now, drinking himself stupid. He’s not a hero. Never has been. And you’re just a pawn. A means to an end.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. The panic crashes over you like a tidal wave, and all you can do is curl into yourself  as you gasp for air that refuses to come.

Homelander stands there for a moment, watching, the weakest smile playing on his lips. Then he turns and strides toward the door, leaving you trembling and broken on the floor. The door hisses shut behind him, sealing you in the suffocating silence of your cell.

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but his words echo in your mind, loud and relentless.

Either way, I win.

The others call for you once he leaves, offering support, comfort. Cracks of light in pitch-black stillness.

MM’s voice cuts through first. "That son of a bitch." His words are clipped, barely controlled, each one dripping with fury. You can hear him pacing in his cell, his boots scuffing against the floor, fist slamming into the reinforced glass.  “Don’t listen to him, you hear me? He’s just playing his sick little games. Butcher’s coming. He always does.”

But there’s something in his tone that makes your heart ache, an edge of desperation, a fervent need to believe in the words he’s saying. Like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince you.

Annie’s voice follows.  “He’s right. Butcher wouldn’t leave us here. He’ll figure something out.”

The rest echo the sentiment, their words wrapping around you like a patchwork quilt, frayed but strong enough to hold you together. You hear their fury, their desperation, their unshaken belief in Butcher, even in the face of despair. Despite the way your heart still aches, the way your worst fears have come to life right in front of you, their words anchor you, pulling you back from the abyss. Letting hope spark within you.

Butcher will figure something out, you tell yourself. He always does. He’ll make a plan and he’ll get help and he’ll fix this. He won’t just turn himself in, he’s too smart for that. His mind isn’t clouded by emotions like yours is. 

As the hours stretch on, the conversation among the others begins to taper off, their voices fading into the dim hum of your shared imprisonment. Eventually, muffled sounds of snoring drift from the other cells, filling the silence with a strange sense of camaraderie, as though even in this hell, you’re not entirely alone.

But for you, sleep doesn’t come.

In the silence, a sense of finality creeps into your bones. It’s familiar, you realize. It’s the same feeling, the same cold, dreadful weight that settled over you during that last dinner with your father and Monica. The air is thick with the knowledge that nothing is ever going to be the same after this. Like your last taste of normalcy, the calm before the storm. 

You had barely adjusted to one new reality when you’d been thrust into another, the constant upheaval making you feel like a ship battered by relentless waves. How many of these moments is a person expected to endure? How many storms can one soul survive before it splinters apart completely?

Your thoughts drift to Butcher, like they always seem to.

Where is he now? Is he sitting in some dive bar, like Homelander said, drowning himself in cheap whiskey and ignoring the fact that his team has been captured? Is he shrugging it off, deciding you’re all just collateral damage, leaving you all to stew in the consequences of your own shitty decisions?

Or maybe he’s already moving, seeking out Mallory, gathering resources, and sketching out the blueprints for some harebrained plan to infiltrate Vought Tower and drag you all out. A renewed fire in his veins now that he knows you’re here too.

The worst thought of all slithers into your mind, traitorous.

What if he doesn’t even know? What if he’s still in Russia, hiding out like you had been, completely unaware of the mess you’ve found yourself in?

What if he’s been dead this whole time?

You don’t know which scenario is worse, the thought of him giving up on you, or the thought of him not knowing you need saving at all.

You stare at the ceiling of your cell, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and try to will your mind to quiet. But it doesn’t. The what-ifs churn endlessly, feeding the cold dread that has settled in your gut.

Somewhere in the distance, a guard’s footsteps echo down the hallway. The droning silence persists, a constant reminder of the cage you’re trapped in. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the voices of the others still echoing in your mind.

Don’t listen to him. Butcher’s coming. He always does.

You want to believe it. You really, truly do.

~~~

You’re roused from a restless sleep by the sound of heavy boots thudding against the tile floor and muffled voices reverberating through the hall. You don’t bother lifting your head, your body too drained, your spirit too frayed. It’s probably just the Vought guards bringing another tray of bland, tasteless food designed to keep you alive but barely functioning.

The hiss of the airlock reaches your ears, but you still don’t stir. Even as the voices grow clearer, more distinct, you remain still, curled into yourself, feigning indifference.

And then you hear it. The voice you loathe more than anything in this world.

“Good evening, sunshine!” Homelander rings out, dripping with saccharine mockery. “Or... I guess it’s hard to tell in these cozy little rooms, huh? How’s my favorite gang of terrorists holding up? Comfortable? Well-fed?”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. You keep your eyes shut, your breathing slow and even, pretending to still be asleep.

“Aw, don’t be like that. I’ve got news, and I think you’re really going to want to hear it.” His voice is sing-song, infuriatingly smug.

You don’t move, willing him to get bored and leave, or at least say his piece and go.

But instead there’s a sudden, crushing grip on your jaw, forcing your head up and wrenching you around until you’re staring into those gleaming, predatory eyes. His smile stretches impossibly wide, a grotesque parody of warmth.

“Guess who just waltzed into Vought Tower, turning himself in like the good little martyr he is?”

Your heart plummets, and before you can stop it, a strangled sob escapes your lips.

“No,” you whisper, the word barely audible, a plea more than a denial.

His grin widens, impossibly smug, radiating triumph. “Oh, yes.”

You can’t hold in the sobs that escape from you, tears burning hot as they spill down your cheeks. A wailing cry rips from your throat, raw and unrestrained. It’s over. It’s done. The fight is lost, and the crushing grief sinks its claws into you, dragging you under. It weighs you down, stealing the air from your lungs, like an anchor dragging you into the bottomless depths.

Homelander watches you, drinking in your despair like a fine wine. His eyes are glimmering, and for a moment, you wonder if this is why he does it, for this. For the power. For the way your anguish seems to invigorate him, to nourish him.

“But here’s the fun part,” he finally says, his tone almost conversational, as though he weren’t standing there basking in your suffering. “Your Billy has some demands. Wants proof you’re alive first.”

His words take a moment to sink in, muddled as they are by your spiraling thoughts. You blink through the tears, your brow furrowing, trying to make sense of what he’s saying.

“And I thought, well, what kind of gracious host would I be if I didn’t grant his little request?” He leans closer, dropping to a low, menacing purr. 

“So here’s the deal. We’re going on a little field trip, sweetheart. You and your merry band of losers are going to show dear Billy just how alive you all are. And if any of you try anything stupid...”

His expression darkens, the false cheer evaporating in an instant. 

“I will kill him. Right there. In front of you. Got it?”

You can’t speak. You just stare at him, the tears still streaming, your body trembling as his words slam into you like physical blows.

“Good talk,” he says, letting go of your face, straightening abruptly and brushing off his cape. Then, without another glance at you, he turns on his heel and strides toward the door.

The hiss of the airlock sounds again as he leaves, but it’s quickly replaced by the heavy boots of a guard entering your cell.

“Let’s go,” the guard barks, grabbing you roughly by the arm and yanking you to your feet. Your legs feel like jelly beneath you, unsteady and weak, but the guard doesn’t care. You’re marched out of the cell before you even have a chance to gather yourself.

The hallway stretches endlessly in both directions, but you barely notice. Your eyes dart toward the other cells as the doors open one by one, each of your friends being pulled out in similar fashion. MM’s face is a mask of fury, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter. Hughie’s wide eyes dart nervously around the hallway. You hardly have a chance to see the rest of them, let alone say anything. You can’t bring yourself to meet their gazes. Shame, guilt, and hopelessness swirl together in your chest, threatening to choke you.

The guards herd you into the elevator, the metallic walls reflecting distorted versions of your faces back at you. The ride is silent save for the hum of the machinery and the laboured breathing of your companions.

The elevator climbs, your heart pounding louder and louder in your ears, drowning out everything else, bringing you closer to your fate.

~~~

He’s been living in hell.

From the moment he left your apartment, left you standing there crying and alone, he’d fought every instinct screaming at him to turn around, to pull you into his arms and beg for forgiveness. To feel the crash of your atoms against his, to lose himself in you just one more time. But he didn’t. He’d convinced himself it was better this way. Better for you, better for him.

He thought the distance might help, might force him to regain some clarity. That maybe, in the cold, desolate Russian landscapes, he could drown out the ache of you and regain his focus. But all he found was the ghost of your warmth haunting him, your love radiating in every quiet corner of his mind.

And in the endless stretches of driven snow, he only found his own sins reflected back at him.

He forced himself to sit outside the room when MM made the video call, gripping the edge of his seat like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He knew, deep down, that if he saw your face, he’d crumble. One glimpse of you would undo him, and he’d be halfway to the airport, ticket in hand, before he had time to think it through.

Still, he strained against the door, desperate to catch even the faintest trace of your voice. When the connection cut out before he could hear you, he cursed the godforsaken internet, cursed himself, cursed the universe.

By the time they tracked the lab outside Kazan, he’d made up his mind. After this, he was out. He’d find the bloody weapon capable of killing Homelander, hand it over to Mallory, and let the chips fall where they may. He was getting too goddamn old for this endless war, the wildfire of vengeance that had burned within him for so long now reduced to smoldering embers.

He wasn’t so blind that he didn’t know why.

It was you. 

From the moment you entered his life, you’d made a place for yourself, whether he wanted it or not. Despite all his walls, all his anger, all his broken pieces, you’d wormed your way in. He never thought there’d be room for anyone after Becca, not with the grief and fury that had consumed him whole. But there you were, soft and young and naive in some ways, but a goddamn spitfire who could hold your own. You were color in a world that had been painted in shades of gray for far too long.

He saw you, and you saw him too. Not the persona he projected, not the armor he wore to keep everyone at arm’s length. You saw the raw, jagged edges beneath it all, in the way only someone just as damaged ever could.

He didn’t want to push you away anymore, didn’t have much energy left to keep doing it. He’d never believed he deserved you, not for a second, but what if he could change? What if, by some miracle, he could claw his way out of the wreckage he’d made of his life and become the man he wanted you to end up with? He couldn’t fix all the cracks in his soul, but maybe, just maybe, he could try. For you, he would try.

But then he walked through those laboratory doors and found something none of them had anticipated. It had been a half-cocked idea, fueled by a lack of sleep and a preoccupied mind, to open the pod. Things happened fast from there. The heat had been unbearable, waves of it rolling over him as the pod’s casing melted and the room filled with choking smoke. He remembered the searing pain of his injuries, the way the floor trembled beneath his feet as the lab began to collapse. Twisted metal, falling debris, fire everywhere. He could barely walk, let alone fight.

And then, nothing. 

The next thing he remembered was the snow. Face down in it, cold biting at his skin, being dragged by someone, though he couldn’t tell who. His mind had fought to stay awake, but the world was slipping away too fast.

The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was your face. Not real, but burned into his memory all the same. You were there, looking at him the way you had that night he’d left, heartbreak etched into every line of your expression. It was the final thing he carried with him as consciousness winked out like the flame of a candle.

When he woke again, he was in a cabin, or rather a shack. But it wasn’t MM or Frenchie that paced the floor by his bedside. It was Soldier Boy. Butcher spent the first few days in a haze, certain he had died and ended up in some bizarre purgatory, accompanied by a long-dead Supe, a punishment that could only be  thought up by a cruel God.

When the delirium of his pain had subsided, and the realization that this was, in fact, really happening, the pair descended into a strange mockery of a routine. Soldier Boy would wander out into the wilderness, killing all manner of wild animal, and returning to the shack to provide sustenance for them both. With no hospitals or doctors made available, Butcher simply gritted his teeth, forcing himself through the pain, while the old Supe muttered about how soft the world had become.

It had been quiet in the shack for those long days, weeks. Too quiet. It gave Butcher too much time to think, too much time to stew in every failure, every choice that led him there. Soldier Boy filled the silence sometimes, with rants about the good old days or mocking Butcher’s stubbornness, but nothing quelled the panic growing inside of him. He didn’t know what had become of MM and Frenchie, but he knew nothing good would come from the wreckage they’d left behind. He knew Vought would be coming for their weapon, and that they’d know the Boys had something to do with it. 

He’d grown to tolerate Soldier Boy over those weeks, though. Hell, he might even call the bastard a friend, not that he’d say it out loud. Their reluctant camaraderie had been forged in whiskey-soaked evenings and a shared hatred for Homelander, but it didn’t change the fact that Butcher wanted nothing more than to get back to his team, to you, to fix the mess he’d made.

When he finally healed enough to move, Butcher had dragged himself back to the states, Soldier Boy in tow. But America was far worse than when he’d left. You and Hughie were gone. The rest of the Boys were scattered like leaves in a storm, one by one plucked off the grid by Vought.

He was forced to watch it all from the shadows, helpless to intervene. He’d seen MM’s capture on the news, his face framed as a terrorist. Frenchie, too, though his image hadn’t lingered as long.

And Mallory… he didn’t dare reach out, knowing she’d be under constant surveillance from Vought.

The rage had simmered in him like a slow-burning fire, only growing hotter with every passing day. Every failed plan to track you down, every dead end, every report of another one of the Boys being taken, it all added fuel to the inferno in his chest. He didn’t sleep. He barely ate. All that kept him going was the thought of putting Homelander’s head on a bloody pike and tearing Vought’s empire to the ground.

And then he’d seen it.

Your face on the news.

That beautiful face, the one he hadn’t seen since the day he’d walked out, leaving you with the burden of pain that should never have been yours to carry. It had gutted him then, but it was nothing compared to the sight of you now, broadcast to the world, framed as a criminal, held hostage by the monster he hated most.

It had taken his breath away, seeing you like that. You looked so different from the last time he’d seen you. Not because of the photo they’d used, some old, sanitized version of you, but because of what he saw in his mind’s eye. The way you’d looked at him, like you saw through every bit of his bullshit and still chose to stay. He didn’t deserve it. He never had. But you’d given it anyway.

And what had he done? He’d pushed you away, convinced you’d figure out sooner or later that he wasn’t worth the trouble. He’d thought he was protecting you, keeping you safe. Instead, he’d left you wide open, defenseless, right where Homelander could sink his claws in.

He didn’t even realize he’d thrown the whiskey glass until it shattered against the wall. Soldier Boy had said something snide, but Butcher didn’t hear it. All he could think about was you, trapped, at Homelander’s mercy, your name and face smeared across the media.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

The plans didn’t matter anymore. The slow, methodical strategy he and Soldier Boy had been piecing together was ash in his mind.

You were all that mattered now.

“Oi,” he’d barked at Soldier Boy, already grabbing his coat and storming toward the door. “We’re going to Vought Tower.”

“What, right now?” Soldier Boy had raised an eyebrow, his tone more curious than concerned.

“Right fuckin’ now.” Butcher’s voice had been steel, his eyes blazing with a fury that made even the old Supe hesitate.

He knew it was reckless. He knew it was suicidal. But none of it mattered. Not the Boys, not Soldier Boy, not even himself. If sacrificing his life meant saving you, then so be it.

