#Sergeant Garcia | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

islandtarochips · 2 months ago

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Hi Bestie :3 just wondering, how do you think the WTF would react if they recieved this message?

"General Kalani? Captain Toa? First Lieutenant Toa? Can you copy? If you do, please, we require urgent permission to land in your base. This is Clover, I'm with the Specters. I-It's a medical emergency! We we're on a mission and the infantry squad was ambushed." Nicholas sounded slightly panicked while in the background someone was screaming in pain, and at the same time someone was ordering people around. "Right now our Captain is unconscious and bleeding, our Lieutenant and Sergeant are also out cold and with worrying wounds and we have Corporal García and Marcus with open wounds. Please, I beg you, if you recieve this...please let us land. I'm worried they wouldn't make it if we try to arrive to our base."

Hi Wiiiiiiiitch! And OMG! This is EXCITING to be honest! After reading this question, I have decided to make a one-shot out of this! Let's do it!

The General was having a discussion with Colonel Rangi before receiving this call. Her eyes widened as she recognized the name and the voice. “Clover? Where are you? How far?”

“O-Only a mile away, ma’am.” Nicholas’ heart started beating faster after hearing someone screaming in pain in the background. He was getting scared as his hands were shaking while gripping onto the wheel. “P-Please, we needed help!”

Alana looked at Rangi with a serious look but with worriedness in her eyes. She remained calm before ordering the Colonel. “Go and get someone to flag that plane down SAFELY! NOW!”

He nodded and wasted no time when he ran out of the room. While Alana sat on her seat and stayed on the phone with Nicholas. “Clover. I am here. You’ll be alright.”

Nicholas took a quick glance in the back to see Alicia, Luke and Jackson are still knocked out. And Noah and Marcus are screaming in pain from their open wounds. “I-Is Aelan there?”

“Don’t worry, I already texted her. I’ll be staying on the phone with you. Just BREATHE, Clover.” Alana told him to do so while speaking in her calm and soft voice. For a hard hearted woman, her voice sounded like a soft cloud hovering through Nicholas’ headphones.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds before taking a deep breath. His heart beat slowed down as he took another deep breath and listened to the General’s voice.

“Feeling okay now?” Alana asked as she was trying to contact Kanoa and Tiala.

“Y-Yeah…I’m okay.”

“Good. Now I want you to keep flying straight ahead and land where the marshallers are at. They will guide you down. Can you do that?”

The pilot saw the island of the Marine Corps Base ahead. He gripped onto the wheel and felt the determination sparking inside of him. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright then, land carefully. I’m getting Kanoa and Tiala on the phone. My daughter will be waiting for you and your team to take them into the medical center, alright?”

“Ok. We’re coming in a few minutes.”

Later on, Nicholas saw one of the marshallers signaling him to come down. He pushed the wheel down as he flew the aircraft to the open road. Then he safely landed before taking a quick breath as he leaned his back against his seat. He could hear footsteps and yelling in the background. He slowly glanced behind him to see the soldiers were already transferring his team onto the stretchers and moving out of the aircraft quickly.

His vision was a bit blurry from being tired when he felt so scared of losing them.

“Clover!” A woman’s voice called out to him.

He turned his head as his vision was getting cleared to see Aelan jumping inside and running up to him. He was relieved to see a familiar face from the crowds as he tried to get up.

“Woah there buddy! Sit down!” Aelan said as she sat him back down before turning on her small flashlight. “Let me check on you.” The medic woman flashed onto his eyes and saw it looked fine. As his pupils reacted to the light. She was relieved and touched his forehead to feel any fever. “Feeling any nauseous, headaches, any amount of pain?”

Nicholas shook his head as he was tearing up. “I-I’m fine…” Then he saw the Marines had taken his team away. “A-Are they gonna be ok?”

“They will, Nik. Come on. I still need to take you to the medical center.” Aelan helped him up carefully and walked him down to the med bay.

After an hour or two, the Captain and the First Sergeant walked through the hallway of the med bay. As they were rushing, along with their two sergeants behind them. Agnes and Nigel.

