gullemec

[gullemec]

Older blue collar husband that always comes home smelling a bit musky but never bad after a long day at work, his hands almost always covered in grease & grime. He never likes to bring home stress so he may or may not stash a pack of Marlboros in the glovebox for those extra hard days. In his free time he’s always making repairs to the chevy that he bought for cheap in “mint condition”(you told him it was too good to be true). Has the biggest appetite and will never turn down the opportunity to devour a meal made by his sweet little dove. Afterwards he likes to unwind with a drink on the couch, his darling nestled beside him as he showers her in all his love & praise ♡

[gullemec]

Hero Number One

Golden Ruin - Chapter Two

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You and Hughie team up for your first real mission since you were temporarily benched. Simple. Easy. Right?... Right?

Warnings: emetophobia warning, reader vomits, alcohol use

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7k

A/N: I really love the friendship that Annie and Hughie have with the reader. It would be a real shame if... something were to happen to that. ANYWAY. Enjoy!

The morning after your conversation with Mallory dawns gray and cold, a thin frost clinging to the edges of car windows and cracked pavement.

You and Hughie sit side by side in the catering van, its engine idling a little too loud for your liking. The sleek, towering facade of the Russian Consulate looms ahead, its flags flapping lazily in the light breeze. You glance at Hughie, his thin frame practically swimming in the ill-fitting tuxedo jacket. He looks just as nervous as you feel.

"Well," he says, breaking the silence. He’s fiddling with the bow tie around his neck, which seems determined to strangle him. "This is... pretty wild, huh? Us. Russian consulate. Fancy clothes. A mission."

You huff out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Feels like a joke, doesn’t it? I mean, catering tuxes? Really?” You tug at the sleeves of your own jacket, which is equally unflattering. You can’t lie, though, you look much better in this than Hughie does.

Hughie grins, the corners of his mouth twitching nervously. “It’s either a joke, or Mallory’s finally lost it. You know, sending us in for something like this.”

“She must want us dead” you quip, leaning back against the seat and staring out the windshield. Your tone is light, but the nerves bubbling in your stomach betray you. You drum your fingers against your thighs, trying to keep your hands busy.

Hughie catches the movement and leans forward slightly, his voice lowering. “You nervous?” His tone is gentle, almost reassuring, but there’s a hint of his own anxiety beneath it.

“Terrified,” you admit with a shaky exhale. “But also... kind of excited? I mean, this is big, right? Like, big big. Mallory wouldn’t have trusted us with this if she didn’t think we could handle it. She kept saying how important this is.”

Hughie nods, his eyes wide. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly. We’ve got this. Totally. We just... walk in, smile, serve some overpriced hors d'oeuvres, and get what we need. Easy.”

“Totally,” you echo, though your voice lacks conviction. You turn to face him, arching an eyebrow. “What’s the worst that could happen, right?”

Hughie’s laugh is nervous and strained. “Oh, I don’t know. We could get caught, thrown into a Russian prison, and then Butcher has to break us out in some insane, over-the-top way that probably involves a rocket launcher.”

You consider the mental image for a moment. You don’t hate the thought.

“Honestly, sounds about right,” you reply, grinning despite yourself. Hughie’s ability to joke, even when he’s clearly terrified, is infectious.

The two of you fall into silence for a moment, staring at the consulate ahead. The back door, the one you’ll be slipping through in a matter of minutes, is just visible from where you’re parked. You can see a pair of actual catering staff unloading trays of food and crates of champagne. The sight sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through you, your heart picking up speed.

“Okay,” Hughie says, slapping his hands against his knees as if to psych himself up. “We’ve got this. We’ve trained for worse. Well, sort of. But we’re a team, right?”

“Right,” you agree, giving him a firm nod. “Team Uncomfortably Overdressed.”

Hughie chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Speak for yourself. You’re pulling that tux off way better than I am.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Hughie,” you tease, but there’s warmth in your voice. Despite everything, it’s nice having someone by your side who understands the weight of this moment.

He clears his throat, straightening his bow tie one last time. “Alright. Let’s do this before I chicken out.”

You both slide out of the van, the cold morning air biting at your skin as you approach the back entrance. The chatter of staff and the clinking of silverware grow louder with each step, and you can’t help but glance at Hughie again. He catches your eye and offers a small, encouraging smile.

You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. This is it. You’re doing it. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and completely overwhelming all at once.

With a shared look of determination, you and Hughie step into the alley, finding the unlocked back door exactly where Mallory said it would be.

~~~

The moment you and Hughie step into the dimly lit, grimy garbage room at the back of the Russian consulate, you regret every decision that led you to this exact point. The air is thick with the acrid stench of rotting food, sour chemicals, and a faint undercurrent of decay. It’s almost tangible, like a greasy film that coats the inside of your throat. You stifle a gag as the door shuts behind you, sealing you both into this pit of misery.

“God, it smells like something died in here,” you mutter, pulling your tuxedo jacket tighter around you, as if it could somehow protect you from the assault on your senses.

Hughie groans, waving a hand in front of his nose. “Yeah, well, at least we’re not—"

Before he can finish, your stomach lurches violently. Saliva floods your mouth in a tidal wave, nausea hitting you like a truck. You recognize the feeling immediately. Your body’s point of no return. Panic sets in as you whip your head toward him, clutching your stomach.

“Oh no... oh no.”

You barely manage to turn away before doubling over and vomiting violently onto the floor. The sound is mortifying, echoing in the cramped, grimy space, the stench of bile mingling with the already unbearable smell. You feel errant chunks splash back onto your shirt, and for a split second, your brain short-circuits. This cannot be happening.

Hughie freezes, his face a mask of pure horror. “Oh my god! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine...” you croak, wiping your mouth with a trembling hand. Your voice is unconvincing even to yourself. “Just—just keep it together.”

“Keep it together?” Hughie’s voice pitches higher, his panic rising to match yours. “You just threw up, we’re about to walk into a room full of Russian diplomats and Vought suits, and you’ve got—uh—" He gestures vaguely at your shirt, his wide eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. “—a situation!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the enormity of the situation slamming into you like a freight train. You try to steady your breathing, but it’s no use. A torrent of thoughts floods your mind, each one louder and more damning than the last.

This is your fault. You should’ve been calmer. Should’ve prepared better. Should’ve known your nerves would get the better of you. Now look. You’ve gone and jeopardized the whole mission.

Another wave of nausea threatens to crest, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, swallowing hard. “Okay, listen,” you manage, your voice shaky but firm. “We don’t have time to freak out. We just need to adapt.”

Hughie looks at you like you’ve just suggested defusing a bomb with a toothpick. “Adapt? Adapt?! You just vomited all over the place, and we’re supposed to—”

“Focus, Hughie!” you snap, your panic giving way to a sharp edge. You scan the room desperately, saying a silent prayer when you spot a pile of cleaning supplies in the corner. “Grab those towels and that spray bottle so I can wipe off my shoes.”

Hughie hesitates, but your glare spurs him into action. He darts to the corner and grabs the supplies, tossing you a threadbare towel.

“What about your shirt?” he asks, his voice still tinged with disbelief. “You can’t go in like that!”

“I’ll change shirts,” you reply quickly, already scanning the room for a solution. Your eyes land on a bag of soiled uniforms near the door. “Look, there’s gotta be something in that laundry bag we can use.”

Hughie rummages through the bag, pulling out a white chef’s jacket, only mildly stained with god-knows-what. He holds it up like a prize, his face a mix of triumph and incredulity. “This’ll work, right?”

“Perfect. Turn around.”

He spins on his heel, muttering something under his breath about the absurdity of the situation. You strip off your vomit-stained shirt and jacket as quickly as you can, buttoning up the chef’s jacket with shaking hands. The oversized fit does nothing for your confidence, but at least it’s clean.

“There. Crisis averted,” you say, trying to inject some levity into your voice. It comes out hollow. “Now let’s focus.”

Hughie turns back around, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? That wasn’t, like, normal. What if you’re—”

“Hughie.” You cut him off, your tone sharper than you intended. “Focus. We’ve got a job to do.”

He nods, though he doesn’t look convinced. Together, you rush toward the meeting room, your heart pounding harder with each step. But when you push the door open, your stomach drops. The room is already full, a cluster of Russian diplomats and Vought executives deep in conversation around the polished table.

You shut the door instantaneously, throwing yourself against the wall beside the door. Panic claws at your throat. “Okay, great,” you whisper harshly to Hughie. “This is officially a disaster. We’re out of time!”

Your mind races, scrambling for a backup plan. The weight of your little fuck up hangs heavy over you, the consequences of your panic spiraling into a full-blown catastrophe. You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to be ready.

Hughie glances at you, his face pale but determined. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “We always do.”

The tension is palpable as you pull Hughie away from the door, urging him back into the garbage room. His wide eyes flick between you and the closed meeting room as his breath comes in shallow gasps. You can see the panic building in him, the stress of the situation getting the better of him.

God, I can’t lose it now, you think to yourself, trying desperately to maintain control. Not when he’s falling apart. You force your breathing to slow, leaning back against the grimy wall, trying to think. The mission has already gone off track in the worst possible way, your fault, but you refuse to let it completely unravel.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, scanning the room, thinking for a way out. The seconds are ticking by faster than you can keep up, but then, just as panic begins to cloud your thoughts, a sliver of clarity cuts through.

“We don’t need to be in the room ourselves. We just need to hear what’s going on.”

Hughie stares at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean, hear what’s going on? We were supposed to bug the room, right? What’s left?”

You take a deep breath and look around, your gaze landing on the ceiling. A vent grate, just above you, the one thing that could save your ass.

“What about that?” you say, pointing upward. “The vents!”

Hughie blinks, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You wanna climb into the vents? Like Mission Impossible? Are you insane? We don’t have time for that!”

You chuckle to yourself, but inside, your brain is already working, piecing together an absurd, but potentially viable, plan.

“No, not climb in. We don’t need to. We just need to get something in there that can listen.”

Hughie’s eyes narrow, not understanding. “Like a bug?”

You give him a sly look, reaching into his pocket. “Like a phone,” you say, swiping his cell from his pants.

The plan clicks into place, and it’s almost too perfect for words. Using the building schematics Mallory forced you to study, you locate a maintenance closet next to the meeting room. Perfect. Hughie’s hands tremble slightly as he digs through maintenance supplies for a screwdriver.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. This feels so illegal.” Hughie’s voice wavers.

“Hughie, we’re already spying on Russian diplomats and Vought,” you remind him, exasperated. “Illegal is literally the whole point.”

With a nervous gulp, Hughie unscrews the vent grate with shaky hands. You steal one last look around, making sure the coast is clear. The tension in the air is thick, and you swear you can hear your heart pounding louder than the sound of the screwdriver turning.

The moment you’ve been dreading finally arrives. You take Hughie’s phone, your hand trembling slightly as you hold it in your palm. You quickly dial his number from your phone and wait for the call to connect. With a steadying breath, you lean over the vent and carefully toss the phone down the shaft. The soft thud it makes when it lands echoes in your ears, sending a small shiver of relief through your body. It’s in place.

“We should be good,” you mutter under your breath, straightening up.

Hughie’s expression is a mixture of awe and disbelief, but there’s no time to revel in the moment. You crouch in the corner of the maintenance closet, signaling to Hughie to follow you. You both take refuge in the corner, huddling together in silence. The only sound is your breath, shallow but determined.

The wait feels endless. Every minute feels like an eternity as you listen, straining to hear the voices filtering through the vents. They’re muffled but enough to make out words, and then it comes, the voice you’ve been waiting for. A stern, cold, decidedly Russian male voice that sends a chill through you.

"Three facilities destroyed in as many months. Each one housing... sensitive materials."

Your heart skips a beat, but you stay still, trying to focus, running through your breathing exercises.

Ashley’s voice stammers in response. “Vought... uh, Vought has no knowledge of these attacks. And to be clear, we're not responsible.”

You exchange a look with Hughie, your eyes widening. “What are they talking about? What’s going on?”

The voice responds, sharp and cutting. "The timing is convenient. Too convenient. And the power signatures… unique, are they not?"

“Power signatures?” you whisper under your breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

"I have no fucking clue," Hughie says, brows furrowed.

A strained silence follows, and then the man’s voice breaks in again, more chilling than before. “We made arrangements with your predecessors long ago to avoid such... disruptions. Are you going back on those arrangements?”

“Arrangements?” Ashley stammers again. “Look, Vought has nothing to gain from attacking your facilities.”

"And yet, your... Hero Number One is conspicuously unaccounted for during the incidents." The voice drops, mocking. 

"Homelander? Uh... he’s been busy. You know, saving lives." Ashley is panicking, maybe even more than you had been only minutes ago.

You stifle a laugh, but it dies in your throat as you hear the weight of the words. “Wait… Homelander’s involved?”

The voice drops lower. “Let me be clear. If these attacks continue, there will be consequences. Severe ones. But if they stop now, we will consider the matter closed. Do you understand?”

Ashley’s voice cracks, but she responds, resigned. “Crystal clear.”

You and Hughie lock eyes, frowning. It’s a lot to digest, but the important part is clear. Vought’s in deeper shit than you realized.

“Whatever it is, the Russians know Vought’s involved. That’s obvious,” you mutter to Hughie.

“We’ll find out,” Hughie says, his voice heightening with the thrill of success. You nod, unable to keep yourself from smiling with relief.

The conversation fizzles out, and after a few tense moments, the meeting breaks up. You and Hughie gather your things, trying to look as casual as possible. You head toward the door, but just as you do, you catch Hughie watching you from the corner of your eye. He’s grinning, a mixture of admiration and gratitude on his face.

“You’re really good at this stuff,” he says quietly, almost reverently. “I mean it.”

You toss him a sly wink, letting the praise wash over you. “Learned from the best,” you say with a shrug, but there’s a hint of something deeper beneath the humor.

Hughie doesn’t buy it, though. “You should get that checked out, you know. The throwing up thing, it’s not nothing.”

You roll your eyes, brushing it off. “Let’s deal with one crisis at a time.”

Hughie’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly about to say something when you cut him off. “Like getting my phone out of the vent?”

“Oh my god, Hughie,” you groan, already walking out the door. “I’ll just buy you a new one. My inheritance isn’t going to spend itself.”

The exit is smooth, effortless even, and as you slip back into the bustling streets of the city, the rush of success courses through you. This mission? Almost a disaster, but for now, it’s a win. And that was all you needed.

~~~

You burst through the door with a rush of adrenaline, your heart still pounding from the mission. Mallory looks up from her desk, her eyes narrowing in that familiar, no-nonsense way. She’s seated behind a mountain of files, a steaming mug of coffee beside her. She doesn’t even flinch at the commotion as you and Hughie stumble in, breathless and clearly still buzzing from the success of your almost-botched mission. But you can sense the shift in her posture as she takes in your disheveled appearances. You both know it’s coming, the moment when you have to explain the details of what went down.

Her gaze flicks to your shirt, decidedly not the one you left in, and she raises an eyebrow. "I trust there's a good reason you're barging in here like this," Mallory says, her tone flat but tinged with a hint of curiosity. "Start talking."

You shoot a glance at Hughie, who looks just as nervous as you feel. Taking a deep breath, you launch into the details, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "We got something. The Russians think Vought is attacking their labs, but they don’t have proof. They mentioned something about ‘power signatures’ and accused Vought of breaking some... arrangement from years ago."

Hughie chimes in, his voice tinged with uncertainty, but still eager to contribute. “And Ashley, uh, she sounded nervous. Really nervous. Didn’t even deny it outright, just danced around everything.” He shrugs, trying to play it cool, but you both know the tension in the room has shifted.

Mallory’s expression remains unreadable, her brows furrowed as she takes it all in. “Power signatures... Homelander?”

"That’s what we’re thinking," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “But the Russians are definitely in the know. They gave Vought an ultimatum… stop the attacks, or there’ll be retaliation.”

Mallory’s gaze sharpens, and her fingers tap lightly against the desk. “Interesting. And how exactly did you overhear all this? I didn’t hear anything coming from the bugs.”

You and Hughie exchange a glance, the kind of silent communication that only comes from shared moments of panic. You both know you’re about to enter dangerous territory. Hughie opens his mouth to speak first, but you beat him to it, hoping to smooth it over. “Uh, well... slight change of plans,” you say, your voice sounding a little too casual. “The vent system gave us better access, so we... sort of dropped his phone in there and called it with mine.”

Mallory’s brow arches. “Dropped his phone in the vent?”

You wince, feeling the sting of her skepticism. “It was my idea. We didn’t have time to do anything else, the food carts were already gone, and we had to act fast. It worked.” You try to maintain your cool, but you can already tell this isn’t going over well.

Hughie jumps in, trying to shoulder some of the blame. “Hey, I could’ve said no. I went along with it, so if you’re gonna be mad at someone, be mad at me too.”

Mallory sighs, her hand massaging her temples as though fighting a headache. “Let me get this straight. Not only did you veer off plan, but you left a phone, one of your phones, in a building crawling with Vought security?”

You both drop your heads like scolded children, waiting for the hammer to fall. You can feel the weight of Mallory’s silence in the air as she processes the situation. Finally, she speaks again, her voice softer this time, but still carrying a sharp edge.

“That said...” she begins, leaning back in her chair, her gaze piercing as she assesses both of you. “It was quick thinking. Resourceful. And brave, considering the risks.” She pauses, her expression unreadable. 

She says your name, like it amuses her.

“You remind me of me when I was your age. Same mix of guts and recklessness. I respected it then, and I respect it now… But guts without discipline is a liability.”

You look up, meeting her gaze. It’s hard not to feel a rush of pride, even though you’re still on edge. You hold back a dumb grin, only nodding in acknowledgment. “Understood,” you say quietly, the weight of her words sinking in.

She turns her attention to Hughie next. “And you,” Mallory says, her tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re loyal to a fault. That’s both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness. Don’t let it get you killed.”

Hughie fidgets, his usual awkwardness surfacing as he tries to figure out how to respond. “Thanks... I think?” There’s a nervous chuckle in his voice, but the smile on his face is genuine, if a little sheepish.

Mallory stands up abruptly, signaling the end of the conversation. “Get some rest, both of you. I’ll call a meeting when I decide what to do next. And don’t make me regret trusting you with this.”

As you head out the door, Hughie nudges you lightly with his elbow. You can hear the faintest hint of a grin in his voice. “See? You’re officially Mallory’s favorite. I’m just the guy who sacrifices phones.”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “You’re the guy who has my back. That counts for something.”