For the first time in months, he felt a twisted sort of clarity.

~~~

When the elevator dings indicating that you’ve reached the 99th floor, the air is stale, thick with the chill of air-conditioning and the sickly metallic tang of fear. Tension clings to each of you like a shroud, a shared understanding that speaking would only make the situation worse. The Vought guards march you forward in a single-file line, their hands clamped firmly around your arms, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

The meeting room is the epitome of corporate opulence, a space designed to intimidate and impress. Everything gleams. The polished V-shaped table at the center seems to be void of fingerprints, its glass surface catching the fluorescent night light pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The windows that offer a nauseating view of the city below. The skyscrapers and streets look like miniature toys at this distance. You feel removed from reality up here. 

No wonder Supes feel like gods.

The walls are adorned with sleek, minimalist décor, framed photos of the Seven in their most heroic moments, propaganda posters that declare Justice For All and Saving America, One Life at a Time. You’ve seen these images countless times, but here, in this room, they feel different. Hollow. A grotesque mockery of what heroes are supposed to be. 

Even the table itself feels wrong. Too pristine, too perfect, like the still surface of a pond hiding something rotten beneath.

You’re shoved toward the chairs around the table, each one as meticulously designed as the rest of the room, all ergonomic precision and faux leather luxury. One by one, you’re forced into the seats, their positioning a cruel imitation of how the Seven sit during their meetings.

Like a fucked up cosplay. 

MM sits to your left, his massive frame tense, his jaw set in a way that screams defiance even through the fatigue etched into his face. Frenchie is on your other side, his usual confidence muted by the dark circles under his eyes and the lines of worry that have deepened over the past weeks. Kimiko, silent but seething, sits across from him, her dark eyes scanning the room with a predator’s focus. Hughie and Annie sit on the far end of the V. They share a glance, their hands brushing together briefly, a small act of comfort that seems out of place in this cold, sterile hell.

The empty spot at the apex of the V sits empty. Waiting for Butcher.

Your eyes flick there, to the head of the table, where Homelander’s seat looms like a throne, larger and more imposing than the others. The room feels claustrophobic to you now, the sickening contrast between its polished, pristine appearance and the twisted truths you know it hides. This isn’t a room for heroism. It’s a stage for power plays, for manipulation, for blood spilled behind closed doors.

The guards step back, their presence still heavy in the room as they line the walls, their expressions cold and vacant. You glance at MM, who meets your gaze for a brief second. There’s fury in his eyes, but you find comfort there too. The silence stretches as you all wait for the inevitable arrival of the monster who summoned you here.

The doors open again, the sound like sending an anxious pang to your gut. Homelander saunters into the room, hands crossed behind his back. His boots click against the sleek door as he strides around the table, his very presence like a shadow over the room, his darkness infecting everything he comes into contact with. 

“Well, don’t you all look… Heroic.” His words are light, almost cheerful, but the underlying malice cuts like a razor. He sweeps his gaze over each of you, lingering just long enough to ensure you feel it. You grip the arms of your chair, your knuckles whitening under the pressure.

Homelander chuckles, shaking his head. “I mean, look at this. My favorite little band of terrorists, all in one room. Just like a family reunion… only, well… You’re missing the head of the table, aren’t you? Billy Butcher, your fearless leader. The man who was supposed to save you all from big, bad Vought. And where is he now? Oh, that’s right, he’s turning himself in. For you.”

You fight against your instincts, screaming at you to fly over the table, throwing yourself at Homelander, claws first. You’re certain the sheer viciousness in your actions could break through his invincible exterior.

He strides over to you, leaning forward,  both hands planted on the glass tabletop, the surface reflecting his perfect, too-white smile. “That’s gotta sting, doesn’t it? Knowing he had to give himself up just to keep you breathing. Though, let’s be honest, he’s not exactly walking into this out of love, is he?” He tilts his head, feigning thought. “No, no. Billy doesn’t do love, does he? He does revenge. Hatred. Violence.” His eyes flicker toward you and your stomach twists. “Well… maybe with a couple of exceptions.”

You don’t respond, but your skin crawls under his scrutiny. He’s looking at you like he’s dissecting you, peeling back the layers to find exactly where your fears lie. You stare back, half lidded eyes drooping with exhaustion, challenging him.

You’re spent, but that in and of itself is dangerous. Like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. Desperate.

MM senses your instability, shifting forward in his chair. “You done yet, you smug prick?” He’s putting on a bravado like he isn’t completely at Homelander’s mercy right now.

Homelander straightens, laughing softly. “Oh, Marvin, always the voice of reason. But no, I’m not done. I mean, I can’t just let this moment pass without pointing out how utterly pathetic this all is.” He begins pacing around the table, his cape swishing behind him. “Annie, Kimiko, without your powers now. Practically useless.” His gaze lands on Frenchie. “And you. A junkie with a gun fetish? How cute.”

Frenchie glares at him, looking ready to jump over the table and throttle him, but he doesn’t take the bait.

Homelander rounds the table toward Hughie and Annie. “Oh, and the lovebirds! Annie, the traitor who abandoned her fellow heroes to play house with…” He gestures at Hughie dismissively. “This guy. I mean, come on, Starlight, you really traded all of this for that?”

Hughie looks down, his shoulders stiff, but Annie meets Homelander’s gaze with defiance,  steady despite the tremor in her hands. “You’re going to lose.”

Homelander stops, laughing again, louder this time. “Lose? Lose? Oh, sweetheart, I’ve already won.” He turns, his expression darkening, the humor draining from his voice like poison. “The world loves me. You’re all wanted criminals. Butcher’s walking into my hands. And you know what the best part is?” His grin returns, crueler. “There’s nothing any of you can do about it.”

The room falls silent, the tension suffocating. He holds the pause for a long moment, savoring the helplessness that hangs in the air.

And then the doors open again.

The shift is instantaneous, like a live wire snapping to life. Heavy, deliberate footsteps echo across the room, cutting through the oppressive quiet. 

A man you don’t recognize at first strolls in, his energy like a walking powder keg ready to blow. It takes you only a moment to recognize him. Soldier Boy. That jawline, those cool, calculating eyes. You’d only ever seen him in grainy old footage, but standing in front of you now, he’s larger than life, every inch the legend.

And then, behind him, his long coat billowing like a cape, his face carved from granite, every line of his body is a testament to his fury, barely leashed but white-hot.

Butcher.

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @buckybarnesbestgirl

[gullemec]

Till death do us part? Yea no you’re not getting out of this that easily

[gullemec]

Embers

Bitten - Part VIII

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Saved from the brink of death and stolen away, have you found salvation? Or is this a fate worse than death, worse than the cursed existence you've already found yourself in?

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, kidnapping, reader is held hostage

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 13.3k

A/N: did something happen last night??? bc I have no idea about that. abby? idk her. golfing? never heard of it!

You’re running through the forest, branches lashing your cheeks like whips. The wind grabs at you, tugging your hair in wild, frantic directions, trying to hold you back. Every breath burns, the frigid air like daggers in your lungs, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

The snow beneath you is dense and deep, dragging at your legs with every step. Your muscles scream in protest, each step heavier than the last. You’re both predator and prey, fox and rabbit, driven by fear and yet spurred on by the undying instinct to survive.

Above, the snow falls in opaque sheets, blanketing you in thick, clinging flakes. It blinds you, muffles sound, swallows the forest whole.

Behind you a shadow is in pursuit, growing, looming, hunting. 

Your legs betray you, the snow like quicksand pulling you down, burying you in its frozen embrace. You’re sinking, wading, drowning in the cold. The shadow is upon you now, its snarls mingling with your desperate gasps. Just as you’re pulled beneath the surface, the world turns to a blinding, breathless collapse, and the shadow reaches you. Covers you in itself.

And it’s warm.

It’s just soft at first, a flicker. You cling to it, desperate, and it grows to a flame in the unfeeling void. The suffocating pressure is gone, replaced by something else. Arms. Strong, steady arms.

You’re lifted, weightless, like a leaf caught on the wind. The shift startles you. No snow. No pain. Only warmth.

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, barely audible even to yourself. You don’t even know for sure if you said it out loud.

The steady arms pull you in closer. You try to lift your head, to see his face, but your neck fails, your head lolling backward.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, the words breaking apart in your throat. “I’m so sorry, Joel.”

Wind slices across your face, a million tiny cuts, but it’s distant now, muted by the heat radiating from the chest you’re pressed against. The rhythmic crunch of boots in the snow fills your ears, and you think of all the times Joel carried you, protected you, kept you safe.

You feel the sway of movement, the press of his body as he pushes forward. It’s him. It has to be him. You let yourself believe it, clinging to the fragile hope like a lifeline.

But something’s wrong.

Even in your fevered haze, a voice whispers in the back of your mind, faint but insistent. This isn’t right. This isn’t Joel.

The warmth shifts. The wind dies down. You’re indoors now, the chill replaced by an almost stifling heat. You feel yourself being lowered gently onto something soft. A bed. The antiseptic stench hits you next, eye watering, wrong against the earthy memories of pine and snow.

“Joel?” you croak, louder this time, the word scraping painfully out of your throat.

There’s no reply. Only silence.

You force your eyes open, the effort monumental. The world tilts and spins, shapes bleeding into one another. A figure stands over you, nothing more than an indistinct shape. They're warm and steady, but it feels wrong. Their hands move over you, pressing fingers over tender flesh, wrapping you in bandages, but they’re too careful, too clinical.

You feel hands prodding at your side, and you use every last vestige of strength in you to curl on your side, protecting your vulnerability.

“Joel,” you croak, louder this time, almost pleading.

The figure freezes for a moment, their head tilting as if they’re studying you.

Your heart stutters. It’s not him.

Even through the fog of fever and exhaustion, you feel the weight of that realization settle over you. The figure moves again, their hands lingering for a moment on your wrist before pulling away.

You close your eyes, unable to hold them open any longer. The darkness rushes in once more, but this time it’s different. Colder. Lonelier.

The dream comes for you again. The forest. The snow. The shadow. But Joel is gone. The warmth of his arms, his voice, his steady presence, all vanished. You’re left alone, running, stumbling through the endless white as the shadow closes in. Distant clicking grows louder, relentless, echoing in your ears until it drowns out everything else.

And when you fall, there’s no one to catch you.

…

When you wake, it’s to the dim glow of candlelight filtering through your eyelids. The world comes into focus in fragments.

A faint creak of floorboards, the unmistakable tang of antiseptic in the air, the muffled sound of distant voices.

You shift, groggy and disoriented, and the first thing you notice is that your wrist is bound in something rigid. A makeshift cast, strips of plaster binding your arm to a splint. Your hands, too, are wrapped in clean, sterile bandages, their ache dull but not gone. Someone has tended to you.

The second thing you notice is the restraints.

A leather strap binds your uninjured wrist to the tall wooden poster of the bed. It’s loose enough not to hurt, but tight enough to keep you tethered. The sight sends a jolt of panic through you, your heart hammering as you tug against it.

The room is small and sparsely furnished, with peeling, water stained wallpaper and warped floorboards. An old dresser leans against one wall, its surface cluttered with medical supplies. Bandages, syringes, bottles of antibiotics. More medical supplies you’ve seen in one place since you were in a QZ hospital. The smell of alcohol and iodine lingers heavily in the air, almost nauseating.

Where the hell are you?

You tug at the restraint again, harder this time, but it holds fast and you are still so weak. Your throat is parched, tongue sitting uncomfortably in your mouth, each breath rasping painfully in your lungs.

Your gaze drifts to a pile of bags shoved into the corner of the room. Most are nondescript, just tattered duffel bags and patched backpacks. But one catches your eye. It’s black, with a painted emblem on the side.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s the same symbol you saw graffitied in the town, back near the pharmacy.

The memory flashes back like a lightbulb flickering on. The pharmacy.

With the clicker and all the medical supplies.

You thought it was Joel that saved you, killing the clicker and getting you out of there. If not him, then who? Who would save you like that, waste their medical supplies on you, a stranger?

Whoever these people are, they’re organized. They have supplies, good supplies, and enough resources to have left their mark behind. But why would they bother to save you?

The muffled voices grow louder, and a shadow passes across the crack beneath the door. You freeze, your body going rigid as the door creaks open.

A woman steps inside, her movements deliberate and confident. She’s tall, with cutting eyes that scan the room before settling on you. Her face is unreadable, her expression somewhere between curiosity and disdain. And there, resting on a chain against her collarbones, is a small pendant carrying that same symbol from the bags and the graffiti. 

She closes the door behind her with a soft click, leaning against it with crossed arms. The candlelight flickers across her face, casting shadows that make her seem both familiar and foreign at once.

“You’re awake,” she says, her voice cool and measured.

You don’t respond. Your eyes dart to the restraint on your wrist, then back to her, your unease plain on your face.

“I wouldn’t pull on that too much,” she says, nodding toward the strap. “It’s just a precaution.”

“Precaution?” you rasp, your own voice sounding foreign to you.

The woman tilts her head, studying you. “You were half-dead when we found you. Fever, infected wounds… We’re just being careful here.”

Your jaw tightens. “You could’ve left me.”

“Could’ve,” she agrees, her tone casual. “But we didn’t.”

There’s something about the way she says it that sets your teeth on edge, something that suggests that the act of saving you was less than altruistic.

You’re not stupid, despite whatever this woman may think. No one just saves another person, not in this world, not anymore. Not unless they have some other, underlying motive.

“What do you want?” you ask, your voice gaining strength despite the dryness in your throat.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she steps closer, her boots scuffing against the floorboards. She stops at the dresser, her fingers grazing the edge of a bottle of antibiotics.

“Right now?” she says finally, glancing back at you. “I want you to stay put and rest. We’ve gone through a lot of trouble to keep you alive.”

The words are matter-of-fact, but the way she looks at you, all calculations and assessments, makes your skin crawl.

Her gaze flickers to the pile of bags in the corner, then back to you, and something in her expression shifts. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

You swallow hard, your mind racing. These people, whoever they are, don’t seem like random scavengers. Nothing about the relatively clean and well-fed woman standing in front of you says raider. They have too much, know too much. And the symbol on that bag… it feels like a clue, a breadcrumb leading to something bigger.

“I don’t even know your name,” you say, your voice steady despite the anxiety curling inside you like a plume of smoke.

The woman smirks, though there’s no warmth in it. “Marlene.”

She doesn’t offer anything else, just turns and strides toward the door.

“Wait! ” you call after her, but she’s already opening it, her silhouette framed in the dim light.

“Someone will check on you soon,” she says without looking back. And with that, she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

You’re left in the dim, infuriating quiet, your thoughts racing.

Who are these people? What do they want? And why does it feel like you’ve just stepped into something far more dangerous than you can even begin to comprehend?

…

You’re still staring at the ceiling when the door creaks open again, shattering the silence. Your body tenses instinctively, your eyes snapping to the figures stepping into the room.

Marlene leads the way, her expression calm but unreadable, the same air of quiet authority radiating off her. Behind her, two others follow.

The first is a man, practically a mountain, tall and broad-shouldered, with a scruffy beard and a perpetual scowl etched into his face. His presence commands the room in a way that makes you shrink back against the headboard. As soon as you see him, a realization hits you like a gut punch. This must be the man who carried you.

The phantom sensation of strong arms lifting you off the pharmacy floor flashes through your mind. For a fleeting, fevered moment, you had thought it was Joel, his face a blur in the cold and chaos. But now you know better. This man is a stranger, too soft and too round to be Joel, His scowl doesn’t betray any softness or kindness.

The second figure, a wiry woman with beady eyes and a frenetic energy, lingers closer to the door, her gaze flicking between you and Marlene.

You can feel your pulse quickening, your restraint biting into your wrist as your body tightens with unease.

“How’re you feeling?” Marlene asks, stepping further into the room. Her voice is cool and conversational, as though this is some routine check-in and not an interrogation waiting to happen.

“Let me go,” you say, your voice low but firm. You tug against the strap on your wrist for emphasis, your jaw tight.

Marlene sighs, exchanging a glance with the big man before crouching slightly to meet your eye level. “I know this isn’t ideal,” she says, her tone softening like she’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. “But you need to understand, this is for everyone’s safety. Yours included.”

You glare at her. “Safety from what? I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“None of us did,” she replies smoothly, folding her arms. “But we found you, delirious with a broken wrist and a clicker not even five feet away from you. We patched you up. If we’d left you out there, you wouldn’t have made it through the night, even if you did manage to get away from the clicker.”

Her words don’t comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse, the weight of your vulnerability pressing down on you like a crushing force.

“Okay, but why bother? You don’t know me, why not just leave me to die?” you demand, your voice almost shrill now. “Who are you people?!”

Marlene glances again at the man, who remains silent but watchful, hands clasped in front of him like he’s ready to step in if things get messy. She exhales slowly before speaking.

“We’re... survivors, just like you,” she says carefully, her tone deliberate. “We’ve been trying to make things better. To rebuild, in our own way.”

“Rebuild?” you repeat, your suspicion mounting. “What does that even mean? Who are you really?”

Marlene straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “We’re the Fireflies.”

Fireflies.

The name lands heavily in the room. It’s… Oddly familiar. You’re taken back to the QZ, to whispers carried on the tongues of smugglers and guards alike. 

You try desperately to recall any information about them, any times that Tess or Joel might have offered you an insight into them. But your brain is tired and scrambled and trying to focus like that has a stabbing pain forming at your temple.

“And that’s supposed to make me trust you?” you snap.

“We’re not asking for your trust,” she replies, her voice cooling again. “But I think you’d prefer to be here with us than out there on your own.”

You don’t answer. Your mind flashes to the sensation of cold burrowing deep into your bones, the exhaustion that took root in your very being. The indeterminate days you spent in a fever-induced delirium, closer to death than you had realized.

Yes, they’d saved you. Yes, you probably would’ve died in that pharmacy if they hadn’t come along. 

But for the second time in your life, you wonder if being saved was a mercy or a condemnation.

Marlene steps closer, reaching for the blanket draped over you. “Look, let’s get you up and moving. I’m sure you need to use the bathroom.”

But as she pulls the blanket back, you see it. The clothes you’re wearing are not your own. An unfamiliar, loose, worn sweater, and baggy sweatpants.

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you whisper, panic rising in your throat. “No, no, no.”

The realization hits you like a physical blow. They changed your clothes. They saw your bite.

Your breathing quickens as you jerk against the restraint, ignoring the pain it sends shooting up your arm. “You saw it,” you choke out, your voice trembling. “You— you saw— ”

The wiry woman near the door takes a step forward, her hand instinctively resting on the butt of a pistol at her hip. The big man stiffens, his eyes narrowing as he watches your every move.

Marlene raises a hand, motioning for them to stand down. She kneels beside the bed, her expression shifting into something almost gentle.

“Hey,” she says softly, her voice steady and calm. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

“It’s not okay!” you snap, your voice breaking. “You saw it! You’re going to —”

“Stop,” Marlene interrupts, her voice cutting through your panic like a blade. “From where I’m at, you seem pretty alive to me. Pretty human. I think we can take that as a good sign.”

You freeze, her words echoing in your mind.

They know… And you’re still here, still alive. For the second time since you got bitten, you’ve avoided being put down. You can’t tell if it’s dumb luck, or if this really is some sick, twisted curse.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” she continues, her tone soothing but firm. “If we wanted to, we would’ve left you to die back in that pharmacy. But we didn’t. We brought you here, treated your wounds, gave you medicine. That’s not what people do if they want to kill someone, is it?”

Her logic lodges itself uncomfortably in your mind, but your fear doesn’t dissipate entirely.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You don’t… you don’t know what I’ve done.”

Marlene’s gaze hardens, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I know more than you think,” she says. “And I know you’re not a monster. You’re just a scared girl who’s been through hell. So let me help you.”

You swallow hard, your body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion. There’s something unsettlingly convincing about her tone, the way she looks at you like she’s already figured you out.

Her hand hovers near your wrist, and she pauses, waiting for you to relax. When you don’t resist, she carefully undoes the strap, freeing you.

“There,” she says softly. “See? No one’s hurting anyone.”

But even as she steps back, giving you space, you can’t shake the unease crawling under your skin. 

You allow Marlene to guide you off the bed, your legs embarrassingly shaky beneath you as you rise. The world tilts for a moment, and her arms shoot out, hooking under yours to steady you. The contact sends a shiver through your already trembling frame, the unexpected warmth of human touch jarring after so much solitude.

It only reminds you of the last time someone touched you.

Joel.

His rough hands were painfully gentle as he bandaged yours in that cramped bathroom. His voice was soft, steady, grounding, even as the unspoken weight of everything hung thick in the air between you. And then you left him, disappearing into the night like a ghost, dragging your shame behind you like a chain.

Marlene adjusts her hold on you, her touch clinical but firm, and your thoughts circle back to the present. Joel would know who these people are. You’re certain of it. You’ve heard the name before, haven’t you? Falling from his lips in some long-forgotten conversation. But your mind, too foggy and fried from infection, starvation, and exhaustion, refuses to piece it together.

Would Joel stumble upon the same town you did? Would he see the emblems painted on the walls and follow? Or would they deter him? Would he recognize the symbol for what it truly is and turn away, knowing something about the Fireflies that you don’t?

And if he did come, what then? Would you want to see him? To confront the shame burning in your bones, to fumble through excuses for why you abandoned him without so much as a goodbye?

Marlene’s voice cuts through the haze. “Come on. Let’s get you outside.”

You nod, your throat too dry to answer. She helps you shuffle through the house, your steps uneven and awkward, every movement feeling foreign in your weakened state. As you approach the door, the stale air of the house is replaced by a crisp winter chill, smarting at your cheeks.

She guides you to a copse of trees just beyond the backyard to relieve yourself. The moment you step outside, your gaze sweeps wide, taking in your surroundings with tempered curiosity.

The house is situated on a small cul-de-sac, the kind of suburban Fourth of July, apple pie, and fireworks slice of America that probably once hosted summer block parties and kids’ bike races. The circular layout is surrounded by a dense treeline, obscuring your view beyond..

But whatever charm this neighborhood once had is long gone. The houses are weathered and battered, their windows either shattered or boarded up. What catches your attention most is how this place has been transformed, repurposed for survival.

The mouth of the cul-de-sac is barricaded with a haphazard wall made of rusted cars, stacked furniture, and jagged metal fencing. Behind it, you catch glimpses of armed guards pacing back and forth, their breath visible in the cold air as they exchange quiet words.

The houses themselves have been turned into something between a fortress and a field hospital. Tarps and camouflage netting stretch between rooftops, providing makeshift cover. The hum of a portable generator reaches your ears, its sound faint but unmistakable. You catch glimpses of people moving through the area, men and women armed with rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces hard and determined.

It dawns on you that they all seem to wear shades of yellow and green.

Your eyes land on a cluster of bags piled near the side of the nearest house, their contents spilling out slightly. Weapons. The faint scents of gunpowder and metal reach your nose, mixing with earthier smells of dirt and mildew. Guns, machetes, ammo. More than you’ve ever seen in one place.

Your gaze lingers on the bags, and your stomach knots as you spot a familiar symbol stenciled on the fabric in faded white paint. A firefly.

Marlene follows your gaze, her expression unreadable. “We have a few places set up like this across the country,” she says, her tone neutral, but there’s a weight behind her words. “It’s not much, but it’s enough.”

Enough for what? you wonder.

You force your attention back to her as she helps you steady yourself against the tree. The cold wind stings your cheeks, but it’s not enough to shake the unease settling deeper into your body.

“Go ahead,” Marlene says, stepping back to give you space but keeping her watchful eyes on you.

You glance back at the cul-de-sac, at the barricades, the guards, the makeshift fortifications. This isn’t just a camp or a hideout. It’s something bigger. Something more organized.

Something dangerous.

…

When Marlene guides you back inside the house, she doesn’t take you back to the room with the bed. Instead, she leads you to a staircase, gesturing for you to ascend. Her presence lingers close behind, her arms raised slightly, ready to catch you if you falter.

You hate this, being this vulnerable, this dependent. It churns in your stomach, an unpleasant reminder of every time you’ve had to rely on someone else to survive. You hated it even when it was Joel, despite him giving you no reason to doubt his intentions.

With Joel, it was different, though. You’d push yourself, stubbornly trying to prove you could handle things on your own. And when you couldn’t, when your legs gave out or your hands shook too much to light the fire, he would step in. Sure, he’d grumble under his breath or make one of his dry, sarcastic remarks, but the edge wasn’t there. It never was. You could tease him about it later, make him feel bad for being so grumpy, and his lips would twitch into something almost resembling a smile.

But this is different. You don’t know Marlene. You don’t know the Fireflies. And every instinct in your body is screaming at you that something is wrong.

At the top of the stairs, Marlene stops in front of a closed door. Her hand rests on the doorknob, her fingers tightening slightly as if she’s bracing herself. For a moment, she doesn’t move.

Then she turns to look at you. Her gaze is piercing, calculating, even as her voice comes out light. “Who stitched you up?”

The question catches you off guard. For a moment, all you can do is blink at her.

“I…” You hesitate. “I was traveling with someone.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth, either.

Marlene tilts her head, her expression unreadable. She nods, though it’s slow and deliberate, her skepticism bleeding through despite her casual tone. “Someone very skilled in first aid.”

You don’t respond. You just stare at her, your throat tightening.

Her lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close. “When we first found you, you were calling for someone. Someone named Joel.”

Your stomach drops.

What does she know? Does she know him? Did he ever cross paths with the Fireflies? The questions crowd your mind, each one more urgent than the last. You wonder, for a moment, if you should say his name, if it might grant you some favor here.

But you don’t.

Something holds you back, something protective and wary. You don’t want to drag him into this, whatever this is. This place, with its cold edges and militaristic air, reminds you too much of the QZ. You can’t shake the feeling that admitting you know him might endanger him, or yourself.

So you say nothing.

The silence between you stretches out, a taut rope. Marlene doesn’t push, but her eyes stay locked on yours, as though she’s searching for something hidden just beneath the surface.

Finally, she turns the knob and pushes the door open.

You freeze the moment you step inside the room.

In the far corner, a small, hunched form catches your eye. It takes a second to register what you’re looking at.

A girl. She can’t be more than thirteen, with a mess of dark hair tied back into a haphazard ponytail. Her face is pale, and her wide eyes dart toward you, suspicious. She doesn’t move much, only her head turning slightly as she sizes you up. Her gaze flickers between you and Marlene, and there’s a wariness in her expression that puts you even more on edge.

You’re about to speak, to ask who she is, what she’s doing here, when Marlene steps closer. She’s holding something in her hand, something metallic and clinking softly as it dangles.

A chain.

She moves toward you with purpose, her hand reaching for your good wrist.

Your body reacts instinctively. You yank your arm back, your heels digging into the floor as though sheer will alone will keep her from coming any closer.

“What the hell are you doing?” Your voice comes out firmer than you expect, but there’s a thread of panic laced through it.

Marlene sighs, her expression as calm and unbothered as if you’d asked her about the weather. “It’s just a precaution.”

“A precaution for what?” you demand, your voice rising as your pulse quickens.

She doesn’t answer right away, and your eyes are drawn back to the girl in the corner. For the first time, you notice the length of chain coiled at her feet, the way it disappears beneath the edge of the radiator.

She’s chained.

Your blood chills, a cold knot forming in your stomach. “No,” you say, taking a step back. “No, you’re not tying me up again.”

Your voice is loud now, cracking at the edges, and your eyes flit frantically around the room. There’s a window on the opposite wall, but it’s too far. Even if you could reach it, you’re on the second floor now. Any fall from this height would likely only leave you more injured than you are now. And even if you somehow managed to land safely, what then? You’d be trapped in the middle of their base, surrounded on all sides by armed Fireflies.

You’re truly, thoroughly fucked.

The realization crashes over you like a wave.

This isn’t just a precaution. This is a trap.

They saved you, sure. They pulled you out of that pharmacy, carried you through the freezing night, brought you somewhere warm and safe. They cleaned your wounds, gave you antibiotics, and tended to your broken wrist. They wasted valuable resources on you, resources that are scarce in this world. It was almost too kind of them.

And now you understand why.

They didn’t save you out of the goodness of their hearts. They did it because they needed something from you.

The walls of the room seem to close in, the air like a thick blanket thrown over your face. You feel your knees weaken, but you refuse to let them buckle. You refuse to give Marlene, or anyone here, the satisfaction of seeing how terrified you are.

She steps toward you again, and this time you don’t move. You just glare at her, your hands rising in front of you as if they could be trusted to defend you.

“This isn’t up for debate,” she says quietly, and her calmness is infuriating.

Her hand reaches for you again, and this time she catches your wrist. You thrash instinctively, but you’re still too weak to fight her off. The chain is cold and heavy as she fastens it around your wrist, the metallic click sealing your fate.

You look back at the girl in the corner. She hasn’t said a word, but her wide-eyed gaze hasn’t left you. You meet her stare, your mind racing with questions you’re too afraid to ask.

Why is she here? Why is she chained?

Why are you?

You glance at Marlene as she straightens, her expression unreadable as she steps back. You realize then just how badly you’ve underestimated her, how easily she’s outmaneuvered you.

The knot in your stomach tightens.

You’re not just trapped. You’re a prisoner.

…

When the door closes behind Marlene, the silence is immediate and oppressive, pressing down on you like a weight. You can feel the girl’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at her. Instead, you stare at the cracked, dusty floorboards beneath you, your fingers absentmindedly curling into your palms.

You shift, inching as far away from her as your chain will allow, pulling your knees to your chin. You’re not afraid of her, not in the slightest. If anything, you’re more worried that she’s afraid of you.

You don’t know her story, don’t know how long she’s been here or what she’s endured to end up chained to the same radiator as you. The last thing you want to do is make her feel uncomfortable, so you give her as much space as the cramped room allows.

For a while, neither of you says a word. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint sounds of movement elsewhere in the house.

Then, to your surprise, she speaks first.

“What happened to you?”

Her voice is small, almost hesitant. There’s a tinge of youthfulness to it that catches you off guard, and it twists something in your belly.

You finally turn your head to look at her, taking her in more closely. She’s still huddled in the corner, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her face is pale, her eyes wary but curious.

What happened to you? The question feels too big, too overwhelming to answer. Where would you even start?

“I was sick,” you say slowly, trying to piece together your words. “Hurt. I found a pharmacy and went inside to look for supplies. Thought maybe I’d get lucky.”

You pause, hesitant to say more. Her eyes stay on you, wide and unblinking, and something about her expression feels almost disarming.

“Then... I passed out,” you continue, keeping your voice low. No need to bring up your encounter with the clicker. “And when I woke up, I was here. Chained to a damn bed.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, and then, to your utter bewilderment, she snorts.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” she says, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Just... sucks to be you, I guess.”

You huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah, no kidding.”

The tension between you softens slightly, and for a moment, neither of you speaks again. You glance at the chain around your wrist, absently tugging at it as your mind races.

“What about you?” you ask after a while, your voice quieter now. “How’d you end up here?”

She hesitates, her expression darkening. “Marlene brought me here. Said it was... safer.”

“Safer than what?”

She shrugs, but you notice the way her jaw tightens. “I was in the Boston QZ before this. She smuggled me out.”

Boston. The word rings in your ears, tugging at distant memories of the place. Flashes of cracked pavement, guarded checkpoints, the ever-present smell of rot and desperation.

Your brain conjures up images of Joel, too, but you push them back down where they came from. 

“You’re from Boston?” you ask, unable to hide your surprise.

She nods, pulling her knees closer to her chin. “Yeah. Born and raised. Not that it’s anything to brag about.”

“No kidding,” you murmur, thinking back to your own fleeting time in the Boston QZ. Had you ever crossed paths with the girl? You doubted it, given how separated the FEDRA schools were. Still, what were the odds?

“What about you?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. “Where’re you from?”

You hesitate again, the question pulling at wounds that haven’t fully healed. “Nowhere, really,” you say eventually. “I’ve just... been moving around a lot.”

She studies you for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. You can tell she doesn’t fully believe you, but she doesn’t press.

“So... what’s Marlene’s deal?” you ask, shifting the conversation away from yourself. “She didn’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon for me.”

The girl snorts again, a dry, humorless sound. “Yeah, she’s like that. Acts all tough, like she’s got everything under control, but... I don’t know. She’s got her reasons, I guess.”

“Her reasons for chaining us up, you mean?”

The girl shrugs again, though there’s a flicker of discomfort in her expression. “She said it’s for our safety. Or theirs. Or something.”

Your eyes meet hers, and for a brief moment, you see a glimmer of something familiar in her gaze. Fear, maybe. Or distrust.

“I don’t trust her,” you admit quietly.

The girl nods, her expression grim. “Yeah. Me neither.”

A strange, tentative understanding passes between you, and the silence that follows feels a little less suffocating than before.

“I’m Ellie, by the way,” she says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, caught off guard by the introduction. Her name feels strangely significant, like it holds more weight than you can understand in this moment.

“Nice to meet you, Ellie,” you say, offering her a small, cautious smile, and your own name in return.

And for the first time, she smiles back.

…

The door creaks open, and both you and Ellie instinctively straighten up, pretending you weren’t slouched against your respective corners of the room. You’ve been chained to the radiator for a good eighteen hours now, if you had to guess.

You watch as Marlene enters, flanked by two other Fireflies, the same broad and wiry ones you saw earlier. They carry weapons nestled in their arms like extensions of their own bodies.

Marlene’s perceptive gaze darts between you and Ellie, as if taking inventory. Her tone is clipped when she speaks.

“We’re heading out,” she says. “Me, Andrea, and John. We’ve got something to take care of a few towns over. We’ll be gone a couple of days.”

Your stomach twists at the announcement. You don’t know these people. You don’t trust these people. And now, the only one who seems even remotely in charge is leaving?

Marlene seems to sense your unease because she adds, “You’ll be fine. The others will keep an eye on you.”

Ellie, who had been silent until now, snorts. “Yeah, ‘cause they’re such a warm and welcoming bunch.”

Marlene shoots her a withering look, but Ellie doesn’t back down. Instead, she leans forward, her eyes narrowing. “Seriously, you’re just gonna leave us here? With them?”

“They’re Fireflies,” Marlene says, her voice laced with irritation. “You’re safe with them.”

Ellie mutters something under her breath, and Marlene doesn’t even bother responding. Instead, she turns her attention to you.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says, her tone pointed. You’re not sure if it’s meant as a warning or advice.

With that, she motions to Andrea and John, and the three of them leave. The door closes with a metallic click, and the sound of their boots fades into the distance.

The silence they leave behind is oppressive. You don’t trust Marlene, but at least she has a commanding presence that feels more predictable than the unknown intentions of the other Fireflies.

Ellie shifts against the radiator, her arms crossed tightly. Her earlier bravado is gone, replaced by a simmering frustration. “Great. Just fucking great,” she mutters.

You don’t say anything, not sure what to make of her mood.

“Y’know,” she says, her tone more forceful now, “you could’ve said something back there. Maybe asked why they’re leaving us chained up like animals.”

You bristle at her tone. “What would that have accomplished? It’s not like they’re going to listen to me.”

Ellie lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, you’re not even trying. You’re an adult, and you’re  just sitting there, all quiet and pathetic, letting them walk all over you.”

Your blood boils at the insult, heat rising to your face. “Excuse me? I didn’t ask to be here, okay? I don’t even know who the hell these people are or why they care about keeping us alive. If you’ve got it all figured out, why don’t you enlighten me?”

Ellie snaps her head toward you, her expression incredulous. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m chained to a goddamn radiator?!” She yanks at her chain for emphasis, the metallic clinking reverberating through the room.

“So am I!” you fire back. “I don’t even know why I’m here. Or why they give a shit about either of us.”

“Maybe they don’t,” Ellie says, her voice quieter now but no less intense. “Maybe they’re just waiting until we’re useful to them.”

Her words echo in your mind, unsettling you.

The tension between you is palpable, and neither of you seems willing to back down. Ellie glares at you, her jaw tight, and you meet her gaze with equal intensity.

“What really happened to you?” she asks suddenly, her tone biting. “Why’d they even bother with you in the first place? You look like you can barely stand.”

Her words hit a nerve. “What happened to me? I was fighting for my life, okay? Against a clicker. You know what that is, right? Or are you too busy mouthing off to actually survive out there?”

Ellie’s eyes widen, and for a moment, she looks taken aback. Then, something shifts in her expression, her bravado cracking just slightly. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I know what a clicker is.”

The room falls silent again, the weight of your words lingering between you.

Ellie shifts uncomfortably, suddenly looking anywhere but at you. You can feel her hesitation, the way she’s holding something back.

“What?” you press, your voice softer now.

She hesitates, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “Nothing,” she mutters, but the evasiveness in her tone is unmistakable.

You lean back against the wall, exhaustion creeping over you again. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Not like I care anyway.”

Ellie snorts, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, you seem real chill about everything.”

You glare at her, but there’s less heat in it this time. Instead, a reluctant curiosity starts to bubble up. Despite her sharp tongue and prickly demeanor, there’s something about her that feels… familiar. Like she’s just as scared and out of place as you are but refuses to show it.

It occurs to you that your little spat with Ellie is painfully reminiscent of those you had with your parents when you were her age. She sounds exactly like you did, all full of vinegar and unbridled emotion, ready to set the world on fire. You reflect on your own words, and with a realization that is incredibly bittersweet, you realize you could hear your mother in your voice. No wonder she always complained about raising a teenager. 

The silence between you and Ellie stretches for a while, only interrupted by the faint sounds of movement somewhere downstairs, the Fireflies, you assume doing whatever it is they do. You’re curled against the radiator, resting your head against the cool wall behind you. Despite everything, exhaustion is threatening to pull you under again.

Then Ellie shifts beside you, rummaging through a small backpack.

“You hungry?” she asks, her tone softer now, almost hesitant.

You glance over at her, skeptical. “Depends. What are we talking? Mystery meat or expired canned goods?”

Ellie smirks faintly, though her expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Close. Jerky. It’s of mysterious origin, but it’s… edible.” She holds out a small, crinkled bag of dried meat, leaning toward you to offer a piece.

You eye it warily but reach out to take it. Your hand falters mid-reach, though, when something catches your attention, something on her arm.

As Ellie stretches toward you, the sleeve of her hoodie shifts, sliding up just enough to reveal the faint, circular scar on her forearm.

A bite mark.

Your breath catches in your throat. You freeze, your hand hovering mid-air, as your mind scrambles to make sense of what you’re seeing.

Ellie notices your change in expression almost instantly. She follows your gaze, her own eyes landing on her arm. She yanks her sleeve down so fast it’s almost frantic, her face flushing red.

“I-It’s not what you think,” she stammers, her voice rising in pitch. “I mean, it is, but —” She stops, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her palms into her knees like she’s bracing herself for impact. “Shit, I didn’t mean for you to see that. Please, just… don’t freak out, okay? Don’t scream or anything.”

Her voice is laced with panic, her words tumbling out in a rush. You can see the way her whole body has tensed, her expression openly pleading. She looks terrified, not of you, but of what you might do.

You hold up your hands, trying to calm her down. “Hey, hey, relax. I’m not gonna freak out.”

Ellie’s eyes flicker, narrowing at you. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, your voice steady despite the million thoughts racing through your head. “Just… give me a second, okay?”

Ellie nods slowly, her eyes never leaving your face.

You take a deep breath, shifting your weight slightly as you turn your body away from her. Your fingers find the hem of your shirt, and you hesitate for just a moment before pulling it up enough to reveal your own bite mark.

Ellie gasps. “Holy shit,” she breathes.

You glance at her over your shoulder, your heart like a bird in your ribcage. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You both just sit there, staring at each other like you’re seeing something impossible.

Then Ellie’s voice breaks the silence, shaky but curious. “How… how long ago?”

You lower your shirt and turn back to face her, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. “A few weeks? Maybe more. It’s hard to keep track.”

Ellie leans forward slightly, her brows furrowed in disbelief. “And you didn’t… you didn’t turn.”

You shake your head. “No. Not even a fever, nothing. I thought it was a fluke. Or maybe I’m just a ticking time bomb, and it hasn’t happened yet.”

Ellie swallows hard, her hand instinctively tugging at her sleeve again, as if to hide the scar that’s already burned into both of your memories. “Same for me,” she says quietly. “I got bit back in Boston. I thought I was done for, but… nothing. Marlene found me, and I’ve been with her ever since.”

The weight of her words settles between you like a physical thing. You both sit there, staring at each other, two strangers bound by something that neither of you fully understands.

Finally, Ellie speaks again, her voice softer now. “You’re not afraid of me.”

You let out a breathy laugh, though it’s tinged with nervousness. “Guess I don’t have much room to, do I?”

Ellie smiles faintly, and this time, it actually reaches her eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there.

“I thought I was alone,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your throat tightening. “Yeah. Me too.”

The tension in the room shifts slightly, no longer as sour and weighted. You’re still strangers, still chained to the same radiator, still trapped in a house full of people you don’t trust.

But there’s something here, something that flickers like hope.

“So that’s why Marlene took me in and fixed me up,” you say, more to yourself than to Ellie.

Ellie nods, considering you. “They’re taking us to Utah, Or, at least that’s what Marlene says. Apparently there’s a hospital there where they’re working on a vaccine. So they’re taking anyone who’s immune up there to help.”

The breath is knocked from your lungs momentarily.

From where I’m at, you seem pretty alive to me. Pretty human. I think we can take that as a good sign.

Her voice echoes in your mind, steady and resolute. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t disgust. It was… belief.

It’s strange, the way those words landed. When Marlene said them, it was like she wasn’t just trying to convince you. It was like she believed them herself. Like she saw something in you that you hadn’t seen in a long time, something more than fear and failure. She wasn’t afraid of you, wasn’t repelled by the wicked scar on your side or the implications of what it meant.

I know you’re not a monster. You’re just a scared girl who’s been through hell.

You press your back against the wall, staring at the cracked ceiling above. It’s a dangerous kind of comfort, the idea that your bite mark, your immunity, isn’t some grotesque brand marking you as a freak. Maybe it’s not a curse. Maybe it’s something more.

Your gaze shifts to Ellie, who still sits curled in the corner of the room, her own scar now hidden beneath her sleeve again. She’s fidgeting with her shoelace, her expression hard to read, equal parts defiant and vulnerable. You wonder if she’s had the same thoughts, if she’s wondered whether her immunity is some kind of cosmic mistake or if it means she’s supposed to matter in some larger way.

What if Marlene’s right? What if this thing inside you, this immunity, isn’t just some cruel joke? What if it’s a promise, a chance to turn the tide on all of this, to end the infection once and for all? The thought is almost dizzying. In the aftermath of the bite all you ever felt was the pain of being a burden, like your mere existence was a threat to others. But here’s Marlene, looking at you like you’re special. 

Not broken. Not wrong. Special.

It’s hard not to weigh that against the way Joel looked at you in the days that followed your attack. He never said it out loud, but you could see it in his eyes when you winced while he stitched you up or when he had to check on your wound for infection. There was a fear there, no matter how much he tried to bury it. Like he was bracing himself for the day you’d turn into something he’d have no other choice but to put down. He didn’t trust you, not entirely. Not the way Marlene seems to.

But then there’s the other side of it, the one you can’t shake. You don’t trust Marlene either. Sure, she’s kind in her own acerbic, matter-of-fact way, but there’s an edge to her kindness. A purpose behind it. She didn’t take care of you out of altruism or compassion. She did it because of your bite, because of what you represent. To her, you’re a symbol, maybe even a tool. Not quite a person.

Joel never made you feel like a symbol. He made you feel like a person, flawed and imperfect as you were. Even when he didn’t trust the scars and tendrils woven into your skin, he still cared for you. No ulterior motives. 

And yet, looking at Ellie now, you can’t help but feel a pang of protectiveness. You’ve only known her for a short while, but the thought of anyone hurting her, Marlene, the Fireflies, anyone, makes your stomach twist. She’s just a kid. A kid who’s been through hell, just like you. You think of her biting sarcasm, her defiant little quips, and how much of it feels like armor, the kind of armor you’ve worn for years.

You wonder if she feels the same weight you do. The feeling that maybe, somehow, all of this suffering could mean something. That these scars aren’t afflictions, but something greater. And you wonder if she’s scared to believe it, the same way you are.

“Hey,” you say softly, surprising yourself. Ellie glances up, her wary eyes meeting yours. You don’t know what you’re going to say next, but something in you knows you need to say something. “You doing okay?”

Ellie’s lips twitch in something like a smirk, but it’s weak, half-hearted. “Yeah. Peachy.” She shrugs, pulling her knees closer to her chin. “Y’know. Just another day chained to a radiator.”

You can’t help the small, dry laugh that escapes you. It’s not funny, but it’s something.

“We’ll figure this out,” you say, though you’re not sure if you’re talking to Ellie or yourself.

Ellie raises an eyebrow, her skeptical expression almost comical. “Yeah? And what’s your big plan, huh?”

You sigh, leaning your head back against the wall and closing your eyes for a moment. The weight of her words settles uncomfortably on your shoulders. She’s right. Whether you like it or not, you’re the adult here. That means it’s on you to figure something out, to take charge. But the truth is, you don’t have a plan. Not yet.

When you open your eyes, the room feels smaller, more stifling. You push yourself to your feet, testing the slack in the chain. There’s just enough give to let you cross the room to the window. You grip the sill and peer out, the cold glass cool against your fingertips.

The view isn’t much. The cul-de-sac below is quiet, save for a few Fireflies patrolling with rifles slung over their shoulders. Their movements are stiff, their postures tense, like they’re expecting something, or someone. The sight of their unease sets your teeth on edge.

Even if Marlene doesn’t think you’re a monster, even if the talk of a hospital in Utah and a cure is true, there’s something about all of this that feels off. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re walking a tightrope, and at any moment, the safety net beneath you might disappear.

You glance over your shoulder at Ellie, who’s watching you with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

“You got a notebook in your bag?” you ask.

Ellie perks up, blinking at the sudden question. “Uh, yeah, I think so.” She digs through her bag, pulling out a small leather-bound journal. She holds it up for your inspection, her expression skeptical. “Why?”

You take the journal and flip it open, testing the pages. You’re surprised to find several pages worth of sketches, and damn good ones at that. 

“Hey, these are really good,” you offer, fingers running over a pencil drawing of a fern. Ellie demurs, clearly embarrassed. You pick up on her cue and flip through the pages until you find a blank one. 

“We’re gonna keep track of their patrols,” you say, your tone matter-of-fact. “Figure out who’s going where and when.”

Ellie cocks an eyebrow at you, leaning forward. “Uh, okay... And why exactly are we doing that?”

You hesitate, your eyes flicking back to the guards below. Their movements are cutting, deliberate, like they’re on edge. It sets your nerves alight, a prickling sensation that crawls up your spine.

“Because they’re keeping something from us,” you say finally. “And if there’s a chance for us to get out of here, I want to take it.”

Ellie’s expression shifts. The skepticism fades, replaced by something quieter, more serious. “You think Marlene’s lying about the cure?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “I think... I don’t know. Maybe not outright. But I think she’s not telling us everything. And if I’ve learned one thing in this world, it’s that you don’t put all your trust in someone who keeps secrets.”

Ellie doesn’t respond immediately. She just watches you, her lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, she nods, though there’s a shadow of unease in her eyes.

“So... what? We’re just gonna sit here and spy on them? Take notes until something magically falls into place?”

You can’t help but crack a faint smile. “Pretty much.”

Ellie rolls her eyes but smirks anyway, pulling a pen out of her bag and tossing it to you. “Fine. But if I’m gonna be stuck here, you’d better make this interesting. I want diagrams. And maybe a code name. Something cool, like, uh, I dunno. Shadowhawk.”

You snort, shaking your head as you turn back to the window. “Okay, I’ll work on it.”

But even as you let yourself get distracted by Ellie’s banter, the knot in your stomach doesn’t loosen. You can feel the tension crackling in the air like static electricity, and you know it’s only a matter of time before something breaks. You just hope you’re ready when it does.

…

You awake to the muffled sounds of voices, high-pitched and cutting. There’s a lilt to the tones, a frantic upward curl that sends a shiver through you.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you lift your head from your makeshift pillow, your sweater tightly bundled beneath you, and glance around the room. The faint moonlight filtering through the cracked window barely illuminates the space, washing the room in eerie blue. Ellie is still curled up a few feet away, her back to you, sides rising and falling in rhythm with her soft snores.

The voices come again, louder this time, their tension undeniable. They’re emanating from a floor vent alongside the same wall as the radiator, carrying up from whatever room lies below.

You shift onto your belly, the chain at your wrist clinking softly as you move. Army crawling toward the vent, you are careful to distribute your weight evenly across the floorboards, lest they creak and betray your presence. Every inch feels like a mile, drops of sweat sprouting at your temples, but eventually, you reach the vent.

You ease yourself into position, peering down into the vent. The ceiling below has rotted, affording you a direct view to the room below. From here, you can see the shadowed outline of the downstairs, what might once have been a living room or dining room, judging by the overturned furniture scattered around. The remnants of a sofa sit in the corner, its stuffing spilling out like guts.

Three figures stand in the center of the room. Marlene’s head is unmistakable, her curly hair catching the dim light. She stands stiffly, her hands in tight fists at her side. Two others flank her, a lean man with a shaved head and a stout woman with short black hair.

She was supposed to be gone for two days. Why is she back so soon?

“I told you this was a bad idea,” the man growls, his voice low, angry. “You shouldn’t have gone out there. We lost John and Andrea for nothing.”

“For nothing?” Marlene’s voice cuts through the air, a honed weapon. “He fucking ambushed us. We didn’t lose them for nothing, we were lured out there. It was a setup.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you press your ear closer to the vent. Your mind races. A setup?

The woman speaks next, her voice quieter but no less tense. “We knew this wouldn’t be easy, Marlene, but Jesus. We’re supposed to keep things low profile, and now we’ve got someone out there targeting us. What if he’s already followed us back here?”

“He hasn’t,” Marlene snaps, but there’s an edge of uncertainty there. “I know what he wants, I-” She stops herself abruptly, and you hold your breath, straining to hear the rest. “I’ve got it handled, alright?”

Your stomach twists. What does he want?

“Okay, but what if he does follow us here?” the man presses. “You said it yourself, Marlene, he’s ruthless. If he gets wind of what we’ve got…”

Marlene exhales, her frustration palpable, like she’s annoyed anyone is even daring to question her. “That’s why we’re moving them. Sooner than planned.”

The woman frowns, stepping closer to Marlene. “You sure that’s a good idea? Moving them now, with things so tense?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Marlene says, her voice quiet but firm. “I won’t risk this. Not when we’re this close.” She pauses, then adds, almost to herself, “I’m not letting him jeopardize this. Not after everything.”

Your pulse quickens. You have no idea who they’re talking about-, Marlene never says his name, but something in the deep darkness inside of you sparks with hope. Could it be Joel? You feel foolish for even entertaining the possibility… But what if it's true?

Below, Marlene continues. “Start packing everything up. We’ll leave the day after tomorrow at first light. If he’s out there, we’ll lose him once we go into the mountains.”

The man grunts in reluctant agreement, and the three of them move out of your line of sight.

You exhale slowly, the knot in your stomach tightening. The words echo in your mind.

Lured us out there. He’s ruthless. Jeopardize this. 

You don’t know for certain that they’re talking about Joel, but you can’t shake the stubborn flicker of hope blooming in you.

He’s come for me, you think, before immediately pushing the thought away. You don’t know that for sure. And even if he has... What if he’s too late?

Beside you, Ellie stirs in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent. You glance over at her, watching the way her brows furrow in her sleep like something is vexing her in her dreams, and the hope in your chest solidifies into something stronger. Determination.

If they’re planning to move you, this might be your only chance to escape. You just have to find a way to make it count.

Your focus snaps back to the vent as Marlene disappears from view. Moments later, the heavy clunk of boots echoes up the creaky staircase.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

You scramble back toward the radiator, rolling onto your side and tugging the sweater beneath your head. Curling into a ball, you do your best to appear like you’ve been sleeping this entire time, forcing your breaths to slow even as your heart pounds in your ears.

A beat of silence passes before the door swings open, spilling harsh yellow light into the room. You flinch, squinting against the sudden intrusion as Marlene’s shadow stretches across the floor.

She wastes no time.

Her boots thud across the floorboards, and before you can even fully register her presence, she grabs you by the front of your sweater and hauls you upright.

Your eyes fly open, blinking rapidly to adjust to the glare.

“What do you know?” she snaps, her voice low and biting, breath hot against your face.

“What?” you stammer, your mind racing. “I —”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she growls, shaking you for emphasis. Her grip is unrelenting, her eyes boring into yours like they could extract the answers by force. “You know who I’m talking about. How did he find you? What does he want?”

Fear and hope collide inside you, clouding your mind and filling your body with an anxious thrum. She has to be talking about Joel.

She knows you know him. She knows what he’s capable of. And now she knows he’s coming. For you.

But why is he attacking first? Why not try to work something out? Joel is smart, he’s resourceful. He’s survived on the fringes for years, cutting deals with smugglers and outmaneuvering anyone dumb enough to try and cross him. Negotiating is part of his DNA.

Unless... he knew it would be useless.

Your stomach churns as the pieces fall into place. Maybe Joel knew the Fireflies would kill him on sight if he approached the compound. Maybe he understood there was no point in bargaining for you, no chance of a peaceful resolution. So he went straight to luring and killing.

He’s coming. You can feel it in your bones. But you need to stay alive long enough to let him find you.

Marlene’s patience snaps, her voice slicing through your spiraling thoughts. “Answer me!”

“Where are you taking us?” you demand, surprising even yourself.

Marlene’s jaw tightens, her fingers digging into your sweater. “You’re not in a position to ask questions.”

“And yet I’m asking anyway,” you shoot back, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them. “If you think he’s coming for me, don’t you think I should know what the hell’s going on?”

Her lips press into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. For a moment, you think she might actually answer, but instead, she shoves you back against the radiator.

“We’re moving you,” she says curtly, stepping back. “Before he gets here. Be ready.”

Your chest heaves as you watch her retreat, her boots pounding against the floor as she disappears into the hallway. The door slams shut, leaving you in darkness once more.

Ellie stirs again beside you, her sleepy voice breaking the silence. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you whisper, your voice steadier than you feel. “Go back to sleep.”

But as you settle back against the radiator, your mind races.

Marlene is rattled, and that’s something you can use. Whatever Joel is planning, whatever chaos he’s bringing, you need to be ready.

You glance at Ellie, her peaceful face soft in the dim light. You’ll protect her, no matter what.

Because Joel is coming.

And you’ll do whatever it takes to survive until he gets here.

…

You spend the day posted at the small window like a sentinel, eyes scanning every movement outside. Ellie dutifully notes everything you point out, her scrawled observations adding to the growing list:

They always have three people at the barricade.

A patrol of four men left at midday.

Marlene checks the perimeter twice daily.

It feels pointless, knowing Marlene plans to move you in less than twenty-four hours. They could hand you a dossier filled with the Fireflies’ entire history, their intentions, and even a detailed blueprint for a cure, but none of it would matter if you were still chained to this damn radiator.

You spent most of last night after Marlene left inspecting the chain, fingers raw from testing every rusted link, searching for a weakness that didn’t exist. It’s old and cracked and abrasive, biting into your wrist with every futile tug, but no amount of twisting or pulling will free you.

This morning, the Fireflies seem more agitated than usual. They’re jumpy, their gazes darting at any and every sound. Their paranoia infects the air, the tension on the compound winding tighter with every hour.

You do your best to tune out the hurried noises of packing and preparations echoing through the house. The Fireflies are moving quickly now, securing their gear, muttering orders.

Salt Lake City.

The name doesn’t stir much in you aside from distant anxiety. You’ve never been there, never dreamed of it. It doesn’t hold the same allure Yellowstone once did. Wyoming feels like another lifetime now, a distant dream so close to coming true before all this. You’d practically smelled the sulfur from the geysers, felt the pure air fill your lungs and cleanse you from the inside out.

But now that dream seems laughable. If the Fireflies are right, if there really is a cure to be found, what’s a dream compared to that?

Could you hedge your bets with these people? Could you let them drag you across the country, if it meant your life could amount to something?

Your thoughts are shattered by shouting.

You snap to attention, peering out the window at the commotion in the street below. One of the men from the midday patrol stumbles into view, but he’s alone.

And he’s drenched in blood.

Your heart lurches. His clothes are blackened with it, streaks staining his face and hands. You watch as the barricade guards rush to him, forcing him to the ground to check for bites. He’s hysterical, shouting so loudly you can almost make out his words. Almost.

Marlene strides into view. There’s no pity in her movements as she shoves past the men, brutal in the way she commands the space around her. She crouches in front of the man, practically barking at him, though you can’t make out the words.

The man gestures wildly, his trembling hands pantomiming erratic shapes in the air. His voice carries through the air up to your window, broken, panicked fragments you can’t quite piece together.

But then you hear it, something about a man.

Your stomach knots.

You press your ear against the windowpane, straining to hear, heart thundering as the bloodied man stammers through his story. He’s shaking his head, tears aking fresh tracks through dried blood, and his voice cracks on the next words, just loud enough for you to catch them.

“…asked me… if she was here.”

She.

Your pulse quickens, your breath catching in your throat.

Marlene stiffens, gripping his arm hard enough that it makes him flinch, her voice dropping low. You can’t hear her response, but the tension in her body tells you enough.

Whoever this man is, if it really is Joel, he knows you’re here.

And he’s coming.

The soldier is shaking his head again, muttering something you can’t quite catch, and Marlene stands abruptly, her expression hard as stone. She looks to the others, issuing quick, clipped orders you barely catch.

“I want everyone out here. Double patrols, all night.”

The others hesitate, exchanging uneasy glances. One of them speaks, his words muffled but tinged with uncertainty. Marlene doesn’t waver.

“Get moving,” she snaps. “We’re not getting taken down by one fucking old man.”

Her words hang heavy in the air. Your stomach drops.

You pull back from the window, your thoughts spinning.

Whoever this man is, he’s dangerous enough to scare the Fireflies. Ruthless enough to kill multiple men and leave one broken.

You want to believe so badly that it's Joel. 

You know he's powerful. He's a honed killing machine, a certifiable danger when he needs to be. He's capable of being more than outnumbered and still coming out on top. 

It's not a matter of him being capable of attacking the Fireflies like this. 

It's a matter of why. 

Why would he even bother?

You'd made things so damn easy for him. You left as soon as you realized you were more of a burden than a companion. You spared him the loss of valuable survival tools. You left in the night, imparting upon him a clear signal that you'd left of your own volition, that there was no need to come after you. 

So why all of this? Why risk it to rescue you?

Why wasn't he just fucking glad you were gone? That's what you wanted, wasn't it? For him to get to Wyoming and be able to rest for once in his goddamn life. That was a gift you gave him. That was what propelled you forward through sleet and hail and infected wounds and broken bones. Your sacrifice for his well being. 

And here he was, defying you. 

How completely, unequivocally Joel Miller. 

…

The sudden shake of your shoulder drags you from another restless sleep on the hard wooden floor. You blink blearily, Ellie’s soft snores still filling the room. Marlene’s face is shadowed in the dim light, her voice low but urgent.

“Get up,” she commands. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Ellie stirs beside you, groaning softly, and Marlene wastes no time in snapping at her too. “Come on. Let’s move.”

You glance toward the window, where the night sky remains a deep, endless black. A sinking feeling coils in your stomach. You knew this was coming, but not like this, not so suddenly, not so... desperate.

She releases you from your shackle, and you wince as the cool metal falls from your wrist. The skin underneath is rubbed raw and sore. You’re free, finally. You’re still only half-awake, but you force your body to waken, knowing this is going to be your only chance, if you even get to take it.

Marlene hustles the two of you toward the door, her grip firm on your arm as she propels you forward. Outside the room, the house is alive with tension. The Fireflies are frantic, their voices hushed but cutting.

“He’s here,” one of them hisses as you pass by.

“How many?” another voice asks, tight with unease.

“Just one. But it’s him.”

The weight of those words lands like a punch to the gut. Joel.

You don’t have time to process it, don’t have time to hope or panic before Marlene shoves you toward the stairs. The three of you descend into the chaos below, where the rest of the Fireflies dart out the front door, their movements jittery, uncertain.

And then, the first gunshot cracks through the air.

It’s distant at first, but the second comes closer. Louder. A third follows, and then a fourth, each shot deliberate, measured. You feel Marlene’s nails dig into your skin as she curses under her breath.

By the time you step outside, the night is alive with gunfire. The impossibly loud booms echo off the surrounding buildings, and you watch in horror as guards fall one by one, their bodies crumpling to the ground in unnatural poses.

Across the cul-de-sac, you see him.

Joel moves through the night like a ghost, his figure barely visible in the flickering lamplight. Each shot he fires lands true, no wasted bullets, no wasted motion. He’s brutal, efficient, and terrifyingly calm.

You’ve seen him fight before, but not like this. Not with this kind of cold precision, this single-minded purpose. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. The Fireflies don’t stand a chance. No one would.

“Get back inside!” Marlene snaps, dragging you and Ellie back toward the house as another guard drops in a spray of blood.

Ellie clings to your arm, her eyes wide with terror. “What’s happening?” she cries, her voice high and panicked. “Who is that? What’s going on?”

You can’t answer her. You’re too focused on staying upright, on keeping pace with Marlene as she pulls you into the house and slams the door shut behind you.

The gunfire outside grows closer, the shouts of dying Fireflies like a morbid chorus. The walls shake with the force of it, and Ellie is sobbing now, her hands clutching at your arm like a lifeline.

A cluster of gunfire crackles, then dies down. Silence. You strain to listen for shouting, for the triumphant shout of a Firefly, anything.

Then the door bursts open.

Joel stands in the doorway, his broad frame a silhouette made of tremulous rage. His body heaves with ragged breaths, his face smeared with blood, his shirt torn and spattered with gore. His eyes, crazed and frantic, sweep the room until they find you.

Relief floods his features for the briefest second before they harden again, his expression morphing into something you can’t quite place.

Fury, relief, desperation, and something darker, something primal. It’s enough to make your knees buckle.

“Joel?” You can hardly form your lips around his name, your voice so choked with relief, shame, gratitude, fear, all of the emotions you’ve stifled since you left him. It all tangles together, choking you and forcing tears to gather in the corners of your eyes.

But before you can move, before you can cry out, or reach for him, or take a single step, an arm snakes around your neck, yanking you backward. The cool barrel of a gun presses against your temple. Your breath catches, icy fear shooting down your spine.

“Not another step,” Marlene snarls, the danger in her voice every bit as chilling as the metal against your skin. Her arm tightens around your throat, her strength keeping you rooted in place.

Joel stops instantly, his body going rigid, hands twitching near his rifle but not lifting it. His jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow, his gaze locked on Marlene. “You don’t want to do that,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

“Oh, I think I do,” Marlene bites back, sneering. She adjusts her grip, pulling you tighter against her. You gasp, the pressure on your windpipe making it hard to breathe.

Joel’s eyes flicker to yours for a split second, just long enough for you to see the rage boiling beneath the surface, barely restrained.

“Tell me, Joel,” Marlene growls, her lips inches from your ear. “Who is she? What’s so goddamn special about her that you’d kill my men, good men, to get to her?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. His hands slowly rise in a show of good faith, but his gaze never leaves hers. “She and I... we left Boston together,” he says, his voice gravelly but steady. “Been through hell. She’s... she’s good, Marlene. Better than me. Better than you.”

Marlene barks a humorless laugh, the gun pressing harder against your temple. “Good? You killed a dozen of my men tonight in the name of good? Spare me the morality lecture, Joel.”

Joel’s hands tighten into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. “I ain’t proud of what I’ve done,” he says, his voice low, barely controlled. “But what you’re doin’? You’re no better than the people you claim to be fightin’ against.”

“No better?” Marlene snaps, her voice rising. “What I’m doing, what we’re doing, is for the greater good. It’s bigger than you, bigger than her, bigger than all of us. We’re trying to save the goddamn world, Joel. And you’re throwing it all away for one girl.”

“There ain’t no fuckin’ vaccine,” Joel growls, his voice like steel. “And you know it.”

“What do you know?” Marlene counters, her voice dripping with venom. “You don’t know anything. You’re just a desperate old man clinging to something you can’t save.”

Joel steps forward, cautious but deliberate, his eyes blazing with fury. “What I do know,” he says, his voice dangerously soft, “is you ain’t gonna shoot her. Not yet. You need her alive, don’t you? Need her so you can carve her up, rip her brain out for your so-called cure. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

The weight of his words slams into you like a freight train. Your knees wobble, and your vision blurs for a moment as your mind reels. Is that true? Is that why you were scooped up from the brink of death, convalesced, kept captive… Because they planned to kill you for the cure?

Before you can make sense of it, Joel moves.

He lunges forward with lightning speed, grabbing a nearby chair and hurling it at Marlene. The force of the impact knocks her off balance, and the gun goes off, the deafening crack of the shot ringing in your ears.

The bullet misses, embedding itself into the wall.

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance between them in an instant, slamming into Marlene with enough force to send her sprawling against the wall. The gun falls from her grip, clattering to the floor.

You stumble back, reaching to pull Ellie into your arms and pressing yourself against the nearest wall. Your heart pounds as you watch Joel wrestle with Marlene. His movements are savage, frantic, but somehow controlled. He drives his elbow into her jaw, disorienting her, then grabs the gun before she can recover.

Marlene spits blood, her glare full of venom. “I hope it’s worth it, Joel,” she hisses.

Joel’s expression doesn’t waver. He raises the gun, his hands steady, his eyes cold and unreadable.

“It is,” he says quietly. “I know it is.”

A deafening crack. Ringing in your ears.

Marlene crumples to the floor, lifeless.

The silence that follows is oppressive. Once the ringing in your ears fades, you’re aware of Ellie’s quiet sobbing against your chest. Joel lowers the gun, his shoulders heaving, and turns to you. His eyes soften slightly when they meet yours, though the rage still simmers just beneath the surface.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough but gentler than before.

You nod shakily, your throat too tight to speak.

Ellie clutches your arm, her small frame trembling. “Who is he? What’s happening?” she whispers, her voice thick with fear.

Joel’s brow furrows as he looks at her, clearly confused. “Who’s the kid?”

“She’s coming with us,” you say firmly, your voice steadier than you feel.

Joel hesitates, his gaze shifting between you and Ellie, then nods. “Fine. Let’s move.”

You take Ellie’s hand, squeezing it tightly as Joel leads the way out. 

The street is still dark when you venture outside again. The few remaining Fireflies move, disorganized, darting between shadows. Joel moves through the aftermath, pistol in hand. One by one, the Fireflies fall, their resistance extinguished like the fading embers of a dying fire.

By the time the last body hits the ground, the night is eerily quiet, save for yours and Ellie’s staccato breathing. You stand amidst the wreckage of their clandestine headquarters, the weight of what just happened threatening to have your legs folding beneath you.

When Joel speaks again, you’re reminded of how he sounded when you’d go on runs back in the QZ. All cool detachment.. “Grab backpacks. Fill ’em with whatever you can carry.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, and you obey without hesitation. Your hands tremble as you sift through the remains of the compound. Medical supplies, ammo, weaponry, you shove it all into a canvas bag, your mind numb and your body weak from sickness and exhaustion. Every movement feels like wading through quicksand, but you push through, knowing that survival depends on it.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Joel watching you. His gaze is steady, assessing. Anxiety is written large across his face, but he doesn’t say a word. He just keeps scanning the area, his rifle always at the ready, like he’s expecting another wave of enemies to appear out of the shadows.

When he finally decides you’ve taken everything worth having, he gestures toward the treeline at the edge of the compound. “Over there. Stay put,” he orders, his voice curt.

You want to ask why. You want to argue, demand answers, or at least understand what he plans to do. But you don’t have the energy, and something in his tone tells you it’s better not to push. You just clutch Ellie’s hand and lead her to the designated spot, your legs shaking beneath you.

Joel disappears back into the compound, leaving you and Ellie in tense silence. She clings to you, her wide eyes darting nervously toward the darkened buildings.

“What’s he doing?” Ellie whispers, her voice barely audible.

You don’t have an answer.

Minutes drag on like hours before Joel returns, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. His expression is grim, his features hard-set. “Start walking,” he says simply, his voice brooking no argument.

You fall into step behind him, Ellie’s small hand still clasped tightly in yours. The three of you make your way out of the cul-de-sac, the world around you bathed in the muted hues of predawn light.

As you glance back over your shoulder, you see it, the first tendrils of smoke curling into the sky, rising from each of the houses you’d just scavenged. The acrid scent of burning wood and chemicals reach your nose, and you hear the faint crackle of flames devouring the old, decrepit houses.

Joel doesn’t look back, his pace steady and unyielding. But you can’t tear your eyes away from the destruction. The rising smoke glows faintly, tinged orange by the embers flying upward, dancing against the backdrop of a slowly lightening sky.

Like fireflies.

Taglist: @javierpenaispunk @eviispunk

[gullemec]

Cowboy Clean

A Red Dead Redemption One-Shot

main masterlist ao3

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Summary: Arthur Morgan has been a thorn in your side from the moment you met him. Things come to a head when you find out he's decided to treat himself to a deluxe bath in Valentine.

Warnings: rivals to lovers, lots of bickering/banter, reader gets covered in horse shit lol, jealousy/possessiveness, vaginal fingering, brief hand job, unprotected PIV sex, creampie, fluffy fluff

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.9k

A/N: So uhhhh I did this! I have a bunch of ideas percolating for an Arthur Morgan x reader series but that's a long way off and and I couldn't get this scene out of my head. Enjoy!

You scoop a handful of cold river water to your chest, the sting of it smarting like a snakebite against your already chilled body. It washes away the last traces of lye soap, though you’re not sure what’s worse, the stink of sweat and horse dung, or the way this damn water has you shaking like a leaf. Gooseflesh blooms a constellation across your skin, a shiver coursing down your spine as the current tugs at your ankles. The sun’s trying its best, but it’s still late April, and the wind cuts through the cotton of your wet chemise like it ain’t even there.

You can just about hear Miss Grimshaw’s voice now, all iron and vinegar, barking from the top of the hill the moment you make your way back up to camp. 

“You fixin’ to catch your death out there?” she’ll snap. “Or are you just plain stupid?” 

Probably both, by her standards. Of course, she'd hollered at you just the same when you came slogging into camp earlier, half-covered in horse shit. You reckon she’s gonna have to choose her battles one of these days.

You’d been out hunting with Charles, trying to put some meat on the table for the rest of them sorry bastards, not that anyone seemed to notice, or care. He'd spotted a wild boar off the ridge, and you’d notched your bow in a heartbeat, drawing for a clean shot. But just as you exhaled and your fingers twitched to release the arrow, a damn squirrel went skittering across the trail, spooking your horse.

Freya’s new. Barely saddle-broke and ornery as all hell. You paid too much for her, and you knew it the moment you led her out of that stable in Valentine. But by the time she bucked you off and sent you flying into a heap of her still warm droppings, you were certain of it.

Charles, bless his soul, bit his tongue and helped you to your feet without so much as a snort. The same cannot be said for the rest of the camp. Especially not him .

Arthur Morgan.

That man’s been a burr under your saddle since the day you met, both trying to rob the same stagecoach. 

You remember it like it was yesterday. Your shotgun drawn, face half-shaded by a wide-brimmed hat and red bandana pulled up over your nose, the hooves of your horse kicking up dust as you charged after the coach on the road to Emerald Ranch.

You were closing in when another rider came up fast from behind, his horse just a touch quicker, his draw just a little surer. You glanced over your shoulder and met his eyes. Cold blue, sharp as a whetted blade. You both hesitated, long enough to share a breath and a heartbeat. And then the coachman, scared stiff, dove from his seat and hit the dirt.

You didn’t think, you just moved. Leapt from your horse and landed hard on the driver’s bench, barely a second before the man vaulted up beside you.

You spent the next half-mile bickering at each other something awful, shouting over the clatter of wheels and hooves.

“I saw it first!”

“Hell you did, I pulled on the coachman!”

“Don’t matter none. I got on first!”

By the time you realized your horses were long gone and the stage had made it halfway to Emerald Ranch, it was too late to figure who won. All you knew was that you hated him then. You hate him only a little less now.

Eventually, the two of you reached a compromise, if you could even call it that. Neither of you walked away pleased. You split the money clip down the middle, argued over every last coin. The bag of jewelry you divvied up piece by piece, squinting at each item like it might whisper its value if stared at long enough. You got the short end of the stick with the ammo, but figured it wasn’t worth drawing steel over. Besides, you had your pride, and pride don’t need reloadin’.

By the time you trudged back to the spot outside Valentine where your horses were meant to be waiting, only his remained.

That goddamn, good-for-nothing, swaybacked old Thoroughbred. You could’ve screamed. Might’ve, if you weren’t so damn winded from the ride and the day and the company.

You’d spent the last hour wanting to shove his bandana into his smart mouth and shut him the hell up, but to your surprise, he didn’t ride off and leave you stranded. Could’ve. Should’ve, maybe, if he’d had any sense. But instead, Arthur Morgan looked at you all quiet-like, eyes narrowed against the setting sun, then offered his hand like it weren’t nothing.

"Need a lift?"

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, all suspicious, like maybe this was some elaborate scheme to gloat from a better angle. But he didn’t push. Just waited. Eventually you took his hand, scowling all the while, and he helped you onto the back of the old mount like a gentleman might. You felt ridiculous, perched behind him, clutching his coat like some damsel, your pride hitching in your throat.

“You got someplace to be?” he asked after a while, almost reluctant.

You didn’t. Not really. Not anymore.

“I ride with a gang,” he said. “A group, more like. We move around some. You could stay a day or two, if you wanted. Won’t twist your arm.”

You’d said yes, figuring you’d stay long enough to steal something worth your trouble. Just a few days. A week, tops.

That was months ago.

Arthur Morgan had offered you a lifeline that day. But damn if he wasn’t also a splinter under your nail. 

Maybe it was lingering resentment from your initial meeting, both of you too stubborn to admit who had the better claim. . Maybe it was because Dutch and the others took a liking to you faster than they did him on some days, tossing you jobs that might’ve gone his way. Maybe it was the time you dumped a bucket of freezing creek water on his head after he kept you up all night snoring like a dying grizzly the night before a risky holdup. 

Or maybe it was just the way things always turned to sparks and spitfire when you were in each other’s orbit for more than five minutes.

Dutch called it friendly competition , like that explained anything.

Hosea just shook his head and muttered that y’all were worse than Sadie and Pearson. And considering Sadie once threatened to scalp Pearson with a fish knife, that said plenty.

But the real nail in the coffin came just this morning.

You came riding back into camp, soaked with sweat, your shirt covered in brown stains thanks to Freya bucking you off of her. Your hair was a frizzy mess beneath your hat, and you smelled like the inside of a stable.

You barely had a foot out of the stirrup before you heard him.

Arthur was leaned up against a barrel near the fire, sharpening his knife and grinning like the devil come to dinner.

“Well, I always knew you was full of shit,” he drawled, loud enough to draw half the camp’s attention. “Guess now I know it for sure.”

The laughter that followed echoed like a buckshot.

You were halfway off Freya, shit-streaked and murder-eyed, when Charles stepped in. One arm looped around your middle, lifting you clean off the ground before your knuckles could connect with Arthur’s smug jaw.

“Easy now,” Charles murmured. “Ain’t worth getting blood on your boots.”

You kicked and cursed, and Arthur laughed harder, but you caught the flicker in his eyes when he met yours, something resembling apologetic. Like he knew he’d crossed a line, but couldn’t help stepping over it anyway. Like maybe he liked the look on your face when you were mad, wild-eyed and burning with fire.

You suppose that’s part of the reason you’re down here in this freezing river, scrubbing away the scent of horse and humiliation from your skin, and the memory of his eyes from your mind.

But the water’s cold, the sun’s sinking low, and some things aren’t so easy to scrub out.

Not the dirt.

Not the grudges.

And sure as hell not Arthur Morgan.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Headin’ into Valentine,” Arthur’s voice booms across camp like a gruff church bell, startling you from the cusp of a cat nap. You jerk upright with a grunt, blinking against the brightness bleeding through the canvas of your tent. “Anyone need anythin’?”

You groan and flop back down, curling in tighter against the bedroll. The sun’s baked the canvas just enough to make the little space feel like a warm cocoon, and for a blissful second, you debate pretending you didn’t hear him.

But then, unfortunately, you catch a whiff of yourself.

You wrinkle your nose.

You’d done what you could yesterday. Scrubbed up in the river, fought a losing battle with lye soap and a patch of muddy shoreline. But nature only gets you so far. And you’re starting to smell like Freya after a long ride in the rain.

Valentine has baths. Warm ones. With those fancy, perfumed soaps Twenty-five cents for the kind of luxury that could make a girl feel halfway civilized again. That ain’t pocket change, not when you’d worked damn hard for every dollar you had. But it’s not a crime to treat yourself once in a while, is it?

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you heave a sigh and roll off your bedroll, string of curses muttered under breath as you shove your boots on.

You squint through the midday sun until you spot him, just across the way, pulling a saddle from the side of the wagon that serves as both a wall for his tent and the gang’s general dumping ground. His hat hangs low over his brow, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth like he was born with it there.

“Wait up,” you call, stumbling as your foot catches in the tent flap. “I’m comin’ with ya.”

Arthur doesn’t even turn fully around, just casts a lazy glance over his shoulder and squints. “What business you got in Valentine?”

You roll your eyes and march past him, grabbing Freya’s saddle from where it’s resting near the hitching post. “I could ask you the same, Mr. Morgan.”

“I asked first,” he replies, that damn smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s got a life of its own.

“If you must know, I’m in dire need of a hot bath.” You toss the saddle onto Freya’s back with a dramatic huff. “Some of us like to smell better than Pearson’s two-day-old possum stew once in a while. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

Arthur snorts, adjusting the cinch on his own saddle. “Is that what this is about? You ridin’ all the way into town just to waste money on soap and water?”

You pause to glare at him over Freya’s back. “I ain’t wastin’ it. I’m investin’ in public health.”

“Uh huh.” He squints at you, cocking his head. “Or maybe you’re plannin’ to go courtin’ some poor soul in Valentine. That it?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I ain’t.” You adjust your hat and shoot him a grin that’s all teeth. “Why? You jealous?”

Arthur barks out a laugh, short and sharp. “Of the poor bastard dumb enough to fall for a lady such as yourself?” He pauses. “Assuming I can even call you a lady.”

You haul yourself into the saddle with a grunt, lean forward, and scratch Freya’s ears. “Just for that, Arthur Morgan, I’ll replace your soap with a bar of caked horse shit. See if you even notice the difference.”

He swings up onto his horse with the ease of a man who’s done it a thousand times, shaking his head. “You try that, and I’ll throw you in the river myself. Clothes and all.”

You click your tongue and nudge Freya forward, falling into pace beside him as the two of you ride out of camp. “You’d miss me the moment I was gone,” you say, voice light.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he drawls, but there’s no bite to it. In fact, that shit-eating grin’s been plastered on his face since the moment you came scrambling out of your tent.

You glance sideways at him, watching the way he shakes his head and laughs to himself like he don’t quite know what to make of you half the time. If you had to guess, you might be so bold as to say Arthur Morgan enjoys your company just as much as it irritates him.

And if you had a little whiskey in your belly and the moon was high, you might even admit you feel the same.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The ride into Valentine is as dusty, loud, and as unpleasant as the town itself. Chickens squawk. Mud squelches under wagon wheels. Some poor bastard’s getting screamed at by his wife outside the general store. The whole place smells like manure and moonshine and cheap tobacco.

Arthur reins in his horse outside the hotel and spits into the dirt, scanning the street like he’s already regretting bringing you along.

“Well,” he mutters, climbing down from his saddle. “Here we are. The height of civilization.”

You dismount Freya and toss her reins over the hitching post. “Astute observation, Morgan. Next thing I know, you’ll be makin’ sketches of the saloon piss bucket in that journal of yours.”

He gives you a sidelong look, lip twitching. “Only if you’re the one cleanin’ it out.”

You hum as you dust your trousers off. “Lovely. Maybe I will find someone better suited to my delicate nature while I’m in there.” You gesture toward the hotel. “Someone who smells less like cigarettes and horse sweat.”

Arthur snorts. “Best of luck to you. Now go get your damn bath before you scare the locals off.”

You’re halfway up the hotel steps when you pause, glancing back at him. He’s lighting another cigarette, already looking like he’s halfway to leaving you behind.

“You sure you don’t need a bath yourself?”

“Nah,” he says, taking a drag. “Got a few things to take care of. Heard about a bounty at the Sheriff's. Might visit the gunsmith, maybe the post office.”

You raise a brow. “You writin’ letters now? That’s sweet. Didn’t know you had a pen pal.”

He grins around his cigarette. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

You lean one hip against a porch post and shrug, a smug little smile curling your lips. “And yet you keep lettin’ me accompany you places. Kinda gives the impression you enjoy it.”

Arthur flicks his ash into the dirt and shakes his head, chuckling low under his breath. “Get in there, trouble.”

You tip your hat at him and push the door open, letting it swing shut behind you. The wood creaks under your boots as you cross the lobby, already imagining the feel of hot water and real soap, not the lye-smelling, skin-flaying blocks you’ve been stuck with as of late.

Still, as the hotel clerk hands you a key and points you toward the baths, you find yourself glancing back through the dusty window.

Arthur’s still outside. Still watching.

And when he catches you looking, he tips his hat just so.

Damn him.

You disappear down the hall before he can see you smile.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

This bath is worth every damn cent.

You sink into the water with a hiss, the heat prickling at your skin before settling into something delicious and divine. Your head falls back against the smooth curve of the deep tub, and you let your eyes flutter shut. The smell of campfire smoke and horse sweat linger in your hair, but now the sweet scent of rose and jasmine override them.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet, maybe. Without the constant chaos of living in a camp with twenty-odd other people. Without Arthur's gruff drawl, the barbs he throws your way any chance he gets.

You’d never admit it aloud, not even with a pistol to your head, but you’d spent most of the ride into town studying him. The way his shoulders moved when he rode, one arm slung back like second nature. How his forearms flexed when he adjusted the reins. That deep, lazy drawl of his when he leaned forward on his horse, whispering kindnesses to her.

That’s my girl.

It’s infuriating. The way he can be so damn irritating one moment and then have the gall to go and make flutters erupt in your belly like that.

You huff and dunk your head under the water, the heat blooming against your cheeks, muffling everything. When you resurface, hair slicked back and dripping, you reach for the bar of perfumed soap and lather up your arms.

You scrub harder than you need to.

Arthur Morgan. Thorn in your side, pain in your ass. And yet, somehow, unavoidable. Unignorable. He drives you up the wall but half the time you’d rather he pin you against it.

You shake your head, water flinging from your hair in fat droplets, and mutter under your breath. Get a hold of yourself.

Because it’s just a bath. Just a hot soak and some soap. You’re acting like it’s boiling you til you’re soft, all because the man has nice arms and talks to his horse the way you’d like him to talk to you.

You sink a little deeper, until the water brushes your chin.

… Still, you wonder what he’s doing now.

Probably leaned against the saloon bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, charming some barmaid with that half-smile he thinks makes him irresistible. 

That thought shoots irritation through you.

You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You sigh and let yourself sink again, only this time, it’s not to escape the heat. It’s to escape the thought of Arthur Morgan and the way he makes you feel like you're always one step away from either throttling him or kissing him.

The water cools quicker than you’d like, the heat leeching away in slow degrees until you’re forced to admit defeat. With a groan, you climb from the tub, water sluicing off your skin, and wrap yourself in a linen towel that’s coarser than you’d prefer but does the job just fine. You scrub yourself dry, watching the bathwater swirl in lazy circles, now a cloudy shade of brown.

“Twenty-five cents well spent,” you mutter to yourself, smirking as you step back into your clothes. Clean skin under worn fabric is a small luxury in this life, where comforts are few and far between.

You take your time on your way out, fingers trailing along the wood panelling, relishing the way the wooden floor doesn’t kick up dirt beneath your boots like the camp’s packed dirt ground always does. At the front desk, you offer a quiet thank-you to the clerk, prepared to wander the main street of Valentine in search of Arthur, maybe needle him some more if he’s still loitering near the general store.

But then the man behind the desk stops you with a polite smile.

“Oh, if you’re looking for the fella you came in with, he just went in for a bath himself.”

You blink.

And then stare at him like he just told you he had a live rattlesnake wearing a top hat under the desk.

Arthur Morgan? Paying for a hot bath? After all that teasing? All that ribbing about you getting dolled up for some suitor in town? You’d half expected to find him outside rolling around in horse dung just out of spite.

Before you can gather a proper retort, or perhaps go storming down the hallway to wring his smug neck, a soft creak on the stairs turns your head.

She appears like a mirage in the desert.

Rouge on her cheeks, hair curled and piled high, her corset cinched tight enough to give a man ideas. Her chemise hangs off one shoulder, strap slipping in a way that seems both accidental and entirely intentional. She’s soft and sultry, gliding down the stairs like an apparition.

Your mouth goes dry.

The desk clerk straightens a bit, his tone easy. “Hattie. Gentleman in room two. Deluxe.”

She smiles, slow and syrupy, a curl of smoke practically floating in her wake. “Let me have a quick smoke,” she purrs, glancing at you with a wink sharp enough to cut glass. “Then I’ll be right in.”

She turns on her heel and saunters toward the hallway, hips swaying with practiced ease.

You're rooted to the floor.

Your thoughts, however, go flying.

That rotten, no-good, two-faced son of a bitch.

After all that grief, after the wisecracks and smirks, the whole you plannin’ to go courtin’? nonsense, he turns right around and orders himself a deluxe bath with a woman like that waiting on him?

The sheer audacity.

Your ears burn so hot they might catch fire, and you barely register the front desk clerk blinking at you, a little wary now.

“Miss? You all right?”

“No!” you snap, sharper than a pistol crack. “No, I am not .”

And with that, you storm outside, the door slapping shut behind you as you step into the dust and heat of the street, fury rising like smoke from scorched earth.

Arthur Morgan is about to get his damn comeuppance.

You don’t pause to think, don’t stop to weigh propriety or pride. You just follow the scent of tobacco like a bloodhound on the trail, stomping down the narrow alleyway between the hotel and the bank, jaw clenched tight.

And there she is.

Hattie leans against the frame of the hotel’s back door, a cigarette perched daintily between two fingers, lips pursed around it as she puffs. She’s got the look of a woman who’s seen too much and lets even less surprise her, but she startles when she sees you approach..

You draw in a breath, tempering the fury that wants to lash out in all directions. It ain’t her fault she’s the kind of woman men pay to have bathe them.. It ain’t her fault men pay for warmth and softness in bathwater and bed alike. And it sure as hell ain’t her fault that today, of all damn days, Arthur Morgan just so happens to be her customer.

“Hattie,” you say like you’ve known her all your life, your tone smooth as whiskey left too long in the sun. “Enjoyin’ your cigarette?”

She straightens a bit, eyes scanning behind you as though there must be someone else you're talking to.

Then she catches the pistol on your hip, the pants in lieu of a skirt, the storm in your eyes.

“Miss, please,” she says, lifting one hand defensively, “I don’t want no trouble.”

You blink, realizing what she sees. What you must look like right now. Mad enough to spit nails, armed, wild-eyed.

“Oh, Lord no,” you say quickly, raising both hands in mock surrender. “Ain’t here to rob you.”

She softens only a little, still eyeing you like you might go feral at any second. “Alright then… what are you here for?”

You reach into your satchel, fingers brushing over flint, bullets, an old piece of jerky, until you finally fish out your coin purse.

“What’s a deluxe bath cost these days? Extra twenty-five cents?”

“Fifty,” she says, flat as a skillet.

“Good God,” you mutter under your breath, grimacing as you tug the purse open. She shoots you a look. “Not that you ain’t… Not that your services ain’t worth that much.”

She smirks at that.

You hold out a shiny silver dollar, letting it catch the sun between your fingers. “I’ll give you this if you let me go in that room instead. Room two, with the gentleman.”

She cocks her head, narrowing her eyes. “You plannin’ on robbin’ him ?”

You sigh. Lord, you almost wish that were the case. Would be easier than the truth.

“Somethin’ like that.”

She takes one long drag, ash glowing bright, and watches you as she exhales slow and thoughtful. Then she leans forward and plucks the coin from your fingers like she’s done it a thousand times before.

“Second door on the right,” she says, tucking the dollar into her bodice. “Don’t make too much noise, ‘less you want the fella at the front desk pokin’ his nose in.”

You nod, one foot already inside the threshold. “You’re a good woman, Hattie.”

“And you’re a strange one,” she calls after you, her chuckle trailing smoke.

You move through the corridor like a ghost, boots soundless on the wood, heart pounding louder than it ought to. The door looms before you, seeming larger now. Steam curls from beneath it, thick with the fragrant smell of rose and jasmine.

You raise your hand to knock, affecting your best, most sultry voice. “Need some help in there?”

A pause.

Then that voice, deep and unmistakably Arthur. “Come in.”

You turn the knob and step inside.

Steam fills the room like fog on a mountain pass, the glow of a small oil lamp, casting everything in a dim amber haze.

Truth be told, you didn’t have much of a plan. You’d stormed in here thinking about tossing a bucket of ice water in the tub or maybe snatching his clothes and leaving him to drip-dry in shame. But those half-formed ideas vanish the second your eyes land on him.

Because there, sunk low in the tub, arms sprawled along either side like a goddamn painting, is Arthur Morgan.

His head is tilted back, hair slicked down, eyes closed. He looks peaceful more serene than you’ve ever seen him. And damn it, he’s glowing . Skin golden and wet, a few scattered droplets clinging to the scruff on his jaw. You stare. You forget to be angry. You forget how to breathe.

Then his eyes open.

He blinks once, slow, and sits up just a bit. Water laps at his chest.

“What in the hell…”

And just like that, the fire under your ass lights right back up.

“Arthur Morgan, you are a damn liar,” you snap, stepping fully into the room and letting the door shut with a click behind you. “Told me you didn’t want a bath, but that ain’t what I’m seein’.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “What’re you…”

“A deluxe bath, no less! That what brought you to Valentine? Didn’t want me gettin’ one ‘cause you didn’t wanna be caught playin’ cozy with some saloon girl?”

He tuts, jaw already tightening. “Now, how the hell’d you — ”

“I was there , Arthur! Stood right there when she got the order. Gave her a damn dollar to scram.”

That shuts him up. For a beat, anyway. Then his jaw works, and for a second, you think he might smile.

He leans back against the porcelain, eyes tracking over you slow. There’s a glint in them now, not teasing, exactly. It’s warmer than that, more curious. He’s not mad you’re here, just trying to parse why exactly.

“Well,” he says at last, drawl thick with steam, “you gonna stand there accusin’ me, or you plannin’ on helpin’ me wash?”

Your breath catches.

The steam clings to your skin, beads at your collarbone. Your shirt's damp at the edges, clinging to your arms. You should turn around. You should . But your feet don’t move.

But there he is, reclining in the tub like some damn river god, lips parted slightly, water beading along the muscled curve of his shoulders, sea blue eyes fixed on you. There was challenge in his voice, sure, but there was something softer too. 

“I’d like to get my money’s worth,” he says, softer now. “Reckon you would too.”

As if possessed by the steam and the knowledge that he is naked beneath the cloudy water, you cross the room and kneel beside him. 

He shifts, sitting forward just a bit. “Could use a hand with my back.”

And damn you if your heart doesn’t do a little flutter at that.

You reach for the cloth perched on the rim of the tub. Dip it into the water. Your fingers brush the edge of his shoulder as you begin to wash, and you feel it, that sharp little inhale he tries to hide. The tension under his skin.

Warm water runs down the ridges of his back, over scars and sun darkened skin. He exhales, head dropping forward, and for a moment it feels like the world gets very still.

“I didn’t… I didn’t rightly know what I was doin’,” you admit, voice small now, honest. “Just knew I was mad. Came up here all fired up, ready to start somethin’. And then I saw you sittin’ here, lookin’ like that, and…”

You trail off, cloth pausing over his spine.

He turns his head, gaze catching yours. “And?”

You swallow. “And I didn’t want some other woman’s hands on you.”

The shift is instant. His whole expression changes. Softens. Like he’d been waiting for you to say it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe I don’t want that either.”

You scoff, but it comes out breathless. “Right. You paid extra for a deluxe bath ‘cause you didn’t want a woman touchin’ you. Makes perfect sense.”

His gaze flickers away. “I… hurt my back. Been tough reachin’ everything. Wanted to make sure it was done right.”

“Oh.” The irritation slips through your fingers like bathwater.

“Just wanted to smell nice, you know.”

“For who?” you ask, meaning it to sound playful, but it slips out softer than you intended. Barely a tease at all. “Plannin’ on courtin’ someone?”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak for a long beat.

“For you. Wanted to smell nice for you.”

Your chest tightens. A slow, hot ache unfurls deep in your ribs.

You reach out before you even know you’re doing it, brushing damp hair back from his temple. He turns into your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“I think about you all the time, Arthur,” you whisper. “More than I ought to.”

His eyes open. He searches your face, like he’s waiting for you to take it back.

But you don’t.

“Join me?” he asks, the words a little rough at the edges.

The hot ache in your ribs dives down to your core. 

You could make a joke. Could throw up that wall again, tease him about not wanting to dirty yourself soaking in his dirty water. But none of that feels right now, not here, not with him looking at you like that. Like you hung the moon.

You rise slowly, taking a step back from the tub. Your hands go to the buttons of your shirt, and though they tremble, you don’t stop. One by one, you undo them, each one a step closer to something you’ve only let yourself imagine in the quiet of night.

Arthur bows his head, eyes shut tight like if he doesn’t look, he can keep control of himself.

“You don’t have to look away,” you say softly. “I… I want you to look.”

His eyes open, and what you see there undoes you. Like he’s looking at something sacred.

When you slip your trousers off, you swear the air gets thicker. Your chemise clings to your skin, damp from the heat, and when you finally slide it off, there’s nothing between you and him but the steamy distance across the floor.

Bare in body and soul.

You step toward the tub. The water laps at your ankles first, hot and silken, and then you ease down slowly, legs folding to the side so you’re facing him. The tub is small, and your knees touch beneath the water. The heat of him seeps into you like sunlight through your canvas tent.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, just watches you. He looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. His gaze moves slow, respectful, reverent. 

Then he lifts a hand, wet and trembling, and cups your cheek with such tenderness it breaks something loose inside you. His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, slow and reverent.

“Let me wash you, too,” he says thickly.

You huff a quiet breath, a smile tugging at your lips. “I just had a bath, Arthur.”

“I know,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Ain’t about gettin’ clean.”

You nod once. “I’m yours.”

You know Arthur is not used to being given things without a fight. Not used to things being his. But you figure you’ve given him enough hell at this point. And maybe you’ve been his this whole time, since the day you laid eyes on him from across that damn stagecoach.

Arthur shifts forward a little, the water sloshing gently around you. His hand slides from your cheek down to the curve of your jaw, then to your neck. His touch is careful, deliberate, like he’s memorizing you one inch at a time.

“You sure?” he asks all low, like gravel soaked in honey.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you murmur.

He reaches for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and wringing it out slowly. You watch the way his hands move so gently, those rough and capable hands you’ve spent so long admiring wrapped around guns and knives and ropes.The way his chest rises and falls. It stirs something deep and aching in you.

He presses the cloth to your collarbone, dragging it gently across your skin. The heat of it makes you shiver, and his eyes flick to yours, gauging your reaction.

You don’t look away.

He trails the cloth over your shoulder, down the line of your arm, the curve of your elbow. When he reaches your wrist, he turns your hand over and kisses the inside of it, soft and slow.

“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this. Not slow.”

You let your head tilt, watching him. “Then take your time.”

He does.

The cloth moves down your chest, careful, reverent. He doesn’t rush, not even when your breath hitches as he grazes the side of your breast. His hand lingers, trembling just a little, and his thumb moves over to graze across your nipple. You lean into his touch, soft peak pebbling under the pad of this thumb, and into the space between you that’s growing warmer with every breath.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with wonder. “More than I can make sense of.”

He dips the cloth again and brings it to your thigh, dragging it slowly upward. Your legs shift in the water, parting, an invitation unspoken but clear. His hand stills just above your knee, and he looks up at you, gaze searching.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod, voice hardly a rasp. “Please.”

He slides the cloth higher, over your thigh, up the tender inside of it, so slow it makes you ache. You can’t hold back the soft sound that slips from your lips, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back, like he’s barely hanging on.

The cloth slips away, forgotten. He drops it over the edge of the tub, and both hands find your waist, drawing you gently toward him. The water shifts around you as you settle into his lap, straddling him, bare skin against bare skin beneath the surface. He’s warm everywhere, solid, a wall of hard-earned corded muscle beneath you.

You feel him, hard and hot beneath the water, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t grind against you or ask for more. He just holds you there, like this is enough. Like you are enough.

Your hands rise to his face, brushing the wet hair back again. “Arthur…”

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours. “You don’t gotta say nothin’. Just want to touch you. Feel you.”

But you want to say it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whisper. “Wanted you. ”

His breath shudders against your mouth, and then he kisses you.

Arthur Morgan is an outlaw, but when he presses his mouth to yours, you are certain he has only ever known tenderness. You are certain you have only ever known this feeling, of his body entangled with yours in a steaming bath, of being lulled into unreality by steam and the way he touches you.

It’s not hurried. It’s not rough. It’s deep, slow, devastating in the way it unravels you. His lips are soft, tasting of heat and longing. His hands grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself to this moment, like if he lets go, he’ll drown.

You deepen the kiss, one hand slipping to the nape of his neck, the other drifting down, skimming over the swell of his chest. He groans low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through you, and his mouth moves to your jaw, your throat, kissing a line down to your collarbone. Then he’s pulling a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently before turning to give his attention to the other.

“I could die happy right now,” he breathes against your chest, pressing kisses there.

“You’re not gonna die,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. “Not tonight.”

Arthur’s mouth continues to lather both breasts in open mouthed kisses, warm breath ghosting over your skin, and you arch into him, your body asking for more even before your mind catches up.

He groans again, quiet and rough, as if your reaction undoes him.

One of his hands skims up your back, broad and calloused, fingers spreading wide as he holds you close. The other trails lower, slow and steady beneath the waterline, tracing the curve of your hip. His palm slides over the swell of your thigh, and then inward, the pad of his thumb brushing just shy of where you ache for him most.

You gasp softly, breath hitching against his cheek. He stills, giving you space, giving you the chance to stop this, but you don’t want to stop. You need him to keep going.

You tilt your hips up in answer, pressing closer, your mouth brushing his ear. “Please, Arthur.”

That word, please , shatters whatever restraint he was clinging to.

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers tentative at first, but guided by your sharp inhale, your body’s silent instructions. He finds you slick, warm, already undone just from being close to him. His mouth finds yours again as he strokes you, slow and patient, like he’s learning every inch of you. Like he wants to remember exactly how to make you come undone so he can do it again and again.

He gathers your wetness on his thumb and guides it up to your clit, rubbing slow and gentle circles. His thick middle finger teases at your entrance, and he pulls back to look you in the eyes as he pushes in. You pout at the intrusion, a low whine escaping your lips. He pumps you a few times before adding another finger, and that’s when he knows he’s hit the sweet spot.

Your head falls to his shoulder, fingers digging into his back as he fucks you on his fingers. The water laps around you both, soft and rhythmic, masking the sounds of your breaths turning ragged, your gasps swallowed into the curve of his neck.

“You feel so good,” he mutters, heavy with awe. “So damn good…”

“Arthur,” you whine into his ear, his name never sounding so pure and yet so filthy. “Don’t stop, please.”

The pressure builds in you quickly, quicker than it ever has when you do this yourself, and in seconds you’re falling over the edge, fingers digging into his back, his name falling from your lips amid a string of muttered curses.

He pulls you back to look at you coming down, admiring his handiwork. He’d look smug if he weren’t so desirous, if his cock wasn’t painfully hard and resting inches from your still fluttering cunt.

Sensing this, you shift in his lap, seeking more of him, the heat between you almost unbearable now. His fingers still at your hip, holding you steady as you guide your hand between your bodies and wrap it around him, thick, hard, pulsing with need.

Arthur’s whole body shudders. His head drops back, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep from losing it right then and there.

“You’re killin’ me, darlin’,” he rasps.

“Then don’t wait,” you whisper. “I don’t want gentle. I want you. All of you.”

He grits his teeth, his hands finding your waist again, gripping tight as he positions himself. You rise up a little, just enough to line yourself up, and then you sink down, slowly, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep inside you.

A broken sound, your name, slips from his throat, part growl, part prayer, and your head falls forward to rest against his, both of you shivering in the aftermath of your bodies connecting at the root.

He fills you perfectly. The stretch burns deliciously,  your bodies slotting together like they were always meant to. Like maybe this was written somewhere in the stars long before you ever crossed paths.

You begin to move first, slow, rocking your hips gently, savoring every drag of friction, every pulse of pleasure that builds in your core. Arthur’s hands roam everywhere, your back, your hips, your breasts, like he can’t decide where to settle because it’s all too much, too good, too real .

His mouth is everywhere too. Your tits, your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your jaw. He murmurs things you can barely make out between gasps.

So beautiful, can’t believe you’re mine, I got you, I got you.

You find a rhythm, the water sloshing gently with each movement, and your bodies fall into a perfect, desperate cadence, like a prayer whispered back and forth, over and over.

When it starts to crest, when the pressure builds and coils tight, you bury your face in his neck, your moan muffled against his skin.

You feel it again, that pressure in your core, the pull that drags you into ecstasy. His cock seated so deep inside you, his mouth lapping at your sensitive nipples, his fingers exploring every inch of you like he can’t possibly have enough of you flooding all of his senses.

He feels it. Feels the way your walls flutter around him, the way your movements stutter. “That’s it,” he groans, hands gripping your hips harder, driving into you deeper now, chasing the edge right behind you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

And you do.

It hits like a wave, sharp, sweet, overwhelming. Your body clenches around him, pleasure sparking down your spine as you cry out his name. He follows a breath later, hips jerking, breath  caught in his throat as he spills into you, hands trembling against your skin.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe. The world narrows to the quiet splash of water and the warm weight of his forehead against yours.

Then Arthur lifts a hand to your face again, brushing his knuckles along your cheek.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, a dazed little smile curling your lips. “Better than alright.”

He kisses you, slow and deep again, a promise sealed with steam and sweat.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You both linger in the tub longer than any paying customer probably ought to. 

The water's gone tepid, but neither of you seem to mind. Your fingers trail idle circles across his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing soothing beneath your palm. His nose brushes yours now and again, lazy little kisses shared between soft smiles.

Eventually, you shift, your legs tangling with his as you rest your chin atop his shoulder. “If we go back to camp now,” you murmur, all low and drowsy. “We'll wake everyone up ridin’ in.”

Arthur lets out a soft grunt of agreement, nuzzling into your hair before pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then we’ll keep ‘em up all night, too.”

You lift your head, feigning a scandalized gasp. “Arthur Morgan!”

“What?” he says, completely unbothered, though the crooked little grin tugging at his mouth gives him away. “You think I’m lettin’ you crawl back into your tent after that?”

You shake your head, hiding your smile. “What’ll the others say?”

“Don’t much care,” he says, sitting up, groaning as he stretches. “Think we earned a real bed tonight, though. What do you think?”

He climbs out first, grabbing a towel and then another, insisting on drying you off himself, all slow and careful. You dress in his flannel shirt draped over your shoulders, the hem brushing your thighs. Your chemise’s neckline peeks out where you didn’t bother buttoning all the way, your hair still dripping down your back..

You slip out into the hall together, Arthur’s hand low on your back, guiding you toward the front desk. The clerk is still there, chewing on a toothpick and flipping lazily through a tattered newspaper. He glances up as you approach and blinks.

Arthur clears his throat. “We’ll take a room. Just for the night.”

The clerk squints. “Weren’t you just in there for the deluxe bath?”

“Was,” Arthur says evenly. “Now I’m payin’ for a bed.”

The man frowns, glancing toward the back. “Where’s Hattie?”

Arthur raises a brow. “Didn’t need her, turns out.”

The clerk looks between the two of you, taking in the damp hair, the loosely buttoned clothes, the unmistakable glow of two people who just did a whole lot more than bathe. His cheeks redden and he hands over the key without a word.

You make it halfway up the stairs before you bite back a grin.

“So,” you murmur, tossing a glance over your shoulder at Arthur. “How’d you enjoy your deluxe bath?”

He smirks, deadpan. “Bit underwhelmin’. Tub was too small. No champagne. Woman wouldn’t stop talkin’.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder against his as he catches up to you at the top of the stairs.

“Well at least you didn’t have to share it with a cowboy who dirtied your bathwater” you ask, playing along. “Maybe I’d have preferred your woman, seems awful sweet.”

“She was.” He pauses at the door, unlocking it. “Still talkin’ though.”

You scoff as he opens the door for you, stepping inside. “Ass.”

“Your ass,” he shoots back, swatting at your backside as he ushers you inside.

You don’t even make it under the covers before he’s got you in his arms again, falling back into the mattress with a satisfied grunt, taking you right along with him. You’re laughing as he pins you beneath him, one knee nudging your thigh as he brushes your hair off your face.

His gaze flickers lower, down to your collarbone. He dips his head there, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat, then inhales deep like he’s savoring you.

“You smell good,” he mutters against your skin.

You giggle. “Better than horse shit?”

He grins into your neck. “Oh, by miles.”

Then he nips playfully at your collarbone. “Still might have to take you back for another bath tomorrow. Just to be sure.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him closer with a teasing hum. “Well, if that’s the case… I suppose we better go for the deluxe again.”

And from the way he grins down at you, you’re certain he’s already plannin’ on it.

[gullemec]

Return to the Lion's Den

Golden Ruin - Chapter Nine

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Breaking your exile, you and Hughie devise a plan to return to New York and reunite with the Boys.

Warnings: Mild talk of torture, nothing crazy this chapter but things will be heating up after this!

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5k

A/N: Things will be kicking back up a notch after this chapter as we return to the belly of the beast and get back to the violence we all know and love <3 thanks for sticking with this story, I appreciate it <3

The sun’s first rays filter weakly through the treetops, casting fractured light and pale shadows across the small, cluttered living room. 

Inside, you pace the creaky wooden floor, your steps frantic but soft, the sound almost rhythmic in the silence. Your mind won’t stop running in circles, the image of your father striding into Vought Tower replaying over and over like a broken film reel.

The thought of sleep had been laughable. You’d spent the night staring at the phone as it lay on your bedside table, joining your two photos like some bizarre, stitched together family portrait. You willed it to provide more, like rereading those same three texts again might offer some clarity, or prove that the whole thing had been a mistake.

The creak of a door opening pulls you from your trance. Hughie shuffles into the main room, his hair a mess, his face slack with sleep. He yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he takes in the sight of you, disheveled, dark circles under your eyes, the tension radiating from every inch of your body.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with exhaustion. He gestures vaguely toward the floor. “Did you, uh, pace all night? Because I definitely didn’t get a great sleep with all the stomping.”

You stop mid stride, realizing for the first time just how loud you must have been. Turning to face him, you offer a halfhearted smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He waves it off but doesn’t look away, his brow knitting with worry. “You alright?” he asks, moving toward the kitchen. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

You might have.

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You want to tell him. You need to tell him. But how do you even begin to explain something like this? The silence stretches as he pulls out the coffee pot, his movements slow and distracted, like he’s already bracing himself for whatever’s coming next.

Finally, the words spill out, unbidden and jagged. “I think my dad’s alive.”

The clattering of the coffee scoop against the counter is the only sound for a moment. Hughie freezes, his back still to you, before turning slowly, his face a mix of confusion and disbelief. “What?”

“I think he’s alive,” you repeat, stepping closer. The words feel surreal even as you say them, your voice trembling under the weight of them. “I… I know how it sounds, but — ”

He cuts you off with a raised hand, his brow furrowing deeper. “Hold on. What are you talking about? Your dad? I was there, I saw the explosion. He’s dead He’s been dead.”

You shake your head, the rush of thoughts making it impossible to form a coherent explanation. “I know. I know what you saw. I know what I saw…or what I thought I saw. But last night, I-I climbed the cliff.”

Hughie’s face hardens instantly, his eyes narrowing. “The one I told you not to climb?”

You wince at his tone but push forward. “Yes. I climbed it, and I got a signal on my phone.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course you did,” he mutters, frustration lacing his voice. “What happened? Did you call someone? Text someone? You know how dangerous that is!”

“I didn’t call anyone!” you cut in, pulling the phone from your pocket. You hold it out like it will absolve you of your guilt. “But I got these.”

Hughie stares at the phone in your hand but doesn’t take it. His expression shifts from frustration to wariness as his eyes flick to your face. “These? What do you mean?”

You power the phone back up, using the last dregs of battery life to show Hughie the texts.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Adam?” His tone is incredulous, like he’s about to check your forehead for signs of fever delirium. “Who the hell is Adam?”

Your face flushes with embarrassment as you realize you had never shared this brief time in your life with anyone in the Boys.

“I… dated him. For, like, two seconds. I broke things off right before the explosion. He works for Vought now.” 

There’s a pause, heavy and uncomfortable. Hughie exhales sharply through his nose and nods, his expression tight. “Ah. Well, that would explain Butcher’s behavior around that time.”

You both exchange uncomfortable glances, recalling the last time you and Butcher went a little crazy in each other’s absence.

“Whatever. Just, look at this.” You shove the phone into Hughie’s hands, watching as he scrolls through the messages. His expression shifts with each passing moment. Annoyance softens into confusion, confusion hardens into disbelief, and by the time he reaches the photo, his jaw tightens.

“That’s…” His voice falters as his gaze flicks up to yours, searching your face. “That looks like your dad. But it can’t be, right? I mean… are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you say firmly, crossing your arms over your chest like a shield. “It’s him. I’d know him anywhere.”

Hughie shakes his head, handing the phone back to you like it’s a ticking time bomb. “Okay, hold on. Let’s just… think this through. Your ex who works for Vought sent you this. Why? What if he’s just messing with you? What if he’s full of shit?”

You clench your fists around the phone, anxiety bubbling up to your throat. “No. He wouldn’t lie about this, Hughie. Why would he? He doesn’t even know where I am. And if my dad’s alive — ”

“If,” Hughie interjects sharply. “If. That’s a big ‘if.’ You’re talking about something massive here. What if it’s a trick? What if Vought planted this photo to fuck with you?”

You glare at him, frustration burning behind your eyes. “Why would they even do that? They don’t know I’m here, Hughie! And why now? Why after all this time?”

Hughie exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as his frustration spills out. “I don’t know! But we can’t just… trust this guy. We’re supposed to be laying low, remember? You scaling cliffs and chasing signals isn’t exactly flying under the radar!”

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing!” The words burst from you. Your voice cracks under the weight of your emotions. “Hughie, if he’s alive, if he’s in Vought Tower, I need to know why. With everything that happened in Russia…” Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. “There’s no way this is all a coincidence.”

Hughie stares at you like you’ve just announced the most ridiculous plan in the world. “I’m sorry, but I don’t get it. Why? Why would you even want to do this?” His voice is sharper than usual, tinged with disbelief. “Your dad — he wasn’t exactly Father of the Year, was he? The guy treated you like crap.”

You flinch at his words, though they’re not wrong. Still, you look away, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “I know what he was like, Hughie. Believe me, I know better than anyone.”

“Then why?” Hughie presses, his tone softening but still laced with confusion. “Why risk your life for him? After everything he’s done to you, after all the ways he hurt you, why go chasing after some maybe, some photo that could be fake?”

You take a shaky breath, trying to put the knot of emotions in your chest into words. “Because he’s all I have left.”

Hughie blinks, caught off guard by the rawness in your voice.

You glance down at your hands, your voice low and unsteady. “He wasn’t a good dad. I know that. He was cruel, controlling… manipulative. I spent years trying to escape the shadow he cast over my life.”

You pause, swallowing hard as your fingers tighten into fists. “But in the end, he saved me. When he got injected with V2… it was like he knew what was coming. He wouldn’t let go of Monica. He held her there, and he told me to run.” Your voice falters, the memory still raw. “Even though it killed him. Or at least… I thought it did.”

Hughie shifts uncomfortably, his face softening with sympathy but still lined with skepticism.

“He’s my father, Hughie. And for all the bad… he’s still my family. The only family I have left.” You swallow hard, glancing up to meet his gaze. “I don’t know what this means, or why it’s happening now, but I can’t just ignore it. I keep thinking about everything else that’s been happening… The bombings, Soldier Boy coming back, Butcher disappearing. What if it’s all connected? What if my dad’s tied up in this somehow?”

Hughie stares at you for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the right words. Finally, his shoulders sag, and his gaze softens. “Look, I get it. I do. But what are you even going to do? March into Vought Tower and ask them to hand him over? You can’t do this alone.”

“I’m not asking to do it alone!” Your voice cracks with frustration, but you push on. “But if it were Annie— or your dad —you wouldn’t sit here either.”

Hughie stares at you, his chest heaving as he tries to process your words. Finally, he looks down, shaking his head. “This is insane.”

“I know,” you whisper.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken fears.

Finally, Hughie sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. But if you’re doing this, you’re not doing it alone. I’ll help.”

“What?”

“I’ll help,” he repeats firmly. “Because you’re going to do this with or without me, and I’m not letting you get yourself killed.”

Relief washes over you, mingling with guilt. “Hughie, you don’t have to…”

“Yeah, I do,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Now sit down. If we’re doing this, we’re gonna need a plan.”

