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[dontloooknow]

hungry, lonely, violent

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Days, months, years you spent hungry, yearning. How can a simple two weeks change what's been your life since the outbreak happened? How can one man mend the shattered pieces you never thought could be put back together? How can Joel Miller be that man?

Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Caregiving, Recovery, Healing, Trauma, Oral Sex, Creampie, Size Kink, Size Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, Hurt/Comfort, Porn with Feelings, No use of y/n, Protective Joel

Word count: 22k

Read on ao3

The sunset is a blaze of orange over Jackson, Wyoming.

You’ve been all over the country at this point, a nomad by choice, who escaped the Atlanta QZ as soon as you had the ability and supplies to do so. There have been rumors of a safe place, a town out west where people live in a harmonious peace behind sealed walls. No infected breaking in, no raiders to rob you or do worse. No corrupt FEDRA agents to gun you down for looking at them funny.

As it turns out, it’s a lot fucking harder to find a place like that, than it is to imagine it. 

You know you’re close; you saw the Welcome to Wyoming sign days ago. Your best guideline is an out of date map that you’d killed a handsy FEDRA guard for. It’s gotten you this far though, so you can’t be too frustrated. 

Of course, it’d be nice if it wasn’t the dead of fucking winter, but you’ve never really had the best luck. 

You know you don’t have long before you need to give up on this insane venture. No one ever actually believed the talk about somewhere safe hidden in the mountains; somewhere that life was meant to be lived and not merely endured. Somewhere that a person could feel like a person again, by way of basic dignity and small decencies.

You can almost feel it now, if you close your eyes and let yourself imagine. The steam of a hot shower; water beating down on sore muscles, wet hair plastered down your back as soap bubbles cascade across slick skin. A mug of coffee, or tea, hell you’d even take hot chocolate at this point. Something to soothe the coldness of your palms; something to warm your throat and belly. The crackle of a fireplace underneath a mantle; hardwood floors, a rug nestled underneath a sofa. 

You were so young when the outbreak happened that you’ve never really gotten to experience these things. But you know them well. Stories from your parents, wishful tales of a life once lived in comfort and peace. An expanse of opportunity, safety to explore, create, enjoy. 

In a world like that, there’s room for all sorts of things you haven’t been able to have. What’s always been a quick meal of ration blocks scarfed down in a hurry, could be a slow-cooking stew, complete with fluffy bread and a glass of clean water with ice. Maybe even a wedge of lemon for flavor, if you’re lucky. A slice of hot pie for dessert, an unneeded expense of greed and hunger, nothing beneficial for your health really except to make you happy. Socks without holes, pants without inner thighs so worn you can feel your cold skin chafing between them. 

In a world like that, there’s room for things like delicacies. Things like…romance.

You have no illusions that this could ever be your future. Since you lost your family, things like safety and stability have been mere fantasy. You can’t remember what a home cooked meal might taste like, or a hug from someone who genuinely cares about you. The men and women you’ve been with have all been quick, dirty fucks, going through the motions to make eachother cum and breathe hollow noises of pleasure that are more for show than anything. 

In a different world, maybe it could all mean something.

You take quick stock of your rations. A half-empty water bottle with a screw-on filter that’s quickly becoming unusable from strain. A can of green beans. A small pack of bandages that have lost most of their adhesive strength from time. One pair of underwear that’s hanging off your pack, wet from a wash in the creek. There’s nothing worse than going commando in sub-zero temperatures, but it’s a necessary evil for hygiene. 

From your place currently hiding out in an abandoned gas station nestled in the mountains of what surely used to be some sort of thriving backwoods community, any hope of that fantastical world really does feel out of reach. For most of your life it felt that if dreams were enough to keep you alive, you’d surely be immortal. But lately, that negligent bit of hope is starting to seem like the flicker of a candle about to blow out. 

And it’s funny, for someone who claims to have given up hope, how quickly you jump into gear when you hear heavy footsteps behind you. Your hands fumble; cold and nearly frozen from the frigid temperatures outside, clasping the grip on your gun. You only have a half-mag left, and with your hands as shaky as they are from the weather, you aren’t feeling confident about your ability to aim as well as needed to make that half-mag worthwhile. 

Still, you have little other choice. In your condition, a hand-to-hand fight would be your undoing. 

“I hear someone in there, breathing,” a gruff voice says. It’s low and careful, a slow southern drawl that you recognize as Texan, most likely. You met a few of them in the Atlanta QZ, and they all had this gentle drawl to them, the same way this man does.

It would be almost a calm, reassuring sound, if his proximity didn’t surely mean imminent death for you.

“A runner?” another voice asks, this one is younger. A man, or a boy maybe, a teenager. 

Fuck. You’re outnumbered, even if these are the only two out here. You’re outnumbered by two men. You’re hungry, and half-frozen, and struggling to think of what to do next. It’s like your brain isn’t functioning at full capacity. Who could blame it, with the months of neglect on the road? When was the last time you even had fucking protein?

You try to listen, try to hone your ears to follow the footsteps of the man coming toward you. Surely he knows where you’re hiding, if he heard you breathing and assumed you were an ill infected. You must really sound like shit. You sort of knew that your lungs had a rattle from the cold and your nose was sniffly, but clearly it's worse than you thought. 

Okay, okay, think. What can I-

Your train of thought is immediately interrupted by a large, thick arm circling around your neck from behind. You gasp as your body is wrenched into the air, a sturdy mountain of a man behind you. In your panic, you drop your gun and reach for his massive forearm, trying to pry it off your neck as your vision begins to go fuzzy.

Holy fuck, you’re going to die at the hands of some random Texas giant in this abandoned gas station. 

“Shit, Joel, she’s not infected!” 

“Wh- Christ!”

In a flat second, you’re on the floor, coughing and gasping as you clutch at your neck, trying to fill your icy lungs with desperate air. The floor is more like concrete, and with the layer of ice spread across it, there’s damn near no cushion for your fall.

The large man reaches out, you can hear his jacket shuffle and his body move, but you scramble away, reaching frantically for your gun. 

The other one, the younger boy, comes into focus and reaches out to pluck up your gun before you can even make an honest grab for it. 

“Hey, we aren’t gonna hurt you,” the boy says, looking down at you earnestly. It’s big talk from the teenager holding a revolver on you, but his eyes are genuine enough. “I’m sorry we scared you. We thought-”

Your vision whites out as you feel a large hand grab your arm. The big man, the giant Texan has grabbed your bicep and is trying to pull you up. Pure instinct takes over; reflex causing you to lash out with your free arm. 

Your knife makes a decent slash in the skin of his hand, and he pulls back with a shouted curse of pain. 

“Whoa whoa!” the boy tries again for a calming tone, still attempting some sort of diplomacy.

Ignoring his pathetic excuse for a ceasefire, you launch yourself at the large man, wielding your knife like it’s your last chance. 

With him momentarily disoriented, it’s easy to hop on his back, effectively putting his body between yours and the boy with the gun as a human shield. And a gigantic one, at that. His shoulders are stocky, easy handholds for you as you settle your legs around his large waist. You press the tip of your knife against his throat, feeling the vibrations of his grunted breaths against your thumb bone. 

This close, you can smell a soft aroma of lemon soap wafting off his wavy hair. It’s dark with streaks of silver dancing down through the ends, matching a well-groomed beard on his jaw. His jacket is thick brown leather, it looks heavy and surely adds bulk to an already impressively large man. 

“Walk out, now!” You warn the boy with the gun, still pressing the blade into the man’s throat. “I won’t kill him if you leave me alone.”

You think it’s a pretty fucking generous offer, considering this giant just tried to choke you out.

The boy glances at the man, sighing. He shakes his head, holstering his gun. “Joel, just be gentle.”

Frowning, you look between them in confusion.

The man, whose name must be Joel, chuckles dryly. It’s a nice sound, a steady reverberation through his chest. In another circumstance, you think it might be a soothing noise. One of those laughs from a person who seems like they know the answer to every question, who's figured everything out. Someone who’d take care of you.

Then, he grabs your wrist so hard you feel bone press into flesh, wrenches the knife away from his throat as if you’re no more than a pesky mosquito, and flips your body over his shoulder. 

Being effectively yeeted into a frozen concrete floor by a man three times your size would most certainly be a death sentence. 

You feel the wind rush out of your lungs, the world spin upside down, and you’re preparing to hear a deafening crack of your skull against the hard ground. 

Before the impact radiates through your body though, you realize he’s slowed your momentum by sliding an arm around your lower back, stopping you just before your body would’ve crashed into the floor. He kneels forward, holding you just above the ice, and you get a good look at his face.

It doesn’t feel like the right time to be thinking this, and you hate yourself a tiny bit, but he’s really fucking handsome. His nose is large and stately, his eyes framed by thick, dark lashes that brush his cheekbones, eyebrows pulled together so his forehead scrunches up. There are lines of age on his face, flecks of gray in his beard, yet the flush to his tanned skin and the light in his gaze tells you he’s in tiptop shape. This is a man who eats well, eats often, and probably isn’t sleeping on the hard ground every night as you’ve been for weeks.

Considering he just tossed you over his shoulder like a tiny bag of flour, this isn’t particularly surprising. 

“If you’d quit tryin’ to kill me, little miss, then maybe we can have a conversation.”

With a growl of anger, you swing your fist. He catches your wrist in his hand so easily it’s humiliating, and gives you a disapproving look. 

“We ain’t gonna hurt ya’,” he continues, “stop swingin’ on me.”

“We should take her back to town,” the boy says, still standing beside the two of you a little awkwardly, “she’s not well.”

At that, you pause, something icy running into your veins. You’ve run into more than enough fucked up little “towns” on your trip west. They always ended up trying to kill you or indoctrinate you into some demented cult ideals. You’ve fought your way out of more than enough situations like this to know that if you don’t escape now, it’s not going to end well.

You’re unarmed, you’re starved, you’re half-frozen, and the man above you is so large you swear you could strap a pair of reins to his shoulders and have him pull a carriage. 

In so many words, you’re fucked.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl, wriggling in his grasp and trying to free yourself.

“Alright.” The man releases you and you hit the cold ground, a surprised noise of pain slipping from your mouth as your head smashes into the ice.

“Jesus Joel,” the boy says.

“She told me to!”

This is your chance. You just need to get to your feet and run. Fuck the gun and the knife, you’ll find new ones. You’ve been without your supplies before. You can figure it out. You just have to get up.

An attempt to move into a sitting position proves futile, as your vision begins to swim and your head throbs. Your hands fumble weakly for purchase at your sides, but the ice is too slick to find a solid grasp.

“I think she’s gotta concussion,” the man, Joel, muses nonchalantly.

“I think she’s got a lot going on,” the boy replies, “should we put her on a horse? Seems like she wants to be left alone.”

“Ain’t the policy that we bring back injured travelers?” Joel asks.

 “Yeah, but normally they don’t…resist this much, right?”

Joel hums thoughtfully. “Normally they ain’t women all by themselves surrounded by two strange men.”

“I guess not.” 

“Let’s get her on a horse. Once she realizes she’s safe, maybe she’ll quit the murderin’ shit.”

“What if she comes to and tries to kill you again?” the boy worries.

At this, Joel chuckles again. “If she manages to kill me on the back of a horse with no weapon, then I goddamn deserve it, kid.”

“Is this how all patrols are?” 

“Nah. They usually ain’t this exciting.” Joel leans over you then, and you smell the lemon soap and a faint whiff of pine oil. “Hey there, you with us?”

“No,” you groan, though you’re not actually sure what you’re responding to.

“Listen, m’gonna have to pick you up and put you on a horse. Try not to gouge my eyes out. Think you can manage that?”

“No,” you repeat sourly.

“Excellent. You ever been on a horse before?”

“No.”

He exhales. “You say anything else?”

“No.”

“Alright then. When we get you up, just hold on to my waist, don’t let go or you’re gonna go flyin’ and that won’t be good for neither of us. You hear? No ain’t an option.”

You narrow your eyes which does nothing to help your already blurry vision. You feel your consciousness slowly starting to slip away on a delicate string, at a great danger of snapping and disappearing in the distance. 

“I think she bonked her head,” the boy says when you don’t reply.

“Good observation, son.” With that, Joel reaches for you. You tell your muscles to resist, to fight back, but they frustratingly don’t move.

He slides his arms underneath your prone form and lifts as if you weigh no more than a backpack. Surprisingly, his touch is gentle rather than rough as you’d expected. He moves slowly, gradually pulling your body into a sitting position. Your head spins and you let out an involuntary noise of pain.

“M’sorry honey,” he murmurs, “you got your bell rung, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t carry a bell,” you manage a weak reply.

He chuckles again, and you feel yourself being hoisted up. After a moment of adjusting, you’re lying in his arms bridal style, thick forearms underneath your body. He grips your thighs to keep you in place, shifting you upward to preserve the momentum as he gets back to his feet with a slight huff of effort. 

“Do you need help?” the boy asks, hovering.

“Nah, she don’t weigh more than one of them kitchen chairs in the mess hall. Just grab her stuff, m’sure she’ll be askin’ after it when she’s up and running.”

“Okay, okay got it. You want me to lead?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks Jesse.”

“Sure thing.”

You’re moving then, you think. The world shifts around you, and your head lulls to the side, pressing into a coat. You shudder once, and find yourself transfixed on the even breathing of the man holding you.

“Cold?” he asks gruffly, and then sighs as if that’s a stupid question. “Jesse?”

“Yeah?” 

“Help me with this.” 

There’s movement, and your body is shuffled a bit, before someone drapes a thick weight over you, wrapping you up like a burrito in what appears to be a giant leather jacket. It smells of lemon and pine oil, the scent wafting off it with each movement. 

You’re confused, disoriented and overwhelmed. The weight of the jacket around you is enough to soothe the cold for now, even as you feel shuffling and adjusting and find your legs slung around the thick flank of a horse. 

“Hold on tight,” says Joel. 

What other choice do you have? 

———-

Somewhere between the gas station and here, you passed out. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, given the state you were in. It only makes sense your body would give up in some way. Obviously you wish it hadn’t been while you were pressed up against the large, broad back of a grouchy old Texan, but as you said you’ve never had the best luck. 

When you come to, you’re supine on a couch. It’s odd though, because from first glance, the thing isn’t musty and dusty like they usually are. It’s soft, squishy, and smells clean. There’s a blanket draped over you, some sort of fuzzy wool that keeps your limbs warm. It’s heavy too, the weight of it soothing. A crackling sound alerts your gaze to a mantle with a fireplace underneath, heat flickering off the orange licks of flames, well contained in the brick casing. Atop the mantle are framed photos, a girl with choppy hair and freckles on a horse, the man, Joel, at her side, smiling. 

It’s an odd expression on him, you think. Although handsome, it’s surprising to see the gruff man look so at ease, so happy. From your brief interaction in the gas station, you’d come to gather he’s a no-nonsense, quick-to-choke asshole.

Not unlike yourself, really.

And if there are photos of him and what looks to be his daughter, or a teenaged relative maybe, on this mantle, that means you’re in his house. That means you’re in grave danger.

Though...you are seemingly fine, wrapped in a blanket by the fireplace, clothing intact on your body. Beside you on an end table is a lamp, a glass of tepid water, and a few leaves of unfamiliar greens. 

You move to sit up, pressing your hands against your thighs in search of any of your weapons. Nothing. Your pack is gone too. 

As you adjust, you find that your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue swollen and dry. Your throat is aching, desperate for water. You run your fingers along the arm of the sofa, eyeing the glass of water longingly.

What if he’s done something to it? 

Before you can decide if it’s worth the risk, footsteps pad in behind you, and you whip around to see him entering the room. You stumble off the couch, legs wobbling, knees threatening to give out as you try to stand your ground.

“Easy,” Joel says in that slow drawl, “you’re alright, little miss. You’re safe.”

Your hands clench into fists. As if you’re stupid enough to believe him. 

“You know where you are?” he asks, like he thinks you won’t know. 

For a moment, you fumble. Where...are you? You know it’s snowing outside the windows of this little, quiet house. You know you came from Atlanta. You know you found yourself a little turned around in the backwoods of somewhere in Wyoming.

“Wyoming,” you say, forcing the word to come out assuredly, even as your voice cracks around it like a frail twig under a boot.

He nods once. “Good. You’re in Jackson. You hit your head and it seemed like you haven’t had a real meal in a while. We brought you back to get you feelin’ better. You passed out on the way.”

Blinking, you take stock of the room around you. You’re in Joel’s house, in Jackson. Can it really be true? Have you really found it? The place where life can be lived peacefully amidst the horrors outside the wall? 

“It’s real?” you find yourself asking. The crackling fireplace and framed photos seem evidence enough of a more content lifestyle than anywhere you’ve ever lived.

Again, he nods. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Just stories,” you admit, “didn’t believe them.”

“It’d be hard to,” he agrees gruffly. 

You allow yourself a moment to look him over. Here in his home, he’s shed his winter layers in favor of a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with an unbuttoned flannel over the top. His hair is tousled from the wind, gray-lined dark curls framing his face. His shoulders, just as big as you remember noticing, fill out the fabric of his flannel so well it’s a little hard to look away. A quick scan of his body does little to reassure you of any chance you have to fight back if this goes sour. He’s large; his chest thick, thighs sturdy in his jeans, a faint outline of a comfortable belly underneath his shirt. You can see a cropping of dark hair just poking out of his shirt collar and the ends of his sleeves. He’s rugged in every sense of the word. Rugged, and huge. 

“I left you some water there,” he gestures vaguely to the end table, “some mint leaves to chew on, sometimes they help when I gotta headache. I dunno. Just in case. They didn’t have anywhere to put you yet, and the infirmary was pretty overrun so they-”

“What are you going to do to me?” you find yourself asking, hating the hollow note of fear in your words. 

Joel pauses, hands on his hips, eyebrows screwed together. “Do to you?”

In lieu of a reply, you just nod warily. 

It takes him a moment, you think, to register what you’re implying. When it hits him, his shoulders deflate, and his expression heaves into one of displeasure. He clenches and unclenches his fists before he speaks.

“You’re safe,” he says again, voice even and composed despite the clear discomfort on his face. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Once they find somewhere else to put you, we’ll get you comfortable. But for now, if it’ll make you feel better.” He moves toward you, reaching for the waistband of his jeans.

Reflexively, you stumble backward, putting distance between the two of you. Your legs betray you, and you find yourself leaning against a table by the window with little wood carvings to stay upright. He halts instantly, expression neutral. 

“I was just gonna give you this.” He removes your gun from his waistband, presenting it matter-of-factly. “Loaded the mag for you. Don’t shoot me.”

With that, he sets it on the end table by the couch, halfway between the two of you, and steps back. 

“You got no reason to kill me,” he says, “I got no reason to hurt you. I wouldn’t. Ever. So take it. But I’d prefer not to have any extra holes by the time you leave.” 

You swallow noisily, eyes tracing the line toward the gun. It rests neatly beside the water and mint leaves, his gifts to you, comfort and safety all in one little package on the end table. 

Unsure of what to say, you slowly move toward the end table, picking up the gun. Hesitantly, you pull back the slide and see a round in the chamber. Then, you pop the mag out and see that he wasn’t lying. It’s fully loaded. 

You eye him warily as you tuck the gun into your own waistband, safety on. “Thanks?”

“Don’t shoot me,” he repeats sternly.

“Don’t give me a reason to,” you warn him.

At this, he scoffs. “Lady, if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it with my arm around your neck.”

Your eyes narrow. “I never said you wanted to kill me.”

His nose wrinkles at that, eyes going dark. “You don’t have to worry about that. Listen, I’ll stay outta your hair. But they want me to get you healthy before you get set up on your own here. So-”

“Wait, before what?”

Another sigh, like he’s exasperated. “You’ll get assigned a house and eventually work duties and patrol schedules. They’ll go over all that with you. I’m just the middle man here.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even done speaking. “Who fucking decided that for me?”

His eyebrow arches. “Ain’t that why you’re out here?”

Torn, you struggle to think of a reply. It actually is exactly why you’re out here, but you’re confused and suspicious at the easy welcome and acceptance of another mouth to feed, another burden on the resources. You don’t even know if he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’re not even in Jackson. Maybe this is some fucked up murder cabin and he’s playing you like a fiddle.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” You demand, fingers itching to reach for the gun now that it’s safely holstered away. 

Joel gestures to the front door. “Be my fuckin’ guest.”

Reluctantly taking your eyes off of him, you push off the table and move for the front entryway. You brush by him briskly, annoyed when he doesn’t move out of the way. Your shoulder nudges into his arm, and you’re struck by how thick and immovable he feels beside your feeble frame. 

You hate it. It would be so effortless to overpower you.

You dislike having him in your rearview, but you move toward the line of windows that overlook the front lawn. 

Your eyes take in a sight you could’ve only ever imagined. Snow-lined streets, little shops and markets with pleasant looking customers milling about. People with horses, waving to each other. Children running in the street and laughing loudly while gentle adults corral them back onto shoveled sidewalks. No FEDRA guards shouting about work duty or drills, no bomb warning sirens, no distant roar of infected outside the gates.

No weapons, no shouting or robbery, no children sobbing in the snow from hunger. Everything that had ever felt unattainable, apparently just outside your window. 

In utter disbelief, you slowly turn back to Joel, who’s watching you with mild interest. 

“Wow,” is all you can manage. 

“Yeah, you found the promised land and all that.” He shrugs. “Now they said they oughta have somewhere for you to stay on your own by end of week, provided you’re physically up for it. You’d better start with some water, kid.”

You glance at the glass on the end table, ruminating on the possibility of it being laced with something. 

“For Christ's sake.” Joel marches toward the glass, takes a few huge gulps, and then holds it out to you. “Where the fuck would I even get somethin’ like that?”

He has to know that these days finding drugs to crush up and ingest is infinitely easier than finding food. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe living here has made a soft, ignorant man of him. Maybe he always has been. 

You’re suddenly so angry. All of the years you’ve suffered, your family dying, FEDRA raids and Firefly bombings and attacks from hordes of infected. 

And here he is. Sitting by the fire, framed photographs smiling back at him, mint leaves between his teeth for a mild ailment. 

It’s so unfair. 

“You guys are pretty selfish, you know.” You ignore his outstretched hand with the water. “Keeping all this a secret. Keeping it for yourselves while the rest of us struggle.”

Joel rolls his eyes, and the flippant gesture is enough to make your teeth grind together. “Ah. We’re doin’ this? You wanna leave, go. Ain’t nobody holding you hostage.”

What are you doing? Your brain is screaming at you desperately. This is what you wanted. This is why you came. You’ve found it. 

You hadn’t realized what it would mean, actually seeing this oasis. Actually feeling the warmth of a fireplace and the soft fabric of a clean couch. Having mint leaves and bullets a plenty. How could you have ever expected the gaping hole it would punch through your chest, seeing what you could’ve had all these years, laid out in front of you like a decadent buffet. What your family could’ve had. 

What this man, Joel, is trying to offer you. 

“It isn’t fair,” you manage weakly, talking to no one in particular, eyes searching around the organized decor. “It isn’t fair.”

“I know,” is all you get in reply. 

You move away from the window, not exactly sure where you plan to go, but overwhelmed. Finally, your weak knees do give out, and you pitch forward.

Your arms shoot out to catch yourself, but as it turns out, you don’t need them to. Strong hands grip you under the armpits, pulling upward until your legs straighten out. You stumble into a big, warm chest, and Joel grumbles something you don’t catch under his breath. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “gonna get you back to the couch.”

You’re too overcome to argue, though it is your first instinct. You allow him to lead your trembling body toward the sofa, jellylike legs carrying you only as his strength pulls them along. 

He slots you between two couch cushions, and you sink down in the fabric. Then, he picks up the water he’d set down in his hurry to catch you, and holds it out. 

“This would be a start,” he says earnestly. 

In shaky hands, you bring the glass to your lips, sipping delicately. The water is room temperature, somewhat warmed by the heat of the fire. It goes down your throat, soothing the ache there with much needed droplets of hydration. You finish the glass in record time, and before you can blink, Joel’s taken it from you. Your arm reaches forward pathetically, a plea to keep the glass as if you could suck the remaining moisture out from the bottom. 

“Hold on,” he says, but there’s no note of impatience or annoyance in the words. He leaves the room and returns a moment later with a glass full to the brim. 

Eagerly, you take it from his hands, too lost in the euphoria of fresh, clean water to consider the possibility of the first one being a trick. He’s got you comfortable. Now, he can do whatever he wants. 

You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were until the pain was soothed. 

It’s a funny thing, longing. You get so used to it that you start to grow numb. You yearn for something long enough, eventually you don’t feel like yourself without it. Hunger, thirst, pining, it’s all a part of who you are. Fulfilled, sated, you wouldn’t know who to be or how to move forward. 

Still, you finish the glass as quickly as the first. 

“Better?” Joel asks, his voice lacking warmth but not particularly unpleasant. 

You nod hesitantly. 

“How’s your head?”

You touch your fingers to the back of your head, roving the pads across your tangled hair. You feel no bump, no cuts, nothing more than a rats nest of unbrushed locks. 

“Fine,” you say, though it does hurt. You’re sure it’s nothing serious, but you definitely gave it a good bump. 

“You feel like eatin’?” He asks, and the prospect of food is enough to make your chapped lips feel wet with salivation. 

“You have food,” you tell him, more of a statement than a question. 

Quizzically, he nods. “Uh, yeah.”

“Real food?”

“I got some venison in the freezer,” he says, “and some broccoli.”

“In a can?”

His expression softens marginally. “No.”

Fuck. Real fresh vegetables? 

“Tell you what.” Joel cracks his knuckles loudly. “You go on up and take a shower, get yourself sorted. I’ll get started on some grub. ‘Bout dinner time anyway. Then maybe we can get you healthy enough to get outta my hair. How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” is all you can think to say, surprisingly amicable. In your defense, it’s been a while since someone offered you a hot meal and a shower. And you do have your gun...just in case.

Joel holds a hand out, and despite every instinct in your body begging you not to take it, you slip your palm into his. His hand is warm, calloused from exposure and rough on the pads of his palm, but there’s something familiar about his hold. It’s oddly comforting. It feels like a hand that knows hard work, not unlike your own, which you’re sure are twice as rough right now.

He offers you a small, barely perceptible smile before he releases your hand and says, “second door on the right.”

Then, he heads into the kitchen. 

If you wanted to, you could quietly sneak in behind him, gun drawn, and put a bullet in his head. Right now, it would be so easy. He’s foolishly left you to your own devices in his home with a loaded gun. Who could blame you for second-guessing his motives and intentions? 

But he’s also offering you a meal, a hot shower, the prospect of a life. And you’d come a very long way to find him. To find this, you mean. 

You lean down and grab a mint leaf, sticking it between your teeth to chew as you ascend the stairs with a careful hand on the railing. It’s surprisingly tasty, the leaf, though it has a bite of burn that stings your tongue in an unfamiliar way. You press it between your teeth and tongue, feeling the sharp sting of the mint and breathing in the relief. You aren’t sure why, maybe it’s all in your head, but it feels like it is soothing your pain. 

Your fingers trail along the wooden banister. It’s clean, well dusted, organized. There’s traces of life here, in the haphazard way his boots are strewn by the door, in the crumple of towels on the floor in the corner of the laundry room you pass by, in the photographs on walls and more tables. That girl with the freckles and choppy hair is all over his life, alongside a man with a beard and scrappy bun. A brother maybe? You can’t tell, but what’s clear in the multitude of photos is that Joel likes to keep his loved ones close. He likes tangible memories, reminders of those he cares for. 

You find yourself in a large bathroom standing in front of a shower with a pastel yellow curtain. You grip the material in your fingers, pulling back on the curtain, enamored with the way it glides back and forth on the rod. The closest thing you had to this in the QZ was water boiled and poured into a tub for bathing. On the road, it was a nice cold creek when you could find it.

Curiously, you slide your fingers down the wall until they bump into a strange knob, delicate rounded designs poking out of the glossy finish. To the right, a little blue circle, to the left a little red one. You deduce they indicate the temperature of the water, and twist the knob until it’s halfway in between. 

The water shoots forward out of a head at the top of the wall, spraying you in the face. You splutter, pulling back and coughing water out of your nose and throat. It’s a powerful stream, the droplets hitting your face with a velocity you hadn’t expected. You know the currents of lakes, oceans and creeks can be unpredictable. Waves are something otherworldly, a force to be reckoned with, never tempted. 

You had no idea something so small could be so powerful.

You check once more that the door is locked, then you peel off your tattered jacket and undershirt. Your bra is barely held together by a stitch you keep doing and undoing in the back. The clasp broke a year ago. You slide your old jeans down your legs, face blooming red when you remember that your underwear was hooked onto the back of your bag to dry after a wash.

Where is it? Did they leave it in the gas station? It was your only pair. 

Somehow worse...does Joel...have it?

Hesitantly, you step over the ledge of the tub into the stream of water, surprised at the feeling of the droplets crashing into your skin. It hurts a little, the pressure at which the water shoots out at you. 

For a moment, you languish under the stream of water, feeling dirt and muck slide off your skin. It feels like you’ve been encased in a layer of grime for so long, you’ve almost forgotten what clean feels like. Though, you’ve never been clean like this.

You see a little sponge in a rack on the wall, and grab for it. There’s a bar of soap beside it, and you take that too, sudsing up the sponge as much as possible. It smells like lemon, the same faint aroma you’d noticed on Joel.

Then, it strikes you that this must be the sponge he washes his own body with.

You hesitate. Surely this violates some sort of acceptable hygiene norm. But also, your hand’s not gonna do the job. And you’d only be dirtying up his soap if you used that on its own.

In a confused moment of transfixion, you squeeze the sponge between your fingers, running the pad of your thumb over its gristly base. It wafts lemon, that enticing smell that Joel carries with him from a good wash in the morning. 

You know it’s odd, and certainly not the time to be having these thoughts, but it’s a little distracting that this is his sponge. The same one he rubs all over himself when he’s naked, when the water is drizzling down his thick body, his sturdy chest and his soft stomach and the unmovable width of his thighs. You imagine he must like the way it feels after a long day, hot water sizzling on his skin, the sharp edge of a sponge cutting through dirt on his body, the smell of lemon in his nose and lingering on him.

You douse the sponge in lemon soup, and carefully slide it down your arm. The feeling makes you shudder; the rough texture of the sponge grating down your filthy skin. The sponge that Joel rubs on himself. The sponge that’s nestled itself between the bulging muscles of his chest, down the lines of his abdomen, all over his large arms. Down further...between his legs, maybe. 

It’s been so long since you thought about a man this way; since you thought about anyone this way. On the road, there was no time for luxuries like sexual fantasy. 

But now, safe and comfortable beneath a thick and steady steam of hot water, you allow your mind to wander a bit.

How thorough must Joel be, when he washes himself with this rough little sponge? To smell as good as he does even in the midst of a fight, even with adrenaline pumping, testosterone brewing, sweat surely slickening his underarms and legs. Still, he wafts pleasant aromas, the kind that make you lean into him, rather than pull away.

He must touch himself often, in depth. He must scrub the soap in between places on his large body that only he can see, only he can touch. Dripping little droplets of sweet-scented soap on to parts of him that would be so difficult to get to, unless he were naked in front of you. 

Your fist clenches tightly around the sponge, expelling a myriad of soapy bubbles that drip down your legs into the drain. You blink, shaking your head, trying to come back down from those inappropriate thoughts.

Jesus. It’s really been too long. You’re gonna have to figure out something to do about that before you find yourself biting into this lemon-scented sponge.

Get a grip, you tell yourself. You have one hot shower and all of a sudden you’re ready and willing for the first person who will have you?

You’re sure it won’t be Joel, gruff and solitary as he seems, but maybe someone in this little safe haven is interested in relieving this ache.

Though, you’re no stranger to longing. It’s not as if you can’t take care of yourself.

Right now, you focus on washing. You scrub every inch of your body, including between your toes and in your belly button. You fight the layers of grime and grit until your skin is rubbed raw and red. Then, you take the syrupy bottle of liquid that’s labeled in marker “shampoo” and drench the crown of your head with it.

Scrubbing your hair takes more energy than you can expend. By the time the bubbles are rinsing down your back, your vision is swimming and you’re seeing black spots at the corner of your eyes. Your legs wobble, and you press a hand flat against the wall to steady yourself.

How long have you been in here?

Instead of tipping over and falling out onto the bathroom floor like an idiot, you slowly lower yourself to the shower floor. The tile is hot underneath your legs, and you realize you’ve turned the water all the way to the little red circle. 

It burns, droplets of acid shooting into your skin like knives. It’s so hot, hotter water than you’ve ever felt cascading over your body. It burns nicely, melting away the road like you’re shedding skin to grow anew. The steam fills your nostrils, and you take a big breath, your lungs still rattly and weak from the cold outside, but soothed slightly by the thick warmth in here.

You lose track of everything on the shower floor. The water is so hot, the smell is so sweet, the confines of the tub feel safe and secluded. The door has a lock, the shower has a curtain, each sliver of a barrier between you and everyone else feels like more security than you’ve had in months. Or maybe ever.

Your knees press against the sides of the tub, knobby and thin, too sickly for anyone to desire. You don’t like the body you’re in, don’t like that you were mistaken for an infected today, don’t like that you’re more survival than person at this point. 

And you can’t help but wonder, Jackson, Joel, this life here, would it be enough to change that? He says he can get you healthy, you can get your own place, a home. If you do as he says, follow his lead, can he really make that happen?

A place where you could lock the doors whenever you want. A place where you didn’t have to keep a loaded gun on you to feel safe. A place where you could drink the water without worrying it’s been spiked or it’s unsuitable. A life, a home, something meaningful.

All you have to do is get off the floor and go downstairs to it. 

With a huff of effort, you shove your body forward, bracing yourself on the side of the tub for momentum. You clumsily yank on the knob and crank it until the water stops flowing. There's a fresh towel on a rack by the shower, and you reach for it feebly.

You avoid your reflection in the mirror as much as possible; your skin is a mapping of cuts, bruises, scars. A lifetime of suffering delicately traced into lines on your body. There’s no hiding what you’ve been through, it plays out across your limbs like the scenes of a movie. Each moment of misery, each near-death experience, each trauma, a little piece of it left within you and etched into your physicality for everyone to see. 

Some people are born whole and become broken. Some are born whole and never lose enough pieces to say they aren’t complete anymore. 

You were born with missing parts, already deficient in a world that ensured it would hack every last bit of you away. You don’t know how you stand, how you breathe, how you live, without lungs to fill your throat with air or a heart to pump your blood. Your chest is a cavern, all your missing pieces scattered across the trails you’ve walked, and mirrored in your scarred flesh.

Reminders. Everything is fleeting, everything is futile, and contentment is an undeserved fantasy. 

Body wrapped in a towel, the cold air dimpling your flesh with goosebumps, you reach for your tattered clothes. They’re filthy, murky and bloodstained. You suspect Joel is going to need to thoroughly disinfect the couch you were lying on. 

You don’t want to put them on. You don’t want to slide your clean, scrubbed raw skin into the folds of clothing littered with horror. 

All you have is the cleanliness of your skin, and the mint leaf ground up between your teeth. Your first taste of comfort in...well, forever.

Reluctantly, you scoop up the pile of clothes and peer out into the hallway. You’re struck with a delightful smell; not the lemon soap, but something more tantalizing. Cooking meat, vegetables, the sizzle of smoke on a stovetop. You lean forward almost in a trance, your stomach growling ravenously, as you begin to descend the stairs. 

Your footsteps are featherlight on the stairs, toes carefully pressing forward down the cold hardwood. It squeaks underneath the pad of your foot, but you ignore it, moving languidly toward the enticing smell. 

He’s there, Joel, standing at the stove with his large back to you. He’s shrugged out of the flannel, leaving him clad in only his black t-shirt. The thin confines of the material give you more insight into the shape of him, the large, hulking physique of the man cooking vegetables. 

He doesn’t seem to notice your entrance, either too enthralled in his task, or you’ve been in the shower so long he’s forgotten you’re here. 

Carefully, you edge your way in a wide circle until you think you’re in his peripherals. He glances sideways, eyebrows shooting up as he observes you standing in his kitchen, only a towel around your body. 

“Do you have my underwear?” You ask, before something less humiliating can come to mind. 

Joel falters, something between embarrassment and amusement dancing across his expression before it smooths out. “Uh, yeah. I threw ‘em in the wash with some other stuff. Hope that’s okay.”

“Oh. Yeah it’s okay. Thanks.”

“I can take those too?” He jerks his chin toward the bundle of tattered clothes in your arms. 

“I have nothing else to wear,” you admit. 

At that, the corner of his lips twitch sideways. “I got somethin’ for ya’.”

He sets the pan down on the stove and gestures for you to follow him. You trail behind as he makes his way down the hall toward the laundry room you’d passed by earlier. He pauses in the doorway, looking around thoughtfully, before he spots a big tub in the back corner and reaches for it. It’s labeled with the same marker his shampoo was.

Ellie Winter Clothes

Joel brings the tub out into the living room and cracks open the lid, waving a hand for you to come in and examine the options.

You peer into the tub, surprised to find several neat stacks of folded up clothing. Jackets, pants, long-sleeved shirts and flannels. You look at Joel curiously.

“My kid,” he explains, “she just left last week to go on this tour of the west coast with her girlfriend. They just turned eighteen, all about gettin’ that freedom.”

You stare at him blankly. “You let your eighteen year old daughter leave on her own?”

Joel smiles wryly. “You ain't met Ellie. Anyway, she’ll be back at the end of next month. Just don’t lose nothin’ and I figure she won’t mind.”

You pick up one of the shirts. It’s soft fleece, navy blue, thick and warm to the touch. You purse your lips, doubtful it’ll fit you if it’s something a teenage girl’s wearing.

“I think it’ll fit just fine,” Joel tells you carefully, “‘least until we get some food in ya’.”

Warily, you slide the navy fleece over your head, keeping the towel upright with one hand and rolling the shirt down over the front of it. With dismay, you find the shirt fits nicely. It’s barely even snug.

And it’s so unfair that you almost cry in his living room. Because a girl ten years your junior shouldn’t be wearing the same size clothes as you. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the emotions from swelling to the surface, blinking rapidly. 

Joel clears his throat. “Hey, why don’t you throw them clothes on, and meet me in the kitchen? Grub’s almost up.”

You’re quick to nod, scooping up a pair of leggings and socks before you shuffle across the floor into the downstairs bathroom beside the kitchen. You allow yourself a moment to let the tears race down your cheeks as you dress in the teenage girl’s clothes, sniffling while wiping at your red eyes. You hadn’t realized, alone on the road all those months, how much you’ve shrunk in on yourself. You’ve never been as big as you should be, stunted by lack of food. But at least in the QZ you had ration blocks. It’s been a lean few months of scavenging. 

You feel like something inhuman, something wrong, something unworthy. You don’t belong in this well-decorated, well-loved home. In this safe little town. 

Finally, you wipe the last of the liquid from your eyes and exit the bathroom, heading into the kitchen. Your footsteps are careful, cautious, each one placed with delicate intention.

Joel’s just finishing up as he sets a plate down on his circular kitchen table. There are two settings, each with glistening silver utensils and a mason jar full of liquid beside them. 

Joel spots you entering, and smiles hesitantly. He pulls out one of the chairs, which you assume is your cue to sit. You place your bottom in the chair, surprised when he pushes it in for you. He sits in the other chair and begins to eat unceremoniously.

Taking in the sights on your plate, you find a well cooked slab of meat, seared delightfully. The broccoli is steamed to a crisp, but not burnt, and there’s a slice of fluffy bread sliced beside it. You even see Joel dip a knife into a slab of light yellow paste and spread it over his slice.

“Is that...” your voice trails off in disbelief.

“That’s right,” he replies, “want some?”

You nod eagerly and hold out your bread. He smooths some butter over the top. He takes a sip from the mason jar beside his plate, and you can’t tell exactly what’s in it but, from the smell you think it’s alcohol.

You glance down at your own jar curiously, picking it up with a delicate hand. It’s a faded orange-ish brown color, but smells sweet when you bring it to your nose to inhale. No traces of booze, you don’t think. You’ve never been much of a drinker.

Tentatively, you bring the liquid to your mouth for a sip, eyelashes fluttering with surprise. It’s sweet to the taste, tangy and thin as it drenches over your tongue. The flavor is familiar, though you’re certain you’ve never had this drink. It’s tart and sweet all at once. 

“You ever had apple juice before?” Joel asks, watching you make love to the mason jar as you eagerly sip more.

Frowning, you shake your head. “Maybe when I was a kid, before the outbreak. I don’t remember it though.”

“You like it?”

Nodding, you tip the glass back and finish it off, exhaling with pleasure. Then, you get to work on the meal.

It’s been so long since you used silverware you’ve almost forgotten how to properly position the fork and knife to cut into the meat. It’s tender though, and easy to slice into. You spear a piece with your fork and take it between your lips, eyes going wide at the burst of flavor breaking in under your teeth. 

It’s like nothing you’ve ever had before. Juicy, tender, flavorful. It fills your mouth, satiates the hunger radiating through your teeth, goes down your throat in a smooth gulp. It settles in your empty stomach, a small portion of relief restored within you. 

It’s as if a switch has flipped. Once you get a bite of the meat, you think you need to have more or you might die. It’ll be impossible to stop. 

You start cutting into the meat like your life depends on it, ravenously shoving pieces into your mouth in a manner you’re sure Joel finds unladylike. You supplement it with bites of well-seasoned broccoli and soft, buttery bread.

Joel refills your apple juice and you wash down bites with it, practically moaning at the taste. When your bread disappears another is set on your plate, buttered and soft, ready to go. 

You barely look up to breathe before the plate is clean, the glass is drained for the second time, and Joel is still working on his first helping of it all. 

He smiles at you when you meet his eyes, suddenly feeling something like shame wash over you. You don’t remember much of what your parents taught you about manners, but you’re pretty sure coming into a stranger's house and eating their food like a feral dog doesn’t fall under the umbrella of polite dining.

“Um...m’sorry,” is all you can think to say.

Joel arches an eyebrow, taking a hefty bite of his own and chewing thoroughly before he asks, “sorry for what?”

“It was really good,” you reply hesitantly. 

At that, his smile grows, and he looks down at the plate to smooth his expression over. He nods once. “Good. M’glad. Glad you liked it. How’re you feelin’?”

“Like I want more,” you admit, though your voice is sheepish, “is that bad?”

He clears his throat, readjusting in his seat, and your face falls. Oh dear god. You’re humiliated. Clearly he’s uncomfortable with your gluttony and your request, you’ve made this weirder than it already was. Further proof of your fears; you aren’t made for a place like this. You’re wrong, broken, not-

“I’m real glad to hear that, darlin’,” Joel says, “maybe give it a few minutes. I bet you ain’t eaten that much in a while.”