Hughie’s grin widens, but there's a hint of something else in his expression, something unspoken, a closeness that’s grown between you both in the chaos of the mission. You can’t help but feel a strange sense of pride that, despite the curveballs, you made it through this together. It’s enough that you let yourself feel happy for once.

~~~

Back in the sanctuary of your apartment, you peel off the soiled chef’s jacket, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud, followed by the tuxedo pants. Each item feels like a layer of the day you’re shedding, leaving a trail of your ordeal across the living room floor as you make your way toward the bathroom.

The day itself clings to you like a second skin, like a physical weight you can’t seem to shake. The grime of the garbage room, the sweat of anxiety that had you gripping your phone too tightly, the faint but nauseating scent of vomit that seems embedded in your pores. It all lingers, an oppressive reminder of the chaos you barely succeeded against.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the single bulb above the mirror casting a soft glow over the tiled walls. You twist the taps of the bathtub, favoring the hot water. The pipes groan in protest, but soon the sound of rushing water drowns everything out. Steam rises, curling in thick tendrils that fill the room with a warm haze, blurring the edges of the mirror until your reflection disappears entirely.

You reach for the row of glass jars and bottles on the counter, your movements deliberate and unhurried. Lavender bath salts, eucalyptus oils, a dollop of honey-scented soap, all of it goes into the steaming water. The calming aroma envelops you almost instantly, soft and soothing, as if the lavender itself is whispering breathe.

When the tub is full, you step in gingerly, the scalding water biting at your skin. You hiss through your teeth as the heat wraps around you, but you don’t stop. It’s just shy of unbearable, and that’s exactly what you want. The pain is cleansing, purifying, driving out the lingering discomfort of the day.

You sink deeper, letting the water lap at your shoulders, then your collarbones, until it feels as though it’s holding you in place. Every muscle begins to unclench, the tension draining out of you like water down the drain. You scrub at your arms and legs methodically, like scrubbing the grime of the day will somehow erase the memories tied to it.

And then, when you’ve done all you can on the surface, you let yourself slip beneath the warm, foamy water. The bubbles crackle faintly as they collapse around you. The world outside disappears, replaced by muffled silence and weightlessness.

You’ve always loved this part. The stillness, the sensory deprivation. There’s something comforting about being underwater, as if time slows down and nothing can reach you. No sounds, no responsibilities, no doubts. Just the rhythmic beat of your own heart and the cocoon of warmth around you.

You force your mind to go blank. The anxiety still bubbling in your veins from the mission, the lingering nausea from the garbage room, the faint tremor of adrenaline that refuses to fade, all of it is shoved aside. Even the persistent doubts about Butcher, your tenuous place in this strange, chaotic group, and the nagging voice that insists you don’t belong, it all dissipates, sinking into the depths of the bathwater like sediment.

For a fleeting moment, you find peace.

And then, like a cruel joke, the deep rumble of vibration shatters it.

You break the surface with a gasp, lungs expanding greedily as the steamy air rushes in. Your ears are ringing slightly from the sudden return to reality. Blinking away the water clinging to your lashes, you spot the culprit. Your phone, perched precariously on the ledge of the sink, buzzing insistently.

It vibrates again and again, as though whoever is calling knows exactly how close you were to shutting the world out and is determined to pull you back in.

You hesitate, staring at it through the veil of steam. For a moment, you consider ignoring it, letting the water reclaim you. But the world doesn’t wait. Not for you.

With a sigh, you reach for the phone, wiping a damp hand on the towel draped over the edge of the tub before swiping the screen. Butcher. His name stares back at you, cutting through the haze like a lighthouse in the fog. It sends a strange twist to your gut, an emotion you can’t quite name or place, something that wavers between guilt and relief.

You lower yourself back into the water, cradling the phone to your ear. “Hey,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, airy, like the mist swirling around you.

“Hey, love.” His voice is low and gruff, but there’s an edge of relief in it, a subtle tension easing. “How’d things go today?”

There’s weight to his question, the kind that says he already knows the answer but wants to hear it from you.

“They went… alright,” you say, wincing as the words leave your mouth. It’s half a truth, and Butcher can smell those from a mile away. You could’ve lied, could’ve told him everything went off without a hitch, bragged about you and Hughie finally securing the intel the Boys had been chasing for months.

But you know better.

Even if you’d managed to mask the strain in your voice, Butcher doesn’t make a habit of staying out of the loop on missions, especially one as critical as this. If he’s calling, it’s not for the facts. It’s for you.

“What happened?” he asks, and his voice is heavier now, weighted with something that sounds suspiciously like worry.

“I…” You hesitate, biting your lip. “I don’t know. I threw up.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. You can almost picture the way his brow furrows, the faint twitch of his jaw as he processes your answer.

“We were in this garbage room,” you continue, rushing the words before he can press. “It was fucking disgusting. Rancid. And I guess I must’ve eaten something bad this morning because, next thing I know…” You trail off, your free hand waving uselessly in the air as if he can see it.

Another pause. When Butcher speaks again, his tone is softer, gentler, but still with that unmistakable edge. “You sure that’s all it was?”

You bristle slightly, even though you know he’s not accusing you of lying, he’s just doing what he always does. Digging, poking at the cracks to see what falls out. “Yes, I’m sure. I just—” You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “It wasn’t exactly my finest moment, okay?”

“I ain’t askin’ for fine moments, darlin’. I’m askin’ if you’re alright.”

His words land with a weight you weren’t prepared for, and you sink a little lower into the water, the warmth creeping up your neck. “I’m fine,” you say, but the words sound hollow even to your own ears. “It’s not like I keeled over in the middle of the mission or something.”

“No, but you bloody well could’ve,” he counters, and there’s a sharp edge to his voice now, his concern slipping into something grittier. “I see you, pushin’ yourself too far, takin’ every risk you can get away with, all so Mallory or someone else’ll give you a bloody pat on the head.”

His words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t respond. He’s not wrong, and that only makes it worse.

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Butcher, I don’t need a lecture right now, okay? I just need…” You pause, searching for the right words. “I just need to decompress. That’s all.”

There’s a soft exhale on the other end, and for a moment, you think he might actually drop it. But Butcher being Butcher, that’s wishful thinking.

“Look, I ain’t tryin’ to have a go at you,” he says, his tone shifting again, quieter now. “I’m just sayin’... you ain’t gotta push yourself so hard. We both know you’ve got more guts than half the bloody team put together, but that don’t mean you’ve gotta prove it every damn day.”

His words hit harder than you expect, and you feel your throat tighten, a lump forming that you don’t dare acknowledge. “I’m not trying to prove anything,” you say, though it sounds defensive even to you.

“Yeah?” Butcher counters, and there’s no malice in it, just that same infuriating ability to see straight through you. “Then what’s all this about, eh? Spewin’ your guts out and still soldierin’ on like nothin’ happened? You ain’t gotta prove nothin’ to me, love. Or to Mallory. Or to anyone else for that matter.”

You close your eyes, leaning back against the curve of the tub. The steam wraps around you like a cocoon, but it does nothing to soften the truth. “I just…” You exhale sharply, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I just don’t want to be dead weight. Everyone else brings something to the team. I don’t want to be the weak link.”

Butcher lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Dead weight? Weak link? You’re havin’ a laugh, right? You’ve pulled your weight more times than I can count. But you keep pushin’ yourself like this, and you’re gonna end up hurt, or worse. And then where does that leave us, hm?”

You bite your lip, hating how much sense he’s making. “I’ll be fine,” you murmur, but it sounds weak even to you.

“Maybe,” he says, and there’s a smirk in his voice now, faint but unmistakable. “But just in case, take the bloody night off, yeah? Get some proper rest. Eat somethin’ that ain’t out of a tin.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. “Alright, point made. I’ll take it easy.”

“Good,” Butcher replies, the sharpness easing from his tone. “’Cause I don’t fancy givin’ Mallory the satisfaction of sayin’ I told you so when you go and get yourself in a bind tryin’ to impress her.”

“Actually,” you add, your tone softening, “I’m going over to Annie’s tonight. She invited me for a girls’ night. Thought it might be good to take a break.”

There’s a pause, and when Butcher speaks again, his voice is lighter, almost teasing. “Girls’ night, eh? What’s that, face masks and soppy films?”

“Something like that,” you reply with a laugh, feeling some of the tension drain from your chest. “No more covert missions for me today, I promise. I’ll be back in one piece.”

“See that you are,” he says, the humor fading just enough for his concern to shine through. “Just… take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Got it,” you say, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the bathwater. “Thanks, for looking out for me.”

“Don’t mention it,” he grumbles, and the line goes dead a moment later.

You set the phone aside, sinking back into the tub with a small, genuine smile. Maybe tonight, surrounded by Annie’s easy warmth and the promise of a break, you’ll let yourself breathe.

For now, though, you let the water wash the day away, Butcher’s words echoing softly in your mind.

You’ve got nothin’ to prove.

~~~

Annie’s apartment is a cozy sanctuary, the kind of place that feels like a soft hug after a long, chaotic day. It’s small but welcoming, lit by the soft glow of fairy lights draped across the walls and candles flickering gently on the coffee table. The scent of takeout lingers in the air, blending with the faint notes of lavender from the candles. On the coffee table sits an almost empty bottle of wine, along with snacks; chips, popcorn, and containers of leftover Chinese food. The TV is playing a classic romcom, the kind with all the predictable plot twists and grand gestures. 

Right now, the leading man is declaring his love for the main character in a dramatic and profound way. She acts like she doesn’t accept at first, but then does anyway. They kiss. Everybody claps.                   

You and Annie are curled up together on the couch, glasses of wine in hand. Her presence is like a lifeline, grounding you in a way few others can. You’ve been through so much together, but in moments like these, you’re just two friends, comfortable in each other's company.

Annie smiles at the TV, her eyes soft with a mix of amusement and something else. Maybe hope, maybe longing. "You know, this movie is kind of cheesy, but I get why people love it. Who doesn’t want a guy to move heaven and earth for them?"

You snort, trying to keep the mood light, but there's an edge of bitterness in your voice. “You mean while looking like they just walked out of an underwear ad? Very realistic.”

Annie laughs, a warm, genuine sound that makes your chest tighten in appreciation. She’s been such a constant in your life, even when you didn’t know how much you needed her. “Okay, fair. But it’s sweet! Sometimes I wish...” She pauses, her gaze flicking toward you as if she’s about to say something, but then her expression turns to confusion. “Wait, are you crying?”

You blink, realizing that your eyes are wet, tears streaming down your face. You quickly swipe them away, mortified. What the hell? This movie is so not worth getting emotional over. But you… Can’t stop. It’s the strangest feeling, this mix of loneliness and longing that seems to bubble up out of nowhere. It’s like a tiny, sharp pang deep in your chest, one that you’ve been trying to ignore for a while now.

“What? No. It’s just—fuck, I don’t know. Stupid hormones or something. I’m getting my period soon,” you say, your voice shaky as you try to brush it off.

Annie’s eyes soften, a teasing smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Sure, blame the hormones,” she teases, but there’s a tenderness to her tone that makes you feel a little less embarrassed. “It’s okay, though. It was a super cute moment.”

“It’s unrealistic. Nobody does that in real life,” you mutter, more to yourself than to her. Your heart sinks a little. The grand gestures, the declarations of love, it all feels like something that’s out of reach, like some perfect fairytale that you’ll never get to be a part of.

Annie leans back against the couch, popping a handful of Nerds Gummy Clusters into her mouth, her eyes still glued to the screen. “Yeah, but wouldn’t it be nice if they did?” She turns to look at you, her mischievous grin returning. “So... how did Butcher say it?”

You freeze. The words feel like they’re caught in your throat, stuck in a tangle of nerves and confusion. Annie’s gaze is curious, expectant, but you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. She’s your friend, one of the few people you’ve been able to rely on, the one who knows almost everything about you. But this is… embarrassing. A particularly vulnerable sore spot you’ve never shared before, never even spoke aloud.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice a little too sharp, trying to buy yourself time to think of a way out of this conversation.

“You know, I love you. What did he do? A big speech? Or was it all gruff and awkward? I can’t exactly picture him doing flowers or anything.”

You glance down at your wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid around, suddenly too aware of how your hands are trembling. I can’t lie to Annie, you think to yourself. But this is complicated. Butcher’s never said it. And part of you wonders if he ever will. You both dance around the idea of love like it’s some dangerous territory, too scared to take that step and label what you have. It’s easier to pretend, to avoid the conversation, than to tempt fate and risk losing it all.

“He… hasn’t said it,” you finally admit, your voice quiet, as though saying the words out loud will somehow make them feel more real.

Annie blinks, clearly taken aback. “Oh.”

The air between you shifts, a sudden weight pressing down on both of you. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Annie’s the first to speak again, her voice softer, trying to offer comfort, even though you can tell she’s just as unsure as you are.

“I mean, that’s okay! Some people take a while to get there. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”

You wish you could believe that. Mallory’s words from earlier echo in your mind, and suddenly, the ache in your chest feels sharper, more painful. He’s a man who’s willing to burn the world down to protect the people he loves. And he’ll burn himself down, too, if it comes to it. But will he ever say it? Will he ever admit it? You’re afraid to ask, too afraid of the answer.

“Yeah, but... it’s not just that. We’ve never actually talked about... us. He’s never referred to me as his girlfriend... and I guess I’ve never called him my boyfriend, either,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Annie raises her eyebrows, her gaze piercing. “Seriously?”

You feel a twinge of defensiveness rise in you, but you push it down. This isn’t her fault, you remind yourself. She’s just trying to help. “It just never came up! There’s been a lot going on, you know? My dad, the explosion... defining the relationship didn’t exactly feel like a priority.”

“Well, I mean, how long have you guys been sleeping together? Like, six months?” Annie presses, not letting you avoid the truth.

You sip your wine, swallowing nervously. “Longer…”

Annie nearly chokes on the popcorn she’s munching. “What? Since when?”

“Remember when we drove up to the Canadian border to crash the van carrying V2?” you ask, sheepish.

“That long?! And you never told me?!” Her voice is full of disbelief, and you can’t help but laugh, despite the heaviness of the conversation.

“It’s not like I kept it from you on purpose! I just... didn’t know what it was at first. And by the time I figured it out, it didn’t feel important anymore.”

“So that long, huh? That’s... wow. I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this to yourself!” Annie shakes her head in amazement, but there’s a warmth in her eyes that makes your chest tighten with gratitude.

“It’s not like I’m used to having a lot of friends to share things with, you know? Old habits die hard.” You shrug, a wry smile on your face, but inside, you’re overwhelmed by how much she’s really offering. You’ve never had someone who just gets you like Annie does. No judgment, no expectations, just pure, unfiltered friendship.

“Okay, fair,” she says, reaching out to squeeze your hand. Her grip is gentle, supportive. “But you know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

She squeezes your hand again, her smile full of warmth. “It’s okay. I just... I hate the idea of you settling for less than you deserve. You’re amazing, and you deserve someone who tells you that. Someone who says it out loud.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, a lump forming in your throat. You try to swallow it down, but it’s like the dam is finally breaking. You’ve been holding onto so much, pushing so many emotions down for so long, and in this moment, with Annie by your side, it feels like it’s all too much.

“It’s not that simple with Butcher,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie tilts her head, her eyes soft with understanding. “It doesn’t have to be complicated either. Just talk to him. You deserve love. And if he loves you, even if he’s terrible at showing it, he’ll step up.”

The words settle around you like a blanket, warm and comforting. Maybe it is that simple. But the thought of opening up to Butcher, of letting him see all the parts of you that are still broken and raw, terrifies you. But Annie’s right. You deserve someone who can say the words, who can show you, even if it’s messy and imperfect.

Could that person be Butcher?

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones

[gullemec]

Can Y'all tell me how im supposed to handle this pic??? because I cannnt🥴

[gullemec]

Alright, the people have spoken! Get read for a 17k chapter for Bitten at some point 🫠

Fanfiction readers...

[gullemec]

Ummm so... This was so insanely good. I absolutely LOVED Arthur in this, the way he cared for the reader, the way he wanted her, ugh, everything. This is the kind of fic that makes me want to be a better writer because I want to make people feel the kind of stuff this made me feel. 10000/10 ❤️

When a run-in with an O’Driscoll leads you to a fate worse than death, it’s up to Arthur to pick up the pieces. The road to healing is long, fraught, and difficult. Complete, December 2024.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

[gullemec]

nothing, and i mean NOTHING, compares to joining a new fandom and reading through all the ____ x reader tags. it’s akin to opening gifts on christmas or recieving a package in the mail. actually, scratch that; it’s th equivalent of ascending to the heavens

[gullemec]

touch-starvation needs to be written with emphasis on the starving part. you are hungry to be touched. so hungry that even the very taste of it makes you nauseous. it has been long since anything has ever touched you, ever fed you - that your body has grown more used to that gnawing emptiness more than anything else. it's better for you to be held, to eat but it makes you sick to try. you know

[gullemec]

Invisible Smoke

Golden Ruin - Chapter One

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Six months after the destruction of CytoGenix, the Boys are back and better than ever. Well... for the most part.

Warnings: reader experiences a panic attack, discussions of PTSD/trauma, mild smut, angst, happily ever after isn't so happy :(

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.1k

A/N: Hello and welcome to Golden Cage's sequel series! This has been percolating in my mind since I finished writing Golden Cage (which, for context, was in summer 2024 lol). I'm so excited to pick up where we left off and see what these nerds get up to <3

You stroll down the sunlit sidewalk, your sneakers tapping a steady rhythm against the concrete.

The air hums with the familiar symphony of the city, the honking cabs and chatter of passerby and rumble of the subway beneath your feet like a chorus. Warm rays of light filter through the gaps between towering buildings, dappling your cheeks in fleeting patterns that feel almost like a blessing from the city itself.

A city that is finally starting to feel like home.

As you turn onto 5th Avenue, your gaze lifts instinctively, drawn to the familiar sight ahead. There it is. The Flatiron building, with its iconic triangular frame slicing sharply through the crystalline blue sky. It stands proud and defiant amidst the bustling world below, like the bow of a grand ship cutting through turbulent waters.

The sight is a balm, a touchstone amidst chaos. No matter how many times you walk this path, the comfort it brings never wanes. It’s more than just a building to you now, it’s a symbol. A reminder that in a world teetering on the edge of collapse, some things can still stand tall, steadfast, unshaken.

You weave through the sea of Manhattanites, dodging tourists with cameras and businesspeople glued to their phones. As you approach the Flatiron, you take a moment to admire its beauty and grandeur, the way it stands out against the myriad of skyscrapers and office buildings surrounding it. The city buzzes with its usual frenetic energy, but you’ve learned how to flow with it, like water finding its way around rocks.

You heave open the heavy front door and quickly rush up the stairs to your new office. 

After months of covert negotiations, Butcher had finagled the use of the abandoned Greywal & Co. Import & Export offices on the top floor, bartered as a perk of your group joining the Bureau of Superhuman Affairs as contractors. It's a marked improvement from your previous hideout, the grimy laundromat basement with leaking pipes and the lingering smell of detergent. You still wake up sometimes with phantom memories of that dark, damp space where everything in your life had started to unravel.

Pushing open the glass door to the office space, the faint creak of old hinges announces your arrival. Inside, the room is alive with the energy of preparation. Maps and photographs plaster the walls, red strings connecting points like veins in a pulsing network. Desks are buried under a mess of takeout cartons, coffee-stained papers, and gear waiting to be packed. Monitors hum softly, their screens glowing with encrypted data streams.

Sunlight filters through the arched windows, casting the space in a hazy golden glow that feels almost serene, if not for the tension crackling in the air like static.

The chatter dies instantly as all eyes snap to you.

Awesome. You’re late, again.

You raise a hand in apology, still slightly out of breath from your brisk walk. “Sorry, sorry! Came as soon as I got your text.”

Mallory’s eyebrow arches in that signature expression of disapproval that somehow stings worse than any verbal reprimand. Her silence weighs heavy in the room, a scolding in and of itself.

Butcher’s eyes meet yours across the room, his expression unreadable. He offers you a curt nod, which you return with a small smile. You round the corner of his desk and perch yourself on its edge. His presence is an anchor, steadying you against the rising tide of anxiety.

Mallory rises from her seat, and the air seems to shift. The room quiets further, everyone instinctively straightening as her commanding voice cuts through the stillness.

“We intercepted intel about a meeting at the Russian consulate tomorrow morning,” she begins, her tone clipped and precise. “Vought executives are holding a private session with Russian diplomats. No press. No fanfare. Just whispers.”

She pauses, her gaze sweeping the room, letting the weight of her words settle. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s big. We need ears in that room.”

A delicious tingle of anticipation races down your spine. Finally.

“How big we talkin’ here?” Butcher drawls, leaning back in his chair with the practiced ease of someone who’s seen far too much.

“This could tie into the superweapon rumors we’ve been tracking,” Mallory replies, her voice razor-sharp. “The overseas labs, the classified experiments… This meeting might give us the proof we need to shut it all down. We can’t afford to let this slip.”

You glance around the room, catching the flicker of renewed determination in everyone’s eyes. For months, the Boys have been chasing shadows, piecing together fragments of a puzzle no one seems able to solve. A superweapon, supposedly capable of destroying Homelander. An opportunity like this could blow it all wide open. 

Mallory’s gaze zeroes in on you, sharp and unyielding. “You and Hughie are on this.”

The spark of excitement sputters into an icy stab of dread.

“Wait, what?” Hughie blurts, his voice pitching upward. “You mean us? Like, sneaking into the consulate us? That’s… uh… not exactly my strong suit.”

“I’m not asking you to steal state secrets,” Mallory replies, her tone cutting. “You’re going in as caterers. Plant a recording device, listen in, and get out. Keep your heads down, and no one will notice you.”

“Right, because that always works out great for us…” Hughie mutters, earning a smirk from Frenchie.

You feel the familiar grip of doubt creeping up your spine. This is no small task. It’s the kind of mission where a single misstep could mean disaster. It’s been ages since the Boys had a lead this good, and Mallory wants you on this. Anxiety creeps in at the edges of your mind, that old familiar feeling of inadequacy paying you an unwelcome visit. Your father may be gone, but his presence left a permanent etching in your brain, a voice that tells you to make yourself small and to shrink away from a challenge. 

You shake it off. You refuse to let that voice win.

“We can do this,” you say, injecting steel into your voice. “No one’s going to suspect a couple of random caterers. I’ve been practicing. I can handle it.”

Butcher’s dark laugh cuts through the room, low and biting.

“Practicing, eh?” he sneers. “Need I remind you what happened the last time you and Hughie tried goin’ incognito? Love, this ain’t amateur hour. You’re walkin’ into a bloody nest of Vought execs who’d gut you the moment they sniff something’s off.”

Your stomach twists as memories flash. The acrid scent of burning metal, the heat at your back as Homelander’s laser eyes chased you out of the laboratory. The thrum of your heart in your chest as you practically dragged Hughie out of the building. The hours spent taking subway trains across town to shake your tail. 