~~~

You sit at the small dining table, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. Despite the emptiness outside, you keep your voices low, as though Mallory might materialize out of the walls.

“Mallory’s gonna kill us,” Hughie mutters, leaning back in his chair. “Like, actually kill us.”

“She’s not going to find out,” you reply, though the lack of conviction in your voice betrays you.

Hughie snorts, giving you a pointed look. “You’ve met Mallory, right?”

Ignoring him, you press on, laying out the plan that’s been forming in your head ever since Adam’s messages appeared on your phone.

“We’ll hitchhike,” you say firmly, leaning forward. “Get into town, find a car to steal, and — ”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hughie cuts in, blinking at you like you’ve lost it. “Hitchhike? Steal a car? Are you insane?”

You glare at him. “Seriously? We’ve done worse for the Boys, Hughie. Are you suggesting we walk there? I don’t care if I have to steal a dozen cars. I’m getting to New York.”

Hughie rubs his face with both hands, letting out a sharp exhale. He stares at the cracked plaster wall, as though hoping it’ll offer a solution. Finally, he mutters, almost too quietly to hear, “We don’t need to hitchhike.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s… a car,” he admits reluctantly, his words dripping with reluctance. “Mallory left one for us. Down the road. For emergencies.”

You freeze, your mind catching up to his words. “You’ve known about a car this whole time?”

“She told me not to tell you!” Hughie defends, throwing his hands up. “Mallory said you’d try to use it to bail, and guess what? Here we are! She wasn’t wrong!”

“Hughie!” you snap, standing from your chair so fast it scrapes against the floor.

Hughie stands too, though he shrinks slightly under your glare. “What was I supposed to do? I was trying to follow orders for once! And don’t act like you’re some saint. You scaled a cliff to get a signal on your phone! When Mallory finds out, she’s gonna kill both of us!”

Your mouth opens for a retort, but no words come. Frustrated, you cross your arms and turn away, staring at the table instead of him.

Hughie softens his tone. “Look,” he says quietly. “I get why you’re pissed. But I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you doing something stupid and getting hurt. You’re not exactly thinking straight right now.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you mutter, though the heat has mostly left your voice.

“I’m not,” he insists. “But you’re running on adrenaline and — what is it people get when they’re pregnant? Baby hormones or something?”

You snort, despite yourself, and glance back at him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Probably not,” he admits, his lips twitching into a grin. “But I do know we can’t mess this up. I know there’s nothing I can say to convince you not to go. But we’re doing it smart. No hitchhiking, no stealing. We take the car, and we don’t leave any trace. No more surprises, okay?”

You hesitate, searching his face, before finally nodding. “Fine. No more surprises.”

“Good,” he says, exhaling deeply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “But if Mallory finds out…”

“She won’t,” you cut in quickly, your voice firm. “We’ll be gone before she even notices.”

Hughie doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Alright. I’ll grab the keys.”

As he heads toward the cabinet where Mallory stashed them, you turn toward the window. The world outside feels heavier now, pressing in around you. Guilt, fear, and determination swirl around you like storm clouds.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into now?

~~~

When the clock strikes midnight, you’re ready.

Your room is dark, illuminated only by the moonlight spilling through the thin lace curtains. You step inside, your footsteps careful, the creak of the old floorboards underfoot uncomfortably loud in the silence. You head toward the small dresser, stuffing a change of clothes and a few essentials into the worn canvas bag you arrived with.

Your gaze drifts to the nightstand, and your breath catches. The photo of you and your mother sits there, its worn edges curled slightly, a testament to what it’s survived and how often it’s been handled. Next to it lies the ultrasound photo, its crisp lines stark and new by comparison. You pause, the weight of them both settling heavily on your chest.

Your mother’s soft face, warm smile, a window into a simpler time. Her eyes creased, arms wrapped around you, your anchor, your foundation, the one who taught you what family really meant. She gave you the values you’ve tried, and often failed, to uphold. The thought sends a painful jab deep in your heart.

Your fingers hover over the ultrasound photo, delicate, afraid to smudge it. That small, shadowy shape, so tiny, so full of everything that is still to come. Your future. Your hope. A new life growing inside you, pulling you forward, forcing you to be better. For them.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your fingers brushing over the photos. “Mom,” you whisper, voice breaking softly in the stillness. “Thank you. For everything you gave me. For showing me what it means to fight for the people you love.” Your hand trembles as you set the photo down, the ache of her absence cutting sharper than ever.

Then your eyes fall to the ultrasound, and resolve builds in your chest. “And you,” you murmur, your voice growing steadier. “You’re the reason I’m doing this. You deserve a world worth growing up in, a world where you don’t have to be afraid of people like Homelander or live in the shadows of people like Vought.” You run a thumb over the image, feeling a flicker of strength you hadn’t realized you’d lost.

With a deep breath, you slide the photos into your pocket, their weight grounding you, reminding you of  where you’ve been, where you’re going. You glance around the room, taking it in one last time, the small comforts, the illusion of safety you’ve built here. Yet again, you’re leaving behind a sanctuary, trading it for uncertainty and danger.

Standing, you shoulder your bag and take one last wistful look at the nightstand, at the room, at the life you’re leaving behind. “I’ll make this right,” you whisper. Then you turn and walk out the door, the quiet resolve of your promise echoing in your chest.

~~~

You and Hughie bundle up tightly against the biting winter cold, trudging side by side through the woods toward the spot where Mallory had stashed the getaway car. The snow crunches underfoot, the trees standing like silent sentinels around you. Eventually, you spot it, a dirty, unremarkable sedan pulled off the road onto a wide shoulder. Its untouched state after months of sitting there shows how desolate this place really is.

As Hughie sweeps snow off the windshield with his sleeve, you lean against the car and run a mental calculation, piecing together the makeshift calendar you’d kept and the midwife’s measurements. Twenty weeks. You’re twenty weeks pregnant. Which means you’ve been hiding out here with Hughie for a little over two months. The realization nearly makes you laugh. Two months felt like an eternity in isolation, where every day bled into the next, weighed down by monotony and despair.

Your hand drifts to your stomach, brushing against the swell that’s no longer possible to hide beneath thick sweaters and jackets. The thought fills you with both fear and excitement. You’re halfway there.

Hughie slides into the driver’s seat, glancing up at you. “You getting in, or were you planning to freeze to death out there?”

You shoot him a halfhearted glare but climb into the passenger seat, your breath fogging the air as he turns the key. The car rumbles to life, sputtering before settling into a low, gravelly hum. The sound is strangely jarring after weeks of near silence in the woods.

As Hughie pulls onto the road, the towering pines blur past, their dark shapes streaked with snow. You feel the coil of anxiety tightening, winding tighter with each passing mile. You have no idea what’s waiting for you on the other side of this journey, but you silently pray, to anyone, anything, that the people you love are safe.

Hughie glances at you as the car picks up speed. “Alright,” he says, breaking the silence. “Run me through this plan again.”

You draw in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to focus. “We get to Vought Tower and head straight to Research & Design. That’s where Adam works. If anyone knows what’s going on, it’s him.”

“And what happens when we find him?” Hughie asks.

“We corner him,” you reply firmly. “Get him to tell us everything he knows. What he saw, what he’s been working on, and why he sent that photo.”

Hughie glances over, skeptical. “You think he’s just going to spill everything because you asked nicely?”

You smirk, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Adam’s… soft. Always has been. A little flattery, a little pressure, and he’ll cave. Trust me, I know how to handle him.”

Hughie raises his eyebrows but doesn’t argue, his gaze shifting back to the road.

From there, though, the plan gets murky. You chew your lip, your mind spinning through countless possibilities, none of them reassuring. Vought Tower is a fortress, crawling with Supes, security, and surveillance. If Adam can’t, or won’t, help, you’re not sure what you’ll do next.

You and Hughie trade off driving shifts as the hours stretch on, though it doesn’t escape you that he’s quietly taking the bulk of the load, letting you nap in the front seat. You’d call him out on it if you weren’t so bone deep tired from, well, growing another human being.

The car pulls into a gas station just outside Boston as the first streaks of dawn cut across the sky, painting it in soft streaks of pink and gold. There’s something funny about the juxtaposition of a giant, neon gas station sign against the backdrop of nature’s beauty.

You rub at your eyes, the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin, and push the door open. The crisp morning air bites at your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stale warmth of the car.

“I need to pee,” you mumble, stretching your legs as you climb out. Hughie waves you off, already unscrewing the gas cap and fumbling for the pump.

You push open the gas station door, a bell jingling overhead as a burst of warm air greets you. The clerk doesn’t even glance up, more interested in the small TV perched in the corner behind the counter. You head toward the restroom at the back, but the sound of a familiar voice stops you in your tracks.

“…a tragedy that could have been avoided, had we acted sooner.”

Your stomach drops. You turn toward the counter, eyes narrowing at the screen. Homelander’s smug, too perfect face fills the frame, standing against a backdrop of American flags and Vought logos. 

Your stomach drops as you read the ticker tape running along the bottom of the screen.

BREAKING: MEMBERS OF TERRORIST CELL ARRESTED IN CONNECTION WITH RUSSIAN BOMBING ATTACKS

Your breath catches. The camera pans out to reveal Homelander standing behind a podium, flanked by Ashley Barrett and a line of Vought security personnel dressed like they’re in the secret service. He’s dressed impeccably, his patriotic cape draped over one shoulder, but his expression is twisted into a mask of performative grief. Like he feels so disconnected from real human emotions that he can’t even pretend well.

“It is with a heavy heart that I address you today,” Homelander says, his voice tinged with faux sincerity. “For months, the world has watched in horror as innocent lives have been lost in Russia, victims of a cowardly series of terrorist bombings targeting scientific research facilities. Facilities dedicated to advancing humanity’s understanding of genetic medicine, of creating cures for diseases that have plagued us for generations.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle.

You can’t breathe. You step closer, standing frozen in the aisle, your fists clenching at your sides.

Homelander continues, his eyes scanning the room like a benevolent dictator addressing his loyal subjects. “We now know that these attacks were not the work of rogue agents abroad, but a coordinated effort orchestrated by a dangerous domestic group…The Boys’” He spits the name like venom.

The image cuts to a photo of MM and Frenchie, both handcuffed and being marched into Vought Tower. MM looks pissed, his jaw set in a hard line, but Frenchie’s expression is empty, his head bowed. They both look like they’ve been hurt.

Your vision swims, stomach lurching. MM and Frenchie… Captured. Maybe worse.

Homelander’s voice pulls your attention back to the screen. “The individuals taken into custody have acted as ringleaders of this violent campaign, working alongside known criminals to destabilize not only Russia but the global scientific community. Their actions have jeopardized the safety of millions, spreading fear and destruction.”

Your chest tightens. The lab attacks… were they Homelander’s doing this whole time, meant to be pinned on the Boys? Had the mission been a trap? What did that mean for Butcher, for Soldier Boy?

“And let me be clear,” Homelander says, his voice dropping, every word sharp and deliberate. “Vought will not rest until every single member of this so-called team is brought to justice. These terrorists think they can undermine the safety and security of our great country, but they are gravely mistaken. I will personally ensure that they answer for their crimes. Because that’s what heroes do.”

Then, he smiles, that dead-eyed, painfully wide grimace.

The camera pans over the small crowd gathered for the press conference. Reporters scribble furiously, the audience of civilians looking on in awe, a smattering of clapping growing into a roar.

You’re shaking now, a cocktail of rage and despair coursing through you. This isn’t just a press conference. It’s a declaration of war.

Your mind races. MM and Frenchie, two of the most solid, dependable people you know, are in Vought’s custody. You wonder what they’re going through right now.

Torture? Interrogation? Worse? 

The image of MM’s stoic face flashes again in your memory, his shoulders square despite the terror he must have felt. You can practically hear his voice in your head, calm and resolute, telling you to focus, to keep moving.

But how can you? They’ve been your family. And now, Homelander is painting them as monsters on live television, twisting the narrative in a way that only Vought can.

Your stomach churns, your hands curling into fists. You want to scream, to grab the clerk’s remote and smash it through the screen, but you can’t. You have to stay calm, to think.

You hurry out of the aisle and shove open the restroom door. The cold, flickering fluorescent light doesn’t do much to calm your nerves, but it gives you a moment to collect yourself. Your hands grip the edge of the sink as you stare at your reflection, your heart pounding in your chest.

You hear Hughie’s voice in your head. We stick to the plan. We find Adam. We get answers. But that’s easier said than done now, knowing the team is falling apart piece by piece.

When you step back out, Hughie is leaning against the car, shivering in the cold. “What took you so —” He stops mid-sentence, his face falling as he takes in your expression.

“They got MM and Frenchie,” you say, your voice tight.

“What?” His eyes widen in disbelief.

“Homelander. He’s on TV right now. Calling them terrorists. Saying they’re responsible for the lab bombings in Russia.” You’re shaking again, filled with barely concealed rage.

“Jesus Christ,” Hughie mutters, running a hand through his hair. “How the hell did they get them?”

“I don’t know. But if they’ve got MM and Frenchie, then we’re next,” you snap.

