gullemec

[gullemec]

I just wanted to tell you that I think you are an absolutly brilliant writer. I truly enjoy reading your work. I anxiously wait for every new chapter of Golden Ruin.

Lots if Love

Josey ❤️

Thank you so much I appreciate this more than you know ❤️❤️ thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy what's to come!

[gullemec]

Red Light

Golden Ruin - Chapter Eight

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Solitude does funny things to people.

Warnings: Just reader and Hughie going shack wacky, reader doing dangerous things!

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5k

A/N: I knowww we miss Billy. I miss him too. But I promise this is going somewhere and *dutch van der linde voice* I'VE GOT A PLAN

On a particularly cold evening, as the fire crackles softly and Hughie snores faintly from the other room, you find yourself unable to sleep.

The ultrasound photo lies on the nightstand, an anchor and a weight. You roll onto your side, staring at it for what feels like hours before a memory surfaces, one you’d buried somewhere deep, perhaps because it hurt too much to hold onto.

The rain had drummed steadily against the roof of the van that night, a low, relentless rhythm that filled the silence. You’d sat in the passenger seat, your breath fogging the window as you stared out at the drenched, empty street. Butcher had been behind the wheel, one hand resting lazily at twelve o’clock, the other drumming his fingers against his knee, impatient, as always, even when there was nothing to do but wait.

He hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes, which had felt like an eternity in the cramped space of the van.

“Are we just gonna sit here all night?” you’d finally asked, your voice cutting through the quiet.

“It’s called waiting, love,” he’d drawled without looking at you. “Some of us are quite good at it.”

You’d huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Sitting still doesn’t exactly scream ‘Butcher’ to me.”

The corner of his mouth had twitched, just barely, but you’d seen it. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

For a while, you’d let the silence settle again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The windows had fogged up from your shared breath, the air thick with that familiar mix of damp leather, stale coffee, and the leathery scent of Butcher’s jacket. You’d watched him out of the corner of your eye, jaw set, brow furrowed, his usual scowl carved into place like armor. But something about him that night had been different. The low light had softened his edges, and the rain had turned the outside world into a smudged blur. For once, he’d looked… human.

“Something on your mind, love?” he’d asked suddenly, his voice rough but not unkind.

You’d blinked, caught off guard. “I could ask you the same thing. You were staring into the abyss for, like, an hour.”

“Better than starin’ at you mopin’ about,” he’d muttered, though there’d been no real bite in his tone. He’d shifted in his seat, stretching his legs. “Spit it out, then. What’s eatin’ you?”

You’d hesitated, unsure how he always seemed to know when something was bothering you, even when you hadn’t said a word. “It’s nothing,” you’d deflected.

Butcher had snorted, his eyes never leaving the rain-streaked windshield. “Bollocks.”

The way he’d said it, so matter-of-fact, so certain, had knocked the wind out of your sails. You’d sighed, leaning back against the headrest. “Fine. It’s just… Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, it’s never enough? Like you’re always two steps behind where you’re supposed to be?”

Butcher hadn’t answered right away. He’d stared out the window, silent, like he was searching for words in the rain. When he finally spoke, his voice had been quieter than you’d expected. “Yeah. More often than not, I’d say.”

You’d turned to look at him then, surprised by the honesty. Vulnerability wasn’t something he offered freely. But that night, the cracks in his armor had shown just enough for you to glimpse the man beneath.

“You’re too good for this,” he’d said suddenly, almost like he was talking to himself.

The words had stung, and you’d frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He’d shaken his head, still looking straight ahead. “You’re smart. Strong. Got your whole life ahead of you. Shouldn’t be wastin’ it sittin’ in a van with a miserable bastard like me.”

You’d scoffed, turning in your seat to face him. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, Butcher had looked at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “Maybe not. But you’re meant for more than this, more than me. And I reckon you know it.”

Frustration had bubbled up inside you then, because it was so him—to push you away, to act like he was the villain in everyone else’s story. “Why do you do that?” you’d asked quietly.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re some kind of poison. Like you’re protecting me by keeping me away.”

Butcher had been silent for a moment, his jaw tight. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost too soft to hear. “Because that’s what I am, love. You just don’t see it yet.”

You’d shaken your head, refusing to let him believe that. “You’re wrong. You care about The Boys, about me. You wouldn’t fight so hard if you didn’t.”

He hadn’t said anything to that. Instead, he’d rested a hand on your shoulder, the weight of it warm and solid even through the thick layers of your coat. It was such a small gesture, but Butcher wasn’t a man who touched people often. For him, it had meant everything.

“Don’t need to fight so hard if you’ve got nothing to lose,” he’d murmured finally. “And you, you’ve got everything to lose. That’s why I’d rather keep you far away from this shite. Far away from me.”

You’d swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “Tough luck, Butcher. I’m already here.”

That had earned you a faint chuckle, a quiet, almost reluctant sound. His hand fell to your side, lacing his fingers with yours and bringing your hand to his mouth for a kiss. Before you had the chance to react, he’d placed it firmly back in your lap, turning back to grip the wheel, his gaze fixed on the world beyond the rain.

Now, looking back, you can still see him so clearly, jaw set, knuckles white on the steering wheel, a man convinced he wasn’t good enough for the people he loved. He hadn’t understood then that pushing you away didn’t protect you; it only made the distance between you feel wider.

And yet, even in his own broken way, Butcher had believed in you. He’d believed in your strength, your resolve, and maybe even in the parts of you he thought he’d ruin. That night in the van had been the closest he’d ever come to telling you he loved you, not with words, but in the way he’d looked at you, in the tenderness of his kiss, in the rain-soaked silence that said more than either of you ever could.

And maybe you’d hated him for that, back then. For never having the courage to say it out loud. For not believing in his own worth the way he believed in yours.

But now… now you just miss him.

Your hand drifts to your belly, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your sweater. You wonder what he’d think if he were here, looking at the ultrasound picture alongside you. Would he let himself believe he was enough? Would he fight to be here for you, for this?

You hope so. Because no matter what he thought, he was enough. He was the only man you’d ever trusted to hold your heart, fractured as it was. The only man that ever came close to convincing you of your own worth.

And now, more than anything, you just want him back.

~~~

Over the next month, the shoreline walks with Hughie become a sort of ritual, a bright spot in your otherwise deliriously boring days. 

The mornings are sharp with cold now, the salty breeze slicing through the layers you pile on. A heavy sweater, a man’s barn coat you found in a closet, gloves that don’t quite match. But none of it matters. You look forward to these walks more than anything else, eager to escape the confines of the cramped cottage and its suffocating stillness.

The walks never have a plan. Some days, you barely make it down the path before turning back, the wind too brutal or the skies threatening rain. Other days, you wander for hours, boots sinking into damp sand as you follow the curve of the shoreline until the world behind you feels miles away. The rhythm of the waves and the call of gulls and the wide, open sky brings you something like peace, a fleeting quiet that soothes the wild, restless thing inside you. The same thing that only grows louder with every long, uneventful hour spent inside those four walls.

It’s during one of those aimless walks that you first see it.

The cliff rises out of the earth like a jagged tooth, as if the land itself had been split apart long ago and left to erode into its current, precarious state. Twenty feet tall, maybe more, its face is a chaotic mess of craggy rock and streaks of moss, tufts of stubborn grass clutching at cracks like survivors of some long-forgotten storm. The waves slam into its base, spraying a mist of saltwater into the air and filling the silence with a deep, rhythmic crash.

You stop walking, the wind whipping your hair into your eyes as you stare up at it. Something about it, the sharp angles, the defiance of the rocks against the endless pull of the ocean, sends a spark through you.

“Think it’s climbable?” you ask, shielding your face with a gloved hand to get a better look.

“Climbable for someone with a death wish,” Hughie says, not even pausing as he skims a stone across the water.

You shoot him a look. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He turns to follow your gaze, his expression equal parts incredulous and concerned. “Look at it. That thing’s barely holding itself together. Half those rocks are probably ready to give way. One wrong step, and you’re swan-diving into the water.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He grins at that, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, there are less painful ways to deal with boredom. Safer ways, too. Ever heard of knitting?”

You roll your eyes and drop the subject, letting Hughie distract you with some inane story about his childhood neighbor’s cat and its vendetta against his father’s garden. But as you walk back toward the cottage, the cliff stays with you, lodged in your mind like a splinter.

In the days that follow, you can’t stop thinking about it. Each time you and Hughie wander the beach, your gaze drifts toward it. You trace the rock face with your eyes, imagining routes upward, handholds that look sturdy enough to grip, footholds barely wide enough to plant your boots. You start to see it not as a danger, but as a challenge.

It becomes an obsession, though you never say so out loud. Hughie would lecture you again, probably calling you reckless or stupid, though his tone would be soft, his concern hidden behind jokes and sarcasm. But you’re not reckless, not really. You’re not after danger for its own sake.

You’re just… desperate.

The cottage, with its peeling wallpaper and its lingering smell of damp wood, is a prison. The hours drag endlessly here, blending into days that all look the same, like you’re living inside a loop, waiting for something to happen but knowing nothing would. You memorize every knick on the dining table, every squeaky floorboard underfoot. You’ve played so many games of Scrabble with Hughie that the sight of the box now fills you with dread. And you’ve read The Old Man and the Sea so many times you start to think you are the old man, stubbornly clinging to some unspoken battle against a world you can’t control.

The monotony claws at you, scratching at your insides until you feel like you’ll crawl out of your own skin if you have to spend one more day doing nothing.

And the cliff.... it feels like an answer to a question you hadn’t even realized you were asking. A reminder that you’re still alive. That you can do something, feel something. It would be a rush of adrenaline, a satisfaction you haven’t known in months. You can picture it already, the scrape of rock under your fingers, the burn in your muscles as you pull yourself upward, the cold wind whipping through your clothes as you stand at the top.

And the view, the view would make it all worth it. From up there, you’d see everything:. The vast, endless sprawl of the ocean, the horizon stretching further than you could fathom, like freedom itself.

In a place where you feel so small, so trapped, the cliff is a promise. A promise that you still have control over something, even if it was just the choice to take a risk.

Hughie would think you were crazy, of course. He’d probably try to talk you out of it.

But he doesn’t understand.

The cliff has already decided for you.

~~~

One night, when the cottage settles into its usual silence, you make your decision. Hughie’s snores drift through the thin wall separating your rooms, soft and rhythmic, a steady cadence that lulls you into believing he won’t wake. You move quietly, slipping into a thick wool cardigan and lacing your boots tightly, the movements deliberate and slow.

The cool night air hits you like a shock as you step outside, sharp against your skin. You hesitate for a moment, the familiar weight of guilt tugging at you. What if Hughie woke up and found you gone? But the thought passes quickly, swept away by the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. They call to you, insistent and relentless, pulling you toward the cliff.

When you reach it, it looms in the moonlight, dark and jagged, every edge sharpened by shadow. You crane your neck, taking in the full height of it, and for a fleeting second, doubt creeps in. The rocks seem steeper than you remembered, the climb more perilous. But you shake the thought away, clenching your hands into fists. You didn’t come this far to back out now.

You run your fingers over the rough surface, feeling the cold, gritty texture beneath your touch. “You can do this,” you murmur under your breath, a mantra as much as a challenge.

The first few feet are deceptively simple. The handholds are large, the footholds steady. Your boots find purchase with ease, and the climb feels almost manageable. But as you ascend, the rock grows less forgiving. Edges sharpen, jabbing into your palms, and loose stones dislodge beneath your grip, clattering noisily to the ground below.

Halfway up, you pause on a narrow ledge, pressing yourself flat against the rock face as you look down.

The ground seems impossibly far away, the shoreline a distant strip of pale sand. Below, the waves churn and crash, their whispers now a low, angry roar. The sight sends your stomach lurching, and for a moment, fear sinks its claws into you. Your arms tremble with exertion, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

You could stop now.

Turn back.

Retrace your steps, carefully make your way down, and slip back into the cottage before Hughie notices you’re gone.

But no.

You’re not a coward.

Gritting your teeth, you press on. Each movement becomes slower, more deliberate. Your fingers scrape against sharp edges, your nails catching on cracks in the stone. The muscles in your arms and legs burn, but you push through the pain, refusing to stop.

The final stretch is the hardest. The rock smooths out, leaving few handholds to grasp. You cling to the surface, fingers aching, searching desperately for a way up. The wind whips past you, cold and biting, and for a moment, you wonder if this had been a mistake.

Then, just as your strength threatens to give out, you spot it. A tuft of grass growing defiantly near the top.

You stretch your arm toward it, your body straining with the effort. Your fingers curl around the brittle stems, anchoring you as you pull yourself up.

When you finally haul your body over the edge, you collapse onto your back, gasping for air. Your chest heaves, your limbs feel like jelly, and your palms throb with raw, stinging pain. But none of it matters.

Because when you open your eyes and look up, the stars stretch endlessly above you, glittering and cold against the vast, inky sky.

After a moment, you sit up, turning toward the view.

It’s breathtaking.

The beach sprawls far below, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight. The waves glitter as they roll toward the shore, whispering secrets to the sand. Beyond them, the ocean stretches into infinity, the horizon blurring into the sky until you can't tell where one ended and the other began.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alive.

No cramped walls, no suffocating silence, no waiting for something to change. Up here, it’s just you and the world, untamed, infinite, and indifferent to everything that weighs you down.

And for a fleeting moment, you feel free.

Sitting up, you let the salty breeze whip through your hair, the chill stinging your cheeks but waking you in a way you haven’t felt in months. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, a live wire under your skin, making your hands tremble, not with fear, but with something close to exhilaration. This is what you’ve been missing. The feeling of being alive. The reminder of why you joined the Boys in the first place.

It was never just about fighting back or making a difference. It wasn’t even about vengeance, not entirely. It was about proving something, to yourself more than anyone else. Proving you were capable. That you weren’t some fragile thing waiting to be saved, but someone who could save others. Someone who could matter.

And for the first time in months, as you sit atop that cliff with the ocean spread wide below you, you start to believe it again.

You pull your knees to your chest, staring out at the endless stretch of dark water and rolling hills. The waves below crash in rhythmic bursts, a steady reminder of the untamed power of the world around you. You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, letting the night envelop you. But when you open them again, something catches your attention, a faint glimmer in the distance, just beyond the horizon.

You squint, focusing on the thin silhouette rising against the dark expanse of sky. It blinks, a tiny, rhythmic flash of red light, steady as a heartbeat. 

A cell tower.

You sit up straighter, your breath catching in your throat.

For a moment, the sight feels surreal, like some cruel trick of the moonlight. But no, it’s unmistakably a tower. The blinking red light winks at you like it knows a secret, mocking your isolation with its quiet, unyielding flashes.

Your pulse spikes, your mind racing. Mallory had told you there was no signal out here, that you were too far removed from civilization for anything but silence. And for weeks, you and Hughie hadn’t bothered to try. But now, staring at that lone tower, a thought sparks in your mind, sharp and electric.

What if?

What if Mallory was wrong? What if, up here, with the elevation and the proximity to the tower, you could catch even the faintest bar of service? What if you could hear something, anything, from the outside world?

The idea sinks its teeth into you, relentless. The isolation has gnawed at your sanity, the lack of updates driving you to the edge of your patience. For weeks, you’ve been stranded here, cut off from everything that matters. No news. No reassurance. No way of knowing if Butcher is alive—or worse, if he’s dead and no one has had the guts to tell you.

Your mind spirals as the possibilities take hold. What if he’s been dead for weeks, and they’ve kept you in the dark to protect themselves? What if the rest of the Boys are scattered or captured, and you’re here, wasting time on beach walks and Scrabble games while the world burns without you?

You can practically feel the phone in your hand, the smooth of the glass beneath your fingertips. You imagine the vibration of a text, the sharp trill of your ringtone breaking the stillness of the night. You imagine Mallory’s sharp, chastising voice on the other end, berating you for doing something reckless but alive, present. Even her disapproval would feel like a comfort, a tether to the world you’ve been ripped away from.

But then, the warnings creep back in, unrelenting as the tide. Mallory’s grim face, her voice low and certain.

“Stay dark. Stay hidden. A cell signal could be tracked. And if they find you, it won’t just be you they’ll come for. It’ll be Hughie, too.”

You close your eyes, exhaling sharply. You know the risk. You’ve seen what Homelander can do, how quickly and mercilessly he can snuff out anyone he sees as a threat. A cell signal would be a beacon, a neon sign pointing directly to your hiding place.

And yet...

The solitude has become unbearable.

You fall back against the soft earth, letting your head rest against the cool ground. The blinking red light holds your gaze, its rhythm hypnotic. It feels like a lifeline, a fragile connection to the world you’ve been forced to leave behind. The rational part of you knows better than to entertain the idea. But the part of you that’s starving for connection, for control, for something real—that part wonders if the risk might be worth it.

For now, you swallow the thought. Rising to your feet, you brush the sand and grit from your pants, forcing your attention back to the path ahead. You need to climb down before the tide comes in and traps you here. But as you descend the cliff, the tower’s blinking light lingers in your mind, its faint promise burning itself into your memory.

By the time your boots hit the sand, you’ve convinced yourself you’ll forget about it. That you’ll stay the course, follow Mallory’s orders, and keep the signal dark.

But deep down, you know that blinking red light has already ignited something dangerous inside you.

~~~

You spend the next few days pretending everything is fine, doing your best to hide the fact that your mind has become dangerously, deliriously warped. You force smiles at Hughie, nodding along to his nervous chatter during your walks, cooking meals you can barely taste, and flipping aimlessly through the same dog-eared paperbacks. But when the silence creeps in, so does the red light.

The night you climbed the cliff, you dreamed of it, burning behind your eyelids in perfect rhythm, like a pulse you couldn’t quiet. The next morning, you saw it again, reflected in the dark surface of your tea, winking at you as though it knew what it was doing. By the evening, it appeared in the crimson glint of the sunset on the water, shimmering like a cruel mirage.

It’s always there. Mocking. Knowing. Goading.

You tried to ignore it. Tried to push it out of your mind. Really, you have. You’ve thrown yourself into the monotony of cottage life, reading, cooking, walking the shoreline until your legs ache. You’ve tried to find satisfaction in the small, safe rituals of your exile, to reassure yourself that waiting is the right thing to do. But the blinking red light has planted itself deep in your brain, a seed of temptation that refuses to wither.

And each passing day, each endless, wondering moment spent trapped in the limbo of not knowing, feeds it.

You wonder if Butcher is alive. If the man you love, the father of your child, is somewhere out there fighting for his life, or if he’s already gone, lost to you forever. You wonder about the Boys, the strange, mismatched family you’d built for yourself. Are they safe? Are they together? Are they even still alive? And then there’s the world itself, so far away it feels unreal. What’s happening out there, beyond these hills and waves? What fires are burning while you sit here, idle and powerless?

The questions loop endlessly, clawing at your mind, their weight germinating the seed until its roots stretch deeper than you can bear.

But you’ve never been the type to give up easily. Determination is as much a curse as it is a strength, and if nothing else, it’s always been your defining trait. Whether it’s a battle worth fighting or a doomed cause, you’ve never been able to walk away from something once it’s lodged itself in your heart.

And this time is no different.

The blinking red light doesn’t just haunt you, it calls to you. It dares you to make a choice, to risk everything for even the faintest chance of connection.

At least no one could ever say you weren’t determined.

The night air feels heavier this time, thicker, pressing against your skin like a warning as you step silently out of the cottage. Hughie’s faint snores filter through the thin walls, steady and familiar. At the door, you pause, guilt nipping at your resolve. For a fleeting moment, you consider turning back, crawling under the safety of the blankets. But the pull is too strong, gnawing at the edges of your mind. Clutching your phone in a trembling hand, you slip outside, the soft crunch of your boots on the gravel the only sound in the stillness.

The climb up the cliff feels more treacherous than before. Your hands shake—not just from the exertion, but from the weight of what you’re doing. With every grasp of the jagged rock, you battle the voice in your head, the one whispering, What if this is a mistake? Yet the blinking red light, steady and unyielding against the dark, pushes you forward. You dig your boots into the rocky surface, ignoring the ache in your arms, ignoring the way the cold wind bites at your exposed skin. When you finally pull yourself over the edge, you collapse onto your knees, panting, your legs trembling beneath you. 

The tower’s pulse feels like it’s syncing with your own frantic heartbeat.

You force yourself upright, pulling your phone from your pocket, holding your breath as the screen flickers to life. The battery indicator mocks you, barely above five percent.

You haven’t charged it since the night you spent at Annie and Hughie’s. The fact that it’s alive at all is a small miracle. Swallowing your frustration, you navigate to the settings, hands fumbling, searching for a signal.

Nothing.

The bars remain empty, unyielding, mocking your desperation.

“No, no, come on,” you whisper, pacing along the edge of the cliff, your arm outstretched toward the blinking light. The desperation in your chest rises like a tide, threatening to drown you. Your gaze darts around, frantic, until it lands on a spindly tree growing close to the edge of the cliff.

It isn’t tall, not much more than a weathered silhouette against the stars, but it’s tall enough.

Your breath catches as your resolve hardens. I can do this.

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you approach the tree. Its thin branches tremble in the breeze, and for a moment, doubt prickles at the back of your mind. But you push it down. Without thinking too hard, you begin to climb.

Each branch feels weaker than the last, threatening to snap under your weight. The sharp bark digs into your palms as you maneuver carefully, your small bump making the climb more awkward than it should be. The higher you go, the more the branches sway, the wind catching you like a phantom tugging at your cardigan.

Halfway up, you wedge yourself into the crook of two sturdy branches, clutching the trunk with one arm as you fumble for your phone with the other. Your hand shakes as you power it on again, holding it high, stretching your arm toward the blinking red light as if you could pull a signal straight from the air.

Then, it happens.

A single bar appears on the screen.

You laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound that cracks in your throat. Relief blooms in your chest, sudden and overwhelming. You stare at the notifications flooding in, your fingers scrolling instinctively.

You squint, smile faltering.

The messages are all from… Adam?

Your excitement curdles into confusion. Adam. You haven’t thought of him since the gala. You haven’t had the time or energy to think of him.

The first message was sent the day after the gala.

Hey, you left so suddenly last night. Are you okay?

You frown, scrolling to the next one, sent weeks later.

Haven’t heard from you. Just want to make sure you’re alright.

But it’s the last one, sent less than twenty-four hours ago, that makes your stomach drop.

You’re going to think I’m insane, but I swear I just saw your dad walking into Vought Tower.

Your pulse stutters as you stare at the words, your mind struggling to comprehend them. Attached to the message is a photo, grainy and blurred, clearly taken in a rush. But the figure in the image is unmistakable.

Your father.

The world tilts beneath you. You grip the phone tighter, your knuckles whitening as the branches around you sway in the breeze. The man in the photo isn’t a ghost of memory, isn’t the distant echo of a childhood long buried. He’s alive. Alive and walking into Vought Tower.

The realization crashes over you, knocking the air from your lungs. Your father is alive.

Your breathing quickens, shallow and erratic. The suffocating silence of the night presses in, broken only by the distant roar of waves below and the steady pulse of the tower’s red light, colder now, like the unblinking eye of something monstrous, a mocking metronome counting down to something you can’t yet fathom.

Your phone buzzes weakly in your hand, its screen dimming as the last of its battery begins to drain. You stare at the photo, willing yourself to believe it’s real, that this isn’t some cruel trick of the isolation.

Your voice echoes into the dark, empty night.

“Dad?”

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @buckybarnesbestgirl

[gullemec]

I needed to collect my thoughts before I could respond to this!!!

Something I was really nervous about in writing this series was portraying Joel and his reaction/treatment of the reader. I am a huge fan of fics that have Joel just being a straight up meanie who ends up being redeemed in the end. I think it can be hard to toe that line between "damaged person who acts out because of their trauma" and "straight up irredeemable asshole". I was nervous (still am!!) that this Joel can veer over into irredeemable but you have very much assuaged that fear in me for now so I really appreciate that ❤️

I really wanted to show that he is so goddamn love sick over this girl that it hurts him, and Joel really only knows how to respond to hurt through anger and defensiveness. This is not the Joel who has been softened by Ellie! He's been softened by the reader but not 100% yet, he's still in the softening process lol. He went too far and he's facing the consequences now, but I think we are seeing him turn a corner now, which I'm so excited to show with the next few chapters.

Also some of the parts you highlighted are also some of my favorites parts as well so it means a lot that the parts I'm hoping resonate with people are! Thank you again for being a wonderful reader and friend! I look forward to your feedback every time ❤️❤️❤️

Bad Man (Joel POV)

Bitten - Part VII

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel Miller is a bad man. Joel Miller is a weak man. But for you, maybe he could be good. Maybe, for once, he could be enough.

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, Joel pining hard, subtle reference to getting a boner (??)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 14.5k (and it's only going to get worse from here lol)

A/N: I submitted the final paper for the penultimate semester of my master's degree and thought we could celebrate with a very special chapter 🥰

The moment he first saw you, something changed.

It was like a fragile green sprout forcing its way through cracked concrete, life stubbornly emerging from destruction and decay. Something long dormant, buried under years of grief and grit, stirred awake in Joel Miller. He couldn’t name it, didn’t even fully recognize it at first, but it was there, undeniable.

It wasn’t just that you were a woman working one of the dirtiest, most soul-draining jobs in the QZ. Plenty of women got stuck with body disposal, long days spent shoveling ash, hauling corpses, and stacking them like cordwood before setting them ablaze. It was grueling, thankless work, and most people either bribed their way out of it or stopped showing up altogether, slipping quietly into the shadows of the QZ in search of under the table work. Joel didn’t fault them for it. Hell, if he had the luxury of a bribe or knees that didn’t groan every time he crouched, he might’ve done the same.

It wasn’t just the way you stood up for yourself, either. Sure, he’d been taken aback, impressed, even, when you snapped at him for offering to help. There you were, standing knee-deep in filth, your face streaked with soot and sweat, hauling the dead weight of a grown man onto the pyre like it was nothing. Joel had grinned like a fool beneath his bandana, not because he doubted your strength but because of the fire in your eyes, the way you carried yourself like you were daring anyone to underestimate you.

But strength was common in the QZ. Survival required it. The women here, like the men, were hardened, their edges sharpened by years of scarcity and loss. Strength alone wasn’t what caught his attention.

No, it was something deeper, something intangible. It was in the way you moved, the way your shoulders squared as if you were bracing yourself against the weight of the world, even as your eyes betrayed something softer, something untouched by the harshness around you. It wasn’t weakness, not even close. It was a quiet, stubborn hope, buried under ruin. A tenderness you tried to shield, even though the cracks in your armor were visible to anyone who bothered to look closely enough.

And Joel, against his better judgment, had looked.

It was rare these days to find someone who hadn’t been hollowed out completely, someone who still carried even a scrap of kindness, a trace of softness. Most people built walls so high and so thick that nothing could get in… or out. And Joel understood that better than anyone. He’d spent years fortifying his own, pouring concrete around every vulnerability, every regret, every sliver of humanity he still possessed.

And if Joel was honest with himself, which he often struggled to do, he knew a big part of what drew him to you, what kept him circling back despite his better judgment, was the way your softness had survived in a world so intent on destroying it.That rare, unguarded vulnerability, the kind he hadn’t seen in years, felt like a magnet pulling him in. And it terrified him.

Because Joel knew exactly how easily that softness could be exploited. He’d seen it happen before, kindness and trust twisted into tools for someone else’s gain. He’d done it himself once or twice, back in the early days when survival meant silencing his conscience. 

He knew there were men out there far worse than he was. Men who would take someone like you and ruin you, strip away the humanity that made you different.

Joel Miller was not a good man. He had too much blood on his hands, too many sins stacked up to pretend otherwise. But the thought of someone else taking that rare softness in you and defiling it, tainting it… It made his stomach churn with righteous indignation.

So, he told himself he’d protect you. 

Not because you were his responsibility, not yet, anyway, but because he couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else getting to you first. Someone who wouldn’t just take your trust but would break you in the process. 

And if that meant ignoring the way his thoughts drifted to you late at night, then so be it. He’d bury the way your laugh lingered in his head long after you were gone, the way your presence in a room seemed to make the air heavier, charged, like a heavy storm cloud about to break. He’d push down the pang of guilt that twisted inside him whenever he laid with Tess, the gnawing sense that something about being with her felt wrong now, like it was betraying you, even though he had no real reason to feel that way.

Because you were no one to him. Not yet, at least. Barely a friend, more like a stray dog sniffing around the edges of his life. Feral and skittish, tolerating his proximity only because it didn’t explicitly feel like a threat.

Joel would ignore the way his stomach tightened when you reached up to adjust your jacket, the hem of your shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. He’d look away when you bent over to grab something, knowing his gaze lingered on the gentle slope of your backside longer than it should. He’d force his mind to shut down the way his hands itched to touch you, not in the careless, rough way he’d known before, but gently, reverently, like you were something precious.

But to touch you, to have you like that, would be to ruin you. His hands were calloused and stained with too many sins. They had no business running over your skin, no matter how much he craved it. It would be selfish, another black mark on his already damned soul.

Joel didn’t need another sin to carry. And he sure as hell didn’t need to carry the weight of what it would mean to lose you, not after what he’d already lost. So he’d keep his distance. He’d guard you from the world, even from himself, because he knew damn well that men like him didn’t deserve softness like yours.

…

Tess had seen it, clocked it from the moment he first brought you around. 

She wasn’t stupid. She knew him too well, could read him better than anyone else, maybe even better than he could.

“What’s going on here, Joel?” she’d asked that night after your first smuggling job with them. The two of them were tucked into the quiet shadows of his apartment, sharing a rare moment of stillness after you’d taken your share of the ration cards and gone home.

Joel had feigned ignorance, brushing it off with a grunt and a shrug. “She’s a good set of hands,” he’d said, his voice rough and curt, the lie obvious even to him.

Tess didn’t buy it for a second. “Bullshit,” she’d said, her voice low, bitter. “Look, if you want to end this—us—that’s fine. But don’t lie to yourself about what this is.”

He’d refused to acknowledge what she meant, wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, admit it. But she was right, and they both knew it. He never found his way back to her bed after that night. Not because he didn’t care about her, but because the shame weighed on him too heavily. Guilt sat in his belly like a stone, growing heavier with every glance in your direction, every moment he caught himself thinking of you when he shouldn’t.

And then came the night everything went to hell. The smuggling job had gone sideways, and you’d asked him something he hadn’t been prepared for, something that came alive in his brain like an electric shock. 

“Do you ever think about… leaving?” you’d asked, your voice tentative, almost shy, like you were afraid of what his answer might be.

The question sparked something in Joel, something long buried and half-forgotten. Hope. He didn’t even recognize it at first, not for what it was. It had been so long since he’d felt it, since he’d dared to want anything other than basic survival.

Later, as you slept on his couch, curled up beneath one of his old blankets, Joel sat in the quiet and watched you, his hands still trembling from the chaos of the night. He rubbed his thumb over the worn edge of the table, his mind racing. Wyoming wasn’t just a place. It was an idea, a promise.

A chance.

He told himself it was for you. He’d get you there, to whatever better life waited for you on the other side of those distant mountains. A place where you wouldn’t have to keep your guard up all the time, where you could let yourself be soft again without fear of being broken. Maybe you’d find someone there, someone good, someone who could give you the life you deserved. Someone who wasn’t him.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Joel couldn’t stop the selfish thought that lingered in the back of his mind. Maybe Wyoming wasn’t just for you. Maybe it could be something for him, too. A place where he could finally put down some of the weight he carried. A place where he could let the hardness dissolve, piece by piece, until there was something left of the man he used to be.

Maybe then he could touch you without the fear of tainting you.

But Joel Miller was a weak man.

The sheer proximity to you on the journey was a daily trial, a constant reminder of the promise he’d made to himself, to protect you, to keep you safe, no matter the cost. But that promise carried with it another, a vow to never cross the line, to never let his own selfish desires interfere with what you deserved.

You made it damn near impossible.

There were days when the world forced intimacy upon you both in ways that were both innocent and excruciatingly dangerous to his resolve. Days when you’d strip down to bathe in the icy waters of some river, your laughter cutting through the air as you teased him about how cold it was. Joel always kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, but he could hear the water lapping against your skin, could imagine the droplets rolling down your body, catching the sunlight like tiny diamonds.

There were nights when you’d both peel off bloodied or rain-soaked clothes to inspect the cuts and scrapes that had come too close for comfort. Joel’s hands would shake slightly as he cleaned the wounds on your back or your arms, his touch careful and deliberate, every brush of his fingers against your skin a silent prayer for control. He told himself he was just being thorough, just being cautious, but the truth was harder to swallow.

He wanted to touch you more than he had ever wanted anything.

And yet, every single time, he forced himself to look away. To turn his back, to avert his gaze, to give you whatever dignity he could manage in a world that had so little of it to offer. It wasn’t easy. Hell, it was torture. But Joel was nothing if not disciplined, and for you, he would be good.

He told himself it was the least he could do, a way to balance the scales of the man he used to be, the man who had done things he could never speak of, things that still haunted him in the quiet hours of the night. Joel Miller was a bad man. He’d done bad things, hurt people, killed people, and never once had he felt an ounce of guilt about it. Not until you.

You made him want to be better. 

But you also made him weak.

Because for all his promises, all his discipline, there were moments when his restraint wavered. Moments when he’d catch himself looking too long, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck or the way your hair clung to your skin after a storm. Moments when he wanted nothing more than to close the space between you, to press his forehead to yours and let himself believe, just for a second, that he could be something more to you than a protector.

He hated himself for those moments. They felt like a betrayal, not just of the promise he’d made to himself, but of you. You deserved better than a man like him. You deserved someone pure, someone who didn’t carry the weight of countless sins on his shoulders.

And yet, despite all of that, Joel couldn’t help the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him, or the way his pulse quickened when your hand brushed his arm. He couldn’t stop the way you filled every corner of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to keep you out.

Because Joel Miller was a weak man. But for you, he would spend every day trying to be stronger.

…

It had rained on the day that everything changed for him.

You’d been somewhere in Nebraska, where the last dregs of summer lingered in the air like distant whispers of a lover unwilling to let go. The sun still hung warm and golden overhead, the air hazy and thick.

That morning, the two of you had hunted together, your movements coordinated in a way that only came from months of traveling side by side. You’d amassed a bounty of game, enough to fill your bellies and preserve some for the days ahead. Things had been eerily quiet for weeks, no infected, no other people, nothing but the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional sound of wildlife. It had been so calm, so unnaturally still, that Joel let himself believe, just for a few stolen moments, that you were safe.

The campsite you set up felt like a small reprieve from the constant urgency of the road. The fire crackled softly as the two of you worked together, drying meat into jerky, the scent of smoke mingling with the warm, earthy smell of late summer. Joel had almost forgotten what it felt like to be in a place that didn’t feel like it was pressing down on him, strangling him.

You’d gone down to the stream to wash off the blood and grime from the hunt, leaving Joel behind to finish setting up. He let you go without question, understanding your need for a semblance of privacy. He stayed behind, sitting on a large, sun-warmed rock near the fire, his head tilted back to soak in the rays.

And then, he’d felt it. The first drops of rain against his face.

At first, Joel thought he was imagining it. He sat up, squinting at the sky, which still burned bright with sunlight despite the rain now beginning to fall in a soft, steady rhythm. 

A sun shower.

It had been years since he’d felt one, maybe decades. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, the ghost of a memory tugging at him from a time so far removed it felt like another lifetime. “Rain on a sunny day means the foxes are having a wedding,” she used to say, her Southern drawl making everything sound like an old folk tale. The thought brought an unexpected smile to his face.

And then he heard it.

Your laughter.

It was soft at first, a gentle peal that carried over the rustling of the trees and the patter of rain on the grass. Then it grew, rich and warm, spilling out into the quiet. Joel froze, every muscle in his body locking as he turned toward the sound.

You were in the stream, the rain falling in delicate droplets all around you, turning the surface of the water into a mosaic of ripples. He hadn’t meant to look. He really hadn’t. But there you were, spinning in the shallow current, arms spread wide, head tilted back to catch the rain on your face.

The sight of you stole the breath right out of him.

Your white tank top, soaked through and translucent, clung to your frame. He was only a man at the end of the day, and the sight sent a jolt to his groin.

But it wasn’t the outline of your body that caught his attention, not at first. It was your face, the sheer joy written across it, the unbridled freedom in your smile. You looked like a woman untouched by the world’s ugliness, as though the scars on your body and soul had been washed away by the rain. For that fleeting moment, you were radiant. Carefree. And it was something Joel hadn’t seen from you before, not like this.

The rain, mingling with the lingering heat of the day, created a mist that rose from the tall grass and wove through the trees like something out of a dream. Joel felt like he was watching a mirage, something too good to be real.

He told himself to look away, to give you the privacy you deserved. But he couldn’t. He was transfixed, rooted to the spot as his heart hammered against his ribcage.

And for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to wonder.

It would be so easy. That’s what crossed his mind. So easy to let go of his threadbare resolve, to step into the stream and close the distance between you. To touch you. Not just to brush past you in some practical, utilitarian way, but really touch you. To let his hands find the curve of your waist, to feel the warmth of your skin under his calloused fingers.

The thought terrified him, more than anything had in years. Because in that moment, Joel knew.

You could never be just someone he traveled with. You were never just a pair of capable hands or an extra set of eyes.

You were something else entirely. Something precious. Something Joel didn’t deserve but couldn’t help but want.

So he stayed on the rock, watching as you twirled in the rain, the sound of your laughter carrying over the hills. And Joel Miller, a man who had made a life of keeping his heart buried deep, felt it crack open just a little bit more.

So that night, when you unrolled your sleeping bag by the fire, something changed. He’d already taken up his usual post against a tree at the edge of camp, rifle in hand, eyes scanning the dark horizon. But for once, the call of duty, the constant need to keep his distance from you, was drowned out by something else. Maybe it was the way the sun shower had softened the world around him earlier, how the rain had washed everything clean, how you seemed to glow in the sunny haze.

Wordlessly, as if compelled by a force he didn’t fully understand, he moved. His boots crunched against the dry leaves as he walked over to you, unfurling his sleeping bag beside yours.

You glanced up at him, your face lit by the flickering firelight. He braced himself for questions, for confusion, maybe even a hint of irritation. He could already hear himself mumbling an excuse, ready to retreat back to the tree if that’s what you wanted.

“Just figured it was warmer by the fire.”

But you didn’t look confused. Or annoyed. Or anything like he expected.

You smiled.

It was warm, open, and unguarded, like you’d been waiting for him to do this all along. Like you weren’t surprised by his sudden need for closeness, but relieved by it. And in that moment, he was disarmed. Completely.

He sat down beside you, rifle still cradled in his lap, his body tense with the effort of trying to convince himself this was nothing more than practicality, safety in numbers, warmth by the fire. He was always trying to convince himself of things like that, always forcing his thoughts into neat, platonic boxes that made sense.

You spoke to him, your voice soft and steady, and as the fire crackled, he found himself responding without thinking. Words flowed between you like the river you’d bathed earlier that day, easy and natural. Your body leaned just a little toward his, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off you, close enough that his heart raced. But he told himself it was just the chill of the night driving you closer, nothing more.

You laughed at something he said, light, airy laughter that felt like music to him. He didn’t know what he’d said that was so funny, but he didn’t care. He’d have said a hundred more things, anything to keep that sound alive in the summer night air.

But eventually, your laughter faded, your words slowing until sleep tugged at the edges of your voice. Curled up just a little closer to him than he dared to hope, you drifted off.

And that’s when he let himself look at you. Really look at you.

The way your face softened in sleep, the way the firelight painted your features in warm, golden hues. His hand itched to reach out, to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, to feel the weight of your head against his chest, your breaths syncing with his. It would have been so easy to drape an arm over your waist, to pull you just a little closer.

But he didn’t want to risk waking you, not even with the slightest movement. The thought of disturbing your peace, of pulling you from whatever refuge sleep had given you, was unthinkable. He’d shoulder the burden of exhaustion a thousand times over if it meant you could rest like you needed to.

If it meant he could watch you like this, unguarded and serene, your face lit by the dying embers of the fire.

He couldn’t help but study you, his eyes tracing the gentle curve of your cheek, the soft pout of your lips. Every so often, your eyebrows knit together, like something troubled you even in your dreams, and he felt an ache deep in his stomach. He wanted to smooth the crease with his thumb, whisper that everything was going to be okay. That he’d make it okay.

That night, as he gazed at you, he made a decision.

He’d tell you how he felt.

Not now, not here on the road, where every moment was a fight for survival and every step was shadowed by danger. He didn’t want his confession to feel like a tactic, some ploy to keep you close or bound to him out of obligation. The last thing he ever wanted was for you to feel pressured, to feel like you owed him anything.

But when you made it to safety, when you both stood on solid ground for the first time since the world fell apart, he’d tell you.

He’d tell you about how different you were, how you terrified him in ways he couldn’t even articulate. How the thought of you had carved its way into his very being and made a home there, keeping him awake at night. He’d tell you how much he hated himself for wanting something so good, so untainted, when he’d been the opposite for so long.

And he’d tell you about hope. About how he thought he’d lost it years ago, buried it alongside people he’d loved and failed. But you had unearthed it, dragged it kicking and screaming back into his life without even realizing it.

He’d tell you that he wasn’t a good man, not that this would be any revelation to you. You knew better than anyone the weight of the blood on his hands. But maybe, just maybe, this new place, this promised land you both fought so hard to reach, could be a fresh start. A chance to rinse the crimson from your palms and use them for something better. To learn what it meant to love again, in a world that had taught him nothing but how to endure.

And if you didn’t want him, if your heart didn’t align with his, he’d accept that, too. It would hurt, more than he cared to think about, but your happiness would be enough. Knowing you were safe, knowing you were free to live the life you deserved, would mean more to him than any confession of love ever could.

To see you saved, whole and untouched by the darkness that had consumed so much of him, would be enough. It would mean he’d finally done something right. Finally saved someone who truly deserved it.

And that thought was enough to keep him going. Enough to let him sit there, rifle cradled in his lap, watching over you until the first rays of dawn kissed the horizon.

…

He was checking traps when it happened.

At first, it was just noise. The constant roar of the river, the hiss of wind through rain-dampened trees. Your screams must have folded into the white noise, lost to the cadence of the post-storm forest.

But then he heard his name.

It wasn’t a call. It wasn’t a plea. It was a scream, raw, jagged, and visceral. And somehow, he knew.

Before his brain could process, his body responded. Like a switch had been flipped, like instinct alone had seized control of him. His legs moved with a speed that felt unnatural, propelling him forward as if the earth itself had turned against him.

He didn’t need to see you to understand what had happened. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew. But when he did see you, sprawled on the forest floor, pinned beneath a snarling, snapping beast, it was like something chemical ignited inside him.

Not adrenaline. Not shock. It was something else entirely. Something acidic, something that burned in his veins and threatened to eat him alive.

His hand moved faster than thought, the pistol in his grip an extension of his rage. The shot rang out, sharp and violent, and for a moment, he didn’t even register that it was his finger that had pulled the trigger. It didn’t feel like his hand, like his body. He was barely a man in that moment, just pure, unthinking reflex.

The infected collapsed off you in a heap, but he barely registered it. His eyes were locked on you, taking in the crumpled mess of your body. For a second, hope flickered, weak and pitiful. A cruel thing. And it burned.

Because he knew.

The red bloom spreading across your shirt stared at him, stark against the fabric, damning the both of you.

It was over. 

The pistol was up again, heavy but familiar. He flicked the safety off without thinking, the product of twenty years of survival. The barrel leveled at you, finger hovering over the trigger. 

It was muscle memory. Mechanical, methodical, practiced. 

But then your voice cried out, beseeching him to spare you and goddamnit, didn’t you know what that would do to him?

“Please, just… wait.” 

Did you have any idea what you were asking him for in that moment?

To override the reflex that had kept him alive for two decades. To ignore the rules that had been drilled into him by blood and fire, rules that had saved him time and time again. To fly in the face of everything he’d come to believe about survival in a world that had no room for mercy.

To confront the weakness you’d cored into him.

His hands shook.

The barrel wavered.

His mind screamed at him to finish it, to do what he had to do, but his chest felt like it was splitting open.

His mind fell away, back to those stolen moments, those fragile, fleeting seconds of normalcy you’d created and held together in a world that refused to offer it.

He thought about the QZ, the times when the two of you shared laughter soft enough not to wake suspicion. He thought about the quiet moments on the road, when the firelight danced across your face and you’d smile at him, something real and unguarded, and for just a second, the weight of survival would lift from his shoulders.

Being in your proximity allowed him the rarest kind of reprieve. Forgetting. Forgetting the blood on his hands, the screams that haunted him, the crushing monotony of survival.

Your company wasn’t just a comfort, it was a luxury. And Joel Miller had never been a man who allowed himself such indulgences. But you were different. You were intoxicating. You were a temptation he couldn’t turn away from.

What was he supposed to do? Just give that up?

So maybe Joel didn’t do what he was supposed to do in that moment. Maybe he acted on impulse, on selfishness.

Tess’s voice slithered through his mind, low and venomous, the same condemnation that had hung over him since this all started.

You’re blind when it comes to her.

And one day, it’s going to cost you.

He hated her for that. Hated her because she was right.

Joel Miller was not supposed to be a weak man, not anymore. He’d been forged in fire, hardened by loss. But when it came to you? Goddamn it, he was weak.

And as he stared down at you, trembling and bloodied, he didn’t feel like the ruthless man who’d survived for twenty years in hell. He felt like nothing. Like a coward.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft, trembling, breaking. “I’m not ready. Please.”

It broke something inside him to hear you say that, to hear the raw plea in your voice. He could feel the tears welling in his own eyes, hot and blinding, but he couldn’t look away from you. He didn’t need to see the tears streaking your face to know they were there.

He thought about it. He really, truly did. 

He thought about pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple, steadying his hands, and pulling the trigger. He thought about giving you the mercy that this world would never offer. About being strong enough to do what he’d promised you.

But his hands wouldn’t steady.

No matter how tightly he gripped the gun, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And he knew, he knew, that if he missed—if he botched it—if he caused you more pain in your final moments, that would be it. That would be the thing that finally broke him.

He blinked through his tears, his vision swimming, his ribs heaving with ragged breaths. The gun felt like a weight he couldn’t bear, dragging his arm down, pulling him under.

He watched your body crumple, your legs folding beneath you like a lamb struck down mid-stride. The sight of you, fragile and broken, felt like a blade being thrust into his chest.

The gun in his hands felt almost foreign as he kept it trained on you. Not because he had any intention of pulling the trigger, but because it was all he had left. A crutch. A mask. A desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control.

Joel Miller, the relentless, unflinching, unfeeling killer.

But where was that man now? Certainly not here. Not in this clearing, babbling incoherently under his breath like a man lost, trembling hands struggling to keep the pistol steady.

It was pathetic, he thought. Weak.

Eventually, he could take no more. He holstered the gun with a sharp, frustrated motion, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. His jaw clenched as he moved, as if action alone could smother the war raging inside him.

He tied you to a tree, the rope biting into the bark and your body, a crude solution that was as much for his peace of mind as it was for your protection. The knot was tight, too tight, maybe, but it was the only compromise he could muster. He couldn’t leave you untethered, not when the infection was clawing its way through your veins, preparing to twist you into something else.

And then something familiar happened to Joel. A sensation that had visited him countless times before, always in the moments when his soft, vulnerable underbelly was exposed.

He shut down completely.

It was a reflex, as automatic as breathing. The rough brick wall that surrounded whatever was left of his fragile heart rose swiftly, sealing him off from the mess of emotions swirling around him.

It felt like a shadow falling over him, a suffocating blanket of self-preservation. It was itchy, uncomfortable, bristling against every nerve in his body. But it protected him. It always had.

Joel turned on his heel, ambling away from you with stiff, mechanical movements. Like putting space between the two of you would snuff out the inferno of guilt, anger, and fear consuming him.

He didn’t go far. Couldn’t.

Instead, he sat with his back to you, staring into the forest as though its endless expanse could offer him answers. It didn’t. All it gave him was the hollow echo of his own shallow breaths, mixing with yours in the strained silence that hung between you.

And in that silence, Tess’s voice rang in his ears, clear as the crack of a rifle.

She’s your responsibility.

The weight of those words settled heavily on his shoulders, a familiar burden he had carried more times than he cared to count.

But now the weight was unbearable.

He’d failed you. He’d failed you like he failed Sarah. Like he failed Tommy. Like he failed every single person who had ever looked to him for protection.

The realization hit him like a freight train, barreling through the brittle defenses he’d tried to put up. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, knuckles whitening as he sat there, a man trapped in the ruins of his own guilt.

He didn’t turn to look at you. He couldn’t.

Not when your voice, too soft and quiet and gentle for what you were going through, floated through the air. You were trying so hard to keep your voice steady. 

“You know what I thought of you when I first met you?” 

You were brave and he was not. He was right all along. He never deserved you.

“I thought you were an asshole. A grumpy asshole.”

No, asshole was too kind a descriptor. He thought he was more befitting of words like evil or selfish or inhuman.

His body betrayed him, twitching as he tried to hold in a sob.

Your voice, just a whisper in the quiet, raspy and uneven, cut through him. 

"And once I figured out how easy it was to piss you off, I couldn't stop myself. I'd say the dumbest shit just to get you all riled up."

Joel didn’t react. Wouldn't react. He kept his back to you, his gaze fixed somewhere faraway and unseeing, because if he did, if he acknowledged this, he was certain he’d shatter. 

He heard the catch in your breath as you paused, the effort it cost you to keep speaking.. He knew what you were doing. Knew you were trying to draw him out, trying to make him say something, anything.

But he didn’t.

You kept talking. He knew you would.

"You’d get so mad, Joel. Your face would do this thing, this little twitch, like you were trying so hard not to tell me to shut the fuck up."

You were smiling. He could hear it in your voice, that low, wistful curve of your words. It was cruel, really. That you were smiling knocking on death’s door while he was sitting there, coming apart at the seams.

"And I think—no, I know—you liked it."

That did it. His jaw worked, and before he could stop himself, a sharp exhale slipped from his nose. It was barely a sound, barely a damn thing at all, but it was enough for you to catch it. Of course you did.

"If I was nice to you, you’d ignore me. But if I said something dumb just to piss you off? You couldn’t help yourself."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to revisit these moments you were laying out between you like fragile glass. Because he remembered them, every damn one. And it was all too much.

"I think you liked the banter," you said, your voice growing weaker. "The arguing. Maybe it made things feel... normal."

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as your words settled over him like a heavy weight. He didn’t want to think about that, about the way those moments had carved out tiny pockets of warmth in his otherwise frozen-over life.

And then you went for the throat.

"Do you remember that night a few months ago? When you set your sleeping bag up right next to mine?"

Yes. Yes, he did. Every single goddamn day did he think about that night. 

That night was burned into his memory, etched into his very being. Because that night, he’d allowed himself to imagine a world where he could have you, hold you, love you. He’d been so close to saying something, to reaching for you. But he hadn’t. He’d told himself it wasn’t the right time. That it was safer to wait.

And now, hearing your voice tremble with the weight of your confession, he realized what a fool he’d been.

“I liked it. A lot. Probably more than I should’ve. And I couldn’t sleep that night, Joel. I just kept laying there, staring at you while you were on watch, thinking… Maybe you liked me, too.”

That did it.

That fucking did it.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His breath stuttered, his hands shaking as they gripped the edge of his knees. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t let you see the storm raging inside him.

You’d felt it, too. All this time, you’d felt it, and he’d been too much of a coward to do anything about it. Too afraid of what it meant, of what it could cost. And now, he’d wasted it. Wasted all the precious time he could have had with you.

The fear he’d carried with him for so long, that caring for someone again would destroy him, was nothing compared to the agony of this moment. Knowing he would lose you, knowing you would slip away from him forever, and he’d never told you.

All the time you could’ve spent together, talking, touching, tasting, indulging in your deepest shared desires. Gone. Because he’d been too scared to take the leap. Too scared to reach for the one thing he wanted most in this broken, depraved world.

He heard your breath falter again, your voice tapering into silence, and the blood roared in his ears, deafening. His heart pounded, frantic and wild, as if trying to break free from the cage of his ribs.

And suddenly, it was too much. The regret, the guilt, the overwhelming weight of what he’d lost. It all threatened to crush him, and he didn’t know if he could bear it.

For the first time in years, Joel Miller was helpless. Helpless to stop the ache tearing through him. Helpless to fix what was broken. Helpless to stop the one person who had come to mean everything from slipping through his fingers.

And it was all his fault.

“Stop.”

He didn’t realize he’d rounded on you until it was too late. Didn’t realize his hand had instinctively gone for his gun until he stood there, towering over you, the weapon trembling in his grip. Moonlight reflected off your wide, unflinching eyes, off the sheen of tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

The walls came up instantly, automatic as a reflex, wrapping him in the only defense he’d ever known. They let him retreat into himself, let the familiar mask of roughness and indifference take over. That mask had been his armor for so long, a weapon as sharp as any knife. It was how he survived. How he dealt with fear and pain and loss. By becoming something hard. Something people didn’t dare get close to.

And right now, he was scared. God, was he scared.

He just wanted you to stop. Stop talking, stop looking at him like that, stop peeling away every carefully constructed layer of his defenses until there was nothing left but the raw, ugly truth.

But you didn’t look afraid. Not of him. Not of the gun. Hell, you looked calmer than he felt, and it wasn’t fair. How could you look so composed when he was falling apart?

Your face, that beautiful, infuriating, goddamn perfect face. Even now, weakened and pale, barely clinging to life, you still glowed with something that made his breath hitch in his throat. Something pure. Something sacred.

And then you said it. The words that sealed his fate.

“I love you.”

Three words. Just three. And those walls didn’t just crack, they shattered. Brutally, violently, with debris raining down and choking smoke filling his lungs. The walls he’d spent two decades of blood and loss and apocalyptic horror building were gone, reduced to nothing in an instant.

The tears came before he could stop them, hot and blinding, shaking his body with quiet, wrenching sobs. He couldn’t hold them back, couldn’t control the storm raging inside him anymore.

His body was no longer his, it belonged to you. Mind, body, and soul. Yours. For as long as he remained on this mortal coil, he would be yours.

Because you’d done it. You’d broken him. With nothing more than your voice, soft and weak and filled with a love he didn’t deserve.

And yet, here you were, looking at him like he was everything. Like he was something worth loving.

He fell to his knees before you. It wasn’t a conscious choice, his body just moved, pulled by some force he couldn’t fight. His hands trembled as they reached for you, desperate to touch, to feel, to know you were still here. He forced himself to be gentle, to still the violent quake in his fingers as he brushed against your skin.

You were warm. Despite everything, you were still warm. And that warmth seared into him, branding him forever.

He bowed his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was soft, reverent, a quiet prayer to whatever higher power might still be listening. A promise, silent but absolute. At least he would have this. At least he could carry this moment, this memory, in the shattered remains of his heart.

When his gaze fell to your lips, he hesitated. He could feel it, the pull, the overwhelming need to close the space between you, to taste the words you’d just spoken on your breath.

But he couldn’t.

God help him, he couldn’t.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He did. More than he’d ever wanted anything. But it felt too big, too precious, too sacred. Kissing you would mean acknowledging it all, your love for him, his for you. And this love, it was the only good, pure thing he had left in this broken world.

And what if this was the end? What if this moment was all he’d ever have with you? What if he pressed his mouth to yours and your lips went still, your warmth faded, and he was left with nothing but the memory of a kiss given in the shadow of death?

No. He couldn’t. Not like this. Not here, in the horror of this reality.

His love for you was too sacred to be tarnished by the blood and chaos surrounding you. Too precious to be tied to this nightmare, to this moment where he was losing you.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he touched your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down.

Then, with painstaking effort, Joel forced himself to pull away from you. It was like tearing himself in half, leaving a piece of himself behind as he stood, his legs trembling beneath the weight of what he was doing. He moved just far enough that he wouldn’t be tempted to touch you again, wouldn’t risk holding on so tightly that he’d never let go.

And then he listened.

You talked, your voice weak but steady, filling the suffocating silence with the fragments of your life—the good, the bad, the heartbreaking. He listened as you shared your immaterialized dreams, the ones that had always seemed just out of reach. You talked about Yellowstone, about the beauty you’d never seen, the one place you wanted to go but never did.

And you told him, quietly, that you wanted him to go. For you.

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, but the promise was carved into his psyche. He would go. He’d go to Yellowstone, he’d go to the ends of the earth if it meant keeping a piece of you alive. For you, he would do anything.

But then you began to fade.

Your voice, once so full of quiet determination, softened, becoming thinner, more fragile with every word. The pauses between your breaths grew longer, heavier, until they stretched like an unbearable silence threatening to swallow him whole.

And Joel—Joel did what he’d always done when the pain became too much to bear. He ran.

He chose the coward’s way out, dragging himself to his feet and retreating into the dark, leaving you there in the cold. His legs carried him away even as his heart screamed at him to stay.

He told himself it was mercy. Mercy for himself, maybe. Because he couldn’t, wouldn’t, live with the memory of watching you slip away. He couldn’t endure the weight of seeing the light in your eyes flicker and die, couldn’t let that be the last image of you seared into his mind.

He wanted to remember the warmth of your skin beneath his lips, the softness of your breath as you spoke to him, the soft smile you wore as you shared your dreams. He wanted to keep you as you were in that moment, alive in his arms, not as the lifeless shell he knew you would become.

So he left.

But even as he stumbled into the shadows, his ribcage heaving with the effort of holding himself together, he felt the weight of his choice crushing him. He’d abandoned you. He’d left you alone in the cold and dark when you needed him most.

He tried to justify it, telling himself it was the only way to preserve the memory of you as something beautiful, something unbroken. But deep down, he knew it was fear. Fear of losing you. Fear of breaking entirely. Fear of facing a world where you no longer existed.

And as your voice faded into nothingness, swallowed by the night, so too did his own consciousness.

The weight of grief dragged him down, pulling him into the dark, leaving him suspended in a place where time ceased to exist. A place where he could still hear your voice, still feel your warmth, still believe, for just a little while longer, that you were there.

…

Your voice broke through the haze, like a siren’s song to a doomed sailor adrift at sea.

Joel.

Soft, lilting, sweet. It wrapped around him, soothing and electrifying all at once, like a flame warming him from the inside out.

Joel.

It came again, stronger this time, a thread of desperation laced into the edges. Warmth unfurled through his veins, slow and unfamiliar, filling his limbs and grounding him in the earthy scent of the morning.

Joel!

The sharpness of your cry jolted him, his eyes snapping open. His head jerked instinctively, scanning his surroundings.

His breath caught, his heart stuttering as his gaze locked onto you.

You sat there, far away but unmistakable, small and tired-looking against the endless wilderness.

Why…?

And then it hit him. 

You were alive.

Not snarling or feral, not a shambling corpse stripped of all humanity. You were whole. You were you.

Your skin, though dull and flushed, still glowed with life. Your eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, held recognition, a spark he thought he’d never see again. Not the cloudy, dead-eyed stare of the infected, the one that had haunted his every nightmare. And your lips, trembling but steady, spoke his name like it meant something.

An infected couldn’t do that.

His legs carried him toward you on instinct, his steps heavy and hesitant, as though moving too fast might shatter this fragile moment. His mind rebelled against the sight before him, against the sheer impossibility of it all. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

It had to be a dream. Some cruel illusion sent to mock him, to drag him through another hell of false hope. Any second now, the image would crack and dissolve, revealing the truth he feared most: your lifeless body reanimated into a monster. He braced himself for it, half-expecting the air to fill with the guttural growls of the infected.

But with every step closer, the mirage refused to shatter. You remained rooted in place, more tangible with every breath he took.

He stopped just feet from you, his breath uneven, his hands shaking. His eyes swept over you, searching for the flaw, the glitch, the fatal sign that would confirm this was a lie. But there was nothing. Just you.

You were alive.

And when you spoke again, so softly, so human, it broke him. “Joel… Untie me. Please.”

Your voice was small, almost pitiful, and it wrecked him in a way he didn’t know was possible. His knees threatened to buckle as the enormity of it all settled in. He’d tied you up. Left you out here. Left you to die. And yet here you were, asking—not accusing, not condemning, but asking—for his help.

And then the walls started to rise again.

One by one, those barriers you’d torn down so easily last night rebuilt themselves, stronger, thicker, shielding him from the crushing reality of what stood before him. Because the truth was too much to face.

You were alive. And now you knew.

You knew the weak, broken man he truly was. A man who’d failed you in every way that mattered. A man who couldn’t keep his promises, who couldn’t summon the courage to do the one thing he’d sworn he’d do for you.

He couldn’t protect you. Not from the infected, not from the world, not even from himself. He was selfish, corrupted to his core. Last night had proven that. He’d abandoned you to spare himself the pain of watching you slip away, and now here you were, living proof of his cowardice.

He hadn’t thought about what he’d do after. Not really. In some far-off, intangible sense, he supposed he’d keep going. What else was there for him? He’d find a beautiful place to bury you, somewhere quiet and peaceful, somewhere worthy of you. He’d search for flowers, whatever he could find, and place them gently over your chest before the first handful of dirt covered you. He’d say something, maybe. Something small, simple, that didn’t even come close to how much you meant to him. And then he’d go to Yellowstone. For you. After that, it wouldn’t matter much what he did.

But now? Now, with you alive somehow, still breathing, still fighting, and not even angry with him, just pleading softly for relief and kindness, he didn’t know what to do. It scared the hell out of him. So, he did what he always did when he was scared. He shut it down. Pushed it away. Put distance between himself and what terrified him the most.

He moved through time and space like a ghost, detached, cold. He compartmentalized you, locked the memory of your voice, your tears, your pain, behind a door he refused to open. Focus on the task. Just the task.

Pack the camp. Gather the trip wires. Scatter dirt over the fire’s ashes. Roll up the sleeping bags and tuck them beside the dwindling rations.

Don’t think about the woman you love tied to a tree. Don’t think about how scared she must be. Don’t think about how she probably feels more abandoned now than she ever has. Don’t think about how you failed her, how you keep fucking failing her, how you keep failing everyone.

But eventually, he could avoid it no longer. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear the small, pained sounds you made when you shifted against the ropes. He forced his breathing to even out, his hands to steady as he moved toward you. He didn’t deserve to touch you, didn’t deserve to meet your eyes, but he knelt before you anyway. 

And so, as he reached out to untie the knots, his heart shattering, he resolved to keep his distance. To guard himself, guard you, from the mess of emotions swirling in his brain. Because loving you meant opening himself to a level of pain he couldn’t survive again. And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Not now, not again, not ever.

Somehow the fear of losing you was nothing compared to the fear of being seen by you. Seen for what he really was.

And you, looking at him with confusion and hurt written all over your face, misinterpreted every bit of it. To you, his silence, his hesitation, the way his hands shook but his eyes refused to meet yours, all of it screamed disgust.

You thought he was afraid of you.

And Joel, coward that he was, couldn’t find the words to tell you the truth. That all of the fear, all of the disgust, was reserved solely for himself.

When he finally looked at the wound, his heart seized in his throat. 

It was bad. Worse than he’d expected, worse than he was ready for. The jagged edges of torn flesh and dried blood painted a picture he couldn’t bear to see, a reminder of how close he’d come to losing you.

For a fleeting moment, he almost pulled you into his arms. Almost cradled you like something sacred, something he could never put back together but would die trying to protect. He wanted to cry, to beg for forgiveness, to tell you everything he felt but couldn’t bring himself to say.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t allowed that anymore. He’d proven himself unworthy in every sense.

Instead, he focused on the work. His hands moved mechanically, stitching you back together with a precision that belied the chaos inside him. Every pull of the thread felt like penance, like a punishment he deserved for what he’d done, and for what he hadn’t done.

And as the needle passed through your torn skin, he thought about the scar this would leave. About how it would stay with you forever, a constant reminder of how close you’d come to death.

Another thought crossed Joel’s mind at that moment.

What if he had pulled the trigger?

What if he’d ignored your cries, your desperate pleas for mercy, and done the only thing he thought was right in that moment? What if he’d let the wall of instinct and survival take over, burying his heart beneath it as he put you out of your misery? What if he’d made the decision that he’d told himself, countless times, was the merciful thing to do, the thing he should have done?

The thought turned his stomach.

He had been so close. A goddamn hair’s breadth away from ending your life. His finger had brushed the trigger, the cold steel already giving way beneath his pressure, when something, your voice, maybe, or just his own weakness, made him stop. And now, against all logic, you were here. Breathing. Alive.

But that only made it worse.

Because if he’d gone through with it, if he’d done what he thought he was supposed to do… 

Then you’d be gone. Just gone. He’d have to live with the memory of your face in those final moments, the way your eyes begged him for trust and compassion even as his weapon shook in his hand. He’d have to carry that weight forever.

But he didn’t pull the trigger.

And that meant living with the reality of what he almost did. Of how close he came to robbing you of this impossible, miraculous chance at survival. He hated himself for that too, for the thought, the instinct, the sheer audacity of his willingness to believe he had the right to make that call.

No matter which way he looked at it, the accusatory finger of blame pointed directly at him.

You’d been attacked because of him. You’d nearly died because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough to stop it. And then, when it mattered most, he was too weak to do the thing he thought he owed you. But too cruel to stop himself from almost doing it anyway. He hated himself for all of it. Hated that, no matter how he tried to justify it, you bore the physical scars while he carried the guilt.

Now here you were, trusting him despite all of it, your blood still on his hands. Literally and figuratively. Every time he touched you, his heart twisted into tighter knots, longing and shame in equal measure. He wanted to comfort you, to be the kind of man you needed, but every time his hands brushed your skin, all he could think about was how close he came to using those same hands to destroy you.

And then you gasped in pain, your fingers curling instinctively toward him, seeking relief, and he startled like a man caught in a lie.

And his name left your sinless mouth again and it damn near broke him.

You needed to stop. You needed to stop saying his name like he was still someone you could rely on. You needed to stop acting like what he almost did wasn’t a crime against you, against whatever humanity was left in him. He wasn’t the man you thought he was, and every time you looked at him like he was, the weight of his guilt crushed him a little more.

When he finished tending your wounds, he didn’t speak. His hands were shaky but efficient as he pulled his flannel from his pack, tossing it toward you.

“You need a shirt,” he muttered gruffly, avoiding your eyes.

There were shirts in your pack. He knew that. Hell, you probably had plenty of them. But none of them were as soft or warm as his, and soft and warm were what you needed. That much he could give you, even if it felt selfish, like some part of him was trying to absolve himself through the smallest, simplest offering of comfort.

He turned away as you pulled it on, his throat tight. He didn’t deserve to see you like this, to be here after everything he’d failed to do.

Because no matter what happened now, he couldn’t escape the truth. Your blood had stained him a deep and wicked crimson, and he didn’t know how to live with it. So, he did what he always did. He shut down, walled himself off, and pulled further inward, convinced that was the only way he could protect you now. Even if it meant losing the fragile, unspoken bond that tied you to him.

It was for your own good, couldn't you see that?

…

When he came upon you floating in the river that day after you found the cabin, Joel felt the crushing grip of death reaching into his heart, digging its nails in deep, his lungs spasming like the air had been stolen from them.

Because, for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment, it wasn’t peace he saw in your tranquil face. It wasn’t the soft release of tension or the embrace of a quiet reprieve. No, what he saw was the haunting specter of loss. 

For that split second… he thought you were gone. 

The sweet release of death had finally come for you, and Joel had failed again, just like he always did.

Panic gripped him. His hands shook at his sides as the memory of that awful day clawed its way to the surface, the day he found you broken and bleeding on the river’s edge, weak and crumpled, your life slipping away. And now, here you were, floating in the water like some ghost come to torment him.

But then he noticed the upward curve of your lips. The gentle dance of your fingers along the surface of the water, catching the sunlight like ripples on glass.

Relief should have washed over him like the river over your skin. Instead, frustration hit him like a freight train. Frustration and self-loathing working in tandem to thrash at his restraint. It boiled inside him, until it clawed its way out and erupted from his lips as white-hot anger.

Because the scene before him wasn’t just a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to losing you. It was a bastardization of something he’d seen before, something sacred and untouchable that now felt ruined.

The day he’d found you bathing in the river, when he’d been struck dumb. When you’d looked like something out of a dream, the kind of vision that only existed in long-lost memories of happiness from before life ended. When the sun had painted you in golden hues, every drop of water on your skin sparkling like it had been placed there by God himself. 

Your white bra and underwear clung to your body now, made sheer by the water, and on any other day, something that, under any other circumstance, would have him hardening in his pants. 

But today, the light on your skin only served to illuminate the truth he couldn’t escape.

There, across your torso, was the still-healing evidence of your battle with the infected. The jagged, red lines twisted across your flesh, angry and raw. The criss cross of stitches he’d placed in you like a pathetic attempt at an apology. A painful, glaring reminder of his failure. Of how close he’d come to losing you. Of how he had let this happen.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

The words came before he could stop them, harsh and cutting as they tore through the air.

He hated himself for them the moment they left his mouth. 

Joel didn’t like who he was when he was afraid. Fear turned him into someone else, someone he couldn’t control. It was like watching a shadow fall over his own soul, twisting his actions and his words until they felt alien, like they were coming from someone else entirely.

He hated the way his fear made him lash out. The way his words shot to kill, arrows aimed directly at the soft, vulnerable places he swore he’d protect. 

A better man would’ve apologized.

A better man would’ve pushed past the walls of his own pride and fear, laid bare his terror, and let you in. A better man would’ve dropped his guard, let himself feel the pain of vulnerability, and told you the truth, that seeing you floating in the water, peaceful and alive, had scared the hell out of him. That he couldn’t stop the memory of your blood pooling beneath you, the sight of your crumpled body burned into his mind, and the knowledge that he’d almost pulled the trigger.

But Joel Miller wasn’t a better man. Joel Miller was a bad man.

So instead of reaching for you, instead of finding the words to explain what churned inside him, he let the anger take over. It was easier to channel his fear into something sharp, something that hurt outward instead of inward.

But most of all he hated the way your gaze lowered, the soft light in your eyes hardening into something guarded. He hated himself even more for being the reason it happened. For the fact that you were here, alive and vulnerable, and he couldn’t do a damn thing except push you further away.

…

Your journey continued like this, a painful push and pull, a pendulum swinging between connection and distance. Joel, cloaked in his shame, let his fear guide him, his own self-loathing sharpening into the barbs he hurled your way. He hurt you with his words, with his coldness, all while the pain of it ricocheted back inside him, leaving him twice as broken.

But in the storm that was his unending hurt, there were moments of reprieve. Small, ephemeral calms in the storm when the walls cracked, when the veil lifted, and for a breath of time, you were the same two people who’d embarked on this journey together.

Like when he held you after your nightmare, his arms tightening around you as though he could shield you from the demons that haunted your sleep. His lips brushed your hair, and for once, his silence was comforting, not damning.

Or when he pointed out the blood-red cardinal perched on a low branch, its feathers vibrant against the dreary backdrop of the forest. His voice had softened, quieter than usual, as he spoke Sarah’s name aloud, like a precious trinket offered up in hopes that it might soothe his ache.

And when he touched your skin, when his calloused hands found yours, helping you over a stream or taking your pack from your grasp, and the weight of the world seemed to dissolve. For a few blissful, rare moments, it was just the two of you, unburdened by the past, the road, or the darkness that followed.

But those moments were fleeting. And for all the concern Joel had poured into himself—into keeping himself sharp, keeping himself distant so he could protect you from the world and from his own blackened soul—he failed to notice the darkness growing inside you, an infection of a different kind.

He missed the signs. So many signs.

The way your laughter grew rarer, coming from somewhere hollow inside of you. The way your shoulders tensed even in your sleep, like you were bracing for a blow that never came. The way your hands lingered a little too long on your knife, or the way your eyes darkened after each unfamiliar noise sounded in the forest.

He didn’t see it. Not until it was too late.

Not until he pulled you off the raider, your body trembling, your breath ragged. The man’s skull was practically caved in beneath your bloodied, wrecked hands. Joel’s voice, rough and desperate, echoed in his ears as he shouted your name over and over, trying to bring you back to yourself.

And when you finally stilled, when your trembling hands dropped to your sides and your wide, glassy eyes met his, Joel saw it.

A look he knew intimately.

The one that had greeted him every morning for years when he stared into the mirror. The look of terror. Of shame. Of rage and hurt so deeply intertwined that they couldn’t be separated.

And he hated it.

Not because it scared him, though it did. Not because it reminded him of his own reflection, though it was haunting in its familiarity.

He hated it because it was you.

You, who he swore to protect. You, who had been his one tether to hope in this shattered world. You, who now looked at your bloodied hands as if they belonged to someone else, something else.

You might have thought you were a monster.

But Joel knew better.

Joel knew the truth.

He was the monster. And somehow, in trying to protect you from the darkness outside, he had let his own darkness seep into you, tainting the parts of you he had sworn to keep safe.

His hands tightened into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms until the pain anchored him. He wanted to say something, anything, to pull you out of the chasm he could see you slipping into. But the words stuck in his throat, blocked by the overwhelming weight of his guilt.

Because no matter how hard he tried, Joel always destroyed the things he loved.

…

Joel woke to an aching emptiness that started in his chest and stretched through his entire body. The first dregs of sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the boarded up windows, and the cold, stale air in the room had gooseflesh rising in its wake. The rainstorm last night had left the room smelling damp and rotted.

It took him a moment to realize what felt off, what felt wrong.

The mattress he’d barricaded over the door was shoved to the side, just a bit. Just enough for you to slip out.

And there, folded neatly at his feet, was the flannel he’d given you. A silent message. A quiet rejection.

The realization hit him like a freight train. He didn’t need to check the rest of the house to know. You were gone.

For a long moment, Joel just stared at the flannel. His mind couldn’t, wouldn’t, process it. His fingers hovered above the fabric as if touching it would make it more real, would confirm the fact that you’d left.

When he finally picked it up, he clenched it so tightly his knuckles went white. The scent of you still lingered faintly in the fabric, and the pang in his heart grew sharper, deeper, unbearable.

Joel didn’t need to wonder why you left. He knew. He’d driven you away, pushed you so far that you’d felt you had no choice but to leave.

He thought of the way he’d shut you out, the way his fear and self-loathing had manifested into anger, into cruelty. He thought of the way he’d seen you staring at your bloodied hands last night, the haunted look in your eyes. The way you’d started to pull inward, to retreat into yourself, refuse to take the antibiotics because you thought you didn’t deserve them. He’d seen it all, and still, he hadn’t reached for you, hadn’t tried to bridge the growing distance.

Because Joel Miller didn’t know how to let anyone in without feeling like he’d lose them. And yet he lost you anyway.

The thought sank like a stone in his gut. But alongside it, another thought rose, fierce and all-consuming.

He had to find you, had to make sure you were safe. Even if he had to follow you to Yellowstone, a silent sentinel in your wake, keeping his distance until you needed him, he’d do it. 

Joel moved quickly, packing up the remnants of your stay with methodical efficiency, his mind racing all the while. You couldn’t have gotten far. You’d left during the night, sure, but you didn’t have his years of tracking experience, didn’t know how to hide your trail the way he did.

But there’d been a rain storm last night, a bad one. It had quickly turned to snow by early morning, obscuring most of the tracks you would have left behind.

He found the first sign of you not far from the house, footprints in the snow, leading away from a barren spot beneath a tree. You must have slept here at some point. A few miles ahead, he found another sign, a broken branch, a collection of footprints running parallel to the road.

He focused on the trail, the signs you’d unintentionally left behind, but his mind refused to quiet.

Why didn’t I tell her? Why didn’t I let her know what she means to me? Why didn’t I stop her from thinking she was something less than human?

With every step, his guilt grew heavier, like an anchor dragging him down. He thought about the way you’d smiled at him in those rare, soft moments, the way your laugh had sounded once upon a time, light and free, before the darkness took hold.

He thought about how you’d trusted him, even after everything, even after he’d shut you out and failed to protect you.

And he thought about how he’d failed you again, not by letting you leave, but by making you feel like you had to.

Joel didn’t know what he’d say when he found you. Hell, he didn’t even know if you’d let him come near you. But he knew he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let you go, not like this.

Because for all the darkness in him, for all the ways he’d failed, you were the one thing that made him feel human again. And he wasn’t going to let that slip away without a fight.

So he tracked you, desperate, determined, hoping against hope that he could fix this, that he could fix himself, for you.

…

He’d almost stopped for the day when he saw it.

Joel had been on your trail for days, the cold biting deeper with every step. He was damn sure he’d been close a couple of times, signs of your passing too fresh to be coincidence. But then the blizzard hit, a wall of snow and wind that made even Joel’s dogged determination falter. He had no choice but to hole up in an old barn a couple of miles off the highway, its rickety walls groaning under the weight of the storm.

The hours inside were maddening. Every second spent trapped there felt like a second wasted, a second further from finding you. The trail was growing colder, the evidence you’d left behind, footprints, broken branches, the occasional scuff of dirt, were all disappearing under the relentless snow.

But the worst part wasn’t the delay. It wasn’t even the gnawing fear that he’d lose your trail entirely.

It was wondering where you were.

Were you holed up somewhere safe, or out in this storm, freezing, trembling? Were you hurt, curled up in some dark corner with nothing but your thoughts and your pain to keep you company? Joel couldn’t stop the images from coming, couldn’t stop imagining you huddled against the cold, too far gone to fight it, too broken to keep moving.

The thought of it had him pacing the barn like a caged animal. His fists clenched and unclenched, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. He almost threw open the door, storm or no storm. He didn’t care about the cold. He didn’t care about the risk. He didn’t care about his own safety.

Because if you were out there, scared and alone, how could he stay here?

But the voice of reason held him back, bitter and cruel as it was. If he went out there now, blind and desperate, he’d only get himself killed—and you along with him, when he failed to find you. So he forced himself to wait, each passing hour a dagger to his heart.

Still, his mind wouldn’t quiet. The possibilities clawed at him. What if he didn’t find you in time? What if the cold took you? What if someone worse than him crossed your path?

And what if, when he did find you, you hated him so much that you wouldn’t let him bring you back?

Joel couldn’t even blame you for that. He deserved it, didn’t he? He deserved your hatred. He deserved your anger. But none of that mattered to him. None of it.

He would brave the storm, the cold, Hell itself if it meant knowing you were safe. You could spit curses at him for the rest of your life, and he’d carry them like a badge of honor. He’d carry you all the way back to Wyoming in his arms if he had to and deposit you on the doorstep of a better man and watch as the two of you built the life he was supposed to have with you.

He’d watch as you found your happiness without him, each day tearing him apart from the inside out. And still, Joel would count himself lucky for knowing you’d survived.

He’d die by your sword, gladly, if it meant you’d live.

So when the storm finally broke, he didn’t waste a second. He resumed his search with a singular focus, a desperation that drove him through the snow and wind as if the cold were nothing but an afterthought. His steps were heavy, his breaths coming in clouds, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but you.

When he stumbled upon the small town, a flicker of hope stirred in the hollow of him. It looked intact. No signs of life, but no signs of danger either. He scouted the area carefully, searching for any hint that you’d been here.

And that’s when he saw it.

At first, he didn’t recognize it, his mind struggling to bridge the gap between the world he lived in now and the world he’d left behind. But as he stepped closer, the symbol came into sharp focus.

The Firefly symbol. 

It was painted on the side of a crumbling building, relatively fresh, the lines too bold and precise to be anything else. The sight of it made his stomach drop like a stone.

All the air left his lungs. He stared at it, unmoving, as the implication of it hit him like a freight train, his mind falling back to a night in the Boston QZ.

…

A few weeks had passed since you’d first broached the subject of Wyoming.

Joel had tried to resist, tried to apply logic to your wide-eyed dream. He’d told himself that it was a stupid idea. A bad idea. The kind of hope that got people killed in this world. But you just had this way about you, this spark of hope that seemed to catch fire in the hearts of anyone who dared to be near you for too long.

And Joel couldn’t stop himself from being engulfed by it.

So, while he grumbled and cursed under his breath about your pipe dream, he also started quietly preparing for it. He took on extra jobs, sought out scraps of information, stockpiled supplies. Anything that would either solidify his excuses for why this couldn’t happen or, God help him, give him the confidence to take the plunge with you.

And that’s how he ended up at Marlene’s door.

Joel wasn’t a fan of Marlene. He never had been. She was too much like him; cunning, ruthless, always looking for an edge. Maybe that’s why he avoided her. He didn’t like seeing his own sharp edges reflected back at him. But he couldn’t deny the Fireflies had sway. Power. Resources.

If he could pull off one good smuggling job before you left, he’d have enough to ensure the two of you could make the trip. Maybe even get some contacts along the way.

But it would come at a price. It always did.

“Joel,” she greeted him when she opened the door, her voice cool and gaze scrutinizing as she scanned him. She had a way of picking him apart with her gaze, and it never failed to set him on edge. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need somethin’,” Joel replied, stepping inside as she shifted back to let him in.

He hadn’t been expecting the sight that greeted him. Marlene looked worn down, her skin sallow, her movements sluggish. Rolls of bandages, bloodied rags, and medical supplies were scattered across the small room she was holed up in.

She was hurt.

“The hell happened here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as she gingerly lowered herself into a chair, one hand pressed protectively to her abdomen.

“Deal gone wrong,” she said simply, wincing as she settled into place. “You know how it is.”

Joel nodded. He didn’t have much sympathy to spare, especially not for Marlene. She wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. She wasn’t the type to waste time on pity or platitudes. Neither was he.

“I need supplies,” he said, cutting to the chase. “Enough to get two people a decent way out west. And some contacts out there, if you got ‘em.”

That made her pause. Her narrowed eyes locked onto him, a brow lifting in surprise. “You and Tess leaving?”

The mention of Tess sent a pang through Joel’s gut. He hadn’t told her yet. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how to tell her. Tess could handle a lot, but this? Leaving her behind? He wasn’t ready for that conversation.

“Nah, not Tess,” he said gruffly, not offering anything more. He’d never told Marlene about you, about the way you’d walked into his life and upended everything without even meaning to. He’d kept you separate from all this Firefly shit. It was dangerous, messy, and always teetering on the edge of going sideways. Taking you along on low-stakes deals was nerve wracking enough.

He thought of Lyle and his men. That shitshow was tame, nothing compared to the kind of trouble Marlene regularly dealt with.

She didn’t press, though. Marlene wasn’t one to dig too deep unless it benefited her. Instead, she leaned back, her calculating gaze softening just enough to make Joel uneasy.

“Alright,” she said finally. “I’ve got something for you. Transportation job. Cargo needs to get to Utah. You’ll get enough supplies to make it out there, plus contacts at a base near the Montana-Wyoming border.”

Joel stiffened. His stomach churned.

What the hell was this? Was Marlene reading his goddamn mind? He came to her for help, and she just so happened to have a job that not only got him the supplies he needed but also set him up on the exact route he’d need to take?

It was too good to be true.

His gut twisted with suspicion. This kind of luck didn’t come without a catch.

“What kinda cargo?” Joel asked, his tone laced with suspicion.

Marlene smiled, a tight, humorless thing, and Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that look. This wasn’t going to be an easy job.

“A kid,” she said simply.

Joel blinked. “A kid?”

She nodded. “I need you to bring her to a hospital in Salt Lake City. We’ve got doctors up there, good ones. They’re working on a vaccine.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. He was a lot of things, but gullible wasn’t one of them. He’d heard this song and dance too many times before. Vaccines and serums and cures. Charlatans promising salvation in exchange for blood, sweat, and whatever else you could offer them. And it was all bullshit, every damn time. Joel had been a contractor before the world ended, not a scientist, but even he knew that much.

“Ain’t no vaccine, Marlene,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and I both know that.”

She gave him a sharp look, her eyes narrowing. “You haven’t met these doctors, Joel. You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he bit back. “How the hell are they planning on using a kid to make a vaccine?”

“She’s immune,” Marlene said, her voice steady, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Joel barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“I swear to God, Joel,” she said, raising her hand in the air as if to take an oath. “I didn’t believe it at first, either.”

He squinted at her, suspicion and disbelief roiling through him. “How many pain pills you takin’?”

Marlene laughed bitterly, wincing as the movement tugged at the injury on her abdomen. “I’m dead serious.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “Okay,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “So how’re these miracle doctors planning to make the vaccine? If she’s infected, it’s in her brain.”

Marlene nodded solemnly. “The Cordyceps in her, what’s growing inside her, it’s mutated. That’s why she’s immune. Once they remove it, they’ll be able to reverse-engineer a vaccine.”

“Remove it,” Joel echoed, his voice dropping. He stared at her, his jaw tightening as the pieces fell into place. “Her brain. You’re talkin’ about killin’ her.”

Marlene didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable.

Joel’s blood ran cold. He was no saint, hell, far from it. But this? Transporting a kid across the country to her death, all for some half-baked promise of salvation?

“You’re fuckin’ sick,” he hissed, venom dripping from every word. “I’m not doin’ it.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, though her face was taut with frustration. “I’d do it myself, but I’m a little indisposed at the moment.”

Joel shook his head, his anger boiling over. “You’re gonna kill an innocent kid for a vaccine that might not even work?”

“It’s for the greater good,” Marlene said evenly, though there was an edge of steel to her voice. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Save it,” he snapped, already reaching for the door. He didn’t need her, didn’t need her job or her supplies. He’d get you out of this fucking hellhole with the clothes on his back if he had to.

His feet carried him back toward your apartment before he even realized what he was doing. He didn’t think too much about it. He didn’t want to think too much about anything right now. Not Marlene. Not the Fireflies. Not what she was asking him to do.

But when he rapped his knuckles against your door and saw your face, everything clicked into place.

The anger, the frustration, the weight of the world pressing down on him, it all vanished the moment you opened the door.

Your eyes lit up when you saw him, and the warmth of your expression hit him like a breath of fresh air. Inside your apartment, the air felt lighter, the space cozier, like it existed outside the suffocating grime of the QZ.

Joel stepped inside, and for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

This place was rotten. It was filled with rotten people doing rotten work for rotten pay. There was no life here, no spark in the ashes, no green shooting through the dirt. Just pain and survival in an endless, vicious cycle.

You deserved more than this. The way your face softened when you smiled at him, the way your voice wrapped around his name, it was a reminder of everything he wanted but never thought he could have. Time spent with you felt sacred, like the two of you existed in some bubble suspended above the rot and filth.

Joel made a decision then and there.

He’d get you out of here. Away from this decay and despair. Even if he had to fight tooth and nail to do it.

…

Now, if they found you… If they realized you were immune…

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body tensing like a coiled spring. 

The thought of them having you—you—in their grasp was enough to make his vision blur with rage.

Images of you in a sterile white room, immobilized and unaware, doctors circling you like vultures, ready to steal you away from him again.

Joel’s jaw tightened as he forced himself to focus, his instincts kicking into high gear. He didn’t know if the Fireflies were here now, if this was just an old mark or something more recent. But it didn’t matter. He had to move fast. He had to find you before anyone else did.

Because if the Fireflies found you first... 

Joel didn’t let himself finish the thought. He just started running.

Taglist: @javierpenaispunk @eviispunk

[gullemec]

tonight's plans: jerk off to completion..... two cans of sprite (crush against forehead like a neanderthal school bully) ...... write the great american novel

[gullemec]

Exile

Golden Ruin - Chapter Seven

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You and Hughie navigate your exile together.

Warnings: angst, awkwardness, nothing crazy

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5.4k

A/N: So if you couldn't tell already, I have a huge soft spot for Hughie and he's my 2nd favorite character on the Boys, albeit in a non-sexual way (hughie campbell it seems i've grown quite fond of you tho there are no sexual urges or desires. you come to me as a long lost friend whom i once picked apples with in papa's orchard). anyway. lots of hughie & reader friendship incoming.

The drive is long, silent, and steeped in a tension so thick it feels like another passenger in the car.

You sit in the back seat, hands curled into fists in your lap, shoulders rigid, as though bracing for impact. Hughie sits beside you, eyes fixed out the window, his expression unreadable. Every so often, he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, but then he doesn’t, and the suffocating silence stretches on.

Mallory forced this, forced him, and you can feel the resentment rolling off him in waves, even if he hasn’t said it outright. Neither of you have said much at all. Just a handful of curt exchanges when you stopped for gas or when Hughie asked if you were hungry. You weren’t. The guilt sitting in your stomach made sure of that.

You turn your gaze to the window, watching the scenery shift, the world changing as the city slowly crumbles away. The towering grey buildings give way to small, sleepy towns, then to open stretches of road lined with fields that sway golden in the breeze.

It feels strange, watching the city disappear behind you. As though a tether is being severed, thread by thread, with every mile.

After a while, the roads narrow, curving like snakes through deep pockets of forest. The trees loom tall and endless, their branches clawing toward the sky, the canopy above casting dappled shadows across the asphalt. It’s beautiful, undeniably so, but there’s something ominous about it, too. The way the trees close in, as if the forest itself is swallowing you whole.

You risk a glance at Hughie. He still won’t look at you. His jaw is tight, his expression hard to read. That quiet, nervous humor you’re so used to has been stripped away, replaced with something colder. Something you put there.

You press your forehead against the window, feeling the glass cool against your skin, and let your thoughts unravel. I should have told them. I should have told her. The guilt gnaws at you, relentless, like a predator circling for the kill. Annie’s face flashes in your mind, her hurt, her disappointment.

Why didn’t you tell me?

You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t have an answer. You weren’t ready, you tell yourself. But that excuse feels hollow now.

You feel Hughie’s gaze flick toward you, just once, before snapping back to the window. You wonder what he’s thinking, if he hates you, if he’s replaying Mallory’s words, weighing your mistakes against everything you’ve been through together.

The hours blur, the car carrying you deeper into nowhere. The forests begin to break apart, replaced by sheer cliffsides that drop dramatically into the ocean below. The view is breathtaking, a vast expanse of endless blue water stretching toward the horizon. Waves crash against the rocks, white foam curling like lace along the jagged edges. The setting sun casts its glow across the surface, the light shimmering like liquid gold.

We’re somewhere near Maine, you think vaguely, but the thought doesn’t linger. There haven’t been road signs in over an hour, and the driver has been following directions Mallory gave him like a soldier on orders. The backroads twist tighter and tighter, narrowing to a point where you can’t imagine two cars passing one another. You’re far from everything now. Too far to turn back.

The sun dips lower, its light bleeding across the sky in shades of amber, then crimson. You watch as the world darkens, the sky softening into hazy purples and deepening blues. Stars are starting to pierce through the canopy of dusk when the driver finally breaks the silence.

“We’ll be there soon,” he says curtly.

You nod, though neither of you respond. Words feel impossible, like they’d choke you if you tried.

You focus on the horizon instead, watching as the last threads of daylight fade away. You think of everything that’s happened, the apartment, the message, Mallory’s cruelty, and everything that’s yet to come. You think about Butcher, wherever he is, and whether he would have reacted any differently to the truth that you’ve carried alone for so long now. You wonder if he’ll ever get to know it.

A chill runs down your spine, and you pull your jacket tighter around yourself as the car climbs another winding road.

Hughie exhales deeply beside you, muttering under his breath as the car begins to slow. You don’t catch what he says, but it doesn’t matter.

You’re both thinking the same thing.

Nothing will ever be the same after this.

The car tires crunch over gravel, the sound deafening in the heavy stillness of the remote countryside. The engine hums low as the car slows to a stop, the tangy scent of salt hanging in the air, carried inland by a breeze that whispers of the unseen ocean nearby. You can taste it on your tongue, a briny, ghostly presence that lingers. Somewhere beyond the thick cluster of trees, waves crash against the rocks, a distant rhythm, endless and unconcerned with your follies.

The driver, a stoic man in his forties with a face like carved stone, climbs out, his movements brisk and practiced. He pulls open the trunk, grabs two duffel bags, and unceremoniously drops them onto the overgrown path leading to the cottage. Gravel skitters beneath the weight, the sound making you jump.

Hughie steps out first, shielding his eyes from the dim, dusky light. The last stretch of sunset has faded, leaving only streaks of purple and navy smeared across the horizon. “Well,” he mutters, his voice dry but strained, “this is cheerful.”

You climb out slowly, your legs stiff and aching from hours in the cramped backseat. Your gaze drifts to the cottage before you, a small, weathered thing, its bricks faded to muted reds and greys. Ivy winds up the facade, crawling over the faded blue shutters like a slow-moving parasite. The porch light flickers, weak and feeble, casting jittery shadows onto the steps below. It looks old. Forgotten. Like something time itself tried to erase but failed. It’s the kind of place you’d find on the back of a postcard, or the opening scene of a horror movie.

The driver clears his throat sharply, pulling your focus back to the here and now. “Phones stay off,” he says gruffly, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “No signals, no slip-ups. This place isn’t on any map, and you’d better keep it that way.”

Hughie, clearly unnerved, shoves his phone deeper into his jacket pocket, his movements a touch defensive. “Yeah. Got it,” he replies, a little too quickly.

You nod silently, brushing your fingers over the cool weight of your own phone. You’d turned it off hours ago, as instructed, but it still feels unnatural. Vulnerable. Like you’ve severed a lifeline you didn’t realize you relied on until it was gone.

“Mallory moves fast,” you murmur, reaching down to grab one of the bags. The strap digs into your palm as you lift it. It’s heavier than you expected, undoubtedly stuffed with Mallory’s ideas of essentials.

The driver grunts in response. “She’s good at what she does,” he says, his tone clipped. “Better get used to it out here. Someone’ll drop supplies every couple weeks.”

Without another word, he climbs back into the car and reverses down the path, the gravel crunching and popping beneath the tires. Within moments, his headlights disappear into the trees, leaving you and Hughie alone with the cottage, the quiet, and each other.

Hughie stares after him, his shoulders sagging as the taillights vanish. “Well,” he says, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, “this just screams witness protection.”

You huff a laugh out despite yourself, though the sound feels wrong in your chest, like it’s lodged somewhere too deep to dislodge. You move toward the porch first, unwilling to let the moment swallow you whole. The planks creak underfoot as you push the door open, the weight of the long day pressing down on your shoulders like iron.

Your stomach coils tight. For a moment, you can’t shake the feeling that Homelander will be waiting on the other side, smiling, shark eyes glowing. But when you step inside, it’s just… empty.

You cough, stale air infiltrating your lungs. Dust hangs thickly on every surface, filtering through the weak light of the single window. A worn couch sits in the living room, its upholstery frayed and sagging. The kitchen, visible through an open archway, boasts ancient appliances, their enamel chipped and yellowed. Cobwebs cling to the corners of the ceiling, the air heavy with neglect.

Hughie follows you in, setting his bag down and letting out a low whistle as he surveys the room. “Charming,” he mutters. “There better be two bedrooms.”

You drop your duffel onto the couch and drag a hand down your face, exhaustion gnawing at your edges. “Fingers crossed,” you reply quietly, the words flat, lacking your usual bite.

Hughie shuffles toward the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets as if looking for signs of life. You test the faucet, half-expecting nothing but air to sputter out, but after a loud groan, water flows in a rusty stream before evening out. It’s a small mercy.

“When was the last time anyone lived here?” Hughie mutters, holding up a dust-caked Scrabble box from one of the shelves. He drops it unceremoniously onto the coffee table, a plume of dust billowing in its wake. “Well, at least we won’t get bored.”

You lean against the counter, staring out the narrow kitchen window at the dark wall of trees beyond. The ocean is there, somewhere, but it feels too far away now, hidden behind shadows and secrets.

“This is going to be a long few weeks,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Hughie’s voice floats back from the living room. “Or months.”

The words hit like a dull hammer, the reality of it sinking deeper. You hear Hughie hesitate, his voice softer when he speaks again. “So… how are you holding up?”

The question makes your shoulders stiffen. You don’t turn to face him. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice low and frayed. “One minute, I’m just… sad. So fucking sad. The next, I’m terrified. And then I don’t feel anything at all.” You pause, blinking hard. “That apartment was my home, and now it’s gone. Honestly, Hughie, it feels like I just lost everything.”

Hughie doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice carries that tentative gentleness you’ve come to recognize from him. “Everything’s just fucked right now, isn’t it?”

You let out a hollow laugh, finally turning to face him. “Yeah,” you say softly. “It is.”

The quiet stretches again as Hughie drops onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. You turn back to the window, staring out into the deepening dark. The ocean feels endless out there, black and hungry, waves crashing somewhere far away.

“No cell service, no Wi-Fi, no connection to the outside world,” you murmur, your breath fogging against the glass. “We’re going to lose our minds out here.”

“Could be worse,” Hughie says, trying for a light tone that doesn’t quite land. “Could have no indoor plumbing.”

You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. “Don’t jinx us.”

For a moment, a flicker of uneasy humor passes between you, breaking through the cracks of everything else. But it doesn’t last. It can’t.

You turn back to the window, your reflection warped in the glass, a shadow of yourself. “Whatever happens,” you whisper, the words more for you than for Hughie, “we can’t let this break us. Homelander doesn’t get to win.”

From behind you, Hughie’s voice comes soft but steady. “We’ll get through it. We always do.”

You hold onto his words like a torchlight as the dark closes in, wrapping the cottage like a shroud. 

Before you curl up in your bed that night, you reach into your pocket, retrieving your lone souvenir from the life you left in ruin. You place the crumpled and scratched photo on your bedside table, propped up against the lamp. 

“Goodnight, mom. I miss you so much you don't even know.”

~~~

The first week passes in a haze of awkward silences, restless pacing, and half-hearted attempts at small talk. Boredom, it turns out, is harder to manage than either of you expected.

On the first night, you and Hughie staked your claims on the cottage’s meager bedrooms. You took the one upstairs, grateful for even the illusion of privacy, while Hughie muttered something about staying downstairs “to be close to the door in case someone breaks in.” You don’t buy it. You think he just wanted to give you space, a small comfort in a situation where neither of you has much to spare.

Over the first few days, you throw yourself into inspecting the cottage top to bottom. Every floorboard, cabinet, and shadowed corner. You search high and low for bugs or cameras (old habits die hard), but all you find are abandoned cobwebs and empty space. You hunt down and catalogue every object, every distraction you can find that might occupy your mind over the long days ahead.

You find a dozen yellowed, spine-cracked books stacked in a cabinet corner, their covers soft and faded from age. You skim the titles, most of them thrillers or weathered romance novels from decades ago, and set aside a couple you might actually read. Further exploration uncovers a battered, mostly-full deck of cards, a toolbox tucked beneath the couch, and a jigsaw puzzle in a frayed box, one thousand pieces of idyllic countryside that looks just cheerful enough to mock you.

You present the toolbox to Hughie, the two of you setting to work, tackling the minor repairs that had been ignored for years. The cottage creaks under your touch like an old man sighing at every joint.

Hughie struggles with the kitchen’s leaky faucet, crouched awkwardly beneath the sink, grunting and swearing as water sputters and drips. You, meanwhile, focus on replacing a broken door hinge, your movements steady and precise. The repetitive motion gives your hands something to do. Anything to keep them from shaking.

“Mallory said this was supposed to be a safe house,” Hughie mutters, tightening a wrench with unnecessary force. “Feels like we’re the ones making it safe.”

You glance up from the hinge, a weak smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “At least it’s something to do.”

Hughie pushes himself upright, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, and turns to watch you work. “You’re surprisingly good at that.”

You shrug without looking up. “My dad taught me when I was a kid. Said if I wanted something fixed, I shouldn’t wait for anyone else to do it for me.”

Hughie considers you, his expression thoughtful. “Sounds like he expected a lot from you.”

“He did.” You straighten, testing the hinge, which creaks obligingly back and forth. “Too much, honestly. That’s why I fought so hard to prove myself to the Boys, you know? To prove I’m more than just his daughter. That I can stand on my own.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel significant. Hughie leans against the counter, studying you with that quiet sincerity of his, like he’s trying to see past what you say to what you mean.

“You already do, you know,” he says softly. “But standing on your own doesn’t mean you have to stand alone.”

The words hit deeper than you expect, catching you off guard. For a moment, you let yourself meet his gaze, that flicker of earnestness in his blue eyes chipping away at the walls you’ve spent years building. You offer him the smallest of nods, a quiet acknowledgment, before turning back to the hinge, focusing on the task as though it still requires your full attention.

“Thanks,” you murmur after a moment, your voice small.

Hughie doesn’t push for more. He just nods, picking up the wrench again, and the two of you fall into a companionable silence. It’s not much, but for now, it’s enough to make the dusty little cottage feel a little less empty.

~~~

Eventually, Hughie convinces you to play Scrabble. He doesn’t so much win you over as wear you down. You’re finally bored enough to agree, and he knows it.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, the game board laid out between you like some kind of peace offering. The lamplight casts long shadows over the room, pooling at the edges where the darkness creeps in. Outside, the wind shrieks, shaking the windowpanes, but neither of you comments on it.

Hughie squints at his letters, brow furrowed in concentration, as if the weight of the world depends on whether he can find a decent word. Meanwhile, you idly twist your tiles between your fingers, stacking them, unstacking them, not even pretending to focus.

“You’re distracted,” Hughie says suddenly, breaking the quiet as he places the word ‘risk’ on the board.

You look up, startled, your thoughts scattered. “What do you mean?”

He arches an eyebrow and points at the board. “You’ve played ‘cat’ three turns in a row.”

You blink, glancing down. Sure enough, three identical words sit there, mocking you. You hadn’t even noticed. With a sigh, you push your remaining tiles away, the clatter of ceramic against cardboard louder than you’d like.

Hughie leans back, folding his arms across his chest. His voice is quiet but pointed when he speaks. “You could’ve told us, you know.”

You stiffen slightly. “Told you what?”

“You know what.” He makes a vague gesture toward your abdomen, but his eyes are steady on yours. There’s no malice there, no anger, but there’s something bitter just beneath the surface. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. “You and Annie are close. And me… I don’t know, I thought we were friends.”

You inhale shakily, looking away as the words sting in a way you didn’t expect. “We are friends, Hughie.” Your voice drops, softer now, but defensive. “It’s just… complicated. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

The tension stretches between you, thick and suffocating. For a moment, Hughie doesn’t respond. He just studies you in that way he does, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t have all the pieces for.

Finally, he nods, his expression unreadable, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

But the words sit there, unsaid but undeniable, hanging heavy in the air like smoke that refuses to clear. Hughie turns his attention back to the game board, absently rearranging his tiles, but the silence that follows isn’t comfortable. Not yet.

You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them, and stare at the word ‘risk’ on the board. It feels too on-the-nose, like a cruel little joke neither of you can laugh at.

~~~

One morning, restless and suffocating inside the cottage, you decide to take a walk along the rocky shoreline. You don’t say it aloud, but you’re desperate for the fresh air, for space to think. Hughie insists on tagging along, and you roll your eyes, exasperated.

“I’m not going to hitchhike my way back to New York, you know.”

The look in his eyes tells you he’s already considered it, and that he knows you have, too. There’s no point in arguing further. “Fine,” you mutter. “But don’t get in my way.”

You jog upstairs to change, tugging on a thick sweater and jeans. 

The jeans don’t fit. You stare down at the zipper and button, both refusing to close. Confused, you step back and catch yourself in the mirror.

Your breath catches.

The curve of your belly is undeniable now, a soft swell where there was almost nothing before. It’s subtle, but it’s there, evidence of the weeks slipping by, of the life growing inside you. You place a tentative hand over it, feeling a terrifying flutter of something between awe and panic. A small, startled smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, but it doesn’t last. Anxiety bubbles up, pulling you like an undercurrent.

Too soon.

Shoving the thought away, you rummage through the duffel bag Mallory packed, pulling out a larger pair of pants that fit just fine. She’d thought ahead. Of course she had. You don’t let yourself linger on what that means as you pull them on, grab your coat, and head downstairs to where Hughie waits.

The shoreline is rugged and gray, the waves crashing endlessly against jagged rocks. The wind whips through your hair, carrying the tang of salt and the distant cry of gulls. Hughie walks a few paces ahead, hunched into his jacket, his hands searching the ground for smooth stones.

He skips one across the water, counting under his breath as it hops once, twice, three times before disappearing beneath the waves. You trail behind him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, lost in thought.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” Hughie says suddenly, his voice carried by the wind.

You shrug, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

You stop walking, the rocky shore uneven beneath your feet. “Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, it’s never enough?” The words come out heavier than you meant, like stones slipping from your hands. “Like you’re always two steps behind where you’re supposed to be?”

Hughie turns to face you, brow furrowed. “Sometimes. Yeah.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “But you’re not behind. You’re in this with us. You’re one of us.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound raw in your throat. “Am I? I’ve been trying so hard to prove myself, Hughie, but every decision I make just blows up in my face. I didn’t tell you about the baby because…” You pause, struggling to find the right words. “Because I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle this. That I’m some kind of liability.”

Hughie stares at you for a long moment, his expression softening. The wind pulls at his jacket and ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t look away. “No one thinks that,” he says quietly, his voice steady in the cold.

“Then why are we out here?” you demand, the frustration and guilt simmering just below the surface. You sweep a hand toward the endless stretch of shoreline, the lonely gray expanse. “If it weren’t for me, we’d be back there. Helping them fight.”

Hughie’s voice is gentler now, but insistent. “Have you ever considered that it’s because we care about you? Because we don’t want anything bad to happen to you?”

His words hang in the air, as heavy as the waves crashing below. You look away, back toward the horizon, your arms tightening around yourself.

You don’t know how to respond.

The two of you stand there in silence for a moment, the wind howling around you, the ocean stretching out forever. Hughie skips another stone into the waves, and you watch as it sinks without a trace.

~~~

You decide to try cooking one night, wrestling with a can opener and a decades-old stove that hisses ominously every time you turn a knob. The kitchen is too quiet, save for the scrape of metal against metal and the occasional, frustrated curse under your breath. The end result is an unholy mess; burnt rice, bland soup, and the acrid smell of something singed lingering in the air.

It’s awful. But you’re starving, so you shovel it down anyway, seated across from Hughie at the small, creaky table. The weak overhead light buzzes above you both, grating on your already frayed nerves. Hughie grimaces at his plate but eats without complaint, his fork scraping rhythmically against the ceramic.

A long silence passes before Hughie sets his fork down with a soft clink and clears his throat. “You ever thought about what you’re gonna do? You know… once all this is over?”

You pause, your fork hovering mid-air. “I don’t even know what ‘over’ looks like,” you admit quietly, your voice brittle.

Hughie nods, as if he understands that more than he should. “Fair. But… you’ve gotta think about the baby, right? What you’re gonna do when they get here?”

Your jaw tightens. The mention of the baby is like a spark to dry tinder, setting something raw inside you alight. “I know what I’m doing, Hughie,” you say curtly, turning your attention back to your food.

“Do you?” Hughie presses, though his tone is careful, kind even. “Because from where I’m sitting, it seems like you’re still trying to prove something. To everyone else. To Mallory, to the Boys… maybe even to yourself. And I get it, I do. But—”

“Stop,” you snap, sharper than you intend. Your fork clatters against the plate as you drop it. The words spill out before you can stop them, a trembling edge creeping into your voice. “You don’t know what it’s like, Hughie. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be enough. For my father. For my job. For all of you, especially Butch—” You cut yourself, off, evenuttering his name is too much right now.

You inhale deeply.

“And it’s never enough. No matter what I do, people just look at me and see what I lack—what I’m not.”

The room seems to shrink, the silence swelling in the wake of your outburst. You’re breathing hard, staring down at the congealing soup like it might offer some kind of answer.

When Hughie speaks again, his voice is soft, careful, the edges of his usual sarcasm smoothed away. “I don’t see what you lack.”

You blink, surprised enough to look up. Hughie meets your gaze steadily, something genuine and unguarded in his expression. “I see what you’ve been through. What you’ve done for us. For Annie. Do you know how great it’s been for her to have a friend?”

You feel the tears beginning to collect, wiping them away with your palms.

“You’ve been carrying all this weight, like it’s your job to hold the whole damn world together.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “You’ve earned your place. You don’t have to keep killing yourself to prove it.”

For a moment, you can’t breathe. Hughie’s words hit something tender and buried, a wound you’ve been ignoring for far too long. You swallow hard, looking away as your throat tightens, the ache too complicated to name.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you whisper finally, the admission quiet but loaded.

Hughie doesn’t offer empty answers or platitudes. Instead, he picks up his fork again and gives you a small, sad smile. “Then I guess we’ll figure it out. Together.”

The room feels a little less suffocating now. You pick up your fork again, forcing down another bite of the terrible meal, and for the first time since you got to this godforsaken place, you don’t feel like you’re eating alone.

~~~

When the driver arrives for the second supply run, he’s not alone. A local midwife steps out of the car, her calm, no-nonsense presence filling the space as she crosses the threshold of the small cottage. She introduces herself warmly, her smile cutting through the awkward tension that seems to cling to every corner of the room.

She moves with quiet efficiency, asking questions about the pregnancy as she unpacks her equipment. Her voice is steady and reassuring, making the surreal feel strangely normal. You nod, listening diligently while you sit stiffly on the edge of the couch, answering her questions with short, uncertain replies.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?” she says, producing a portable ultrasound machine from her bag.

Your stomach knots as you lie back, tugging up your sweater. The sudden chill of the gel on your skin makes you jump, but her hands are steady, practiced. The room falls silent except for the hum of the machine. You stare at the screen, brow furrowed, until a flicker of movement appears, indistinct and shimmering, like a shadow underwater.

“That’s your baby,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of quiet reverence. She tilts the probe slightly. “See that? That’s the top of their head. And right here…” She pauses, smiling as she points. “That’s a foot.”

You can only nod, words catching somewhere in your throat as you watch the gray blur take shape, becoming something undeniably real.

The midwife reassures you that everything looks great, her tone bright and certain. “Strong heartbeat, good growth… I’ll be back in a few weeks to check in again.”

And just like that, the moment passes. She wipes the gel away and begins packing up, but you remain frozen on the couch, clutching the glossy black-and-white printout she’s handed you.

The image stares back at you: a perfect little profile, clear as day. A tiny nose, a delicate curve of lips, like something fragile and unfinished yet already so complete.

For weeks, the baby had been an abstract idea, an afterthought for a future you weren’t sure you’d live to see. Something to worry about later, when the rest of your world wasn’t in pieces. But now, holding this photo, it’s no longer just an idea. It’s real. They are real.

The midwife pauses in the doorway, her voice gentle as she glances back. “Congratulations.”

You don’t look up, still staring at the image in your hands as the door clicks shut behind her. The silence that follows is deafening, filled with the weight of everything you can no longer deny.

Hughie, who’d stayed in his room to give you some privacy, now hovers awkwardly by the kitchen. He waits until the door clicks shut before stepping forward.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod without looking up, tears streaking your cheeks.

“Want me to leave you alone?”

“No, it’s fine,” you whisper, though your voice cracks. Sniffling, you glance up at him. “You can stay.”

He hesitates, then crosses the room and lowers himself onto the couch beside you. “Is that it?” he asks, gesturing to the photo trembling in your hands.

Wordlessly, you hold it out. Hughie takes it carefully, handling it like glass. His expression softens as he studies the grainy image.

“Wow,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “It’s… definitely a baby.”

You let out a wet laugh, swiping at your eyes. “Thanks, Hughie. Real poetic.”

“I mean it!” he protests, grinning as he squints at the picture. “Doesn’t look anything like Butcher, though. Thank God for small mercies.”

This time, your laugh comes easier, and you shake your head. “You’re terrible.”

“Terribly funny,” he corrects, handing the picture back. His smile fades as he leans back, elbows on his knees. “Does he know?”

Your shoulders stiffen. “No.”

Hughie frowns. “Why not?”

“I didn’t get the chance.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “We… fought before he left. About us. About whether he even loved me. I wanted him to say it, just once. But he didn’t. Or couldn’t.”

Hughie stays quiet, giving you space to continue.

“And now,” you choke out, the words heavy, “it doesn’t matter if he loves me or if he wants nothing to do with the baby. All I care about is knowing he’s okay. Because I—” Your voice breaks, and you press a hand over your mouth as the tears spill freely.

“Because you don’t want to live in a world without him,” Hughie finishes gently.

You nod, trembling.

Hughie leans closer, his tone careful but certain. “You know, Butcher’s not great with words. Or feelings. Or… people, really. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

You glance at him, red-rimmed eyes filled with doubt.

“Like this one time,” Hughie goes on, “we were in the van, and you called to check in. The second his phone buzzed, he was on it. And when he saw your name, he smiled. Butcher, smiling. Like a real, human smile. I thought I was hallucinating.”

Despite yourself, you smile. “Really?”

“Really,” Hughie says. “He’s never gonna be the guy who says the right thing at the right time, but he cares about you. Loves you. Probably more than he knows how to say.”

You clutch the ultrasound photo tighter, your voice fragile. “I wish I could tell him. About the baby. About… everything.”

Hughie rests a hand on your shoulder. “You will. When we get him back.”

You look at him, grateful but uncertain. “You think we will?”

His voice is steady, certain. “Yeah. Butcher’s too stubborn to let us do this without him.”

For the first time all day, a flicker of hope rises in your chest. You nod, running your thumb over the ultrasound image. “Thanks, Hughie.”

“Anytime,” he says, leaning back with a small, reassuring smile. “Now, let’s figure out how to kill time without killing each other, huh?”

Your laugh is soft, but real. “Deal.”

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @buckybarnesbestgirl

[gullemec]

❤️✨send this to ten other bloggers that you think are wonderful. keep the game going, make someone smile!!! ✨❤️

thank you so much sweet friend <3 you are the best!!

(p.s. new bitten is out)

[gullemec]

Bad Man (Joel POV)

Bitten - Part VII

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel Miller is a bad man. Joel Miller is a weak man. But for you, maybe he could be good. Maybe, for once, he could be enough.

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, Joel pining hard, subtle reference to getting a boner (??)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 14.5k (and it's only going to get worse from here lol)

A/N: I submitted the final paper for the penultimate semester of my master's degree and thought we could celebrate with a very special chapter 🥰

The moment he first saw you, something changed.

It was like a fragile green sprout forcing its way through cracked concrete, life stubbornly emerging from destruction and decay. Something long dormant, buried under years of grief and grit, stirred awake in Joel Miller. He couldn’t name it, didn’t even fully recognize it at first, but it was there, undeniable.

It wasn’t just that you were a woman working one of the dirtiest, most soul-draining jobs in the QZ. Plenty of women got stuck with body disposal, long days spent shoveling ash, hauling corpses, and stacking them like cordwood before setting them ablaze. It was grueling, thankless work, and most people either bribed their way out of it or stopped showing up altogether, slipping quietly into the shadows of the QZ in search of under the table work. Joel didn’t fault them for it. Hell, if he had the luxury of a bribe or knees that didn’t groan every time he crouched, he might’ve done the same.

It wasn’t just the way you stood up for yourself, either. Sure, he’d been taken aback, impressed, even, when you snapped at him for offering to help. There you were, standing knee-deep in filth, your face streaked with soot and sweat, hauling the dead weight of a grown man onto the pyre like it was nothing. Joel had grinned like a fool beneath his bandana, not because he doubted your strength but because of the fire in your eyes, the way you carried yourself like you were daring anyone to underestimate you.

But strength was common in the QZ. Survival required it. The women here, like the men, were hardened, their edges sharpened by years of scarcity and loss. Strength alone wasn’t what caught his attention.

No, it was something deeper, something intangible. It was in the way you moved, the way your shoulders squared as if you were bracing yourself against the weight of the world, even as your eyes betrayed something softer, something untouched by the harshness around you. It wasn’t weakness, not even close. It was a quiet, stubborn hope, buried under ruin. A tenderness you tried to shield, even though the cracks in your armor were visible to anyone who bothered to look closely enough.

And Joel, against his better judgment, had looked.

It was rare these days to find someone who hadn’t been hollowed out completely, someone who still carried even a scrap of kindness, a trace of softness. Most people built walls so high and so thick that nothing could get in… or out. And Joel understood that better than anyone. He’d spent years fortifying his own, pouring concrete around every vulnerability, every regret, every sliver of humanity he still possessed.

And if Joel was honest with himself, which he often struggled to do, he knew a big part of what drew him to you, what kept him circling back despite his better judgment, was the way your softness had survived in a world so intent on destroying it.That rare, unguarded vulnerability, the kind he hadn’t seen in years, felt like a magnet pulling him in. And it terrified him.

Because Joel knew exactly how easily that softness could be exploited. He’d seen it happen before, kindness and trust twisted into tools for someone else’s gain. He’d done it himself once or twice, back in the early days when survival meant silencing his conscience. 

He knew there were men out there far worse than he was. Men who would take someone like you and ruin you, strip away the humanity that made you different.

Joel Miller was not a good man. He had too much blood on his hands, too many sins stacked up to pretend otherwise. But the thought of someone else taking that rare softness in you and defiling it, tainting it… It made his stomach churn with righteous indignation.

So, he told himself he’d protect you. 

Not because you were his responsibility, not yet, anyway, but because he couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else getting to you first. Someone who wouldn’t just take your trust but would break you in the process. 

And if that meant ignoring the way his thoughts drifted to you late at night, then so be it. He’d bury the way your laugh lingered in his head long after you were gone, the way your presence in a room seemed to make the air heavier, charged, like a heavy storm cloud about to break. He’d push down the pang of guilt that twisted inside him whenever he laid with Tess, the gnawing sense that something about being with her felt wrong now, like it was betraying you, even though he had no real reason to feel that way.

Because you were no one to him. Not yet, at least. Barely a friend, more like a stray dog sniffing around the edges of his life. Feral and skittish, tolerating his proximity only because it didn’t explicitly feel like a threat.

Joel would ignore the way his stomach tightened when you reached up to adjust your jacket, the hem of your shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. He’d look away when you bent over to grab something, knowing his gaze lingered on the gentle slope of your backside longer than it should. He’d force his mind to shut down the way his hands itched to touch you, not in the careless, rough way he’d known before, but gently, reverently, like you were something precious.

But to touch you, to have you like that, would be to ruin you. His hands were calloused and stained with too many sins. They had no business running over your skin, no matter how much he craved it. It would be selfish, another black mark on his already damned soul.

Joel didn’t need another sin to carry. And he sure as hell didn’t need to carry the weight of what it would mean to lose you, not after what he’d already lost. So he’d keep his distance. He’d guard you from the world, even from himself, because he knew damn well that men like him didn’t deserve softness like yours.

…

Tess had seen it, clocked it from the moment he first brought you around. 

She wasn’t stupid. She knew him too well, could read him better than anyone else, maybe even better than he could.

“What’s going on here, Joel?” she’d asked that night after your first smuggling job with them. The two of them were tucked into the quiet shadows of his apartment, sharing a rare moment of stillness after you’d taken your share of the ration cards and gone home.

Joel had feigned ignorance, brushing it off with a grunt and a shrug. “She’s a good set of hands,” he’d said, his voice rough and curt, the lie obvious even to him.

Tess didn’t buy it for a second. “Bullshit,” she’d said, her voice low, bitter. “Look, if you want to end this—us—that’s fine. But don’t lie to yourself about what this is.”

He’d refused to acknowledge what she meant, wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, admit it. But she was right, and they both knew it. He never found his way back to her bed after that night. Not because he didn’t care about her, but because the shame weighed on him too heavily. Guilt sat in his belly like a stone, growing heavier with every glance in your direction, every moment he caught himself thinking of you when he shouldn’t.

And then came the night everything went to hell. The smuggling job had gone sideways, and you’d asked him something he hadn’t been prepared for, something that came alive in his brain like an electric shock. 

“Do you ever think about… leaving?” you’d asked, your voice tentative, almost shy, like you were afraid of what his answer might be.

The question sparked something in Joel, something long buried and half-forgotten. Hope. He didn’t even recognize it at first, not for what it was. It had been so long since he’d felt it, since he’d dared to want anything other than basic survival.

Later, as you slept on his couch, curled up beneath one of his old blankets, Joel sat in the quiet and watched you, his hands still trembling from the chaos of the night. He rubbed his thumb over the worn edge of the table, his mind racing. Wyoming wasn’t just a place. It was an idea, a promise.

A chance.

He told himself it was for you. He’d get you there, to whatever better life waited for you on the other side of those distant mountains. A place where you wouldn’t have to keep your guard up all the time, where you could let yourself be soft again without fear of being broken. Maybe you’d find someone there, someone good, someone who could give you the life you deserved. Someone who wasn’t him.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Joel couldn’t stop the selfish thought that lingered in the back of his mind. Maybe Wyoming wasn’t just for you. Maybe it could be something for him, too. A place where he could finally put down some of the weight he carried. A place where he could let the hardness dissolve, piece by piece, until there was something left of the man he used to be.

Maybe then he could touch you without the fear of tainting you.

But Joel Miller was a weak man.

The sheer proximity to you on the journey was a daily trial, a constant reminder of the promise he’d made to himself, to protect you, to keep you safe, no matter the cost. But that promise carried with it another, a vow to never cross the line, to never let his own selfish desires interfere with what you deserved.

You made it damn near impossible.

There were days when the world forced intimacy upon you both in ways that were both innocent and excruciatingly dangerous to his resolve. Days when you’d strip down to bathe in the icy waters of some river, your laughter cutting through the air as you teased him about how cold it was. Joel always kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, but he could hear the water lapping against your skin, could imagine the droplets rolling down your body, catching the sunlight like tiny diamonds.

There were nights when you’d both peel off bloodied or rain-soaked clothes to inspect the cuts and scrapes that had come too close for comfort. Joel’s hands would shake slightly as he cleaned the wounds on your back or your arms, his touch careful and deliberate, every brush of his fingers against your skin a silent prayer for control. He told himself he was just being thorough, just being cautious, but the truth was harder to swallow.

He wanted to touch you more than he had ever wanted anything.

And yet, every single time, he forced himself to look away. To turn his back, to avert his gaze, to give you whatever dignity he could manage in a world that had so little of it to offer. It wasn’t easy. Hell, it was torture. But Joel was nothing if not disciplined, and for you, he would be good.

He told himself it was the least he could do, a way to balance the scales of the man he used to be, the man who had done things he could never speak of, things that still haunted him in the quiet hours of the night. Joel Miller was a bad man. He’d done bad things, hurt people, killed people, and never once had he felt an ounce of guilt about it. Not until you.

You made him want to be better. 

But you also made him weak.

Because for all his promises, all his discipline, there were moments when his restraint wavered. Moments when he’d catch himself looking too long, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck or the way your hair clung to your skin after a storm. Moments when he wanted nothing more than to close the space between you, to press his forehead to yours and let himself believe, just for a second, that he could be something more to you than a protector.

He hated himself for those moments. They felt like a betrayal, not just of the promise he’d made to himself, but of you. You deserved better than a man like him. You deserved someone pure, someone who didn’t carry the weight of countless sins on his shoulders.

And yet, despite all of that, Joel couldn’t help the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him, or the way his pulse quickened when your hand brushed his arm. He couldn’t stop the way you filled every corner of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to keep you out.

Because Joel Miller was a weak man. But for you, he would spend every day trying to be stronger.

…

It had rained on the day that everything changed for him.

You’d been somewhere in Nebraska, where the last dregs of summer lingered in the air like distant whispers of a lover unwilling to let go. The sun still hung warm and golden overhead, the air hazy and thick.

That morning, the two of you had hunted together, your movements coordinated in a way that only came from months of traveling side by side. You’d amassed a bounty of game, enough to fill your bellies and preserve some for the days ahead. Things had been eerily quiet for weeks, no infected, no other people, nothing but the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional sound of wildlife. It had been so calm, so unnaturally still, that Joel let himself believe, just for a few stolen moments, that you were safe.

The campsite you set up felt like a small reprieve from the constant urgency of the road. The fire crackled softly as the two of you worked together, drying meat into jerky, the scent of smoke mingling with the warm, earthy smell of late summer. Joel had almost forgotten what it felt like to be in a place that didn’t feel like it was pressing down on him, strangling him.

You’d gone down to the stream to wash off the blood and grime from the hunt, leaving Joel behind to finish setting up. He let you go without question, understanding your need for a semblance of privacy. He stayed behind, sitting on a large, sun-warmed rock near the fire, his head tilted back to soak in the rays.

And then, he’d felt it. The first drops of rain against his face.

At first, Joel thought he was imagining it. He sat up, squinting at the sky, which still burned bright with sunlight despite the rain now beginning to fall in a soft, steady rhythm. 

A sun shower.

It had been years since he’d felt one, maybe decades. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, the ghost of a memory tugging at him from a time so far removed it felt like another lifetime. “Rain on a sunny day means the foxes are having a wedding,” she used to say, her Southern drawl making everything sound like an old folk tale. The thought brought an unexpected smile to his face.

And then he heard it.

Your laughter.

It was soft at first, a gentle peal that carried over the rustling of the trees and the patter of rain on the grass. Then it grew, rich and warm, spilling out into the quiet. Joel froze, every muscle in his body locking as he turned toward the sound.

You were in the stream, the rain falling in delicate droplets all around you, turning the surface of the water into a mosaic of ripples. He hadn’t meant to look. He really hadn’t. But there you were, spinning in the shallow current, arms spread wide, head tilted back to catch the rain on your face.

The sight of you stole the breath right out of him.

Your white tank top, soaked through and translucent, clung to your frame. He was only a man at the end of the day, and the sight sent a jolt to his groin.

But it wasn’t the outline of your body that caught his attention, not at first. It was your face, the sheer joy written across it, the unbridled freedom in your smile. You looked like a woman untouched by the world’s ugliness, as though the scars on your body and soul had been washed away by the rain. For that fleeting moment, you were radiant. Carefree. And it was something Joel hadn’t seen from you before, not like this.

The rain, mingling with the lingering heat of the day, created a mist that rose from the tall grass and wove through the trees like something out of a dream. Joel felt like he was watching a mirage, something too good to be real.

He told himself to look away, to give you the privacy you deserved. But he couldn’t. He was transfixed, rooted to the spot as his heart hammered against his ribcage.

And for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to wonder.

It would be so easy. That’s what crossed his mind. So easy to let go of his threadbare resolve, to step into the stream and close the distance between you. To touch you. Not just to brush past you in some practical, utilitarian way, but really touch you. To let his hands find the curve of your waist, to feel the warmth of your skin under his calloused fingers.

The thought terrified him, more than anything had in years. Because in that moment, Joel knew.

You could never be just someone he traveled with. You were never just a pair of capable hands or an extra set of eyes.

You were something else entirely. Something precious. Something Joel didn’t deserve but couldn’t help but want.

So he stayed on the rock, watching as you twirled in the rain, the sound of your laughter carrying over the hills. And Joel Miller, a man who had made a life of keeping his heart buried deep, felt it crack open just a little bit more.

So that night, when you unrolled your sleeping bag by the fire, something changed. He’d already taken up his usual post against a tree at the edge of camp, rifle in hand, eyes scanning the dark horizon. But for once, the call of duty, the constant need to keep his distance from you, was drowned out by something else. Maybe it was the way the sun shower had softened the world around him earlier, how the rain had washed everything clean, how you seemed to glow in the sunny haze.

Wordlessly, as if compelled by a force he didn’t fully understand, he moved. His boots crunched against the dry leaves as he walked over to you, unfurling his sleeping bag beside yours.

You glanced up at him, your face lit by the flickering firelight. He braced himself for questions, for confusion, maybe even a hint of irritation. He could already hear himself mumbling an excuse, ready to retreat back to the tree if that’s what you wanted.

“Just figured it was warmer by the fire.”

But you didn’t look confused. Or annoyed. Or anything like he expected.

You smiled.

It was warm, open, and unguarded, like you’d been waiting for him to do this all along. Like you weren’t surprised by his sudden need for closeness, but relieved by it. And in that moment, he was disarmed. Completely.

He sat down beside you, rifle still cradled in his lap, his body tense with the effort of trying to convince himself this was nothing more than practicality, safety in numbers, warmth by the fire. He was always trying to convince himself of things like that, always forcing his thoughts into neat, platonic boxes that made sense.

You spoke to him, your voice soft and steady, and as the fire crackled, he found himself responding without thinking. Words flowed between you like the river you’d bathed earlier that day, easy and natural. Your body leaned just a little toward his, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off you, close enough that his heart raced. But he told himself it was just the chill of the night driving you closer, nothing more.

You laughed at something he said, light, airy laughter that felt like music to him. He didn’t know what he’d said that was so funny, but he didn’t care. He’d have said a hundred more things, anything to keep that sound alive in the summer night air.

But eventually, your laughter faded, your words slowing until sleep tugged at the edges of your voice. Curled up just a little closer to him than he dared to hope, you drifted off.

And that’s when he let himself look at you. Really look at you.

The way your face softened in sleep, the way the firelight painted your features in warm, golden hues. His hand itched to reach out, to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, to feel the weight of your head against his chest, your breaths syncing with his. It would have been so easy to drape an arm over your waist, to pull you just a little closer.

But he didn’t want to risk waking you, not even with the slightest movement. The thought of disturbing your peace, of pulling you from whatever refuge sleep had given you, was unthinkable. He’d shoulder the burden of exhaustion a thousand times over if it meant you could rest like you needed to.

If it meant he could watch you like this, unguarded and serene, your face lit by the dying embers of the fire.

He couldn’t help but study you, his eyes tracing the gentle curve of your cheek, the soft pout of your lips. Every so often, your eyebrows knit together, like something troubled you even in your dreams, and he felt an ache deep in his stomach. He wanted to smooth the crease with his thumb, whisper that everything was going to be okay. That he’d make it okay.

That night, as he gazed at you, he made a decision.

He’d tell you how he felt.

Not now, not here on the road, where every moment was a fight for survival and every step was shadowed by danger. He didn’t want his confession to feel like a tactic, some ploy to keep you close or bound to him out of obligation. The last thing he ever wanted was for you to feel pressured, to feel like you owed him anything.

But when you made it to safety, when you both stood on solid ground for the first time since the world fell apart, he’d tell you.

He’d tell you about how different you were, how you terrified him in ways he couldn’t even articulate. How the thought of you had carved its way into his very being and made a home there, keeping him awake at night. He’d tell you how much he hated himself for wanting something so good, so untainted, when he’d been the opposite for so long.

And he’d tell you about hope. About how he thought he’d lost it years ago, buried it alongside people he’d loved and failed. But you had unearthed it, dragged it kicking and screaming back into his life without even realizing it.

He’d tell you that he wasn’t a good man, not that this would be any revelation to you. You knew better than anyone the weight of the blood on his hands. But maybe, just maybe, this new place, this promised land you both fought so hard to reach, could be a fresh start. A chance to rinse the crimson from your palms and use them for something better. To learn what it meant to love again, in a world that had taught him nothing but how to endure.

And if you didn’t want him, if your heart didn’t align with his, he’d accept that, too. It would hurt, more than he cared to think about, but your happiness would be enough. Knowing you were safe, knowing you were free to live the life you deserved, would mean more to him than any confession of love ever could.

To see you saved, whole and untouched by the darkness that had consumed so much of him, would be enough. It would mean he’d finally done something right. Finally saved someone who truly deserved it.

And that thought was enough to keep him going. Enough to let him sit there, rifle cradled in his lap, watching over you until the first rays of dawn kissed the horizon.

…

He was checking traps when it happened.

At first, it was just noise. The constant roar of the river, the hiss of wind through rain-dampened trees. Your screams must have folded into the white noise, lost to the cadence of the post-storm forest.

But then he heard his name.

It wasn’t a call. It wasn’t a plea. It was a scream, raw, jagged, and visceral. And somehow, he knew.

Before his brain could process, his body responded. Like a switch had been flipped, like instinct alone had seized control of him. His legs moved with a speed that felt unnatural, propelling him forward as if the earth itself had turned against him.

He didn’t need to see you to understand what had happened. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew. But when he did see you, sprawled on the forest floor, pinned beneath a snarling, snapping beast, it was like something chemical ignited inside him.

Not adrenaline. Not shock. It was something else entirely. Something acidic, something that burned in his veins and threatened to eat him alive.

His hand moved faster than thought, the pistol in his grip an extension of his rage. The shot rang out, sharp and violent, and for a moment, he didn’t even register that it was his finger that had pulled the trigger. It didn’t feel like his hand, like his body. He was barely a man in that moment, just pure, unthinking reflex.

The infected collapsed off you in a heap, but he barely registered it. His eyes were locked on you, taking in the crumpled mess of your body. For a second, hope flickered, weak and pitiful. A cruel thing. And it burned.

Because he knew.

The red bloom spreading across your shirt stared at him, stark against the fabric, damning the both of you.

It was over. 

The pistol was up again, heavy but familiar. He flicked the safety off without thinking, the product of twenty years of survival. The barrel leveled at you, finger hovering over the trigger. 

It was muscle memory. Mechanical, methodical, practiced. 

But then your voice cried out, beseeching him to spare you and goddamnit, didn’t you know what that would do to him?

“Please, just… wait.” 

Did you have any idea what you were asking him for in that moment?

To override the reflex that had kept him alive for two decades. To ignore the rules that had been drilled into him by blood and fire, rules that had saved him time and time again. To fly in the face of everything he’d come to believe about survival in a world that had no room for mercy.

To confront the weakness you’d cored into him.

His hands shook.

The barrel wavered.

His mind screamed at him to finish it, to do what he had to do, but his chest felt like it was splitting open.

His mind fell away, back to those stolen moments, those fragile, fleeting seconds of normalcy you’d created and held together in a world that refused to offer it.

He thought about the QZ, the times when the two of you shared laughter soft enough not to wake suspicion. He thought about the quiet moments on the road, when the firelight danced across your face and you’d smile at him, something real and unguarded, and for just a second, the weight of survival would lift from his shoulders.

Being in your proximity allowed him the rarest kind of reprieve. Forgetting. Forgetting the blood on his hands, the screams that haunted him, the crushing monotony of survival.

Your company wasn’t just a comfort, it was a luxury. And Joel Miller had never been a man who allowed himself such indulgences. But you were different. You were intoxicating. You were a temptation he couldn’t turn away from.

What was he supposed to do? Just give that up?

So maybe Joel didn’t do what he was supposed to do in that moment. Maybe he acted on impulse, on selfishness.

Tess’s voice slithered through his mind, low and venomous, the same condemnation that had hung over him since this all started.

You’re blind when it comes to her.

And one day, it’s going to cost you.

He hated her for that. Hated her because she was right.

Joel Miller was not supposed to be a weak man, not anymore. He’d been forged in fire, hardened by loss. But when it came to you? Goddamn it, he was weak.

And as he stared down at you, trembling and bloodied, he didn’t feel like the ruthless man who’d survived for twenty years in hell. He felt like nothing. Like a coward.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft, trembling, breaking. “I’m not ready. Please.”

It broke something inside him to hear you say that, to hear the raw plea in your voice. He could feel the tears welling in his own eyes, hot and blinding, but he couldn’t look away from you. He didn’t need to see the tears streaking your face to know they were there.

He thought about it. He really, truly did. 

He thought about pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple, steadying his hands, and pulling the trigger. He thought about giving you the mercy that this world would never offer. About being strong enough to do what he’d promised you.

But his hands wouldn’t steady.

No matter how tightly he gripped the gun, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And he knew, he knew, that if he missed—if he botched it—if he caused you more pain in your final moments, that would be it. That would be the thing that finally broke him.

He blinked through his tears, his vision swimming, his ribs heaving with ragged breaths. The gun felt like a weight he couldn’t bear, dragging his arm down, pulling him under.

He watched your body crumple, your legs folding beneath you like a lamb struck down mid-stride. The sight of you, fragile and broken, felt like a blade being thrust into his chest.

The gun in his hands felt almost foreign as he kept it trained on you. Not because he had any intention of pulling the trigger, but because it was all he had left. A crutch. A mask. A desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control.

Joel Miller, the relentless, unflinching, unfeeling killer.

But where was that man now? Certainly not here. Not in this clearing, babbling incoherently under his breath like a man lost, trembling hands struggling to keep the pistol steady.

It was pathetic, he thought. Weak.

Eventually, he could take no more. He holstered the gun with a sharp, frustrated motion, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. His jaw clenched as he moved, as if action alone could smother the war raging inside him.

He tied you to a tree, the rope biting into the bark and your body, a crude solution that was as much for his peace of mind as it was for your protection. The knot was tight, too tight, maybe, but it was the only compromise he could muster. He couldn’t leave you untethered, not when the infection was clawing its way through your veins, preparing to twist you into something else.

And then something familiar happened to Joel. A sensation that had visited him countless times before, always in the moments when his soft, vulnerable underbelly was exposed.

He shut down completely.

It was a reflex, as automatic as breathing. The rough brick wall that surrounded whatever was left of his fragile heart rose swiftly, sealing him off from the mess of emotions swirling around him.

It felt like a shadow falling over him, a suffocating blanket of self-preservation. It was itchy, uncomfortable, bristling against every nerve in his body. But it protected him. It always had.

Joel turned on his heel, ambling away from you with stiff, mechanical movements. Like putting space between the two of you would snuff out the inferno of guilt, anger, and fear consuming him.

He didn’t go far. Couldn’t.

Instead, he sat with his back to you, staring into the forest as though its endless expanse could offer him answers. It didn’t. All it gave him was the hollow echo of his own shallow breaths, mixing with yours in the strained silence that hung between you.

And in that silence, Tess’s voice rang in his ears, clear as the crack of a rifle.

She’s your responsibility.

The weight of those words settled heavily on his shoulders, a familiar burden he had carried more times than he cared to count.

But now the weight was unbearable.

He’d failed you. He’d failed you like he failed Sarah. Like he failed Tommy. Like he failed every single person who had ever looked to him for protection.

The realization hit him like a freight train, barreling through the brittle defenses he’d tried to put up. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, knuckles whitening as he sat there, a man trapped in the ruins of his own guilt.

He didn’t turn to look at you. He couldn’t.

Not when your voice, too soft and quiet and gentle for what you were going through, floated through the air. You were trying so hard to keep your voice steady. 

“You know what I thought of you when I first met you?” 

You were brave and he was not. He was right all along. He never deserved you.

“I thought you were an asshole. A grumpy asshole.”

No, asshole was too kind a descriptor. He thought he was more befitting of words like evil or selfish or inhuman.

His body betrayed him, twitching as he tried to hold in a sob.

Your voice, just a whisper in the quiet, raspy and uneven, cut through him. 

"And once I figured out how easy it was to piss you off, I couldn't stop myself. I'd say the dumbest shit just to get you all riled up."

Joel didn’t react. Wouldn't react. He kept his back to you, his gaze fixed somewhere faraway and unseeing, because if he did, if he acknowledged this, he was certain he’d shatter. 

He heard the catch in your breath as you paused, the effort it cost you to keep speaking.. He knew what you were doing. Knew you were trying to draw him out, trying to make him say something, anything.

But he didn’t.

You kept talking. He knew you would.

"You’d get so mad, Joel. Your face would do this thing, this little twitch, like you were trying so hard not to tell me to shut the fuck up."

You were smiling. He could hear it in your voice, that low, wistful curve of your words. It was cruel, really. That you were smiling knocking on death’s door while he was sitting there, coming apart at the seams.

"And I think—no, I know—you liked it."

That did it. His jaw worked, and before he could stop himself, a sharp exhale slipped from his nose. It was barely a sound, barely a damn thing at all, but it was enough for you to catch it. Of course you did.

"If I was nice to you, you’d ignore me. But if I said something dumb just to piss you off? You couldn’t help yourself."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to revisit these moments you were laying out between you like fragile glass. Because he remembered them, every damn one. And it was all too much.

"I think you liked the banter," you said, your voice growing weaker. "The arguing. Maybe it made things feel... normal."

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as your words settled over him like a heavy weight. He didn’t want to think about that, about the way those moments had carved out tiny pockets of warmth in his otherwise frozen-over life.

And then you went for the throat.

"Do you remember that night a few months ago? When you set your sleeping bag up right next to mine?"

Yes. Yes, he did. Every single goddamn day did he think about that night. 

That night was burned into his memory, etched into his very being. Because that night, he’d allowed himself to imagine a world where he could have you, hold you, love you. He’d been so close to saying something, to reaching for you. But he hadn’t. He’d told himself it wasn’t the right time. That it was safer to wait.

And now, hearing your voice tremble with the weight of your confession, he realized what a fool he’d been.

“I liked it. A lot. Probably more than I should’ve. And I couldn’t sleep that night, Joel. I just kept laying there, staring at you while you were on watch, thinking… Maybe you liked me, too.”

That did it.

That fucking did it.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His breath stuttered, his hands shaking as they gripped the edge of his knees. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t let you see the storm raging inside him.

You’d felt it, too. All this time, you’d felt it, and he’d been too much of a coward to do anything about it. Too afraid of what it meant, of what it could cost. And now, he’d wasted it. Wasted all the precious time he could have had with you.

The fear he’d carried with him for so long, that caring for someone again would destroy him, was nothing compared to the agony of this moment. Knowing he would lose you, knowing you would slip away from him forever, and he’d never told you.

All the time you could’ve spent together, talking, touching, tasting, indulging in your deepest shared desires. Gone. Because he’d been too scared to take the leap. Too scared to reach for the one thing he wanted most in this broken, depraved world.

He heard your breath falter again, your voice tapering into silence, and the blood roared in his ears, deafening. His heart pounded, frantic and wild, as if trying to break free from the cage of his ribs.

And suddenly, it was too much. The regret, the guilt, the overwhelming weight of what he’d lost. It all threatened to crush him, and he didn’t know if he could bear it.

For the first time in years, Joel Miller was helpless. Helpless to stop the ache tearing through him. Helpless to fix what was broken. Helpless to stop the one person who had come to mean everything from slipping through his fingers.

And it was all his fault.

“Stop.”

He didn’t realize he’d rounded on you until it was too late. Didn’t realize his hand had instinctively gone for his gun until he stood there, towering over you, the weapon trembling in his grip. Moonlight reflected off your wide, unflinching eyes, off the sheen of tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

The walls came up instantly, automatic as a reflex, wrapping him in the only defense he’d ever known. They let him retreat into himself, let the familiar mask of roughness and indifference take over. That mask had been his armor for so long, a weapon as sharp as any knife. It was how he survived. How he dealt with fear and pain and loss. By becoming something hard. Something people didn’t dare get close to.

And right now, he was scared. God, was he scared.

He just wanted you to stop. Stop talking, stop looking at him like that, stop peeling away every carefully constructed layer of his defenses until there was nothing left but the raw, ugly truth.

But you didn’t look afraid. Not of him. Not of the gun. Hell, you looked calmer than he felt, and it wasn’t fair. How could you look so composed when he was falling apart?

Your face, that beautiful, infuriating, goddamn perfect face. Even now, weakened and pale, barely clinging to life, you still glowed with something that made his breath hitch in his throat. Something pure. Something sacred.

And then you said it. The words that sealed his fate.

“I love you.”

Three words. Just three. And those walls didn’t just crack, they shattered. Brutally, violently, with debris raining down and choking smoke filling his lungs. The walls he’d spent two decades of blood and loss and apocalyptic horror building were gone, reduced to nothing in an instant.

The tears came before he could stop them, hot and blinding, shaking his body with quiet, wrenching sobs. He couldn’t hold them back, couldn’t control the storm raging inside him anymore.

His body was no longer his, it belonged to you. Mind, body, and soul. Yours. For as long as he remained on this mortal coil, he would be yours.

Because you’d done it. You’d broken him. With nothing more than your voice, soft and weak and filled with a love he didn’t deserve.

And yet, here you were, looking at him like he was everything. Like he was something worth loving.

He fell to his knees before you. It wasn’t a conscious choice, his body just moved, pulled by some force he couldn’t fight. His hands trembled as they reached for you, desperate to touch, to feel, to know you were still here. He forced himself to be gentle, to still the violent quake in his fingers as he brushed against your skin.

You were warm. Despite everything, you were still warm. And that warmth seared into him, branding him forever.

He bowed his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was soft, reverent, a quiet prayer to whatever higher power might still be listening. A promise, silent but absolute. At least he would have this. At least he could carry this moment, this memory, in the shattered remains of his heart.

When his gaze fell to your lips, he hesitated. He could feel it, the pull, the overwhelming need to close the space between you, to taste the words you’d just spoken on your breath.

But he couldn’t.

God help him, he couldn’t.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He did. More than he’d ever wanted anything. But it felt too big, too precious, too sacred. Kissing you would mean acknowledging it all, your love for him, his for you. And this love, it was the only good, pure thing he had left in this broken world.

And what if this was the end? What if this moment was all he’d ever have with you? What if he pressed his mouth to yours and your lips went still, your warmth faded, and he was left with nothing but the memory of a kiss given in the shadow of death?

No. He couldn’t. Not like this. Not here, in the horror of this reality.

His love for you was too sacred to be tarnished by the blood and chaos surrounding you. Too precious to be tied to this nightmare, to this moment where he was losing you.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he touched your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down.

Then, with painstaking effort, Joel forced himself to pull away from you. It was like tearing himself in half, leaving a piece of himself behind as he stood, his legs trembling beneath the weight of what he was doing. He moved just far enough that he wouldn’t be tempted to touch you again, wouldn’t risk holding on so tightly that he’d never let go.

And then he listened.

You talked, your voice weak but steady, filling the suffocating silence with the fragments of your life—the good, the bad, the heartbreaking. He listened as you shared your immaterialized dreams, the ones that had always seemed just out of reach. You talked about Yellowstone, about the beauty you’d never seen, the one place you wanted to go but never did.

And you told him, quietly, that you wanted him to go. For you.

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, but the promise was carved into his psyche. He would go. He’d go to Yellowstone, he’d go to the ends of the earth if it meant keeping a piece of you alive. For you, he would do anything.

But then you began to fade.

Your voice, once so full of quiet determination, softened, becoming thinner, more fragile with every word. The pauses between your breaths grew longer, heavier, until they stretched like an unbearable silence threatening to swallow him whole.

And Joel—Joel did what he’d always done when the pain became too much to bear. He ran.

He chose the coward’s way out, dragging himself to his feet and retreating into the dark, leaving you there in the cold. His legs carried him away even as his heart screamed at him to stay.

He told himself it was mercy. Mercy for himself, maybe. Because he couldn’t, wouldn’t, live with the memory of watching you slip away. He couldn’t endure the weight of seeing the light in your eyes flicker and die, couldn’t let that be the last image of you seared into his mind.

He wanted to remember the warmth of your skin beneath his lips, the softness of your breath as you spoke to him, the soft smile you wore as you shared your dreams. He wanted to keep you as you were in that moment, alive in his arms, not as the lifeless shell he knew you would become.

So he left.

But even as he stumbled into the shadows, his ribcage heaving with the effort of holding himself together, he felt the weight of his choice crushing him. He’d abandoned you. He’d left you alone in the cold and dark when you needed him most.

He tried to justify it, telling himself it was the only way to preserve the memory of you as something beautiful, something unbroken. But deep down, he knew it was fear. Fear of losing you. Fear of breaking entirely. Fear of facing a world where you no longer existed.

And as your voice faded into nothingness, swallowed by the night, so too did his own consciousness.

The weight of grief dragged him down, pulling him into the dark, leaving him suspended in a place where time ceased to exist. A place where he could still hear your voice, still feel your warmth, still believe, for just a little while longer, that you were there.

…

Your voice broke through the haze, like a siren’s song to a doomed sailor adrift at sea.

Joel.

Soft, lilting, sweet. It wrapped around him, soothing and electrifying all at once, like a flame warming him from the inside out.

Joel.

It came again, stronger this time, a thread of desperation laced into the edges. Warmth unfurled through his veins, slow and unfamiliar, filling his limbs and grounding him in the earthy scent of the morning.

Joel!

The sharpness of your cry jolted him, his eyes snapping open. His head jerked instinctively, scanning his surroundings.

His breath caught, his heart stuttering as his gaze locked onto you.

You sat there, far away but unmistakable, small and tired-looking against the endless wilderness.

Why…?

And then it hit him. 

You were alive.

Not snarling or feral, not a shambling corpse stripped of all humanity. You were whole. You were you.

Your skin, though dull and flushed, still glowed with life. Your eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, held recognition, a spark he thought he’d never see again. Not the cloudy, dead-eyed stare of the infected, the one that had haunted his every nightmare. And your lips, trembling but steady, spoke his name like it meant something.

An infected couldn’t do that.

His legs carried him toward you on instinct, his steps heavy and hesitant, as though moving too fast might shatter this fragile moment. His mind rebelled against the sight before him, against the sheer impossibility of it all. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

It had to be a dream. Some cruel illusion sent to mock him, to drag him through another hell of false hope. Any second now, the image would crack and dissolve, revealing the truth he feared most: your lifeless body reanimated into a monster. He braced himself for it, half-expecting the air to fill with the guttural growls of the infected.

But with every step closer, the mirage refused to shatter. You remained rooted in place, more tangible with every breath he took.

He stopped just feet from you, his breath uneven, his hands shaking. His eyes swept over you, searching for the flaw, the glitch, the fatal sign that would confirm this was a lie. But there was nothing. Just you.

You were alive.

And when you spoke again, so softly, so human, it broke him. “Joel… Untie me. Please.”

Your voice was small, almost pitiful, and it wrecked him in a way he didn’t know was possible. His knees threatened to buckle as the enormity of it all settled in. He’d tied you up. Left you out here. Left you to die. And yet here you were, asking—not accusing, not condemning, but asking—for his help.

And then the walls started to rise again.

One by one, those barriers you’d torn down so easily last night rebuilt themselves, stronger, thicker, shielding him from the crushing reality of what stood before him. Because the truth was too much to face.

You were alive. And now you knew.

You knew the weak, broken man he truly was. A man who’d failed you in every way that mattered. A man who couldn’t keep his promises, who couldn’t summon the courage to do the one thing he’d sworn he’d do for you.

He couldn’t protect you. Not from the infected, not from the world, not even from himself. He was selfish, corrupted to his core. Last night had proven that. He’d abandoned you to spare himself the pain of watching you slip away, and now here you were, living proof of his cowardice.

He hadn’t thought about what he’d do after. Not really. In some far-off, intangible sense, he supposed he’d keep going. What else was there for him? He’d find a beautiful place to bury you, somewhere quiet and peaceful, somewhere worthy of you. He’d search for flowers, whatever he could find, and place them gently over your chest before the first handful of dirt covered you. He’d say something, maybe. Something small, simple, that didn’t even come close to how much you meant to him. And then he’d go to Yellowstone. For you. After that, it wouldn’t matter much what he did.

But now? Now, with you alive somehow, still breathing, still fighting, and not even angry with him, just pleading softly for relief and kindness, he didn’t know what to do. It scared the hell out of him. So, he did what he always did when he was scared. He shut it down. Pushed it away. Put distance between himself and what terrified him the most.

He moved through time and space like a ghost, detached, cold. He compartmentalized you, locked the memory of your voice, your tears, your pain, behind a door he refused to open. Focus on the task. Just the task.

Pack the camp. Gather the trip wires. Scatter dirt over the fire’s ashes. Roll up the sleeping bags and tuck them beside the dwindling rations.

Don’t think about the woman you love tied to a tree. Don’t think about how scared she must be. Don’t think about how she probably feels more abandoned now than she ever has. Don’t think about how you failed her, how you keep fucking failing her, how you keep failing everyone.

But eventually, he could avoid it no longer. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear the small, pained sounds you made when you shifted against the ropes. He forced his breathing to even out, his hands to steady as he moved toward you. He didn’t deserve to touch you, didn’t deserve to meet your eyes, but he knelt before you anyway. 

And so, as he reached out to untie the knots, his heart shattering, he resolved to keep his distance. To guard himself, guard you, from the mess of emotions swirling in his brain. Because loving you meant opening himself to a level of pain he couldn’t survive again. And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Not now, not again, not ever.

Somehow the fear of losing you was nothing compared to the fear of being seen by you. Seen for what he really was.

And you, looking at him with confusion and hurt written all over your face, misinterpreted every bit of it. To you, his silence, his hesitation, the way his hands shook but his eyes refused to meet yours, all of it screamed disgust.

You thought he was afraid of you.

And Joel, coward that he was, couldn’t find the words to tell you the truth. That all of the fear, all of the disgust, was reserved solely for himself.

When he finally looked at the wound, his heart seized in his throat. 

It was bad. Worse than he’d expected, worse than he was ready for. The jagged edges of torn flesh and dried blood painted a picture he couldn’t bear to see, a reminder of how close he’d come to losing you.

For a fleeting moment, he almost pulled you into his arms. Almost cradled you like something sacred, something he could never put back together but would die trying to protect. He wanted to cry, to beg for forgiveness, to tell you everything he felt but couldn’t bring himself to say.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t allowed that anymore. He’d proven himself unworthy in every sense.

Instead, he focused on the work. His hands moved mechanically, stitching you back together with a precision that belied the chaos inside him. Every pull of the thread felt like penance, like a punishment he deserved for what he’d done, and for what he hadn’t done.

And as the needle passed through your torn skin, he thought about the scar this would leave. About how it would stay with you forever, a constant reminder of how close you’d come to death.

Another thought crossed Joel’s mind at that moment.

What if he had pulled the trigger?

What if he’d ignored your cries, your desperate pleas for mercy, and done the only thing he thought was right in that moment? What if he’d let the wall of instinct and survival take over, burying his heart beneath it as he put you out of your misery? What if he’d made the decision that he’d told himself, countless times, was the merciful thing to do, the thing he should have done?

The thought turned his stomach.

He had been so close. A goddamn hair’s breadth away from ending your life. His finger had brushed the trigger, the cold steel already giving way beneath his pressure, when something, your voice, maybe, or just his own weakness, made him stop. And now, against all logic, you were here. Breathing. Alive.

But that only made it worse.

Because if he’d gone through with it, if he’d done what he thought he was supposed to do… 

Then you’d be gone. Just gone. He’d have to live with the memory of your face in those final moments, the way your eyes begged him for trust and compassion even as his weapon shook in his hand. He’d have to carry that weight forever.

But he didn’t pull the trigger.

And that meant living with the reality of what he almost did. Of how close he came to robbing you of this impossible, miraculous chance at survival. He hated himself for that too, for the thought, the instinct, the sheer audacity of his willingness to believe he had the right to make that call.

No matter which way he looked at it, the accusatory finger of blame pointed directly at him.

You’d been attacked because of him. You’d nearly died because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough to stop it. And then, when it mattered most, he was too weak to do the thing he thought he owed you. But too cruel to stop himself from almost doing it anyway. He hated himself for all of it. Hated that, no matter how he tried to justify it, you bore the physical scars while he carried the guilt.

Now here you were, trusting him despite all of it, your blood still on his hands. Literally and figuratively. Every time he touched you, his heart twisted into tighter knots, longing and shame in equal measure. He wanted to comfort you, to be the kind of man you needed, but every time his hands brushed your skin, all he could think about was how close he came to using those same hands to destroy you.

And then you gasped in pain, your fingers curling instinctively toward him, seeking relief, and he startled like a man caught in a lie.

And his name left your sinless mouth again and it damn near broke him.

You needed to stop. You needed to stop saying his name like he was still someone you could rely on. You needed to stop acting like what he almost did wasn’t a crime against you, against whatever humanity was left in him. He wasn’t the man you thought he was, and every time you looked at him like he was, the weight of his guilt crushed him a little more.

When he finished tending your wounds, he didn’t speak. His hands were shaky but efficient as he pulled his flannel from his pack, tossing it toward you.

“You need a shirt,” he muttered gruffly, avoiding your eyes.

There were shirts in your pack. He knew that. Hell, you probably had plenty of them. But none of them were as soft or warm as his, and soft and warm were what you needed. That much he could give you, even if it felt selfish, like some part of him was trying to absolve himself through the smallest, simplest offering of comfort.

He turned away as you pulled it on, his throat tight. He didn’t deserve to see you like this, to be here after everything he’d failed to do.

Because no matter what happened now, he couldn’t escape the truth. Your blood had stained him a deep and wicked crimson, and he didn’t know how to live with it. So, he did what he always did. He shut down, walled himself off, and pulled further inward, convinced that was the only way he could protect you now. Even if it meant losing the fragile, unspoken bond that tied you to him.

It was for your own good, couldn't you see that?

…

When he came upon you floating in the river that day after you found the cabin, Joel felt the crushing grip of death reaching into his heart, digging its nails in deep, his lungs spasming like the air had been stolen from them.

Because, for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment, it wasn’t peace he saw in your tranquil face. It wasn’t the soft release of tension or the embrace of a quiet reprieve. No, what he saw was the haunting specter of loss. 

For that split second… he thought you were gone. 

The sweet release of death had finally come for you, and Joel had failed again, just like he always did.

Panic gripped him. His hands shook at his sides as the memory of that awful day clawed its way to the surface, the day he found you broken and bleeding on the river’s edge, weak and crumpled, your life slipping away. And now, here you were, floating in the water like some ghost come to torment him.

But then he noticed the upward curve of your lips. The gentle dance of your fingers along the surface of the water, catching the sunlight like ripples on glass.

Relief should have washed over him like the river over your skin. Instead, frustration hit him like a freight train. Frustration and self-loathing working in tandem to thrash at his restraint. It boiled inside him, until it clawed its way out and erupted from his lips as white-hot anger.

Because the scene before him wasn’t just a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to losing you. It was a bastardization of something he’d seen before, something sacred and untouchable that now felt ruined.

The day he’d found you bathing in the river, when he’d been struck dumb. When you’d looked like something out of a dream, the kind of vision that only existed in long-lost memories of happiness from before life ended. When the sun had painted you in golden hues, every drop of water on your skin sparkling like it had been placed there by God himself. 

Your white bra and underwear clung to your body now, made sheer by the water, and on any other day, something that, under any other circumstance, would have him hardening in his pants. 

But today, the light on your skin only served to illuminate the truth he couldn’t escape.

There, across your torso, was the still-healing evidence of your battle with the infected. The jagged, red lines twisted across your flesh, angry and raw. The criss cross of stitches he’d placed in you like a pathetic attempt at an apology. A painful, glaring reminder of his failure. Of how close he’d come to losing you. Of how he had let this happen.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

The words came before he could stop them, harsh and cutting as they tore through the air.

He hated himself for them the moment they left his mouth. 

Joel didn’t like who he was when he was afraid. Fear turned him into someone else, someone he couldn’t control. It was like watching a shadow fall over his own soul, twisting his actions and his words until they felt alien, like they were coming from someone else entirely.

He hated the way his fear made him lash out. The way his words shot to kill, arrows aimed directly at the soft, vulnerable places he swore he’d protect. 

A better man would’ve apologized.

A better man would’ve pushed past the walls of his own pride and fear, laid bare his terror, and let you in. A better man would’ve dropped his guard, let himself feel the pain of vulnerability, and told you the truth, that seeing you floating in the water, peaceful and alive, had scared the hell out of him. That he couldn’t stop the memory of your blood pooling beneath you, the sight of your crumpled body burned into his mind, and the knowledge that he’d almost pulled the trigger.

But Joel Miller wasn’t a better man. Joel Miller was a bad man.

So instead of reaching for you, instead of finding the words to explain what churned inside him, he let the anger take over. It was easier to channel his fear into something sharp, something that hurt outward instead of inward.

But most of all he hated the way your gaze lowered, the soft light in your eyes hardening into something guarded. He hated himself even more for being the reason it happened. For the fact that you were here, alive and vulnerable, and he couldn’t do a damn thing except push you further away.

…

Your journey continued like this, a painful push and pull, a pendulum swinging between connection and distance. Joel, cloaked in his shame, let his fear guide him, his own self-loathing sharpening into the barbs he hurled your way. He hurt you with his words, with his coldness, all while the pain of it ricocheted back inside him, leaving him twice as broken.

But in the storm that was his unending hurt, there were moments of reprieve. Small, ephemeral calms in the storm when the walls cracked, when the veil lifted, and for a breath of time, you were the same two people who’d embarked on this journey together.

Like when he held you after your nightmare, his arms tightening around you as though he could shield you from the demons that haunted your sleep. His lips brushed your hair, and for once, his silence was comforting, not damning.

Or when he pointed out the blood-red cardinal perched on a low branch, its feathers vibrant against the dreary backdrop of the forest. His voice had softened, quieter than usual, as he spoke Sarah’s name aloud, like a precious trinket offered up in hopes that it might soothe his ache.

And when he touched your skin, when his calloused hands found yours, helping you over a stream or taking your pack from your grasp, and the weight of the world seemed to dissolve. For a few blissful, rare moments, it was just the two of you, unburdened by the past, the road, or the darkness that followed.

But those moments were fleeting. And for all the concern Joel had poured into himself—into keeping himself sharp, keeping himself distant so he could protect you from the world and from his own blackened soul—he failed to notice the darkness growing inside you, an infection of a different kind.

He missed the signs. So many signs.

The way your laughter grew rarer, coming from somewhere hollow inside of you. The way your shoulders tensed even in your sleep, like you were bracing for a blow that never came. The way your hands lingered a little too long on your knife, or the way your eyes darkened after each unfamiliar noise sounded in the forest.

He didn’t see it. Not until it was too late.

Not until he pulled you off the raider, your body trembling, your breath ragged. The man’s skull was practically caved in beneath your bloodied, wrecked hands. Joel’s voice, rough and desperate, echoed in his ears as he shouted your name over and over, trying to bring you back to yourself.

And when you finally stilled, when your trembling hands dropped to your sides and your wide, glassy eyes met his, Joel saw it.

A look he knew intimately.

The one that had greeted him every morning for years when he stared into the mirror. The look of terror. Of shame. Of rage and hurt so deeply intertwined that they couldn’t be separated.

And he hated it.

Not because it scared him, though it did. Not because it reminded him of his own reflection, though it was haunting in its familiarity.

He hated it because it was you.

You, who he swore to protect. You, who had been his one tether to hope in this shattered world. You, who now looked at your bloodied hands as if they belonged to someone else, something else.

You might have thought you were a monster.

But Joel knew better.

Joel knew the truth.

He was the monster. And somehow, in trying to protect you from the darkness outside, he had let his own darkness seep into you, tainting the parts of you he had sworn to keep safe.

His hands tightened into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms until the pain anchored him. He wanted to say something, anything, to pull you out of the chasm he could see you slipping into. But the words stuck in his throat, blocked by the overwhelming weight of his guilt.

Because no matter how hard he tried, Joel always destroyed the things he loved.

…

Joel woke to an aching emptiness that started in his chest and stretched through his entire body. The first dregs of sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the boarded up windows, and the cold, stale air in the room had gooseflesh rising in its wake. The rainstorm last night had left the room smelling damp and rotted.

It took him a moment to realize what felt off, what felt wrong.

The mattress he’d barricaded over the door was shoved to the side, just a bit. Just enough for you to slip out.

And there, folded neatly at his feet, was the flannel he’d given you. A silent message. A quiet rejection.

The realization hit him like a freight train. He didn’t need to check the rest of the house to know. You were gone.

For a long moment, Joel just stared at the flannel. His mind couldn’t, wouldn’t, process it. His fingers hovered above the fabric as if touching it would make it more real, would confirm the fact that you’d left.

When he finally picked it up, he clenched it so tightly his knuckles went white. The scent of you still lingered faintly in the fabric, and the pang in his heart grew sharper, deeper, unbearable.

Joel didn’t need to wonder why you left. He knew. He’d driven you away, pushed you so far that you’d felt you had no choice but to leave.

He thought of the way he’d shut you out, the way his fear and self-loathing had manifested into anger, into cruelty. He thought of the way he’d seen you staring at your bloodied hands last night, the haunted look in your eyes. The way you’d started to pull inward, to retreat into yourself, refuse to take the antibiotics because you thought you didn’t deserve them. He’d seen it all, and still, he hadn’t reached for you, hadn’t tried to bridge the growing distance.

Because Joel Miller didn’t know how to let anyone in without feeling like he’d lose them. And yet he lost you anyway.

The thought sank like a stone in his gut. But alongside it, another thought rose, fierce and all-consuming.

He had to find you, had to make sure you were safe. Even if he had to follow you to Yellowstone, a silent sentinel in your wake, keeping his distance until you needed him, he’d do it. 

Joel moved quickly, packing up the remnants of your stay with methodical efficiency, his mind racing all the while. You couldn’t have gotten far. You’d left during the night, sure, but you didn’t have his years of tracking experience, didn’t know how to hide your trail the way he did.

But there’d been a rain storm last night, a bad one. It had quickly turned to snow by early morning, obscuring most of the tracks you would have left behind.

He found the first sign of you not far from the house, footprints in the snow, leading away from a barren spot beneath a tree. You must have slept here at some point. A few miles ahead, he found another sign, a broken branch, a collection of footprints running parallel to the road.

He focused on the trail, the signs you’d unintentionally left behind, but his mind refused to quiet.

Why didn’t I tell her? Why didn’t I let her know what she means to me? Why didn’t I stop her from thinking she was something less than human?

With every step, his guilt grew heavier, like an anchor dragging him down. He thought about the way you’d smiled at him in those rare, soft moments, the way your laugh had sounded once upon a time, light and free, before the darkness took hold.

He thought about how you’d trusted him, even after everything, even after he’d shut you out and failed to protect you.

And he thought about how he’d failed you again, not by letting you leave, but by making you feel like you had to.

Joel didn’t know what he’d say when he found you. Hell, he didn’t even know if you’d let him come near you. But he knew he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let you go, not like this.

Because for all the darkness in him, for all the ways he’d failed, you were the one thing that made him feel human again. And he wasn’t going to let that slip away without a fight.

So he tracked you, desperate, determined, hoping against hope that he could fix this, that he could fix himself, for you.

…

He’d almost stopped for the day when he saw it.

Joel had been on your trail for days, the cold biting deeper with every step. He was damn sure he’d been close a couple of times, signs of your passing too fresh to be coincidence. But then the blizzard hit, a wall of snow and wind that made even Joel’s dogged determination falter. He had no choice but to hole up in an old barn a couple of miles off the highway, its rickety walls groaning under the weight of the storm.

The hours inside were maddening. Every second spent trapped there felt like a second wasted, a second further from finding you. The trail was growing colder, the evidence you’d left behind, footprints, broken branches, the occasional scuff of dirt, were all disappearing under the relentless snow.

But the worst part wasn’t the delay. It wasn’t even the gnawing fear that he’d lose your trail entirely.

It was wondering where you were.

Were you holed up somewhere safe, or out in this storm, freezing, trembling? Were you hurt, curled up in some dark corner with nothing but your thoughts and your pain to keep you company? Joel couldn’t stop the images from coming, couldn’t stop imagining you huddled against the cold, too far gone to fight it, too broken to keep moving.

The thought of it had him pacing the barn like a caged animal. His fists clenched and unclenched, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. He almost threw open the door, storm or no storm. He didn’t care about the cold. He didn’t care about the risk. He didn’t care about his own safety.

Because if you were out there, scared and alone, how could he stay here?

But the voice of reason held him back, bitter and cruel as it was. If he went out there now, blind and desperate, he’d only get himself killed—and you along with him, when he failed to find you. So he forced himself to wait, each passing hour a dagger to his heart.

Still, his mind wouldn’t quiet. The possibilities clawed at him. What if he didn’t find you in time? What if the cold took you? What if someone worse than him crossed your path?

And what if, when he did find you, you hated him so much that you wouldn’t let him bring you back?

Joel couldn’t even blame you for that. He deserved it, didn’t he? He deserved your hatred. He deserved your anger. But none of that mattered to him. None of it.

He would brave the storm, the cold, Hell itself if it meant knowing you were safe. You could spit curses at him for the rest of your life, and he’d carry them like a badge of honor. He’d carry you all the way back to Wyoming in his arms if he had to and deposit you on the doorstep of a better man and watch as the two of you built the life he was supposed to have with you.

He’d watch as you found your happiness without him, each day tearing him apart from the inside out. And still, Joel would count himself lucky for knowing you’d survived.

He’d die by your sword, gladly, if it meant you’d live.

So when the storm finally broke, he didn’t waste a second. He resumed his search with a singular focus, a desperation that drove him through the snow and wind as if the cold were nothing but an afterthought. His steps were heavy, his breaths coming in clouds, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but you.

When he stumbled upon the small town, a flicker of hope stirred in the hollow of him. It looked intact. No signs of life, but no signs of danger either. He scouted the area carefully, searching for any hint that you’d been here.

And that’s when he saw it.

At first, he didn’t recognize it, his mind struggling to bridge the gap between the world he lived in now and the world he’d left behind. But as he stepped closer, the symbol came into sharp focus.

The Firefly symbol. 

It was painted on the side of a crumbling building, relatively fresh, the lines too bold and precise to be anything else. The sight of it made his stomach drop like a stone.

All the air left his lungs. He stared at it, unmoving, as the implication of it hit him like a freight train, his mind falling back to a night in the Boston QZ.

…

A few weeks had passed since you’d first broached the subject of Wyoming.

Joel had tried to resist, tried to apply logic to your wide-eyed dream. He’d told himself that it was a stupid idea. A bad idea. The kind of hope that got people killed in this world. But you just had this way about you, this spark of hope that seemed to catch fire in the hearts of anyone who dared to be near you for too long.

And Joel couldn’t stop himself from being engulfed by it.

So, while he grumbled and cursed under his breath about your pipe dream, he also started quietly preparing for it. He took on extra jobs, sought out scraps of information, stockpiled supplies. Anything that would either solidify his excuses for why this couldn’t happen or, God help him, give him the confidence to take the plunge with you.

And that’s how he ended up at Marlene’s door.

Joel wasn’t a fan of Marlene. He never had been. She was too much like him; cunning, ruthless, always looking for an edge. Maybe that’s why he avoided her. He didn’t like seeing his own sharp edges reflected back at him. But he couldn’t deny the Fireflies had sway. Power. Resources.

If he could pull off one good smuggling job before you left, he’d have enough to ensure the two of you could make the trip. Maybe even get some contacts along the way.

But it would come at a price. It always did.

“Joel,” she greeted him when she opened the door, her voice cool and gaze scrutinizing as she scanned him. She had a way of picking him apart with her gaze, and it never failed to set him on edge. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need somethin’,” Joel replied, stepping inside as she shifted back to let him in.

He hadn’t been expecting the sight that greeted him. Marlene looked worn down, her skin sallow, her movements sluggish. Rolls of bandages, bloodied rags, and medical supplies were scattered across the small room she was holed up in.

She was hurt.

“The hell happened here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as she gingerly lowered herself into a chair, one hand pressed protectively to her abdomen.

“Deal gone wrong,” she said simply, wincing as she settled into place. “You know how it is.”

Joel nodded. He didn’t have much sympathy to spare, especially not for Marlene. She wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. She wasn’t the type to waste time on pity or platitudes. Neither was he.

“I need supplies,” he said, cutting to the chase. “Enough to get two people a decent way out west. And some contacts out there, if you got ‘em.”

That made her pause. Her narrowed eyes locked onto him, a brow lifting in surprise. “You and Tess leaving?”

The mention of Tess sent a pang through Joel’s gut. He hadn’t told her yet. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how to tell her. Tess could handle a lot, but this? Leaving her behind? He wasn’t ready for that conversation.

“Nah, not Tess,” he said gruffly, not offering anything more. He’d never told Marlene about you, about the way you’d walked into his life and upended everything without even meaning to. He’d kept you separate from all this Firefly shit. It was dangerous, messy, and always teetering on the edge of going sideways. Taking you along on low-stakes deals was nerve wracking enough.

He thought of Lyle and his men. That shitshow was tame, nothing compared to the kind of trouble Marlene regularly dealt with.

She didn’t press, though. Marlene wasn’t one to dig too deep unless it benefited her. Instead, she leaned back, her calculating gaze softening just enough to make Joel uneasy.

“Alright,” she said finally. “I’ve got something for you. Transportation job. Cargo needs to get to Utah. You’ll get enough supplies to make it out there, plus contacts at a base near the Montana-Wyoming border.”

Joel stiffened. His stomach churned.

What the hell was this? Was Marlene reading his goddamn mind? He came to her for help, and she just so happened to have a job that not only got him the supplies he needed but also set him up on the exact route he’d need to take?

It was too good to be true.

His gut twisted with suspicion. This kind of luck didn’t come without a catch.

“What kinda cargo?” Joel asked, his tone laced with suspicion.

Marlene smiled, a tight, humorless thing, and Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that look. This wasn’t going to be an easy job.

“A kid,” she said simply.

Joel blinked. “A kid?”

She nodded. “I need you to bring her to a hospital in Salt Lake City. We’ve got doctors up there, good ones. They’re working on a vaccine.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. He was a lot of things, but gullible wasn’t one of them. He’d heard this song and dance too many times before. Vaccines and serums and cures. Charlatans promising salvation in exchange for blood, sweat, and whatever else you could offer them. And it was all bullshit, every damn time. Joel had been a contractor before the world ended, not a scientist, but even he knew that much.

“Ain’t no vaccine, Marlene,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and I both know that.”

She gave him a sharp look, her eyes narrowing. “You haven’t met these doctors, Joel. You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he bit back. “How the hell are they planning on using a kid to make a vaccine?”

“She’s immune,” Marlene said, her voice steady, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Joel barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“I swear to God, Joel,” she said, raising her hand in the air as if to take an oath. “I didn’t believe it at first, either.”

He squinted at her, suspicion and disbelief roiling through him. “How many pain pills you takin’?”

Marlene laughed bitterly, wincing as the movement tugged at the injury on her abdomen. “I’m dead serious.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “Okay,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “So how’re these miracle doctors planning to make the vaccine? If she’s infected, it’s in her brain.”

Marlene nodded solemnly. “The Cordyceps in her, what’s growing inside her, it’s mutated. That’s why she’s immune. Once they remove it, they’ll be able to reverse-engineer a vaccine.”

“Remove it,” Joel echoed, his voice dropping. He stared at her, his jaw tightening as the pieces fell into place. “Her brain. You’re talkin’ about killin’ her.”

Marlene didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable.

Joel’s blood ran cold. He was no saint, hell, far from it. But this? Transporting a kid across the country to her death, all for some half-baked promise of salvation?

“You’re fuckin’ sick,” he hissed, venom dripping from every word. “I’m not doin’ it.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, though her face was taut with frustration. “I’d do it myself, but I’m a little indisposed at the moment.”

Joel shook his head, his anger boiling over. “You’re gonna kill an innocent kid for a vaccine that might not even work?”

“It’s for the greater good,” Marlene said evenly, though there was an edge of steel to her voice. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Save it,” he snapped, already reaching for the door. He didn’t need her, didn’t need her job or her supplies. He’d get you out of this fucking hellhole with the clothes on his back if he had to.

His feet carried him back toward your apartment before he even realized what he was doing. He didn’t think too much about it. He didn’t want to think too much about anything right now. Not Marlene. Not the Fireflies. Not what she was asking him to do.

But when he rapped his knuckles against your door and saw your face, everything clicked into place.

The anger, the frustration, the weight of the world pressing down on him, it all vanished the moment you opened the door.

Your eyes lit up when you saw him, and the warmth of your expression hit him like a breath of fresh air. Inside your apartment, the air felt lighter, the space cozier, like it existed outside the suffocating grime of the QZ.

Joel stepped inside, and for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

This place was rotten. It was filled with rotten people doing rotten work for rotten pay. There was no life here, no spark in the ashes, no green shooting through the dirt. Just pain and survival in an endless, vicious cycle.

You deserved more than this. The way your face softened when you smiled at him, the way your voice wrapped around his name, it was a reminder of everything he wanted but never thought he could have. Time spent with you felt sacred, like the two of you existed in some bubble suspended above the rot and filth.

Joel made a decision then and there.

He’d get you out of here. Away from this decay and despair. Even if he had to fight tooth and nail to do it.

…

Now, if they found you… If they realized you were immune…

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body tensing like a coiled spring. 

The thought of them having you—you—in their grasp was enough to make his vision blur with rage.

Images of you in a sterile white room, immobilized and unaware, doctors circling you like vultures, ready to steal you away from him again.

Joel’s jaw tightened as he forced himself to focus, his instincts kicking into high gear. He didn’t know if the Fireflies were here now, if this was just an old mark or something more recent. But it didn’t matter. He had to move fast. He had to find you before anyone else did.

Because if the Fireflies found you first... 

Joel didn’t let himself finish the thought. He just started running.

Taglist: @javierpenaispunk @eviispunk

[gullemec]

A COMINT !!

[gullemec]

ride

joel x f!reader

request: "prone, leaving a hickey on their neck, in a truck bed" sent in as part of my 5k celebration! or you try to grapple with feelings for your parents' friend while getting absolutely railed by him 🤠 6.5k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, age gap (unspecified but college age reader and it's said that joel is over twice her age), oral f receiving, unprotected piv, pr0ne b0ne, creampie, hickeys, dirty talk and pet names, bit of daddy kink (sue me okay), angsty feelings, alcohol, reader has a mom and dad and clothing is described (shorts and t-shirt).

a/n: saw this prompt and instantly loved the visual! such a fun one to write, and i got weirdly caught up in these two having history and a bit of angst so it ended up way longer than i anticipated (aaand everybody is thinking we are not surprised julie couldn't shut up).

Today had you on edge, taking in your surroundings more dutifully, fearing the rounding of corners on campus in case you’d run into him. You try to pretend you don’t want to see him, but can’t deny the sinking feeling in your stomach as you arrive for your shift that evening without having any chance encounters. You hate that you’re imagining how one would go as you wait on your tables, how you’d pretend you hadn’t even thought about the possibility of him also being on campus for parents weekend. Casual. It was totally, completely casual - the same sentiment you’d been trying to convince yourself of for months.

His daughter Sarah is only a year younger than you and ended up at the same university a couple of hours from your hometown. You’d played little league soccer together for a few years as kids, and your parents became much faster friends with Joel than you and Sarah ever did. 

Despite Chip’s Bar & Grille being located off campus, it doesn't seem immune to the influx of people due to parents weekend as you weave through your tables, a sweat breaking out on your neck. Your asshole of a boss - the Chip of Chip’s Bar and Grille - never quite learned how to keep the temperature comfortable in here for the workers. He’d also declined your request to have tonight off to spend with your parents - too many other coworkers of yours had the same idea as you with people’s parents being in town, apparently. You know he also simply just enjoyed telling people no.

You plaster on a fake grin as you carry a tray of beers over to a rowdier group of men, probably here to watch Friday Night Football or something, judging by their team spirited paraphernalia. They’re already a few drinks deep, getting increasingly more bold with their commentary towards you, but it’s nothing you haven’t dealt with here before. You easily brush it off, navigating your way through their charged remarks with grace and sweet looks that should only boost your tips, letting the act drop dramatically as soon as you walk away from them.

Karina, the hostess - a sweet girl around your age - flits up to you, buzzing information in your ear. “Table 19 just got sat. Said it’s your parents, I think?”

You smile to yourself - it’s thoughtful that your parents would brave the greasy, unappetizing food at Chip’s just to see you twelve hours earlier than planned. They instantly glow and warm up at the sight of you, looking slightly out of place but nothing short of comfortable. They were the type of people that could adapt nearly anywhere.

“Hey, honey!” your mom trills, hugging you tight, pressing the slightly damp t-shirt you’re wearing into your back. 

“Sorry. Sweaty,” you warn her too late, getting a chuckle in your ear. Your dad squeezes you tightly next, and when they go to sit down, you notice with confusion that Karina has placed three menus on the table. 

Your eyes snap up to the front door just in time to see a familiar, broad form step into the fray, weaving his way through the bodies and tables. His eyes scan across the restaurant - dark and brooding as always - then land on you, standing tall above where most people are seated at their respective tables. Your stomach leaps, leaving your breath caught in your throat, him letting his lip twitch into some semblance of a smile - or a smirk, rather, given how haughty he looks right now.

For that brief second, it’s only the two of you in this bustling, noisy room, before the bubble bursts and he stalks over to you and your parents. It’s only then his eyes are torn off of yours, leaving you breathless and confused. And angry.

“Oh, good, already got us a table. Parkin’ was weirdly a nightmare out there,” he says, smooth and silky, announcing his presence. With one more flicker of his eyes to yours just before your mom pops up to hug him, blocking you from view, you see the mischievous amusement behind them. He’s enjoying the fact that he’s caught you off guard, that you’re flustered by his mere presence alone.

Yeah, angry sounds right. Joel Miller: certified prick.

After the fuss settles down, your parents explain they ran into Joel at a cafe when they got to campus this morning while you were still in class. Being their gracious, hospitable selves, they’d promptly invited him to come out to dinner with them tonight to catch up. Just your luck.

“The rest was history. Joel seemed awful happy to get to see you too, know it’s been a while,” your dad happily and obliviously trills. 

You’ll bet he seemed happy.

Joel moves in for an embrace, and you stiffen before feeling his meaty, thick arms draping around you, the warmth of his chest pressing closer, his breathing in your ear. Everything feels lit up inside of you, sparks skittering across your skin. You beg your knees not to buckle, reminding yourself that refusing to hug him begs more questions than you’d like from your parents. You try not to melt into the familiarity of it when your arms fling around his neck, try to keep it… casual. The word bites at you, stinging deeper each time you try to convince yourself of its place in this relationship. 

“Hey there, sunshine. How you been?” he mutters in his slow, sweet drawl. You can’t help but smile at your favorite pet name he’s had for you for years, wishing to wipe it off your face as he pulls back and sees it. There’s a returned softness there beneath all his amused loftiness. 

“G-good. Good,” you manage to stammer out. “How’s the business… How's Sarah?” 

You watch on as Joel stays planted right in front of you, the moment lingering longer than necessary or normal. You watch him have the same realization, clearing his throat and turning to pull out his chair, sitting down.

“Good,” he echoes you, smiling softly. “And good. Girl’s too busy with friends to see her old man tonight, though. Stuck with these two now.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of your parents. 

The dig gets a hoot out of your mom, her hand playfully nudging him. The noise of her balking breaks you out of your reverie where your eyes had been plastered on his features, begging them to tell you anything. 

You suck your lip between your teeth, blinking a few times to snap yourself out of this haze. You’d wanted this, hadn’t you? A chance to run into Joel, knowing that parents weekend would likely bring him this way. It’s too much, too… intense, to see him in your workplace, somehow merging his life with the one you lived separately from him. Back home the two of you had been on equal footing, but now he invaded your space, the places you were able to go to get away from whatever this was, to get away from him.

“I - I’ll go check on my tables. You guys decide what you want to order and I’ll come back. And I’ll talk to Chip about a family discount, or something.”

Your dad insists it’s not necessary before you scurry away, but you ask anyway. Chip unsurprisingly argues with you, huffing and puffing and generally being the asshole that he is. 

“You want a discount for your family? And where’s that money gonna come from? Maybe from your tips tonight? Would that work for you? Hm?”

“Forget it, Chip.” Muttered under your breath, you roll your eyes, feeling dejected as he stalks off to likely terrorize someone else or put on his fake schmoozing act with a loyal customer. 

When you glance back at your parents across the room, Joel’s eyes are on yours, intense and questioning. They burn into you, making you immediately turn away, trying to hide the glistening of tears from Chip’s beratement. It’s dumb, really. He’s always this big of an asshole. You aren’t sure why you expected anything other than his default or a single generous thing from him.

After pulling it together enough to do the rounds on your tables, you stop back to take your parents’ and Joel’s orders. Joel seems like he’s stewing, his energy quiet and distracted as he glances down at the menu, ordering a cheeseburger with a distant voice.

It’s not until you’re off at the point of sales system tapping in their orders that a presence sidles up beside you, the voice deep and hushed.

“That your boss there? The one lookin’ like he’s got somethin’ shoved up his ass?”

You do a slow turn to peer at Joel incredulously, glancing around as if you’re caught in a compromising position. You suppose maybe you are, but at least your parents are out of view from where you’re tucked back in the little hallway leading to the restrooms. It’s cramped back here with the service station, leaving Joel’s body close to yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hiss, instead of answering his question.

“It’s not a crime to go to the bathroom,” he quips back. “Answer me.”

“What? You’re gonna beat him up?” You give Joel a pointed look before focusing back on the screen, punching in your dad’s Dr. Pepper.

“No, jus’ wanna know why a boss is out here makin’ his employees cry.”

“I wasn’t crying. He - he’s just an asshole. And why do you care? You’re not my -” you cut yourself off, shaking your head, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s fine. I promise. Please just… why are you here, Joel?”

“Havin’ dinner with your parents.”

You have to force in a deep, calming breath before sighing it out. “You like this. Surprising me, catching me off guard. You’re the one being an ass now.”

Joel visibly softens at your stressed demeanor. “It’s also not a crime to want to see you, y’know. And have some fun trippin’ you up along the way. I didn’t realize -”

Your eyes linger on his face for a long, quiet moment, burning with frustration and contempt and something deeper you won’t allow yourself to access. “I’ve got to get back to work,” you say, concluding the conversation as you snap the notebook containing your orders shut and push away from the computer. You brush past Joel’s shoulder, turning to glance back at him.

“It is nice to see you,” you utter, half hoping he can’t hear it over the bustle of the restaurant. When his lips twist to the side in a lopsided smile, you know he did.

“You too.”

Joel seems to behave the rest of the evening, paying the proper, appropriate amount of attention to you, treating you like the family friend that you are and nothing more. Just as it should be, you remind yourself every time a pang of sadness pulses through your chest.

When they pay and leave, you breathe a sigh of relief, working the rest of your shift with an odd buzzing in your head, picturing Joel’s tanned skin and rugged lines. The memory of the feeling of his body close to yours in that hallway makes you shudder, then curse yourself.

A mixture of disappointment and irritation worms its way into your mind as you realize that was your chance. That was the time you got to spend with Joel this weekend, when he was so close within your grasp. He’d be busy tomorrow, spending time with Sarah, letting her tote him around campus - showing him where she takes her classes, her favorite places to eat, her dorm that is likely decorated with purple accents and posters of her favorite bands.

You’d missed the opportunity to actually see him, too busy being pissed at him for existing in your sacred space, for never leaving you alone no matter how hard you tried to get him out of your head. You never knew when the next time would come around - even if you were back home, time spent around Joel was never guaranteed. Nor was it appropriate.

You worry your lip into oblivion, realizing it’s for the best, anyways, as you push the back door to the bar open after your shift, letting the cool night air greet your grimy, post work skin. You go to round the building, heading for the bus stop on the main street that will take you exactly twenty five minutes and eleven stops back to your dorm.

A voice cuts in, seeming to come from the darkness itself. “You always wear shorts that short to work?”

God damn it. You flinch and then press your lips together, slowly turning your head to the corner of the parking lot, following the gruff, familiar voice. You see Joel leaning against the front of his truck, arms crossed over his chest. He’s half illuminated by the streetlamps placed periodically across the asphalt, casting long shadows on him. The blue flannel he wears is stretched tightly over his arms, the sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms that make you feel more than you’d ever care to admit. 

“Better tips,” you reply, nonchalant. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, walking over to him. You stop short, giving a wide berth between the two of you, attempting to avoid the always inevitable pull you feel towards him.

“That so?” he says, sounding amused. Joel lets his eyes roam up from your feet, scanning your bare legs, drinking you in all the way up your chest until his gaze rests on your face where it softens. He’s obvious about it, not caring to hide the lust that lives between the two of you now that you’re alone.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, feeling like a broken record. You watch as he turns and starts walking to the back of the truck. You peer around to see the bed is open, staunchly crossing your arms and not following him.

“Thought I’d give you a ride home,” Joel throws over his shoulder.

“What if I had my own car here?”

“You don’t,” he punches out. “Parents told me they hate you takin’ the bus so late.”

You quietly groan to yourself. Of course they did.

“And I thought you could use one of these after a long shift,” Joel adds on, proudly holding up a six pack of cheap, generic beer, strung together by plastic loops. You give him a sardonic laugh, finally giving in and making your way to the back of the truck. Joel has it parked with the bed facing the far corner of the parking lot, looking directly into the thicket of trees beyond that separates Chip’s from the McDonald’s behind it. It’s late, the lot nearly empty and the businesses around you all quieted down for the night. Some kind of thickness hangs in the air, otherworldly and separating you from reality, pressing in on you to be so alone with Joel.

“Aren’t you driving?” you ask, brows raised. 

“Ain’t for me. It’s for you.”

“Miller Lite,” you say, gesturing to the six pack. “Clever. And disgusting.”

He smirks, tearing one out of its loop and handing it to you. It’s chilled, but not cold, and you nearly grimace. You don’t even like beer, but being around Joel still makes you nervous so you crack it open, listening to the little click of the pull tab and ensuing fizzy noise from the liquid inside, then take a long swig. 

“Attagirl,” Joel comments passively. Your heart flutters at the small praise and you peer at him, doelike, from over the can, hoping your eyes don’t give you away. Of course they do, they always do. You look down, shuffling your feet, clad in your black, non slip work sneakers.

His hand is hesitant, reaching out to you from where he now leans against the open truck bed, clasping around your wrist with a gentle authority. It tugs you, forcing you to take a step towards him.

“Joel…” you warn, still unable to bring your eyes up. You know if you do, you’ll fold.

“Hm?” he rasps, moving you closer still. Joel’s legs and feet come into view, thighs thick and meaty in their denim, his work boots dirty and scuffed. It made something inside of you flutter again, these details about him. You liked his mess and his manliness, the way he didn’t give a shit if his shoes were dirty, but that they were functional. You like his worn denim with the outline of his wallet seared into the back pocket from too much use. You like… him.

“Come sit,” he begs of you, and despite your best efforts, you’re unable to resist. You hop up onto the back of the truck, letting your feet dangle while taking another sip of crappy beer. He pulls himself up next to you, and leans closer, knuckles brushing along your neck, making you shiver. It’s heavenly and electric, everything you’d craved and missed and wanted, never able to stop thinking about these calloused hands and the man they’re attached to.

“We… we can’t do this again,” you force yourself to utter, fiddling with the pull tab on the can held in your lap.

Joel’s hand freezes. “You got a college boyfriend now or somethin’?” he spits out, unable to hide the greed from his voice.

“No…” you admit.

“Alright, why not then?”

“We just… shouldn’t.”

“Y’weren’t sayin’ that over winter break. Or durin’ Thanksgiving, or the summer before that when I was fuckin’ myself deep inside of you, lettin’ you call me your daddy,” he drawls out lazily, continuing to softly revere your neck with his hands, slowly moving to your shoulder and back, fishing underneath the collar of your branded Chip's tee shirt to find bare skin. 

You swallow hard, feeling your cheeks blazing at the memories of how caught up in it you’d gotten. “I - I don’t think…”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Just don’t think.”

You finally dare a flash of your gaze to his, finding his eyes dark and wanting. “Joel…” you plead again, unsure of how to express anything else. “This isn’t… right. Who you are to me, my parents. You know that, right?”

He licks his lips and nods, moving in close and ghosting them over your neck. Your eyes roll back, your touch-starved, needy body begging you for more. “Torture myself over it all the damn time, pretty girl,” he rasps right next to your ear.

“Then why did you come here tonight?” you ask in a lusty whisper as his lips attach to your skin, sucking softly. Your breath catches in your throat, fighting a whine.

“I don’t know. I jus’... did,” he says earnestly, sounding pained. “I wanted it. Didn’t care ‘bout the rest. I wanted to see you, just us.”

Your heart pitter patters in your chest, that pesky, squeezing feeling of it that always takes over around Joel pulling taut. You know he doesn’t mean it, that he doesn’t want you. He wants what you offer - your body, your naïveté to stay involved in this, your company when he’s lonely. It was hard to say just how Joel felt about you, because he’d never dare say it out loud for fear of making this too real. 

His scent invades you - musky and something fresh and nature inspired, pine maybe - and you feel yourself folding in real time.

“Joel…” you warn one last time without any resolve behind it, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzles into your neck. You want this. You don’t want this. You want him. You don’t want this uncertainty, this unstructured and wild thing that you two have become tangled up in. 

It happens before you can even register your body moving of its own accord, crashing your lips into his waiting ones. His hands are fast, eager, to touch every part of you now that you’ve given some semblance of a go ahead. Squeezing, groping, one hand relishing in the feel of your tits, the other cupping your cheek, pulling you deeper into the searing kiss.

“Fuck,” he mutters when your hands move with equal fervor on his body - squeezing his thigh, wrapping around him the to clutch the hair at the base of his neck. “The hell says we shouldn’t be doing this…”

You shake your head, smiling into the kiss. “Probably everyone.”

“Makes me want you more, baby,” Joel counters, and you nod feverishly in agreement, squeaking in surprise when he pushes you down to the truck bed, swinging himself over to straddle you. His weight crushes down, comforting and arousing all in one, no time to even dwell on it before his lips are on yours again, a hand plunging between to cup you through your shorts. Warmth flows freely between your legs, the fabric dampening the sensation but it’s still too much, too built up, and you buck your hips.

“I want these shorts gone,” he demands. “Everyone wishin’ they got a peek under these, givin’ you all those tips, except at the end of the night it’s me right here, gettin’ everythin’ they want.”

Your head goes fuzzy, swimming with lustful thoughts as his dirty talk ramps up. It turned out that Joel Miller had the filthiest mouth you’d ever encountered, something you’d never have expected from the quieter, gruff man. He was an archetype of southern politeness most of the time - not without his sass, sure - but you’d never expected… this.

“Take them,” you breathe out. Joel grins above you, unbuttoning the shorts with ease, hooking his fingers in the sides.

“You’d let me, really? Right here… right out in the open?” Joel tsks, the grin on his face spreading into something wicked. You blink back to reality, to the parking lot around you, and yet your answer remains unchanged.

“Yes,” you whisper, feeling shame burn at your cheeks.

Joel works your bottoms down slowly, taking your panties with it and speaking unhurriedly. “Let anyone who comes to see what all the fuss is about see all of this, would you?”

“Yes,” you answer dutifully.

“God damn.” He chuckles, tossing your shorts to the side, leaning back to glimpse at the bottom half of you, now exposed to him. “Dunno what’s worse. This, or that closet at your parent’s place. You’re a dirty little bitch, ain’t you?”

You nearly growl. “You love it,” you shoot back, spreading your thighs wide open for him. 

Staring between them with a certain wonder about him, he answers. “I do.”

He sinks himself down, moving to pleasure you, pulling your clit into his mouth and giving it a gentle suck. You yelp, a tiny squeak that has your hand flying over your mouth to quiet yourself down.

Joel moves his tongue to lap at your folds, drinking in the sweet slickness you’ve already poured out for him. The slickness that had been pooling between your thighs just at the sight of him earlier tonight. 

“You been this wet all night for me?” he asks incredulously, toying a finger through it now, circling your clit in a slow, tortuous circle.

You whimper first as an answer. “You - you make me -”

“I know I do. Ain’t easy to hide a hard fuckin’ cock under the table with your parents either, y’know. Wearin’ shorts like that on that gorgeous ass of yours.” He tsks into your pussy before slurping again, groaning as your arousal starts to coat his beard.

Your chest heaves, desperately needing more from him, his satisfaction with toying with you going longer than you can handle tonight. Not after how long it’s been.

“Please, J-Joel.”

He chuckles darkly. “We both know that ain’t the name you want to call me right now.”

He was right, the word had hung on your tongue since the second you’d been alone together, since you felt his warm hands exploring your skin. It came out somehow more naturally than you’d expected or even wanted, but something about it just felt… right.

Self conscious, you hold back and grumble as he withholds contact from you, staring up expectantly. “Come on, angel. I wanna hear it, too. Been too long.”

“Please, daddy…” you correct yourself shyly, readjusting to the word on your tongue. Joel’s face, shadowed by the yellow light of the closest streetlamp, breaks into a smirk.

“That’s right. Right now, when we’re like this, I’m your daddy, aren’t I?”

You nod and he continues to lick your needy cunt as a reward, swirling his tongue over the delicate bud near the top. “Yes, you are.”

Joel’s tongue moves faster, urged on at your breathless cries for him. “And you’d want to come for your daddy, wouldn’t you?”

The words twist your core tighter, the warmth building to a near breaking point. “G-god, yes. Y-yes!” You cry out louder as he sinks a finger inside, crooking it to make you go a little dizzy. You clamp a hand over your mouth again, tighter this time, stifling your cries.

Joel pulls back, a string of saliva and arousal connecting the two of you. His finger keeps the pressure on that spot inside of you, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin as the most painful tease.

“Nuh-uh. Think you should be loud. Unless… you don’t want your coworkers to hear ya? Or better yet, that asshole boss of yours?”

You picture the ramifications of what Joel is saying, the way Chip’s face would go red, twisted up in anger before he likely fired you. You break into a cheeky smile, and without conviction you say, “I - I shouldn’t."

“You should be doin’ a lot of things right now, sweetheart. But here we are. Don’t act like you don’t like the idea of pissin’ off that bastard.”

You chuckle, nodding in a dazed agreement as Joel glides his nose over your sex, flicking his tongue out periodically and making you start to squirm impatiently. “Bet he wants to fuck you, too. Such a pretty, perfect girl. Bet he wants to bury his mouth in this sweet god damn perfect cunt.” He punctuates his words with a deep inhale to your pussy, his nose now tracing a little circle over your clit. 

His words send you reeling - something about the possessiveness he holds over you makes you clench around his digits like you’ve never done for anyone else. “Please -” you beg before you can even think.

“Please you want him to fuck you?”

You sigh in lustful, irritated frustration. “D-damn it, Joel. No. You.”

“Need daddy to fuck you good, don’t you? These college boys ain’t doin’ it for you, are they?” he purrs into your skin, finally pulling himself from between your legs to glide up over your body, shielding you completely.

You feel yourself flush hot, still sheepish even after all these months affected by his dirty words and that stupid, yet hot - so hot, god why is it so hot - title he’s bestowed himself. A tickle of embarrassment creeps into your belly knowing that you’ve hardly pursued anyone at school, never able to find exactly what you’d already had all along - only it wasn’t yours to keep. It never could be.

“I - I -” you mumble, avoiding eye contact as his face hovers above yours.

“What? They’re that bad?” he teases, and you bite your lip.

“There aren’t many… relations going on, okay?” You grimace, finding his dark eyes and seeing him amused, yet studying you carefully, more seriously.

Joel throws you the tiniest smirk, but his voice is deep and sincere. “Damn shame for all of them. But makes me awful happy to hear on account of myself.”

You swallow, nodding, feeling an anxiousness playing in your belly. “Have - have you…? Since we last…?” You don’t know why you even ask, why you’re hellbent on setting yourself up to be hurt.

Joel hesitates, debating for a moment, then leans in to kiss you, long and deep. He pulls back, then shakes his head. “Not since December, no.” The words are hushed, whispered, one hand squeezing at your hip. 

The moment is tense - too much so - and the urge to escape it crashes into you. You shift underneath him, pressing your hips up into his to entice him. “Don’t you want to fuck me then before ol’ Chip gets his chance?”

Joel practically growls, his hold going tight. “Wouldn’t fuck you like I do.”

You shake your head, licking your lips and feeling the flicker of desire reignite between your thighs that had briefly paused. “We’ll see about that,” you say, raising your eyebrows.

“God damn it, kiddo, you’re tryin’ to piss me off.”

“It’s better when you’re irritated with me -” You lick your lips, your hands finding the waistband of his jeans, toying with it. “Daddy.”

That same growl erupts from his throat, aggravated and breathless. His hands scramble with yours to free his cock, and you can’t help but peer between your bodies to catch the sight of it. You love every bit of his body, love seeing the way it moves for you, with you. The way that it evokes things in you you’d never known possible, hitting all of your buttons just right.

Only getting a short glance at his erection, your body is quickly handled by Joel’s rough, eager hands rolling you onto your stomach. You’re held down immediately, his weight crushing into you, nearing on uncomfortable with the bumps and ridges in the bed of the truck. One hand presses to the back of your head as he mounts you, the hot skin of his cock teasing at your ass.

All you can do is whimper, your head straining to look back at him as he spreads your ass cheeks, slipping between them and to your slick core, nudging at your entrance. Anticipation hangs in your labored breaths until he enters you, the tension released in an exhale of relief and sharp tenderness at the full stretch of him. 

Joel wastes no time slamming into you, satiating every fantasy you’d had of him, every desirous, late night thought that caught you off guard since your last rendezvous. It was always just as you’d remembered it - a miraculous connection of your bodies that seemed to stump the two of you every time you’d tried to make sense of it.

“Hell yes, angel, you always take me so good, so perfect,” Joel grunts out as he thrusts into you. “Never complainin’, jus’ takin’ what you’re meant to.”

Your eyes roll back slightly as he presses impossibly deep inside of you. Despite everything - his size, your ages, the myriad of reasons this shouldn’t even be happening right now - it feels like the perfect fit.

“S-so good,” you whine , breathless as his body starts to lean in close, his chest pressing against your back.

“So good, who?” Joel reminds you, his voice now rumbling right in your ear.

“F- Daddy. So good daddy,” you quickly spit out, lost in the moment. Joel had once called you cock dumb, and you’d wanted to scoff, but moments like these proved it to be a very real phenomenon. You typically consider yourself relatively level headed, but right now you’re completely helpless to the power he holds, all thought centered on the way he slips in and out of you, every sensation and nerve lit up from the drag of the head of his cock inside of you.

You shudder, feeling his hulking form so close as he brings his lips to your ear, wet kisses trailing to your neck. He’s always loved your neck - it was the first thing he’d deigned to touch all those months ago that had felt charged, different than your typical interactions. That’s when he’d drawn you in, hooked you and pulled you into this whirlwind.

You scramble a hand back to reach for him, touch him, but he grabs it, tracing his fingers over your palm, interlacing them with yours for a brief moment before your wrist is pinned down. He fucks you harder, faster, his lips bouncing against your neck before they latch on, sucking hard.

“J-Joel!” you cry out in a panic, realizing the possibility of a mark being left with an impending meet up with your parents tomorrow.

“It’ll be fine,” he purrs against your sensitive skin, sucking a little harder before moving to another spot. "Jus' leavin' you with a little somethin'."

You see stars as his cock presses as deep as it can go on his next thrust, and you lose the will to fight a losing battle. You have makeup for a reason, you suppose.

You moan, loud and clear, suddenly unable to even care about the world around you, an audience or Chip or any of your coworkers rounding this truck and seeing you getting absolutely ruined by a man well over twice your age. None of it matters when you have Joel so close to you, so ready to please you and take care of you.

“G-god, you’re so deep,” you whimper out in a garbled haze as he keeps up his punishing thrusts, letting the head of his kiss the deepest parts of you.

Joel chuckles dryly, doubling down on his efforts, the both of you panting, close to reaching something extraordinary together. “Mmm,” he groans into your ear, still lapping at your neck periodically. “What d’you want with an old man like me anyway, huh?”

It’s a question you’ve asked yourself dozens of times, one you’ve never quite found the answer to, even after searching deep within yourself. Joel was brutal in the sheets but also sweet, and maybe that was a balance you’d been seeking without knowing it. The illusion he created of not caring was always overpowered by the look in his eyes that told you there was something more there, something you both wanted to build upon but knew you never could. So you took moments like this - dark and rushed and secretive in parking lots - and made the most of them while you could pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Instead of saying all of that, you just mumble out through your panting, “Y-you know why.”

“That’s right, this big cock, fuckin’ you like nobody else can,” Joel replies for you, and you nod languidly, your eyelids heavy, your mind concentrated now on the heat building deep in your belly, furling tighter with every thrust.

“R-right there, oh my god,” you breathe, pressing your hips into each thrust to pull him that much deeper, to make each crash of your bodies into one another that much harder.

Joel moans quietly, attempting to stifle the lusty little sound but it's music to your ears, listening to him fall apart for you. “Come for me, sweetheart, s-shit, daddy needs to hear you…”

“D-daddy!” you whine out loudly, knowing he loves to hear that name nearly pornographic off your lips in these heated moments. Your pants and noises break into little moans that crescendo as bursts of pleasure wash over you. Every muscle is taut and taking Joel’s harsh, relentless thrusts into you, nearly making you scream with how vibrantly every sensation seems to crash over you.

“Y-yeah, let ‘em hear it. Christ you sound so pretty f’me, baby. Milk daddy’s cock, f-fuck that’s it…” Joel’s string of praises reaches your ears in a distant fog before his hips stutter inside of you and he’s spilling himself deep and full. You clench around him one last time, shuddering at the sensation as your skin tingles pleasantly. You feel floaty, far gone as you try to regain your bearings, slumped and ass up on the cool material of the truck bed. Reality comes back slowly as Joel kisses down your back, planting one on your ass cheek before giving it a playful bite and kneeling next to you.

“You okay, sunshine?” he asks softly, and for some reason, despite feeling elated, tears prick at the back of your eyes. It’s too much, too emotional. You will them away in a second, not daring to let Joel see.

“Mhm,” you weakly utter, nodding. Joel’s hand strokes along the side of your head, and you peer up at him with a slack smile, finding that he’s giving you one back. 

He comes down to your level, kissing your forehead. “Best yet, maybe,” he says playfully, but you aren’t sure you feel like laughing.

“Maybe,” you ponder, watching Joel’s face morph into a more serious expression. He curls his fingers around your ear, tracing shapes along your hairline, your neck, your shoulders as you stay just as you are for a long, quiet moment. He guides you to sit up, silently handing you your discarded clothing, helping you dress as the mess of him slips down your thighs. You have the passing thought that maybe he has napkins in his glove box, but then decide you’d rather have the reminder of him.

Joel sits next to you on the edge of the truck bed again, and interlocks his hand with yours. “I - I’ve got a hotel, right on campus. I could take y’home, but I’d like if you came back w’me for the night.”

His words give you pause, a tiny inhaled breath as you go to speak, snapping your lips closed and looking down at your lap for a beat. “Is that a good idea?” You ask for so many reasons, knowing that Joel is as acutely aware of all of them - the worst being that the longer you spend together, the harder it is to come back to reality.

“It ain’t a bad one,” he rasps, sultry and rough, and you crack a tiny smile. Always persuasive and charming when he needs to be.

“It’s not,” you admit, looking into his inquiring gaze.

“W-well?” he asks, nudging your side. “Jus’ one more night. I hardly get to see you, an’ you can go in the mornin’.”

You know how the night will go. You’ll both think you’re there for the sex - to sweat and say dirty things and pant all over again until you both come so hard that it boggles your mind. You’ll convince yourself that’s all it is, until you end up staying up late - talking, laughing, held in the other's arms. Intertwined together, bodies naked and comfortable with the other, because you’ve been here before.

You’ll both find yourself wanting to shy away from that fact that more is there - a real connection, two people with unlikely similarities, that just… get the other. You’ll both get lost in it, until the sun shines the next morning and you have to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that it was some figment of the power that the night holds over a person’s emotions, those dark twilight hours taking over your minds.

But you’ll both know that isn’t true, and there is nothing you can do about it.

“Okay,” you tell him, knowing the fate you’re subjecting yourself to - one that’s as wonderful as it is confusing. It hurts at times, but the spectacular things this man makes you feel outweighs it all. It’s worth it, that pain, to be able to find one another time and time again, and maybe even dream of more someday.  “Let’s go.”

divider by @/saradika-graphics!

[gullemec]

No Other Shade of Blue

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You receive devastating news and seek solace in your found family. But you're a member of the Boys, how long could that possibly last for?

Warnings: angst, home invasion, mallory is being kinda mean but she's also kinda justified?, friendship angsttt :(

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5.2k

A/N: the picture used in the moodboard is purely for inspo, reader is you so you get to decide what she looks like <3

You rush up the creaky stairs of the Flatiron building, Hughie and Annie right on your heels. The adrenaline from Homelander practically hunting you at the gala propels you forward, your heart racing as though you hadn’t escaped at all.

You burst through the office door, eager to feel the safety that usually surrounds you in the office, only to stumble onto a scene that stops you cold.

MM and Frenchie are slumped at the desk, bodies beaten and spirits drained, their faces clouded with exhaustion and something far worse. 

Defeat?

MM’s jaw is bruised, and a cut above his eyebrow is crusted with blood. Frenchie’s left arm is bound in a makeshift sling, held stiffly against his chest. Kimiko kneels beside him. Her hands flutter over him gently and she looks like she’s about to cry.

Mallory stands at the back of the room, her posture stiff and commanding as ever, but the open concern on her face betrays her. 

Something is very, very wrong.

You spin, wild eyes searching the room frantically for a sign.

He’s not here.

Your throat almost seizes up as the words tumble out of your mouth. "Where is he?"

The room goes still.

Why aren’t they answering you? Why are they just looking at you like that?

"Where’s Butcher?" you demand, your voice rising in panic.

MM and Frenchie exchange a long, heavy look, their silence unbearable. Mallory doesn’t meet your eyes, staring instead at the worn floorboards as though they hold the answer.

"Answer me, where is he?" you cry again, this time your voice cracking.

It’s MM who speaks, his voice low and steady but tinged with guilt. "We… don’t know."

The floor seems to tilt beneath you.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Frenchie exhales, his shoulders sagging. "We got separated." His voice is quiet, like even speaking the words out loud pains him.

The room feels smaller, suffocating. “Separated?” Your voice spikes. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Hughie suggests, his voice uncertain.

MM leans forward, his elbows resting heavily on the table, his hands clasped tightly as if trying to hold himself together. "We found a lab in Kazan a few days ago. Everything seemed solid. We mapped the place out, had a plan. But when we got inside…" He trails off, his jaw tightening.

Frenchie picks up, his voice bitter. "We found something we did not expect. A pod. Hidden in the lower levels. Sealed airtight."

"A pod?" you repeat, your pulse quickening.

MM nods grimly. "Butcher… he opened it."

The room feels unnaturally silent, every word sticking in the air like glue.

“What was in it?” you ask, your voice trembling.

Frenchie hesitates, glancing toward MM as if for permission. Finally, MM answers. "Soldier Boy."

The name drops like a bomb in the room. Annie stiffens, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"No. That’s—that’s not possible. Soldier Boy died in 1984," she says, her voice almost desperate.

Frenchie lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. "We thought so too."

Your knees wobble, but you force yourself to stay standing. “What happened after you opened the pod?”

MM’s face hardens. “Soon as he woke up, his chest started glowing. Then… there was this blast. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Took out half the lab in one shot. Everything went to hell.”

"And Butcher?" Hughie’s voice is barely above a whisper.

Frenchie hangs his head, his good hand covering his face. "We tried to find him. We searched, but the lab… it was collapsing around us. Fires, smoke everywhere. We had to get out, or we’d be dead too."

“So you left him?” you shout, fury breaking through the wall of panic and grief.

"We didn’t have a choice!" MM snaps, his voice raw. "You think we wanted to leave him? Butcher would’ve torn us a new one if we’d stayed and gotten ourselves killed. He’d want us to regroup."

You’re trembling now, fists clenched at your sides as tears stream freely down your face. “You left him. You just… left him.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, and Annie is at your side in an instant, pulling you toward the couch and forcing you to sit. You let her guide you, shaking as sobs rack your entire body.

“Enough.” Mallory’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Her expression is calm, but her tone brooks no argument. "If Butcher’s alive, and we have to assume he is, he can handle himself. You know that better than anyone."

“And if he’s not?” you ask weakly, barely able to get the words out. “If he’s dead, and you just… let him die?”

Mallory’s eyes narrow slightly, but her voice remains firm. "If he’s dead, there’s not a damn thing MM or Frenchie could’ve done to change that. Butcher knew what he was walking into."

Frenchie finally speaks, his voice heavy with guilt. "We spent two days trying to reach him. Radio silence. We even went back, but the lab but it was crawling with Russian military and Vought agents. We couldn’t stay without risking everything. Please, believe us."

You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to stave off hyperventilation. “And now what?” Your voice trembles. “We just… sit here while Butcher’s out there, dead or alive, and Soldier Boy is loose?”

Mallory’s expression darkens. "First, we need to understand what we’re dealing with. Soldier Boy isn’t just some washed-up relic from the past. He was Vought’s first Supe. Their original model. And if they’ve kept him under wraps for nearly 40 years, there’s a reason."

Annie frowns, still rubbing your shoulders. "What kind of reason?"

Mallory’s gaze hardens, her words grim. "Soldier Boy wasn’t just their first. He was their prototype. And he wasn’t just a weapon on the battlefield, he was a weapon in their political games. 1984 wasn’t just the year he ‘died.’ It’s the year Vought severed ties with Russia… or so they claimed."

Hughie swallows audibly. "You’re saying… Vought’s been playing both sides this whole time?"

Mallory nods. "And Soldier Boy is the key. They either kept him locked away to bury their mistakes, or they’ve been holding onto him for something bigger. And now, he’s loose, and we have no idea what he might do."

A suffocating silence settles over the room. The weight of her words presses down on you like a vise.

“What do we do now?” Annie asks softly, breaking the silence.

Mallory looks each of you in the eye, her voice cold and commanding. "We prepare. Because whatever’s coming next will make everything we’ve faced so far look like child’s play."

~~~

You shuffle through the door into Annie and Hughie’s apartment, detached and lost in thought. Their apartment welcomes you, warm and cozy. A far cry from the cold tension you left behind at the office.

You hover in the entryway, unmoving, like you’re watching the scene unfold from outside your body. Hughie moves to clear some clutter from the couch, murmuring something about making space, while Annie pulls a blanket from the closet, moving around the apartment like any sudden moves might have you sprinting out the door. Their voices sound muted, like they’re coming through a fog. You don’t move. You can’t.

The scent of tea and lavender wafts through the air, carried by the flicker of a candle burning on the kitchen counter. The normalcy of it all twists like a knife in your belly. This is a space meant for safety, for peace, and yet you feel like a live wire, crackling with unspent energy and the anxiety of a million possibilities running through your mind.

“Hey,” Annie’s voice cuts gently through the haze, her hand brushing against your arm. “Why don’t you sit down? You’ve been through a lot today.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter automatically, but your voice is brittle and unconvincing, even to your own ears. It feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away, distant and hollow. “I just… I don’t think I can be alone right now.”

Annie doesn’t push. Her tone is soft, soothing. “You’re not. You don’t have to be.”

Before you know it, she’s guided you to the couch, easing you down onto the cushions as though you might shatter under your own weight. You sink into the seat, your hands instinctively folding over your lap. It’s like the world presses in all at once, the dam you’ve been holding back threatening to break.

The tears come, fast and silent, carving hot trails down your cheeks. You press your palms against your legs, trying to ground yourself, but your fingers catch on the smooth fabric of your dress. It’s only then you realize you’re still in the silk evening gown from the gala. 

The sensation of Homelander’s dead eyes burning into you, the deafening applause, the sound of your feet slapping against marble as you escaped all floods back.

You consider for a moment how you must look right now: the elegant drape of the gown, the glint of diamond earrings still dangling from your ears, the streaks of ruined mascara cutting through your makeup like black rivers. You must look insane. The image of yourself, of this absurd, surreal contrast, causes a giggle to bubble up out of you. You force it back down.

You hear soft clinking in the kitchen before Hughie appears, setting a steaming mug on the coffee table before you.

“It’s chamomile,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, his boyish sincerity written all over his face. “Nothing fancy, but it’s supposed to be, you know… calming.”

You nod mutely, wrapping your fingers around the mug and letting the warmth seep into your chilled skin. The ceramic feels steady in your trembling hands, grounding you as you blow gently on the rising steam. You focus on the ritual, the warmth, the scent, the motion, anything to keep your mind from spiraling.

Annie returns quietly, a thick blanket folded over her arms. She doesn’t say anything, just drapes it over your shoulders with a gentle touch before sitting beside you. Her presence is calm, steady, but it doesn’t soften the load weighing on your mind.

The silence in the room hangs heavy, thick with everything unsaid.

Every unspoken fear you’ve harbored since the moment Butcher walked out that door floods to the surface.

He’s not coming back. You’ll never see him again. He died alone, cold and scared. 

The image of him haunts you. Broken and left behind. 

You’ll raise this baby alone, your child never knowing their father. You’ll never again feel his arms around you, his lips against yours, never hear his voice or hold his hand.

And, perhaps cruelest of all, your last words to him weren’t I love you.

A choked breath catches in your throat as tears sting your eyes, but a flicker of something inside you refuses to give in. It’s small, delicate as a candle in a storm, but it’s there. It’s not over. It can’t be. Not yet.

Finally, you exhale shakily, breaking the oppressive stillness. “He’s not dead,” you whisper, your voice trembling and barely audible.

Annie perches on the armrest beside you, leaning closer. Her voice is gentle but cautious. “Hey… we don’t need to talk about this right now, okay? Just rest. Let yourself—”

“He’s not dead,” you interrupt, sharper this time, your voice cutting through hers like glass. “I would know.”

Tears threaten to spill, blurring your vision as you blink them away furiously. You hate this, breaking down like this, letting your emotions spill over. You tighten your grip on the mug, teeth clenched. “God, I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Hughie says softly, his brow furrowed in concern. He watches you with the same earnest look he always does, like he wishes he could somehow fix it all.

“Yes, it is!” you snap, the words pouring out before you can stop them. “It’s stupid, it’s naive, and it’s exactly why I shouldn’t even be here! I can’t do this—I’m not cut out for this kind of fight.”

Annie leans forward, her tone firm and unwavering. “Hey, don’t. Don’t do that to yourself. You’re here because you can handle this. Mallory sees it. Butcher always saw it. And we see it too.”

Hughie, ever the peacekeeper, adds with a sheepish grin, “And, for the record, none of us are exactly poster children for stability, so you’re in good company. I mean, I’ve been kidnapped, beaten up, almost exploded—”

“And still manages to trip over his own feet during missions,” Annie interjects, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the tension.

“That was one time,” Hughie protests, mock-offended, throwing his hands up.

The brief levity fades, but the knot of anxiety in your gut feels slightly looser. You take a deep, shaky breath as Hughie’s expression grows more serious. “Look, we’ll figure out what’s going on with Butcher. But this whole Soldier Boy thing? It’s big.”

Annie nods, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Him being back and the way Homelander went after you at the gala—it’s not a coincidence. But why you? Why now?”

Your mind flashes to Homelander’s chilling, calculated words. The way his gaze seemed to pierce through you. “I think… I think Homelander knows I’m with you guys,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “At the gala, that speech he made about family and blood—it felt like it was aimed right at me. And then he started walking toward me, like he knew.”

“This is what Vought does,” Annie says grimly, her expression hardening. “They dig into people’s lives, find secrets, twist them, and weaponize them. They’ve been doing it to me for years. It’s how they keep everyone in line.” She pauses, her jaw tight. “But we’re not going to let them win.”

Hughie nods in agreement, his determination mirroring Annie’s. “We’re not.”

For the next hour, they stay with you. Annie brings you a change of clothes, sweatpants and one of her oversized hoodies, and Hughie refills your tea. Their quiet presence, their easy banter, and their stubborn refusal to let you spiral anchor you. Your heart twists at their kindness.

When they finally head to bed, their exhaustion evident in their heavy eyelids and stifled yawns, you sit alone on the couch, wrapped in the blanket Annie gave you. The faint glow of the candle flickers in the corner, the apartment falling into a peaceful quiet.

Just as Annie flips off the light in the hallway, you speak up, your voice soft but full of gratitude. “Annie, Hughie… I just wanted to say thank you. For everything.”

Annie smiles gently, her silhouette framed in the doorway. “Of course. We love you.”

The words settle over you like a balm, and for the first time all night, you let yourself believe, just a little, that you might not have to face this fight alone.

~~~

The car ride back to your apartment the next morning is oppressively quiet. The only sound is the faint hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the car radio. In the front seat, Annie and Hughie exchange worried glances, their unspoken concern hanging heavy in the air. You sit silently in the back, staring out the window as the city glides by in muted shades of grey and black. Your hands are clenched tightly in your lap, nails digging into your palms, but the sting barely registers.

Sleep had eluded you entirely last night, leaving your mind to churn through an endless parade of horrors. You kept seeing Butcher, injured, afraid, his body broken and bleeding in some icy wasteland. Or worse, locked away in a Russian prison, shackled in the dark, his fury and defiance slowly eroded by despair.

The car pulls up in front of your apartment building, a familiar sight that should’ve brought some semblance of comfort. Instead, it only amplifies the unease curling in your stomach. You force a smile as you reach for the door handle. You’re not sure that you’re ready to be alone just yet.

"Are you sure you’ll be okay?" Annie asks softly, turning in her seat to look at you.

"Yeah," you reply, but the lie is weak and brittle, your voice lacking conviction. "I just… I need a shower and some clean clothes. I’ll see you at the Flatiron later."

You’d all agreed to regroup late in the morning to plan your next steps.

Hughie nods, but hesitation lingers in his expression. "Call if you need anything, okay? I mean it."

"I will," you promise, giving him a small, tight smile before stepping out of the car.

You linger on the curb, waving them off as they drive away, the tail lights disappearing down the street. Turning back to your building, you inhale deeply, hoping that stepping into the familiar space of your apartment will give you a moment to breathe, a chance to center yourself.

That hope evaporates the moment you reach your floor.

Your apartment door is almost gone, hanging crookedly from splintered hinges. The wood is cracked and shattered, the frame obliterated, chunks of it scattered across the hallway like debris from an explosion.

You freeze in place, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. A sickening wave of dread washes over you, turning your stomach.

With shaking hands, you nudge the door open. It creaks on its broken hinges, swinging inward to reveal the chaos within.

Your living room, once your sanctuary, lies in wreckage. The coffee table lies on its side, legs snapped and jagged. The couch cushions have been slashed open, their innards spilling out onto the floor like entrails. Your bookshelves are bare, their contents dumped and scattered. Perhaps worst of all, your photo shelf has been ripped from the wall. The picture frames lay shattered, their contents strewn across the floor. 

Your knees buckle slightly as you step forward. Your eyes catch on a familiar photo amid the glass and splinters. Carefully, you pick up the photo of you and your mother from when you were small.  It’s scratched and crumpled, but the faces are still clear. You tuck it gently into your pocket.

The kitchen is worse. The cabinet doors dangle precariously, barely clinging to their hinges. The counters are strewn with broken plates, glasses, and a fine layer of white powder from shattered dishware. A faint, acrid smell of burnt wood lingers in the air, sharp and invasive.

Your breath hitches as you try to process the devastation. This was your home, the one place that was yours, where you could let your guard down. It was where the Boys had shared stolen moments of joy, where candles on birthday cakes burned too brightly, where laughter had filled the space like an antidote to the chaos outside.

Now ruined. Defiled.

You stumble toward your bedroom, navigating the debris littering the floor. Your steps falter as your gaze falls on the wall above your bed.

The message is burned into the plaster, the letters jagged and uneven, like they’d been carved in a blind fury. The words are still faintly smoking, the sickly sweet scent stinging your nostrils.

KNOW YOUR PLACE

You grip the edge of the bed for support as your knees give out. The words loom over you, their venom seeping into your very core.

Your sanctuary, reduced to a symbol of your helplessness, your vulnerability.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t some petty break-in or senseless act of vandalism.

This was deliberate. 

This was Homelander.

The realization strikes you like a blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You thought you’d been careful, that your tracks were covered. But it wasn’t enough. He knows who you are. He knows where you live. And he wanted you to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he can get to you whenever he wants.

Your mind races with horrifying possibilities. What if you hadn’t stayed with Annie and Hughie last night? What if you’d come home? Would he have been waiting?

You wonder if that was his plan.

Your hands tremble as you fumble for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. You scroll through your contacts with shaking fingers, stopping at Mallory’s number. You press the call button, the ringing filling the silence as you struggle to steady your breathing.

Mallory answers after the first ring, her voice sharp and alert. "Are you at your apartment?"

"Y-yeah," you stammer, your voice cracking. "He—he was here. My door… my place is trashed. He left a message on the wall."

There’s a heavy pause on the other end before Mallory exhales a grim sigh.

"Get to the Flatiron. Now."

"What? Why—"

"He broke in here last night too," Mallory interrupts, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We need to talk. Get here now."

The call ends abruptly, leaving you staring at the screen.

You glance around your destroyed apartment one last time before standing on shaky legs. Gripping the photo of your mother in your pocket like a talisman, you steel yourself and head for the door.

~~~

The scene you’re met with when you arrive at the office is a gut punch. 

It looks like a war zone, papers scattered in every direction, desks overturned and smashed, chairs broken like brittle bones. Equipment lies gutted, wires splayed out and ripped apart. The large window on the far side of the room is shattered, shards of glass still clinging precariously to the splintered frame. The cold morning air drifts in through the gaping hole, carrying with it the bustling noise of the city below. The sound feels like an intrusion, a cruel reminder of how thin the veneer of safety had been all along.

The team is already there, a picture of unease frozen in the destruction. Hughie and Annie sit together on a mangled couch, their expressions subdued, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. MM stands off to the side, his face dark with unspoken fury. Near the broken window, Frenchie and Kimiko hover like sentinels, their gazes darting toward every noise, their tense postures a reflection of the chaos around them.

At the far end of the room, Mallory sits behind what remains of a desk, a stack of scattered papers in front of her, her face a mask of grim calculation.

You swallow hard and step further into the ruins, the crunch of glass under your boots punctuating the silence. “What the hell happened?”

Mallory’s gaze lifts to meet yours. She looks tired. More than tired really, like the weight of the world has settled into her bones. “Homelander,” she says flatly. “Same as your place.”

She shuffles through the papers in front of her before plucking one from the pile and holding it up. “Look familiar?”

Your heart stops.

The photo of you and your parents at your high school graduation. All three of you beaming at the camera, cheeks squished together in a too-tight embrace. The last photo of the Morgan family together.

Only now, your parents’ eyes have been scratched out. Jagged red gouges mar the glossy surface, slicing through their faces. The photo trembles slightly in Mallory’s grip as she holds it out to you. The violence of the image feels like a scream in your ears.

Your stomach churns violently, bile rising in the back of your throat.

You clench your fists so tightly your nails bite into your palms. “He knows where I live. What I’ve been doing.”

MM speaks up, his voice a low, measured rumble, though his tone is anything but calm. “He’s sending a message.”

“What do we do?” you ask, your voice wavering.

Mallory’s gaze sharpens, her voice cold and matter of fact. “You’re not going to do anything. You are going into hiding.”

You stare at her, feeling like you’ve been slapped across the face. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

Mallory doesn’t flinch. “You’ve been directly threatened,” she says firmly. “Your safety is compromised, and so is ours if you stay. I’ve arranged for a safe house. There’s a car waiting outside.”

“No!” The word bursts from you, sharp and loud, a mix of anger and disbelief. “I’m not going anywhere! I’m not some damsel you need to shove in a tower until it’s convenient. I’m part of this team, and I’m not going to run just because Homelander’s trying to scare me.”

“It’s not just about you,” Mallory snaps, the sharp edge of her voice slicing through the tension like a blade. “It’s about all of us. Your presence puts everyone here at risk. If you stay, you make us vulnerable.”

You glare at her, anger simmering just below the surface. “I can handle myself. You don’t get to decide I’m useless just because things are heating up.”

Mallory stands then, the scrape of her chair echoing across the silent room. When she speaks, her voice is like steel—cold, unyielding, deliberate. “You want to handle yourself? Fine. Let’s talk about what you’re handling.”

She looks around the room as if daring anyone to challenge her. The others are silent, waiting, their eyes darting between the two of you. Mallory’s next words land like a hammer blow, deliberate and devastating.

“She’s pregnant.”

The room drops into stunned silence.

For a moment, you can’t breathe. The words hit you like a physical force, stealing the air from your lungs. You stare at Mallory, wide-eyed, your heart pounding painfully against your ribs.

Hughie’s voice cracks the stillness, disbelief painted all over his face. “Wait… what?”

You can feel the weight of every gaze drilling into you. You turn, locking eyes with Annie, her expression a mix of hurt, confusion, a flicker of anger. It hits harder than you expect.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks softly, but her voice is laced with betrayal.

“Mallory,” you manage, your voice a strangled whisper. “What the hell are you doing?”

Mallory doesn’t flinch, her gaze unwavering. “I’m telling them the truth.”

The tension coils around your ribs, tightening like a vice. You whirl on Mallory, your words trembling with fury. “You had no right—”

“I had every right,” Mallory interrupts, her tone sharp as broken glass. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk anymore, you’re putting all of us at risk. If Homelander finds out about that baby, Butcher’s baby, he won’t stop until he gets to you. And trust me when I say he’ll rip apart anyone who gets in his way. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

The room feels like it’s spinning. The world tilts under your feet. Your hand trembles as it presses instinctively to your stomach, grounding yourself against the wave of fear crashing over you.

“You didn’t have to do it like this,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You didn’t have to…”

Annie steps forward, shaking her head. Her voice is small and raw. “I don’t understand. I thought we were friends. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do!” The words spill out desperately as you turn to face her, the weight of her disappointment cutting deeper than you imagined. “Annie, I just—I wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet. I didn’t even know how to say it.”

Mallory doesn’t let the moment linger. Her tone turns cold and immovable. “This isn’t up for debate. Hughie, you’re going with her.”

“What?!” Hughie blurts, incredulous. He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes wide. “Why me?”

Mallory levels him with a look that leaves no room for argument. “Because you’re the least likely to survive a fight, and I need someone I can trust to make sure she doesn’t try to sneak back here the moment the car pulls away.”

“Great,” Hughie groans, throwing his hands up. “So now I’m a glorified babysitter. That’s fantastic. Can’t wait.”

“I don’t need a babysitter Mallory, I can still help,” you say, your voice hoarse but determined. “I’m not leaving. I won’t.”

“You’re both going,” Mallory repeats, unflinching. “That’s the end of it.”

Frenchie steps forward, his usual warmth tempered into something more serious. He looks at you, his voice low and gentle. “Ma poupette… We will handle this. You need to go. To stay alive. For yourself. For the bébé.”

Kimiko stands at his side, silent but understanding. She steps closer and places her hand lightly on your arm, her touch soft, grounding. Her dark eyes meet yours, full of quiet compassion. No words pass between you, but her meaning is clear. Go. Live. We’ll fight for you.

You swallow hard, the knots of anger, fear, and helplessness tangling in your chest. Every look of concern feels like an accusation, like a reminder of how exposed, how vulnerable you are.

You turn away from Kimiko, from the team, the knot in your chest growing tighter by the second. Your gaze lands on the broken window, the jagged edges of glass reflecting the pale light of morning. You know Mallory is right. You know it. But the thought of walking away, of hiding, feels like giving up. Like letting Homelander win.

The weight of their silence presses in on you as you stare out at the city beyond the shattered glass, your fists trembling at your sides.

“Fine,” you say finally, your voice low and clipped. “I’ll go.”

Mallory jerks her chin toward the door. “The car’s waiting. Go.”

The room watches as you turn toward the hallway, Hughie trailing just behind. Annie and Mallory follow in silence, their footsteps heavy with all the things left unsaid.

You duck into the car, allowing a respectful distance for Annie and Hughie to linger, saying their goodbyes. Annie strides over to your window as Hughie crawls in.

She stops at the window, her expression tight, but her eyes, those kind, forgiving eyes, are glossy with unshed tears. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” she says, her voice shaking with emotion.

The words nearly break you. You blink rapidly, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I’m so sorry, Annie.”

Annie reaches in through the open window and grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly. The warmth of her touch cracks something inside you, sending a fresh wave of emotion through you.

“Just… stay safe, okay?” Her voice softens, even as it trembles. “Promise me.”

You nod frantically, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I promise.”

Her thumb brushes across the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment. “I love you,” she says quietly. “I’ll see you soon.”

You squeeze her hand back, holding on as long as you can. “I love you too.”

With one last lingering look, Annie steps back. You roll up the window, your breath hitching as Hughie lets loose a heavy sigh. The car starts to pull away, the rumble of the engine muffling the sound of your quiet sniffles.

You turn to look through the rear windshield. Annie stands there, growing smaller and smaller, the wind tugging gently at her hair. She doesn’t move, doesn’t turn away, until she’s just a distant figure against the backdrop of everything you’ve lost.

The ruins of the last eight months—your home, your safety, your secrets—left behind. And all you can do is stare at the horizon, where your world has shattered, and try to piece together what comes next.

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones

[gullemec]

kicking my feet and giggling everytime I get a notif that you replied to my posts😌💕

I was a little worried about this chapter since Joel isn't actually in it and I wanted to still make it interesting so I'm thankful you still enjoyed it!! And hopeful the next chapter being completely from Joel's POV will make up for it🫶

Also I often think about how much I would dislike hunting if it were actually me in a survival scenario lol. Like I'm sure you'd get used to it after a while but if I had someone like Joel taking care of me ofc I'd be like "oh u wanna go hunt for us while I hang out at our camp?? U got it bb💅"

Thank you again for your thoughtful responses I love em ❤️

One of Them

Bitten - Part VI

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You did this to protect him, to save his life like he's saved yours more times than you can count. But with every step toward salvation you find yourself slipping further into darkness.

Warnings: canon-typical gore, description of injury/sickness/infection, knife use, angst as always!, reader is experiencing some pretty significant PTSD, hunting of animals

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 9.2k (someone help me!!)

What started as rain quickly turns to sleet, then snow. 

Gone is the verdant lushness of Laurel. The first, tentative claws of winter you’d felt up in the mountains, back when you and Joel were holed up in that old cabin, have now spread their icy grip across the rest of Montana. The wind blows snowflakes like shards of glass, each gust stinging your face and hands.

The world around you seems to transform with every mile, growing more hostile and less familiar.

But you press on, following the call of Yellowstone, letting the dream of it pull you forward like a distant light in the darkness. 

The decision to go there had come as naturally as breathing, almost simultaneous with the one to leave Joel behind. If you were going to move forward alone, it had to be toward something. And for you, that something had always been Yellowstone.

Ever since you were a little girl, Yellowstone had carved out a space in your mind as a place of wonder, a mythical land where the earth itself breathed and churned, alive with color and movement. Your dad used to tell you stories about his time working there in the eighties, planting trees and working trails. He’d talk about the geysers, how Old Faithful erupted like clockwork, sending towers of steam and water high into the air. He’d describe the bubbling hot springs, ringed with  turquoise, amber, and rust, the sprawling meadows filled with wildflowers in the summer.

But what stayed with you the most were the moments he described at dawn, when the mist from the geysers clung to the ground and rose in ghostly tendrils, shrouding the landscape in an ethereal haze. 

“It’s like stepping into another world,” he’d said, his voice filled with a reverence you rarely heard from him. “Like a fantasy book come to life.”

Those stories had planted a seed in you, a yearning that only grew stronger after the world fell apart. In the early, bleak days of the outbreak, when you first found yourself in the confines of a QZ, you’d saved up ration cards for months to buy a battered old National Geographic magazine from the supply store. Its pages were torn and creased, but the photos of Yellowstone still seemed to leap off the paper, bursting with color and life.

You’d carefully cut out the images, a bison grazing against a backdrop of golden grasslands, the jagged peaks of the Tetons reflected in glassy lakes, the vibrant pools of steaming water that looked like cracked open geodes. You’d pinned them to the wall above your cot, and on the darkest nights, when the QZ felt like a tomb, you’d stare at those pictures and let them carry you away.

And now, as you press on through the biting cold, you remind yourself that you’re finally getting closer to the place that had sustained you all those years. Like a mantra, you recite the whispers you’d heard about a community in Wyoming, a group of survivors carving out a life in the midst of all this chaos.

When you and Joel had sat at his dining table that night back in Boston, sketching out the idea of Wyoming as a destination, it had felt like a distant dream, a place that might exist only in your imagination. But now, feeling like you’re on the precipice, you allow yourself to believe it’s real. That this place, this beautiful, untamed wilderness, is real.

But you’re not there yet.

Your tattered map tells you you’ve got at least another few days before you hit the Wyoming border, a couple more before you land in Yellowstone proper.

That is, if the weather lets up.

You spend your first night without Joel as a shivering, miserable wreck, tucked into your sleeping bag, upright against a tree. The pistol trembles in your hands, gripped tightly despite the pain radiating through your swollen knuckles.Your breath escapes in shallow puffs of mist, but even they are stolen away by the merciless wind. The snow offers no reprieve, blanketing the world in white silence.

The battered tarp you’d rigged as a makeshift lean-to does little to protect you. Snow drifts through the gaps, coating your sleeping bag and seeping into the fabric until the damp sews itself into you like a second skin. Frost gathers on your eyelashes, weighing them down until you’re forced to close your eyes. Even then, sleep doesn’t come easily. It’s restless and fragmented, interrupted by the cold biting at your face and the faraway cracks of branches snapping in the wind. Every sound makes your grip tighten on the pistol, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

When the grey light of dawn finally breaks through the trees, it brings no warmth, no comfort. You drag yourself out of the half-frozen cocoon of your sleeping bag, your muscles stiff and aching, your breath rasping in the icy air. You feel brittle, like you might shatter with the slightest wrong move.

The entire day is spent trudging determinedly through the forest that runs parallel to the highway. 

One foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other. If you focus on the movement maybe you won’t think so much about the pain or the cold or the fear.

You know better than to walk the road itself, too exposed, too easy to be spotted by someone, or something. But you also know better than to stray too far from it. You don’t have anyone to guide you now, to pull you back if you wander too far. The forest is a maze made of endless twisting trees and layers of snow to mask any recognizable feature, designed to confuse you and then swallow you whole.

The pain in your side, a dull ache that had been your constant companion, has finally subsided, but it’s been replaced by something worse. Your torn knuckles throb with something skirting the edge of agony. You keep your thick leather gloves on as much as possible, partly to ward off the brutal cold, but mostly because taking them off tears at the scabs forming on your knuckles. Every time you pull them back on, the gloves catch on the wounds, reopening them and leaving dark smears of blood on the inside of the leather. 

By the second morning, hunger gnaws at your stomach, refusing to be ignored. It twists and pulls until you’re doubled over, clutching your middle in an attempt to ease the pain. It doesn’t work. The meager scraps of food you’d brought with you from Joel’s stash are long gone, and you haven’t come across a single sign of civilization since leaving Laurel. Not a house, not an old gas station, not even a wrecked car to scavenge.

You’re going to have to hunt.

The thought feels daunting. You’ve hunted with Joel before, sure, but it was always under his watchful eye. He was the one who spotted the tracks, who showed you how to walk silently through the brush, who taught you where to aim so the animal didn’t suffer. Without him, the task feels impossibly large.

You force your body to still, breathing to even, as you scan the forest for any sign of movement. Tracks in the snow, a flash of fur through the trees, the distant rustle of branches, anything that might lead you to your next meal. The cold gnaws at your resolve, but the hunger cuts deeper. 

You have no choice. This was the decision you made.

This is what survival looks like now.

The forest is eerily quiet as you move, the only sounds the crunch of your boots on the snow and the quickened rasp of your breath. Your knuckles throb steadily, each pulse a sharp reminder of your fragility. The hunger twisting in your belly is an animal all its own now, clawing at you with feral insistence.

You nearly give up when you see it.

A flash of movement in the snow ahead. Your heart stutters, and you freeze mid-step, eyes scanning the trees until you see it again. A rabbit, its fur blending seamlessly with the snow except for the black tips of its ears. It’s small, barely more than a scrap of fur and bones, but it’s food.

You hold your breath, crouching low, every muscle in your body screaming at you to move, to act. Your pistol feels heavy and awkward in your trembling hand, the pain in your knuckles flaring as you adjust your grip. You don’t trust yourself to aim properly, not with how badly your hands are shaking, so you opt for your blade instead.

Slowly, with as much care as you can muster, you creep forward, each step deliberate and measured. The rabbit twitches, its ears perking up, and you freeze again, willing yourself to be invisible. For a moment, it seems to work. The rabbit lowers its head, nibbling at something buried beneath the snow.

Then you step on a twig.

The crack is deafening in the stillness, and the rabbit bolts. Panic surges through you, and without thinking, you lunge after it, your knife clutched tightly in your injured hand. Your body protests every movement, the cold and exhaustion weighing you down, but desperation propels you forward.

The chase is clumsy, messy. You trip over roots hidden beneath the snow, your already sore  knees slamming into the frozen ground. The rabbit zigzags through the trees, and you quickly clamber to follow, your breath coming in ragged gasps that burn your throat.

Finally, you get close enough to strike. You hurl yourself at the rabbit, your knife slicing through the air, and by some miracle, or sheer luck, you connect. The blade catches its side, and the rabbit lets out a high-pitched squeal before collapsing into the snow.

You collapse beside it, your lungs heaving as you clutch the rabbit with trembling hands. Blood seeps into the pristine snow, vivid red against the white, and you realize you’re crying. Tears stream down your face, hot against your cold skin. But you don’t have the luxury of letting yourself feel anything right now.

With numb fingers, you go about the grim task of dressing the rabbit. Your hands are clumsy, the pain in your knuckles making the process even more difficult than it already is. Blood coats your skin, and you can barely feel your fingers by the time you’re done.

The next challenge is starting a fire. You find a small, sheltered spot beneath a tree and gather what little dry wood you can. Your matches are damp from the snow, and it takes several tries before you manage to get even the tiniest flame to catch. You shield it with your body, coaxing it to grow with trembling hands and desperate prayers.

Eventually, the fire flickers to life, feeble and pathetic but enough. You cook the rabbit over the flames, the meat crackling and spitting as it roasts. The smell makes your stomach twist in anticipation, but when you finally eat, the meat is tough and stringy, barely enough to take the edge off your hunger.

You sit there, staring at the meager remains of your meal, the firelight casting flickering shadows on the snow around you. 

The misery of it all—your injuries, your exhaustion, your hunger, your utter fucking loneliness—erupts inside you. The tears come again, hot and bitter, spilling down your cheeks only to freeze against your skin in the brutal cold.

You press your hands to your face, your gloves sticky with blood and grime, and keen into the night. The fire crackles softly, the only accompaniment to your wailing in the vast, empty wilderness. The world feels impossibly big, and you feel impossibly small, and you’re tired, and you’re scared.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, drawing in a shaky breath. The fire is already starting to dwindle, and you know you need to keep moving. 

The forest stretches endlessly ahead, and the hazy pools of Yellowstone feel farther away than ever.

…

Two more days pass in a haze of exhaustion and hunger. 

You manage to catch another rabbit and a squirrel, but the meager meat does little to sustain you. They’re enough to stave off starvation, but just barely. Each bite only reminds you of how hollow you’ve become, how much your body is running on empty.

The snowfall has ceased, but the cold has settled into your bones, a chill so deep it feels like it’s seeping into your soul. Your feet are completely numb now. You think about the blisters you must have by now, bursting and raw, but the absence of sensation feels like a strange mercy. At least you don’t have to feel that pain too.

You don’t stop to rest much anymore, partly because you can’t find anywhere that feels safe, and partly because you know that if you stop, it’ll be harder to start again. Every step is a battle against the beast of your hunger, the hollow ache it’s placed in your head, but you press forward because what other choice do you have?

But no matter how much distance you put between yourself and Laurel, no matter how determined you are to reach Yellowstone, one thought lingers in your mind like a shadow you can’t outrun.

Joel.

For all the grief he caused you in those last few weeks together, the thought of him waking up to find you gone feels like a knife twisting in your belly. You can’t stop playing it over in your head. Joel calling your name, his voice low and rough, searching every corner of that house. His confusion shifting into realization as he finds his flannel neatly folded where you left it.

Would he understand what you meant by leaving it? Would he take it as the olive branch you’d intended, a gesture of goodwill to say, This isn’t your fault, and I don’t hate you? 

Or would he see it as a final act of cruelty, proof that you couldn’t stomach his rough version of care anymore? That you were weak and Tess was right and he never should have gotten involved with you in the first place?

For everything he was, for all his flaws, he had done so much for you. He’d kept you alive when you didn’t think you could make it on your own. He’d fought for you, bled for you, and carried the weight of so much more than just your survival.

If it weren’t for him, you’d still be in the Boston QZ, shoveling corpses for ration cards, sleeping on that broken cot that gave you sores on your back.

If it weren’t for him, you’d have died a dozen times over. Out here in this wilderness, he was the reason you’d survived this long. Joel was unshakable, a relentless force of nature when it came to survival. He wasn’t perfect, but he was strong in a way you couldn’t be, in a way that made it easier for you to stay alive.

And yet, if it weren’t for him, maybe that stalker would’ve just killed you. Maybe it would’ve ended your suffering right there, and then you wouldn’t be stuck in this limbo, your body and mind a ticking time bomb of destruction.

How thankful can you really be?

The thought stings like ice on an open wound. You shove it down, try to stuff it into the same dark corner of your mind where you’ve buried all the other jagged truths you can’t bear to face right now.

You left for him.

You tell yourself that again and again, trying to steady the cracks in your resolve. Maybe Joel can’t see it now. Hell, maybe he’ll never see it. But you did this for him.

You couldn’t stay. Not when every breath, every scrape, every shared glance felt like a reminder of what had happened. Not when the bite on your side marked you as something other than human, as a danger to him. Joel carried enough weight on his shoulders; he didn’t need the burden of whatever half-human thing you’ve become.

You left because you knew him. You knew the way his guilt would eat at him, how he’d blame himself for not being faster, not being stronger, not keeping you safe. You couldn’t let him carry that. You wouldn’t.

This was your way of protecting him. From the guilt, from the fallout, from the danger of you.

Your feet keep moving, the rhythm of your steps hollow and mechanical. You tell yourself, over and over, that this is what he deserves. 

A chance to move on without you. To find peace. To survive.

But the thought doesn’t comfort you like you hoped it would. It hangs heavy in your gut, like a weight you can’t shake.

…

You’re damn near the Wyoming border when you come upon a large culvert that drains into a river. The road that once crossed over it is no more, collapsed into a jagged mess of twisted metal and crumbled asphalt. The remnants of the guardrails jut out like rusted teeth, a wide, gaping maw just waiting to give you tetanus.

The water streaming out of the culvert below is mostly frozen, the sheet of ice broken only by veins of liquid glimmering underneath. You step back to take it all in, scanning for another way across. Climbing over the wreckage isn’t an option. The steep incline and precarious slabs of concrete look like a death trap, and you’re certain that one wrong step would send you tumbling into the icy river, or straight onto the twisted shards of guardrail.

Your eyes flit around, desperate for another way through. Doubling back isn’t viable. You already took a detour earlier to avoid a collapsed bridge, and it would be hours before you could loop back to even try to find another crossing. Your stomach twists at the thought of wasting precious time and energy in the biting cold.

But the culvert itself looks just as dangerous. The ice is thin in some places, thick in others, uneven and unpredictable. You hesitate at the edge, the memory of Joel cracking through the ice of that mountain stream flashing in your mind. That stream had been small, shallow enough to wade through with some discomfort, but this culvert empties into a river, the water beneath its frozen surface moving sluggishly but steadily. If you broke through here, you'd be soaking wet up to your waist at least. The last thing you need right now is hypothermia or frostbite. 

You stand there for a moment, gnawing on your lip, your breath visible in the freezing air as it leaves you in quick puffs. Every instinct screams at you to turn back, to find another way, no matter how long it takes. But time feels like an enemy too now, the sinking sun plunging you deeper into that early winter darkness.

Crack!

The unmistakable sound of branches snapping behind you.

You whirl around, heart thudding wildly in your chest. The forest is thick and dark, its shadows hiding whatever, or whoever, might be lurking within. Another crack echoes through the stillness, closer this time, and your breath hitches. You can’t see anything, but the hair on the back of your neck stands on end.

Not again.

Visions of gnashing teeth and mottled skin and the flurry of bloody hands flash through your brain. 

And just like that your decision is made for you.

Without thinking, you turn back to the culvert and step onto the ice, your boots crunching against its surface. The slickness beneath your feet immediately makes you regret your choice, but you press on, moving as quickly and carefully as you can. Behind you, the movement grows louder, closer, the crunch of snow and snapping of branches becoming more frantic, as if whatever is out there knows you’re trying to escape.

Panic overtakes caution. You try to quicken your pace, your boots sliding over the uneven ice. Your foot catches on a patch of ice glazed with a sheen of water, and you’re down before you can stop yourself. You crash hard onto the ice, your right side taking the brunt of the impact. Pain shoots through your right wrist, biting and white-hot, and you let out a strangled cry as your vision blurs with tears.

In the flurry of movement, you don’t even notice the map slipping out of your hand until you see it sliding across the ice, its edges dipping into a crack where water breaks the surface. You scramble for it, but your gloves are half frozen with snowmelt and blood, and your fingers don’t move fast enough. The map is soaked as soon as it hits water, the ink running in smeared, illegible streaks as it drifts just out of reach.

“No,” you choke out, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own labored breathing.

Your ribs heave as you clutch your throbbing hand to your chest, trying to force yourself to think, to focus. The sounds of the forest behind you seem to grow closer, and the ice beneath you groans ominously. You can’t stay here.

Biting down on your lip to stifle a cry, you use your left hand to push yourself upright, every movement sending waves of pain radiating through your right hand and up your arm. You leave the ruined map where it is, just a useless wad of wet paper now, and crawl the rest of the way across the ice.

When you finally reach the solid ground on the other side, you keel over onto your side, ears ringing, vision swimming. For a moment, you can only lie there, your cheek pressed to the frozen earth, the ache in your limbs merging with the cold until they’re one and the same. Behind you, the ice creaks and shifts, as if mocking you for barely making it across. 

You clutch your injured hand to your chest, the screaming, throbbing pain growing unbearable.. You force yourself upright, legs trembling beneath you as you stumble forward. Every instinct screams at you to keep moving. Don’t stop, don’t look back. But a sudden crash sounds behind you, reverberating through the stillness. Against your better judgment, you glance over your shoulder.

A flash of orange, like a campfire in a snowdrift.

A fox.

It’s a goddamn fox.

The creature emerges from the shadows like something conjured by the cold itself. It saunters toward the edge of the ice, its delicate paws leaving footfall imprints in the snow. Its head dips as it sniffs at your tracks, and then, as if satisfied, it sits back on its haunches. Its black eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the world around you falls away.

Those eyes… there’s something strange about them. Not just animal intelligence, but something deeper, something ancient. It isn’t curiosity that keeps the fox’s gaze fixed on you. It’s something more knowing, more deliberate. The feeling that washes over you is unnerving and comforting all at once. You’re not being watched by a predator, but by a witness.

Your lips part, your breath hitching in the cold air. “H-hey,” you manage, your voice barely audible over the hammering of your heart. The fox’s ears perk up, twitching at the sound. “You scared me.”

Despite everything, you laugh, a weak, trembling sound that turns to mist before disappearing into the air. The fox tilts its head, the gesture almost human, as though it’s considering you, studying you. Judging you, maybe.

A sharp pang of hunger twists in your stomach, and for a fleeting second, a dark thought flits across your mind. You could shoot it. The fox isn’t far. If you were fast enough, you might actually hit it. Its soft pelt could keep you warm, its lean body might quiet the gnawing ache in your belly.

But as quickly as the thought comes, it’s gone.

You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

Because somehow, this fox doesn’t feel like an animal to you. It feels like something else entirely, less a creature, more a guide. A companion. Like it could respond to you if it wanted to, but is choosing not to.

The two of you hold each other’s gaze, a fragile moment suspended in a snowglobe. You don’t dare blink.

Then, with a flick of its tail, the fox turns and trots off, slipping back into the shadows of the forest as quickly and silently as it appeared. You watch it go, the ache in your heart dropping into something softer, sadder.

“Wait,” you whisper, though you don’t expect it to stop. It doesn’t. It vanishes into the trees, leaving only its trailing tracks behind.

For a second, you feel a pang of longing so pointed it nearly doubles you over. You want it to come back. You want it to stay. You want it to accompany you through this desolation, to be something solid and certain in the face of so much uncertainty.

How pathetic. Are you really so desperate for companionship? You left behind someone perfectly capable of providing that, someone who would have fought tooth and nail to keep you safe.

But no, that wasn’t companionship. Not anymore.

Joel had become a mirror, reflecting back every piece of ugliness you’d buried deep within yourself. The guilt, the regret, the fear… They were etched into his face as plainly as if they’d been carved there. Every glance in his direction was a reminder of the weight you both carried, the weight of the sins you bore, the way they stained your heart and your hands and your soul.

The infection didn’t kill you, but Joel might have. Not with his hands, not with his words, but with the constant suffocating reminder of what had happened to you. Of who you’d become. 

At least out here, you tell yourself, you might find peace in the struggle. At least if you die here, it won’t be with the burden of his sorrow crushing you.

But even as you steel yourself, staring into the forest where the fox disappeared, you feel the strangest flicker of doubt. The fox feels like a sign, though you can’t quite decide what it’s trying to tell you. Keep going? Turn back? Trust yourself?

Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s just telling you to survive.

…

You make it another mile, each step heavier than the last, the throbbing pain in your hand intensifying with every movement. It’s not even just your hand, now it’s your wrist, your arm, your shoulder. The ache is relentless, a drumbeat that matches the pounding of your heart. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, almost moans that escape into the freezing air. The world around you seems to blur, the stark white of the snow and the muted browns of the trees blending together in a haze of exhaustion and pain and the near constant tears that gather along your waterline. 

You cradle your injured hand against your chest, holding it as still as possible, but even the slightest movement sends a fresh wave of agony shooting up your arm. It has to be fractured, maybe even broken. The thought makes you nauseous. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep the rising panic at bay, the taste of copper spreading across your tongue. If you had the energy left, you’d cry, but even that feels like too much effort now.

The snowfall has picked up again, heavy blinding flurries, swallowing the landscape in an endless sea of white. It clings to your hair, your lashes, the frayed edges of your jacket. Your boots crunch through the fresh layer of snow, each step sinking deeper, slower, heavier. You’re trembling now, not just from the cold but from the exhaustion that burns at every fiber of your being.

You collapse next to a tree, your good hand grasping at its rough bark to slow your descent. The texture scrapes against your glove, catching you for a brief moment before your knees hit the ground. Your vision swims, the edges threatening to close in as you fight to stay upright.

You know you can’t stop. Not here. Not now. The cold will take you if you linger too long, its icy fingers already creeping through the holes in your boots and the seams of your jacket. You force yourself to look up, squinting through the curtain of falling snow, searching for something—anything—that might offer salvation.

Something appears between breaks in the unforgiving torrent of snow.

At first, it’s just a shadow, a barely there outline against the endless white. You blink, your breath catching in your throat as you focus on the shape ahead. It’s a structure—a cabin, small and crooked, barely visible through the snowstorm.

Adrenaline surges through you, momentarily numbing the pain as you push yourself to your feet. You stagger forward, each step a battle against the deepening snow and the weakness threatening to drag you down. The cabin feels impossibly far away, the distance stretching endlessly, but you force yourself to move. One foot in front of the other.

When you finally reach the cabin, it’s smaller than you imagined, more like a hunting shack than a proper shelter. The wood is weathered and cracked, the roof sagging under the weight of the snow. A single, warped window stares back at you like a dark, unblinking eye.

You don’t care how it looks. It’s shelter.

Your good hand fumbles for the door, numb fingers slipping on the icy metal of the handle. For a terrifying moment you think it’s locked, but then the door gives way with a loud groan, the entire structure shaking with the force.

The shack is sparse, smelling of damp wood and mildew and stale air. There’s a cot shoved against one wall, its thin mattress stained and water damaged, and a small wood-burning stove in the corner. A pile of logs sits beside it, though they look more like rotted mulch than anything you could get a proper fire going with.

You don’t bother inspecting further. The moment the door is shut behind you, you collapse onto the floor, knees striking the rough planks with a dull thud. The cold is still there, pressing in from all sides, but at least the wind is gone. At least you’re out of the snow.

You crawl up onto the cot, curling into yourself, pulling your injured hand protectively to your body, trembling uncontrollably. The pain is a constant, gnawing presence, but it’s the exhaustion that finally overtakes you.

You close your eyes, your breath hitching as tears slip down your cheeks, freezing almost instantly. You’re safe for now, but only just. You know this reprieve is temporary, that the fight for survival isn’t over. But for the moment, you allow yourself to rest, to let the darkness of sleep pull you under.

…

The cabin is silent except for the groaning creak of the wind pressing against the weathered walls, the muffled howl outside an ever-present reminder of the storm’s fury. You sit slumped against the edge of the cot, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you stare down at your gloved hands cradled in your lap. The pain has grown unbearable, a throbbing, searing ache that pulsates with every beat of your heart.

You’ve been avoiding this moment, clinging to the thought that maybe the gloves were hiding nothing worse than bruises or swelling. But the throbbing pain and the sickening, numb tingling beneath the surface tell you otherwise.

You’re shaking, both from the cold and the dread pooling in your stomach. For a long moment, you just sit there, staring, as if you can will yourself to leave the gloves on forever. You don’t want to know what lies beneath.

But you have to.

Swallowing hard, you grit your teeth and reach for the edge of the left glove with your good hand, the one that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire. The fabric resists at first, frozen stiff, and you have to tug harder, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain shooting through your wrist. You bite down on your lip until you taste blood, forcing yourself to keep going. The glove finally gives way, peeling off with a sticky sound that makes your stomach turn.

What you see makes your breath hitch.

The skin on your fingers and palm is mottled, an unnatural patchwork of grey and purple. The tips of your fingers are swollen and discolored, the edges crusted with something that looks like infection. The sight churns your stomach, bile rising in your throat. Your eyes snap shut, head shaking violently like you can physically dislodge the images filtering through your brain. Your mouth twists, the sourness overwhelming.

The same sickly, mottled skin, the rotting patches of grey spreading across the creature’s body.

"No," you whisper, shaking your head violently, as if you can physically dislodge the thought. "No, no, no."

Your breath comes faster, panic rising as you pull off the other glove, ripping it free with shaking hands despite the pain. The sight is worse. Deep, angry cracks have formed along your knuckles, oozing a thin, watery fluid. The skin around your wrist is raw and inflamed, spreading up your forearm like some insidious poison.

It’s not frostbite. More than a simple injury. This is something far worse.

Your vision strains, the air in the cabin suddenly feeling thin and hot. Your heart pounds in your ears as your mind spirals, memories of the bite slamming into you like a bullet. You remember the fear, the certainty that you were doomed. And now—now, after everything, it feels like you’ve been dragged right back to that moment.

A sob bursts from your throat, raw and guttural. You press your hands against your chest, curling in on yourself as tears spill freely down your cheeks. The pain doesn’t matter anymore. The cold doesn’t matter. All you can think about is the spreading infection, the realization that you’re truly and thoroughly fucked.

You rock back and forth, gasping for breath as the panic grips you fully. It’s not fair. After everything you’ve survived, after all the times you told yourself you’d keep fighting, this is how it ends?

"No," you rasp again, your voice breaking. "This isn’t happening. This isn’t real."

But it is.

You claw at the edges of your jacket with trembling fingers, desperate to find some kind of solution, some reassurance. But the sight of your ruined hands only makes it worse. The infection is spreading. You know it is.

You need help. You need Joel.

…

You don’t know how long you lay there, curled in on yourself like a desiccated husk on the filthy, sagging cot. 

Time has dissolved into a blur of light and shadow, broken only by the rhythmic creaking of the wind pressing against the cabin. The ceiling above is a mess of splintered wood and spiderwebs, and you’ve spent countless hours tracing the cracks and knots in the beams, letting them lull you into a restless stupor.

Your body is betraying you. 

A burning fever has settled into your bones, pulsing through you in waves that make you shiver uncontrollably despite the layers of clothing and the threadbare blanket you’ve draped over yourself. 

The pain in your hand is unbearable now, radiating up your arm like a slow-moving fire, while the cold seeping into your body feels like it’s gnawing at you from the outside.

You fade in and out of consciousness, every moment of wakefulness leaving you worse than before. Your throat is raw, parched from the dry air and the fever that’s baking you from the inside out. 

When you close your eyes, the hallucinations start almost immediately. Stuttering, acidic images flash behind your lids, like a film reel of your darkest days.

You see the creature, its mouth clamping onto your side with unholy force, the teeth tearing through fabric and flesh. 

You see Joel’s face, his eyes wide with horror, his expression twisted with disgust, not at the creature, but at you. His voice echoes, distorted and warped. You’re not worth saving.

The raider’s face flashes next, a gruesome blur of flesh and bone collapsing under the force of your fists, the sticky warmth of his blood spreading over your hands. Only it’s not his blood anymore, now it’s yours. Your hands morph in your mind’s eye, shifting into the grey, mottled claws of the infected. The fingers twitch involuntarily, no longer under your control.

You see your reflection in your fevered mind, but it’s not your face staring back. It’s the face of the creature.

Sunken, unseeing eyes, peeling flesh, teeth bared in a grotesque mockery of a smile.

“No,” you murmur aloud, the sound of your own voice barely audible over the howling wind. “No, that’s not me. That’s not—”

But even as you try to push the visions away, they keep coming, placed there against your will by the hands of a punishing god.

When you wake again, your body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. The effort it takes just to roll onto your side is monumental, every movement sending sharp, jarring pains shooting through you. Your head throbs with every beat of your heart, and the fever leaves you dizzy, untethered. You can’t even muster the strength to sit up, let alone stand.

Your stomach growls weakly, but the thought of eating makes you nauseous. Water. You need water. But the flask in your pack is just out of reach on the floor, and the thought of stretching your arm to grab it feels impossible.

A deep, aching loneliness settles over you, heavier than the fever or the pain. You think of Joel, of the warmth of his presence even when his words were cold. You think of the fox in the snow, its dark eyes peering directly into your very being. You think of your father’s voice telling you stories about Yellowstone, about the geysers and the trees and the place you thought would save you.

But none of it matters now. The infection is spreading. Or maybe it’s pneumonia. Maybe it’s both. Either way, you know your body is losing the fight.

The hallucinations return even with your eyes open now, flickering at the edges of your vision like shadows cast by things you can’t see. The wind twists into laughter, cruel and mocking, and the creaks of the cabin settle like whispered voices.

You press your burning face into the rough blanket, the smell of mildew and rot filling your nose. You try to hold on to something, anything, an image, a memory, a reason to keep fighting, but it all feels so far away.

When the tears come, they sting like acid against your fevered skin, sliding down your temples and soaking into the cot beneath you. You want to scream, but the sound gets caught in your sandpaper throat, leaving only a rasping whimper.

You’re not sure when the visions change. One moment, you’re lost in the fever, drowning in images of terror and despair. The next, the shadows shift, the air stills, and something new takes form.

The oppressive weight in your brain lightens, just a little, enough for you to take a trembling breath. When you open your eyes, the pine walls of the shack have melted away, replaced by open air and brilliant sky dappled with the soft shades of dawn. The horizon stretches out before you, mountains jutting up into the kind of sunrise you haven’t seen in years, the kind that feels like new beginnings.

And there, just beyond the light, is a figure.

Joel.

He stands tall against the sunrise, shrouded by goldenrod and aster. His shoulders are strong, his posture steady, and for the first time in what feels like the entire time you’ve known him, he doesn’t look tired. He doesn’t look broken. He looks alive, vibrant, his face turned toward the rising sun as though he’s found that answer he’s always been looking for.

You call out to him, but your voice is weak, barely a whisper. He turns anyway, his eyes meeting yours. They’re warm, softer than you’ve ever seen them, and the corners of his mouth quirk up in the softest smile, a smile just for you.

You try to step toward him, but your body feels heavy, rooted in place. He doesn’t move either, but his gaze stays locked on yours. There’s something in his expression that fills you with a sense of peace, of understanding. It’s not the guilt or the pain you’re used to seeing in him. He looks like he did on that night when he laid next to you by the campfire. He looks hopeful.

And then, he speaks, his voice low and steady, cutting through the haze of your fever like a blade of light.

“You need to get up.”

I don’t want to get up. I’m tired, so tired. I need to sleep for a while, just need to close my eyes.

“You’ve come too far,” he says, his tone firm but gentle, like he’s coaxing a scared animal out of a dark corner. “You’re stronger than this.”

The vision shifts again, the golden light around him brightening, and suddenly you notice something in the distance behind him. Smoke. A thin column of smoke rising into the sky, light but unmistakable. A fire. A sign of life.

Your heart stutters against your ribs. Civilization. It has to be. There among the goldenrod, distant outlines of rooftops peeking over the horizon.

When you look back at Joel, his figure is fading, dissolving into the light. But his voice lingers, echoing in your mind as if it’s been carved into the very fabric of your being.

“Keep going.”

The vision vanishes, and you’re back in the cabin, the icy wind rattling the broken window and the heat of your fever sending rivulets of sweat down your temples. But something is different. The suffocating despair that had wrapped itself around you like a shroud has loosened its grip.

You don’t hesitate. Your good hand grips the edge of the cot, and with a groan of pain, you haul yourself upright. The world tilts and spins, but you grit your teeth and force yourself to stay steady.

Smoke. There was smoke. 

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real. 

But the memory of it feels tangible, like the warmth of a fire brushing against your skin. And even if it wasn’t real, even if it was just a fever dream, it’s enough.

It’s enough to make you stand.

You wrap your injured hand in the tattered blanket, bite down hard against the pain, and pull your coat tighter around you. Your legs are shaky, your body screaming in protest, but you take one step, then another, your eyes fixed on the door.

You don’t know if you’ll find what you saw in the vision, but you know you have to try. Because you didn’t come this far just to let it end here.

…

You think you might be hallucinating again at first, the way it shimmers at the edge of the horizon, blurry and uncertain, like a half-formed thought.

The snow has finally relented, no longer falling in heavy, fat flakes that choked the world around you. Enough has melted from the ground now that you realize just how much time must have passed since you first stumbled into that hunting cabin. 

Days. 

You’ve been in a sickness induced delirium for days.

But now, just ahead, there’s something impossible to miss. Civilization. The unnatural straight lines of structures, buildings, roads, fences, stark and jarring against the soft curves and chaotic randomness of nature. It’s hazy, barely more than an outline on the horizon, but it’s there.

Something supernatural seems to take over your body, propelling you forward like a puppet controlled by unseen strings. Your legs move on their own, your arms hang limp at your sides. It feels like a poltergeist has entered you, taking over when your willpower alone could no longer sustain you.

You shamble through the barren streets, little more than a ghost yourself, hollowed out and hungry for something, anything, that can bring you back to life.

Food. Medicine. Shelter. That’s all you need. Just enough to keep going for one more day, to stave off the gnawing sickness in your brain and the fire raging in your wrist. And then you’ll be okay.

And then what?

The thought lingers in the back of your mind, persistent as the pain in your body, but you shove it aside. Survival first. Plans later.

You reach the first building, the hollowed-out remains of what used to be a gas station. Its roof has caved in, beams of rusted metal jutting out at sharp angles, a skeleton picked clean by time and weather. Inside, there’s nothing of value, just rotting shelves and scattered debris, evidence that others have long since scavenged this place for anything useful.

As you turn to leave, something on the brick wall outside catches your eye. At first, it’s just a splash of color against the drab, weathered backdrop, but as you move closer, it comes into focus. A spray-painted logo of some kind.

It’s simple but striking, lines curving into the rough outline of a bird, or maybe a butterfly.

There’s something strange about it, something that tugs at the edge of your memory, though you can’t quite place why. It doesn’t look like graffiti, there’s no reckless chaos in its design. It’s deliberate, purposeful, like a marker left behind by someone who wanted it to be found.

A whisper of hope stirs in you. Flickering and foolish, but it’s there, like a spark. Whoever painted this was here once. Maybe they’re still nearby. Maybe this symbol means something.

A flutter of curiosity rises in your belly, but it’s drowned out by the heavier weight of exhaustion and hunger. You can’t afford to waste energy on questions you don’t have the strength to answer.

It’s only a little longer before your salvation appears. 

Backlit by the sinking sun, it looks like something out of a dream, practically glowing in the soft amber light. The faded sign above the building feels like a benediction, like a gift from some benevolent force you’re grateful to but unfamiliar with.

TERRANCE’S PHARMACY

Fresh tears stream down your face, this time not born of pain or hopelessness but pure, unadulterated relief. You can barely believe your eyes, can hardly trust that it’s real. For a moment, you just stand there, swaying slightly, letting the painful relief of hope fill the hollow, aching cavity inside you.

You force yourself forward, biting back the sobs that threaten to bubble up, knowing they’ll only make noise. You don’t have the strength for stealth, but you still do your best to move with caution, dragging yourself to the front doors.

Inside, the store is eerily still, the kind of silence that makes your skin prickle. Dust motes float lazily in the fading light that filters through the grimy windows, and the air smells of dirt and something rotten.

You scan the area quickly, your gaze catching on the far back corner of the store, where part of the floor has collapsed into the basement. Your instincts scream to avoid that area, the gaping hole and endless darkness radiating unease.

Instead, you make your way toward the pharmacy counter at the back, separated from the rest of the store by a low desk and a glass partition. The desk is cluttered with long-forgotten receipts and empty pill bottles, but it’s easy enough to climb over, though your weak, jerky movements make it anything but graceful.

You overcorrect your balance to avoid jostling your injured wrist, and your shoulder bumps into a precariously leaning shelf. The sound of bottles rattling against one another sends a jolt of panic through you, but you steady the shelf before it can crash down.

On the other side, you take a moment to catch your breath, leaning heavily against the desk. Your legs feel like lead, but the sight of the shelves filled with medications draws you forward.

You can’t believe how untouched it all looks. So much of the stock is still here. Bottles of pills, rows of bandages, antiseptic sprays. It’s more than you’d dared to hope for. Trembling, you reach for a bottle, your fingertips brushing the cool plastic just as—

Click.

You freeze.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound slithers up your spine, piercing, sickening. It’s not your fever. It’s not your imagination.

Behind you, from the far corner where the floor has given way, comes the unmistakable sound of movement. Rocks tumbling. Debris shifting.

Your blood runs cold.

Slowly, painfully, you turn your head, just enough to glance over your shoulder.

From the dark hole in the floor, something emerges. At first, it’s just a twisted limb clawing its way upward, fungus-laden skin stretched tight over sinewy muscle. Then another limb. And then the head.

Its face is a twisted spray of fungal plates, splitting open where a human face should be. Its body moves with an unnatural twitchiness as it hauls itself free from the basement rubble.

You don’t breathe.

The clicker lurches forward, staggering into the open space in front of the pharmacy. The distance between you and it is barely a handful of feet now, separated only by the thin, grimy pane of glass in the partition.

It stops, tilting its head as though it’s listening, the horrific clicking noise filling the air between you.

You’re frozen. Frozen in place, frozen in fear. Your lungs scream for air, but you can’t inhale, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at the creature standing before you.

Time stills.

You feel unreal.

Are you really that different from them? 

They only hunger, only destroy.

They were all once humans, with lives and loves and needs. 

Until one moment changed everything. One bite. One infection. One thing that stripped away their humanity and turned them into this. A creature distorted, corrupted, and polluted by something they couldn’t control, didn’t ever want.

Did the clicker in front of you feel the same pain when it was first bit? Did it feel the same all-encompassing dread you did that day on the river, when the stalker’s mouth latched onto you and took everything from you? Did it feel that same weight of doom settling in its chest?

Did it have someone to hold it as it spoke its final words?

Was it someone it loved?

Your chest constricts as you think, No. They must not have. Otherwise, they would’ve been given mercy. A bullet to the head, a quick and kind release.

This person, whoever they once were, met their end alone.

And as you stand there, silent and still, you look, really look, at the creature in front of you. 

You force your gaze upon it, to confront what it is. Its body contorts unnaturally, each jerking movement a painful reminder of how far it has fallen from its humanity. The clicks it makes come from someplace deep inside, some dark and cavernous hollow that the infection has carved out. Its skull, if you can even call it that anymore, has burst open into the grotesque bloom of fungal growth, a corpse flower of decay and death.

It’s horrific. Monstrous.

And yet…

There’s something there, still. Something buried beneath rubble and decay, but trying to force its way out. 

Almost human.

Its jerky movements mirror yours from earlier. The way you stumbled through the snow, your body battered and weakened, propelled forward by sheer willpower. The way you pushed forward with single-minded determination, even when every step felt like it might be your last.

In this moment, you are the little rabbit, aren’t you? Skin and bones. Prey. Your every movement a betrayal of your location, a signal to predators that you are weak, vulnerable.

Just like the rabbit, your bones won’t satiate this beast. Its hunt for you does nothing but prolong its suffering.

It’s all just such a waste.

It stops its movements for a moment, its head turning to face you with sudden stillness. For a moment, it seems to see you. You hold your breath, but then another jerk has what’s left of its face turning away from you, unseeing.

The realization settles over you like the weight of heavy snowfall.

You’re not the rabbit.

You’re the fox.

The clicker stands before you, its twisted form a mockery of what it once was. The hunger radiating from it is palpable, like feral heat from a fire. It could kill you in an instant, there’s no denying that, immune or not. Its jerky movements, its decayed, destructed face, the guttural clicks that echo from deep within its chest, all of it reminds you of how close you stand to death.

But you don’t shrink away. You witness it.

You meet it, not with fear, but with understanding. There’s a kinship there, one you cannot deny. You’ve both suffered. You’ve both been touched by the same monstrous hand. You’ve both been changed, in ways neither of you ever asked for.

But you are not the same.

Where it is hollow, you are full. Where it is driven by hunger, you are driven by something deeper, something that cannot be infected or corroded. Intelligence. Strength. Humanity.

You are not here to devour.

You are here to live.

You want to see another sunrise, to watch the pastel hues of dawn spill across the sky. You want to feel the weightlessness of floating in cool, clean water, the way it cradles you, lifts you, reminds you what it feels like to be light. You want to stand on sun-warmed earth, to look out at a land that has always been mythical to you, made real by your own will to survive.

And Joel.

You want to feel his lips on yours. Even if just for a moment. Even if only once.

That’s the difference.

You want.

The clicker doesn’t want. It only needs. Needs to feed. Needs to destroy. It is a hollow shell, stripped of its humanity, its soul long devoured by the infection.

But you are still whole. Fractured, perhaps. Scarred, certainly. But whole.

The clicker twitches, its head jerking toward the sound of a creak from outside the store. Its attention shifts, giving you a chance to move, to run, to survive.

You don’t hesitate.

Because you are not the rabbit.

You are the fox.

But then a sound cuts through the suffocating silence like a blade.

The crack of a gunshot.

Echoing. Unmistakable.

Before you can react, the clicker’s head snaps back, a spray of dark gore splattering against the glass, streaking down like raindrops on a windowpane. It collapses in an instant, its jerking body crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Your heart slams against your ribs, but you don’t have time to process. Don’t have time to think.

Your legs falter beneath you as the world tilts. The edges of your vision blur, darkening, narrowing.

The last thing you see is the shattered remains of the clicker’s skull, and the glass now smeared red.

And then, nothing.

A/N: The support I've received for this fic so far has blown my mind and made my heart swell ten sizes. I am far from the biggest or best fanfic writer on here but I just feel like a million bucks when I'm lucky enough to receive the interactions I do on here!! And I just wanted to let everyone know the next chapter will be JOEL'S POV so we'll get a peek into that little freak's damaged mind <33 so excited

Taglist: @javierpenaispunk @eviispunk

[gullemec]

I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3

[gullemec]

reblog to thank ur mutuals for providing enrichment to ur enclosure

[gullemec]

life tip: sometimes there's a bird outside & you can look at it

[gullemec]

looks like i’m goin to paris !

[gullemec]

One of Them

Bitten - Part VI

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You did this to protect him, to save his life like he's saved yours more times than you can count. But with every step toward salvation you find yourself slipping further into darkness.

Warnings: canon-typical gore, description of injury/sickness/infection, knife use, angst as always!, reader is experiencing some pretty significant PTSD, hunting of animals

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 9.2k (someone help me!!)

What started as rain quickly turns to sleet, then snow. 

Gone is the verdant lushness of Laurel. The first, tentative claws of winter you’d felt up in the mountains, back when you and Joel were holed up in that old cabin, have now spread their icy grip across the rest of Montana. The wind blows snowflakes like shards of glass, each gust stinging your face and hands.

The world around you seems to transform with every mile, growing more hostile and less familiar.

But you press on, following the call of Yellowstone, letting the dream of it pull you forward like a distant light in the darkness. 

The decision to go there had come as naturally as breathing, almost simultaneous with the one to leave Joel behind. If you were going to move forward alone, it had to be toward something. And for you, that something had always been Yellowstone.

Ever since you were a little girl, Yellowstone had carved out a space in your mind as a place of wonder, a mythical land where the earth itself breathed and churned, alive with color and movement. Your dad used to tell you stories about his time working there in the eighties, planting trees and working trails. He’d talk about the geysers, how Old Faithful erupted like clockwork, sending towers of steam and water high into the air. He’d describe the bubbling hot springs, ringed with  turquoise, amber, and rust, the sprawling meadows filled with wildflowers in the summer.

But what stayed with you the most were the moments he described at dawn, when the mist from the geysers clung to the ground and rose in ghostly tendrils, shrouding the landscape in an ethereal haze. 

“It’s like stepping into another world,” he’d said, his voice filled with a reverence you rarely heard from him. “Like a fantasy book come to life.”

Those stories had planted a seed in you, a yearning that only grew stronger after the world fell apart. In the early, bleak days of the outbreak, when you first found yourself in the confines of a QZ, you’d saved up ration cards for months to buy a battered old National Geographic magazine from the supply store. Its pages were torn and creased, but the photos of Yellowstone still seemed to leap off the paper, bursting with color and life.

You’d carefully cut out the images, a bison grazing against a backdrop of golden grasslands, the jagged peaks of the Tetons reflected in glassy lakes, the vibrant pools of steaming water that looked like cracked open geodes. You’d pinned them to the wall above your cot, and on the darkest nights, when the QZ felt like a tomb, you’d stare at those pictures and let them carry you away.

And now, as you press on through the biting cold, you remind yourself that you’re finally getting closer to the place that had sustained you all those years. Like a mantra, you recite the whispers you’d heard about a community in Wyoming, a group of survivors carving out a life in the midst of all this chaos.

When you and Joel had sat at his dining table that night back in Boston, sketching out the idea of Wyoming as a destination, it had felt like a distant dream, a place that might exist only in your imagination. But now, feeling like you’re on the precipice, you allow yourself to believe it’s real. That this place, this beautiful, untamed wilderness, is real.

But you’re not there yet.

Your tattered map tells you you’ve got at least another few days before you hit the Wyoming border, a couple more before you land in Yellowstone proper.

That is, if the weather lets up.

You spend your first night without Joel as a shivering, miserable wreck, tucked into your sleeping bag, upright against a tree. The pistol trembles in your hands, gripped tightly despite the pain radiating through your swollen knuckles.Your breath escapes in shallow puffs of mist, but even they are stolen away by the merciless wind. The snow offers no reprieve, blanketing the world in white silence.

The battered tarp you’d rigged as a makeshift lean-to does little to protect you. Snow drifts through the gaps, coating your sleeping bag and seeping into the fabric until the damp sews itself into you like a second skin. Frost gathers on your eyelashes, weighing them down until you’re forced to close your eyes. Even then, sleep doesn’t come easily. It’s restless and fragmented, interrupted by the cold biting at your face and the faraway cracks of branches snapping in the wind. Every sound makes your grip tighten on the pistol, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

When the grey light of dawn finally breaks through the trees, it brings no warmth, no comfort. You drag yourself out of the half-frozen cocoon of your sleeping bag, your muscles stiff and aching, your breath rasping in the icy air. You feel brittle, like you might shatter with the slightest wrong move.

The entire day is spent trudging determinedly through the forest that runs parallel to the highway. 

One foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other. If you focus on the movement maybe you won’t think so much about the pain or the cold or the fear.

You know better than to walk the road itself, too exposed, too easy to be spotted by someone, or something. But you also know better than to stray too far from it. You don’t have anyone to guide you now, to pull you back if you wander too far. The forest is a maze made of endless twisting trees and layers of snow to mask any recognizable feature, designed to confuse you and then swallow you whole.

The pain in your side, a dull ache that had been your constant companion, has finally subsided, but it’s been replaced by something worse. Your torn knuckles throb with something skirting the edge of agony. You keep your thick leather gloves on as much as possible, partly to ward off the brutal cold, but mostly because taking them off tears at the scabs forming on your knuckles. Every time you pull them back on, the gloves catch on the wounds, reopening them and leaving dark smears of blood on the inside of the leather. 

By the second morning, hunger gnaws at your stomach, refusing to be ignored. It twists and pulls until you’re doubled over, clutching your middle in an attempt to ease the pain. It doesn’t work. The meager scraps of food you’d brought with you from Joel’s stash are long gone, and you haven’t come across a single sign of civilization since leaving Laurel. Not a house, not an old gas station, not even a wrecked car to scavenge.

You’re going to have to hunt.

The thought feels daunting. You’ve hunted with Joel before, sure, but it was always under his watchful eye. He was the one who spotted the tracks, who showed you how to walk silently through the brush, who taught you where to aim so the animal didn’t suffer. Without him, the task feels impossibly large.

You force your body to still, breathing to even, as you scan the forest for any sign of movement. Tracks in the snow, a flash of fur through the trees, the distant rustle of branches, anything that might lead you to your next meal. The cold gnaws at your resolve, but the hunger cuts deeper. 

You have no choice. This was the decision you made.

This is what survival looks like now.

The forest is eerily quiet as you move, the only sounds the crunch of your boots on the snow and the quickened rasp of your breath. Your knuckles throb steadily, each pulse a sharp reminder of your fragility. The hunger twisting in your belly is an animal all its own now, clawing at you with feral insistence.

You nearly give up when you see it.

A flash of movement in the snow ahead. Your heart stutters, and you freeze mid-step, eyes scanning the trees until you see it again. A rabbit, its fur blending seamlessly with the snow except for the black tips of its ears. It’s small, barely more than a scrap of fur and bones, but it’s food.

You hold your breath, crouching low, every muscle in your body screaming at you to move, to act. Your pistol feels heavy and awkward in your trembling hand, the pain in your knuckles flaring as you adjust your grip. You don’t trust yourself to aim properly, not with how badly your hands are shaking, so you opt for your blade instead.

Slowly, with as much care as you can muster, you creep forward, each step deliberate and measured. The rabbit twitches, its ears perking up, and you freeze again, willing yourself to be invisible. For a moment, it seems to work. The rabbit lowers its head, nibbling at something buried beneath the snow.

Then you step on a twig.

The crack is deafening in the stillness, and the rabbit bolts. Panic surges through you, and without thinking, you lunge after it, your knife clutched tightly in your injured hand. Your body protests every movement, the cold and exhaustion weighing you down, but desperation propels you forward.

The chase is clumsy, messy. You trip over roots hidden beneath the snow, your already sore  knees slamming into the frozen ground. The rabbit zigzags through the trees, and you quickly clamber to follow, your breath coming in ragged gasps that burn your throat.

Finally, you get close enough to strike. You hurl yourself at the rabbit, your knife slicing through the air, and by some miracle, or sheer luck, you connect. The blade catches its side, and the rabbit lets out a high-pitched squeal before collapsing into the snow.

You collapse beside it, your lungs heaving as you clutch the rabbit with trembling hands. Blood seeps into the pristine snow, vivid red against the white, and you realize you’re crying. Tears stream down your face, hot against your cold skin. But you don’t have the luxury of letting yourself feel anything right now.

With numb fingers, you go about the grim task of dressing the rabbit. Your hands are clumsy, the pain in your knuckles making the process even more difficult than it already is. Blood coats your skin, and you can barely feel your fingers by the time you’re done.

The next challenge is starting a fire. You find a small, sheltered spot beneath a tree and gather what little dry wood you can. Your matches are damp from the snow, and it takes several tries before you manage to get even the tiniest flame to catch. You shield it with your body, coaxing it to grow with trembling hands and desperate prayers.

Eventually, the fire flickers to life, feeble and pathetic but enough. You cook the rabbit over the flames, the meat crackling and spitting as it roasts. The smell makes your stomach twist in anticipation, but when you finally eat, the meat is tough and stringy, barely enough to take the edge off your hunger.

You sit there, staring at the meager remains of your meal, the firelight casting flickering shadows on the snow around you. 

The misery of it all—your injuries, your exhaustion, your hunger, your utter fucking loneliness—erupts inside you. The tears come again, hot and bitter, spilling down your cheeks only to freeze against your skin in the brutal cold.

You press your hands to your face, your gloves sticky with blood and grime, and keen into the night. The fire crackles softly, the only accompaniment to your wailing in the vast, empty wilderness. The world feels impossibly big, and you feel impossibly small, and you’re tired, and you’re scared.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, drawing in a shaky breath. The fire is already starting to dwindle, and you know you need to keep moving. 

The forest stretches endlessly ahead, and the hazy pools of Yellowstone feel farther away than ever.

…

Two more days pass in a haze of exhaustion and hunger. 

You manage to catch another rabbit and a squirrel, but the meager meat does little to sustain you. They’re enough to stave off starvation, but just barely. Each bite only reminds you of how hollow you’ve become, how much your body is running on empty.

The snowfall has ceased, but the cold has settled into your bones, a chill so deep it feels like it’s seeping into your soul. Your feet are completely numb now. You think about the blisters you must have by now, bursting and raw, but the absence of sensation feels like a strange mercy. At least you don’t have to feel that pain too.

You don’t stop to rest much anymore, partly because you can’t find anywhere that feels safe, and partly because you know that if you stop, it’ll be harder to start again. Every step is a battle against the beast of your hunger, the hollow ache it’s placed in your head, but you press forward because what other choice do you have?

But no matter how much distance you put between yourself and Laurel, no matter how determined you are to reach Yellowstone, one thought lingers in your mind like a shadow you can’t outrun.

Joel.

For all the grief he caused you in those last few weeks together, the thought of him waking up to find you gone feels like a knife twisting in your belly. You can’t stop playing it over in your head. Joel calling your name, his voice low and rough, searching every corner of that house. His confusion shifting into realization as he finds his flannel neatly folded where you left it.

Would he understand what you meant by leaving it? Would he take it as the olive branch you’d intended, a gesture of goodwill to say, This isn’t your fault, and I don’t hate you? 

Or would he see it as a final act of cruelty, proof that you couldn’t stomach his rough version of care anymore? That you were weak and Tess was right and he never should have gotten involved with you in the first place?

For everything he was, for all his flaws, he had done so much for you. He’d kept you alive when you didn’t think you could make it on your own. He’d fought for you, bled for you, and carried the weight of so much more than just your survival.

If it weren’t for him, you’d still be in the Boston QZ, shoveling corpses for ration cards, sleeping on that broken cot that gave you sores on your back.

If it weren’t for him, you’d have died a dozen times over. Out here in this wilderness, he was the reason you’d survived this long. Joel was unshakable, a relentless force of nature when it came to survival. He wasn’t perfect, but he was strong in a way you couldn’t be, in a way that made it easier for you to stay alive.

And yet, if it weren’t for him, maybe that stalker would’ve just killed you. Maybe it would’ve ended your suffering right there, and then you wouldn’t be stuck in this limbo, your body and mind a ticking time bomb of destruction.

How thankful can you really be?

The thought stings like ice on an open wound. You shove it down, try to stuff it into the same dark corner of your mind where you’ve buried all the other jagged truths you can’t bear to face right now.

You left for him.

You tell yourself that again and again, trying to steady the cracks in your resolve. Maybe Joel can’t see it now. Hell, maybe he’ll never see it. But you did this for him.

You couldn’t stay. Not when every breath, every scrape, every shared glance felt like a reminder of what had happened. Not when the bite on your side marked you as something other than human, as a danger to him. Joel carried enough weight on his shoulders; he didn’t need the burden of whatever half-human thing you’ve become.

You left because you knew him. You knew the way his guilt would eat at him, how he’d blame himself for not being faster, not being stronger, not keeping you safe. You couldn’t let him carry that. You wouldn’t.

This was your way of protecting him. From the guilt, from the fallout, from the danger of you.

Your feet keep moving, the rhythm of your steps hollow and mechanical. You tell yourself, over and over, that this is what he deserves. 

A chance to move on without you. To find peace. To survive.

But the thought doesn’t comfort you like you hoped it would. It hangs heavy in your gut, like a weight you can’t shake.

…

You’re damn near the Wyoming border when you come upon a large culvert that drains into a river. The road that once crossed over it is no more, collapsed into a jagged mess of twisted metal and crumbled asphalt. The remnants of the guardrails jut out like rusted teeth, a wide, gaping maw just waiting to give you tetanus.

The water streaming out of the culvert below is mostly frozen, the sheet of ice broken only by veins of liquid glimmering underneath. You step back to take it all in, scanning for another way across. Climbing over the wreckage isn’t an option. The steep incline and precarious slabs of concrete look like a death trap, and you’re certain that one wrong step would send you tumbling into the icy river, or straight onto the twisted shards of guardrail.

Your eyes flit around, desperate for another way through. Doubling back isn’t viable. You already took a detour earlier to avoid a collapsed bridge, and it would be hours before you could loop back to even try to find another crossing. Your stomach twists at the thought of wasting precious time and energy in the biting cold.

But the culvert itself looks just as dangerous. The ice is thin in some places, thick in others, uneven and unpredictable. You hesitate at the edge, the memory of Joel cracking through the ice of that mountain stream flashing in your mind. That stream had been small, shallow enough to wade through with some discomfort, but this culvert empties into a river, the water beneath its frozen surface moving sluggishly but steadily. If you broke through here, you'd be soaking wet up to your waist at least. The last thing you need right now is hypothermia or frostbite. 

You stand there for a moment, gnawing on your lip, your breath visible in the freezing air as it leaves you in quick puffs. Every instinct screams at you to turn back, to find another way, no matter how long it takes. But time feels like an enemy too now, the sinking sun plunging you deeper into that early winter darkness.

Crack!

The unmistakable sound of branches snapping behind you.

You whirl around, heart thudding wildly in your chest. The forest is thick and dark, its shadows hiding whatever, or whoever, might be lurking within. Another crack echoes through the stillness, closer this time, and your breath hitches. You can’t see anything, but the hair on the back of your neck stands on end.

Not again.

Visions of gnashing teeth and mottled skin and the flurry of bloody hands flash through your brain. 

And just like that your decision is made for you.

Without thinking, you turn back to the culvert and step onto the ice, your boots crunching against its surface. The slickness beneath your feet immediately makes you regret your choice, but you press on, moving as quickly and carefully as you can. Behind you, the movement grows louder, closer, the crunch of snow and snapping of branches becoming more frantic, as if whatever is out there knows you’re trying to escape.

Panic overtakes caution. You try to quicken your pace, your boots sliding over the uneven ice. Your foot catches on a patch of ice glazed with a sheen of water, and you’re down before you can stop yourself. You crash hard onto the ice, your right side taking the brunt of the impact. Pain shoots through your right wrist, biting and white-hot, and you let out a strangled cry as your vision blurs with tears.

In the flurry of movement, you don’t even notice the map slipping out of your hand until you see it sliding across the ice, its edges dipping into a crack where water breaks the surface. You scramble for it, but your gloves are half frozen with snowmelt and blood, and your fingers don’t move fast enough. The map is soaked as soon as it hits water, the ink running in smeared, illegible streaks as it drifts just out of reach.

“No,” you choke out, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own labored breathing.

Your ribs heave as you clutch your throbbing hand to your chest, trying to force yourself to think, to focus. The sounds of the forest behind you seem to grow closer, and the ice beneath you groans ominously. You can’t stay here.

Biting down on your lip to stifle a cry, you use your left hand to push yourself upright, every movement sending waves of pain radiating through your right hand and up your arm. You leave the ruined map where it is, just a useless wad of wet paper now, and crawl the rest of the way across the ice.

When you finally reach the solid ground on the other side, you keel over onto your side, ears ringing, vision swimming. For a moment, you can only lie there, your cheek pressed to the frozen earth, the ache in your limbs merging with the cold until they’re one and the same. Behind you, the ice creaks and shifts, as if mocking you for barely making it across. 

You clutch your injured hand to your chest, the screaming, throbbing pain growing unbearable.. You force yourself upright, legs trembling beneath you as you stumble forward. Every instinct screams at you to keep moving. Don’t stop, don’t look back. But a sudden crash sounds behind you, reverberating through the stillness. Against your better judgment, you glance over your shoulder.

A flash of orange, like a campfire in a snowdrift.

A fox.

It’s a goddamn fox.

The creature emerges from the shadows like something conjured by the cold itself. It saunters toward the edge of the ice, its delicate paws leaving footfall imprints in the snow. Its head dips as it sniffs at your tracks, and then, as if satisfied, it sits back on its haunches. Its black eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the world around you falls away.

Those eyes… there’s something strange about them. Not just animal intelligence, but something deeper, something ancient. It isn’t curiosity that keeps the fox’s gaze fixed on you. It’s something more knowing, more deliberate. The feeling that washes over you is unnerving and comforting all at once. You’re not being watched by a predator, but by a witness.

Your lips part, your breath hitching in the cold air. “H-hey,” you manage, your voice barely audible over the hammering of your heart. The fox’s ears perk up, twitching at the sound. “You scared me.”

Despite everything, you laugh, a weak, trembling sound that turns to mist before disappearing into the air. The fox tilts its head, the gesture almost human, as though it’s considering you, studying you. Judging you, maybe.

A sharp pang of hunger twists in your stomach, and for a fleeting second, a dark thought flits across your mind. You could shoot it. The fox isn’t far. If you were fast enough, you might actually hit it. Its soft pelt could keep you warm, its lean body might quiet the gnawing ache in your belly.

But as quickly as the thought comes, it’s gone.

You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

Because somehow, this fox doesn’t feel like an animal to you. It feels like something else entirely, less a creature, more a guide. A companion. Like it could respond to you if it wanted to, but is choosing not to.

The two of you hold each other’s gaze, a fragile moment suspended in a snowglobe. You don’t dare blink.

Then, with a flick of its tail, the fox turns and trots off, slipping back into the shadows of the forest as quickly and silently as it appeared. You watch it go, the ache in your heart dropping into something softer, sadder.

“Wait,” you whisper, though you don’t expect it to stop. It doesn’t. It vanishes into the trees, leaving only its trailing tracks behind.

For a second, you feel a pang of longing so pointed it nearly doubles you over. You want it to come back. You want it to stay. You want it to accompany you through this desolation, to be something solid and certain in the face of so much uncertainty.

How pathetic. Are you really so desperate for companionship? You left behind someone perfectly capable of providing that, someone who would have fought tooth and nail to keep you safe.

But no, that wasn’t companionship. Not anymore.

Joel had become a mirror, reflecting back every piece of ugliness you’d buried deep within yourself. The guilt, the regret, the fear… They were etched into his face as plainly as if they’d been carved there. Every glance in his direction was a reminder of the weight you both carried, the weight of the sins you bore, the way they stained your heart and your hands and your soul.

The infection didn’t kill you, but Joel might have. Not with his hands, not with his words, but with the constant suffocating reminder of what had happened to you. Of who you’d become. 

At least out here, you tell yourself, you might find peace in the struggle. At least if you die here, it won’t be with the burden of his sorrow crushing you.

But even as you steel yourself, staring into the forest where the fox disappeared, you feel the strangest flicker of doubt. The fox feels like a sign, though you can’t quite decide what it’s trying to tell you. Keep going? Turn back? Trust yourself?

Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s just telling you to survive.

…

You make it another mile, each step heavier than the last, the throbbing pain in your hand intensifying with every movement. It’s not even just your hand, now it’s your wrist, your arm, your shoulder. The ache is relentless, a drumbeat that matches the pounding of your heart. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, almost moans that escape into the freezing air. The world around you seems to blur, the stark white of the snow and the muted browns of the trees blending together in a haze of exhaustion and pain and the near constant tears that gather along your waterline. 

You cradle your injured hand against your chest, holding it as still as possible, but even the slightest movement sends a fresh wave of agony shooting up your arm. It has to be fractured, maybe even broken. The thought makes you nauseous. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep the rising panic at bay, the taste of copper spreading across your tongue. If you had the energy left, you’d cry, but even that feels like too much effort now.

The snowfall has picked up again, heavy blinding flurries, swallowing the landscape in an endless sea of white. It clings to your hair, your lashes, the frayed edges of your jacket. Your boots crunch through the fresh layer of snow, each step sinking deeper, slower, heavier. You’re trembling now, not just from the cold but from the exhaustion that burns at every fiber of your being.

You collapse next to a tree, your good hand grasping at its rough bark to slow your descent. The texture scrapes against your glove, catching you for a brief moment before your knees hit the ground. Your vision swims, the edges threatening to close in as you fight to stay upright.

You know you can’t stop. Not here. Not now. The cold will take you if you linger too long, its icy fingers already creeping through the holes in your boots and the seams of your jacket. You force yourself to look up, squinting through the curtain of falling snow, searching for something—anything—that might offer salvation.

Something appears between breaks in the unforgiving torrent of snow.

At first, it’s just a shadow, a barely there outline against the endless white. You blink, your breath catching in your throat as you focus on the shape ahead. It’s a structure—a cabin, small and crooked, barely visible through the snowstorm.

Adrenaline surges through you, momentarily numbing the pain as you push yourself to your feet. You stagger forward, each step a battle against the deepening snow and the weakness threatening to drag you down. The cabin feels impossibly far away, the distance stretching endlessly, but you force yourself to move. One foot in front of the other.

When you finally reach the cabin, it’s smaller than you imagined, more like a hunting shack than a proper shelter. The wood is weathered and cracked, the roof sagging under the weight of the snow. A single, warped window stares back at you like a dark, unblinking eye.

You don’t care how it looks. It’s shelter.

Your good hand fumbles for the door, numb fingers slipping on the icy metal of the handle. For a terrifying moment you think it’s locked, but then the door gives way with a loud groan, the entire structure shaking with the force.

The shack is sparse, smelling of damp wood and mildew and stale air. There’s a cot shoved against one wall, its thin mattress stained and water damaged, and a small wood-burning stove in the corner. A pile of logs sits beside it, though they look more like rotted mulch than anything you could get a proper fire going with.

You don’t bother inspecting further. The moment the door is shut behind you, you collapse onto the floor, knees striking the rough planks with a dull thud. The cold is still there, pressing in from all sides, but at least the wind is gone. At least you’re out of the snow.

You crawl up onto the cot, curling into yourself, pulling your injured hand protectively to your body, trembling uncontrollably. The pain is a constant, gnawing presence, but it’s the exhaustion that finally overtakes you.

You close your eyes, your breath hitching as tears slip down your cheeks, freezing almost instantly. You’re safe for now, but only just. You know this reprieve is temporary, that the fight for survival isn’t over. But for the moment, you allow yourself to rest, to let the darkness of sleep pull you under.

…

The cabin is silent except for the groaning creak of the wind pressing against the weathered walls, the muffled howl outside an ever-present reminder of the storm’s fury. You sit slumped against the edge of the cot, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you stare down at your gloved hands cradled in your lap. The pain has grown unbearable, a throbbing, searing ache that pulsates with every beat of your heart.

You’ve been avoiding this moment, clinging to the thought that maybe the gloves were hiding nothing worse than bruises or swelling. But the throbbing pain and the sickening, numb tingling beneath the surface tell you otherwise.

You’re shaking, both from the cold and the dread pooling in your stomach. For a long moment, you just sit there, staring, as if you can will yourself to leave the gloves on forever. You don’t want to know what lies beneath.

But you have to.

Swallowing hard, you grit your teeth and reach for the edge of the left glove with your good hand, the one that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire. The fabric resists at first, frozen stiff, and you have to tug harder, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain shooting through your wrist. You bite down on your lip until you taste blood, forcing yourself to keep going. The glove finally gives way, peeling off with a sticky sound that makes your stomach turn.

What you see makes your breath hitch.

The skin on your fingers and palm is mottled, an unnatural patchwork of grey and purple. The tips of your fingers are swollen and discolored, the edges crusted with something that looks like infection. The sight churns your stomach, bile rising in your throat. Your eyes snap shut, head shaking violently like you can physically dislodge the images filtering through your brain. Your mouth twists, the sourness overwhelming.

The same sickly, mottled skin, the rotting patches of grey spreading across the creature’s body.

"No," you whisper, shaking your head violently, as if you can physically dislodge the thought. "No, no, no."

Your breath comes faster, panic rising as you pull off the other glove, ripping it free with shaking hands despite the pain. The sight is worse. Deep, angry cracks have formed along your knuckles, oozing a thin, watery fluid. The skin around your wrist is raw and inflamed, spreading up your forearm like some insidious poison.

It’s not frostbite. More than a simple injury. This is something far worse.

Your vision strains, the air in the cabin suddenly feeling thin and hot. Your heart pounds in your ears as your mind spirals, memories of the bite slamming into you like a bullet. You remember the fear, the certainty that you were doomed. And now—now, after everything, it feels like you’ve been dragged right back to that moment.

A sob bursts from your throat, raw and guttural. You press your hands against your chest, curling in on yourself as tears spill freely down your cheeks. The pain doesn’t matter anymore. The cold doesn’t matter. All you can think about is the spreading infection, the realization that you’re truly and thoroughly fucked.

You rock back and forth, gasping for breath as the panic grips you fully. It’s not fair. After everything you’ve survived, after all the times you told yourself you’d keep fighting, this is how it ends?

"No," you rasp again, your voice breaking. "This isn’t happening. This isn’t real."

But it is.

You claw at the edges of your jacket with trembling fingers, desperate to find some kind of solution, some reassurance. But the sight of your ruined hands only makes it worse. The infection is spreading. You know it is.

You need help. You need Joel.

…

You don’t know how long you lay there, curled in on yourself like a desiccated husk on the filthy, sagging cot. 

Time has dissolved into a blur of light and shadow, broken only by the rhythmic creaking of the wind pressing against the cabin. The ceiling above is a mess of splintered wood and spiderwebs, and you’ve spent countless hours tracing the cracks and knots in the beams, letting them lull you into a restless stupor.

Your body is betraying you. 

A burning fever has settled into your bones, pulsing through you in waves that make you shiver uncontrollably despite the layers of clothing and the threadbare blanket you’ve draped over yourself. 

The pain in your hand is unbearable now, radiating up your arm like a slow-moving fire, while the cold seeping into your body feels like it’s gnawing at you from the outside.

You fade in and out of consciousness, every moment of wakefulness leaving you worse than before. Your throat is raw, parched from the dry air and the fever that’s baking you from the inside out. 

When you close your eyes, the hallucinations start almost immediately. Stuttering, acidic images flash behind your lids, like a film reel of your darkest days.

You see the creature, its mouth clamping onto your side with unholy force, the teeth tearing through fabric and flesh. 

You see Joel’s face, his eyes wide with horror, his expression twisted with disgust, not at the creature, but at you. His voice echoes, distorted and warped. You’re not worth saving.

The raider’s face flashes next, a gruesome blur of flesh and bone collapsing under the force of your fists, the sticky warmth of his blood spreading over your hands. Only it’s not his blood anymore, now it’s yours. Your hands morph in your mind’s eye, shifting into the grey, mottled claws of the infected. The fingers twitch involuntarily, no longer under your control.

You see your reflection in your fevered mind, but it’s not your face staring back. It’s the face of the creature.

Sunken, unseeing eyes, peeling flesh, teeth bared in a grotesque mockery of a smile.

“No,” you murmur aloud, the sound of your own voice barely audible over the howling wind. “No, that’s not me. That’s not—”

But even as you try to push the visions away, they keep coming, placed there against your will by the hands of a punishing god.

When you wake again, your body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. The effort it takes just to roll onto your side is monumental, every movement sending sharp, jarring pains shooting through you. Your head throbs with every beat of your heart, and the fever leaves you dizzy, untethered. You can’t even muster the strength to sit up, let alone stand.

Your stomach growls weakly, but the thought of eating makes you nauseous. Water. You need water. But the flask in your pack is just out of reach on the floor, and the thought of stretching your arm to grab it feels impossible.

A deep, aching loneliness settles over you, heavier than the fever or the pain. You think of Joel, of the warmth of his presence even when his words were cold. You think of the fox in the snow, its dark eyes peering directly into your very being. You think of your father’s voice telling you stories about Yellowstone, about the geysers and the trees and the place you thought would save you.

But none of it matters now. The infection is spreading. Or maybe it’s pneumonia. Maybe it’s both. Either way, you know your body is losing the fight.

The hallucinations return even with your eyes open now, flickering at the edges of your vision like shadows cast by things you can’t see. The wind twists into laughter, cruel and mocking, and the creaks of the cabin settle like whispered voices.

You press your burning face into the rough blanket, the smell of mildew and rot filling your nose. You try to hold on to something, anything, an image, a memory, a reason to keep fighting, but it all feels so far away.

When the tears come, they sting like acid against your fevered skin, sliding down your temples and soaking into the cot beneath you. You want to scream, but the sound gets caught in your sandpaper throat, leaving only a rasping whimper.

You’re not sure when the visions change. One moment, you’re lost in the fever, drowning in images of terror and despair. The next, the shadows shift, the air stills, and something new takes form.

The oppressive weight in your brain lightens, just a little, enough for you to take a trembling breath. When you open your eyes, the pine walls of the shack have melted away, replaced by open air and brilliant sky dappled with the soft shades of dawn. The horizon stretches out before you, mountains jutting up into the kind of sunrise you haven’t seen in years, the kind that feels like new beginnings.

And there, just beyond the light, is a figure.

Joel.

He stands tall against the sunrise, shrouded by goldenrod and aster. His shoulders are strong, his posture steady, and for the first time in what feels like the entire time you’ve known him, he doesn’t look tired. He doesn’t look broken. He looks alive, vibrant, his face turned toward the rising sun as though he’s found that answer he’s always been looking for.

You call out to him, but your voice is weak, barely a whisper. He turns anyway, his eyes meeting yours. They’re warm, softer than you’ve ever seen them, and the corners of his mouth quirk up in the softest smile, a smile just for you.

You try to step toward him, but your body feels heavy, rooted in place. He doesn’t move either, but his gaze stays locked on yours. There’s something in his expression that fills you with a sense of peace, of understanding. It’s not the guilt or the pain you’re used to seeing in him. He looks like he did on that night when he laid next to you by the campfire. He looks hopeful.

And then, he speaks, his voice low and steady, cutting through the haze of your fever like a blade of light.

“You need to get up.”

I don’t want to get up. I’m tired, so tired. I need to sleep for a while, just need to close my eyes.

“You’ve come too far,” he says, his tone firm but gentle, like he’s coaxing a scared animal out of a dark corner. “You’re stronger than this.”

The vision shifts again, the golden light around him brightening, and suddenly you notice something in the distance behind him. Smoke. A thin column of smoke rising into the sky, light but unmistakable. A fire. A sign of life.

Your heart stutters against your ribs. Civilization. It has to be. There among the goldenrod, distant outlines of rooftops peeking over the horizon.

When you look back at Joel, his figure is fading, dissolving into the light. But his voice lingers, echoing in your mind as if it’s been carved into the very fabric of your being.

“Keep going.”

The vision vanishes, and you’re back in the cabin, the icy wind rattling the broken window and the heat of your fever sending rivulets of sweat down your temples. But something is different. The suffocating despair that had wrapped itself around you like a shroud has loosened its grip.

You don’t hesitate. Your good hand grips the edge of the cot, and with a groan of pain, you haul yourself upright. The world tilts and spins, but you grit your teeth and force yourself to stay steady.

Smoke. There was smoke. 

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real. 

But the memory of it feels tangible, like the warmth of a fire brushing against your skin. And even if it wasn’t real, even if it was just a fever dream, it’s enough.

It’s enough to make you stand.

You wrap your injured hand in the tattered blanket, bite down hard against the pain, and pull your coat tighter around you. Your legs are shaky, your body screaming in protest, but you take one step, then another, your eyes fixed on the door.

You don’t know if you’ll find what you saw in the vision, but you know you have to try. Because you didn’t come this far just to let it end here.

…

You think you might be hallucinating again at first, the way it shimmers at the edge of the horizon, blurry and uncertain, like a half-formed thought.

The snow has finally relented, no longer falling in heavy, fat flakes that choked the world around you. Enough has melted from the ground now that you realize just how much time must have passed since you first stumbled into that hunting cabin. 

Days. 

You’ve been in a sickness induced delirium for days.

But now, just ahead, there’s something impossible to miss. Civilization. The unnatural straight lines of structures, buildings, roads, fences, stark and jarring against the soft curves and chaotic randomness of nature. It’s hazy, barely more than an outline on the horizon, but it’s there.

Something supernatural seems to take over your body, propelling you forward like a puppet controlled by unseen strings. Your legs move on their own, your arms hang limp at your sides. It feels like a poltergeist has entered you, taking over when your willpower alone could no longer sustain you.

You shamble through the barren streets, little more than a ghost yourself, hollowed out and hungry for something, anything, that can bring you back to life.

Food. Medicine. Shelter. That’s all you need. Just enough to keep going for one more day, to stave off the gnawing sickness in your brain and the fire raging in your wrist. And then you’ll be okay.

And then what?

The thought lingers in the back of your mind, persistent as the pain in your body, but you shove it aside. Survival first. Plans later.

You reach the first building, the hollowed-out remains of what used to be a gas station. Its roof has caved in, beams of rusted metal jutting out at sharp angles, a skeleton picked clean by time and weather. Inside, there’s nothing of value, just rotting shelves and scattered debris, evidence that others have long since scavenged this place for anything useful.

As you turn to leave, something on the brick wall outside catches your eye. At first, it’s just a splash of color against the drab, weathered backdrop, but as you move closer, it comes into focus. A spray-painted logo of some kind.

It’s simple but striking, lines curving into the rough outline of a bird, or maybe a butterfly.

There’s something strange about it, something that tugs at the edge of your memory, though you can’t quite place why. It doesn’t look like graffiti, there’s no reckless chaos in its design. It’s deliberate, purposeful, like a marker left behind by someone who wanted it to be found.

A whisper of hope stirs in you. Flickering and foolish, but it’s there, like a spark. Whoever painted this was here once. Maybe they’re still nearby. Maybe this symbol means something.

A flutter of curiosity rises in your belly, but it’s drowned out by the heavier weight of exhaustion and hunger. You can’t afford to waste energy on questions you don’t have the strength to answer.

It’s only a little longer before your salvation appears. 

Backlit by the sinking sun, it looks like something out of a dream, practically glowing in the soft amber light. The faded sign above the building feels like a benediction, like a gift from some benevolent force you’re grateful to but unfamiliar with.

TERRANCE’S PHARMACY

Fresh tears stream down your face, this time not born of pain or hopelessness but pure, unadulterated relief. You can barely believe your eyes, can hardly trust that it’s real. For a moment, you just stand there, swaying slightly, letting the painful relief of hope fill the hollow, aching cavity inside you.

You force yourself forward, biting back the sobs that threaten to bubble up, knowing they’ll only make noise. You don’t have the strength for stealth, but you still do your best to move with caution, dragging yourself to the front doors.

Inside, the store is eerily still, the kind of silence that makes your skin prickle. Dust motes float lazily in the fading light that filters through the grimy windows, and the air smells of dirt and something rotten.

You scan the area quickly, your gaze catching on the far back corner of the store, where part of the floor has collapsed into the basement. Your instincts scream to avoid that area, the gaping hole and endless darkness radiating unease.

Instead, you make your way toward the pharmacy counter at the back, separated from the rest of the store by a low desk and a glass partition. The desk is cluttered with long-forgotten receipts and empty pill bottles, but it’s easy enough to climb over, though your weak, jerky movements make it anything but graceful.

You overcorrect your balance to avoid jostling your injured wrist, and your shoulder bumps into a precariously leaning shelf. The sound of bottles rattling against one another sends a jolt of panic through you, but you steady the shelf before it can crash down.

On the other side, you take a moment to catch your breath, leaning heavily against the desk. Your legs feel like lead, but the sight of the shelves filled with medications draws you forward.

You can’t believe how untouched it all looks. So much of the stock is still here. Bottles of pills, rows of bandages, antiseptic sprays. It’s more than you’d dared to hope for. Trembling, you reach for a bottle, your fingertips brushing the cool plastic just as—

Click.

You freeze.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound slithers up your spine, piercing, sickening. It’s not your fever. It’s not your imagination.

Behind you, from the far corner where the floor has given way, comes the unmistakable sound of movement. Rocks tumbling. Debris shifting.

Your blood runs cold.

Slowly, painfully, you turn your head, just enough to glance over your shoulder.

From the dark hole in the floor, something emerges. At first, it’s just a twisted limb clawing its way upward, fungus-laden skin stretched tight over sinewy muscle. Then another limb. And then the head.

Its face is a twisted spray of fungal plates, splitting open where a human face should be. Its body moves with an unnatural twitchiness as it hauls itself free from the basement rubble.

You don’t breathe.

The clicker lurches forward, staggering into the open space in front of the pharmacy. The distance between you and it is barely a handful of feet now, separated only by the thin, grimy pane of glass in the partition.

It stops, tilting its head as though it’s listening, the horrific clicking noise filling the air between you.

You’re frozen. Frozen in place, frozen in fear. Your lungs scream for air, but you can’t inhale, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at the creature standing before you.

Time stills.

You feel unreal.

Are you really that different from them? 

They only hunger, only destroy.

They were all once humans, with lives and loves and needs. 

Until one moment changed everything. One bite. One infection. One thing that stripped away their humanity and turned them into this. A creature distorted, corrupted, and polluted by something they couldn’t control, didn’t ever want.

Did the clicker in front of you feel the same pain when it was first bit? Did it feel the same all-encompassing dread you did that day on the river, when the stalker’s mouth latched onto you and took everything from you? Did it feel that same weight of doom settling in its chest?

Did it have someone to hold it as it spoke its final words?

Was it someone it loved?

Your chest constricts as you think, No. They must not have. Otherwise, they would’ve been given mercy. A bullet to the head, a quick and kind release.

This person, whoever they once were, met their end alone.

And as you stand there, silent and still, you look, really look, at the creature in front of you. 

You force your gaze upon it, to confront what it is. Its body contorts unnaturally, each jerking movement a painful reminder of how far it has fallen from its humanity. The clicks it makes come from someplace deep inside, some dark and cavernous hollow that the infection has carved out. Its skull, if you can even call it that anymore, has burst open into the grotesque bloom of fungal growth, a corpse flower of decay and death.

It’s horrific. Monstrous.

And yet…

There’s something there, still. Something buried beneath rubble and decay, but trying to force its way out. 

Almost human.

Its jerky movements mirror yours from earlier. The way you stumbled through the snow, your body battered and weakened, propelled forward by sheer willpower. The way you pushed forward with single-minded determination, even when every step felt like it might be your last.

In this moment, you are the little rabbit, aren’t you? Skin and bones. Prey. Your every movement a betrayal of your location, a signal to predators that you are weak, vulnerable.

Just like the rabbit, your bones won’t satiate this beast. Its hunt for you does nothing but prolong its suffering.

It’s all just such a waste.

It stops its movements for a moment, its head turning to face you with sudden stillness. For a moment, it seems to see you. You hold your breath, but then another jerk has what’s left of its face turning away from you, unseeing.

The realization settles over you like the weight of heavy snowfall.

You’re not the rabbit.

You’re the fox.

The clicker stands before you, its twisted form a mockery of what it once was. The hunger radiating from it is palpable, like feral heat from a fire. It could kill you in an instant, there’s no denying that, immune or not. Its jerky movements, its decayed, destructed face, the guttural clicks that echo from deep within its chest, all of it reminds you of how close you stand to death.

But you don’t shrink away. You witness it.

You meet it, not with fear, but with understanding. There’s a kinship there, one you cannot deny. You’ve both suffered. You’ve both been touched by the same monstrous hand. You’ve both been changed, in ways neither of you ever asked for.

But you are not the same.

Where it is hollow, you are full. Where it is driven by hunger, you are driven by something deeper, something that cannot be infected or corroded. Intelligence. Strength. Humanity.

You are not here to devour.

You are here to live.

You want to see another sunrise, to watch the pastel hues of dawn spill across the sky. You want to feel the weightlessness of floating in cool, clean water, the way it cradles you, lifts you, reminds you what it feels like to be light. You want to stand on sun-warmed earth, to look out at a land that has always been mythical to you, made real by your own will to survive.

And Joel.

You want to feel his lips on yours. Even if just for a moment. Even if only once.

That’s the difference.

You want.

The clicker doesn’t want. It only needs. Needs to feed. Needs to destroy. It is a hollow shell, stripped of its humanity, its soul long devoured by the infection.

But you are still whole. Fractured, perhaps. Scarred, certainly. But whole.

The clicker twitches, its head jerking toward the sound of a creak from outside the store. Its attention shifts, giving you a chance to move, to run, to survive.

You don’t hesitate.

Because you are not the rabbit.

You are the fox.

But then a sound cuts through the suffocating silence like a blade.

The crack of a gunshot.

Echoing. Unmistakable.

Before you can react, the clicker’s head snaps back, a spray of dark gore splattering against the glass, streaking down like raindrops on a windowpane. It collapses in an instant, its jerking body crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Your heart slams against your ribs, but you don’t have time to process. Don’t have time to think.

Your legs falter beneath you as the world tilts. The edges of your vision blur, darkening, narrowing.

The last thing you see is the shattered remains of the clicker’s skull, and the glass now smeared red.

And then, nothing.

A/N: The support I've received for this fic so far has blown my mind and made my heart swell ten sizes. I am far from the biggest or best fanfic writer on here but I just feel like a million bucks when I'm lucky enough to receive the interactions I do on here!! And I just wanted to let everyone know the next chapter will be JOEL'S POV so we'll get a peek into that little freak's damaged mind <33 so excited

Taglist: @javierpenaispunk @eviispunk

[gullemec]

From Now On

Golden Ruin - Chapter Five

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Time seems to move extra slow in Butcher's absence. You try to fill it, with doctor's visits and coffee dates and missions, but nothing seems to help. Until you come face to face with a dark reminder of your past.

Warnings: doctor's office visit, talk of pregnancy, angst, lying to your friends :(, homelander jump scare!

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.5k

A/N: Now that the reader knows she is ~with child~ there's going to be mention of it a lot going forward, so i just wanted to be clear here that i am 100% pro-choice, any mentions of the fetus as being new life/a person is solely because the reader has chosen to keep the baby and thus sees it that way. i hope that makes sense! <3

Weeks pass, each one slower than the last.

You try to keep busy, filling your days with whatever work Mallory is willing to give you. Filing reports, combing through intel, even the menial, mind-numbing tasks that Frenchie and MM happily pawn off. None of it feels like enough. No matter how much you bury yourself in work, your thoughts always find their way back to him.

You take to walking in Central Park most mornings, hoping the fresh air and the familiar buzz of the city will soothe your restless mind. 

The park hums with life. Dogs chase frisbees across the grass, joggers in monochrome lycra weave through the pathways, a guitarist with a goatee strums the opening chords to Wonderwall beneath the shade of a tree. A child’s laughter rings out as they run ahead of their parents. It’s all so normal, so achingly distant from the chaos you’ve come to know with the Boys.

And yet, even here, in the flow of city life, ordinary and extraordinary in equal measure, your mind can’t help but replay that last night. The way Butcher stood in your apartment, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the walls you tried desperately to deconstruct. The look in his eyes, the way they softened when they met yours. The rare, fleeting moment of vulnerability he let slip before retreating behind his armor again.

What did he mean when he said he cared too much? When he promised you’d talk again when he got back? Was it just a placating lie to ease the goodbye? Or does he replay your words in his head the way you replay his in yours? You can’t stop yourself from wondering, obsessing. Is he thinking about you too? Is he losing sleep like you are?

The questions are endless, the answers tied to a string that some unseen force continually yanks out of your reach.

You check your phone compulsively, even though you know better. Mallory made it clear they’d have limited contact during the mission. If any updates came through, she’d be the one to receive them, not you. But the silence stings all the same. Every glance at the blank screen feels like a tiny reminder of your insignificance in the grand scheme of things.

By the third week, the anxiety starts to seep into everything. You find yourself cleaning the apartment again and again, even when there’s nothing left to clean. You reorganize your kitchen cabinets, line up your spices alphabetically, scrub the countertops until your hands ache. Anything to keep your hands busy, to stave off the creeping dread that settles in your stomach like silt when you’re still for too long.

The shelf above your record player becomes a sort of shrine. You rearrange the photos there more times than you can count. Your mother’s face smiles back at you from her frame, her warmth a bittersweet reminder of the family you’ve already lost. You’ve added a couple of new additions, too. One of the selfies you and Annie took on your cocktail night, and a candid shot of the Boys, huddled in conversation at the office. Frenchie is mid-gesture, his hands animated as always, while MM looks on with his usual calm authority. Kimiko’s face is barely visible, half-hidden behind her curtain of hair, but there’s a shy smile playing on her lips.

Butcher isn’t in that photo.

You spent the better part of an hour scrolling through your phone’s camera roll, searching for him. Dread grew with each swipe, the ache deepening when you realized you had no good photos of him. He’s there, yes, sprinkled in the background of candids you took of the Boys, caught in blurry profile shots or sneaky attempts to snap him without his noticing. There’s one where he’s sitting at the kitchen table, scowling at a newspaper, and another where he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze distracted and distant.

But there’s no photo that truly captures him. No image of the Butcher you know, the one who softens when he thinks no one’s watching, who hides his tenderness beneath layers of anger and sarcasm. The realization hits you hard. You never thought to take one. Not because he didn’t matter, but because, when you were with him, your phone was the last thing on your mind.

When you were with Butcher, you were caught up in the moment.

Heated arguments resolved in shed clothing and ruined bedsheets. Laughter that caught like fire between you until you were red in the face and your sides ached. Silences that stretched between you, comfortable, understanding of each other’s past hurts and present needs.

You never thought to pull out your phone. You didn’t need to. Every second with him felt too immediate, too raw to distill into pixels on a screen.

Now, standing in front of the shelf, you feel the loss acutely, not just of him, but of the moments you never captured. The shards of your heart feel like they’ve shattered all over again. You wish you had something tangible, something to hold onto while he’s gone, some proof that he was here, that he mattered to you in ways he’ll never understand.

The thought catches in your throat as you wonder—will the last photo you have of Butcher be the one in your mind from that night?

The rest of the Boys seem to sense your unease. Annie calls you at least every other day, plying you with snacks and movie nights so you’ll spend the night at her place. Hughie offers small, practical comforts, dropping off snacks, reminding you to take breaks. Even Kimiko, in her quiet way, keeps a watchful eye on you. But their kindnesses only make you feel worse. They’re carrying on, doing what they always do. 

But you’re falling apart at the fucking seams.

Some nights, when the apartment feels too quiet, you put on a record and let the music fill the space. You play the songs you know Butcher would roll his eyes at, the ones he’d complain about just to get a rise out of you, only to scoop you up and dance around the room with you anyway. You can almost hear his voice, the sharp bite of his sarcasm softened by the ghost of a smirk. But when the song ends, the silence returns, the air in the room feeling heavier than before.

Sleep becomes a losing battle. The nights stretch endlessly, your mind conjuring every worst-case scenario imaginable. You see him in a Russian forest, bleeding out in the snow, his stubborn pride keeping him from calling for help. You imagine him captured, locked in some godforsaken cell, or worse, gone entirely, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions.

Other nights, you catch yourself whispering prayers to a god you stopped believing in years ago. You pray for his safety, for his return, for the chance to finish the conversation you started.

And then there's the secret you carry. You’ve started noticing the changes in your body, the faintest curve to your stomach, the way your clothes fit just a little differently. Soon, you won’t be able to hide it anymore, not from yourself and certainly not from the others. It’s just… not  the right time right now.

Once Butcher gets back and you’ve had the chance to tell him first, then you can tell everyone else. 

But what if they don’t find the weapon? What if the mission gets prolonged? What if they do find it, and an all out war breaks out? What if, when the Boys need you most, you’ll be unable to fight, not just a burden but a liability?

Is there ever really a good time to announce that you’re carrying the child of the leader of an anti-Supe vigilante group turned CIA operative?

You find yourself staring at the photo of your parents, wondering what kind of family you’ll be able to offer this child. Will they grow up only ever knowing their father from blurred, grainy photographs?

You try to remind yourself of Butcher’s promise.

We’ll finish this when I get back .

But the longer the silence stretches, the harder it is to believe him.

That evening, as the sun slips into the Hudson and the painterly hues of the sunset are replaced by neon city lights, you sit on the couch, phone in hand, willing it to light up. It doesn’t. You lean back, staring at the ceiling, tears crawling past your temples to your ears.

“Come back to me,” you whisper to the empty room. It’s a plea, a prayer, a desperate wish.

The silence offers no answer.

~~~

A week later, you find yourself in a cold, sterile clinic, harsh fluorescent lights beating down on you like the desert sun on a dry lizard. You try not to search the faces sharing the waiting room with you, as though not being able to see them might mean they can’t see you, either. Your name is called, and you look up to see a moon-faced nurse smiling politely, clipboard in hand. She gestures for you to follow her, and your legs feel leaden as you walk down the hall, your heart pounding against your ribs.

She leads you to a small exam room, the picture of clinical sterility. You perch on the exam table, the paper cover crinkling beneath your weight. You fiddle with your fingers, taking measured breaths, trying to distract yourself from the reality of where you are. It doesn’t work.

The door opens, and the doctor steps in, a clipboard tucked under one arm. He’s a middle-aged man with kind eyes, his expression professional but warm. He glances down at the paper in his hand, skimming it briefly before looking up at you with a small, practiced smile.

“Well,” he begins, his voice calm and steady. “Your bloodwork came back positive. Based on your hCG levels it looks like you’re about eight weeks along.”

You don’t know exactly why you’re surprised. You took the test, watched as those twin pink lines stared back up at you, mocking you with their certainty. Still, hearing the words spoken aloud makes it real in a way it hadn’t been before. No uncertainty or false positives. It’s happening.

“Eight weeks...” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

The doctor nods and launches into an explanation about prenatal vitamins, ultrasounds, diet changes, and the importance of follow-up appointments. You nod along, but his words feel distant, like they’re coming from the other side of a thick pane of glass. Your mind is elsewhere, spinning with thoughts that come too fast to catch.

When he finally finishes, you murmur a polite thanks and slip out of the room, clutching a bottle of prenatal vitamins and appointment cards you barely even look at. You step out into the busy city street, the sounds of honking cars and chattering passersby crashing into you like a wave. It’s overwhelming, the chaos of the world around you only amplifying the chaos in your head.

The noise feels louder somehow, the streets more crowded, the air more stifling. Your thoughts race, one after another, as you clutch your coat tighter around yourself. What now? What does this mean? Can I even do this? What will he think?

You walk back to your apartment, your brain on autopilot, your body moving through the motions without conscious thought. Distantly, physically, you feel everything. Fear, hope, guilt. Yet your head remains oddly blank, as if protecting you from being overwhelmed.

When you step through the door, your feet instinctively carry you to the photo shelf, the spot that’s become your quiet sanctuary. You let your eyes drift over the images of your friends, your family . Each face stirs something inside you, a reminder of the love they’ve shown you in the relatively short period of time you’ve known them. 

There is a warmth in this realization. No matter how overwhelming your fears are, no matter how daunting the road ahead feels, you know they will be there for you. They’ll never abandon you. They’d stand by you and this child without hesitation.

And yet… guilt twists in your stomach. You think about the strain this will place on them, on the group. How can you drop a bombshell like this now? Not when Butcher, MM, and Frenchie are risking their lives in a foreign country. Not when the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been. 

You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your stomach. 

You need to keep this a secret, at least for now. Until things settle. Until you can be sure that your burden won’t drag them down.

Your hand drifts to the framed photo of your mother, her familiar peering back at you. You trace the edge of the glass with your finger, brushing it lightly over her face. You close your eyes, imagining the feel of her arms wrapping around you. You think of her quiet strength, the sacrifices she made to give you a happy childhood. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a cheating husband, enduring your father’s cruelty, she had every reason to give up. But she never did. She never let you feel the weight of her struggles. All you ever felt from her was love. Endless, unwavering love.

She gave you everything you needed to thrive, even when the odds were stacked against her. 

You can do the same.

Tears well in your eyes as you whisper, “I love you.”

The words are meant for her, but as your hand shifts to your stomach, they’re meant for the flicker of life inside you as well. For both of them. From now on and forever.

~~~

Annie insists on dragging you out to a coffee shop on the Upper West Side, and you don’t have a good enough reason to bail. It’s a cozy little place, the kind that smells like freshly ground beans and baked pastries, with fairy lights strung across the windows. You pick at the edge of your napkin as the two of you sit at a small table by the window, perfect for people watching.

Annie stirs her latte absentmindedly, her sharp blue eyes flicking to your face as she watches you. There’s no judgment, only quiet concern, the kind that makes you feel comforted and exposed at the same time.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she says, breaking the silence. “Everything okay?”

You force a small smile, glancing at the untouched cappuccino in front of you. You don't know how to tell her that the smell of it has the croissant you forced down earlier threatening to make a reappearance. 

“Yeah, just... trying to get back to normal. Whatever that means.”

She snorts softly, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Normal’s overrated. Besides, I don’t think any of us get that luxury anymore.”

“Fair point,” you murmur, the corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself.

For a moment, the two of you sit in companionable silence against the sounds of grinding coffee beans and Macbook keyboards clicking. The clink of mugs, the hum of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, you can't deny that it soothes the chaos in your mind. 

Finally, she leans in, her voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel private, intimate. “They’ll be okay, you know. Butcher and the others. They’ve been through worse.”

You want to believe her, to latch onto her certainty, but the knot in your belly doesn’t loosen. “It’s not just that,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I keep replaying the last thing we talked about. I can’t figure out what he was trying to say. And now... no contact. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Annie tilts her head, studying you carefully. “You talked about something before he left?” she prompts gently.

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around your coffee cup. There’s something about Annie, about the genuine way she listens, that makes it harder to keep things bottled up. 

“He came over, right before he left,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “But now I’m even more confused about where we stand.”

Annie blinks, her expression softening. “Oh,” she says, sitting back slightly. “Okay. That’s... a lot.”

You laugh weakly, the sound bitter. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“And now you’re afraid he won’t come back at all . ” Her voice is kind but hits uncomfortably close to the truth.

“Exactly,” you say, your voice cracking just enough to betray the depth of your worry. “I thought maybe I was doing the right thing, you know? Like, if I laid it all out there, he’d... I don’t know, see me? But instead, he just... shut down. And now I’m terrified that’s going to be the last conversation we ever had.”

Annie reaches across the table, her hand brushing yours briefly before resting on the handle of her cup. “For what it’s worth, I think you were brave for saying something. Butcher... he’s complicated. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things, though. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Have you?” The question comes out more desperate than you intend, and you curse yourself for it.

“Yeah,” Annie says firmly. “He might not know how to handle it, but he does care about you. I’d bet anything on that.”

Her words are a small comfort. You know he cares. Is it enough, though? You can care a whole hell of a lot about a person, it doesn’t mean you’re ready to settle down with them, to start a family with them.

You nod, trying not to let your face betray your thoughts. Annie seems to sense it and doesn’t push further. She changes the subject, asking about some mundane detail of your day, and you’re grateful for the reprieve.

Still, as you sit there, forcing down sips of lukewarm cappuccino and pretending to be part of the bustling, ordinary world around you, the weight of it all doesn’t truly lift. It’s easier with Annie here, but it’s harder, too. You want to tell her so badly, to share the weight of your news, but you can’t. Not yet, at least.

It’s funny how protecting someone so often feels like betraying them.

~~~

When you arrive at the office next, there’s an uncharacteristic energy in your step. For the first time in days, you feel something close to excitement buzzing under your skin. The team in Russia finally made contact with Mallory. No radio silence, no cryptic reports of casualties, just word that they’re holed up in a safe house a couple of hours outside of Moscow. It’s enough to let a sliver of hope creep into the periphery of your consciousness.

Inside, the air in the office feels charged, like everyone is collectively holding their breath. The group gathers around a laptop hastily set up on a cluttered desk. Papers and coffee mugs are pushed aside to make room. Hughie is already hunched over the keyboard, muttering under his breath as he fiddles with the settings, trying to sharpen the grainy video feed. Annie stands behind him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her nerves almost as apparent as your own.

Finally, the screen flickers, and MM’s face comes into focus. His expression is calm but weary, shadows under his eyes and a tension in his shoulders that no amount of shitty lighting can hide. He glances at the camera, his lips pressing into a tired smile as if trying to reassure you all, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You exhale a shaky breath, only then realizing you’d been holding it.

“We’re making progress,” MM says, his voice weighted with exhaustion. “Can’t say much, but Butcher thinks we’re close. Tell Annie to steer clear of Vought’s HQ. It’s heating up over here, and we don’t want any blowback on your end.”

Your stomach flips at the mention of Butcher’s name. You scan the background of the video feed, hoping for even a fleeting glimpse of him. Where is he? Is he okay? The questions rise to the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back, forcing yourself to stay quiet. You don’t want to derail the conversation, or worse, give away how deeply your worry is eating at you.

“Noted. Are you guys okay?” Hughie asks, his brow furrowed as he leans closer to the screen.

MM gives a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “Define ‘okay.’ Frenchie got into a shouting match with a Russian cabbie. Kinda impressive how many curse words he knows in Russian, honestly. But aside from that? We’re alive. For now.”

The screen flickers, the image stuttering for a moment before freezing entirely. Hughie groans, jabbing at the keyboard in frustration. The signal cuts out completely, leaving only a blank screen and a spinning loading icon.

“Seriously? Why do their Wi-Fi connections always suck? It’s like a spy movie cliché,” Hughie mutters, throwing his hands up in defeat.

The room lets out a collective sigh, a mix of disappointment and relief. You lean back, trying to mask the bitter sting of not hearing Butcher’s voice or even catching a glimpse of him. You tell yourself it’s enough to know they’re alive, to hear MM say they’re making progress. But the hollowness that stretches inside you like a canyon tells you otherwise.

“At least we know they’re still breathing,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. Your fingers curl around the edge of the desk, grounding yourself in the relief of that knowledge. It’s not much, but for now, it’ll have to be enough.

Annie gives your arm a reassuring squeeze, her touch warm and grounding. You glance at her, offering a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. She doesn’t press, but the understanding in her expression says she knows exactly what’s on your mind. 

~~~ 

You crouch against the brick wall of the Flatiron Building, head between your knees, inhaling slow, deliberate breaths. The bitter ghost of bile lingers in your throat, your palms pressed against the cool, rough concrete as you try to steady yourself. Every muscle in your body feels wrung out, and though the fresh air helps a little, you’re still swimming in a fog of exhaustion and anxiety.

The sound of footsteps echo down the alleyway. You glance up, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the narrow passage. Mallory stands a few feet away, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t say a word, just pulls a cigarette from her pocket, lights it, and leans casually against the wall beside you. The faint click of her lighter is swallowed by the hum of distant traffic.

You don’t bother speaking, and neither does she. The silence between you is heavy but not uncomfortable. For a moment, it’s just the faint rustle of leaves in the gutter and the occasional honk of a horn from the street. Mallory exhales a thin stream of smoke, staring off into the middle distance as if she has all the time in the world.

Finally, she breaks the silence, her voice low and even. “So, how far along are you?”

You freeze, the world tilting for a moment as the words sink in. Your stomach flips, not from nausea this time, but from the sudden wave of panic that crashes over you. “How do you—?”

“I’ve been there before,” she interrupts, her tone matter-of-fact. “I know the look.”

Your shoulders sag in defeat. There’s no point in denying it. “Ten weeks,” you murmur.

She nods once, her face betraying nothing as she takes another drag from her cigarette. Then, to your surprise, she crouches down beside you, her knees cracking slightly. The cigarette dangles loosely between her fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the crisp air.

“Does Butcher know?” she asks, her tone more curious than judgmental.

You shake your head, staring down at the cracks in the pavement. “Not yet. We didn’t leave things in a great place before he left.”

Mallory huffs softly, the sound laced with dry amusement. “Why am I not surprised?”

You don’t answer, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve instead. You don’t know what to say and, truthfully, even if you did, the nausea swirling in your gut would steal the words before you could speak them. Finally, she exhales sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“I don’t know what the hell you see in him,” she says bluntly. “He’s a wrecking ball with a God complex. But… I’ll give him this much. He doesn’t walk away from a fight, and he doesn’t quit on the people he cares about. Problem is, he doesn’t know how to show it. At least, not in a way that doesn’t involve violence and destruction.”

Her words hit like a gut punch, and you bite your lip to keep the sting of tears at bay. “I’m keeping the baby,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “Whether or not he cares enough to be involved.”

Mallory raises an eyebrow, studying you with a calculating look. She flicks the ash from her cigarette, letting it scatter onto the ground. “Well, that answers one question,” she says, her voice cool. “But let me ask you another. What are you going to do about the rest of it?”

You glance up at her. “The rest of it?”

“Your life,” she clarifies, gesturing vaguely with the cigarette. “Your future. When I first heard you joined the Boys, I thought, What the hell are they thinking? Letting someone who’s practically in bed with Vought into their little operation. But I’ve been watching you.”

Her gaze sharpens, and for a moment, you feel like a bug under a microscope. “You’re sharp. A risk-taker. You think fast on your feet. But most importantly, you’re loyal. And that’s rare in this line of work.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she cuts in. “Just listen. I can make things happen for you, if you want. A more stable role. Official. CIA.” She pauses, tapping the cigarette against the brick wall. “But you’ve got to decide what you want here. This life, what we do… it’s not just dangerous. It’s consuming. Especially if you’re planning to bring a kid into the mix.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of her words pressing down on you like a vice. “I… I don’t know, okay? I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m just trying to keep my breakfast down right now.”

Mallory chuckles softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Fair enough. But let me give you some perspective. I’ve done this job while raising a family. It’s possible. But it’s hell. You think it’s hard now? Wait until you’re trying to keep a baby safe from Vought. Or worse, from what we do.”

She straightens up, her gaze hardening. “MM’s got Janine half the time, and even then, he can’t shield her from all of this. She’s older, she can understand some things. But a newborn?”

Your composure cracks, tears spilling down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back. You turn your face away, swiping at your face with trembling hands. “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”

Mallory sighs, tossing the cigarette into a nearby puddle. The glowing ember hisses as it dies. Then, to your surprise, she places a hand on your shoulder. Her touch is firm, grounding.

“I won’t lie to you,” she says. “I think getting tangled up with Butcher was… not your smartest move. But I’m not disappointed. And I’m not here to judge you.”

You glance up at her, searching her face for any trace of reproach. Instead, you find something softer, almost maternal. It’s the last thing you expected.

“You’ll be okay,” she says, her voice gentler now. “It won’t be easy, but you’ll figure it out. Just… don’t lose sight of who you are in all of this. And don’t let Butcher drag you down with him, no matter how much you care about him. You’ve got potential, kid. Don’t waste it.”

You nod, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words barely audible.

Mallory stands, brushing off her pants. “Come on. Let’s get back inside before they start thinking we’ve gone soft.”

~~~

Time passes slowly, like it takes real, concentrated effort to move through. Your nights grow more restless. The doctor reassured you it’s normal in the first trimester, but you know the tossing and turning isn’t just from the tiny life stirring within you. It’s the echoing of the unknown, the nagging absence of the man who occupies far more space in your mind than you remember ever giving him permission for.

Butcher’s face haunts your dreams. His gruff smirk, the way he’d call you love like it was second nature, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes when he’d let his guard down just enough to talk about his past. Becca, Lenny, all the ghosts he carried with him. They’re etched into the corners of your memory, and they follow you into sleep.

In one dream, he’s standing in your doorway, his trench coat flaring like some antihero returning from battle. The dim light catches the hard lines of his face, but his expression softens the moment he sees you. He steps inside, his boots heavy against the floorboards, and before you can even speak, his strong arms are around you, pulling you close.

“I told you I’d be back, didn’t I?” he murmurs, his voice a rough promise, the kind that aches and soothes all at once. It feels so real, the warmth of his touch, the gravelly timbre of his words, that your heart lurches, aching for it to be true.

But when you wake, the emptiness beside you feels colder than ever, the dream lingering like the first frost on a fall morning

~~~.

You step out of the van, your heels clicking against the cobblestones of the grand drive as you approach the brightly lit entrance of the Vought-sponsored gala. The mansion looms ahead, a caricatured monument to corporate wealth and hollow patriotism. Above the towering double doors hangs a massive banner, emblazoned with gold lettering.

Celebrating the Legacy of American Heroes

A legacy night. A tribute to the fallen Supes who had sacrificed everything in the line of duty . You wonder how many of those heroes had actually died cleaning up Vought’s messes, lives lost to lies, cover-ups, and the relentless hunger for profit. How many of them had their stories rewritten with the swipe of a checkbook and the threat of an NDA?

You’d been invited personally, a relic of your late father’s long and profitable relationship with Vought. You hadn’t wanted to come, but Mallory had insisted.

"It could be a goldmine of intel," she’d said. "And for once, you don’t even have to go undercover. Just smile and listen."

Earlier that evening, you had stood in front of your mirror, studying your reflection as you prepared. Your hands had wandered to the new curve of your stomach, the tiny, barely-there swell just beginning to form. Pressing a tentative finger against your belly, you marveled at the hardness beneath the soft skin. It was subtle enough that no one at the gala would notice, let alone suspect, but you still couldn’t shake the instinct to shield it. Now, as you adjust the strap of your sleek black evening gown, your clutch rests protectively against your abdomen.

Your fingers brush over the delicate chain of your necklace, feeling the small microphone hidden in its pendant, a last-minute addition from Mallory. “Just listen,” she’d warned before you left. “Annie and Hughie will be in the van outside. Don’t dig too deep, and for God’s sake, don’t draw attention to yourself.”  

Easier said than done.

Inside, the mansion is the picture of obscenely wealthy excess. Gold drapes shimmer under the glow of chandeliers, offset by deep blue accents that embody the kind of flamboyant opulence you’ve come to expect from Vought. A live jazz band plays softly in the corner, their notes weaving through the hum of polite conversation and clinking champagne glasses.

You plaster on a polite smile as you weave through the crowd, recognizing faces you haven’t seen since your father’s funeral. Old colleagues of his, Vought executives with perfectly polished veneers and embarrassingly obvious hairpieces, approach you with forced sympathy and thinly veiled curiosity.

“I was so sorry to hear about your father. Such a visionary, such a loss.”

“We were certain you’d step up as CEO! But… well, I’m sure that’s in your future, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure it won’t be long before we see you carrying on the Morgan legacy, right?”

You nod and murmur your thanks, the bile rising in your throat as you fend off their expectations with vague pleasantries. If only they knew what you were really doing, spending your nights unraveling their lies, pouring your soul into destroying the facade they’re indulging in tonight.

As the evening stretches on, you drift toward a group of executives gathered near the hors d'oeuvres table, their conversation low but animated. One of them, a heavyset man with a thick cigar wedged between his fingers, gestures emphatically as he speaks, his voice cutting through the background noise.

“...and you’re telling me no one’s confirmed a damn thing? Attacks that coordinated? It reeks of somebody pulling strings.”

Another executive, slimmer and sharply dressed, leans in. “Come on, Greg. You don’t need to confirm anything to know Vought’s had ties to Russia since the Cold War. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Greg replies, lowering his voice. “Back in ’84, they had something cooking. A black ops deal. Real hush-hush. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Your pulse quickens as you edge closer, pretending to admire an ice statue of The Deep. Your ears strain to catch every word, but their voices drop further, blending with the room’s ambient buzz.

“Whatever it is,” the slimmer man says, “I’m sure Homelander’s already got it handled. The man doesn’t miss a thing .”

The mention of Homelander sends a shiver down your spine, your clutch tightening instinctively in your grasp. You linger near the group, hoping for more, when a familiar voice breaks through the low hum of the conversation.

“Well I’ll be damned. Is that who I think it is?"

You spin around, freezing. 

Adam. 

Your former lab partner from your internship. A man with whom you shared a brief and uninspired fling, more out of loneliness than real connection. You cringe inwardly, remembering how you’d ended things abruptly after the explosion that had destroyed CytoGenix. Somehow a lifetime ago, and yet only six months ago.

He looks almost exactly the same, though his hair is cropped closer to his head, neater, and he’s wearing a tailored suit that screams Vought-sponsored success.

“Adam,” you say, forcing a polite smile. “Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s been… ages.”

“Not since your dad’s funeral, right?” he says with a disarming grin.

Your stomach knots. The funeral had been a blur of tears, stiff condolences, and forced smiles. You barely remember who was there. You definitely don’t remember Adam being among them.

“Right,” you say carefully, your smile tightening. “I didn’t expect to see you there.”

He waves it off. “Just paying my respects. Anyway, what brings you here? I didn’t think the gala scene was your thing.”

Well, he’s right about that. Adam certainly paid you more attention than you’d ever spared him. Poor guy.

You glance down, adjusting the strap of your dress as if the movement could ground you. “Representing my father,” you say lightly, hoping to keep the conversation surface-level. “Legacy and all that.”

Adam nods knowingly, his expression softening. “Makes sense. The Morgan name still carries a lot of weight around here.”

The genuine warmth in his smile catches you off guard, and for a brief moment, you remember why you’d turned to him in the first place. Back then, his boyish charm had been a comfort during those fragile, uncertain days when you thought your time with the Boys was over.

But then Butcher’s face flashes in your mind, his gruff smirk, his scathing humor, the way he’d say your name as if it were carved from stone. You think about where he is now. Breaking into labs in Russia. Cold. In danger. Maybe worse. And here you are, standing in a gilded mansion, a month’s worth of rent glittering on your wrist.

A wave of nausea passes over you, guilt swirling in your stomach like sickness.

“And what brings you here?” you ask, desperate to change the subject.

"Funny story. After CytoGenix went under, I wasn’t sure what my next move was. Then out of nowhere, Vought reached out with a job offer. Research and development. Turns out they liked what we were working on at CytoGenix."

You stiffen, keeping your face carefully neutral. Of course, Vought had to keep their fingers in everything.

An awkward beat passes between you and Adam. He plucks two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, holding one out to you with a soft chuckle.

“Here. A toast to… old friends.”

Your heart skips. You hesitate, scrambling for an excuse.

"Oh, uh, I can’t. I’m on antibiotics—sinus infection. You know how it is."

His brow furrows slightly, then he smirks. “The old antibiotics excuse, huh? Alright, I’ll let it slide this time.”

He takes a sip of his drink, studying you over the rim of his glass. “You know, I always thought you had a knack for R&D. It’s a shame CytoGenix fell apart. What are you up to now?”

The question catches you off guard. You falter, searching for an answer that won’t draw attention to yourself. What do you say to him? That you’re deep undercover, working with a rogue group hell-bent on taking down the very company hosting this gala?

The words stick in your throat, and Adam’s curious gaze feels heavier by the second. His unexpected presence here unsettles you. Not just the reminder of your life before, when everything revolved around CytoGenix, but the uncomfortable reminder of how deeply Vought’s web entangles everyone around you.

Before you can speak, the band abruptly cuts off mid-song. A hush falls over the room, and all heads turn toward the stage.

“Guess that’s our cue to shut up. Homelander’s probably got another self-congratulatory speech lined up,” Adam quips, grinning as the spotlights sweep toward the stage.

You force a laugh, but the sound is thin, brittle. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to miss that,” you reply, though your pulse is already racing.

Your stomach sinks as Homelander strides into view, his polished boots gleaming under the lights. His cape flutters dramatically as he ascends the stage at the center of the room, that all-too-perfect grin stretching across his face. But his eyes are cold, dead, the smile never quite reaching them. 

“Good evening, everyone,” his voice booms, smooth and practiced. “Isn’t this just the most wonderful gathering of the best and brightest?”

The room erupts into applause. Your stomach twists, nausea rising in waves. You curl a protective hand over your abdomen. I know, baby. He makes me sick too.

Homelander continues, his tone oozing charm. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what makes Vought so special. Sure, it’s the heroes, the scientists, the executives. But more than that, it’s the sense of family . We’re all connected. Bound by loyalty, purpose, and yes…” He pauses, letting the word hang like a noose. “…Legacy.”

His gaze sweeps across the crowd. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, that he can’t possibly know. But then his eyes land on you, those unnervingly blue eyes, as if he’s dissecting you with a glance.

“Family is everything, isn’t it?” he says, his smile tightening. “The things we inherit. The people who shape us. Some might say… it’s in our blood .”

Sweat beads down your lower back. There’s no mistaking it now. He’s looking right at you. His words feel like a blade pressed against your throat, daring you to flinch.

The applause swells again as Homelander finishes his speech. He steps down from the podium, his movements unnervingly smooth, like a predator closing in on its prey. The crowd parts for him as he weaves through the room, his eyes fixed on you.

Your heart slams against your ribs. Your gaze darts around the room, searching desperately for an escape route. Adam’s curious expression catches your eye, and he mouths, You okay?

You don’t have time to respond.

“Well, look who decided to make an appearance,” Homelander says, his sudden presence at your side sucking the air from the room.

His tone is light, but the menace beneath it is unmistakable. You don’t wait for him to say more.

You turn on your heel, muttering a quick, “Excuse me,” as you brush past Adam. Your hands tremble as you push through clusters of guests, each step feeling heavier under the weight of Homelander’s stare.

“Leaving so soon, Miss Morgan?” His voice follows you, like the snap of a trap closing.

You force yourself to keep moving, weaving through the throngs of bodies. Your mind races, replaying the layout of the mansion. The service corridor. You’d spotted it earlier while scoping the place. It’s your only chance.

You duck behind a group of laughing executives, their oblivious chatter shielding you for a moment. Homelander’s presence looms behind you, closer now. You can feel the heat of his gaze boring into the back of your skull.

Reaching the edge of the crowd, you spot the narrow service corridor just ahead. Heart hammering, you slip through the doorway, yanking off your heels as you go. The muffled hum of the gala fades behind you, replaced by the harsh echo of your bare feet against the tiled floor.

The corridor feels like a maze, but you don’t stop, don’t dare look back. The air grows cooler as you push through a heavy door and emerge into the back alley. The night is crisp, the sharp sting of the cold biting at your skin.

Your eyes dart around wildly until you spot the van idling at the far end of the alley. Relief floods through you, but you know you’re not safe yet. You sprint toward the vehicle, your clutch pressed tightly to your chest, lungs burning with every step.

Behind you, the door slams open.

“Running, are we?” Homelander’s voice is calm, almost amused.

You don’t look back. You can’t. The van door slides open as you reach it, and you throw yourself inside, gasping for air.

“Go!” you shout, your voice shaking.

Hughie doesn’t hesitate. The tires screech as the van lurches forward, sending you sprawling onto the seat. You brace yourself against the door, your hands trembling as adrenaline courses through your veins.

“What the hell happened?” Annie asks from the front seat, her eyes wide as she twists around to look at you.

“Homelander,” you choke out, your breath hitching. “He… he saw me, and—”

“Saw you?” Hughie glances at you in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed in confusion. “But it’s not like you weren’t supposed to be there. You were invited, right?”

You shake your head violently, pressing your fists to your temples as you try to steady yourself. “It wasn’t just that. He was giving this speech about family, and—God, it felt like he was talking to me . Like he knows something. Then he started coming toward me, and I just—I just ran .”

Annie and Hughie exchange a look, their expressions unreadable.

“Do you think he—” Annie starts, her voice soft.

“I don’t know!” you snap, harsher than intended. You suck in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to calm down. “I don’t know what he knows, but the way he looked at me... It felt like he was hunting me.”

Annie’s face softens. She reaches back to squeeze your arm, her grip firm and reassuring. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters, okay?”

You nod weakly, tugging the warm wool coat you’d left in the van over your shoulders. The cool fabric is grounding, but the dread still lingers like a hand around your throat, coiling tighter with every second.

Hughie clears his throat, his voice steady but tense. “We’re heading to the office. Mallory called right before you got in. Emergency meeting.”

Your stomach drops. You’re not sure how much more you can take tonight, but you don’t argue. Instead, you glance out the window, watching the city lights blur past.

You take a deep breath and press a hand over your abdomen, trying to calm the storm inside you. You’re okay, you tell yourself. You’re okay—for now. Still, your mind spins. You don’t know what he wanted, but you do know this isn’t over. Homelander doesn’t just let things go. 

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