But that was months ago. That was your first real mission. You’ve learned. You’ve grown. No one gets to underestimate you, not anymore. 

“I know what’s at stake,” you snap, meeting Butcher’s gaze head-on. “I’m not going to screw this up.”

His jaw tightens, concern flickering in his eyes. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ mixed up in all of this. Your arm’s barely healed.”

You gape at him. “My cast has been off for months!”

“That don’t mean it’s healed!” he retorts, exasperated.

You know he's doing this out of concern, and you know he's seen enough shit in his time to know exactly how dangerous something like this could be. He’s seen more than his fair share of bloody messes and catastrophic endings to missions that went sideways. He knows just how quickly things can spiral, how one wrong move can turn a carefully laid plan into a disaster. But for all his cynicism, he also knows you, what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived, what you’re capable of now.

In the six months since your father’s body became a bomb, detonating CytoGenix Headquarters and reducing it to a smoldering pile of rubble, your condition has been rather… delicate. Concussions, fractured bones, months of physical therapy. Your body had taken a beating, and your mind hadn’t fared much better. But as soon as the cast came off and the doctor cleared you of the worst of it, you were ready to throw yourself back into the action. Ready to stop sitting on the sidelines and start making a difference again.

That was, of course, until you ventured out on your first mission post-explosion. It had been simple, low-stakes, meant to ease you back into things. But nothing is ever truly that simple for you, is it?

~~~

The warehouse loomed in the distance, its corrugated metal exterior streaked with rust and grime. You adjusted your binoculars, squinting through the rain-specked windshield of your car. From your vantage point, parked a block away, you had a clear view of the loading dock. Two men in coveralls were hauling crates onto a forklift, their movements unhurried.

Mallory’s intel had led you here, a warehouse allegedly housing contraband Compound V, tucked away in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It wasn’t a complex mission. Snap photos of the crates, jot down delivery times, and get out before anyone so much as noticed your shadow.

Observe and report, Butcher had said. No heroics, no improvising. Simple, yeah?

His tone had been sharp, but there had been something else beneath it. A hesitation he hadn't quite managed to mask.

You’d nodded, eager to prove yourself. This was your first mission since the explosion at CytoGenix, since the weeks of recovery spent with a cast on your arm and a pounding ache in your skull. The approval from the doctor had been your ticket out of the purgatory of desk work and stakeouts. You were desperate for something real, no matter how small. 

This was your chance to show Mallory, Butcher, and the Boys, and yourself, that you could still do this.

Grabbing your camera, you slipped out of the car, staying low as you crept toward the chain-link fence. Rain pattered softly against your jacket, the cold seeping into your skin. You found a gap in the fence and ducked through, careful not to snag your clothes on the jagged edges.

The air near the warehouse smelled damp and metallic, tinged with the sweet scent of oil. You settled behind a stack of pallets, raising the camera to your eye. Through the lens, you could see the workers more clearly now, their faces obscured by hoods. One of them pried open a crate with a crowbar, revealing rows of glowing blue vials.

Bingo.

You snapped a few photos, your finger steady on the shutter. It felt good to be back in the field, to have a purpose again. You pressed the button on your earpiece. “Got visual confirmation. Looks like a couple hundred vials. Snapped a few shots.”

Butcher’s voice crackled in your ear. “Good. Keep eyes on ‘em. Let me know when they’re done unloading.”

“Roger that,” you murmured.

You were about to shift for a better angle when it happened.

A loud bang echoed from inside the warehouse, sharp and sudden. You flinched, the sound slicing through the air like a gunshot. It wasn’t a weapon, just a crate toppling over, but the noise slammed into you like a freight train.

Your breath hitched, your vision narrowing as the world around you dissolved. The damp chill of the rain vanished, replaced by searing heat. You were back in the stairwell at CytoGenix, the walls trembling with the force of the explosion. The acrid stench of burning plastic filled your nose. Your body hit the wall with a sickening crack, pain exploding in your skull. You could hear Monica’s screams, the chaos, the blaring alarm—

Your chest tightened, and you clawed at your jacket, desperate for air. The camera slipped from your hands, clattering to the ground. Somewhere in the distance, Butcher’s voice barked in your earpiece, but it was drowned out by the deafening roar of your heartbeat.

You stumbled backward, your legs giving way as you pressed yourself against the cold metal of a shipping container. The rain had soaked through your clothes, but you barely felt it.

Breathe, you told yourself. Just breathe. But the air wouldn’t come.

The earpiece crackled again. “Oi, talk to me. What’s going on?” Butcher’s voice was sharp now, threaded with concern. When you didn’t respond, he cursed under his breath.

You don’t know how much time you spent there, head between your knees, chest heaving, rain pelting your crumpled form, before heavy boots thudded against the ground nearby. You barely registered the figure crouching in front of you until his hand gripped your shoulder, firm and steady.

“Hey.” Butcher’s voice cut through the haze, low and commanding. “Look at me.”

You blinked, your gaze snapping to his. His dark eyes were steady, pinning you in place. He moved his hand from your shoulder to your wrist, pressing it against his chest.

“Feel that?” he said. His heartbeat was slow and deliberate, a metronome against your racing pulse. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, yeah? Nice and slow. Come on.”

Your breaths were shallow and ragged, but you tried to match his rhythm. In, out. In, out. The pressure in your chest began to ease, the roaring in your ears fading to a dull hum.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his tone softer now. “You’re alright. You’re here.”

The warehouse came back into focus. The rain dripping off the container, the distant rumble of a forklift. You were shaking, but the world had stopped spinning.

“I—” Your voice cracked, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Butcher cut you off, his grip tightening on your wrist. “Don’t start with that. This ain’t about being sorry. You’re human, yeah? You’ve been through hell. This shit’s gonna happen.”

He released your wrist, standing and extending a hand to you. “Now, come on. Let’s get you out of this pisshole.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the warehouse. “But the mission—”

“Forget the bloody mission,” he snapped. “We’ve got what we need. Right now, you’re my priority.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. You took his hand, letting him haul you to your feet. His grip was firm, grounding.

As the two of you walked back to the van, Butcher kept a hand on your shoulder, a silent reassurance.

“You kept your head longer than most would’ve,” he said gruffly as you climbed into the passenger seat. “That takes guts. It’ll come back to you.”

His words stayed with you long after the mission, but so did the moment itself, the memory of panic and failure, the echo of your father’s voice whispering in the dark, reminding you of all the ways you didn’t measure up.

~~~

After that, Butcher made it his personal mission to keep you permanently benched. He relegated you to desk work, poring over files and surveillance footage, or staking out low-risk locations that barely required you to leave the van. At first, you told yourself it was temporary, that it was just his way of being cautious. But as the weeks turned into months, the frustration grew.

It wasn’t just about the boredom for you. It was the feeling of being underestimated, of having to prove yourself all over again. You’d fought tooth and nail to stand shoulder to shoulder with this team, to earn their trust and respect. And yet, here you were, still fighting the whispers of doubt, both theirs and your own.

But none of that matters right now. This mission is yours, and you’re not about to let anyone, least of all Butcher, doubt you again.

“She’ll be fine,” Frenchie interjects, breaking the tension with his usual easy charm. His warm smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as he looks at you. “Ma poupette has the brains for this. Just remember, roll with the punches, eh?”

You raise your eyebrows at Butcher, as if to say See?

Butcher doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he glances away. His silence says everything.

Mallory steps forward, her commanding presence cutting through the tension like a knife. Her voice is sharp and no-nonsense. “This is not a debate,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You two are handling this. This is very straightforward. Plant a listening device, get the intel, and get out.”

She pauses, letting her words settle before continuing. “I’ll have a van on standby if things go sideways, but the goal is to keep this quiet. No one notices you, no one remembers you. Understand?”

Her piercing gaze lands on you, heavy with expectation. “I trust you can handle it,” she says, her tone softening just enough to let you know she means it.

A flicker of pride warms your chest, solidifying into determination. You nod, your chin lifting as you steel yourself for what’s ahead.

Mallory’s gaze shifts to Butcher, sharp as a blade. “But you need to trust each other. That’s the only way this works.”

Butcher exhales sharply, clearly biting back a retort. He glances at you, something unspoken passing between you, a grudging respect, maybe, or a flicker of belief he doesn’t know how to voice.

You turn to Hughie, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his nerves written all over his face. But after a moment, he nods back at you, his lips curving into a weak but genuine smile.

In the months since Mallory’s return, you’d found yourself yearning for her approval with an intensity that surprised even you. Her presence cast a long shadow, and you were keenly aware of how she had sized you up on that first night in your apartment. The disapproval in her sharp gaze had been palpable, cutting deeper than you cared to admit. Could you blame her, though?

After years spent in the shadows, having walked away from the Supe-killing squad she’d built with blood and iron, Mallory had been dragged back into the fray. All because she’d heard whispers about the Boys regrouping, more recklessly than ever, in her view, and, worst of all, that they’d let you, the daughter of a Vought crony, into their ranks. If you were her, you’d probably have dragged yourself out of retirement, too.

Though the team had rallied around you, defending your place in the group with fervor, it hadn’t stopped the wildfire of doubt that had sparked in your chest from Mallory’s initial appraisal of you. You understood the value you’d brought in those early days. When CytoGenix was still standing, when your father was alive, when Monica was pulling the strings, you’d offered something no one else could: inside intel. You’d been a bridge to a world the Boys couldn’t otherwise touch.

But now?

With CytoGenix in ruins, Monica gone, and your father’s legacy reduced to nothing more than ash and regret, what did you have left to give? Sure, there was the six-figure inheritance, a hollow consolation prize if there ever was one, but it wasn’t as if money meant much in this line of work. Money wasn’t what this team needed, wasn’t what earned respect here. The voice of self-doubt, ever persistent, had made itself at home during those early months, whispering venom in your ear. 

You’re a liability. A loose end. They don’t need you anymore. You’ve outlived your usefulness.

Your teammates had tried to drown out that voice. Annie, now your closest friend, spoke about you like you hung the fucking moon. Frenchie, with his gentle reassurances, had told you time and again that you belonged. MM had treated you with the same quiet respect and faith he gave to everyone he trusted. Hughie, loyal to a fault, never wavered in his belief that you were part of the team. Even Kimiko, in her own way, had made it clear that she valued you.

And yet, in the still moments, when the adrenaline wore off, when the noise of missions and plans faded, you couldn’t help but wonder. What am I doing here? What do I bring to the table?

Everyone else had a clear role, a purpose that tethered them to the group. Butcher was the leader, the strategist, the one who saw the big picture even when it was dark and bloody. MM was the anchor, the meticulous planner who kept things running smoothly. Frenchie was the wildcard, a fixer with a knack for making the impossible possible. Kimiko was the muscle, the silent force of nature. Annie had her connections to Vought, her inside knowledge of the system they were trying to tear down. Even Hughie, awkward and unassuming as he could be, had carved out his place as the team’s moral compass.

And you?

What were you?

But now, you think, this is your moment. This is your chance to prove, not just to Mallory but to yourself, that you’re more than a liability or a loose end.

No more doubts. No more underestimations. No more living in the shadow of what you’ve lost.

As the meeting begins to wind down, Mallory’s orders echo in your mind. Her voice had been calm, clipped, and deliberate, leaving no room for questions. It left plenty of room for doubt, though. Across the room, you catch her watching you again, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her expression is as unreadable as ever, a mask of cool indifference that offers no clues. Still, there’s something in the slight tilt of her head, the narrow set of her eyes. Displeasure? Doubt? Maybe both.

The weight of her gaze feels heavier than it should, a silent challenge you can’t shake.

Your thoughts are interrupted as Butcher slides onto the desk beside you, the wood creaking under his weight. The casualness of the action is belied by the intensity in his expression. He leans in close, his voice low but gruff, tinged with an edge of warning.

“Listen,” he says, his dark eyes boring into yours. “I don’t give a toss what Mallory says. You get even a whiff of trouble, you pull the plug and get the hell out. Ain’t nothing in that room worth your neck, you hear me?”

The protective note in his tone catches you off guard, as it often does. Beneath the layers of cynicism, anger, and bravado that make up Butcher, there’s a thread of something softer, something he’ll never admit to. These rare moments of vulnerability always take you by surprise, a glimpse of the man beneath the scars. Normally, you’d relish it, store it away like a secret. But this time, it feels tainted.

Tainted by Mallory’s gaze, still burning a hole into your back. Tainted by the ever-present question of whether you even deserve to be here, let alone trusted with this mission.Tainted by the way his desire to protect you feels inhibiting.

You nod, though the knot in your chest tightens. Your eyes flicker back to Mallory, who hasn’t moved, her stance as rigid as her judgment. Is it disapproval that’s carved into her features? Or is it concern? The two blur together in your mind, indistinguishable from the spotlight of her scrutiny.

“I hear you,” you say, turning back to Butcher. Your voice is steadier than you feel, the words forced past the lump in your throat. “But I’ve got this.”

Butcher lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Right,” he mutters, his tone teetering between skepticism and reluctant admiration. “Guess we’ll see.”

For a moment, the air between you feels heavy with unspoken words. There’s something he wants to say, something more than the gruff warnings and the veiled concern. But he doesn’t, and you know he won’t. That’s not who Butcher is.

As the others begin to filter out, the tension in the room doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and suffocating, clinging to the walls like a stubborn fog. Mallory remains rooted in place, her gaze unwavering, as though she’s waiting for something. For you to crack, perhaps, or to prove you’re worth the risk she’s taking.

You take a breath and straighten your shoulders, forcing the tension out of your body. It’s an effort to lift your chin and meet her eyes, but you do. You hold her gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of her scrutiny. You know what she sees when she looks at you. A wild card, a question mark, someone with everything to prove and too much to lose.

But you won’t falter. Not this time.

This is your moment. Your chance to silence the doubts. Hers, Butcher’s, and most importantly, your own.

This time, you’ll prove you belong.

~~~

The faint smell of garlic and onions hit your nose as you step into your kitchen, the sizzle of oil in the pan filling the otherwise quiet apartment. Butcher stands by the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder like he owns the place.

You lean against the doorway, watching him work. It’s strange, seeing him like this. The man who’d faced down Supes without a second thought, who carried enough emotional baggage to rival the Titanic, now stood in your kitchen, cooking pasta like some scene out of a rom-com.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” you tease, folding your arms across your chest.

Butcher doesn’t look up, but a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look so shocked. I ain’t completely useless, y’know.”

“I think Frenchie’s the one who usually takes over the kitchen,” you say, stepping closer and glancing at the array of ingredients he’d gathered. Garlic bread, a fresh block of Parmesan, and… is that basil? “But this? This is impressive. I might let you stick around.”

“Generous of you,” he mutters, though there was a warmth in his tone.

You grab a glass from the cabinet and pour yourself some wine, the familiar hum of domesticity wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. The scene feels so out of place. Butcher standing in your kitchen, the two of you sharing a quiet evening after the intensity of Mallory’s briefing. It’s almost too peaceful, too fragile, as if the world outside these walls doesn't exist.

“How long has it been since you cooked for someone?” you ask, leaning on the counter beside him.

He gives a short laugh, but it lacks any real humor. “Long enough. Don’t keep count, love. What about you? Last meal you had that wasn’t takeout?”

You shrug. “Probably the last time Frenchie decided to experiment with some weird fusion dish. Couldn’t even tell you what it was, but it was damn good.”

He turns off the burner, drains the pasta, and starts plating. The silence stretches as you watch him, the usual guardedness in his expression softening just enough to make you wonder what’s going on in his head.

“Thanks for this,” you say quietly, gesturing to the meal.

He hands you a plate and nods toward the table. “Yeah, well. Figured you could use a proper meal before the big day.”

Ah, there it is. The tension that’s been simmering since the briefing.

You sit down across from him, swirling the pasta on your fork. “You’re worried.”

He doesn’t answer right away, focusing instead on his own plate. Finally, he leans back in his chair, fixing you with a look that’s equal parts exasperation and concern. “Damn right, I’m worried. This gig’s a bloody powder keg, and you’re walking straight into it.”

“I can handle it,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’ve been waiting for something like this. A chance to prove I’m not just—”

“Not just what?” he interrupts, setting his fork down.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. Not just dead weight. Not just some liability Mallory’s tolerating because of what I used to know.

“Nothing,” you mutter, looking away. “I just mean I’m ready. My arm’s fine, my head’s fine, and I’ve been practicing my breathing. I know what I’m doing.”

Butcher lets out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re fine, yeah. But this ain’t the same as sneakin’ round some empty warehouse or trailing some low-level Supe. One wrong move tomorrow, and you’re dead. Or worse.”

“Worse?” you echo, raising an eyebrow.

“You know what they’d do if they caught you. Vought don’t play fair, love. Never have.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, but you square your shoulders. “You think I don’t know that? I’m not an idiot, Butcher. Did you already forget everything I did to stop Vought from getting V2? You don’t get to keep sidelining me just because you’re scared I might—”

“Because I care about you?” The words burst out of him, sharp and raw.

You blink, startled into silence.

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’ve seen enough people I care about end up in the ground. I ain’t gonna let that happen to you.”

Your chest tightens, frustration bubbling up. “So what? You’re just gonna wrap me in bubble wrap and keep me locked up in the van while everyone else takes risks? That’s not fair, Butcher. I’m part of this team, whether you like it or not.”

“I do like it,” he shoots back, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “I do. You just… You scare the shit out of me, is all.”

“Okay,” you sigh, annoyance heavy in your voice. “Just… keep it to yourself. I don’t need you psyching me out.”

The air between you is heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid.

The silence stretches as you eat, both of you locked in a stalemate neither of you wanted to win. Finally, he stands, picking up the empty plates and carrying them to the sink. His back is to you, his shoulders tense.

“Look,” he says, his voice low, “I know you want to prove yourself. And maybe you’re ready. But you’ll forgive me if I ain’t in a rush to see you get yourself killed.”

You stand, walking up behind him but stopping short of touching him. “I’m not going to die, Butcher. I’ve got too much to live for.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice almost too quiet to hear. “You better.”

When you fall into bed together later, Butcher moves with a deliberate tenderness that takes your breath away. There’s no rush in the way he touches you at first, no sharp edges to his usual brusque demeanor. His calloused hands skim your skin like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every scar, every part of you that makes you who you are. Each touch carries a message, unspoken but crystal clear. You’re all I think about.

His hands settle on your hips, strong but careful, pulling you closer as though the mere idea of distance between you is unbearable. When he holds you in his arms, every knot of tension in your body begins to unwind. There’s no room for doubt, no space to overthink the unanswered questions or the simmering tension that has been building between you for months. In his embrace, you hear the words he’s too guarded to say. I’ll keep you safe. It’s all I can do.

At first, his movements are slow and steady, as though he’s afraid to break you. His lips graze your collarbone, lingering there with a reverence that almost undoes you. His gaze locks on yours, dark and searching, and for a moment, you swear he’s looking right into your soul. Every kiss, every brush of his fingertips across your skin is a vow, a reassurance. You’re here. You’re mine.

But then something shifts. What starts as gentleness deepens into urgency, his movements growing frantic, almost desperate. His breathing becomes heavier, his grip tighter, as though holding you isn’t enough, he needs to anchor himself in you, to feel you in every way possible. There’s a plea in the way his lips press harder against yours, a tremor in the way he whispers your name, hoarse and unsteady. Don’t leave me.

His eyes meet yours again, and this time they’re blazing with something raw, something unguarded. It’s as though every wall he’s built around himself has come crashing down, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in a way that Butcher rarely allows himself to be. What he can’t bring himself to put into words, he pours into his touch, his kiss, the way his body moves against yours. Every pull, every grasp, every shuddering breath screams what he can’t say aloud. Mine. Mine. Mine.

And yet, there’s no possessiveness in it, no trace of dominance. It’s need. Pure, aching need. The need to protect, to keep you close, to show you just how much you mean to him, in the only way he knows how. In his arms, you don’t feel claimed or conquered; you feel seen, cherished, adored. His actions speak louder than any declaration ever could, telling you everything he keeps locked behind his gruff exterior. You’re the only thing in this godforsaken world that I can’t lose.

By the time you collapse together, tangled and breathless, his arms wrap around you with a firmness that feels like a promise. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

For a long while, neither of you says a word. 

Maybe you don’t need to. 

~~~

The air inside the office feels heavier at night. The soft hum of the city seeps through the windows, but the sharp glow of the desk lamp casts an artificial stillness over the room. Mallory sits behind the desk, papers meticulously stacked in front of her, a pen twirling absentmindedly between her fingers. 

You have a thick manila envelope tucked under your arm, stuffed with building schematics for the Russian consulate, profiles on the delegates Mallory expects to be present, and clear instructions on when and where to place the bugs. Hell, she even included the catering menus in case either of you were stopped and asked questions about the food. She’s being thorough, but it only serves to increase your apprehension. She wouldn’t be going this far if this mission’s success wasn’t absolutely crucial.