“Or… shit, or Annie.” Hughie looks around nervously, as if expecting Vought agents to burst out of the trees. “We’ve gotta move. Now.”

You nod, climbing into the passenger seat as Hughie jumps into the driver’s side. The car roars to life, and you can’t help but glance back toward the gas station, your mind still reeling. MM and Frenchie were fighters, they wouldn’t go down without a fight.

But they’re not invincible. And neither are you.

~~~

The city’s skyline grows more familiar with each passing mile, Vought Tower looming larger as you and Hughie approach midtown Manhattan. Its glass and steel gleam in the early morning light, an omnipresent reminder of everything you’re fighting against. You find yourself gripping the edge of your seat, your pulse quickening despite your attempts to stay calm.

Hughie glances at you from the driver’s seat, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “There it is,” he mutters, his voice tight.

“There it is,” you echo, unable to tear your eyes away from the monolithic structure.

The car slows to a crawl as Hughie pulls into a nearby parking garage, tucking the car away like you’re trying to delay the inevitable. Once parked, neither of you makes a move to get out. Instead, you both sit in the silence, the weight of what’s ahead pressing down on you.

“This feels… surreal,” Hughie finally says, leaning back in his seat. His eyes remain fixed on the dashboard, like looking at the tower itself might be too much.

“You remember our first mission together?” you ask softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Sneaking into my dad’s laboratory, posing as interns.”

He snorts, glancing at you. “God, that feels like forever ago.”

“It does,” you agree, letting yourself remember. “You were so nervous. I thought for sure you’d blow our cover.”

“Hey,” Hughie protests, though there’s no real heat in it. “You weren’t exactly smooth either. I distinctly remember you almost knocking over a cart full of lab equipment.”

You laugh despite the tension knotting your stomach. “Yeah, well, we pulled it off. Somehow.”

“Somehow,” he echoes, his gaze growing distant. “But this… is different. It’s not just about spying or planting bugs. It’s... bigger.”

You nod, the gravity of his words sinking in. “It is. But we’ve come a long way since then, Hughie. We’re not the same people we were back then.”

He turns to you, his expression serious. “Are you sure about this? I mean, really sure? If you want to turn back, I’ll understand.”

You meet his gaze, your voice steady. “Are you? Sure about this, I mean?”

Hughie hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. “No. But I’m not backing out.”

“Then neither am I,” you say firmly.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment longer before Hughie exhales sharply, reaching for the hood of his sweatshirt. “Well, then. Let’s do this.”

You mirror his action, pulling the hood up over your head and tucking your hair away. The two of you exchange a glance, a silent understanding passing between you.

“Into the lion’s den,” Hughie mutters as you step out of the car.

“Into the lion’s den,” you repeat, the words a strange mix of dread and determination.

The city hums around you as you make your way toward the tower, its shadow swallowing you whole as you cross the street. You walk side by side, trying to look casual, just two people in hoodies blending into the crowd. But every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of what you’re about to do bearing down on you.

You walk side by side, two people with everything to lose.

As the glass doors of Vought Tower slide open, you force yourself to keep walking, your heart thundering in your chest. The bright, polished lobby stretches out before you, bustling with employees and visitors who have no idea who you are or why you’re here.

You exchange another glance with Hughie, your nerves mirrored in his wide eyes. Still, neither of you falters. Together, you stride forward, two people with everything to lose, plunging deeper into the belly of the beast.

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @buckybarnesbestgirl

[gullemec]

I just wanted to tell you that I think you are an absolutly brilliant writer. I truly enjoy reading your work. I anxiously wait for every new chapter of Golden Ruin.

Lots if Love

Josey ❤️

Thank you so much I appreciate this more than you know ❤️❤️ thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy what's to come!

[gullemec]

Red Light

Golden Ruin - Chapter Eight

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Solitude does funny things to people.

Warnings: Just reader and Hughie going shack wacky, reader doing dangerous things!

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5k

A/N: I knowww we miss Billy. I miss him too. But I promise this is going somewhere and *dutch van der linde voice* I'VE GOT A PLAN

On a particularly cold evening, as the fire crackles softly and Hughie snores faintly from the other room, you find yourself unable to sleep.

The ultrasound photo lies on the nightstand, an anchor and a weight. You roll onto your side, staring at it for what feels like hours before a memory surfaces, one you’d buried somewhere deep, perhaps because it hurt too much to hold onto.

The rain had drummed steadily against the roof of the van that night, a low, relentless rhythm that filled the silence. You’d sat in the passenger seat, your breath fogging the window as you stared out at the drenched, empty street. Butcher had been behind the wheel, one hand resting lazily at twelve o’clock, the other drumming his fingers against his knee, impatient, as always, even when there was nothing to do but wait.

He hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes, which had felt like an eternity in the cramped space of the van.

“Are we just gonna sit here all night?” you’d finally asked, your voice cutting through the quiet.

“It’s called waiting, love,” he’d drawled without looking at you. “Some of us are quite good at it.”

You’d huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Sitting still doesn’t exactly scream ‘Butcher’ to me.”

The corner of his mouth had twitched, just barely, but you’d seen it. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

For a while, you’d let the silence settle again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The windows had fogged up from your shared breath, the air thick with that familiar mix of damp leather, stale coffee, and the leathery scent of Butcher’s jacket. You’d watched him out of the corner of your eye, jaw set, brow furrowed, his usual scowl carved into place like armor. But something about him that night had been different. The low light had softened his edges, and the rain had turned the outside world into a smudged blur. For once, he’d looked… human.

“Something on your mind, love?” he’d asked suddenly, his voice rough but not unkind.

You’d blinked, caught off guard. “I could ask you the same thing. You were staring into the abyss for, like, an hour.”

“Better than starin’ at you mopin’ about,” he’d muttered, though there’d been no real bite in his tone. He’d shifted in his seat, stretching his legs. “Spit it out, then. What’s eatin’ you?”

You’d hesitated, unsure how he always seemed to know when something was bothering you, even when you hadn’t said a word. “It’s nothing,” you’d deflected.

Butcher had snorted, his eyes never leaving the rain-streaked windshield. “Bollocks.”

The way he’d said it, so matter-of-fact, so certain, had knocked the wind out of your sails. You’d sighed, leaning back against the headrest. “Fine. It’s just… Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, it’s never enough? Like you’re always two steps behind where you’re supposed to be?”

Butcher hadn’t answered right away. He’d stared out the window, silent, like he was searching for words in the rain. When he finally spoke, his voice had been quieter than you’d expected. “Yeah. More often than not, I’d say.”

You’d turned to look at him then, surprised by the honesty. Vulnerability wasn’t something he offered freely. But that night, the cracks in his armor had shown just enough for you to glimpse the man beneath.

“You’re too good for this,” he’d said suddenly, almost like he was talking to himself.

The words had stung, and you’d frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He’d shaken his head, still looking straight ahead. “You’re smart. Strong. Got your whole life ahead of you. Shouldn’t be wastin’ it sittin’ in a van with a miserable bastard like me.”

You’d scoffed, turning in your seat to face him. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, Butcher had looked at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “Maybe not. But you’re meant for more than this, more than me. And I reckon you know it.”

Frustration had bubbled up inside you then, because it was so him—to push you away, to act like he was the villain in everyone else’s story. “Why do you do that?” you’d asked quietly.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re some kind of poison. Like you’re protecting me by keeping me away.”

Butcher had been silent for a moment, his jaw tight. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost too soft to hear. “Because that’s what I am, love. You just don’t see it yet.”

You’d shaken your head, refusing to let him believe that. “You’re wrong. You care about The Boys, about me. You wouldn’t fight so hard if you didn’t.”

He hadn’t said anything to that. Instead, he’d rested a hand on your shoulder, the weight of it warm and solid even through the thick layers of your coat. It was such a small gesture, but Butcher wasn’t a man who touched people often. For him, it had meant everything.

“Don’t need to fight so hard if you’ve got nothing to lose,” he’d murmured finally. “And you, you’ve got everything to lose. That’s why I’d rather keep you far away from this shite. Far away from me.”

You’d swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “Tough luck, Butcher. I’m already here.”

That had earned you a faint chuckle, a quiet, almost reluctant sound. His hand fell to your side, lacing his fingers with yours and bringing your hand to his mouth for a kiss. Before you had the chance to react, he’d placed it firmly back in your lap, turning back to grip the wheel, his gaze fixed on the world beyond the rain.

Now, looking back, you can still see him so clearly, jaw set, knuckles white on the steering wheel, a man convinced he wasn’t good enough for the people he loved. He hadn’t understood then that pushing you away didn’t protect you; it only made the distance between you feel wider.

And yet, even in his own broken way, Butcher had believed in you. He’d believed in your strength, your resolve, and maybe even in the parts of you he thought he’d ruin. That night in the van had been the closest he’d ever come to telling you he loved you, not with words, but in the way he’d looked at you, in the tenderness of his kiss, in the rain-soaked silence that said more than either of you ever could.

And maybe you’d hated him for that, back then. For never having the courage to say it out loud. For not believing in his own worth the way he believed in yours.

But now… now you just miss him.

Your hand drifts to your belly, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your sweater. You wonder what he’d think if he were here, looking at the ultrasound picture alongside you. Would he let himself believe he was enough? Would he fight to be here for you, for this?

You hope so. Because no matter what he thought, he was enough. He was the only man you’d ever trusted to hold your heart, fractured as it was. The only man that ever came close to convincing you of your own worth.

And now, more than anything, you just want him back.

~~~

Over the next month, the shoreline walks with Hughie become a sort of ritual, a bright spot in your otherwise deliriously boring days. 

The mornings are sharp with cold now, the salty breeze slicing through the layers you pile on. A heavy sweater, a man’s barn coat you found in a closet, gloves that don’t quite match. But none of it matters. You look forward to these walks more than anything else, eager to escape the confines of the cramped cottage and its suffocating stillness.

The walks never have a plan. Some days, you barely make it down the path before turning back, the wind too brutal or the skies threatening rain. Other days, you wander for hours, boots sinking into damp sand as you follow the curve of the shoreline until the world behind you feels miles away. The rhythm of the waves and the call of gulls and the wide, open sky brings you something like peace, a fleeting quiet that soothes the wild, restless thing inside you. The same thing that only grows louder with every long, uneventful hour spent inside those four walls.

It’s during one of those aimless walks that you first see it.

The cliff rises out of the earth like a jagged tooth, as if the land itself had been split apart long ago and left to erode into its current, precarious state. Twenty feet tall, maybe more, its face is a chaotic mess of craggy rock and streaks of moss, tufts of stubborn grass clutching at cracks like survivors of some long-forgotten storm. The waves slam into its base, spraying a mist of saltwater into the air and filling the silence with a deep, rhythmic crash.

You stop walking, the wind whipping your hair into your eyes as you stare up at it. Something about it, the sharp angles, the defiance of the rocks against the endless pull of the ocean, sends a spark through you.

“Think it’s climbable?” you ask, shielding your face with a gloved hand to get a better look.

“Climbable for someone with a death wish,” Hughie says, not even pausing as he skims a stone across the water.

You shoot him a look. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He turns to follow your gaze, his expression equal parts incredulous and concerned. “Look at it. That thing’s barely holding itself together. Half those rocks are probably ready to give way. One wrong step, and you’re swan-diving into the water.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He grins at that, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, there are less painful ways to deal with boredom. Safer ways, too. Ever heard of knitting?”

You roll your eyes and drop the subject, letting Hughie distract you with some inane story about his childhood neighbor’s cat and its vendetta against his father’s garden. But as you walk back toward the cottage, the cliff stays with you, lodged in your mind like a splinter.

In the days that follow, you can’t stop thinking about it. Each time you and Hughie wander the beach, your gaze drifts toward it. You trace the rock face with your eyes, imagining routes upward, handholds that look sturdy enough to grip, footholds barely wide enough to plant your boots. You start to see it not as a danger, but as a challenge.

It becomes an obsession, though you never say so out loud. Hughie would lecture you again, probably calling you reckless or stupid, though his tone would be soft, his concern hidden behind jokes and sarcasm. But you’re not reckless, not really. You’re not after danger for its own sake.

You’re just… desperate.

The cottage, with its peeling wallpaper and its lingering smell of damp wood, is a prison. The hours drag endlessly here, blending into days that all look the same, like you’re living inside a loop, waiting for something to happen but knowing nothing would. You memorize every knick on the dining table, every squeaky floorboard underfoot. You’ve played so many games of Scrabble with Hughie that the sight of the box now fills you with dread. And you’ve read The Old Man and the Sea so many times you start to think you are the old man, stubbornly clinging to some unspoken battle against a world you can’t control.

The monotony claws at you, scratching at your insides until you feel like you’ll crawl out of your own skin if you have to spend one more day doing nothing.

And the cliff.... it feels like an answer to a question you hadn’t even realized you were asking. A reminder that you’re still alive. That you can do something, feel something. It would be a rush of adrenaline, a satisfaction you haven’t known in months. You can picture it already, the scrape of rock under your fingers, the burn in your muscles as you pull yourself upward, the cold wind whipping through your clothes as you stand at the top.

And the view, the view would make it all worth it. From up there, you’d see everything:. The vast, endless sprawl of the ocean, the horizon stretching further than you could fathom, like freedom itself.

In a place where you feel so small, so trapped, the cliff is a promise. A promise that you still have control over something, even if it was just the choice to take a risk.

Hughie would think you were crazy, of course. He’d probably try to talk you out of it.

But he doesn’t understand.

The cliff has already decided for you.

~~~

One night, when the cottage settles into its usual silence, you make your decision. Hughie’s snores drift through the thin wall separating your rooms, soft and rhythmic, a steady cadence that lulls you into believing he won’t wake. You move quietly, slipping into a thick wool cardigan and lacing your boots tightly, the movements deliberate and slow.

The cool night air hits you like a shock as you step outside, sharp against your skin. You hesitate for a moment, the familiar weight of guilt tugging at you. What if Hughie woke up and found you gone? But the thought passes quickly, swept away by the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. They call to you, insistent and relentless, pulling you toward the cliff.

When you reach it, it looms in the moonlight, dark and jagged, every edge sharpened by shadow. You crane your neck, taking in the full height of it, and for a fleeting second, doubt creeps in. The rocks seem steeper than you remembered, the climb more perilous. But you shake the thought away, clenching your hands into fists. You didn’t come this far to back out now.

You run your fingers over the rough surface, feeling the cold, gritty texture beneath your touch. “You can do this,” you murmur under your breath, a mantra as much as a challenge.

The first few feet are deceptively simple. The handholds are large, the footholds steady. Your boots find purchase with ease, and the climb feels almost manageable. But as you ascend, the rock grows less forgiving. Edges sharpen, jabbing into your palms, and loose stones dislodge beneath your grip, clattering noisily to the ground below.

Halfway up, you pause on a narrow ledge, pressing yourself flat against the rock face as you look down.

The ground seems impossibly far away, the shoreline a distant strip of pale sand. Below, the waves churn and crash, their whispers now a low, angry roar. The sight sends your stomach lurching, and for a moment, fear sinks its claws into you. Your arms tremble with exertion, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

You could stop now.

Turn back.

Retrace your steps, carefully make your way down, and slip back into the cottage before Hughie notices you’re gone.

But no.

You’re not a coward.

Gritting your teeth, you press on. Each movement becomes slower, more deliberate. Your fingers scrape against sharp edges, your nails catching on cracks in the stone. The muscles in your arms and legs burn, but you push through the pain, refusing to stop.

The final stretch is the hardest. The rock smooths out, leaving few handholds to grasp. You cling to the surface, fingers aching, searching desperately for a way up. The wind whips past you, cold and biting, and for a moment, you wonder if this had been a mistake.

Then, just as your strength threatens to give out, you spot it. A tuft of grass growing defiantly near the top.

You stretch your arm toward it, your body straining with the effort. Your fingers curl around the brittle stems, anchoring you as you pull yourself up.

When you finally haul your body over the edge, you collapse onto your back, gasping for air. Your chest heaves, your limbs feel like jelly, and your palms throb with raw, stinging pain. But none of it matters.

Because when you open your eyes and look up, the stars stretch endlessly above you, glittering and cold against the vast, inky sky.

After a moment, you sit up, turning toward the view.

It’s breathtaking.

The beach sprawls far below, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight. The waves glitter as they roll toward the shore, whispering secrets to the sand. Beyond them, the ocean stretches into infinity, the horizon blurring into the sky until you can't tell where one ended and the other began.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alive.

No cramped walls, no suffocating silence, no waiting for something to change. Up here, it’s just you and the world, untamed, infinite, and indifferent to everything that weighs you down.

And for a fleeting moment, you feel free.

Sitting up, you let the salty breeze whip through your hair, the chill stinging your cheeks but waking you in a way you haven’t felt in months. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, a live wire under your skin, making your hands tremble, not with fear, but with something close to exhilaration. This is what you’ve been missing. The feeling of being alive. The reminder of why you joined the Boys in the first place.

It was never just about fighting back or making a difference. It wasn’t even about vengeance, not entirely. It was about proving something, to yourself more than anyone else. Proving you were capable. That you weren’t some fragile thing waiting to be saved, but someone who could save others. Someone who could matter.

And for the first time in months, as you sit atop that cliff with the ocean spread wide below you, you start to believe it again.

You pull your knees to your chest, staring out at the endless stretch of dark water and rolling hills. The waves below crash in rhythmic bursts, a steady reminder of the untamed power of the world around you. You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, letting the night envelop you. But when you open them again, something catches your attention, a faint glimmer in the distance, just beyond the horizon.

You squint, focusing on the thin silhouette rising against the dark expanse of sky. It blinks, a tiny, rhythmic flash of red light, steady as a heartbeat. 

A cell tower.

You sit up straighter, your breath catching in your throat.

For a moment, the sight feels surreal, like some cruel trick of the moonlight. But no, it’s unmistakably a tower. The blinking red light winks at you like it knows a secret, mocking your isolation with its quiet, unyielding flashes.

Your pulse spikes, your mind racing. Mallory had told you there was no signal out here, that you were too far removed from civilization for anything but silence. And for weeks, you and Hughie hadn’t bothered to try. But now, staring at that lone tower, a thought sparks in your mind, sharp and electric.

What if?

What if Mallory was wrong? What if, up here, with the elevation and the proximity to the tower, you could catch even the faintest bar of service? What if you could hear something, anything, from the outside world?

The idea sinks its teeth into you, relentless. The isolation has gnawed at your sanity, the lack of updates driving you to the edge of your patience. For weeks, you’ve been stranded here, cut off from everything that matters. No news. No reassurance. No way of knowing if Butcher is alive—or worse, if he’s dead and no one has had the guts to tell you.

Your mind spirals as the possibilities take hold. What if he’s been dead for weeks, and they’ve kept you in the dark to protect themselves? What if the rest of the Boys are scattered or captured, and you’re here, wasting time on beach walks and Scrabble games while the world burns without you?

You can practically feel the phone in your hand, the smooth of the glass beneath your fingertips. You imagine the vibration of a text, the sharp trill of your ringtone breaking the stillness of the night. You imagine Mallory’s sharp, chastising voice on the other end, berating you for doing something reckless but alive, present. Even her disapproval would feel like a comfort, a tether to the world you’ve been ripped away from.

But then, the warnings creep back in, unrelenting as the tide. Mallory’s grim face, her voice low and certain.

“Stay dark. Stay hidden. A cell signal could be tracked. And if they find you, it won’t just be you they’ll come for. It’ll be Hughie, too.”

You close your eyes, exhaling sharply. You know the risk. You’ve seen what Homelander can do, how quickly and mercilessly he can snuff out anyone he sees as a threat. A cell signal would be a beacon, a neon sign pointing directly to your hiding place.

And yet...

The solitude has become unbearable.

You fall back against the soft earth, letting your head rest against the cool ground. The blinking red light holds your gaze, its rhythm hypnotic. It feels like a lifeline, a fragile connection to the world you’ve been forced to leave behind. The rational part of you knows better than to entertain the idea. But the part of you that’s starving for connection, for control, for something real—that part wonders if the risk might be worth it.

For now, you swallow the thought. Rising to your feet, you brush the sand and grit from your pants, forcing your attention back to the path ahead. You need to climb down before the tide comes in and traps you here. But as you descend the cliff, the tower’s blinking light lingers in your mind, its faint promise burning itself into your memory.

By the time your boots hit the sand, you’ve convinced yourself you’ll forget about it. That you’ll stay the course, follow Mallory’s orders, and keep the signal dark.

But deep down, you know that blinking red light has already ignited something dangerous inside you.

~~~

You spend the next few days pretending everything is fine, doing your best to hide the fact that your mind has become dangerously, deliriously warped. You force smiles at Hughie, nodding along to his nervous chatter during your walks, cooking meals you can barely taste, and flipping aimlessly through the same dog-eared paperbacks. But when the silence creeps in, so does the red light.

The night you climbed the cliff, you dreamed of it, burning behind your eyelids in perfect rhythm, like a pulse you couldn’t quiet. The next morning, you saw it again, reflected in the dark surface of your tea, winking at you as though it knew what it was doing. By the evening, it appeared in the crimson glint of the sunset on the water, shimmering like a cruel mirage.

It’s always there. Mocking. Knowing. Goading.

You tried to ignore it. Tried to push it out of your mind. Really, you have. You’ve thrown yourself into the monotony of cottage life, reading, cooking, walking the shoreline until your legs ache. You’ve tried to find satisfaction in the small, safe rituals of your exile, to reassure yourself that waiting is the right thing to do. But the blinking red light has planted itself deep in your brain, a seed of temptation that refuses to wither.

And each passing day, each endless, wondering moment spent trapped in the limbo of not knowing, feeds it.

You wonder if Butcher is alive. If the man you love, the father of your child, is somewhere out there fighting for his life, or if he’s already gone, lost to you forever. You wonder about the Boys, the strange, mismatched family you’d built for yourself. Are they safe? Are they together? Are they even still alive? And then there’s the world itself, so far away it feels unreal. What’s happening out there, beyond these hills and waves? What fires are burning while you sit here, idle and powerless?

The questions loop endlessly, clawing at your mind, their weight germinating the seed until its roots stretch deeper than you can bear.

But you’ve never been the type to give up easily. Determination is as much a curse as it is a strength, and if nothing else, it’s always been your defining trait. Whether it’s a battle worth fighting or a doomed cause, you’ve never been able to walk away from something once it’s lodged itself in your heart.

And this time is no different.

The blinking red light doesn’t just haunt you, it calls to you. It dares you to make a choice, to risk everything for even the faintest chance of connection.

At least no one could ever say you weren’t determined.

The night air feels heavier this time, thicker, pressing against your skin like a warning as you step silently out of the cottage. Hughie’s faint snores filter through the thin walls, steady and familiar. At the door, you pause, guilt nipping at your resolve. For a fleeting moment, you consider turning back, crawling under the safety of the blankets. But the pull is too strong, gnawing at the edges of your mind. Clutching your phone in a trembling hand, you slip outside, the soft crunch of your boots on the gravel the only sound in the stillness.

The climb up the cliff feels more treacherous than before. Your hands shake—not just from the exertion, but from the weight of what you’re doing. With every grasp of the jagged rock, you battle the voice in your head, the one whispering, What if this is a mistake? Yet the blinking red light, steady and unyielding against the dark, pushes you forward. You dig your boots into the rocky surface, ignoring the ache in your arms, ignoring the way the cold wind bites at your exposed skin. When you finally pull yourself over the edge, you collapse onto your knees, panting, your legs trembling beneath you. 

The tower’s pulse feels like it’s syncing with your own frantic heartbeat.

You force yourself upright, pulling your phone from your pocket, holding your breath as the screen flickers to life. The battery indicator mocks you, barely above five percent.

You haven’t charged it since the night you spent at Annie and Hughie’s. The fact that it’s alive at all is a small miracle. Swallowing your frustration, you navigate to the settings, hands fumbling, searching for a signal.

Nothing.

The bars remain empty, unyielding, mocking your desperation.

“No, no, come on,” you whisper, pacing along the edge of the cliff, your arm outstretched toward the blinking light. The desperation in your chest rises like a tide, threatening to drown you. Your gaze darts around, frantic, until it lands on a spindly tree growing close to the edge of the cliff.

It isn’t tall, not much more than a weathered silhouette against the stars, but it’s tall enough.

Your breath catches as your resolve hardens. I can do this.

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you approach the tree. Its thin branches tremble in the breeze, and for a moment, doubt prickles at the back of your mind. But you push it down. Without thinking too hard, you begin to climb.

Each branch feels weaker than the last, threatening to snap under your weight. The sharp bark digs into your palms as you maneuver carefully, your small bump making the climb more awkward than it should be. The higher you go, the more the branches sway, the wind catching you like a phantom tugging at your cardigan.

Halfway up, you wedge yourself into the crook of two sturdy branches, clutching the trunk with one arm as you fumble for your phone with the other. Your hand shakes as you power it on again, holding it high, stretching your arm toward the blinking red light as if you could pull a signal straight from the air.

Then, it happens.

A single bar appears on the screen.

You laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound that cracks in your throat. Relief blooms in your chest, sudden and overwhelming. You stare at the notifications flooding in, your fingers scrolling instinctively.

You squint, smile faltering.

The messages are all from… Adam?

Your excitement curdles into confusion. Adam. You haven’t thought of him since the gala. You haven’t had the time or energy to think of him.

The first message was sent the day after the gala.

Hey, you left so suddenly last night. Are you okay?

You frown, scrolling to the next one, sent weeks later.

Haven’t heard from you. Just want to make sure you’re alright.

But it’s the last one, sent less than twenty-four hours ago, that makes your stomach drop.

You’re going to think I’m insane, but I swear I just saw your dad walking into Vought Tower.

Your pulse stutters as you stare at the words, your mind struggling to comprehend them. Attached to the message is a photo, grainy and blurred, clearly taken in a rush. But the figure in the image is unmistakable.

Your father.

The world tilts beneath you. You grip the phone tighter, your knuckles whitening as the branches around you sway in the breeze. The man in the photo isn’t a ghost of memory, isn’t the distant echo of a childhood long buried. He’s alive. Alive and walking into Vought Tower.

The realization crashes over you, knocking the air from your lungs. Your father is alive.

Your breathing quickens, shallow and erratic. The suffocating silence of the night presses in, broken only by the distant roar of waves below and the steady pulse of the tower’s red light, colder now, like the unblinking eye of something monstrous, a mocking metronome counting down to something you can’t yet fathom.

Your phone buzzes weakly in your hand, its screen dimming as the last of its battery begins to drain. You stare at the photo, willing yourself to believe it’s real, that this isn’t some cruel trick of the isolation.

Your voice echoes into the dark, empty night.

“Dad?”

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @buckybarnesbestgirl

[gullemec]

I needed to collect my thoughts before I could respond to this!!!

Something I was really nervous about in writing this series was portraying Joel and his reaction/treatment of the reader. I am a huge fan of fics that have Joel just being a straight up meanie who ends up being redeemed in the end. I think it can be hard to toe that line between "damaged person who acts out because of their trauma" and "straight up irredeemable asshole". I was nervous (still am!!) that this Joel can veer over into irredeemable but you have very much assuaged that fear in me for now so I really appreciate that ❤️

I really wanted to show that he is so goddamn love sick over this girl that it hurts him, and Joel really only knows how to respond to hurt through anger and defensiveness. This is not the Joel who has been softened by Ellie! He's been softened by the reader but not 100% yet, he's still in the softening process lol. He went too far and he's facing the consequences now, but I think we are seeing him turn a corner now, which I'm so excited to show with the next few chapters.

Also some of the parts you highlighted are also some of my favorites parts as well so it means a lot that the parts I'm hoping resonate with people are! Thank you again for being a wonderful reader and friend! I look forward to your feedback every time ❤️❤️❤️

Bad Man (Joel POV)

Bitten - Part VII

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel Miller is a bad man. Joel Miller is a weak man. But for you, maybe he could be good. Maybe, for once, he could be enough.

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, Joel pining hard, subtle reference to getting a boner (??)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 14.5k (and it's only going to get worse from here lol)

A/N: I submitted the final paper for the penultimate semester of my master's degree and thought we could celebrate with a very special chapter 🥰

The moment he first saw you, something changed.

It was like a fragile green sprout forcing its way through cracked concrete, life stubbornly emerging from destruction and decay. Something long dormant, buried under years of grief and grit, stirred awake in Joel Miller. He couldn’t name it, didn’t even fully recognize it at first, but it was there, undeniable.

It wasn’t just that you were a woman working one of the dirtiest, most soul-draining jobs in the QZ. Plenty of women got stuck with body disposal, long days spent shoveling ash, hauling corpses, and stacking them like cordwood before setting them ablaze. It was grueling, thankless work, and most people either bribed their way out of it or stopped showing up altogether, slipping quietly into the shadows of the QZ in search of under the table work. Joel didn’t fault them for it. Hell, if he had the luxury of a bribe or knees that didn’t groan every time he crouched, he might’ve done the same.

It wasn’t just the way you stood up for yourself, either. Sure, he’d been taken aback, impressed, even, when you snapped at him for offering to help. There you were, standing knee-deep in filth, your face streaked with soot and sweat, hauling the dead weight of a grown man onto the pyre like it was nothing. Joel had grinned like a fool beneath his bandana, not because he doubted your strength but because of the fire in your eyes, the way you carried yourself like you were daring anyone to underestimate you.

But strength was common in the QZ. Survival required it. The women here, like the men, were hardened, their edges sharpened by years of scarcity and loss. Strength alone wasn’t what caught his attention.

No, it was something deeper, something intangible. It was in the way you moved, the way your shoulders squared as if you were bracing yourself against the weight of the world, even as your eyes betrayed something softer, something untouched by the harshness around you. It wasn’t weakness, not even close. It was a quiet, stubborn hope, buried under ruin. A tenderness you tried to shield, even though the cracks in your armor were visible to anyone who bothered to look closely enough.

And Joel, against his better judgment, had looked.

It was rare these days to find someone who hadn’t been hollowed out completely, someone who still carried even a scrap of kindness, a trace of softness. Most people built walls so high and so thick that nothing could get in… or out. And Joel understood that better than anyone. He’d spent years fortifying his own, pouring concrete around every vulnerability, every regret, every sliver of humanity he still possessed.

And if Joel was honest with himself, which he often struggled to do, he knew a big part of what drew him to you, what kept him circling back despite his better judgment, was the way your softness had survived in a world so intent on destroying it.That rare, unguarded vulnerability, the kind he hadn’t seen in years, felt like a magnet pulling him in. And it terrified him.

Because Joel knew exactly how easily that softness could be exploited. He’d seen it happen before, kindness and trust twisted into tools for someone else’s gain. He’d done it himself once or twice, back in the early days when survival meant silencing his conscience. 

He knew there were men out there far worse than he was. Men who would take someone like you and ruin you, strip away the humanity that made you different.

Joel Miller was not a good man. He had too much blood on his hands, too many sins stacked up to pretend otherwise. But the thought of someone else taking that rare softness in you and defiling it, tainting it… It made his stomach churn with righteous indignation.

So, he told himself he’d protect you. 

Not because you were his responsibility, not yet, anyway, but because he couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else getting to you first. Someone who wouldn’t just take your trust but would break you in the process. 

And if that meant ignoring the way his thoughts drifted to you late at night, then so be it. He’d bury the way your laugh lingered in his head long after you were gone, the way your presence in a room seemed to make the air heavier, charged, like a heavy storm cloud about to break. He’d push down the pang of guilt that twisted inside him whenever he laid with Tess, the gnawing sense that something about being with her felt wrong now, like it was betraying you, even though he had no real reason to feel that way.

Because you were no one to him. Not yet, at least. Barely a friend, more like a stray dog sniffing around the edges of his life. Feral and skittish, tolerating his proximity only because it didn’t explicitly feel like a threat.

Joel would ignore the way his stomach tightened when you reached up to adjust your jacket, the hem of your shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. He’d look away when you bent over to grab something, knowing his gaze lingered on the gentle slope of your backside longer than it should. He’d force his mind to shut down the way his hands itched to touch you, not in the careless, rough way he’d known before, but gently, reverently, like you were something precious.

But to touch you, to have you like that, would be to ruin you. His hands were calloused and stained with too many sins. They had no business running over your skin, no matter how much he craved it. It would be selfish, another black mark on his already damned soul.

Joel didn’t need another sin to carry. And he sure as hell didn’t need to carry the weight of what it would mean to lose you, not after what he’d already lost. So he’d keep his distance. He’d guard you from the world, even from himself, because he knew damn well that men like him didn’t deserve softness like yours.

…

Tess had seen it, clocked it from the moment he first brought you around. 

She wasn’t stupid. She knew him too well, could read him better than anyone else, maybe even better than he could.

“What’s going on here, Joel?” she’d asked that night after your first smuggling job with them. The two of them were tucked into the quiet shadows of his apartment, sharing a rare moment of stillness after you’d taken your share of the ration cards and gone home.

Joel had feigned ignorance, brushing it off with a grunt and a shrug. “She’s a good set of hands,” he’d said, his voice rough and curt, the lie obvious even to him.

Tess didn’t buy it for a second. “Bullshit,” she’d said, her voice low, bitter. “Look, if you want to end this—us—that’s fine. But don’t lie to yourself about what this is.”

He’d refused to acknowledge what she meant, wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, admit it. But she was right, and they both knew it. He never found his way back to her bed after that night. Not because he didn’t care about her, but because the shame weighed on him too heavily. Guilt sat in his belly like a stone, growing heavier with every glance in your direction, every moment he caught himself thinking of you when he shouldn’t.

And then came the night everything went to hell. The smuggling job had gone sideways, and you’d asked him something he hadn’t been prepared for, something that came alive in his brain like an electric shock. 

“Do you ever think about… leaving?” you’d asked, your voice tentative, almost shy, like you were afraid of what his answer might be.

The question sparked something in Joel, something long buried and half-forgotten. Hope. He didn’t even recognize it at first, not for what it was. It had been so long since he’d felt it, since he’d dared to want anything other than basic survival.

Later, as you slept on his couch, curled up beneath one of his old blankets, Joel sat in the quiet and watched you, his hands still trembling from the chaos of the night. He rubbed his thumb over the worn edge of the table, his mind racing. Wyoming wasn’t just a place. It was an idea, a promise.

A chance.

He told himself it was for you. He’d get you there, to whatever better life waited for you on the other side of those distant mountains. A place where you wouldn’t have to keep your guard up all the time, where you could let yourself be soft again without fear of being broken. Maybe you’d find someone there, someone good, someone who could give you the life you deserved. Someone who wasn’t him.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Joel couldn’t stop the selfish thought that lingered in the back of his mind. Maybe Wyoming wasn’t just for you. Maybe it could be something for him, too. A place where he could finally put down some of the weight he carried. A place where he could let the hardness dissolve, piece by piece, until there was something left of the man he used to be.

Maybe then he could touch you without the fear of tainting you.

But Joel Miller was a weak man.

The sheer proximity to you on the journey was a daily trial, a constant reminder of the promise he’d made to himself, to protect you, to keep you safe, no matter the cost. But that promise carried with it another, a vow to never cross the line, to never let his own selfish desires interfere with what you deserved.

You made it damn near impossible.

There were days when the world forced intimacy upon you both in ways that were both innocent and excruciatingly dangerous to his resolve. Days when you’d strip down to bathe in the icy waters of some river, your laughter cutting through the air as you teased him about how cold it was. Joel always kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, but he could hear the water lapping against your skin, could imagine the droplets rolling down your body, catching the sunlight like tiny diamonds.

There were nights when you’d both peel off bloodied or rain-soaked clothes to inspect the cuts and scrapes that had come too close for comfort. Joel’s hands would shake slightly as he cleaned the wounds on your back or your arms, his touch careful and deliberate, every brush of his fingers against your skin a silent prayer for control. He told himself he was just being thorough, just being cautious, but the truth was harder to swallow.

He wanted to touch you more than he had ever wanted anything.

And yet, every single time, he forced himself to look away. To turn his back, to avert his gaze, to give you whatever dignity he could manage in a world that had so little of it to offer. It wasn’t easy. Hell, it was torture. But Joel was nothing if not disciplined, and for you, he would be good.

He told himself it was the least he could do, a way to balance the scales of the man he used to be, the man who had done things he could never speak of, things that still haunted him in the quiet hours of the night. Joel Miller was a bad man. He’d done bad things, hurt people, killed people, and never once had he felt an ounce of guilt about it. Not until you.

You made him want to be better. 

But you also made him weak.

Because for all his promises, all his discipline, there were moments when his restraint wavered. Moments when he’d catch himself looking too long, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck or the way your hair clung to your skin after a storm. Moments when he wanted nothing more than to close the space between you, to press his forehead to yours and let himself believe, just for a second, that he could be something more to you than a protector.

He hated himself for those moments. They felt like a betrayal, not just of the promise he’d made to himself, but of you. You deserved better than a man like him. You deserved someone pure, someone who didn’t carry the weight of countless sins on his shoulders.

And yet, despite all of that, Joel couldn’t help the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him, or the way his pulse quickened when your hand brushed his arm. He couldn’t stop the way you filled every corner of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to keep you out.

Because Joel Miller was a weak man. But for you, he would spend every day trying to be stronger.

…

It had rained on the day that everything changed for him.

You’d been somewhere in Nebraska, where the last dregs of summer lingered in the air like distant whispers of a lover unwilling to let go. The sun still hung warm and golden overhead, the air hazy and thick.

That morning, the two of you had hunted together, your movements coordinated in a way that only came from months of traveling side by side. You’d amassed a bounty of game, enough to fill your bellies and preserve some for the days ahead. Things had been eerily quiet for weeks, no infected, no other people, nothing but the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional sound of wildlife. It had been so calm, so unnaturally still, that Joel let himself believe, just for a few stolen moments, that you were safe.

The campsite you set up felt like a small reprieve from the constant urgency of the road. The fire crackled softly as the two of you worked together, drying meat into jerky, the scent of smoke mingling with the warm, earthy smell of late summer. Joel had almost forgotten what it felt like to be in a place that didn’t feel like it was pressing down on him, strangling him.

You’d gone down to the stream to wash off the blood and grime from the hunt, leaving Joel behind to finish setting up. He let you go without question, understanding your need for a semblance of privacy. He stayed behind, sitting on a large, sun-warmed rock near the fire, his head tilted back to soak in the rays.

And then, he’d felt it. The first drops of rain against his face.

At first, Joel thought he was imagining it. He sat up, squinting at the sky, which still burned bright with sunlight despite the rain now beginning to fall in a soft, steady rhythm. 

A sun shower.

It had been years since he’d felt one, maybe decades. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, the ghost of a memory tugging at him from a time so far removed it felt like another lifetime. “Rain on a sunny day means the foxes are having a wedding,” she used to say, her Southern drawl making everything sound like an old folk tale. The thought brought an unexpected smile to his face.

And then he heard it.

Your laughter.

It was soft at first, a gentle peal that carried over the rustling of the trees and the patter of rain on the grass. Then it grew, rich and warm, spilling out into the quiet. Joel froze, every muscle in his body locking as he turned toward the sound.

You were in the stream, the rain falling in delicate droplets all around you, turning the surface of the water into a mosaic of ripples. He hadn’t meant to look. He really hadn’t. But there you were, spinning in the shallow current, arms spread wide, head tilted back to catch the rain on your face.

The sight of you stole the breath right out of him.

Your white tank top, soaked through and translucent, clung to your frame. He was only a man at the end of the day, and the sight sent a jolt to his groin.

But it wasn’t the outline of your body that caught his attention, not at first. It was your face, the sheer joy written across it, the unbridled freedom in your smile. You looked like a woman untouched by the world’s ugliness, as though the scars on your body and soul had been washed away by the rain. For that fleeting moment, you were radiant. Carefree. And it was something Joel hadn’t seen from you before, not like this.

The rain, mingling with the lingering heat of the day, created a mist that rose from the tall grass and wove through the trees like something out of a dream. Joel felt like he was watching a mirage, something too good to be real.

He told himself to look away, to give you the privacy you deserved. But he couldn’t. He was transfixed, rooted to the spot as his heart hammered against his ribcage.

And for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to wonder.

It would be so easy. That’s what crossed his mind. So easy to let go of his threadbare resolve, to step into the stream and close the distance between you. To touch you. Not just to brush past you in some practical, utilitarian way, but really touch you. To let his hands find the curve of your waist, to feel the warmth of your skin under his calloused fingers.

The thought terrified him, more than anything had in years. Because in that moment, Joel knew.

You could never be just someone he traveled with. You were never just a pair of capable hands or an extra set of eyes.

You were something else entirely. Something precious. Something Joel didn’t deserve but couldn’t help but want.

So he stayed on the rock, watching as you twirled in the rain, the sound of your laughter carrying over the hills. And Joel Miller, a man who had made a life of keeping his heart buried deep, felt it crack open just a little bit more.

So that night, when you unrolled your sleeping bag by the fire, something changed. He’d already taken up his usual post against a tree at the edge of camp, rifle in hand, eyes scanning the dark horizon. But for once, the call of duty, the constant need to keep his distance from you, was drowned out by something else. Maybe it was the way the sun shower had softened the world around him earlier, how the rain had washed everything clean, how you seemed to glow in the sunny haze.

Wordlessly, as if compelled by a force he didn’t fully understand, he moved. His boots crunched against the dry leaves as he walked over to you, unfurling his sleeping bag beside yours.

You glanced up at him, your face lit by the flickering firelight. He braced himself for questions, for confusion, maybe even a hint of irritation. He could already hear himself mumbling an excuse, ready to retreat back to the tree if that’s what you wanted.

“Just figured it was warmer by the fire.”

But you didn’t look confused. Or annoyed. Or anything like he expected.

You smiled.

It was warm, open, and unguarded, like you’d been waiting for him to do this all along. Like you weren’t surprised by his sudden need for closeness, but relieved by it. And in that moment, he was disarmed. Completely.

He sat down beside you, rifle still cradled in his lap, his body tense with the effort of trying to convince himself this was nothing more than practicality, safety in numbers, warmth by the fire. He was always trying to convince himself of things like that, always forcing his thoughts into neat, platonic boxes that made sense.

You spoke to him, your voice soft and steady, and as the fire crackled, he found himself responding without thinking. Words flowed between you like the river you’d bathed earlier that day, easy and natural. Your body leaned just a little toward his, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off you, close enough that his heart raced. But he told himself it was just the chill of the night driving you closer, nothing more.

You laughed at something he said, light, airy laughter that felt like music to him. He didn’t know what he’d said that was so funny, but he didn’t care. He’d have said a hundred more things, anything to keep that sound alive in the summer night air.

But eventually, your laughter faded, your words slowing until sleep tugged at the edges of your voice. Curled up just a little closer to him than he dared to hope, you drifted off.

And that’s when he let himself look at you. Really look at you.

The way your face softened in sleep, the way the firelight painted your features in warm, golden hues. His hand itched to reach out, to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, to feel the weight of your head against his chest, your breaths syncing with his. It would have been so easy to drape an arm over your waist, to pull you just a little closer.

But he didn’t want to risk waking you, not even with the slightest movement. The thought of disturbing your peace, of pulling you from whatever refuge sleep had given you, was unthinkable. He’d shoulder the burden of exhaustion a thousand times over if it meant you could rest like you needed to.

If it meant he could watch you like this, unguarded and serene, your face lit by the dying embers of the fire.

He couldn’t help but study you, his eyes tracing the gentle curve of your cheek, the soft pout of your lips. Every so often, your eyebrows knit together, like something troubled you even in your dreams, and he felt an ache deep in his stomach. He wanted to smooth the crease with his thumb, whisper that everything was going to be okay. That he’d make it okay.

That night, as he gazed at you, he made a decision.

He’d tell you how he felt.

Not now, not here on the road, where every moment was a fight for survival and every step was shadowed by danger. He didn’t want his confession to feel like a tactic, some ploy to keep you close or bound to him out of obligation. The last thing he ever wanted was for you to feel pressured, to feel like you owed him anything.

But when you made it to safety, when you both stood on solid ground for the first time since the world fell apart, he’d tell you.

He’d tell you about how different you were, how you terrified him in ways he couldn’t even articulate. How the thought of you had carved its way into his very being and made a home there, keeping him awake at night. He’d tell you how much he hated himself for wanting something so good, so untainted, when he’d been the opposite for so long.

And he’d tell you about hope. About how he thought he’d lost it years ago, buried it alongside people he’d loved and failed. But you had unearthed it, dragged it kicking and screaming back into his life without even realizing it.

He’d tell you that he wasn’t a good man, not that this would be any revelation to you. You knew better than anyone the weight of the blood on his hands. But maybe, just maybe, this new place, this promised land you both fought so hard to reach, could be a fresh start. A chance to rinse the crimson from your palms and use them for something better. To learn what it meant to love again, in a world that had taught him nothing but how to endure.

And if you didn’t want him, if your heart didn’t align with his, he’d accept that, too. It would hurt, more than he cared to think about, but your happiness would be enough. Knowing you were safe, knowing you were free to live the life you deserved, would mean more to him than any confession of love ever could.

To see you saved, whole and untouched by the darkness that had consumed so much of him, would be enough. It would mean he’d finally done something right. Finally saved someone who truly deserved it.

And that thought was enough to keep him going. Enough to let him sit there, rifle cradled in his lap, watching over you until the first rays of dawn kissed the horizon.

…

He was checking traps when it happened.

At first, it was just noise. The constant roar of the river, the hiss of wind through rain-dampened trees. Your screams must have folded into the white noise, lost to the cadence of the post-storm forest.

But then he heard his name.

It wasn’t a call. It wasn’t a plea. It was a scream, raw, jagged, and visceral. And somehow, he knew.

Before his brain could process, his body responded. Like a switch had been flipped, like instinct alone had seized control of him. His legs moved with a speed that felt unnatural, propelling him forward as if the earth itself had turned against him.

He didn’t need to see you to understand what had happened. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew. But when he did see you, sprawled on the forest floor, pinned beneath a snarling, snapping beast, it was like something chemical ignited inside him.

Not adrenaline. Not shock. It was something else entirely. Something acidic, something that burned in his veins and threatened to eat him alive.

His hand moved faster than thought, the pistol in his grip an extension of his rage. The shot rang out, sharp and violent, and for a moment, he didn’t even register that it was his finger that had pulled the trigger. It didn’t feel like his hand, like his body. He was barely a man in that moment, just pure, unthinking reflex.

The infected collapsed off you in a heap, but he barely registered it. His eyes were locked on you, taking in the crumpled mess of your body. For a second, hope flickered, weak and pitiful. A cruel thing. And it burned.

Because he knew.

The red bloom spreading across your shirt stared at him, stark against the fabric, damning the both of you.

It was over. 

The pistol was up again, heavy but familiar. He flicked the safety off without thinking, the product of twenty years of survival. The barrel leveled at you, finger hovering over the trigger. 

It was muscle memory. Mechanical, methodical, practiced. 

But then your voice cried out, beseeching him to spare you and goddamnit, didn’t you know what that would do to him?

“Please, just… wait.” 

Did you have any idea what you were asking him for in that moment?

To override the reflex that had kept him alive for two decades. To ignore the rules that had been drilled into him by blood and fire, rules that had saved him time and time again. To fly in the face of everything he’d come to believe about survival in a world that had no room for mercy.