The four had received bad news from their General about Alicia and her team. Which made Kanoa feel panicking once he heard her name was mentioned.

They all know how close Kanoa and Alicia were. Them from being coworkers into an ally. Then from being an ally into being friends. Friends to Best of Friends. And now, being like close siblings.

Tiala understands that. For she too feels that way with Alicia the time they have worked together. And hearing this had made her feel the opposite with Kanoa. For she could only feel anger in her heart. And once when she finds out who did this to her and her team. They will be sorry.

The two Sergeants were also feeling worried about the team. They may not know much about the Captain like how Kanoa and Tiala were. But they are friends with the other team members of the Specters Team.

Soon the four had made it to the med bay, where they saw Aelan was ordering most of the nurses to get the supplies that she needed. She was doing her best as she made sure that most of the patients were taken care of.

“I need five more of those packages for those two injured soldiers!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“You! Make sure those Oxygen tanks are FULL since we need them to stay ALIVE!”

“Of course!”

“YOU! Why the fuck are you still standing around here for?! We have FIVE people who need our help! Get off your ass and MOVE!”

Aelan has been yelling and ordering the people around with a bit of anger in her tone. Kanoa could see that and also could see the medic was stressing out. He quickly walked over to her and touched her hand.

“Hey hey hey. Onosa’i, Aelan.” Kanoa said softly, trying to get her attention. And calming her down.

Aelan turned her head to see Kanoa as her expression started to soften tiredly. Realizing what she was doing. She took a deep breath and calmed down before touching her face as she groaned. “I-I’m sorry, Noa…I’m just trying to make sure that she and the others are okay.”

“I know. You’ve been pressured. But I’m sure that Jackson doesn’t want you to feel this way, you know.”

Aelan smiled a bit at the Captain’s words. Of course, she could have imagined Jackson scolding her for not resting or taking it easy. So she nodded at Kanoa before Tiala interrupted.

“So what’s the status, doc? Are they gonna be ok?” The First Sergeant wanted to know about their conditions. Hoping and praying that it’s a good one.

Agnes stepped in as well. “W-What about Garcia and Marcus? Are they gonna make it?”

Nigel gently touched Agnes’ shoulder seeing her worried expression and her tone as well. Before looking up at the doctor. “Are they?”

The medic was in deep silence before she sighs. “Let me take you to see them.” She slowly turned around and walked ahead with Kanoa by her side.

The other three followed behind before they came into the first room. Where Garcia and Marcus were on the hospital bed. So much bandages on their waist, torso and on their legs.

It really hurts for Agnes and Nigel to see them like this. As their friends lay there in pain.

Nigel looked at his Captain with sadness in his eyes. “Captain…? Can we…?”

Kanoa knows what Nigel was going to ask. And he also knows how close those two are with them. So he smiled softly and gently patted the Sergeant’s shoulder. “Go on. Tia and I will check the other three.”

Nigel nodded before walking with Agnes inside to see the two.

Tiala took a peek inside to see Agnes was tearing up when she saw Noah. The Corporal was slowly opening his eyes and gave a weak smile to see his friend. The Sergeant gently touched his hand and tried her best to smile. Before seeing him closing his eyes tiredly.

While Nigel was smiling down at Marcus, who was tearing up as well to see a familiar face. He gave him a gentle hug as he gave his comforting words to him. Saying that he’ll be alright. It really touched Marcus’ heart as he hugged Nigel tightly.

Tiala could feel her heart soften to see the two sergeants comforting those two soldiers. Before walking with Kanoa and Aelan to meet the others. And as soon as they walked to the second room. Aelan paused at her tracks to see Nicholas sitting on his chair next to Alicia’s bed.

“Nicholas! You were SUPPOSED to be resting!” The medic started to scold this man as she walked up to him.

Causing the poor soldier to stand up in surprise as he tried to explain to her. “I-I’m sorry! But I couldn’t sit still! Not when…the Captain…is like this…”

His words had stopped Aelan. As she saw him gazing towards the unconscious Alicia.

Kanoa turned his gaze towards Alicia as well, lying there. As he started to feel like his soul had been drained out. He slowly walked over to her and stood next to the bed. And gently touched her hand as he held it tightly. “What happened?” The Captain’s voice suddenly sounded deep when he asked that question.

Nicholas took notice of his tone as he knew that Kanoa was being angry. Actually MORE than angry. So he decided to tell him everything that just happened.

“W-We were ambushed, sir. On a mission to stop one of the cartel leaders that was near the pacific. Getting close to here.” Nicholas started to tighten his grip as he tried to explain further. “We were supposed to take them down but…they caught us by surprise and we failed to succeed. Which causes the injuries for Noah and Marcus when they were about to take charge. And Luke and Jackson? Got hit against the wall. They…got hit pretty bad. That’s why they’re knocked out.”

“And Alicia?” Tiala asked as she saw Nicholas had frozen in place. Seeing his lips was quivering a bit as he was too nervous to speak.

But Aelan had stood beside him and gently touched his arm. “It’s ok Nicholas. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Nicholas looked at Aelan and then at Kanoa and Tiala. His tears started to show as he held onto the medic’s hand. To show that he wanted to tell them. Of what happened to her.

“Sh-She got stabbed…by the cartel leader…I-I was trying to get up but they pulled me back. Making me watch the Captain fall down.” Nicholas' voice had started to tremble as he remembered that scene that kept playing inside his head. His friends were getting injured and Alicia was bleeding to death. “I-I could’ve done SOMETHING! I could’ve fought BACK!”

“But even if you did. They will kill you right there and then. And you won’t be able to bring them HERE.” Aelan had tried to reassure this poor man’s thoughts of him not doing anything. Hearing this from him had really aching their hearts.

Nicholai looked at her with despair in his eyes as his tears slowly ran down on his cheeks like a river that will never stop running. He quickly hugged her, begging for comfort. Which she gladly gave him.

Kanoa had gone through that before. After remembering the loss of his older brother. It had given him determination to stop this cartel leader and his men. He looked back at Alicia who was still unconscious. Gripping onto her hand. He started to speak. “Tia, go and get the two sergeants.”

Tiala perked up to look at her brother and nodded. “Sure.”

Aelan, who was still hugging Nicholas, looked at the Captain. KNOWING of what he was planning to do. “Noa, please. You will get hurt.”

The Captain had let go of Alicia’s hand before turning to face her. “We won't. We'll finish the Specters’ team job. Before those cartels could do any more damage here in the Pacific.”

Nicholas quickly leaned back as he looked at Kanoa with surprise. He shook his head. “S-Sir! Don’t! They are VERY dangerous! They might kill you and the team as well!”

Despite what this airman was trying to say. Kanoa just gave him a smile.

“We’ll be fine. Besides, there is ONE thing that those people should know about us.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow in questioning as Kanoa walked out of the room with Tiala. Before turning his head back at him. “Is that they have fucked up the WRONG people to mess with. And they are in OUR ocean.”

Aelan smiled a bit as she touched Nicholas’ shoulder before looking at both Kanoa and Tiala. “You guys better come back in ONE piece.”

Kanoa winked with a grin as he always does. “No promises there, doc. And Nik, helped Aelan here to take care of your uce. Alright?” The Captain gave him a soft smile to see Nicholas respond with a nod. He looked at Tiala. “Tatou o.”

Soon the two left the room as they went to get their team together. And they promised that they’ll give those criminals HELL. For Alicia and her team.

THE END

Whoo! That took a while to finish! I hope you're ok with this one, Witch! And I LOVE it of how you bring me these kind of ask in my inbox! Makes me want to write of how close these two teams can be! Thank you so much, pele! Love ya!

Characters:

Kanoa Toa -> Me

Tiala "Shark" Toa -> Me

Agnes "Blast" Falagi -> Me

Nigel "Squirrel" Harrison -> Me

Aelan Kalani -> Me

Alana Kalani -> Me

Alicia "Origin" Marchant -> @deeptrashwitch

Luke "Harlem" Michaelis -> @deeptrashwitch

Jackson "Doc" Blackwell -> @deeptrashwitch

Nicholas "Clover" Fowlett -> @deeptrashwitch

Marcus "Poison" Lombardi -> @deeptrashwitch

Noah "Cobalto" García -> @deeptrashwitch

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hoe4hotchner · 2 months ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/hoe4hotchner/761523945006678016/hi-there-can-you-write-some-hotchxcolonelreader

oh my gosh please continue more like this!

maybe she comes to a rossi dinner party and the team sees how they both are softer with each other especially outside of work and of course with jack being the cutest ever

Guard down | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Military fem!reader CW: nothing it's Fluff WC: 0.6k

Link to Reverence

The warm buzz of conversation flowed through Rossi’s house, accompanied by the scent of delicious food and the soft glow of the evening lights. Jack, always a bright presence in a crowd, had already charmed most of the team with his stories and excitement about school and superheroes. Hotch, standing off to the side, kept a quiet eye on the interactions, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched his son animatedly talk to Morgan and Garcia about the latest Captain America comic he had read.

The evening had been pleasant so far, though Hotch found his gaze drifting toward the door every so often. His phone buzzed softly in his pocket, a simple message lighting up the screen: On my way. He exhaled slightly, anticipation and something more soothing filling his chest.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang, and Rossi moved to answer it. When the door opened, the team’s conversation slowed just a bit as you stepped in, your presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. Dressed in casual yet slightly elegant attire, you entered the room with the natural confidence that came from your position, but there was something different in your eyes tonight - something more peaceful, than the drill sergeant the team had previously met.

“Ah, there she is!” Rossi grinned, giving you a warm hug as you stepped into the entryway. “Fashionably late as always, Colonel.”

You chuckled lightly. “Traffic,” you offered as a quick excuse, but your gaze was already scanning the room.

Hotch's eyes met yours from across the room, and the subtle exchange between you didn’t go unnoticed. Though the rest of the team had seen the way you and Hotch interacted at work - professional, with a deep, unspoken respect - this felt different. A deeper connection lingered in the air as Hotch's features softened in a way they rarely did at work. The lines of stress seemed to ease from his face at the mere sight of you.

Jack, noticing your arrival, immediately broke away from his conversation with Morgan and Garcia and ran toward you with all the enthusiasm a young boy his age could muster. “Colonel!” he called, his small arms outstretched.

Your face lit up with warmth as you crouched down, catching Jack in an embrace. “Hey, Jack,” you greeted him softly, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Have you been keeping everyone entertained?”

“Yeah! Uncle Dave made this huge lasagna, and I helped him!” Jack’s excitement was contagious, and you couldn't help but smile.

“Well, then I definitely can’t wait to try it,” you replied, standing up while still holding onto Jack’s hand.

Hotch made his way over to you. “Glad you could make it,” he said, his voice low but filled with a warmth that he reserved for very few people. The subtle anticipation he’d been carrying earlier of the team meeting the real you, seemed to dissipate in your presence.

You smiled up at him, your thumb brushing over Jack’s hand as you held it. “Wouldn’t miss it,” you said, and though your words were casual, the look you shared with him was anything but.

The team, though still engaged in various conversations, couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift between you and Hotch. Morgan arched an eyebrow at Garcia, who gave a knowing smile. Reid’s head tilted slightly in curiosity, but it was JJ who spoke first, her voice quiet enough so the rest of the group wouldn’t hear.

“They’re…different with each other outside of work, aren’t they?”

Emily nodded slightly. “It’s like they’re letting their guard down.”

The team continued to observe, not wanting to intrude but also fascinated by the softer, almost domestic side of their boss. Jack, meanwhile, had tugged you over to sit next to Hotch on the couch, and the three of you created a picturesque image of quiet intimacy. Jack had settled between you and his father, resting his head on your shoulder while Hotch’s hand brushed briefly against yours.

The evening continued, filled with laughter and funny stories. But for Hotch, the highlight had already arrived the moment you’d walked through the door.

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luveline · 1 year ago

Text

𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

when internet trolls poke fun at your appearance while working on a case, hotch is there to make you feel better. fem!reader, 3k

tw cyberbullying, poor eating habits, criminal minds typical violence

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You're not a media liaison or anything close, but with JJ off for maternity leave and Penelope in Quantico, there's a face needed for the press announcement on TV, and you offer to step in.

You aren't particularly eager to do it, but Hotch doesn't have the time or wherewithal and such a high intensity case, not while Spencer is at half-mast, migraines rendering him ineffective and stubborn. You're trying to keep the ship sailing smoothly, doing your part of the profiling while juggling media and supporting the police sergeant that's heading the tip line.

You're not expecting to become a joke. After a red-eye, three sleepless nights trying to find a missing woman in Oklahoma —the domestic violence capital— and a full day without something to eat, you're aware you don't look your best, but you aren't sure what that has to do with your missing person.

The FBI — fugly bitches International. #FindDanaLangley

Damn, are they not letting those agents sleep or what? She looks terrible !

she should be less worried about Dana Langley and more concerned with the dead woman in the mirror, ew

hope theu find her just so they stop putting this creature on TV #FindDanaLangley

"Well," you murmur, wondering if it would be inappropriate to burst into tears, "these aren't especially helpful."

Derek looks at you, his gaze measured, and you know he's not sure how to react to you or what's happening. He settles on his usual loving encouragement, because he's a very good friend.

"Don't listen to all that," he says, throwing his arm around your shoulder, "those trolls wouldn't know beautiful if it hit them in the face. But we could always try it?"

You sink into his hold, needing the reassurance even if you wish you didn't. "No hitting," you say, covering your mouth to hide a large and possibly fugly yawn. Your head is racing with regurgitated insults. "It doesn't matter, Derek. Promise. We have bigger stuff to deal with."

The door opens and Hotch and Emily step inside, Rossi just behind them. You're thinking Hotch is going to agree with your sentiment, no time for comfort when a woman's life is at stake, so you move away from Morgan to sit in front of your laptop again.

"Is something wrong?" Hotch asks.

You meet his eyes just long enough to smile at him. "Nothing. What did Amandla have to say?"

Emily retells the alibi of Dana's ex-girlfriend and is clearly suspicious but without proof, you're forced as a team to move on to the next lead. Spencer returns shortly afterward and you try to brainstorm your next step.

It's Penelope that pulls through. "You asked me to cross reference the neighbours at Dana's previous address with people crossing state lines, right, after that one guy ended up being kinda icky? Well I did that, and nothing came up, which was–"

"Garcia," Hotch interrupts.

"Right. Long story short, one of the neighbours recently had an extreme falling out with Icky Guy after a years long friendship, his name is Justin Mantova, he has extreme PTSD with documented episodes of confused aggression, and he's been seen coming in and out of a storage unit in Paseo Storage Solutions for the past four days."

"Address?" Hotch asks.

"Already sent to your phones."

"Thank you, Pen," you say.

"Just go catch the bad guy, pretty girl," she says.

Ah, so she's seen the tweets too. You frown rather than smile, reminded again of what's been said and wishing you could be anywhere else.

You get your wish and forget all about personal grievances for a while, concerned with the safe location and extraction of Dana Langley. The operation is clean, and she's hurt but has a great chance at a full recovery. It's quick, it's professional.

You're falling asleep in the SUV on the way back. Hotch at the wheel, Spencer in the backseat, you rub your eyes from the passenger side and try not to look suspiciously morose, but it's impossible. Hotch is too good at his job.

"Are you sure everything's okay?" he asks. With Spencer's window open and the wind whipping, it's hard to hear him.

"Hm?"

"Is everything okay?"

"I'm just tired." You don't look at him. It's rude of you, but if what they've said is true —you'd seen the photographs, and you looked tired, sure, but you still looked like you. "Just tired," you say again. You snap your mouth closed when your voice wobbles.

Hotch is regularly too sweet on you. Most of the team say it's a crush. Emily calls it 'character development. Whatever it is, he's nice to you. He warmed up to you near immediately when you first joined the team, and he's been as welcoming months later as he was in your first week.

Maybe he feels sorry for me, you think, submerging yourself inch by inch into self pity.

The three of you regroup with the others at the police station to pen immediate recounts of what happened before you can forget, tying up loose ends.

Finally you're able to go back to the hotel. Another half an hour and you're in the lobby.

"We'll go home in the morning. Nine AM flight, meet in the lobby at eight thirty," Hotch says. "Get some rest."

You disband. They've squeezed you in all over the place, and you're lucky enough to be next to the elevator on the second floor. Hotch is the third floor, and everyone else the sixth, so you say goodbye to your colleagues and exit the elevator, stepping onto the second floor with a parting smile.

You can't know it, but Hotch notices the way your smile falls before the doors have well and truly closed. Your shoulders slump in defeat.

You trudge into your room and don't bother turning on the lights. The door closes behind you and the mask you'd been holding up starts to crack. You put your laptop in the closet despite temptation to boot it up, knowing no good can come of looking at the tip hashtag again.

You head into the bathroom to pee, and you're confronted with your appearance as you wash your hands.

You stare at yourself.

You look tired.

Tears well as you look at yourself. You're not those things those people said. You're pretty, and when you smile everyone knows it. There's nothing so beautiful as a smile. You can't summon one, but you know it's the truth.

Or, it should be.

A single tear falls down your cheek, quickly followed by a second, and a third from the other eye. You ignore them, tracing the line of your bottom lip, the texture of your skin on your cheeks, the slight sunken effect of your under eyes.

A knock makes you flinch. "Fuck," you say, wiping your cheek with the back of a hand, twisting on the spot like looking into your room might reveal whoever it is at the door. Probably one of your team. "Hello?" you call.

"It's me. It's Hotch. I know it's after hours, but I wanted to speak with you."

Whatever reassurance he has to give might actually make this all much worse. You don't want any pity from anybody, you just want today to be over. Still, you wiggle your toes into the plush hotel carpeting, debating only for a moment about the pros and cons of pretending to be asleep.

"Hey," you say, opening the door. You wipe your eyes and hope he takes it for a tired gesture rather than a method of hiding the glassy sheen at your waterline. "Hi, Hotch, how are you feeling?"

"Fine. Tired. Thank you for asking."

"Do you want to come in?" you ask.

"Please."

Hotch follows you into your room. There's an armchair across from the bed next to a desk and an old TV sitting atop it. Your suitcase is still open on your bed, your pyjamas crumpled in the shell. You close it before Hotch can see. That's another thing to add to your list: being a slob.

"It's very clean in here," he says.

You startle. "What?"

"It's clean, considering how long we've been here. Have you ever seen Spencer's room at the end of a case?" he asks.

"No, is it bad?"

"It's like a paper hurricane."

You look down at your knees, hyper aware of his gaze on your face, tired of feeling uneasy in your skin.

"I wanted to say thank you for doing the press release yesterday. You did an amazing job. It's something to be proud of."

Of course he's talking about the press release, the one thing you need to not think about.

"Did Derek tell you?" you ask.

"Tell me what?" he asks, voice sharpening.

You look up. Hotch is a picture of concern, professionalism slightly off centre.

"Nothing."

"Something's been bothering you. Something Derek should've told me, I'm guessing."

You chew over your words. "Uh. Hotch, it's really nothing, it's a hiccup. The press release, I…" You really don't want to have to say it. The words get stuck at the back of your throat.

He leans forward. "What?"

"I looked sick. On TV. I looked really unwell, and it– it actually–" Why are you stammering? What's wrong with you? You laugh and it's not your laugh but it's better than your nonsense stuttering. "Sorry. On the press release, I didn't look my best, and it was a hot topic. That's what I thought Derek told you about. But I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me, Hotch."

"I don't feel sorry for you."

You wince, "No, of course not."

"Two seconds," he says, putting his hand forward in the air between you. "A hot topic? I don't understand." He looks genuinely apologetic.

"The tip line got clogged up with comments about my appearance," you say. You phrase it as a professional error rather than the embarrassing event it represents in your personal life.

His lips curl downward. "Saying you looked tired."

"Saying I looked unagreeable."

"As a friend," he says, tone softening, "could you tell me what they said?"

Heat blooms in your cheeks and behind your eyes, your throat aching as you scratch at a nonexistent itch in the crook of your elbow. "Um. Well, there was a lot of them, and they weren't all about me, but the ones I saw, they seemed to think I needed more sleep. That I–"

Hitch rarely interrupts, but something in your voice must impel him. "What did they say?" he asks again.

"That I looked like a creature. That they hoped Miss Langley would be found, so that they didn't have to see my face on TV again. Hotch," you say, your throat sounding as tight as it feels, "it was pretty bad, but it really doesn't matter."

"I think it matters if it's upset you," he says.

He has the warmest voice when he wants it to be, so dulcet, almost melodic. You'd think it was a practised phrase, but he speaks freely.

"It didn't," you lie.

Pointless in your line of work and automatic anyways. Hotch doesn't deny you the safety of your untruth, but he doesn't entertain it, either.

"You're beautiful when you're tired," he says.

You don't mean to, but you hold your breath. The silence that follows his remark is deafening.

"You're beautiful," he says, again, as though you could've missed it the first time. "Regrettably, you're very tired, but you don't look any less pretty. Don't think what was sent in to the tip line has any merit."

"Are you saying that as my friend or my boss?" you ask. It's meant to be a joke that lightens the mood.

"Neither," Hotch says.

You gawp, and then falter. "Why…"

Hotch is close enough to offer a hand, and you're feeling stupid enough to take it. He squeezes tenderly, looking you straight in the eye. "I'm sorry about what's being said. I had no idea. We can pull the video, and the tipline should stop now Dana's been found, but it doesn't erase what's already happened. I'm so sorry. It's not right, and it's not fair."

"It's a hard job, right?" you ask.

His hand is so so big, and not as soft as you'd pictured. It doesn't make a difference, not when he's touching you like you might shatter.

"That's not the job," he says.

"It's silly to care, though. About what other people think."

"I hope you care about what I think. The merit of an opinion comes from the person, and the relationship you have with them. Anyone who knew you would know that you're beautiful."

"Inside that counts," you say, not fully comforted, but trying to give him an out.

"You're beautiful on the outside," he says, giving your hand a small shake. "You're an amazing woman, of course. But I, for one, enjoyed seeing your face on TV."

You try not to smile too hard, directing your gaze at your joined hands lest he get a read on you.

Hotch must know how you feel about him. He'd be an awful profiler if he didn't. You fawn when you're around him even now, months down the line from your very first meeting when you were sure your heart would ricochet from your chest, the intensity of your instant crush like nothing you'd felt, not even as a schoolgirl. He'd been tall, striking, classically handsome and completely unaware of the fact. Now he's sitting across from you and he doesn't seem so tall, nor so striking. His caring side shines like a gem. It's blinding, and it really does make you feel better.

"I cried in the bathroom," you confess, rubbing your thumb against his in minute, near imperceptible circles. "I wish it didn't matter to me, how I looked. I know I was doing something important, and there wasn't time to freshen up. Maybe I should've just asked somebody else."

"You did it perfectly. You were perfect. No one else could have delivered the profile to the public that professionally, and that astutely."

Hotch stands up, and you don't know what to do. You decide to look up at him just as he takes your face into his hands.

"No crying in bathrooms, okay? It would… it breaks my heart thinking about it. You come to me."

Such a dramatic statement, yet Hoch lays it out like it's an unquestionable truth. No bravado, only a sincerity that makes your throat hurt. His frown slides back into place as his palms warm your cheeks.

"You're so busy, I could never," you say, shaking your head.

"Time and place, sure, but. I will always try to make time for you. I hope you know that by now."

You nod dazedly. Hotch's hands drag with a pressure down to your neck, your shoulders, leaving tingling skin in their wake. He looks at you and time stretches, a few seconds pulled out of order. It's his closeness, and his affectionate, empathetic smile.

You nod again.

He relaxes.

"Try and get some rest, okay? You need to take care of yourself. I know it's hard to ignore how you feel, I know today was hard, but you're one of the strongest people I've ever met. I have faith in you." He gives your shoulder a final squeeze. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," you say. It comes out much more quietly than intended.

"Rest, honey. Call me if you're upset again. I mean it."

He smooths your cheek with the back of his forefinger and you wonder if this is some weird fantasy. Hotch makes for the door, and you know for sure it's real when he says, "And no more caffeine tonight."

"No more caffeine," you agree.

He doesn't realise he's twice as bad as a coffee. Your heart races all by itself, his phantom touch on your cheek.

—

"Hi, beautiful," Derek says.

"There's the girl of the hour," Rossi says.

You roll your arm in a bow, eyes stinging from the bright lobby lights but otherwise quite happy. Hotch called you beautiful last night. Hotch called you honey. People on the Internet who have nothing better to do thought you looked gross, but Hotch thinks you're pretty. It's hard to focus on the negative with a positive that good.

"Good morning, my favourite boys," you say sweetly.

Spencer looks up from his book. "Hey."

"You didn't say hello," you say, "you excluded yourself."

Spencer frowns and goes back to his book. You offer him a mini cookie from your pocket and he perks up, better when you whisper, "You know you're my favourite, Reid."

"We all know that's a lie," Emily says, rolling her small suitcase to your left and nearly trampling your foot.

"Unfortunately so," Rossi agrees.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hotch looks chipper this morning, doesn't he?" Derek asks, nodding. You follow his nod too quickly and give yourself away, earning a scattered round of laughter from your tired team. "Got you."

"Laugh it up," you say. You're on a high that can't be killed, even with their collective teasing.

"Why are we laughing?" Hotch asks from behind you.

You jump half out of your skin.

"We were laughing at Y/N's swift observational skills, but we spoke too soon," Emily says.

Hotch takes a moment to smile at you. "Hey, you look a little more rested. Feeling better?"

A flush rises to your cheeks. "Much," you say, sounding foreign to your own ears.

Hotch gives a pleased nod and clasps your shoulder gently before manoeuvring around you. "Let me go see where JJ is."

He walks around the lobby corner and into the hotel restaurant. You have your face in your hands before he's gone, harassed by quiet whistles and giggling.

"She's so embarrassed!" Rossi cheers, like a proud dad. "How hopeless, young love."

"Someone please shut him up," you beg, rubbing your aching eyes. It's an excuse to hide your smile a moment longer.

"Are you still tired?" Spencer asks. "You look tired."

"She does not," Derek says severely.

You raise your head with a smile. Tired or not, Hotch thinks you're beautiful. He liked seeing you on TV. You lavish the memory.

"I'm genuinely exhausted," you say eventually, a smile stretching from cheek to cheek as you stand tall again.

"I want whatever kind of tired you're feeling," JJ says as she arrives, Hotch a step behind her.

You meet his eyes. You think he might not acknowledge what's been said between you —it wasn't strictly professional to have held your face in his hands like that, after all— and the beginnings of disappointment creep in, until he stands at your side, his fingertips brushing yours. It cannot be accidental.

"She wears it well, doesn't she?" he asks the group. He gives no time for an answer. "Everyone ready?"

You practically vibrate your way to the SUV. Not a bad case, as they go.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, so much! I hope you enjoyed! if you did and you have the time, please consider reblogging cos it makes me happy <3

#aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotch hotchner

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 months ago

Text

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

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