Mallory begins to gather up the papers on her desk. “You’ve got the details. You and Hughie should run through them a few more times tonight. You only get one shot at this, and I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake.”

You glance around, expecting Hughie to walk in any moment. “So... where’s Hughie? I thought we were going over the plan together.”

Mallory doesn’t look up immediately, her pen pausing mid-spin. Then she meets your gaze, her expression unreadable but edged with purpose. “I didn’t invite Hughie.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Oh? Why?”

“Because that’s not the only reason I wanted to talk to you,” she says, her voice even.

You tilt your head, folding your arms as curiosity flickers to life. “Alright. What’s this about, then?”

She sets the pen down deliberately, her focus now fully on you. “It’s about Butcher.”

The name lands like a stone in your stomach. You try to keep your voice steady. “What about him?”

Mallory leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk. Her eyes harden, not with anger, but with something sharper. Concern wrapped in steel. “He’s dangerous. You know that, don’t you? He’s a man willing to burn the world down to protect the people he loves. And he’ll burn himself down, too, if it comes to it. You know what he did after Becca died.”

Your jaw tightens instinctively. “Butcher’s been through hell. I don’t think anyone here can blame him for the choices he made after that. The choices you gave him.”

Mallory exhales deeply, leaning back in her chair as if to give you space to process her words. “I’m not blaming him. I’m warning you. That man has a black hole where his sense of self-preservation should be. And if you get too close, you’ll get pulled into it. Just... be careful.”

Her words hang in the air, tightening around you like a noose. You shift on your feet, crossing your arms tighter as a defensive barrier. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mallory’s gaze softens ever so slightly, though her tone remains firm. “Because I don’t want to deal with the consequences of his actions if anything were to happen to you.”

“It’s not like that between us,” you reply quickly, the words coming out more defensive than you’d intended.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Isn’t it? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “I mean... we care about each other, sure. But he doesn’t—he doesn’t love me.”

Mallory’s lips press into a thin line, her expression unreadable. “William Butcher is not the most... eloquent man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t always know how to express his feelings. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them. But feelings or not, you deserve to know where you stand. Especially if you’re going to stick around for this fight. Because if he won’t protect you the way you deserve, you’ll have to protect yourself.”

You glance away, her words striking a nerve you hadn’t fully acknowledged before.

“Alright,” you mutter, more to break the silence than to agree with her. “Thanks for the advice, Mallory.”

Her voice stops you as you turn to leave. “Just remember, Butcher doesn’t stop. Not until he’s got what he wants. And sometimes, that’s the most dangerous kind of love.”