To confront the weakness you’d cored into him.

His hands shook.

The barrel wavered.

His mind screamed at him to finish it, to do what he had to do, but his chest felt like it was splitting open.

His mind fell away, back to those stolen moments, those fragile, fleeting seconds of normalcy you’d created and held together in a world that refused to offer it.

He thought about the QZ, the times when the two of you shared laughter soft enough not to wake suspicion. He thought about the quiet moments on the road, when the firelight danced across your face and you’d smile at him, something real and unguarded, and for just a second, the weight of survival would lift from his shoulders.

Being in your proximity allowed him the rarest kind of reprieve. Forgetting. Forgetting the blood on his hands, the screams that haunted him, the crushing monotony of survival.

Your company wasn’t just a comfort, it was a luxury. And Joel Miller had never been a man who allowed himself such indulgences. But you were different. You were intoxicating. You were a temptation he couldn’t turn away from.

What was he supposed to do? Just give that up?

So maybe Joel didn’t do what he was supposed to do in that moment. Maybe he acted on impulse, on selfishness.

Tess’s voice slithered through his mind, low and venomous, the same condemnation that had hung over him since this all started.

You’re blind when it comes to her.

And one day, it’s going to cost you.

He hated her for that. Hated her because she was right.

Joel Miller was not supposed to be a weak man, not anymore. He’d been forged in fire, hardened by loss. But when it came to you? Goddamn it, he was weak.

And as he stared down at you, trembling and bloodied, he didn’t feel like the ruthless man who’d survived for twenty years in hell. He felt like nothing. Like a coward.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft, trembling, breaking. “I’m not ready. Please.”

It broke something inside him to hear you say that, to hear the raw plea in your voice. He could feel the tears welling in his own eyes, hot and blinding, but he couldn’t look away from you. He didn’t need to see the tears streaking your face to know they were there.

He thought about it. He really, truly did. 

He thought about pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple, steadying his hands, and pulling the trigger. He thought about giving you the mercy that this world would never offer. About being strong enough to do what he’d promised you.

But his hands wouldn’t steady.

No matter how tightly he gripped the gun, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And he knew, he knew, that if he missed—if he botched it—if he caused you more pain in your final moments, that would be it. That would be the thing that finally broke him.

He blinked through his tears, his vision swimming, his ribs heaving with ragged breaths. The gun felt like a weight he couldn’t bear, dragging his arm down, pulling him under.

He watched your body crumple, your legs folding beneath you like a lamb struck down mid-stride. The sight of you, fragile and broken, felt like a blade being thrust into his chest.

The gun in his hands felt almost foreign as he kept it trained on you. Not because he had any intention of pulling the trigger, but because it was all he had left. A crutch. A mask. A desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control.

Joel Miller, the relentless, unflinching, unfeeling killer.

But where was that man now? Certainly not here. Not in this clearing, babbling incoherently under his breath like a man lost, trembling hands struggling to keep the pistol steady.

It was pathetic, he thought. Weak.

Eventually, he could take no more. He holstered the gun with a sharp, frustrated motion, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. His jaw clenched as he moved, as if action alone could smother the war raging inside him.

He tied you to a tree, the rope biting into the bark and your body, a crude solution that was as much for his peace of mind as it was for your protection. The knot was tight, too tight, maybe, but it was the only compromise he could muster. He couldn’t leave you untethered, not when the infection was clawing its way through your veins, preparing to twist you into something else.

And then something familiar happened to Joel. A sensation that had visited him countless times before, always in the moments when his soft, vulnerable underbelly was exposed.

He shut down completely.

It was a reflex, as automatic as breathing. The rough brick wall that surrounded whatever was left of his fragile heart rose swiftly, sealing him off from the mess of emotions swirling around him.

It felt like a shadow falling over him, a suffocating blanket of self-preservation. It was itchy, uncomfortable, bristling against every nerve in his body. But it protected him. It always had.

Joel turned on his heel, ambling away from you with stiff, mechanical movements. Like putting space between the two of you would snuff out the inferno of guilt, anger, and fear consuming him.

He didn’t go far. Couldn’t.

Instead, he sat with his back to you, staring into the forest as though its endless expanse could offer him answers. It didn’t. All it gave him was the hollow echo of his own shallow breaths, mixing with yours in the strained silence that hung between you.

And in that silence, Tess’s voice rang in his ears, clear as the crack of a rifle.

She’s your responsibility.

The weight of those words settled heavily on his shoulders, a familiar burden he had carried more times than he cared to count.

But now the weight was unbearable.

He’d failed you. He’d failed you like he failed Sarah. Like he failed Tommy. Like he failed every single person who had ever looked to him for protection.

The realization hit him like a freight train, barreling through the brittle defenses he’d tried to put up. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, knuckles whitening as he sat there, a man trapped in the ruins of his own guilt.

He didn’t turn to look at you. He couldn’t.

Not when your voice, too soft and quiet and gentle for what you were going through, floated through the air. You were trying so hard to keep your voice steady. 

“You know what I thought of you when I first met you?” 

You were brave and he was not. He was right all along. He never deserved you.

“I thought you were an asshole. A grumpy asshole.”

No, asshole was too kind a descriptor. He thought he was more befitting of words like evil or selfish or inhuman.

His body betrayed him, twitching as he tried to hold in a sob.

Your voice, just a whisper in the quiet, raspy and uneven, cut through him. 

"And once I figured out how easy it was to piss you off, I couldn't stop myself. I'd say the dumbest shit just to get you all riled up."

Joel didn’t react. Wouldn't react. He kept his back to you, his gaze fixed somewhere faraway and unseeing, because if he did, if he acknowledged this, he was certain he’d shatter. 

He heard the catch in your breath as you paused, the effort it cost you to keep speaking.. He knew what you were doing. Knew you were trying to draw him out, trying to make him say something, anything.

But he didn’t.

You kept talking. He knew you would.

"You’d get so mad, Joel. Your face would do this thing, this little twitch, like you were trying so hard not to tell me to shut the fuck up."

You were smiling. He could hear it in your voice, that low, wistful curve of your words. It was cruel, really. That you were smiling knocking on death’s door while he was sitting there, coming apart at the seams.

"And I think—no, I know—you liked it."

That did it. His jaw worked, and before he could stop himself, a sharp exhale slipped from his nose. It was barely a sound, barely a damn thing at all, but it was enough for you to catch it. Of course you did.

"If I was nice to you, you’d ignore me. But if I said something dumb just to piss you off? You couldn’t help yourself."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to revisit these moments you were laying out between you like fragile glass. Because he remembered them, every damn one. And it was all too much.

"I think you liked the banter," you said, your voice growing weaker. "The arguing. Maybe it made things feel... normal."

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as your words settled over him like a heavy weight. He didn’t want to think about that, about the way those moments had carved out tiny pockets of warmth in his otherwise frozen-over life.

And then you went for the throat.

"Do you remember that night a few months ago? When you set your sleeping bag up right next to mine?"

Yes. Yes, he did. Every single goddamn day did he think about that night. 

That night was burned into his memory, etched into his very being. Because that night, he’d allowed himself to imagine a world where he could have you, hold you, love you. He’d been so close to saying something, to reaching for you. But he hadn’t. He’d told himself it wasn’t the right time. That it was safer to wait.

And now, hearing your voice tremble with the weight of your confession, he realized what a fool he’d been.

“I liked it. A lot. Probably more than I should’ve. And I couldn’t sleep that night, Joel. I just kept laying there, staring at you while you were on watch, thinking… Maybe you liked me, too.”

That did it.

That fucking did it.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His breath stuttered, his hands shaking as they gripped the edge of his knees. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t let you see the storm raging inside him.

You’d felt it, too. All this time, you’d felt it, and he’d been too much of a coward to do anything about it. Too afraid of what it meant, of what it could cost. And now, he’d wasted it. Wasted all the precious time he could have had with you.

The fear he’d carried with him for so long, that caring for someone again would destroy him, was nothing compared to the agony of this moment. Knowing he would lose you, knowing you would slip away from him forever, and he’d never told you.

All the time you could’ve spent together, talking, touching, tasting, indulging in your deepest shared desires. Gone. Because he’d been too scared to take the leap. Too scared to reach for the one thing he wanted most in this broken, depraved world.

He heard your breath falter again, your voice tapering into silence, and the blood roared in his ears, deafening. His heart pounded, frantic and wild, as if trying to break free from the cage of his ribs.

And suddenly, it was too much. The regret, the guilt, the overwhelming weight of what he’d lost. It all threatened to crush him, and he didn’t know if he could bear it.

For the first time in years, Joel Miller was helpless. Helpless to stop the ache tearing through him. Helpless to fix what was broken. Helpless to stop the one person who had come to mean everything from slipping through his fingers.

And it was all his fault.

“Stop.”

He didn’t realize he’d rounded on you until it was too late. Didn’t realize his hand had instinctively gone for his gun until he stood there, towering over you, the weapon trembling in his grip. Moonlight reflected off your wide, unflinching eyes, off the sheen of tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

The walls came up instantly, automatic as a reflex, wrapping him in the only defense he’d ever known. They let him retreat into himself, let the familiar mask of roughness and indifference take over. That mask had been his armor for so long, a weapon as sharp as any knife. It was how he survived. How he dealt with fear and pain and loss. By becoming something hard. Something people didn’t dare get close to.

And right now, he was scared. God, was he scared.

He just wanted you to stop. Stop talking, stop looking at him like that, stop peeling away every carefully constructed layer of his defenses until there was nothing left but the raw, ugly truth.

But you didn’t look afraid. Not of him. Not of the gun. Hell, you looked calmer than he felt, and it wasn’t fair. How could you look so composed when he was falling apart?

Your face, that beautiful, infuriating, goddamn perfect face. Even now, weakened and pale, barely clinging to life, you still glowed with something that made his breath hitch in his throat. Something pure. Something sacred.

And then you said it. The words that sealed his fate.

“I love you.”

Three words. Just three. And those walls didn’t just crack, they shattered. Brutally, violently, with debris raining down and choking smoke filling his lungs. The walls he’d spent two decades of blood and loss and apocalyptic horror building were gone, reduced to nothing in an instant.

The tears came before he could stop them, hot and blinding, shaking his body with quiet, wrenching sobs. He couldn’t hold them back, couldn’t control the storm raging inside him anymore.

His body was no longer his, it belonged to you. Mind, body, and soul. Yours. For as long as he remained on this mortal coil, he would be yours.

Because you’d done it. You’d broken him. With nothing more than your voice, soft and weak and filled with a love he didn’t deserve.

And yet, here you were, looking at him like he was everything. Like he was something worth loving.

He fell to his knees before you. It wasn’t a conscious choice, his body just moved, pulled by some force he couldn’t fight. His hands trembled as they reached for you, desperate to touch, to feel, to know you were still here. He forced himself to be gentle, to still the violent quake in his fingers as he brushed against your skin.

You were warm. Despite everything, you were still warm. And that warmth seared into him, branding him forever.

He bowed his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was soft, reverent, a quiet prayer to whatever higher power might still be listening. A promise, silent but absolute. At least he would have this. At least he could carry this moment, this memory, in the shattered remains of his heart.

When his gaze fell to your lips, he hesitated. He could feel it, the pull, the overwhelming need to close the space between you, to taste the words you’d just spoken on your breath.

But he couldn’t.

God help him, he couldn’t.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He did. More than he’d ever wanted anything. But it felt too big, too precious, too sacred. Kissing you would mean acknowledging it all, your love for him, his for you. And this love, it was the only good, pure thing he had left in this broken world.

And what if this was the end? What if this moment was all he’d ever have with you? What if he pressed his mouth to yours and your lips went still, your warmth faded, and he was left with nothing but the memory of a kiss given in the shadow of death?

No. He couldn’t. Not like this. Not here, in the horror of this reality.

His love for you was too sacred to be tarnished by the blood and chaos surrounding you. Too precious to be tied to this nightmare, to this moment where he was losing you.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he touched your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down.

Then, with painstaking effort, Joel forced himself to pull away from you. It was like tearing himself in half, leaving a piece of himself behind as he stood, his legs trembling beneath the weight of what he was doing. He moved just far enough that he wouldn’t be tempted to touch you again, wouldn’t risk holding on so tightly that he’d never let go.

And then he listened.

You talked, your voice weak but steady, filling the suffocating silence with the fragments of your life—the good, the bad, the heartbreaking. He listened as you shared your immaterialized dreams, the ones that had always seemed just out of reach. You talked about Yellowstone, about the beauty you’d never seen, the one place you wanted to go but never did.

And you told him, quietly, that you wanted him to go. For you.

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, but the promise was carved into his psyche. He would go. He’d go to Yellowstone, he’d go to the ends of the earth if it meant keeping a piece of you alive. For you, he would do anything.

But then you began to fade.

Your voice, once so full of quiet determination, softened, becoming thinner, more fragile with every word. The pauses between your breaths grew longer, heavier, until they stretched like an unbearable silence threatening to swallow him whole.

And Joel—Joel did what he’d always done when the pain became too much to bear. He ran.

He chose the coward’s way out, dragging himself to his feet and retreating into the dark, leaving you there in the cold. His legs carried him away even as his heart screamed at him to stay.

He told himself it was mercy. Mercy for himself, maybe. Because he couldn’t, wouldn’t, live with the memory of watching you slip away. He couldn’t endure the weight of seeing the light in your eyes flicker and die, couldn’t let that be the last image of you seared into his mind.

He wanted to remember the warmth of your skin beneath his lips, the softness of your breath as you spoke to him, the soft smile you wore as you shared your dreams. He wanted to keep you as you were in that moment, alive in his arms, not as the lifeless shell he knew you would become.

So he left.

But even as he stumbled into the shadows, his ribcage heaving with the effort of holding himself together, he felt the weight of his choice crushing him. He’d abandoned you. He’d left you alone in the cold and dark when you needed him most.

He tried to justify it, telling himself it was the only way to preserve the memory of you as something beautiful, something unbroken. But deep down, he knew it was fear. Fear of losing you. Fear of breaking entirely. Fear of facing a world where you no longer existed.

And as your voice faded into nothingness, swallowed by the night, so too did his own consciousness.

The weight of grief dragged him down, pulling him into the dark, leaving him suspended in a place where time ceased to exist. A place where he could still hear your voice, still feel your warmth, still believe, for just a little while longer, that you were there.

…

Your voice broke through the haze, like a siren’s song to a doomed sailor adrift at sea.

Joel.

Soft, lilting, sweet. It wrapped around him, soothing and electrifying all at once, like a flame warming him from the inside out.

Joel.

It came again, stronger this time, a thread of desperation laced into the edges. Warmth unfurled through his veins, slow and unfamiliar, filling his limbs and grounding him in the earthy scent of the morning.

Joel!

The sharpness of your cry jolted him, his eyes snapping open. His head jerked instinctively, scanning his surroundings.

His breath caught, his heart stuttering as his gaze locked onto you.

You sat there, far away but unmistakable, small and tired-looking against the endless wilderness.

Why…?

And then it hit him. 

You were alive.

Not snarling or feral, not a shambling corpse stripped of all humanity. You were whole. You were you.

Your skin, though dull and flushed, still glowed with life. Your eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, held recognition, a spark he thought he’d never see again. Not the cloudy, dead-eyed stare of the infected, the one that had haunted his every nightmare. And your lips, trembling but steady, spoke his name like it meant something.

An infected couldn’t do that.

His legs carried him toward you on instinct, his steps heavy and hesitant, as though moving too fast might shatter this fragile moment. His mind rebelled against the sight before him, against the sheer impossibility of it all. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

It had to be a dream. Some cruel illusion sent to mock him, to drag him through another hell of false hope. Any second now, the image would crack and dissolve, revealing the truth he feared most: your lifeless body reanimated into a monster. He braced himself for it, half-expecting the air to fill with the guttural growls of the infected.

But with every step closer, the mirage refused to shatter. You remained rooted in place, more tangible with every breath he took.

He stopped just feet from you, his breath uneven, his hands shaking. His eyes swept over you, searching for the flaw, the glitch, the fatal sign that would confirm this was a lie. But there was nothing. Just you.

You were alive.

And when you spoke again, so softly, so human, it broke him. “Joel… Untie me. Please.”

Your voice was small, almost pitiful, and it wrecked him in a way he didn’t know was possible. His knees threatened to buckle as the enormity of it all settled in. He’d tied you up. Left you out here. Left you to die. And yet here you were, asking—not accusing, not condemning, but asking—for his help.

And then the walls started to rise again.

One by one, those barriers you’d torn down so easily last night rebuilt themselves, stronger, thicker, shielding him from the crushing reality of what stood before him. Because the truth was too much to face.

You were alive. And now you knew.

You knew the weak, broken man he truly was. A man who’d failed you in every way that mattered. A man who couldn’t keep his promises, who couldn’t summon the courage to do the one thing he’d sworn he’d do for you.

He couldn’t protect you. Not from the infected, not from the world, not even from himself. He was selfish, corrupted to his core. Last night had proven that. He’d abandoned you to spare himself the pain of watching you slip away, and now here you were, living proof of his cowardice.

He hadn’t thought about what he’d do after. Not really. In some far-off, intangible sense, he supposed he’d keep going. What else was there for him? He’d find a beautiful place to bury you, somewhere quiet and peaceful, somewhere worthy of you. He’d search for flowers, whatever he could find, and place them gently over your chest before the first handful of dirt covered you. He’d say something, maybe. Something small, simple, that didn’t even come close to how much you meant to him. And then he’d go to Yellowstone. For you. After that, it wouldn’t matter much what he did.

But now? Now, with you alive somehow, still breathing, still fighting, and not even angry with him, just pleading softly for relief and kindness, he didn’t know what to do. It scared the hell out of him. So, he did what he always did when he was scared. He shut it down. Pushed it away. Put distance between himself and what terrified him the most.

He moved through time and space like a ghost, detached, cold. He compartmentalized you, locked the memory of your voice, your tears, your pain, behind a door he refused to open. Focus on the task. Just the task.

Pack the camp. Gather the trip wires. Scatter dirt over the fire’s ashes. Roll up the sleeping bags and tuck them beside the dwindling rations.

Don’t think about the woman you love tied to a tree. Don’t think about how scared she must be. Don’t think about how she probably feels more abandoned now than she ever has. Don’t think about how you failed her, how you keep fucking failing her, how you keep failing everyone.

But eventually, he could avoid it no longer. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear the small, pained sounds you made when you shifted against the ropes. He forced his breathing to even out, his hands to steady as he moved toward you. He didn’t deserve to touch you, didn’t deserve to meet your eyes, but he knelt before you anyway. 

And so, as he reached out to untie the knots, his heart shattering, he resolved to keep his distance. To guard himself, guard you, from the mess of emotions swirling in his brain. Because loving you meant opening himself to a level of pain he couldn’t survive again. And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Not now, not again, not ever.

Somehow the fear of losing you was nothing compared to the fear of being seen by you. Seen for what he really was.

And you, looking at him with confusion and hurt written all over your face, misinterpreted every bit of it. To you, his silence, his hesitation, the way his hands shook but his eyes refused to meet yours, all of it screamed disgust.

You thought he was afraid of you.

And Joel, coward that he was, couldn’t find the words to tell you the truth. That all of the fear, all of the disgust, was reserved solely for himself.

When he finally looked at the wound, his heart seized in his throat. 

It was bad. Worse than he’d expected, worse than he was ready for. The jagged edges of torn flesh and dried blood painted a picture he couldn’t bear to see, a reminder of how close he’d come to losing you.

For a fleeting moment, he almost pulled you into his arms. Almost cradled you like something sacred, something he could never put back together but would die trying to protect. He wanted to cry, to beg for forgiveness, to tell you everything he felt but couldn’t bring himself to say.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t allowed that anymore. He’d proven himself unworthy in every sense.

Instead, he focused on the work. His hands moved mechanically, stitching you back together with a precision that belied the chaos inside him. Every pull of the thread felt like penance, like a punishment he deserved for what he’d done, and for what he hadn’t done.

And as the needle passed through your torn skin, he thought about the scar this would leave. About how it would stay with you forever, a constant reminder of how close you’d come to death.

Another thought crossed Joel’s mind at that moment.

What if he had pulled the trigger?

What if he’d ignored your cries, your desperate pleas for mercy, and done the only thing he thought was right in that moment? What if he’d let the wall of instinct and survival take over, burying his heart beneath it as he put you out of your misery? What if he’d made the decision that he’d told himself, countless times, was the merciful thing to do, the thing he should have done?

The thought turned his stomach.

He had been so close. A goddamn hair’s breadth away from ending your life. His finger had brushed the trigger, the cold steel already giving way beneath his pressure, when something, your voice, maybe, or just his own weakness, made him stop. And now, against all logic, you were here. Breathing. Alive.

But that only made it worse.

Because if he’d gone through with it, if he’d done what he thought he was supposed to do… 

Then you’d be gone. Just gone. He’d have to live with the memory of your face in those final moments, the way your eyes begged him for trust and compassion even as his weapon shook in his hand. He’d have to carry that weight forever.

But he didn’t pull the trigger.

And that meant living with the reality of what he almost did. Of how close he came to robbing you of this impossible, miraculous chance at survival. He hated himself for that too, for the thought, the instinct, the sheer audacity of his willingness to believe he had the right to make that call.

No matter which way he looked at it, the accusatory finger of blame pointed directly at him.

You’d been attacked because of him. You’d nearly died because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough to stop it. And then, when it mattered most, he was too weak to do the thing he thought he owed you. But too cruel to stop himself from almost doing it anyway. He hated himself for all of it. Hated that, no matter how he tried to justify it, you bore the physical scars while he carried the guilt.

Now here you were, trusting him despite all of it, your blood still on his hands. Literally and figuratively. Every time he touched you, his heart twisted into tighter knots, longing and shame in equal measure. He wanted to comfort you, to be the kind of man you needed, but every time his hands brushed your skin, all he could think about was how close he came to using those same hands to destroy you.

And then you gasped in pain, your fingers curling instinctively toward him, seeking relief, and he startled like a man caught in a lie.

And his name left your sinless mouth again and it damn near broke him.

You needed to stop. You needed to stop saying his name like he was still someone you could rely on. You needed to stop acting like what he almost did wasn’t a crime against you, against whatever humanity was left in him. He wasn’t the man you thought he was, and every time you looked at him like he was, the weight of his guilt crushed him a little more.

When he finished tending your wounds, he didn’t speak. His hands were shaky but efficient as he pulled his flannel from his pack, tossing it toward you.

“You need a shirt,” he muttered gruffly, avoiding your eyes.

There were shirts in your pack. He knew that. Hell, you probably had plenty of them. But none of them were as soft or warm as his, and soft and warm were what you needed. That much he could give you, even if it felt selfish, like some part of him was trying to absolve himself through the smallest, simplest offering of comfort.

He turned away as you pulled it on, his throat tight. He didn’t deserve to see you like this, to be here after everything he’d failed to do.

Because no matter what happened now, he couldn’t escape the truth. Your blood had stained him a deep and wicked crimson, and he didn’t know how to live with it. So, he did what he always did. He shut down, walled himself off, and pulled further inward, convinced that was the only way he could protect you now. Even if it meant losing the fragile, unspoken bond that tied you to him.

It was for your own good, couldn't you see that?

…

When he came upon you floating in the river that day after you found the cabin, Joel felt the crushing grip of death reaching into his heart, digging its nails in deep, his lungs spasming like the air had been stolen from them.

Because, for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment, it wasn’t peace he saw in your tranquil face. It wasn’t the soft release of tension or the embrace of a quiet reprieve. No, what he saw was the haunting specter of loss. 

For that split second… he thought you were gone. 

The sweet release of death had finally come for you, and Joel had failed again, just like he always did.

Panic gripped him. His hands shook at his sides as the memory of that awful day clawed its way to the surface, the day he found you broken and bleeding on the river’s edge, weak and crumpled, your life slipping away. And now, here you were, floating in the water like some ghost come to torment him.

But then he noticed the upward curve of your lips. The gentle dance of your fingers along the surface of the water, catching the sunlight like ripples on glass.

Relief should have washed over him like the river over your skin. Instead, frustration hit him like a freight train. Frustration and self-loathing working in tandem to thrash at his restraint. It boiled inside him, until it clawed its way out and erupted from his lips as white-hot anger.

Because the scene before him wasn’t just a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to losing you. It was a bastardization of something he’d seen before, something sacred and untouchable that now felt ruined.

The day he’d found you bathing in the river, when he’d been struck dumb. When you’d looked like something out of a dream, the kind of vision that only existed in long-lost memories of happiness from before life ended. When the sun had painted you in golden hues, every drop of water on your skin sparkling like it had been placed there by God himself. 

Your white bra and underwear clung to your body now, made sheer by the water, and on any other day, something that, under any other circumstance, would have him hardening in his pants. 

But today, the light on your skin only served to illuminate the truth he couldn’t escape.

There, across your torso, was the still-healing evidence of your battle with the infected. The jagged, red lines twisted across your flesh, angry and raw. The criss cross of stitches he’d placed in you like a pathetic attempt at an apology. A painful, glaring reminder of his failure. Of how close he’d come to losing you. Of how he had let this happen.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

The words came before he could stop them, harsh and cutting as they tore through the air.

He hated himself for them the moment they left his mouth. 

Joel didn’t like who he was when he was afraid. Fear turned him into someone else, someone he couldn’t control. It was like watching a shadow fall over his own soul, twisting his actions and his words until they felt alien, like they were coming from someone else entirely.

He hated the way his fear made him lash out. The way his words shot to kill, arrows aimed directly at the soft, vulnerable places he swore he’d protect. 

A better man would’ve apologized.

A better man would’ve pushed past the walls of his own pride and fear, laid bare his terror, and let you in. A better man would’ve dropped his guard, let himself feel the pain of vulnerability, and told you the truth, that seeing you floating in the water, peaceful and alive, had scared the hell out of him. That he couldn’t stop the memory of your blood pooling beneath you, the sight of your crumpled body burned into his mind, and the knowledge that he’d almost pulled the trigger.

But Joel Miller wasn’t a better man. Joel Miller was a bad man.

So instead of reaching for you, instead of finding the words to explain what churned inside him, he let the anger take over. It was easier to channel his fear into something sharp, something that hurt outward instead of inward.

But most of all he hated the way your gaze lowered, the soft light in your eyes hardening into something guarded. He hated himself even more for being the reason it happened. For the fact that you were here, alive and vulnerable, and he couldn’t do a damn thing except push you further away.

…

Your journey continued like this, a painful push and pull, a pendulum swinging between connection and distance. Joel, cloaked in his shame, let his fear guide him, his own self-loathing sharpening into the barbs he hurled your way. He hurt you with his words, with his coldness, all while the pain of it ricocheted back inside him, leaving him twice as broken.

But in the storm that was his unending hurt, there were moments of reprieve. Small, ephemeral calms in the storm when the walls cracked, when the veil lifted, and for a breath of time, you were the same two people who’d embarked on this journey together.

Like when he held you after your nightmare, his arms tightening around you as though he could shield you from the demons that haunted your sleep. His lips brushed your hair, and for once, his silence was comforting, not damning.

Or when he pointed out the blood-red cardinal perched on a low branch, its feathers vibrant against the dreary backdrop of the forest. His voice had softened, quieter than usual, as he spoke Sarah’s name aloud, like a precious trinket offered up in hopes that it might soothe his ache.

And when he touched your skin, when his calloused hands found yours, helping you over a stream or taking your pack from your grasp, and the weight of the world seemed to dissolve. For a few blissful, rare moments, it was just the two of you, unburdened by the past, the road, or the darkness that followed.

But those moments were fleeting. And for all the concern Joel had poured into himself—into keeping himself sharp, keeping himself distant so he could protect you from the world and from his own blackened soul—he failed to notice the darkness growing inside you, an infection of a different kind.

He missed the signs. So many signs.

The way your laughter grew rarer, coming from somewhere hollow inside of you. The way your shoulders tensed even in your sleep, like you were bracing for a blow that never came. The way your hands lingered a little too long on your knife, or the way your eyes darkened after each unfamiliar noise sounded in the forest.

He didn’t see it. Not until it was too late.

Not until he pulled you off the raider, your body trembling, your breath ragged. The man’s skull was practically caved in beneath your bloodied, wrecked hands. Joel’s voice, rough and desperate, echoed in his ears as he shouted your name over and over, trying to bring you back to yourself.

And when you finally stilled, when your trembling hands dropped to your sides and your wide, glassy eyes met his, Joel saw it.

A look he knew intimately.

The one that had greeted him every morning for years when he stared into the mirror. The look of terror. Of shame. Of rage and hurt so deeply intertwined that they couldn’t be separated.

And he hated it.

Not because it scared him, though it did. Not because it reminded him of his own reflection, though it was haunting in its familiarity.

He hated it because it was you.

You, who he swore to protect. You, who had been his one tether to hope in this shattered world. You, who now looked at your bloodied hands as if they belonged to someone else, something else.

You might have thought you were a monster.

But Joel knew better.

Joel knew the truth.

He was the monster. And somehow, in trying to protect you from the darkness outside, he had let his own darkness seep into you, tainting the parts of you he had sworn to keep safe.

His hands tightened into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms until the pain anchored him. He wanted to say something, anything, to pull you out of the chasm he could see you slipping into. But the words stuck in his throat, blocked by the overwhelming weight of his guilt.

Because no matter how hard he tried, Joel always destroyed the things he loved.

…

Joel woke to an aching emptiness that started in his chest and stretched through his entire body. The first dregs of sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the boarded up windows, and the cold, stale air in the room had gooseflesh rising in its wake. The rainstorm last night had left the room smelling damp and rotted.

It took him a moment to realize what felt off, what felt wrong.

The mattress he’d barricaded over the door was shoved to the side, just a bit. Just enough for you to slip out.

And there, folded neatly at his feet, was the flannel he’d given you. A silent message. A quiet rejection.

The realization hit him like a freight train. He didn’t need to check the rest of the house to know. You were gone.

For a long moment, Joel just stared at the flannel. His mind couldn’t, wouldn’t, process it. His fingers hovered above the fabric as if touching it would make it more real, would confirm the fact that you’d left.

When he finally picked it up, he clenched it so tightly his knuckles went white. The scent of you still lingered faintly in the fabric, and the pang in his heart grew sharper, deeper, unbearable.

Joel didn’t need to wonder why you left. He knew. He’d driven you away, pushed you so far that you’d felt you had no choice but to leave.

He thought of the way he’d shut you out, the way his fear and self-loathing had manifested into anger, into cruelty. He thought of the way he’d seen you staring at your bloodied hands last night, the haunted look in your eyes. The way you’d started to pull inward, to retreat into yourself, refuse to take the antibiotics because you thought you didn’t deserve them. He’d seen it all, and still, he hadn’t reached for you, hadn’t tried to bridge the growing distance.

Because Joel Miller didn’t know how to let anyone in without feeling like he’d lose them. And yet he lost you anyway.

The thought sank like a stone in his gut. But alongside it, another thought rose, fierce and all-consuming.

He had to find you, had to make sure you were safe. Even if he had to follow you to Yellowstone, a silent sentinel in your wake, keeping his distance until you needed him, he’d do it. 

Joel moved quickly, packing up the remnants of your stay with methodical efficiency, his mind racing all the while. You couldn’t have gotten far. You’d left during the night, sure, but you didn’t have his years of tracking experience, didn’t know how to hide your trail the way he did.

But there’d been a rain storm last night, a bad one. It had quickly turned to snow by early morning, obscuring most of the tracks you would have left behind.

He found the first sign of you not far from the house, footprints in the snow, leading away from a barren spot beneath a tree. You must have slept here at some point. A few miles ahead, he found another sign, a broken branch, a collection of footprints running parallel to the road.

He focused on the trail, the signs you’d unintentionally left behind, but his mind refused to quiet.

Why didn’t I tell her? Why didn’t I let her know what she means to me? Why didn’t I stop her from thinking she was something less than human?

With every step, his guilt grew heavier, like an anchor dragging him down. He thought about the way you’d smiled at him in those rare, soft moments, the way your laugh had sounded once upon a time, light and free, before the darkness took hold.

He thought about how you’d trusted him, even after everything, even after he’d shut you out and failed to protect you.

And he thought about how he’d failed you again, not by letting you leave, but by making you feel like you had to.

Joel didn’t know what he’d say when he found you. Hell, he didn’t even know if you’d let him come near you. But he knew he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let you go, not like this.

Because for all the darkness in him, for all the ways he’d failed, you were the one thing that made him feel human again. And he wasn’t going to let that slip away without a fight.

So he tracked you, desperate, determined, hoping against hope that he could fix this, that he could fix himself, for you.

…

He’d almost stopped for the day when he saw it.

Joel had been on your trail for days, the cold biting deeper with every step. He was damn sure he’d been close a couple of times, signs of your passing too fresh to be coincidence. But then the blizzard hit, a wall of snow and wind that made even Joel’s dogged determination falter. He had no choice but to hole up in an old barn a couple of miles off the highway, its rickety walls groaning under the weight of the storm.

The hours inside were maddening. Every second spent trapped there felt like a second wasted, a second further from finding you. The trail was growing colder, the evidence you’d left behind, footprints, broken branches, the occasional scuff of dirt, were all disappearing under the relentless snow.

But the worst part wasn’t the delay. It wasn’t even the gnawing fear that he’d lose your trail entirely.

It was wondering where you were.

Were you holed up somewhere safe, or out in this storm, freezing, trembling? Were you hurt, curled up in some dark corner with nothing but your thoughts and your pain to keep you company? Joel couldn’t stop the images from coming, couldn’t stop imagining you huddled against the cold, too far gone to fight it, too broken to keep moving.

The thought of it had him pacing the barn like a caged animal. His fists clenched and unclenched, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. He almost threw open the door, storm or no storm. He didn’t care about the cold. He didn’t care about the risk. He didn’t care about his own safety.

Because if you were out there, scared and alone, how could he stay here?

But the voice of reason held him back, bitter and cruel as it was. If he went out there now, blind and desperate, he’d only get himself killed—and you along with him, when he failed to find you. So he forced himself to wait, each passing hour a dagger to his heart.

Still, his mind wouldn’t quiet. The possibilities clawed at him. What if he didn’t find you in time? What if the cold took you? What if someone worse than him crossed your path?

And what if, when he did find you, you hated him so much that you wouldn’t let him bring you back?

Joel couldn’t even blame you for that. He deserved it, didn’t he? He deserved your hatred. He deserved your anger. But none of that mattered to him. None of it.

He would brave the storm, the cold, Hell itself if it meant knowing you were safe. You could spit curses at him for the rest of your life, and he’d carry them like a badge of honor. He’d carry you all the way back to Wyoming in his arms if he had to and deposit you on the doorstep of a better man and watch as the two of you built the life he was supposed to have with you.

He’d watch as you found your happiness without him, each day tearing him apart from the inside out. And still, Joel would count himself lucky for knowing you’d survived.

He’d die by your sword, gladly, if it meant you’d live.

So when the storm finally broke, he didn’t waste a second. He resumed his search with a singular focus, a desperation that drove him through the snow and wind as if the cold were nothing but an afterthought. His steps were heavy, his breaths coming in clouds, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but you.

When he stumbled upon the small town, a flicker of hope stirred in the hollow of him. It looked intact. No signs of life, but no signs of danger either. He scouted the area carefully, searching for any hint that you’d been here.

And that’s when he saw it.

At first, he didn’t recognize it, his mind struggling to bridge the gap between the world he lived in now and the world he’d left behind. But as he stepped closer, the symbol came into sharp focus.

The Firefly symbol. 

It was painted on the side of a crumbling building, relatively fresh, the lines too bold and precise to be anything else. The sight of it made his stomach drop like a stone.

All the air left his lungs. He stared at it, unmoving, as the implication of it hit him like a freight train, his mind falling back to a night in the Boston QZ.

…

A few weeks had passed since you’d first broached the subject of Wyoming.

Joel had tried to resist, tried to apply logic to your wide-eyed dream. He’d told himself that it was a stupid idea. A bad idea. The kind of hope that got people killed in this world. But you just had this way about you, this spark of hope that seemed to catch fire in the hearts of anyone who dared to be near you for too long.

And Joel couldn’t stop himself from being engulfed by it.

So, while he grumbled and cursed under his breath about your pipe dream, he also started quietly preparing for it. He took on extra jobs, sought out scraps of information, stockpiled supplies. Anything that would either solidify his excuses for why this couldn’t happen or, God help him, give him the confidence to take the plunge with you.

And that’s how he ended up at Marlene’s door.

Joel wasn’t a fan of Marlene. He never had been. She was too much like him; cunning, ruthless, always looking for an edge. Maybe that’s why he avoided her. He didn’t like seeing his own sharp edges reflected back at him. But he couldn’t deny the Fireflies had sway. Power. Resources.

If he could pull off one good smuggling job before you left, he’d have enough to ensure the two of you could make the trip. Maybe even get some contacts along the way.

But it would come at a price. It always did.

“Joel,” she greeted him when she opened the door, her voice cool and gaze scrutinizing as she scanned him. She had a way of picking him apart with her gaze, and it never failed to set him on edge. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need somethin’,” Joel replied, stepping inside as she shifted back to let him in.

He hadn’t been expecting the sight that greeted him. Marlene looked worn down, her skin sallow, her movements sluggish. Rolls of bandages, bloodied rags, and medical supplies were scattered across the small room she was holed up in.

She was hurt.

“The hell happened here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as she gingerly lowered herself into a chair, one hand pressed protectively to her abdomen.

“Deal gone wrong,” she said simply, wincing as she settled into place. “You know how it is.”

Joel nodded. He didn’t have much sympathy to spare, especially not for Marlene. She wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. She wasn’t the type to waste time on pity or platitudes. Neither was he.

“I need supplies,” he said, cutting to the chase. “Enough to get two people a decent way out west. And some contacts out there, if you got ‘em.”

That made her pause. Her narrowed eyes locked onto him, a brow lifting in surprise. “You and Tess leaving?”

The mention of Tess sent a pang through Joel’s gut. He hadn’t told her yet. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how to tell her. Tess could handle a lot, but this? Leaving her behind? He wasn’t ready for that conversation.

“Nah, not Tess,” he said gruffly, not offering anything more. He’d never told Marlene about you, about the way you’d walked into his life and upended everything without even meaning to. He’d kept you separate from all this Firefly shit. It was dangerous, messy, and always teetering on the edge of going sideways. Taking you along on low-stakes deals was nerve wracking enough.

He thought of Lyle and his men. That shitshow was tame, nothing compared to the kind of trouble Marlene regularly dealt with.

She didn’t press, though. Marlene wasn’t one to dig too deep unless it benefited her. Instead, she leaned back, her calculating gaze softening just enough to make Joel uneasy.

“Alright,” she said finally. “I’ve got something for you. Transportation job. Cargo needs to get to Utah. You’ll get enough supplies to make it out there, plus contacts at a base near the Montana-Wyoming border.”

Joel stiffened. His stomach churned.

What the hell was this? Was Marlene reading his goddamn mind? He came to her for help, and she just so happened to have a job that not only got him the supplies he needed but also set him up on the exact route he’d need to take?

It was too good to be true.

His gut twisted with suspicion. This kind of luck didn’t come without a catch.

“What kinda cargo?” Joel asked, his tone laced with suspicion.

Marlene smiled, a tight, humorless thing, and Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that look. This wasn’t going to be an easy job.

“A kid,” she said simply.

Joel blinked. “A kid?”

She nodded. “I need you to bring her to a hospital in Salt Lake City. We’ve got doctors up there, good ones. They’re working on a vaccine.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. He was a lot of things, but gullible wasn’t one of them. He’d heard this song and dance too many times before. Vaccines and serums and cures. Charlatans promising salvation in exchange for blood, sweat, and whatever else you could offer them. And it was all bullshit, every damn time. Joel had been a contractor before the world ended, not a scientist, but even he knew that much.

“Ain’t no vaccine, Marlene,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and I both know that.”

She gave him a sharp look, her eyes narrowing. “You haven’t met these doctors, Joel. You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he bit back. “How the hell are they planning on using a kid to make a vaccine?”

“She’s immune,” Marlene said, her voice steady, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Joel barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“I swear to God, Joel,” she said, raising her hand in the air as if to take an oath. “I didn’t believe it at first, either.”

He squinted at her, suspicion and disbelief roiling through him. “How many pain pills you takin’?”

Marlene laughed bitterly, wincing as the movement tugged at the injury on her abdomen. “I’m dead serious.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “Okay,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “So how’re these miracle doctors planning to make the vaccine? If she’s infected, it’s in her brain.”

Marlene nodded solemnly. “The Cordyceps in her, what’s growing inside her, it’s mutated. That’s why she’s immune. Once they remove it, they’ll be able to reverse-engineer a vaccine.”

“Remove it,” Joel echoed, his voice dropping. He stared at her, his jaw tightening as the pieces fell into place. “Her brain. You’re talkin’ about killin’ her.”

Marlene didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable.

Joel’s blood ran cold. He was no saint, hell, far from it. But this? Transporting a kid across the country to her death, all for some half-baked promise of salvation?

“You’re fuckin’ sick,” he hissed, venom dripping from every word. “I’m not doin’ it.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, though her face was taut with frustration. “I’d do it myself, but I’m a little indisposed at the moment.”

Joel shook his head, his anger boiling over. “You’re gonna kill an innocent kid for a vaccine that might not even work?”

“It’s for the greater good,” Marlene said evenly, though there was an edge of steel to her voice. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Save it,” he snapped, already reaching for the door. He didn’t need her, didn’t need her job or her supplies. He’d get you out of this fucking hellhole with the clothes on his back if he had to.

His feet carried him back toward your apartment before he even realized what he was doing. He didn’t think too much about it. He didn’t want to think too much about anything right now. Not Marlene. Not the Fireflies. Not what she was asking him to do.

But when he rapped his knuckles against your door and saw your face, everything clicked into place.

The anger, the frustration, the weight of the world pressing down on him, it all vanished the moment you opened the door.

Your eyes lit up when you saw him, and the warmth of your expression hit him like a breath of fresh air. Inside your apartment, the air felt lighter, the space cozier, like it existed outside the suffocating grime of the QZ.

Joel stepped inside, and for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

This place was rotten. It was filled with rotten people doing rotten work for rotten pay. There was no life here, no spark in the ashes, no green shooting through the dirt. Just pain and survival in an endless, vicious cycle.

You deserved more than this. The way your face softened when you smiled at him, the way your voice wrapped around his name, it was a reminder of everything he wanted but never thought he could have. Time spent with you felt sacred, like the two of you existed in some bubble suspended above the rot and filth.

Joel made a decision then and there.

He’d get you out of here. Away from this decay and despair. Even if he had to fight tooth and nail to do it.

…

Now, if they found you… If they realized you were immune…

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body tensing like a coiled spring. 

The thought of them having you—you—in their grasp was enough to make his vision blur with rage.

Images of you in a sterile white room, immobilized and unaware, doctors circling you like vultures, ready to steal you away from him again.

Joel’s jaw tightened as he forced himself to focus, his instincts kicking into high gear. He didn’t know if the Fireflies were here now, if this was just an old mark or something more recent. But it didn’t matter. He had to move fast. He had to find you before anyone else did.

Because if the Fireflies found you first... 

Joel didn’t let himself finish the thought. He just started running.

Taglist: @javierpenaispunk @eviispunk

[gullemec]

tonight's plans: jerk off to completion..... two cans of sprite (crush against forehead like a neanderthal school bully) ...... write the great american novel

[gullemec]

Exile

Golden Ruin - Chapter Seven

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You and Hughie navigate your exile together.

Warnings: angst, awkwardness, nothing crazy

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5.4k

A/N: So if you couldn't tell already, I have a huge soft spot for Hughie and he's my 2nd favorite character on the Boys, albeit in a non-sexual way (hughie campbell it seems i've grown quite fond of you tho there are no sexual urges or desires. you come to me as a long lost friend whom i once picked apples with in papa's orchard). anyway. lots of hughie & reader friendship incoming.

The drive is long, silent, and steeped in a tension so thick it feels like another passenger in the car.

You sit in the back seat, hands curled into fists in your lap, shoulders rigid, as though bracing for impact. Hughie sits beside you, eyes fixed out the window, his expression unreadable. Every so often, he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, but then he doesn’t, and the suffocating silence stretches on.

Mallory forced this, forced him, and you can feel the resentment rolling off him in waves, even if he hasn’t said it outright. Neither of you have said much at all. Just a handful of curt exchanges when you stopped for gas or when Hughie asked if you were hungry. You weren’t. The guilt sitting in your stomach made sure of that.

You turn your gaze to the window, watching the scenery shift, the world changing as the city slowly crumbles away. The towering grey buildings give way to small, sleepy towns, then to open stretches of road lined with fields that sway golden in the breeze.

It feels strange, watching the city disappear behind you. As though a tether is being severed, thread by thread, with every mile.

After a while, the roads narrow, curving like snakes through deep pockets of forest. The trees loom tall and endless, their branches clawing toward the sky, the canopy above casting dappled shadows across the asphalt. It’s beautiful, undeniably so, but there’s something ominous about it, too. The way the trees close in, as if the forest itself is swallowing you whole.

You risk a glance at Hughie. He still won’t look at you. His jaw is tight, his expression hard to read. That quiet, nervous humor you’re so used to has been stripped away, replaced with something colder. Something you put there.

You press your forehead against the window, feeling the glass cool against your skin, and let your thoughts unravel. I should have told them. I should have told her. The guilt gnaws at you, relentless, like a predator circling for the kill. Annie’s face flashes in your mind, her hurt, her disappointment.

Why didn’t you tell me?

You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t have an answer. You weren’t ready, you tell yourself. But that excuse feels hollow now.

You feel Hughie’s gaze flick toward you, just once, before snapping back to the window. You wonder what he’s thinking, if he hates you, if he’s replaying Mallory’s words, weighing your mistakes against everything you’ve been through together.

The hours blur, the car carrying you deeper into nowhere. The forests begin to break apart, replaced by sheer cliffsides that drop dramatically into the ocean below. The view is breathtaking, a vast expanse of endless blue water stretching toward the horizon. Waves crash against the rocks, white foam curling like lace along the jagged edges. The setting sun casts its glow across the surface, the light shimmering like liquid gold.

We’re somewhere near Maine, you think vaguely, but the thought doesn’t linger. There haven’t been road signs in over an hour, and the driver has been following directions Mallory gave him like a soldier on orders. The backroads twist tighter and tighter, narrowing to a point where you can’t imagine two cars passing one another. You’re far from everything now. Too far to turn back.

The sun dips lower, its light bleeding across the sky in shades of amber, then crimson. You watch as the world darkens, the sky softening into hazy purples and deepening blues. Stars are starting to pierce through the canopy of dusk when the driver finally breaks the silence.

“We’ll be there soon,” he says curtly.

You nod, though neither of you respond. Words feel impossible, like they’d choke you if you tried.

You focus on the horizon instead, watching as the last threads of daylight fade away. You think of everything that’s happened, the apartment, the message, Mallory’s cruelty, and everything that’s yet to come. You think about Butcher, wherever he is, and whether he would have reacted any differently to the truth that you’ve carried alone for so long now. You wonder if he’ll ever get to know it.