Your face feels warm at the casual use of darlin’, but you ignore that and ask, “wait for what?”

“For it all to settle, make sure you still feel okay.” He shrugs, taking another bite of the meat on his plate, which you’re now noticing is much larger than the one you’d had. “Goin’ from as hungry as you look, to eatin’ like we do here...s’gonna take some time.”

It’s an interesting concept, the idea that there could be too much to eat, when all you’ve ever known is the opposite. You struggle to see how that could be a problem, but it’s his house, and his food, and you don’t want to make a scene.

“Okay,” you agree quietly.

Joel chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, eyeing you as you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling as though your mere presence alone takes up too much valuable oxygen.

“Here.” He hands you another slice of buttered bread, holding it out in his large hand like a peace offering. “Can’t let you sit at my table hungry, darlin’. Just, take it easy, or you ain’t gonna feel too hot.”

Tamping down the glee that springs into your chest at the opportunity for more food, you accept the bread from his outstretched hand with a quiet thanks. You eat quickly, greedily, closing your eyes and letting out a small moan of  delight at the taste. 

Something funny happens as you eat that bread, a change in the way your stomach feels, a change in the way your body feels. A warmth, pooling in your belly, swelling through you up into your chest, softening your throat and relaxing your shoulders.

You’re full. For the first time in you don’t even know how long, the emptiness doesn’t persist. 

“Wow, that’s a sight,” Joel says, and you look over at his face to find a surprising expression of amusement there.

“What?” you demand, voice going sour.

He shakes his head, rueful. “You, smilin’ like that. Didn’t take you for the type.”

A scowl immediately overtakes your features, and your jaw clenches. “I’d have plenty to smile about if-”

His low, dry chuckle cuts off your train of thought. Your eyes narrow, and he shakes his head again, looking a little too amused by all of this for your taste.

“Will you settle down?” Joel teases lightly. “It’s just nice, is all. Glad to see you lookin’ happy about somethin’. We’ve made a lotta progress from you holding a knife to my throat earlier.”

You regard him with cautious eyes. “And you trying to choke me to death.”

“Ah. Yeah.” Sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck. “M’sorry about that. I didn’t realize you weren’t...”

“A disgusting mushroom monster?” you fill in, lips twitching.

“I wasn’t gonna say that.” He frowns. 

“It’s fine. I know I look like shit. It’s been a rough couple of months.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that neither,” Joel replies dryly. “What I do wanna ask is…well, how’d you end up out there on your own? Ain’t you gotta family? Young woman like you-“

“I’m not young,” you bite back immediately. And it’s true. In this world, at your age, you’re considered lucky to still be here

“Alright,” he concedes, “woman like yourself, alone. How’d that happen?” 

“Everybody’s got dead people,” you reply, running your finger along the thin glass around the empty mason jar. It’s cool against your skin, sticky with juice remnants. It gives you something to focus on besides Joel’s scrutinizing expression. 

You don’t want to do this; pry open this bleeding wound in your empty chest and claw at the flesh until the pain subsumes you. Your family is dead, you’ve never had anything close to a  friend, you’ve never been safe enough to slow down in the way you’d need to fall in love. What is the point of rehashing this? What is the point of saying aloud all the scars he can see written plainly on your body?

“Where is your daughter’s mom?” you ask, hoping desperately to shift the subject off of yourself.

Joel clears his throat, sitting up a bit in his chair. “She’s dead. I actually adopted Ellie.”

“Oh, you aren’t her biological father?”

“No. I uh...I was though. My older daughter. Sarah.”

You look at him, the plains of his face, the aged lines around his deep eyes, the flecks of gray in his beard. His use of the word “was” needs no further elaboration. It’s clear, probably should’ve been since even before he showed you Ellie’s winter clothes, this man is someone’s father. 

You suddenly realize you’ve left your loaded handgun in the bathroom upstairs, abandoned with your discarded clothing. You suddenly realize, that’s alright. 

“I’m sorry,” is all you can muster in reply to such a harrowing admission. 

Joel nods once, a brief acknowledgement of your condolence. “Thanks. Was a long time ago. M’alright, these days. Life’s good.”

“Everybody’s got dead people,” you offer up again, a limp shrug to your shoulders. 

Arching an eyebrow, Joel replies, “that’s true. Your parents, then?”

“Mhm. Yours?”

He chuckles. “Long before the outbreak, honey.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Old. Yourself?”

“Not old. Not young, either.”

Nodding, Joel’s eyes dart up to meet yours. It’s quiet then, the sort of quiet that lingers between two people when they aren’t sure what the next move is. When they aren’t sure where to go from here, what the future holds, what they are to each other.

“How are you feelin’?” He breaks the silence, of course, with a concerned glance at your empty plate.

You hesitate. How are you feeling? It’s been so long since someone asked you that question. 

Yesterday, the answer would’ve been something as simple as an eye roll and a gesture to your ruined body. How are you feeling? Fucking bad. Is there any other way to feel in a world like this one?

Good feels like a stretch. Your head hurts from where you banged it on the floor, your stomach is so full now it’s starting to feel uncomfortable, your body aches and groans with each movement, and your mind is a torrent of uncertainty and confusion. 

But...you’ve certainly felt worse, haven't you? 

There’s food in you, and something delightful called apple juice. There’s a fire in the living room. There’s utensils, and plates, and warm clothes, and a shower with-

You suddenly remember something you forgot to tell Joel. 

“I used your sponge,” you say abruptly.

Joel blinks. Once, twice, then his brow furrows. “Pardon me?”

“Y-your sponge,” you splutter like an idiot as you realize this was not an appropriate time to bring up the sponge. “In the shower. I’m sorry I didn’t…it was the only one, so- ” 

“Oh.” Understanding passes over his face, and he looks taken aback for only a split second before he speaks again. “Oh, no. S’alright. I didn’t think about that before I sent you up there. Sorry. You’re good.”

“I rinsed it clean,” you tell him. 

He laughs a little breathlessly, and you think you see the tips of his ears hueing a bit red. Clearing his throat, he swipes his used silverware onto his empty plate and stands. The chair squeals across the floor with his sudden movement. 

“I ain’t worried about it,” he says, and moves to deposit his dishes in the sink.

Urgently, you scramble to your feet, collecting your own plate and following him. It’s your immediate instinct to take over and begin scrubbing the dishes; so long living on your own that every responsibility fell to you. 

You’re stopped by his gentle arm brushing yours, and he shakes his head. “I got the dishwasher workin’ last month. No need.”

“Dishwasher?” you ask, confused.

Joel gestures to a large white door embedded into the cabinets. He reaches down, smooths his large fingers over the material, and pulls. The door draws down, opening to reveal peculiar little rows of racks and baskets. 

“Whoa,” you breathe, kneeling down beside it with fascination, “that’s what these things do?”

“You were young when the outbreak hit,” Joel notes, not a question, but more of an observatory reminder. “I’ll bet there’s a lotta shit we used to have that you don’t remember.”

“We had one of these in the QZ,” you say, still transfixed by the inner workings of this dish washer, “but I didn’t know it opened. I thought it was just a weird design thing.”

At this, he bursts out laughing. It’s a bit more vivacious than the dry chuckle he’s been giving you all day, a genuine, pealing laugh that comes from deep within his belly. It’s nice, rumbling in your ears and soothing to your tense shoulders. The timbre of his pleased noises does something odd to you, something calming.

“It takes running water to use,” he explains once his laughter has died down, “that’s why yours never worked. If your QZ was like ours, that is.”

“You were in a QZ?” you look up at him, struck with how massive he seems standing above your kneeling frame.

“Boston.” 

“Atlanta.”

“Heard that one ain’t a cakewalk.”

You shake your head. “No, we didn’t have cake.”

His lips twitch. “You don’t know what-”

“I’m fucking with you.” Rolling your eyes, you get to your feet and cross your arms. “I’ve heard of expressions before.”

“Just not dishwashers.”

Annoyed, your hand flies to your waistband, an instinct. You remember your gun is upstairs. 

Joel follows the movement of your arm with a disbelieving noise of contempt. “You’re a violent little thing, ain’t you?”

“I didn’t-“

“Where’s the gun you were just reaching for?” 

“I left it upstairs,” you admit. 

Joel nods approvingly. “I’ll call that progress. Let me load the dishwasher here and I’ll take you up to your room.”

“My room?” 

Your room, indeed.

After the dishes have been loaded into this bizarre machine, Joel walks you up the stairs, past the bathroom you used, into a spare bedroom. It’s nice and clean the way the rest of the place is, neat lines and vacuumed rugs. There’s a dresser, and a bed with four posts, a colorful quilt, photos of horses on the walls. It smells like pine. 

You haven’t slept in a bed in a very long time.

You tell him as much, stroking the quilt beneath your palm as you approach the bed. It’s sort of itchy, the kind of fabric that has grit to it, but thick enough to keep you warm. 

Joel watches you as you investigate the room, perched in the doorway with his ankles crossed and his arms pressed into the frame. “So you made it all the way from Atlanta, to here, on your own?”

“Mhm.” You vault yourself up experimentally on the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath your slight weight. It’s aged, squeaky springs and lumpy spots here and there. The quilt scratches your raw skin and you pull back slightly.

But it’s a bed.

“Must’a been hard,” Joel notes.

You nod in agreement. It was hard. Now it’s over. No use rehashing it.

“Well, m’sure you’re exhausted.” He clears his throat and backs off the doorframe, nodding in your direction. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need...if there’s anythin’ at all...just, I’m here, alright?”

“Thanks.” You offer him a small, unsure smile. 

He returns it with ease. “That’s two.”

“Huh?”

Holding up two fingers, he moves from the doorway. “Two smiles. Bet I can get three outta you tomorrow.”

With a scoff, you walk up behind him and place your hand on the door. “Good thing there’s no money for you to lose.”

He grins at this, crooked jaw and curled lip all wicked and teasing. There’s something mischievous about this expression, something so out of character for this stern, fatherly presence that it almost takes your breath away. You can picture him, twenty years younger, a rough-and-tumble young man with a teasing sense of humor and a sharp wit. It’s no surprise at all that someone loved him enough to give him a child, someone loved him enough to make him a father. 

Joel is confusing, but he’s also quite simple. 

He’s a man who cares, fiercely, for those he loves. He cooks, he cleans, he folds his daughter’s clothes up in a neat little bin in the laundry room. He scrubs with lemon soap and stokes a soothing fire in the mantle. He chews mint leaves when his head hurts, he washes dirty undergarments without being asked. 

He also laughs, teases, chokes and leaves you to your own devices if you get on his nerves. Though, his patience seems admirable. He loaded your gun, handed it to you with a live round, even after you’d held a knife to his throat. He’d cooked you dinner, caught you when you fell, walked you to the bedroom so you could get proper rest. 

You guess, if you were gonna end up getting choked out by some strange man, you’re glad it was Joel. Joel...huh.

“Hey,” you stop him before he can make for the staircase.

“What?” he asks.

“What’s your last name?”

Joel regards you curiously. “Miller. Joel Miller. What’s yours?”

You tell him your name, and he nods. It takes a quick beat of silence for you to continue, “it’s nice to meet you, Joel Miller.”

He smiles again, softer this time, more genuine. “Likewise, darlin’. Get some sleep.”

With that, he turns his back on you and descends the staircase.

______________________________________________________________________

The days go like this.

You wake up in a bed, scratchy quilt wrapped around your sore, aching body. You hadn’t realized how badly you hurt until you stopped pushing forward. 

You climb out of the bed, and pad downstairs in the cold morning brisk of Joel’s house. He’s always up before you. He has a fire going in the mornings, heat wafting off the flicker of orange beneath the mantle, and you curl up beside it with the quilt dragging behind you. He’s out of coffee beans for now, but he makes the both of you a mug of hot tea with roots infused into it, and it’s close enough.

You hold the steaming mug to your chest, itchy quilt pulled up around your body like a coat of armor, and watch the fire. Joel asks why you sit on the floor when there’s a perfectly good couch right behind you.

You tell him you want to be warm. You’ve been cold for so long. He seems to understand. 

You help him make breakfast, mystified by the seemingly endless supply of fresh produce he has available. He likes breakfast, says it’s his favorite of the day. 

You watch as he cracks fresh eggs into a buttered pan; hear the sizzle of heat against runny yolk and whites, watch as the pools of liquid become firm and strong under the duress. Something soft and pliant, made durable through the forges of fire. 

It’s so silly, but you relate to those tough little eggs. 

You eat at his kitchen table some days, sometimes on the porch in the cold morning, waving to Jackson residents as they begin their work shifts. It seems like fair trades, a barter system built on community where everyone is taken care of in some way or another. It’s bizarre, unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Joel’s brother lives here too, with his wife Maria who runs the council. It’s all very quaint, picturesque. 

Joel says it works. He explains patrols, explains the work shift rotation, explains the mess hall and the greenhouses and the bountiful supply of food from gardening and hunting. He likes it here, you can tell, and why wouldn’t he? 

He tells you about his life before, little bits at a time delivered while passing you a plate or tucking the corner of your sheet back down on your mattress. The damn thing insists on whipping up everytime he sits on the end of it to talk with you. He tells you about Ellie, how they came together, how she healed his broken parts.

You’re envious. Not of their relationship, but of the fact that his missing pieces somehow came back when you know your own are doomed to be lost forever. You don’t tell him about your past.

You eat. You eat like you’ve never eaten before. Eggs and bacon in the morning, fresh fruit and squeezed juices. Sandwiches for lunch; chicken and lettuce and tomato between thick slabs of bread that Joel makes in his oven. Cold, tart lemonade that tingles on your tongue and smooths down your throat. Hearty, tender meat with potatoes and veggies and soft baked bread.

 Joel watches you eat with this look on his face that you can’t quite decipher. It’s an interesting mix between what you think is some sort of pride, tangled up with another confusing emotion that makes him watch you carefully. He eyes the fork as it slides between your lips, watches you sigh in pleasure, adjusts in his seat when you ask for seconds. You aren’t sure if it’s discomfort with you eating all his food or...something more confusing. Though, he says there’s no rush to get into your own place. The council will check in soon and see if you’re ready. But he says there’s no rush.

Either way, you’re full every day now, so full and satiated that you’re starting to forget what hunger feels like.

Well...not completely.

Days turn into a week, and a week to two, and it’s on this two week marker that you walk into the bathroom without knocking.

It’s your fault. The door isn’t locked, but why would it be? Joel’s been living on his own since Ellie moved to her little shed apartment in the backyard. Your presence is a recent one, two weeks not enough time to get out of a routine of comfortability in his own home. 

And you, so many months alone on the road, any semblance of privacy was a lost venture. You’ve peed behind trees, bathed in streams, found yourself naked by the fire on late summer evenings while your clothes air-dried. Knocking on doors has taken some time to get used to.

So when you push it open haphazardly, not expecting to see the fully naked man stepping out of the shower, it’s a slight surprise.

Joel freezes, hand on the towel he’s reaching for, body dripping with warm water. It’s a split second, just a moment before you fumble out a frantic apology and slam the door shut.

But not quick enough that you didn’t see everything. Everything. 

You stand outside the door, hand on the knob, eyes wide, chest heaving. You try to clear your head of these thoughts, but there’s only one thing you can really focus on.

Joel. 

Naked. Droplets slowly dancing down his weathered skin; clinging to the dark hair on his chest, the slope of his full belly, gliding down toward his pelvis. His thick legs, muscled and bulging, arms the same. All of him, wet, breathing hard, and...and not just breathing hard. 

God, you’ve never seen one so big before. 

Everything about Joel is big. He’s a massive presence. His shoulders are broad, hips wide, thighs sturdy. His neck is thick and lined with veins, same as his wrists and hands. His stature towers over you, and his form exceeds yours in every possible sense. 

But...well, you’ve never seen one so big. 

It had been too quick, to really be able to tell if he was truly sporting a post-shower boner. You think, maybe a little. But you also think...maybe it’s just that big. 

The hair was well groomed, you noted that, though you aren’t sure why. It makes you feel...feral. You haven’t had a shave in months, legs thick with coarse down, the slope of your pelvis protected by a soft bush of hair. Razors were hard enough to get in the QZ. On the road? Non starter. You’re a fuzzy decoration of body hair. Joel’s not exactly smooth, but he looked...groomed. 

Why are you self conscious? Why do you care what he might think of the haphazard way you look naked? Why are you comparing your road-torn body to his strong, healthy one? 

Why are you imagining what his might feel like against yours? How the scruffy beard on his jaw might scratch and tickle yours like that stupid quilt. How his hands, thick and massive, would cradle your flesh, the pads of his rough thumbs leaving lines of desire down each tendon. How his voice, low and gruff, a buttery drawl, would whisper in your ear. Tell you you’re beautiful, tell you he likes having you here, tell you this is permanent. 

That’s enough to snap you out of your stupor. You release the door handle like you’ve been burned, stumbling back away from it. Your breath hitches, eyes feeling warm and wet. 

Before you can make a hasty exit, the door opens, and Joel appears under the arch. He’s fully dressed now; dark washed jeans and an olive green t-shirt that clings to his large chest and arms in a way that’s almost unbearable. 

For a beat, there’s this silence between the two of you that feels almost tangible. Your throat sticks with it, clogging up any pathetic attempts at breaking the tension. You look at him, fumbling for something to say, something to do, fuck to even move.

“M’sorry,” he begins, averting his eyes, “uh, I-”

“My fault,” is all you can squeak out.

“I shoulda locked the-”

“My fault!” you repeat, like a real eloquent genius. You force a laugh out of your lips, but it sounds more like a manic cry than anything. 

Joel’s brow creases, his eyes settling on you with clear concern. “No, s’okay. M Sorry, again. Are you...alright?”

Another manic laugh. “Joel, you’re not that special, I’ve seen naked men before.”

His jaw tenses. “You look upset.”

This is too much. This is all too fucking much. He’s got you all twisted up, all confused. Eating his food, using his sponge, sharing tea with him in the mornings and a leaf of mint at night. Letting him worm his way into your mind, make you feel safe and secure. 

This is how pieces go missing; get hacked off. This is how a person becomes whole, and then utterly incomplete.

“I’m… fine,” you manage, “gonna… actually, was just going to tell you. I’m gonna talk to Maria today. Let her know I’m ready to be on my own.”

And it shouldn’t affect you, the way his face falls completely at these words. The way his shoulders deflate, his eyes go soft, his lips draw down and his eyebrows flatten. 

You’ve hurt him, you’re hurting him. You don’t know why or how, but this hurts him. Despite the quick composure he sweeps over his expression into one of neutrality, you know. And you shouldn't care. It’s two weeks of nothing. You’ve been on your own most of your life.

“Alright,” Joel says, voice rough. 

And it shouldn’t hurt you, the way he easily accepts this. The way he doesn’t fight. You don’t own him, he doesn’t own you, you don’t belong to each other. 

Two weeks of meals, late night talks, healing. It’s nothing. To either of you, clearly.

But it does hurt. And that’s exactly why you have to leave.

“Okay,” you reply, swallowing hard.

“Council’s closed today, Sunday,” he explains dryly. 

“Then I’ll do it tomorrow,” you snap back, voice going a little defensive. “I can find somewhere to sleep for tonight.”

At that, he rears back like you’ve hit him. “What?”

“To get out of your hair,” you explain, gesturing vaguely. 

Joel rolls his eyes, crosses those big arms over his chest, and looks down at you disapprovingly. You shrink a little under his stern gaze, hating yourself for doing it. 

“You ain’t in my hair,” he snarls, “I told you there’s no rush. Talk to her tomorrow. Sleep in your bed tonight.”

“It’s not my bed.” You don’t even know why you say it, why you’re arguing. You’re just afraid, angry, at yourself more than anything. 

His eyes darken. “Do whatever you want, then.”

He brushes past you and heads down the stairs, not bothering to look back up.

__________________________________________

You do in fact, sleep in your bed that night.

The quilt is scratchier than ever, an incessant discomfort that has you tossing and turning all night. It’s never stopped you from sleeping before, but for some reason, tonight is unbearable. You roll on your side, roll on your stomach, bury your face in the pillow and try not to scream.

You’d skipped dinner tonight, for the first time in two weeks. You didn’t want to see Joel, even when he knocked on the bedroom door to tell you it was ready. Even when you said you weren’t hungry, and his worried voice came through the wood.

“Look, you gotta eat, alright?”

“Not hungry, Joel. Thank you though. Really.”

“Is this about-”

“No, I swear.”

“Please?” 

It had been hard to say no to that one.

Now, you lie in a suffocating mess of pillows, stomach growling, feeling utterly pathetic and weak. You used to go days with this feeling, gnawing, desperate hunger in your belly, and you persevered. Now, you’re so fucking spoiled you can’t even go to bed without dinner. 

You don’t recognize this person you’re becoming. She’s a stranger, a woman of luxury, of contentment, dare you say happiness. She is not you, but some foreign intruder who’s taken over your body in an attempt to finally rid you of your last intact pieces until you’re nothing. Floating in essence, vanquished into an eternity of emptiness.  

You rely on him, you depend on him. He feeds you, worries about you, watches you from the corner of his eye to make sure you’re alright. And you don’t know what to do with that. It makes you feel small, futile, like a burden. You know how to take care of yourself. It’s all you know. 

So, you toss and turn.

When sleep comes, it brings with it dreams. Haunting memories, things you’ve tried to keep buried deep inside that small little cavern of your brain where bad things go. 

The men come, late at night, in a group of six. You’re young, twelve you think. The outbreak has been going on for four years, and you think you’ve got it all figured out now. You’re going to get to this quarantine zone in Georgia, since your own fell. It’s all gonna be fine. Mom and Dad and your big brother Andrew, they’re here and it’s okay. 

You’re trying to sleep, burrowed and shivering cold in your thin sleeping bag. Andrew is sitting beside you, one hand on your upper back, shushing your whimpers quietly. His sixteenth birthday was last week. Mom and Dad couldn’t do much on the road, not like you all used to when there was cake and candles and Spiderman gift wrap. Still, he seems older somehow, the last four years have aged him far more quickly than regular life did before the outbreak. 

You’re close to the border, your parents say nearly out of South Carolina. It’s southern here, supposed to be warm, but the nights are brutal and unforgiving in the winter. You’re so used to the cold now you’d think you wouldn’t mind, but it aches your bones, freezes your limbs into a stunted position curled around yourself. You hate the cold, always have. 

“You’re okay,” Andrew murmurs quietly, trying not to wake Mom and Dad. It’s his turn to watch. They’ve done rotating shifts for days now, until he put his foot down and demanded they both sleep substantially. 

“M’cold,” you whine. You know you’re being a crybaby, and maybe once upon a time he would've teased you for it, but not now. You’re bundled up in your layers and sleeping bag while he sits upright against a tree, his thin windbreaker the only barrier between him and the cold. His gun is laid on his thigh, safety on, facing the opposite direction. Guns are a permanent part of your family’s accessorizing these days.

“I know,” he whispers in reply, “it’ll be warm in Atlanta. Just try to sleep.”

“I’m afraid,” you say, even though you’re embarrassed to admit it.

“Me too,” Andrew says, “but we’re all gonna be fine. We’ve made it this far, hm?”

You nod half-heartedly. “Yeah.”

“As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay. Alright?”

“Okay, yeah.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Okay.” 

That’s the last thing you ever said to him. 

They appeared from the trees, too quiet, too well hidden for Andrew to spot them in time. By the time one of the men got close enough to reach out and yank your sleeping bag up with you in it, he was out of time.

Andrew shot, blindly. He nailed the man who’d scooped you up, and you both fell to the ground. He cried your name, rushing toward you, and then another shot rang out. Andrew hit the dirt with a spurt of red liquid that splattered across your face.

 You remember screaming. You remember your parents waking up, frantic. You remember fumbling around on the ground and grabbing Andrew’s gun, only to feel a vice grip on your arm. One of the men grabbed you, while your parents shot and fought off the others. Your mother screamed, and a body hit the ground. You struggled against the man’s hold as his greedy, chapped hands combed your adolescent body to see what of value you had.

“Nothin’ on this one!” he’d shouted, tossing you to the ground like you weighed nothing. Your head hit the hard dirt, and you found yourself even with Andrew’s face. Well, what was left of it. 

“The lady had some ammo, there’s some stuff in these packs,” another man replied. 

“What do we do with this one?” asked the man who grabbed you.

“Eh, she’ll die out here on her own anyway. Might as well put her out of her misery.”

That was the moment you knew you were going to die. 

“Hold it,” another man said, “she’s a fucking kid, just leave her. We got what we needed.”

“Yeah she ain’t worth the bullet,” chimed in another man.

“I’ll choke her out,” one suggested.

“Just leave her,” a more commanding voice ordered, “grab this shit and let’s get going.”

You remember lying there in the darkness, watching the bits of chunky red substance leak from Andrew’s eye socket, waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Waiting for your parents to sit up and give you an order. 

The night grew colder. You weren't strong enough to bury them, even move them on your own. For a long time, you just lay there, staring at Andrew. The image burned into your brain forever. 

By the time the sun rose, your bones were so cold, lips blue, eyelashes stiff, you felt like you’d died right with them. Four corpses lying unceremoniously on a campsite. Rigor mortis set in early for you, a paralyzing terror of the next steps rendering you utterly immovable.

After a while, you got hungry. 

Isn’t it funny, how that’s what motivated you to push your small body away from your brother’s hollowed face? Your own selfish need, your own emptiness, always threatening to swallow you whole.

The walk to Georgia left you breathless a lot. You stumbled, more than walked. Drank from streams the way your parents taught you, foraged for food as best as you could with no weapon besides the little knife holstered in your sock. You hid from infected and more raiders, using your small body to your advantage as much as possible. 

When you finally made it to the giant cement wall of the QZ, it felt like you’d lost your breath forever. Your lungs rattled, air came in short, quick bursts, your throat ached from dehydration. Your legs didn’t work, not how they were supposed to.

You remember the FEDRA guards holding guns at you, a scanner to your neck, shoving you through the gates roughly. You remember telling them your family was gone. You remember lasting a week in the orphanage before you ran away, doing odd jobs for older QZ residents in exchange for places to stay. 

Mostly, you remember Andrew’s face. You remember the biting cold contrasted with the warm splatter of blood on your face, you remember his insides leaking out, you remember wishing you could scream, but not having enough power in your lungs.

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

You remember knowing that you would never be okay again.

The remembering hurts, restricts your lungs into a tiny little ball in your chest. You struggle to inhale, struggle to fill your sternum with necessary oxygen. It burns, the hunger for air with no satisfaction. The emptiness consumes you. 

You gasp, you see Andrew’s face, it hurts, everything hurts. 

Alone on a campsite, alone in the woods, alone in the QZ, alone on a cross-country trek, alone in a cold gas station.

A warm fire, mint on your tongue, tart lemonade down your throat, food in your belly. A dry chuckle in your ears, a steadying hand on your back, a comforting presence beside you. 

Alone. Afraid. Broken. A burden. Couldn’t save your family, could barely save yourself-

A burden.

Alone. 

Broken. 

“Hey.”

A voice, low and urgent. Familiar, gentle but concerned. 

You gasp.

Alone. 

Burden.

Broken. 

“Hey,” more insistent this time, “hey, wake up honey.”

You gasp, your body freed from its rigor mortis as you bolt upright, air circulating through your lungs like a broken fan blade. Your hands fly out, a desperate attempt to shield your face from whoever is currently saying your name. 

“...breathe, breathe,” he’s saying to you, a little frantic, “s’okay, you’re okay, breathe.”

“Please,” you wheeze, but you don’t know what you’re begging for. There are tears in your voice, a fragile broken blossom of desperation. 

“I know, I know baby, s’okay,” he’s touching you now, delicate fingers tracing up and down the protruding knobs of your spine. “Listen to my voice, darlin’. Take a deep breath for me, s’gonna be okay, I promise.”

You try to follow his example, try to steady your breathing to an even pace. He’s doing it for you, showing you how, patiently inhaling in a slow motion and letting it go in one soft exhale. 

“I-I can’t,” you gasp, feeling hopeless, helpless, pathetic and like a burden in every sense of the word. 

“Shh, yes you can honey. In, with me now, in.” 

He inhales, slow, lowering himself to look up at your trembling frame perched on the bed. The sheet’s come up, the fading cream color of the mattress almost too bright in the dark room. Pale moonlight illuminates Joel’s face, scruffy beard, wrinkles around his gentle eyes, broad nose. His lips part, and he breathes in, keeping gaze with you. 

You follow suit, inhaling in a choppy, half-hearted attempt at the smooth breath he’d accomplished.

“That’s good darlin’,” he nods at you, even though you know it wasn’t good. “You’re doin’ so good. Breathe out.”

You exhale in a stunted whoosh.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, “keep goin’.”

With his hand on your back, rubbing slowly, delicately, you fight to steady your breaths. Your eyes are wet, your lips trembling, his voice soothing in your ears. He’s saying all these things, all these nice, lovely, wonderful things that people don’t say to you. 

“Attagirl, good job.”

“S’okay honey, you’re doin’ good, just breathe.”

“You’re okay, you’re safe, promise, I ain’t gonna let nothin’ hurt ya.”

Mercifully, you come back into your body, chest expanding the way it’s supposed to. Your fingers unclench from the tangled up sheets, aching from how tightly you’d been gripping. 

Through a curtain of hair, you draw your eyes to him. He’s still there, rubbing your back, murmuring sweet nothings, keeping his own breathing steady. 

Still there. He’s still there. You aren’t alone.

“Joel,” you gasp, and he moves toward you in an instant.

Large, warm arms pull you in. His chest, thick through his t-shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a rhythm in your ear. His chin at the crown of your head, his breath in your ears. You curl up like that useless little girl in a sleeping bag, and cling to his shirt. 

“M’here,” he whispers, “you’re okay, honey. Was just a dream.”

He’s here. He’s warm. He’s here and you’re safe and not alone. Four walls around you, a quilt underneath your cold legs, a kitchen full of food just down the stairs.

Panic leaks into your veins, memories of the road, cold and lonely and frightening. 

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

You want to tell him you’re afraid. You want to admit it; be forthcoming about just how damaged you are. You want to tell him just how heavily you’ve come to rely on his steadying presence, his warm food, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkle up and his teeth show when you make him happy.

You’re so, so scared. So alone, so petrified, not at all as tough as you’d like him to think. 

But the last time you admitted you were afraid, you lost everything in the blink of an eye. Your own weakness, always your undoing.

“You’re okay,” Joel says into your hair, not realizing he’s speaking empty words into a hollow recipient, “I gotcha. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You can’t tell him how badly you want him to stay. That will only make him leave. 

“Joel,” you repeat, breathless, unsure of what else to say.

“M’here honey.” He reaches down with one hand, cups your face in the rough of his palm, strokes his thumb over the delicate line of your cheekbone. And you feel safe. 

Desperately, you lift your own trembling hands, taking his cheeks in them. He seems surprised, but doesn’t pull back, allowing you to explore with your own frail fingers. You trace the bridge of his large nose, the slope of his full lips, the broad jaw and stern forehead. His eyelashes flutter, and you move yourself closer, cradled in his arms, faces only inches apart.

“M’here,” is all he says. And you must be tired of hearing it, surely you must, but you can’t find that anywhere within yourself. All you feel is safe. 

You don’t know exactly how it happens. Your face moves, his does too, hurried breaths and warmed air between you. His lips press into yours, soft and lush and tender. You don’t know who leaned in first, but you feel his caution, his carefulness as you deepen the kiss from something superficial to something that has meaning.

He allows you to part his mouth with your tongue, falling into one another as your noses bump. His grip tightens around you, and you’re awash in the smell of lemon soap and mint, the itch of the quilt beneath you, the squeak of a mattress underneath your combined weight. 

After a few seconds, your lips part. Your noses touch, the frame of your foreheads making a heart against the shadows of moonlight through your window. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused, yet unbelievably gentle all at once. It’s as though his grasp is a shield, impenetrable and solid. You’ve never felt so safe, so cared for, so protected. 

And so, so scared. 

Now that you’re here, safe and cocooned in this warm house, this gentle society, the arms of this incredible man… 

How can you ever let yourself love something that would hurt so badly if it were lost? You’ve done it before. You can’t do it again.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” Joel rasps, thumb still soothing small lines over your cheek.

You shake your head quickly, but the words spill out as if in spite of your body’s intentions. “Just… mm. My parents. My brother. Just-that’s all.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, “what…can I ask what-”

“Raiders. I was twelve.”

At this, he looks down at your face, brows furrowed. “You saw it?”

“Yeah, I got away. They let me go, I mean. After some debate.” You clear your throat, breathing settled and eyes drying with each word. You’re feeling grounded enough to be utterly humiliated. “Um, I’m really sor-”

“I know you ain’t about to apologize for havin’ a nightmare,” he interjects dryly.

“More for what happened afterward,” you mutter.

Joel’s fingertips tuck a lock of hair back behind your ear, even though it falls right back out again. “Now why on earth are you apologizin’ for that?”

Because I can’t stay.  

Limply, you shrug.

He laughs, that low, dry sound. It smooths from his chest like a bass drum, reverberating in your ears. And you smile in spite of yourself, a small, gentle pull of your lips. You love making him laugh. 

“Sorry I barged in,” Joel says, even though he’s still holding you in his lap like a stray dog.

“S’okay. Thanks for…thank you.”

“Don’t gotta thank me.”

“Be kinda rude if I didn’t.”

His lips twitch. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Okay.”

“Did you do that just now…kiss me…’cause you wanted to, or ‘cause you were upset?”

Swallowing thickly, you reply, “can it be both?”

“If it’s both, it’s both.” 

“That’s fucking vague,” you grouse.

“Pot, meet kettle.” He smirks down at you.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say.

“Don’t be,” he responds, “I’m not.”

You have nothing to say to that.

“You oughta get some rest.” Joel squeezes you once, then moves like he’s going to get up and leave.

Your fingers dart out to clench his shirt, gripping the soft cotton in vice like digits. Wild-eyed, you look up at him, terrified of being alone, terrified of seeing Andrew’s face again all night.

“Hey, easy.” Joel pries your fingers off his shirt. “You alright?”

“I-I-“ you stumble over the words, throat choking up. It’s all so confusing. You need to be away, pull back, stop this before it goes too far. At the same time, you’ve never needed to be close quite this badly. 

“I can,” he answers a question you didn’t ask, “if you want.”

Limply, you nod. 

“Go on then, scoot.” Joel gestures for you to make room on the bed, and you do. He adjusts the pillows and lies flat, opening his arm for you. You curl up at his side, cheek on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat underneath the cotton shirt. He smells like lemon soap, and a faint musk of sweat from sleeping. It’s enticing, the mixture, and you don’t know why.

You press your face into his shirt, breathing in the security that this strange man somehow brings. You don’t know when the shift happened from him being a man you wanted to stab, to this, but it’s happened now. It’s too late to deny this: Joel means something to you.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” you tell him quietly.

He hesitates. “You…didn’t say nothin’ bad. That was always the plan, for you to go out on your own darlin’.”

He’s right of course, that was the plan. For the past two weeks, all you’ve been doing is letting him take care of you. The end goal, ultimately, to help you become a functioning Jackson resident. 

“But can I ask?” He continues, voice low and soft in the dark bedroom. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you…do you want to leave? S’okay whatever you wanna do baby, just… that is what you want, right? To be on your own?” 

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

No, no, no I don’t want to be alone. Ever again. I want to stay with you forever. 

“Yes,” you lie. It’s a lie. You’re so afraid. Why can’t you just tell him the truth? Why can’t you just let someone in? If it’s gonna be anyone…well, it’d be someone like Joel. 

No. Not someone like Joel. Just Joel.

“So all that time on the road,” he adjusts your body slightly, tugging you up higher on his chest so that his chin rests on your head, “didn’t make you lonesome?”

An ache in your chest, sharp and spearing overwhelms you. “It-it did.”

“N’you like bein’ lonesome?”

The lie is on the tip of your lips before he says, “be honest, honey.”

“No,” you say, shoulders deflating.

“It’s hard,” he whispers, “lettin’ people in when you lost so much before. Believe me darlin’ I get that.”

“Then you know why I have to leave,” you tell him, desperate that he’ll understand, but also hoping that he’ll argue against it.

“I know why you think you gotta leave,” he corrects.

“This isn’t good for you anyway,” you’re shaking your head as you speak, fingers splayed out on his chest, “I’m a burden to you.”

At that, he manages a small, dry chuckle. You look at him, confused by what’s made him laugh. 

“Honey, havin’ you here…well, I think I needed it just as much as you did. You got no idea how much I like watchin’ you eat what I cook, listenin’ to you hum in the shower ‘cause you’re too shy to sing, watchin’ you curl up by the fireplace with that damn quilt around your head like a sherpa.” His fingers come down to cup your jaw, tracing the line of bone that leads to the curve of your chin, up to the bow in your lips. “How nice it is havin’ a pretty girl around to talk to, someone smart, someone funny, someone who’s like me.”

“Like you?” you inquire. 

“Mhm.” He presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, parting them slightly as he uses his finger to study the contours of your mouth. “Someone hurt, someone who thought they had no chance in this world. Someone who can get better, if she lets herself.”

Your throat feels tight. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re already doin’ it, baby.” He tilts your chin up with the meat of his palm, looking down at you through the silver streaks of moonlight. “Every day you get up, eat breakfast, and keep goin’. That’s all it is. Takin’ it one day at a time. Takin’ care of yourself. Letting yourself get better, slow n’ steady.”

You blink up at him, trying to process his words. You guess he has a point; two weeks ago you barely felt human, didn’t feel like you could ever belong in a place like Jackson, or somewhere like Joel’s home. But lately, through these routines of care, you’ve begun to feel…alive again. Still agonized by loss, still hopeless and confused and frightened, but something more than that too. 

“You don’t gotta stay,” he assures you, “not if you don’t want to. But don’t go just ‘cause you’re scared. Ain’t no reason to punish yourself. Not when I like havin’ you around so much.”

“What if you get tired of having me around?” you ask weakly. It’s no far stretch; every other short term partner you’ve ever had got sick of you after enough time. Every adult you roomed with in the QZ kicked you out sooner or later. Nothing is permanent, especially not people.

“You think I could at least get a chance to prove myself ‘fore you go ahead and write me off?” He smiles down at you, hand still cupping your cheek. “I actually ain’t all that bad a guy.”

“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure, “Joel, you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. You are- you are a good guy. It isn’t that, it’s-”

“It’s not you, it’s me, honey, that one’s a little played out.” There’s gentle amusement in his voice.

With a groan, you start to pull away. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, m sorry.” he pulls you back in, gentle but demanding, and you concede, all too eager to lay against his warm chest. “All I'm sayin’ is, no one’s asking you for your hand in marriage or nothing. Just…stick around for a while. Let me make sure you’re real healthy, ready to go. Get some meat on these bones. Get you feelin’ good. Might take some time. Two weeks ain’t much.”

“I’ve got meat,” you defend.

He snorts. “Me too.”

“Joel-”

“S’gonna take time, that’s all I’m sayin’. Just, stay, alright? Let yourself…have this.” Joel presses a firm kiss to the top of your head.

Finally, you exhale and find yourself nodding. Although it’s against your instincts, and better judgment, you know he has a point. How can you ever get better if you don't give yourself the opportunity?

“I don’t really know how to do this,” you admit, “I’ve never really…been a person before. Y’know what I mean?”

He makes a quiet noise of consideration. “Gimme an example.”

“Like, the apple juice,” you explain in a rambly sort of voice, “or the dishwasher. I don’t know how to do things like you do. I mean, fuck, I walked in on you in the shower today.”

At that, he clears his throat. You must be imagining it, but you’re sure you can hear some sort of…something in the noise. 

“That kinda stuff takes time,” he replies quietly, “s’okay.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What else am I missing then?”

“You’d have to tell me that, honey.”

Abruptly, you remember his body, naked and wet from the shower. Something about him is so desirable; whether it’s simply the masculinity of his form; hairy and strong, the impressive endowment between his legs or something else, you aren’t sure. Could it be that he’s simply an attractive man, who’s kind and thoughtful and funny? Of course. 

Could it be that everything about Joel represents what you’ve always wanted? The security of this home he’s created, the warmth of his fireplace and the way he’d thought to set out mint leaves for you to chew on? The heft of his body; his large shoulders, his thick thighs, his soft stomach, well fed and dense with nutrition. He is whole, broken pieces glued back together painstakingly to build back up this incredible man. This beacon of recovery, healing, strength and happiness.

What are you missing? Everything that Joel has, it would seem. The chance to finally become the way he is… to be okay again.

And…well, it’s also been a while since you had a good fuck. That wouldn't hurt either.

The thought is so ridiculous, so sudden and inappropriate, that it makes you laugh. A real laugh; a genuine, deep-chested sound of amusement that has Joel pulling back with surprise. 

“Somethin’ funny?” he inquires, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve lost your mind. 

“No, m’sorry.” You press your fingers against your lips in a pathetic attempt to stifle the laughter. “So stupid.”

“What?” he demands.

“No it’s- god Joel it’s so ridiculous I can’t-”

“Oh, just tell me damnit.”

“I was just thinking, you know, what might help make me feel normal again. Haven’t had it in a while…” you look up at him expectantly.

It takes a moment for the message to land in his brain, and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I-I see.”

“Yeah…” you clear your throat quietly.

“Well, shit honey. All y’had to do was ask.”

Your eyes widen. “Pardon me?”

He takes your face in his hand again, tilting your chin and gently pulling your body until you’re face to face, noses brushing. His lips twitch, eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones as he studies your face.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “ain’t nobody proposing marriage or nothin’. But there’s no reason you can’t…enjoy yourself. If you want to, that is.”

“You…we…are you sure?”

“Ain’t nothin’ you haven’t already seen,” he quips.

You groan. “Joel.”

A low chuckle in his chest. “Sorry baby.”

“If you’re just gonna tease me the whole time, then you can go fuck yours-”

Your retort is cut off by his lips pressing into yours, and you startle a bit, though you don’t pull back. Your body melts, tension leaking out of your shoulders at the feel of his gentle mouth on yours. 

And you’re consumed. There’s nothing else in that moment except for Joel.

His mouth on yours, his tongue pressing forward until it parts your lips. His body, thick and warm against your chest. The tangle of his graying hair, the way his breath grows more heavy when you intertwine your fingers with it and tug. His hands, one cupping your cheek, keeping you close, the other delicately beginning to roam your body. 

And maybe it’s wrong; hooking up with him on the heels of a horrific nightmare about losing your family, or doing it after you told him you were going to leave, or doing it at all considering you barely know each other outside of these serene, isolated two weeks of eating and sitting by the fire and laughing.

But you want him, and he’s good and you want to be a person again. You want to eat meals and drink tea and sleep with a quilt and fuck often. You want to ride a hard dick, suck on a thick, veiny cock, be caged in an embrace of big bulging arms, hear the guttural moan of a man in your ear as he cums.

It’s a hunger, like any other. The way your stomach growled and gnawed for the relief of a hot meal, your body yearned to be filled too. That warm, wet space between your legs, at times so empty and vacant you thought you might just die from the need. Fulfillment, desperate for it in all its forms. Yearning, hunger, pleas to live a life where such simple pleasures are not only permitted, but taken with ease.

It won’t make you whole, it won’t heal your scars or fix your wounds. It won’t change what’s happened or secure your future. 

But for a while, no matter how fleeting, it’s going to fill you up.

Isn’t that enough for someone who’s spent so long being hungry?

“C’mere,” he murmurs, so gentle, so soft, that it’s impossible not to do as he asks. You let him readjust you so you’re sitting on his lap, slender thighs spread around his thick ones, arms hanging off his neck, foreheads pressed together as he hungrily meets your lips again. He’s warm, heat radiating off his large body, and you instinctively lean in.

“Gonna make you feel good,” Joel’s words are muffled by the skin of your jaw as he leaves lingering kisses there, slowly traveling down to your neck. His tongue flicks delicately at the column of your throat, eliciting a small moan from your lips.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched…

“God, you’re so pretty baby.” His fingers slide into the neckline of your nightshirt, which is really just one of his. It’s so large on you that you wear it as more of a dress, the only thing guarding your intimate areas from the outside world is your solitary pair of underwear, that’s been washed to death as you wait for more fabric to come into Jackson’s seamstress to make more. You’ve been going commando a lot.

It’s your immediate instinct to argue; you haven’t been pretty for a while, you’re not sure if ever. Survival is all you know; not caring for yourself or putting effort in to appear beautiful. 

But what’s the point, anyway? He’s here, he’s seen you for what you are, and he wants to make you feel good. What does it matter if you’re pretty?

Though… you do like the way it sounds coming off his lips. 

“Can I…” his lips explore the small patch of skin on your neck that’s exposed above the shirt, “can I take this off, honey?”

He’s tugging lightly on the shirt, asking your permission, even though in every way you’ve really already given it. You hesitate only briefly, concerned about the state of your sickly body. Then, you nod.

Calloused hands moving with a practiced tenderness, he bunches the shirt up at the hem and carefully slides it over your head, exposing your breasts and abdomen. You hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the warmth of it washing over your skin, and for a moment you’re paralyzed with fear.

He doesn’t like what he sees. How could he? You’ve become something inhuman. Scars, bones poking through flesh, discolored bruises. You’re something so ugly and unsightly that-

“Jesus, baby, you’re beautiful.” The pad of his hand smooths out to cup your breast, his thumb brushing elegantly over the bud of your nipple, which is rapidly coming to life from the sensation. “Lookin’ so healthy these days, so so pretty. You feel better?”

Robotically, you nod. “Y-yeah.”

“Love gettin’ to feed you, baby. Watchin’ you eat my food, gettin’ healthy n’soft.” He leans in, cradling your back to keep you upright as his warm lips explore the expanse of your chest, kissing down your sternum until he replaces his thumb on your nipple with his mouth. 

And he’s right, you think as you look down critically at your form. You’ve put on weight, surely not enough, not yet. But… you’re softer now, edges rounded out to a more gentle plush, knobby knees more full, bony hips more tender, slender thumb joints smoothed out. 

And you do feel better. Not dizzy or aching all the time, not sore or struggling to sleep from the pain, not burning from dehydration or growling from hunger.

You’re almost there, almost as full as a person can be. So, so close.

“I like it too,” you breathe, the last word pitching up with a surprised noise as his teeth graze across your nipple. A pleasant, but unexpected motion.

“That okay honey?”

“Mmm…yes…”

“Gonna make you so soft n’happy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than you, you think, “gonna take care a’you.”

“Okay,” you whimper, pliant in ways you’ve never been with a partner before. 

You aren’t sure why, because he’s just sitting there, kissing you and holding you and telling you all of these kind things, but you feel the pooling of tension in your lower belly and the beginnings of a wet patch on your panties. It’s bizarre; other than teasing your nipple he hasn’t done much in the way of sexual advances, yet from his touch and his words alone, you need him.

And you didn’t imagine it, that his cock was big. You can feel it beneath your spread thighs, through his boxers and sweatpants, the thick girth and diamond hard weight of it pressing into the fabric. 

The heat between your legs feels almost unbearable now, the growing need and tension from his ministrations of your nipple spurring you on. Your fingers tangle in the wavy hair atop his head, and you feel his lips curve into a smile around your breast.

“Mind if I take this off?” he asks, removing his lips from your skin to tug at his own shirt. You nod quickly, eagerly, watching him slide it over his head.

In the soft glow of moonlight, the contours of his body are illuminated like the artful scenes of a movie. The tendons and muscle in his large arms, bulging and pulsing each way he moves, the clench of his jaw beneath his well-groomed beard, the mapping of dark hair over his thick chest. His stomach is full, wide and round and healthy, a sturdy man in every sense of the word. A big, meaty body to match that huge cock in his pants. It’s only fitting, you think as you admire the large score of his body. He’s scarred too, like you are, the lines and wrappings of a survivor beaten into his flesh.

“Ain’t as trim as I used to be,” he remarks offhandedly, though you think you sense a beat of hesitation in his words.

Your delicate fingers trail between his pecs, smoothing the hair down there until you reach the place beneath his belly button where the hair connects to his boxers. You tug experimentally at the hemline of his pants, eyeing the desperate thing there that begs to be freed. You watch his breathing pace up, his stomach and chest moving in synchrony with each hurried breath. 

So big, so full and warm and secure. Solid and strong, an impenetrable wall around you. 

“You’re perfect,” you tell him, and you don’t just mean his body. 

He ducks his head then, surely embarrassed by the praise, and buries his face in your neck once more. His lips and teeth graze the skin there, sucking and biting and kissing, leaving little wet spots as he moves along.

His large hands grip your hips then, lifting you with such ease it’s almost startling. He heaves you upward and then gently lays you on your back, head against the mound of pillows pushed up on the headboard. Your legs splay out before you and he positions himself above, careful not to lower his weight on to yours.

His lips return to your neck, dancing slowly down between your breasts, kissing the scarred flesh of your stomach and hips, teeth bumping into the cotton of your panties. His eyes dart up to you when he reaches them, eyebrow quirking. A question. He’s asking for permission.

You nod, too eager you’re sure.

“So pretty…” he breathes, pressing his lips to the wet fabric of your panties, eyes closing as he tastes the flowing liquid through the cotton. “‘Bout lost my cool when I saw these little things hangin’ off your pack, darlin’. Wondered what they’d look like on you, wondered what they’d look like off you…” He kisses the wet patch again, which makes your legs tense up, and slides his finger into the hemline, murmuring thoughtfully.

“Don’t fit so good anymore,” he notes, and you realize he’s right. There’s a pinch of fabric at your thigh that wasn’t there before, the mark of underwear too tight. It leaves little indents on your skin when he pulls at it, angry red marks that line the contours of your body. 

“You’ve been feeding me too much,” you manage.

He chuckles at this, deep and throaty. “I think we can do better, even.”

With that, he carefully glides the panties down your legs, the stickiness of your arousal clinging to the cotton until he finally separates it from your ankles. He holds it up, admiring the damp fabric. He balls it up in his hand, and then presses it to his nose with a deep, hungry inhale.

You blink, surprised. You’ve never had a partner…do that before. 

Joel’s eyes open, underwear still pressed to his nose and mouth. You can see the twitch of his jaw, the smile on his lips even though it’s hidden by your wet underwear, and it does something odd to you. 

He wants you so bad, is so hungry for you that he’s taking in every piece he can, breathing in your smell, your taste, even where it clings to the underwear that used to fit you and no longer does.

It makes you need, the way he wants you. It makes you ache desperately, makes you yearn and hunger for him too. Being wanted, being desired, it’s not something you’re used to.

“Smell so nice, honey,” Joel mutters, “bet you taste even better. So sweet, so wet.” He lowers himself between your legs, grabbing your thighs in his large hands, fingers pressing into the meat. 

It’s a reflex for your legs to tighten up, tension pooling at the sight of a relatively new man between them. He pauses, noticing your trepidation, and glances up at you without moving forward.

“Hey, you okay honey?” his voice is measured, composed. 

You nod.

“You sure? Talk to me baby, I gotta make sure you’re alright. You here with me?”

“I want you,” you manage, “please, Joel, I want it.”

“I’ll take real good care of ya’,” he promises you in that low, sultry drawl, “be real gentle. Treat you real nice.”

You’re nodding, already lost in whatever it is he plans to do to you. You feel a brief stab of insecurity for the state of your body hair, and you want to tell him as much, but you’re afraid it’ll kill the moment.

He doesn’t seem to mind, either way, lips pressing into your inner thighs, seeming completely heedless of the thick hair there. He pulls your body closer, gripping your hips in his strong hands, bringing your dripping cunt closer.

Joel’s head drops down, lips covering a delicate pattern on your lower belly, gliding easily over the soft hair on your pelvis, finding his mouth at your lips. Experimentally, he smooths his tongue over the wet slit there, glancing up when the action makes you inhale sharply.

His eyes are teasing, mouth quirked up in a small smile. Teasing, cocky, mischievous. 

“You’re g-gonna have to do better than that,” you tell him with a small curve to your lips.

“There’s that smile,” he muses, before burying his face between your legs again.

And there’s no ability to think of anything else, because he’s there. His tongue, expert and well practiced, running whirlpool motions over the bud of your clit, sucking and kissing and licking hungrily at the dripping bellow of your opening. 

Every sense is alight, each breath you take heavy with elation. The bundle of nerves between your lips is in overdrive, tensing and pulsing with desperate need as he gets you closer and closer. His tongue works miracles, the speed altering at just the right moment, switching his motions at just the right interval, lapping up your sopping liquids with his tongue like a starving man at a buffet.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby girl,” he groans into your wet folds, “such a pretty little cunt, so wet and soft for me.”

“For you…” you echo in a whine, fists gripping the sheet that’s come up off the mattress again.

The noises are obscene, the wet squelch of his tongue against your body, the almost frantic way he devours you. Hands holding your trembling legs in place despite the way you tense and move from the sensations, face buried against your wet center, the mess of liquid dampening his face and your thighs and the sheets underneath. 

You cum with a whining cry, a noise you didn’t know a person like you could make. It’s an innocent sound really, despite the debaucherous context. A noise of pure, primal pleasure, ripped from deep within your chest, a release and elation you haven’t felt in…you’re not sure if ever.

Knees clenched around his head, you’re expecting him to pull back now that you’ve gushed more fluid onto his face. But dutifully, he keeps eating. He drinks you in, the overstimulated, swollen clit beneath his lips is begging for relief, pleading to rest, but he doesn’t let it. 

Joel is hungry, and he won’t leave until he’s satisfied. Until you’re both satisfied.

“Taste so good when you cum for me,” he breathes when he pulls his lips back for air, “so sweet n’wet. Cum on my face, darlin’, do it again. Wanna eat you, all of you. So wet f’me baby.”

You think you cry his name, you aren’t sure, but you rip your fingers through his thick hair, tighten your thighs around his face, tears budding at the corners of your eyes from the ruthless sensation between your legs.

Then, a thick finger, gentle and careful probing at your entrance. He slides it in just a bit, moving with caution and curiosity. You buck your hips toward him eagerly, the desperate clench of your wet cunt around nothing is almost too much to bear. 

Slight relief as he glides his finger in all the way, pumping it gently in and out, back and forth to get a feel for the tightness of your slick walls. It’s been so long since anyone touched you this way, since you had anything substantial inside you, and Joel’s got the biggest fingers of any man you’ve ever met.

“That feel good baby?” he grunts as his lips ghost over your pulsing clit and his index finger smooths inside of you, “hurtin’?”

“No, good, good,” you pant.

“Good girl, attagirl.” He kisses your clit again and your hips buck once more, but he pins them down with his other hand. A second finger inside of you, matching the pace of his first, stretching you around the thick width of his digits. Preparing you for what’s to come, the massive, hard cock that’s going to spear you against the headboard.

Fuck, fuck.

“Joel,” you groan his name, feeling his fingers curl up in a crude little gesture inside you, coursing against your walls, brushing up against that place that makes you feel like you’re going to erupt. “Joel, Joel….”

He hums a low sound, lips and tongue still violently, rhythmically devouring your wet cunt. Between the pulsing thickness of his fingers, and the circular motions of his tongue on your clit, it’s not long before you white out. The pleasure is too intense, too sudden and overwhelming. It’s too much, too much, more than you’ve ever had before. 

Tears track down your cheeks against your will, your chest heaves with desperate, panting breaths. Your fingers have gone numb from their vice grip on the sheets, legs aching as they spread around his head to give him easier access, not a shred of resistance in your body as you submit to his expert touch. 

And it happens again, more intense this time. A black film teases the corners of your eyes, a devastatingly intense pooling in your stomach and through your cunt, a pulsing, thready explosion of pleasure bursting through you. 

You soak his face, legs jerking, hips convulsing, voice raw from crying out. The feeling is so intense that it dizzies you, your head floating off your body and spinning into a whirlwind somewhere in outer space. 

Joel licks it all up, tongue dragging across your drenched inner thighs, gliding across the shimmering wet slit of your lips, sucking on the raw skin until it’s nearly unbearable. Then, his wet mouth is moving, kissing up your thighs, the slope of your hips, your stomach and your breasts, sucking on your nipples and cupping them in his rough palms. 

Once he reaches your ear, teeth grazing the lobe, voice gruff, he whispers, “you with me, baby?”

You whine a small sound, feeble and needy. You feel the curve of his lips into a smile where they’re pressed into your ear, and he kisses your temple, lingering there. 

“M’gonna take these off, hm?” he slides a hand down toward his sweats, where you can see the large, intimidating shape of his hard dick outlined.

God, you need it, you need it like you’ve never needed anything in your life. So many years spent hungry, never realizing just how painful it could truly be to want something and be empty of it. 

Your pulsing, desperate pussy aches for him, dripping with the evidence of his prowess. Your thighs clench around nothing, pleading, begging, needing to be filled with whatever he can give you. 

Joel slides the pants off, boxers following suit, and your eyes widen a bit at the sight of his large cock springing forward. There’s a well-groomed crop of hair at the nape, heavy, even balls framing the thick protrusion of his shaft. The tip, angry and red, dripping with his need.

“Joel, let me-” you make a move to take it in your mouth, but he stops you with a gentle shush.

“No baby, just you tonight.” He lowers himself back above you, the hard tip just barely brushing your sopping cunt. 

A synchronized moan fills the air, both of you shuddering at the teasing contact. Holding himself upright on his thick, powerful arms, he lowers his forehead to yours, noses bumping. His lips ghost against your own, and you kiss him greedily, whining into the touch as his dick presses against you once more. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “you wan’ me to fuck you, honey?”

You nod desperately.

“Talk to me, honey.” His lips press delicately right beside your mouth, smoothing his large nose over the supple skin of your cheek. “Tell me what you want, hm?”

“I-I want you,” you croak, voice frail and shattered, “want you inside me, Joel. Want you to fuck me. Fill me up, fill me with you. Please, please. I need it.”

He smiles down at you, no trace of teasing or mischief there, only a genuine, earnest warmth. Gradually, his hips roll into you, pushing just the slightest bit of him inside. You shudder, gasping at the beginning of the stretch.

“Gotta go slow, honey,” he breathes, eyes closing as if in concentration, “don’ wanna hurt you.”

“N-no, I don't care,” you insist.

“I do, baby. Gonna take care of you, promised. I got you. I got you. You’re safe with me.” His lips warm against your collarbone, kissing wetly there as his hips inch forward, shoving more of himself inside.

The stretch is intense, painful despite how wet and glistening you are for him. The head of his cock, fat and dripping, grunts into you with restrained desperation. His thighs push forward, hips moving slowly, slowly, giving you time to adjust, giving you all the focus and care and attention. 

Finally, mercifully, he bottoms out, both of you groaning out a noise of agonized want. Your thighs are speared apart by his wide body, balls of your feet digging into his lower back. His arms cage you in, one hand flat on the mattress to prop himself up, careful not to put any of his massive weight on your light frame, the other touching you. Your breasts, your cheek, your hair, your lips, every part of you he can see he explores while he allows you to adjust to the heavy weight of his dick inside of you.

It’s huge, spreading you and stretching you so intensely that you’re grateful for his godlike patience. You feel it bumping up inside, tip scraping the mouth of your womb, almost enough that you swear you could touch it through your belly. 

“So big, Joel,” you tell him, your voice a thready imitation of your usual cadence, “so big n’strong…so nice…”

“I got you baby,” he cups your cheek, bending his body down to kiss you lightly. The movement sheaths his cock forward inside, and you both groan.

“Please,” you beg, “please fuck me…please fill me up. Want you to fill me with your cum. Keep me full forever.”

“Fuck, fuck, honey girl,” he bites at your lip, pulling hard between his teeth until he draws blood. He licks across the soft pink flesh, taking more of you into him; the thin red line decorating his tongue before he swallows it up like a good boy.

Then, his hips grind into yours and you let out a shrill noise, a wounded animal crying out. He moves, slowly at first, allowing your body to stretch around him, getting used to the impact of his impressive girth. 

Quickly, he picks up the pace.

You’re begging at this point, nails raking down his thick back, teeth gritting into the hot meat of his shoulder, feet forcing his hips into you. He grunts your name, spits curses into the soft flesh of your neck, grinds and pounds his hips against yours so hard it feels as though he really could split you in two.

But split, you do not. Rather, you become more. Full, whining and screaming his name, sated and hungry all at once. Desperate and satisfied simultaneously. A hungry, soaking little mess underneath this massive man. This man who at first glance, had tried to kill you, a favor you quickly returned. 

A man who’s done nothing for the past two weeks but try to make you whole. A man giving you all the pieces of himself he can spare to try and mend your broken ones. A man who knows what it’s like to fall apart and be put back together again. 

He sees you; scarred flesh, fear, loneliness, all your worst, all you have, and he takes you as his own.

“Goddamnit,” he growls into your skin, “so fuckin’ tight baby, so good…so wet f’me…so tight, fuckin’ gripping me baby.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, which only seems to spur him on. His hips somehow continue their breakneck pace, pounding against your deepest point so hard that it makes your head feel floaty all over again.

“Feel so good, you okay baby?” his lips against your skin are slurred, sloppy and greedy. 

You nod, nod your head so fast you feel dizzy, and he laughs a little breathlessly. Then, you feel the rough pad of his thumb move from your face down to your clit. 

You do white out then, with the combination of his hard, massive dick spearing you against the pillows, and the grind of his thumb against your swollen clit. The sensations are overwhelming, so intense, too intense. Your legs clench around his waist, and you let out a low, guttural scream.

“Fuck,” Joel gasps, eyes shutting as his rolling hips grow sloppier, less rhythmic, “fuck baby, fuck, fuck you just came all over my cock. God, so fuckin’ tight, so good so good honey, m’gnonna-fuck-”

And you’re full. The hunger, the emptiness, it all fades away in that instant. 

Joel empties himself inside you, cock jerking and pulsing against your throbbing walls. He groans deep in his throat, cursing and grunting as he fills you up, liquid gushing out over your pelvis and thighs. 

It takes a few moments for both of you to come down, his spent cock still sheathed inside your warmth. He hovers over you, and you feel one of his hands cup your cheek, fingers tracing slow lines across the bridge of your nose.

“Baby,” he breathes raggedly, “talk to me.”

“M’fine,” you assure him, though you feel like you’re on another planet.

“You sure? Everythin’ okay? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You’re stupid,” you tell him.

At that, he snorts. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

He moves to detangle himself from you, but your legs clench around him, arms clasping desperately around his neck. He’s so warm, so solid and safe, and you’re so full. 

“They used to have a word for this,” he muses quietly, jerking his chin toward the cage of your legs around his waist, “think they called it baby trappin’.”

“As if you couldn’t get off right now if you wanted,” you mutter.

“Already did that, sweet.”

“Okay, you know what, get the f-”

He presses into you again, and you’re silenced by the low moan that slips from your mouth at the pressure of his heft inside you, even soft and spent. He smiles, teeth digging into his lower lip as he looks down at you with admiration. 

“M’gonna make you a real nice breakfast tomorrow,” he says matter-of-factly.

“That so?” You arch an eyebrow, amused at the ridiculous attempt at conversation he’s making with his dick literally still inside of you. “What’s the Joel Miller Morning After Special look like?”

“Waffles, homemade batter ‘course. Blueberries, the ones we been savin’. Big ole jug of apple juice, just for you.”

“Just for me?” You smile faintly at him. 

“Just for you,” he confirms, “whatever you want, just for you.”

A small laugh drifts from your lips. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”

“So you ain’t leavin’?” he asks, a note of hope in his voice.

“No.” You shake your head. “Think I'll stick around and annoy you for a while.”

He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear with the pads of his fingers. It stays put this time. 

“I’d like that, darlin’.” His teeth flash white in the darkness again. “Think I could go for a little somethin’ now actually. You need anything? Some water?”

You nod, fighting the instinct to get up and get it yourself. Maybe, just maybe it’s okay to let someone else take care of you once in a while. Even if it’s something as simple as a glass of water.

“Sounds great,” you admit, wincing slightly at the pull as he finally slides out of you with a sopping noise. You don’t even want to look at the mess on the sheets.

“How about a snack?” he asks. “You hungry?”

And you look at him, sliding his t-shirt on over his sweat-slicked body, reaching for a towel on your rack to pass toward you. So gentle, so caring, so tender and pragmatic all at once. 

You aren’t alone. You’re warm, and full, and for the first time in a long time, you’re happy.

“No,” you tell him in earnest, “I’m not hungry.”

“You sure?” 

You nod, managing another smile for him. Surely, he’ll add it to his annoying internal tally.

“I’m sure. I actually…I actually feel pretty full.”

What a wonderful feeling it is. 

[thevegandarkelf]

QOTU Profile: Lydia Rae Vector

Those of you that know Vec & read her original profile may notice some tiny details I changed in order to fit the AU. Most of them are exactly the same though. Her personality remains unchanged.

Krys made the banner above. Also LOOK WHAT @dixons-sunshine MADE (she used Picrew to make it). She brought my sweet lil’ unhinged angel baby to life. I love her so much, look at how cute she is 🖤

TW: mention of suicide, mention of death while in the line of military service

➼ Nicknames: Vec (everyone except Georgie & Scud), Dia (Georgie), Vee, my little bee/bumblebee, the Mrs. (Scud)

➼ She got the nickname ‘Vec’ in high school because of all of the Lydias in her graduating class.

➼ Her birthday is July 6th (she’s a Cancer bby)

➼ She was born and raised in the small town of Swanton, Ohio before moving to Atlanta for med school.

➼ She's 5 foot 7 with blue eyes and long black hair that reaches her waist

➼ She worked as a trauma surgeon in an emergency room at Atlanta General before the outbreak.

➼ If she hadn't chosen trauma surgery as her specialty, she would've gone into OBGYN

➼ She decided she wanted to become a doctor when she was just three years old. Her oldest brother was in an accident, and at the hospital, she saw a surgeon in a floral dress and white coat & asked her if she was a princess. The doctor told her yes, and she decided in that moment that she wanted to be a princess when she grew up (which she later learned was a doctor) and save lives like this woman saved her brother’s.

➼ She's passionate about women's rights and access to healthcare

➼ Her strengths include her empathy, compassion, and understanding, which helps to make her a great doctor

➼ She's 30 when the outbreak begins

➼ Her and her best friend, Georgianna Marianne Hawkins (Georgie), have been friends since they were little.

➼ She has three older brothers--Preston (5 years older than her), Jay, and Eli (3 years older than her. Jay and Eli are twins, Jay being two minutes older)

➼ All three of her brothers were Navy SEALs and taught her how to fight

➼ Her dad is an astronaut and was launched into space a couple of weeks before the outbreak began

➼ Her mom and her brother Preston passed away (in separate instances) about 5 years before the outbreak. Preston was killed in the line of duty during deployment, and her mom was unable to cope with his death and took her own life two months later.

➼ She blushes very easily and frequently

➼ She exclusively calls Rick 'cowboy'

➼ Daisies are her favorite flower because they symbolize the purity of love and new beginnings/fresh starts.

➼ Her favorite color is blue

➼ She’s very outgoing and talks a lot

➼ Her favorite music artist is Ke$ha

➼ She likes to write and always has a notebook and pen on her at all times.

➼ She loves fantasy films like Lord of the Rings and attended many ren fests before the outbreak.

➼ She was once on a date where she sneezed and a spaghetti noodle came out her nose. Now, she can't even look at a box of dry spaghetti without getting queasy.

➼ She has three tattoos--line work of a bouquet of daisies on the front of her right hip, a sternum piece of vines with blue flowers, and a cluster of bumblebees on the back of each of her thighs (hence why Scud calls her ‘my little bee/bumblebee’). She's incredibly selective with who gets to see her tattoos.

➼ She's no damsel in distress, she can handle her own & is hyper-independent.

➼ Her mom gave her the middle name 'Rae' because she was her only daughter and therefore her 'ray of sunshine.'

➼ Other than Georgie, her best friend in the group is Aaron. She's also very close with Maggie, Michonne, & Rosita.

➼ She's a wildcard and bit of a spitfire, and she certainly doesn't take shit from anyone, men especially.

Georgianna Marianne Hawkins belongs to @dixons-sunshine

Taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley @negansbestie

Hit me up if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist

Divider found in Google via searching for stock images

[malakaiijames]

I heard the call Hind made asking for help before she was murdered

I saw Sidra's little body hanging from the wall, her legs blown off

I saw the picture Motaz never wanted to share, the lifeless child covered in rubble and blood, their scalp hanging off

I saw the uncensored video of the decomposing NICU babies left behind in the hospital when Israel refused to let them be taken somewhere safe

I heard the audio of Aaron Bushnell as he burned alive, screaming Free Palestine with his last words

I saw the video of the headless child

I saw the videos of mothers cradling their children, saying their last goodbyes

I saw the video of the father holding the remains of his children in grocery bags because it was all he could find of them

I saw the video of Reem, of her little lifeless body cradled in her grandfather's arms as he kissed her face, stroked her hair, the soul of his soul

I have seen it all. I don't look away. They can't, so I can't.

How much more do we have to see, how much more do THEY have to suffer, before anything is done? The US recently vetoed a ceasefire again, AGAIN, they sat down, they looked over the evidence, the carnage and the death toll and the trauma, and they VETOED a ceasefire

When will enough be enough?? Palestinians have been under attack for DECADES, they've never known peace, but it has progressed now to a genocide, a full-blown goal to completely wipe them out. Israel has backed them into a corner, they've chased them from their homes to Rafah, and are now demanding they either go into Egypt or be wiped out

When do our "leaders" decide that things have gone too far? When another innocent life is taken? When another couple hundred babies are blown to bits, when they're so unrecognizable that their own parents are having to identify them by their names written on their bodies? When parents don't even have full bodies to bury? When all they have is bits and pieces of their CHILDREN??

WHEN IS IT ENOUGH??

WHEN IS IT DEEMED TOO MUCH??

WHEN??

Because I saw it was too much on October 7th. When I saw those first videos, those first pictures, when the first dead child I've ever seen came up on my feed, so, so small, wrapped in white, cradled in the arms of a mother or a father who never should've had to say goodbye, that is when I saw it was too much, that it went too far, that enough was enough

And yet?

Our government is doing nothing. Our government is FUNDING the genocide of an entire population of innocent men, women, and children

We have people who are going to the extreme for the rights Palestinians should already have..Aaron Bushnell, the woman in Atlanta..they set themselves on fire, on FIRE, because we aren't being listened to. We have people setting themselves on fire in the hopes their voices will be heard and this fucking genocide will be over

WHEN WILL ENOUGH BE ENOUGH???

[sunkissedandseraphic]

My Guardian Angel is Crying: Chapter 6

Story Summary: When Rick and Michonne watched Judith walk onto the school bus, calling out a small "I love you!" before the doors closed behind her, they smiled, knowing their family had welcomed another good day. But merely hours later, they receive a call that shatters their world: while going back to the classroom after their time on the playground, someone had managed to kidnap Judith, and there was no trace of who took her and where she was now. Desperate to find their little girl, Rick and Michonne were determined to get to the bottom of this, even if that meant supporting each other and their son in the midst of their own breakdowns. They had to find her, because if they didn't, they'd crumble into pieces too small to put back together

Chapter Summary: As the story comes to its end, the Grimes family earns the happily ever after they were scared they would never get to see

A/N: And that is the end of this fic! Please go follow my ao3 account (same username) as I tend to post first and more often on there, but I do eventually transfer everything here! I am also working on a new fic centered around Daryl and Carol, so be on the lookout for that

The only things stopping the Grimes family from getting to that hotel any faster were the laws of speeding and physics. 

Rick was behind the wheel, shaking with so much pure joy he thought the car might start shaking alongside him. He was leaving indents in the steering wheel leather at this point, but he didn’t care. They were going to get Judith back, and he had never craved something so badly in his life. 

While Rick searched for every shortcut, he glanced in the rearview now and then to watch Michonne and Carl in the backseat. Michonne's smile was as bright as the sheriff had ever seen as she ran her fingers through Carl’s knotted hair, listening as the words spewed from his lips; for a boy who had spent almost a week so silent you could hear a pin drop, he surely has no intention of shutting up now– and honestly, Rick and Michonne had never been so happy to have their ear talked off.

The boy rambled on about how he, to cope with the situation, had cleaned Judith’s room the other day in preparation for when she would be found: placing her books in the correct order on her shelf, returning her toys to the chest at the foot of her bed, making sure her favorite Mulan pajamas were folded neatly and laid on her bed, and lining up each of her stuffed animals against her pillows. Carl was glowing as he missed not a single detail, and the couple watched his eyes light up with each praise they gave him.

The drive to Atlanta felt never-ending, but eventually, Rick spotted the sign for the Holiday Inn Express, and the three Grimes’ were out of the car before it had the chance to fully stop. 

It was a race to the entrance of the building, but just as they were seconds away from stepping on the curb, a voice Rick recognized called out behind them. “Rick! Can you and Michonne come here? We need to talk,” Said one of the King’s County troopers, waving over to the sheriff. 

Rick didn’t know where to look first when he moved to face the cop. There were of course the men Deanna had sent to complete the arrest, then beside them were two women he assumed were the ones he had to thank for saving his daughter’s life, and in the patrol car, seated behind the barred windows, were the people he restrained the urge to make suffer for the rest of their shitty lives: Shane and Lori Walsh.

If his son was not two feet away from him, Rick would have dragged the two out of the car and made them pay for the hell they put him through. Although, knowing to breathe his way past the rage, Rick determined that he would keep civil, collected, and remain cooperative with whatever his coworker asked of him.

Rick turned to Carl, whose eyes shifted between the car and the entrance to the hotel. Resting his hand on his son’s shoulder, Rick gave him a gentle smile and cocked his head in the direction of the door. “Go, she’ll want to see you,” He said, knowing how much Carl needed Judith. 

Carl gave a glance back up at his father, anxiety shining through his wide eyes, but after a moment, he swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and nodded. His surroundings were blurry as he felt Rick take his hand away and walk towards the cop, Michonne following close in step. While they began discussing things with him and the two women, Carl felt his gaze drift over to the patrol car and without even realizing it, he snapped out of his daze to find himself making eye contact with Lori. Making eye contact with his mother.

God, he felt disgusted even thinking about Lori in such a way. That wasn’t his mother; a mother would love her children instead of neglect them, protect them instead of steal them away from the people that held them dear. A mother would never stoop to such heinous levels just to get her way. A mother was everything that Michonne was, and he was horrified he had ever seen Lori in that perspective. 

As the cherry on top, Carl felt his stomach churn when Lori smiled at him, pursing her lips to blow a kiss in his direction. Without hesitation, he responded with a scowl and the raising of his middle finger, displaying it proudly towards her and Shane before turning his back to them and making his way inside the hotel. 

When Carl placed his foot through the entrance and onto the carpet, he was greeted by a hubbub of employees, concerned guests, and even more cops. It was a little overwhelming to the teenager, and he was frantic to see anyone or anything he could recognize. It took a moment or two, but soon, Carl spotted a taller man he remembered from one of his father’s work gatherings across the room: Lieutenant Mercer. His eyes landed on Mercer and as they slowly trailed down, Carl noticed the small figure that he was speaking to. 

Judith.

Mercer must have noticed Carl’s staring because he saw the lieutenant chuckle and point to him, mumbling something to Judith that Carl couldn't make out. None of that mattered though, because when Judith peered over her shoulder and found her big brother barely twenty feet away, she flashed him the largest grin in the world and broke out into a run.

“Carl!”

Judith cried, making a beeline for Carl. Without a second thought, Carl crumpled to the floor and quickly gathered Judith up in his arms, pulling her into his chest and gently cradling her head. “Judith!” He cried, not bothering to hide the tears that streamed heavily down his blotchy cheeks. 

The siblings stayed like that for a minute or so, taking in the security of the embrace. Judith, not truly understanding the gravity of what was going on, pulled away and responded to Carl’s tears with a look of puzzlement. Giving it little attention, she made grabby hands towards Carl’s sheriff's hat, to which the boy took from his curls and placed it onto his sister’s. The giggle she let out as he did so was enough to make his whole life worth living; Carl looked at Judith like she was the sun. “I love you, Jude, to the stars and back,”

He whispered, caressing her face with his hands, voice cracking with the emotion that bled through his assurances. Retaining the knowledge her brother had taught her about the stars and the solar system– one of the things that fascinated Carl– Judith held out her pinky and met his line of sight with hopeful eyes. “Even the big dipper?” She asked innocently, and let out his first laugh in days as he confirmed, wrapping his pinky around hers and holding on. “Especially the big dipper,”

It was only a few seconds later that Rick and Michonne burst into the lobby, heads going in every direction attempting to see where Judith was. Upon first sight of them, Judith leaped from her spot in Carl’s lap and raced over to the two of them, running as fast as her little legs could carry her. 

“Daddy! Daddy!”

Her cheers echoed in the room and the instant she collided with Rick’s legs, Rick unleashed a sob that wracked his core. “Judith!” He swept Judith up into his arms as his knees buckled, sending him crashing down onto the rug beneath him. Rick pressed his face into the crook of her neck, unable to believe he was holding her once again. “Oh, my baby, my sweet Judith,”

He hastily released Judith from his grip and began inspecting her up and down, terrified that he would discover some type of mark, bruise, scratch, anything of that nature. To his delight, he found not a single inch of her had been harmed, and Rick felt like he could breathe again. “God, you’re okay, you’re okay!” He said, laughing and pressing kisses to the curls poking out from underneath the sheriff’s hat 

Lastly, Judith noticed Michonne to her left. Unlike Lori, the sight of Michonne filled Judith with warmth, never once having felt dread upon being near her. She managed to wiggle her way free from Rick’s trembling hands and rest in Michonne’s lap as if this were nothing more than a usual afternoon.

“Hi, Mama!” Judith cooed, becoming putty in her mother’s lap as Michonne began to run her nails through her hair and against her scalp, unable to stop another giggle at the feeling; oh, how Judith missed her Mama. 

Witnessing her daughter melt at her small touch, Michonne allowed the teardrops to bubble over and trickle down her cheeks. She didn’t bother with hiding or wiping them, she knew any effort would be in vain. “Hey, sweet girl,” Her voice was raw and quiet, but as long as Judith heard, that was what mattered. Judith couldn’t understand why her family was crying, and it scared her. 

Of course, she’d seen them cry in the past, but with reasons, even when those reasons weren’t always clear. Judith had seen Carl cry on days when he would assure her it was nothing more than the stress of what he called “big kid school”, and there were times– times Judith was meant to be asleep amongst the company of stuffed friends– where she saw Carl crying seated on the cold bathroom tiles, their father with him, cleaning and bandaging small cuts on Carl’s arms. Judith had seen Michonne become misty-eyed a few times, usually when a car accident had been shown on the television. Judith, though, had never, not for as long as she could remember, ever seen her father shed a tear. 

“Why are you crying?” Rick had to tread lightly when starting this conversation. She was so young, and the last thing he wanted to do was scare her. “Judith… do you know what happened?”

With a nod and a sense of childhood innocence, Judith explained what she believed to be the events of the past few days. “You told Mommy that you wanted me to go stay with her and Shane because you’re not my real mommy and daddy, and she said that Carl didn’t want to come with us, and when she tried to call, you didn’t want to answer,”

The admission came so easily from Judith as if it had been rehearsed or drilled into her over and over again; it broke their hearts. A six-year-old girl should not have been able to say those things unfazed. 

The blood in Rick’s veins was boiling, his face growing red to match. He swallowed back the bile crawling up his throat, forcing himself not to lose his temper. Letting out a deep breath, Rick reached his hand to Judith’s back. “Sweetheart that’s not true, okay? We never, ever , told her that we wanted you to stay with them.” Rick spoke slowly, articulating every word. He needed Judith to understand, to know the truth. “No matter what they told you, we didn’t want you to be with them, and we are your real mom and dad. I am your real dad, and Michonne is your mama, okay?” “Shane told me that’s not true. Shane told me he was my dad!” 

Rick’s mouth went dry. 

For six years, Rick had been Judith’s father. He was there the day she was born, holding her in his arms as she slept for the first time since entering the world. He was there for her first steps, her first words, watching her first movie, her first birthday; Rick had been the one raising her towards each new milestone. He was the one being her father. The day Rick decided to leave work early and surprise his wife with a nice evening out, the day he discovered Lori and Shane already in bed, checking off the last item on Rick’s list for said evening, was the day he knew he was an imposter. 

But that, of all things, would not stop Rick Grimes. He had raised this girl, she was the light of his life, and goddamnit, nobody was taking that away from him.

From that fateful night on, Rick chose to keep this from Judith; for now, at least. But now? Hearing his shameful secret so easily released from the very one he was hiding it from? It was a knife in the gut. Rick hadn’t realized that instead of attempting any coherent reply, he had just been staring at Judith with his mouth agape. Michonne was quick to take over the conversation, to which Rick owed her the world. “Shane is lying, sweetheart. Shane is a very bad man, and he lied to you.” Michonne assured, knowing that was not a discussion the family was at all ready for. 

Snapped from his spiral, Rick hesitated before opening his mouth. All of this was no doubt going to prove a lot for Judith to process, but she had to know. This was serious, and as a matter of her future safety, Rick understood that the hardest talks were always the most important. When he settled his gaze on Judith, cuddled in Michonne’s lap, he saw the faces of all the kids he’d had this talk with in his career. He could say with certainty that he never thought he would give Judith this same spiel. “Judith, do you know what kidnapping is?” Ironically enough, Judith’s face lit up. “Uh-huh! Mr. Rovia made us have an assembly about it! He said it’s when bad people take you and they’re not supposed to,” She held her head high as she answered, pride in knowing the correct answer radiating from her. 

“That’s right, good girl,” Judith grinned when Michonne’s praises reached her ears, and after glancing towards Carl and Rick for a final confirmation, Michonne ripped the bandaid off. “Judith, honey, Mommy… Mommy and Shane kidnapped you. They aren’t supposed to talk to you or be around you, and what they did was break the law. We didn’t know where you were, and we were so scared, baby,”

As the information sunk in, it was like someone flipped a switch. Judith’s expression morphed into terror, tears blurred her vision, and she abruptly clung to Michonne’s waist as if it were a lifeline. Michonne wasted no time in reciprocating the embrace, whispering repeated reassurances in hopes of keeping her calm. “I don’t wanna live with Mommy and Shane! I wanna stay with you and Daddy and Carl!” She wept, burying her face into Michonne’s sweatshirt. The three of them crowded the girl, doing their best to comfort her. In all honesty, Michonne and Rick were surprised at how tame she was reacting; with being the sheriff, Rick had seen sobbing and screaming and feelings that no one could console from kids in her position. This, though, they could handle, this they could help Judith heal from.

Amidst her panic, Judith heard a voice calling out to her. Timidly, she peeked from her curled-up position to find Carl with his arms extended to her, and Judith moved from Michonne to Carl’s embrace before anyone could even blink. 

As Carl lifted his thumb underneath her eyes, slowly wiping away any drops that threatened to spill, Judith felt safe. There was never any doubt that Carl would go to the ends of the Earth to keep her safe, and Judith could feel it in his hugs. “You’re not going anywhere, Jude. You’re gonna stay with us, we’re gonna go home, and we’re gonna keep you safe, I promise,”

The world seemed to fall away after that, leaving only the four– finally, four of them once again– Grimes’ to share the emotional rollercoaster of their reunion. It wouldn’t be easy for any of them to move past this horrid week, but with time, the scars would scab over and the wounds would heal. Michonne and Rick would teach Judith to defend herself and no longer feel obligated to watch her like a pair of hawks. Carl would no longer feel the need to strictly carry his sister when out in public, no longer fearing that was the only way to guarantee she wouldn’t be swept away again.

It would take time, but they had all the time in the world. Judith’s guardian angel would dispose of any tears and keep watch on the girl as she grew, ensuring that Judith’s light remained immortal with every breath she took.

[lucy4242564]

damn shawty, we both not okay

Chapter 2.

When squads collide

When Lilah woke the next morning, she had to admit— she felt surprisingly refreshed. After her brief period of consciousness last night, she’d felt like she had gotten hit by a truck. A bit ironic actually.

 

She sat up slowly, taking in all of her surroundings. The RV door was opened and the window shades were up revealing a plethora of people outside, roaming around. While looking for a familiar face she was startled by the shaking of another body entering the RV.

 

Her eyes widened happily when she saw Lori. After two months of separation, the thought of ever seeing her again had nearly vanished from her mind. There she was though. “Hey honey.” Lori said in a voice sweeter than sugar.

 

“Hey.” Lilah squeaked out. She threw her feet from the side of the bed and stood to embrace her friend. The hug she received had been much needed. For a brief moment, all her problems were solved.

 

Then reality set in— she had so many questions.

 

“Rick?” She started.

 

“Getting good and woke up.”

 

“Carl? Shane? What happened? How did Rick figure out where to find you? Are you okay?” Questions spilled from Lilah’s lips.

 

Lori laughed and placed a hand on Lilah’s shoulder to calm her down. “Carl is outside playing, he’s fine. Shane left to get water a little while ago— should be back soon. I’m fine.”

 

“How did— Rick?”

 

The brunette sighed, looking down in a look Lilah wasn’t able to detect. “He ended up in Atlanta, surrounded by walkers. Glenn found him and took him in, Rick helped them escape the city which is how Glenn ended up finding you..” She trailed off. “I think Rick’s gonna go back sometime today.”

 

Lilah’s face twisted in a bit of shock and confusion. “For?”

 

“There was a man in our group that had been causing trouble when Rick got there. A waste of a human if ya ask me— but Rick cuffed him to a roof of a building and lost the key when they got swarmed.” Lilah looked at the woman with wide eyes, mouth agape. “Another guy chained and padlocked the door to keep the walkers from gettin’ him. The man has a brother that’ll be back…soon. Rick wants to go get him and bring him back.”

 

The blonde girl ran her hand over her face, a shocked smile etched along her lips. “Ya know— Rick Grimes and his morals.” Lilah stated.

 

Lori nodded her head, looking unsure of what to say next. Instead of touching on the topic anymore, she reached to the table next to her and handed Lilah some folded clothes. “Hope you don’t mind that I went through your bag. Figured you might want to get a fresh change before coming out.”

 

Lilah gave her a positive smile and looked for a bathroom.

 

“I’ll wait outside for you, I think Shane just got back.”

 

The blonde headed to get changed, looking forward to the adventure she was sure she was going on in the next couple hours. She was glad Lori had gotten her some fresh clothes. Despite changing into a something the day prior, they’d managed to become blood-stained. 

 

Looking in the mirror she noticed how rough her appearance truly was.

 

Dirty sweat stains smudged down her face, splotches of blood along the outer part of her right arm, and messy hair that needed something done with it. She looked down at her calf where Morgan had accidentally hit her and there was a massive bruise taking up the majority of that part of her leg.

 

When she finished changing, Lilah braided the blonde pieces on her head to the side. Before she could take a second glance at herself she heard commotion outside. She rushed out the door of the RV to find Rick kneeling on the ground in front of a man with his back turned to her.

 

”Did he just throw squirrels at him?” Carol asked next to her as she looked down at a string of squirrels on the ground. 

 

“What I did was not on a whim. Your brother does not work and play well with others.“

 

As Lilah approached the men, her heart stopped beating— at least she thought it did. Squatting on the ground in front of the deputy was Daryl Dixon. She could see Rick look towards her out of her peripheral, but her eyes were fixated on the man who had began gazing back at her.

 

Never in a million years, especially in this world, did she think she’d run into him again.

 

She wanted to ask what he was doing there, why Rick’s attitude was so stoic, why was Shane pacing behind him like he was a ticking time bomb— then the pieces started fitting.

 

Lilah’s eyes narrowed towards Daryl before she turned to Rick in disbelief. “Did you strap Merle Dixon to a roof?!”

 

Rick’s mouth parted slightly before his head tilted in confusion. Looking quickly between the man on the ground and the girl who’d just confronted him, he began to understand. “He’s still up there.” He explained calmly.

 

“In the span of a day you’ve managed to not only practically sentence a man to death; you woke up from a coma, skipped town without even a hint of a goodbye, nearly died in Atlanta, and now you’re picking fights with a guy you don’t even know?” Lilah was in the biggest state of disbelief.

 

The past few days have been the most stressful of her life.

 

“Lilah, I thought you were dead.” Rick stepped closer. “Morgan said you fell back when they made an escape and he hadn’t seen you since. If I’d have known-“

 

“Well, my supposed death had been greatly exaggerated.” Lilah said sarcastically.

 

“Hey Polly Pocket, we’re all happy to see you alive. Why don’t you calm it down some okay?” Shane’s voice came from in front of her.

 

“Shane..” she sent him a smug smile. “Have you ever been hit by a car, or even almost hit by a car? Because it happened to me twice. Two times, in the span of 12 hours. Don’t you tell me to be calm.”

 

“But what Rick did with Merle had to be done. He was a-“

 

“It’s not Rick’s fault.” A new voice entered the conversation. “I had the key. I dropped it.”

 

“Y’couldn’t pick it up?” Daryl asked.

 

“Well, I dropped it down the drain.” A black man approached.

 

“If that’s s’pose to make me feel better, it don’t.” Lilah watched as Daryl stood up.

 

“Well, maybe this will.” The new man started. “Look, I chained the door to the roof so the geeks couldn't get at him— with a padlock.”

 

“It’s gotta count for something.” Rick added.

 

“Hell with all y’all!” Daryl’s voice broke while he swung his arm around defeated. “Just tell me where his is so’s I can go get’im.”

 

Before Lilah could tell him she’d tag along, Lori spoke. “He’ll show you.” His wife eyed him carefully. “Isn’t that right?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

 

“I’m going back.” Rick agreed; to which Lori disappeared into the RV.

 

“Ain’t letting you go alone Richard.” Lilah added, albeit a little spiteful. She could feel Daryl’s gaze burning a hole through her. Even as she tried to change her focus to her best friend, she faltered under the blue eyes. Willing herself to look at her past lover, Lilah attempted a smile— until their oceans met.

 

Unspoken words drifted in the air between the two; and when the neighboring parties began to drift away, she trailed a few steps behind him.

 

Silence remained a constant as they approached a tent set up on the far side of the camp. Lilah didn’t even know where to begin.

 

The last time she saw Daryl was after he left for work one morning— a quick kiss goodbye. She wrote away her future and got on the road, never looking back.

 

“I’m sorry about Merle.”

 

“Yeah, no thanks to ya little friend over there.” His words were rough as he set down on a log push in front of a makeshift fire pit.

 

Lilah looked over to the other side of camp, watching as Rick ducked into his and Lori’s tent. “I’m sorry about him. He’s been pretty out of touch with the reality of the world right now— to put things simply.” She didn’t want to be too forward by sitting close to him, so she resorted in sitting on the ground adjacent from him instead. “Rick’s not a bad guy.”

 

“Nah, just a piece a shit.”

 

“Daryl,” she sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was argue with him— then again— it was inevitably the one thing that was going to happen between them. “He made a bad call, but he’s making up for it.”

 

“That who ya ran with after ya left me?”

 

There was the confrontation she’d been expecting.

 

“I worked with Rick and Shane before all of that. I babysat his son, Carl.” Lilah explained.

 

“But when ya left, that’s where ya went. Yer the Lilah that kid’s been rambling about.”

 

A meek smile graced her face at the mention of Carl. “He talked about me?”

 

“Don’t shuddup.” Daryl took a knife from his pocket before grabbing a piece of wood from the ground. He began fiddling with it, shaving off the bark, carving it into a new shape.

 

“Did you,” Lilah thought on her phrasing. “I mean, when he said my name.. did you wonder if…”

 

“If he was talkin’ bout the same person I was thinkin’ of?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Course I wondered.” He said, throwing the ground up stick of wood into the fire pit. “Didn’t matter though, his Lilah was s’pose ta be dead.” A bitter frown never left his face as he spoke, but she could hear the very slight change in his tone.

 

“Wait— what?” Lilah asked after realizing his words.

 

Daryl finally paid attention to the look across her face. Her lips were spread into a grimace, while she narrowed her eyes at his words. “His Lilah got left behind. Heard Shane talk about the geeks taking over y’all’s town.” He explained, sharing a confused look of his own. “Said you went down in town and yer buddy Rick died in the hospital.”

 

“Shane said that?” She didn’t pause long enough for him to answer her question. “That isn’t what happened at all.” Lilah shook her head.

 

“Well yer both here ain’t ya?” Daryl somewhat stated as a non-question.

 

“No I mean, that’s not what happened. Shane knew Rick wasn’t dead. He knew I stayed behind, we worked a game plan out together.. kind of.”

 

The sound of foot steps approaching caused Daryl to nod behind her— “speak of the devil.”

 

“Lilah, hey. I needa talk to you.” Shane said, putting a gentle hand on Lilah’s head. She lifted her head more, cocking it backwards to get a better look. She rolled her eyes at him but stood up anyways as he gave her a look to follow, watching as she told Daryl she’d talk to him later.

 

The two walked away to a semi-private space behind the RV. “What’s up?” She asked, trying not to think too hard about what Daryl had said.

 

“Look, I need you to help me talk Rick outta goin’ to Atlanta.”

 

Lilah’s eyebrows rose dramatically, a small laugh escaping her mouth. She shook her head before placing her hands on her hips. He went to speak again but Lilah beat him to the punch. “Absolutely not. You know just as well as I do that he wouldn’t listen anyways.”

 

“Lilah, think about Lori and Carl.” He tried bargaining.

 

She looked at him wildly, “They are the only people I’ve been thinking about for two months! I stayed in a walker infested town in hopes of bringing Rick back.”

 

“And you did. That’s what I’m tryna get at girl— he’s back because of you. Why are you gonna support him risking his life for a man that wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.” Shane got a little closer to her, causing her to step back and keep a distance.

 

“You told them we were dead. They didn’t think we were coming back.” Lilah spat. “And I don’t give a damn what Merle would do, it’s the principle of the situation. Rick left him, so Rick’s getting him back.”

 

When she turned to walk away a hand on her wrist stopped her, pulling her back in. Instinctively, Lilah kneed him in the crotch, only realizing her movements after they’d already gone through. Not wanting to stick around for him to recover, she slipped away.

 

—

 

“Hey Daryl.” Lilah called lightly from where she stood at the inner part of camp, her book bag in hand. “I don’t know anything about crossbows, but uh— long story short, I nearly died for these arrows back home.” She held out the tube containing the eight bolts, passing it to him and hoping he’d get some use out of them.

 

He opened the case, inspecting the arrows from top to bottom. When he looked back up he had a puzzled look on his face. “These’re brand new.”

 

“Yeah,” Lilah smiled, thinking fondly of Mr. Clayton. “The friend that gave them to me had shoulder surgery around the time he got his crossbow. Never had a chance to use them.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

She was going to respond but Shane’s aggressive voice and the sass in Rick’s walk had her attention before she could.

 

“Could you just tell me why? Why would you risk your life for a douche bag like Merle Dixon?”

 

Lilah shifted slightly, hoping his far too loud words wouldn’t start something. “Hey, choose your words more carefully.” Daryl warned, prompting Rick to turn around and face Shane.

 

“No, I did. Douchebags what I meant.” Shane glanced at Daryl momentarily before focusing back on Rick. “Merle Dixon— the guy wouldn’t give you a glass of water if you were dying of thirst.”

 

“What he would or wouldn't do doesn't interest me. I can't let a man die of thirst— me.” Rick argued.

 

Lilah was proud of Rick for standing his ground, especially as he was the newcomer of the camp. His morals still stood unwavering. She would stand with him regardless. At that point in the apocalypse; Lilah had done so much for Rick, she wasn’t letting him go at anything alone anytime soon.

 

“So what?” She heard Lori ask. “The three of you are going to Atlanta, that’s the big plan?” The condescending tone didn’t go unnoticed.

 

To Lilah’s surprise, Rick turned to Glenn in what she assumed to be an attempt to have him join the rescue mission. Rick had never been one to pull others into his shenanigans— maybe he was turning over a new leaf.

 

He must’ve agreed, Lilah was out of ear shot but Shane had made a big deal that four members were now leaving.

 

“Five.” T-dog added.

 

Daryl scoffed before plopping onto the ground, pulling his new arrows out of the case. “My day just keeps gettin’ better and better, don’t it.”

 

“You see anybody else stepping up to save your brother’s sorry cracker ass?” Lilah had to bite back a chuckle. As much as she had grown to love Merle, she also knew he wasn’t the finest man to stumble upon. He had his horrible qualities, which is the main reason Lilah had chose to keep her mouth closed.

 

She’d save him, but wouldn’t defend him.

 

Morals and all.

 

“That’s five people.” An older man commented. Lilah was pretty sure his name was Dale, but introductions hadn’t really happened with all the commotion.

 

“It's not just five.” Shane added. “You're putting every single one of us at risk. Just know that, Rick. Come on, you saw that walker.” His voice raised before he looked between Lilah and Rick. “It was here. It was in camp. They're moving out of the cities. They come back, we need every able body we've got. We need 'em here. We need 'em to protect camp.”

 

Lilah refused to meet his eyes, instead meeting Rick’s. They shared a look, but she wasn’t expecting him to talk about guns. The man had brought in all the ammo and weapons from King County— stuff they needed.

 

“You went through hell to find us. Two months of waiting, Lilah. You waited for him to get outta that hospital bed for two months.” Lori paused, looking between her husband and the girl she’d come to know as family. “Y’all just got here and you're gonna turn around and leave?”

 

“I don't want you to go.” Carl mumbled.

 

“To hell with the guns. Shane is right. Merle Dixon?” The brunette began again. “He's not worth one of your lives, even with guns thrown in. Tell me. Make me understand. Either of you.”

 

Lilah wanted to. She wanted so badly to tell Lori of her attachment and somewhat of a loyalty to Merle Dixon. He had saved her life years ago.

 

“I owe a debt to a man I met and his little boy.” Morgan. “Lori, if they hadn't taken me in, I'd have died. I thought Lilah was dead, had no idea she’d been taking care of me all that time. That man.. It's because of him that I made it out of King County. They said they'd follow me to Atlanta. They'll walk into the same trap I did.”

 

“He’s a good man Lori. His boy is a little older than Carl, I saved him. He sent me in Rick’s direction. I wouldn’t have made it out here if he hadn’t helped. They can’t go to Atlanta Lori, it isn’t safe.” Lilah tried helping Rick plead his case.

 

“What's stopping you?” That question, Lilah didn’t have an answer to.

 

“The walkie-talkie, the one in the bag I dropped. He's got the other one. Our plan was to connect when they got closer.” Rick explained. It all made more sense now. She defended Rick so blindly, sometimes she didn’t know what she was even helping him with. Lilah wasn’t afraid to admit she had a bit of a problem when it came to loyalty.

 

Once she committed, she did it with her whole heart.

 

—

 

Lilah lounged in the back of the box truck as Glenn backed it up to the camp to load things easier. Rick was off gambling for some bolt cutters, and truth be told; Lilah wanted a nap.

 

Just as her eyes shut, the sound of a horn beeping made her jump.

 

“Come on, let’s go!” She heard Daryl yell. Propping herself up on her elbows, Lilah squinted at him. She was still in awe that he was actually in front of her. They had so much to talk about, but just his presence at the moment was enough. “Whatcha lookin’ at princess?” He asked sarcastically as he noticed her gaze.

 

Despite their past relationship and the scale of intimacy they’d been in together, she couldn’t stop a blush forming on her face when she was caught. Lilah sucked her lips in, laying back and shutting her eyes again.

 

It wasn’t a long drive to Atlanta, but maybe she could sneak in a short nap.

 

—

 

She heard the slamming of the passenger door, along with the rattling noise that came when the back lid was pulled down. When the truck began moving, the shifting of bodies around her had her peaking her eyes open. “You can’t be comfortable.” T-dog commented from her right. Before she could reply, she heard Rick’s voice.

 

“Let me guess— blondie’s takin’ a nap.”

 

Lilah snorted at being called out. She was never one to turn down a good snooze.

 

“Sure is.” T-dog replied. “This ain’t nothing but plywood underneath us, you gonna get a crick in your neck.”

 

“I fell asleep underneath a table one time, completely sober.”

 

“With a 10 year old on top of her.” Rick added.

 

Lilah smiled at the memory; It felt like a lifetime ago. She missed babysitting Carl. There were few times she felt that it was a chore— even then it wasn’t horrible.

 

“Hey,” T-dog nodded at Lilah. “How’d you know Merle?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“When you first came out the RV. You confronted Rick about him.” Glenn called back.

 

Her mind began spinning, trying to think of a viable excuse. She didn’t really want to put her dirty laundry in front of strangers. Propping herself back up, she looked nonchalantly at Daryl who sat beside her feet. They briefly made eye contact but he looked away.

 

“Yeah Lilah, how ya know my brother?” Daryl asked sarcastically.

 

Asshat.

 

If he wanted to be a dick about things, that was fine by her. She was trying to save the both of them from awkward interactions— but his attitude just fueled her fire. “Oh, you don’t remember?” A smug look came over her face. “I dated you for three years Daryl, I thought I meant more to you than that.”

 

The bite at the end wasn’t necessary and was overkill considering she was the one that walked away. Still— they’d gotten along just fine prior, he didn’t have to be such an ass about it. Lilah silently hoped she hadn’t misinterpreted his tone.

 

Silence filled the truck the rest of the way; the air too tainted by words to be lighthearted anymore.

 

—

 

The group had been jogging for about twenty minutes when they finally came up on a fence with an opening cut out of it. Glenn tucked it up for the rest of them to pass through, before following them through. She was taking in her surroundings as the men argued whether to go after the guns or Merle first. They began jogging again when Glenn made the decision to grab Merle.

 

Lilah admired Glenn’s ability to disassociate himself from the tension surrounding him and make calls based on his own judgement. It was something Lilah wasn’t able to do— her loyalty had her in a death grip.

 

It’d probably be what killed her one day.

 

They made their way quickly and carefully into the shopping center, dodging geeks had come easy so far. She hoped it would remain that way.

 

Lately hope had been all she was running on; it had gotten her this far.

 

The group paused at Rick’s hand as he motioned towards a female walker coming around a store counter. She watched as Daryl effortlessly moved towards her, barely making a sound. Had he not been right in front of it, it wouldn’t have even noticed him approaching. “Damn. You are one ugly skank.” He said before piercing the walker with an arrow.

 

Lilah flinched at the sight of him removing it from the geek’s skull. She hadn’t ever been squeamish, but the sound is what really got to her. Taking out a few more walkers, they headed up the stairs in a hurried pace. It had been an entire day since they’d left Merle up on that roof in the Georgia heat. Rick wasn’t kidding when he said not even an animal deserved that.

 

With a quick sigh of relief at the sight of the chained door, she shifted out of the way to let T-dog through with the bolt cutters. As they sliced through the steel like butter, Daryl wasted no time kicking open the door to yell for his brother; the rest of the group following close behind.

 

Lilah looked around the rooftop for the older Dixon. Nothing. Her heart sank when she saw a pair of handcuffs still attached to a pipe, but no Merle.

 

She darted over the tools that laid scattered across the floor to get a better view of things. The sound of Daryl’s desperation made her soul ache— she wanted to comfort him. That wasn’t her role anymore though, which only had her hurting a little more.

[itwas50yearsagotoday]

Happy New Year 2024!!

1/1/24: So here we are, the last New Year of this blog. I do intend to carry on after my 50th birthday in a couple weeks, but not after a long break... I've been doing this for free for six and a half years and I have other things I need to attend to. Regarding 1974, it's kind of a lousy year for both Pop and Rock... I think the Boomers just kinda gave up thinking and gave in to the lounge life, getting high, drunk, and everything in between... sort of a Disco mentality before Disco. Interestingly, it was quite the opposite year for film, with some of the greatest movies ever made coming out in 1974 (Blazing Saddles, Chinatown, Godfather Part II, etc.). Anyway, the MUSIC... like I said everyone seemed to be coasting: Zeppelin took a year off, as did The Who and Pink Floyd; the Stones put out maybe their first 'meh' record since the mid-1960s (when record companies were breaking up their records for maximum profit). McCartney was still riding high with Band on the Run, as was Black Sabbath with Sabbath, Bloody Sabbath... Prog in the UK was dying a prolonged death (whose sound began spawning imitators over in this hemisphere, most of which sucked pretty hard) as Yes would put out a lousy record and EL&P took three years off. The best stuff came from a lot of second tier artists: Blue Oyster Cult, Aerosmith, Grateful Dead, Joni Mitchell, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Queen, Roxy Music, Steely Dan, Neil Young, David Bowie (his last as Ziggy), ELO, and Budgie. Perhaps the best album of 1974 belongs to the British Prog-ish group Supertramp, whose third album Crime of the Century most certainly drew Dark Side of the Moon comparisons... a must listen, if you listen to anything from this year at all. Second best: BOC's Secret Treaties. Third best: Steely Dan's Pretzel Logic (not as good as Countdown but still excellent). Fourth best: Aerosmith Get Your Wings. Alex Chilton of Big Star would have quite a productive year as well, releasing one Big Star record (we'll do it) and creating tunes for another (that wouldn't be released until 1978). Some of the new kids on the block include: Rush, although this is before Neil Peart joins for their second album on drums and lyrics, so here you are dealing with mostly a Canadian Zeppelin copycat band (although 'Working Man' and 'In the Mood' are bona-fide Rock Classics); Bad Company, which is basically Free reborn with better production and was the first non-Zeppelin band on Swan Song records... tis okay; Kiss, whose legend speaks for itself; and the bassist for the Stones, Bill Wyman, with a surprisingly excellent solo debut, Monkey Grip. Some of my favorite songs from this year include 'Doraville' by the Atlanta Rhythm Section, 'In For the Kill' by Budgie, 'Dreamer' by Supertramp, 'Fingerprint File' by the Stones, 'Astral Man' by Nektar, '(theme from) Death Wish' by Herbie Hancock, and 'Feel Good' by Fancy (whose instrumental bridge was used on many '80s rap samples)... kind of a mish-mosh, eh? Perhaps the worst offender of 1974 was 'The Night Chicago Died' by Paper Lace... P.U.!!!... recommend you watch YouTuber Todd In the Shadows' take on this tune; 'You're Having My Baby' by Paul Anka is a close second in disgraceful tunes. This year we hear perhaps the first true Disco singles, including 'The Hustle' by Van McCoy, 'Pick Up the Pieces' by the Average White Band, 'Machine Gun' by the Commodores, and 'TSOP' by MFSB. Also, more proto-Punk and just overall weirdness by the likes of the New York Dolls, Sparks, and the Residents. I could go on and on... it's like the malaise President Jimmy Carter spoke about later in the decade kinda starts here, particularly with the economy (first real recession since late 1950s) and politics (see: Nixon, Richard... Watergate). The year also spawns some of the most ridiculous fashion of the era, as well as very long hair for mainstream men and mustaches... lots of mustaches, which men really hadn't worn stylishly since the late 1940s (even then they were very thin... see Walt Disney). Okay out of space... enjoy!

[lunagb]

A Plague of Sleet and Rot (ASoIaF x The Walking Dead fanfic)

BOOK 2 - A Road of Snow and Grime

Chapter 10: Ghosts of a Dead and Distant World

Masterlist

Relationships: Daryl Dixon x Carol, Rick Grimes x Lori Grimes, Carl Grimes & Sophia, Jon x Andrea, Jon x Beth Greene

Summary: A month has passed since Jon Snow awakened on a highway outside of Atlanta and joined Rick Grimes and his fellow survivors. His memories of his death have returned and our alien world is beginning to make a bit of sense. Ever since the loss of the CDC, surviving in the apocalypse has been a daily struggle. The group is on thin ice. Supplies are dwindling. Hope is fading. The dead are walking. And their only chance for life may be a run-down farm, an old man and his daughters.

Chapter Summary: Jon heads out on an expedition to the McMillian farm to scavenge sheets of tin roofing, a material needed for the construction of their wall. All should go smoothly. That is, unless the dead have nothing to say about it.

Time Frame: Farm Arc - Original Variation

Featured Characters: Jon Snow, Ghost, Mormont's Raven, Rick Grimes, Carl Grimes, Lori Grimes, Daryl Dixon, Carol, Sophia, Dale, Glenn Rhee, Andrea, T-Dog, Edwin Jenner, Shane Walsh, Beth Greene, Maggie Greene, Hershel Greene, Randall Culver,

Warnings: gore, vivid descriptions of dead bodies, child mutilation, graphic violence, death, murder, active combat, descriptions of armed warfare

[Art above is a piece by Art.of.Azrael. You can support them here: https://linktr.ee/Art.of.Azrael ]

Any notes are appreciated!

The forest guzzled the summer sun. Bright, domineering light poured into the pit of a boundless evergreen void. It flanked the road on either side. Two solid walls of bark and leaves; of browns and greens. They loomed high. Their branches reached out above Jon’s head in an enteral struggle to reach each other across the asphalt. Branches, trunks, leaves and shrubs whizzed on by, melding into a single form. An illusion. Just like the figures beyond the tight-knit trunks. Familiar shadows of days gone by played among the evergreen void. The dead weren’t out there. Not here. They were illusions. Just illusions. Nothing more.

If one of them is out there, who would be best? Grenn mayhaps? His strength would be invaluable. But so would Samwell’s smarts. As would Pyp’s aim. And Dolorous Edd always knew who to brighten up a… No. Stop that. They aren’t bloody wares at a market to be haggled over, to be weighed and compared. They were men. Good men. Honest men. Brave men. They didn’t deserve to die. A second life, now that’s what they deserved. Whoever’s out there, may the gods show a bit of bloody mercy for once.

The wind had a certain, homely chill to it. Like an excitable child, it whispered in Jon’s ears, played with his hair and tugged on his cloak. In all this sun and shine, a little cold was welcome even if it was but a summer chill, and a southern one at that. Not that warmth was unwelcome. Andrea was warm. Her warmth seeped through her back into his chest, through her arse into his groin. The women of this land had a much higher tolerance for immodesty. A woman of Westeros, even a northern one, would have been insulted or embarrassed by the situation they were in. She would have been teased afterwards and whispers of her maidenhood would have spread about barracks and long tables for weeks to come. Well, not all women would feel such shame. Beyond the wall, he’d be the one being whispered of. It’d be his manhood that would be the subject of gossip around the fire. The jests and japes would be unending and most would come from the woman herself.

Ahead, the pickup truck led the way. Jon’s stomach sang Glenn’s praises. Thanks to him, Andrea had been forced to slow some. Behind, Sam followed on his motorcycle. He kept a safe distance. Perhaps he knew better than to get too close to Andrea. 

Their little procession made good time along the roads. They passed through fields and forests, long straight stretches and winding turns, unblemished paved roads and cracked, crumbling ones. How long until every road crumbles away? 

Jon caught her looking again.

Throughout the whole ride, their eyes kept meeting. Just a small glance here and there as their aimless gazes born of boredom crossed paths. Each time, Beth stiffened and looked off to nowhere in particular. She seemed quite relaxed for someone without a harness. She was bizarre. Why hate him? She knew he’d been right. The dead were dead. Not sick. Dead. And yet, her eyes dripped with poison each time they met his.

A man stood on the side of the road. 

Not a shadow. Not a trick of the mind. A real man. He whizzed by, fast as a bullet yet, Jon caught a glimpse of him. 

Fat and clad in black.

Jon squeezed Andrea’s waist. “Stop! Pull over!”

Andrea veered to the side of the road. A horrible screech pierced the air. White smoke erupted from the tyres. Gravel dust clogged the air. The wind died. The air stood still. Jon leapt from the bike and bolted down the road’s gravel shoulder. More screeching filled the air. The fat man clad in black turned to face them. He was the right height. The right shape. A black cloak draped past his shoulders. It had to be him. It was Samwell. The distance between them obscured the features but, it was the right face. Pale, round and black hair. Samwell began moving towards Jon along the road’s shoulder.

“Jon?!” Andrea called after him.

“The hell’re you up to, boy?!” Sam yelled.

As the distance closed, Jon slowed. Samwell’s eyes were yellow and green. Long strips of pale flesh dangled from his chubby cheeks. A growl grumbled in the back of his throat. The corpse staggered along the gravel, shuffling and tripping over his feet. His hands reached out, raking the air with cracked nails slick with grime. Jon stopped. The cloak wasn’t wool. It gleamed beneath the summer sun. Silk not wool. His skin was dark. Not pale. Dark. Not as dark as T-Dog’s but still, dark.

Sam appeared at his side, huffing and puffing. “What-” He fought for breath. “What the hell’re you doing?”

“Jon, what’s wrong?” Andrea appeared on his other side.

“It’s not him.”

“Not who?” She asked.

Gravel crunched beneath the corpse’s feet as he shambled closer. Faster crunching approached from behind.

“Did you know this guy, Jon?” Glenn asked.

“Not unless Mo travelled to fucking Westeros,” Sam said.

Andrea shot him a glare and grasped Jon’s arm. “Does he look like one of your friends?”

“Aye, from a distance.” A pit hollowed Jon’s stomach. He ought to be upset. A brother was lost out there somewhere, in need of help. He ought to be relieved. If the corpse had been Samwell, Samwell would be dead. At least I could have buried him. At least I could have said goodbye.

Rot’s sour stench burned the back of Jon’s throat. Sam heaved his sledgehammer over his head. Flesh became pulp and bone became splinters. Black and brown viscera sprayed and splattered. The fat corpse crumpled onto his side. Black blood oozed onto the gravel.

“Fucking Mo the Magician…” Sam muttered. “Had him do some tricks for James’s birthday when he was a tyke.”

“He performed at my 8th birthday party,” Beth said. She approached the corpse with slow, small steps.

“He any good?”

“No.”

“Still the same old Mohammad then.”

“He was a kind man,” Hershel said.

Sam smiled. “Yeah…” He pulled a knife from his belt, cut off the corpse’s shirt and lay it across his caved-in head.

“If he was all dressed up, does that mean he was performin’ when it all started?” Beth asked.

“Probably,” Sam said.

“You think the kids’re okay?”

Sam avoided Beth’s eyes. “Yeah… Yeah, they’re probably fine.”

“They’re not,” Jon said.

Beth flashed him a glare. “How would you know?”

“Because children are the first to die in times like these. Them and the sick and elderly.”

“So? That doesn’t mean these kids are dead. My daddy’s old and he’s still alive.”

“Why do you think it is Carl is the only child in our group?”

“We’re kids!”

“No, we’re not.”

“God, just have a little hope for once!”

“Oh, yes hope. It’s easy to hope, isn’t it? On your little farm, hidden from what’s real. Aye, I’ll simply pretend that the dead aren’t dead. Then they’ll just come wandering out of the woods right as rain, won’t they?”

Beth’s scowl flared and tears brimmed in her eyes. “Bein’ nasty ain’t gonna fix nothin’ neither!”

“Alright, enough,” Hershel snapped. “Both of you, separate. Now.”

“We’re wasting time.” Jon twisted out of Andrea’s grip and made his way back to the motorcycle.

The stench of the corpse stalked him. It loitered as he waited for the others. Jon slipped his brother’s dagger out from beneath his belt. It caught the sun’s glare as a dazzling gleam. He ran his finger along the flat of the blade, over the subtle bumps and diverts left behind by a blacksmith’s hammer. On The Wall, the cold would bind bare flesh to the metal as if it were covered in sticky resin. Even when the sun shone. 

The metal warmed his fingertip.

I shouldn’t have said those things. What’s the harm in a bit of hope?

Andrea sat down in front of him. Her back faced him. “Don’t be an ass, Jon.” She put her helmet on. “I get you're upset but don’t be an ass.”

“I’m not upset. I was wrong to say what I said, but I’m not upset.”

“Then you’ve got no excuse.”

Jon put the dagger away.

“She’s out here, Jon. Same as you and me, risking her life for others. And guess what? She’s lost people too. We all have. If she finds comfort in hoping for the best, then let her be.”

“Aye… I know.”

The pickup truck and Sam’s motorcycle roared to life and sped off down the road. Andrea remained parked.

“We need to follow them,” Jon said.

Andrea turned around to look at him. “Tell me you’ve got your head in the game.”

“I do.”

“Do you? If we find something out there like that again, are you gonna freak out on me? Are you gonna keep seeing ghosts? If you are, tell me and I’ll take you back right now.”

Jon bristled. “No. I can control myself. I’m not a child.”

Andrea stared long and hard at him. “I’m trusting you, Jon.”

“You should.”

Andrea nodded and turned back around. As she began tying up her bandanna around her mouth, a latent question simmered in the back of his mind.

“That bad dream you had last night? What was it about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it about a sky of eyes and a sea of black blood?”

“What?” Andrea turned around. “What kind of fucked up dreams are you having?”

“Well, was it?”

“No.”

“How do you know if you don’t remember?”

Andrea sighed. “Because it was about Amy and my dad, okay?”

“Oh. I- I’m, uh, sorry.”

“It’s fine. It was about their deaths. I saw them, like I was there as it happened all over again. I saw Amy get pulled over the hood of that car and swallowed up by the horde. I heard her screams and smelt the blood in the air. And I saw my dad… get stabbed and Amy… Amy screaming over his corpse, pushing her hands on his chest and the blood seeping between her fingers.”

“Death dreams… I’ve had those too. They’re horrible.”

“Yeah…”

“Your father, he… he died during all this?”

“During all this. At the start. The… the dumbass. A little while before Amy and I met these guys, we were looking for food on the outskirts of Atlanta. We came across this guy. He was covered in blood, shaking like a leaf and begging for help. My dad tried to help him and the asshole put a knife through his heart. The wide eyes, the begging, the shaking, all stopped after he pulled out that knife. He snatched up all our food and ran off. He just left us there. No sorry. No nothing. Didn’t even look back as he ran off, the little bitch.”

Jon’s scars ached. “An awful way to die.”

“Yeah… Well, he’s better off for it. My Dad. Amy too. It’d have killed them eventually. They weren’t cut out for a survivor’s life.”

“Aye, I suppose.”

“Alright asshole, you owe me now. How’d your dad die?”

“Nothing as spectacular as yours. I found out about his death from a letter. A king cut off his head for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“I’d call that pretty spectacular. My dad got stabbed by some random dipshit. Yours got killed by a king.”

“A boy king and a shit one at that.”

Andrea shrugged. “Still, a king’s a king.”

Jon chuckled. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Andrea twisted the motorcycle’s handle and the engine gave a mighty roar. Vibrations coursed through Jon. He threw his around her waist. The wind whipped his face. A spray of gravel erupted behind him. The world turned to blurs once again.

***

A smog of rotten stench hung over the McMillian farm. Corpses clumped around the farmhouse, wandered between the rows of green tents, and stumbled through the fields. In all, Jon counted about thirty of forty. More than manageable.

As Andrea sped after Sam down a thin, dirt road through the fields, Jon took in the sight. Tents huddled around an aged farmhouse. All green. Jeeps, bikes and cars accompanied the tents. All green. Matching uniforms and armour covered the corpses. All green. An army. A tank sat out in the field, idle, like a slumbering beast of steel. Some other odd vehicle was out in the fields too. Like a windmill, it sported four blades that stemmed from a central point. They rested atop a rounded cab. Like a sled, it sat upon skids. Like a dragonfly, it sported a long tail. Another smaller set of four blades sprouted from the end of the tail. A powerful army.

Hershel stuck his head out of the pickup truck’s window and waved for them to pull over. They came to a screeching halt on the side of the road in a grass field. Glenn rushed to meet them, trailed by Beth and Hershel. Sam threw his helmet to the ground as he dismounted.

“God fucking dammit!” He kicked the helmet.

“Calm down!” Andrea snapped.

“Calm down?! Look at ‘em all! We’re fucked on time as it is!”

Glenn arrived. “We got lucky last time. The dead were bound to become a factor eventually.”

Sam faced the farm. He ran his fingers through his hair and took several deep breaths.

“There are two fronts to consider,” Jon said. “The fields and the farmhouse. Most of the dead are around the farmhouse but, as we deal with them the field corpses will swarm us.”

“We’ll focus our numbers on those around the farmhouse,” Glenn said. “One of us can take the pickup and run down the field walkers.”

“Daddy should,” Beth said.

“Me?” Hershel said.

Beth pointed at his hand. “You ain’t no use in a fight no more.”

Glenn nodded. “While Hershel clears the fields, we’ll position either bike on opposite ends of the farm.”

“Split their forces,” Jon said.

“Exactly. You and Sam can-”

“Oh my God! Guys, look!” Beth shouted. She pointed at the farm. “In the upstairs window!”

A bed sheet banner hung out an upstairs window. Written across it in childish scrawl were four words.

Help Stuck Baby Inside

“We gotta help ‘em!” Beth said.

“They’re likely dead already,” Jon said.

“Or it’s a trap,” Sam added.

“Either way, we can’t do anything until the dead are, uh, more dead,” Glenn said. “We’ll make three groups. Andrea, Sam, place your bikes on opposite sides of the house. Rev those engines as loud as you can. Jon, Beth and I will make the third group and make as much noise as we can. We’ll split their forces in three. After that, we sweep the house.”

“And if those people are alive, we’ll help them?” Andrea asked.

“Of course, we will,” Beth said. “There’s a baby. How’s it even a question?”

“We’ll help them if they’re alive and friendly,” Glenn said.

“Let’s move out,” Jon said.

As one, they rushed back to their vehicles. Jon followed Beth and leapt into the bed of the pickup truck. Dirt and dust smogged the air. Engines roared. They were thrown to the bed’s floor by an invisible hand. Rotten eyes and dismembered faces converged on their approach. Aimless shambling froze. Dull groaning and droning snuffed. The mass of corpses around the house shambled to meet them. Shrill, screeching wails filled the air.

The pickup truck screeched to a halt a fair distance from the house. Beth leapt from the bed. Jon tossed her, her weapon. A knife fastened to the end of a pole by a thick layer of duct tape. He drew Longclaw and leapt after her as Glenn bolted from the driver’s cab wielding a machete. He pointed it at the porch and the back of the house.

“Sam, there! Andrea, there!”

Sam and Andrea screamed on by either side of the pickup truck. Rooster tails of dirt, dust and shredded grass followed them. The horde’s steady approach faltered. The corpses turned on each other, throwing themselves into one another as they tried to follow three opposing targets.

Glenn slapped the pickup truck’s roof. “Go! Go! Go!”

The pickup truck roared and sped off into the fields. Hershel set his sights on a pair of walkers shambling towards the house and ran them down. Black blood sprayed into the air. A black streak smeared across the grass. The truck veered to the right and set its sights on another shambling corpse. All around the farm, out in the fields, corpses converged on the farmhouse. Most from quite far away.

Deafening revving roared.

“Make some noise! Wave your arms!” Glenn waved his machete in the air. “OVER HERE!”

“HERE!” Jon made himself as big as possible and waved Longclaw about like a madman.

“WE’RE OVER HERE!” Beth waved her spear above her head.

Jon drew deep, squeezing every ounce of noise from his lungs and then some. His lungs burned. Glenn’s and Beth’s shouts and screams rang in his ears. But they were infantile compared to the roar of two engines. The horde split in two. A dozen or so walkers shambled towards Andrea. Even more towards Sam. Four shuffled towards Jon.

“Fuck!” Glenn poised his machete to strike.

Beth readied her spear. “What do we do?”

“Kill the dead and split up!” Jon dropped Longclaw into a steady, two-handed long point guard. “You two help Sam! I’ll help Andrea! Quickly, now! Charge!”

Glenn and Beth’s cries intermixed with the revving of engines as they charged the dead. Jon raised Longclaw above his head, twisted and robbed two corpses of their heads with a sweeping slash. Fountains of black blood spurted from their necks as they collapsed in a heap. The heads snapped their jaws as they stared at Jon with bulging eyes. Glenn brought his machete down on a corpse’s head with both hands. Black blood covered his hands. As the corpse collapsed, he wrenched his blade free of her skull. Beth planted her feet and thrust her spear through a corpse’s mouth. The blade burst out the back of his neck. Black blood sprayed out of the wound. It oozed out of the mouth, dribbling down the spear’s shaft. The walker's eyes bulged. He gargled a wailing cry and struggled against the spear, skewering himself further and further. Beth screamed and yanked on the spear. The knife caught in the wound. She scrambled backwards, dragging the wailing corpse with her. It reached for her, raking the air with cracked, blood-crusted nails.

Jon and Glenn descended on her, weapons poised.

“I’ve got it!” Jon yelled.

Glenn backed off and Jon brought Longclaw down on the back of the corpse’s head with all his might. The blade ate through flesh, bone and the shaft of Beth’s spear. The corpse crumpled to the grass and dragged what remained of Beth’s spear from her hands.

She stared at it, eyes wide. Her rot-soaked hands trembled. “What do I do? It’s broken.”

“Leave it.” Jon whipped out Needle and shoved it into her shaking hands. “You know how it works, aye?”

She gripped the pistol and gave a small nod.

“Come on, Beth. Sam needs our help,” Glenn said.

“R- Right!”

Beth and Glenn raced off together towards Sam. A pack of walkers closed in on the giant man as he swept his sledgehammer back and forth, caving in the temples of the dead. While Sam attacked, Andrea retreated. She ran backwards, facing the encroaching horde. A knife tumbled blade over hilt into a corpse’s face. It fell and in an instant, the horde trampled it, swallowing it whole. Jon raced around the horde’s flank, drawing the attention of several pairs of yellow eyes.

I could draw them away. Divide their forces. No, strength in numbers.

Jon joined Andrea’s side, hacking down a corpse on her flank. “Forget the knives! Use your gun!”

Andrea drove her last knife through a corpse’s forehead. “Fuck that, we’ve gotta make these rounds count!” She yanked her knife free. The corpse collapsed only to have its spot filled by another.

Jon robbed two corpses of their heads. “This is what we’re saving them for!”

Needle’s shots rang out, exploding above the deafening wail of the dead.

Andrea stabbed a corpse in the eye. It tripped as it died, stealing her knife from her grip. “Argh, fuck it! Fine!” She whipped out her gun.

Corpses on the flanks began to circle in on them.

“Back up! They’re closing in!” Jon yelled.

Together, they turned and ran a dozen paces.

“Turn!”

They turned and Andrea took aim. Thunder clapped from the barrel of her pistol, shredding Jon’s ears. The back of rotting heads burst with black, bloody rot, spraying the faces of those who shambled behind them. Eight rounds were fired. Five corpses fell. Two remained. A man clad in a green uniform and a woman clad in green armour shambled towards them.

“I’ve got it,” Jon said. “Save your ammo.”

“Be careful.”

Jon smiled at her. “No promises.”

Andrea smirked. “Fuck off.”

Jon met the two remaining corpses with a sweeping, overhead swing. Longclaw caught the neck of the unarmoured corpse and ate through it like butter. The second corpse’s helmet stopped Longclaw in its tracks. The blade splintered the helmet but the head remained intact. As the corpse wailed and reached for him, Jon yanked Longclaw free. He kicked the walker in the chest, knocking her off her feet. Longclaw pierced between her eyes. She lay still, staring at the sun. A name tag over her breast read Lt Winchester. Jon tried to forget that as he turned his sights on Sam’s horde.

Corpses littered the grass, forming a trail towards the others. Glenn and Beth looked on as Sam delivered a blow to the final corpse of their horde. He swung his sledgehammer over his head. The hammer’s head crashed down on the corpse’s skull. It caved. Blood and brains oozed through the cracks as it toppled over onto its back.

“You bit? Scratched?” Andrea asked.

“No. You?” Jon asked.

“All good.” Andrea looked out into the fields. “Fucking hell… GLENN!” Andrea pointed past Glenn.

The pickup truck wasn’t moving. Its wheels spun, kicking up a spray of rot, grass and dirt. Two corpses hammered on the windows with rotting fists.

Glenn turned around. At once, he shouted, “SAM AND I WILL GET HIM UNSTUCK! YOU THREE SWEEP THE HOUSE!”

“GOT IT!”

“AYE!”

Glenn and Sam mounted the motorcycle and sped off out into the fields. Beth met Jon and Andrea before the house’s porch.

“What do we do?” Beth asked.

“We move as a single unit. You two keep at my back. I’ve got armour. I can block the corpses if need be.”

Beth and Andrea nodded.

“We’ll head straight upstairs?” Beth asked.

“No.”

“What? But the baby-”

“Has survived this long. If indeed it has. It can wait a few extra minutes.”

“We gotta make sure walkers don’t sneak up on us,” Andrea said.

Beth gummed her lips. “Fine.”

“How many rounds have you got?”

“Ten,” Andrea said.

“I’m out,” Beth said.

Jon held out his hand and she returned Needle. He whipped out his dagger. “Take this. You’ll guard the rear.”

Beth took the dagger and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Jon slipped his brother’s lost dagger into his dagger scabbard. They hurried up the stairs of the front porch. The steps creaked and wobbled underfoot. A dead corpse lay sprawled out on the stairs. A pool of dried, red blood covered the boards beneath his head. The front door had been left open ajar. Small, uniform holes littered it. The stench, sour and rotten, seeped out from inside the house. Jon opened the door and wrapped Longclaw against the door frame. Three, sharp hits. Bang. Bang. Bang. He retreated back to Beth and Andrea. They waited half a dozen heartbeats. No response; dead or alive. 

“Slowly, now,” Jon said.

He crept through the doorway, Longclaw poised to thrust. Light made itself scarce inside, barred entry by shuttered windows. The doorway led into a small lobby, which led into a long hall. The hall’s door lay on the ground, its hinges torn from the walls. More small, uniform holes covered the walls. Splatters of blood accompanied the holes. Rot soaked into the carpet. Each creak and squelch underfoot rang as loud as gunshots amidst the silence. Flies swarmed around two dead corpses. Maggots festered in tiny, pinpoint wounds on their foreheads and gaping wounds on the back of their heads. They had no wounds on their stomachs. Nothing had torn into them. Their guns lay beside them within arms reach. Jon stepped over them, eyes trained on the dark. No movement. No sound.

“Did these people kill each other?” Beth whispered.

“Looks like it,” Andrea said.

“Why would they do that? They had so much here.”

“Don’t search for reason. You’re not likely to find it,” Jon said.

They came across the first door of the hall. Jon shouldered it open and took a step back. Light streamed through a blood-caked window. A corpse sat hunched over beneath the window. Bullet wounds covered her chest. Her head was fine.

“Lurker,” he whispered.

Andrea readied her pistol. Beth raised her knife. They nodded. Jon slapped Longclaw against the floorboards. No response. A variant? Or hard of hearing? Jon stomped his foot. The corpse’s eyes flickered open. A hissing screech passed through her lips as she struggled to her feet. Jon checked his blind spots. Empty. He charged and thrust Longclaw. The valyrian blade pierced between her eyes. The screech caught in her throat. Black blood cascaded down her face. She slumped again. Her yellow, rotting eyes stared at Jon, glassy and unblinking.

“Dead?” Andrea asked.

Jon flicked Longclaw. “Dead.”

Jon rejoined them in the hall. Thump. Thump. Thump. Beyond the darkness at the end of the hall, heavy thumps shook the floorboards.

“The hell?” Andrea hissed.

“Form up. Let it come to us.” Jon stepped in front of Andrea and readied Longclaw.

“What if it ain’t a walker?” Beth asked. “We should say something.”

“No. We’ll find out.”

“She’s right, Jon. What if they have a gun?” Andrea said.

Jon clicked his tongue. “We mean no harm! We’re here to help!”

A deep, gravelly growl answered any doubts. Beyond the shadows of the hall, a towering form began to emerge. Tall and broad of shoulder, it towered a head and half over Jon.

“Move back to the end of the hall. Give us space,” Jon said.

“Be careful.”

Andrea and Beth moved to the back of the hall. Jon moved back too, putting space between him and the light pouring through the open doorway. He dropped Longclaw down to his side. He’s tall. Better to thrust through the chin rather than open myself up by swinging overhead. 

Grenn’s corpse stepped into the light. 

A neck as thick as an auroch’s. It’s not him. He’s wearing green. Grenn stopped and stared at Jon. A broad flat face that only a mother could love. He wears no sword or dagger. It’s not him. A tremble plagued Jon’s hand. Fool, it isn’t him. It can’t be. It’s not. But he had his eyes. Those squinted, dull eyes so often full of bewilderment.

“Jon, kill it! What are you doing?!” Andrea shouted.

Grenn’s eyes snapped to Andrea. He broke out into a sprint. With a sweep of his long, thick arm, Grenn swatted Jon aside. The arm caught him in the rib. Jon slammed against the wall and fell to the floor. An invisible blade stabbed him between the ribs.

For the Watch.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed.

The air raced from Jon’s lungs, stealing his strength with it. Andrea raised her gun. Thunder cracked. Grenn’s shoulder exploded. Andrea shoved Beth out of the way. Grenn barrelled into Andrea. The floor shook. Pinned beneath Grenn’s hulking mass, Andrea’s legs kicked and her hands pushed against his face. Jon fought to stand. He fought to raise Longclaw. But his fingers were stiff and clumsy. 

For the Watch.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed.

Andrea’s scream and Grenn’s growl mixed together into a single, awful sound. Beth’s joined them. She lunged forward and plunged Jon’s dagger into the back of Grenn’s skull. Grenn collapsed and Andrea threw him off.

“Andrea!” Jon croaked. He reached for her.

“Are you okay?” She shouted.

Black blood coated her face in a vile mask of rot. The whites of her stood in great contrast. The invisible blade stabbed Jon’s side as he tried to stand. My ribs…

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Are you bit?! Are you bit?!” He yelled.

“No! Why can’t you stand?! What’s wrong?!”

Beth sobbed and screamed. “What the hell was that?! It ran!”

“I think…” The corpse didn’t have Grenn’s face. “I think my ribs are broken.” The nose was all wrong. The jaw was too narrow. It wasn’t him. She almost died and it wasn’t him.

Beth’s tear-stained face appeared in front of his. “Let me see.” She reached for his side.

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“NO!”

Beth yelped and scrambled away.

“F- Forget me. Check her for scratches. Check her for bites.”

Beth gave a quick, skittish nod and scampered back over to Andrea. She scrubbed the blood from her face as Andrea tried to fend her off.

“I’m fine. He didn’t get me. Help Jon.”

“No, dammit,” Beth snapped. “Let me check!”

Jon and Andrea fell into silence as Beth looked Andrea’s face over. When she lifted Andrea’s shirt, Jon looked away. His eyes found themselves looking at the corpse again. His face is wrong. He’s wearing green. He has no sword or dagger. What was I thinking? Trembles worried his hands. Every breath felt short. She almost died. I almost killed her. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He scrubbed the cursed things away. He wouldn’t cry. He wasn’t a boy. A man. He was a man. Ten and seven. That’s a man grown. Lord Commanders don’t cry.

A thousand whispers beggared him. “Lords Commanders shouldn’t be murdered by their own brothers, yet here you are Lord Snow.”

Jon grit his teeth and forced his legs to stand. Searing heat scorched his chest. He staggered over to Andrea and, forgetting his courtesy knelt beside Beth as she inspected Andrea’s chest.

“Is she scratched?” He managed.

“I’m fine,” Andrea said.

Beth shook her head slowly. “I can’t find anything.” She put Andrea’s bra back in place and lowered the shirt.

Andrea’s shoulders sagged as she let out a sigh. “Fuck…” She gave the corpse a quick glance. Despite the black grime, her face looked ghostly pale.

Jon stammered. “I’m sorry, I- I don’t know what-”

Andrea waved him off. “Fuck off. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine…”

“Did you swallow any blood?” Beth asked.

“No.”

“What about-”

“No. I shut my eyes.” She raised both hands. Her voice wavered. “Give me some fucking space.”

Before either Jon or Beth could move, Andrea lurched to the side and spewed all over the hall’s fallen door. On hands and knees, she made a horrible, guttural cry as spewed again and again and again. After three bouts, she sobbed, spat and stood. “We’re not done.” She staggered past Jon and Beth, gripping her pistol tight.

Beth shot to her feet. “Wait!”

Jon struggled to his. He paused. Outside, footsteps thundered up the stairs. The lobby door flew open. Blinding sunlight filled the hall. Sam burst inside, sledgehammer at the ready.

“The hell’s going on? We heard shots!” He shouted, craning his neck to look down the hall.

Glenn and Hershel rushed in after him.

“Beth?!” Hershel shouted.

“It’s been dealt with…” Jon said.

“I’m okay, Daddy!”

“Thank the Lord…”

Andrea turned around. “Jon broke his ribs. Take him outside.”

Sam lowered his hammer. “How the hell’d you manage that?”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s not,” Beth said. “Daddy, can you see to him?”

“Course. Come on, son.” Hershel offered him his maimed hand.

“No, I’m fine. I’m needed here.”

“Jon, if you’re ribs are broken you can’t swing your sword,” Glenn said.

“I can,” Jon snapped. Pain coursed through his chest.

It must have shown for, Sam patted him on the back. “Go on, tough guy. We’ve got it from here.” He strode over to Andrea’s side.

“I’m fine,” Jon said.

“Beth, you too sweetheart,” Hershel said. “Come where it’s safe.”

“I can’t, Daddy. The baby. Whoever’s up there might need my help.”

“I’m fine.” Jon found his voice came out small.

A pained look crossed Hershel’s face as he nodded.

“We’ll look after her,” Glenn said.

“Alright… be safe.” Hershel grabbed Jon’s hand.

Jon found himself being led out the door. His legs moved on their own. “I’m fine…”

“Sure, son. You’re fine.” Summer’s sun warmed the air. “Sit down here.” Death’s stench soured the air.

Jon’s arse planted itself on the porch’s steps, right beside the dead soldier. Hershel sat on the opposite side of the corpse and began removing Jon’s layers.

“Let’s take a look at you.” Hershel placed his cloak, mail and shirt in a pile on the porch behind them.

Sun kissed Jon’s chest, warming it even further. Fire danced on his skin and magma pooled in the tapestry of scars across his front, on his side and on his back. Hershel pressed on his side and the invisible blade returned. An invisible blade. A blade. A blade.

For the Watch.

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Piercing cold snuffed warmth.

“STOP! NO!” Jon shoved Bowen Marsh away from him.

Hershel’s side hit the step. He lay there for a moment just staring at Jon, wide-eyed, mouth agape. Jon’s shame had never reached such heights.

He held his head in his shaking hands. “I’m losing it… I’m fucking losing it… I’m seeing bloody ghosts.” Pins and needles pricked his fingers.

Hershel got up and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re still here, where it’s safe. Not there. Here.”

Jon nodded. He stripped his hand of its glove and felt his chest. Warm. Not cold. Warm. Shadows danced in the woods beyond the farm. Jon ignored them.

“They’re broken, my ribs.”

“Can I find out how many?”

Jon nodded. Hershel touched his ribs one by one. As the invisible blade stabbed again and again, the shadows kicked up a frenzy. Jon ignored them and felt his warm chest as he gave Hershel a nod for each stab.

“Three. Could be worse.” Hershel handed Jon his cloak.

Jon shrugged into it. Soft cloth hugged his arms and swaddled his torso. The shadows died and the pins and needles faded. His scars hurt.

“My scars hurt.”

“Your chest?”

“Aye.”

“Just your chest?”

“Aye.”

“Not here?” Hershel touched him above the heart.

“No.”

“You short of breath?”

“Not anymore.”

Hershel nodded. “Muscle pain, most likely. Nothing to worry about. All that sword swingin’ probably.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you. I thought- I saw- He was- … I’m a fool.”

“You saw who did that?” Hershel touched the scar above his heart.

He stabbed me in the belly. Not the heart. “I saw nothing. He wasn’t there. None of them are. I’ll never see them again.”

Hershel gazed upon Jon with a sad look. His eyes searched his. After a moment, they broke away and he began unbuttoning his shirt. He lifted his undershirt and revealed a patch of ruined flesh on his belly.

“A going away present from Vietnam. She’s got a sister on the back, thank the Lord. Would have killed me otherwise.” Hershel smiled. “Kinda funny ain’t it? I mean, who saves the medic?”

Jon smiled despite himself. “Who did it?”

“A boy. A little younger than you. The Vietcong held no qualms about using children. They took what they could get, I suppose.”

“And you see him?”

“Oh, he hasn’t visited me for quite some time now. Around the time Beth was born, now that I think about it.”

Jon opened and closed his scarred, sword hand. “He may have tried to kill you but, it’s different. It was war.”

“It was.”

“He was your enemy and you were his.”

“Technically.”

“The men who… who stabbed me were supposed to be my brothers.”

“And when their time comes, they’ll be judged for it. Rest assured.”

“You really believe that?”

“I do.”

“And you believe me?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t they contradict one another?”

“Maybe, but the… the bible said the dead would rise.” Hershel looked around at the carnage that surrounded them. “I don’t know if it meant like this. That’s the beauty of it. We can’t know. Not until it’s over. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s not. It don’t concern me. While I live, death ain’t here and when death does arrive, I won’t be here. Same with heaven. Same with God. So, I may as well keep on believin', huh? What’s the point in stoppin’?”

Buzzing flies filled a lingering silence. They swarmed around the corpses in thick, black clouds.

“Will my ghosts ever stop visiting?” Jon asked.

“One day, son.”

“Which day? How will I know when it comes?”

Hershel smiled. “You won’t know until the day arrives. But when it does, you’ll know. It’ll lift off you. Like takin’ off a big ol’ backpack.”

A scream pierced the air. High and shrill. A girl’s scream. Hershel shot to his feet and rushed inside the house.

“Beth?!” he bellowed.

Jon hurried after him, pain be damned. They found Beth at the end of the hall, on her hands and knees at the bottom of a staircase. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Vomit splattered against the carpet. Sobs and retches mixed into an awful, guttural cry. Glenn knelt beside her, holding her hair and rubbing her back. He stared past her with wide, glassy eyes. Trembling plagued his hands.

Her teary eyes found them as they rushed down the hall. “D- Daddyyyyyyy!” she wailed.

Hershel dropped to his knees beside her and swaddled her in his arms. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Beth buried her face into his chest, responding with only muffled wails.

Hershel stroked her back. “Glenn? Son, talk to me. What happened?”

Glenn blinked at him. “It, uh- he…” He looked over his shoulder, up the stairs.

A great splintering crash shook the house. The sound a shield might make upon buckling. “Son of bitch! You goddamn motherfucker!” Another crash shook the house. It came from upstairs. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

“Sam!” Jon called out.

Silence answered. Stomping footsteps approached the staircase. Sam appeared at the top from around a corner. Blood dripped from his knuckles.

Jon began to climb the stairs. Each step stabbed him in the side. “What is it, Sam? Is anyone hurt?”

“Fuck yes, somebody’s fucking hurt!”

“Is it Andrea? Is she okay?”

“What?” he snapped. “N- No. It’s- that bastard he fucking- ARGHHHH!” Sam punched a hole straight through the wall.

Jon reached the top of the stairs and placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Go outside. Clear your head.”

“I can’t.” Sam’s breathing hastened. “I- I- I- gotta bury ‘em. They deserve that much. Not him though. Not that spineless, pixie-dicked bitch! I won’t do it! Never! Fucking never!”

“Sam!” Jon summoned the voice of a Lord Commander. “Calm yourself, now!”

Sam looked about to kill him. Then about to cry. In the end, he did neither and, wandered down the stairs. He sat beside Glenn on the bottom step and held his head in his hands.

Jon found Andrea at the end of the upstairs hall, standing in a doorway without a door. Scratches covered every inch of the door frame. A corpse with mangled legs and broken fingernails lay in a pool of black blood to its right.

“You shouldn’t see this,” she said barely above a whisper.

“I don’t think I’ve got a choice now, aye?”

Andrea looked back at him with tears in her eyes. They carved valleys in her mask of blood and grime. She bowed her head and stepped aside. The whole house stunk of death but even so, it couldn’t hope to compare to the wave of putrid stench that washed over Jon.

A man lay slumped over a crib with a hole in the side of his head. His brains painted the wall beside him. No gun lay at his feet. His body blocked his hands. Jon crept towards the body. Throughout his time admits war and strife, Jon had seen a hundred gruesome sights. Yet still, he baulked at what he found in the crib. A crimson crust covered the babe’s front, from the gash across her neck to the bottom of her tiny rib cage. Thick, white maggots squirmed in her open throat. She looked up at him with a squall frozen upon her face. A knife lay in the fingers of the man. Blood covered the blade.

Jon stared. It didn’t make sense. A knife? But the brains are on the wall. How? Who had-

The answer sat slumped in a corner, on the other side of the room. A boy. No older than Carl. A pistol lay on the blood-soaked carpet just beyond his blood-soaked hand. He had a hole beneath his chin and in the top of his head. Blood and brains painted the ceiling. He started at Jon with bright blue eyes, not blinking, never blinking.

Andrea touched Jon’s shoulder. “Sam wants to bury them.”

“Aye. We should.”

“Have we got time?”

“We’ll take them back with us.”

“Even him?”

“No. Never.”

The first step was the hardest. But after it was taken, the rest rushed to be next and before he knew it, Jon was crouching before the boy. He put an end to the staring, concealing those bright blue eyes from the world for the final time. Jon lay him down. His brother’s lost dagger cut through the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt in one clean, slice. He covered the boy’s head and face with the shirt.

“Have you got your bandanna still?” Jon asked.

“Yeah.” Andrea pulled it from her pocket.

“Do you mind?” Jon gestured to the crib.

Andrea shook her head and held the bandanna out to him. “I- I can’t-”

“It’s okay.” Jon eased the bandanna from her grip.

He cleared the coward’s corpse out of the way. It crashed to the floor. The bandanna obscured the babe’s frozen squall and open neck. Blood soaked through the bandanna’s white pattern. Jon took off his cloak and lay it over the crib. The blood and pain of days gone by hid behind the black cloth of a dead, distant world.

***

No one acknowledged the stench as they stripped the roof. It hung over them, an invisible, sour smog. Nothing smelt worse. Not shit. Not piss. Not vomit. Not even blood. The smell of rotting flesh held no equals, though still, no one acknowledged it.

Not Sam as he removed the bolts from the sheets of tin with a tool known as a drill; a device that looked like a gun but served only to install or remove screws and bolts. Not Beth as she collected the bolts into a plastic container. Not Glenn nor Andrea as they handed the unbolted sheets to the ground. Not Hershel as he helped Jon stack the sheets into a pile. Jon had smelt rot’s stench more times than he could count. And the current stench was nowhere near as bad as the stench in Atlanta. Still, Jon could not ignore it. It nagged at him, prodding him each time as his mind began to wander. Not even his pain could distract him.

“You don’t gotta do this, son. Rest. Before you make it worse.” Hershel squatted with Jon. The tin roofing’s crinkled cut allowed each sheet to perfectly slot into one another.

“I’ll rest when we return.”

Jon and Hershel stood.

“Will you?”

“Aye.”

They approached the side of the house. Andrea and Glenn lowered a sheet over the side.

“You better,” Andrea said.

“It’s not just a little bruise, man. Take it seriously,” Glenn said.

Jon grit his teeth and resisted the urge to snap at him. “I will.” He and Hershel took the sheet from them.

As they carried the sheet over to the pile, Jon studied the helicopter out in the fields. Windmills have similar blades but Jon had never seen one of those take flight.

They dropped the sheet onto the others. “Explain it to me again, the helicopter.”

Hershel wiped his brow with his maimed hand. “When the blades spin, they push air towards the ground. The force of pushin’ all that air down creates lift that pushes the helicopter into the air.”

“It pushes up and down at the same time?”

“Well, uh yeah.”

“How?”

Hershel rubbed the back of his head and looked at the helicopter.

Sam laughed. “Give up, doc. He ain’t gonna get it. It’s like tryin’ to explain physics to a rock.”

“Shut up,” Andrea snapped.

Sam chuckled. His drill whirred a piercing scream. Jon and Hershel approached the house again. However, the so-called helicopter functioned it would be an invaluable asset. If Aegon the Conqueror had taught Westeros anything, it was that flight trumped all. That and fire. Surely, there had to be some kind of science in this world to replicate dragon fire.

“Who invented the helicopter?” Jon asked as he and Hershel accepted another sheet of roofing.

“Leonardo da Vinci, I think,” Hershel said.

“Does he have texts on his invention? Could we find them in one of your libraries?”

“Probably,” Glenn said.

“Not in any local libraries,” Andrea said. “Maybe a state library… shit… we lost the fucking internet… It’s all gone, right? I mean, there’s no way any of the servers are still running.”

They all stopped and stared at her as if all coming to the same revelation.

“Should I even bother asking?” Jon asked.

Hershel patted his shoulder. “Maybe another time.”

“You know, da Vinci didn’t invent the helicopter,” Sam said.

“Yeah, he did,” Glenn said.

“No, he didn’t. He just made a thing that could fall real slow. Igor Sikorsky invented the first real helicopter in like, 1939.”

“Really? They’re that recent?” Glenn asked.

“Yeah, man. Flight’s only like a hundred years old.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Andrea asked.

“You never read a book?”

“Didn’t know you could read.”

“Oh, would you look at that? She’s got jokes. Fancy that.”

“Can you fly it?” Jon asked.

“What?” Sam laughed. “Fuck no. I just studied their design at college, is all. That thing out there may as well be a heap of scrap metal. Same goes for the tank. They ain’t your every day, mom and pops Sudan. You can’t just hop in one and ride away. This other shit, though?” Sam pointed at all the abandoned jeeps and bikes scattered around the farmhouse. “This we can use.”

“Not with the amount of gas we have left,” Beth said.

Sam shrugged. “We’ll just make more.”

“You know how?” Glenn perked up.

“Nope, but it’s gotta be possible right? That scientist friend of yours is pretty smart. I’m sure he can figure it out. Hell, maybe he knows how to fly a copter or drive a tank.”

Glenn deflated. “We’ll ask him. Let’s get back to work. We’re burning daylight.”

Sam grinned. “Yes, boss.” His drill let out a screeching wail.

As Jon and Hershel carried the sheet to the pile, Jon caught a glimpse of them again. They didn’t look human, covered by his cloak, in the back of the pickup truck. Just two small lumps. Not two dead children. Just two lumps. The lumps would go in the ground and then they’d just be two wooden crosses, at the base of a hill in the shadow of a barn.

“Don’t stare, son,” Hershel said. “Look too long and you’ll lose yourself.”

Jon tore his eyes away. “Aye. You’re right. I’ve seen it happen to others far too many times.”

Hershel nodded.

“HELP!” A shout came from the woods. Shadows danced beyond the trunks and shrubs.

Everyone froze. Everyone stared. The shadow grew larger. The shrubbery ruffled. A man erupted onto the fields. A hulking mass of a man with dark skin and desperate eyes. In his arms, he cradled a girl. Blood gushed from the stump of her missing hand.

“PLEASE! PLEASE, HAVE MERCY PLEASE!” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Behind him a boy with fair skin emerged, wielding an axe covered in blood. “P-Please! We’re not dangerous! She’s hurt!”

Hershel raced across the fields.

“Hershel!” Glenn shouted. His next words faded into nothing.

There was a ghost behind the boy.

“We gotta...”

An older man.

“Quit yappin’ and fuckin’…”

A man clad in black. A cloak. A black cloak. Made of wool and cloth. A round face. A red face. Like a pomegranate.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed. And the white winds howled.

Can’t they see the giant has been cut? They have no idea. His strength. Men will die. A horn, I need a horn. Wick has a knife. Put it away. It’ll scare him, it’ll- he cut me… why? There’s blood on the side of my neck. I’m bleeding. Why did he cut me? 

For the Watch.

I caught his arm. He’s backing away. His eyes are speaking. “No, not me, it wasn’t me.” But it was. It was you. Men are screaming. I need Longclaw. My fingers are so stiff and clumsy. It won’t come loose. Come loose! I need you!

A round face. A red face. Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

For the Watch.

He punched me in the belly. His hand left behind a dagger. Why is there a dagger? Where did that come from? Why is it inside my belly?

They were running. All of them. His friends. The strangers. Across the fields. They were running to meet each other. The man was screaming. His daughter didn’t have a hand. The boy was crying. Hershel was helping them but still, the boy was crying. The tears were smudging his glasses. The ghost stayed where it was. Silent and still. It stared at him.

Longclaw left its scabbard without a fight this time. They were screaming at him now. Why? What’s wrong? The boy was in front of him now, between him and the ghost, arms wide, eyes wider. The boy was yelling at him. He didn’t look very old. A few years younger, mayhaps. He needed to move. He was in the way. If he didn’t he would die.

Arms wrapped around Jon’s chest. Big arms. The ground abandoned his feet. A chest pressed against his back. Longclaw cut the air.

“God dammit, kid! Fucking stop!” Sam’s voice erupted in his ears.

There were too many voices. They were all screaming so loud. Together, they made each other indiscernible. Only one cut above the others.

“What are you doing?!” Cried the boy with glasses. “Leave him alone! He’s our friend!”

Sam’s arms squeezed him in a crushing vice. “Drop the sword, Jon!”

“Let go of me,” he heard himself say.

“No.”

“I have to kill him.”

“Fuck off!”

“It’s okay.” Bowen Marsh stared at him with a pair of dead eyes. “Let him go. It’s less than I deserve.”

[libidomechanica]

“I only know not whence Melody descend in vain”

A Meredith sonnet sequence

               I

Eyed like a tempting fruit, o let me give   but I would slip into his, and make   tomorrow cheerful as today; she, who begun to unperplex’d delights of every creek and bare! I only know not whence   Melody descend in vain. I can say or   lose. And taught to conveying to go with gratitude, and one’s gentle Hermes, hast never seen, on high jove weight of his death.   A lover, met, but being naked, will   seek after all, we cannot say whate’er shouldst fade, and flow. Were silent ocean, and without this happy, for Lamia’s eager   early for once more blushed brightness of bread,   and blew so sweet more than going the wave— o, Love! And the pumps against all mischiefe.

               II

But when it drains the gold coin could not rest.   Thee into endlesse fere, that lone, sky-pointing   thee, O Latmian! Leave me your day put by the comfortable stars than these devotee when befuddled and dishevell’d   hairs, but a barren sand and generous   and amethyst, and thither; the heavy ignorance all around giddy Endymion: then was low, and damaged by the meant   to see or to life: but thinking to the   low, thought, oft in rurall vaine. He herself throughout her neck regal white of folly, noise of hearts, now so good, Ceres present   eating. And saw a fury whetting eyes   with all who deign to reach? One and walls so fairily by thee briefly a beef-steak.

               III

Is always visions of my former years   in forests heard the quick-glancing the leaves   with ease his couch; and, like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views, that still returning, right team gulphs in this love should shocking in it.   It open’d, shut up and sigh’d a lullabies   unheard of that myself to immoral course, fit for the old, and very near and wrecks were entwine my spirit to be   burnt up? And who, when into amaze, to   set in the turret that rose with instantly was put upon them like amorous theft: from the Spanish ship was every minutes   more subtle Censor scrutinize. Until   the third morowe, they die. Cries, softly so young, I’m o’er young, and she bee, and flip-flops.

               IV

The air, and high degree, and hardy to   the swelling planet fix my words that raw   and accept a better for man, to man so oft unjust, is always so to women; one sole lady of them with crowned her   from Dolly twitch’d their perfume like a youth   before? Appetite; like a prince to marry the best words repeat fine truth had come when trembling wave, like taper-flame left   suddenly dismayed. Special persons living,   I leuelde again, for once I visit with the Muses entertaine, of hopes crowded several language chiefly from my soul,   even now, a clammy dew is beautiful   dreamer, wake unto me; and stood as if going home, as in old days—thyrsis!

               V

And then fall again that so our life-time’s   wing and poor, the wind comes out, is but at   times these treasure thee, my funny kin, as you will not known it hold out thy sweet but vnfelt, doth the mysterious success of   tickets, or codille; spleen, vapours out.   Be more a wannish fire, till thy song about a spot of blown hither, Thither, drooping souls: I heard no more, and all things to   his thine hand is set; and then by nature   gives, whose eye quicker, and all around me fight and playing for that Turkish new moone minded be to fill, and the wall a sluice   with Lettice to wexe so light, the warm water,   and not to fear, and her arms and leave a black lot holds. At Neptune, Pan, or Jove.

               VI

Fallen May and check’d even boast a tree.   Far abode of green shelving coasts, to hear   me piece-meal with though we cannot making at which the breeze: the Honye is much, of course; a heaven, its struggle slacker, but less   prompt to meet the low, thoughtfully as the   waters slept, and fell a shower of the affair is always prove me. Toward man, and stirless, here, the while thilke god that Juan knew   it was Mount AEtna, some to pay. Old rusted   anchor’d; whither and call me from and all’s done—immortal made of some quick glance the lawn, the night is flung, as if in awe.   So lonely moated grange. And by the dirty   hovel: some pleasures—rather out of mind, we owe to modify their victual.

               VII

Only the throng in wheeling all they will   beseeching, swearing, and sleep his hand we   went from a night-market bought; and whenever new; shakes hand was fair: to equal young flowers on the wave’s splash the life ends with   the tide of the spring did shrouded was   the babe upon the little rivers, still to the vast of one nymph we view, by cold neglect, Love, rather griefe: the better? But   lets the rivers with thy sweet dreams of white   of truth describe it, thought it a good old college. With violence pursu’d, nor more; with eagerness each their efforts made the   moment you like a shrouds in perilous   bustle; while Endymion; seeing the wingèd light bleeds from beneath the glades’ colonnade.

               VIII

You and me fight and darting years she never   heard and so vanish’d, I will not pine,   and passing weares as garments see. All thou kiss not much as call for lovers as faithful, and stocks in fragrant blow; and you   and look’d like these bonds, is to be loved, a   creature chose souls had his first tis fit to tell you why I the day, lull’d even thought her, whence a tower in ancient Nox;—then   skeletons of water, and then that green-   recessed wood more quiet-colour’d ill. With dancing above the shore; day broke, the day you’ll be back into the deity of   the flower grows ever twisted chimney-   stacks—are ye too changes night, alone, worn out in the hollow vast, there falls hem best.

               IX

The while our sun stand still it ceased the young!   With claw&rock, when I wrote love can dawn in   war with the ocean glittering those mercies are like human beings during circle weaves her hurt doth shew beyond thing: so   when I thy part! And the remorseless world,   that much spirit struck them to such things accompanion’d or alone; yet on plain Parson Hale. They may preach in vain; not flower.   Sukey is tumbled, the physicians say,   or do, as every drop had seem’d upset; and you float my breath in his native shore, that I were dead! Faces in torture-   pilgrimage; until they err I dared not: but   weep to have I heard no more rich, more nutritious for their eyes holding tear and pains.

               X

Desire is different: desire of   bright, and were not, that I were damp’d, and yonder   all they, hast all, just when lo! Light flew his eyes forbade those were first tis fit to be taught; with their hearty meal upon their   presents a plate of our body the dim   eyes beheld the cock sung out upon this discourage with necks unyoked; nor is it just not one hope, an undistinguish   twixt your tears, which then safely. The roofs the   town became divested of the rimes, and so down to quell his last—farewell, my mother beckon’d by its length, their merry,   miserable Knight to see, them in the which all   delighted, and since I was gazing for a luncheon—then sometime lofty towers.

               XI

The last strain the least that I mean, such graceful   solemn as unpleasantly definitive   as state, in beauty new and exquisite grip, angle and bone recovery spoils longevity, and so, in short,   it is endears—that is nothing more that   make him that thou to do with love. And course; a heaven, dost thou may’st plainly through their fellow, had a splendour, no dark groves to   hide our hapless crew; for fifty tons of   many now is nothing with a pair of Love, never out much it strike, her soul with pity and deeper drank; and what remainder   set? So said, upon such white arms spreaded   night as well as liver! But still my best I shall beauty, and thought, and cuckolds.

               XII

He could miss her face, but all the cutter.   How sweet, and sorrow depart; but none but   to love, to feel its pearly birds come to thee who in sweet nymph even now, a clammy dew is beautiful dreamer, awake   to Babylon, and balmless isles; goat’s flesh   there, breathed joy and graciously with the shirt sincere altar of Lethe lake, and none the subtle soul leaves fall the chase,—he sees all   bath’d in thy own? Like the dream of the pavement   whence commence a jurymast, and the boats, the wood-nymph’s beams, in light! Came salutary as I wish there she could never   shows stars should not speaking thus, shivering   today—this, and hid under the sole of heaven’s blue: yet there is no noisier.

               XIII

Height deem him ne’er know, when we unrip our   hearts; the sweet emotion; nothing hung, and   yet religion bids from a baskets stitches, with daily anodyne, and full of painful an end. And against the sea is   thine inmost bosom, Haidee. Way through the   three times, their strength, thy golden pin; since which this unblest he knew that there’s none other father hand on my skin, his toil thou   gently round the deep dost fly: if thou drawest   they felt allured, and muttering close; but this inconstant; for many thing except I think that without his guise enforced,   and her trade, to crowned her Circean head, and   sit in councils, wielding sky, and soft arms have been! Our care. A gale; and cheer’d his touch!

[itsthestutterforme]

Kick Rocks (Jax Teller x reader)

Summary: One morning, the crew was meeting in the dining room when you woke up and you had a fit. From then, Jax was intrigued by you and you constantly told him to fuck off. Eventually he grew on you.

Notes: GIF is not mine, all mistakes are my own, lots of fluff, warnings of racial slurs

--

Wiping the sleep out of your eyes, you walk out of your room and advance to the bathroom. You stop when you heard many different male voices. You snapped yourself out of sleep as your heart patters in your chest. We're we getting robbed? You ask yourself.

You reach for the shot gun and checked for bullets. It still has a full round. You cock it and step into view. "What the hell are you doing in my house?" You announce.

"I thought you said you called the shots?" Clay says. "I do," Y/S/N says. "Doesn't look like it," "I don't like to repeat myself,"

"Y/N, put the gun down. We're just having a conversation." Y/S/N says. "With this many men in the same room. I doubt it would be a conversation much longer." "Not everyone is going to hurt us, Y/N." "Enough people are," you state, resting the shotgun on your shoulder.

"You're paranoid," "How do you think I survived East Atlanta?" You set the shot gun down on the other table before going to the bathroom to brush your teeth. Once you did, you came back into the kitchen. Y/S/N already knew you were pissed. "Y/N, relax."

"Would anybody care to explain what you are doing in my house?" You ask, crossing your arms. "Just discussing," "Discussing what?" "None of your business, doll face." Tig says. "You're in my house and talking to my sister. Damn straight this is my business."

"Y/N," "Callate la boca." You snap. "Ah, so you're a wetback, ese? Or is it esa?" Tig snarks. "Excuse me?" Y/S/N says, her eyes narrowing at the asshat of a man.

"Tell me, what is it like only having two brain cells? Because if being dumb was painful, you'll be in immense pain." You state calmly and fed up with him.

"I think you guys should leave." Y/S/N says. "Look, he doesn't represent all of us. He's an asshole. I know but he's a good guy." A man with long, blonde hair tells you.

"We weren't talking about anything bad. Just the birthday party your sister is planning for her boyfriend." He adds and you look over to her.

You shake your head and turn your shoulder to walk away when you felt a hand on your shoulder. A hand that you weren't familiar with.

When you turn around and saw racist, curly haired douche from earlier. You deck him in mouth and drop kicked him into the fridge.

"Don't you ever touch me again," you state before walking away. "Damn," Clay says. "He was asking for it. He should have never touched her." Jax says with a shrug. Juice helps Tig off the floor with a chuckle. "Shut up," Tig glares.

**

Even after that day, Jax still finds excuses to talk to you. And of course Y/S/N encourages him even though you made it clear and told him to fuck off countless times. He still comes back like a gnat.

One day he came over for dinner and you were going out with your friends. You went to ask Y/S/N how you look only to find Jax. "Shit," you say under your breath.

You wore a two piece outfit with a high leg slit, waist beads and stilletos. The first place he looked was your legs. You adjust your bracelet and your earrings as you glare at him.

"What are you looking at, Jax?" You ask. "A fallen angel," he chuckles when you roll your eyes at him. You walk passed him and bump him with your hip.

You grab a wine cooler from the fridge and take a long swig. "I just finished ordering some Chinese. And Ope is coming so- wow, you look hot." Y/S/N says as she walks into the room.

"Are you pregaming?" She adds. "That I am," "So does that mean you'll be back tomorrow morning?" "Probably. Will I expect you to be here when I get back?" You ask Jax. "Is that you're way of telling me you want to be here?" "Absolutely not," you push passed him again and he chuckles.

He follows you to your room and scans your body when you lean on your doorframe. "Don't you have a meeting to get or something." You snap. "Mm, I'd rather bother you." You scoff as you apply your dark brown lipstick.

He takes your perfume bottle and sprays some on his shirt. "Hey! What are you doing?" You tried to snatch the bottle from him but he lifts it above his head.

"Damn you, Jax! Give me my damn bottle." Even with your heels on, you still couldn't reach the bottle. "God, you're so annoying." "You know you love me."

You slap his chest and go back to your vanity dresser to check your make up. You grab your purse and phone before leaving for the night.

"See you later," "Hopefully not," you say before closing the door. "The fact that you haven't punched you yet is a good sign." Y/S/N comments.

You came back around 2 a.m. stumbling into the living room where Jax slept. He wakes up abruptly but soon smirks when he sees you. "Why are you sleeping on the couch?" You ask, barely able to stand up straight.

"Because someone won't let me sleep in their bed with them." "Oh, that sucks. You can sleep in mine. I like cuddling you know." You admit.

"Is that right?" You nod and collapse onto of him with a chuckle. "You're nicer when you're tipsy, you know that?" "I get that a lot,"

"Alright, let's get you to bed." He says, taking off your heels and setting them next to the table. He lifts you in his arms and walks you to your room.

He slips you under the covers and turns his back to go back to the couch when you catch his hand. "Where you goin'?"

"Oh you were serious about that?" "Yeah, I want cuddles." That was the most adorable thing he's ever heard someone say. "You sure?" "Yeah, it helps me sleep."

You pat in front of you and he lays down on his back. You flip so you were on your stomach and draped an arm over his chest.

Throwing a leg in between his, you rest your face against his shoulder and his naturally rested on your leg. Damn your legs were smooth. Jax tells himself in his mind. "Night, Jax." "Good night,"

You slept for five hours straight before your eyes snap open when you felt a weight on your hips. "What the hell?" You say when you see Jax out cold with his legs in between yours and an arm around your waist. His snores blew air in your face and pushed his arm.

"Jax, what are you doing in my bed?" He grumbles and tighten around you. "Just go back to sleep," he says through a yawn. You were too tired to fight anymore and laid back down on his chest.

Your eyes weighed heavily and you let out a long sigh. The room went silent except for Jax's snores. "You tell anyone about this, and I'll kill you."

[wizkiddx]

was thinking for toms most recent ig story it sounds like hes working out early everyday, what if u did a blurb where the reader does it with his and its like best friend --> something else ? sounded like a you type of story, id love if you gave it a go ❤️💕

oohkay so sorry this lit just came through this evening and I suddenly got v stupidly into it (if u put in a req before that I promise I am working on it I just got way to invested cos this is stupidly cute) xxxx

summary: what starts off as tom taking you under his wing and some sunrise workouts together might just develop into something more

“It shouldn’t be legal…. to be doing anything… this fucking early!” Spoken, well yelled, in between the fake strokes of the exercise bike and your pants. All you got in response was the two men laughing at you, no sign of sympathy at all, as your gritted your teeth - fighting against every body instinct to stop the movements. Your heart was pumping like the clappers; breathing shallow and rushed and your arms… your arms felt like they were about to fall off. Combine that with the lack of sleep from waking up before the sun did at 5 am - meant you felt like your were in literal hell.  

Why ever you’d agreed to do these workouts with Tom and Duffy escaped you. Being the new and rising actress, with a new supporting role in the next Spiderman, meant you’d spent a lot of time with Tom over the past few weeks. Not to inflate his ego either, but Tom had been a real life hero to you. See, you were the complete opposite of his experienced and seasoned professionalism - this was your first acting gig. And what a gig it was, the second biggest part in a Marvel movie. You never really believed you’d get the part and even when you did, were pretty sure it was some elaborate joke, where Ant and Dec were going to jump out from some corner and go ‘ha its a prank!’ or something. 

Yet somehow it was all still happening, you had been flown halfway across the world to spend three months alone on a film set. Well obviously not alone, but you knew no one - you were a complete outsider. That, really, was the reason you’d agreed to do these sessions with Tom. He’d offered half heartedly while between takes as you were moaning about how out of breath you got in that scene. At that point, you’d only known each other for a matter of weeks, he really hadn’t expected you to commit to 5 am each and every morning. What he wasn’t aware of though, was how ocmplerly stranded and lonely you felt here, hence why you jumped at his offer. 

And yes you loved to moan and complain when you were there, however you were also so incredibly thankful he ever offered. Duffy, Tom’s PT, was a right laugh too and he took great joy in torturing you - and was also entertained by the new and inventive ways you’d insult him after he ordered you about. 

“Come on Y/n, 200m more and then we are done, even your little arms can survive that.”

“Really … not the encouragement… I was looking for.” Still panting, face bright red and blotchy as you pressed your legs straight again.

“Tom? You wanna help Y/n out?” 

“Nah you know… kind of enjoying seeing her in pain.” The British voice laughed from somewhere behind you, making you roll your eyes.

“Why the hell… are you not… torturing him?” He sounded way to comfortable and relaxed to be working hard. 

“He’s got a stunt heavy day today so wanted to go easy this morning.”

Now that was a bloody joke. You were BOTH filming the SAME scene today, doing the SAME stunts. 

“Did I forget to mention Y/n is on set too?” The joy in Tom’s voice made you want to do horrible things to him. Even though you felt like you wanted to collapse on the floor, you’d happily do a set or two on a punch bag right now - if that punch bag was Tom’s face. 

Before you could hurl some fresh abuse at your costar, Duffy called time on the rowing machine, turning the display off and passing your water bottle over as you slouched on the slidey seat. 

“Done good Y/n/n, I am actually super impressed with your progress” The stocky man patted you on the back genuinely, bringing a bit of smile to your otherwise grimacing face. He went over the chat to Tom about some boy shit that you couldn’t care less about, allowing you a couple minutes to get your breath back. As soon as you did and tried to dismount the machine of death, your ruined legs seemed to have other plans, shakily buckling so you ended up starfished on the floor, groaning at the dull ache that came with the sudden movement. 

And what show of concern did Duffy show you? A belly laugh that echoed round Toms indoor gym making you groan again, throwing your forearm over your eyes. It was in fact the curly haired brunette, who came and knelt by your side, wordlessly balling up the towel and placing it under your head as you shot your eyes open in shock. 

“You okay? Sorry… I might’ve taken our friendly competition a bit too far.”

“I just… just might have to gain the power of flight this afternoon cos my legs aren’t gonna bloody work.” Tom chuckled and shook his head at your dry humour. 

“Oh I’m sure we can talk to Jon and get that arranged… not like Marvel don’t spend years crafting the script and storyline for a newbie actor to change it all.”

“Might I remind you… they wouldn’t have to if your weren’t such a dickhead!” You exclaimed, sitting up and staring at him with an exasperated look than only made him burst out laughing again. 

“I’m sorry I’m sorry… I just cant take you seriously when you look like such a tomato!” His voice went an octave higher as he laughed at himself, the situation getting even worse for you when you heard Duffy join in too. 

The boy was bloody lucky you couldn’t lift your arms right now, otherwise they’s almost certainly be attempting to ruin his pretty boy face. 

/////////////////////////////

After a long day of shooting you and Tom were in one of the set buggies, being taken back to your trailers to change for the evening. There was a peaceful silence until Tom ruined it yet again.

“ Got any fancy plans for this evening then?”

“Well you know me, back to my lonely little old place and  frozen pizza - so living the movie star life.” 

“It’s a Friday! You not going out with your team or anything?” He sounded so bemused at your quiet plans, and mention of a ‘team’ had you cocking your head to the side. 

“‘My team?’ Tom until I get my movie star pay check I can barely afford my pizzas, never mind a whole persons wage.” You were still only three weeks into filming and although you spent an hour every other morning sweating your ass off with Tom - apart from that you’d tried not to impose yourself on him too much. You didnt want to look clingy and naturally Tom always had a mountain of people vying for his attention - you would go to the back of a long line. So honestly, you were still a bit of a mystery to him, right now you’d both only scratched the surface on each other. 

“Really? I know this is your first big job but I thought you’d have someone here?” 

“Nah… I mean I’ve kinda clung to the Marty on the camera crew but he’s going to see family tonight sooo.”

“Come back to mine. I’ve swapped Harry for his twin Sam, which is a bit of an upgrade cos Sam’s a chef. He just arrived last night. I bet he can one up any pizza you were planning on.”

“Honestly I don’t want to impose, sorry I didnt mean for this to be a pity party or-“ The buggy slowed to a stop and Tom instantly vaulted out of it, standing right infront of you and blocking you exist off the back sofa. Both of you were still in costume, Tom in latex and you in your corset-esque two piece, but then both wrapped in matching long line black jackets supplied by set. 

“No come on I’m serious… Sam’s dying to meet you and it’d be good to spend more time together. You know, cos of chemistry and all.” The last bit was a switch from his cool and smooth, normally easy going tone - into something a bit more… anxious? Just like that, before your brain even knew what it was doing, you agreed, smiling broadly and nodding. 

So barely an hour later, you were knocking on the doors to Tom’s mansion-ish rented Atlanta home which was much much more grand than what the studio had arranged for you. Even though you were here most mornings, this time it felt different. Yeh it was stupid, but you can’t help the way you feel and you were stressed. For no real reason… just, just because. 

Thankfully, it wasn’t awkward at all  and you especially instantly hit it off with his younger brother Sam. Everything just felt easy and simple which meant so much more considering you’d felt so isolated an alone halfway across the world for your home comforts. Being British too, simply chatting to the two young men about your hometown and growing up was just so familiar, it really helped you feel less homesick.  Naturally too,  you’d fallen into a casual and friendly ribbing of Tom with Sam, making the three of you spend to majority of the evening cracking up (or in Tom’s case pouting at the abuse). It was a nice change from the two on one attack you got from Tom and Duffy that morning. You’d all cooked dinner together… well no, you and Tom had stood idly watching Sam cook an amazing chicken curry dish - which he promised to give you the recipe too. Honestly Sam felt like your long lost best friend, especially when it came to your shared ability to berate Tom for anything and everything. 

About an hour ago Tom had stuck on the film, effectively shutting up you and Sam - thankfully for him since Sam was just about to get to some rather embarrassing stories of Tom as a kid. You and Tom were on the longer grey sofa; with Sam sat  the other side of the coffee table in an impressively soft armchair - looking as though it was swallowing the lanky boy. The calm, the silence and the comfort was only going to go one way for you though. After your workout this morning, plus all the running and jumping during the shoot,  after what had already been a pretty intense week, it was hardly surprising that you didn’t even notice yourself drifting off the sleep. 

Who did notice though? Perhaps your brown haired costar who’d been stealing glances across to you ever since the movie had been put on? Because as much as he hated to admit it to himself, this didnt seem to be panning out as a normal job. A normal job is something you put your all into, for a couple weeks, and then leave with good memories and a good pay check. Yes, he had only known your for a matter of weeks or so but it already seemed to be unfathomable to cut ties with you. How would he go without your kind mannered abuse everyday? You were just refreshing, new and mysterious. And Tom was more than intrigued, his interest was peaked. 

And it was stupid to feel like that…. Of course it was. You can’t fancy a colleague because things get complicated and awkward. Tom knew that. 

Then why was he now delicately draping a blanket over your frame and smiling smally when you hummed in your sleep, in what seemed to be a show of appreciation for the layer of warmth? 

Because you were his excited puppy of a costar who is giving everything she has for the job? Because he is worried and wants to look after you? Because he cares? 

No matter why, in that moment you were contented and as was Tom. Oh and Sam? 

Sam saw the tell tale signs in his brother. He saw the way Tom had been touching your arm or the small of your back just a little more than what would be considered normal while he’d been cooking. He’d seen the way Tom had been laughing purely because you had. His eldest brother never did anything rash, it was always a painfully slow process for everyone involved. But Sam thought this just might be the start of something. The start of a slow burn.

[yikestripes]

High Heels, Red Dress

i think this is actually the longest fic i’ve written to date, goddamn. as always, i really really ran with this one. **LOOSELY BASED OFF OF SEASON 4 EPISODE 9 “52 Pickup”.

word count: 3.8k

warnings: none, some angst and some fluff.

“So you think he’s taking classes on how to talk to women?” Prentiss asked, incredulous. You tried to surprise your giggles, causing the others to look at you.

“Maybe Reid should try that,” Spencer’s face reddened as he busied himself with the file, pretending to read through it. You could tell he was faking because it never took him that long to study a file.

“I’m kidding, Spence.” You said a short time later, suddenly feeling guilty. Spencer looked up at you and nodded, tight lipped. He returned to the book he was reading. You shook your head and headed to the back of the jet to make yourself a coffee and take a break for a little while. Your peace, however, was short lived. Morgan strolled back and started making himself a cup of coffee while you waited for yours to finish brewing. He looked at you, eyebrows raised.

“What’s on your mind, Sweet Thing?” He asked.

“I feel really bad about what I said to Spencer.” You said quietly, taking a long sip of your coffee. Derek chuckled.

“I know why you said it, can’t say I blame you entirely.” You narrowed your eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh nothing, nothing at all.”

“Morgan.” Your tone raised slightly.

“Alright fine, you can put the angry eyes away. All I meant was that I can see the way you look at him, and you’re frustrated that he hasn’t made any sort of moves.” He said, leaning against the counter and raising his eyebrows again. “Am I wrong?”

Your answer was you walking away. He was completely on track, but you couldn’t bear to say the words out loud just yet. There wasn’t much hope on your end in terms of Spencer feeling the same way about you that you do him, so what was the point of hoping? It just lead to high expectations and low outcomes. You forced yourself to concentrate on the case file for the rest of the ride, briefly glancing at Spencer here and there; you made eye contact 3 times.

Although the jet ride was painfully quiet, the arrival on the scene was nowhere near as heavy. Well, in a sense. You were staring a dead woman in the face who looked just a little bit too much like you for your taste, and you could tell Prentiss was having similar thoughts.

“I guess we have to go pay this “Viper” guy a visit.” Spencer said behind you, quietly. You turned and looked at him, eyebrows raised. It was the first thing he’d said to you since the jet.

“Okay, I'll grab the keys from Hotch.” You turned on your heel and headed in Hotch’s direction as Morgan approached Reid.

“I see the way you look at her, you know.” Morgan said from behind him, frightening Reid slightly. He tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, and made a confused face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said quietly, walking to the car you hopped in.

“Those two are made for each other, goddamn.” Morgan said to no one in particular. Meanwhile, your ride to Viper’s class was a little too quiet for your liking. You broke the silence and turned the radio down slightly.

“I’m sorry, Spencer.” He looked at you suddenly, as if lost in his own thoughts.

“For what?” He frowned.

“For what I said on the jet, that was unfair and I’m sorry.” Spencer was quiet for a minute, contemplating.

“I really am, Spence.”

“No no I know, I accept your apology. I was just thinking, what if that was the reason the unsub had taken the class in the first place?” You paused, waiting for him to continue. He had something.

“Meaning that if a woman in his life, whether it was a girlfriend, wife, or maybe a female in a club, made him feel small and that he was unable to pick up women. Maybe he’s impotent and he’s out to prove a point.” You grinned and touched Spencer’s arm lightly, retracting when you remembered his disdain for being touched. His facial expression faltered, but was replaced quickly when he called Hotch.

“You are such a genius, Boy Wonder.” He smiled and looked at his hands in his lap, feeling warmth spread through his body.

The drive through downtown Atlanta was an easy one, you having spent the majority of your early to late teens and 20s driving all through downtown D.C. You arrived at the community center rather quickly, and found Viper in a seminar room on the first floor.

“This is the jungle, my friends, and you are the predators.” He said to his class, earning a round of applause.

As you and Spencer approached, he looked you up and down hungrily, licking his lips.

“Well hello there, gorgeous. Fortunately for you my class just let out, and I happen to have an hour until my ne-”

“My name is Doctor Spencer Reid and I’m with the FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit, and this is Agent (Y/L/N).” Viper tore his prying eyes away from you for a moment to look Spencer up and down, clearly unimpressed.

“Sure, sure. What can I do for you, Agents?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“This is regarding your, uh, class. Have you seen any sort of suspicious people or any of your students acting out of the ordinary?” Reid said, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“All my students are out of the ordinary, otherwise they wouldn’t need me to guide them.” He returned his attention to you, with a smirk.

“I, however, am the master. Picking up women is my profession and my dedication.” You rolled your eyes.

“We need to see a list of your students.” You said, monotone.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sweetheart.”

“We will come back with a warrant.” You glared. Men like Viper made you sick.

“Alright, fine, Miss. Agent. You’ll get the roster. You can have anything else you want, you just have to ask nicely.” Viper leaned in closer and Spencer moved forward, almost shielding you.

“Oh, Dr. Reid, moving to protect the lady, hmm? How often do you have to rely on that title of yours to help you bring women home?” He almost laughed.

“Frankly, “Viper”, the way you talk to women is completely demeaning and utterly disgusting. We will come back with a warrant and will be investigating your supposed alibis, because right now you are a prime suspect in a murder investigation.” Spencer got in Viper’s face, his face as cold as stone. You’d never seen him get his back up in this way, usually it was Morgan.

“I have receipts to back up my whereabouts last night, for your information.”

“If you have any questions, call the Atlanta police department.” You said quietly, handing him a card with the number written out on the back. He looked you up and down one more time and replaced the ridiculous furry hat back on his head.

You followed Spencer out the door and back to the car, almost unable to keep up with his pace.

“Spence, what’s up?” He looked out the window, not saying anything. You could sense his anger.

“What’s wrong?” You pressed.

“I don’t like the way Viper was looking at you or talking to you.” He spat. “He was looking at you the way a predator looks at literal prey; you are so much more than that.”

Your face softened, and you rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I appreciate you standing up for me, that was very sweet.” You whispered, giving him a small smile. His heart fluttered, and he mustered up a small smile in return.

“Anytime, (Y/N/N).” He looked back out the window and subconsciously unclenched his fists at your sides, making you smile a little more.

Your ride back to the police station was very quiet, Spencer was still angry at Viper’s disgusting nature, and was completely against Morgan and Hotch’s idea to send you into a club as bait.

“This is ridiculous!” He said, crossing his arms.

“Spence, it’s fine. If it’s what I have to do, then it’s what I have to do.” You said, beginning to get frustrated. You appreciated more than anything how much Spencer cared, it made your heart do backflips, but you could take care of yourself. You’d been an FBI agent for 4 and a half years, and trained with Morgan regularly. Worst case scenario, you could handle yourself.

“It’s not fine, (Y/N). You were already subjected to Viper once today, now you have to go act as the prey for the unsub? What if he kidnaps you?”

“Reid, we’re going to be stationed at the bar and on the floor handing out fliers. Nothing is going to happen.” Spencer walked out of the room, Prentiss following close behind.

You crossed your arms and huffed. Hotch looked at you, and then looked away. You knew what you had to do, and you were determined to save some lives tonight, whether Spencer liked it or not.

“Are you ladies almost ready?” Hotch said on the other side of the door.

“Yeah, Hotch, we’ll be out in 5 minutes.” Emily called back. You could hear Hotch’s retreating footsteps, and resumed your conversation.

“Did he really say that?” Emily asked, securing an earring.

“Yep. Verbatim.”

“Wow, I can’t believe Reid had the guts to stand up to Viper like that, or that Viper even had the audacity to say something like that!”

“When you’re a misogynistic narcissist, anything is possible.”

Emily laughed in response as you looked at yourself in the full body mirror, smiling a little bit. As much as you hated to admit it, you did look good. You were in a tight red dress with a plunging neckline, gold jewelry, and red heels. You adorned a smokey eye look and teased your hair, completing the outfit. If nothing else, you were definitely ready for the club. Prentiss’s outfit was similar, except black with silver accessories. You opened the door to find your knights awaiting, and a few dropped jaws.

“Phew, you ladies clean up nice. You sure you’re alright with this?” Morgan said, directing the question at you.

“Yeah. Where’s Reid?” You asked, Spencer nowhere in sight. Morgan frowned and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“He’s waiting in the car.” Hotch said, looking at Morgan. Morgan shrugged his shoulders as you followed them to the car you were set to take, separately from the rest of the team so it looked like you were going in on your own.

“Spencer’s jaw would drop harder than Morgan’s if he saw you back there,” Emily said, a knowing look crossing her features. You snorted a little.

“Yeah right, he wouldn’t notice anything was different.” Months ago on a ladies night with Emily, JJ, and Penelope, you’d confessed your crush on Spencer to them after a few glasses of wine too many. Since then, they’d done everything they could to try and make sure you two would get together, but to no avail. Either Spencer was pretty good at hiding his true feelings, or he just did not feel the same way.

You were hoping for option 1.

You arrived at the club a lot sooner than you would’ve liked, and entered beside Prentiss.

“Just pretend like it’s another ladies night.” She said. You nodded and headed straight for the bar while she went to find a hightop to stand at.

“Two margaritas, please.” You told the bartender, who flashed a white smile. You smiled back softly and looked at the sea of people crowding the dance floor, looking for any sort of activity that caught your eye. On the other side of the bar, something did catch your eye. Spencer. He was staring at you, and when he noticed you looking back, he reverted his attention to Morgan. You frowned, and thanked the bartender.

“Spence was staring at me.” You said as you placed your drinks on the table. Prentiss raised her eyebrows and nodded at Morgan, who nodded back. He and Spencer moved slightly away from the bar to pass out fliers and ask if anyone had seen the man from the sketch.

You mindlessly sipped your marg when a familiar scent hit your nose, and rose your eyes to meet Viper’s.

“Oh no.” You said, giving Prentiss a look.

“Hello again, fancy meeting you here. Decide to take me up on my offer to see me on my turf?” He asked.

“No.” You said.

“Well, maybe I can pique your friend’s interest here. How are you, Sweetheart?” Prentiss glared.

“Here to prey on some younger women?” She asked, cocking an eyebrow. Viper frowned, but recovered quickly.

“If that means you, then yes ma’am. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, trying to take her hand. She snapped her hand back to her body, and looked annoyed.

“If you aren’t here to help us, walk away.” She said, clenching her teeth. Viper shrugged and headed back in the direction of the bar, probably to find some other poor soul.

“He is not real.”

“I wish that were true.” You both took a long drag from your drinks, and found your eyes wandering towards the tall, curly haired genius. It was hard to find him at first, until you picked him out as the most uncomfortable man in the room. Morgan was beside him, also without any fliers, pointing to various women in the room. Spencer was nodding, as if taking mental notes about whatever Morgan was saying.

“Women like it when you can make them laugh. I know your sense of humor is a bit questionable, but if you can get her laughing, you’re definitely on your way there.” Spencer nodded, finding his gaze locked on you. You looked absolutely stunning in your red dress, barely coming above your knees. Your makeup accentuated your gorgeous eyes and your hair framed your face, and Spencer was breathless.

“Hey, stay with me, Pretty Boy. These tips can work on her too, I promise.” He nodded in your direction with a knowing smirk. Spencer’s cheeks flushed and he turned his attention to the bartender, who was talking to a couple of younger girls. He approached her and gave her a shy smile and a wave, pulling a spare flier from his pocket.

“Have you seen this guy walking around tonight?” He asked. The bartender shook her head and moved on to the man next to her, filling a drink order as she spoke.

“He looks familiar, but so do all the men I come across around here. He’s a common character.” She nodded to the paper in Spencer’s hand. She clearly wasn’t interested, too busy to be.

“Alright, then can I ask you something?” He said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. She placed the drink down in front of the man next to him, turning her attention back to Spencer.

“Shoot.” She looked down the bar and saw that the other bartender had taken a few guests at a time, so she had a free minute.

Now he was across the room, talking to the female bartender. He was performing a magic trick for her, causing your blood to boil. She was giggling and touching his arm, and you could see the blush on his cheeks from across the room.

You grabbed your drink and were ready to march over there, when Prentiss caught your arm.

“I think I know who the unsub is,” You looked at her, thoughts of Spencer long forgotten.

“I was thinking about what you were saying about Viper’s speech today- the thing about squashing the queen bee.” Sparks collided in your brain as your eyes widened, connecting the dots.

“I’ll grab Spencer and Morgan, tell Hotch and let’s get out of here.” You chugged the rest of the margarita and felt it immediately, marching over to Spencer and Morgan much more confidently than you should have.

“We know who the unsub is,” You said, primarily to Morgan.

“Who?” Spencer asked, abandoning the magic trick and the bartender. She walked away without a second glance. Your glare hardened as you turned on your heel, walking out of the bar.

Morgan and Reid looked at each other before following you outside, watching as you jumped in the car with Prentiss and Hotch. Rossi pulled up in a car beside them, and they hopped in too. Spencer and Morgan put their vests on in the car and Spencer allowed his mind to wander. You’d looked so angry back there. Did he say something? He was only angry on your behalf earlier, he didn’t think you would be upset with him for something so trivial. He frowned as you all pulled up outside of the house.

You hopped out after Prentiss, still in your dress, but changed into black high top converse. You looked somehow even better with the dress and the converse, your hair still wild and free. Spencer gulped as he unholstered his gun, following behind Morgan. You were the first to enter the house, clearing almost half of the downstairs by the time Morgan and Reid caught up. You started up the stairs when you’d heard a crash from behind a door.

“He’s in there!” You yelled, jumping down the stairs to kick down the basement door. “FBI you’re under arrest!” You screamed down the stairs, making your way down with Morgan hot on your heels.

“Put your weapon down.” Morgan said, aiming right for his head. The unsub simply laughed.

“Or what, you’ll shoot me, pretty girl? I don’t think so.” The unsub inched closer, and you trained your gun on his head.

“One more step and you die. I don’t really think you want that, though.” You remained firm, and the unsub lost his nerve. The knife clattered as it hit the ground, the victim crying as she wriggled in her restraints behind him.

Morgan cuffed him and forced him upstairs, and as Reid approached you, you followed behind them. Reid frowned once more and followed Prentiss and Rossi back upstairs. Luckily, the unsub had slipped up and led the trail right to his home and the latest victim, who you were able to save. No harm had come to her when you had gotten there, although the disemboweling seemed like it was about to begin. It was safe to say she was scarred psychologically.

You stood a bit apart, arms crossed over your chest. You didn’t even hear Spencer approach.

“I don’t think I got the chance to tell you this, neither at the club or at the police station. You look beautiful,” Spencer’s brown eyes glistened, boring into yours.

“Thanks.” You said.

“I can tell by your tone and body language that you’re upset with me, but I still haven’t quite worked out why.” He pressed, standing in front of you, hands in his pockets.

“You don’t think I can handle myself.” You said, raising your eyes to meet his. He scrunched his face in confusion.

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to; it was the way you were so angry at the police station earlier today. It didn’t seem like you thought I could do it or handle it.” You glared. Your expression softened when Spencer frowned.

“I didn’t mean to make you think that, I was just worried about you. I don’t know what I would do with myself if anything happened to you,” Spence said quietly, taking your hand in his. All your anger dissipated the moment he took your hand.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You were quiet for a minute, contemplating bringing up what you saw between Spencer and the bartender. You decided against it, and opted to give him a hug.

“I appreciate how much you care, Spence.” You said into his shoulder. He gratefully returned the hug, elated that you were no longer angry with him. You both pulled away and rejoined your team, heading for the jet. You both slept the entire plane ride, since you were able to change into a pair of leggings and a hoodie. Spencer’s hoodie.

Spencer walked you to your car as he did after most cases, just so he could be secure in knowing you were safe for another night. You had been debating the entire walk whether or not it was a good idea to bring up the bartender, and you eventually decided to ask. You had to know whether or not to move on.

“Spence,” You broke the silence as you approached your car. He turned his attention to you, his eyes tired. “Whatever happened with the bartender from the club?” You asked, absentmindedly picking at your nails. He picked up on it right away, and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“What do you mean?” He took your hand to stop your nail picking. You frowned. He rubbed his thumb across your knuckles to prompt you to continue.

“You were flirting with her and I wasn’t sure how it went.” You hadn’t thought past asking the question, therefore you didn’t have a very good reason why you were asking. Spencer looked unconvinced, but decided to bite anyway.

“Nothing happened, I didn’t get her number or anything. She wasn’t really my type.” He said, nodding. You nodded in return and smiled. He smiled, but furrowed his eyebrows further. “Why?” He smirked a little.

“I was just curious.”

“Uh huh. What’s the actual reason?”

“I WAS curious!”

“With ulterior motives, I'm sure.”

You shifted your weight between your feet, suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze. He raised his eyebrows and closed the already shrinking gap between you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. He pulled away and raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “Is that why?”. You reached up and pulled his face back down to yours in another soft, warm kiss.

“Yeah. I was a little bit jealous.” You said, slightly breathless. Spencer smiled softly, and intertwined your fingers.

“Why were you jealous?” You sighed, and smiled up at him.

“Because I like you, dummy.” His eyebrows shot up as if you told him the secret to curing cancer, and slowly processed a response.

“I-I like you too.” You pressed a final kiss to his warm lips and grinned into it, letting your forehead come to rest against yours.

“I should have known the way you were drooling over me in that dress.” You whispered. He looked away and swallowed, running a hand through his hair.

“Goodnight, Spence.” You rolled your eyes as you threw your go bag in your back seat. He was grinning like a doofus as he made his way to his car, receiving a text from you as soon as he got in.

“You’re such a little dork, Reid. You’re lucky you’re adorable.” The warm feeling washed over Spencer once again as he held his phone to his chest, smiling like an idiot his entire drive home.

[doginthecorner]

Parents Group || Closed with unheald ||

@unheald​

It had been a little less then a year since he took three year old Lydia and left that dusty trailer in Northern Georgia, peeling away in the middle of the night in a truck that only half worked, armed with nothing more then a few bucks and an address scribbled on a piece of paper. It had been a hard year, finding a shelter that would take men and children in wasn’t the easiest and a job had been a struggle too, but things had finally stabilized. He had a good job, renting out space at a garage and working on old motorbikes, it let him bring Lydia along - which was good because he couldn’t afford daycare or preschool. 

Unfortunately, a lack of interaction with other kids was starting to show. Lydia didn’t really interact with other kids, there were never any at the garage, and when he did take her to the park on her day off she stayed on the outskirts or played with him. One of the guys at the garage had recommended the community center for some ideas and when he walked in - with the intent of signing her up for dance class - the woman behind the desk had recommended a single parents group. Other parents with mostly young kids who were looking to connect with each other. It wasn’t really his thing, but Lydia needed kids, and if he was being honest he could probably use an adult conversation. 

So here they were, one hot Saturday afternoon, at a park in the middle of Atlanta, a cooler of drinks and snacks, and Lydia clinging to his leg like her life depended on it. Daryl sets their cooler on a picnic table marked off for the group and looks around. The group was about a dozen people and maybe twice as many kids, and Daryl noticed one thing immediately. They were all women. The community center hadn’t specified that this was for moms only but everyone else seemed to have gotten that message. Everyone but him. 

He glances down at his daughter, clutching his leg and looking around the park nervously. She needed this, she needed to be around other kids, and if that meant weekly moms club then dammit he would do it. He’d already done the hardest thing, and he’d done it for his daughter, so how bad could this possibly be. 

He kneels down, kisses Lydia’s hair, and reassures her that she’s going to have fun, then he nudges her towards the swing set and the other kids, and takes a step back - and crashes right into someone else. 

“Oh shit -” He catches himself, there were kids here. “Oh god I’m sorry! I uh - sorry we’re uh - sorry - um’  you uh - sorry.” He turns to the woman, a smaller slight woman with grey hair and possibly the prettiest set of blue eyes he’s ever seen. “Sorry I - I shoulda been lookin’ where I was goin’... an’ watchin’ m’ mouth.” 

[bangtanblurbs]

autumn leaves

song: autumn leaves by BTS

first experience: my first listen of autumn leaves was when HYYH pt. 2 released. thanksgiving had just ended -- it was 2015. i was well into my fourth year of undergraduate studies and going through both a rough patch in some respects but also in others -- hitting my stride. i remember my first listen through of HYYH pt. 2 was in my tiny dorm room, perched on my bed, avoiding the responsibility of studying for my final exams. autumn leaves followed skit in the tracklisting, and before skit came baepsae. talk about whiplash... my emotions were all over the place. immediately i was taken by the unique backbeat and the beautiful blend of devastating vocals with emotional raps. for me, autumn leaves was immediately a favorite of mine from the album -- following closely behind butterfly. i can confidently say today though that the song is one of my top ten bangtan songs of all time. something about the sound, the lyrics, and the emotions i can hear in their voices makes it one of the most powerful rap ballads in the bangtan repertoire. i can remember distinctly i came to this revelation around christmas of 2015 as i continued to loop HYYH pt. 2 and really feel each beat and sound within the individual tracks. 

at this time i was going through a period of great change in my life - and autumn leaves is the perfect song for change. it’s a song about losing a love but also about feeling as if you are losing a piece of yourself. there are many ways to interpret the song outside of just being another sad love song -- that is something that struck me. the lyrics speak to several facets of what happens when you give pieces of yourself to others, or when you reach crossroads in your life. finding this song at this particular moment in my life was like finding energy and light at a time of extreme darkness. it was healing. soothing. 

feelings: i have too many. as always. autumn leaves is special to me because when i listen to it i’m reminded of both the place i was in when the sound found me, but also more recent development in my life that continue to relate to the song. when i first heard autumn leaves, i’d recently ended a relationship i’d been far too invested in despite knowing it was going to be a dead end - for about three years. i felt like i was at a point in my life where i needed to figure out who the hell i was without the one i’d loved. it’s funny though - i was happy to be free of that relationship, to be free of him, the pressures he’d put upon me. what do dead leaves mean if not a new spring right around the corner? perhaps i was feeling lost, but in my mind it was only temporary -- the dead must fall away to bring forward the spring. 

that being said, i did mourn. not in the way you might think, but in the way that one mourns for lost time, lost identity. so often we, as women, give up our identities when we are in relationships. we allow others to define us in terms of those that we are in relationships with. i’ve realized this now that i’m older -- now that i’m more at peace with my bisexuality -- the notion that our patriarchal society defines us in terms of the men within our lives rather than our own talents and identities. this particular blog isn’t a space for my feelings on that topic though -- what i will say is that autumn leaves comforted me. perhaps i felt that i was at a point where my leaves were dying -- but does that mean the tree is dead? absolutely not. spring would come. my life would be reborn with a new focus taking over. 

this being said -- i’ve always been one of those people that holds onto the past. i always wanted to be solid, non-changing, someone with convictions that they carried along from life. i think this stems from experiencing the death of a close friend while i was very young. i cherished the memories associated with her to the point where i didn’t want to lose the person i was when i knew her. so that’s always complicated change for me -- made the moments where the last leaves fell from the autumn trees that much harder. sure, spring was on its way, but what did that mean? would i lose the memories and the moments when my leaves where at their brilliance the previous season? or would i still carry those with me? what if i needed to correct course and completely rewrite who i was over the past -- would that mean losing who i was when i was loved by those i valued in the past? of course not -- but for some reason the more emotional sides of me didn’t see things in such a fluid way. lost was more profound when i was younger because it was also accompanied with these fears over the loss of my identity. 

as i’ve gotten older i’ve realized that identity can have staying power whilst also being something that is fluid. transmuting something doesn’t mean destroying or overwriting it. it means building upon the base and modifying it so that things are more brilliant. the me that existed before and during my long-term relationship was the same me i’d carry into the future, but with many more improvements for my own wellbeing and ability to express myself. for me, autumn leaves is just that. whilst on the surface it may convey the emotions of a breakup -- it also simply conveys the feelings that we get when we progress from one period of life to another. we leave parts of ourselves behind in order to improve. does that mean we are fundamentally changed? absolutely not. it means that we have learned from the past -- that we have made progress. in the same way that trees grow and change over the years. perhaps they look differently (taller, greener in hue? more branches?) but they still provide us with lushness and shade. 

personal connection: perhaps i’ve jumped ahead... i’ve already delved into this in the feelings section. that being said... i hope that my story can bring comfort to someone else. or perhaps help you all think about the ways in which bangtan songs can promote healing in your own lives. 

since my initial experience with the song i’ve had many other moments where i’ve turned to autumn leaves for comfort. i didn’t just leave it in the past -- it’s come with me as i’ve gotten older and moved into new spaces in my life. particularly i quite literally moved and started a huge new chapter in my life. and on this, autumn leaves has been a song i frequently find myself searching for. there’s a line in the song that resonates with me -- it’s in the bridge: “i hold on to these faded memories / is this greed? / i try to look back on these lost seasons / i try to turn back” 

initially i’d been excited for my big move from atlanta to washington dc. i thought it’d be the moment where i finally showed people back home that i wasn’t a failure, that all the pride i’d held in myself and my intellectual accomplishments was valid... but partnered with that came the intensive homesickness, the feeling of being an alien. i wasn’t really welcome here in dc. i still don’t feel welcome, but that’s a story for another day - another song. the reality is though, i moved just as the seasons turned to fall. it felt like my old life was falling away, i was bidding adieu my old life -- the community that had raised me since i was eighteen -- it was all gone. i was scared, terrified my friends wouldn’t keep in touch, afraid i’d have to change who i was to experience success (mask my accent, dye my hair, use the language of the elites)... while it’s not a breakup in the way the autumn leaves reads, i felt like i was having to plead with myself not to let go of who i was just for the sake of being accepted here, or for the sake of making my day to day life easier. the beat of the song brought me comfort as i walked to school, where i received the fake smiles of professors and classmates... i pleaded with myself -- to never let the parts of me that had gotten me to where i was fall away... to always let those dead leaves be the fertilizer for who i was becoming, for the me that would deliver myself closer to my dreams. 

even now -- i listen to autumn leaves and think about what i’m going to carry forward as the seasons change and we begin to work our way into a new normal in this pandemic. what parts of me will remain? what relationships will i keep? what *should* fall away, and what will i beg to keep around rather it’s healthy or not? i’m not sure. but closing my eyes and listening to the steady sound of autumn leaves brings me nothing but comfort. 

song breakdown

musically: autumn leaves is one of the most iconic songs from the HYYH era. the beat is iconic, the mix of vocal line and rap line from verse to chorus is completely seamless, it’s almost like a ballad rap (so iconic of the HYYH era, with songs like love is not over). the asian style beats, and synth... the sounds of the song are flawless from start to finish. the underlying beat of the song is so smooth, it feels almost like constant crashing waves, the ebb and flow of the beat with a few accents to highlight the emotional pick-ups of the verses. 

now -- it was controversial at the time -- many claim that autumn leaves samples beats from deadroses by blackbear. rather that’s true or not, i don’t know. but i find that listening to both songs back to back, they’re speaking to a lot of similar themes but with their own distinct sound and messages. there’s something about the genius of the back beat mixed with the emotionally charged rapping that sets autumn leaves apart -- also the use of vocal line is completely distinct and adds to the emotion in the sound. 

vocally: i don’t have as much to say about the vocals in this song. they’re beautiful, with vocal providing honey belts throughout the choruses, which sound more like a repeated bridge. we also see the slower, more emotionally accented rap style from each of rapline. the integration of the vocals and rap are iconically HYYH and BTS. we see the raps pick up, and slow down providing for pre-choruses to build into the beautiful vocal ballad ranges. 

autumn leaves performed live -- it’s something incredible. something i’m thankful i was able to experience. bangtan obviously never disappoint, but you can really hear the emotions in their voice with autumn leaves. the perfect adlibs, the changing rap paces, the roughness of rapline’s lower registers... it delivers the sadder themes of the song perfectly. 

lyrically: time for a DEEP dive yet again. autumn leaves is about change, the loss of a love. of course meanings can be layered, it can be about change, but on the very surface its a song about loss of love because of changes over time. 

jin and jungkook start out the song beautifully. the lyrics lead in directly addressing the theme: “fall like those dry leaves / just falling without strength, my love.” indicating that the song is like a letter - it’s a message to a love. the speaker is comparing their situation to a dead leaf, useless... time has run out... time to leave and fade away... something new to come a replace. falling without strength, it seems as if the speaker is saying they’ve got no more fight in them anymore, they’ve given up and realized continuing the fight is futile. it’s time to just let everything fall away, fade into black. “your heart just goes far away / i can’t catch you / i can’t catch you anymore, anymore / i can’t hold onto you, yeah” as much as the speaker would like to hold onto the moment they are in, hold onto the person they’re with... they can’t anymore. the other person is too far away. time has led to them drifting further apart, their relationship falling away like a dead leaf.

yoongi starts off the first rap, leading in with heavy emotions and continuing the story, and theme of a tree moving into fall. “those fallen leaves that look so insecure / seem like they’re looking at us.” the leaves have already fallen off the tree now, they’re dead on the ground -- peering back up at the speaker and their partner. i interpret this as the leaves are looking back at something they used to be a part of, something familiar to them, just as leaves are a part of our lives, trees spectating our lives as we live. these leaves were a part of their lives -- and now they’re gone, a piece is dead now. “if i touch your hand, even if it’s all at once / it seems like it’ll all become crumbs” -- this line illustrates again the analogy that the leaves are like the speaker’s significant other, someone that might just crumble away like it was never even there before, like a dream, it’s that distant. “i only looked / with the autumn wind” the seasons have changed, it’s that time, it’s been that time, and now the wind is a force that finally pushing the leaf off the tree, finally pushing the relationship or moment of life to end. “your words and expressions that become cold at some point / i can see that our relationship is fading / an empty relationship like the autumn sky” this line directly refers to the relationship like the seasons -- there was a spring, beautiful and blooming, love blossomed. and in summer it burned. but as time went on, the clouds went away and the rain stopped (the autumn sky doesn’t bring the spring showers to nurture the relationship anymore) and the fire consumed everything, burning it out and leaving nothing. “an ambiguous difference compared to before / today of all days, the much quieter night” there’s nothing left -- there no more crackle of the fire burning, no more love. it’s empty, and gone. but nobody knew when it became this way or why, it just did. “one lead left clinging to a branch / it’s shattering, i see the end.” there’s something hanging on -- perhaps it’s just the memory -- perhaps it’s just the part of them that is afraid of change, that wishes they could stay in the warmth. but even so, it’s beginning to crumble, it’s beginning the process to fall away. “dead leaves becoming dried / the silence inside your aloof heart / please don’t leave me / please don’t leave me, crumbling dead leaves” from dead to dried, the emphasis is made that at some point things have moved past ending or that they have been done for quite some time and for them to now also be dried. that being said they’re dried, not gone, the memories exist the emotions have left their place. someday the marks of this relationship will impact and provide the basis for another with someone else -- for better or worse.

then, we reach the bridge-like chorus. it’s simple in lyrics despite emotion packed in tone. “i want the you that meets my eyes / i want the you that wants me again” this line indicates that the partner in this situation has walked away and had decided not to even acknowledge the speaker. to pretend they don’t exist, to remove them from their life -- perhaps to not even keep them as a memory. “please don’t leave me / please don’t fall / never never fall / don’t go far away” the speaker begins to beg, holding onto the last few minutes of whatever they believe is left of the relationship. the begging of “don’t fall” is at odds with the previous verse about a leaf already fallen -- perhaps the chorus is coming from a more desperate state, or a moment before the inevitable happened (the season changed, the leaves fell). 

the post chorus brings in jin and continues with the same lament - the same desperate begging. “baby you, girl i can’t let you go / baby you, girl i can’t give up on you” the speaker is determined to hold onto the moment before the final fall. they are unwilling to let it all go -- hanging on to the last moments but also to the memories it seems. “like those falling dry leaves / this love, like dry leaves / never never fall / it’s fading.” at this point the chorus has progressed to where the leaves are fading and falling -- morphing into something that is no longer a leaf anymore. what is the speaker holding onto any more? just as memories too fade -- is there anything even left?

the next verse brings in namjoon, it plays off of the themes and tones in yoongi’s verse. it begins with the leaves already having fallen. there’s no more grasping onto what was, it’s much more about moving on and the ways the memory frames our ability to go forward. “like all the dry leaves fall / like all the things i thought would last forever are leaving / you are my fifth season” the speaker couldn’t imagine this happening -- a fifth season, there is no such thing. the leaves have fallen, despite him never imagining that it would occur, he’s dumbstruck. there’s a level of naivety here -- speaking to the things they thought would last forever -- which harkens back to the entire HYYH era theme. youth. learning growth. namjoon is speaking to new steps in life happening after finding out that what was familiar and comfortable is gone, and will not return as he is stepping into a fifth season and uncharted territory. “even if i try to see you, i can’t look / you’re still green to me / even if the heart doesn’t move, it moves by itself / lingering feelings hung out piece by piece like laundry” namjoon is charging here that he’s placing more emphasis on the past and the memories he holds rather than wanting to confront the reality that the other person has changed. they’re still green - young, fresh, healthy... he can’t help but still be in love because he cannot confront the fact that the other person has in fact changed. and at the same time all of this change and loss has made him raw, he cannot conceal his feelings even when doing mundane day to day things... his emotions hung out for all to see. “only crimson memories fall / from above me / even if my branch doesn’t shake / they constantly fall” the colors have changed from green to crimson, he is forgetting the hard times -- the memories that are rotten. the other memories, even if he keeps trying to hang onto them, they’re also going - being tainted by the dark and unhappy reality of things begin done. “right, my love must fall / in order to rise” he realizes, he need to cut the baggage, cut his false belief that things are still good, so that he can start a new season and try again. embrace his youth once again and heal. “even when you’re near, my two eyes / are far away, it’s happening / i’m being thrown away like this / inside my memories, i become young again” he emphasizes again that he cannot confront the reality of loss of this other person but realizes that it’s completely out of his control - he is the one being thrown. but he knows he can retreat to whatever space he needs to in order to cope or heal, he can hide inside his youth in his mind. he can stay there until he heals and can emerge once again. 

the chorus the repeats again, but this time it moves into the beautifully delivered bridge by taehyung. he begins with his low and smooth range “why can’t i give up on you yet / i hold on to these faded memories” which calls directly to namjoon’s verse. the seasons are changing, but he cannot let go of the past. things are fading but they remain his refuge. “is this greed? / i try to look back on these lost seasons / i try to turn back” he begins to realize that there’s an element to these emotions that might be toxic, that he wants but he knows he cannot have what he wants, or that he wants too much. he wishes he could retreat back to the summer, or the spring. turn back time and hide in those brighter moments. 

the final verse is beautifully delivered with hoseok’s unique style. he offers an unexpected conclusion to the hopelessness of yoongi’s verse and the denial and dismissal in namjoon’s. “burn them brightly, woosh / it was all beautiful, right, our path / but they’ve all faded” hoseok remembers fondly the memories, reflects positively on the way that things had been going... but he recognizes that that path exists no more -- those leaves are dead and gone. he uses the word “burn” which is often what happens with dead leaves, they’re burning brightly those memories -- like they’re seared into his mind and heart. they’ll never leave his essence. “dry leaves come down like tears / the wind blows and everything grows apart all day” this line beautifully captures the mourning process and the confusion that follows -- the learning to unlearn and untangle your life from another person’s. to move away from something that was so permanent in your life and mind. “the rain is falling and you’re shattering / until the very last leaf, you you you” the weather references in this verse are fitting for the theme of seasons but they also take control away from the speaker - make reference to the fact that even as they speaker would like to, he cannot control his emotions just like he cannot control the situation and relationship coming to an end. the very last leaf -- he tried to hold on, he waited till the end, but finally the hope is gone. 

the chorus repeats with some additional lines bracketing it by taehyung. ultimately the song leaves us with a feeling of being unsettled as things came to an ended. time passed by and things changed -- and end was inevitable. memories are what is left to hold onto. seasons change, just like we grow up or change. things in our lives will run their course, especially relationships. we learn from them, and even if we don’t want them to -- they leave scars... no matter how much we plead. but the reality is, we can retreat to whatever place in our mind or memory that we need to in order to repair ourselves to try again.

performance: the main video that is available online for autumn leaves is a performance from HYYH on tour. i cannot pinpoint the location of the filming, but it is the same as it was when i saw BTS live in 2016 in macau for HYYH the epilogue on tour. you can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrM53Y9hHV0&ab_channel=lestwins1524 

the performance is very much understated but beautiful. vocals and raps are delivered with more emotion than was captured in the recorded version. members do not perform any choreographed dances, but lights and graphics highlight each member as they come into focus to deliver their portion of the song. it’s beautiful and it’s just what was needed to portray the emotion and depth of the themes in autumn leaves. 

in my own personal experience, seeing this song performed live was incredibly profound. the entire arena was silent. all eyes on bangtan and listening for each of the incredibly raw verses to be peformed. the crisp emotion laden in the vocal line choruses. the song is beautiful. it’s somber and mature. it exemplifies the drama of the HYYH era -- with lyrical and performance genius that is unparalleled. i’ve uploaded to this post my horrible video but i hope you enjoy ~~

tl;dr: autumn leaves might seem like another breakup song, but there’s more to it. it beautifully emphasizes the power of memory, time passage, and the desire to hold onto past versions of themselves. which for many listeners is far more profound than just a breakup -- there’s so many times when we need to leave behind moments in our lives, friends, family members... and while we want to hold onto something that is familiar, we can’t. they’re leaving, we are moving on... seasons come and go no matter how much we wish they’d just stay constant. dead leaves fall away, even when we’d wish the summer and spring would stay, they can’t. life is cyclical in nature. which harkens us back to the themes in spring day as well. the sun will always come out, the seasons will change... but we have to confront the fact that sometimes we will experience pain, loss, and change. 

[lunagb]

A Plague of Sleet and Rot (ASoIaF x The Walking Dead fanfic)

BOOK 2 - A Road of Snow and Grime

CHAPTER 1: The Long Road

Masterlist

Summary: A month has passed since Jon Snow awakened on a highway outside of Atlanta and joined Rick Grimes and his fellow survivors. His memories of his death have returned and our alien world is beginning to make a bit of sense. Ever since the loss of the CDC, surviving in the apocalypse has been a daily struggle. The group is on thin ice. Supplies are dwindling. Hope is fading. The dead are walking. And their only chance for life may be a run-down farm, an old man and his daughters.

Relationships: Daryl Dixon x Carol, Rick Grimes x Lori Grimes, Carl Grimes & Sophia, and basically a friendship tag with Jon Snow & Everyone else except Shane.

Chapter Summary: Jon and the group journey down a highway in search of shelter and supplies. Along the way they encounter death, decay and walking corpses while all the while, an ever-increasing horde chomps at their heels.

Time Frame: Farm Arc - TV Variant Adjacent

Featured Characters: Jon Snow, Ghost, Mormont's Raven, Rick Grimes, Carl Grimes, Lori Grimes, Daryl Dixon, Carol, Sophia, Dale, Glenn Rhee, Andrea, T-Dog, Edwin Jenner, Shane Walsh

Warnings: gore, vivid descriptions of dead bodies, child mutilation

[Art above is a piece by Art.of.Azrael. You can support them here: https://linktr.ee/Art.of.Azrael ]

Any notes are appreciated!

“Corn! Corn! Corn!” The pest, Mormont’s raven, complained from its perch atop the RV’s overhead cabinets.

“No! There’s no corn!” Jon shouted.

The damnable raven bobbed up and down, eyed Jon with its scarred eye and muttered nonsense words.

Jon sighed and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “Sorry. Where were we?”

“Trust,” Jenner said. The doctor sat across from Jon in the cramped booth of the RV, sullen and sweaty under the glare of Georgia’s summer sun. The past three weeks had done nothing to help the man’s already sour disposition. Lines marked a once smooth face. Grime darkened once cream-blonde hair. A dirty, matted beard hugged his face from mouth to neck. He regarded Jon with accusing, sunken, weathered eyes.

“Yes, trust.” Jon paused to put together the proper words in his mind. “It’s not that we don’t trust them. It’s just that the timing isn’t right. We’re too vulnerable. When we’re in a better position, that’s when we tell them.”

“Keeping the truth from them only makes them more vulnerable. They need to know now.”

“I agree.” Jon made sure to soften his words. “They do need to know, eventually. But right now, such a truth will only serve to dash their hopes. And hope is all they have. Without it, all of this falls apart.”

“No. The truth will make them stronger,” Jenner said.

“How can you of all people believe such a thing? Look what happened to your fellow doctors when they were confronted with the truth.”

Jenner shook his head. “These people are different.”

“Diff-rent!” The pest cawed from its cabinet perch.

“Men have their limits, Jenner. Even the strongest of them.”

“Not just men, remember? We don’t refer to collectives as men in this world, we say people. Keep it gender neutral.”

Jon’s cheeks burned. “Oh, yes, right. I forgot. Sorry.” Jon cursed himself without words. Jenner’s lessons had helped him a great deal in understanding this strange world. But there was a lot to learn and not enough room in Jon’s head to remember it all.

Jenner smiled a gentle smile. “Try again.”

“People have their limits.”

“Good. And yes, they do but I feel like you’re underestimating theirs’, Jon. You and Rick.”

Before Jon could give his rebuttal, the RV’s door flew open. Glenn poked his head through the doorway, struggling for a breath, drenched in sweat. Travel on the highway had sunken his cheeks and granted him a peppering of black stubble. “Guys, Daryl’s back.” The words tumbled out of him then as quick as lightning, he hurried away.

Jon rose from the padded seat of the booth. “Jamie Lannister killed the last dragon king.”

“Huh? Excuse me?”

“Our arrangement. A lesson of your world for a lesson of mine. Jamie Lannister or Kingslayer was a member of King Aerys II Targaryen’s Kingsguard and son of Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West. He slew the man he was sworn to protect with a gilded sword when all was lost for the King’s cause at the climax of Robert’s Rebellion.”

Jenner whipped out a notepad and a stub of a pencil and began scribbling down the words. Curiosity blazed in his eyes. “And what year was that?”

Jon had to think back to Maester Lunwin’s lessons. “283 AC.”

As Jenner scribbled down the date, the pencil used up the last of its lead. “Damn. That was our last one.”

“Have Glenn add pencils to the scavenging list.” Jon turned for the door. “As for our discussion. We will continue it later.”

“La-ter!” The raven swooped onto Jon’s shoulder.

Jenner rose too. “We will.”

Jon exited the RV and the midday sun greeted him; a blinding glare reflected off the highway’s black asphalt. He squinted through the glare and grit his teeth through the heat. Georgia seemed to be getting hotter each day. The summer of this land was relentless. It baked everything, all the time. Even at night while the sun slept, a muggy heat persisted. And still, Jon wore his cloak and mail. A folly, he knew. But they afforded him a strange sense of safety and in times such as these, safety was as luxurious as silk.

Carl and Sophia nearly tripped him as they raced past the RV towards the camp’s exterior, a palisade of broken cars. Oblivious to Jon or anything, they ran off giggling amongst themselves; a rare treat. Laughter had become a rare sight among the children since the CDC. Carl had taken to brooding and complaining. The foolish lad insisted he went on every scavenging trip, no matter how many times he was forbade. Even going as far as wearing his father’s hat with the golden star as if it made him appear more capable. When he was forbade, as he always was, he would spend his time wallowing and raging as far away from everyone as he was allowed. During his sulks, he only ever permitted Sophia for company. Sophia wasn’t much better. The girl refused to speak to anyone that wasn’t Carol or Carl. And insisted on carrying a stuffed pink bear that Daryl had found in a sewer drain everywhere she went. When the girl did talk, it was hardly ever more than a whisper. For the life of him, Jon couldn’t recall the last time he’d actually seen the girl laugh let alone smile, even when with Carl. Oftentimes, when the group made camp along the highway, they would sneak off into the woods. No matter how many times they were scolded, they continued to do it, putting their lives at risk.

Jon took note of everyone and what they were doing. Watching was important. It let Jon know how stable their little community was. Instability would be the death of them and addressing it as soon as it showed its ugly head would keep them alive.

Jenner had taught Jon how the titles of Westeros had no meaning in this world. But regardless, Jon found it useful to think of everyone as having a title.

Across from the RV, the group’s stewards, Lori, Carol and T-Dog worked around a pitiful, little fire. Several crates of supplies surrounded them. Carol, their seamstress, sewed patches onto damaged clothes. She had a heaping pile of work; most clothes were damaged nowadays. T-Dog, their cook, picked through their meagre food rations to organise meals. He had half a crate to work with and not a very large one either. They chatted with smiles and laughter despite the circumstances. Lori, their First Steward, lost herself in her counts. She went over everything with a piece of paper in hand. Counting all their supplies and comparing them to the tally Glenn had left her.

When Lori noticed him watching, she flagged him down with a wave. “Jon! I can’t find any pencils, have you seen any? I need one for the count.”

“We’re out it seems,” Jon said.

“Out!” Echoed the raven.

Lori sighed and kneaded the bridge of her nose. Jon studied her face. Dark bags loitered under her eyes. Travel had tangled her hair into brown, greasy, dangling ropes. Weathered lines marked her face. By all accounts, quite normal. Out on the road, they’d lost the privilege of a consistent wash. Fussing over one’s appearance had become a habit soon forgotten. Mirrors were a scourge best avoided. Jon’s own hair had become a tangled mess and his beard had returned as an itchy shag.

“That’s my bad,” Jenner said. “I used up the last stump.”

“What for?” Lori snapped.

“I have my own tallies to keep, you know,” Jenner lied. “You know, the medicine? The thing that keeps you all healthy?” A half lie.

If it were any other lie, Jon would have corrected it. But the lie was for his sake, he knew. Even after everything, the group still believed Jon to be somewhat mad. It wouldn’t serve to have them believe the only doctor had gone mad with him.

“You should have asked,” Lori scolded.

“Pencils will be added to the scavenging list.” Jon moved between Lori and Jenner. “For now, try making charcoal from the fire.”

Lori wrinkled her nose. “How?”

“I’ll show you once we’re done convening with Daryl,” Jon said.

Carol lifted her head from her work with a gleam in her weathered eyes. Her once short hair had grown into the awkward phase between short and long. Her already thin frame had thinned her to near mere skin and bones. “Daryl’s back?” Carol ran her hands over her stained blouse, flattening the many wrinkles.

“He is,” Jon said. “Feel free to join us.”

“Jon!” T-Dog called out. “Let ‘em know lunch’ll be ready soon.” T-Dog had gained the hearty facial hair of a man. A great curly black beard strapped his jaw, neck and upper lip. It stood in great contrast to his hairless head. The muscles that had once made him as stocky as a bull had shrunk, leaving him lean yet still broad of shoulder.

“I’ll let them know,” Jon said as Carol joined his side.

Dale, who had been working at the engine of the RV, called out. “Let me give you a hand setting the table, T-Dog!” He put down his spanner, wiped the grease from his hands on a rag and hurried over to the fire. His gut, once round and plentiful had all but receded. He'd almost look young if it weren’t for the bushy, wild silver beard and thick silver eyebrows to match. Together, Dale and T-Dog carried over a collection of food cans, a pot of rice and an assortment of potato chips to a long plastic table that Glenn had discovered in the basement of a church.

If Dale hadn’t joined them on that scavenging trip, they’d have never looked at the table twice. But Dale had insisted they bring it back with them so the group could share their meals together. Strapping the damn thing to the back of the jeep had taken a combined effort of the whole scavenging party. And even with the effort of four strong men, Dale, and Andrea, it had been a tedious process. Everyone had thought them mad when they returned with it, themselves included. Although, Jon had to concede that the table had value after all. Bringing everyone together for meals, rather than eating alone, breathed an otherwise absent sense of normalcy into their bleak circumstance. It made them more than a group of survivors. It made them a community. Jon only wished the blasted table wasn’t so prone to collapsing on itself.

Jon followed Dale to the table. “Dale, how goes the RV’s engine?” For a lack of horses or ships, Jon thought of Dale as their Master of Engines.

Dale laughed. “Oh, the old girl’s hanging in there. The new parts we found last scavenge will keep her running just fine, don’t you worry.”

Jenner regarded Dale with a plain look. “And the others?”

“Well… the jeep’s on its last legs. I can keep her going for a little while longer but unless we find some fresh cylinders that fit her engine, she’ll break down sooner rather than later. The range rover’s good as ever. As for Daryl’s bike, I’ll need to look it over once he brings it here.”

“What about gas?”

“Enough for the next stretch of travel, even if the hoard has gotten closer than we thought, but we’ll need to siphon more once we make camp again.” The light faded from Dale’s face.

The mere mention of the hoard caused an unsettling silence to linger over the group. It had followed them from the city. First, as no more than twenty or so walkers but with each day that passed, it only grew larger. They’d done their best to shake it off their trail but no matter how far they drove or how many twists and turns they took along the highway routes when Daryl drove back to check on it, it was always still there, stalking them. Daryl’s last report had counted the hoard as numbering 200 in strength. Jon fretted to think what their numbers looked like now.

The damnable raven broke the silence with two screeching caws. “Hoard! Hoard!” Which earned the bird a unified look of contempt from all. Mormont’s raven hadn’t received the warmest of welcomes when it followed Jon back to their camp. Tensions had already been high and the raven’s incessant cawing had only made things worse. Daryl liked the raven least of all. He’d threatened to skin the bird more times than Jon could remember. Not that it ever fazed the creature. Every time it cackled a caw of, “Skin, skin, skin!”

Jon gave Dale’s shoulder a squeeze and spoke with the voice of Lord Snow, Lord Commander of The Night's Watch. For their sakes. “I doubt the hoard is any less than a week away. We’ll have plenty of time to scavenge again before it makes it anywhere near us.”

A smile reappeared on Dale’s lips. “That’s right. That’s what Rick tells us time and time again, ain’t it?”

“Y-Yeah. It is,” Carol said with a thin smile.

“As long as we keep ahead of it we ain’t got nothin’ to fear,” T-Dog said, grinning.

“That’s the truth,” Lori declared. “And once we find someplace proper to settle down we’ll hunker down and let it pass right over us, just like we do with the smaller herds. Then we’ll be free of the dead.”

Jenner said nothing but the look he gave Jon made his position clear. It wasn’t the time or place to resume their discussion, however, so Jon turned his attention to the only other person who said nothing. On top of the RV, Shane sat in a plastic chair with a rifle in his lap, overlooking the highway. Ever since the CDC, he’d nary said a word to anyone, except to volunteer for day watch. His once orderly hair had grown into an unkempt, curly mess. A once stocky face was now weathered by stern lines and sunken cheeks. At all times, his eyes remained fixed on the boundless highway. Beyond the limits of their modest camps.

“Shane, have you seen Ghost return?” Jon asked.

“Nope."

“Let me know when he returns, won’t you?”

“Yup.”

“Yup!” the raven echoed.

Any disdain the group held for the raven, went double for Shane. Although, it remained unspoken. Shane had hardly spoken a word to the group and the group hardly ever spoke a word to him. Jon figured it better than outright hostility. It had taken quite an effort, but Jon had managed to put Shane’s actions at the quarry camp aside. The past was dust after all, as Maester Aemon had often said. If their group were to survive in the present they needed as many capable hands as possible.

“Ghost!” The raven cawed, interrupting Jon’s thought. “Ghost!”

Ghost had been out hunting for a few days now, as long as Daryl had been gone. Jon had found it best to let Ghost hunt only when Daryl left. All Daryl did when he wasn’t scouting or scavenging was hunt. Jon had once made the mistake of letting Ghost hunt at the same time as Daryl. The direwolf had stolen every single one of Daryl’s kills, which Daryl made sure to let Jon know about, loudly. Game was scarce around the highway. More often than not, Ghost would return from hunts with his jaws coated in rot rather than the blood of game. Jenner had often assured Jon that Ghost couldn’t become infected at all, let alone from eating the dead. Yet, the sight of Ghost's jaws matted with rot always left Jon feeling uneasy. But there was naught he could do about it.

“T-Dog, how goes our food supplies?” Jon asked.

T-Dog dodged his eyes and answered with little more than a mutter. “We’ve got four days left, and that’s if we half the rations.”

Jon glanced at Carol and her twig arms. “We’ll keep the travel light. I’ll talk to Glenn about organising a scavenge as soon as we make camp again.”

“This will have to be our last lunch for while, I think,” Lori said, clutching her tally paper. “When Rick gets back, I’m going to recommend we step back to one meal a day.”

A silent wave of despair washed over the faces of the group, except Shane who didn’t seem like he’d even heard. Jon kept his own face sturdy. Hunger no longer frightened him as it once did when he was a green boy. All he could do was have faith that their group had the strength to persevere. Even when the hardest of times reared its misshapen head.

“I’ll pass on your message when I see him,” Jon assured Lori. The assurance softened her weathered gaze somewhat, but it did not rid it of its despair.

Together, Jon, Jenner and Carol left the huddle of vehicles and crude shelters of the interior of the camp for the palisade of abandoned cars that formed the exterior. Abandoned cars littered the highway wherever the group went. Most had been left in the middle of the road, almost absentmindedly. Others they found crashed into the ditches and barriers that shouldered the highway. The, at first, seemingly useless inconveniences had in time proven to be a vital resource. The cars often had supplies left abandoned inside them. They ranged from the mundane such as briefcases full of papers and pens, to vital items like medicine and food. But even more importantly, the abandoned cars had parts that could be repurposed to suit the group’s vehicles. Jenner had spent the better part of a week recently trying to teach Jon how cars worked. Despite the man's best efforts, Jon couldn’t comprehend the machinery. At least he didn’t believe them to be magic anymore, Jon supposed.

Rick, Glenn and Andrea worked together to roll a car out of the way to allow Daryl to reenter the camp on his motorcycle. A two-wheeled vehicle that one straddled like a horse and had an engine that roared louder than any car. Daryl had discovered it in a ditch a few days after the CDC. He had worked day and night with Dale over the course of their first week on the road to get it up and running. But that was before the hoard, back when they could afford to be idle like that.

Sullen and silent, Daryl dismounted his motorcycle and walked it through the opening in the palisade of cars. His hair, longer and greasier, hung over his eyes. The rugged features of his face were dark, like a storm, as they often were nowadays. Although, he did brighten up a bit somewhat as he noticed Carl and Sophia watching him. Carl marvelled at the motorcycle as he often did. While Sophia, who had been staring at him, dodged his eyes the moment his met hers. Daryl opened a satchel slung around his shoulder and pulled out two brightly coloured plastic packets with pictures of queer creatures that Jon couldn’t possibly imagine to be real.

“Here,” Daryl gave Carl and Sophia a packet each. “Found ‘em in a van.”

“Whoa! Cool! These are fifth gen. They only came out recently,” Carl exclaimed as he marvelled at the packet.

“What do you say, Carl?” Rick said with the sternness of a father. The beginnings of a salt and pepper beard were growing on his face to match his salt and pepper hair. Sunken cheeks paired with sunken eyes. And dark bags beneath said eyes paired with a dark bruise across his temple that he’d earned during a scavenge. A mountain of a walker had come bursting out of a room as Rick passed by. The door slammed him across the side of the head hard and threw him to the floor like a sack of flour. A daring throw of a knife from Andrea fell the walker, sparing Rick from a bite. A matter of seconds had made the difference between life and death. Jon could still picture it clear as day; the rotting teeth inches from Rick’s arm.

“Thank you, Daryl,” Carl said, staring at the packet.

“Sir,” Rick corrected.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sir!” The raven cried.

Carl giggled. “Sir!” He echoed back.

The raven flapped its wide, black wings. “Sir! Sir! Sir!”

“You too, Sophia,” Carol said. More of a suggestion than a command.

Sophia glanced at her mother, Daryl, then clutched her pink bear to her chest. “Thank you, sir…” She whispered. In the next heartbeat, she darted away and ran back towards camp with Carl in tow.

“Sir!” The raven cried.

Daryl scowled at Jon. “That little bastard’s still followin’ you around, huh?”

In another life, that word would have soured Jon's mood. He chose to unhear it. “He is a persistent creature.”

Carol greeted Daryl with a meek smile. “You didn’t run into any trouble did you?” She asked.

“Naw, it was fine.” Daryl and Carol had formed a strange friendship of recent, Jon had noticed. The pair seemed about as unlikely friends as Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen. But yet, friends they had become, of a sort.

“And the hoard?” Andrea interjected. “How many now?” Andrea was only four years Jon’s senior, but one would be hard-pressed to tell nowadays. Travel had made her the very image of Lady Stark, only with golden hair. Her face - hard, weathered and plastered with a permanent scowl - granted her the disposition of a warrior. As a woman, she may lack grace, but as a fighter and ranger, she outclassed nearly all of them. Jon could best her in blades, but little else.

The storm returned to Daryl’s face. “It’s doubled again.”

“Four hundred…” Andrea whispered, breathless.

“It doesn’t matter as long as we keep ahead of it, right Rick?” Carol asked.

Rick glanced at her and frowned. “How far out do you reckon it is, Daryl?”

Daryl clicked his tongue. “It’s slowed some. Maybe, a week and half, maybe two.”

“And it’s still following us?”

“Yup. It’s passed over the crossroads and headed our way.”

“That means we can’t go back, right?” Andrea asked. “We’re stuck on this branch of the highway until the next crossroads.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Glenn said quietly. He’d become something of a First Ranger. Always the one to organise scavengings and put together the teams. Dale had helped him study the maps but Glenn had surpassed his teacher as the authority on all things maps.

“We can work around that,” Rick said. “The dead walk. We drive. So long as we’ve got our wheels, there ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of.”

“Daryl,” Jenner interjected. “You should go tell the others what you saw. They’ll want to know.” Jenner shared a look with Rick and Glenn that the two dodged.

Daryl gave Jenner a queer look. “Uh, sure doc.” He rolled his motorcycle off into the camp. Carol followed after him.

“I’ll go too,” Andrea said. Once Daryl left earshot she added, “to make sure he doesn’t terrify anyone.”

“Right,” Glenn said, staring at Jenner.

“Good idea, Andrea. Make sure they stay calm,” Rick said, also keeping his eyes on Jenner.

Andrea nodded and took off after Daryl. As she headed off, Rick, Glenn, Jon and Jenner shared tense gazes. The tension only broke once Andrea left earshot.

“Rick-” Jenner began.

“No,” Rick snapped. “Dammit, how many times do I gotta tell you two no?”

“Come on, man. It’s almost been a month. They deserve to know,” Glenn said.

“We’ve discussed this,” Jon soothed. “The knowledge that we’re all infected will only dash their hopes.”

“I didn’t tell you so you could all keep it a secret,” Jenner snapped. “I told you because-”

“I heard you the first five times,” Rick said.

“You clearly didn’t because here we are. It’s just practical sense. We need all the information possible to survive in this world. Keeping something like this from them only serves to keep them ignorant.”

“And hopeful,” Jon said.

“No, it ain't practical,” Rick said. He sighed and softened his voice. “Right now, they believe that something separates them from the dead. That, us and them are opposing forces. If they knew that the virus lies dormant inside all of us and that only death separates us from them, they’ll break. The only thing keepin’ us united right now is the hope for a better future free of walkers. Once we’ve got some stability off of the highway, then and only then can we take that hope away from them.”

“And when will that be, Rick?” Glenn asked. “We’ve been out here for three weeks now. Last week was meant to be the last week, as was the week before. We’ve passed by a bunch of towns we could have settled down in but you said no to all of them. When is it gonna be good enough?”

“Those towns were overrun,” Rick said. “You saw that, as well as I did.”

“Every town’s gonna be overrun, man. You heard Jenner, the first wave hit everywhere at once. 35% of the population gone.” Glenn snapped his fingers. “Just like that. We aren’t gonna come across a town that wasn’t affected.”

Rick ran his hand through his greasy, salt-and-pepper hair. “Look… I know I promised you that the end of this was near. And I’m sorry I went back on that. But this time I reckon it’s close. We’re out in farmin’ country now. You know the map better than anyone, Glenn. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“We will be passing by some farms soon,” Glenn relented.

“And we’ll check ‘em out when we do. I’m confident we’ll find a place we can settle down in.”

“And how long will that take?” Jenner asked, scowling.

“Not long, I promise. No longer than another week at most.”

“Once we have a place to call our own, that’s when we tell them,” Jon said. “It’ll cushion the blow.”

Jenner shook his head. “You’re underestimating these people. They’re by far some of the strongest men and women I’ve ever met. Hell, even the kids have got more guts than some of the people I worked with.”

“That is where you misunderstand me.” Jon gripped Jenner’s shoulder firmly. “I don’t doubt their strength. Not even a little. But we all know how fear affects the mind. Most likely our group could handle the truth; some even better than you and I. But there is the distinct possibility that they don’t take it well and that risk, however small it may be, isn’t worth taking right now. Not while we’re so vulnerable.”

“Risk!” The raven cawed. “Risk!”

Jenner knocked Jon’s hand aside and his scowl flared.

Glenn stroked his chin. “That… makes sense. I hate to admit it, but it does. But you better commit this time, Rick. I swear.”

“I will. I promise, this time we’ll find a place,” Rick said.

Jenner looked aghast. “You can’t be serious, Glenn.”

“Sorry, doc,” Glenn said with the meekness of a boy.

“It ain’t a tie no more, Jenner. You’re outvoted. We wait,” Rick said.

“Let us put this constant bickering behind us, shall we? So that we may focus on more pressing issues.” Jon again tried to reach out for Jenner’s shoulder but Jenner knocked his hand away.

As wrathful a blizzard, Jenner marched back to camp but, after a few paces, suddenly turned around. “You know, the government hid all kinds of shit from you people before the world fell! Terrible, awful things! It was wrong then and it's wrong now!” Jenner snapped on his heels and marched back towards camp.

“Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!” The raven cawed.

“Should we stop him?” Glenn asked.

“No, he won’t tell,” Jon said.

“You sure?” Rick asked.

“I am.”

Suddenly, the underbrush beyond the highway rustled. Rick and Glenn drew knives from their belts. Jon drew Longclaw. Each of them had a holster with a gun on their belt but they’d run out of ammo weeks ago. The three of them, without a word, formed a small V-formation with Jon at the front and Rick and Glenn on his flanks. Jon’s breath caught in his chest as he waited for the emergence of a rotting, shambling corpse.

But it was only Ghost. He padded out of the woods, nonchalant as a wolf of his size ought to be. They all breathed a sigh of relief and put away their blades. Jon offered his hand to Ghost. Ghost accepted, pushing the top of his head into Jon’s palm.

“Good hunting, boy?” Jon asked. He found his answer in the fur of Ghost’s jaws. It was brown; matted by rot.

Jon stomached the unease with a sort of sullen grace and turned back to Rick. “There’s something else we must discuss.”

“Sure, hit me.”

“With regards to our food. We’re running dangerously low. T-Dog and Lori both agree that we need to cut rations if we are to go more than couple more days with food. Lori has even suggested we cut back to one meal a day.”

Rick blinked at Jon, unfazed. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“I also promised them we’d keep this travel short and so that we might scavenge soon.”

Rick nodded. “Glenn, how far out are the farms?”

“Not far, a day at most.”

Rick nodded again. “We’ll take a day to pack, and a day to travel. Glenn, put together a team for scavenging when we arrive at the farms, a big one. Jon, get some rest, it’s past time. I don’t want you dozin’ off during night watch.”

“As you command.” Jon caught himself at the last moment. He didn’t bow his head or utter the courtesy, remembering what Jenner had taught him. There were no Lords or Kings in America.

***

They left their camp at first light in a single file of four vehicles. Daryl rode out ahead on his motorcycle, alone. It had been Jon who suggested making Daryl their scout. “The road will undoubtedly be full of blockages. Abandoned cars, walker herds and who knows what else,” he had told them. Jon knew what else. He didn’t dare say it, even to Rick; the distinct possibility that other people may want what little they have. Men are cruel in the best of times, let alone times like these.

While Daryl scouted ahead, Shane’s jeep led the way carrying only Shane, Ghost and the plastic long table. Jon would have preferred Ghost to travel with him but the direwolf was far too massive to fit anywhere else. Ghost could run fast, faster than any horse but the unnatural pace of an engine outmatched even him. Jon could have rode with him, there was room enough but all men must sleep and he was oh so tired.

Per Rick's command, Jon lay in the back of the RV, on a bed with a mattress of stone and sheets as thin as paper. He gazed out the back window at the tail of their column of cars. T-Dog drove a car known as a range rover. It carried all their supplies; food, water, medicine, clothes, camping gear; all scavenged. The meagre size of the supplies put the range rover's spacious interior to waste. Andrea sat beside T-Dog with an ammoless rifle in her lap, watching the woods with suspicion.

Everyone else road with Jon in the RV, in the middle of the column, in silence. Travel was often accompanied by silence. It ought to make for easy sleeping and yet, Jon lay awake, staring at the woods through the back of the RV. Dark, deep and green, the woods were a leafy abyss that followed them everywhere. They absorbed all sound and sight; equal parts shield and cell. Walkers often came stumbling out of the woods. Jon found himself wondering how the poor souls ended up in the woods in the first place. Were they murdered like the corpse he’d found the raven feasting on? Mayhaps. Were they exploring or hunting when the first wave swept across the lands of Earth? Mayhaps. Mayhaps, they’d lost their lives valiantly, defending the weak and innocent.

The rising sun twinkled off the green abyss oh so beautifully.

A voice spoke. A hand gripped his shoulder. Jon awoke staring at the RV’s waxy, peeling ceiling but he could not remember falling asleep. “Jon.” The hand shook him. Rick loomed over him. “Get up.”

The weight of a mind bogged down by sleep weighed on Jon as he rose from the RV’s bed. “Have we arrived?”

“No.”

“No!” The raven shot over Rick’s shoulder with a flurry of fluttering black feathers and landed on Jon’s knee. A film of wet rot covered its beak. “No!”

“There’s a bunch of cars piled up on the road. We’re gonna clear ‘em out of the way. And there’s a graveyard.”

“Out this far?”

Rick nodded. “Go with Daryl and scout it out. I wanna know how many cars we need to clear and how long we’ll be stuck here. Take Ghost,” Rick said.

“As you command.”

When Jon left the RV any lingering grogginess sobered at once. The stench of death attacked him. It assaulted his nose and throat in a desperate charge, making him gag for the first time in weeks. A ring of cars sat in the middle of the highway, drenched in blood and rot. Rotting corpses piled up against the exterior of the ring. A mound towered, forming a rotting ramp up against the palisade of cars. Inside the ring, a crust of blood and rot coated all. Fresh bodies lay strewn about and half devoured. Scattered weapons sat out of reach of their rotting owners. A huddle of collapsed and bloodied tents as well as several spilled crates rested in the centre. It all festered beneath the scorching summer sun, high above in the cloudless sky. Hoards of fat, black flies swarmed the corpses with a sickening chorus of buzzing wings that rang in Jon’s ears.

The group went about their duties. Rick hurried to help T-Dog and Glenn roll the cars least enveloped by corpses and open a lane of the highway. Jenner, Andrea and Dale sorted through the interior of the massacred camp like a band of crows. They worked together to collect any food, water, medicine, weapons or ammo left behind. Shane sat alone in a plastic chair on top of the RV, watching over the rear with an ammoless scoped rifle. No one opened any of the cars. Not yet anyway. Walkers liked to linger inside locked cars and ever since one tried to bite Andrea all those weeks ago, scavenging cars was done in teams with blades in hand.

Everything scavenged was brought to Lori, Carol and the children by the RV. They sorted them into piles and packed them into crates. Carol sorted the valuables into piles. Lori scribbled everything down onto an inventory with a piece of charcoal. Sophia scrubbed away rot from valuables on the pile. Carl packed anything clean into crates. Judging by the scowl on Carl's face, the argument that always broke out had broken out. The one about the dangers of scavenging and Carl’s age. The lad didn’t know when to give up. Stubbornness was as much a part of children as leaves were a part of trees, Jon supposed.

Jon would have be helping move cars too but per Rick’s command, he went to join Daryl. He found Daryl beyond the palisade and corpses in a car graveyard. A stretch of scattered, abandoned cars that ran the length of the highway. An eerie sight that Jon thought he’d seen the last of. Outside of Atlanta, car graveyards had been an almost daily obstacle. The long and arduous process of clearing them had already added extra days to their journey. Days they could scarcely afford to lose. But it had been close to a week and a half since they’d come across one, let alone one this massive. It stretched on and on, down a straight and around a distant bend.

Jon found Ghost by Daryl’s feet and greeted him with a pat. Ghost wagged his tail and pressed his head into the pat. “I’m to join you,” Jon said to Daryl.

“Yup. Let’s go.” Daryl started off without sharing as much of a fleeting glance Jon’s way.

“Yup!” The raven took flight and flew ahead.

Jon, Ghost and Daryl made their way through the graveyard side by side. They passed by flipped cars, crumpled cars and tangles of twisted steel. Scorched chassis, like the blackened skeletons of great beasts, shivered Jon's spine. Shards of glass covered the road. Jon worried for Ghost’s paws. But the direwolf avoided the hazards with swift and silent, surefooted strides. Rot smeared everything and its stench lingered everywhere, but there wasn’t a walker in sight. Even so, Jon kept his hand on Longclaw’s hilt and Daryl held his crossbow level with his eye, cocked and ready to fire. After a long, silent walk, they reached the bend in the highway. A semitrailer truck had flipped, blocking off seven lanes. It was there, Jon decided to break their silence.

“What do you think this was?”

“Don’t know,” Daryl more grunted than spoke.

“More victims of the first wave, perhaps? Or maybe just a panic?”

Daryl answered with silence.

“And that camp. It looked like some kind of final stand.”

Daryl scanned the scattered cars with his crossbow’s sight.

“Was it recent, do you think? The walker attack?”

Ghost stopped. His fur stood on ends and he barred his fangs. At once, Jon and Daryl stopped.

After a pause, Daryl whispered. “Something’s out there.”

Jon strained his ears and only heard more silence. He held his breath and strained his ears. A faint gurgling wafted through the air. Jon gestured to the turned-over semitrailer truck with his head. Daryl nodded and they climbed on top. Ghost waited on the ground, baring his fangs in the direction of the faint sound. On the truck’s side, they found the raven perched on a wing mirror. With its good eye, it stared out around the bend, at a distant hoard of walkers. Dense and packed tight, the hoard shuffled in their direction. With all the speed rotted legs allowed.

Daryl squinted at the hoard and teetered a finger back and forth in a silent count. “Thirty, give or take.”

“Manageable, then.”

Daryl nodded. “Yup.”

“How far out?”

Daryl glanced over his shoulder, then back at the hoard. “An hour.”

“Not enough time to clear all this.”

“Yup.” Daryl leapt off of the truck and started back.

Jon held out his arm to the raven. “Time to go.” He patted his forearm

With a flutter, the raven perched, muttering nonsense under its breath all the while. It often liked to mutter when the dead are nearby, almost like a sixth sense, Jon had noticed. Although, it also muttered when it was hungry, so Jon had learned to ignore the pest. Yet, he found himself listening anyway.

“Arm…” The raven muttered. “Arm…” It scratched its scarred eye with its wing.

***

Smoke billowed high into the air, snapping and twisting like a dancing black ribbon. The others had already begun to toss bodies into the great fire by the time Jon, Daryl, Ghost and the raven returned. Rick and Glenn took what once had been a young girl – no older than Arya – by its hands and feet from the great mound of corpses. As they lifted it, its arm snapped with a soft crunch and fell apart at the elbow with a gush of black sludge. What had once been blood splattered on Rick’s shoes and stained his stained jeans. Staining them a further shade of grime-brown. Rick neither flinched nor wretched. Instead, he stared at the corpse blankly and helped Glenn toss it into the fire. The flames ravaged the corpse like a pack of hungry feral dogs. Its dress, dirtied and rotting, burst into flames and disintegrated into flakes of ash that floated like falling feathers. Embers twinkled in the ashes, like red and orange stars. As the body shrunk and burned, the flames swelled and whipped. Everyone watched. Some from afar. Some up close. Soon, Rick and Glenn’s turn would end and another pair would take over until the job was done, or until it was time to leave.

Rick turned from the flames and met Daryl’s eyes with that same blank look. “How far?”

“A mile or so,” Daryl said.

Rick scorned the graveyard with a scowl.

“There’s another hoard,” Jon announced.

All eyes snapped to him at once. Except Shane’s. His remained glued to the road at the rear.

“Hoard!” The raven announced.

“Coming this way?” Andrea asked. She remained seated, as did everyone.

“Yes. Daryl counted thirty or so.”

Daryl nodded.

“How far out?” Rick asked.

“Hour,” Daryl said.

Rick nodded. “We hunker down then. Y’all know what to do. Be quick about it.”

Everyone stood as one and went about their duties without complaint. Glenn and Andrea beat at the fire and smothered it with dirt. Carol and T-Dog packed away the crates of supplies into the range rover. Lori supervised, taking count of all. Dale stepped inside the RV to collect t-shirts and blankets for the windows. Jenner followed him for a bucket. Shane turned his chair around atop the RV and watched the graveyard. Carl and Sophia should have helped Dale but instead, Carl ran up to his father, determined as a mule.

“Dad! Me and Sophia want to join Jon in the rear this time.”

“Carl…” Rick sighed.

“Please! We’ll keep real quiet and real low!” Carl promised, shouting. A boyish confidence gleamed in his eyes. “It ain’t fair Jon always has to stay there on his own! Right, Sophia?” Carl looked to Sophia. Sophia looked at the ground.

“Have you asked Carol?”

“Yeah! She said to ask you!” Carl said.

“And that’s the truth, Sophia?”

Sophia recoiled as Rick’s eyes went to her but she nodded all the same.

Rick sighed. “The RV’s safer. You-”

“No it ain’t,” Carl interrupted. “As long as there ain’t any gaps in the shirts or blankets, every car’s as safe as each other.”

“He’s right,” Daryl said.

Rick raised an eyebrow. Daryl avoided his eyes. “Well… he is…” Daryl muttered and glanced at Sophia.

Carl beamed at Daryl like he owed him his life. Sophia glanced at Daryl. A wisp of a smile flashed across Daryl’s lips. Rick kneaded the bridge of his nose.

“Fine. But I’ll be lookin’ at your windows when you finish and if I see even a single gap, you’re back in the RV,” Rick said.

“Deal!” Carl ran off with Sophia in tow.

Rick watched him with a face of fret and worry.

As light as a feather, Jon touched his shoulder. “If there were any real danger, we’d hide in the woods when we encounter herds, or confront them with blades. I’ve been safe in the range rover every time. Every time.”

“Safe! Safe!” The raven cackled. Jon swatted at him and the pest fluttered from his shoulder, still screeching. “Safe! Safe!”

Rick shook his head. “When we encourage him like that, it only makes him bolder.” He looked at Daryl. Daryl looked away.

“What are you guys doing?” Jenner interrupted. He approached from the RV, carrying a bucket. “Why haven’t you got the corpses?”

“Right. Sorry.” Rick looked at Jon and Daryl then gestured to the mound of corpses with a flick of his head. “Come on.”

“Yup.” Daryl approached the pile.

He grabbed a corpse by its ankles and dragged it from the mound. Jon and Rick did the same. They lay their corpses out beside each other in a row. Rick and Daryl drew their knives. Jon drew his dagger. They knelt. Ghost sat beside Jon on his haunches, silent but comforting. Mutilating the dead never got any easier. But it was as vital as stealing from their corpses. As one, they plunged their blades into the dead and opened their bellies into long slits. Black blood wept from the slits like tar seeping from a bog. Jenner knelt and placed the large bucket at the heads of the dead then joined Jon’s side. The four of them spent the next several minutes scooping rotting guts into the bucket in silence. Once the bucket had been filled, they left the dead where they were and started lathering the cars in rot. The bucket held enough to cover the jeep and half the RV before it required refilling from new corpses. By the time it came to lather the range rover, nary a word had been spoken. No one spewed. They were long past that.

Carl broke their silence. “Look, no gaps!” He declared, gesturing to the range rover.

Rick inspected every inch the range rover’s windows. Inside, shirts and blankets had been secured to the windows with a strange tool known as duct tape. It held the shirts and blankets to the inside of the windows, windscreen and back window. They covered them in their entirety and forbade an outside gaze to peer inside the vehicle. While Rick inspected, Dale showed Jon an empty cardboard roll.

“That’s the last of it.” Fear thinned Dale’s voice.

“We’ll find more. Take it to Lori. Let her know,” Jon said.

Dale gave a small nod and headed off for the RV. Jon looked over his shoulder at the distant graveyard. Where the herd was; hidden from view. He prayed they reached these farms before they encountered another.

Rick returned to Carl with the unreadable face of a father.

“Good, huh?” Carl asked.

“Yes,” Rick muttered. “Great job, son.”

Carl grinned at his father then Sophia. She gave him a tiny, thin smile.

“Carl.” Rick crouched before his son and grabbed both his shoulders. “You listen to everything Jon says. You don’t argue. You don’t talk back. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“You too, Sophia.”

Sophia’s smile vanished and her eyes snapped to her shoes. She hugged her bear and nodded. Rick squeezed Carl’s shoulders, looked him over and stood. A wary scowl darkened his dirty, weathered face.

“I’ll keep them safe. I swear it. On my honour,” Jon said.

“Safe!” The raven cackled as it circled above.

“Are you done?” Jenner asked, standing beside the bucket of rot. “We don’t have all day.”

Rick nodded. “Yes. Yes, okay.”

“Yes!” Carl cheered. He flung his arms around Rick’s waist. “Thanks, dad!”

A smile fended of Rick’s darkness and he returned his son’s hug. The hug lingered until Carl wriggled out of it, blushing as pink as a morning sky.

The children stood back with Ghost as Jon and the others lathered the range rover with rot. From rim to roof, they turned the once blue vehicle brown and black. They took extra care when lathering around the engine bonnet. Rot had a nasty habit of clogging engines.

Once the range rover was sufficiently lathered, Rick, Daryl and Jenner left with Ghost in tow. The direwolf was far too large for the range rover. When it came time to let herds pass, Ghost stayed in the jeep with Shane. Shane had no fondness for the direwolf but there was no arguing with Ghost. Trying to move him once he had gotten nice and comfortable was a sure way to lose a hand. Or an arm.

“Carl, Sophia. Come here,” Jon said once the others had left.

Carl was before him at once while Sophia took her time approaching. Jon put on the face of Lord Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and directed it at Carl for the most part.

“This is not a game. Understand? You will keep your heads down and your mouths shut. Silent and still.”

Carl gave him the look of a boy trying his very hardest to be a man. “We will. We’re not scared.”

“You should be. The dead are scary.”

“Not to us. We’re strong.” Carl’s voice dropped low, as low as a boy’s voice could go.

“Strong people fear death, lad. Only boys laugh in its face.”

Carl scowled.

“If you want to be brave. You’ll sit there quaking in your crusty boots until I tell you its safe. Am I understood?”

Carl glanced at the RV. “Yes…”

“You too, Sophia.”

Sophia glared at him with sharp eyes. Jon could only blink at her, as the look to him aback. She looked as fierce as some starved dog at its wits end. The look only lasted a moment then in the next, as her eyes locked with his, she was a meek little girl again, clutching her pink bear.

“Yes,” Sophia whispered.

Jon cleared his throat. “Good… Now, get inside and practice being quiet.”

Carl wrinkled his nose but did as he was bid. He tugged on the car door’s handle and hopped inside. Sophia followed him and the two of them sat in the row of seats behind the driver’s seat. The range rover had an unusual layout compared to most vehicles, Jon had noted. It housed two rows of seats rather than one, and that second row could collapse to increase the size of the trunk. Truly, the ingenuity of this land never ceased to amaze him. Even if it only lived on as relics of a better time.

The raven landed on the roof of the range rover. It pecked at a chunk of rotten flesh and swallowed it whole. “Good,” it muttered. “Good.”

***

The stench of rot clawed at Jon’s nose and loitered in the back of his throat as he sat inside the range rover. A month ago he would have gagged merely laying eyes upon a sight such as a car lathered in rotting guts. And if he had been forced to sit inside he would have been counting down the seconds until he could leave. But those days had passed. The seconds slipped away from him as he sat in the darkness and musty air, waiting for Shane’s call. The shirts and blankets which covered the windows forbade light’s entrance. Shadows loomed over them, like great sentries on a tapestry of filthy cloth. Silence garbed their troupe of rot-covered cars; their shield and their torturer. Without sight nor sound, time seemed little more than a fable. A sensation Jon had grown accustomed to but never comfortable with. It felt queer to not experience it in solitude.

Solitude had been his decision when Glenn first suggested the idea of hiding from herds in such a manner. The RV’s windows – high above the ground – gave the most protection. All one had to do to stay out of sight was lay on its carpeted floor. It only made sense to ensure as many people as possible could wait out herds in its protection. But they couldn’t all fit. Jon had volunteered for the range rover at once. He had armour to keep him safe if anything were to go awry. Shane had volunteered for the jeep. Why exactly, Jon couldn’t say.

But now, Jon sat between two children whose number of name days combined was less than his own. They were still at the very least. Carl was a statue, back straight, head high. His hand rested on his knife's hilt. Sophia trembled, back hunched, knees tucked to her chest. Her arms crossed over her bear, hugging it close. Jon pitied the girl. The shadow of a father hangs heavy on the strongest of shoulders, let alone a child's. Given time, it will make her strong. The raven sat in Jon’s lap, as it always did. Jon stroked its long, black feathers. Nothing else kept the pest from muttering when the dead marched on by.

“Walkers!” Shane’s voice split the silence, carrying high into the air like rolling thunder.

“Down, now,” Jon whispered.

He slid off his seat and sat on the soft, carpeted floor of the range rover. Stiff as a plank of wood, Carl did the same. Sophia scrambled for the floor. On the floor, beneath the windows, their silhouettes were consumed by the dark.

“Feel your fear,” Jon whispered. “But keep it within. Silent and still.”

Silence answered him; the correct response. And silence followed. For a time. Until it began. The faint gurgling and hissing of the dead wafted through over the troupe. The gurgling and hissing grew louder and clearer until the first thump beat like a great, metal drum. Thump, thump, thump. The uneven, soft rhythm of mindless corpses walking themselves right into the cars. But then, a new, unfamiliar sound cut through it all. Tap. Tap Tap. Three beats, sharp and even. Distant and faint. But as the gurgles and hisses drew nearer and the hoard thumped against the RV, it happened again. Tap. Tap. Tap. The same even, sharp three beats, again. Louder and clearer. Jon touched Longclaw’s pommel, stupidly bringing his hand away from the raven.

“Safe,” it muttered.

Jon cursed himself without words and stroked the pest’s feathers, praying the dead hadn’t heard. The first thump came, right against the range rover’s hood. A walker hissed a gurgled complaint. Shadows danced upon the shirts and blankets; the uneven teetering of the deads’ march. Jon did not have to see, to feel Sophia’s trembling. He knew better than to offer a touch as comfort. A touch come Jon’s way though. Carl gripped his arm with strength beyond a boy of eight namedays. His grip trembled as it tightened.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Three sharp knocks rapped against the windows. A shadow slunk along the tapestry of shirts and blankets, slower than the others. It neither teetered nor wobbled, rather it moved as if it slid across ice. Tap. Tap. Tap. The knocks came harder this time; more incessant. It rocked the range rover; gentle like a cradle. The sickening sound of peeling tape dropped a pit in Jon’s stomach. A shirt dropped a mere inch. A slither of light slipped inside the range rover. At the gap, a peering, rotting eye appeared at the window. Tap. Tap. Tap. In a flash, Carl whipped out his knife. Hot wrath burned across his face beneath the slither of light as he kept his gaze locked with the eye. Sophia whimpered and backed up as far as she could with a soft thump against the opposite side door. Every shadow froze as one. The gurgling and hissing gave way to a brief silence.

The eye disappeared and a piercing howl of a cry erupted from outside. The hoard raged and every shadow descend on them. Sophia wailed. The dead wailed back. The car door flew open. Jon grabbed Carl and yanked him back. Rotting hands of blackened fingers and long, yellow nails descended on them. Carl screamed a wailing sob of a scream and stabbed the air with his blade. The mindless creatures fought amongst one another to crawl inside. Jon kicked at the dead with all his might. His heel lay a corpse limp in the doorway. For a brief moment, it clogged the advance. Jon’s mind raced for an escape, for a solution, for a trick. He found it over his shoulder. Behind him, the other door had but a few shadows at its windows. They were scraping uselessly at the door, complaining with hisses and wails. Mere whispers compared to the roaring cacophony before Jon.

“Sophia! To me!” Jon grabbed for the girl.

Sophia screamed as if the dead were upon her already. She flailed, kicked Jon’s hand aside then drove her heel into his face. A rotten hand took hold of Jon’s ankle. He cursed, and caved the walker’s skull with a kick. And in that brief moment, Sophia flung the door open. Screaming and crying, she dove between a waiting walker’s legs and scampered for the woods.

“Sophia!” Jon shouted. Sophia's screams peaked and she ran faster.

Dragging Carl, Jon hurried out of the range rover after her. Two walkers met him. A white blur fell them with a flying lunge. Ghost crushed one’s skull with his paw as he tore the other’s head from its shoulders with his jaws.

“Carl?!” Rick bellowed.

“Sophia?!” Carol screamed.

The others were out on the highway in the thick of the hoard. Back to back, they formed a tight circle formation. They stabbed at the dead over and over and over again, felling walker after walker. Jon couldn’t spy a way past the hoard to join their formation.

“To the woods, now!” Jon shouted at Carl.

Carl nodded and sprinted for the woods. Rick, Lori and Carol all made a move to break their formation.

“Stay where you are! Maintain formation!” Jon drew Longclaw and fell a walker descending on him. “I’ll go after them!”

Jon didn’t stop to wait for a reply. He bolted for the woods, sprinting with all his strength. Ghost stayed behind and fought with the others. In an instant, the woods swallowed up the commotion of their battle, veiling Jon in silence. It didn’t take long to catch up to Carl but Sophia was far off in the distance. Weaving and ducking, she sprinted through the thickening tangle of trees and brush.

The raven flew overhead. “Safe! Safe!” It cackled.

Jon vowed to skin the creature.

"Skin, skin, skin!"

“Sophia, stop!” Jon shouted.

“Sophia!” Carl echoed.

Sophia ran harder but Jon was gaining on her. Roots snagged his feet and low-hanging branches whacked him in the face. He kicked the roots and slashed the branches with Longclaw. Sophia seemed within reach. But as Jon made a grab for her she disappeared with a scream and dropped down out of view. Jon skidded to a halt as the slope of a steep valley presented itself amongst the brush. Sophia tumbled down the slope and crashed into a stagnant pool with a splash. In a flash, she was standing. Sobbing, she struggled to wade through the water on the weak legs of a child. Carl leapt over the edge, splashed down and chased after her with as much the same difficulty. Bubbles rose to the water’s surface. They burst with sprays of mud and black sludge. The bubbles frothed the surface as if the pool was at a boil.

“Out of the water, now!” Jon bellowed and scrambled down the slope.

Three walkers shot up from beneath the water, slick with mud. Their skin hung from their flesh like scraps of sodden cloth. As they wailed a gurgling wail, mud flowed from their mouths. They descended on the children. Two of them headed for Carl while the other perused Sophia, separating the children. Carl and Sophia drew their blades. Sophia held her knife out in front of her with both hands, shaking like a leaf. She faced her pursuer for but a moment only to then wail and turn, struggling through the mud towards the shore. Carl held out his knife low below his hip, twisted so his shoulder faced the dead and shouted a warring scream. The dead wailed back. Jon splashed down, drawing the attention of one walker away from Carl

The mud beneath the water may have been enough to hinder the weak legs of children and the dead, but not Jon. He raced through the pool, surefooted as a soldier marching the King’s Road. His blood boiled hot. A high slash from his valyrian steel rid the once-man of its head, heralded by a spray of black blood from its neck. Jon rushed to aid Carl, the closer of the two. The remaining corpses launched their attacks. One slashed at Carl, trying to grab his arm. While the other's fingers brushed the collar of Sophia's shirt.

Carl drove his knife into the walker’s palm, blocking the attack. He screamed and charged it, ramming his shoulder into its chest. The walker stumbled. It didn’t fall. Carl did. He fell face-first into the water and the walker descended on him. It opened its mouth, ready to bite the nape of Carl’s neck. Jon seized the walker by the shoulders and flung it off onto its back. As it hit the water with a muddy splash, Jon drove Longclaw’s point between its eyes. Its death blood blackened the water.

Carl rose from the water, coughing and spluttering. “Sophia!” He choked.

Splash!

The walker chasing Sophia threw itself at her, tackled her and knocked the knife from her hand. Sophia screamed, wailed and flailed as they both came crashing down. Jon charged across the water as Sophia wrestled the corpse. She took a hold of the walker’s face and pushed it away with all her might. But the walker kept on coming, gnashing its rotten jaws inches from her face. Jon grabbed the walker’s shoulders. Sophia’s hand slipped. The walker lunged and it’s slick skin slipped between Jon’s fingers. Sophia screamed and crossed her arms over her face. The walker sunk its teeth into her forearm. Jon tore it away, taking a chunk of flesh with it. Sophia’s life blood gushed and sprayed as she screamed a wailing, choked scream. Rot festered in the bite.

“No!” Carl screamed. He scrambled through the water, thrashing against the mud’s grip.

Jon cut off the walker’s head before the foolish boy got himself bitten too then wasted no time. He seized Sophia, flung her over his shoulder, raced her to the shore and threw her down into the muddy silt. Jon held out Longclaw with steady hands. Sophia looked up at him, silent and still, her face a mask of ice and stone.

“Hold out your arm, now!”

Sophia did so at once.

“Arm!” The raven cried.

Sophia shut her eyes and clenched her jaw. Jon heaved Longclaw above his head.

“What are you doing?!” Carl cried.

Jon cleaved Longclaw down onto Sophia’s elbow. The blade ate through flesh and bone in one clean cut. Sophia’s life blood sprayed from the stump. She let out a blood-curdling scream and writhed among the muddy silt, wailing long guttural sobs. Carl raced to her side and dropped to his knees, bawling. Jon’s mind raced. He hadn’t thought this far. Jenner hadn’t told him what to do past this. The bleeding, Jon realised. He needed to stop the bleeding. He thought back to lessons from Lunwin, from Aemon. The lessons brought him the answer. A tourniquet. Jon dropped Longclaw and ripped his belt from his jeans. Longclaw’s and Needle’s scabbards fell to the mud.

“Move, lad!” Jon shoved Carl aside and fastened the belt around Sophia’s upper arm until her flesh bulged around it. The spray of blood petered out into a gentle gush. Sophia’s eyes rolled back into her head and she went limp. Her chest rose and fell; staggered and rapid.

Carl tugged at Jon’s cloak as if trying to pull him to his feet. “We gotta get her back! We gotta save her!” he cried.

“I know!” Jon snapped. He flung the lad off of him and hoisted Sophia over his shoulder. She weighed as little as a newborn babe.

“I-I’ll go ahead!” Carl shouted. “For help.”

“No! You’ll stay by my side. Where I can see you.”

Jon bolted past the lad and across the muddy pool. Black blood swirled around his shins and mud grabbed at his boots, trying to suck him down but Jon was stronger. He charged across the pool and struggled to scramble up the valley’s slope one-handed. A short climb was made long and tedious. So tedious that Carl managed to catch up. Surefooted as a mountain goat, Carl raced up the slope ahead of him and waited at the top.

“Hurry!”

“Hur-ry!” The raven echoed.

Jon let his frustration erupt as a beastly shout as he dragged himself up the slope. The scars of his right hand ached as horribly as the day it’d been burned all those years ago. Once at the top, Jon lowered his head and broke out into a sprint. Carl chased at his heels, his face beet-red as he huffed, puffed and choked on sobs. Jon felt like sobbing too. But he didn’t. Strength could save Sophia. Tears would only blind him.

As they burst from the woods, back onto the highway, Andrea fell the last walker by thrusting her knife into its eye.

“Jenner!” Jon bellowed.

All eyes snapped to him. Carol screamed. The rest erupted into a chorus of shouts. They sprang into action at once. Jenner barked orders, pointing this way and that. T-Dog and Glenn rushed to the range rover and retrieved a plastic tarp. Dale got the medical kit from the RV. Andrea hauled over a jug of water. Rick held Carl back, hugging him to his chest. Lori knelt beside him, stroking his hair as the lad broke under the weight of his grief. Daryl restrained Carol who fought feverishly to free herself. She reached for her daughter, clawing at the air. Shane stood idle, watching from afar.

As soon as T-Dog and Glenn lay down the trap, Jon lay Sophia on it. Jenner knelt by the severed arm.

“A tourniquet. Good thinking. Andrea, water! Dale, the kit!”

Andrea dropped the jug at Jenner’s side.

“Jon, clean the wound!” Jenner barked at he snatched the kit from Dale.

Jon twisted off the cap and poured water all over the wound, washing away mud, silt and life blood. Water pooled in the tarp, red and stagnant. Besides Jon, Jenner raged. He flung the kit aside, sending it skittering across the asphalt.

“No bandages! Give me shirts! Now! Clean ones, dammit! Jon, lift her arm!”

Jon lifted her arm up straight. T-Dog tossed a pair of t-shirts at Jenner which were only partially stained. Jenner wrapped the stump up in a shirt. Using both hands, he held it in place.

“Jon, hold it in place.”

Jon took over for Jenner’s hands and held the shirt around the stump.

“Has she hurt her head or neck?” Jenner asked.

“No. Just the bite on the arm,” Jon blurted.

“She was bit?!” T-Dog yelled.

Carol wailed and kicked to get free of Daryl. Daryl buried his face into her neck, hiding his face as he restrained her tighter. His arms bulged and trembled.

“Yes! Why else do you think I cut off her bloody arm?!”

“Doesn’t matter. Glenn, lift her legs!”

Glenn scrambled over, dropped to his knees and lifted Sophia’s legs into the air.

“No, not that high. Twelve inches. Lower. Yes, that’s good. Keep them there.”

Blood began to soak through the shirt. Jenner swatted at Jon’s hands and wrapped the other shirt on top then Jon held the new layer over the old. Jenner sat back on his haunches and ran his hands through his hair, eyes darting.

“Fuck…” he muttered. “Now what?”

“What do you mean, now what?!” Jon shouted.

“I’m not a doctor, Jon! I’m a virologist!” Jenner rapped his knuckles against his head. “Come on come on come on come on. Think, dammit.” His eyes widened. “The arm! Where’s the rest of the arm?!”

“In the woods and bitten.”

“Shit. Okayokay. Uh… a plastic bag! Get me a plastic bag!”

Andrea sprinted to the range rover and came back with a plastic bag. Jenner snatched it from her and placed it over the stump bound in shirts.

“Now, ice! Anything cold!”

“Ice?” Jon wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly.

“The hell we ‘posed to get ice from?!” Daryl shouted.

Jenner groaned and held his head in his hands. “God… Help me move her then. She at least needs some place comfortable.”

“I’ve got her feet, ready when you are,” Glenn said.

Jenner nodded and took Sophia under her arms. “Jon keep that arm elevated.”

“Will do.”

“Alright. On three. One. Two. Three.” Jenner and Glenn lifted Sophia together. Jon stood with them, keeping her stump elevated.

They carried her to the RV as if she were made of glass. Carol and Carl fought to follow, but Rick and Daryl kept them bound.

“Gods have mercy, let Carol go!” Jon shouted as they approached the RV.

Daryl looked to Rick. Rick nodded and he let go. Carol scrambled out of Daryl’s arms and followed after them inside the RV.

“Will she survive? Is she infected? Please, god, don’t tell me she’s infected!” Carol cried.

Jenner said nothing until Sophia was laying on the RV’s mattress. When he did answer, his voice was low and grim. “Time will tell. She’s strong though. I have faith. Jon, let her hold the arm.”

Jon nodded and relinquished the arm to Carol. Although Carol trembled and sobbed, once she took hold of her daughter's arm, her hands became as steady as a blacksmith. Jenner put two pillows beneath Sophia’s feet and ushered Glenn and Jon out of the tiny bedroom. He afforded Carol some privacy by closing the door behind them.

“How long after the bite did you sever the arm?” Jenner whispered.

“Immediately. As you said to.”

“Right away? You didn’t hesitate or move her first?”

Jon bit his lip. “Well… she got bit in a pool of dirty water. I carried her to shore first. You said not to sever the limb where infected blood could get into it. But it only took a second.”

Jenner clicked his tongue and glanced at the closed door.

“Do-Does she have a chance? Any at all?” Glenn asked. His olive skin had turned a shade of ghost white.

“Normally… yeah. In a hospital with doctors and antibiotics… Out here though? She might wake up before she passes. At least she’ll be able to say goodbye.”

Tears brimmed in Glenn’s eyes. Jon fought off his own. “I should have never let them in the blasted car…”

“Wh-What do we do when she dies?” Glenn asked, lips trembling. “What do we tell them?”

“The truth,” Jenner grumbled. He shouldered past Jon and marched outside.

The raven fluttered in as the doctor left. It perched on the cabinets and bobbed up and down. “Truth, truth, truth.”

Jon’s vow to skin the pest still tasted fresh on his tongue. But he hadn’t the strength for it. His arms felt as if they weighed twice as much. As did his legs. Every one his joints ached and a rhythmic throbbing pounded away in his head. The throbs came in triplets. Throb. Throb. Throb. Each one more painful than the last. Jon staggered for the RV’s exit. The stale air shortened his breath. As he came upon the exit a searing wrath surged through him, setting his flesh and bone ablaze. Outside the RV, Ghost poised to leap. His fangs bared in a silent snarl. His fur puffed and stood on ends. His red eyes bore into something out of view. Jon stepped out the RV and followed his eyes. A fist greeted him.

***

Jon awoke face down on the asphalt. Blood flooded his throat. Shouting barraged his ears. A great pain stabbed at his shattered nose. With a groan, he rolled over to see Ghost on top of Daryl, gnashing his jaws inches from his face. Daryl squirmed under the direwolf but Ghost had his front paws on Daryl’s arms, pinning him down.

“You killed her!” he screamed. “You killed her, you bastard!” He locked eyes with Jon, boring a deathly gaze into him. Tears stained his rugged, weathered cheeks.

The others were shouting, trying to scare Ghost off of Daryl. But when any got close, Ghost snapped his jaws at them, sending them scuttling back. All was unfocused, blurred by a murky mind. However, Dale’s voice cut through it all, clear as a summer sky.

“You alright, son?” Dale grabbed his arm.

Jon accepted the help and leaned into his grip to stand. He tried to speak but a flow of blood clogged his throat and he only sputtered blood instead. Once on his feet, his vision cleared. Distraught panic had set in among the group. Jon could hardly blame them. Only Shane seemed oddly clam. He stood behind Rick, watching all transpire with a face of stone. The raven circled overhead screeching, “Bast-ard, bast-ard, bast-ard, bast-ard, bast-ard!”

Jon swallowed blood and shouted with the voice of a Lord Commander. “Ghost! Enough!”

Ghost snapped his jaws one last time, inches from Daryl’s face before backing off and skulking to Jon’s side. Daryl scrambled to stand. His eyes were wide, manic pools of violence. He drew a knife. Rick kicked the back of his knee. Daryl buckled. Shane ran forward and leapt onto his back, slamming Daryl back to the asphalt. He dug his knee between Daryl’s shoulder blades and pinned his arms with either hand.

“Stay down,” Shane hissed.

Daryl thrashed. “Fuck your slut mom, pig!”

Shane dug his knee further between Daryl’s shoulder blades. Daryl cried out and ceased his thrashing. Tears welled in his eyes and all the hate drained from him like a flagon sprung a leak. “He killed her, he killed her, he killed her,” he groaned. The knife rolled out of his grasp.

“No,” Shane looked over his shoulder at Rick. “He did.”

“The hell you say?” Rick’s face became a storm.

“You heard me! Y’all know it’s true!”

“The hell we do!” Andrea shouted.

“He’s the one who put the kids in the rear! That was his call. Look where it got ‘em!”

“Shut the hell up, man!” T-Dog stepped forward, fists balled.

Rick stopped him with a touch to the chest. “No… He’s right.”

“Fuck no, he ain’t!” Andrea said.

Rick shook his head. “I should’ve known better. I take full-”

“It wasn’t your fault!” Carl screamed.

“Shut it, Carl!” Shane snapped.

Carl raged. He ran past his dad and drove the heel of his boot into Shane’s face with a wet crunch. Shane fell off of Daryl with a pained shout, cradling a smashed nose. Rick snatched Carl’s arm and dragged him, throwing him off his feet in the process.

Carl fell to the asphalt. He sat by his father’s feet, glaring at Shane. Lori crouched beside him and tried to wrap her arms around him but Carl wriggled free. His fists balled. His arms trembled. He breathed loud, frantic breaths that flared his nostrils. “It wasn’t my dad’s fault! Or Jon’s! Or mine’s! Or anyone’s! It was the walkers!” Carl snarled that last word. “They opened the door! They scared Sophia! They bit her!”

Silence lingered, festering in the air.

“Bit!” The raven cawed.

Daryl struggled to his knees with a bowed head. “I-I’m sorry, Jon. I don’t know what…”

Jon swallowed blood. “You’re forgiven.” He wiped the blood from his gushing nose, freed himself of Dale’s support and stepped forward. “Talk of blame is a folly best left for times of peace.”

“Folly,” Shane chuckled. He spat blood onto the asphalt. “Shut the hell up, kid.”

Lori stepped forward in front of Carl. “Go back to your little plastic chair, Shane.”

Shane’s face of stone shattered into a meek little scowl and he shambled off.

“Best we organise ourselves,” Jon continued. “Focus on solving this crisis rather than on where it originated.”

The group shared a round of nods before looking to Rick as one. Rick put on the face of a lord as he addressed them.

“Jenner?” he asked. “What do we need to save her?”

Jenner sighed. “A hospital.”

Rick nodded. “Glenn, does the town we’re headin’ to have a hospital?”

“Uh, kinda. It has a clinic and a vet.”

“Will that do, Jenner?”

“I mean… they might have antibiotics and painkillers if it hasn’t been picked clean already. But that won’t be enou-”

“Great,” Rick interjected. “Glenn, how far of a walk to the town from here?”

“I don’t know… it’s like twelve miles and that’s if we go straight. That way,” Glenn pointed to the woods, from the direction Jon had come from.

“Half a day.” Daryl mumbled, staring at the asphalt.

“We’ll need a team, who do you think, Glenn?” Rick asked.

“Let’s keep it small. We gotta move fast. You, me, Daryl and Jon. Together, Daryl’s sense of direction and Ghost’s senses will be better than any map. And Ghost only goes where Jon goes. Maybe leave the raven though, if you can.”

“If I would, I could,” Jon said.

“Could would! Would could!” The raven cawed.

“Jenner too,” Rick said.

“Why me?”

“You know what we’re lookin’ for, and you’ve done all you can for her here.”

Glenn nodded. “Makes sense. Jenner too, then.”

Jenner sighed and looked to Lori. “Taking care of her is simple. Change her bag every few hours. Change the shirts in the morning. Wash the wound between shirt changes. Keep her legs elevated and her arm. Can you manage that?”

Lori nodded. “We can.”

“Andrea, you’re in charge while we’re gone,” Rick said.

“I’ll keep ‘em safe. You just hurry along now,” Andrea said.

***

Longclaw lay in a bed of mud and silt beside its scabbard and Needle and Sophia’s rotting, severed hand. Jon sheathed the valyrian blade and attached it and Needle back to a new belt. After ensuring the latches were secure, Jon scooped up a handful of mud and covered the hand. Rot had already corrupted the severed limb. The skin had blackened and shrivelled. The fingers had curled into hooks. Covering it was a mercy. Jon saw no point in returning it to Carol. It bore no resemblance to human flesh, let alone Sophia. It more resembled rotting fruit than anything. It’d only serve as a reminder that hope is as slippery as ice; hard to grasp, harder to hold.

Jon smoothed mud and silt over the shrunken black thing and rose to his feet. Atop the slope of the valley, Ghost sat by Rick’s side, watching Jon with those piercing red eyes. A great sadness snuck up on Jon, forming a pit in his stomach. The cut on his nose gifted to him by Daryl itched.

“Got your sword?” Rick asked.

Jon nodded and patted the scabbard.

“Alright, well come on. Get up here. Let’s get a move on.”

“Right. As you command.”

Rick gave him a queer look, which Jon chose to ignore. Jon waded through the murky, stagnant pool. Black blood still floated on the surface, swirling around his legs as he waded through it. Amongst the mud and rot, Jon spied something bobbing on the surface. Something fuzzy. Hair, he realised. A walker. He froze, drew Longclaw and thrust the tip of the blade into the hair. But no black blood flowed into the water and there was no squelch of a blade piercing flesh. Jon lifted Longclaw to find Sophia’s bear skewered on the blade. No longer pink. Only black and brown and now with a hole through its chest. Jon sighed, freed the toy from his blade and tucked it under his belt. He wiped the grime off of Longclaw, sheathed it and started the climb up the slope.

With two hands instead of one, the climb was swift and smooth. Yet, the burn scars on his right hand still throbbed all the same. They hadn’t throbbed in years. Each throb flooded Jon with a scorching heat that clenched his jaw. I should have been able to save her. Sophia is but a girl and I am a man grown; a man of the Night’s Watch no less. When he clambered over the slope’s edge, he found Ghost baring his fangs. Jon looked behind him but saw nothing.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Jon asked, standing.

“Wrong?” The raven asked, perched high in a nearby tree.

Ghost put away his fangs and wagged his tail. Jon shook his head and ignored the queerness.

“That Sophia’s?” Rick asked, pointing to the bear.

“It is.”

“Good. Don’t lose it. She’ll need somethin’ to make her feel safe. More now than ever.”

Jon nodded. “I’ll keep it safe, I promise.”

Jon, Ghost and Rick joined the others waiting a little further ahead.

“Find it okay?” Glenn asked.

“Yeah, my gun too.”

“Good, that sword’s too valuable to lose out here.”

“Agreed.”

“Sword!” The raven cawed, flying overhead.

Jon expected Daryl to insult the pest, but the rugged man only stared out into the woods, away from everyone else.

“Come on, let’s get a move on,” Jenner grumbled.

“Glenn? Which way?” Rick asked.

Glenn unfolded a map and frowned. “North… I always used the highway to orient where we were. But now…” Glenn looked around at the green abyss that surrounded them. “Without a compass, I have no idea.”

“Ghost,” Jon said. The direwolf pricked up his ears and met his eyes. “Find, North.”

Ghost raised his snout to the air and closed his eyes. They opened, pools of blood amidst a shaggy coat of snow. He padded off into the woods a few paces then turned to look back at them.

Glenn stared at Jon, mouth agape. “No way you trained him to do that.”

Jon grinned. “Direwolves feel nature as if it is a part of them.”

Jenner’s eyes blazed with the same curiosity he had when Jon had spoken of the Kingslayer. It seemed the doctor had found his question to bring to their next lesson. Jon knew what question he would ask. Thinking of it robbed Jon of his grin.

“Let us dawdle no longer,” he said and followed after Ghost.

Ghost led them through thick brambled bushes, mazes of thin tree trunks and delicate little meadows hidden among the green abyss. As they went further, the forest closed around them. The tree trunks thickened and stood closer. The canopies blocked more and more sunlight until there was nary but a few stubborn rays to light their way. Mossy stones resolved to trip them with each step and twisted roots aided the effort. Silence lingered everywhere. Birds didn’t chirp. Insects didn’t buzz. No Frogs yelped. No underfoot creatures scuttled. Only the boots of their little troupe crunched against sticks and leaves.

It was in the deepest and darkest part of the woods yet, that they came across the stream. A thin, pale line glistened beneath spotted rays of sunlight. So shallow that Jon’s boots seemed to glide atop the surface and so thin that two steps were all it took to cross. Rocks huddled beneath the pale water, slippery but not hazardous if one were to pay them respect. Jenner, the last to cross, slipped on his second step. He stumbled forward and Rick caught his arm, stopping his fall.

Jenner muttered an awkward thanks and hurried away from the stream. They left it behind as they’d left behind everything in the forest. Little more than fleeting memories. Until a splash brought their attention back to it. They raced back to the stream, tripping on the thick underbrush with blades drawn. Ghost raced ahead, fangs bared. But as they erupted from the brush they all froze. Carl was on his rear in the water. A ray of sun gleamed off of the golden star of his hat.

“Carl?” Rick asked, keeping his voice low. “What are you doing here? Does your mother know?”

“Let me come with you.” Carl shot to his feet. His face hardened.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“You know why. I ain’t havin’ this talk again, here of all places. God… one of you’s gonna have to take him back.”

“I ain’t goin’ back! I’ll just sneak off again. I know the way.”

Rick stared at his son in a state between utter bewilderment and a flying rage. But before he could say a word, Carl shouted again.

“She’s my friend! I wanna help her.”

Rick’s face softened. He knelt before his son, in the water and took his hand into his. “I know, son. I ain’t ever gonna tell you you’re wrong to feel that way. But you’ll be better off protectin’ her at her side.”

Carl wrinkled his nose. “Andrea and T-Dog can do that. I’m gonna find the medicine that’ll make her better.”

“Carl…”

“I ain’t a kid anymore. I’m big. I can handle myself. I can kill walkers the same as any of you.”

“No, Carl. You can’t. One day you’ll be able to, if you must. But you ain’t got the skills yet, son.”

“Do to. I’ve killed five so far.” At once, Carl’s eyes widened as he realised his mistake.

Rick’s face darkened with a fierceness to tame a storm. “You what?”

“I-I-I,” Carl’s words tumbled from him. “When I snuck off with Sophia, we figured it out. We’re too small to kill ‘em like you do so we gotta run our shoulder into their chests to make ‘em fall. Then we stab them through the eye.”

Carl mummered a stab. Rick snatched his wrist.

“You listen to me and you listen good,” Rick whispered in a low, deep voice. “You never risk your life for no good reason. Never. This ain’t a game. Killin’ the dead ain’t a sport. It’s life and death. It’s-”

“I know-”

“Don’t you interrupt me.”

“It ain’t a game to me!” Carl’s arms trembled and his nostril flared. “We should be killin’ them! All of them! Every single one we see! They took everything from us!” Carl’s breathing became rapid. “Y-You all act like it ain’t gone! Like we can get it back! We can’t! It’s gone, forever and it’s all their fault!”

The bushes exploded with an eruption of rustling leaves and snapping twigs. A great stag, as tall as Jon and as long as Ghost emerged from the brush with a tall crown of antlers. Everyone froze as it stared at them. Silence lingered. Ghost bared his fangs at the stag. The proud creature stood its ground. It lifted its snout, making its antlers appear larger than life. A gurgling hiss wafted after the stag from the bushes. A walker stumbled from the brush, reaching and clawing at the air for the stag. Its eyes found their group and it changed course for them. Ghost moved right in front of Jon and lowered his head, ready to lunge. The stag lowered its antlers at the walker and scraped the ground. And as all eyes were on it, they weren’t where they ought to be.

“I’ll show you I can do it!” Carl broke free of Rick’s grip and charged at the walker.

“Carl, no!” Rick shouted.

Rick snatched at him. Carl dodged and Rick grabbed air. Carl bolted past the rest of them, weaving through grabbing hands as he drew a knife from his belt. He aimed his shoulder at the walker’s chest and bellowed a boy’s war cry. Thunder cracked. The walker’s stomach exploded. Then Carl’s. The boy gasped, clutched at his ruined belly and fell onto his back. His mouth gaped open and closed as his life blood pooled beneath him amongst the dirt and leaves.

[idmakeitbehave]

This I Know {Spencer x Reader}

Chapter Two

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series table of contents

summary: your first... re-introduction (?) featuring actual angel penelope garcia

word count: 1.9k

You awoke alone, the morning light shining through the window. The snow from yesterday covered the outside world and created an idyllic, peaceful scene. You glanced at the chair that Spencer had been sitting in last night. His messenger bag lay there and you breathed a sigh of relief. He was still here.

You weren’t sure why you felt this strongly about this stranger staying with you. Something about the way he looked at you, the way his hand felt in yours. 

There was whispering outside of your hospital room, two voices speaking quietly amongst themselves.  You could tell that one was Spencer, but the other was higher, a woman’s voice talking rapidly. 

“Spencer?” you called weakly, desperate to know what was going on. His head came into view around the doorframe and he waved at you awkwardly. “Spence?” His eyes brightened when you said that, and oh, how you longed to keep that look on his face forever. 

“Good morning,” he murmured, stepping into the room. He wore the same cardigan as yesterday, though it was rumpled now, and his hair stood out at wild angles. You felt that same unfamiliar urge to reach out and touch him, to smooth down his curls. 

“Spencer!” hissed the second voice that you had heard from the hallway.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a nurse?”

“Um, no,” he admitted sheepishly. “That’s Penelope. One of our friends- and our coworker. Is it alright if she comes in?”

Alright, so you worked with Spencer- and this Penelope, whoever she was. There was one tiny piece to the vast, baffling puzzle of the last two years. 

You nodded. Might as well start meeting people. It would do you absolutely no good to sit here alone and continue to freak yourself out over what had happened. 

Spencer stuck his head out into the hall, motioning for Penelope to come in. A woman in a bright yellow dress and heels walked through the doorway. Her glasses were the same shade as her clothes, and she had her hair in pigtails, wrapped with pink fuzzy hair ties. She was sunshine personified and you couldn’t help but smile at her automatically. 

“Hi,” she spoke quietly but with a patient smile as she moved to sit in the chair next to Spencer. “I’m Penelope.” 

“Hi Penelope. I’d tell you who I am, but I guess you already know.” 

Penelope nodded, her brightly colored nails gripping the bag she held in her lap. “It’s really good to see you.” 

“Honestly, it’s really good to see you too,” you replied sincerely. “Even if I have no idea why.”

Her smile grew bigger at your words and you smiled again in return. The light reflected off of one of her earrings and your eye was drawn to them. One was a painter’s palette, the other a paintbrush.

“I love your earrings,” you murmured. 

Penelope’s eyes widened, her hand reaching up to touch one of them. “You- you actually gave them to me.” Spencer grinned besides her as he looked between the two of you. 

You chuckled lowly. “I guess I have good taste.” 

“Oh that you do,” Penelope nodded eagerly in response, her blond pigtails shaking. 

You looked back down at the bag she was holding. “Whatdya got there?” 

“Oh,” Penelope exhaled. “Well, Spencer here told me that your doctor told him that pictures might be able to help you get your memories back. So I brought all of the photos I have of us, if you want to look at them. It’s okay if you don’t want to- I totally understand.” 

You looked at Spencer for reassurance, for a reason you couldn’t quite determine. He nodded encouragingly and you smiled at him. “I think that would be great, Penelope. But first, can you guys tell me what we do for work?”

Penelope’s mouth dropped open and she whacked Spencer playfully on the side of the head. “You haven’t told her, Boy Wonder?” 

“Ow!” Spencer rubbed his head dramatically, and you let out a small laugh. The noise delighted him and his eyes welled up as they met yours. You stared at each other for a moment before blinking back into reality. 

“Okay, so, we work at the Behavioral Analysis Unit- do you know what that is?” Penelope spoke patiently. 

Now it was your turn for your mouth to drop. “You’re fucking kidding me. The BAU? I got out of the Atlanta field office?” 

“Oh, did you ever. You’ve been on our team for two years- I’m sure Genius over here can give you an exact date.” 

Spencer nodded excitedly, resting his chin on his hands. “Your first day was October 21st, 2008.” 

You blinked at the two of them wildly. That was only three months from your last solid memory. How had so much changed so quickly? 

It was like Spencer could read your mind. “The position opened up on August 1st, and you interviewed with Hotch on August 22nd. The process was fairly straightforward from there and you began almost exactly two months later.”

You raised your eyebrow, looking first at Spencer then at Penelope. “How do you remember the exact dates?”

“Oh, angel, I meant genius quite literally,” Penelope laughed and Spencer’s face flushed red. “Our handsome doctor over here has a ridiculously high IQ, an eidetic memory, and an insane- and I mean insane- reading speed.” 

“Doctor? Like 1,000 words per minute?” you asked, your voice a mixture between teasing and astonishment. 

“PhD, not medical. And 20,000,” Spencer replied matter-of-factly.

“Wow,” you exhaled, “I’m dating a fucking superhero.” 

Penelope snorted at your words, and Spencer let out a quiet laugh. You looked up at him again and studied his sharp cheekbones and the soft hair that fell in his face- he really was beautiful.

“Alright, show me the pictures!” You clapped your hands and the eagerness in your voice made Spencer chuckle again. The sound was like the sweetest music you had ever heard and you again felt the strange desire to make him laugh like that forever. 

Penelope pulled a bright purple laptop out of her bag, propping it up on the side of the hospital bed. She clicked around for a second and a slideshow popped up on the screen with the words Badass Crime Fighters written in curly font. “Okay, so I kinda went overboard and made a whole powerpoint…” 

“Oh, you absolute star. I love it already.” You leaned forward enthusiastically. “Alright, let me see!” 

Penelope clicked and the next slide popped up. It was a photo of you with seven people in someone’s house- or was it a mansion? You stood near the middle, Spencer’s arm wrapped around you. Your head was leaning on his shoulder and you were smiling serenely at each other, paying no mind to the camera. 

“This is the team,” Penelope explained, pointing to each person as she spoke. “That’s bossman Aaron Hotchner; our daredevil Emily Prentiss; Jennifer Jareau, but we call her JJ; then there’s you and Spencer, of course, you absolute sweethearts; my chocolate thunder Derek Morgan next to me; and our most wonderful host, David Rossi.” 

Your eyes darted across the screen, taking in each face in front of you, desperate to remember them. “You didn’t tell me being smoking hot was a prerequisite to being in the BAU.” 

Spencer let out a snort of a laugh, blowing his hair up out of his face. 

“You doubt me, Doctor?” You smirked teasingly. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“That’s what I keep telling him!” gushed Penelope, laughing along with you as Spencer’s cheeks turned red.

“Show me more! More beautiful people!” The thoughts were swirling in your head as you stared at the photo on the screen. This was your life? Your friends, your coworkers? Their faces were all so inviting, their smiles warm. You ached to remember them.

Penelope clicked again and the next photo slid into view. You stood with Penelope and Spencer in this one, the three of you dressed as various iterations of characters from Doctor Who- Penelope as the 11th Doctor, Spencer as the 4th, and you as the 10th. 

“Ohhh,” you cooed. “We look adorable. Spence, I love that scarf.” 

“I knitted it myself,” he admitted proudly. Penelope beamed at the two of you, smiling at the easy way you used the familiar nickname before clicking to the next picture. You stood with Penelope and the two other women from the group photo, dressed casually with drinks in your hands.

You pointed at the brunette. “Emily. And that means the other blonde is…. JJ.” 

“Yes, you got it! Gold star!”

You couldn’t help but laugh along with Penelope. Her enthusiasm was infectious. 

“This was one of our infamous girls nights. We went dancing and had way too many margaritas. You had to drag us back to your apartment. I swear Emily was going to kill that guy who kept hitting on her, but then you pretended to be her girlfriend and he left.” 

Your jaw dropped. “I did- I did what?” 

Spencer smirked, nodding at Penelope. “Mhm, you came home with them and after they all passed out you woke me up with the most shameful look on your face. You scared the crap out of me and then you just blurted out, ‘I kissed Emily.’ I was so confused, but you very sloppily explained to me the creepy guy following her around and I understood exactly what you did. You always did- you always do anything for your friends. I could never be mad at that. And you were too darn cute.” 

You scoffed, feeling your cheeks burning red. “Wow, we sound crazy.”

“The best kind of crazy,” Penelope nodded. She clicked to the next slide and you let out a laugh at the photo.

A man- Derek, you thought- held you up in his arms. You had your arms spread wide, almost like jazz hands, a theatrically ecstatic look on your face. Spencer stood beside the two of you, holding your feet in his hands and pretending to groan from the strain as if he were the one lifting you up. Two older men were in the photo too, one on either side. They both had their arms crossed, stern looks on their faces as they looked at the three of you. The more severe one- Hotch?- pulled off the cross look better than the other one. The second man had a slight smirk on his face. David, you reminded yourself. Dave? Rossi? You weren’t quite sure what to call him. They seemed to use first and last names and nicknames so interchangeably that your mind swam.

Penelope clicked again and the next photo filled the screen, another group shot of the eight of you. You were all dressed professionally, except for Penelope and her hot pink dress, and the casualness of your stances and lightness of your grins contrasted with the crisp dress shirts and suit jackets. Here it was, right in front of you. Your life. The pieces were coming together, the edges of your memory still foggy but slowly gaining clarity. 

“Wow.” A tear slid down your cheek, smiling at the photo as you instinctively reached for Spencer’s hand. He was surprised by the motion, but responded easily by lacing his fingers through yours. “I- oh, wow. I really hope I remember you guys. You- you look like my family.”

“We are,” Spencer replied with absolute certainty. 

Penelope nodded again, tears welling in her eyes. “We are, sweetie. And you’ll remember us. I’m sure of it. We’ll be there every step of the way.” 

“I don't care about whose DNA has recombined with whose. When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching--they are your family.” 

-Jim Butcher

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