You don’t look back. The words follow you anyway, clinging to you as you walk out into the night.

~~~

The night feels unusually quiet, the soft hum of the city muffled by the walls of your apartment. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the faint reflection of yourself in the window, the lights of the city glittering in the distance. Mallory’s words echo in your mind, relentless and insistent.

He’s dangerous. That man has a black hole where his sense of self-preservation should be, and if you get too close, you’ll get pulled into it. 

You exhale shakily, running a hand through your hair as you turn the thought over and over in your mind. You’ve always known Butcher was complicated, that he was damaged in ways you may never fully understand. But isn’t that part of what drew you to him? 

He’s fiercely loyal, to the point of self-destruction. He would do anything for the people he cares about, throw himself into danger without hesitation, take on battles that seem impossible, all because he refuses to let anyone else suffer if he can help it. There’s something magnetic about that kind of conviction, something that made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t felt in years. And when Butcher sets his mind to something, there’s no stopping him. That determination, that fire, it’s intoxicating to be around. It makes you believe he could conquer anything, even the impossible.

But now you see how those same qualities twist in the wrong light. That loyalty turning into obsession, that willingness to protect becoming vengeance. The single-minded determination you once admired, is now a blade that cuts through everything in its path, leaving those closest to him bleeding in its wake. How many people has he hurt without even realizing it? How many more will he hurt if he keeps barreling down this road, blinded by the need for revenge?

You think about the destruction he leaves behind, how he carries that chaos like a storm cloud over his head, and how sometimes, standing next to him, you feel like you’re drowning in it.

And yet, there’s another side to him. A side you don’t think anyone else has seen in a very long time. The way he softens when it’s just the two of you, the way his voice loses its edge, the way he looks at you like you’re the one thing in the world that doesn’t hurt him. You’ve caught glimpses of the man beneath the armor in the gentle way he brushes your hair out of your face, the rare moments of vulnerability when he lets his guard down and tells you things you know he’s never told anyone else.

It’s that softness that keeps you here, keeps you tethered to him despite everything. You know how long it’s been since anyone has seen that side of him. You know how much it took for him to let you in, even just a little. And it feels good—God, it feels so good—to be the one person who gets to see him like that.

But then doubt creeps in, insidious and familiar, a voice whispering in the back of your mind. Is it enough? Is this enough?

You wonder if you’re fooling yourself, if you’re clinging to the idea of what your relationship could be instead of what it actually is. You think of Becca, the shadow she casts over everything, and you can’t help but ask yourself… Am I just filling a void that he doesn’t know how to let go of?

Your chest tightens at the thought. You don’t know where you stand with him, and truthfully, you never have. You’ve never defined what this is between you, never talked about it, never said I love you. And maybe that’s because he doesn’t feel the same way. Maybe he doesn’t know how to feel that way about anyone anymore.

The worst part is, you’re not sure you’d blame him if that were true. He’s been through so much, lost so much, and you know how hard it is for him to let himself care about anything at all. 

It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

You bury your face in your hands, Mallory’s words haunting you again. You deserve to know where you stand. Because if he won’t protect you the way you deserve, you’ll have to protect yourself.

You can’t tell if you’re more scared of losing him or of admitting that maybe you already have. Maybe you never really had him to begin with.

The thought settles like a weight in your chest. For the first time, you find yourself wondering if you made a mistake, if involving yourself with someone like Butcher was always destined to end this way. And as the doubt swirls and tightens around you, the question that lingers in your mind feels like it has no answer.

Do I stay? Or do I walk away before I lose myself completely?

I will have a taglist for this series, just lmk if you want to be added :)

[gullemec]

What if I started playing RDR2 and fell in love with Arthur Morgan and wrote beautiful stories about the two of us being in love and riding horses together. Then what

[gullemec]

Fanfiction readers...

[gullemec]

Golden Ruin - Series Masterlist

Sequel Series to Golden Cage

read on ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Series Summary: Six months after the brutal and explosive death of your father, you are navigating what it means to be a member of the Boys... and what it means to be in love with their leader. As new threats emerge and your fragile sense of stability is threatened, both your abilities and the strength of your relationship with the Boys will be tested.

Series Warnings: canon divergent (the canon is a fun suggestion), unfortunately STILL emotionally constipated billy butcher, reader has low self-esteem (but she's trying goddamn it), grief, language, smut (18+ MDNI), alcohol consumption, canon-typical violence, unplanned pregnancy, big vomit warning (so sorry my emetophobia girlies!!), angst! relationship angst! friendship angst!

please let me know if I've missed any tags! <3 take care to read the tags on each individual chapter <3

A/N: I shared Golden Cage as a complete leap of faith, my first time ever sharing my writing with the world. The feedback i got was incredible and I am endlessly thankful for the little community i've carved out here <3 unfortunately ~60k words was just not enough for our fave couple and found family, so y'all are getting more!! I hope you enjoy this as much as part one <3

Also, like the first series, this is very loosely based on the canon with a lot of liberties taken—that being said, a lot of plot points here are based upon storylines from season 3 so proceed with caution for spoilers :)

Chapters:

One: Invisible Smoke

Two: Hero Number One

Three: Liability

Four: Late

Five: From Now On

Six: No Other Shade of Blue

Seven: Exile

Eight: Red Light

Nine: Return to the Lion's Den

Ten: Together

Eleven: Reunion

Epilogue: Family

(chapters are subject to change)

A/N: I just want to address the fact that I know pregnancy in fics can be a little controversial/definitely not everyone's cup of tea! and if you enjoyed golden cage part one and are disappointed about this being a major plot point in part two—i'm sorry <3 i hope you give this fic a chance, i would like to think i do it justice here and still have enough else going on with the plot to keep it interesting overall. ok thanks love you <3

[gullemec]

😇😇😇

[gullemec]

jess 🥹❤️

Thank you so so so so so much, this kind of feedback makes me endlessly happy!! Also, it gives me an opportunity to drone on about our fave emotionally constipated old man!

Joel is one of my favorite characters to read because I think there's so much you can do with him, so many ways you can explore his grief and trauma and the ways it expresses itself. But it can also be difficult as a writer who wants to keep Joel as close to canon as possible while also showing his rare soft side (I know we see his softness with Ellie but that's different than softness in a romantic relationship imo).

I personally see Joel as someone who is a big, angry ball of self-hatred and guilt and fear and I think that's the biggest obstacle that gets in the way of his happiness. Because all of the outward anger and gruffness is just a facade that grew as a coping mechanism. The Joel we see at the very beginning with Sarah? The Joel we see when he's bonding with Ellie? THAT is who Joel really is, who he wants to be. But everything that's happened to him, all the fear of losing anything he holds dear, has created this man who is a teddy bear wrapped in barbed wire.

But as a writer it's also difficult to balance those aspects of him because I also don't want him to just be an outright terrible person to the reader lol. He has a lot to make up to her for, but we're going to be dialing the angst up to a thousand before we get there unfortunately! I am a HEA girlie til the end tho so I can promise you all this angst is going somewhere very beautiful and healing ❤️❤️

Responsibility

Bitten - Part IV

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: A glimpse into the beginning of your working relationship with Joel. Rare moments of relief scattered amid pain. You try to break through the impenetrable forcefield that is Joel Miller.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, gun use, description of injuries, Tess is here <3 (and a little mean but she's allowed), 24/7 365 ANGST, blood

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 8.3k

A/N: I'm going to try and get these chapters out on a more reliable schedule going forward! I just finished golden cage so of course i have to start another series alongside this one lol. big love to everyone who's commented/liked/reblogged or otherwise shown love for this series!

You squint against the sunlight as it reflects, painfully bright in the glare of fresh snow. The first snow of the season. The stark white landscape stretches out around you, broken only by the dark silhouettes of bare trees clawing up into the pale blue sky like skeletal fingers.

A bonafide Montana winter. 

It’s beautiful in a way that feels cruel, indifferent. The kind of beauty that doesn’t care whether you live or die.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold the map in your hands, the stiff paper crackling in the stillness. You trace the crisscrossing roads and the snaking blue lines of rivers, trying to pinpoint your location. If your navigation is correct, and there’s a decent chance it isn’t, you’re a couple of days’ hike from the Wyoming border.

You huff out a breath, the air materializing in front of you in little dancing clouds, then dissipating into nothing. The cold bites at your exposed skin, seeping through your mismatched layers of clothing.

Joel walks a few steps ahead, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the snow, his rifle slung low across his back. The weight of his presence is as steady and unyielding as ever. It’s a quiet sort of reassurance, even now, even after everything.

You’d left the cabin early this morning, Joel sufficiently convinced that you’d healed enough to travel again. The weight of your pack digs into your shoulders with each step, the dull ache in your side a persistent reminder of how fragile you still are. But you don’t say a word about it.

You can still feel the way Joel’s hands had ghosted over your side earlier, inspecting your stitches, his touch tentative and fleeting as he helped you prepare for the journey. It sent shivers down your spine, a sensation that was both delicious and unbearable.

In another life, that touch might have meant something different. Something softer. The way a lover might gently wake you, their fingertips trailing over your skin with reverence. But here, now, it’s tainted. Blood-stained. An act of survival, not intimacy. Of necessity, not affection.

The pain flares again as you shift the pack on your shoulders, but you stifle the wince before it can reach your face. You grit your teeth and force yourself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

Because you know Joel would stop if you asked.

He’d find you both a safe spot to rest, grumbling all the while about how you’re slowing him down, about how daylight’s burning. But he’d do it. Without hesitation, without complaint that mattered.

And that’s exactly why you don’t ask.

His care, however gruff and begrudging it seems on the surface, is a kindness you’ve decided you don’t deserve.

You glance up at him again, his figure framed against the stark white of the snow. He’s quiet, as he often is, his focus ahead as though the horizon holds all the answers. There’s something almost comforting about the way he carries himself, all rugged determination and quiet strength. 

Your North Star. Strong and dependable and a thousand miles away. 

The space between you feels lighter than it did before you reached the cabin. Ever since the night he held you after your nightmare, the tension had eased. The conversations felt lighter, his gaze less accusatory. Still, there is an undeniable distance here that neither of you knows how to cross. 

The fresh snow crunches underfoot, the only sound in the otherwise silent wilderness. You focus on it, on the rhythmic sound of your steps and his, on the steady cadence as you push forward. Anything to distract yourself from the gnawing ache in your side and the heavier ache in your chest.

Your eyes drift back to the map in your hands, the lines and symbols blurring slightly as your eyes readjust. Wyoming is out there somewhere, a distant promise of… what? Safety? Redemption?

You’re not sure.

It was what all the rumours said, what you’d heard from fellow QZ residents.

Heard they’ve got a place out in Wyoming. Some kinda safe haven. No FEDRA, no ration cards. Just people lookin’ out for each other.

"Sounds like a fairy tale,” Joel had said when you first told him about it.

And it had seemed like a fairytale back then, but it was enough. Once upon a time, it was enough.

…

You were perched on an overturned crate, tucked in the shadows of the alleyway behind Joel’s apartment. The cold, wet air seeped through your patched coat and settled in your bones. You were distantly aware of the faint hum of generators, the barking shouts of FEDRA soldiers. Always in the periphery. Never for a moment were you allowed to forget where you were, this hellscape of endless grey. The skies, the crumbling building facades, the soot-streaked faces and desperate eyes of the people you passed on the street. It all faded into the same monotonous shade of fucking grey.

You inhaled deeply, your lip curling with the rot and diesel that constantly tainted the air around you. A woman down the alley cursed as she spilled water from her ration jug. The sound of a scuffle broke out somewhere further down the street. Life in the QZ was a constant grind, a relentless struggle just to eke out another day of painful existence.

That was why you were there that day. A promise of something better, if only marginally. The tiny spark of something new, something exciting, something to disrupt the miserable monotony.

You hunched forward, rubbing your gloved hands together for warmth. Your fingers traced the map Joel had sketched for you earlier. Routes through the city, marked with coded notations on where and when to avoid FEDRA patrols. It was all a blur of lines and numbers you still hadn’t fully decoded.

The sound of boots crunching on debris pulled your attention. You tensed automatically, only relaxing  when Joel stepped into view. His presence was steady, familiar, a lighthouse on stormy seas. Your newfound friendship, if you could even call it that, was barely a few months old, but he put you at ease regardless. He didn’t speak right away, just tilted his head for you to follow as he strode toward the mouth of the alley. His hand rested on his hip near his pistol. Always prepared, always scanning.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, glancing back to make sure you were keeping up.

As you rounded the corner, you saw her.

Tess.

She leaned so casually against the brick wall, but there was nothing relaxed about the way she watched you. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe. She radiated a cool, unspoken authority, and you immediately felt like an intruder in a sacred space.

She eyed you up and down, the mask of cool indifference never leaving her face.

Then she turned to Joel, like you weren’t even there.

“You serious? What the hell is she doing here?”

Joel huffed. “She’s resourceful,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “‘Sides, we need an extra pair of hands.”

“An extra liability, more like,” she snapped back.

Joel didn’t flinch under her scrutiny, but his jaw tightened slightly. “She’s good.”

She turned her full attention to you then, and the weight of it made your stomach churn. “What’s your story, then? Joel might think you can handle yourself, but I don’t work with people I don’t know.”

Her words were sharp, but it was the way she said Joel, so casually, so familiarly, that caught your attention. You weren't sure why it stung, but it did. Like you were peeping through a window, trespassing into something you didn’t fully understand.

“I can hold my own,” you said quickly, straightening your spine. You tried to keep your voice steady, to sound confident, in spite of the heat rising in your cheeks. “I’ve been outside the walls before. I know what I’m doing.”

Tess arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Is that so? And if things go sideways, what then? You planning to scream and hope Joel comes running?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Joel cut in before you could speak.

“She ain’t some kid,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

Tess’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she shifted her weight, clearly biting back whatever sharp remark she wanted to throw at him. Instead, she turned to him, her voice low and clipped. “You’re really putting a lot of faith in someone you just met.”

“She’s earned it,” Joel replied simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

There was something unspoken in the way they looked at each other, a brief but loaded silence that spoke of history and mutual understanding. It wasn’t lost on you, and though you didn’t want to dwell on it, you couldn’t help the tightness in your chest.

Tess finally sighed, scowl falling over her face. “Fine. But if this goes south, it’s on you.”

Joel gave a curt nod, and the tension between them seemed to ease, though Tess’s wariness didn't disappear entirely. She turned back to you, her expression still hard, but her tone slightly less biting. “Stick close. Don’t do anything stupid. And for God’s sake, don’t get us caught.”

You nodded quickly, your pulse still racing. “I won’t.”

And you didn’t. For a few good months, the three of you managed to function as a team, A tense, fragile team, but a team nonetheless.

You tried to find your place in their dynamic, but you always felt like you were treading on thin ice. Tess’ coldness toward you never thawed, her clipped words and skeptical glances a constant reminder that you were an outsider here.

And Joel… Joel never wavered in his defense of you. At first, it brought you comfort, but with time it only seemed to aggravate the rawness you felt, a constant reminder that you were an intruder here.

You watched them carefully, studying their rhythm, desperate not to disrupt the well-oiled machine of their partnership. Tess moved with a confidence that came from years of experience, efficient, calculating, always one step ahead. Joel was her counterbalance, quieter but just as capable, following her lead without question.

So where did that leave you?

You noticed the subtleties between them, how Tess would already be at Joel’s apartment when you arrived at the crack of dawn, leaning casually against the counter like she belonged there. The way her hand would brush his arm as they planned jobs, the easy familiarity in their movements. The quiet, murmured exchanges you weren’t meant to hear, their words too low to catch but their meaning clear in the way they glanced at each other.

At first, you ignored the uneasy twist in your stomach, brushing it off as your misplaced sense of intrusion. After all, they had history. You were the newcomer, the outsider trying to wedge yourself into a partnership that didn’t have room for a third wheel. It made sense that Tess would resent you, that Joel’s defense of you would only deepen the divide.

Later, with the gift of hindsight, you would realize that what you were feeling was jealousy, pure and green.

You hated yourself for it, for the bitterness that crept into your thoughts, for the way you resented their bond even as you relied on it. But the feeling was there, buried deep, a quiet truth you couldn’t bring yourself to face.

Whatever semblance of teamwork and trust the three of you built together came crashing down on a grey, overcast winter day.

You were in Quincy, delivering goods to a warehouse. It was a beast of a thing, a decaying skeleton of its former self, all broken windows and rusted metal and cracked concrete floors. You stuck to the shadows, three sets of boots crunching softly along the concrete. Tess led the way, her gun drawn, eyes sharp as she scanned the interior of the warehouse. Joel trailed behind you, close enough that his presence felt like a shield at your back.

The buyer, a sketchy looking man named Lyle, stood at the center of the warehouse, flanked by two burly men. 

“Right on time,” Lyle said, his voice carrying a false cheer that grated against the tension in the air. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his fingers drumming against his thighs. “Tess. Joel. Nice to see you. And… your friend.”

Tess didn’t respond, stepping forward to place a duffel bag on the table with a thud. “Let’s just get this done,” she said curtly, unzipping the bag to reveal the spoils inside—pills, antibiotics, ammo. The usual. 

Lyle whistled appreciatively. “Looks good. Real good.” He waved a hand toward his men, who stepped forward to inspect the goods. Tess’s hand twitched near her holster, but she didn't draw, her body rigid with vigilance.

Joel shifted beside you, his eyes scanning the shadows. His voice was low as he leaned toward you. “Keep your eyes open. Somethin’ feels off.”

Your grip tightened on the pistol in your hand, the weight of it uncomfortable in your hand. You've always been better with a blade, but they'd insisted on you taking a firearm. You nodded silently, your heart thudding in your chest as you followed his gaze.

The tension in the air snapped like a rubber band when one of Lyle’s men drew a knife from his belt.

“Don’t move,” the man snarled, lunging toward Tess.

Chaos erupted in an instant, the scene unfolding before you in slow-motion. Tess ducked and slammed the man’s wrist against the edge of the table, his knife clattering to the floor. Joel pulled you behind a cinder block pillar, pressing you tightly against his body, his rifle already raised as gunfire rang out. The second bodyguard fired blindly into the shadows, his bullets sparking against the metal beams.

Lyle scrambled backward, shouting orders at his men, but Tess was already moving. She drew her pistol and fired once, twice, dropping the knife-wielding man where he stood. Blood sprayed across the table as Lyle dove for cover.

“Move!” Joel barked, pushing you toward a side exit as gunfire erupted at your back. You ducked low, your pulse roaring in your ears as you sprinted across the open space. Tess followed close behind, firing off shots to cover your retreat.

A bullet whizzed past your shoulder, causing you to stumble, your breath catching in your throat.

“Joel! Grab her!” Tess shouted, voice raw. 

Joel grabbed your arm, steadying you as he fired a shot over his shoulder. The echoing crack of the rifle drowned out the chaos for a moment, your vision narrowing on Lyle collapsing to the ground.

The three of you burst through the side door into the cold night air, your lungs burning as you ran toward the tree line. The warehouse disappeared behind you, the sound of shouting and gunfire fading away like a spectre.

By the time you reached the outer fence of the Boston QZ, your breath came in ragged gasps, your limbs heavy and burning. The distant glow of the QZ’s lights were a beacon of safety, but the nearby cacophony of a FEDRA patrol sent a chill down your spine.

“Shit,” Tess muttered, her face flushed from exertion. She glanced at Joel, her expression tight. “We can’t go through the main gate like this. They’ll search us.”

Joel nodded grimly, his eyes scanning the perimeter. “There’s a blind spot near the east fence. Should still be clear.”

The three of you crept along the fence line, your movements careful and deliberate. A soldier came scarily close, his flashlight sweeping across the ground. You held your breath, pressing yourself against the cold steel of the fence until it was gone.

Joel pulled out a pair of wire cutters from his pack and quickly cut a gap in the chain-link. He motioned for you to go first, his gaze flicking between the fence and the empty street behind you.

You crawled through the gap, wincing as the rough edges scraped against your coat. Tess followed, her movements quick and efficient. Joel came through last, yanking the cut section back into place before leading you both back into the shadows of the QZ.

By the time you made it back to Joel’s apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You slumped into a chair near the table, your body trembling from the cold and the strain. Tess, however, was far from calm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped, rounding on Joel as soon as the door closed behind him. “Bringing her into this was a mistake.”

Joel stiffened, his jaw tightening as he set his rifle down. “She did fine.”

“Fine?” Tess let out a bitter laugh, throwing her hands up. “We almost got killed out there. You think that’s fine?”

“You don’t think I know how close that was?” Joel’s voice rose, his frustration spilling over. “It was her first time gettin’ caught up in anything like that.”

“She shouldn’t have been there in the first place!” Tess shot back, her eyes blazing. “You’re too damn soft on her, Joel. It’s going to get us all killed.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and though neither of them looked at you, the weight of their argument pressed down on you. You sat frozen in the chair, feeling like a scolded child.

“Enough,” Joel said, his tone low and dangerous. “This ain’t about her and you know it. We got the job done. That’s what matters.”

Tess shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re blind when it comes to her. And one day, it’s going to cost you.” She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, pausing only to shoot Joel a look filled with equal parts anger and disappointment. “Don’t call me for the next one.”

The door slammed behind her, leaving the room in heavy silence. Joel didn’t move for a long moment, his hands braced against the table as he stared down at the scratched surface.

You cleared your throat, your voice shaky. “I’m sorry.”

Joel looked up, his expression unreadable. “Ain’t your fault,” he said gruffly. But the weight in his voice told you he didn’t entirely believe it.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice tentative in the heavy quiet.

Joel glanced at you, his dark eyes shadowed and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he was going to brush you off, the way he usually did, but instead, he straightened up, moving to sink into the chair across from you. He looked tired, more tired than you’d ever seen him. It tugged at something deep inside you.

“Should be askin’ you that,” he said gruffly, leaning back and rubbing a hand over his face. “Wasn’t exactly a smooth run.”

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, though the faint tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Shaken up, maybe, but… it could’ve been worse.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, his brow furrowing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he nodded, but it felt more like he was convincing himself than agreeing with you.

“Tess didn’t mean what she said,” you offered, though you weren’t entirely sure you believed it. “She was just… angry. Scared, maybe.”

Joel let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

“Oh, she meant it. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ when it comes to Tess.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “She’s right, though. I shouldn’t have brought you along.”

The words hit like a small blow, even though you knew he wasn’t  trying to hurt you. “I can handle myself,” you said quietly, your words as weak as you felt.

“I know you can,” he said, a surprising gentleness in his tone that caught you off guard. “Doesn’t mean I like seein’ you in danger.”

The way he said it made your stomach twist, not with guilt, but with something else. You glanced away, unsure how to respond, and your eyes landed on his hands, still resting on the table. They were scarred and rough, calloused from years of hard living, but they seemed to tremble slightly as he flexed them.

“Joel…” you began, but you didn't know where you were going with it. You just knew you didn’t want the conversation to end here, not with so much unspoken between you. “Do you ever think about… leaving? The QZ, I mean.”

His eyes snapped up to yours, startled, and you wondered if you’d pushed too far. But then he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest as he considered your question.

“More than I’d like to admit,” he said finally, his voice low and quiet. “But it ain’t exactly easy, headin’ out there on your own.”

“Not on your own,” you said before you could stop yourself. “I mean… if you had someone with you.”

Joel’s gaze sharpened, his lips pressing into a thin line. You could see the wheels turning in his head, the way he weighed something heavy. “Wyoming,” he said after a moment, his voice almost a whisper. “You said before that there’s a place out there. Safe. Quiet.”

The idea still sounded too good to be true, and yet you felt a flicker of hope ignite somewhere deep inside you. “Do you think it’s real?” you asked, leaning forward slightly.

Joel shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling wearily. “Don’t know. But…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the table between you. “Might be worth findin’ out.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of his words settling between you like something fragile and precious. The idea of Wyoming felt like a tiny light in the vast darkness you’d been living in, and you could tell Joel felt it too, even if he wouldn’t say it outright.

“Would you… go?” you asked hesitantly. “If you had the chance?”

His gaze lifted to yours, and there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch. “Only if I had a damn good reason,” he said quietly, his voice rough but laced with something softer.

You didn’t know what to say to that, the weight of his words pressing against your chest. He looked at you like he was about to say something more, his lips parting slightly, but then he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he leaned back.

“We should get some sleep,” he said abruptly, his voice taking on that familiar gruffness that felt like armor. “You should stay here tonight, s’past curfew.”

You nodded, the sudden shift leaving you feeling unbalanced. As you stood and moved to Joel’s couch, you could feel his eyes on you, the weight of his gaze heavy and lingering. But when you glanced back at him, he’d already turned away, his shoulders hunched as he stared down at his hands.

As you pulled a blanket over yourself, you couldn’t help but think about the way he looked at you. Like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t. You didn’t know what it meant, not yet, but the thought of Wyoming and the faint glimmer of hope it brought was enough to let you close your eyes with a little less dread.

Weeks later, the three of you stood in the shadows of a decaying old workshop on the edge of the QZ, a chain-link fence separating safety from the chaos awaiting you just a hundred feet away. The night air was heavy with the smell of oil and rust, the distant sounds of dogs barking and the creaking of a loose gate in the wind.

Your nerves were on edge.

Tess pulled the strap of a worn, overstuffed pack off her shoulder, thrusting it toward Joel.

“Here,” she said curtly, her voice sharp. “It’s not much, but it’s what I could scrape together.”

Joel took the bag without a word, his face unreadable in the dim light. He rifled through the contents briefly, finding a couple of cans of food, a few water bottles, a box of ammo, and a battered first aid kit.

“Should get you through the first few days,” Tess added, crossing her arms. Her tone was brisk, but there was an edge to it, like she was biting back something more.

“Appreciate it,” Joel said, his voice low.

Tess’s eyes flicked to you then, her expression hardening. “You’d better know what you’re getting yourself into,” she said, her words directed at you like a warning. “This isn’t a walk in the park. You screw up out there, and it’s not just your ass on the line.”

“I know,” you replied softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Tess huffed, shaking her head as she took a step back. “You’d better,” she muttered, more to herself than to you.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on all of you. Tess’s eyes lingered on Joel for a moment, her jaw tightening. “This is stupid,” she said finally, her voice cracking just slightly. “You know that, right?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter, almost gentle. “Yeah. I know.”

She exhaled sharply, her frustration palpable, but there was something else in her expression, something softer, something she was trying not to let slip. “Fine,” she said, her voice hard again. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

She turned away then, but before she left, she paused, looking back at Joel, her eyes narrowing. “She’s your responsibility, Joel. Don’t forget that.”

Joel met her gaze, and for a moment, the two of them seemed locked in some silent conversation, something beyond your understanding. Finally, he nodded, the movement barely perceptible.

“I won’t,” he says, his voice low but steady.

Tess looked like she wanted to say more, but she just shook her head and walked away, her boots crunching against the gravel as she disappeared into the shadows.

You and Joel stood there for a long moment after she was gone, the night suddenly feeling colder and quieter. He shifted the bag on his shoulder and glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“You ready?” he asked.

You nodded, though your heart felt heavy. “Yeah.”

Without another word, the two of you slipped through the hole in the fence and into the darkness beyond, leaving the QZ, Tess, everything behind.

…

Joel sidles up behind you, arm reaching around you to splay his thick fingers against the map. The sudden proximity jolts you. You didn’t even notice him moving closer.

“If we head West, we should hit Laurel by tomorrow afternoon,” he says, voice low, his finger tracing a path across the creased paper. 

Your heart stutters in your chest, caught off guard by how near he is. You barely manage a huff in response, unsure whether it’s meant to acknowledge his words or simply expel the air that had caught in your lungs.

The two of you had always avoided cutting through towns if you could help it. Towns and cities meant more infected, more danger. But supplies were running low, the strain of your injuries and convalescence having burned through food and medicine faster than either of you had planned. There wasn’t much choice left.

You fold the map and tuck it into your pack, slinging the strap over your shoulder with a grimace you do your best to hide. Joel’s eyes flick toward you, sharp, be he doesn’t comment. He just turns, leading the way through the snow laden forest.

The crunch of your boots is crisp in the soft powder, cold air biting at your cheeks. Joel keeps a few paces ahead, shoulder squared and posture tense as he scans the treeline. You trail behind, just focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, the ache in your side having grown less angry, but no less prominent in your mind. You grit your teeth and push on, refusing to let yourself slow him down.

Joel stops suddenly, raising a hand to signal you to halt. Your body tenses, eyes shifting around, scanning for danger. Your ears strain for the telltale sounds of crunching snow that don’t belong to you or Joel, or worse, the dreaded chatter of a clicker.

Instead, he gestures toward a tree to your right. Frowning, you follow his line of sight.

There, perched on a low-hanging branch, is a cardinal. Its feathers are vibrant, blood-red against the oppressively grey sky. The bird tilts its head, its black eyes sharp as it seems to observe the two of you.

“Pretty, ain’t it,” he murmurs.

You blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of his observation, the softness of his voice. The gruff, angry man beside you, the man who had seen and done more horrible things than you could ever fathom, was captivated by something so small, so fleeting. All you can do is nod.

For a moment, the weight of everything fades. The two of you stand there in silence, watching as the cardinal flits from one branch to another, its red wings fluttering like a heartbeat against the pale backdrop. The world is quieter, softer, like the forest itself is holding its breath with you.

“Used to see these all the time back in Texas,” Joel says after a beat, his voice distant. “Sarah… she loved ‘em. Used to try and draw ‘em in with feeders she’d make outta old milk jugs. Never caught one up close, though. They’re too skittish.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with memories he rarely shared. He’s mentioned his daughter to you before, always in brief moments like these. You get the sense that she’s always there for him, her presence on his mind like sunlight glittering on the surface of water. He doesn’t need to say it outright for you to know this is why he keeps himself locked up so tightly. You don’t blame him. All the same, you soak up these moments, eager for any glimpse at the man behind the mask.

You glance at him, your chest tightening at the faint wistfulness in his expression. He isn’t looking at the bird anymore but somewhere far away, lost in a past you don’t dare intrude upon.

“Sounds like she was creative,” you offer tentatively.

Joel’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She was.”

The cardinal takes off then, its wings beating a hurried rhythm as it disappears into the trees. The spell breaks, and Joel clears his throat, his face hardening as he turns back to the path. “C’mon. We’ve wasted enough time.”

You press forward, the jagged outline of a town materializing on the horizon. It jostles something in you, the sharp edges and uniform structures standing in stark contrast to the gentle, organic lines of the wilderness you’ve grown used to. Civilization, or what’s left of it, always feels wrong somehow, an intrusion into the quiet simplicity of nature you’ve grown accustomed to.

As you approach a wide, frozen stream, Joel barely hesitates. He steps onto the ice, the frozen surface groaning ominously beneath his boots. He mutters a string of low curses under his breath, each step calculated, his weight shifting carefully as he crosses. When he reaches the other side, he turns back to you, leaning down slightly and extending his hand.

“Here,” he says, his voice calm but firm.

You hesitate, staring at his outstretched hand. There’s a flicker of doubt in your chest, about the ice, about touching him again, but it disappears as you meet his steady gaze. You take his hand, his calloused palm warm against your cold fingers.

He pulls you forward with surprising ease, your feet barely skimming the fractured ice before you’re safely on solid ground again. For a moment, you’re both still, the faint sound of cracking ice behind you the only reminder of what you just avoided.

“You’re not exactly light on your feet,” you say, the words slipping out unbidden, a teasing edge to your tone.

Joel’s brow quirks, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and unamused. “Careful,” he says dryly. “Or I’ll make you carry my pack.”

The faintest twitch of a smile plays at his lips, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh, a real, genuine laugh that feels strange and foreign in the cold, bleak air. The sound surprises you, catching in your chest like it doesn’t quite belong, but it feels good too, like a tiny spark in the frost.

Joel glances at you then, and for a moment, something in his face softens. His gaze lingers, almost like he’s startled by the sound you’ve made, like he’s pleased to have coaxed a laugh out of you in spite of everything. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, a sliver of warmth piercing through his usual stoic exterior.

It’s only then that you both seem to realize he’s still holding your hand. His grip is firm but not uncomfortable, his fingers rough and steady around yours. The air between you shifts, a quiet, unspoken tension creeping into the space where laughter had been just a moment before.

For a second, a single, fragile heartbeat of a second, neither of you moves. The world seems to still around you, the weight of his hand grounding you. Your heart stumbles in your chest, and you wonder if he feels it too, this strange, magnetic pull between you.

But then Joel clears his throat and lets go, the moment snapping like a taut string. He steps back and turns on his heel, his voice gruff as he throws the weight of his pack over his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says, already walking ahead, his tone businesslike again. “We gotta find a place to hole up before the sun sets.”

You linger for just a moment, your hand still tingling with the memory of his touch. Then you follow, trudging after him as the skeletal remains of the town grow larger in the distance, your laughter left suspended behind you in the quiet hush of the snowy woods.

…

After another hour of walking, a house emerges from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette solid against the gray afternoon sky. From the road it's nearly invisible, its walls obscured in a cocoon of bare branches and evergreens. 

It’s a small, squat thing, but it's far more intact than other buildings you’ve found. The doors hang evenly on their hinges, and thick wooden boards cover the windows, their nails weathered and rusted but sturdy. The yard is overgrown, wild grass and weeds creeping up the sides of the structure, but the way the house seems untouched by chaos makes it feel eerie, like the world forgot about it.

Joel tests the front door, his hand on the knob as he presses his shoulder into it. It resists at first, the wood swollen with age, but eventually gives way with a loud groan. The air inside is stale and heavy, a mix of dust, old wood, and something faintly metallic. You step in behind him, your boots stirring motes of dust in the dim light.

Everything is quiet. Too quiet.

The house’s interior tells its story in whispers. The furniture is faded,  but still arranged neatly, as if the people who lived here meant to return at any moment. On the mantle above a soot-streaked fireplace, you notice a line of framed photographs. You brush the dust from one and see the faces of a family—two parents and two children—smiling wide in a life that feels impossibly distant. One of the frames lies face down on the mantel, as though someone had grabbed it in haste but abandoned it at the last moment. You don’t lift it up. It doesn’t feel right.

In the kitchen, Joel checks the cupboards. Most are empty, but a few hold scraps of a previous life. A half-empty can of powdered milk, long expired, a rusted tin of coffee grounds, a jar of pickled vegetables gone cloudy with time. The table is small, meant for four, and one of the chairs is tipped over on its side. Still stuck to the fridge is a child’s drawing, its colors faded but still vivid enough to make out, a stick-figure family standing in front of the same house you’re in now, the sky above them filled with round, yellow sun.

“People lived here for a while,” Joel mutters, running his fingers over the table's edge. His voice is low, reverent, as if he’s reluctant to disturb whatever ghosts linger here.

In a small bedroom down the hall, you find more signs of hurried departure. A child’s bed is unmade, the blanket half-dragged to the floor. A teddy bear lies abandoned in the corner, one of its button eyes missing. A suitcase sits on the bed, half-packed with clothes. Joel picks up a shirt from it, holding it up to the light. It’s small, too small for an adult. He doesn’t say anything as he sets it back down, but the look on his face is heavy.

In another room, the master bedroom, you find a calendar still hanging on the wall. The month is January, the year faded but unmistakably long past. A series of dates have been circled in red, the ink faint and smudged. On the dresser sits a journal, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges. Joel opens it but flips through it quickly, not stopping to read the words. He mutters something about not wanting to pry, but you catch glimpses, notes about food supplies, weather conditions, and, in the margins, small, hopeful scribbles.

Made it another week.

Still safe.

Might try for the city tomorrow.

The bathroom is where things went wrong. The mirror is cracked, shards of glass scattered in the sink. A first-aid kit sits open on the counter, the contents rummaged through. Dried blood stains the edge of the sink and the floor near the tub. Whoever had lived here fought hard to stay alive, but the suddenness of their departure feels almost tangible.

As you and Joel reconvene in the living room, the weight of the house’s story presses down on both of you. It’s clear that a family had tried to make this place a haven, holding on for as long as they could before something—Infected? Raiders? Pure desperation?—forced them to flee. Dust and decay have claimed the house now, but the traces of the life lived here remain like shadows.

Joel moves toward the boarded windows, peering through the cracks at the encroaching dusk. “This’ll do for the night,” he says finally, his voice gruff. “Better than sleepin’ out in the open.”

You nod, but your gaze lingers on the family photo still sitting on the mantle, the faces smiling back at you as if to say, We tried. We did our best.

You wonder if that’s all anyone can do anymore.

The two of you make quick work of clearing the house. It was a process you and Joel have done so many times it’s practically second nature now. Every door cracked open with cautious hands. Every corner checked with a sharp, trained gaze. In the end, the place is wholly abandoned, untouched for years except by the slow creep of decay.

You settle on staying in what must have been the parents’ bedroom for the night. The windows were already boarded up, and Joel adds a thick blanket over them to keep out any sliver of light. He pushes the sagging mattress against the door, reinforcing it with a dresser he drags across the floor with a grunt.

Now, he’s sitting against the wall, his rifle disassembled in his lap, your lantern’s weak orange glow glinting off the polished metal as he works. His movements are deliberate, methodical, his focus trained on the task like it’s the only thing tethering him to the present. You sit against the opposite wall, knees pulled to your chest, staring at him. You’ve been staring for what feels like forever, the words you need to say swirling in your head, their weight pressing against your chest like a stone.

And maybe it’s the brevity you felt earlier, or maybe it’s the way these walls feel protective, like the love that filled this house once upon a time has lingered, but something pushes you to test him.

Finally, you take a breath, steeling yourself. “Joel,” you say softly.

His hands pause briefly, but he doesn’t look up. “Mm.”

“Can we… talk about what happened? Back in the woods?”

His jaw tightens. His hands resume their work, but there’s a stiffness in the way he slots the bolt back into place. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” he mutters, the words clipped, guarded.

You knew he’d respond like this, knew he’d deflect. But you’re not letting him off that easy, not again.

“You know that’s not true. I almost— I should’ve died that night, Joel.” You say, voice tinged with frustration.

Joel doesn’t respond, his face tight, his hands working with a little too much force.

The words hang heavy in the air. His jaw works, and though his hands keep moving, they’re rougher now, more forceful. You wait, but he doesn’t respond, the silence stretching long and thin like a thread about to snap. So you fall back to that old, reliable method for forcing Joel to talk to you, the foolproof way you coaxed him out of his shell all the way back when you were barely more than strangers in the QZ.

You piss him off.

“You promised me. If it came down to it… you wouldn’t let me turn.”

That does it. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, sharp and dark, a storm brewing in them. “And you’re sittin’ here breathin’, ain’t you?” His voice is rough, defensive, but there’s something else there too, something raw and vulnerable he’s trying to bury. “What’s there to say?”

You don’t flinch, holding his stare defiantly.

“And what about what I said?”

He freezes, the pieces of the rifle stilling in his hands. For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck, his shoulders tense and his breathing shallow. Slowly, he sets the rifle aside and runs a hand down his face.

“You were bleedin’ out,” he says, his voice quieter but no less rough. “People say all kinds of things when they think they’re dyin’. Don’t mean nothin’.”

The cadence of his voice hits your ear first, the way his Texan accent filters in more strongly when he’s angry. But then his words settle, and they sting.

“Don’t mean nothin’?” you echo, your voice sharp. “You think I didn’t know what I was saying? That I didn’t mean it?”

“You didn’t,” Joel snaps, his voice rising for the first time. “You were scared. Hell, you were half outta your head from blood loss. You—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if trying to physically push the memory away.

“Don’t tell me how I feel!”

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, the surge of betrayal snapping you upright like a bolt of lightning. The anger burning in your chest feels alive, a force of its own, crackling and untamed.

“You don’t get to decide that for me!” you shout, your voice trembling. “You don’t get to act like none of it mattered!”

Joel’s eyes flash, and in an instant he’s standing, his broad shoulders tensed and looming. “You think I don’t know what mattered?” he fires back, his voice rough and gravelly. “You think I don’t remember every goddamn second of that night?”

“Then why are you doing this?” you demand, your voice breaking under the weight of your frustration. “Why are you shutting me out?”

“Because it don’t matter what you said, or what you felt!” Joel yells, his voice raw and cracking with something deeper than anger. “It don’t change what I did! I should’ve done what we agreed. Should’ve stopped it right then and there.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and you feel the heat of your fury drain away, leaving only an aching, hollow hurt. You stare at him, the space between you shrinking and yet feeling impossibly vast.

“You really think it was a mistake?” Your voice is softer now, trembling with something fragile and exposed. “Letting me live?”

Joel flinches, his expression crumpling for just a moment before he wrestles it back into something harder, more controlled. But it’s too late. You’ve seen it. He looks like a man drowning, like the weight of everything he’s carrying is finally dragging him under. His gaze flickers to the water-stained ceiling, desperate for some kind of escape, but there’s nowhere to go. No way out.

You watch him, a storm of emotions churning inside you, and for a fleeting second, hope flickers to life. Maybe he let you live because he couldn’t bear to lose you, because some part of him believed in the impossible, that against all odds, you’d survive and get a second chance.

But the memory of his face in the early morning light, when he saw you alive, pierces through that fragile hope like a blade. 

There was no reverence in his expression, no relief. 

Only fear. Only disgust.

The thought sinks into you like poison, twisting and bitter. Maybe he hadn’t spared you because he cared, but because he was too weak to do what had to be done. Maybe he’d been tricked, by your desperate, pleading words, or by his own fear of being alone again, of losing everything again.

Your mind spirals further, darker. If he’d known then what you’d become—this strange in-between state, not fully human, but not quite a monster—would he have made the same choice? Would he have let you live if he’d known what would become of you?

The bitterness curls inside you, sharp and hateful. At least you’d had the courage to be honest, to say what you felt, even in the face of death. Joel, for all his strength, couldn’t even bring himself to admit why he’d made the choice he did.

“You’re wrong,” you say, your voice trembling, laced with hurt. “I meant what I said. I meant all of it.”

Joel finally looks at you, his expression taut, torn between anger and something far more vulnerable. His jaw tightens, and his hands ball into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Don’t,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “Just… don’t.”

But you can’t stop now, not when the ache in your chest feels like it might split you in two.

“Maybe you couldn’t pull the trigger then because you didn’t see me as a monster,” you press, stepping closer to him, your voice shaking but unrelenting. “But I do, Joel. I know what I am now. You can just admit it.”

He flinches, his composure cracking, his brows pulling together in a way that betrays the cool, guarded exterior he always tries so hard to maintain. For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck, like your words have landed somewhere deep, somewhere he can’t protect.

“You’re not a damn monster,” he growls, his voice louder now, angrier, but there’s something desperate beneath it. “Now quit.”

“Then why do you look at me like that?” you fire back, your voice rising with the weight of the question that’s been clawing at you. “Why is everything different now?”

“M’not lookin’ at you any kinda way,” he says, his tone softer than you expected but still edged with finality. “Ain’t no use diggin’ it up, talkin’ it to death. I’m here. You’re here. Let’s just leave it at that.”

His words hang in the air, unsatisfying and incomplete. Your chest aches with frustration. “That’s not an answer, Joel.”

“It’s the only one you’re gettin’,” he mutters, glancing away, his fingers fidgeting.

You don’t let up. “Why do you do that? Why do you shut me out? Just tell me the truth.”

He exhales sharply, the sound more weariness than anger. “What truth, hm? That I messed up? That I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ half the time? You think I got all the answers? I’m just tryin’ to keep us alive, alright? That’s it.”

“It’s more than that, Joel, and you know it.”

His eyes snap back to yours, and for a flicker of a second, you see something raw and unguarded, a crack in the wall he keeps so firmly in place. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he’s locking himself away again.

“You’re wastin’ energy on somethin’ that don’t matter,” he says, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping across your heart. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than what you think I’m feelin’ or not feelin’.”

For a moment, it looks like he might say something more, his lips parting as if he’s on the verge of spilling something he’s been holding back. But then, just like always, he shuts it down. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders hunch as if he’s physically closing himself off from you.

He stands abruptly, the motion sharp and definitive. Pulling his sleeping bag from his pack, he tosses it onto the floor with a thud. “Get some rest,” he says, not looking at you as he busies himself unrolling the bag. “We’re headin’ into town tomorrow. Long day ahead.”

The lantern flickers as he reaches out to snuff the flame, plunging the room into near darkness. He climbs into his sleeping bag, his back turned to you, his silence louder than anything he could have said.

You sit there for a moment longer, your heart pounding in your chest, staring at his rigid form as he settles into place. Whatever you’d hoped for, an answer, a crack in his armor, anything, it feels further away than ever.

“Goodnight, Joel,” you whisper into the dark, your voice barely audible.

He doesn’t respond. The only sound is the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts, facing further away from you, retreating into the unreachable parts of himself.

Taglist: (if you would like to be added just lmk!)

@eviispunk

@javierpenaispunk

[gullemec]

Responsibility

Bitten - Part IV

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: A glimpse into the beginning of your working relationship with Joel. Rare moments of relief scattered amid pain. You try to break through the impenetrable forcefield that is Joel Miller.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, gun use, description of injuries, Tess is here <3 (and a little mean but she's allowed), 24/7 365 ANGST, blood

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 8.3k

A/N: I'm going to try and get these chapters out on a more reliable schedule going forward! I just finished golden cage so of course i have to start another series alongside this one lol. big love to everyone who's commented/liked/reblogged or otherwise shown love for this series!

You squint against the sunlight as it reflects, painfully bright in the glare of fresh snow. The first snow of the season. The stark white landscape stretches out around you, broken only by the dark silhouettes of bare trees clawing up into the pale blue sky like skeletal fingers.

A bonafide Montana winter. 

It’s beautiful in a way that feels cruel, indifferent. The kind of beauty that doesn’t care whether you live or die.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold the map in your hands, the stiff paper crackling in the stillness. You trace the crisscrossing roads and the snaking blue lines of rivers, trying to pinpoint your location. If your navigation is correct, and there’s a decent chance it isn’t, you’re a couple of days’ hike from the Wyoming border.

You huff out a breath, the air materializing in front of you in little dancing clouds, then dissipating into nothing. The cold bites at your exposed skin, seeping through your mismatched layers of clothing.

Joel walks a few steps ahead, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the snow, his rifle slung low across his back. The weight of his presence is as steady and unyielding as ever. It’s a quiet sort of reassurance, even now, even after everything.

You’d left the cabin early this morning, Joel sufficiently convinced that you’d healed enough to travel again. The weight of your pack digs into your shoulders with each step, the dull ache in your side a persistent reminder of how fragile you still are. But you don’t say a word about it.

You can still feel the way Joel’s hands had ghosted over your side earlier, inspecting your stitches, his touch tentative and fleeting as he helped you prepare for the journey. It sent shivers down your spine, a sensation that was both delicious and unbearable.

In another life, that touch might have meant something different. Something softer. The way a lover might gently wake you, their fingertips trailing over your skin with reverence. But here, now, it’s tainted. Blood-stained. An act of survival, not intimacy. Of necessity, not affection.

The pain flares again as you shift the pack on your shoulders, but you stifle the wince before it can reach your face. You grit your teeth and force yourself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

Because you know Joel would stop if you asked.

He’d find you both a safe spot to rest, grumbling all the while about how you’re slowing him down, about how daylight’s burning. But he’d do it. Without hesitation, without complaint that mattered.

And that’s exactly why you don’t ask.

His care, however gruff and begrudging it seems on the surface, is a kindness you’ve decided you don’t deserve.

You glance up at him again, his figure framed against the stark white of the snow. He’s quiet, as he often is, his focus ahead as though the horizon holds all the answers. There’s something almost comforting about the way he carries himself, all rugged determination and quiet strength. 

Your North Star. Strong and dependable and a thousand miles away. 

The space between you feels lighter than it did before you reached the cabin. Ever since the night he held you after your nightmare, the tension had eased. The conversations felt lighter, his gaze less accusatory. Still, there is an undeniable distance here that neither of you knows how to cross. 

The fresh snow crunches underfoot, the only sound in the otherwise silent wilderness. You focus on it, on the rhythmic sound of your steps and his, on the steady cadence as you push forward. Anything to distract yourself from the gnawing ache in your side and the heavier ache in your chest.

Your eyes drift back to the map in your hands, the lines and symbols blurring slightly as your eyes readjust. Wyoming is out there somewhere, a distant promise of… what? Safety? Redemption?

You’re not sure.

It was what all the rumours said, what you’d heard from fellow QZ residents.

Heard they’ve got a place out in Wyoming. Some kinda safe haven. No FEDRA, no ration cards. Just people lookin’ out for each other.

"Sounds like a fairy tale,” Joel had said when you first told him about it.

And it had seemed like a fairytale back then, but it was enough. Once upon a time, it was enough.

…

You were perched on an overturned crate, tucked in the shadows of the alleyway behind Joel’s apartment. The cold, wet air seeped through your patched coat and settled in your bones. You were distantly aware of the faint hum of generators, the barking shouts of FEDRA soldiers. Always in the periphery. Never for a moment were you allowed to forget where you were, this hellscape of endless grey. The skies, the crumbling building facades, the soot-streaked faces and desperate eyes of the people you passed on the street. It all faded into the same monotonous shade of fucking grey.

You inhaled deeply, your lip curling with the rot and diesel that constantly tainted the air around you. A woman down the alley cursed as she spilled water from her ration jug. The sound of a scuffle broke out somewhere further down the street. Life in the QZ was a constant grind, a relentless struggle just to eke out another day of painful existence.

That was why you were there that day. A promise of something better, if only marginally. The tiny spark of something new, something exciting, something to disrupt the miserable monotony.

You hunched forward, rubbing your gloved hands together for warmth. Your fingers traced the map Joel had sketched for you earlier. Routes through the city, marked with coded notations on where and when to avoid FEDRA patrols. It was all a blur of lines and numbers you still hadn’t fully decoded.

The sound of boots crunching on debris pulled your attention. You tensed automatically, only relaxing  when Joel stepped into view. His presence was steady, familiar, a lighthouse on stormy seas. Your newfound friendship, if you could even call it that, was barely a few months old, but he put you at ease regardless. He didn’t speak right away, just tilted his head for you to follow as he strode toward the mouth of the alley. His hand rested on his hip near his pistol. Always prepared, always scanning.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, glancing back to make sure you were keeping up.

As you rounded the corner, you saw her.

Tess.

She leaned so casually against the brick wall, but there was nothing relaxed about the way she watched you. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe. She radiated a cool, unspoken authority, and you immediately felt like an intruder in a sacred space.

She eyed you up and down, the mask of cool indifference never leaving her face.

Then she turned to Joel, like you weren’t even there.

“You serious? What the hell is she doing here?”

Joel huffed. “She’s resourceful,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “‘Sides, we need an extra pair of hands.”

“An extra liability, more like,” she snapped back.

Joel didn’t flinch under her scrutiny, but his jaw tightened slightly. “She’s good.”

She turned her full attention to you then, and the weight of it made your stomach churn. “What’s your story, then? Joel might think you can handle yourself, but I don’t work with people I don’t know.”

Her words were sharp, but it was the way she said Joel, so casually, so familiarly, that caught your attention. You weren't sure why it stung, but it did. Like you were peeping through a window, trespassing into something you didn’t fully understand.

“I can hold my own,” you said quickly, straightening your spine. You tried to keep your voice steady, to sound confident, in spite of the heat rising in your cheeks. “I’ve been outside the walls before. I know what I’m doing.”

Tess arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Is that so? And if things go sideways, what then? You planning to scream and hope Joel comes running?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Joel cut in before you could speak.

“She ain’t some kid,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

Tess’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she shifted her weight, clearly biting back whatever sharp remark she wanted to throw at him. Instead, she turned to him, her voice low and clipped. “You’re really putting a lot of faith in someone you just met.”

“She’s earned it,” Joel replied simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

There was something unspoken in the way they looked at each other, a brief but loaded silence that spoke of history and mutual understanding. It wasn’t lost on you, and though you didn’t want to dwell on it, you couldn’t help the tightness in your chest.

Tess finally sighed, scowl falling over her face. “Fine. But if this goes south, it’s on you.”

Joel gave a curt nod, and the tension between them seemed to ease, though Tess’s wariness didn't disappear entirely. She turned back to you, her expression still hard, but her tone slightly less biting. “Stick close. Don’t do anything stupid. And for God’s sake, don’t get us caught.”

You nodded quickly, your pulse still racing. “I won’t.”

And you didn’t. For a few good months, the three of you managed to function as a team, A tense, fragile team, but a team nonetheless.

You tried to find your place in their dynamic, but you always felt like you were treading on thin ice. Tess’ coldness toward you never thawed, her clipped words and skeptical glances a constant reminder that you were an outsider here.

And Joel… Joel never wavered in his defense of you. At first, it brought you comfort, but with time it only seemed to aggravate the rawness you felt, a constant reminder that you were an intruder here.

You watched them carefully, studying their rhythm, desperate not to disrupt the well-oiled machine of their partnership. Tess moved with a confidence that came from years of experience, efficient, calculating, always one step ahead. Joel was her counterbalance, quieter but just as capable, following her lead without question.

So where did that leave you?

You noticed the subtleties between them, how Tess would already be at Joel’s apartment when you arrived at the crack of dawn, leaning casually against the counter like she belonged there. The way her hand would brush his arm as they planned jobs, the easy familiarity in their movements. The quiet, murmured exchanges you weren’t meant to hear, their words too low to catch but their meaning clear in the way they glanced at each other.

At first, you ignored the uneasy twist in your stomach, brushing it off as your misplaced sense of intrusion. After all, they had history. You were the newcomer, the outsider trying to wedge yourself into a partnership that didn’t have room for a third wheel. It made sense that Tess would resent you, that Joel’s defense of you would only deepen the divide.

Later, with the gift of hindsight, you would realize that what you were feeling was jealousy, pure and green.

You hated yourself for it, for the bitterness that crept into your thoughts, for the way you resented their bond even as you relied on it. But the feeling was there, buried deep, a quiet truth you couldn’t bring yourself to face.

Whatever semblance of teamwork and trust the three of you built together came crashing down on a grey, overcast winter day.

You were in Quincy, delivering goods to a warehouse. It was a beast of a thing, a decaying skeleton of its former self, all broken windows and rusted metal and cracked concrete floors. You stuck to the shadows, three sets of boots crunching softly along the concrete. Tess led the way, her gun drawn, eyes sharp as she scanned the interior of the warehouse. Joel trailed behind you, close enough that his presence felt like a shield at your back.

The buyer, a sketchy looking man named Lyle, stood at the center of the warehouse, flanked by two burly men. 

“Right on time,” Lyle said, his voice carrying a false cheer that grated against the tension in the air. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his fingers drumming against his thighs. “Tess. Joel. Nice to see you. And… your friend.”

Tess didn’t respond, stepping forward to place a duffel bag on the table with a thud. “Let’s just get this done,” she said curtly, unzipping the bag to reveal the spoils inside—pills, antibiotics, ammo. The usual. 

Lyle whistled appreciatively. “Looks good. Real good.�� He waved a hand toward his men, who stepped forward to inspect the goods. Tess’s hand twitched near her holster, but she didn't draw, her body rigid with vigilance.

Joel shifted beside you, his eyes scanning the shadows. His voice was low as he leaned toward you. “Keep your eyes open. Somethin’ feels off.”

Your grip tightened on the pistol in your hand, the weight of it uncomfortable in your hand. You've always been better with a blade, but they'd insisted on you taking a firearm. You nodded silently, your heart thudding in your chest as you followed his gaze.

The tension in the air snapped like a rubber band when one of Lyle’s men drew a knife from his belt.

“Don’t move,” the man snarled, lunging toward Tess.

Chaos erupted in an instant, the scene unfolding before you in slow-motion. Tess ducked and slammed the man’s wrist against the edge of the table, his knife clattering to the floor. Joel pulled you behind a cinder block pillar, pressing you tightly against his body, his rifle already raised as gunfire rang out. The second bodyguard fired blindly into the shadows, his bullets sparking against the metal beams.

Lyle scrambled backward, shouting orders at his men, but Tess was already moving. She drew her pistol and fired once, twice, dropping the knife-wielding man where he stood. Blood sprayed across the table as Lyle dove for cover.

“Move!” Joel barked, pushing you toward a side exit as gunfire erupted at your back. You ducked low, your pulse roaring in your ears as you sprinted across the open space. Tess followed close behind, firing off shots to cover your retreat.

A bullet whizzed past your shoulder, causing you to stumble, your breath catching in your throat.

“Joel! Grab her!” Tess shouted, voice raw. 

Joel grabbed your arm, steadying you as he fired a shot over his shoulder. The echoing crack of the rifle drowned out the chaos for a moment, your vision narrowing on Lyle collapsing to the ground.

The three of you burst through the side door into the cold night air, your lungs burning as you ran toward the tree line. The warehouse disappeared behind you, the sound of shouting and gunfire fading away like a spectre.

By the time you reached the outer fence of the Boston QZ, your breath came in ragged gasps, your limbs heavy and burning. The distant glow of the QZ’s lights were a beacon of safety, but the nearby cacophony of a FEDRA patrol sent a chill down your spine.

“Shit,” Tess muttered, her face flushed from exertion. She glanced at Joel, her expression tight. “We can’t go through the main gate like this. They’ll search us.”

Joel nodded grimly, his eyes scanning the perimeter. “There’s a blind spot near the east fence. Should still be clear.”

The three of you crept along the fence line, your movements careful and deliberate. A soldier came scarily close, his flashlight sweeping across the ground. You held your breath, pressing yourself against the cold steel of the fence until it was gone.

Joel pulled out a pair of wire cutters from his pack and quickly cut a gap in the chain-link. He motioned for you to go first, his gaze flicking between the fence and the empty street behind you.

You crawled through the gap, wincing as the rough edges scraped against your coat. Tess followed, her movements quick and efficient. Joel came through last, yanking the cut section back into place before leading you both back into the shadows of the QZ.

By the time you made it back to Joel’s apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You slumped into a chair near the table, your body trembling from the cold and the strain. Tess, however, was far from calm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped, rounding on Joel as soon as the door closed behind him. “Bringing her into this was a mistake.”

Joel stiffened, his jaw tightening as he set his rifle down. “She did fine.”

“Fine?” Tess let out a bitter laugh, throwing her hands up. “We almost got killed out there. You think that’s fine?”

“You don’t think I know how close that was?” Joel’s voice rose, his frustration spilling over. “It was her first time gettin’ caught up in anything like that.”

“She shouldn’t have been there in the first place!” Tess shot back, her eyes blazing. “You’re too damn soft on her, Joel. It’s going to get us all killed.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and though neither of them looked at you, the weight of their argument pressed down on you. You sat frozen in the chair, feeling like a scolded child.

“Enough,” Joel said, his tone low and dangerous. “This ain’t about her and you know it. We got the job done. That’s what matters.”

Tess shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re blind when it comes to her. And one day, it’s going to cost you.” She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, pausing only to shoot Joel a look filled with equal parts anger and disappointment. “Don’t call me for the next one.”

The door slammed behind her, leaving the room in heavy silence. Joel didn’t move for a long moment, his hands braced against the table as he stared down at the scratched surface.

You cleared your throat, your voice shaky. “I’m sorry.”

Joel looked up, his expression unreadable. “Ain’t your fault,” he said gruffly. But the weight in his voice told you he didn’t entirely believe it.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice tentative in the heavy quiet.

Joel glanced at you, his dark eyes shadowed and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he was going to brush you off, the way he usually did, but instead, he straightened up, moving to sink into the chair across from you. He looked tired, more tired than you’d ever seen him. It tugged at something deep inside you.

“Should be askin’ you that,” he said gruffly, leaning back and rubbing a hand over his face. “Wasn’t exactly a smooth run.”

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, though the faint tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Shaken up, maybe, but… it could’ve been worse.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, his brow furrowing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he nodded, but it felt more like he was convincing himself than agreeing with you.

“Tess didn’t mean what she said,” you offered, though you weren’t entirely sure you believed it. “She was just… angry. Scared, maybe.”

Joel let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

“Oh, she meant it. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ when it comes to Tess.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “She’s right, though. I shouldn’t have brought you along.”

The words hit like a small blow, even though you knew he wasn’t  trying to hurt you. “I can handle myself,” you said quietly, your words as weak as you felt.

“I know you can,” he said, a surprising gentleness in his tone that caught you off guard. “Doesn’t mean I like seein’ you in danger.”

The way he said it made your stomach twist, not with guilt, but with something else. You glanced away, unsure how to respond, and your eyes landed on his hands, still resting on the table. They were scarred and rough, calloused from years of hard living, but they seemed to tremble slightly as he flexed them.

“Joel…” you began, but you didn't know where you were going with it. You just knew you didn’t want the conversation to end here, not with so much unspoken between you. “Do you ever think about… leaving? The QZ, I mean.”

His eyes snapped up to yours, startled, and you wondered if you’d pushed too far. But then he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest as he considered your question.

“More than I’d like to admit,” he said finally, his voice low and quiet. “But it ain’t exactly easy, headin’ out there on your own.”

“Not on your own,” you said before you could stop yourself. “I mean… if you had someone with you.”

Joel’s gaze sharpened, his lips pressing into a thin line. You could see the wheels turning in his head, the way he weighed something heavy. “Wyoming,” he said after a moment, his voice almost a whisper. “You said before that there’s a place out there. Safe. Quiet.”

The idea still sounded too good to be true, and yet you felt a flicker of hope ignite somewhere deep inside you. “Do you think it’s real?” you asked, leaning forward slightly.

Joel shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling wearily. “Don’t know. But…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the table between you. “Might be worth findin’ out.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of his words settling between you like something fragile and precious. The idea of Wyoming felt like a tiny light in the vast darkness you’d been living in, and you could tell Joel felt it too, even if he wouldn’t say it outright.

“Would you… go?” you asked hesitantly. “If you had the chance?”

His gaze lifted to yours, and there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch. “Only if I had a damn good reason,” he said quietly, his voice rough but laced with something softer.

You didn’t know what to say to that, the weight of his words pressing against your chest. He looked at you like he was about to say something more, his lips parting slightly, but then he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he leaned back.

“We should get some sleep,” he said abruptly, his voice taking on that familiar gruffness that felt like armor. “You should stay here tonight, s’past curfew.”

You nodded, the sudden shift leaving you feeling unbalanced. As you stood and moved to Joel’s couch, you could feel his eyes on you, the weight of his gaze heavy and lingering. But when you glanced back at him, he’d already turned away, his shoulders hunched as he stared down at his hands.

As you pulled a blanket over yourself, you couldn’t help but think about the way he looked at you. Like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t. You didn’t know what it meant, not yet, but the thought of Wyoming and the faint glimmer of hope it brought was enough to let you close your eyes with a little less dread.

Weeks later, the three of you stood in the shadows of a decaying old workshop on the edge of the QZ, a chain-link fence separating safety from the chaos awaiting you just a hundred feet away. The night air was heavy with the smell of oil and rust, the distant sounds of dogs barking and the creaking of a loose gate in the wind.

Your nerves were on edge.

Tess pulled the strap of a worn, overstuffed pack off her shoulder, thrusting it toward Joel.

“Here,” she said curtly, her voice sharp. “It’s not much, but it’s what I could scrape together.”

Joel took the bag without a word, his face unreadable in the dim light. He rifled through the contents briefly, finding a couple of cans of food, a few water bottles, a box of ammo, and a battered first aid kit.

“Should get you through the first few days,” Tess added, crossing her arms. Her tone was brisk, but there was an edge to it, like she was biting back something more.

“Appreciate it,” Joel said, his voice low.

Tess’s eyes flicked to you then, her expression hardening. “You’d better know what you’re getting yourself into,” she said, her words directed at you like a warning. “This isn’t a walk in the park. You screw up out there, and it’s not just your ass on the line.”

“I know,” you replied softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Tess huffed, shaking her head as she took a step back. “You’d better,” she muttered, more to herself than to you.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on all of you. Tess’s eyes lingered on Joel for a moment, her jaw tightening. “This is stupid,” she said finally, her voice cracking just slightly. “You know that, right?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter, almost gentle. “Yeah. I know.”

She exhaled sharply, her frustration palpable, but there was something else in her expression, something softer, something she was trying not to let slip. “Fine,” she said, her voice hard again. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

She turned away then, but before she left, she paused, looking back at Joel, her eyes narrowing. “She’s your responsibility, Joel. Don’t forget that.”

Joel met her gaze, and for a moment, the two of them seemed locked in some silent conversation, something beyond your understanding. Finally, he nodded, the movement barely perceptible.

“I won’t,” he says, his voice low but steady.

Tess looked like she wanted to say more, but she just shook her head and walked away, her boots crunching against the gravel as she disappeared into the shadows.

You and Joel stood there for a long moment after she was gone, the night suddenly feeling colder and quieter. He shifted the bag on his shoulder and glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“You ready?” he asked.

You nodded, though your heart felt heavy. “Yeah.”

Without another word, the two of you slipped through the hole in the fence and into the darkness beyond, leaving the QZ, Tess, everything behind.

…

Joel sidles up behind you, arm reaching around you to splay his thick fingers against the map. The sudden proximity jolts you. You didn’t even notice him moving closer.

“If we head West, we should hit Laurel by tomorrow afternoon,” he says, voice low, his finger tracing a path across the creased paper. 

Your heart stutters in your chest, caught off guard by how near he is. You barely manage a huff in response, unsure whether it’s meant to acknowledge his words or simply expel the air that had caught in your lungs.

The two of you had always avoided cutting through towns if you could help it. Towns and cities meant more infected, more danger. But supplies were running low, the strain of your injuries and convalescence having burned through food and medicine faster than either of you had planned. There wasn’t much choice left.

You fold the map and tuck it into your pack, slinging the strap over your shoulder with a grimace you do your best to hide. Joel’s eyes flick toward you, sharp, be he doesn’t comment. He just turns, leading the way through the snow laden forest.

The crunch of your boots is crisp in the soft powder, cold air biting at your cheeks. Joel keeps a few paces ahead, shoulder squared and posture tense as he scans the treeline. You trail behind, just focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, the ache in your side having grown less angry, but no less prominent in your mind. You grit your teeth and push on, refusing to let yourself slow him down.

Joel stops suddenly, raising a hand to signal you to halt. Your body tenses, eyes shifting around, scanning for danger. Your ears strain for the telltale sounds of crunching snow that don’t belong to you or Joel, or worse, the dreaded chatter of a clicker.

Instead, he gestures toward a tree to your right. Frowning, you follow his line of sight.

There, perched on a low-hanging branch, is a cardinal. Its feathers are vibrant, blood-red against the oppressively grey sky. The bird tilts its head, its black eyes sharp as it seems to observe the two of you.

“Pretty, ain’t it,” he murmurs.

You blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of his observation, the softness of his voice. The gruff, angry man beside you, the man who had seen and done more horrible things than you could ever fathom, was captivated by something so small, so fleeting. All you can do is nod.

For a moment, the weight of everything fades. The two of you stand there in silence, watching as the cardinal flits from one branch to another, its red wings fluttering like a heartbeat against the pale backdrop. The world is quieter, softer, like the forest itself is holding its breath with you.

“Used to see these all the time back in Texas,” Joel says after a beat, his voice distant. “Sarah… she loved ‘em. Used to try and draw ‘em in with feeders she’d make outta old milk jugs. Never caught one up close, though. They’re too skittish.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with memories he rarely shared. He’s mentioned his daughter to you before, always in brief moments like these. You get the sense that she’s always there for him, her presence on his mind like sunlight glittering on the surface of water. He doesn’t need to say it outright for you to know this is why he keeps himself locked up so tightly. You don’t blame him. All the same, you soak up these moments, eager for any glimpse at the man behind the mask.

You glance at him, your chest tightening at the faint wistfulness in his expression. He isn’t looking at the bird anymore but somewhere far away, lost in a past you don’t dare intrude upon.

“Sounds like she was creative,” you offer tentatively.

Joel’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She was.”

The cardinal takes off then, its wings beating a hurried rhythm as it disappears into the trees. The spell breaks, and Joel clears his throat, his face hardening as he turns back to the path. “C’mon. We’ve wasted enough time.”

You press forward, the jagged outline of a town materializing on the horizon. It jostles something in you, the sharp edges and uniform structures standing in stark contrast to the gentle, organic lines of the wilderness you’ve grown used to. Civilization, or what’s left of it, always feels wrong somehow, an intrusion into the quiet simplicity of nature you’ve grown accustomed to.

As you approach a wide, frozen stream, Joel barely hesitates. He steps onto the ice, the frozen surface groaning ominously beneath his boots. He mutters a string of low curses under his breath, each step calculated, his weight shifting carefully as he crosses. When he reaches the other side, he turns back to you, leaning down slightly and extending his hand.

“Here,” he says, his voice calm but firm.

You hesitate, staring at his outstretched hand. There’s a flicker of doubt in your chest, about the ice, about touching him again, but it disappears as you meet his steady gaze. You take his hand, his calloused palm warm against your cold fingers.

He pulls you forward with surprising ease, your feet barely skimming the fractured ice before you’re safely on solid ground again. For a moment, you’re both still, the faint sound of cracking ice behind you the only reminder of what you just avoided.

“You’re not exactly light on your feet,” you say, the words slipping out unbidden, a teasing edge to your tone.

Joel’s brow quirks, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and unamused. “Careful,” he says dryly. “Or I’ll make you carry my pack.”

The faintest twitch of a smile plays at his lips, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh, a real, genuine laugh that feels strange and foreign in the cold, bleak air. The sound surprises you, catching in your chest like it doesn’t quite belong, but it feels good too, like a tiny spark in the frost.

Joel glances at you then, and for a moment, something in his face softens. His gaze lingers, almost like he’s startled by the sound you’ve made, like he’s pleased to have coaxed a laugh out of you in spite of everything. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, a sliver of warmth piercing through his usual stoic exterior.

It’s only then that you both seem to realize he’s still holding your hand. His grip is firm but not uncomfortable, his fingers rough and steady around yours. The air between you shifts, a quiet, unspoken tension creeping into the space where laughter had been just a moment before.

For a second, a single, fragile heartbeat of a second, neither of you moves. The world seems to still around you, the weight of his hand grounding you. Your heart stumbles in your chest, and you wonder if he feels it too, this strange, magnetic pull between you.

But then Joel clears his throat and lets go, the moment snapping like a taut string. He steps back and turns on his heel, his voice gruff as he throws the weight of his pack over his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says, already walking ahead, his tone businesslike again. “We gotta find a place to hole up before the sun sets.”

You linger for just a moment, your hand still tingling with the memory of his touch. Then you follow, trudging after him as the skeletal remains of the town grow larger in the distance, your laughter left suspended behind you in the quiet hush of the snowy woods.

…

After another hour of walking, a house emerges from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette solid against the gray afternoon sky. From the road it's nearly invisible, its walls obscured in a cocoon of bare branches and evergreens. 

It’s a small, squat thing, but it's far more intact than other buildings you’ve found. The doors hang evenly on their hinges, and thick wooden boards cover the windows, their nails weathered and rusted but sturdy. The yard is overgrown, wild grass and weeds creeping up the sides of the structure, but the way the house seems untouched by chaos makes it feel eerie, like the world forgot about it.

Joel tests the front door, his hand on the knob as he presses his shoulder into it. It resists at first, the wood swollen with age, but eventually gives way with a loud groan. The air inside is stale and heavy, a mix of dust, old wood, and something faintly metallic. You step in behind him, your boots stirring motes of dust in the dim light.

Everything is quiet. Too quiet.

The house’s interior tells its story in whispers. The furniture is faded,  but still arranged neatly, as if the people who lived here meant to return at any moment. On the mantle above a soot-streaked fireplace, you notice a line of framed photographs. You brush the dust from one and see the faces of a family—two parents and two children—smiling wide in a life that feels impossibly distant. One of the frames lies face down on the mantel, as though someone had grabbed it in haste but abandoned it at the last moment. You don’t lift it up. It doesn’t feel right.

In the kitchen, Joel checks the cupboards. Most are empty, but a few hold scraps of a previous life. A half-empty can of powdered milk, long expired, a rusted tin of coffee grounds, a jar of pickled vegetables gone cloudy with time. The table is small, meant for four, and one of the chairs is tipped over on its side. Still stuck to the fridge is a child’s drawing, its colors faded but still vivid enough to make out, a stick-figure family standing in front of the same house you’re in now, the sky above them filled with round, yellow sun.

“People lived here for a while,” Joel mutters, running his fingers over the table's edge. His voice is low, reverent, as if he’s reluctant to disturb whatever ghosts linger here.

In a small bedroom down the hall, you find more signs of hurried departure. A child’s bed is unmade, the blanket half-dragged to the floor. A teddy bear lies abandoned in the corner, one of its button eyes missing. A suitcase sits on the bed, half-packed with clothes. Joel picks up a shirt from it, holding it up to the light. It’s small, too small for an adult. He doesn’t say anything as he sets it back down, but the look on his face is heavy.

In another room, the master bedroom, you find a calendar still hanging on the wall. The month is January, the year faded but unmistakably long past. A series of dates have been circled in red, the ink faint and smudged. On the dresser sits a journal, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges. Joel opens it but flips through it quickly, not stopping to read the words. He mutters something about not wanting to pry, but you catch glimpses, notes about food supplies, weather conditions, and, in the margins, small, hopeful scribbles.

Made it another week.

Still safe.

Might try for the city tomorrow.

The bathroom is where things went wrong. The mirror is cracked, shards of glass scattered in the sink. A first-aid kit sits open on the counter, the contents rummaged through. Dried blood stains the edge of the sink and the floor near the tub. Whoever had lived here fought hard to stay alive, but the suddenness of their departure feels almost tangible.

As you and Joel reconvene in the living room, the weight of the house’s story presses down on both of you. It’s clear that a family had tried to make this place a haven, holding on for as long as they could before something—Infected? Raiders? Pure desperation?—forced them to flee. Dust and decay have claimed the house now, but the traces of the life lived here remain like shadows.

Joel moves toward the boarded windows, peering through the cracks at the encroaching dusk. “This’ll do for the night,” he says finally, his voice gruff. “Better than sleepin’ out in the open.”

You nod, but your gaze lingers on the family photo still sitting on the mantle, the faces smiling back at you as if to say, We tried. We did our best.

You wonder if that’s all anyone can do anymore.

The two of you make quick work of clearing the house. It was a process you and Joel have done so many times it’s practically second nature now. Every door cracked open with cautious hands. Every corner checked with a sharp, trained gaze. In the end, the place is wholly abandoned, untouched for years except by the slow creep of decay.

You settle on staying in what must have been the parents’ bedroom for the night. The windows were already boarded up, and Joel adds a thick blanket over them to keep out any sliver of light. He pushes the sagging mattress against the door, reinforcing it with a dresser he drags across the floor with a grunt.

Now, he’s sitting against the wall, his rifle disassembled in his lap, your lantern’s weak orange glow glinting off the polished metal as he works. His movements are deliberate, methodical, his focus trained on the task like it’s the only thing tethering him to the present. You sit against the opposite wall, knees pulled to your chest, staring at him. You’ve been staring for what feels like forever, the words you need to say swirling in your head, their weight pressing against your chest like a stone.

And maybe it’s the brevity you felt earlier, or maybe it’s the way these walls feel protective, like the love that filled this house once upon a time has lingered, but something pushes you to test him.

Finally, you take a breath, steeling yourself. “Joel,” you say softly.

His hands pause briefly, but he doesn’t look up. “Mm.”

“Can we… talk about what happened? Back in the woods?”

His jaw tightens. His hands resume their work, but there’s a stiffness in the way he slots the bolt back into place. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” he mutters, the words clipped, guarded.

You knew he’d respond like this, knew he’d deflect. But you’re not letting him off that easy, not again.

“You know that’s not true. I almost— I should’ve died that night, Joel.” You say, voice tinged with frustration.

Joel doesn’t respond, his face tight, his hands working with a little too much force.

The words hang heavy in the air. His jaw works, and though his hands keep moving, they’re rougher now, more forceful. You wait, but he doesn’t respond, the silence stretching long and thin like a thread about to snap. So you fall back to that old, reliable method for forcing Joel to talk to you, the foolproof way you coaxed him out of his shell all the way back when you were barely more than strangers in the QZ.

You piss him off.

“You promised me. If it came down to it… you wouldn’t let me turn.”

That does it. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, sharp and dark, a storm brewing in them. “And you’re sittin’ here breathin’, ain’t you?” His voice is rough, defensive, but there’s something else there too, something raw and vulnerable he’s trying to bury. “What’s there to say?”

You don’t flinch, holding his stare defiantly.

“And what about what I said?”

He freezes, the pieces of the rifle stilling in his hands. For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck, his shoulders tense and his breathing shallow. Slowly, he sets the rifle aside and runs a hand down his face.

“You were bleedin’ out,” he says, his voice quieter but no less rough. “People say all kinds of things when they think they’re dyin’. Don’t mean nothin’.”

The cadence of his voice hits your ear first, the way his Texan accent filters in more strongly when he’s angry. But then his words settle, and they sting.

“Don’t mean nothin’?” you echo, your voice sharp. “You think I didn’t know what I was saying? That I didn’t mean it?”

“You didn’t,” Joel snaps, his voice rising for the first time. “You were scared. Hell, you were half outta your head from blood loss. You—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if trying to physically push the memory away.

“Don’t tell me how I feel!”

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, the surge of betrayal snapping you upright like a bolt of lightning. The anger burning in your chest feels alive, a force of its own, crackling and untamed.

“You don’t get to decide that for me!” you shout, your voice trembling. “You don’t get to act like none of it mattered!”

Joel’s eyes flash, and in an instant he’s standing, his broad shoulders tensed and looming. “You think I don’t know what mattered?” he fires back, his voice rough and gravelly. “You think I don’t remember every goddamn second of that night?”

“Then why are you doing this?” you demand, your voice breaking under the weight of your frustration. “Why are you shutting me out?”

“Because it don’t matter what you said, or what you felt!” Joel yells, his voice raw and cracking with something deeper than anger. “It don’t change what I did! I should’ve done what we agreed. Should’ve stopped it right then and there.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and you feel the heat of your fury drain away, leaving only an aching, hollow hurt. You stare at him, the space between you shrinking and yet feeling impossibly vast.

“You really think it was a mistake?” Your voice is softer now, trembling with something fragile and exposed. “Letting me live?”

Joel flinches, his expression crumpling for just a moment before he wrestles it back into something harder, more controlled. But it’s too late. You’ve seen it. He looks like a man drowning, like the weight of everything he’s carrying is finally dragging him under. His gaze flickers to the water-stained ceiling, desperate for some kind of escape, but there’s nowhere to go. No way out.

You watch him, a storm of emotions churning inside you, and for a fleeting second, hope flickers to life. Maybe he let you live because he couldn’t bear to lose you, because some part of him believed in the impossible, that against all odds, you’d survive and get a second chance.

But the memory of his face in the early morning light, when he saw you alive, pierces through that fragile hope like a blade. 

There was no reverence in his expression, no relief. 

Only fear. Only disgust.

The thought sinks into you like poison, twisting and bitter. Maybe he hadn’t spared you because he cared, but because he was too weak to do what had to be done. Maybe he’d been tricked, by your desperate, pleading words, or by his own fear of being alone again, of losing everything again.

Your mind spirals further, darker. If he’d known then what you’d become—this strange in-between state, not fully human, but not quite a monster—would he have made the same choice? Would he have let you live if he’d known what would become of you?

The bitterness curls inside you, sharp and hateful. At least you’d had the courage to be honest, to say what you felt, even in the face of death. Joel, for all his strength, couldn’t even bring himself to admit why he’d made the choice he did.

“You’re wrong,” you say, your voice trembling, laced with hurt. “I meant what I said. I meant all of it.”

Joel finally looks at you, his expression taut, torn between anger and something far more vulnerable. His jaw tightens, and his hands ball into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Don’t,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “Just… don’t.”

But you can’t stop now, not when the ache in your chest feels like it might split you in two.

“Maybe you couldn’t pull the trigger then because you didn’t see me as a monster,” you press, stepping closer to him, your voice shaking but unrelenting. “But I do, Joel. I know what I am now. You can just admit it.”

He flinches, his composure cracking, his brows pulling together in a way that betrays the cool, guarded exterior he always tries so hard to maintain. For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck, like your words have landed somewhere deep, somewhere he can’t protect.

“You’re not a damn monster,” he growls, his voice louder now, angrier, but there’s something desperate beneath it. “Now quit.”

“Then why do you look at me like that?” you fire back, your voice rising with the weight of the question that’s been clawing at you. “Why is everything different now?”

“M’not lookin’ at you any kinda way,” he says, his tone softer than you expected but still edged with finality. “Ain’t no use diggin’ it up, talkin’ it to death. I’m here. You’re here. Let’s just leave it at that.”

His words hang in the air, unsatisfying and incomplete. Your chest aches with frustration. “That’s not an answer, Joel.”

“It’s the only one you’re gettin’,” he mutters, glancing away, his fingers fidgeting.

You don’t let up. “Why do you do that? Why do you shut me out? Just tell me the truth.”

He exhales sharply, the sound more weariness than anger. “What truth, hm? That I messed up? That I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ half the time? You think I got all the answers? I’m just tryin’ to keep us alive, alright? That’s it.”

“It’s more than that, Joel, and you know it.”

His eyes snap back to yours, and for a flicker of a second, you see something raw and unguarded, a crack in the wall he keeps so firmly in place. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he’s locking himself away again.

“You’re wastin’ energy on somethin’ that don’t matter,” he says, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping across your heart. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than what you think I’m feelin’ or not feelin’.”

For a moment, it looks like he might say something more, his lips parting as if he’s on the verge of spilling something he’s been holding back. But then, just like always, he shuts it down. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders hunch as if he’s physically closing himself off from you.

He stands abruptly, the motion sharp and definitive. Pulling his sleeping bag from his pack, he tosses it onto the floor with a thud. “Get some rest,” he says, not looking at you as he busies himself unrolling the bag. “We’re headin’ into town tomorrow. Long day ahead.”

The lantern flickers as he reaches out to snuff the flame, plunging the room into near darkness. He climbs into his sleeping bag, his back turned to you, his silence louder than anything he could have said.

You sit there for a moment longer, your heart pounding in your chest, staring at his rigid form as he settles into place. Whatever you’d hoped for, an answer, a crack in his armor, anything, it feels further away than ever.

“Goodnight, Joel,” you whisper into the dark, your voice barely audible.

He doesn’t respond. The only sound is the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts, facing further away from you, retreating into the unreachable parts of himself.

Taglist: (if you would like to be added just lmk!)

@eviispunk

@javierpenaispunk

[gullemec]

Happy Valentine's Day friends 💘 Bitten part four will be out in a few hours, because what better way to celebrate Love Day than with copious amounts of angst

[gullemec]

The Last Page

Golden Cage - Epilogue

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Like a phoenix, you rise from the ashes of destruction. What waits for you on the other side is sweeter than you could have ever imagined.

Warnings: discussions of death, description of broken bones, allusions to sex

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 3.6k

A/N: our little story has finally come to a close. thank you so so so much to everyone who has shared encouragement and kind words thus far! please read the author's note at the end when you finish <3

All that was recovered of Monica Jones-Morgan were charred fragments of bone recovered from the blast zone.

It took months to get a DNA match on the scattered remains, and even longer to find a family member to claim them. Last you heard, a distant cousin collected them to inter in the Jones family mausoleum in Cheboygan. It was fitting, you thought, that most of her would be left at the office. As in life, so in death. 

If anything was left of your father, it's gone now. Vaporized was the word used by the medical examiner you spoke to. A body going from biological matter to physics in a matter of seconds.

The grief you experienced in the wake of your father’s death was different than that of your mother’s. It crept up on you in moments you least expected it. It occupied more space in your conscious mind than your father ever had in life. It had been complicated further by the sudden and rare act of protection and selflessness he’d shown you in his final moment. He’d absolved himself in a way, at least in the fact that he hadn’t been culpable for your mother’s death. You spent a lot of time thinking about the fact that he’d chosen a company over you for your whole life, right up until those very last seconds. 

Now, all that remains of CytoGenix is a gaping trench in downtown Manhattan. 

Vought had descended upon the building almost immediately after the explosion. Forensic investigators, accident reconstructionists, and a veteran PR team shrouded both the building and the events of that night in a cloud of sanitized obfuscation. It was no surprise to you when, weeks later, vague explanations referring to lab experimentation gone wrong had populated newspaper headlines. 

Massive infrastructure damage, they’d claimed. CytoGenix assets will be dissolved and reincorporated. 

Brief internet searches revealed conspiracy theorists with cartoon profile pictures asserting that the company was part of the deep state, and that your father was still alive in Argentina. No one, it seemed, had the sweetest fucking clue what had really happened. 

Well, except you.

Butcher had carried you into the van that night, refusing to let you go or let you out of his sight. You remembered passing out at some point, and when you woke you were in a dimly lit, run-down doctor’s office. A clinic somewhere near the laundromat, with a doctor who could be trusted to be discreet, Butcher had advised. You were given an impressive cast that stretched almost up to your shoulder, and strict instructions to rest for at least a week. The doctor had casually advised Butcher to shine a light in your eyes every few hours to check that your pupils were dilating properly. This had earned you a glare from Butcher, who knew exactly how much you were going to complain each time he roused you from your slumber to shove a bright light into your face.

You had half-expected him to take you back to the laundromat afterward, but you felt your heart sink when the van drove right by, undeniably headed back toward your apartment. 

“I don’t want to go back there,” you’d said, your voice small and tired. Butcher’s mouth twitched but he kept his eyes forward. 

“M’sorry, but it ain’t safe for you right now. There’ll be people looking for you. You can’t raise any suspicion.” 

He was right, and you knew he was right, but it did little to quell the anxious dread that filled your body with every passing street light that carried you away. The rest of the Boys remained in the van as Butcher deposited you directly back into your bed. He left a bottle of painkillers on your bed stand and left with the promise that someone would be back to check on you in a few hours. You didn’t bother asking where he would be, knowing intuitively that he would be preoccupied cleaning up the mess you’d left in your wake.

Your sleep was fitful and restless. Only a few hours after returning a young, frazzled rookie showed up with shaking hands and a notebook. Your cast expertly hidden beneath an oversized sweater, you feigned shock and let him in. You were numb, but you put on a good show of weeping and wailing when he’d informed you that you were officially orphaned. You insisted you were in no condition to go down to the precinct, and he didn’t push it. 

No, officer, I don't know anything. Yes, I work there, but I wasn’t there tonight. I’m sorry, how many more questions do I need to answer? Do we really need to do this right now?

No detectives ever followed up with you, apparently satisfied that the daughter Stanley Morgan frequently declared a failure was, in fact, too incompetent to destroy a high-rise office building.

Criminal charges were the least of your worries, though. Your ability to fool NYPD had barely factored into the equation, really, when you considered the power and reach of Vought. You could turn on the waterworks for an overworked cop who showed up at your door, but your options were severely limited if Homelander decided to fly up to your window. You really had no idea what Monica had or hadn’t shared with Vought about your involvement with the Boys, and if she’d told them the truth… Your stomach lurched whenever you thought about it. 

That was why Butcher had insisted upon setting up round-the-clock security for you, in the form of the Boys taking shifts to be your guard dogs. You’d refused at first, balking at the idea of being babysat, but you knew better by now than to argue with Butcher on matters of security. 

There was a time, in the weeks following the explosion, when you’d wanted to go public with the truth. Butcher still had the extra vials you’d saved from the van, and enough circumstantial evidence gathered on his laptop to make a case. All of the Boys had warned you against this, insisting that Vought was impenetrable, pleading that all it would do is place an even bigger target on your back. 

All of the Boys, except Butcher. 

When you’d finally admitted to him that you didn’t want to hold onto this secret any longer, that a part of you wanted to at least partially clear your father’s name, he’d just listened. His eyes never left yours as you desperately recollected all the evidence you still had, weighing it against all that had been lost in the explosion. He never interrupted or shut you down, though he would have had every right. He had been the first of you to lose someone to Vought, to harness that emotional rawness and funnel it into a plan of vengeance. He had also been the first to fail. You’d half-expected him to snap at you and remind you of where all that hubris had gotten him. But he never did. You could see it in his eyes, though. He was tired. If you were honest, so were you. Eventually you stopped bringing it up, and so did the others. 

You supposed some things were best left buried in the rubble.

~~~

A month passed, your entire world suddenly limited to the confines of your apartment and occasional trips to the doctor to check on your arm and concussion. The doctor marveled at the speed at which your breaks were healing, and that you hadn’t sustained more grievous injuries in the fight and ensuing explosion. He’d joked that you must be part-Supe, something that neither you nor Butcher found particularly funny. 

In the beginning, the watch shifts were split among the team, but over the weeks, Butcher somehow ended up taking nearly all of them. He made excuses at first—Annie had "hero stuff," MM was with Janine, Frenchie and Kimiko had errands. You narrowed your eyes at him every time, but fatigue won out over confrontation. Eventually, he stopped bothering with excuses altogether. He just… showed up.

Just you and Butcher and Chinese takeout and Friends reruns. 

One afternoon, after yet another uneventful doctor’s visit, you hit your breaking point, driven half mad by the isolation and near constant proximity to Butcher.

“Come on,” you whined as you slid into the passenger seat. “It’s been a month. If Vought was going to send someone after me, don’t you think they would’ve done it by now?”

Butcher didn’t even glance at you as he started the van. “They’re Vought, not bloody God. Takes ‘em time to put all their pieces together. A month’s nothin’ to those bastards.”

You groaned, slumping against the door. “No offense, but eating takeout with you every night is getting old.”

He snorted. “Fine. I’ll cook tonight.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of your head.

You spent the drive back to your apartment pouting and sighing pointedly. You may have forgiven Butcher for his indiscretions, but he didn’t know that yet. He knew how much your independence meant to you, and he was seriously infringing upon that. You intended to make him very, very aware of how you felt.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were ready to burst. “I don’t need all this fuss, you know. It’s just making me feel like a liability,” you said, stepping into the elevator. “Would you do this for any of the other Boys?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation, his tone flat.

That caught you off guard. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

You continued to argue and push and provoke him all the way into your apartment, peppering him with incessant questions and exaggerated annoyance, receiving grunts and one-word answers in reply. 

Still, you pushed. “You trusted me to go after a Supe who could liquefy my insides and a walking bomb, but now I can’t be in my apartment alone?”

His lips twitched in irritation. “Didn’t know Monica was a Supe.”

“What if I just left without you noticing? How would you find me?”

“Same way I find anyone else.”

“Oh, so you do still have me bugged.”

That earned you a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

“I’m calling the cops,” you declared, collapsing onto your bed with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll tell them I’m being held prisoner.”

“Don’t you bloody dare,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Whose stupid idea was this, anyway?”

That did it. You felt the air shift, the tension snapping like a live wire.

“Goddammit, it was mine!” he exploded, pacing across the room. His voice was loud, his words rough around the edges, but there was something desperate underneath. “It was my stupid fuckin’ idea, alright? And I don’t care if you think it’s overkill or if it pisses you off, because it’s keepin’ you alive, and that’s all that matters to me right now!”

You blinked, stunned silent for once.

He rounded on you, his chest heaving as he continued. “As much as you don’t like to admit it, I know you. I know you’re stubborn as hell, capable as anyone I’ve ever met. But you know me, too. And you know I’m not gonna let someone I give a toss about get hurt by Vought—not again. If all I can do for you is sit here, eat shit takeout, and pretend to laugh at Ross fuckin' Geller, then that’s what I’m gonna bloody do. Alright? Does that answer satisfy you?”

His voice cracked on the last word, his eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and vulnerability you’d rarely seen from him.

Your breath hitched. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in.

Finally, you nodded.

He exhaled sharply and spun away, collapsing into a chair by the stairs. He rubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath, but his shoulders sagged like he’d just let go of a massive burden.

You thought that maybe you had never seen his eyes so alight, his words so laced with fire that he could barely breathe from the pressure to get them all out. He was burning with all that remained unspoken, with the feelings that so overwhelmed the both of you that they hurt like bruises. You couldn’t help but go up in flames yourself.

It struck you then that Butcher didn't expect you to respond to his declaration. He cared for you. Perhaps you knew that all along. His care was quiet, often misplaced, and buried under layers of sarcasm and steel, but it was real. It had been there from the day you'd been thrust into his life, spitting fire from the moment the hood had been pulled off your head, and he’d been carrying the weight of it ever since.

He had never meant to hurt you, but hurt people have jagged edges and often struggle to keep them contained. Every time he pushed you away or insisted his feelings for you were purely physical, he was attempting to put space between you and that jagged edge. And you'd gone ahead and disemboweled yourself on it anyway. 

You thought that, maybe the worst part of all, was that he never expected anything back from you. He'd have been happy to work alongside you, keeping you company on stakeouts and helping you solve your mother's death, even if you never returned his feelings. 

The walls of William Butcher's love were fortified in iron, but you thought that you would like very much to see inside of them, if he'd let you. 

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

He looked at you, his brows furrowed. “For what?”

“For everything. For how it all turned out.”

He shook his head, his expression softening. “You don’t owe me an apology, love. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

“Well, yeah,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood. “You should definitely be sorry.”

That earned you a small, grudging smirk.

“I mean it, though,” you continued. “Thank you—for everything. I don’t have to wonder about my mom anymore because of you.”

Butcher’s jaw clenched. “I’m glad we sorted that out. Even if…” He hesitated, his voice dropping. “Even if it was a bloody mess getting there.”

A beat of silence passed.

“But if I'm being honest with ya… I'm glad it was you they nabbed instead of her. And I ain't sorry about that.” 

You laughed. “Still. I forgive you,” you said.

His smirk returned, softer this time. “Good. ’Cause I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And then, no longer willing to deny yourself the pleasure that is Billy Butcher, you smirked at him.

“Think you can keep watch from the bed?” you asked, folding the corner of the blanket down next to you. 

He raised an eyebrow, but his eyes softened. He nodded toward your arm, covered in plaster and curved at your side. “And what’s the doc got to say about that?”

“Be gentle,” you replied, grinning.

He kicked off his boots and crawled in beside you without another word.

When Frenchie arrived the next morning to take over, he found the two of you tangled in the sheets, your head resting on Butcher’s chest. He said nothing, mercifully looking the other way when Butcher finally left the apartment, hair mussed and clothes rumpled, unapologetic shit eating grin spread across his face. 

~~~

The sun filters through the wide windows of your new apartment, casting golden light over the chaos of moving day. Boxes are stacked haphazardly across the modest one-bedroom in Greenwich Village, their contents spilling out onto the floor. It’s far from the uptown loft you once called home, a sleek, sterile space that felt more like a museum than a sanctuary. Even after the mountain of lawsuits and lawyer fees that followed the CytoGenix disaster, your inheritance could have kept you there in comfort for the rest of your life. But the loft was too big, too quiet. Too full of ghosts. As soon as Butcher decided you were no longer in immediate peril, you’d signed the lease for the new place and never looked back.

You sit cross-legged atop a stack of boxes in the middle of the living room, watching as your friends take over unpacking. Every time you try to lend a hand, someone intercepts you.

“Oi, you’re supposed to be resting!” Butcher barks as he hefts a box onto the counter, his tone gruff but his eyes soft.

“Yeah, sit down!” Hughie chimes in, flapping a dish towel at you like you’re a stubborn child.

“Fine!” you huff, throwing your good hand up in mock defeat. You can only try so many times before you resign yourself to sitting back, quietly taking in the revelry. 

Frenchie is currently balancing one of your knickknacks on top of a precarious stack of books. “Ah, mon amie, zis is art,” he says, gesturing theatrically at his creation.

Kimiko giggles silently beside him, shaking her head as she cradles a box labeled FRAGILE.

 The room is full of noise—Hughie’s awkward grunts as he tries to keep up with MM’s strength, Annie teasing him for being outlifted by Kimiko, Frenchie’s occasional outbursts of “Voila!” whenever he decides a box is in the “perfect spot.” And, amidst it all, Butcher keeps stealing glances at you. You know he’s not looking for a critique of his unpacking skills; he’s checking to see if you’re okay.

Despite yourself, you feel it. The warmth blooming in your chest. The noise, the banter, the care they’ve all shown—it feels like something you haven’t had in a long time. Maybe not since your mother was alive.

Family.

You clear your throat, catching their attention. “Guys, I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. I never thought I’d say this, but… getting kidnapped might’ve been the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Hughie’s jaw drops. “Wait. So you’re saying you forgive us for chloroforming you?”

“See? I told you I grabbed ze perfect one!” Frenchie declares, looking absurdly proud.

Annie laughs as she crosses the room to wrap her arms around you. “We’re glad you feel that way,” she says, squeezing you tight.

You spot Butcher behind her, rolling his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall out. But when Annie steps back, he reaches over, giving your arm a quick, firm squeeze. No words. Just his way of saying, You’re welcome, love.

As MM sets the final box down amongst the mess of the living room, a knock sounds at the door. 

“That must be the pizza,” you say, hopping off the box. “I’ve got it!”

But when you open the door, there’s no delivery driver. Instead, standing there is a woman in her sixties, dressed in a tailored suit with her light hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her sharp eyes sweep over you, and she arches a brow, unimpressed.

“Well,” she says, stepping forward uninvited. “You’re certainly not what I expected.”

“Hey!” you snap, spinning on your heel as she strides into your apartment like she owns the place.“You can't just walk into people's apartments!” 

You storm after her into the living room, expecting the others to leap to your defense. But what you find stops you cold.

The room has fallen silent. Frenchie’s head is down, his usual carefree demeanor replaced by tension. MM looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Even Hughie, usually expressive as a golden retriever, avoids your gaze.

Then there’s Butcher. His jaw is tight, his hands clenched at his sides. But it’s his eyes that hit you hardest. There’s something there that looks almost like regret.

He mouths the words, I’m sorry.

“What the hell is going on?” you demand, turning back to the woman.

She smirks, sharp and calculating. “I thought it was time I met the newest member of the Boys.” She extends a hand toward you. “Grace Mallory.”

Her name hits you like a thunderclap.

The Grace Mallory?

You don’t take her hand. Instead, you look over your shoulder at the others. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No joke,” Mallory replies coolly. She steps further into the room, her gaze raking over the group like she’s assessing a team of soldiers. “But there’s plenty to explain. Starting with why you’ve dragged an innocent civilian into this mess.”

“Innocent?” Butcher snorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You don’t know half of what this one’s done.”

“Spare me the theatrics, Butcher,” Mallory shoots back, her tone icy. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her.”

“Hey,” you cut in, stepping forward. “I’m standing right here, thanks.”

Mallory turns to you, her expression softening just a fraction. “You’ve been through a lot. I understand that. But the Boys don’t just help people. They recruit them.”

The room holds its collective breath.

“What are you saying?” you ask, your voice low.

She folds her arms. “I’m saying you have a choice to make. Walk away now and try to live a normal life, or stay. Work with us. Fight with us.” Her gaze hardens. “But if you stay, there’s no turning back.”

The silence stretches long and taut. Your heart pounds as you look around the room. These people, your family, are watching you, waiting. Even Butcher, who usually has something snide to say, remains quiet.

Finally, you take a deep breath. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?” You glance at Butcher, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Might as well see it through.”

Mallory nods, as if she expected nothing less. “Good. Then let’s get started.”

And just like that, your life takes another turn. But this time, you’re ready for whatever comes next. You're not alone.

A/N: Whether you've been here since day one, found me somewhere along this journey, or if you're reading this at some point in the far future—THANK YOU!!! Sharing this story was such a leap of faith for me and the experience has been so rewarding :) AND..... as a reward for making it this far..... I'm so happy to share that Golden Cage Part 2 is written and will be ready for posting soon <3 so excited to share what our fave couple and found family get up to after this!!!

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@mystic-writings

@bluemerakis

@imherefordeanandbones

[gullemec]

I think for my mental wellbeing, I will wait until the epilogue is out then read chap 9 + the epilogue at the same time. I'm scared 😭🙈

Aw I promise you don't need to be scared!! One thing about me is that I am always a happily ever after girlie, I just like to earn it through copious amounts of angst lol. But the epilogue will be out tomorrow 💕