A chill runs down your spine, and you pull your jacket tighter around yourself as the car climbs another winding road.

Hughie exhales deeply beside you, muttering under his breath as the car begins to slow. You don’t catch what he says, but it doesn’t matter.

You’re both thinking the same thing.

Nothing will ever be the same after this.

The car tires crunch over gravel, the sound deafening in the heavy stillness of the remote countryside. The engine hums low as the car slows to a stop, the tangy scent of salt hanging in the air, carried inland by a breeze that whispers of the unseen ocean nearby. You can taste it on your tongue, a briny, ghostly presence that lingers. Somewhere beyond the thick cluster of trees, waves crash against the rocks, a distant rhythm, endless and unconcerned with your follies.

The driver, a stoic man in his forties with a face like carved stone, climbs out, his movements brisk and practiced. He pulls open the trunk, grabs two duffel bags, and unceremoniously drops them onto the overgrown path leading to the cottage. Gravel skitters beneath the weight, the sound making you jump.

Hughie steps out first, shielding his eyes from the dim, dusky light. The last stretch of sunset has faded, leaving only streaks of purple and navy smeared across the horizon. “Well,” he mutters, his voice dry but strained, “this is cheerful.”

You climb out slowly, your legs stiff and aching from hours in the cramped backseat. Your gaze drifts to the cottage before you, a small, weathered thing, its bricks faded to muted reds and greys. Ivy winds up the facade, crawling over the faded blue shutters like a slow-moving parasite. The porch light flickers, weak and feeble, casting jittery shadows onto the steps below. It looks old. Forgotten. Like something time itself tried to erase but failed. It’s the kind of place you’d find on the back of a postcard, or the opening scene of a horror movie.

The driver clears his throat sharply, pulling your focus back to the here and now. “Phones stay off,” he says gruffly, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “No signals, no slip-ups. This place isn’t on any map, and you’d better keep it that way.”

Hughie, clearly unnerved, shoves his phone deeper into his jacket pocket, his movements a touch defensive. “Yeah. Got it,” he replies, a little too quickly.

You nod silently, brushing your fingers over the cool weight of your own phone. You’d turned it off hours ago, as instructed, but it still feels unnatural. Vulnerable. Like you’ve severed a lifeline you didn’t realize you relied on until it was gone.

“Mallory moves fast,” you murmur, reaching down to grab one of the bags. The strap digs into your palm as you lift it. It’s heavier than you expected, undoubtedly stuffed with Mallory’s ideas of essentials.

The driver grunts in response. “She’s good at what she does,” he says, his tone clipped. “Better get used to it out here. Someone’ll drop supplies every couple weeks.”

Without another word, he climbs back into the car and reverses down the path, the gravel crunching and popping beneath the tires. Within moments, his headlights disappear into the trees, leaving you and Hughie alone with the cottage, the quiet, and each other.

Hughie stares after him, his shoulders sagging as the taillights vanish. “Well,” he says, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, “this just screams witness protection.”

You huff a laugh out despite yourself, though the sound feels wrong in your chest, like it’s lodged somewhere too deep to dislodge. You move toward the porch first, unwilling to let the moment swallow you whole. The planks creak underfoot as you push the door open, the weight of the long day pressing down on your shoulders like iron.

Your stomach coils tight. For a moment, you can’t shake the feeling that Homelander will be waiting on the other side, smiling, shark eyes glowing. But when you step inside, it’s just… empty.

You cough, stale air infiltrating your lungs. Dust hangs thickly on every surface, filtering through the weak light of the single window. A worn couch sits in the living room, its upholstery frayed and sagging. The kitchen, visible through an open archway, boasts ancient appliances, their enamel chipped and yellowed. Cobwebs cling to the corners of the ceiling, the air heavy with neglect.

Hughie follows you in, setting his bag down and letting out a low whistle as he surveys the room. “Charming,” he mutters. “There better be two bedrooms.”

You drop your duffel onto the couch and drag a hand down your face, exhaustion gnawing at your edges. “Fingers crossed,” you reply quietly, the words flat, lacking your usual bite.

Hughie shuffles toward the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets as if looking for signs of life. You test the faucet, half-expecting nothing but air to sputter out, but after a loud groan, water flows in a rusty stream before evening out. It’s a small mercy.

“When was the last time anyone lived here?” Hughie mutters, holding up a dust-caked Scrabble box from one of the shelves. He drops it unceremoniously onto the coffee table, a plume of dust billowing in its wake. “Well, at least we won’t get bored.”

You lean against the counter, staring out the narrow kitchen window at the dark wall of trees beyond. The ocean is there, somewhere, but it feels too far away now, hidden behind shadows and secrets.

“This is going to be a long few weeks,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Hughie’s voice floats back from the living room. “Or months.”

The words hit like a dull hammer, the reality of it sinking deeper. You hear Hughie hesitate, his voice softer when he speaks again. “So… how are you holding up?”

The question makes your shoulders stiffen. You don’t turn to face him. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice low and frayed. “One minute, I’m just… sad. So fucking sad. The next, I’m terrified. And then I don’t feel anything at all.” You pause, blinking hard. “That apartment was my home, and now it’s gone. Honestly, Hughie, it feels like I just lost everything.”

Hughie doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice carries that tentative gentleness you’ve come to recognize from him. “Everything’s just fucked right now, isn’t it?”

You let out a hollow laugh, finally turning to face him. “Yeah,” you say softly. “It is.”

The quiet stretches again as Hughie drops onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. You turn back to the window, staring out into the deepening dark. The ocean feels endless out there, black and hungry, waves crashing somewhere far away.

“No cell service, no Wi-Fi, no connection to the outside world,” you murmur, your breath fogging against the glass. “We’re going to lose our minds out here.”

“Could be worse,” Hughie says, trying for a light tone that doesn’t quite land. “Could have no indoor plumbing.”

You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. “Don’t jinx us.”

For a moment, a flicker of uneasy humor passes between you, breaking through the cracks of everything else. But it doesn’t last. It can’t.

You turn back to the window, your reflection warped in the glass, a shadow of yourself. “Whatever happens,” you whisper, the words more for you than for Hughie, “we can’t let this break us. Homelander doesn’t get to win.”

From behind you, Hughie’s voice comes soft but steady. “We’ll get through it. We always do.”

You hold onto his words like a torchlight as the dark closes in, wrapping the cottage like a shroud. 

Before you curl up in your bed that night, you reach into your pocket, retrieving your lone souvenir from the life you left in ruin. You place the crumpled and scratched photo on your bedside table, propped up against the lamp. 

“Goodnight, mom. I miss you so much you don't even know.”

~~~

The first week passes in a haze of awkward silences, restless pacing, and half-hearted attempts at small talk. Boredom, it turns out, is harder to manage than either of you expected.

On the first night, you and Hughie staked your claims on the cottage’s meager bedrooms. You took the one upstairs, grateful for even the illusion of privacy, while Hughie muttered something about staying downstairs “to be close to the door in case someone breaks in.” You don’t buy it. You think he just wanted to give you space, a small comfort in a situation where neither of you has much to spare.

Over the first few days, you throw yourself into inspecting the cottage top to bottom. Every floorboard, cabinet, and shadowed corner. You search high and low for bugs or cameras (old habits die hard), but all you find are abandoned cobwebs and empty space. You hunt down and catalogue every object, every distraction you can find that might occupy your mind over the long days ahead.

You find a dozen yellowed, spine-cracked books stacked in a cabinet corner, their covers soft and faded from age. You skim the titles, most of them thrillers or weathered romance novels from decades ago, and set aside a couple you might actually read. Further exploration uncovers a battered, mostly-full deck of cards, a toolbox tucked beneath the couch, and a jigsaw puzzle in a frayed box, one thousand pieces of idyllic countryside that looks just cheerful enough to mock you.

You present the toolbox to Hughie, the two of you setting to work, tackling the minor repairs that had been ignored for years. The cottage creaks under your touch like an old man sighing at every joint.

Hughie struggles with the kitchen’s leaky faucet, crouched awkwardly beneath the sink, grunting and swearing as water sputters and drips. You, meanwhile, focus on replacing a broken door hinge, your movements steady and precise. The repetitive motion gives your hands something to do. Anything to keep them from shaking.

“Mallory said this was supposed to be a safe house,” Hughie mutters, tightening a wrench with unnecessary force. “Feels like we’re the ones making it safe.”

You glance up from the hinge, a weak smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “At least it’s something to do.”

Hughie pushes himself upright, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, and turns to watch you work. “You’re surprisingly good at that.”

You shrug without looking up. “My dad taught me when I was a kid. Said if I wanted something fixed, I shouldn’t wait for anyone else to do it for me.”

Hughie considers you, his expression thoughtful. “Sounds like he expected a lot from you.”

“He did.” You straighten, testing the hinge, which creaks obligingly back and forth. “Too much, honestly. That’s why I fought so hard to prove myself to the Boys, you know? To prove I’m more than just his daughter. That I can stand on my own.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel significant. Hughie leans against the counter, studying you with that quiet sincerity of his, like he’s trying to see past what you say to what you mean.

“You already do, you know,” he says softly. “But standing on your own doesn’t mean you have to stand alone.”

The words hit deeper than you expect, catching you off guard. For a moment, you let yourself meet his gaze, that flicker of earnestness in his blue eyes chipping away at the walls you’ve spent years building. You offer him the smallest of nods, a quiet acknowledgment, before turning back to the hinge, focusing on the task as though it still requires your full attention.

“Thanks,” you murmur after a moment, your voice small.

Hughie doesn’t push for more. He just nods, picking up the wrench again, and the two of you fall into a companionable silence. It’s not much, but for now, it’s enough to make the dusty little cottage feel a little less empty.

~~~

Eventually, Hughie convinces you to play Scrabble. He doesn’t so much win you over as wear you down. You’re finally bored enough to agree, and he knows it.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, the game board laid out between you like some kind of peace offering. The lamplight casts long shadows over the room, pooling at the edges where the darkness creeps in. Outside, the wind shrieks, shaking the windowpanes, but neither of you comments on it.

Hughie squints at his letters, brow furrowed in concentration, as if the weight of the world depends on whether he can find a decent word. Meanwhile, you idly twist your tiles between your fingers, stacking them, unstacking them, not even pretending to focus.

“You’re distracted,” Hughie says suddenly, breaking the quiet as he places the word ‘risk’ on the board.

You look up, startled, your thoughts scattered. “What do you mean?”

He arches an eyebrow and points at the board. “You’ve played ‘cat’ three turns in a row.”

You blink, glancing down. Sure enough, three identical words sit there, mocking you. You hadn’t even noticed. With a sigh, you push your remaining tiles away, the clatter of ceramic against cardboard louder than you’d like.

Hughie leans back, folding his arms across his chest. His voice is quiet but pointed when he speaks. “You could’ve told us, you know.”

You stiffen slightly. “Told you what?”

“You know what.” He makes a vague gesture toward your abdomen, but his eyes are steady on yours. There’s no malice there, no anger, but there’s something bitter just beneath the surface. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. “You and Annie are close. And me… I don’t know, I thought we were friends.”

You inhale shakily, looking away as the words sting in a way you didn’t expect. “We are friends, Hughie.” Your voice drops, softer now, but defensive. “It’s just… complicated. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

The tension stretches between you, thick and suffocating. For a moment, Hughie doesn’t respond. He just studies you in that way he does, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t have all the pieces for.

Finally, he nods, his expression unreadable, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

But the words sit there, unsaid but undeniable, hanging heavy in the air like smoke that refuses to clear. Hughie turns his attention back to the game board, absently rearranging his tiles, but the silence that follows isn’t comfortable. Not yet.

You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them, and stare at the word ‘risk’ on the board. It feels too on-the-nose, like a cruel little joke neither of you can laugh at.

~~~

One morning, restless and suffocating inside the cottage, you decide to take a walk along the rocky shoreline. You don’t say it aloud, but you’re desperate for the fresh air, for space to think. Hughie insists on tagging along, and you roll your eyes, exasperated.

“I’m not going to hitchhike my way back to New York, you know.”

The look in his eyes tells you he’s already considered it, and that he knows you have, too. There’s no point in arguing further. “Fine,” you mutter. “But don’t get in my way.”

You jog upstairs to change, tugging on a thick sweater and jeans. 

The jeans don’t fit. You stare down at the zipper and button, both refusing to close. Confused, you step back and catch yourself in the mirror.

Your breath catches.

The curve of your belly is undeniable now, a soft swell where there was almost nothing before. It’s subtle, but it’s there, evidence of the weeks slipping by, of the life growing inside you. You place a tentative hand over it, feeling a terrifying flutter of something between awe and panic. A small, startled smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, but it doesn’t last. Anxiety bubbles up, pulling you like an undercurrent.

Too soon.

Shoving the thought away, you rummage through the duffel bag Mallory packed, pulling out a larger pair of pants that fit just fine. She’d thought ahead. Of course she had. You don’t let yourself linger on what that means as you pull them on, grab your coat, and head downstairs to where Hughie waits.

The shoreline is rugged and gray, the waves crashing endlessly against jagged rocks. The wind whips through your hair, carrying the tang of salt and the distant cry of gulls. Hughie walks a few paces ahead, hunched into his jacket, his hands searching the ground for smooth stones.

He skips one across the water, counting under his breath as it hops once, twice, three times before disappearing beneath the waves. You trail behind him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, lost in thought.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” Hughie says suddenly, his voice carried by the wind.

You shrug, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

You stop walking, the rocky shore uneven beneath your feet. “Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, it’s never enough?” The words come out heavier than you meant, like stones slipping from your hands. “Like you’re always two steps behind where you’re supposed to be?”

Hughie turns to face you, brow furrowed. “Sometimes. Yeah.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “But you’re not behind. You’re in this with us. You’re one of us.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound raw in your throat. “Am I? I’ve been trying so hard to prove myself, Hughie, but every decision I make just blows up in my face. I didn’t tell you about the baby because…” You pause, struggling to find the right words. “Because I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle this. That I’m some kind of liability.”

Hughie stares at you for a long moment, his expression softening. The wind pulls at his jacket and ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t look away. “No one thinks that,” he says quietly, his voice steady in the cold.

“Then why are we out here?” you demand, the frustration and guilt simmering just below the surface. You sweep a hand toward the endless stretch of shoreline, the lonely gray expanse. “If it weren’t for me, we’d be back there. Helping them fight.”

Hughie’s voice is gentler now, but insistent. “Have you ever considered that it’s because we care about you? Because we don’t want anything bad to happen to you?”

His words hang in the air, as heavy as the waves crashing below. You look away, back toward the horizon, your arms tightening around yourself.

You don’t know how to respond.

The two of you stand there in silence for a moment, the wind howling around you, the ocean stretching out forever. Hughie skips another stone into the waves, and you watch as it sinks without a trace.

~~~

You decide to try cooking one night, wrestling with a can opener and a decades-old stove that hisses ominously every time you turn a knob. The kitchen is too quiet, save for the scrape of metal against metal and the occasional, frustrated curse under your breath. The end result is an unholy mess; burnt rice, bland soup, and the acrid smell of something singed lingering in the air.

It’s awful. But you’re starving, so you shovel it down anyway, seated across from Hughie at the small, creaky table. The weak overhead light buzzes above you both, grating on your already frayed nerves. Hughie grimaces at his plate but eats without complaint, his fork scraping rhythmically against the ceramic.

A long silence passes before Hughie sets his fork down with a soft clink and clears his throat. “You ever thought about what you’re gonna do? You know… once all this is over?”

You pause, your fork hovering mid-air. “I don’t even know what ‘over’ looks like,” you admit quietly, your voice brittle.

Hughie nods, as if he understands that more than he should. “Fair. But… you’ve gotta think about the baby, right? What you’re gonna do when they get here?”

Your jaw tightens. The mention of the baby is like a spark to dry tinder, setting something raw inside you alight. “I know what I’m doing, Hughie,” you say curtly, turning your attention back to your food.

“Do you?” Hughie presses, though his tone is careful, kind even. “Because from where I’m sitting, it seems like you’re still trying to prove something. To everyone else. To Mallory, to the Boys… maybe even to yourself. And I get it, I do. But—”

“Stop,” you snap, sharper than you intend. Your fork clatters against the plate as you drop it. The words spill out before you can stop them, a trembling edge creeping into your voice. “You don’t know what it’s like, Hughie. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be enough. For my father. For my job. For all of you, especially Butch—” You cut yourself, off, evenuttering his name is too much right now.

You inhale deeply.

“And it’s never enough. No matter what I do, people just look at me and see what I lack—what I’m not.”

The room seems to shrink, the silence swelling in the wake of your outburst. You’re breathing hard, staring down at the congealing soup like it might offer some kind of answer.

When Hughie speaks again, his voice is soft, careful, the edges of his usual sarcasm smoothed away. “I don’t see what you lack.”

You blink, surprised enough to look up. Hughie meets your gaze steadily, something genuine and unguarded in his expression. “I see what you’ve been through. What you’ve done for us. For Annie. Do you know how great it’s been for her to have a friend?”

You feel the tears beginning to collect, wiping them away with your palms.

“You’ve been carrying all this weight, like it’s your job to hold the whole damn world together.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “You’ve earned your place. You don’t have to keep killing yourself to prove it.”

For a moment, you can’t breathe. Hughie’s words hit something tender and buried, a wound you’ve been ignoring for far too long. You swallow hard, looking away as your throat tightens, the ache too complicated to name.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you whisper finally, the admission quiet but loaded.

Hughie doesn’t offer empty answers or platitudes. Instead, he picks up his fork again and gives you a small, sad smile. “Then I guess we’ll figure it out. Together.”

The room feels a little less suffocating now. You pick up your fork again, forcing down another bite of the terrible meal, and for the first time since you got to this godforsaken place, you don’t feel like you’re eating alone.

~~~

When the driver arrives for the second supply run, he’s not alone. A local midwife steps out of the car, her calm, no-nonsense presence filling the space as she crosses the threshold of the small cottage. She introduces herself warmly, her smile cutting through the awkward tension that seems to cling to every corner of the room.

She moves with quiet efficiency, asking questions about the pregnancy as she unpacks her equipment. Her voice is steady and reassuring, making the surreal feel strangely normal. You nod, listening diligently while you sit stiffly on the edge of the couch, answering her questions with short, uncertain replies.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?” she says, producing a portable ultrasound machine from her bag.

Your stomach knots as you lie back, tugging up your sweater. The sudden chill of the gel on your skin makes you jump, but her hands are steady, practiced. The room falls silent except for the hum of the machine. You stare at the screen, brow furrowed, until a flicker of movement appears, indistinct and shimmering, like a shadow underwater.

“That’s your baby,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of quiet reverence. She tilts the probe slightly. “See that? That’s the top of their head. And right here…” She pauses, smiling as she points. “That’s a foot.”

You can only nod, words catching somewhere in your throat as you watch the gray blur take shape, becoming something undeniably real.

The midwife reassures you that everything looks great, her tone bright and certain. “Strong heartbeat, good growth… I’ll be back in a few weeks to check in again.”

And just like that, the moment passes. She wipes the gel away and begins packing up, but you remain frozen on the couch, clutching the glossy black-and-white printout she’s handed you.

The image stares back at you: a perfect little profile, clear as day. A tiny nose, a delicate curve of lips, like something fragile and unfinished yet already so complete.

For weeks, the baby had been an abstract idea, an afterthought for a future you weren’t sure you’d live to see. Something to worry about later, when the rest of your world wasn’t in pieces. But now, holding this photo, it’s no longer just an idea. It’s real. They are real.

The midwife pauses in the doorway, her voice gentle as she glances back. “Congratulations.”

You don’t look up, still staring at the image in your hands as the door clicks shut behind her. The silence that follows is deafening, filled with the weight of everything you can no longer deny.

Hughie, who’d stayed in his room to give you some privacy, now hovers awkwardly by the kitchen. He waits until the door clicks shut before stepping forward.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod without looking up, tears streaking your cheeks.

“Want me to leave you alone?”

“No, it’s fine,” you whisper, though your voice cracks. Sniffling, you glance up at him. “You can stay.”

He hesitates, then crosses the room and lowers himself onto the couch beside you. “Is that it?” he asks, gesturing to the photo trembling in your hands.

Wordlessly, you hold it out. Hughie takes it carefully, handling it like glass. His expression softens as he studies the grainy image.

“Wow,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “It’s… definitely a baby.”

You let out a wet laugh, swiping at your eyes. “Thanks, Hughie. Real poetic.”

“I mean it!” he protests, grinning as he squints at the picture. “Doesn’t look anything like Butcher, though. Thank God for small mercies.”

This time, your laugh comes easier, and you shake your head. “You’re terrible.”

“Terribly funny,” he corrects, handing the picture back. His smile fades as he leans back, elbows on his knees. “Does he know?”

Your shoulders stiffen. “No.”

Hughie frowns. “Why not?”

“I didn’t get the chance.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “We… fought before he left. About us. About whether he even loved me. I wanted him to say it, just once. But he didn’t. Or couldn’t.”

Hughie stays quiet, giving you space to continue.

“And now,” you choke out, the words heavy, “it doesn’t matter if he loves me or if he wants nothing to do with the baby. All I care about is knowing he’s okay. Because I—” Your voice breaks, and you press a hand over your mouth as the tears spill freely.

“Because you don’t want to live in a world without him,” Hughie finishes gently.

You nod, trembling.

Hughie leans closer, his tone careful but certain. “You know, Butcher’s not great with words. Or feelings. Or… people, really. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

You glance at him, red-rimmed eyes filled with doubt.

“Like this one time,” Hughie goes on, “we were in the van, and you called to check in. The second his phone buzzed, he was on it. And when he saw your name, he smiled. Butcher, smiling. Like a real, human smile. I thought I was hallucinating.”

Despite yourself, you smile. “Really?”

“Really,” Hughie says. “He’s never gonna be the guy who says the right thing at the right time, but he cares about you. Loves you. Probably more than he knows how to say.”

You clutch the ultrasound photo tighter, your voice fragile. “I wish I could tell him. About the baby. About… everything.”

Hughie rests a hand on your shoulder. “You will. When we get him back.”

You look at him, grateful but uncertain. “You think we will?”

His voice is steady, certain. “Yeah. Butcher’s too stubborn to let us do this without him.”

For the first time all day, a flicker of hope rises in your chest. You nod, running your thumb over the ultrasound image. “Thanks, Hughie.”

“Anytime,” he says, leaning back with a small, reassuring smile. “Now, let’s figure out how to kill time without killing each other, huh?”

Your laugh is soft, but real. “Deal.”

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @buckybarnesbestgirl

[gullemec]

❤️✨send this to ten other bloggers that you think are wonderful. keep the game going, make someone smile!!! ✨❤️

thank you so much sweet friend <3 you are the best!!

(p.s. new bitten is out)

[gullemec]

Bad Man (Joel POV)

Bitten - Part VII

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel Miller is a bad man. Joel Miller is a weak man. But for you, maybe he could be good. Maybe, for once, he could be enough.

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, Joel pining hard, subtle reference to getting a boner (??)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 14.5k (and it's only going to get worse from here lol)

A/N: I submitted the final paper for the penultimate semester of my master's degree and thought we could celebrate with a very special chapter 🥰

The moment he first saw you, something changed.

It was like a fragile green sprout forcing its way through cracked concrete, life stubbornly emerging from destruction and decay. Something long dormant, buried under years of grief and grit, stirred awake in Joel Miller. He couldn’t name it, didn’t even fully recognize it at first, but it was there, undeniable.

It wasn’t just that you were a woman working one of the dirtiest, most soul-draining jobs in the QZ. Plenty of women got stuck with body disposal, long days spent shoveling ash, hauling corpses, and stacking them like cordwood before setting them ablaze. It was grueling, thankless work, and most people either bribed their way out of it or stopped showing up altogether, slipping quietly into the shadows of the QZ in search of under the table work. Joel didn’t fault them for it. Hell, if he had the luxury of a bribe or knees that didn’t groan every time he crouched, he might’ve done the same.

It wasn’t just the way you stood up for yourself, either. Sure, he’d been taken aback, impressed, even, when you snapped at him for offering to help. There you were, standing knee-deep in filth, your face streaked with soot and sweat, hauling the dead weight of a grown man onto the pyre like it was nothing. Joel had grinned like a fool beneath his bandana, not because he doubted your strength but because of the fire in your eyes, the way you carried yourself like you were daring anyone to underestimate you.

But strength was common in the QZ. Survival required it. The women here, like the men, were hardened, their edges sharpened by years of scarcity and loss. Strength alone wasn’t what caught his attention.

No, it was something deeper, something intangible. It was in the way you moved, the way your shoulders squared as if you were bracing yourself against the weight of the world, even as your eyes betrayed something softer, something untouched by the harshness around you. It wasn’t weakness, not even close. It was a quiet, stubborn hope, buried under ruin. A tenderness you tried to shield, even though the cracks in your armor were visible to anyone who bothered to look closely enough.

And Joel, against his better judgment, had looked.

It was rare these days to find someone who hadn’t been hollowed out completely, someone who still carried even a scrap of kindness, a trace of softness. Most people built walls so high and so thick that nothing could get in… or out. And Joel understood that better than anyone. He’d spent years fortifying his own, pouring concrete around every vulnerability, every regret, every sliver of humanity he still possessed.

And if Joel was honest with himself, which he often struggled to do, he knew a big part of what drew him to you, what kept him circling back despite his better judgment, was the way your softness had survived in a world so intent on destroying it.That rare, unguarded vulnerability, the kind he hadn’t seen in years, felt like a magnet pulling him in. And it terrified him.

Because Joel knew exactly how easily that softness could be exploited. He’d seen it happen before, kindness and trust twisted into tools for someone else’s gain. He’d done it himself once or twice, back in the early days when survival meant silencing his conscience. 

He knew there were men out there far worse than he was. Men who would take someone like you and ruin you, strip away the humanity that made you different.

Joel Miller was not a good man. He had too much blood on his hands, too many sins stacked up to pretend otherwise. But the thought of someone else taking that rare softness in you and defiling it, tainting it… It made his stomach churn with righteous indignation.

So, he told himself he’d protect you. 

Not because you were his responsibility, not yet, anyway, but because he couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else getting to you first. Someone who wouldn’t just take your trust but would break you in the process. 

And if that meant ignoring the way his thoughts drifted to you late at night, then so be it. He’d bury the way your laugh lingered in his head long after you were gone, the way your presence in a room seemed to make the air heavier, charged, like a heavy storm cloud about to break. He’d push down the pang of guilt that twisted inside him whenever he laid with Tess, the gnawing sense that something about being with her felt wrong now, like it was betraying you, even though he had no real reason to feel that way.

Because you were no one to him. Not yet, at least. Barely a friend, more like a stray dog sniffing around the edges of his life. Feral and skittish, tolerating his proximity only because it didn’t explicitly feel like a threat.

Joel would ignore the way his stomach tightened when you reached up to adjust your jacket, the hem of your shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. He’d look away when you bent over to grab something, knowing his gaze lingered on the gentle slope of your backside longer than it should. He’d force his mind to shut down the way his hands itched to touch you, not in the careless, rough way he’d known before, but gently, reverently, like you were something precious.

But to touch you, to have you like that, would be to ruin you. His hands were calloused and stained with too many sins. They had no business running over your skin, no matter how much he craved it. It would be selfish, another black mark on his already damned soul.

Joel didn’t need another sin to carry. And he sure as hell didn’t need to carry the weight of what it would mean to lose you, not after what he’d already lost. So he’d keep his distance. He’d guard you from the world, even from himself, because he knew damn well that men like him didn’t deserve softness like yours.

…

Tess had seen it, clocked it from the moment he first brought you around. 

She wasn’t stupid. She knew him too well, could read him better than anyone else, maybe even better than he could.

“What’s going on here, Joel?” she’d asked that night after your first smuggling job with them. The two of them were tucked into the quiet shadows of his apartment, sharing a rare moment of stillness after you’d taken your share of the ration cards and gone home.

Joel had feigned ignorance, brushing it off with a grunt and a shrug. “She’s a good set of hands,” he’d said, his voice rough and curt, the lie obvious even to him.

Tess didn’t buy it for a second. “Bullshit,” she’d said, her voice low, bitter. “Look, if you want to end this—us—that’s fine. But don’t lie to yourself about what this is.”

He’d refused to acknowledge what she meant, wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, admit it. But she was right, and they both knew it. He never found his way back to her bed after that night. Not because he didn’t care about her, but because the shame weighed on him too heavily. Guilt sat in his belly like a stone, growing heavier with every glance in your direction, every moment he caught himself thinking of you when he shouldn’t.

And then came the night everything went to hell. The smuggling job had gone sideways, and you’d asked him something he hadn’t been prepared for, something that came alive in his brain like an electric shock. 

“Do you ever think about… leaving?” you’d asked, your voice tentative, almost shy, like you were afraid of what his answer might be.

The question sparked something in Joel, something long buried and half-forgotten. Hope. He didn’t even recognize it at first, not for what it was. It had been so long since he’d felt it, since he’d dared to want anything other than basic survival.

Later, as you slept on his couch, curled up beneath one of his old blankets, Joel sat in the quiet and watched you, his hands still trembling from the chaos of the night. He rubbed his thumb over the worn edge of the table, his mind racing. Wyoming wasn’t just a place. It was an idea, a promise.

A chance.

He told himself it was for you. He’d get you there, to whatever better life waited for you on the other side of those distant mountains. A place where you wouldn’t have to keep your guard up all the time, where you could let yourself be soft again without fear of being broken. Maybe you’d find someone there, someone good, someone who could give you the life you deserved. Someone who wasn’t him.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Joel couldn’t stop the selfish thought that lingered in the back of his mind. Maybe Wyoming wasn’t just for you. Maybe it could be something for him, too. A place where he could finally put down some of the weight he carried. A place where he could let the hardness dissolve, piece by piece, until there was something left of the man he used to be.

Maybe then he could touch you without the fear of tainting you.

But Joel Miller was a weak man.

The sheer proximity to you on the journey was a daily trial, a constant reminder of the promise he’d made to himself, to protect you, to keep you safe, no matter the cost. But that promise carried with it another, a vow to never cross the line, to never let his own selfish desires interfere with what you deserved.

You made it damn near impossible.

There were days when the world forced intimacy upon you both in ways that were both innocent and excruciatingly dangerous to his resolve. Days when you’d strip down to bathe in the icy waters of some river, your laughter cutting through the air as you teased him about how cold it was. Joel always kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, but he could hear the water lapping against your skin, could imagine the droplets rolling down your body, catching the sunlight like tiny diamonds.

There were nights when you’d both peel off bloodied or rain-soaked clothes to inspect the cuts and scrapes that had come too close for comfort. Joel’s hands would shake slightly as he cleaned the wounds on your back or your arms, his touch careful and deliberate, every brush of his fingers against your skin a silent prayer for control. He told himself he was just being thorough, just being cautious, but the truth was harder to swallow.

He wanted to touch you more than he had ever wanted anything.

And yet, every single time, he forced himself to look away. To turn his back, to avert his gaze, to give you whatever dignity he could manage in a world that had so little of it to offer. It wasn’t easy. Hell, it was torture. But Joel was nothing if not disciplined, and for you, he would be good.

He told himself it was the least he could do, a way to balance the scales of the man he used to be, the man who had done things he could never speak of, things that still haunted him in the quiet hours of the night. Joel Miller was a bad man. He’d done bad things, hurt people, killed people, and never once had he felt an ounce of guilt about it. Not until you.

You made him want to be better. 

But you also made him weak.

Because for all his promises, all his discipline, there were moments when his restraint wavered. Moments when he’d catch himself looking too long, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck or the way your hair clung to your skin after a storm. Moments when he wanted nothing more than to close the space between you, to press his forehead to yours and let himself believe, just for a second, that he could be something more to you than a protector.

He hated himself for those moments. They felt like a betrayal, not just of the promise he’d made to himself, but of you. You deserved better than a man like him. You deserved someone pure, someone who didn’t carry the weight of countless sins on his shoulders.

And yet, despite all of that, Joel couldn’t help the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him, or the way his pulse quickened when your hand brushed his arm. He couldn’t stop the way you filled every corner of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to keep you out.

Because Joel Miller was a weak man. But for you, he would spend every day trying to be stronger.

…

It had rained on the day that everything changed for him.

You’d been somewhere in Nebraska, where the last dregs of summer lingered in the air like distant whispers of a lover unwilling to let go. The sun still hung warm and golden overhead, the air hazy and thick.

That morning, the two of you had hunted together, your movements coordinated in a way that only came from months of traveling side by side. You’d amassed a bounty of game, enough to fill your bellies and preserve some for the days ahead. Things had been eerily quiet for weeks, no infected, no other people, nothing but the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional sound of wildlife. It had been so calm, so unnaturally still, that Joel let himself believe, just for a few stolen moments, that you were safe.

The campsite you set up felt like a small reprieve from the constant urgency of the road. The fire crackled softly as the two of you worked together, drying meat into jerky, the scent of smoke mingling with the warm, earthy smell of late summer. Joel had almost forgotten what it felt like to be in a place that didn’t feel like it was pressing down on him, strangling him.

You’d gone down to the stream to wash off the blood and grime from the hunt, leaving Joel behind to finish setting up. He let you go without question, understanding your need for a semblance of privacy. He stayed behind, sitting on a large, sun-warmed rock near the fire, his head tilted back to soak in the rays.

And then, he’d felt it. The first drops of rain against his face.

At first, Joel thought he was imagining it. He sat up, squinting at the sky, which still burned bright with sunlight despite the rain now beginning to fall in a soft, steady rhythm. 

A sun shower.

It had been years since he’d felt one, maybe decades. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, the ghost of a memory tugging at him from a time so far removed it felt like another lifetime. “Rain on a sunny day means the foxes are having a wedding,” she used to say, her Southern drawl making everything sound like an old folk tale. The thought brought an unexpected smile to his face.

And then he heard it.

Your laughter.

It was soft at first, a gentle peal that carried over the rustling of the trees and the patter of rain on the grass. Then it grew, rich and warm, spilling out into the quiet. Joel froze, every muscle in his body locking as he turned toward the sound.

You were in the stream, the rain falling in delicate droplets all around you, turning the surface of the water into a mosaic of ripples. He hadn’t meant to look. He really hadn’t. But there you were, spinning in the shallow current, arms spread wide, head tilted back to catch the rain on your face.

The sight of you stole the breath right out of him.

Your white tank top, soaked through and translucent, clung to your frame. He was only a man at the end of the day, and the sight sent a jolt to his groin.

But it wasn’t the outline of your body that caught his attention, not at first. It was your face, the sheer joy written across it, the unbridled freedom in your smile. You looked like a woman untouched by the world’s ugliness, as though the scars on your body and soul had been washed away by the rain. For that fleeting moment, you were radiant. Carefree. And it was something Joel hadn’t seen from you before, not like this.

The rain, mingling with the lingering heat of the day, created a mist that rose from the tall grass and wove through the trees like something out of a dream. Joel felt like he was watching a mirage, something too good to be real.

He told himself to look away, to give you the privacy you deserved. But he couldn’t. He was transfixed, rooted to the spot as his heart hammered against his ribcage.

And for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to wonder.

It would be so easy. That’s what crossed his mind. So easy to let go of his threadbare resolve, to step into the stream and close the distance between you. To touch you. Not just to brush past you in some practical, utilitarian way, but really touch you. To let his hands find the curve of your waist, to feel the warmth of your skin under his calloused fingers.

The thought terrified him, more than anything had in years. Because in that moment, Joel knew.

You could never be just someone he traveled with. You were never just a pair of capable hands or an extra set of eyes.

You were something else entirely. Something precious. Something Joel didn’t deserve but couldn’t help but want.

So he stayed on the rock, watching as you twirled in the rain, the sound of your laughter carrying over the hills. And Joel Miller, a man who had made a life of keeping his heart buried deep, felt it crack open just a little bit more.

So that night, when you unrolled your sleeping bag by the fire, something changed. He’d already taken up his usual post against a tree at the edge of camp, rifle in hand, eyes scanning the dark horizon. But for once, the call of duty, the constant need to keep his distance from you, was drowned out by something else. Maybe it was the way the sun shower had softened the world around him earlier, how the rain had washed everything clean, how you seemed to glow in the sunny haze.

Wordlessly, as if compelled by a force he didn’t fully understand, he moved. His boots crunched against the dry leaves as he walked over to you, unfurling his sleeping bag beside yours.

You glanced up at him, your face lit by the flickering firelight. He braced himself for questions, for confusion, maybe even a hint of irritation. He could already hear himself mumbling an excuse, ready to retreat back to the tree if that’s what you wanted.

“Just figured it was warmer by the fire.”

But you didn’t look confused. Or annoyed. Or anything like he expected.

You smiled.

It was warm, open, and unguarded, like you’d been waiting for him to do this all along. Like you weren’t surprised by his sudden need for closeness, but relieved by it. And in that moment, he was disarmed. Completely.

He sat down beside you, rifle still cradled in his lap, his body tense with the effort of trying to convince himself this was nothing more than practicality, safety in numbers, warmth by the fire. He was always trying to convince himself of things like that, always forcing his thoughts into neat, platonic boxes that made sense.

You spoke to him, your voice soft and steady, and as the fire crackled, he found himself responding without thinking. Words flowed between you like the river you’d bathed earlier that day, easy and natural. Your body leaned just a little toward his, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off you, close enough that his heart raced. But he told himself it was just the chill of the night driving you closer, nothing more.

You laughed at something he said, light, airy laughter that felt like music to him. He didn’t know what he’d said that was so funny, but he didn’t care. He’d have said a hundred more things, anything to keep that sound alive in the summer night air.

But eventually, your laughter faded, your words slowing until sleep tugged at the edges of your voice. Curled up just a little closer to him than he dared to hope, you drifted off.

And that’s when he let himself look at you. Really look at you.

The way your face softened in sleep, the way the firelight painted your features in warm, golden hues. His hand itched to reach out, to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, to feel the weight of your head against his chest, your breaths syncing with his. It would have been so easy to drape an arm over your waist, to pull you just a little closer.

But he didn’t want to risk waking you, not even with the slightest movement. The thought of disturbing your peace, of pulling you from whatever refuge sleep had given you, was unthinkable. He’d shoulder the burden of exhaustion a thousand times over if it meant you could rest like you needed to.

If it meant he could watch you like this, unguarded and serene, your face lit by the dying embers of the fire.

He couldn’t help but study you, his eyes tracing the gentle curve of your cheek, the soft pout of your lips. Every so often, your eyebrows knit together, like something troubled you even in your dreams, and he felt an ache deep in his stomach. He wanted to smooth the crease with his thumb, whisper that everything was going to be okay. That he’d make it okay.

That night, as he gazed at you, he made a decision.

He’d tell you how he felt.

Not now, not here on the road, where every moment was a fight for survival and every step was shadowed by danger. He didn’t want his confession to feel like a tactic, some ploy to keep you close or bound to him out of obligation. The last thing he ever wanted was for you to feel pressured, to feel like you owed him anything.

But when you made it to safety, when you both stood on solid ground for the first time since the world fell apart, he’d tell you.

He’d tell you about how different you were, how you terrified him in ways he couldn’t even articulate. How the thought of you had carved its way into his very being and made a home there, keeping him awake at night. He’d tell you how much he hated himself for wanting something so good, so untainted, when he’d been the opposite for so long.

And he’d tell you about hope. About how he thought he’d lost it years ago, buried it alongside people he’d loved and failed. But you had unearthed it, dragged it kicking and screaming back into his life without even realizing it.

He’d tell you that he wasn’t a good man, not that this would be any revelation to you. You knew better than anyone the weight of the blood on his hands. But maybe, just maybe, this new place, this promised land you both fought so hard to reach, could be a fresh start. A chance to rinse the crimson from your palms and use them for something better. To learn what it meant to love again, in a world that had taught him nothing but how to endure.

And if you didn’t want him, if your heart didn’t align with his, he’d accept that, too. It would hurt, more than he cared to think about, but your happiness would be enough. Knowing you were safe, knowing you were free to live the life you deserved, would mean more to him than any confession of love ever could.

To see you saved, whole and untouched by the darkness that had consumed so much of him, would be enough. It would mean he’d finally done something right. Finally saved someone who truly deserved it.

And that thought was enough to keep him going. Enough to let him sit there, rifle cradled in his lap, watching over you until the first rays of dawn kissed the horizon.

…

He was checking traps when it happened.

At first, it was just noise. The constant roar of the river, the hiss of wind through rain-dampened trees. Your screams must have folded into the white noise, lost to the cadence of the post-storm forest.

But then he heard his name.

It wasn’t a call. It wasn’t a plea. It was a scream, raw, jagged, and visceral. And somehow, he knew.

Before his brain could process, his body responded. Like a switch had been flipped, like instinct alone had seized control of him. His legs moved with a speed that felt unnatural, propelling him forward as if the earth itself had turned against him.

He didn’t need to see you to understand what had happened. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew. But when he did see you, sprawled on the forest floor, pinned beneath a snarling, snapping beast, it was like something chemical ignited inside him.

Not adrenaline. Not shock. It was something else entirely. Something acidic, something that burned in his veins and threatened to eat him alive.

His hand moved faster than thought, the pistol in his grip an extension of his rage. The shot rang out, sharp and violent, and for a moment, he didn’t even register that it was his finger that had pulled the trigger. It didn’t feel like his hand, like his body. He was barely a man in that moment, just pure, unthinking reflex.

The infected collapsed off you in a heap, but he barely registered it. His eyes were locked on you, taking in the crumpled mess of your body. For a second, hope flickered, weak and pitiful. A cruel thing. And it burned.

Because he knew.

The red bloom spreading across your shirt stared at him, stark against the fabric, damning the both of you.

It was over. 

The pistol was up again, heavy but familiar. He flicked the safety off without thinking, the product of twenty years of survival. The barrel leveled at you, finger hovering over the trigger. 

It was muscle memory. Mechanical, methodical, practiced. 

But then your voice cried out, beseeching him to spare you and goddamnit, didn’t you know what that would do to him?

“Please, just… wait.” 

Did you have any idea what you were asking him for in that moment?

To override the reflex that had kept him alive for two decades. To ignore the rules that had been drilled into him by blood and fire, rules that had saved him time and time again. To fly in the face of everything he’d come to believe about survival in a world that had no room for mercy.

To confront the weakness you’d cored into him.

His hands shook.

The barrel wavered.

His mind screamed at him to finish it, to do what he had to do, but his chest felt like it was splitting open.

His mind fell away, back to those stolen moments, those fragile, fleeting seconds of normalcy you’d created and held together in a world that refused to offer it.

He thought about the QZ, the times when the two of you shared laughter soft enough not to wake suspicion. He thought about the quiet moments on the road, when the firelight danced across your face and you’d smile at him, something real and unguarded, and for just a second, the weight of survival would lift from his shoulders.

Being in your proximity allowed him the rarest kind of reprieve. Forgetting. Forgetting the blood on his hands, the screams that haunted him, the crushing monotony of survival.

Your company wasn’t just a comfort, it was a luxury. And Joel Miller had never been a man who allowed himself such indulgences. But you were different. You were intoxicating. You were a temptation he couldn’t turn away from.

What was he supposed to do? Just give that up?

So maybe Joel didn’t do what he was supposed to do in that moment. Maybe he acted on impulse, on selfishness.

Tess’s voice slithered through his mind, low and venomous, the same condemnation that had hung over him since this all started.

You’re blind when it comes to her.

And one day, it’s going to cost you.

He hated her for that. Hated her because she was right.

Joel Miller was not supposed to be a weak man, not anymore. He’d been forged in fire, hardened by loss. But when it came to you? Goddamn it, he was weak.

And as he stared down at you, trembling and bloodied, he didn’t feel like the ruthless man who’d survived for twenty years in hell. He felt like nothing. Like a coward.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft, trembling, breaking. “I’m not ready. Please.”

It broke something inside him to hear you say that, to hear the raw plea in your voice. He could feel the tears welling in his own eyes, hot and blinding, but he couldn’t look away from you. He didn’t need to see the tears streaking your face to know they were there.

He thought about it. He really, truly did. 

He thought about pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple, steadying his hands, and pulling the trigger. He thought about giving you the mercy that this world would never offer. About being strong enough to do what he’d promised you.

But his hands wouldn’t steady.

No matter how tightly he gripped the gun, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And he knew, he knew, that if he missed—if he botched it—if he caused you more pain in your final moments, that would be it. That would be the thing that finally broke him.

He blinked through his tears, his vision swimming, his ribs heaving with ragged breaths. The gun felt like a weight he couldn’t bear, dragging his arm down, pulling him under.

He watched your body crumple, your legs folding beneath you like a lamb struck down mid-stride. The sight of you, fragile and broken, felt like a blade being thrust into his chest.

The gun in his hands felt almost foreign as he kept it trained on you. Not because he had any intention of pulling the trigger, but because it was all he had left. A crutch. A mask. A desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control.

Joel Miller, the relentless, unflinching, unfeeling killer.

But where was that man now? Certainly not here. Not in this clearing, babbling incoherently under his breath like a man lost, trembling hands struggling to keep the pistol steady.

It was pathetic, he thought. Weak.

Eventually, he could take no more. He holstered the gun with a sharp, frustrated motion, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. His jaw clenched as he moved, as if action alone could smother the war raging inside him.

He tied you to a tree, the rope biting into the bark and your body, a crude solution that was as much for his peace of mind as it was for your protection. The knot was tight, too tight, maybe, but it was the only compromise he could muster. He couldn’t leave you untethered, not when the infection was clawing its way through your veins, preparing to twist you into something else.

And then something familiar happened to Joel. A sensation that had visited him countless times before, always in the moments when his soft, vulnerable underbelly was exposed.

He shut down completely.

It was a reflex, as automatic as breathing. The rough brick wall that surrounded whatever was left of his fragile heart rose swiftly, sealing him off from the mess of emotions swirling around him.

It felt like a shadow falling over him, a suffocating blanket of self-preservation. It was itchy, uncomfortable, bristling against every nerve in his body. But it protected him. It always had.

Joel turned on his heel, ambling away from you with stiff, mechanical movements. Like putting space between the two of you would snuff out the inferno of guilt, anger, and fear consuming him.

He didn’t go far. Couldn’t.

Instead, he sat with his back to you, staring into the forest as though its endless expanse could offer him answers. It didn’t. All it gave him was the hollow echo of his own shallow breaths, mixing with yours in the strained silence that hung between you.

And in that silence, Tess’s voice rang in his ears, clear as the crack of a rifle.

She’s your responsibility.

The weight of those words settled heavily on his shoulders, a familiar burden he had carried more times than he cared to count.

But now the weight was unbearable.

He’d failed you. He’d failed you like he failed Sarah. Like he failed Tommy. Like he failed every single person who had ever looked to him for protection.

The realization hit him like a freight train, barreling through the brittle defenses he’d tried to put up. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, knuckles whitening as he sat there, a man trapped in the ruins of his own guilt.

He didn’t turn to look at you. He couldn’t.

Not when your voice, too soft and quiet and gentle for what you were going through, floated through the air. You were trying so hard to keep your voice steady. 

“You know what I thought of you when I first met you?” 

You were brave and he was not. He was right all along. He never deserved you.

“I thought you were an asshole. A grumpy asshole.”

No, asshole was too kind a descriptor. He thought he was more befitting of words like evil or selfish or inhuman.

His body betrayed him, twitching as he tried to hold in a sob.

Your voice, just a whisper in the quiet, raspy and uneven, cut through him. 

"And once I figured out how easy it was to piss you off, I couldn't stop myself. I'd say the dumbest shit just to get you all riled up."

Joel didn’t react. Wouldn't react. He kept his back to you, his gaze fixed somewhere faraway and unseeing, because if he did, if he acknowledged this, he was certain he’d shatter. 

He heard the catch in your breath as you paused, the effort it cost you to keep speaking.. He knew what you were doing. Knew you were trying to draw him out, trying to make him say something, anything.

But he didn’t.

You kept talking. He knew you would.

"You’d get so mad, Joel. Your face would do this thing, this little twitch, like you were trying so hard not to tell me to shut the fuck up."

You were smiling. He could hear it in your voice, that low, wistful curve of your words. It was cruel, really. That you were smiling knocking on death’s door while he was sitting there, coming apart at the seams.

"And I think—no, I know—you liked it."

That did it. His jaw worked, and before he could stop himself, a sharp exhale slipped from his nose. It was barely a sound, barely a damn thing at all, but it was enough for you to catch it. Of course you did.

"If I was nice to you, you’d ignore me. But if I said something dumb just to piss you off? You couldn’t help yourself."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to revisit these moments you were laying out between you like fragile glass. Because he remembered them, every damn one. And it was all too much.

"I think you liked the banter," you said, your voice growing weaker. "The arguing. Maybe it made things feel... normal."

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as your words settled over him like a heavy weight. He didn’t want to think about that, about the way those moments had carved out tiny pockets of warmth in his otherwise frozen-over life.

And then you went for the throat.

"Do you remember that night a few months ago? When you set your sleeping bag up right next to mine?"

Yes. Yes, he did. Every single goddamn day did he think about that night. 

That night was burned into his memory, etched into his very being. Because that night, he’d allowed himself to imagine a world where he could have you, hold you, love you. He’d been so close to saying something, to reaching for you. But he hadn’t. He’d told himself it wasn’t the right time. That it was safer to wait.

And now, hearing your voice tremble with the weight of your confession, he realized what a fool he’d been.

“I liked it. A lot. Probably more than I should’ve. And I couldn’t sleep that night, Joel. I just kept laying there, staring at you while you were on watch, thinking… Maybe you liked me, too.”

That did it.

That fucking did it.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His breath stuttered, his hands shaking as they gripped the edge of his knees. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t let you see the storm raging inside him.

You’d felt it, too. All this time, you’d felt it, and he’d been too much of a coward to do anything about it. Too afraid of what it meant, of what it could cost. And now, he’d wasted it. Wasted all the precious time he could have had with you.

The fear he’d carried with him for so long, that caring for someone again would destroy him, was nothing compared to the agony of this moment. Knowing he would lose you, knowing you would slip away from him forever, and he’d never told you.

All the time you could’ve spent together, talking, touching, tasting, indulging in your deepest shared desires. Gone. Because he’d been too scared to take the leap. Too scared to reach for the one thing he wanted most in this broken, depraved world.

He heard your breath falter again, your voice tapering into silence, and the blood roared in his ears, deafening. His heart pounded, frantic and wild, as if trying to break free from the cage of his ribs.

And suddenly, it was too much. The regret, the guilt, the overwhelming weight of what he’d lost. It all threatened to crush him, and he didn’t know if he could bear it.

For the first time in years, Joel Miller was helpless. Helpless to stop the ache tearing through him. Helpless to fix what was broken. Helpless to stop the one person who had come to mean everything from slipping through his fingers.

And it was all his fault.

“Stop.”

He didn’t realize he’d rounded on you until it was too late. Didn’t realize his hand had instinctively gone for his gun until he stood there, towering over you, the weapon trembling in his grip. Moonlight reflected off your wide, unflinching eyes, off the sheen of tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

The walls came up instantly, automatic as a reflex, wrapping him in the only defense he’d ever known. They let him retreat into himself, let the familiar mask of roughness and indifference take over. That mask had been his armor for so long, a weapon as sharp as any knife. It was how he survived. How he dealt with fear and pain and loss. By becoming something hard. Something people didn’t dare get close to.

And right now, he was scared. God, was he scared.

He just wanted you to stop. Stop talking, stop looking at him like that, stop peeling away every carefully constructed layer of his defenses until there was nothing left but the raw, ugly truth.

But you didn’t look afraid. Not of him. Not of the gun. Hell, you looked calmer than he felt, and it wasn’t fair. How could you look so composed when he was falling apart?

Your face, that beautiful, infuriating, goddamn perfect face. Even now, weakened and pale, barely clinging to life, you still glowed with something that made his breath hitch in his throat. Something pure. Something sacred.

And then you said it. The words that sealed his fate.

“I love you.”

Three words. Just three. And those walls didn’t just crack, they shattered. Brutally, violently, with debris raining down and choking smoke filling his lungs. The walls he’d spent two decades of blood and loss and apocalyptic horror building were gone, reduced to nothing in an instant.

The tears came before he could stop them, hot and blinding, shaking his body with quiet, wrenching sobs. He couldn’t hold them back, couldn’t control the storm raging inside him anymore.

His body was no longer his, it belonged to you. Mind, body, and soul. Yours. For as long as he remained on this mortal coil, he would be yours.

Because you’d done it. You’d broken him. With nothing more than your voice, soft and weak and filled with a love he didn’t deserve.

And yet, here you were, looking at him like he was everything. Like he was something worth loving.

He fell to his knees before you. It wasn’t a conscious choice, his body just moved, pulled by some force he couldn’t fight. His hands trembled as they reached for you, desperate to touch, to feel, to know you were still here. He forced himself to be gentle, to still the violent quake in his fingers as he brushed against your skin.

You were warm. Despite everything, you were still warm. And that warmth seared into him, branding him forever.

He bowed his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was soft, reverent, a quiet prayer to whatever higher power might still be listening. A promise, silent but absolute. At least he would have this. At least he could carry this moment, this memory, in the shattered remains of his heart.

When his gaze fell to your lips, he hesitated. He could feel it, the pull, the overwhelming need to close the space between you, to taste the words you’d just spoken on your breath.

But he couldn’t.

God help him, he couldn’t.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He did. More than he’d ever wanted anything. But it felt too big, too precious, too sacred. Kissing you would mean acknowledging it all, your love for him, his for you. And this love, it was the only good, pure thing he had left in this broken world.

And what if this was the end? What if this moment was all he’d ever have with you? What if he pressed his mouth to yours and your lips went still, your warmth faded, and he was left with nothing but the memory of a kiss given in the shadow of death?

No. He couldn’t. Not like this. Not here, in the horror of this reality.

His love for you was too sacred to be tarnished by the blood and chaos surrounding you. Too precious to be tied to this nightmare, to this moment where he was losing you.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he touched your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down.

Then, with painstaking effort, Joel forced himself to pull away from you. It was like tearing himself in half, leaving a piece of himself behind as he stood, his legs trembling beneath the weight of what he was doing. He moved just far enough that he wouldn’t be tempted to touch you again, wouldn’t risk holding on so tightly that he’d never let go.

And then he listened.

You talked, your voice weak but steady, filling the suffocating silence with the fragments of your life—the good, the bad, the heartbreaking. He listened as you shared your immaterialized dreams, the ones that had always seemed just out of reach. You talked about Yellowstone, about the beauty you’d never seen, the one place you wanted to go but never did.

And you told him, quietly, that you wanted him to go. For you.

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, but the promise was carved into his psyche. He would go. He’d go to Yellowstone, he’d go to the ends of the earth if it meant keeping a piece of you alive. For you, he would do anything.

But then you began to fade.

Your voice, once so full of quiet determination, softened, becoming thinner, more fragile with every word. The pauses between your breaths grew longer, heavier, until they stretched like an unbearable silence threatening to swallow him whole.

And Joel—Joel did what he’d always done when the pain became too much to bear. He ran.

He chose the coward’s way out, dragging himself to his feet and retreating into the dark, leaving you there in the cold. His legs carried him away even as his heart screamed at him to stay.

He told himself it was mercy. Mercy for himself, maybe. Because he couldn’t, wouldn’t, live with the memory of watching you slip away. He couldn’t endure the weight of seeing the light in your eyes flicker and die, couldn’t let that be the last image of you seared into his mind.

He wanted to remember the warmth of your skin beneath his lips, the softness of your breath as you spoke to him, the soft smile you wore as you shared your dreams. He wanted to keep you as you were in that moment, alive in his arms, not as the lifeless shell he knew you would become.

So he left.

But even as he stumbled into the shadows, his ribcage heaving with the effort of holding himself together, he felt the weight of his choice crushing him. He’d abandoned you. He’d left you alone in the cold and dark when you needed him most.

He tried to justify it, telling himself it was the only way to preserve the memory of you as something beautiful, something unbroken. But deep down, he knew it was fear. Fear of losing you. Fear of breaking entirely. Fear of facing a world where you no longer existed.

And as your voice faded into nothingness, swallowed by the night, so too did his own consciousness.

The weight of grief dragged him down, pulling him into the dark, leaving him suspended in a place where time ceased to exist. A place where he could still hear your voice, still feel your warmth, still believe, for just a little while longer, that you were there.

…

Your voice broke through the haze, like a siren’s song to a doomed sailor adrift at sea.

Joel.

Soft, lilting, sweet. It wrapped around him, soothing and electrifying all at once, like a flame warming him from the inside out.

Joel.

It came again, stronger this time, a thread of desperation laced into the edges. Warmth unfurled through his veins, slow and unfamiliar, filling his limbs and grounding him in the earthy scent of the morning.

Joel!

The sharpness of your cry jolted him, his eyes snapping open. His head jerked instinctively, scanning his surroundings.

His breath caught, his heart stuttering as his gaze locked onto you.

You sat there, far away but unmistakable, small and tired-looking against the endless wilderness.

Why…?

And then it hit him. 

You were alive.

Not snarling or feral, not a shambling corpse stripped of all humanity. You were whole. You were you.

Your skin, though dull and flushed, still glowed with life. Your eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, held recognition, a spark he thought he’d never see again. Not the cloudy, dead-eyed stare of the infected, the one that had haunted his every nightmare. And your lips, trembling but steady, spoke his name like it meant something.

An infected couldn’t do that.

His legs carried him toward you on instinct, his steps heavy and hesitant, as though moving too fast might shatter this fragile moment. His mind rebelled against the sight before him, against the sheer impossibility of it all. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

It had to be a dream. Some cruel illusion sent to mock him, to drag him through another hell of false hope. Any second now, the image would crack and dissolve, revealing the truth he feared most: your lifeless body reanimated into a monster. He braced himself for it, half-expecting the air to fill with the guttural growls of the infected.

But with every step closer, the mirage refused to shatter. You remained rooted in place, more tangible with every breath he took.

He stopped just feet from you, his breath uneven, his hands shaking. His eyes swept over you, searching for the flaw, the glitch, the fatal sign that would confirm this was a lie. But there was nothing. Just you.

You were alive.

And when you spoke again, so softly, so human, it broke him. “Joel… Untie me. Please.”

Your voice was small, almost pitiful, and it wrecked him in a way he didn’t know was possible. His knees threatened to buckle as the enormity of it all settled in. He’d tied you up. Left you out here. Left you to die. And yet here you were, asking—not accusing, not condemning, but asking—for his help.

And then the walls started to rise again.

One by one, those barriers you’d torn down so easily last night rebuilt themselves, stronger, thicker, shielding him from the crushing reality of what stood before him. Because the truth was too much to face.

You were alive. And now you knew.

You knew the weak, broken man he truly was. A man who’d failed you in every way that mattered. A man who couldn’t keep his promises, who couldn’t summon the courage to do the one thing he’d sworn he’d do for you.

He couldn’t protect you. Not from the infected, not from the world, not even from himself. He was selfish, corrupted to his core. Last night had proven that. He’d abandoned you to spare himself the pain of watching you slip away, and now here you were, living proof of his cowardice.

He hadn’t thought about what he’d do after. Not really. In some far-off, intangible sense, he supposed he’d keep going. What else was there for him? He’d find a beautiful place to bury you, somewhere quiet and peaceful, somewhere worthy of you. He’d search for flowers, whatever he could find, and place them gently over your chest before the first handful of dirt covered you. He’d say something, maybe. Something small, simple, that didn’t even come close to how much you meant to him. And then he’d go to Yellowstone. For you. After that, it wouldn’t matter much what he did.

But now? Now, with you alive somehow, still breathing, still fighting, and not even angry with him, just pleading softly for relief and kindness, he didn’t know what to do. It scared the hell out of him. So, he did what he always did when he was scared. He shut it down. Pushed it away. Put distance between himself and what terrified him the most.

He moved through time and space like a ghost, detached, cold. He compartmentalized you, locked the memory of your voice, your tears, your pain, behind a door he refused to open. Focus on the task. Just the task.

Pack the camp. Gather the trip wires. Scatter dirt over the fire’s ashes. Roll up the sleeping bags and tuck them beside the dwindling rations.

Don’t think about the woman you love tied to a tree. Don’t think about how scared she must be. Don’t think about how she probably feels more abandoned now than she ever has. Don’t think about how you failed her, how you keep fucking failing her, how you keep failing everyone.

But eventually, he could avoid it no longer. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear the small, pained sounds you made when you shifted against the ropes. He forced his breathing to even out, his hands to steady as he moved toward you. He didn’t deserve to touch you, didn’t deserve to meet your eyes, but he knelt before you anyway. 

And so, as he reached out to untie the knots, his heart shattering, he resolved to keep his distance. To guard himself, guard you, from the mess of emotions swirling in his brain. Because loving you meant opening himself to a level of pain he couldn’t survive again. And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Not now, not again, not ever.

Somehow the fear of losing you was nothing compared to the fear of being seen by you. Seen for what he really was.

And you, looking at him with confusion and hurt written all over your face, misinterpreted every bit of it. To you, his silence, his hesitation, the way his hands shook but his eyes refused to meet yours, all of it screamed disgust.

You thought he was afraid of you.

And Joel, coward that he was, couldn’t find the words to tell you the truth. That all of the fear, all of the disgust, was reserved solely for himself.

When he finally looked at the wound, his heart seized in his throat. 

It was bad. Worse than he’d expected, worse than he was ready for. The jagged edges of torn flesh and dried blood painted a picture he couldn’t bear to see, a reminder of how close he’d come to losing you.

For a fleeting moment, he almost pulled you into his arms. Almost cradled you like something sacred, something he could never put back together but would die trying to protect. He wanted to cry, to beg for forgiveness, to tell you everything he felt but couldn’t bring himself to say.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t allowed that anymore. He’d proven himself unworthy in every sense.

Instead, he focused on the work. His hands moved mechanically, stitching you back together with a precision that belied the chaos inside him. Every pull of the thread felt like penance, like a punishment he deserved for what he’d done, and for what he hadn’t done.

And as the needle passed through your torn skin, he thought about the scar this would leave. About how it would stay with you forever, a constant reminder of how close you’d come to death.

Another thought crossed Joel’s mind at that moment.

What if he had pulled the trigger?

What if he’d ignored your cries, your desperate pleas for mercy, and done the only thing he thought was right in that moment? What if he’d let the wall of instinct and survival take over, burying his heart beneath it as he put you out of your misery? What if he’d made the decision that he’d told himself, countless times, was the merciful thing to do, the thing he should have done?

The thought turned his stomach.

He had been so close. A goddamn hair’s breadth away from ending your life. His finger had brushed the trigger, the cold steel already giving way beneath his pressure, when something, your voice, maybe, or just his own weakness, made him stop. And now, against all logic, you were here. Breathing. Alive.

But that only made it worse.

Because if he’d gone through with it, if he’d done what he thought he was supposed to do… 

Then you’d be gone. Just gone. He’d have to live with the memory of your face in those final moments, the way your eyes begged him for trust and compassion even as his weapon shook in his hand. He’d have to carry that weight forever.

But he didn’t pull the trigger.

And that meant living with the reality of what he almost did. Of how close he came to robbing you of this impossible, miraculous chance at survival. He hated himself for that too, for the thought, the instinct, the sheer audacity of his willingness to believe he had the right to make that call.

No matter which way he looked at it, the accusatory finger of blame pointed directly at him.

You’d been attacked because of him. You’d nearly died because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough to stop it. And then, when it mattered most, he was too weak to do the thing he thought he owed you. But too cruel to stop himself from almost doing it anyway. He hated himself for all of it. Hated that, no matter how he tried to justify it, you bore the physical scars while he carried the guilt.

Now here you were, trusting him despite all of it, your blood still on his hands. Literally and figuratively. Every time he touched you, his heart twisted into tighter knots, longing and shame in equal measure. He wanted to comfort you, to be the kind of man you needed, but every time his hands brushed your skin, all he could think about was how close he came to using those same hands to destroy you.

And then you gasped in pain, your fingers curling instinctively toward him, seeking relief, and he startled like a man caught in a lie.

And his name left your sinless mouth again and it damn near broke him.

You needed to stop. You needed to stop saying his name like he was still someone you could rely on. You needed to stop acting like what he almost did wasn’t a crime against you, against whatever humanity was left in him. He wasn’t the man you thought he was, and every time you looked at him like he was, the weight of his guilt crushed him a little more.

When he finished tending your wounds, he didn’t speak. His hands were shaky but efficient as he pulled his flannel from his pack, tossing it toward you.

“You need a shirt,” he muttered gruffly, avoiding your eyes.

There were shirts in your pack. He knew that. Hell, you probably had plenty of them. But none of them were as soft or warm as his, and soft and warm were what you needed. That much he could give you, even if it felt selfish, like some part of him was trying to absolve himself through the smallest, simplest offering of comfort.

He turned away as you pulled it on, his throat tight. He didn’t deserve to see you like this, to be here after everything he’d failed to do.

Because no matter what happened now, he couldn’t escape the truth. Your blood had stained him a deep and wicked crimson, and he didn’t know how to live with it. So, he did what he always did. He shut down, walled himself off, and pulled further inward, convinced that was the only way he could protect you now. Even if it meant losing the fragile, unspoken bond that tied you to him.

It was for your own good, couldn't you see that?

…

When he came upon you floating in the river that day after you found the cabin, Joel felt the crushing grip of death reaching into his heart, digging its nails in deep, his lungs spasming like the air had been stolen from them.

Because, for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment, it wasn’t peace he saw in your tranquil face. It wasn’t the soft release of tension or the embrace of a quiet reprieve. No, what he saw was the haunting specter of loss. 

For that split second… he thought you were gone. 

The sweet release of death had finally come for you, and Joel had failed again, just like he always did.

Panic gripped him. His hands shook at his sides as the memory of that awful day clawed its way to the surface, the day he found you broken and bleeding on the river’s edge, weak and crumpled, your life slipping away. And now, here you were, floating in the water like some ghost come to torment him.

But then he noticed the upward curve of your lips. The gentle dance of your fingers along the surface of the water, catching the sunlight like ripples on glass.

Relief should have washed over him like the river over your skin. Instead, frustration hit him like a freight train. Frustration and self-loathing working in tandem to thrash at his restraint. It boiled inside him, until it clawed its way out and erupted from his lips as white-hot anger.

Because the scene before him wasn’t just a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to losing you. It was a bastardization of something he’d seen before, something sacred and untouchable that now felt ruined.

The day he’d found you bathing in the river, when he’d been struck dumb. When you’d looked like something out of a dream, the kind of vision that only existed in long-lost memories of happiness from before life ended. When the sun had painted you in golden hues, every drop of water on your skin sparkling like it had been placed there by God himself. 

Your white bra and underwear clung to your body now, made sheer by the water, and on any other day, something that, under any other circumstance, would have him hardening in his pants. 

But today, the light on your skin only served to illuminate the truth he couldn’t escape.

There, across your torso, was the still-healing evidence of your battle with the infected. The jagged, red lines twisted across your flesh, angry and raw. The criss cross of stitches he’d placed in you like a pathetic attempt at an apology. A painful, glaring reminder of his failure. Of how close he’d come to losing you. Of how he had let this happen.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

The words came before he could stop them, harsh and cutting as they tore through the air.

He hated himself for them the moment they left his mouth. 

Joel didn’t like who he was when he was afraid. Fear turned him into someone else, someone he couldn’t control. It was like watching a shadow fall over his own soul, twisting his actions and his words until they felt alien, like they were coming from someone else entirely.

He hated the way his fear made him lash out. The way his words shot to kill, arrows aimed directly at the soft, vulnerable places he swore he’d protect. 

A better man would’ve apologized.

A better man would’ve pushed past the walls of his own pride and fear, laid bare his terror, and let you in. A better man would’ve dropped his guard, let himself feel the pain of vulnerability, and told you the truth, that seeing you floating in the water, peaceful and alive, had scared the hell out of him. That he couldn’t stop the memory of your blood pooling beneath you, the sight of your crumpled body burned into his mind, and the knowledge that he’d almost pulled the trigger.

But Joel Miller wasn’t a better man. Joel Miller was a bad man.

So instead of reaching for you, instead of finding the words to explain what churned inside him, he let the anger take over. It was easier to channel his fear into something sharp, something that hurt outward instead of inward.

But most of all he hated the way your gaze lowered, the soft light in your eyes hardening into something guarded. He hated himself even more for being the reason it happened. For the fact that you were here, alive and vulnerable, and he couldn’t do a damn thing except push you further away.

…

Your journey continued like this, a painful push and pull, a pendulum swinging between connection and distance. Joel, cloaked in his shame, let his fear guide him, his own self-loathing sharpening into the barbs he hurled your way. He hurt you with his words, with his coldness, all while the pain of it ricocheted back inside him, leaving him twice as broken.

But in the storm that was his unending hurt, there were moments of reprieve. Small, ephemeral calms in the storm when the walls cracked, when the veil lifted, and for a breath of time, you were the same two people who’d embarked on this journey together.

Like when he held you after your nightmare, his arms tightening around you as though he could shield you from the demons that haunted your sleep. His lips brushed your hair, and for once, his silence was comforting, not damning.

Or when he pointed out the blood-red cardinal perched on a low branch, its feathers vibrant against the dreary backdrop of the forest. His voice had softened, quieter than usual, as he spoke Sarah’s name aloud, like a precious trinket offered up in hopes that it might soothe his ache.

And when he touched your skin, when his calloused hands found yours, helping you over a stream or taking your pack from your grasp, and the weight of the world seemed to dissolve. For a few blissful, rare moments, it was just the two of you, unburdened by the past, the road, or the darkness that followed.

But those moments were fleeting. And for all the concern Joel had poured into himself—into keeping himself sharp, keeping himself distant so he could protect you from the world and from his own blackened soul—he failed to notice the darkness growing inside you, an infection of a different kind.

He missed the signs. So many signs.

The way your laughter grew rarer, coming from somewhere hollow inside of you. The way your shoulders tensed even in your sleep, like you were bracing for a blow that never came. The way your hands lingered a little too long on your knife, or the way your eyes darkened after each unfamiliar noise sounded in the forest.

He didn’t see it. Not until it was too late.

Not until he pulled you off the raider, your body trembling, your breath ragged. The man’s skull was practically caved in beneath your bloodied, wrecked hands. Joel’s voice, rough and desperate, echoed in his ears as he shouted your name over and over, trying to bring you back to yourself.

And when you finally stilled, when your trembling hands dropped to your sides and your wide, glassy eyes met his, Joel saw it.

A look he knew intimately.

The one that had greeted him every morning for years when he stared into the mirror. The look of terror. Of shame. Of rage and hurt so deeply intertwined that they couldn’t be separated.

And he hated it.

Not because it scared him, though it did. Not because it reminded him of his own reflection, though it was haunting in its familiarity.

He hated it because it was you.

You, who he swore to protect. You, who had been his one tether to hope in this shattered world. You, who now looked at your bloodied hands as if they belonged to someone else, something else.

You might have thought you were a monster.

But Joel knew better.

Joel knew the truth.

He was the monster. And somehow, in trying to protect you from the darkness outside, he had let his own darkness seep into you, tainting the parts of you he had sworn to keep safe.

His hands tightened into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms until the pain anchored him. He wanted to say something, anything, to pull you out of the chasm he could see you slipping into. But the words stuck in his throat, blocked by the overwhelming weight of his guilt.

Because no matter how hard he tried, Joel always destroyed the things he loved.

…

Joel woke to an aching emptiness that started in his chest and stretched through his entire body. The first dregs of sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the boarded up windows, and the cold, stale air in the room had gooseflesh rising in its wake. The rainstorm last night had left the room smelling damp and rotted.

It took him a moment to realize what felt off, what felt wrong.

The mattress he’d barricaded over the door was shoved to the side, just a bit. Just enough for you to slip out.

And there, folded neatly at his feet, was the flannel he’d given you. A silent message. A quiet rejection.

The realization hit him like a freight train. He didn’t need to check the rest of the house to know. You were gone.

For a long moment, Joel just stared at the flannel. His mind couldn’t, wouldn’t, process it. His fingers hovered above the fabric as if touching it would make it more real, would confirm the fact that you’d left.

When he finally picked it up, he clenched it so tightly his knuckles went white. The scent of you still lingered faintly in the fabric, and the pang in his heart grew sharper, deeper, unbearable.

Joel didn’t need to wonder why you left. He knew. He’d driven you away, pushed you so far that you’d felt you had no choice but to leave.

He thought of the way he’d shut you out, the way his fear and self-loathing had manifested into anger, into cruelty. He thought of the way he’d seen you staring at your bloodied hands last night, the haunted look in your eyes. The way you’d started to pull inward, to retreat into yourself, refuse to take the antibiotics because you thought you didn’t deserve them. He’d seen it all, and still, he hadn’t reached for you, hadn’t tried to bridge the growing distance.

Because Joel Miller didn’t know how to let anyone in without feeling like he’d lose them. And yet he lost you anyway.

The thought sank like a stone in his gut. But alongside it, another thought rose, fierce and all-consuming.

He had to find you, had to make sure you were safe. Even if he had to follow you to Yellowstone, a silent sentinel in your wake, keeping his distance until you needed him, he’d do it. 

Joel moved quickly, packing up the remnants of your stay with methodical efficiency, his mind racing all the while. You couldn’t have gotten far. You’d left during the night, sure, but you didn’t have his years of tracking experience, didn’t know how to hide your trail the way he did.

But there’d been a rain storm last night, a bad one. It had quickly turned to snow by early morning, obscuring most of the tracks you would have left behind.

He found the first sign of you not far from the house, footprints in the snow, leading away from a barren spot beneath a tree. You must have slept here at some point. A few miles ahead, he found another sign, a broken branch, a collection of footprints running parallel to the road.

He focused on the trail, the signs you’d unintentionally left behind, but his mind refused to quiet.

Why didn’t I tell her? Why didn’t I let her know what she means to me? Why didn’t I stop her from thinking she was something less than human?

With every step, his guilt grew heavier, like an anchor dragging him down. He thought about the way you’d smiled at him in those rare, soft moments, the way your laugh had sounded once upon a time, light and free, before the darkness took hold.

He thought about how you’d trusted him, even after everything, even after he’d shut you out and failed to protect you.

And he thought about how he’d failed you again, not by letting you leave, but by making you feel like you had to.

Joel didn’t know what he’d say when he found you. Hell, he didn’t even know if you’d let him come near you. But he knew he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let you go, not like this.

Because for all the darkness in him, for all the ways he’d failed, you were the one thing that made him feel human again. And he wasn’t going to let that slip away without a fight.

So he tracked you, desperate, determined, hoping against hope that he could fix this, that he could fix himself, for you.

…

He’d almost stopped for the day when he saw it.

Joel had been on your trail for days, the cold biting deeper with every step. He was damn sure he’d been close a couple of times, signs of your passing too fresh to be coincidence. But then the blizzard hit, a wall of snow and wind that made even Joel’s dogged determination falter. He had no choice but to hole up in an old barn a couple of miles off the highway, its rickety walls groaning under the weight of the storm.

The hours inside were maddening. Every second spent trapped there felt like a second wasted, a second further from finding you. The trail was growing colder, the evidence you’d left behind, footprints, broken branches, the occasional scuff of dirt, were all disappearing under the relentless snow.

But the worst part wasn’t the delay. It wasn’t even the gnawing fear that he’d lose your trail entirely.

It was wondering where you were.

Were you holed up somewhere safe, or out in this storm, freezing, trembling? Were you hurt, curled up in some dark corner with nothing but your thoughts and your pain to keep you company? Joel couldn’t stop the images from coming, couldn’t stop imagining you huddled against the cold, too far gone to fight it, too broken to keep moving.

The thought of it had him pacing the barn like a caged animal. His fists clenched and unclenched, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. He almost threw open the door, storm or no storm. He didn’t care about the cold. He didn’t care about the risk. He didn’t care about his own safety.

Because if you were out there, scared and alone, how could he stay here?

But the voice of reason held him back, bitter and cruel as it was. If he went out there now, blind and desperate, he’d only get himself killed—and you along with him, when he failed to find you. So he forced himself to wait, each passing hour a dagger to his heart.

Still, his mind wouldn’t quiet. The possibilities clawed at him. What if he didn’t find you in time? What if the cold took you? What if someone worse than him crossed your path?

And what if, when he did find you, you hated him so much that you wouldn’t let him bring you back?

Joel couldn’t even blame you for that. He deserved it, didn’t he? He deserved your hatred. He deserved your anger. But none of that mattered to him. None of it.

He would brave the storm, the cold, Hell itself if it meant knowing you were safe. You could spit curses at him for the rest of your life, and he’d carry them like a badge of honor. He’d carry you all the way back to Wyoming in his arms if he had to and deposit you on the doorstep of a better man and watch as the two of you built the life he was supposed to have with you.

He’d watch as you found your happiness without him, each day tearing him apart from the inside out. And still, Joel would count himself lucky for knowing you’d survived.

He’d die by your sword, gladly, if it meant you’d live.

So when the storm finally broke, he didn’t waste a second. He resumed his search with a singular focus, a desperation that drove him through the snow and wind as if the cold were nothing but an afterthought. His steps were heavy, his breaths coming in clouds, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but you.

When he stumbled upon the small town, a flicker of hope stirred in the hollow of him. It looked intact. No signs of life, but no signs of danger either. He scouted the area carefully, searching for any hint that you’d been here.

And that’s when he saw it.

At first, he didn’t recognize it, his mind struggling to bridge the gap between the world he lived in now and the world he’d left behind. But as he stepped closer, the symbol came into sharp focus.

The Firefly symbol. 

It was painted on the side of a crumbling building, relatively fresh, the lines too bold and precise to be anything else. The sight of it made his stomach drop like a stone.

All the air left his lungs. He stared at it, unmoving, as the implication of it hit him like a freight train, his mind falling back to a night in the Boston QZ.

…

A few weeks had passed since you’d first broached the subject of Wyoming.

Joel had tried to resist, tried to apply logic to your wide-eyed dream. He’d told himself that it was a stupid idea. A bad idea. The kind of hope that got people killed in this world. But you just had this way about you, this spark of hope that seemed to catch fire in the hearts of anyone who dared to be near you for too long.

And Joel couldn’t stop himself from being engulfed by it.

So, while he grumbled and cursed under his breath about your pipe dream, he also started quietly preparing for it. He took on extra jobs, sought out scraps of information, stockpiled supplies. Anything that would either solidify his excuses for why this couldn’t happen or, God help him, give him the confidence to take the plunge with you.

And that’s how he ended up at Marlene’s door.

Joel wasn’t a fan of Marlene. He never had been. She was too much like him; cunning, ruthless, always looking for an edge. Maybe that’s why he avoided her. He didn’t like seeing his own sharp edges reflected back at him. But he couldn’t deny the Fireflies had sway. Power. Resources.

If he could pull off one good smuggling job before you left, he’d have enough to ensure the two of you could make the trip. Maybe even get some contacts along the way.

But it would come at a price. It always did.

“Joel,” she greeted him when she opened the door, her voice cool and gaze scrutinizing as she scanned him. She had a way of picking him apart with her gaze, and it never failed to set him on edge. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need somethin’,” Joel replied, stepping inside as she shifted back to let him in.

He hadn’t been expecting the sight that greeted him. Marlene looked worn down, her skin sallow, her movements sluggish. Rolls of bandages, bloodied rags, and medical supplies were scattered across the small room she was holed up in.

She was hurt.

“The hell happened here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as she gingerly lowered herself into a chair, one hand pressed protectively to her abdomen.

“Deal gone wrong,” she said simply, wincing as she settled into place. “You know how it is.”

Joel nodded. He didn’t have much sympathy to spare, especially not for Marlene. She wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. She wasn’t the type to waste time on pity or platitudes. Neither was he.

“I need supplies,” he said, cutting to the chase. “Enough to get two people a decent way out west. And some contacts out there, if you got ‘em.”

That made her pause. Her narrowed eyes locked onto him, a brow lifting in surprise. “You and Tess leaving?”

The mention of Tess sent a pang through Joel’s gut. He hadn’t told her yet. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how to tell her. Tess could handle a lot, but this? Leaving her behind? He wasn’t ready for that conversation.

“Nah, not Tess,” he said gruffly, not offering anything more. He’d never told Marlene about you, about the way you’d walked into his life and upended everything without even meaning to. He’d kept you separate from all this Firefly shit. It was dangerous, messy, and always teetering on the edge of going sideways. Taking you along on low-stakes deals was nerve wracking enough.

He thought of Lyle and his men. That shitshow was tame, nothing compared to the kind of trouble Marlene regularly dealt with.

She didn’t press, though. Marlene wasn’t one to dig too deep unless it benefited her. Instead, she leaned back, her calculating gaze softening just enough to make Joel uneasy.

“Alright,” she said finally. “I’ve got something for you. Transportation job. Cargo needs to get to Utah. You’ll get enough supplies to make it out there, plus contacts at a base near the Montana-Wyoming border.”

Joel stiffened. His stomach churned.

What the hell was this? Was Marlene reading his goddamn mind? He came to her for help, and she just so happened to have a job that not only got him the supplies he needed but also set him up on the exact route he’d need to take?

It was too good to be true.

His gut twisted with suspicion. This kind of luck didn’t come without a catch.

“What kinda cargo?” Joel asked, his tone laced with suspicion.

Marlene smiled, a tight, humorless thing, and Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that look. This wasn’t going to be an easy job.

“A kid,” she said simply.

Joel blinked. “A kid?”

She nodded. “I need you to bring her to a hospital in Salt Lake City. We’ve got doctors up there, good ones. They’re working on a vaccine.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. He was a lot of things, but gullible wasn’t one of them. He’d heard this song and dance too many times before. Vaccines and serums and cures. Charlatans promising salvation in exchange for blood, sweat, and whatever else you could offer them. And it was all bullshit, every damn time. Joel had been a contractor before the world ended, not a scientist, but even he knew that much.

“Ain’t no vaccine, Marlene,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and I both know that.”

She gave him a sharp look, her eyes narrowing. “You haven’t met these doctors, Joel. You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he bit back. “How the hell are they planning on using a kid to make a vaccine?”

“She’s immune,” Marlene said, her voice steady, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Joel barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“I swear to God, Joel,” she said, raising her hand in the air as if to take an oath. “I didn’t believe it at first, either.”

He squinted at her, suspicion and disbelief roiling through him. “How many pain pills you takin’?”

Marlene laughed bitterly, wincing as the movement tugged at the injury on her abdomen. “I’m dead serious.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “Okay,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “So how’re these miracle doctors planning to make the vaccine? If she’s infected, it’s in her brain.”

Marlene nodded solemnly. “The Cordyceps in her, what’s growing inside her, it’s mutated. That’s why she’s immune. Once they remove it, they’ll be able to reverse-engineer a vaccine.”

“Remove it,” Joel echoed, his voice dropping. He stared at her, his jaw tightening as the pieces fell into place. “Her brain. You’re talkin’ about killin’ her.”

Marlene didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable.

Joel’s blood ran cold. He was no saint, hell, far from it. But this? Transporting a kid across the country to her death, all for some half-baked promise of salvation?

“You’re fuckin’ sick,” he hissed, venom dripping from every word. “I’m not doin’ it.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, though her face was taut with frustration. “I’d do it myself, but I’m a little indisposed at the moment.”

Joel shook his head, his anger boiling over. “You’re gonna kill an innocent kid for a vaccine that might not even work?”

“It’s for the greater good,” Marlene said evenly, though there was an edge of steel to her voice. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Save it,” he snapped, already reaching for the door. He didn’t need her, didn’t need her job or her supplies. He’d get you out of this fucking hellhole with the clothes on his back if he had to.

His feet carried him back toward your apartment before he even realized what he was doing. He didn’t think too much about it. He didn’t want to think too much about anything right now. Not Marlene. Not the Fireflies. Not what she was asking him to do.

But when he rapped his knuckles against your door and saw your face, everything clicked into place.

The anger, the frustration, the weight of the world pressing down on him, it all vanished the moment you opened the door.

Your eyes lit up when you saw him, and the warmth of your expression hit him like a breath of fresh air. Inside your apartment, the air felt lighter, the space cozier, like it existed outside the suffocating grime of the QZ.

Joel stepped inside, and for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

This place was rotten. It was filled with rotten people doing rotten work for rotten pay. There was no life here, no spark in the ashes, no green shooting through the dirt. Just pain and survival in an endless, vicious cycle.

You deserved more than this. The way your face softened when you smiled at him, the way your voice wrapped around his name, it was a reminder of everything he wanted but never thought he could have. Time spent with you felt sacred, like the two of you existed in some bubble suspended above the rot and filth.

Joel made a decision then and there.

He’d get you out of here. Away from this decay and despair. Even if he had to fight tooth and nail to do it.

…

Now, if they found you… If they realized you were immune…

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body tensing like a coiled spring. 

The thought of them having you—you—in their grasp was enough to make his vision blur with rage.

Images of you in a sterile white room, immobilized and unaware, doctors circling you like vultures, ready to steal you away from him again.

Joel’s jaw tightened as he forced himself to focus, his instincts kicking into high gear. He didn’t know if the Fireflies were here now, if this was just an old mark or something more recent. But it didn’t matter. He had to move fast. He had to find you before anyone else did.

Because if the Fireflies found you first... 

Joel didn’t let himself finish the thought. He just started running.

Taglist: @javierpenaispunk @eviispunk

[gullemec]

A COMINT !!

[gullemec]

ride

joel x f!reader

request: "prone, leaving a hickey on their neck, in a truck bed" sent in as part of my 5k celebration! or you try to grapple with feelings for your parents' friend while getting absolutely railed by him 🤠 6.5k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, age gap (unspecified but college age reader and it's said that joel is over twice her age), oral f receiving, unprotected piv, pr0ne b0ne, creampie, hickeys, dirty talk and pet names, bit of daddy kink (sue me okay), angsty feelings, alcohol, reader has a mom and dad and clothing is described (shorts and t-shirt).

a/n: saw this prompt and instantly loved the visual! such a fun one to write, and i got weirdly caught up in these two having history and a bit of angst so it ended up way longer than i anticipated (aaand everybody is thinking we are not surprised julie couldn't shut up).

Today had you on edge, taking in your surroundings more dutifully, fearing the rounding of corners on campus in case you’d run into him. You try to pretend you don’t want to see him, but can’t deny the sinking feeling in your stomach as you arrive for your shift that evening without having any chance encounters. You hate that you’re imagining how one would go as you wait on your tables, how you’d pretend you hadn’t even thought about the possibility of him also being on campus for parents weekend. Casual. It was totally, completely casual - the same sentiment you’d been trying to convince yourself of for months.

His daughter Sarah is only a year younger than you and ended up at the same university a couple of hours from your hometown. You’d played little league soccer together for a few years as kids, and your parents became much faster friends with Joel than you and Sarah ever did. 

Despite Chip’s Bar & Grille being located off campus, it doesn't seem immune to the influx of people due to parents weekend as you weave through your tables, a sweat breaking out on your neck. Your asshole of a boss - the Chip of Chip’s Bar and Grille - never quite learned how to keep the temperature comfortable in here for the workers. He’d also declined your request to have tonight off to spend with your parents - too many other coworkers of yours had the same idea as you with people’s parents being in town, apparently. You know he also simply just enjoyed telling people no.

You plaster on a fake grin as you carry a tray of beers over to a rowdier group of men, probably here to watch Friday Night Football or something, judging by their team spirited paraphernalia. They’re already a few drinks deep, getting increasingly more bold with their commentary towards you, but it’s nothing you haven’t dealt with here before. You easily brush it off, navigating your way through their charged remarks with grace and sweet looks that should only boost your tips, letting the act drop dramatically as soon as you walk away from them.

Karina, the hostess - a sweet girl around your age - flits up to you, buzzing information in your ear. “Table 19 just got sat. Said it’s your parents, I think?”

You smile to yourself - it’s thoughtful that your parents would brave the greasy, unappetizing food at Chip’s just to see you twelve hours earlier than planned. They instantly glow and warm up at the sight of you, looking slightly out of place but nothing short of comfortable. They were the type of people that could adapt nearly anywhere.

“Hey, honey!” your mom trills, hugging you tight, pressing the slightly damp t-shirt you’re wearing into your back. 

“Sorry. Sweaty,” you warn her too late, getting a chuckle in your ear. Your dad squeezes you tightly next, and when they go to sit down, you notice with confusion that Karina has placed three menus on the table. 

Your eyes snap up to the front door just in time to see a familiar, broad form step into the fray, weaving his way through the bodies and tables. His eyes scan across the restaurant - dark and brooding as always - then land on you, standing tall above where most people are seated at their respective tables. Your stomach leaps, leaving your breath caught in your throat, him letting his lip twitch into some semblance of a smile - or a smirk, rather, given how haughty he looks right now.

For that brief second, it’s only the two of you in this bustling, noisy room, before the bubble bursts and he stalks over to you and your parents. It’s only then his eyes are torn off of yours, leaving you breathless and confused. And angry.

“Oh, good, already got us a table. Parkin’ was weirdly a nightmare out there,” he says, smooth and silky, announcing his presence. With one more flicker of his eyes to yours just before your mom pops up to hug him, blocking you from view, you see the mischievous amusement behind them. He’s enjoying the fact that he’s caught you off guard, that you’re flustered by his mere presence alone.

Yeah, angry sounds right. Joel Miller: certified prick.

After the fuss settles down, your parents explain they ran into Joel at a cafe when they got to campus this morning while you were still in class. Being their gracious, hospitable selves, they’d promptly invited him to come out to dinner with them tonight to catch up. Just your luck.

“The rest was history. Joel seemed awful happy to get to see you too, know it’s been a while,” your dad happily and obliviously trills. 

You’ll bet he seemed happy.

Joel moves in for an embrace, and you stiffen before feeling his meaty, thick arms draping around you, the warmth of his chest pressing closer, his breathing in your ear. Everything feels lit up inside of you, sparks skittering across your skin. You beg your knees not to buckle, reminding yourself that refusing to hug him begs more questions than you’d like from your parents. You try not to melt into the familiarity of it when your arms fling around his neck, try to keep it… casual. The word bites at you, stinging deeper each time you try to convince yourself of its place in this relationship. 

“Hey there, sunshine. How you been?” he mutters in his slow, sweet drawl. You can’t help but smile at your favorite pet name he’s had for you for years, wishing to wipe it off your face as he pulls back and sees it. There’s a returned softness there beneath all his amused loftiness. 

“G-good. Good,” you manage to stammer out. “How’s the business… How's Sarah?” 

You watch on as Joel stays planted right in front of you, the moment lingering longer than necessary or normal. You watch him have the same realization, clearing his throat and turning to pull out his chair, sitting down.

“Good,” he echoes you, smiling softly. “And good. Girl’s too busy with friends to see her old man tonight, though. Stuck with these two now.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of your parents. 

The dig gets a hoot out of your mom, her hand playfully nudging him. The noise of her balking breaks you out of your reverie where your eyes had been plastered on his features, begging them to tell you anything. 

You suck your lip between your teeth, blinking a few times to snap yourself out of this haze. You’d wanted this, hadn’t you? A chance to run into Joel, knowing that parents weekend would likely bring him this way. It’s too much, too… intense, to see him in your workplace, somehow merging his life with the one you lived separately from him. Back home the two of you had been on equal footing, but now he invaded your space, the places you were able to go to get away from whatever this was, to get away from him.

“I - I’ll go check on my tables. You guys decide what you want to order and I’ll come back. And I’ll talk to Chip about a family discount, or something.”

Your dad insists it’s not necessary before you scurry away, but you ask anyway. Chip unsurprisingly argues with you, huffing and puffing and generally being the asshole that he is. 

“You want a discount for your family? And where’s that money gonna come from? Maybe from your tips tonight? Would that work for you? Hm?”

“Forget it, Chip.” Muttered under your breath, you roll your eyes, feeling dejected as he stalks off to likely terrorize someone else or put on his fake schmoozing act with a loyal customer. 

When you glance back at your parents across the room, Joel’s eyes are on yours, intense and questioning. They burn into you, making you immediately turn away, trying to hide the glistening of tears from Chip’s beratement. It’s dumb, really. He’s always this big of an asshole. You aren’t sure why you expected anything other than his default or a single generous thing from him.

After pulling it together enough to do the rounds on your tables, you stop back to take your parents’ and Joel’s orders. Joel seems like he’s stewing, his energy quiet and distracted as he glances down at the menu, ordering a cheeseburger with a distant voice.

It’s not until you’re off at the point of sales system tapping in their orders that a presence sidles up beside you, the voice deep and hushed.

“That your boss there? The one lookin’ like he’s got somethin’ shoved up his ass?”

You do a slow turn to peer at Joel incredulously, glancing around as if you’re caught in a compromising position. You suppose maybe you are, but at least your parents are out of view from where you’re tucked back in the little hallway leading to the restrooms. It’s cramped back here with the service station, leaving Joel’s body close to yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hiss, instead of answering his question.

“It’s not a crime to go to the bathroom,” he quips back. “Answer me.”

“What? You’re gonna beat him up?” You give Joel a pointed look before focusing back on the screen, punching in your dad’s Dr. Pepper.

“No, jus’ wanna know why a boss is out here makin’ his employees cry.”

“I wasn’t crying. He - he’s just an asshole. And why do you care? You’re not my -” you cut yourself off, shaking your head, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s fine. I promise. Please just… why are you here, Joel?”

“Havin’ dinner with your parents.”

You have to force in a deep, calming breath before sighing it out. “You like this. Surprising me, catching me off guard. You’re the one being an ass now.”

Joel visibly softens at your stressed demeanor. “It’s also not a crime to want to see you, y’know. And have some fun trippin’ you up along the way. I didn’t realize -”

Your eyes linger on his face for a long, quiet moment, burning with frustration and contempt and something deeper you won’t allow yourself to access. “I’ve got to get back to work,” you say, concluding the conversation as you snap the notebook containing your orders shut and push away from the computer. You brush past Joel’s shoulder, turning to glance back at him.

“It is nice to see you,” you utter, half hoping he can’t hear it over the bustle of the restaurant. When his lips twist to the side in a lopsided smile, you know he did.

“You too.”

Joel seems to behave the rest of the evening, paying the proper, appropriate amount of attention to you, treating you like the family friend that you are and nothing more. Just as it should be, you remind yourself every time a pang of sadness pulses through your chest.

When they pay and leave, you breathe a sigh of relief, working the rest of your shift with an odd buzzing in your head, picturing Joel’s tanned skin and rugged lines. The memory of the feeling of his body close to yours in that hallway makes you shudder, then curse yourself.

A mixture of disappointment and irritation worms its way into your mind as you realize that was your chance. That was the time you got to spend with Joel this weekend, when he was so close within your grasp. He’d be busy tomorrow, spending time with Sarah, letting her tote him around campus - showing him where she takes her classes, her favorite places to eat, her dorm that is likely decorated with purple accents and posters of her favorite bands.

You’d missed the opportunity to actually see him, too busy being pissed at him for existing in your sacred space, for never leaving you alone no matter how hard you tried to get him out of your head. You never knew when the next time would come around - even if you were back home, time spent around Joel was never guaranteed. Nor was it appropriate.

You worry your lip into oblivion, realizing it’s for the best, anyways, as you push the back door to the bar open after your shift, letting the cool night air greet your grimy, post work skin. You go to round the building, heading for the bus stop on the main street that will take you exactly twenty five minutes and eleven stops back to your dorm.

A voice cuts in, seeming to come from the darkness itself. “You always wear shorts that short to work?”

God damn it. You flinch and then press your lips together, slowly turning your head to the corner of the parking lot, following the gruff, familiar voice. You see Joel leaning against the front of his truck, arms crossed over his chest. He’s half illuminated by the streetlamps placed periodically across the asphalt, casting long shadows on him. The blue flannel he wears is stretched tightly over his arms, the sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms that make you feel more than you’d ever care to admit. 

“Better tips,” you reply, nonchalant. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, walking over to him. You stop short, giving a wide berth between the two of you, attempting to avoid the always inevitable pull you feel towards him.

“That so?” he says, sounding amused. Joel lets his eyes roam up from your feet, scanning your bare legs, drinking you in all the way up your chest until his gaze rests on your face where it softens. He’s obvious about it, not caring to hide the lust that lives between the two of you now that you’re alone.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, feeling like a broken record. You watch as he turns and starts walking to the back of the truck. You peer around to see the bed is open, staunchly crossing your arms and not following him.

“Thought I’d give you a ride home,” Joel throws over his shoulder.

“What if I had my own car here?”

“You don’t,” he punches out. “Parents told me they hate you takin’ the bus so late.”

You quietly groan to yourself. Of course they did.

“And I thought you could use one of these after a long shift,” Joel adds on, proudly holding up a six pack of cheap, generic beer, strung together by plastic loops. You give him a sardonic laugh, finally giving in and making your way to the back of the truck. Joel has it parked with the bed facing the far corner of the parking lot, looking directly into the thicket of trees beyond that separates Chip’s from the McDonald’s behind it. It’s late, the lot nearly empty and the businesses around you all quieted down for the night. Some kind of thickness hangs in the air, otherworldly and separating you from reality, pressing in on you to be so alone with Joel.

“Aren’t you driving?” you ask, brows raised. 

“Ain’t for me. It’s for you.”

“Miller Lite,” you say, gesturing to the six pack. “Clever. And disgusting.”

He smirks, tearing one out of its loop and handing it to you. It’s chilled, but not cold, and you nearly grimace. You don’t even like beer, but being around Joel still makes you nervous so you crack it open, listening to the little click of the pull tab and ensuing fizzy noise from the liquid inside, then take a long swig. 

“Attagirl,” Joel comments passively. Your heart flutters at the small praise and you peer at him, doelike, from over the can, hoping your eyes don’t give you away. Of course they do, they always do. You look down, shuffling your feet, clad in your black, non slip work sneakers.

His hand is hesitant, reaching out to you from where he now leans against the open truck bed, clasping around your wrist with a gentle authority. It tugs you, forcing you to take a step towards him.

“Joel…” you warn, still unable to bring your eyes up. You know if you do, you’ll fold.

“Hm?” he rasps, moving you closer still. Joel’s legs and feet come into view, thighs thick and meaty in their denim, his work boots dirty and scuffed. It made something inside of you flutter again, these details about him. You liked his mess and his manliness, the way he didn’t give a shit if his shoes were dirty, but that they were functional. You like his worn denim with the outline of his wallet seared into the back pocket from too much use. You like… him.

“Come sit,” he begs of you, and despite your best efforts, you’re unable to resist. You hop up onto the back of the truck, letting your feet dangle while taking another sip of crappy beer. He pulls himself up next to you, and leans closer, knuckles brushing along your neck, making you shiver. It’s heavenly and electric, everything you’d craved and missed and wanted, never able to stop thinking about these calloused hands and the man they’re attached to.

“We… we can’t do this again,” you force yourself to utter, fiddling with the pull tab on the can held in your lap.

Joel’s hand freezes. “You got a college boyfriend now or somethin’?” he spits out, unable to hide the greed from his voice.

“No…” you admit.

“Alright, why not then?”

“We just… shouldn’t.”

“Y’weren’t sayin’ that over winter break. Or durin’ Thanksgiving, or the summer before that when I was fuckin’ myself deep inside of you, lettin’ you call me your daddy,” he drawls out lazily, continuing to softly revere your neck with his hands, slowly moving to your shoulder and back, fishing underneath the collar of your branded Chip's tee shirt to find bare skin. 

You swallow hard, feeling your cheeks blazing at the memories of how caught up in it you’d gotten. “I - I don’t think…”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Just don’t think.”

You finally dare a flash of your gaze to his, finding his eyes dark and wanting. “Joel…” you plead again, unsure of how to express anything else. “This isn’t… right. Who you are to me, my parents. You know that, right?”

He licks his lips and nods, moving in close and ghosting them over your neck. Your eyes roll back, your touch-starved, needy body begging you for more. “Torture myself over it all the damn time, pretty girl,” he rasps right next to your ear.

“Then why did you come here tonight?” you ask in a lusty whisper as his lips attach to your skin, sucking softly. Your breath catches in your throat, fighting a whine.

“I don’t know. I jus’... did,” he says earnestly, sounding pained. “I wanted it. Didn’t care ‘bout the rest. I wanted to see you, just us.”

Your heart pitter patters in your chest, that pesky, squeezing feeling of it that always takes over around Joel pulling taut. You know he doesn’t mean it, that he doesn’t want you. He wants what you offer - your body, your naïveté to stay involved in this, your company when he’s lonely. It was hard to say just how Joel felt about you, because he’d never dare say it out loud for fear of making this too real. 

His scent invades you - musky and something fresh and nature inspired, pine maybe - and you feel yourself folding in real time.

“Joel…” you warn one last time without any resolve behind it, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzles into your neck. You want this. You don’t want this. You want him. You don’t want this uncertainty, this unstructured and wild thing that you two have become tangled up in. 

It happens before you can even register your body moving of its own accord, crashing your lips into his waiting ones. His hands are fast, eager, to touch every part of you now that you’ve given some semblance of a go ahead. Squeezing, groping, one hand relishing in the feel of your tits, the other cupping your cheek, pulling you deeper into the searing kiss.

“Fuck,” he mutters when your hands move with equal fervor on his body - squeezing his thigh, wrapping around him the to clutch the hair at the base of his neck. “The hell says we shouldn’t be doing this…”

You shake your head, smiling into the kiss. “Probably everyone.”

“Makes me want you more, baby,” Joel counters, and you nod feverishly in agreement, squeaking in surprise when he pushes you down to the truck bed, swinging himself over to straddle you. His weight crushes down, comforting and arousing all in one, no time to even dwell on it before his lips are on yours again, a hand plunging between to cup you through your shorts. Warmth flows freely between your legs, the fabric dampening the sensation but it’s still too much, too built up, and you buck your hips.

“I want these shorts gone,” he demands. “Everyone wishin’ they got a peek under these, givin’ you all those tips, except at the end of the night it’s me right here, gettin’ everythin’ they want.”

Your head goes fuzzy, swimming with lustful thoughts as his dirty talk ramps up. It turned out that Joel Miller had the filthiest mouth you’d ever encountered, something you’d never have expected from the quieter, gruff man. He was an archetype of southern politeness most of the time - not without his sass, sure - but you’d never expected… this.

“Take them,” you breathe out. Joel grins above you, unbuttoning the shorts with ease, hooking his fingers in the sides.

“You’d let me, really? Right here… right out in the open?” Joel tsks, the grin on his face spreading into something wicked. You blink back to reality, to the parking lot around you, and yet your answer remains unchanged.

“Yes,” you whisper, feeling shame burn at your cheeks.

Joel works your bottoms down slowly, taking your panties with it and speaking unhurriedly. “Let anyone who comes to see what all the fuss is about see all of this, would you?”

“Yes,” you answer dutifully.

“God damn.” He chuckles, tossing your shorts to the side, leaning back to glimpse at the bottom half of you, now exposed to him. “Dunno what’s worse. This, or that closet at your parent’s place. You’re a dirty little bitch, ain’t you?”

You nearly growl. “You love it,” you shoot back, spreading your thighs wide open for him. 

Staring between them with a certain wonder about him, he answers. “I do.”

He sinks himself down, moving to pleasure you, pulling your clit into his mouth and giving it a gentle suck. You yelp, a tiny squeak that has your hand flying over your mouth to quiet yourself down.

Joel moves his tongue to lap at your folds, drinking in the sweet slickness you’ve already poured out for him. The slickness that had been pooling between your thighs just at the sight of him earlier tonight. 

“You been this wet all night for me?” he asks incredulously, toying a finger through it now, circling your clit in a slow, tortuous circle.

You whimper first as an answer. “You - you make me -”

“I know I do. Ain’t easy to hide a hard fuckin’ cock under the table with your parents either, y’know. Wearin’ shorts like that on that gorgeous ass of yours.” He tsks into your pussy before slurping again, groaning as your arousal starts to coat his beard.

Your chest heaves, desperately needing more from him, his satisfaction with toying with you going longer than you can handle tonight. Not after how long it’s been.

“Please, J-Joel.”

He chuckles darkly. “We both know that ain’t the name you want to call me right now.”

He was right, the word had hung on your tongue since the second you’d been alone together, since you felt his warm hands exploring your skin. It came out somehow more naturally than you’d expected or even wanted, but something about it just felt… right.

Self conscious, you hold back and grumble as he withholds contact from you, staring up expectantly. “Come on, angel. I wanna hear it, too. Been too long.”

“Please, daddy…” you correct yourself shyly, readjusting to the word on your tongue. Joel’s face, shadowed by the yellow light of the closest streetlamp, breaks into a smirk.

“That’s right. Right now, when we’re like this, I’m your daddy, aren’t I?”

You nod and he continues to lick your needy cunt as a reward, swirling his tongue over the delicate bud near the top. “Yes, you are.”

Joel’s tongue moves faster, urged on at your breathless cries for him. “And you’d want to come for your daddy, wouldn’t you?”

The words twist your core tighter, the warmth building to a near breaking point. “G-god, yes. Y-yes!” You cry out louder as he sinks a finger inside, crooking it to make you go a little dizzy. You clamp a hand over your mouth again, tighter this time, stifling your cries.

Joel pulls back, a string of saliva and arousal connecting the two of you. His finger keeps the pressure on that spot inside of you, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin as the most painful tease.

“Nuh-uh. Think you should be loud. Unless… you don’t want your coworkers to hear ya? Or better yet, that asshole boss of yours?”

You picture the ramifications of what Joel is saying, the way Chip’s face would go red, twisted up in anger before he likely fired you. You break into a cheeky smile, and without conviction you say, “I - I shouldn’t."

“You should be doin’ a lot of things right now, sweetheart. But here we are. Don’t act like you don’t like the idea of pissin’ off that bastard.”

You chuckle, nodding in a dazed agreement as Joel glides his nose over your sex, flicking his tongue out periodically and making you start to squirm impatiently. “Bet he wants to fuck you, too. Such a pretty, perfect girl. Bet he wants to bury his mouth in this sweet god damn perfect cunt.” He punctuates his words with a deep inhale to your pussy, his nose now tracing a little circle over your clit. 

His words send you reeling - something about the possessiveness he holds over you makes you clench around his digits like you’ve never done for anyone else. “Please -” you beg before you can even think.

“Please you want him to fuck you?”

You sigh in lustful, irritated frustration. “D-damn it, Joel. No. You.”

“Need daddy to fuck you good, don’t you? These college boys ain’t doin’ it for you, are they?” he purrs into your skin, finally pulling himself from between your legs to glide up over your body, shielding you completely.

You feel yourself flush hot, still sheepish even after all these months affected by his dirty words and that stupid, yet hot - so hot, god why is it so hot - title he’s bestowed himself. A tickle of embarrassment creeps into your belly knowing that you’ve hardly pursued anyone at school, never able to find exactly what you’d already had all along - only it wasn’t yours to keep. It never could be.

“I - I -” you mumble, avoiding eye contact as his face hovers above yours.

“What? They’re that bad?” he teases, and you bite your lip.

“There aren’t many… relations going on, okay?” You grimace, finding his dark eyes and seeing him amused, yet studying you carefully, more seriously.

Joel throws you the tiniest smirk, but his voice is deep and sincere. “Damn shame for all of them. But makes me awful happy to hear on account of myself.”

You swallow, nodding, feeling an anxiousness playing in your belly. “Have - have you…? Since we last…?” You don’t know why you even ask, why you’re hellbent on setting yourself up to be hurt.

Joel hesitates, debating for a moment, then leans in to kiss you, long and deep. He pulls back, then shakes his head. “Not since December, no.” The words are hushed, whispered, one hand squeezing at your hip. 

The moment is tense - too much so - and the urge to escape it crashes into you. You shift underneath him, pressing your hips up into his to entice him. “Don’t you want to fuck me then before ol’ Chip gets his chance?”

Joel practically growls, his hold going tight. “Wouldn’t fuck you like I do.”

You shake your head, licking your lips and feeling the flicker of desire reignite between your thighs that had briefly paused. “We’ll see about that,” you say, raising your eyebrows.

“God damn it, kiddo, you’re tryin’ to piss me off.”

“It’s better when you’re irritated with me -” You lick your lips, your hands finding the waistband of his jeans, toying with it. “Daddy.”

That same growl erupts from his throat, aggravated and breathless. His hands scramble with yours to free his cock, and you can’t help but peer between your bodies to catch the sight of it. You love every bit of his body, love seeing the way it moves for you, with you. The way that it evokes things in you you’d never known possible, hitting all of your buttons just right.

Only getting a short glance at his erection, your body is quickly handled by Joel’s rough, eager hands rolling you onto your stomach. You’re held down immediately, his weight crushing into you, nearing on uncomfortable with the bumps and ridges in the bed of the truck. One hand presses to the back of your head as he mounts you, the hot skin of his cock teasing at your ass.

All you can do is whimper, your head straining to look back at him as he spreads your ass cheeks, slipping between them and to your slick core, nudging at your entrance. Anticipation hangs in your labored breaths until he enters you, the tension released in an exhale of relief and sharp tenderness at the full stretch of him. 

Joel wastes no time slamming into you, satiating every fantasy you’d had of him, every desirous, late night thought that caught you off guard since your last rendezvous. It was always just as you’d remembered it - a miraculous connection of your bodies that seemed to stump the two of you every time you’d tried to make sense of it.

“Hell yes, angel, you always take me so good, so perfect,” Joel grunts out as he thrusts into you. “Never complainin’, jus’ takin’ what you’re meant to.”

Your eyes roll back slightly as he presses impossibly deep inside of you. Despite everything - his size, your ages, the myriad of reasons this shouldn’t even be happening right now - it feels like the perfect fit.

“S-so good,” you whine , breathless as his body starts to lean in close, his chest pressing against your back.

“So good, who?” Joel reminds you, his voice now rumbling right in your ear.

“F- Daddy. So good daddy,” you quickly spit out, lost in the moment. Joel had once called you cock dumb, and you’d wanted to scoff, but moments like these proved it to be a very real phenomenon. You typically consider yourself relatively level headed, but right now you’re completely helpless to the power he holds, all thought centered on the way he slips in and out of you, every sensation and nerve lit up from the drag of the head of his cock inside of you.

You shudder, feeling his hulking form so close as he brings his lips to your ear, wet kisses trailing to your neck. He’s always loved your neck - it was the first thing he’d deigned to touch all those months ago that had felt charged, different than your typical interactions. That’s when he’d drawn you in, hooked you and pulled you into this whirlwind.

You scramble a hand back to reach for him, touch him, but he grabs it, tracing his fingers over your palm, interlacing them with yours for a brief moment before your wrist is pinned down. He fucks you harder, faster, his lips bouncing against your neck before they latch on, sucking hard.

“J-Joel!” you cry out in a panic, realizing the possibility of a mark being left with an impending meet up with your parents tomorrow.

“It’ll be fine,” he purrs against your sensitive skin, sucking a little harder before moving to another spot. "Jus' leavin' you with a little somethin'."

You see stars as his cock presses as deep as it can go on his next thrust, and you lose the will to fight a losing battle. You have makeup for a reason, you suppose.

You moan, loud and clear, suddenly unable to even care about the world around you, an audience or Chip or any of your coworkers rounding this truck and seeing you getting absolutely ruined by a man well over twice your age. None of it matters when you have Joel so close to you, so ready to please you and take care of you.

“G-god, you’re so deep,” you whimper out in a garbled haze as he keeps up his punishing thrusts, letting the head of his kiss the deepest parts of you.

Joel chuckles dryly, doubling down on his efforts, the both of you panting, close to reaching something extraordinary together. “Mmm,” he groans into your ear, still lapping at your neck periodically. “What d’you want with an old man like me anyway, huh?”

It’s a question you’ve asked yourself dozens of times, one you’ve never quite found the answer to, even after searching deep within yourself. Joel was brutal in the sheets but also sweet, and maybe that was a balance you’d been seeking without knowing it. The illusion he created of not caring was always overpowered by the look in his eyes that told you there was something more there, something you both wanted to build upon but knew you never could. So you took moments like this - dark and rushed and secretive in parking lots - and made the most of them while you could pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Instead of saying all of that, you just mumble out through your panting, “Y-you know why.”

“That’s right, this big cock, fuckin’ you like nobody else can,” Joel replies for you, and you nod languidly, your eyelids heavy, your mind concentrated now on the heat building deep in your belly, furling tighter with every thrust.

“R-right there, oh my god,” you breathe, pressing your hips into each thrust to pull him that much deeper, to make each crash of your bodies into one another that much harder.

Joel moans quietly, attempting to stifle the lusty little sound but it's music to your ears, listening to him fall apart for you. “Come for me, sweetheart, s-shit, daddy needs to hear you…”

“D-daddy!” you whine out loudly, knowing he loves to hear that name nearly pornographic off your lips in these heated moments. Your pants and noises break into little moans that crescendo as bursts of pleasure wash over you. Every muscle is taut and taking Joel’s harsh, relentless thrusts into you, nearly making you scream with how vibrantly every sensation seems to crash over you.

“Y-yeah, let ‘em hear it. Christ you sound so pretty f’me, baby. Milk daddy’s cock, f-fuck that’s it…” Joel’s string of praises reaches your ears in a distant fog before his hips stutter inside of you and he’s spilling himself deep and full. You clench around him one last time, shuddering at the sensation as your skin tingles pleasantly. You feel floaty, far gone as you try to regain your bearings, slumped and ass up on the cool material of the truck bed. Reality comes back slowly as Joel kisses down your back, planting one on your ass cheek before giving it a playful bite and kneeling next to you.

“You okay, sunshine?” he asks softly, and for some reason, despite feeling elated, tears prick at the back of your eyes. It’s too much, too emotional. You will them away in a second, not daring to let Joel see.

“Mhm,” you weakly utter, nodding. Joel’s hand strokes along the side of your head, and you peer up at him with a slack smile, finding that he’s giving you one back. 

He comes down to your level, kissing your forehead. “Best yet, maybe,” he says playfully, but you aren’t sure you feel like laughing.

“Maybe,” you ponder, watching Joel’s face morph into a more serious expression. He curls his fingers around your ear, tracing shapes along your hairline, your neck, your shoulders as you stay just as you are for a long, quiet moment. He guides you to sit up, silently handing you your discarded clothing, helping you dress as the mess of him slips down your thighs. You have the passing thought that maybe he has napkins in his glove box, but then decide you’d rather have the reminder of him.

Joel sits next to you on the edge of the truck bed again, and interlocks his hand with yours. “I - I’ve got a hotel, right on campus. I could take y’home, but I’d like if you came back w’me for the night.”

His words give you pause, a tiny inhaled breath as you go to speak, snapping your lips closed and looking down at your lap for a beat. “Is that a good idea?” You ask for so many reasons, knowing that Joel is as acutely aware of all of them - the worst being that the longer you spend together, the harder it is to come back to reality.

“It ain’t a bad one,” he rasps, sultry and rough, and you crack a tiny smile. Always persuasive and charming when he needs to be.

“It’s not,” you admit, looking into his inquiring gaze.

“W-well?” he asks, nudging your side. “Jus’ one more night. I hardly get to see you, an’ you can go in the mornin’.”

You know how the night will go. You’ll both think you’re there for the sex - to sweat and say dirty things and pant all over again until you both come so hard that it boggles your mind. You’ll convince yourself that’s all it is, until you end up staying up late - talking, laughing, held in the other's arms. Intertwined together, bodies naked and comfortable with the other, because you’ve been here before.

You’ll both find yourself wanting to shy away from that fact that more is there - a real connection, two people with unlikely similarities, that just… get the other. You’ll both get lost in it, until the sun shines the next morning and you have to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that it was some figment of the power that the night holds over a person’s emotions, those dark twilight hours taking over your minds.

But you’ll both know that isn’t true, and there is nothing you can do about it.

“Okay,” you tell him, knowing the fate you’re subjecting yourself to - one that’s as wonderful as it is confusing. It hurts at times, but the spectacular things this man makes you feel outweighs it all. It’s worth it, that pain, to be able to find one another time and time again, and maybe even dream of more someday.  “Let’s go.”

divider by @/saradika-graphics!

[gullemec]

No Other Shade of Blue

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You receive devastating news and seek solace in your found family. But you're a member of the Boys, how long could that possibly last for?

Warnings: angst, home invasion, mallory is being kinda mean but she's also kinda justified?, friendship angsttt :(

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5.2k

A/N: the picture used in the moodboard is purely for inspo, reader is you so you get to decide what she looks like <3

You rush up the creaky stairs of the Flatiron building, Hughie and Annie right on your heels. The adrenaline from Homelander practically hunting you at the gala propels you forward, your heart racing as though you hadn’t escaped at all.

You burst through the office door, eager to feel the safety that usually surrounds you in the office, only to stumble onto a scene that stops you cold.

MM and Frenchie are slumped at the desk, bodies beaten and spirits drained, their faces clouded with exhaustion and something far worse. 

Defeat?

MM’s jaw is bruised, and a cut above his eyebrow is crusted with blood. Frenchie’s left arm is bound in a makeshift sling, held stiffly against his chest. Kimiko kneels beside him. Her hands flutter over him gently and she looks like she’s about to cry.

Mallory stands at the back of the room, her posture stiff and commanding as ever, but the open concern on her face betrays her. 

Something is very, very wrong.

You spin, wild eyes searching the room frantically for a sign.

He’s not here.

Your throat almost seizes up as the words tumble out of your mouth. "Where is he?"

The room goes still.

Why aren’t they answering you? Why are they just looking at you like that?

"Where’s Butcher?" you demand, your voice rising in panic.

MM and Frenchie exchange a long, heavy look, their silence unbearable. Mallory doesn’t meet your eyes, staring instead at the worn floorboards as though they hold the answer.

"Answer me, where is he?" you cry again, this time your voice cracking.

It’s MM who speaks, his voice low and steady but tinged with guilt. "We… don’t know."

The floor seems to tilt beneath you.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Frenchie exhales, his shoulders sagging. "We got separated." His voice is quiet, like even speaking the words out loud pains him.

The room feels smaller, suffocating. “Separated?” Your voice spikes. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Hughie suggests, his voice uncertain.

MM leans forward, his elbows resting heavily on the table, his hands clasped tightly as if trying to hold himself together. "We found a lab in Kazan a few days ago. Everything seemed solid. We mapped the place out, had a plan. But when we got inside…" He trails off, his jaw tightening.

Frenchie picks up, his voice bitter. "We found something we did not expect. A pod. Hidden in the lower levels. Sealed airtight."

"A pod?" you repeat, your pulse quickening.

MM nods grimly. "Butcher… he opened it."

The room feels unnaturally silent, every word sticking in the air like glue.

“What was in it?” you ask, your voice trembling.

Frenchie hesitates, glancing toward MM as if for permission. Finally, MM answers. "Soldier Boy."

The name drops like a bomb in the room. Annie stiffens, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"No. That’s—that’s not possible. Soldier Boy died in 1984," she says, her voice almost desperate.

Frenchie lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. "We thought so too."

Your knees wobble, but you force yourself to stay standing. “What happened after you opened the pod?”

MM’s face hardens. “Soon as he woke up, his chest started glowing. Then… there was this blast. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Took out half the lab in one shot. Everything went to hell.”

"And Butcher?" Hughie’s voice is barely above a whisper.

Frenchie hangs his head, his good hand covering his face. "We tried to find him. We searched, but the lab… it was collapsing around us. Fires, smoke everywhere. We had to get out, or we’d be dead too."

“So you left him?” you shout, fury breaking through the wall of panic and grief.

"We didn’t have a choice!" MM snaps, his voice raw. "You think we wanted to leave him? Butcher would’ve torn us a new one if we’d stayed and gotten ourselves killed. He’d want us to regroup."

You’re trembling now, fists clenched at your sides as tears stream freely down your face. “You left him. You just… left him.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, and Annie is at your side in an instant, pulling you toward the couch and forcing you to sit. You let her guide you, shaking as sobs rack your entire body.

“Enough.” Mallory’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Her expression is calm, but her tone brooks no argument. "If Butcher’s alive, and we have to assume he is, he can handle himself. You know that better than anyone."

“And if he’s not?” you ask weakly, barely able to get the words out. “If he’s dead, and you just… let him die?”

Mallory’s eyes narrow slightly, but her voice remains firm. "If he’s dead, there’s not a damn thing MM or Frenchie could’ve done to change that. Butcher knew what he was walking into."

Frenchie finally speaks, his voice heavy with guilt. "We spent two days trying to reach him. Radio silence. We even went back, but the lab but it was crawling with Russian military and Vought agents. We couldn’t stay without risking everything. Please, believe us."

You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to stave off hyperventilation. “And now what?” Your voice trembles. “We just… sit here while Butcher’s out there, dead or alive, and Soldier Boy is loose?”

Mallory’s expression darkens. "First, we need to understand what we’re dealing with. Soldier Boy isn’t just some washed-up relic from the past. He was Vought’s first Supe. Their original model. And if they’ve kept him under wraps for nearly 40 years, there’s a reason."

Annie frowns, still rubbing your shoulders. "What kind of reason?"

Mallory’s gaze hardens, her words grim. "Soldier Boy wasn’t just their first. He was their prototype. And he wasn’t just a weapon on the battlefield, he was a weapon in their political games. 1984 wasn’t just the year he ‘died.’ It’s the year Vought severed ties with Russia… or so they claimed."

Hughie swallows audibly. "You’re saying… Vought’s been playing both sides this whole time?"

Mallory nods. "And Soldier Boy is the key. They either kept him locked away to bury their mistakes, or they’ve been holding onto him for something bigger. And now, he’s loose, and we have no idea what he might do."

A suffocating silence settles over the room. The weight of her words presses down on you like a vise.

“What do we do now?” Annie asks softly, breaking the silence.

Mallory looks each of you in the eye, her voice cold and commanding. "We prepare. Because whatever’s coming next will make everything we’ve faced so far look like child’s play."

~~~

You shuffle through the door into Annie and Hughie’s apartment, detached and lost in thought. Their apartment welcomes you, warm and cozy. A far cry from the cold tension you left behind at the office.

You hover in the entryway, unmoving, like you’re watching the scene unfold from outside your body. Hughie moves to clear some clutter from the couch, murmuring something about making space, while Annie pulls a blanket from the closet, moving around the apartment like any sudden moves might have you sprinting out the door. Their voices sound muted, like they’re coming through a fog. You don’t move. You can’t.

The scent of tea and lavender wafts through the air, carried by the flicker of a candle burning on the kitchen counter. The normalcy of it all twists like a knife in your belly. This is a space meant for safety, for peace, and yet you feel like a live wire, crackling with unspent energy and the anxiety of a million possibilities running through your mind.

“Hey,” Annie’s voice cuts gently through the haze, her hand brushing against your arm. “Why don’t you sit down? You’ve been through a lot today.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter automatically, but your voice is brittle and unconvincing, even to your own ears. It feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away, distant and hollow. “I just… I don’t think I can be alone right now.”

Annie doesn’t push. Her tone is soft, soothing. “You’re not. You don’t have to be.”

Before you know it, she’s guided you to the couch, easing you down onto the cushions as though you might shatter under your own weight. You sink into the seat, your hands instinctively folding over your lap. It’s like the world presses in all at once, the dam you’ve been holding back threatening to break.

The tears come, fast and silent, carving hot trails down your cheeks. You press your palms against your legs, trying to ground yourself, but your fingers catch on the smooth fabric of your dress. It’s only then you realize you’re still in the silk evening gown from the gala. 

The sensation of Homelander’s dead eyes burning into you, the deafening applause, the sound of your feet slapping against marble as you escaped all floods back.

You consider for a moment how you must look right now: the elegant drape of the gown, the glint of diamond earrings still dangling from your ears, the streaks of ruined mascara cutting through your makeup like black rivers. You must look insane. The image of yourself, of this absurd, surreal contrast, causes a giggle to bubble up out of you. You force it back down.

You hear soft clinking in the kitchen before Hughie appears, setting a steaming mug on the coffee table before you.

“It’s chamomile,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, his boyish sincerity written all over his face. “Nothing fancy, but it’s supposed to be, you know… calming.”

You nod mutely, wrapping your fingers around the mug and letting the warmth seep into your chilled skin. The ceramic feels steady in your trembling hands, grounding you as you blow gently on the rising steam. You focus on the ritual, the warmth, the scent, the motion, anything to keep your mind from spiraling.

Annie returns quietly, a thick blanket folded over her arms. She doesn’t say anything, just drapes it over your shoulders with a gentle touch before sitting beside you. Her presence is calm, steady, but it doesn’t soften the load weighing on your mind.

The silence in the room hangs heavy, thick with everything unsaid.

Every unspoken fear you’ve harbored since the moment Butcher walked out that door floods to the surface.

He’s not coming back. You’ll never see him again. He died alone, cold and scared. 

The image of him haunts you. Broken and left behind. 

You’ll raise this baby alone, your child never knowing their father. You’ll never again feel his arms around you, his lips against yours, never hear his voice or hold his hand.

And, perhaps cruelest of all, your last words to him weren’t I love you.

A choked breath catches in your throat as tears sting your eyes, but a flicker of something inside you refuses to give in. It’s small, delicate as a candle in a storm, but it’s there. It’s not over. It can’t be. Not yet.

Finally, you exhale shakily, breaking the oppressive stillness. “He’s not dead,” you whisper, your voice trembling and barely audible.

Annie perches on the armrest beside you, leaning closer. Her voice is gentle but cautious. “Hey… we don’t need to talk about this right now, okay? Just rest. Let yourself—”

“He’s not dead,” you interrupt, sharper this time, your voice cutting through hers like glass. “I would know.”

Tears threaten to spill, blurring your vision as you blink them away furiously. You hate this, breaking down like this, letting your emotions spill over. You tighten your grip on the mug, teeth clenched. “God, I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Hughie says softly, his brow furrowed in concern. He watches you with the same earnest look he always does, like he wishes he could somehow fix it all.

“Yes, it is!” you snap, the words pouring out before you can stop them. “It’s stupid, it’s naive, and it’s exactly why I shouldn’t even be here! I can’t do this—I’m not cut out for this kind of fight.”

Annie leans forward, her tone firm and unwavering. “Hey, don’t. Don’t do that to yourself. You’re here because you can handle this. Mallory sees it. Butcher always saw it. And we see it too.”

Hughie, ever the peacekeeper, adds with a sheepish grin, “And, for the record, none of us are exactly poster children for stability, so you’re in good company. I mean, I’ve been kidnapped, beaten up, almost exploded—”

“And still manages to trip over his own feet during missions,” Annie interjects, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the tension.

“That was one time,” Hughie protests, mock-offended, throwing his hands up.

The brief levity fades, but the knot of anxiety in your gut feels slightly looser. You take a deep, shaky breath as Hughie’s expression grows more serious. “Look, we’ll figure out what’s going on with Butcher. But this whole Soldier Boy thing? It’s big.”

Annie nods, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Him being back and the way Homelander went after you at the gala—it’s not a coincidence. But why you? Why now?”

Your mind flashes to Homelander’s chilling, calculated words. The way his gaze seemed to pierce through you. “I think… I think Homelander knows I’m with you guys,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “At the gala, that speech he made about family and blood—it felt like it was aimed right at me. And then he started walking toward me, like he knew.”

“This is what Vought does,” Annie says grimly, her expression hardening. “They dig into people’s lives, find secrets, twist them, and weaponize them. They’ve been doing it to me for years. It’s how they keep everyone in line.” She pauses, her jaw tight. “But we’re not going to let them win.”

Hughie nods in agreement, his determination mirroring Annie’s. “We’re not.”

For the next hour, they stay with you. Annie brings you a change of clothes, sweatpants and one of her oversized hoodies, and Hughie refills your tea. Their quiet presence, their easy banter, and their stubborn refusal to let you spiral anchor you. Your heart twists at their kindness.

When they finally head to bed, their exhaustion evident in their heavy eyelids and stifled yawns, you sit alone on the couch, wrapped in the blanket Annie gave you. The faint glow of the candle flickers in the corner, the apartment falling into a peaceful quiet.

Just as Annie flips off the light in the hallway, you speak up, your voice soft but full of gratitude. “Annie, Hughie… I just wanted to say thank you. For everything.”

Annie smiles gently, her silhouette framed in the doorway. “Of course. We love you.”

The words settle over you like a balm, and for the first time all night, you let yourself believe, just a little, that you might not have to face this fight alone.

~~~

The car ride back to your apartment the next morning is oppressively quiet. The only sound is the faint hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the car radio. In the front seat, Annie and Hughie exchange worried glances, their unspoken concern hanging heavy in the air. You sit silently in the back, staring out the window as the city glides by in muted shades of grey and black. Your hands are clenched tightly in your lap, nails digging into your palms, but the sting barely registers.

Sleep had eluded you entirely last night, leaving your mind to churn through an endless parade of horrors. You kept seeing Butcher, injured, afraid, his body broken and bleeding in some icy wasteland. Or worse, locked away in a Russian prison, shackled in the dark, his fury and defiance slowly eroded by despair.

The car pulls up in front of your apartment building, a familiar sight that should’ve brought some semblance of comfort. Instead, it only amplifies the unease curling in your stomach. You force a smile as you reach for the door handle. You’re not sure that you’re ready to be alone just yet.

"Are you sure you’ll be okay?" Annie asks softly, turning in her seat to look at you.

"Yeah," you reply, but the lie is weak and brittle, your voice lacking conviction. "I just… I need a shower and some clean clothes. I’ll see you at the Flatiron later."

You’d all agreed to regroup late in the morning to plan your next steps.

Hughie nods, but hesitation lingers in his expression. "Call if you need anything, okay? I mean it."

"I will," you promise, giving him a small, tight smile before stepping out of the car.

You linger on the curb, waving them off as they drive away, the tail lights disappearing down the street. Turning back to your building, you inhale deeply, hoping that stepping into the familiar space of your apartment will give you a moment to breathe, a chance to center yourself.

That hope evaporates the moment you reach your floor.

Your apartment door is almost gone, hanging crookedly from splintered hinges. The wood is cracked and shattered, the frame obliterated, chunks of it scattered across the hallway like debris from an explosion.

You freeze in place, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. A sickening wave of dread washes over you, turning your stomach.

With shaking hands, you nudge the door open. It creaks on its broken hinges, swinging inward to reveal the chaos within.

Your living room, once your sanctuary, lies in wreckage. The coffee table lies on its side, legs snapped and jagged. The couch cushions have been slashed open, their innards spilling out onto the floor like entrails. Your bookshelves are bare, their contents dumped and scattered. Perhaps worst of all, your photo shelf has been ripped from the wall. The picture frames lay shattered, their contents strewn across the floor. 

Your knees buckle slightly as you step forward. Your eyes catch on a familiar photo amid the glass and splinters. Carefully, you pick up the photo of you and your mother from when you were small.  It’s scratched and crumpled, but the faces are still clear. You tuck it gently into your pocket.

The kitchen is worse. The cabinet doors dangle precariously, barely clinging to their hinges. The counters are strewn with broken plates, glasses, and a fine layer of white powder from shattered dishware. A faint, acrid smell of burnt wood lingers in the air, sharp and invasive.

Your breath hitches as you try to process the devastation. This was your home, the one place that was yours, where you could let your guard down. It was where the Boys had shared stolen moments of joy, where candles on birthday cakes burned too brightly, where laughter had filled the space like an antidote to the chaos outside.

Now ruined. Defiled.

You stumble toward your bedroom, navigating the debris littering the floor. Your steps falter as your gaze falls on the wall above your bed.

The message is burned into the plaster, the letters jagged and uneven, like they’d been carved in a blind fury. The words are still faintly smoking, the sickly sweet scent stinging your nostrils.

KNOW YOUR PLACE

You grip the edge of the bed for support as your knees give out. The words loom over you, their venom seeping into your very core.

Your sanctuary, reduced to a symbol of your helplessness, your vulnerability.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t some petty break-in or senseless act of vandalism.

This was deliberate. 

This was Homelander.

The realization strikes you like a blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You thought you’d been careful, that your tracks were covered. But it wasn’t enough. He knows who you are. He knows where you live. And he wanted you to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he can get to you whenever he wants.

Your mind races with horrifying possibilities. What if you hadn’t stayed with Annie and Hughie last night? What if you’d come home? Would he have been waiting?

You wonder if that was his plan.

Your hands tremble as you fumble for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. You scroll through your contacts with shaking fingers, stopping at Mallory’s number. You press the call button, the ringing filling the silence as you struggle to steady your breathing.

Mallory answers after the first ring, her voice sharp and alert. "Are you at your apartment?"

"Y-yeah," you stammer, your voice cracking. "He—he was here. My door… my place is trashed. He left a message on the wall."

There’s a heavy pause on the other end before Mallory exhales a grim sigh.

"Get to the Flatiron. Now."

"What? Why—"

"He broke in here last night too," Mallory interrupts, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We need to talk. Get here now."

The call ends abruptly, leaving you staring at the screen.

You glance around your destroyed apartment one last time before standing on shaky legs. Gripping the photo of your mother in your pocket like a talisman, you steel yourself and head for the door.

~~~

The scene you’re met with when you arrive at the office is a gut punch. 

It looks like a war zone, papers scattered in every direction, desks overturned and smashed, chairs broken like brittle bones. Equipment lies gutted, wires splayed out and ripped apart. The large window on the far side of the room is shattered, shards of glass still clinging precariously to the splintered frame. The cold morning air drifts in through the gaping hole, carrying with it the bustling noise of the city below. The sound feels like an intrusion, a cruel reminder of how thin the veneer of safety had been all along.

The team is already there, a picture of unease frozen in the destruction. Hughie and Annie sit together on a mangled couch, their expressions subdued, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. MM stands off to the side, his face dark with unspoken fury. Near the broken window, Frenchie and Kimiko hover like sentinels, their gazes darting toward every noise, their tense postures a reflection of the chaos around them.

At the far end of the room, Mallory sits behind what remains of a desk, a stack of scattered papers in front of her, her face a mask of grim calculation.

You swallow hard and step further into the ruins, the crunch of glass under your boots punctuating the silence. “What the hell happened?”

Mallory’s gaze lifts to meet yours. She looks tired. More than tired really, like the weight of the world has settled into her bones. “Homelander,” she says flatly. “Same as your place.”

She shuffles through the papers in front of her before plucking one from the pile and holding it up. “Look familiar?”

Your heart stops.

The photo of you and your parents at your high school graduation. All three of you beaming at the camera, cheeks squished together in a too-tight embrace. The last photo of the Morgan family together.

Only now, your parents’ eyes have been scratched out. Jagged red gouges mar the glossy surface, slicing through their faces. The photo trembles slightly in Mallory’s grip as she holds it out to you. The violence of the image feels like a scream in your ears.

Your stomach churns violently, bile rising in the back of your throat.

You clench your fists so tightly your nails bite into your palms. “He knows where I live. What I’ve been doing.”

MM speaks up, his voice a low, measured rumble, though his tone is anything but calm. “He’s sending a message.”

“What do we do?” you ask, your voice wavering.

Mallory’s gaze sharpens, her voice cold and matter of fact. “You’re not going to do anything. You are going into hiding.”

You stare at her, feeling like you’ve been slapped across the face. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

Mallory doesn’t flinch. “You’ve been directly threatened,” she says firmly. “Your safety is compromised, and so is ours if you stay. I’ve arranged for a safe house. There’s a car waiting outside.”

“No!” The word bursts from you, sharp and loud, a mix of anger and disbelief. “I’m not going anywhere! I’m not some damsel you need to shove in a tower until it’s convenient. I’m part of this team, and I’m not going to run just because Homelander’s trying to scare me.”

“It’s not just about you,” Mallory snaps, the sharp edge of her voice slicing through the tension like a blade. “It’s about all of us. Your presence puts everyone here at risk. If you stay, you make us vulnerable.”

You glare at her, anger simmering just below the surface. “I can handle myself. You don’t get to decide I’m useless just because things are heating up.”

Mallory stands then, the scrape of her chair echoing across the silent room. When she speaks, her voice is like steel—cold, unyielding, deliberate. “You want to handle yourself? Fine. Let’s talk about what you’re handling.”

She looks around the room as if daring anyone to challenge her. The others are silent, waiting, their eyes darting between the two of you. Mallory’s next words land like a hammer blow, deliberate and devastating.

“She’s pregnant.”

The room drops into stunned silence.

For a moment, you can’t breathe. The words hit you like a physical force, stealing the air from your lungs. You stare at Mallory, wide-eyed, your heart pounding painfully against your ribs.

Hughie’s voice cracks the stillness, disbelief painted all over his face. “Wait… what?”

You can feel the weight of every gaze drilling into you. You turn, locking eyes with Annie, her expression a mix of hurt, confusion, a flicker of anger. It hits harder than you expect.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks softly, but her voice is laced with betrayal.

“Mallory,” you manage, your voice a strangled whisper. “What the hell are you doing?”

Mallory doesn’t flinch, her gaze unwavering. “I’m telling them the truth.”

The tension coils around your ribs, tightening like a vice. You whirl on Mallory, your words trembling with fury. “You had no right—”

“I had every right,” Mallory interrupts, her tone sharp as broken glass. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk anymore, you’re putting all of us at risk. If Homelander finds out about that baby, Butcher’s baby, he won’t stop until he gets to you. And trust me when I say he’ll rip apart anyone who gets in his way. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

The room feels like it’s spinning. The world tilts under your feet. Your hand trembles as it presses instinctively to your stomach, grounding yourself against the wave of fear crashing over you.

“You didn’t have to do it like this,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You didn’t have to…”

Annie steps forward, shaking her head. Her voice is small and raw. “I don’t understand. I thought we were friends. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do!” The words spill out desperately as you turn to face her, the weight of her disappointment cutting deeper than you imagined. “Annie, I just—I wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet. I didn’t even know how to say it.”

Mallory doesn’t let the moment linger. Her tone turns cold and immovable. “This isn’t up for debate. Hughie, you’re going with her.”

“What?!” Hughie blurts, incredulous. He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes wide. “Why me?”

Mallory levels him with a look that leaves no room for argument. “Because you’re the least likely to survive a fight, and I need someone I can trust to make sure she doesn’t try to sneak back here the moment the car pulls away.”

“Great,” Hughie groans, throwing his hands up. “So now I’m a glorified babysitter. That’s fantastic. Can’t wait.”

“I don’t need a babysitter Mallory, I can still help,” you say, your voice hoarse but determined. “I’m not leaving. I won’t.”

“You’re both going,” Mallory repeats, unflinching. “That’s the end of it.”

Frenchie steps forward, his usual warmth tempered into something more serious. He looks at you, his voice low and gentle. “Ma poupette… We will handle this. You need to go. To stay alive. For yourself. For the bébé.”

Kimiko stands at his side, silent but understanding. She steps closer and places her hand lightly on your arm, her touch soft, grounding. Her dark eyes meet yours, full of quiet compassion. No words pass between you, but her meaning is clear. Go. Live. We’ll fight for you.

You swallow hard, the knots of anger, fear, and helplessness tangling in your chest. Every look of concern feels like an accusation, like a reminder of how exposed, how vulnerable you are.

You turn away from Kimiko, from the team, the knot in your chest growing tighter by the second. Your gaze lands on the broken window, the jagged edges of glass reflecting the pale light of morning. You know Mallory is right. You know it. But the thought of walking away, of hiding, feels like giving up. Like letting Homelander win.

The weight of their silence presses in on you as you stare out at the city beyond the shattered glass, your fists trembling at your sides.

“Fine,” you say finally, your voice low and clipped. “I’ll go.”

Mallory jerks her chin toward the door. “The car’s waiting. Go.”

The room watches as you turn toward the hallway, Hughie trailing just behind. Annie and Mallory follow in silence, their footsteps heavy with all the things left unsaid.

You duck into the car, allowing a respectful distance for Annie and Hughie to linger, saying their goodbyes. Annie strides over to your window as Hughie crawls in.

She stops at the window, her expression tight, but her eyes, those kind, forgiving eyes, are glossy with unshed tears. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” she says, her voice shaking with emotion.

The words nearly break you. You blink rapidly, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I’m so sorry, Annie.”

Annie reaches in through the open window and grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly. The warmth of her touch cracks something inside you, sending a fresh wave of emotion through you.

“Just… stay safe, okay?” Her voice softens, even as it trembles. “Promise me.”

You nod frantically, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I promise.”

Her thumb brushes across the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment. “I love you,” she says quietly. “I’ll see you soon.”

You squeeze her hand back, holding on as long as you can. “I love you too.”

With one last lingering look, Annie steps back. You roll up the window, your breath hitching as Hughie lets loose a heavy sigh. The car starts to pull away, the rumble of the engine muffling the sound of your quiet sniffles.

You turn to look through the rear windshield. Annie stands there, growing smaller and smaller, the wind tugging gently at her hair. She doesn’t move, doesn’t turn away, until she’s just a distant figure against the backdrop of everything you’ve lost.

The ruins of the last eight months—your home, your safety, your secrets—left behind. And all you can do is stare at the horizon, where your world has shattered, and try to piece together what comes next.

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones