#not only did it look like a post apocalyptic world yesterday but it WILL be one at this rate

[navyhyuck]

anyone else fear we are plummeting towards a worldly disaster or is it just me

[punkshort]

Chapter warnings: explicit smut (I don't know how much detail I should go into without giving too much away, but let's call it porn with a sprinkling of plot), language

Chapter Fourteen

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, pre-outbreak and post outbreak

AU (the only thing I kept was the outbreak, Joel, and Tommy's characters. Joel's backstory is different, and the way he finds Jackson is different. I may include Ellie one day, I just haven't planned that far)

Fic Summary: You worked for Joel and Tommy a few months before the outbreak. The outbreak happens, and you and Joel get stuck traveling the country and keeping each other safe. Neither of you spoke about the feelings you had for one another pre-outbreak, and in a post-apocalyptic world, it seems like survival should be your only focus. But feelings can't be ignored forever.

Fic tags: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Smut, Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Age Difference (Reader is 10 years younger than Joel), slow burn, mutual pining, angst, trauma, SA referencing later but I will put a big warning on those chapters

The sun was bright as it beamed through the window, washing over your face and making you squint before you even opened your eyes. You groaned and rolled over, wondering how you had forgotten to close the curtains last night when you realized you weren't in bed, but on the couch in the living room. You cracked one eye open and looked around, spotting the wine glasses on the coffee table and the fire that had gone out long ago. Opening both eyes, you sat up and looked around the living room, then peered into the kitchen when you didn't see Joel. Looking down, you noticed he had covered you with a blanket at some point. You pushed it to the side and stood up to stretch, the side with your injury responding with a quick jolt, reminding you to take it easy.

You wandered into the kitchen looking for any sign of Joel. Anxiety set in as you wondered if he regretted last night, that maybe he was drunk, and you thought it meant more than it did. You paused at the bottom of the stairs when you heard water splashing from the bathroom off the master bedroom. He's probably just washing up.

You whipped your head around trying to remember where you put your backpacks yesterday, then spotted them in the den. You dug through your pack until you found a half-used tube of toothpaste. You squirted a glob onto your pointer finger and swished it around your teeth, cheeks and tongue as you walked to the kitchen to take a swig of water from your canteen and rinsed.

Trying to keep your nerves in check, you approached the stairs and slowly made your way up, listening as the sound of water stopped. You heard fabric rustling on the other side of the door when you entered the bedroom. The attempt at calming your nerves was a lost cause as you felt your heart hammering in your chest. You looked meekly around the bedroom, unsure what to do with yourself as he finished up. You wanted to sit on the bed, but you didn't want to look like you were just out there waiting for him to come fuck you. Finally, you decided to go into the closet where you kept some spare clothes so you could pretend to be busy folding them. You turned away from the bathroom and took one step in the direction of the closet when the door swung open.

He must have washed his hair because it was wet and slicked back. He had put a flannel on with his usual jeans, but he left the top two buttons undone on his shirt, giving you a peek at his tanned chest. Your mouth hung open as you took him in before finally meeting his heated stare.

"Hi," you murmured, the tension palpable. Joel took two long strides and grabbed your face in his hands, pulling you up to him as his lips found yours. He sighed against your mouth when he felt you return the kiss, massaging your lips on his, then granted you access when your teeth grazed his lower lip. He walked you backwards until you hit the wall of the bedroom, his tongue hungrily exploring your mouth, making you moan. He lowered his hands from your face to reach down and grip the backs of your thighs before yanking both your legs up to wrap around his waist, pinning you between him and the wall.

You squeaked in surprise and grabbed onto his broad shoulders to keep you balanced, your tongue swirling with his as one of his hands slid up your thigh to grab your ass, giving it a firm squeeze while his other hand braced himself on the wall behind you. He ground his hips into your aching core, making you break the kiss and cry out. Even through the thick fabric of your jeans, the contact sent a jolt from your cunt to your fingertips. You gasped as his mouth latched onto your neck, nipping up and down your throat followed by soft licks to soothe any pain he may have caused.

"Joel," you panted, raking your nails through his wet hair and gently over his scalp, making his eyes roll back in his head as he moaned against your neck. "Please," you begged, grinding your hips against his to try to find some relief. He removed his hand from the wall and lifted you up, turning you both around and walked the few steps to the bed, tossing you down to land on your back. He stood between your legs at the end of the bed, panting and staring down at you all sprawled out for him. You reached down to unbutton your jeans and shimmied out of them, tossing them on the floor. His gaze immediately locked onto your underwear, which were nothing special, just a pair of light blue cotton panties, but your arousal was evident by the darkness spreading at the center, making him groan loudly and palm his erection over his jeans.

You leaned back on your elbows with your knees bent and legs partially spread. His gaze flicked up from your pussy to look you in the eye. His lips were parted as his chest heaved, and his pupils were blown wide as he ran his eyes down your body again, drinking you in. Even with your shirt still on, you were beginning to feel self-conscious under his stare.

"Don't you want me?" you asked him sweetly, making him tear his eyes off your body and back onto your face. Lips still parted, he nodded eagerly, and palmed his cock again. He had yet to say a single word to you and you were growing impatient.

"Then tell me," you said, watching as he swallowed roughly, "tell me how badly you want me."

He growled as he leaned forward on the bed, placing his fists on either side of you to hold himself up, and gently pressed his lips against yours again, slowly applying more pressure to your mouth as he inched forward, pushing you to lay flat on your back as he brought his knees to rest between your legs. He released your lips and lifted his head up to look at you, taking one of his hands still fisted next to you on the bed to gently cup your face. His gaze was soft, and his eyes sparkled from the sun peeking through the curtains as he admired you. You sighed and closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

"I've wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you," he croaked, his voice thick with emotion. You opened your eyes to meet his gaze as he continued, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "I wasted so much time, fought it for so long," he said, shaking his head, "I never thought I could feel this way again, then you showed up, talkin' back to me in that meeting in front of everyone."

He smiled at the memory, running his thumb over your soft lips.

"Couldn't get you out of my damn head, you know that?" He leaned down to give your lips a tender kiss as you whimpered at his sweet words. "Then the world went to hell, and there we were, protectin' each other, carin' for each other." You smiled up at him now, trying not to ruin the moment with tears. You placed your hand over the one he held on to your face, rubbing circles over his damaged knuckles.

"I don't think I can put into words how badly I want you, sweetheart," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. "But I promise you, I ain't gonna waste another second spent with you ever again."

"Joel," you rasped, desperately trying to hold back your tears as he lifted his head up, and you looked back and forth between his eyes. You snaked your hand around to the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss you, pouring all your emotions into every bite on his lip and flick of your tongue. Joel ran his hand down your side to the bottom of your shirt, pushing it up as he slid his hand up your stomach and over your ribs until he reached your bra. He tucked his fingers underneath the fabric to palm your breast gently before expertly rolling your nipple between his fingers.

You cried out at the sensation and tipped your head backwards, arching your back and pushing yourself into his hand further. He leaned back on his knees to lift your shirt over your head, followed quickly by your bra. You laid underneath him, almost completely exposed, while he was still fully clothed. You whined and pulled at the waistband of his jeans, preventing him from staring at the pink scars along your ribs.

He slid off the bed to quickly shed his jeans and flannel, leaving him in just his boxers as he crawled back on top of you, pressing his warm skin against your own. The air was making the arousal soaking through your underwear feel cold against your skin, and you shuddered. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and placed gentle nips along your collarbone. He held himself above you on one forearm next to your head while his free hand went back to cup your other breast, pinching your nipple between his fingers. You were pinned underneath him, hardly able to move, but you ran your hands up his arms, feeling his muscles twitching under your touch. Your hands landed on his shoulders, and when he gave your nipple a particularly harsh pinch, you dug your fingers into his muscles, rolling your head to the side and let out a yelp.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured against your throat. "Let me make it feel better."

He bent his head down to latch onto the sore spot, sucking your nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue over the tip. You moaned, threading your fingers through his drying curls. He released you from his mouth, hovering just over your breast, and gently blew across the wetness he left on your skin. The shock of going from warm to cold made your nipples harden even more, to the point where it was almost painful.

"Fuck, Joel, please," you begged him as he placed gentle kisses along your sternum. His eyes shot up to your face, taking pride in how unraveled you had become under him. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips swollen, and you were struggling to catch your breath. He hummed against your skin. He wanted to give you what you wanted, but he didn't want to rush, either.

"You're gonna have to give me a minute, sweetheart. I've been waitin' a long time for this." he said, sighing as his fingers danced around your ribs. He froze when he felt the shiny, uneven skin of your scars from when you were stabbed. Stabbed when you saved his life.

He lifted his head to get a better look at the injury, gently running his fingers along the edges, marveling at the way goosebumps raised immediately from your skin. He leaned down to press a soft kiss along each of the scars you carried, murmuring to himself after each one.

"What did you say?" you panted, struggling to focus on anything other than his touch.

He ran the tip of his nose over the scars before answering.

"I'm so proud of you, you're so brave and beautiful," he whispered. "I'd do anythin' to keep you safe."

You groaned, wondering if it was possible to have an orgasm from just words alone. You beamed from the praise and lifted your hips up to try to find friction, your cunt pulsing with need. Joel noticed the movement and glanced down between you, deciding to finally give in.

He rolled off you to lay on his side, then wrapped his fingers around the edges of your underwear, tugging them down to your ankles, where you kicked them off the rest of the way. He eagerly climbed back over you and nudged your knees open wider so he could kneel between them. He sat back on his heels and, using his thumbs, pulled open your folds. His jaw hung open, and with a long, drawn-out groan, dragged his eyes back up to yours.

"This all for me?" He drawled, his cock throbbing in his boxers. All you could do was nod, your chest heaving in anticipation. "You're soaked, fuckin' hell, you poor thing," he said, looking back down at your dripping cunt. "D'you want me to take care of you?" he asked lowly, his eyes a darker shade of brown you've never seen on him before. You nodded again, still gasping for air. He reached his bandaged hand up and lightly gripped the underside of your chin.

"Tell me," he growled your previous words back to you, as he struggled to restrain himself from just sliding inside you right away. He wanted to make it last, wanted to make you feel good. He wanted it to mean something.

"I need you," you gasped, your fingers gripping the sheets so tightly that your knuckles were turning white. "Please, baby, I'm gonna explode if - oh!" Your back arched off the mattress and your head tilted back, mouth agape when he finally slid a thick finger inside you.

"'Baby?'" Joel panted, "Oh, I like that."

You let out a filthy moan as he set a steady pace, plunging his finger in and out, his thumb brushing against your clit teasingly before he slid a second finger inside. You bent your knees as you rocked your hips along with his thrusts, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched you come undone. With his thumb, he pressed down on your clit, swirling it around slowly as he watched your pleasure building, your gasps for air became harsher, and your moans morphing into cries.

He leaned forward on his free hand, his fist pushing into the mattress next to you, as his other hand picked up the pace inside your cunt. His jaw was slack, and his eyes were glazed over as he watched your face contort in pleasure, your eyes squeezed shut, your lower lip trapped in your teeth, moaning his name. When he pressed onto your clit a little harder and began wiggling his thumb side to side, it set something off. You gripped his wrist that was next to you on the bed and your eyes snapped open, finally looking up at him.

"Joel," you panted, "J-Joel, I'm gonna, fuck, please," you begged, "please d-don't stop."

"You're doin' so good for me, sweetheart," he murmured, "I love watchin' you like this. I can't wait to feel this tight pussy around my cock, but I need you to come for me first," you felt the coil in your stomach about to snap and you did your best to keep your eyes open. When he said, "That's it, let go... come for me," your body stilled as you gasped, your vision went fuzzy and you covered your mouth with the back of your hand, biting down.

Joel removed his fingers and leaned down to plant a small kiss on your forehead, then your nose, and removed your hand so he could press his lips against yours before resting your foreheads together, waiting until you caught your breath and came back down to earth. You stared up at him lazily, trailing a finger over his shoulder and across his collarbone, noticing for the first time he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. You looked back at his face as he smiled down at you, but you could see the restraint behind his eyes, desperately trying to give you time to recover, but he was struggling.

You reached down between you and slid your hand inside his boxers, brushing up against the tip of his cock. You made your way down to the base and wrapped him in your hand. He hissed and his eyes fluttered closed as you began to work him up and down, gathering his precum with each stroke.

"Do you like that?" you asked him quietly, twisting your wrist back and forth now as you pumped him up and down, his breath growing erratic and the arm that supported him began to shake.

"Yes," he rasped. His forehead rested on your shoulder so you could feel the tickle of his exhale on your neck. "But you gotta stop, or else this'll be over before it began."

You let out a low chuckle but did as you were told. Once you let him go, you hooked your fingers on the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down as far as you could reach. He lifted his forehead off your shoulder so he could fling them into the corner of the room, then settled back over you again, leaning down to give you a quick kiss as his knees nudged your inner thigh. You opened your legs up wider so he could settle his hips in between, his heavy cock pressed between you both, the length of him sliding between your folds as his hips gently rocked back and forth.

A deep groan rumbled in his chest as he felt your slick coating him. He was rubbing against your clit, and it was driving you crazy, already feeling the start of another orgasm building.

"Joel, please, I need you," you whispered against his mouth. He lifted his hips up and with his fist, lined himself up, the tip of his cock gently prodding at your entrance a few times before he pushed himself inside your aching heat.

"Oh, fuck," you moaned as he inched further inside you, stretching you out. He tried to go slow, but he couldn't hold back any longer. He buried himself inside you with one quick motion, making you both cry out. He gave you a minute to adjust before he leaned forward and rested his head back on your shoulder, rocking slowly into you as you raked your fingers through his hair.

"You're so warm, so beautiful," he murmured with his eyes closed. "You feel so good," his hand came down to squeeze the meaty part of your hip as he continued his steady pace. He didn't want to rush, he wanted to savor every moment with you. You bit your lip and lightly scratched your nails down his back, enjoying the feeling of him filling you up.

Joel lifted his head from your shoulder to press his lips against yours before peppering your jaw and sucking on the pulse point in your neck. You groaned as he lifted one of your knees up and pressed it against your chest, sliding out of you slowly before snapping his hips into yours, making you see stars. He created the perfect angle to hit your sweet spot when he brought your knee up, and it was dizzying.

He continued down your neck as his pace increased, leaving small bites along your collarbone. All you could hear was your skin slapping together and his quiet grunts that accompanied each thrust. You could feel your orgasm building in your lower abdomen, the familiar tension brewing as his pubic bone made direct contact with your clit each time he fucked into you.

"Joel," you whined, trying to warn him you were close.

"Keep takin' it," he grunted into your neck. "Just like that."

You squeezed your eyes shut trying to stave off your orgasm, but the noises he was making and the spot he was hitting inside was too much. You arched off the bed with a sob, digging your nails into his back. Your lips and fingers felt numb as your second orgasm washed over you, then finally you relaxed into the mattress. Joel sped up now, burying himself into you at a ruthless pace. He lifted his mouth from your neck and met your gaze.

"Tell me," he croaked again, his hair a mess and his face flush. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours, Joel," you whimpered. You were becoming sore and overstimulated as he pounded into you, but you kept talking. "I'm yours. I've been yours since we met," you continued as his thrusts became sloppy and his jaw clenched, focused on your words. "I wish you fucked me on the table in the conference room that night."

That sent him over the edge, pulling out at the last minute with a guttural moan and spurting hot ropes of cum all over your inner thighs.

Joel had to fight to keep himself from collapsing on top of you, instead rolling himself to the side at the last minute, gasping for air. He wrapped his arm around your waist and tugged you into him, planting small kisses on your temple and eyelids as you hummed, trying to collect yourself after two back-to-back orgasms. You finally opened your eyes and looked at him, his neck still splotched with red from the exertion and the sweat drying on his forehead. You couldn't help yourself. You reached your hand up to grasp the back of his head and brought him down for a burning kiss, running your tongue along his with a groan.

He sighed against your mouth before forcing himself to stand. He went to the bathroom to wet a rag and brought it back, gingerly cleaning up your thighs as you laid spread out before him. Your spent cunt was all he could focus on for a minute before he cleaned up the mess between your legs, taking a moment to admire his handiwork, then dropped the rag in the sink before sliding back beside you in bed.

"We should probably get up," you said to him, your eyes still closed. "You need to find a car battery."

"Batteries aren't goin' anywhere," he murmured, tightening his grip on your waist in case you were going to try to get up and start the day.

You laid there for a while, unsure if he had fallen asleep or not, but you felt so relaxed you weren't sure yourself if you were drifting in and out. You rubbed circles with your thumb along the back of his hand that clutched your waist and watched the sunlight dance along the walls of the bedroom. For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace.

"You’re right, that was worth the wait," you whispered. His face was buried in your hair, his breath tickling your neck, and his soft snores lulled you back to sleep.

Later that morning, Joel ventured out to the various garages in the neighborhood, trying to find a battery with enough juice to power the radio. You tried to busy yourself with unpacking and repacking your backpacks, making sure you were fully stocked with first aid, clothes, food, ammo, and rags - anything to keep your mind off the last 24 hours and how things have changed. But hard as you tried, your mind kept wandering to the feeling of Joel's hands and mouth all over you.

You heard a soft rumble of thunder in the distance. Looking out the window, you could see the sky was getting dark quickly. You glanced up and down the street to see if you could see Joel nearby but saw nothing.

You were in the small pantry, organizing the canned goods you collected and deciding which you would use for dinner tonight when Joel strolled through the front door, calling your name. You popped your head out from the pantry to grab his attention, noticing two car batteries in his arms. He put them both on the kitchen counter and turned to you, your hands each holding a canned vegetable.

“I think one of these might work,” he told you excitedly, "Got back just in time, it's about to pour." You tried to hide your disappointment. You knew that getting the radio to work was the beginning of the end to your blissful, domestic life at Hidden Springs. You gave him a pained smile and put the cans on the counter.

“That’s great,” you said, avoiding his gaze.  “Do you want corn or green beans tonight?”

Joel immediately picked up on your mood, taking a step forward and gently took hold of your chin in his hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes searching yours for answers. You shook your head, still dodging his gaze, trying to release his grip, but it only made him grab you tighter.

“I don’t want this to end,” you finally admitted, looking into his eyes for the first time. “I’m not ready to leave.”

His eyes softened as he looked at you, stroking his thumb along your jaw before pulling you forward to place his lips over yours for the first time since you left the bedroom. You moaned, wrapping your arm around the back of his neck to pull him closer and deepening the kiss. His tongue flicked against your lips, and you opened your mouth, allowing him to explore deeper. The desire damn near suffocated you as you ran your hand down his chest to his waistband, pulling him forward and groaning at the feeling of his stiffening cock against your hip. His hands ran down the length of you before settling on the back of your thighs and lifted you up to sit on the kitchen island. Joel broke the kiss and took half a step back to admire you, raking his eyes up and down your body.

“I had a fantasy like this, once,” he admitted, rubbing his hands along your thighs.

“Yeah?” you whined, chasing his mouth as he hovered over your own but stayed just out of reach. “Tell me.” He groaned at the now familiar command, gripping your hips tightly.

“I wanted to fuck you on my kitchen island,” he confessed, staring you dead in the eye as he watched for your reaction. “I wanted to sink my fingers inside you and watch you come, then I wanted to stuff you full of my cock and make you scream.” A rumble of thunder sounded closer now, the skies looking like they were about to open up.

Your head dropped to the side and your eyes rolled to the back of your head at his words, panting for breath now as you reached out to grab his shoulder and pull him closer to you. Your lips latched onto his feverishly, and slipping down from the counter, unbuttoned your jeans before breaking the kiss and turning around, pressing your ass against his hips. You looked back at him innocently over your shoulder.

“Show me," you told him, as the rain began to fall quietly outside.

That was all the permission he needed to unzip your pants and yank them down along with your underwear, tapping your ankle with his own to make you spread your legs as far as you could with your legs still caged by your jeans. You obliged, jutting your hips out to him, anxiously waiting for his touch. He ran his hands down your ass slowly before giving one cheek a firm smack, prompting a small cry from you. He wasted no time before he took two fingers to explore along your slit, feeling the wetness collecting there as you moaned and tilted your head back.

“Are you always this ready, sweetheart?” he mumbled in your ear, slipping one finger inside you as you gasped and shook your head.

“No,” you replied, rolling your head to the side, “only for you.”

He groaned at your words, pushing a second finger inside you, making you wail as he thrusted them in and out, his breath ragged matching your moans. He pumped his fingers inside of you from behind, your hips matching his pace as you tried to chase your high, his other hand digging mercilessly into your hip.

“Joel,” you whined, your eyes squeezed shut as you felt the pressure build. “I’m gonna come, baby, please!”

“Then do it,” he snarled in your ear, a flash of lightning reflected on the windows. His hand released your hip and went down to hastily undo his belt. “Come all over my fingers, then I’m gonna make you scream my name with my cock.” He pressed a finger on your aching clit two, three times before you came, gasping and throwing your head back.

He didn't waste any time, quickly removing his fingers from your cunt and pressing the tip of his cock against your opening, giving you only a few seconds to realize what was happening before he pushed inside you with a deep groan. This time, he hardly gave you any time to adjust as he snapped his hips against your ass over and over, making you cry out and bite down on your lip, gripping the edges of the counter. He leaned forward and sunk his teeth into your clothed shoulder as you bucked against him, your hips desperately trying to match his rhythm. The rain beat steadily on the windows now as you could feel beads of sweat beginning to form at the sides of your head, gasping for air at the intense pace Joel set. You turned your head as far as you could to look back over your shoulder at him, his jaw slack as he stared down where he pummeled into you, your ass rippling with each thrust.

"Was it like this?" you asked, panting for breath. He finally looked up and saw you watching him, a smile spreading across your face.

"No," he grunted, fucking into you faster, making you squeeze the edges of the counter even harder. "This is so much fuckin' better."

You groaned and your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your pussy squeezed around him, and he could tell you were about to come.

"That's it," he panted, pulling you up from the counter so your back was flush against his chest, the new angle sending you over the edge. "Let go. Let me feel it. I can't get enough."

As promised, you screamed out his name at the same time thunder roared outside. You felt a jolt go through your whole body as you came, your slick coating his cock, gazing helplessly at the ceiling as he rammed into you, chasing his own release.

"That's my girl," he gasped in your ear, his arm wrapped around your chest so you could barely move. "Fuck, you feel so good, like you were made for me-" He grunted and then quickly pulled out, making you whine at the sudden loss, but then you felt the warmth of his release coating your ass and dripping down the backs of your thighs.

You slumped forward over the island to catch your breath, and Joel followed suit, resting the side of his face between your shoulder blades as his hands slid down your arms down to find your own hands, splayed flat on the countertop, intertwining your fingers together. Your eyes fluttered closed, relishing the intimacy before he inevitably pulled away to clean you both up. After tucking himself back into his jeans, he kneeled on the floor to loop his fingers around the sides of your panties, still wrapped around your ankles, and pulled them up, peppering the backs of your legs with kisses along the way.

He began to pull on your jeans, but halfway up you reached down to take them from him, wiggling your hips as the denim slid around your waist. You turned around to face him, buttoning them back up before planting a bruising kiss on his lips. He groaned against your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your face before pulling back, resting your foreheads together.

"You're gonna wear me out, sweetheart," he murmured as his thumb stroked your jaw. You sighed, leaning into his touch and gazed up at him through your eyelashes.

"I can't help it, I just keep thinking about all the times we could have been doing this," you whispered, your hand coming up to cover his own. "You could have been bending me over the desk in your office a year ago, instead of a kitchen counter in the middle of nowhere."

He inhaled sharply at the visual of fucking you in his office, his hand covering your mouth as he railed into you.

"Filthy girl," he muttered, pressing his lips firmly against yours before adding, "I thought about doin' that constantly, drove me insane." He could feel the blood rushing to his cock again, wondering how it was possible to want somebody this badly.

You hummed as you ran your hands up and down his torso, reaching up to finally plant a kiss on that heart shaped patch of skin in his beard, his hand dropping from your face to grip your upper arm, and another roll of thunder echoed through the house.

"Here are those reports you asked for, Mr. Miller," you whispered, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck, the low groan in his throat vibrating against your lips. You were already soaking through your underwear again, sighing as you turned your head to press small kisses on the other side of his neck. "Is there anything else I can do for you today?"

"Yeah," he growled, his grip on your arm tightening. "Get on your fuckin' knees and suck me off while I hop on this conference call."

He felt the smile tug across your lips against his throat, reaching down to palm his impossibly hard cock over his jeans.

"Whatever you need, sir," you murmured. You pulled away and sunk to your knees on the floor, placing your hand over his belt when you froze. You thought you heard a shout outside, but it was hard to tell through the thunderstorm. You frowned, looking up at Joel to see if he heard it too, but he was already looking through the kitchen and past the living room out the front window, his eyes widening, then ducked down behind the kitchen island where you were already squatting.

"Shit," he whispered, peering one eye around the corner of the island to look out the window. He saw at least four men carrying rifles and shotguns, shouting to each other over the rain, kicking the door in across the street and waving their arms, motioning for two more men to follow, as they ran inside the empty house to get out of the storm.

"How many?" You whispered, even though you knew they couldn't possibly hear you.

"Six, maybe more," he said through clenched teeth. Once he was sure they were all inside the house, he turned back to you. "We gotta be quick. Grab our packs and coats, I'll go get our weapons and we gotta sneak out the back," he told you, jutting his chin towards the mud room door off the kitchen. "Once this storm lets up, they'll come back out." He saw the look in your eye, and he put a stop to it before you could even say anything.

"There's too many, we can't take 'em sweetheart, I'm sorry." He knew you didn't want to leave, but you both knew this day would come sooner or later. "Now, c'mon, go get our stuff, stay as low as you can so they don't see you in the windows."

You turned away from him and army crawled along the kitchen floor into the den, slowly pulling each of your backpacks towards you, staying below the windows in the room that faced the street. You slung yours over your back and hooked his around your wrist as you turned back, still flat on the floor, and pulled yourself back into the kitchen, shoving his pack near the back door and shrugging yours off to leave next to his. You noticed the door leading to the garage was cracked, and you heard Joel rummaging in the garage for your weapons. Lucky for him, there were no windows to avoid in there.

You continued to crawl towards the living room where you saw your coats draped over the arm of the couch, pulling them down slowly, thankful the rain was coming down so hard now that it was making it difficult to see outside.

By the time you made it back into the kitchen, he was already waiting behind the island with your weapons in hand. You tossed him his jacket and shimmied yours on, zipping it up before pulling your pack back on, now sitting behind the island with him.

"I just repacked these this morning while you were out," you whispered as he pulled his backpack on. "Whatever we're missing, we can get along the way." He nodded, handing you your bow and handgun, while he shouldered his rifle and slipped his revolver into the back of his jeans.

"You ready?" He asked, meeting your gaze. You nodded, trying to hold back your emotions, knowing it was stupid to get attached to a house. He reached his hand out to cup your jaw, knowing what you were thinking without having to say it. He leaned forward, pressing his lips against yours quickly, then dropped his hand to crouch along the kitchen floor, motioning for you to follow him through the mud room and out the back.

Under the cover of the sheets of rain and neighboring houses, you followed Joel through the backyard and towards the woods surrounding your little sanctuary, throwing one last look over your shoulder, committing the image of the white house with blue shutters to your memory before turning back and facing the dense forest ahead.

Chapter Fifteen

Tag list: @chiogarza, @sparklejumpropequeen-777, @shotgun-shelby

[solastia]

Apocalyptic Confessions

I was depressed Had a breakdown and wrote something sad and sweet Bone Apple Tea

Song: If the World Was Ending (JP Saxe ft. Julia Michaels)

Pairing: Namjoon x Yoongi

Warnings: Emotional infidelity (not between them), MCD, Basically bittersweet ending

(Posting this on tumblr because I read it again and my own work made me cry)

**************

He’d spent weeks thinking about how he’d like to spend his final day on earth since he’d first heard the news. He’d already gotten all his big wishes out of the way - everything from spending lots of time with his family and friends to finally getting a huge tattoo. He’d taken in a cat and a dog since rescues were now just giving them away. He ate as many delicious meals as he wanted until his cheeks filled and his chest expanded - always the first to go when he gained weight. 

He’d even gone back to Daegu for a while and walked the streets of his old neighborhood, soaking up the memories until the sky turned crimson and the air became riddled with more pollution than their usual yellow dust. 

He’d spent lots of precious time with his members and life-long friends once he returned. All the guys were older and established with their own families, so they would understandably be spending their last day with them, but they still spared time for their lifetime bachelor Suga hyung. 

He wasn’t ashamed to say every single one of them had cried in each other's arms. They’d all gone through so much together - grew up together, really - and they’d lived a good life until now. He’d reverted into his role of Bangtan Father Figure and comforted them as much as he could, holding their youngest members as they clung to him and cried into his seven million won jacket. The final goodbyes with his members had been even harder than the ones with his parents and brother. Poor Jungkook had cried so hard that Seokjin had to carry him to his car, and Hobah hadn’t been much better. 

That had been yesterday, though, and now all of his members were safely ensconced in their homes with their families to wait out their final day on Earth before the planet killed them all. 

He’d never looked into every detail of the circumstances. Didn’t feel like he needed to because he grasped the basics - global warming, planet combusts, everything dies. Today was the day the news had announced was the suspected D-day, and judging by the way the world was crumbling around them, it was accurate. 

As it was, breathing was getting harder and the temperatures were scorching. The sky had been a canvas of crimson, orange, and yellow for days. Debris fell from the sky as bits of the planet itself were obliterated. The scientists had predicted that the planet wouldn’t be completely destroyed, only just enough to kill everything and everyone off. Then in perhaps hundreds of years or more, life could begin again. He could only hope that if the afterlife were a thing, his spirit would survive and he’d be reborn with his members again. 

Ah , he sighed into his drink. He’s getting sappy. He didn’t even really believe in reincarnation or anything. But he’d want to be reborn and live next to him again. 

He closes his eyes and rolls the whiskey on his tongue as he settles into his recliner. He grabs the remote and hovers his thumb over the button, preparing himself mentally for what he’s about to watch. He exhales heavily and presses it, setting the controller down nearby in case it becomes too much and he needs to turn it off and finally turns his attention to the screen. 

The video comes to life slowly as an incredibly young version of himself peeks into view and grins at the camera while he adjusts the stand it sits on. The quality isn’t great because he’d purchased the old thing second-hand but it did the job. 

Yoongi shakes his head as he observes himself, noting the lack of his current wrinkles and the slim - nearly starving - physique. Not that he wasn’t still looking pretty damn good for someone that just turned forty-three. 

The boy in the video had just left home and joined BigHit. They still haven’t formed an actual group, he’s still at the bottom of every evaluation, and his knees are skinned and rubbed raw from trying to keep up with all the dancing. But his eyes are bright and he’s smiling at another kid that runs inside the dance studio. 

“Hyung, I’m back! Mom packed some dinner for you. Make sure you eat it all before the manager comes in.” 

The young Namjoon is a gangly thing with arms and legs that are too long for him to handle. He bends and smiles into the camera then shoves the fabric-wrapped bundle of food at Yoongi, watching him fondly as he shovels the food down his throat. Namjoon had always gone home to his parents at least once a week and always made sure to bring his starving roommate extra food. Their diets at the time had been brutal. 

Yoongi observes the two of them on the video, shaking his head as he watches them practice (very badly) some choreography to get them through the next evaluation. 

His idea for starting this video had been a little sad. He hadn’t been sure he would make it. He’d hoped and dreamed - worked his ass off - but you can never be completely sure of what the future holds. He’d always been more of a hope for the best but prepare for the worst kinda guy. So he’d bought the old camera and decided to film what he could so that when he someday was kicked out and had to go back to working some mundane retail job, he could look back at the memories. 

Only each clip that he added to the files of videos over the years showed them rising higher and higher. And he always made sure to get lots of close-ups of the man that held his heart. 

Not that he’d ever admitted that bit out loud, but it was no less true. He thought he could almost see himself falling as he watched the videos, observing the two of them go from teenage boys with alpha complexes to being best friends in chronological order. Not that they always got along - even they had their fiery battles where Namjoon could be the pettiest bitch alive and Yoongi had the magical ability to say exactly what could hurt the most. But they both had the same dream and both were stubborn as hell so they’d learned their way around each other. Eventually, Yoongi realized that the feelings of respect he’d developed for his friend and member kept growing until it was verging on dangerous. 

He’d always known he wasn’t quite…straight. Maybe not gay. Bi? Whatever. He’d never really liked labels. He’d had crushes on a few girls in high school and a few crushes on some male celebrities. He’d planned on marrying a woman and having kids to make his parents happy eventually, but he’d never felt for anyone else what he felt for Kim Namjoon. No matter how many blind dates he’d been set up on or escorts and models he’d fucked - not a single one of them was able to erase the way his heart skipped a beat when that big smile with his ridiculously deep dimples was aimed at Yoongi. 

However, his defining characteristics were that he’s a true Pisces and a workaholic, so he did what he did best - pined from afar and threw himself into his work. He’d done that successfully all these years, even as his members grew up, found their own loves, and created their own lives outside of their group. He found his version of happiness filling the world with his music. 

Still, he’d never stopped filming the videos. He’d never posted them publicly like JK had with his GC films. These weren’t for the world to see. These were memories that he kept for himself. For days like today, he supposed, when he was sitting all alone and facing the end of the world with just a drink and his precious memories. 

Surprisingly, he seemed to have kept them fairly balanced between the members. He had as many clips of the kids being silly as he did of Namjoon or himself. Lots of them hanging out in their old dorms, graduations, and silly teen antics. A bunch of videos of them drinking and acting stupid, usually having heated debates over absurd topics for fun, and Namjoon drunkenly discussing philosophical shit that put the younger ones to sleep. 

All their big moments he caught on film usually the second the Bighit cameras were gone, so he had lots of clips of them sobbing after winning their first awards. 

Actually, after that first award he’d had to pause the clip for a moment, staring at the way Namjoon was looking into the camera. At the time, he’d probably missed it or dismissed it - he didn’t remember. But now…the way that Namjoon stared into the camera…was because Yoongi was behind it. He was puffed up with pride and had that gorilla chin thing going on, but there was something else there. Something that made current Yoongi’s chest flutter dangerously. 

He fast-forwarded through other scenes for the next hour, noticing the trend. Namjoon would melt whenever Yoongi busted out his old camera and looked into the lens like the two of them were the only ones there. 

Huh. 

He’d never even noticed. He’d always been caught up in the moments as well, so maybe that was why. Or maybe the obliterated ozone was making him hallucinate. Whatever. He saw…something there. 

Or maybe he was just grasping for something to hold onto during his final moments. 

He sighed and slid from his seat, intending to top off his drink and maybe grab a pack of cookies. One benefit of being hours from death - no dieting. 

He put a few cookies on a plate, stared at it, then set the whole package on the tray as well. Then he grabbed his bottle of whiskey - a forty-five-year-old single malt scotch that he threw thousands down for that tasted just barely better than the stuff he bought at the grocery store for fifty won - and prepared himself another glass. 

He carried his tray of goods back to his seat and settled back in to watch more, pausing now and then to give the Maltese he’d adopted a cookie. 

After a few hours, the lights started to flicker and he stood up to peek outside. The sky was a violent crimson now, shot with orange and smatterings of black. There were small fires all over the city as things burned and crumbled. A cloud was in the far distance - crimson as everything else - but swirling and filled with debris. He figured that was probably going to be what took him out. He had no idea how he was staying as calm as he was. 

He took a shaky breath and reached down to pet the grey cat he’d adopted along with the Maltese. They were both anxious but dealing with it well. 

The cat meowed and twirled around his legs. 

“What do you need, Mellodi? Are you hungry?” 

He hums and leads the cat to the kitchen, the little white fluffball he’d named Gangaji (because he didn’t have the brain power left to think of anything better and it’s not like the pup would have to live with it forever) following them for a treat of his own. 

He fixes them the wet food he’d gotten from the shelter and watches them for a moment, wishing he’d gotten them sooner. It was nice having someone to take care of at home. 

He leaves them to their supper and goes back to the living room, realizing he’d forgotten to pause the video. It was playing the moment he’d busted out his old camera as Namjoon got ready for his wedding. He’d looked amazing - of fucking course he had. 

His hair had been dyed black and he’d gone with the usual black and white tux, but with little Namjoonesque accessories. 

And holy fuck, there was that look again. Namjoon stared into the lens right into Yoongi’s soul, smiling a little. 

“Hyung. I should do this, right?” 

He remembered how he’d practically heard alarm bells when Namjoon had said that. 

“You should only do what you want to do, Joon. You don’t have to marry someone to love them. Is this something you want?” He heard himself say and nodded at his sage wisdom. 

Namjoon sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I care about her and I’m excited to have a family.” 

He turned to the camera again and grinned into the lens. 

“You ever wanna get married, hyung? Or are you strictly dickly these days?” 

Yoongi had scoffed playfully. “Maybe. I’m in no rush. Plus, you know, I’m hard to deal with.” 

Namjoon shook his head and frowned into the camera. 

“You’re perfect, hyung. Not traditionally perfect, perhaps, but the perfect Yoongi. You know? You don’t need to change or become someone that is “easy to deal with.” Someone will learn to fit themselves to your puzzle piece instead of jamming them together - like we did. You know?” 

Namjoon had veered so much into his metaphor land that he nearly sounded like Taehyung. 

“Yeah, I hear you. And you’ll be good too.” 

Namjoon nodded, then took a deep breath. His eyes flattened into slits as he stared at Yoongi. 

“I love you, hyung.” 

“Love ya too, babo.” 

Yoongi stared at the screen, breathing in shakily. Fuck, he loved that man so much. He rewound the video, staring at Namjoon’s face as he said the words again. 

“I love you, hyung.” 

He could almost pretend they were said the way he’d always wanted to hear them. 

He sighed wearily and scratched the cat’s head when she jumped on him for attention. No sense dwelling on this now. 

He shut off the TV and leaned back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling while he continued to pet the cat. The clocks all over the house showed that it was almost ten in the evening now, which explained why he was starting to feel a little tired. Maybe he should just spend his last moments on earth doing what he loved best - napping. 

He nods to himself and groans as he heaves himself from the chair. He begins to shuffle towards the bedroom with his two new shadows following behind him when he hears his door rattle. 

Gangaji gives a single tiny bark and then he hears a knock. Not just any knock, but a series of four followed by a pause then two more. Namjoon’s knock. 

Yoongi’s eyebrows practically fly off his face in his surprise. He quickly jogs towards the door and messes with the locks, suddenly annoyed at his demand that there be at least four of them. Finally, he lifted the last latch and swung the door open, staring up in wonderment as Kim Namjoon stood there heaving heavy breaths as the world crumbled behind him. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Namjoon? Get the fuck inside!” 

He pulls the man into his apartment, his face turning bright pink from the small blast of heat and his worry. 

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with your wife and kids. You could have gotten seriously hurt! You could have… there's like fire out there and probably lava and shit and…”

Yoongi’s rant is muffled when a big hand grabs him by the shirt and pulls him closer. Namjoon is looking down at him - beautiful, glorious Namjoon who is a little bit sweaty from running around out there and has a cut on his arm - and Yoongi’s protests die. 

Namjoon is giving him the look from the video. The one that made his heart race and his stomach feel like he ate stew that had been on his Halmoni’s stove for five days straight.

“I couldn’t do it.” 

Yoongi screws his nose in confusion. “Couldn’t do what?” 

“I couldn’t live my last night on earth in a lie. I couldn’t…I tried to lay down with Aera and the kids but I just kept thinking of you here alone and…”

Oh. It was a charity thing. 

He forces a smile and pats his friend’s chest. That bouncy and plump chest that he still had after all these years…

He cleared his throat to make his straying thoughts cease. 

“You don’t have to worry about hyung, Joon. I got a couple of kids myself and I’m good. You need to go home,” he waves a hand carelessly and shows Namjoon the animals he’d gotten. 

Namjoon stares at them for a second and it’s obvious that he has to fight the urge to reach down to the puppy. He shakes his head and stares at Yoongi again, his gaze tightening with some sort of resolve. 

“No, hyung. The lie is that my home isn’t you . I want to be here with you .  I love you and I always have. You don’t have to do anything just…let me stay with you.” 

Yoongi’s heart is hammering in his chest as he stares up at his friend. “Like…romantically?” 

Namjoon’s smile quirks and he raises his eyebrow. “Yeah, hyung. Like romantically.” 

“How long?” 

Yoongi wasn’t sure that the answer mattered anymore, but he was curious. 

“Long time. Years and years. All the reasons why I didn’t go for it seem stupid and irrelevant now. But I…I just wanted to be selfish. Can I just…be selfish for today? Our final day on earth and I want to…” his head drops and Yoongi can hear his voice begin to wobble. “I want to die with you in my arms. I want to hold you and tell you I love you and that…that even though I don’t believe in reincarnation I want to just so we can do better next time.” 

Yoongi leans forward and presses his forehead into Namjoon’s chest. He breathes in deeply - taking note that underneath the sulphuric odor from outdoors, he was still wearing that fancy body wash scent. 

“I want that too,” he whispered, deciding fuck yeah, they can be selfish. He’d been sharing Namjoon with the world for twenty-five years. He deserves one fucking night. 

“Yeah?” Namjoon tilts his head up by his chin. “I kinda suspected sometimes that maybe you too but…do you love me? Like romantically?” He grins. 

Yoongi sighs dramatically, an answering shy smile tilting his lips. “Yeah, like romantically.” 

Namjoon gives his real smile then, the one that shows both dimples and the shine from his teeth could power a small country. Yoongi always loved Namjoon’s smile. 

Silently, he lets Namjoon lead them to the bedroom. He nods at the other's feet and Namjoon clumsily kicks off his shoes and - after sneaking a peek at Yoongi - snakes out of his jeans too. Yoongi climbs into bed and watches as Namjoon lowers himself next to him. How many nights had he laid in this very spot wishing he’d look over and see this very sight? 

Namjoon sighs as he lays his head on the pillow and reaches for Yoongi. The smaller man allows himself to be pulled closer and molded into the cage of Namjoon’s larger frame. He takes a deep breath and laces their legs together, pointedly ignoring the sound of glass breaking from somewhere in the living room. The animals race to get under the bed and he ignores that too, focusing only on the fact that he’s finally where he belongs at last. 

“I love you,” Namjoon rumbles, smiling happily. “Love you. Feels so good to finally get to say it.” 

Yoongi knows exactly what he means. Feels the need to say it over and over again like it’s a ward to keep him safe. 

“Love you, Kim Namjoon,” he sighs, reaching an arm across the small waist to pull himself even closer to him. Fuck, if he could figure out how to meld themselves together he totally would. 

Namjoon reaches out a large hand to tilt Yoongi’s face up, kissing him softly. Petal soft kisses span his entire face as Namjoon kisses first his lips, then his nose, both of his closed eyelids and finally his forehead before placing his hand on top of Yoongi’s head and playing with the strands. 

The sound of wood splintering has Yoongi whimpering and trying to get closer still, even if it’s physically impossible. 

The end was here at their beginning. 

“Hyung. I’ll love you next time too, okay? Don’t forget.” 

It’s getting harder to breathe as toxic fumes reach them and Yoongi fights to keep his eyes open. He stares hard at the man holding him, the love of his life. Of all his lives, if he had his way. The one he grew up with, fought with, dreamed with, loved with all his heart. 

“I’ll remember, Joon. Go to sleep now. I love you.” 

He watches as Namjoon tries to take one last huge breath, then his eyes shut and his arms tighten around Yoongi. He stares for one more second and then closes his own, sleeping forever in the arms of his love. 

[lagingersnapz]

Some Rain Must Fall - (Fallout Fic) Chapter 7: Take It As It Comes

Chapter: 7/?

In the past, the Ghoul seems to enjoy being cruel just for the sake of being cruel.

In the present, Lucy and Kelly fight to save the Ghoul from a swamp monster.

Characters: Lucy MacLean/Cooper Howard(The Ghoul), Dogmeat(CX-404), Original Characters

Word Count: 4757

Warnings: Violence, Swearing

Author's Note: I posted the last chapter without the keep reading line and didn't realize for hours, I think, so I am deeply sorry about that. It was a longer chapter, too. Ugh. But I remembered this time! And as soon as I realized yesterday I fixed it. The swamp monster is a giant, mutated caecilian, in case anyone was wondering. They aren't really found in the US, but I figured I could fudge the rules in the name of fanfiction. Also it's a post apocalyptic world, so.... Why not?

Previous Next

Ao3

~~~

If Lucy had thought the beach outside her vault had been bad, this desert was worse. As the greenery around the lake fell away from them, more and more of the world seemed to die, until she was marching through a land of nothing but sand and decayed buildings. And to make things worse, she was doing it with only one shoe, because the gulper had managed to digest part of her other boot until it had simply fallen off. The ground burned beneath her feet, and soon enough she found herself wondering which was worse, the burning of her foot, or the one in her throat.

Once they had gotten a ways out into the Wasteland, the Ghoul had removed the lasso from her neck. Her hands were still bound, and he probably figured she wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. With him her odds of survival were slim, but without him, hands bound, lost in the desert… Well, her odds could get worse.

The nausea that had taken hold of her after her time in the river had not faded, and she knew her lips were cracked and probably bleeding. Her skin felt somehow crusty with sand and grit, and yet sticky and slick from sweat at the same time.

As the pair passed a bus with faded paint reading ‘California Crest Studio Tours’, Lucy found her slow progress come to a halt. Looking back, she watched the Ghoul pull a canteen out of his saddlebags, and the dry feeling in her throat somehow got worse. He didn’t even look at her as he took a long, leisurely drink.

“Sir,” Lucy’s voice sounded as dry as her throat felt. “Sir, please, I need water.” He was clearly keeping her alive for something, and if that was the case, surely he would give her some water. Otherwise what would be the point of marching her along? Just to watch her slowly die? While he did seem fully capable of doing something so cruel, she got the feeling he was more calculating than that. The Ghoul looked at her, searchingly, clearly assessing her situation for himself.

“Please,” Lucy said again, hating begging but being beyond any ability to resist.

The Ghoul smiled at her, then turned his head so she could see as he dumped some more of the water into his mouth, making sure the canteen was far enough away that the water would glitter tantalizingly in the sunlight.

Shock briefly stole Lucy’s words as she watched him, her head shaking slowly in disbelief of what she was seeing. “Please!” Her voice broke even further. The Ghoul finished his drink and locked eyes with her, tipping the canteen until the last of its contents splattered into the sand and was quickly soaked up. He continued to hold her gaze as he capped the canteen and slipped it back into his saddlebags. Then his gun was back in his hand, and he gestured for her to keep walking.

Lucy shook her head at him, unable to comprehend doing what he was doing to another human being, then turned and kept walking through the blazing sand. Rotted and dilapidated houses stood like silent sentries to their passing, and Lucy’s mind had managed to travel far away, back to her vault, to comfort and showers and running water, when her Pip-Boy started clicking away, letting her know about a nearby source of strong radiation.

The apparent source of the radiation was a puddle of muddy water next to an overturned car. Lucy stared at it, wishing it was clean. She imagined immersing herself in a pool of clean, fresh water, letting herself soak it in until she grew gills. Which might very well happen, if she were to try it in the irradiated puddle in front of her.

“Water, water everywhere. And not a drop to drink,” the Ghoul drawled in his lazy voice.

Lucy looked at him, and if she had had enough fluid left in her body she might have cried out of sheer frustration.

“Ain’t  much stays clean up here, Vaultie.” His voice got a little softer. “You’ll see.”

Trying to swallow down the lump of grit in her throat, Lucy turned so she could square herself up to him. “Is that what happened to you?” She nodded her head towards the puddle. “Radiation?”

The Ghoul was looking at her with something behind his eyes, and Lucy couldn’t help but wonder for a second what he was seeing when he saw her, because sometimes she was sure it wasn’t her.

“Somethin’ like that,” he said. Then he started walking again, and Lucy didn’t need to be told to continue as well. Turning, she started to trudge forward as every cell of her body screamed at her to find something to drink before it quit on her.

Ahead of them, a billboard stood on rusted supports, the picture on it so worn away it was amazing any of it was left at all. It showed a Vault Boy, holding a piece of paper saying ‘Vault Shelter’ and along the side of the billboard was the phrase ‘It’s never too late!’ It seemed like it was too late now, but somehow the message gave Lucy hope, and she stopped so she could look up at it. A tiny slice of home out here in the middle of nowhere.

A gunshot was the only warning she got before the  face of the Vault Boy was replaced by a jagged hole. Turning, Lucy looked back at the Ghoul in shock. His face was still neutral, his eyes maybe a little thoughtful, as he lowered his gun, his gaze locked onto the billboard. Was his anger at her, or the billboard she had stopped to look at? She glanced between the two of them, panting from the heat, before she started walking again, not wanting to press her luck if his mood was truly so foul. She heard the crunch of sand and the jingle of spurs as the Ghoul fell back into step behind her.

Eventually everything started to blend together. The half collapsed houses all looked the same. One mound of sand was no different than the next. Step. Step. Step. Left. Right. Left. Right. The only thing that did seem to change was behind her, Lucy heard the Ghoul start to cough, quietly, like he was trying to do it under his breath so she wouldn’t notice. Because of that, it took Lucy a little bit to realize there was something else out there making noise as well.

They were passing a sign for Westfield Medical Clinic when she managed to decipher a little of what she was hearing.

“Roger!” The voice was somewhere between a cough and a statement, and trailed off into a growl. Lucy came to a stop, and so did the Ghoul right behind her. She wondered who or what might be inside the building.

“My name is Roger!”

The Ghoul looked at her, meeting her gaze, nodding at the building with his head. Lucy felt nerves squirm in her stomach. Whatever was in there didn’t sound like it wanted company, and she didn’t want to interrupt whatever it was doing. She would have rather continued the endless trek across the burning sand, but when the Ghoul started to move she took a step. Apparently not fast enough, because the Ghoul’s hand flattened against her shoulder blade, giving her a rough shove. Lucy didn’t even bother looking at him. Her eyes were locked on the building in front of them, and she wondered what new horror might be waiting inside.

***

The sound of splashing is what drew Lucy’s attention, but it was definitely the giant snake worm thing that kept it. Immediately she shoved Kelly behind her, and her blood ran cold. What if there were more of them? What was it in the first place? Before any of them had a chance to act, the thing let out a shrill scream and dove straight at the Ghoul. With a splash, both he and the creature disappeared beneath the choppy water.

“Kelly, get to high ground! See if you can get a shot on it!” Lucy called, watching as the girl scrambled for the nearest tree and, despite the slime on her, began to climb sure-footedly up into the branches. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than her being on the ground where any other strange creature might pop out and attack. With Kelly hopefully safe, Lucy could turn her attention to getting her Ghoul back.

Water frothed as beneath the surface a struggle continued. Lucy didn’t know what the best course of action was. She wasn’t going to be able to get a shot off on whatever it was from where she was standing, but if she stood around and waited, it could be too late by the time she did get an opening. And so, with very little–or perhaps no–plan in mind, she charged forward into the water, one hand on her gun. The 10mm felt pathetic in comparison to the creature that had grabbed the Ghoul.

“Lucy, straight ahead of you! I see it in the water!” Kelly’s voice called to her from the nearby tree, and Lucy nodded her head but didn’t look back at the girl, refusing to take her eyes off of the thing in front of her.

“Will I hit Wyatt?” she called back.

“I don’t think so. I don’t see him!”

Lucy took a deep breath and nodded her head. He had taken a bullet or two before and lived. Maybe even if she did hit him, it would be okay… Pulling up the gun she took aim. The water was frothing ever so slightly less, which did not bode well for the Ghoul. Lucy fired a shot, and then a second and a third. The muck in the water had been stirred up so thick that she couldn’t tell if she had even hit it. There was no sign of blood. Or of anything, for that matter.

The surface broke, and the thing came up screeching, its mouth empty. There wasn’t time to scan the water to see if the Ghoul had come up anywhere as well. Lucy wanted to move closer, to get a better shot, but she had no idea how deep the water might get. From how completely the thing had disappeared with its bulk she was certain it would be deeper than she was tall. Instead, she shot again, catching the thing along its writhing body and earning another screech.

“There!”

Lucy heard Kelly call out, and she was sure it was because she had spotted the Ghoul, but Lucy still didn’t dare look away, no matter how much she wanted to. This time, the thing dove for Lucy, and she had to scramble to the side. Its teeth missed her, but she felt its slick body hit hers, sending her stumbling. Another shot rang out, this time not from Lucy, and she risked a glance at Kelly, seeing the girl braced in the tree with her gun drawn. Rearing back, the thing swept its head around, searching sightlessly for the new threat. Nearby, something dark bobbed in the water for a moment, and Lucy’s heart seized when she realized it was the Ghoul, floating facedown in the water.

Splashing forward, she threw herself towards him, grabbing him by the duster and trying to drag him closer to shore. The water was much deeper where he was, and she kept slipping under. The sodden mess that was the lakebed was so spongy she was worried she would simply sink down into it like quicksand and never come back up, or at the very least that she might lose a boot. There was no pool in Vault 33 so she had never properly learned how to swim.

As she struggled, the creature dove back down beneath the water, and having it out of sight was much worse than having it looming over them. At least when it was above the water she knew where it was. Lucy managed to get the Ghoul to the bank and started hauling him bodily up onto it, coughing all the while.

Just as she had gotten his upper half onto slightly more dry land, the water beside them exploded again, and the creature reared up. This time it was coming for her. Lucy reached down and grabbed the knife off of the Ghoul’s belt, barely managing to get it unhooked and in her hand when she felt teeth clamp down on her leg and start pulling. With a scream she turned and started slashing with the knife, trying not to hit herself as she was pulled down towards the water.

The knife struck home repeatedly until the creature finally let go of her, leaving her leg aching and stinging, but Lucy refused to let it go. As the creature made to slide away through the water, she grabbed onto it and started cutting with the knife. She didn’t know what she was even cutting or whether it would do any real damage, but she knew she had to try something. The section of body she was cutting on gave way with a sickening snapping sound that she heard even below the water, and the massive creature gave a shudder and then thrashed violently, throwing her away from it. Lucy felt the breath go out of her lungs, and her mouth opened reflexively, sucking in water. She flailed for the surface, hacking and coughing the disgusting water out.

“Lucy!” Small hands wrapped around her arm and started pulling, helping drag her back onto the bank of the lake. Lucy wiped the water out of her face, looking up to find Kelly had descended from her tree and was trying her best to help. In the water, the thrashing had slowed down until it was just quivering. Lucy still couldn’t tell exactly what part of the creature's body she had been cutting through, but it seemed to have done the trick.

“The Ghoul,” she hacked out, the words barely intelligible, and then she was crawling across the ground to where he lay in an unmoving heap. The Ghoul had been left on his side, but when she reached him, Lucy rolled him onto his back. His chest didn’t seem to be moving, and she leaned forward, putting her ear to it to see if she could pick up a heartbeat. There was nothing.

Shaking, she moved to start CPR but froze when she looked down at him. How does someone cover the nose of someone without a damn nose?! She tilted his head back but couldn’t think of a way to effectively seal his nasal airways, so instead she moved to the next step, chest compressions. Placing her hand in the center of his chest and folding her other hand over it, Lucy counted as she pushed, stopping every 15 compressions to see if he was breathing again.

Kelly was by her side, watching anxiously, and Dogmeat, who had come scrambling back to them shortly after the fight had ended, was on her belly, licking at the Ghoul’s face. Lucy was just starting to lose hope when his chest spasmed under her hand, and suddenly he was sitting up. He grabbed her by the front of her shirt like he was getting ready to fight her off, but then his mouth opened and a torrent of water came spewing out of it, and out of his nose as well, for that matter. Lucy might have been grossed out if she wasn’t so happy to see him alive.

Once he realized it was just Lucy, the Ghoul let go of her shirt and leaned off to the side as he sucked in great heaving breaths. “What the fuck-” he broke off to cough some more and Lucy bit her lip, wondering if she should want to throw her arms around him in relief as much as she felt she did. It was probably a terrible idea, and yet…

Lucy leaned forward, not caring about the fact that he was still coughing or that he had just been sick, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He felt so warm. Under her hands she felt him go rigid in surprise.

“How did it feel being the bait?” she asked softly in his ear, trying not to laugh as she did. The shock was wearing off, and she could feel herself shaking. Her side twinged, and she was positive she had broken a few stitches.

To her surprise, the Ghoul’s hand came up and patted her on the shoulder for a second before settling there. It wasn’t quite a return embrace, but she would take it. Then he sat back from her, looking at her face, seeming almost concerned, like he was searching for injuries.

“You know what they say. Us cowpokes-” he broke off to cough some more.

“We take it as it comes,” Lucy finished for him.

***

Cooper froze where he was, looking back at the young woman beside him. He had no illusions about what had just happened. He had nearly died. It was the closest he had come to things being well and truly over, and she had pulled him back from it. After every terrible thing he had ever done to her, she had saved his life. Again. His memory drifted back to when he had been a helpless lump of flesh, drooling into the dirt outside the Super Duper Mart.

“Here.” Kelly’s voice startled him back into the present and he looked over at her, finding her holding out his hat. Dogmeat was positively wriggling on the ground by his hand in excitement at seeing him up and moving around. He reached out with one hand to accept the hat. With the other, he pet Dogmeat, trying to calm her down a little bit.

“You help save my ass too?” he asked the young girl as she stood studying them both. She nodded her head and then crouched down to pull Dogmeat into a hug.

“Yeah. Thought you were gonna get eaten. Never seen nothin’ like that before. What is it?”

All three of them turned their heads to look at the body, which was partially sunk down into the water, and partially on the shore from its flailing.

“Ain’t got no damn clue,” Cooper admitted. Then he looked back at Lucy, who was looking in disgust down at herself and spitting something out.

“I don’t even want to know what was in that water,” she said when she saw him staring. Cooper’s smile widened.

“So I got you to drink the water after all.”

Lucy smiled, though her expressive hazel eyes looked exhausted. She reached out to give his shoulder a shove, and Cooper suppressed a wince when her hand landed on the still open wounds left by the creature’s very sharp teeth. Before she could take her hand back he reached up, catching it in his and suddenly wishing he wasn’t wearing his gloves so he could feel her skin against his.

“Lucy,” he met her eyes, holding them. He wanted to thank her for saving him, but the words felt weak against the act itself. Nothing his brain was putting together felt right on his tongue. His thumb ran over her knuckle, which he hadn’t intended to do, but somehow it felt almost right. Something about what had just happened made the moment feel important. Or maybe that was a symptom of his near drowning.

Lucy was looking down at their hands, then she cleared her throat. “We should probably get back before the sun sets. I don’t wanna think about what else might show up.” She pulled her hand away from his, though she did it slowly, rather than yanking it back.

Cooper nodded, standing carefully, making sure all his limbs were in working order. His shoulder was aching something fierce, as was his chest, but overall he didn’t feel bad for someone who had nearly died. Dogmeat was glued to his side now, looking up at him with all the concern a dog could muster, while Lucy and Kelly went to get the frogs. It might have been helpful if they had time to start field dressing the things, get rid of some of the bulk, but Lucy was right. The sun was setting, and they needed to get back. Especially now that he was wounded and his weapons had been thoroughly soaked. He would need to clean and inspect them to make sure they would still function, and out here in the swamp was not the place to do that.

The three of them managed to wrangle their kills back to the camp, though it took considerably longer than any of them had hoped for, and by the time they got back night had well and truly fallen. A small fire was lit near the house the survivors were staying in, and a pot had been hung over it. Even with his ruined nose Cooper could smell the food as they drew nearer. They left the frogs near the edge of the settlement, not wanting to risk bringing any kind of wild creatures too close to their shelter. Lucy went to change into something dry, and Cooper hung his duster, which was torn, and his vest on a bit of broken building to help dry them. Then he carefully cleaned and inspected his weapons.

Once that was done, he set himself to the task of dressing the frogs. He had managed to get a few knives that were actually made for the task, and a lantern to give himself a little light. His thoughts kept circling back over the day and how chaotic it had been, starting with moving the corpses from the settlement and ending with him almost getting killed out in the swamp.

“So, can you make ass-jerky out of frogs?” Lucy’s voice startled him back out of his thoughts and he almost dropped his knife, looking up at her. Her brown hair was wet and clean, tied back at the nape of her neck, wisps of hair brushing over her cheeks in the soft lamp light. She wore a simple pair of dark colored pants, and a loose, blousy yellow shirt, which had been partially tucked into the waistband of the pants.

“Naw, not from frogs, Sweetheart. I know that’s real disappointin’ to ya.” He went back to his task, more so that he would stop staring at her than anything else. There was a strange feeling that hadn’t left his chest since the swamp. At first he had thought it was from swallowing too much of the water, but it hadn’t eased now after several hours, and he was starting to suspect it was something else, though he couldn’t seem to settle on what that something might be.

“Shame. Ass-jerky probably would have paired really well with the swamp water,” Lucy said, her voice light. Cooper barked out a laugh and nodded his head.

“Like steak and red wine, Darlin’.”

“Can you show me how to do that?” Lucy gestured to the frog in front of him. Cooper had already gutted the other one and it was hung up to drain.

“You ain’t exactly dressed for it,” Cooper said. Lucy only shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s what they gave me to wear. Can I at least watch, then? Anything I can learn to help me survive up here.”

Nodding his head, Cooper shrugged a shoulder. “Alright.”

Lucy sat down on a rock nearby, drawing her knees up as she watched him. It felt strange to have an audience, but he did his best to ignore the sensation.

“Kelly wanted me to make sure you were doing okay. She’s been telling everyone about how we saved you from being eaten by a swamp monster. Your reputation may never recover. I think she really likes you. Can’t figure out why, though.”

Cooper snorted. “Obviously it’s all my charm and charisma. I’m sure you’ve noticed it.”

“Yes, it’s hard to miss,” Lucy said, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “When you’re not being a jerk, at least.”

“I know I can be a little rough ‘round the edges, but in defense of my actions early in our acquaintance, I thought you had murdered that doctor and cut his head off.”

“What about the way I acted had made you think I was capable of doing something like that?” Lucy sounded incredulous.

“Well, sometimes the people we least expect are capable of the worst things, Darlin’.” His thoughts turned to Barb, and he felt his mood plummet. Although he hadn’t meant to stir up thoughts of Lucy’s dad, he figured that’s where her thoughts went anyways, because she got real quiet after that, simply muttering ‘yeah’ before falling silent. Cooper mentally kicked himself for ruining the easy mood that had sat between them. It wasn’t that he hadn’t made friends in his 200 years of Wastelanding, but they were few and far between, and a part of him was enjoying the banter. Quite a bit, if he admitted it to himself.

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” Lucy said as he was getting close to finishing with the second frog. Her voice was soft, hesitant.

“Might be I am,” Cooper replied, not wanting to talk about it. Still, Lucy pressed.

“Who was it?”

“Not open for discussion.”

“Why not?”

Cooper sighed and sat back on his haunches, looking at the young woman in the glow of the lamp. The ties on the front of her shirt were done loosely, and he made himself look up to her face so he didn’t seem like he was ogling her. She looked so soft. “Why do you need to know ‘bout my history?” he asked.

Lucy blinked at him, lashes brushing her cheeks. “Well, I figured if we were gonna be friends I could know a little more about you.”

The word caught him off guard. Yes, Cooper had just been thinking about how few friends he had made in the last 200 years, but to hear the word come from her mouth, after everything that had happened…

“Is that what we are?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as harsh as it did, but Lucy didn’t even flinch.

“I’ve saved your life. Twice,” she pointed out.

“You can save someone’s life and not be their friend.” Cooper looked down at his hands. He wasn’t wearing his gloves now, but they were covered in gore, and he could feel the calluses and roughness of his radiation burned skin.

“You stayed.” The simple statement was enough to make Cooper get to his feet, picking up a scrap of cloth and wiping off his hands on it. He’d need some water to really get them clean. She was right. He had stayed. He had stayed because he couldn’t bear to walk away while Janey’s image stared after him. If he was truly starting to get attached, that could be dangerous. The Wasteland was not a gentle place, and this settlement was a perfect example of that.

Cooper looked over the land around them. The sooner they got these people to Lucy’s miracle vault, the sooner he could get back to the task he was meant to be carrying out. He needed to find Henry. He needed to find the people behind Vault-Tek these days. He needed to find his family if they were still alive.

“Sorry. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I just know that sometimes it can help to share the burden. And I’m willing to listen.” Lucy’s hand pressed against his arm, and Cooper resisted turning until it slid away and he heard her walking back to the shelter.

Watching her go, he felt his fingers twitching. A part of him wanted to reach out and stop her. And maybe there was even a part of him that wanted to tell her. Would she be shocked if he told her who he really was? About what he was truly looking for? That his wife had been a part of the group that had ended the world, just like Lucy’s dad was? The thoughts rolled like boiling water in his head, but instead of stopping her, he balled up his fist and watched Lucy’s form disappear down the steps into the shelter.

[sapphirehazardous]

This is a short story that I put in my school’s literary magazine, titled “Kira’s Dream”, and I figured I’d dump it here. It’s a snippet from one of my WIPs, working title Hiraeth. It’s about a hardened woman in a post-Apocalyptic world becoming the caretaker to an eleven-year-old girl with amnesia— whose only remaining memories are scarily reminiscent of a time long, long before her own.

Fluorescent lights, white walls, brunette woman with big, round glasses.

Running. I was running through the spotless white halls, the tile floor squeaking under my feet. The florescent light was almost blinding, the light flickering. At the end of the hallway, stood the brunette woman with big, circular glasses. I ran into her arms.

I woke up.

Dang it.

I tried, desperately, to hold onto the dream. I couldn't let it slip away. Not something like this. I repeated the details over and over again in my head, as to not let them fade away.

Fluorescent lights, white walls, brunette woman with big, round glasses.

Florescent lights, white walls, woman with round glasses.

Florescent lights, white walls, woman... what did the woman look like again? Was her hair blonde, ginger, black? What shape were her glasses? I could have sworn they were square...

...

...

...

Who was I running to?

I smacked my head. The dream was gone. I had forgotten it. Again.

Forgetting. It seemed it was all I was good at. Some days ago, Artemis (or Art, as I called her) found me encased in some sort of vessel. I had no recollection of my past, nor who my parents were, nor where I came from. Art helped, albeit reluctantly; she clothed me, fed me, taught me the ways of the world I had awoken into. But she couldn’t help me get my memories back.

I sat up, scrubbed my face. The sun was just rising over the horizon, bathing the landscape in a dusty yellow hue. It poured through the large, broken window of the abandoned building we had taken shelter in. I looked over at Art, who was sprawled out on the open floor, her tanned, scarred skin slowly illuminating under the early morning light. She only had one sleeping bag in her possession, which she had given to me, so she had to use her backpack as a pillow and her jacket a blanket. It didn’t look all that comfortable, but she was snoring, so she must have been in a deep sleep regardless.

Art treated me kindly, but I think she really only tolerated me. Perhaps because she pitied me, or felt some sense of responsibility after having found me. But that would soon change. Yesterday, she told me she was bringing me to a commune (one of the few semblances of civilization there was left in this world), so that they could take care of me instead. Then she could leave me there, go back to her solitary life as normal. Free of me.

I shook my head and laid back down, drawing the blanket up to my chin. Maybe I could get in another hour or so of shut eye before Art uprooted my (albeit, very brief) life. I stared at the ceiling, studying every crack and dent and skittering bug. There was a rectangular slab of glass on the ceiling, surrounded by ivy. Inside of it was a long, thick white tube. It was a light. Or rather, what was left of a light, now busted and defunct.

Wait.

Light.

Fluorescent light.

That was the exact light from my dream.

I shot upright and looked around, the desecrated room starting to become all-too familiar. Memories of the dream came flooding back. Fluorescent lights. White walls.

Unable to contain my growing curiosity, I got up to examine the room further. Plants grew through the cracks in the floor, the ceiling, the walls, everywhere. Nature had surely reclaimed the building since it fell. The walls weren’t white anymore, instead a faded, yellow-ish cream. I ripped off a strip of peeling paint, revealing a bone-white layer underneath.

For the last piece of damning evidence, I crept further toward the back of the room, finding an archway with a staircase. They didn't even creak as I climbed up, but they looked to be made of a marble-like compound, so that made sense. When I reached the top, I saw it.

The long corridor I had been running through in my dream.

It didn’t come as that much of a surprise; dreaming about the place one fell asleep in was probably normal. But why was everything perfectly pristine in my dream? Why were the lights working as if this place wasn’t abandoned? Why weren’t the walls cracked, filthy, dilapidated, as they were now?

And who was that woman, not standing at the other end of the corridor now?

Perhaps my dream took place before the city fell, but if so, how did I know what anything looked like back then?

Was it… a memory?

“Up already?” I heard from behind me. I whipped around and saw Art, just now waking up. She sat up and stretched.

"Couldn't fall back asleep.”

“Mmm.” Art grumbled in response, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She was not a morning person.

“Hey, Art. I think I finally remembered something.”

That woke her up. Her ears practically perked up like a dog. “Really? What?”

“Well, it’s not really a memory. It was a dream. A dream about a memory, I think. But it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Do tell.”

“It was about this place. That hallway,"I pointed. "But it was different in my dream. It was nice and clean, like how it probably looked before it fell, I think. The lights were on and everything. And there was this woman, I can’t remember what she looked like, but I feel like she was important.”

Art looked as if she were listening to the ranting of a madman, but she didn’t interrupt me.

“Do you think maybe I lived here before the city fell? Maybe that’s why you found me here. What caused it to fall, anyway? Was there Earthquake or something?”

“Those are a lot of questions I do not know the answer to.” Art stood up, shrugging on her jacket. “But I do know that this city has been in ruins for over a hundred years. No way you could have seen it in its glory days in your lifetime. Sorry, kid. It was just a dream.”

Just a dream. My heart sank at the thought, but I knew she was right. It was just a dream. Perhaps I just had an overactive imagination– it’s not like I would know. Ever since I woke up, I wasn’t sure who I was, nor who I was supposed to be.

Well, I was back to square one again. No memories, no leads, no nothing.

“Yes, you’re right. It was... just a dream. Sorry for getting both our hopes up.”

“Don’t apologize, kid. The people at the commune can probably help you get your memories back. Better than I ever could, anyway.” Art rummaged through her bag, then abruptly threw a jacket at my face. “Speaking of, put this on. We should get ready to leave.”

“Leave? Already?” I shucked the jacket on, finding it way too big for me. It must have been one of hers.

“Yeah, already. The journey’s gonna take a few days. Best to leave soon as possible.”

She wants to get rid of me as soon as possible. The thought invaded my mind before I could stop it. I couldn’t help but look hurt.

Art’s face softened just a little.

“Listen, kid. I’d keep you with me if I could. I’m just…” Art faltered, a sudden, pained expression on her face. She swallowed, and turned away. “I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. You will be better taken care of there. It’s for your own good. Okay?”

“Okay,” I muttered.

Art cuffed my sleeves for me and put my purple hair into a ponytail. She gave me a bandanna to wear over my face in case we came across somewhere particularly polluted, which, according to her, was most places on this land. After gathering all of her belongings into her singular backpack, she slung it over her shoulder and turned to me.

“Ready to go?” She asked, extending out a gloved hand.

“I guess.” I took her hand and let her lead me out of the threshold. I took one last look at the room, the memory of the strange dream fading away by the minute.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to the building. And with that, we left.

[ohmyitsfaith]

50 days of learning love/Part 8

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: Sometimes there are problems we can’t simply solve, so we must ask for help. A situation might seem impossible, but there’s always some type of solution. Even if that solution hurts.

Warnings: swearing, a bit of angst

Word count: 3,6k

A/n: I meant to post this yesterday, but oh well. We’re also getting ridiculously close to the end of this series. At least the original plan. But if you guys have anything you’d like to see as extras, please tell me! Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy it!

The heat was unbearable. You knew it was because it was summer already but you didn’t want to do anything. No amount of shade could spare you from the post-apocalyptic world’s scorching heat. Especially when there wasn’t any movement in the air. It felt like you were gonna suffocate.

Five also had trouble focusing on the equations. Every five minutes he was wiping at his forehead or just staring off into the distance.

But maybe this is exactly what had to happen for Five to notice a problem that should’ve been glaring at him from the first time he looked at the equation. Now he saw it and it made him freeze, an uncomfortable shiver running through him before he could stop it. His heart sank and his hand started shaking. The panic set in, but he needed to calm down so he wouldn’t scare you. He knew he could fix it, but for that, he had to calm down.

“Hey, are you okay?” you touched his shoulder and he looked up at you standing in front of him.

“Yeah, just the heat” he lied easily. “I really want to work on the equation, but it’s so hard with this heat…”

“I know” you sighed and sat down next to him. “But what could we do? I mean it’s not like we’re close to any kind of body of water.”

“Yeah” he nodded and tried to think of a solution. But there was none.

So what could you do? You just had to endure it and hope for a cooler night so that you could at least sleep.

As for Five, he tried to determine what he could do with the equation to fix his big problem. He was scared of you finding out and being upset with him. He didn’t want to bother you. You were so important to him and he needed you. Not just now, but he needed you in the future. He needed your presence, your help.

But that day, he was not able to fix the issue. He didn’t know how to, no matter how much energy and focus he killed into it. He just couldn’t. He wasn’t able to and that made him more and more frustrated.

As much as Five tried to hide it from you, you knew. You knew he was frustrated and you also knew the reason. Well, not the exact one, but you knew it had to do with the equation. But after watching Five all day long, you kinda caught onto what it could exactly be about.

So as you sat down next to Five at the end of the day, you knew you had to confront him.

“Tell me about the equations” you start.

“Uh…” Five sighed. “Well I mean they’re getting better. I know I’m getting close to the answer and um…”

“But you missed something.”

Five sighed and looked down, knowing that he had been caught.

“How did you know?”

“I noticed” you scooted closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You know you can trust me.”

“I know” he sighed once again and looked at you. “It’s just, I have no clue what to do, how to fix it.”

“Tell me, Five” you encouraged, wanting him to put his trust in you.

“The equations for the portal home are only for one person” he whispered. “There’s no telling what would happen if two people would travel through it. And I have no clue how far back I would need to go to fix it. I’m not even sure what I need to do! Where did I go wrong? What am I supposed to do to fix it? What am I missing?”

Five rambled on as you tried to process what he said. Because if the portal couldn’t get you two out, only one of you, that meant you’d be stuck in this place longer. It was an unfair turn of events.

But yet you couldn’t be mad at Five. When he started working on the equations, it was only him. He didn’t know you or even of you. So you didn’t blame him.

“Five” you grabbed his face to stop his rambling. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you. And we will fix it” you reassured him.

“I’m sorry” he finally said and you could see the tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry Y/n.”

“It’s okay baby” you pulled the boy into a hug. “It’s okay.”

You and Five didn’t talk for the rest of the night, you just held him because that’s what he needed.

And so went the thirty-sixth day and night.

The next day was just as difficult as the day before. It was still very hot and you weren’t sure how you could keep a cooler temperature around you. It was messing with both of your heads, not allowing you to really gain focus on anything you might be doing.

But also it was a difficult day because of Five’s guilt. Both of you knew about his guilt, but Five didn’t want to talk about it and you didn’t know how to talk about it. In the morning you tried to reassure him that he couldn’t have possibly known, but it didn’t seem like it was working. Even though it was true.

Most of the day has gone by like that and you were starting to feel bad. You didn’t want Five to feel guilty about something that he couldn’t know in the past. Yet you had no clue how to help him all the same.

“Five?” you tried once again, not wanting to see his guilt-ridden face anymore.

But Five didn’t even look up this time. He was desperately trying to simultaneously forget what was going on and fix it somehow. Of course, the two things were contradictory so he was bound to choose one or the other.

“Five please” you pleaded this time. “I told you yesterday that it was okay and that we’ll figure it out. Please just let me help you. I don’t want you to wear the weight of this alone.”

Five’s eyes screwed shut, knowing that he was hurting you with his silence and stubbornness just as much as he was hurting you with this problem. He should’ve noticed it sooner. He should’ve known that the equations were only gonna be good for one person. He should’ve.

“Baby, please.”

Now that got his attention. He looked up at you as soon as that word left your mouth. Of course, he knew that both of you have used that word a couple of times before, but it still sent his heart racing.

He looked away for a second then sighed and nodded.

“Alright.”

“Thank you” you sighed, feeling relieved.

“It’s just…” he started, “it’s hard. I don’t want to leave you, but I have no clue how to fix it.”

“But I’m here to help” you reassured him.

“I know” he looked up at you. “Can we just go for a walk? To clear my head?”

“Of course” you nodded and got up from the mattress.

“Can I… can I hold your hand?” Five asked, a bit timid, even though in your opinion he had no reason to be.

You smiled at him and grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers with his. For some reason, it always managed to fill you with so much love when you saw your hands fitting so perfectly into each other’s.

The walk turned out to be an amazing idea. When you arrived back at your little camp, you were full of ideas and even if none of them were right, they gave Five a rush of hope for the next few days to come. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he made them out to be.

And so went the thirty-seventh day and night.

Truth be told, it wasn’t only Five, who was scared after the revelation of only one person being able to go into the portal. You were scared. Shitless actually. But till, Five was your priority and if you were being honest, you’d definitely not trade yourself with him. It was for the better if he went home instead of you. He’d be able to stop the apocalypse from ever happening and then he’d figure out a way to get you home too. He wouldn’t leave you in the apocalypse, right?

Still, the doubt was there. You trusted Five when he said he loved you, but you also knew that there’s no telling how his feelings would change once he went home. You weren’t stupid, you knew things could go either way.

But you didn’t show this to Five. And the reason you didn’t was that if you did, he wouldn’t go back to his family. And you couldn’t afford that. You didn’t want to be the cause of his change in direction. After all, he spent the past five years trying to get back to his family.

So you held onto your feelings and just helped Five.

“Okay, maybe here” you pointed to some numbers. “We could try changing those.”

“If we change that then the time changes where we land. That’s not good” he explained.

“Ah” you nodded.

Maybe it would be better if he just worked on finishing the original equations and left the new ones for a time when he had the resources to actually be able to complete them.

And that has been a thought in your head for quite some time now. And to be completely honest, you knew you were right. It was better for Five to complete his original equations than be there stressing about starting over. It didn’t matter though, because Five would never listen to you.

Unless you managed to convince him.

“Alright, Five?” you grabbed his hands and attention. “It’s time for this to stop.”

“Stop? W-what do you mean?” he asked, a confused look on his face. “We can’t stop, we need to work this out!”

“No baby. You need to finish your original equations. You can’t keep working on this one” you shook your head.

“What?”

“You need to finish it. You need to get home to your family.”

“No!” he said immediately. “How- why are you giving up on us?”

“I’m not giving up on us” you shook your head again. “I’m telling you you need to prioritize your family and the apocalypse.”

“But… I don’t want to do that!”

“I know” you reached up to hold his face, your thumb caressing his cheek. He was already tearing up, but you pushed through your feelings. “I know. It’s hard. But I need you to focus on what you’ve been striving for the past five years.”

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered, tears flowing down his cheek.

“Because I love you” you smiled at him sadly. “And I want you to have your family with you.”

“But Y/n…”

“It’s hard for me too, Five. The thought of losing you scares me. But you need this.”

Five couldn’t handle the heartbreak both of you were experiencing. His hands desperately held yours as he put his lips on yours, the kiss wet from both of your tears. You were gonna miss this. The feeling of his lips on yours, his calloused hands on your skin, and your heart racing at his closeness. But you weren’t lying. He needed this.

“I love you” he whispered against your lips, not quite ready to pull away from you yet.

“I love you more” a sad smile against his lips when you pressed back in, wanting to enjoy every last moment you could spend with him.

Five didn’t work on the equations that day. Not the new ones, not the original ones. He couldn’t. He wanted to be with you and only you. He wanted to feel you close to him for as long as he could. He wanted that feeling to last as long as it could. He wanted you to know how much love he had for you. THat he would do everything in his power to make you happy, to make you forget about your impending separation. He wanted you to feel happy and loved, to feel the way he felt around you.

And he did everything he promised. You felt loved and happy with him. But most importantly you felt loved and happy with him. But most importantly you felt so much love for him as he laid your head on his chest, so you could listen to his fast heartbeat that calmed as he fell asleep.

And so went the thirty-eighth day and night.

The next day was easier by a little bit. The summer heat was alright, you felt alright and both Five and you were ready to finally solve the case of him going home. Of course, both of you were sad about your impending separation, but you were ready to do everything in your power to help Five get home.

Still, sometimes Five just couldn’t help telling you that maybe you should just work on the new equations. At times like those, you simply told him that that would be futile since you didn’t have the resources to actually calculate every single thing because neither of you learned anything like that. And after a while, he believed it, but still kept wondering.

“Look Five” you sighed, putting your stick down. I want you to get home. There, you can work on the new equation and come back to get me, alright?”

“But-”

“No, please stop. We’ve been over this, alright? I told you so many times that it’ll be fine.”

“I know, but I just don’t want to leave you” he grabbed your hand.

“I know” you squeezed his hand. “And I appreciate it. But I’ll be here every step of the way and even when you’re back home, I’ll be with you in spirit. We’ll get through this together, okay?”

“Okay” he nodded and pulled you up for a hug. “I love you.”

“And I love you” you smiled and pulled away, ready to return to work.

“Hey” he stopped you. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Five smiled gently at you and pulled you closer to press a gentle kiss on your lips. You swore in that moment that you’ll never forget his kisses and the gentle way he loved you every moment. You will remember, even if he never gets back to you and you’ll grow old in the apocalypse. His memory will always and forever be in your head and heart.

“Alright, let’s get back to work” you smiled at him after you broke the kiss. “We’ve got a lot to do. For example here…”

And you went on to explain your theory about the portal and its possible size. Five listened to you and then you worked together to get the equations right. It was tough, but together you managed to work through every single part of them.

At night, when your brains were too tired to think about the solutions to the problems that came up and too tired to write anything in general, you read to him by the fire. His head was in your lap, the hand that wasn’t holding the book, running through his hair. Five loved these moments. He was at peace, totally relaxed, and ready to fall asleep as soon as you finished the chapter.

“The end” you said and he opened his eyes to watch you. “Well at least to the chapter. We still have a couple of them.

“How much?”

“Let me see” you flipped to the table of contents. “One, two… nine chapters” you looked down at him.

“So we’re close to the end” he hummed.

“Yep. Wonder if they’re gonna be happy together at the end.”

“I think they will be” he said, getting up to extinguish the fire, leaving you in darkness.

“I hope so. But I mean like, they’re going through such a rough time. They’re supposed to be married, but because the love interest still doesn’t remember their life from before, they have to work out a way. It also doesn’t help that they refuse to believe the protagonist, you know?” you rambled, a bit frustrated about the love interest’s dumbness.

“Yeah” Five agreed. “But I mean I believe that the dumbass will remember and they will end up together.”

“God I love your optimism” you sighed, pulling Five down on your chest.

“I learned it from you” he sighed, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.

“Goodnight love.”

“Goodnight baby.”

And so went the thirty-ninth day and night.

On some days it’s harder to get to work. It always takes a lot out of you, since you spend the day constantly thinking about solutions to problems, mathematical equations, and all the like. So really, if once in a while you end up feeling bored with it or too tired to do anything, no one can really blame you.

The only thing keeping you going was the fact that you were close to finishing it. Like really close. So close, that you could basically taste the victory.

But that taste was a bit bitter. Because it only meant that Five was finally getting back to his family. And you… you were staying.  Alone.

You tried not to show your heartache because you wanted to keep Five motivated. But sometimes that was really hard. Like when you took a break. Or at night before you fell asleep.

That day tho, on the fortieth day you spent with Five, you couldn’t keep it in anymore. Maybe it was thanks to depression or just the new, small victory of figuring out another part. You didn’t know. But suddenly it just became harder.

“Y/n?” Five touched your shoulder when you spaced out for a long period of time and didn’t answer him. “Are you okay?”

His touch pulled you out of the trance you seemed to put yourself into and you looked up at him. His eyes were filled with concern and love. So much love. It broke your heart that soon you wouldn’t be able to see his beautiful eyes and the love inside them.

“I’m… I’m okay” you sighed. “Just spaced out a little bit” you forced a smile on your face.

“I could tell. What’s on your mind?”

“Just the equations. You know I was wondering if it would be better to use a different method and that way we could get an answer. It’d be faster and easier. But…” you rambled, but stopped when Five cupped your face after he moved down to sit with you on the ground.

“Y/n” he started. “Tell me, please. The truth” his thumb caressed your cheek and the look he gave you was oh so soft you actually felt guilty.

“I just… you started but didn’t know how to continue. “I was just thinking.”

“About…?”

“About some stuff” you looked down at your hands.

That’s when Five understood it. You were scared. Scared of being alone again, scared of growing old alone, without him. You didn’t want to be left alone, but you also didn’t want to tell or show anything, because you wanted him to be happy. You didn’t want him to stay for you, to be unhappy in the apocalypse. The guilt and sadness were fighting in your heart and when Five finally saw it all, his heart broke.

“Oh” was all he could say.

“Fuck, I’m sorry” you buried your face in your hands.

“No, baby” Five said immediately and pulled you close to him. “It’s not your fault. I understand, you don’t have to say sorry. Not for this.”

His hands were on your waist, caressing your sides in a calming matter. He hoped he could calm you down a bit, so you could talk about this situation. Because he would do anything to help you not feel this way.

So he just held you. He let you cry into his shoulder, hide your face in his neck. He let you clutch onto his clothes, holding them as if your life depended on it. And he just ran his hand up and down on your back, letting you calm down at your own pace. It didn’t matter that he was hot from not only the summer sun but also your body heat. He didn’t care about that. He only cared about you.

“You’ll be alright my love” he reassured you quietly.

“I love you, I don’t want to live without you” you sobbed.

“You won’t have to” he promised. “I’ll save the world with my family and when I figure out how to get you out of here, I’ll be back. And from then on, it’ll be you and me. We’ll live in a world, free of apocalypses. I’ll be there and I’ll love you till the end of time.”

“Really?” you asked, keeping the sobs at bay.

“Really” he smiled at you.

You looked at him for a few seconds, then cupped his face and pulled him in for a soft kiss. You both poured all your love and affection into the kiss, wanting the other to feel it all.

Five silently swore to always reassure you of his love, no matter what he had to do. And he promised that for the next who knows how long, he will tell you that every day.

And so went the fortieth day and night.

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[onlydylanobrien]

Coup De Main Magazine Interview: Dylan O'Brien on 'Love and Monsters'.

Dylan O'Brien really, really, really loves dogs. Fondly referring to his adorable co-star as "completely the star" of his new Oscar-nominated film, 'Love and Monsters, O'Brien's face lights up like a Christmas tree when reminiscing about the two Australian Kelpies, Hero and Dodge, who together portray his onscreen best friend, Boy (a.k.a. the best dog in the world).

At the heart of 'Love and Monsters' is this dynamic duo, with O'Brien as Joel Dawson, who in a post-apocalyptic world overrun by giant monsters decides to set off on a dangerous journey to reconnect with his high school sweetheart (played by Jessica Henwick), seven years after the Monsterpocalypse forced all of humanity into hiding underground.

An endearing tale of a wide-eyed boy and his loyal dog, we caught up with Dylan O'Brien to discuss 'Love and Monsters' which was filmed in Queensland, Australia...

COUP DE MAIN: Congrats on the Best Visual Effects Oscars nomination for 'Love and Monsters'! You're in the film, so for the purposes of this interview, I think you can own that.

DYLAN O'BRIEN: Thank you! Oh absolutely, I am nominated. I've been telling everybody: I'm an Oscar nominated actor now.

CDM: You did it!

DYLAN: Thanks! <laughs> It really is amazing.

CDM: It's funny that you filmed this movie back in March to May of 2019, but the whole situation of Joel finding himself separated from Aimee probably feels very familiar to anyone who started a relationship pre-pandemic that doesn't live with their partner.

DYLAN: Yeah, it's really weird. It's really weird how what we ended up going through when this movie was due to come out, how much it related to these themes that we're exploring in this movie. It's a very crazy coincidence.

CDM: Also, the sort of aversion to venturing out again into the outside world, that feels very relatable.

DYLAN: I know. Like when he first comes out of that hatch, he's breathing in the fresh air like it's strange. It's really strange.

CDM: I also thought of the current mask-wearing situation when Clyde says: "You can always tell in their eyes, just look at their eyes." People have had to do a lot of eye-reading this past year?

DYLAN: Right?! Oh, wow wow wow. I hadn't thought about that one.

CDM: One of my favourite things you've ever done is the 'Life Of A Hollywood Actor' video. What do you think the 2021 version of 'Life Of A Hollywood Actor' would look like?

DYLAN: <laughs> Thank you so much, first of all.

CDM: I rewatched it yesterday in preparation for this interview.

DYLAN: No way, thanks! That's really cool. Yeah, I love that character. I want to do something with him. What would the 2021 version be? I think he would definitely be taking the Oscar nom for himself, very seriously - like, the visual effects Oscar nom he would apply as being his, basically, and I think he'd try to bring that up and try to really ride that to get some work. He thinks this is gonna be a big career thing for him, and then he somehow fucks it up by being too overzealous.

CDM: Joel clings on to his memories of Aimee for seven years, replaying them in his mind so he can continue to relive them. Why is it that it's in human nature to mentally retreat into the past for comfort? And to look for a home in other people instead of building a solid home within ourselves?

DYLAN: That's really interesting... I feel like that's something instinctive, especially if you're going through a hard time or especially if something's shifted in your world negatively. I think there's uncertainty about the future and I always find in those situations a common link to wanting to find comfort in the past. I've gone through things, like times like that in my own life, and I've always found that when I've gone through a time like that, there's this level of uncertainty. I think it's human instinct and sort of this instinct to protect ourselves in a way. We're a wild species, aren't we? We're very emotional creatures. I think that's part of what makes humans so special. And instincts like that, to preserve and protect our heart and mind, and to hold on to things like that. And the way we're attached to memories like that and nostalgia. There's a reason these things are a part of our fabric. We're very emotional creatures.

CDM: Do you think that love or fear is a stronger emotion?

DYLAN: Whoah, that's pretty wild. I would say love - only because I feel like it has this sustainable power to endure over time. Whereas fears can be fleeting, and even if it comes quick, it's gone. But then also... yeah, I don't know. <laughs> We're getting deep. Real deep!

CDM: Is love an action or a feeling?

DYLAN: WHOAH. <cracks up>

CDM: I'm putting you on the spot, sorry.

DYLAN: No, no, I'm good! I love it! They're very interesting questions. I'm cracking up at you choosing me to answer these. Fuck. I mean, I think it's a feeling. I believe that, at least. I'm trying to think of ways it could be an action, obviously, but that's not love. I feel like if it's an action, it's something else. There are actions that come from love, but the love, it's a feeling. That's what I believe.

CDM: I always think about how in the TV show, 'Fleabag', The Priest says, "Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is, when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope," which I feel like Joel would also relate to.

DYLAN: Yeah! I love 'Fleabag'.

CDM: It's so good.

DYLAN: It's SO good.

CDM: Clyde says to Joel: "Good instincts are earned by making mistakes." Do you agree or disagree with Clyde's life lesson?

DYLAN: Yeah, I think there's a lot of truth to that, for sure. I think that mistakes absolutely help us grow, in many ways, in terms of instincts and stuff. Yeah, I think that's a wise and sensible perspective to have, especially in an apocalyptic wasteland.

CDM: Do you have any cooking specialities like Joel's talent for minestrone?

DYLAN: Yeah, I've got some go-to's. They're all my mom's, like the things that are nostalgic for me that I grew up with that my mom cooks, like her chicken soup. It's the first thing I do if I go on a job or somewhere where I'm going to be for a little while, just to feel like I'm at home, the first thing I'll do is I'll make a soup and then I'll have it in the fridge for the first week that I'm there. I'll make my mom's chicken soup and it's a really nice comforting sort of a feeling. And chicken cutlets. Two very chicken-y things!

CDM: There's a line I love from the TV show, 'The Good Place', in which one of the characters says: "Sometimes, when you're feeling helpless, the secret is to help someone else. Get out of your own head." I was reminded of it in the scene where Joel is forced to take action against a monster to help save not himself, but his dog. Excluding the life or death element, have you ever felt similarly that it's been easier to help someone else first in order to help yourself?

DYLAN: Yeah, sometimes to a fault. I think that that's something that's been a bit of a learning curve for me, interestingly enough, pretty recently as well in the last year or two, to sort of realise that I need to try to help myself sometimes a little more. I think I have an instinct to help the people that I love and want to be there for them, or even a stranger sometimes, over myself, which can definitely be an interesting quality, but yeah, I think that's helping yourself. Taking care of yourself is extremely important and I think that we all sort of go through our own path of learning the importance of that, and ultimately, too, if you want to be helping others and helping your loved ones, you actually need to be taking care of yourself, first and foremost. Everyone comes to their own kind of realisation over it. It takes time. It takes your 20s, sometimes more.

CDM: Do you miss your dog co-stars Hero and Dodge?

DYLAN: Yes! Yes!! I do. Yeah, I really, really do. And Zelie [Bullen] as well. Their mom and trainer.

CDM: Do you have a dog yourself?

DYLAN: I've got little dogs, yeah. I've got little babies. You?

CDM: I don't sadly, but it's my life goal to adopt a dog one day.

DYLAN: You should. Do you want one? You should get one!

CDM: I'm gonna just tell everyone: Dylan O'Brien told me to get a dog, so I'm getting a dog now.

DYLAN: <laughs> I'm just part of this major life decision for you, forever now.

CDM: Social media can be such a vanity project, but I love that you only have Twitter, and use it mostly just for helping give a platform to important human right issues and sharing your love for Taylor Swift and Harry Styles. What are your favourite Taylor Swift and Harry Styles songs?

DYLAN: Oh my goodness. Like ever? For Harry, from Harry's last album, 'Watermelon Sugar', obviously. I think my my favourite one of his though is... What's it called? I can hear it in my head. They sing it on 'American Idol' all the time.Falling'! That's a huge one for me. T Swift, I mean, it's amazing - give any of the rest of us like six months in quarantine and we look back on it and we're like, 'Shit, I should have done more,' but give Taylor six months in quarantine and she writes fifty hit songs. It's incredible. Off 'Folklore', I think 'Mirrorball' doesn't get enough credit. I'm a big 'Mirrorball' fan. I love 'My Tears Ricochet', and 'Mad Woman', 'Epiphany', 'The 1'.

CDM: Basically the whole album.

DYLAN: Yeah, I really liked that one. There's so many more, but those are my highlights.

CDM: You used to be in a band, Slow Kids At Play, right? Would you ever want to get back into music professionally again?

DYLAN: I still play all the time, and I still play with friends who play as well. Even those guys. They're all still my good friends. We actually had a reunion show in 2019 and it was really cool. We jammed in our friend's garage for our hometown friends. Music will always be a part of my life. I always try to not let it be one of those things that you lose in life. I think that's important to do. If it's not your primary thing, it's sometimes easy to. Often years pile up and then you're like, 'Oh, man, I haven't done this thing that I love in so long, like, I should build that into my routine.' So yeah, I'll always play drums and always jam with friends and play. And yeah, it'd be cool to be in a band again. Maybe someday. Or even just to play a show again, like even just to sit in for someone would be awesome.

CDM: Then maybe you can come to New Zealand on tour.

DYLAN: On tour?! I don't think I'd get to that level, but I like that you have aspirations for me.

CDM: Why is it important to you to use your platform for good?

DYLAN: I think that's influenced by the time that we're in. Also coinciding with a time that I went through in my life and just sort of getting older. And for me, it just feels right in terms of the things that I want to use it for, or try to support, or bring to life, or amplify, or bring a light to, and I guess it's influenced by my own learning and growing and trying to be more involved in this stuff and educate myself on it. It sort of just mirrors that a little bit, and I do think it's important.

CDM: Thank you for your time today. And thanks for telling me to get a dog.

DYLAN: Go do it! Send me a pic when you get them. It was such a pleasure talking to you, thanks so much.

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

[pickalilywrites]

it’s my first fic since i started my job ❤ i hope you enjoy ^^

..........

You and Me at the End of the World 

Falbi. SF8 AU. 

11194 words. 

Read on Ao3!

»»————- April 3, 2026 ————-««

Falco wakes, a sigh escaping his lips. He feels an incredible weariness in his bones as if he had run a marathon yesterday even though he hasn’t really had PE in a month. He hasn’t had PE since his teacher had run off just like everyone else did when they heard that an asteroid was hurtling towards the earth and set to destroy life as everyone knew it. Everyone Falco knew just up and left their jobs and homes to pursue their dreams: his classmates dropped out of school to become idols or viral TikTokers, the mailman stopped delivering mail to Falco’s house and decided to fly to every place in the world he had always wanted to visit, and even the principal of Falco’s school had resigned but not before advising all of the students to drop out of school because it was useless now that they were all about to die. 

Many people had taken the principal’s advice, but not Falco. He still goes to school on the weekdays and spends the weekend completing homework assignments that will never be graded. A few students had visited the school even after the principal had closed the school down, but they had stopped coming after they saw how many of their peers had dropped out and saw how even the teachers didn’t bother coming back. 

It doesn’t bother Falco that he goes to school every morning and studies in an empty classroom all day or that he has to fish out study plans from the notebooks his teachers left behind just to give himself something to do. His parents have asked him why he bothers going to school when all of his classmates have pretty much given up, but Falco really doesn’t have an answer. If he had to say anything, it’s probably that he doesn’t have anything in particular that he wants to do. 

Falco acknowledges that he’s never been incredibly ambitious like some of his classmates have been. His talents are unspectacular. He knows that he’s neither athletic nor smart. He’s always been average. He never studied too hard because he knew he’d never get the highest score in the class and he never exerted himself too much in PE because there was always someone stronger or faster than him. It isn’t something that ever bothered him, and he’s grown to accept that part of himself. 

He doesn’t have any special interests either. Sure, Falco enjoys playing video games and playing sports like any kid his age, but he can’t see himself wasting the rest of his days on them. Some of his classmates even asked him to join them. Falco has had multiple offers: join a band as a bassist even though he’s never touched a bass guitar in his life, become a part of a dance crew despite his coordination being awful at best, start a video channel pulling off different stunts and tricks to gain a little bit of spotlight before they all died, among others. He declined all of them in the end, preferring to be alone, and even now Falco doesn’t regret his decision. He’s content being a normal kid living out the rest of his tedious life as monotonously as he always did.

His parents live quite normally too except for the fact that they quit their jobs like everybody else did when news of the asteroid came out. Rather than return to their jobs every morning, his parents go out on long walks together, often visiting places from their younger days. They usually leave long before Falco wakes, but his mother is always sure to leave out a freshly made breakfast for Falco and his older brother Colt. 

Colt hasn’t made any drastic changes to his lifestyle, not like some other people his age. He, too, dropped out of school like many of his peers and Falco’s classmates, but he usually spends his time visiting internet cafés or playing baseball with his friends. The elder brother once curiously asked Falco why he bothered going to school and the younger just simply shrugged. Colt never bothered to ask again, and Falco was fine with that. 

Falco rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth as he normally does. His hair looks like a mess. Since news of the upcoming apocalypse, people either care excessively about their appearance or they don’t care about it at all. Considering his circumstances, Falco should probably fall in the latter category, but he fixes his bed head all the same, patting down the cowlicks and running a comb through his hair to get rid of all the tangles. 

After washing his face and getting dressed in his school uniform, Falco wanders into the kitchen where his breakfast is waiting for him. On the stove sits a pan with fluffy scrambled eggs mixed with little bits of crispy, dark spinach leaves, and sweet gruyère. Falco twists the knob on the stove with a sharp click before popping bread into the toaster. As he waits for the eggs to warm up, he fixes himself a glass of orange juice. 

Falco ends up splitting the eggs in half, leaving a portion for Colt whenever he decides to roll out of bed. He sits at the kitchen island by himself, munching on some generously buttered toast in between bites of egg. It’s a much fancier breakfast than his mother used to make. Scrambled eggs were usually plain except for a dash of salt and pepper, but his mother has become more experimental with her cooking now that the end of the world is evident. It’s a good change, Falco thinks as the blend of savory bacon and salted eggs melt onto his tongue. It probably would have been nice if his mother had decided to be more adventurous with her cooking beforehand, but it’s not as if having regrets about this can change the past so Falco just eats the rest of his breakfast before dumping his plate in the sink and calling out to his brother that he’ll be heading to school. He doesn’t even wait for a response from Colt before heading out the door. 

Ever since news of the asteroid, Falco has begun seeing very interesting people on his way to school. Some of them are familiar to him. Others he’s never seen before in his life. They’re not all strange, of course. Sometimes there are just kids running up and down the road kicking a soccer ball or couples holding hands as they take a morning stroll. But there are more than a few eccentrics on Falco’s way to school. 

Lately, there have been people claiming to be superheroes. They have superpowers, they insist. Some will rush up to strangers on the street and show off their powers, but Falco has never seen any proof of their alleged superhuman talents. 

Some people post videos online demonstrating their special gifts. Falco has seen a handful of them, mostly because his friend Zofia keeps sending them to him every few days when she finds them particularly funny. He finds them mildly intriguing, although he’s fairly certain that most (if not all) of the videos are either staged or edited to look real. He’s never been fully convinced by any of them. 

On this particular walk to school, Falco passes by a person who claims to be able to create seismic shifts and another person who she can talk to animals. Neither person is particularly believable. Falco only gives a passing glance when the first person begins to demonstrate their powers by spinning in a circle and letting out a low groan that begins to grow into a loud shriek. The earth, Falco notices, does not shake. He’s even less interested when the animal girl starts shouting post-apocalyptic prophecies about how giant bugs will inherit the earth once the dust has settled on the earth after the asteroid impact. 

Falco reaches the school gate and pulls it open himself because there isn’t a teacher there to welcome him like there used to be. He leaves it open to save trouble for anyone who ends up coming after him, although he highly doubts anyone will be joining him. He walks across the courtyard where some of his former schoolmates play soccer, looking at them briefly but not bothering to bid them good morning. When he gets to the building, he pulls open the door and steps inside. The sound of his shoes against the speckled tile echo across the empty hallways as he makes his way to his classroom. 

As usual, it’s empty. Falco could probably sit anywhere he wants, but he ends up at his old desk, the second seat in the third row from the right. He sits down with a thud and lets his backpack fall off his shoulder. He pulls out his notebook and looks at today’s lesson that he copied from his homeroom teacher’s planner earlier last month: geometry, English, social studies, art, and science. 

Falco dutifully completes his assignments for the day. He even double-checks his answers once he’s done. Maybe he’ll look over the answer key after school if he feels like it. He spends his break staring at the window at the kids playing ball in the field or playing pranks on each other in the quad. He doesn’t make any attempt to join them. 

At 2:15, Falco packs his things. He puts away his pens and pencils neatly in his case, zips up his backpack, and slings his bag over his shoulder. As he walks to the door of the classroom, he thinks he imagines footsteps running down the hall. It makes him wonder if the impending apocalypse is making him go mad because he can’t imagine why anyone would be here when the world is going to end in a week. When he pulls open the door, he sees his friend Zofia about to reach for the door. 

“Oh, good,” Zofia pants. She bends over, hands on her knees as she tries to catch her breath. Ashy blonde locks are falling out of her ponytail. “I was afraid I missed you. You weren’t replying to any of my texts.” 

“We’re not allowed to use our phones in school,” Falco says as he looks down at her. 

Zofia looks up, an expression of mild disbelief on her face. “Geez, I can’t believe you’re still doing this.” She straightens up and sighs. “Our teachers probably appreciated what a goody-two-shoes you were back when they actually cared about their jobs, but I assure you that they don’t care at all now that the world is about to end.” 

Falco rolls his eyes and walks past Zofia. He can hear her following him from the extra footsteps that accompany his. “What do you need? I thought you were busy trying to pet ‘every dog in the world’ or whatever before the asteroid strikes.” 

Zofia’s arm links with Falco’s and she flashes a cheesy smile at him. “I realized it was impossible so I settled for petting ‘as many dogs as possible.’ I’m pretty satisfied with my work, so I’ve decided on pursuing something else.” She doesn’t immediately follow up with what it is she’s working on, and Falco knows she’s absolutely itching for him to ask. 

“... What is it?” Falco asks. 

“I’m glad you asked!” Zofia says, tugging him closer to her. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and flips through it for a bit before finding what she wants to show Falco. On her screen is a long post on one of the message boards their classmates post on. “There’s this girl. She’s totally crazy.” 

A glance at the phone screen confirms Zofia’s words. It’s a post that looks like it’s been circulating through message boards of different middle schools in their area. The original poster is someone named Gabi Braun, aged 14, and she attends Liberio Middle School across the city. Her post is a call for all people with superpowers to contact her so that they can save the world together. 

Falco looks at Zofia and wrinkles his nose. “And you’re showing me this because …?” 

“Because she’s absolutely crazy, but she’s interesting,” Zofia replies as she pockets her phone. She smiles at Falco. “Let’s go visit her.” 

“What? No!” Falco says. He yanks his arm away from Zofia. “You said she was nuts! Why would we look for her?” 

“Because the world is ending in a few days, so we might as well do something stupid,” Zofia replies. She links her arm around Falco’s again and pouts, batting her eyelashes up at him. “Come on, aren’t you the least bit curious? There’s a girl our age who thinks she can save the world if she gathers enough nutjobs who think they have superpowers.” 

Falco isn’t curious at all. “I have homework,” he says to Zofia, which he knows is the wrong answer. Although Zofia hasn’t tried to convince Falco to stop going to school like the rest of their peers, she has been pretty vocal about how stupid she thinks Falco is for living the end of his life so mundanely. 

“You also have a friend,” Zofia says. She begins to tug at him after every other word, trying to get him to follow her. “A friend you care about deeply and don’t want to see hurt if she ends up walking into some creep’s trap.” 

“Then why are you going at all if you know it might be dangerous?” Falco mutters, but he knows Zofia’s right. His normal school life consists of him going straight home after classes and doing his homework, but it occasionally includes him reluctantly following Zofia sometimes to make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble. He’s not too surprised when he ends up walking with Zofia to the meeting place the poster mentioned in their message. 

Normally, Falco and Zofia would have taken the bus into the city, but it’s difficult to flag down a bus. The schedules are erratic at best and oftentimes buses don’t show up on schedule at all. It is the end of the world, after all. 

It’s a curious thing, seeing the city at the end of the world. It’s a little bit like how the movies portray it, but not at all like the movies at the same time. Cars fill the street while drivers honk their horns and shout at each other to hurry up because they don’t want to spend their last days on earth stuck in traffic. The doors and windows of so many shops and buildings are smashed in and their contents gone. If people aren’t running around and screaming at each other on the street, they’re walking around like it’s a normal day save for the fact that they’re all looking for the next thing they want to do before they die. 

“I’d suggest going to the mall downtown or something later, but it’s probably ransacked like everywhere else,” Zofia says with a wistful sigh. 

“We could have just gone to the arcade in our town,” Falco mutters. The internet café and the arcade in their town is a mess because none of the gamers there bother to clean up their trash anymore, but at least there are still computers there and nobody has hauled off the arcade machines. 

The two wander about the city and linger near the subway station entrance the message board poster had mentioned. There are people going up and down the stairs to the subways and some kids skating around and doing tricks on their skateboards. Adults pass by hurriedly with their phone stuck to one ear, rushing to make plans with someone on the other end because they have limited time left. It feels like Zofia and Falco are just standing frozen in time while the world rushes around them. 

“Who do you think it is?” Zofia whispers in Falco’s ear. 

Falco scans the scene, his eyes quickly flitting over anyone that didn’t look like a middle schooler. He doesn’t think it would be any of the skateboarders, so he glances over them too. Whoever this Gabi Braun is, she doesn’t have any interest in anything aside from saving the world with her impossible idea. She must be looking for people just like he and Zofia are looking for her. 

Finally, his eyes land on a girl their age with a stern expression on her face. Her dark eyebrows are knitted together and she turns her head from side to side every few seconds as she scans the subway station, her brown hair whipping from side to side. She leans against the railing near the subway entrance, her arms folded across her chest. Somehow, she looks familiar, but Falco doesn’t know why. 

“Her,” Falco says. He raises his hand and points to her only to realize it’s rude and quickly lets his hand fall to his side. He’s about to jerk his head over in the girl’s direction, but Zofia has already seen who he was pointing to and starts dragging him over. 

“Excuse me,” Zofia says, catching the girl’s attention. The girl’s gaze is intense, her brown eyes scrutinizing the two of them, but Zofia doesn’t shrink away from the girl like Falco does. Instead, Zofia holds out a hand cordially and gives the girl a friendly smile. “You’re Gabi Braun, right? I’m Zofia, and this is my friend Falco. We saw your message reposted on our school forum and wanted to help you.” 

The girl looks at them suspiciously but takes Zofia’s hand, shaking it reluctantly. “You really want to help?” Her eyes flit towards Falco, who looks down immediately. “Why do you want to help me?” 

“Hmm,” Zofia hums and tilts her head to the side. “Because the end of the world isn’t something I’m particularly looking forward to.” She looks over at Falco and, with a grin, elbows him playfully in the ribs. “And this guy doesn’t have anything better to do, so I had him come along.” 

“What were you doing before?” Gabi asks curiously.

Falco purses his lips. It’s not that he’s ashamed about how he’s spending his last days. Living plainly is a far better choice than some people have made. Apparently, some people decided that murder was something they needed to check off their bucket list. If you ask Falco, he thinks being a normal student is far better than being a last-minute murderer. Still, it’s not something he wants to say out loud to a stranger. 

He kicks at the sidewalk and mumbles, “Just … homework and stuff.” 

To his surprise, Gabi doesn’t ridicule him or ask why. She simply nods as if this is a perfectly normal way for someone to spend their last days. She doesn’t ask them any more questions, somehow satisfied with Falco’s answer. She’s already digging around in her back for something and pulls a laptop out of her bag. 

“I’m still waiting for people to show up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if nobody ends up showing,” Gabi says, gesturing for the two of them to sit beside her. Her tone doesn’t sound disappointed at all. In fact, she sounds rather like she expected this to happen. 

Zofia sits on one side of Gabi, peering curiously over the brunette’s shoulder as she types away. Falco wants to sit beside Zofia. It would be more comfortable than sitting next to a stranger, but he would have difficulty seeing the screen. Reluctantly, he takes a seat next to Gabi. 

“I’ve been looking at videos,” Gabi tells them. “People have been submitting them after seeing my message on the school forums.” 

“Is there anyone particularly interesting to you?” Zofia asks. 

“Not really,” Gabi says. She opens up a folder on her screen and a video file pops up. She presses Play. “Technology lets you edit anything into videos now. Some of these powers look super fake, but I still have to take a chance in case they do have powers and are interested in saving the world, right?” 

The three watch the video play out. There’s a man on the screen claiming to have pyrokinesis. He’s wide-eyed and staring at the camera, holding out his hands with his palms to the ceiling. His explanation of his powers is similar to everyone else who has posted these kinds of videos on social media: he was just born with them and never bothered to reveal them until now for fear of being ostracized. 

The flame doesn’t ignite right away. It’s a flicker — a spark, really —  that grows into the smallest flame. The fire is hardly the size of the man’s fingertip, but he looks delighted just the same. The three children watching are not as thrilled. 

“You really think this guy can save the world?” Zofia asks, raising her eyebrow. 

“I don’t think this guy can save anyone,” Gabi replies. She’s so brutally honest that it would be funny if they weren’t discussing the fate of the world. “But I’m taking whatever help I can get at this point.” 

They spend the rest of that afternoon looking through applications. Most of them are just internet trolls and Gabi has to roll her eyes more than once before closing out the applicant’s video. There are a few promising candidates Gabi moves to a separate folder but only when Falco and Zofia also agree that the person might be worth looking into. They go through written applications too, often filtering out any CVs that aren’t descriptive enough and sometimes those that are too descriptive and more fitted to some sci-fi character description than an actual person. Gabi calls a few numbers from the short list of people that the three all agreed on, but nobody ever picks up. Nobody shows up either. Still, Gabi doesn’t seem to be discouraged. 

“Why are you doing this?” Falco asks at one point while they’re watching a video of a man who claims he can read people’s thoughts. 

“Hm?” Gabi says, looking away from the video. 

“Just … this whole thing,” Falco says and vaguely waves at the screen. “You know it too. This might not work, so why even bother trying to save the world?”

Gabi frowns and her eyebrows knit together like she doesn’t quite understand Falco’s question. “Well, what else would I be doing?” 

Falco doesn’t respond because, well, he doesn’t have an answer. It’s not like he knows what to do with the rest of his life either. If Zofia hadn’t convinced him to come here, he’d just be at home with his head stuck in a textbook. Even if it’s useless, whatever Gabi is doing is far more interesting. 

»»————- April 4, 2026 ————-««

Falco’s parents drop him off at the edge of the city. His mother had wanted to drop him off closer to his destination point, but Falco assured her that it wasn’t necessary. Besides, there were a lot of weirdos in the city, he reasoned, especially now that the apocalypse was coming. She reluctantly allowed him to be dropped off at the edge of the city, but not before giving him a can of pepper spray and a baseball bat in case he ran into anybody cruel enough to mug a middle schooler. 

He doesn’t have any trouble meeting Gabi at the library they agreed to meet at. Zofia isn’t there with him after deciding this morning that saving the world wasn’t what she wanted to spend her last moments doing. She did, however, request that Falco send Gabi her best wishes, which Falco promised to pass along. 

The two of them sit on the tenth floor of the library at a table by the window. The library isn’t exactly empty, but it’s not exactly filled up either. There are a few other visitors in the library with them. Some are seated at tables or couches, but others choose to sit between bookshelves, folding up their legs so that people can walk around if they need to get through. Hardly anyone pays attention to Falco and Gabi. They’re too busy flipping furiously through their books, eyes scanning the pages in seconds, as they try to finish their reading list before the world ends. 

While Gabi watches more videos of superpowered applicants while Falco gathers books on powers that interest them: pyrokinesis, psychokinesis, time travel, to name a few. As he gathers research articles, he also stumbles across the section of the library dedicated to outer space and celestial bodies and decides to grab a few books on asteroids and meteors as well. There’s a slim chance that they might help, but Falco might as well try. 

Gabi doesn’t talk much to Falco, too engrossed in her research to hold a conversation with him. He doesn’t talk much to her either. He does, on occasion, glance up at her to observe her progress, but she always seems to be staring at the screen with the same dissatisfied frown on her face. Every once in a while Gabi will lean over and ask Falco about whether or not a certain candidate looks promising, but his answer is almost always no and she goes back to staring at her screen. 

At noon, the two take their lunch break. Gabi hadn’t brought anything. She tells Falco she was planning on just grabbing something from the snack machine near the elevators. The library remains one of the few places that was relatively untouched by thieves and vandals because not many people think “let’s rob the library” when they hear that the world is ending. Because Falco’s mother has a tendency to overpack his lunches, Falco decides to split his meal with Gabi. He figures that a sandwich is far better than whatever half-filled bag of chips Gabi would end up grabbing from the vending machine. 

Falco munches on his katsu sandwich. It’s a favorite of his: two slices of pillowy milk bread with a thick cut of juicy pork cutlet covered in crispy bread crumbs wedged in between. A little butter and mustard give the sandwich a little bitterness that makes the tip of his tongue tingle and savory tonkatsu sauce drizzled over the thinly sliced cabbage underneath the katsu complete the simple but scrumptious sandwich. 

He looks over to see if Gabi is enjoying her food as much as he is, but she’s scarfing it down so quickly that he isn’t sure she’s even taking the time to taste it. In between bites, she’s scrolling through her laptop with greasy fingers, frowning. A glance at the notebook beside her tells Falco that Gabi hasn’t found many promising candidates. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” Falco asks. He’s halfway done with his lunch but Gabi is a bite away from finishing hers.

Gabi shrugs. She doesn’t look up as she answers. “I don’t know. It’s worth a shot, right?” She scrolls a bit more before she pauses, her fingers hovering above the touchpad. Her eyes flicker over to Falco so suddenly that he nearly drops his sandwich. Gabi narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, her attention entirely on the boy. Her gaze is intense and she scoots to the edge of her seat, leaning in towards Falco. “You’re awfully skeptical about this plan for someone who’s trying to save the world.” 

Falco gulps, trying not to shy away from her intense gaze. If he were a turtle, he’d be curled back in his shell right now. “I just want to make sure we’re not wasting our time,” he mumbles. 

“Falco, do you not believe that people can have superpowers?” Gabi asks.

Falco is about to shake his head and say that that’s not the case but before he can Gabi settles back into her seat, arms folded across her chest, and announces, “I have a superpower.” She says it quite loudly, loudly enough for her voice to be heard across the entire floor, but people are too preoccupied with their reading to pay much attention to her although a few readers do shoot her a dirty look for being so loud. 

Falco is not quite sure what he expected Gabi to say, but it wasn’t that. He sits there awkwardly, sandwich still half-finished in his hands. After a moment, he asks, “Er, what is it?” 

Gabi pops the last bit of her sandwich in her mouth and wipes her fingers on her jeans. After she chews and swallows, she leans towards Falco once more and gives him an impish grin. “I can read people’s minds. Telepathy,” she tells him. She doesn’t wait for him to ask for a demonstration. 

Gabi puts one hand on Falco’s chest and stares deeply into his eyes. Falco’s heart is beating wildly in his chest. If by some miracle Gabi doesn’t hear it, Falco’s certain that she’ll be able to feel it underneath her fingertips. She doesn’t say anything about it, though, just continues to stare at him with those intense brown eyes of hers as she reads every single thought racing through his mind right now, like how he’s never been quite this close to anyone, how he’s never had his heart beat quite this fast, or how he thinks he might just die right here right now before the asteroid even hits. 

Suddenly, Gabi’s face breaks into a smile and she pulls her hand away, Falco’s chest feeling achingly empty now. Gabi is laughing now, but Falco doesn’t have any idea why. 

“God, I didn’t think you’d believe me,” she laughs. She’s laughing so hard that it’s difficult to make out what she’s saying. “I didn’t think you’d believe me, but you really did. You’re really gullible, aren’t you?” 

Falco blinks, confused for a minute as he tries to process what just happened. “You … can’t read minds?” he says a beat too late. 

“No, god, but you thought I did,” Gabi laughs. 

“Then what’s your power?” 

Gabi’s still giggling as she answers. “Something else. It’s not important. I’ll tell you if it ends up being useful.” 

She’s laughing. She’s still laughing. It’s a laugh that comes from her stomach and has her clutching her sides. People are glaring because it’s disrupting the peace, and Falco feels like he should tell her to stop but he finds that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t even mind that she’s laughing at him. He just likes the sound of it. 

»»————- April 5, 2026 ————-««

They sit with a pack of chocolate-covered biscuits shaped like little bamboo shoots between them. While Falco eats them one at a time, usually popping one in his mouth after he’s read a few pages of whatever book he’s reading, Gabi shovels them into her mouth by the handful without even looking. They’ve gone through their fifth pack of the little chocolate biscuits and it’s not even noon yet. 

“Do you think you can do it?” Falco asks at some point. 

“Save the world?” Gabi asks. She sucks her thumb, trying to get the chocolate off. Falco nods and Gabi says, “Well, who else if not me?” 

“Literally anyone else,” Falco replies because, well, they’re only kids. 

“Right, and just die young, dumb, and stupid like every other kid our age,” Gabi says with a roll of her eyes. “No thanks. I’d rather have died trying to do something. Besides, it’s not as if the adults are having that much luck either.” 

Gabi slides her laptop over so that Falco can see the screen. On it, a video plays of a rocket shooting into space. The caption on the bottom reads “NASA Space Missile Failure.” Falco vaguely recalls hearing about the missile launch earlier this morning. The scientists were excited about it, hoping that the missile would collide with the oncoming asteroid and shatter it into smaller pieces that would burn up in the atmosphere, but it seems like they had been excited for nothing. Apparently, they had miscalculated the trajectory of the missile and it would miss the asteroid completely. 

“That sucks,” Falco says finally. He’s not exactly sure how he feels about the news. He should probably feel disappointed, but he feels the same way he did a month ago when he heard the world was ending: perfectly indifferent. 

Gabi shrugs. “Armin said it wouldn’t work. He said their calculations were off,” she says. She glances at Falco and adds, “Armin’s a genius. He’s my mentor’s husband.” 

“A genius? Is that his superpower?” Falco asks. If Gabi knows someone who’s a literal genius, he doesn’t see why they’re doing all this work. Shouldn’t this genius, whoever he is, have all the answers? 

Gabi thinks for a minute, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not sure. My mentor just says Armin’s a genius, but he’s way too humble to admit it,” Gabi finally answers. She frowns, leaning forward with her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “He can’t help us though. He’s busy tending to his fish.” 

Falco isn’t certain he’s heard her right. “His fish?” he repeats. 

“Yeah. He’s a marine biologist. He likes to have some fish at home,” Gabi explains like it’s the most normal thing in the world to take care of your fish when the world is about to end. “He says it calms him down to see them swim around.” 

Falco is still trying to wrap his head around all of this — Gabi and her willingness to save the world, the genius she just spoke of who just wants to take care of his fish, and the asteroid hurtling towards the earth. He doesn’t understand any of it. “So it’s okay for you, a kid, to try and save the world while a literal genius is taking care of fish at his house instead of trying to prevent the apocalypse?” 

Gabi blinks. “Yes,” she replies as if there could be no other answer. “Because it’s what I want to do. And it’s what he wants to do. Why should we be doing anything different?” 

“But shouldn’t you be doing, I don’t know, kid things?” Falco asks. He’s starting to feel a little frustrated talking to her. This isn’t what she should be doing at all. This isn’t what they should be doing. They should be enjoying the last few days they have together. They should be playing games at the arcade, or wandering around the empty mall, or eating snacks at the park, not … whatever this is. 

“Maybe. Probably. But I don’t want to,” Gabi says. She turns the laptop back and starts typing away. “I don’t like the idea of doing something just because the world is ending. I’ve always done what I wanted, so I don’t have any regrets. This is the only thing I want to do now.” 

It’s more than Falco can say. Like Gabi, he doesn’t have anything he wants to do, but then he’s never really ever wanted to do anything. All his life he’s been floating from place to place and participating in whatever was expected of kids his age: attending school, joining a sports team, learning an instrument. He didn’t care about any of it. He doesn’t have any regrets about it, but he does feel a sudden wave of admiration for Gabi. She’s saving the world now because she feels like it, but she could just as easily leave this task for another if something else strikes her fancy. Falco wants to know what it feels like to pursue something so impulsively. 

He wants to want things. He wants to be with Gabi. He wants to help her save the world. 

“Is there something you want to do before the world ends?” Gabi asks. She’s just asking to be polite. Her eyes are already glued to the screen of her laptop, her face turned away from him. “You don’t seem to be as into the whole ‘save the world’ thing as I am.” 

Falco shrugs even though she’s not watching. “I don’t mind it.” Falco could leave it at that. He doesn’t have to say anything else, but he does. “There isn’t really else I want to do anyway,” he tells her, but it’s a lie.

He wants to hold her hand. 

»»————- April 6, 2026 ————-««

Falco has never looked forward to anything as much as the researching sessions he has with Gabi. He’s never really looked forward to anything before, actually, and he’s not sure why being surrounded by books and looking at (mostly) fake superhero videos with Gabi appeals to him so much. 

He likes a lot of things about the way Gabi works. She’s quiet and focused, eyebrows knitted as she decides whether or not to call another applicant that probably won’t pick up. She never gets discouraged even though things don’t look promising. They’ve probably called dozens of people and only a third have actually responded. Most of them turned out to be trolls, which isn’t surprising considering they were taking submissions from strangers on the internet, but Gabi still carries on. Maybe it’s Gabi’s passion and stubbornness that has drawn Falco to her, but it feels like it’s more than that too. 

He feels, in a way, like Gabi completes him. Before he met her, he was wandering aimlessly. Now he doesn’t know what he’d do without her. Staying at home and studying seems unbearable when the option of being with Gabi exists. 

Falco isn’t sure how Gabi feels about him. He doesn’t even know if she has any feelings towards him — if she likes him, hates him, or just feels completely indifferent. At any rate, she doesn’t seem to mind spending her last few days on earth with him, and that makes him feel a little better about the world ending. Occasionally, he thinks about how Gabi probably wouldn’t notice if he stopped coming to help her. Well, she might notice, but Falco doesn’t think Gabi would change her routine. She’d just continue saving the world with or without his help. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird?” Falco asks at one point. Gabi looks at him with a raised eyebrow and he elaborates “We hardly know each other and we’re just here … saving the world together.” 

Gabi frowns, a thoughtful look on her face. “I don’t think it’s weird,” she says to Falco, and he feels his heart flutter in his chest. “A lot of weird stuff has happened because it’s the end of the world and we just happened to meet each other. If a total weirdo had showed up instead of you, then maybe I would be saving the world with them and we never would have met.” She doesn’t seem to mind the thought of working with a total weirdo in place of Falco. 

Falco slumps in his seat, deflated, but Gabi doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m glad it was you though,” Gabi continues. 

Falco lifts his head. “Really?” He scoots closer in his seat, curious. “Why?” 

Gabi twirls her pen between her fingers, looking upward as she thinks. After a moment, she shrugs. “I don’t know,” she answers. “It just feels better knowing I’m working with someone. It’s better than working alone, I guess. I might feel the same way even if it were someone else, but I also might not. Still, I’m glad it’s you.” 

It doesn’t really mean anything. Like she said, it could have been some other kid who ended up answering Gabi’s post and helping her with her impossible quest to save the world. It could have been some other person sitting with her and looking up useless articles on asteroids and meteorites. It could have been someone else having this conversation with her. But, Falco reminds himself, it wasn’t. It’s him sitting beside her, eating snacks and discussing the end of the world. It probably isn’t fate that they met, but it kind of feels like it is. 

»»————- April 7, 2026 ————-««

Tired of the same snacks from his pantry, Falco decides to try the café on the first-floor of the library for some new things to eat. He had asked Gabi what she wanted and she told him to just get her anything. 

The first floor café is relatively well-stocked for the end of the world, but maybe it’s because bookworms prefer literature to satiate their appetites rather than food. 

The display case, usually filled with dessert sandwiches with slices of strawberries and kiwi and slathered with whipped cream, is cleaned out, but the shelves behind the cash register are still stocked with different kinds of chips and candies. Falco scans the shelves, looking for his favorites: baked potato chips covered in rich butter, little rice crackers flavored with soy sauce and red pepper flakes, and chocolate cookies in the shape of tiny hamburgers. 

Falco stares, for the longest time, at the other snacks and wonders what Gabi would like, if she has a preference for anything. Maybe he should have paid more attention when they were eating together to see if she ever seemed to gravitate to certain foods he brought or commented on any of the snacks they ate together, but he can’t recall anything. He feels stupid for not noticing, but he also doesn’t want to keep Gabi waiting and ends up grabbing whatever grabs his attention. 

He arrives at their designated research table, huffing from the flights of stairs he had to climb. Falco deposits the snacks rather ungracefully in front of Gabi, letting them fall out of his hands and onto the table. Gabi looks up from the noise, her eyebrows raised, but she smiles when she sees that it’s him and Falco’s heart flutters almost painfully in his chest. 

“These are yours,” Falco says, shoving Gabi’s share of the snacks towards her. 

“Thanks.” Gabi picks up a snack with a gray cartoon cat on the wrapper. It’s a puffed corn stick. Pizza-flavored, the wrapper says. She opens it with a grin. “How did you know these were my favorite?” she asks. 

“I … I don’t know,” Falco says. “Must have been a lucky guess.” 

But it doesn’t feel like it. 

It feels like he knew, from the beginning, what she had wanted. It’s like he had let his instincts take over when he had randomly chosen snacks for Gabi and somehow selected her favorite ones. It was as easy as picking food for someone he had known for his whole life, which is impossible because he hadn’t even known Gabi a week ago. Maybe, then, he had known Gabi in a past life and that’s how he happened to pick her favorites. Or maybe they really are fated to be together and knowing things like her favorite food are just second nature to him. The latter two explanations are almost impossible and yet so much more likely than the first explanation. He doesn’t know how to explain it though, not without seeming crazy, so he doesn’t say anything. 

»»————- April 8, 2026 ————-««

Tomorrow is the end of the world and they are no closer to saving everyone from the asteroid hurtling towards the earth than they were yesterday. In fact, they are no closer to saving the world than they were a week ago when this effort began or even a month ago when they had first found out the world was going to be destroyed. Their attempt to prevent the world’s end was futile and their effort today will probably be equally useless. Still, here they are on the tenth floor of the library doing the same thing they did yesterday. 

The sun is about to set and it’s almost time for them to head home. Falco wonders if they’ll be here tomorrow spending their last moments at the library when the world ends or if Gabi will call it quits and suggest they spend their last day without each other. He’s too afraid to ask. 

They pack up silently, Gabi slipping her notebooks and laptop into her bag as Falco arranges the books into neat stacks on the slim chance that they’ll return tomorrow. Falco notices that Gabi packs the same way she always does — quickly, dumping everything into her backpack as if she doesn’t care if they get damaged — and it stings a little bit that she doesn’t pack a little slower this time like he does just so that he can spend a few seconds more with her. Maybe he shouldn’t be so disappointed because it’s obvious she doesn’t care for him more than she would care for a coworker or a classmate she was randomly paired with to complete an assignment. 

Falco is silently pining when Gabi speaks, startling him. 

“So, the world ends tomorrow,” she says easily. It’s like she’s talking about the weather. “Are you satisfied with how you spent your last days? No regrets?” 

They’re two questions that seem related, but Falco’s answers for them are very different. 

He is satisfied with how he spent his last days. The past week perhaps isn’t as spectacular by other people’s standards. Falco didn’t go bungee jumping or skydiving or deepsea divings like some of his peers. Some people would argue that the way he spent his last few days was as boring as the way he spent the past month, although Falco would argue that it was infinitely better because he had Gabi. He’s convinced that however he chose to spend his last days, as long as they were with Gabi, he would be happy. He could even watch the grass grow with Gabi and he’d be completely content. So, yes, he’s completely satisfied with how he spent his last few days, but he has many regrets. 

He regrets not meeting Gabi earlier. He regrets not being able to spend more than a week with her. He regrets not doing things with her that kids their age should be doing: playing soccer in the field, catching butterflies by the river and letting them go, and hanging out at the arcade and beating their high scores. But most of all, he regrets feeling this way about Gabi and not being able to tell her. 

Falco doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he asks, “Do you?” 

“No,” Gabi replies with a smile and it makes Falco feel a little better about the ache in his chest. 

»»————- April 9, 2026 ————-««

Falco doesn’t expect Gabi to call him the next day. Before bidding each other goodbye yesterday, Gabi suggested they not see each other again. 

“You should spend the day with your family or something,” Gabi said to him. “Your parents probably want to spend their last day with their kids. I’ll just do this by myself. And, you know, thanks for everything.” 

He had wanted to tell her that it was fine if they spent their last day together. He spent his whole life with his parents. He should at least spend one more day with Gabi if this is his last one, but he bit his tongue and said goodbye to her with the fakest smile before turning on his heel and walking as quickly as he could to where his mom would pick him up.

Falco was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling when Gabi called and told him to meet him at the bottom of the hill near the outskirts of his town. She said her mentor was coming back today and that they could visit her to see if there was still a possibility of saving the world. Falco didn’t even question her or ask if they really have any hope after their days of research lead to nothing. He just leapt out of bed, told his parents he would be out and that he loved them, and biked up to the hills where Gabi asked to meet him. 

When he gets there, Gabi is already waiting for him, bundled in a navy peacoat and a gray scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her face breaks out in a grin when she sees him and she waves a gloved hand to greet him. 

“How did you get here so fast?” Falco huffs once he finally reaches her. The hill gets too steep for him to bike, so he gets off his bicycle and walks with Gabi beside him. 

“My uncle Reiner drove me here,” Gabi replies, shoving her hands in her pockets. She rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches with a smile. “He says he wanted to spend a little more time with his favorite niece before she becomes famous for saving the world.” 

“You really think we’re gonna do it?” Falco asks. 

Gabi shrugs. “I think if my mentor thinks so, we probably have a good chance.” 

They arrive at the mentor’s house at the top of the hill. It’s small, more like a tiny cabin than an actual house. When Gabi knocks, they’re greeted by a blond man with big blue eyes. The man smiles when he sees Gabi, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Hello, Gabi. I guess Mikasa told you she’d be coming back today,” the man says. He looks over Falco. “Hello. You must be Gabi’s friend Falco. I’m Armin.” The man offers a hand for Falco to shake. 

Falco nods, wondering why the man’s name sounds so familiar. It’s only when he’s shaken the man’s hand that he remembers Gabi had mentioned Armin a few days ago when they were researching in the library. He’s the genius that likes to spend his days taking care of fish. 

Falco follows Gabi when the man invites them into the cabin. Falco’s a little taken aback at how simple the interior is. The living room is small and the kitchen is smaller with only the essentials. There isn’t even a microwave. 

“Sit down,” Armin says, gesturing at the dining table in the middle of the room. He heads towards the kitchen cabinets where he takes out three mugs. “I’ll make tea for us while we wait for Mikasa.” 

“Can we see your fish later, Armin?” Gabi asks. She’s already settled down in a chair, kicking her legs back and forth. It’s clear that she feels at home here. When she notices that Falco hasn’t taken a seat yet, she gestures for him to sit down at the seat closest to her. To Armin, she continues, “I was telling Falco about you and he was curious about what a genius would be up to at the end of the world if he wasn’t trying to prevent the apocalypse.” 

Armin chuckles. “Do you like fish, Falco?” he asks. He smiles when Falco makes a surprised noise, an answer stuck in his throat. “Sure, we can take a look a little later.” 

Over apple tarts and tea, Gabi and Armin fill Falco in on Mikasa. She’s Armin’s wife, Gabi’s mentor, and the key to saving the world. Mikasa has a superpower, Gabi explains, that allows her to identify other people with superpowers and what those powers are. She helps people utilize their powers, but she took off for a month when the end of the world was announced to gather people with powers that might prevent the asteroid from crashing into the earth. 

“Did Mikasa tell you if she met any promising people?” Gabi asks. She’s licked her plate clean and cinnamon sticks to her lips. 

Armin shakes his head, a resigned smile on his face. “Unfortunately, no. She said all the candidates she met didn’t have any sort of useful power, but who knows? Maybe she’ll meet someone on the way here that can stop the meteor.” 

“Ah, it’s a meteor now?” Falco asks, sitting up in his seat. 

“It’s been one for a while,” Armin says. He glances out the window for a second. It’s not blue like it was when Falco woke up this morning. It’s orange now., not like a sunrise but more like someone has set the sky on fire. “We should be able to see it soon. The estimated time of impact is soon if I recall correctly. Hopefully, we get to see Mikasa soon.” His eyebrows are knitted together in concern, but Gabi looks just as unbothered as ever. 

“I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” Gabi says. She collects her empty plate as well as Falco and Armin’s before depositing them in the sink. It’s an awfully normal thing to do considering the fact that the dirty dishes won’t matter when the earth is destroyed. She lets them soak in the sink and then turns to Armin. “Can we go see your fish now? Falco hasn’t seen them yet.” 

“Sure,” Armin says with a smile. He gets up from the table and gestures for Falco to follow him. “Let’s go see the fish.” 

Armin leads the children to a side room. Inside is a large glass fish tank with so many plants, shells, and rocks that Falco doesn’t see the fish at first. He and Gabi crouch beside the tank, their faces not quite touching the glass. Falco can see neon fish the size of his pinky darting back and forth between plants. He spots a miniature catfish the size of his thumb hiding behind a rock while a school of ten or so black and white striped fish zips around the 50-gallon tank. There are many more fish that Falco spots, lots of which he doesn’t know the name of but Armin patiently points them all out and tells Falco both the scientific and the common names of each fish and their habits. It’s clear that he loves it, taking care of the fish and looking after them, and Falco thinks he understands a little bit why Armin has chosen to spend the rest of the world like this. Occasionally, Gabi pipes in with whatever she remembers about each fish, usually their behavioral patterns she’s noticed when she’s visited, and Armin always grins whenever she speaks. 

The three don’t notice when Mikasa arrives. They’re too busy staring at the fish swimming back and forth in the tank without a care in the world. The fish can’t grasp the fact that the world is ending. After all, their world only consists of the four glass walls that encase them and anything outside doesn’t concern them. It’s only when the door to the room opens and Mikasa steps in that the three realize that she’s returned. The fish, however, just keep swimming. 

“That’s a nice way to spend the end of the world,” Mikasa comments. She has a tired smile on her face. She wears a soft cream-colored turtleneck, a long black coat hanging over her arm. “I see Gabi has joined us. As has her friend.” The woman nods at Falco. 

“H-hello,” Falco stammers. He’s not sure what he was expecting Mikasa to look like. Perhaps like a woman with all the answers, someone who looked like she had seen the world, but she doesn’t. She just looks like any other woman, maybe a little more tired than other women, but still just a normal person. She doesn’t look like she has an amazing superpower, but then again neither does Gabi nor any of the potential candidates that claimed to have powers. “I’m Falco.” 

“Ah, yes,” Mikasa says with a nod. “Gabi mentioned you before. I’m Mikasa, her mentor.” She drapes her coat over a nearby chair and walks over to join the three of them beside the fish tank. 

“Did you find anyone?” Gabi asks. She looks out towards the living room, craning her neck to see if Mikasa had brought someone they didn’t notice. 

“No, nobody that could save the world, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mikasa sighs, shoulder slumped. “Although, I did run into a guy who was convinced that the only way to save the world was to destroy it. I got away from him as quickly as possible.” 

“Probably a smart decision,” Armin says with a nod, and Mikasa smiles in reply. 

“Well, shall we go watch the end of the world together?” Mikasa asks, putting an arm around Gabi. She looks around at the others. “I heard it was going to be quite spectacular. Like a meteor show in the middle of the day.” Her eyes settle on Falco and her smile begins to falter. Her brows knit together and she opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something. 

Armin notices the change in her demeanor and looks back and forth between Falco and Mikasa. “What’s wrong? Are you …?” It seems like something clicks in his head and he quickly turns to Falco. With a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Armin asks quickly, “Falco, do you have a power you haven’t told us about?” 

The question startles Falco and he jerks away from Armin’s hand in surprise. “I … I don’t know,” he says, stumbling over his words. He’s never felt like he had any kind of superpower. He’s never shown any sign of being special. He’s always just been … normal. 

“You … do you not know?” Mikasa asks, her eyebrows raised. She looks at Gabi. “Falco can save the world.” 

It’s too much for Falco to take in when the world is about to end so soon. He has too many questions like: What power is he supposed to have? How come he didn’t know about it before? Is there still time to save everyone or is it too late? He opens his mouth to ask, not knowing which one will come out of his mouth first, when he feels a comforting hand on his elbow. Falco looks over to see Gabi standing beside him, somehow calm despite this revelation. 

“What’s his power, Mikasa?” 

“He can travel back in time,” Mikasa says, still staring at Falco with her intense gaze. “Under the event of an unexpected death like, say, getting hit by an asteroid, he can go back in time and prevent it from happening. But only if he remembers that it will happen in the first place.” Her eyes flicker towards Gabi for some reason. 

“What … what does that mean ‘only if I remember’?” Falco asks Gabi. 

Gabi’s biting down on her lip, expression contemplative. Finally, she tells Falco, “My power is that I’m unforgettable. If you reset your time after the meteor hits, usually you won't remember what happened, but you will if I use my power. You’d be able to remember me and everything we’ve done together. If you go back in time, maybe you can find a way to save the world because you’ll know what to expect.” 

“Then … then that’s good news!” He doesn’t know why everyone around him isn’t jumping up and down in excitement right now. They’ve found a way to save the world. If not this time, then the next time or the time after that. “Isn’t this good news?” 

“I mean, it is,” Gabi says. She doesn’t sound as confident as she usually does. Instead, she’s hesitant, almost shy. Falco doesn’t think he’s ever seen Gabi shy before. She’s looking at the floor now, kicking at the hardwood floor with her sock-clad feet. “It’s just that … I have to make you fall in love with me to make you remember me.” 

Falco’s mouth falls open and no words come out. 

“It’s not like it’s hard,” Gabi says almost hurriedly, more because she’s embarrassed than in a rush to save the world. She’s shed off her embarrassment and assumed her usual confident demeanor. “I’m very lovable, you know. It’s just …” Her voice trails off again. 

“She has to seal it with a kiss,” Mikasa finishes, and Falco can see why Gabi was so embarrassed. His cheeks redden just from the thought of kissing Gabi. Mikasa adds rather apologetically, “It’s just the way it works, her power. She needs to kiss you.” 

“Only if you’re okay with it, of course,” Gabi adds. She’s still avoiding his gaze, her eyes on the floor. “I’m fine if you’d rather not. You might just be stuck in the loop all by yourself. It’d be a little less painful since you won’t remember each time but still -” 

“I’m okay with it,” Falco says. 

Gabi looks up, surprised. “You are?” 

“Yeah,” Falco says. “I’m … I’m fine with it. Let’s save the world. Together. That’s what our entire plan was, right?” 

“Yeah. Yeah,” Gabi repeats and she smiles. It’s different from how she’s smiled at him before. It’s a little bit bashful, a little bit excited. It looks nice on her, Falco thinks, and he’s so distracted that he’s surprised when he realizes she’s holding his hand. 

Mikasa tugs at the elbow of Armin’s cardigan and the blond man nods. Taking Mikasa’s hand, he turns to the kids and says, “We’ll be out there just to give you two some privacy. Hopefully, we’ll see each other again soon.” 

The door shuts softly behind the two adults. Falco doesn’t know if they wait in the living room or if they’ve gone outside to admire the sky. From the window, Falco can see that the sky has changed from a burnt orange to an explosion of different colors: shades of violet, pink, blue, and yellow all together almost like a watercolor painting. There are streaks of white in the sky. It’s like a meteor shower in the middle of the day just as Mikasa had said. 

When he turns to Gabi, she’s looking at him with her hand still holding his. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek, but she smiles when she sees he’s looking at her. 

“Are you still up for it?” Gabi asks. 

“Y-yeah,” Falco says, his voice cracking. He feels his face flush, but he likes the sound of Gabi’s giggle even if he’s the one she’s laughing at. He licks his lips nervously and leans in just the tiniest bit. “Is … is it okay if I kiss you?” 

Gabi bites her lip and nods. She leans in too and Falco takes it as his cue to close his eyes and close the gap. 

He doesn’t know what to expect from this kiss. Maybe warm lips pressing against his while his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. Maybe Gabi’s hands gripping his arms while his hands hover awkwardly around his waist. Maybe the world ending and, when his eyes open, Falco waking to thoughts of Gabi and how to find her next. But none of this happens. Instead, Gabi puts her hands on his shoulder and pushes him gently but firmly away. 

“I can’t do it,” Gabi says. 

“Wha-?” 

“I can’t do it,” Gabi repeats with a shake of her head. She looks upset, but Falco doesn’t know why. He wonders what it is he did to offend her. Maybe she doesn’t want to kiss him. Maybe she finds him repulsive and doesn’t want to kiss him even if it means saving the world. Falco thinks this would be the case if Gabi didn’t look so apologetic. “I can’t kiss you. Not like this.” 

“What do you mean?” Falco asks, panicked. He takes a glance at the window. Outside, the meteors in the sky look brighter. It’s like a million stars are falling to the earth. It’s only a matter of time before the world ends. He doesn’t know why Gabi is doing this. 

“I don’t want to kiss you just to save the world and I don’t want you to kiss me for the same reason,” Gabi says, taking a step away from him. She shakes her head, tears pricking her eyes. “I want you to kiss me because you like me, not because you have some responsibility to save the earth so … so find me again and kiss me. Find me again and tell me you like me and kiss me hard. And then … and then we can save the world.” 

But he wants to kiss her now. He wants to kiss her because he likes her. He wants to kiss her because the world is ending. He wants to kiss her even if the world isn’t ending. He wants to tell her that, but he doesn’t have the words. 

Ever since Mikasa had revealed Falco’s power, everything has suddenly made sense to him. Falco understands now why his life felt so empty before he met Gabi and why he never felt the desire to do anything. He knows why he was so drawn to her when they first met that day in the city and why he felt like she completed him. It’s because they were meant to meet each other, meant to be together, meant to save the world. 

Falco wants to kiss her so badly. He wants to hold Gabi’s face in his hands and put his lips on hers and kiss her until the world ends and when he wakes up again he’ll find her and kiss her again and again and again. He wants to tell her he likes her now and that he’ll like her again. He wants to tell her that he’d like her even if the world weren’t about to end, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t get to tell her anything. 

A bright light flashes from the window. All Falco sees is Gabi and then white, and then nothing. 

»»————- March 9, 2026 ————-««

Falco wakes up and rolls out of bed. He brushes his teeth in the bathroom and brushes out his hair before blearily heading down the stairs where his mom is making breakfast. His father hasn’t left for work yet, he notices, which is rather strange. His mother hasn’t finished making breakfast yet and his brother isn’t dressed for school. He stares at them, wondering why they’re acting so odd. It takes them a moment to realize he’s there. 

“The world is ending next month,” his mother tells him. She points at the TV screen that Falco’s father is staring at. On it flashes a picture of an asteroid hurtling towards the earth. The little banner underneath the picture says it’s far too big to burn up in the atmosphere. Scientists have no hope of human survival. 

“If I knew, I would have slept in,” Colt mumbles. 

His family looks shocked by the news, but Falco doesn’t feel anything. He grabs a banana from the fruit bowl in the kitchen and starts to head out the door. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Colt asks him. 

Falco pauses by the door. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. He’s not sure what to do now that the world is ending. There isn’t anything in particular that he wants to do. “I’ll go to school, I guess.” 

He leaves after assuring his parents that it’s fine, that he really doesn’t mind going to school because he isn’t sure what else to do. He stops by his mailbox and looks up at the sky. It’s clear and blue, no asteroid in sight. 

He takes a deep breath and then releases it. It sounds like a sigh. 

[magniloquent-raven]

43, and 83?

ty for the prompts!! 

posted on ao3

i’m taking commissions for HfBLM now y’all, if you like this fic and have $5 to spare pls consider donating & hitting me up with a prompt. my info is here

--

Steve is pretending to watch TV when the phone rings. He’s not even sure what show he threw on, just couldn’t stand the quiet any longer. His weekends used to be a lot more eventful. Lively. There was a time when he’d have had something to fill the silence, but now...

He graduated high school eight days ago. The only thing he has to look forward to now is Dustin getting back from camp in a couple weeks, and in the meantime, he’s working at the mall. Scooping ice-cream in the dumbest hat on the fucking planet.

And he got another lecture on responsibility yesterday. His father’s idea of a graduation present, apparently.

Life isn’t great right now.

So, when the phone interrupts his pity party, he assumes the worst. Which, given Hawkins’ track-record, is pretty bad. Apocalyptic bad.

Or it could just be his dad, tipsy in a hotel room in Indianapolis and thinking up new reasons why Steve is a disappointment.

He’s not sure which one he hopes it is.

“Harrington, residence,” he says when he picks up, in case it is his father.

The silence from the other end stretches long enough that Steve almost hangs up, then, “Heey,” a voice slurs. A familiar voice. “That you, Stevie?”

“Hargrove?”

“Ugh,” a staticky scoff crackles through the line, “Don’t call me that.”

“Are you drunk?” He ignores the way Billy rankles at his own last name. Doesn’t have time to unpack Billy Hargrove’s many issues, and honestly, the fact that the guy is calling him out of the blue drunk off his ass is the more pressing issue. “And how did you get my phone number?”

“Phonebook, genius.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. Ignores the weird little thrill he gets at the idea of Billy going through the trouble of looking up his number. “What the hell, man.”

He should hang up. Billy can’t possibly have any good reason to be calling, and engaging with…whatever this is, probably won’t end well for Steve. However, Steve is very bored. And Hargrove is at the very least…entertaining. In his way. 

If Steve were a little more honest with himself, he might use other adjectives, but he’s not thinking about that.

“Steeevie…” Billy sing-songs through the phone, “Pretty boy, what’re you doing right now?”

“Regretting answering the phone.”

Billy cackles, “No, really.”

“I’m really regretting answering the phone.”

“C’mooon.”

See, the thing is… Billy’s...whatever his deal is, fixation or whatever, really doesn’t bother Steve as much as it should. 

Sometimes it’s shitty, yeah. On his bad days, when Billy says exactly the wrong thing, just to get a rise out of him. But it’s also…not all terrible. Maybe Steve’s ten kinds of fucked up for thinking it, but it’s flattering. Because it isn’t just crass comments and getting overly physical during basketball practice, it’s calling Steve pretty, and glancing over after he does a trick shot, like he wants to make sure Steve saw him. And heavy, unflinching eye-contact that makes Steve hot all over.

So, maybe Steve’s got a bit of a…problem. And maybe he’s thinking about it a little.

About Billy being the only person over the age of fourteen who regularly pays attention to him, and why that even matters. And how much he didn’t mean it when he said he regretted picking up at all.

It’s a rabbit hole he’s kind of terrified to go down, but his brain keeps trying to push him in anyway.

“Steeeevve.”

He sighs. “What do you want, Billy?”

Billy’s quiet for a beat, like he’s actually thinking about it, then hums, low and amused, and says, “More than you could handle, baby.”

Steve chokes on his tongue. Falls down the rabbit hole.

Because what’s that supposed to mean?

“Are you—” Steve stutters, stops, heart racing. Billy’s messing with him. That’s what he does. It doesn't mean anything. Steve kind of hates how much he wants it to mean something. Wants Billy here crooning baby in his ear without the phone between them. “What if your parents are listening in, you can’t just say shit like that.” 

Oh the irony. After all the times girls have said almost that exact thing to him, here he is... The implications thrill him a little.

But then there’s a bark of laughter, bitter and humourless. “You worried about me?” Steve frowns at the sudden shift in Billy’s tone. “M’not at home right now, princess, don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

 “Where are you then?” It slips out before he can think better of it. It’s none of his business where Billy is, and Billy doesn’t take well to people nosing around in his life. Not that it’s an especially personal question. Still, he’s seen Billy bite people’s heads off for less. 

But all he says is, “Dunno.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Steve squawks. Billy is somewhere, drunk and probably alone, in Hawkins. Monster infested, suspicious death capital of Indiana, motherfucking Hawkins. And either he’s so drunk he’s got no sense of direction, or he just hasn’t been here long enough to know his ass from Melvald’s General. Or some horrible combo of the two. None of those options are good. 

“Just…describe what you see.” The line is silent for a while. Steve grips the phone harder. “Billy,” he snaps, not caring that he’s letting his anxiety bleed into his voice.

“Jesus, alright,” Billy mutters, “Trees. More fuckin’ trees. Y’know, this town really is a shithole. Nothin’ around but mud and—”

“Focus, asshole.”

“So bossy. There’s some big-ass chain-link fence. Seems weird, ‘cause it’s the middle of nowh—"

“Oh god, you’re out by Mirkwood,” Steve realizes, horrified.

“…I’ll be sure to watch out for elves then.” He can almost hear Billy’s eyeroll.

“Would you stop being—wait, you understood the reference?” Steve blinks. Processes. Tries not to find it too endearing that Billy Hargrove is, underneath the leather and hairspray, a nerd, apparently. 

Now is really not the time. So he files the information away for later. He’s not sure what he’s gonna do with it later, but it feels important for some reason. 

“Never mind, just—Stay there. I’m coming to get you.” Mirkwood isn’t far, it would only take him a couple minutes to drive there. And Steve knows exactly where the payphone on that street is, which helps.

Steve half-expects a fight. Expects Billy to protest, claim he doesn’t need help or whatever, but what he gets is a quiet, “I…okay.”

“I’ll be right there,” Steve says firmly. He’s not sure Billy needs the reassurance, but he gives it anyway.

He’s shaking a little, he realizes, as he pulls on his jacket and grabs his keys. It’s ridiculous, probably, to be so freaked out, and he chides himself internally for being so easily spooked. The gate is closed, the lab is shut down, there should be nothing in those woods scarier than Billy himself. But shouldn’t be didn’t stop Will Byers from getting taken in the first place. None of that shit should have been, but it happened anyway. Billy may be more formidable than some shrimpy twelve-year-old but he’s also drunk, and has no idea what could be out there.

Steve pushes the speed limit a little.

~~

Billy is sitting in the dirt on the side of the road, knees pulled to his chest, back against the payphone booth. The dirty fluorescent behind him lights up his honey-coloured curls like the world's saddest halo.

The knot of anxiety in Steve’s chest loosens a little.

He puts the Beemer in park. Now that he knows Billy’s okay, he realizes he didn’t really think this all the way through. Because…what now?

Billy hasn’t moved, so Steve goes to him, approaches cautiously, with his hands in his pockets to stop him from fidgeting too much. “Billy?”

“Hey.” The greeting is subdued.

“You okay, man?”

He sniffs, doesn’t look at Steve. Rubs the back of his hand under his nose. “No.” There’s something clutched in his other hand, Steve realizes, but he can’t make out what it is because Billy is curled around it, blocking the light.

“Do…you want to, uh, talk about it?” Steve cringes his way through the question. He’s really, really out of his depth here, not a goddamn buoy in sight.

There’s no response. The silence stretches on for an awkward moment before Billy pushes himself to his feet, swaying a little. Steve’s almost afraid he’s going to fall over but he just shuffles forward, uncharacteristically hesitant, and extends a hand towards Steve when he gets close enough.

With a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his fist.

Only half of them have bloomed, their little purple petals unfurled. The stems look a little prickly, dotted with green buds and jagged leaves, and half-crushed in Billy’s hand, the green turned dark and pulpy in spots.

Steve is pretty sure if his heart tried to beat any faster it would actually explode. He’s genuinely at a loss for words, left gaping at Billy trying not to wheeze like he’s just run a marathon.

“Picked these for you,” Billy mutters. He’s staring at a patch of dirt near Steve’s shoe with the intensity of someone trying very hard not to look at anything else.

There’s air escaping Steve’s lungs, but he can’t seem to make it into sound. He stares, unmoving, for long enough that Billy starts fidgeting, lowering his hand. The motion spurs Steve to action, heart in his mouth he reaches out and grabs Billy’s wrist. Billy stills under his fingers, and Steve slides his palm down the back of his hand. He’s warm. Knuckles scarred and rough.

“…Why?” Steve’s voice is reverently quiet. He’s almost afraid to scare Billy off, say the wrong thing and make him retreat behind the walls he’s always hiding behind.

Billy shrugs. Then finally looks Steve in the eye. He’s cautious, tension in his shoulders, but there’s a vulnerability in his expression that Steve’s never seen before. It’s breathtaking. Literally. Steve stops breathing for a second. 

“Why’re you here?” Billy asks. Demands. There’s no edge to it, just a quiet desperation that breaks Steve’s heart. He wonders why Billy is here. What brought him to the edge of town, drunk and alone.

“I…” His fingers tighten around Billy’s hand. Lies destroyed him and Nancy. All the things she kept from him that tore her up inside, all the times he wanted to pretend everything was okay. Lies are making his parents miserable. Always acting like their marriage isn’t hanging by a thread and a shared bank account. He and Billy don’t have a relationship to destroy, but—“I was worried about you.”

The words terrify him now that they’re out there. Saying he and Billy don’t have a relationship is an understatement. They’re barely even civil on a good day. Billy’s probably just bored out of his mind in small-town Indiana and fucking with Steve is as good an outlet as any, and Steve’s the dumb motherfucker who went and caught feelings for someone just for paying attention to him, oh god—

Steve pulls his hand away, cheeks burning, while the world starts shrinking around him, narrowing down to him and his sweaty palms. He’s had panic attacks before, but if he has one now he might actually fucking die.

“My dad took my keys,” Billy says, cutting through Steve’s internal tirade.

He blinks. “What?”

Billy’s fidgeting again. “Turned eighteen a couple months ago. Told myself I was gonna wait ‘til graduation. Finish school, y’know? Been saving up, and fuckin’ dreaming about this for years, but then…” He stops, grits his teeth. Steve waits for him to continue with bated breath.

“I was gonna get out. Didn’t want anything holding me back. But then my dad took my fucking keys and I—I wasn’t even mad that he stopped me,” Billy’s voice breaks, catches in his throat, “I wanted someone to stop me. Didn’t want it to be him, but it was never gonna be you. Because you. You don’t—” he stutters to a halt and squeezes his eyes shut.

And…that’s a lot to process. It’s a lot. But Steve had some practice taking things in stride, so he focuses on what’s important for now.

“Hey,” he says softly, and touches his fingertips to the inside of Billy’s wrist. Billy jolts, his eyes open and he looks at Steve warily, but he doesn’t pull away. “Can I take you home?”

Poor word choice. Billy recoils, curls in on himself.

“My house! I meant to my house,” Steve amends. The way Billy instantly relaxes worries Steve. This whole situation worries Steve. “There’s, uh, no one else there, so. I mean, oh-- I just want to get you sobered up, and—and once you’re—I’m just gonna stop talking. Let’s. Let’s just go.”

He turns and heads to the car so he doesn’t embarrass himself any more.

The drive back to Loch Nora is quiet, the radio plays something soft that Steve can barely hear and neither of them speak. The silence gets deafening when he cuts the engine. 

Billy Hargrove sitting in his parents’ pristine kitchen, jean jacket askew, earring flashing in the low light, while Steve makes him a cup of coffee, is…surreal. Made strange by just how mundane it is. How domestic. 

And keeping his hands busy doesn’t stop his mind from wandering. Or doing fucking wind sprints. So many new places to go, so little time.

Billy is sitting on the island in the middle of the room, watching. And it feels like the little pile of mangled flowers next to him is staring too.

“So, uh, you can sleep here. If you want. There’s a spare room,” Steve says as he hands a mug over. Their fingers brush and he tries not to fixate on it. Or think about where else Billy could sleep. 

No, fuck it, he’s thinking about it. Billy in his bed. Billy’s hands on him. How he looked after basketball practice, sweaty and shirtless, muscles taut, blue eyes burning through Steve. The showers afterwards. Wanting to know what Billy tastes like. 

The thoughts aren’t new, but letting them play out is. It’s equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

“What are you doing, Harrington?” Billy asks quietly.

Steve blinks. Thinking about you naked, doesn’t seem like an appropriate answer so he flounders, mouth opening and closing as he tries to think of anything other than tanned skin and golden curls. “...Nothing?” 

Smooth. Real smooth. 

He mentally kicks himself. Closes his eyes briefly and tries to get his shit together.

Billy’s got a thumbnail between his teeth, his gaze fixed on Steve, intent. There’s a question in his eyes. Uncertainty in his posture. “I mean...why are you--” He stops, lets out a frustrated sigh, and puts his coffee down. “What do you get out of this? I--I picked flowers for you, man. Half expected you to try and kick my ass again but now you’re, what, being charitable, or something?” 

Steve makes several big decisions in a short amount of time. He takes a step forward, inches away from standing between Billy’s knees. “I like it when you’re nice to me. When you look at me like I matter. I’m not being charitable, I’m just…” 

Making a fool of myself, probably.

But Billy’s got that vulnerable look again, mouth soft and eyes wide. He’s beautiful like this. He’s always been annoyingly gorgeous, all stormy eyes and sharp teeth, alluring like only a dangerous thing can be, but this… looking at him like this makes Steve ache.

“When have I ever been nice to you?” Billy half-laughs, it’s weak and watery. 

Steve grins, watches Billy track the motion. “You have your moments.” He steps forward again. It’d be so easy to put his hands on Billy’s thighs from here, standing between them. He wants to. So badly his fingers twitch. 

“...Steve?”

He inhales, slow, steadying. And exhales. Waiting isn’t going to make this any easier to say, but he can’t help taking a moment to collect himself. To panic. And think of all the ways it could go wrong. 

“Can I touch you?”

A sharp intake of breath is the only response he gets at first. Billy’s eyes go wide, and Steve can practically see the gears turning in his head. The whiskey haze seems to have mostly faded by now, his guard goes up faster than it would have otherwise. 

So, Steve waits. 

Slowly, hesitantly, Billy nods. 

He gives Billy the opportunity to change his mind, to pull away, moves carefully and deliberate so it’s clear what he’s doing. 

Before he even makes contact Billy’s eyes darken, and his hands shoot up to grab ahold of Steve’s wrists, but instead of pushing him off he tugs Steve closer. Suddenly they’re pressed together, Billy’s legs around his waist, clutching Steve’s hands to his chest.

“If you’re gonna do it, then do it, Harrington,” Billy growls, and Steve feels it as much as he hears it.

Which is...definitely something Steve didn’t know he would be into, yet there’s an undeniable flash of heat in his belly and he suppresses a shiver. He curls his fingers into the soft material of Billy’s shirt, feels the hard muscle beneath. 

Billy closes his eyes, and lets out a shaky breath.

They stay like that for a few seconds. Billy’s grip on Steve’s wrists slackens, but stays, thumbs tracing circles in Steve’s skin while he feels Billy’s heartbeat beneath his hands. His pulse is racing.

Steve leans forward, buries his face in the crook of Billy’s neck. He’s trapped their hands between them, put his elbows at a slightly awkward angle, but doesn’t care enough to move, not when he’s breathing in Billy’s scent. The faint chlorine smell clinging to the golden curls tickling his forehead, cologne and cigarette smoke on his clothes, and under it all something indescribably Billy, sharp and musky, oddly comforting.

“I like you,” Steve murmurs. It’s easier to talk like this. When he doesn’t have to make eye-contact. He can just talk, without worrying about anything else. What to do with his hands, where to look, what his face is doing while he speaks. What Billy might be thinking. “The flowers were nice. No one’s ever done something like that for me. And if I’d known you wanted me to stop you from leaving, I would have. I would’ve.” 

Billy wriggles his hands out from between them, and puts a hand on Steve’s cheek to guide his face upwards, until he’s looking into Billy’s eyes. His gaze is searching, roaming Steve’s face looking for answers. “I don’t know what I did to make you think that you…” he pauses, furrows his brow. “I wanted you the second I saw you, but… I don’t deserve you.”

He doesn’t let go though. Leaves his hand where it is, his thighs still warming Steve’s sides. 

Steve shrugs. “But you have me.”

It’s unclear which of them leans in first. Steve’s not too concerned with the technicalities anyways, not when he’s got Billy’s tongue in his mouth. He kisses like a man starved. No holding back, no hesitation. Steve is overwhelmed in the best way possible, weak in the knees and holding on for dear life. 

When they finally come up for air Steve’s fingers are tangled in Billy’s hair (he’s not sure when that happened), and he’s half-hard in his jeans. Billy is too, he can feel it pressed against his stomach. 

It takes a lot of self-control to keep from grinding against him, finding out what Billy looks like when he comes, what kind of noises he can coax out of him.

Because as much as he wants all of that, and more, he’s still barely comfortable admitting that. He’s scared of what all this means. Of the fact that he made some pretty big declarations and meant every word of it. Now it’s out there, and he doesn’t know where to go from here.

However, what comes out of his mouth is a breathless, “Come to bed with me?” and it takes his brain a second to realize exactly how that sounded. When he does, he panics. Pulls back as far as he can without actually stepping out of Billy’s embrace. “I mean-- shit-- I meant that but, not-- not like that-- I--”

Billy silences Steve by putting a finger to his lips. There’s an amused glint in his eye, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I got you, pretty boy. No worries.”

Getting ready for bed together is...an experience. Steve tripping over himself trying to act normal and Billy completely unable to keep a straight face. Steve’s pretty sure he’s never seen Billy smile this much. It’s got him feeling weirdly proud of himself. Giddy, like a kid passing notes to his crush, with a heart full of bubbles and his stomach in knots. 

Actually laying in bed, side by side, is incredibly awkward for a long few seconds, before Steve rolls over and throws an arm across Billy’s chest. He shuffles closer, letting Billy tuck his arm under him, around his waist. 

He doesn’t want to sleep. Not yet. So, he says the first thing that comes to mind. “You’ve read The Hobbit?”

Billy laughs, startled. “I mean...yeah. Why?”

Steve grins against Billy’s shoulder. “No reason. Tell me what else you’ve read.”

They lay like that for a while, talking quietly until they’re too tired to keep their eyes open. Steve drifts off first, listening to Billy talk, content in a way he hasn’t been in a long time.

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter twenty-three: no bones about it

Alex took his seat across the heavy wooden table from Sam and he ran his fingers through his jet black hair. When he let go of his hold there on the crown of his head, she caught a glimpse of the little gray sliver over his brow, such that it resembled to a small nugget of silver embedded within the ground. He nestled down in the chair there and she thought of that night at the restaurant when she and Cliff began to hit it off. It also helped matters that he had asked for a glass of lemonade and he huddled down in the chair there.

He was so big when he stood up and yet when he sat down, he looked like such a little boy at his parents' house.

Sam glanced over to her right as Joey took his seat about three chairs down from here, while Frank and Lars sat down in between them. She frowned at the fact she and Joey were a ways apart, but at least Alex was right there across from her. Greg and Kirk were right next to him: the two of them were right there at the very end, right next to the bay window that looked out to the grass and the stream out there. He ran his finger around the rim of the glass and some condensation gathered right there around the ice cubes. He sat across from her like a villain plotting to take over the world, especially with that prominent brow and those deep but bright eyes.

He tilted his head to the side a few times, especially whenever Lars opened his mouth for a joke.

Sam's mouth was a bit dry from the midori sour Marla had made her earlier; a little bit of ice water and a cup of coffee and the taste went away after a bit. Marla herself took her spot across the table from her and Frank; it took her a second to realize that Charlie was right next to Joey.

Alex was silent for most of the time, especially whenever someone next to them said something about anything.

At one point, he looked across the table to her with a slight raise of his eyebrows. Sam took a glimpse over at him with her lips pursed together. He gestured for her to lean in closer to him.

“This is so awkward,” he confessed.

“How so?” she asked him.

“Just with every time Joey looks over at me,” he said in a loud enough voice for her to hear him.

“Seriously?” She raised her eyebrows at him, and he nodded at her.

Lucky for them, their plates of steak and French fries were set down before them. Alex didn't hesitate to eat up those fries while they were still hot and fresh out of the frier; Sam took a glance over at Frank, who picked at his steak even though the sear on it looked perfect to her. Every so often, she peered over at Marla and Belinda, both of whom resembled to a red velvet cake with their fiery red hair and light blonde hair in that respective fashion: indeed, Lars did mention red velvet cake at one point.

Alex took a little sip of his lemonade and then he set the glass down on the table before him. He never took his hand off of the base of the glass as he flashed Sam another glance across the table. He then gestured for her to come closer to him again.

“I just realized something,” he started.

“What's that?”

“This is literally the first time I've been around you for a long time,” he noted, to which she hesitated for a minute.

“Yeah, it is,” she said with a nod. “Are you still nervous around me?”

“Kinda. I'm a little better, though, but—I just look over at Joey, though.”

“Let's wait 'til after dinner, we'll talk about it some more,” she suggested, and he nodded at that. They dug into their small cuts of steak in unison: cooked to medium rare, just how Sam liked it. Every so often, she took a glimpse up at him and his never switching his fork over to his other hand before he took another bite. He always cut them up into small cubes the size of his thumbnail.

“Are you leftie?” she asked him.

“Hm?” He raised his gaze up to her.

“Are you left handed?” she repeated over Belinda's laughter.

“My brother is. It just kinda rubbed off onto me. I also enjoy my meat more if I eat leftie, too.”

Frank kicked back a drink of his stout and then Lars burst out laughing at something. Greg was talking to Kirk about something. Alex leaned in closer to her once more and that time with a turn to the right so he could make sure they weren't paying attention.

“Sometimes I'll play guitar leftie,” he told her.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Like Jimi Hendrix or Paul McCartney. It's a bit of a trip to pull off, but yeah. When we played at Eindhoven earlier this year, sometimes during a solo, I would move it over to the left.”

He bowed his head a little bit and then he took another sip from his glass of lemonade.

“Did Eric tell you that we made a live album out of that show?” he asked her. “Like, through the fan club letter you got?”

“I can't remember,” she confessed.

“We are!” he declared.

“Oh, boy! So what can I expect?”

“It'll get you right into the front of the line for a copy,” he told her.

And she raised her eyebrows at that as she took another delicate little bite of steak. She then realized that she hadn't even heard their first album yet. Granted, she had sit in on that day and overheard “Over the Wall” and “Apocalyptic City” there in the studio as well as out in the open. And then there was Dan's record player, the very thing she had yet to see for herself.

If she found a copy of The Legacy as well as that live album, she wouldn't hesitate for a second to head on over to Dan's place just to play those.

“—I put those drawings out on the table out there by the front desk,” she heard Charlie tell to Frank; he then glanced past Lars for a look at her, complete with his eyebrows raised up.

“D'you hear that?” he asked her.

“I did,” Sam replied with a nod of her head and a wipe of her mouth with the cloth napkin. It wasn't a lot of food but she had had enough for the night; Metallica had paid for their dishes, and thus she stood to her feet and she looked on at Alex.

“Are you done?” she asked him.

“Oh, yeah.” He folded up his napkin and he rounded their end of the table and he met up with her.

She could only hope that Joey paid more attention to what was going on there at the table as she led Alex out of there and into the front lobby. They posted up by the far side of the room, by the front window for a better view of the inky black sky outside and the falling rain on the narrow street, and he tucked his hands into his jeans pockets.

“So, tell me—” she started. “Thoughts about Joey?”

“He's a good guy but I have my worries about him, though,” he confessed right there. “Just—how everyone treats him, especially Dave.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, I'm having to throw my weight around just to get Testament out there. I put a lot of work into what I do, and Eric and Chuck do, too, as do Greg and Louie. We all work hard at it. And—I'm still a kid at the end of the day. I think that might have something to do with it.”

“Like, you're taken seriously but you also aren't,” she followed along.

“Exactly! You know I'm ready to dye my hair again just to rid of this thing.”

“Why, 'cause of all that nonsense?”

“Yeah,” he confessed with a bow of his head.

“I like it,” she said with a nod, “I think it's striking, like it makes you stand out from a crowd.”

But he shrugged his shoulders regardless of that, and then he turned his head to the front desk there. She followed his gaze to those four drawings there on the table's surface.

“By the way, I didn't get a good look at those drawings,” he muttered to himself. Sam watched him hover over the four pieces of paper on the table; she felt her face grow warm as a result. She backed away from there so she wouldn't have to see his face as a result: the silver pendant Ronnie had given her earlier tinkled a little bit on the chain about her neck all the while, but she had her hope that Alex wouldn't hear her.

It made her skin crawl, the thought of receiving praise from someone whom she didn't really know. On one hand, it made no sense whatsoever to her, in that there had to be some kind of discomfort when she put her art on display for the whole world to see for themselves. But then again, the very notion of it always put her on the spot.

She bowed away from there before he could say anything to her, and she headed right back to her room for the night.

Sam woke up the next morning to the sound of the rain on the room as well as Joey and Frank's laughter across the hallway from the room. She rolled out of bed and she made her way over to the door; she didn't have a bathrobe with her, but she knew that it was just them and it wasn't like she had taken off her pajamas upon her climb into her bed. She opened the door to find that they had taken their seats down on the carpet before their room door. Frank took a glimpse up from Joey and his face lit up at the sight of her.

“Hey, 'mornin', Sam I am!” he greeted her, complete with a piece of white gum tucked in between his teeth and his tongue.

“There she is,” Joey followed up with a nod of his head so his fluffy black curls floated about as if they were made of sheer cotton.

“What's going on out here?” she asked them. Frank reached behind him for something flat on the floor. Something elongated and with wheels on one side.

“Skateboards! Plus, Joey has something to give you.”

Joey then stood to his feet and he took something pearly and white out from his snug jean pocket.

“So you know that pendant that Ronnie gave you yesterday?”

“I fell asleep with it,” she noted as she took that silver pendant in question out from under her camisole neckline.

“He gave me one, too, plus this—” He lay it upon his palm: a bracelet comprised of off white beads with small pieces of black onyx nestled in between. Right over her wrist was a button covered in small bubbles that collected together into the shape of a skull and crossbones.

“That necklace also came with this bracelet made of bones, but it doesn't really fit me, though.”

She stuck out her wrist for him and he slipped the bracelet over her hand: it fit her as if it was made just for her.

“A little bit of good luck before we go onstage in the next day,” Joey remarked.

“Thank you,” she breathed out and she put her arms around his slender waist.

“No bones about it, babe,” he assured her, and he gave a shrug of his narrow shoulders.

She then pulled back for a look at Frank, who reclined back on his right hand and showed off his body and his extended legs off to her.

“Mister Male Model,” she joked.

“Mister Male Model with a skateboard of course,” he pointed out as he picked up the skateboard next to him with his free hand.

“Where'd you even get that by the way?” Joey asked him.

“Thank the boys from Bon Jovi for this. Besides—Joey, remember earlier on the plane ride, we were talking about skateboards and stuff?”

“Vaguely.”

“Those Jersey boys fulfilled it for us.” Dan emerged from the room right then.

“Rain's stopped, Frankie,” he said, and then he glanced up at Sam.

“'Mornin', Danny,” she told him.

“Good morning, dear little Sam. Wanna join us?”

“I don't skateboard much,” she admitted.

“It's not hard,” Frank assured her as he brought his legs into a folded position. “Not hard at all.”

“Think I'll need a helmet and some elbow pads all the while? And some shoes, too?”

“We'll catch you,” Dan vowed.

“Yeah, we'll catch ya,” Joey added.

“I think I should get dressed first,” she suggested.

“Nah, you can do it like that,” Frank told her as he climbed to his feet.

“Serious, we'll catch ya,” Dan promised her as he put his arm around her upper back as the four of them headed out of there; Frank had the skateboard tucked under his arm all the way out to the sidewalk and the dark wet pavement. He set it down before the storm drain and beyond the collected rain water there. The sidewalk was as cold as ice on her bare feet, but she managed to step aboard that rough surface. A voice in the back of her mind told her to go back inside for her shoes, but she was already on the skateboard.

She held her arms out a bit so as to steady herself. Frank held onto her shoulders to help her out.

“Okay, you ready?” he asked her.

“Yeah.”

Careful not to push her down onto the pavement, he nudged her forward along the wet pavement.

“Okay, put your foot down—yeah, you should'a put your shoes on—it's alright—you can do it—one foot down and it can push you forward—”

Her bare foot on the ground and she moved along a bit more. He let his hands hover over her shoulders, that is until she skated along herself.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed as he held onto her shoulders again so he could bring her to a stop. “You got it! You did it!” He threw his arms around her and she returned the favor.

“I could do it again with my shoes on,” she told him.

“Absolutely!” She stepped off onto the wet pavement, such that it sent a chill up her bare legs and her spine.

“Sure you don't wanna ride back to the porch there?” he asked her.

“Nah—my feet are already wet,” she assured him, “it's just water, anyway.” And he nodded his head, and then he picked up the board and they walked back together.

“Alright, Joey,” Frank declared as he set it down before the porch again.

“I'm not really much of a skateboarder, though,” he confessed as Sam stood there before the door with her arms folded over her chest.

“Just do it, Joey,” Dan insisted.

“Yeah, Joe!” Frank joined in. “Let's see you try it out.”

Sam hung there off to the side as Joey held out his arms on either side of him like a crucifix. He set both feet on the body of the board as Frank and Dan pushed him forward. His black curls streamed behind his head like a bunch of streamers.

“Way cool,” she declared, but once the words left her lips, Joey almost lost his balance by the time they reached the far end of the sidewalk. He stumbled off and Frank burst out laughing.

“Easy now!” Joey cracked.

“What's going on out here?” Charlie asked from behind Sam in a broken voice; she didn't even have to look at him to know that he had just woke up.

“We're board,” she told him.

“Bored?”

“No, board. As in skateboards.”

“Sweet.” He looked down at her feet. “You're not doin' it in your bare feet are you?”

“Nah.”

The three of them returned to the porch for a round of breakfast courtesy of Metallica once again. Fresh brewed coffee and fresh toast and porridge; for a moment there at the table on the close side of the room, Sam felt genuinely British. Every so often, she peered over to the other side of the room, and where Charlie had put those drawings on display for her. Even after the feeling of being put on display herself, a part of her yearned to know how Alex felt about them. She also wondered if he knew she was the artist as she sipped on her coffee. Her feet ached a bit from being out on the wet pavement in her bare feet but it was nothing a warm bath wouldn't fix up.

“Another day of rehearsals up ahead,” Dan declared as he finished up his sourdough toast.

“We gonna be wearin' the—?” Joey asked him, and Dan nodded his head without a moment's hesitation.

“The what?” Sam followed along. He finished his toast and then downed the rest of his coffee, and he nodded back for her to follow him back to the room.

She stood at the doorway as he crouched down next to the foot of the bed closest to her and he opened his suitcase.

He took out a pair of long navy blue shorts with what appeared to be skulls and crossbones decorated all over. He showed her the back and she took another look at that fabric, at the skeletons playing golf.

“Where'd you get that?” she giggled at his shorts.

“They were given to me. Danny got some, so did Frankie—Charlie still has those bright red ones. I bet you've seen those.”

“I have!” She thought back to when he and Marla were together. “I think you and I were together when we saw them.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right. Sorry—the little hits from a Mary Jane have taken a bit of a hit on the memory.” But she shrugged at that.

“At least you're not drinking,” she pointed out.

“That's true. But anyways, neither of us are gonna turn down free stuff, be it new clothes or food for that matter.”

“Never turn down free food,” she told him.

“No way. But yeah—the four of us are gonna be wearin' those shorts for the show tomorrow night.” She recalled what Alex had said to her the night before, in how Joey had all manner of things handed to him. She wondered what exactly he meant by that.

A knock on the door caught both of their attention. Sam turned and Marla stood at the doorway with a concerned look on her face and a white china cup in one hand.

“Something happened that you guys should know about,” she told them.

“Like what?”

Sam followed her out of the room, and Marla led her back to Aurora and Emile's room, which reeked of musk and alcohol. Both of them were passed out on their queen sized bed, of which they had taken off the comforter and lay it upon the floor. Sam gaped at the sight of her best friend and her husband laying side by side on the bare bed sheet.

“Oh, my god, she's wasted,” she groaned. Marla emerged from right behind her with that cup of black tea still in hand.

“Nah, just really hungover and they both are, too, Sam,” she told her, “I guess the two of them were up late last night. James got Emile drunk after dinner with some Irish coffee and at some point last night after we fell asleep, she swiped the marshmallow vodka from that wine cellar.” And Sam shook her head at that. At least Aurora wasn't pregnant; but at the same time, this was the second time in a row she had guzzled down a bunch of booze for herself and she wound up bringing her husband into the mix as well.

“No more midori sours, I assume,” she said to Marla.

“No way,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Those bottles cost about sixteen pounds, or almost forty bucks American.”

Marla then led Sam back out to the hallway for a second. She sipped on the tea. The crown of her dyed red hair shone under the soft ceiling lights overhead all the while, such that it looked as though she had a small tiara rested upon her head.

"By the way, what'd you and Alex do after dinner last night?" she asked her in a low voice.

"Oh, we just talked for a minute. You know. Fan club stuff."

"I see. He's a good kid, isn't he?"

"Oh, yeah. I still worry about his relationship with him and Joey, though. Just how Joey reacted to him and everything..."

"Yeah, and the way Joey just picked up a guitar and started playing all because of Dave. Like, heaven forbid he gets some sound advice from a teenage kid."

"I wouldn't say that," Sam pointed out.

"Why's that?"

"Well, because Alex has that gray stripe on his head. It ages him."

"Right. But he's also still very much a teenage kid. Whereas Dave is closer to Joey's age, only by a year's worth of separation."

"Really?" Sam was stunned.

"Yeah. That's according to Lars. Joey was born October thirteenth, 1960, and Dave is September 13, 1961. So almost a year. Whereas Alex is a little guy right out of high school. Maybe Joey saw he was eighteen and got all on the defense about it..." Her voice trailed off at that.

“Hey, would you girls like some drinks later on?” Joey then called from the doorway. “Like, during the show?”

“Of course, Joey,” Sam replied, and then she stopped in her tracks when he ducked back into the room so he could change into those shorts. “Wait a minute.”

The way in which he stood still on that skateboard. The way he was so generous towards her. He was basically Ruben.

And then she thought back to what her mother said about him that night.

It all clicked right there.

“That's it!” she said in a hushed voice.

[skamamoroma]

Anon, that post wouldn’t format properly so I’m posting this here instead. You asked me expand on why I always refer to Nico as being surrounded by metaphor. Strap yourself in! I get carried away talking about this stuff. I have written much of this back around s2 but I have tried to keep it to examples. I hope this is what you were after!

In overview, this is why I love them as a pair so much. They are VERY different but they also work so well to balance each other out. Where Marti is A LOT, Nico adds a little perspective. Where Nico is a little overwhelmed by his feelings, Marti brings the simplicity. When Marti needs to see beyond his own head, Nico facilitates it. Etc.

You’re right, I’ve always liked to say that:

Nico is metaphorical,  Marti is a literalist.

This is what s2 was founded on and the following are examples I can think of (and there are probably many more!) that show how Besse included this so much throughout their story.

The foundation of their Last Man On Earth metaphor is most important here. I have written POST after POST on this but, in summary, Marti presenting this isea as Isak did with parallels universes upset Nico as Even was overwhelmed by the idea of multiple universes. Nico felt overwhelmed by the idea of isolation. But, considering his currently life was causing him difficulty as he felt stifled and trapped, spoken for and unable to be his truthful self, Nico craved comfort, escape and acceptance but ultimately to be listened to. We saw him descend into this struggle especially after the clip with his mamma. He consistently signalled to Marti he hadn’t given up and was trying... red string, notes, antidote prep...but he chose to lean into Marti’s apocalyptic universe. By accepting it as their little world, Nico only considered it if they were BOTH the last men, if Marti would be with him too and without anything else to impact them. They’d be safe and free from society or parents or girlfriends or anyone else who was weighing in. Nico changed his mind and it brought him comfort. Not only that, he constructed this world as a way to escape and comfort himself but also as a way to communicate with Marti on his plans for how they could be together. Eventually, Nico became so engrossed in the idea, he lived it. He created their apocalypse in Milan, looked out at the world as Marti lay in bed and accepted the world was empty and he was safe to be with Marti. He lost himself a little (a lot?) in the metaphor, bless him.

Nico hid that vial of “vaccine” for Marti to find, attaching a note that effectively said “I finished my search. I found the vaccine. You can use it to either cure the people or cure me” - my lovely Nico and his metaphorical ways effectively saying “I took some time to try to work this stuff out and to try to be with you and I am giving you a choice here: you can end this whole thing with me and end our little world we built or you can use it on me and accept me into your life”. His “impossible personality” being something Nico thinks needs to be cured and that Marti would want to change him. He knows nothing can be “cured” but he tried to tell Marti about his BPD and illness in the only way he knew how. He wanted to be different, to be “easier” and tried to give Marti a way out without being completely honest... because it was the only way he knew how to articulate it at the time. He leans into metaphors to make sense of stuff!

La Giraffa. My personal favourite. Stefano Benni and that FUCKING BEAUTIFUL quote. “La giraffa ha il cuore lontano dai pensieri” - the giraffe has its heart far away from its thoughts” and the resulting “it fell in love yesterday but doesn’t know it yet”. Nico sent this metaphorical idea to Marti to help explain in the only way he knew how about his mental illness. He didn’t feel able to be open and blunt, not like Marti, so he reached out in this way. The giraffe being Nico. His illness and his heart not being mutually exclusive, telling Marti his feelings for him were real and that him having a mental illness doesn’t mean he can’t love and be loved and that he isn’t his illness. Still moves me to this day. I have a legit giraffe on my wall in my flat because I took this quote to heart so deeply. Marti being Mr Literalist, didn’t get it 😂 Nico choosing a giraffe as his other companion in his Last Man scenario, an animal who would understand him... he is such a lovely thoughtful soul.

The red light scene in Milan. Oh I love this moment so. Nico steps into the room and asks Marti what it says. Marti being literal is like “how?” And tried to read it in English. Nico being Mr Metaphor is like “No Marti, it says Marti.... and Nico”. He’s in world builder mode, turning his surroundings into what he wants them to be. He sees the world differently. He surrounds them with meaning and suggests they’re in a place just for them, that this red room (RED) is theirs, their names are even on the wall. Then kisses Marti’s heart. LORD. The whole scene is a metaphor while Marti is just taken along for the ride.

Nico also chose 2 other things alongside Marti and a giraffe for his apocalyptic scenario: an airplane and nakedness. Freedom/escape and openness/the true self and no barrier between him and the world. Boy knew what he was saying. Marti didn’t have a bloody clue, lying there and saying he’d choose to mess up the Pope’s toilets 😂 oh Marti.

The red string. Nico and his little ways of showing Marti he cares. The idea of the red string of fate, the way Nico kicked off their apocalyptic story with a romantic treasure hunt while signaling that Marti is his destiny, that Marti should “follow”... those shots of beautifully endlessly blue Marti following the bold red string (with those god damn blue and red art pieces in the background - when will Ludo submit to being grilled by me about his metaphorical symbolism). Nico was asking Marti to follow and not leave him being even if he wasn’t able to stay. It was his way of signalling to Marti he was still there, still trying, still asking Marti to stick with him even if he had to leave for a while.

Nico ended up so engulfed in shame during the minute by minute scene. He descended into his own head, crying into the pillow and feeling so full of shame that he couldn’t look at Marti. He couldn’t lean on anything to help him in that moment. I love the contrast with Marti because Marti effectively states these simple pieces of information that bit by bit takes Nico out of that moment and eases his mind: “I’m here”, “you don’t know what will happen” and “let’s take each day, calmly, together”. Nico’s tiny little smile after Marti says that makes me want to cry because you can see the “he is perfect for me” all over his face. Marti is so GOOD for Nico without really realising.

Nico, deep in his head, overwhelmed by shame but for the first time trying his best to be open, referring to their Last Man world once more when he sent that text. It was his acceptance that the entire time he was trying to use it as a way to tell Marti that they could be together and he could change and they could escape...it was useless because he’d realised it didn’t matter as we’re all alone anyway. Saying he was choosing to see Marti in the twinkle lights. Knowing Marti was in one of them comforted him. Marti... being Marti... was like “screw that, I’m here and not a metaphorical light in the distance, you don’t need that metaphor to not be alone. I want you like this, no changes, just be honest with me”. As simple as that. He’s not alone. He doesn’t need this complex metaphor to get what he wants/deserves.

Nico and his weirdo little metaphorical ways even blending into his glasses at the bar! He sees the world SO DIFFERENTLY. He chooses to consider the fact their glasses are positioned in the same way means something... and Marti not having a bloody clue what he’s on about goes “no they’re not” and moves it to match Nico’s. Little does he realise that Nico would SWOON at that because Marti just buys into it, effectively says they suit each other and Marti will roll with Nico’s ways.

The list is endless. But the way Marti is so blunt and straight forward and the way Nico is so in-depth and metaphorical means they compliment one another so beautifully but also it means that Nico is a complex, layered, fascinating guy with a mind that just works a little differently and he may struggle at times but... he tries in his own way to express himself. Even in s4... Marti NEEDS honesty. He just needs someone to be straight with him. His own mind doesn’t work like Nico’s and whereas I think Nico has a GREAT handle on who Marti is, Nico clearly still struggled a little to match Marti’s level of honesty and still worried he wasn’t able to be honest about his past. This is pretty naturally developed conflict. They WANT to work and they try and adapt and I love that despite their real differences, they also share a LOT in common and work so beautifully together! 💙❤️

[ericsonclan]

Search For the Bracelets

Summary: Another fic trade I did with @king-of-clubs98 :)

Word Count: 1000+

Read on A03: 

Willy could tell something was wrong as soon as he saw Anali’s face. Hurrying over to the picnic tables, he plopped down and was about to get straight to the point when he noticed the problem. There was no pink or yellow tinted bracelet on Anali’s arm. Usually there was one or the other but today it was bare. Without a symbol for the pronouns of the day, Willy would have to ask directly. “What are your pronouns today, ‘Nali? And where are the bracelets?”

“She,” Anali murmured, clearly still lost in her own thoughts. “And they’re missing,” Her hands shook nervously, Willy guessed from the stress of being without her bracelets. Anali never went without them. She’d had them since she arrived at Ericson and was quite attached. Besides, if something was lost in this apocalyptic world, chances were you’d never be able to get another.

Willy watched his friend for a moment, his eyebrows sympathetically knit in concern, before standing up with his hands on his hips. “Well then, we just have to find them! The hunt begins!” He was about to speed off in the first direction that struck his fancy when a thought struck him. “Oh, where did you see them last? We should probably start there,”

“I don’t know,” Anali groaned, carding her fingers through her hair. “I went hunting with Aasim yesterday, came home and helped Omar with dinner and went to bed after Louis’ game night. I didn’t even think to look at my arm that whole time! Stupid! Stupid!” She whacked her head in annoyance as if that would shake the lost memories out into the light.

Willy immediately grabbed her hand to stop her. “If it was a normal day for you, then we’ll just follow your normal route! First we’ll ask Aasim if he’s seen anything. Do you know where he is?”

“Well, he’s not on watch or out hunting so there’s only one other place he could be,”

---

“Your bracelets?” Aasim looked up from the garden patch he was currently working, wiping away a bead of sweat and leaving a smudge of dirt on his nose in the process. “I didn’t notice they were missing when we went out hunting and I’m sure I would have. Whichever one you’re wearing always clinks while you walk,” He looked over to Ruby who was busy at work picking herbs. “What about you, love? Have you seen them?”

Ruby shook her head, looking up sympathetically at Anali. “Sorry, Sug. I haven’t seen them. But I’ll be sure to keep my eyes out and give you a holler if I spot them!”

Aasim watched Anali with concern, his older brother instincts clearly on alert. “Are you gonna be alright?”

Anali looked unsure but nodded, looking away.

Willy gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, we’ve only just started our search!”

---

Heading back to the front yard, they ran into Omar and Zason who was helping move firewood in preparation for their next meal. Hearing Anali’s predicament, they dropped what they were doing and helped give the area round the cauldron and the firewood a thorough search. No luck. Zason’s usually cheery expression drooped as he saw Anali’s distress. “If you like, I could try to gather some craft supplies and make you new bracelets. I promise they’d be totally awesome! We could add beads, glitter-”

“No,” Anali shook her head, her hands fidgeting once more. “Thanks, but… it just wouldn’t be the same. I need those bracelets,”

“And I’m sure you’ll find them,” Omar replied calmly, his voice as soothing as always. “Zason and I will keep looking for them wherever we go,”

Willy nodded, gently taking Anali’s hand once more. “Thanks, guys! We’ll see you around!”

---

On their way through the yard they stopped to inform A.J. who was on lookout duty of the missing bracelets as well. The boy seemed excited at the thought of a scavenger hunt for the bracelets, but his guard duty came first and foremost. He solemnly promised to look as hard as he could as soon as his shift was over. Thanking AJ for his future assistance, the pair headed toward the school to continue their search.

On their way there, they spotted Clementine and Violet up on top of the belltower. Willy ran up towards the structure, cupping his hands over his mouth and calling out. “Hey! Have either of you seen Anali’s bracelets?”

Both girls leaned forward from their spots seated on the edge of the tower. They looked confused and called back in unison, “What?”

“BRACELETS!”

“Baking mitts?!” Clementine shouted.

“That can’t be fucking right,” Violet retorted.

“BRACE-LETS!!”

“Mace kits?”

“Clem, how could that possibly be it?”

Willy looked down, feeling dejected. The conversation was going nowhere. This time it was Anali that took his hand. “We can ask them later once they climb down. Let’s move on for now,”

“Willy nodded, a small smile crossing his face. If Anali wasn’t giving up, then he wasn’t either.

---

The pair scoured the entire front yard. The tire swing, the graves, the picnic tables, they searched them all. The bracelets were nowhere to be found. With no success outside, they headed inside to the dorms. They tore apart Anali’s room searching for the bracelets then checked Aasim’s room, Ruby’s, anywhere they might have been accidentally dropped. The results of the search of the rooms and hallways was the same: zilch. Wearied by their continued failures, Willy and Anali headed toward the admin building. Perhaps their luck would change there. And there was still one last person to ask.

Entering the main hall, the pair could hear the sound of familiar piano music. They headed toward the music room together, cracking open the door to find Louis completely absorbed in playing one of his newest songs. Walking into the room, both of them waited for Louis to finish up so they could ask him about the bracelets. But the song just kept going and going. Willy started to wonder if it had looped and Louis was planning to play the same song for the entire day. Unable to wait any longer, Anali tapped Louis’ shoulder. He let out a startled yelp, his arms flailing. Before either of them could catch him, Louis had lost his balance and fallen off the piano bench.

“Sorry!” Anali exclaimed, wringing her hands in contrition. “We didn’t mean to scare you, but we’re looking for my bracelets. Have you seen them?”

Louis waved off the apology, a good-natured smile on his face. Sitting up, he signed a single word – “couch”.

Willy shook his head. “We already checked the couches outside. They weren’t there,”

Louis looked surprise at that answer. He signed more, looking between the two of them. “Anali took the bracelets off for the game. Maybe they’re under the pillows or on the ground?”

“That’s right!” Anali’s eyes widened at the memory. “I did take them off for that one game, the one where we all held hands and tried to untangle ourselves. But I put them back on right after! Or at least, I thought I did…”

“Let’s go outside and check again!” Willy was off like a shot, Anali right behind him. With a confirmed location for the missing bracelets, they searched the couches with renewed vigor. They pulled up the pillows, flipped over the couches to check underneath, even dug through the firepit with some half-burnt sticks. Still nothing. They had searched everywhere, asked everyone. The bracelets were nowhere to be found.

Anali plopped down on the edge of an overturned couch, her head lowered in despair. “If they’re not here or the yard or the dorms, they must be outside. And that means they’re lost for good,”

“No, it doesn’t!” Willy declared, unwilling to give up. “If they’re outside the walls, then they must be along the hunting path you and Aasim took. We’ll head out tomorrow at first light, retrace your steps and find them right where they fell off. Just wait and see!”

Anali looked up at Willy, offering a weak smile before her eyes turned to the sky. It was staring to grow dark out, the sun beginning its daily descent. They had wasted almost an entire day searching for the bracelets.

“Guys! Guys! Guys!!!” A.J.’s voice brought their attention back to the yard. He was running toward them, elated and almost out of breath. Coming to a stuttering halt in front of them, A.J. paused to catch his breath before beaming up at the older kids. “I did it! I spotted Anali’s bracelets!”

Willy’s eyes practically bugged out at that news. “What? Where?”

“They’re up in a nest on a tree by the wall! A bird must’ve seen them and thought they were cool. C’mon!” Without waiting to see if they were following A.J. ran off. Anali and Willy jogged after him, following A.J. up the guard tower where he had temporarily left his post in the excitement of his discovery. Picking up the binoculars, A.J. looked through them once more to find the location of the bracelets once more then handed them off to Anali. “They’re right over in that tree!”

Anali guided the binoculars where A.J. directed. A smile broke out on her face when she spotted what he had. “They are there! Right over in that tree!”

Willy let out a whoop of celebration. “I knew we could do it!” Then he paused. It was late, beyond the time the older kids had said was wise to go beyond the walls. He could wait till tomorrow and shimmy up the tree to get the bracelets, but after searching for so long and knowing exactly where they were, he didn’t want to make Anali wait that long. Borrowing the binoculars, Willy looked over at the tree. It wasn’t that far from the wall. Maybe if they just…

---

“Willy, Anali what in tarnation are you doing?” Ruby’s voice was taut with anger and fear as she watched the pair atop the wall, Anali holding onto the seat of Willy’s pants as Willy dangled precariously off the edge and reached out towards the nest.

“We’ll just be a minute, Ruby!” Willy called back. “We’re getting Anali’s bracelets!”

“Anali, Willy,” Aasim’s voice was firm. “You get down from there this instant. It’s not safe!”

“He’s almost got it!” Anali called back, glancing down at her brother before gasping as her grip on Willy’s pants slipped. She quickly corrected it, holding Willy’s shirt as well as his pants now, but not before earning the horrified gasps of everyone inside the yard.

“Guys, Aasim’s right!” Zason called, standing directly beneath the wall and looking deeply concerned. “It’s too dangerous. Besides, you could’ve asked me for help! I have long arms!”

“You would have dropped straight off of the wall and splatted on the ground,” Omar replied dryly. “A walker pancake,”

“I’m gonna help too!” A.J. declared, crawling up from the watchtower onto the wall.

“Like hell you are!” Clementine shouted, racing forward to stop him.

Willy stretched his arm as far as he possibly could, ignoring all the chaos in order to focus on his goal. He could almost reach the bracelets. He was half an inch away, maybe less. “Anali, let go of my pants! Just hold my shirt!”

“Seriously?!”

“Just for a second! Trust me!” He could tell Anali was hesitating, but a moment later amidst all the shouting and screaming, she did just that. Letting go of Willy’s pants, she held onto his shirt alone. Willy immediately dropped farther forward, his face hovering directly above the nest. The bracelets were in reach! Thrusting his hand forward, Willy snatched them both up. “Now pull me back!” He was yanked back all too fast, his arms flailing just as Louis’ had minutes ago. “Woah!!”

But Anali was ready to break his fall. Her hands wrapped round his waist, she helped steady Willy, making sure they were both stable before letting go.

“Nice, catch, ‘Nali!” Willy spun round with a bright smile, holding out his hand. “Tada!!! Told you we’d find them!” In his hand was the pair of bracelets, one pink one yellow, their tinted metal glimmering faintly in the waning light.

Anali looked at them in wonder, as if not believing they were really there. Then she snatched both of them up, placing one on each arm. Her hands were shaking again, but this time it was with joy. “We did it! We really did it!”

“I told ya!” Willy threw his arms round Anali, jumping up and down with elation. “We did it! We did it!”

“Get down from that wall NOW!” Aasim bellowed, his tone deadly serious.

The pair stopped in their merrymaking, offering apologetic waves down to Anali’s very concerned older brother before making their way back toward the watchtower to get down to the ground. Their hands were linked as they walked, Anali in front and Willy behind her. Willy felt his heart swell with pride at the sight of the bracelets gently clinking on Anali’s arms. It had been a crazy, frustrating, seemingly hopeless day. But in the end, it had all been worth it. Anali had her bracelets back.

[cultureisdarkbeer]

We Will Remember; From Out of the Ashes

From my Rooted in Friendship series, this is Mulder on 9/11/2001

It was September.  Mulder had spent the summer wandering aimlessly.  Using the identities The Lone Gunman had given him he roamed from one menial job to the other in one town to the next.  Every day was spent looking over his shoulder and every night dreaming of Scully and William.  Hesitant to make contact, he hadn’t even checked his email for fear of a trace.   It didn’t even matter.  There was nothing for him to say that wasn’t already said.  He wanted to come home.  To be with them again.  The only positive, if there was any, was that he was meeting different people from all kinds of backgrounds and philosophies.  There were more people out there that believed than he had realized.  Some circles had even mentioned him by name as a crusader. If they only knew.  If he was on a crusade it was to return to his family.  The only way to do that would be to discover what destroyed human replacements and stop them before it was too late.

Mulder opened one eye and squinted at the time.  He thought it read 10:37.  He was thinking that it must be A.M. as there was sunlight shining into the window.  Sometimes it was an arduous task to simply discern one day to the next.  Today was Tuesday.  He knew this since his last day at the mill had been yesterday and the guys had gathered at the local bar for a going away bash.  The last thing he remembered was being dropped onto the couch by Randy after having too many drinks to maintain the ability to walk let alone drive a car.  His head was still buzzing, but he did recall crying into a beer or two over Scully. He slowly rolled into a sitting position on the most recent couch he called home.  Rubbing his neck, the stiffness reminded him that he needed to buy a pillow.  Thinking of stiffness, he stared down at ol’ reliable standing at his usual attention.  Not that he had much use for it.  The times he did partake he usually ended up in a worse depression than before and he wasn’t in the mood for tears today.  He rubbed his face and the scruff that had formed cut into his calloused hands.  Blindly, he turned on the small picture tube in the room and went to the bathroom to empty his bladder.  When he returned he had a toothbrush hanging from his mouth and disbelief in his eyes.  The news showed smoke rising from where the World Trade Center once stood.  There had been an attack on the Pentagon as well and in Pennsylvania.  The next couple hours he spent glued to the television absorbing everything in front of him.  His first instinct was to contact Scully, but he knew he couldn’t. The FBI had to be heavily involved at this point.  Thoughts of human replacement involvement crossed his mind although most evil didn’t land from the sky, but that from within.  It was then he decided his next destination would be east to NYC. If nothing else, they could use his help.

As he got dressed he accidentally glanced at himself in the mirror.  He usually avoided mirrors as they reflected his heartache.  Today he looked at himself as if from afar.  It was the first time in a while he felt he might have a purpose again. Tanned from working in the sun, his skin glowed golden and his abs had a harder cut to them than usual.  The muscles in his arms and chest were wider.  Scully would be impressed he thought as he ran his hand over his chest. The pain of her absence began to culminate in his heart and he quickly resumed getting dressed frantically trying to push his mind onto another track.  Any thoughts of Scully resulted with tears, anger and unending sadness.  He walked outside and flung his bags into the back of an old Buick sedan he had purchased for a couple hundred dollars.  The plates and registration were phonies Skinner had retrieved from FBI storage, but they got him wheels.  He sat the picture Scully had given him in the corner of the instrument panel wishing he had one of William as well.  Straightening his rear view mirror he gave the rural landscape one last look, put on his shades, and headed out.

 A few days had passed before he had reached New York traveling from Kansas.  He had stopped to visit Sheila and Holman.  At least there he got to share good memories, eat some home cooking, and be the proud papa as he told them about William.  He had given Holman a package to mail to Scully so she knew he was still alive and took off for New York. 

As he entered NJ, he took heed of the solemn atmosphere.  There was an eerie quiet looming.  When he finally pulled the car into a parking spot he was near Liberty State Park.  The air was cold, a frigid day with no wind, the only breeze being from the echoing of voices from the dead and the screaming hearts of the living.  He came upon a spot with candles burning.  Pictures and cards hung everywhere.  There were notebooks too.  He picked them up and read them.  Poems and prayers, wishes and requests, all to missing loved ones.  They were beautiful and he felt his anger rise up with the sadness. The monster inside him was winning.  He spun around when he felt a tap on his arm.  It was a woman with tears in her eyes.  She hugged him without words.  A total stranger holding him, greeting him like family.  They cried in each other’s arms for each of their losses without sharing words.  Others came to pray, share hugs and photos, and leave messages.  Everyone was leaning on the other.  Mulder had witnessed many things in his life, but such a beautiful reflection of humanity he never would have guessed to find in the vicinity of so much that was corrupt. 

“Hi. My name is Lauren.” A tall slender woman dressed in what might be considered hippy attire held out her hand for Mulder to shake.  “Do you have missing loved ones?”

“No… I, uh.  I came to help.” 

“Yes. It seems there are people from all over the country some from other parts of the world that have traveled to help.  I’m from Long Island myself.  There’s a group of us meeting here in a while to make the trek over into the city.  From there we will meet up with the firefighters.”

“What will we be doing?”

“You’ll see.”  She replied with a warm smile.

For lack of any ideas, Mulder wandered into the city with them.  The streets were covered in ash. What looked like snow was more ash falling from the sky.  A post-apocalyptic feel gripped at his fears.  This was not cruelty from an alien force, but only that capable of man.  They walked the streets. Lit candles covered every street corner accompanied by flowers, cards, letters, and poems.  The walls of every business and billboard filled with pictures of loved ones. 

Children, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, friends, wandered the streets searching.  Some came as he did.  From a pull that they did not know.  From a pull to be together, for comfort from the sadness. To mourn the loss, embrace each other.  When they finally settled on a street corner they waited.  The firefighters were changing shifts.  The truck stopped at the corner and the firemen got out as others piled in.  They carried with them shovels and masks.  The news stated it was an attempt at a recovery mission, but Mulder knew better.  It was to dig up the dead.  To find evidence of who had died, to attempt proper funerals.  Most would remain where they died, their tombstone a memorial and another skyscraper to once again reach out to the heavens on the backs of their souls.  The returning firefighters had it all in their faces.  The people cheered them like superheroes upon their return.  Those people were there for one purpose.  To hug those men, to give them their strength back through their love.  Total strangers giving the only thing they had to give to the men that had lost so many of their brothers.  The firefighters in turn cried into the embrace.  Falling apart in their arms.  Real giants did exist and they walked the streets that day. It was the men in red and those in blue that ran towards their impending doom as others ran away.  To now be represented by those from all over sifting through the ashes, not giving up on a chance of resurrection.  If there was a place Mulder felt at home since leaving D.C. it was there among the mourning.  They gave him strength to go on.  To know that he was blessed to have Scully and William still alive waiting. 

After sharing handshakes, more prayers and kind words, he left as soft music played bouncing off the resilience of the tall standing buildings of downtown. The Empire State Building glowed red, white, and blue for all to see that we still stood tall. People had brought their instruments, boom boxes and whatever they had, playing the music throughout the night to let everyone know they were not alone.  The spotlights boomed into the sky like a signal to batman calling for a savior when the only one to answer was from inside.  Mulder continued to wander the streets, like he was searching, but for what he had yet to know.  He got to a large rock near central park and sat down.  His heart started to race as butterflies beat furiously in his stomach.  “Scully.”  He said to himself out loud.

“Mulder” Scully said as butterflies grew in her stomach at that familiar feeling. 

“What is it Dana?” Monica asked concerned at the upset look on her face.

“Nothing.  I… I just got a strange feeling like Mulder was here.”

“Maybe he was.”

“Maybe.  I miss him Monica.  Not a second goes by….”

“You have to stay positive.”

“I know.”

Scully and Monica were two blocks from Mulder’s rock in Central Park. They had come to see the tragedy with their own eyes and unknowingly came within steps of Mulder.  Monica waved down a cab and got in.  Scully paused for a second longer, the butterflies still beating in her stomach. “I know you’re out there Mulder. I hope you feel me too.” She whispered more to herself than anything else.  She joined Monica in the cab and they headed to the airport to return to D.C.

 Mulder got up from the rock looking for the subway to take him back to his motel room. A kid in his twenties in a gray hoodie came up behind Mulder and tapped him on the shoulder startling him.

“Excuse me.  You’re Fox Mulder!”

“What? No, I’m sorry you have the wrong person.” Mulder picked up his pace taking longer strides to get away from the attention this guy was bestowing upon him.  The kid only ran to keep up.

“No, I know you’re him.  You were friends with Max from NICAP.  I’m from NICAP too.” The kid said extending his hand to Mulder as they walked.  Mulder kept his hand in his pockets and didn’t slow his pace.

“Look I’m kind of undercover.  I’m not really able to talk right now it could compromise my position.”

The kid nodded, but didn’t back away. “My name is Josh.  We’re having a meeting tomorrow if you’re interested. The topic…  alien hybrid kryptonite.”

This stopped Mulder in his tracks. “You’ve figured out how to stop them?”

Josh looked hesitant. “Well that’s what the meeting is about.  We have reports that some of the members have seen them turn into one of those magnetic desk sculptures.  You know what I’m talking about?”

“Not exactly.  They might have thought they killed them, but these things rejuvenate.  I’ve seen them crushed into a tiny cube and come back to full capacity.” Mulder countered.

“According to our latest reports, this destroys them.  If you come to the meeting, you can speak with these men yourself. Ask all the questions you want.  It would be quite an honor to have you there.  You’re kind of a celebrity in our neck of the woods.”

Josh handed him a small NICAP business card with an address and time.  “See you then”

As Josh walked away, Mulder looked around nervously.  If I guy from NICAP could locate him, anyone could.  He wouldn’t be able to stay much longer.

After a restless night’s sleep in a rundown motel, Mulder went back over to ground zero and put in some hours helping with the recovery.  At a little after 7 he headed over to 8th avenue where he found a building with windows nailed shut by wooden planks covered in Broadway posters.  He went down a dark alley, down a flight of stairs to a locked door.  He knocked on the door and a 400 lb. man with a Spiderman t-shirt answered.  “It’s the second star to the right” He said to Mulder.  “And straight on ‘til morning” Mulder answered.

“Please turn around and expose your neck.” The heavy set man answered.   Mulder turned around and lowered his jacket so the man could observe the top of his spine.  He then handed Mulder an alcohol swab and a disposable blood lancet.  Mulder punctured his finger so the man could witness that his blood was red.  Lastly he ran a wand over him for evidence of weapons, tracking devices, or taps.  When he was satisfied that Mulder was clean he let him proceed. The man opened the door to let Mulder in. “It’s an honor to meet you Fox Mulder” the man winked and smiled. As Mulder looked around he realized he had found the greatest collection of outcasts the planet earth may have ever known.  Once everyone was checked in, the meeting commenced.  There was a lot of formalities, new business, old business until finally they got to eyewitness accounts.  Each person would go up front and speak of their experience. It was nothing new and all things Mulder had heard several times before.

“And now the moment we’ve been waiting for.” Said the meeting head.  “Eric will be reviewing his latest information on Hybrids.”

He started his speech telling of first accounts of hybrids being birthed from human mothers using mutated eggs.  He told of stories of embryo implants through abductions and contaminated water supplies. Most of it Mulder was aware and some seemed skewed or misguided.  Finally, he got to what Mulder really wanted to hear.  “We have some exciting news today.  It’s been confirmed.  We have dead hybrids.  They were turned into a metallic dust.  It happened at ground zero.  What we believe is that when the twin towers fell, they exposed the Manhattan bedrock which is millions of years old.  Folded into that bedrock is an iron ore, remnants of an old meteor.  We believe that if we could mine meteors that contain this same iron, we may be able to build a weapon to combat these hybrids.”

“So where do you find this iron and how are you going to test it?” Asked one of the members.

Eric turned on the projector.  “This is a Map of all the meteor dustings in the past two million years.  As you can see the largest concentration is in Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and Nevada.  This is where we should concentrate our efforts.”

“But how do you know this iron stuff will kill them?” Asked another member.

“Because we have it on video and we have the dust sample.”

The room became silent as he hooked up his video camera. 

The video took place after the first tower fell.  There was a considerable amount of smoke and it was apparent the video had been taken by someone in law enforcement.  Two men with FBI jackets were running into the smoke and the camera was shaking widly.  You could see them enter the building and go down steps where the mall once stood. Ash was everywhere and smoke filled the hallways.  It appeared they were in search of something inside the mall. Then one of the FBI agents froze like he was magnetized to the floor.  With tremendous force the two men crumbled as if from the inside out like a huge magnet drew them downward.  You see the man holding the camera yell and pick up their clothing which now contained only dust.  He let out a few expletives and the camera shut off.

Even this made Mulder miss Scully.  He wished she was there to witness the tape.  He wanted her opinion.  He also wanted some of that dust.  She would be able to dissect it in the lab and find the answer.  Not this time.  This time he would have to prove it on his own.

“What happened?  It was like terminator was struck with a light saber.” Shouted Josh, the kid he had met in the street.

“We don’t know.  This is all we have, but the rock that was scraped up from the site had a high concentration of a form of magnetite.  If we could fashion a weapon, we may be able to use if against them.”

 Walking back to the motel Mulder didn’t know what to make of any of it.  Was there a way to stop them? There had to be.  Nothing was invincible.  Except maybe Scully.  He went to put the key in the door and it creaked open with a push.  Someone had already been there.  The place had been ransacked, but from what he saw nothing was taken.  His first instinct was to ensure the intruders had left, but they were gone.  His suitcase full of cash was still intact. He searched his luggage finding a tracer.  He also found a bug inside the lamp on the nightstand.  They had located him.  His time in NY had run out. He grabbed his stuff, packed it into the car, placed the picture back on the instrument panel, and headed west in search of magnetite and an old friend.

Read more here

[kpopfanfictrash]

Wasteland, Baby!

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Yoongi / Reader

Word Count: 3,098

Warnings: post-apocalyptic, depression, themes of death

Summary: A songfic, inspired by the song of the same title by Hozier (I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for months and finally decided to post)

The end of the world was not as terrible as everyone thought it would be.

Or – that is what you have told yourself since, citing the mantra to keep the demons at bay. On the days when it does not work, when you cannot convince yourself of this fact, it is hard – near-impossible – to get out of bed.

Today is a good day. Today, the end of the world is not so terrible.

Yesterday was a bad day.

Yesterday, Yoongi tried for twenty-four minutes to coax you from under the sheets. Eventually, he gave up and left to chop more wood for the fire. Six minutes into his absence, you woke in a sweat-soaked terror, hands scrambling through blankets to seek out his warmth. Visions flashed through your mind, one after the other, like the worst kind of picture show.

Ashen faces, choked breathing, bloody splotches. Deadened gaze.

In the end, the world did not end with bloodlust and rage – but with folly.

It was folly that humans chose to live so close to one another, packed into homes stacked on top of the other. It was humans who were so dependent on technology that they could not survive once it disappeared. Once there were not enough people to run the power plants and take care of the phone grids.

Truly, Yoongi is the only reason you are alive. On most days, you can convince yourself this is a good thing. When the disease first emerged, Yoongi was the one monitoring it all from his phone. In those days, he came home from the lab later than usual, brow permanently furrowed and sandwich crumbs on his sweater.

Those were the days when you were his anchor, when you were the one who coaxed him in and out of bed. Yoongi was your workaholic pathologist boyfriend and you were his rock. Now, the situation is reversed and you find this to be oddly appropriate. Everything should be flipped at the end of the world.

It was when the airports began closing Yoongi demanded you leave.

“Today,” he said, slamming the apartment door as he entered.

You looked up from your workstation, surprised by his appearance. Architecture papers were spread out before you, half-finished buildings drawn in blue and white lines. Typically, Yoongi did not get home until after dinner on weekdays. You were used to the hours spent alone, sketching at your table.

“Today… what?”  

Yoongi’s eyes were red-rimmed; evidence of his many late nights. Circling your table, he came to a stop at the wardrobe. “My place outside the city,” Yoongi said, avoiding the question. “We can go there. Wait it out.”

“Wait what out?”

He paused before the drawer, one mustard-colored sock dangling over his hand. Swallowing, Yoongi seemed to wrestle with something. “Maybe nothing,” he said quietly. “Or… maybe something.”

You stared at him for a moment, debating how to respond. Granted, you thought Yoongi had gone insane. Everyone was saying this would blow over, like all the other scares. Avian Flu, Swine Flu and a million other Flus. Yoongi seemed serious though, as though he had not slept in weeks and likely, that was so. Everyone in Yoongi’s lab had been working overtime to search for a cure. Yoongi was one of the first among them to recognize the truth.

As an outsider, you were biased by precedent. As a human, you had always survived. This is another folly of humans – they think themselves invincible. They assume because they have survived thus far, they will continue to do so.

Most of the world’s population assumed this. Then again, most of the world’s population is now dead.

Something in Yoongi’s eyes convinced you. “Okay,” you said, standing up from your stool. It was better to humor him, at least. “What do I do?”

Forty minutes and one hastily packed trunk later, you two sped off down the highway. Few cars were on the road that day – in the early time of the sickness, most people stayed in. They quarantined themselves, only venturing out when absolutely necessary. It was merely a flu at that point – the world did not yet understand.

It was from Yoongi’s cabin you watched the world fall apart. The footage was horrifying – riots, looting when the hospitals became dead zones, and then the airports, and then everywhere. The TV stayed on until the cabin ran out of power, until the people were gone and there was nothing left to be said. You watched as, one by one, newscasters silently replaced one another. No one explained why, but you both knew the truth.

The world’s population was decimated in a matter of days. You and Yoongi watched it all happen, huddled on your couch and immobile with shock.

You two were lucky, you suppose. Yoongi kept his cabin stocked for his work rampages; the times he got a research hunch and would seclude himself for weeks in his reading. The cabin held everything one needed for the end of the world – canned goods, water purifiers, emergency candles and matches. The rations held out remarkably well while you determined a new way to survive.

Now, it has been three months since the lights went out.

For weeks you slept on edge, waking at the slightest brush of wind on the window. Living alone was a new kind of terror. Living in the city, there were dangers, but technology was always present to keep you protected. It warned you of intruders, kept the doors shut and updated you on your surroundings. No longer.

One month after the end, you ventured out in Yoongi’s car. Yoongi decided that, based on his research, most of the virus would be dead by that time. It needed living hosts to survive. Still, it was a risk and he would not let you leave the confines of the vehicle.

The closest town to the cabin was once called Roshone – a small, miniscule lake village of maybe two thousand. You say once because now, just two people remain. 

You and Yoongi.

The drive through the streets was silent, chillingly so. Unplowed snow crunched under your tires. Yoongi peered out from the windshield, searching for life but finding nothing to speak of. No footprints in the snow, no flashes of movement from the corner of your eyes.

Many doors were marked with red x’s of paint – a makeshift Passover you quickly averted your gaze from. After about an hour, you returned to the cabin. This was the first of your dark days. For three days following, you did not rouse from your bed.

That was when you believed the world had truly ended; you two were merely ghosts, biding your time until you joined all the rest.

The silence was the worst part.

There were many days you forgot to speak, going from sunup to sundown with nary a word. Philosophy is what separates humanity from animals and so, when humanity is dead, what separates you then? What makes you different from the rest of the mammals when there is no one to talk to? Nothing. And so, you continued your motions of living – but only enough to survive. A gross pantomime of what you were before.

Yoongi clung to his routines. 

He woke early each morning, as he did in the city. As long as there were beans, he made coffee over a fire. When the beans ran out, Yoongi heated plain water for tea. When his computer died, he dug out books from his study and poured over those. What he was searching for, you did not ask. It all seemed futile to you.

Yoongi had never been a very positive person and so, in many ways, he was better equipped for the end. Perhaps this is why he adapted better than you. He had a stoic realness about him which suited the end times.

When you needed food, Yoongi learned how to shoot. He researched how to garden and found books to prepare for the springtime. The sight nearly made you laugh, watching him read about plants. Yoongi had always made fun of Namjoon and his bonsai trees. Remembering, you winced, heart tightening at the memory. Namjoon was a cold dose of realism you could not ignore.

All of your neighbors stayed when you two fled from the city. You do not know if they made it out. Somehow, you doubt it.

You often find yourself wondering which was be worse – the disease, or its aftermath. Anything must be better than this. Anything but this silence, this sadness, this agonizing nothingness which tears you apart and –

Banging open the door, Yoongi walks in.

His entrance reminds you of that day so long ago when he convinced you to flee. Remembering, you stare blankly at him from the bed. Yoongi is framed by the door; silvery light filters past and for a moment, he seems like some kind of savior.

Then, he is over the threshold and the door is pulled shut. Dropping a bag to the ground, he shakes dust from his shoulders. The light disappears and he is no longer a savior, merely Yoongi.

Stubborn, brave, wonderfully human Yoongi.

“I found more candles,” he says, removing his jacket. The cabin is small – only three rooms, the front of which contains a bed, kitchen and sofa. Crossing to the bed, he settles beside you. Yoongi’s hand covers yours, his eyes dark and sad. “How are you today?”

Glancing past him, you stare at the bag. “You found candles? Where?”

Yoongi’s lips tighten in a way which lets you know you will not like the answer. “I went into town again.”

Swiftly, your gaze moves to his. “Yoongi! That could be dangerous!”

He exhales, rubbing his thumb against yours. “There’s no one there, babe.”

“… No one?”

“No.”

Quietly, you let this statement sink in. A month prior, his words would have crippled you. Now, it simply seems… usual. This fact should give you alarm. It should not be normal for you to think of an entire town dead and not feel some remorse. It should spark sadness, at least – or maybe some sort of horror, outrage, or despair.

Lowering his head, Yoongi brushes his lips to your hand. “Y/N,” he says, against your skin.

“Yes?” 

He slowly looks up. “I feel numb.”

Freezing, you take in his expression. Yoongi stares back at you, helpless and you realize with shock he was counting on this. He was counting on there being someone left but finally, the evidence is too great and he is giving up. Yoongi, your steadfast in this ocean of madness – the one who coaxes you out of bed, who convinces you to make a plan – has given in.

He truly thought you were not alone.

And now, he does.

You can see it in his gaze. There is a haunted fear which can be explained in no other way. It is one thing to treat this as a vacation, a temporary respite before getting back to your life – it is another thing to accept this is reality.

Hesitantly, you push yourself into a seated position. Carding your hands through his hair, you examine his face. Yoongi’s locks are long, shaggy across the front where you cut them poorly with scissors.

“Numb?” 

Gently, he closes his eyes. “Maybe you were right.” Lowering himself on his side, Yoongi scoots back to make room. “Maybe there isn’t a point anymore. Maybe we should just… sleep. I don’t know.”

His arm slips over your waist, pulling you into him. His breathing softens, warm on your throat and normally, you would sleep, too – except Yoongi is not supposed to be numb. He is not supposed to be the pointless one, the aimless one. The entire time you have known him, Min Yoongi has been driven by something. Without that…

The world has not yet ended, you realize.

It ends when you both think it has.

His snores rattle your body, letting you know he is sleeping. Once you are certain, you slip from his arms and lower both feet on the floor. The floorboards are cold, making you shiver. Pulling on his jacket, you deeply inhale. It smells like Yoongi, but not city Yoongi.

City Yoongi always wore the same jeans, used the same laundry detergent and slept in the same bed. He smelled of chemicals from the lab, shampoo from CVS and some fancy cologne. This Yoongi smells like woodsmoke; metal and iron and the bitter taste of wind.

It is not a bad smell. Glancing over your shoulder, you find him asleep, like a rock. Yoongi does not move, one arm dangled over the mattress to drag on the floor. Without pausing to think, you grab the keys of his car and walk into the cold.

Seated behind the wheel of Yoongi’s black Ford Taurus, you stifle a shiver. There is a knife on the floor of the passenger’s side. You glance at this quickly before looking away. Hopefully you will not need to use it. As you pull from the driveway, you follow Yoongi’s earlier tracks into town. It has been a long time since you drove. Even longer, since you went out alone.

The engine seems loud – near-deafening, compared to the silence of Main Street. Your gaze flicks uneasily over each storefront; despite Yoongi’s insistence that they are deserted, it is hard not to imagine the worst.

Pulling into a parking space – even at the end of the world, some habits die hard – you turn off the engine and sit for a moment. Your hands are shaking, clutching the wheel and you force yourself to let go.

Outside, the winter air is crisp on your skin. Despite the lack of humanity, the world has not yet noticed the void. Or, if it has, it does not care. The snow crunches beneath your feet as you cross the street, peering into a shop to pause on its curb. 

The windows are dusty, untouched for months and the tables inside have not fared much better.

At last, you inhale and push open the door. It is unlocked, as though the former owner left in a rush. You winkle your nose at the staleness of air. Flies buzz past when the door swings shut behind you. Shadows stretch before you, elongating the worst parts of your imagination. Beneath the sweet smell of chocolate and sugar is a damp, rancid stench you know all too well.

You shiver. The virus should be dead but always, there is this fear. What if?

Ignoring this – and the back room from whence the smell stems – you cross the room and duck behind the register. Bags, boxes and canisters line the shelves at eye-level. Grasping the first one you see, you grit your teeth together and bolt towards the door.

Outside, seated in the driver’s seat, you finally exhale. Lowering your head to the steering wheel, you sit still for a second. Vision blurring, you stare at the vinyl wheel of the car. So many people are gone. The sheer magnitude always weighs on you, wondering why you survived when so many did not.

You glance sideways. The bag you took lies on the floor, beside the knife. For some reason, the image strikes you as funny. Your upper lip twitches.

Taking that bag makes you a thief. You have never stolen something before.

Of course, in this hellish landscape where the word means nothing, you find yourself a criminal. 

A laugh escapes, too loud in the silence. Clasping trembling fingers over your mouth, you attempt to shove it back in, only to realize – why? No one is here. There is no one around to be quiet for and so, you laugh. 

Again. 

And again, until tears mix with the madness and slide down your cheeks.

Did Yoongi say he felt numb? Did you ever feel numb? Right now, you are the opposite. You are every emotion ever felt in the universe; a black hole drawing everything in and spitting out nothing. You are bursting, so full of anger you think you might break. 

Full of sadness, as well. And hope.

It is a long time before you can see clearly enough to turn on the engine. Stubbornly, the car catches beneath you and in the fading rays of twilight, you drive back to the cabin. As you go, you keep wiping tears with one hand. It is lucky that no one else is on the road, since you are certainly a hazard to the silence’s safety.

As the cabin comes into view, you recognize something is wrong.

The front door is ajar, which is not how you left it. Footsteps are stamped in the snow – fresh ones, frantic ones which are not your own. Throwing the car into park, you stare at the doorway. Reaching out, you grab both bag and knife from the seat. The weapon seems foolish to hold, since you are not a killer, but you do so anyways.

Yoongi barrels around the side of the house.

He comes to a stop at the door, chest heaving. His eyes are wide, gun trained on your head. 

Yoongi pauses. 

“I,” he exhales, squinting into the cold. “…Y/N?”

“It’s me.” Regaining motion, you push open the door. Hurriedly, you drop the knife to the ground. “Yoongi, it’s me.” 

“Y/N.” He repeats your name, slightly lost. “What are you doing?”

Unsure what to say, you walk towards him. Once he is there, your feet falter. “Here,” you say, thrusting the small bag upon him. “I – I went and got you coffee.”

Yoongi does not move. He stares at the package, not understanding. Wind ruffles his hair, exposing pale skin and hesitantly, Yoongi reaches out a hand. “Coffee?” he murmurs. Turning the bag over in his palm, he looks up. “Why?”

Staring at him, you feel oddly exposed. You thought you knew Yoongi, but here in this dead world, everything is new.

“Because,” you whisper, feeling somewhat foolish. “You like coffee. You need it… for, you know.”

To not be numb anymore.

Yoongi does not move for a moment. He stands there, bag of beans in one hand and looks wonderingly at you. Then, he drops the bag to the snow and crushes you hard to his chest.

Yoongi buries his face in your neck, exhaling brokenly. For the second time in the same hour, your vision blurs. Hugging him tightly, you burrow your face in his sweater. His large hand strokes your hair, winding in strands and keeping you firm in his arms.

Yoongi chuckles when he feels you wipe your nose on his front. “You know I’m still here?” he whispers into the shell of your ear. “Right?”

You nod, pulling back to see him. Tears cling to your lashes, and you blink them away. For the first time in months, you feel the breeze on your skin. It does not make you feel numb, but alive. The rustle of the wild is all around you.

The world is not dead – merely holding its breath.

Yoongi stares back.

“I know.” Lifting on tip toe, you brush a kiss to his lips. “I know. I’m here too, okay?”

Swallowing a smile, Yoongi nods. “I know.”

© kpopfanfictrash, 2019. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[pyrewrites]

Thirteen Days

Entry number 2 into the @bechloe-week Weekley Bechloe mini-challenge. This for the prompt ‘quarantine’.

Ao3

Thirteen Days

It was only day 6 of lockdown but LA already had a death toll. The rising count statewide was actually what finally got the state government to act. It was scary as hell but Chloe was in lockdown with her favorite person in the entire world. Her roommate, up and coming musician, and the girl she had been in love with for nearly a decade, Beca Mitchell.

Chloe suspected that she would have been in a much worse state of mind if not for Beca. Chloe was suffering from information overload on a near-daily basis before lunch. Beca had on more than one occasion hidden both of their phones and laptops behind the locked door to what had originally been designated as Chloe's bedroom but quickly became a guestroom/Beca's home studio space, and removed the batteries from all the remotes except for the blu-ray player that had Netflix to keep Chloe from looking up any more doom and gloom. And Chloe was grateful. Yesterday had been especially bad. Chloe had come across a pair of reports of deaths that blew a hole the size of the 405 in the claims that 'only the elderly and immunocompromised had to worry'. The first was a college athlete without a single health problem. He was the same age Chloe had been the day she met Beca. The second was a 13-year-old girl. She had spent hours curled up in Beca's arms alternating between crying and having panic attacks as the reality of the situation set in. Beca had run a marathon of Disney movies in their shared bedroom the whole rest of the day until Chloe had drifted off to sleep.

The next morning Chloe was making a sizable breakfast of all of Beca's favorites to bring her in bed to thank her for everything she did the day before. She glanced at the clock figuring she had enough time to finish before Beca woke up. She had just finished plating the food and was turning to the fridge to get the orange juice when her entire world stopped at the sound of a violent coughing fit coming from the bedroom. Her mind immediately flashed back to the last time they had gone to the store to stock up when the rumors of the lockdown started getting serious. The store had been packed. Despite all the talk of social distancing, Chloe would have been shocked if there was a total of six feet of open space in the entire store. That had been a week before the lockdown order had been given. Thirteen days ago.

Chloe sprinted to the bedroom. She slammed the door open to find Beca doubled over, still coughing. The covers on the bed had been kicked away from her body. Her face was flushed, which could have been attributed to the coughing fit. But the sheen of sweat over every inch of exposed skin Chloe could see was not the fault of coughing.

“Oh god no,” Chloe whispered. She rushed forward nearly jumping onto the bed. “Beca!”

Her coughing continued. She tried to speak only to cough again before she could form any coherent words. Chloe placed a hand on Beca's forehead only to yank it away from her burning skin. Chloe ran into the bathroom and wet a washcloth with cold water. After a few moments of searching, she found a bottle of cough syrup and a digital thermometer. She dashed back to the bed. She opened the bottle and handed it to Beca then started running the cold washcloth over the back of Beca's neck as she tilted her head back swallowing probably more than the recommended dosage.

“Thank you.” Beca croaked as Chloe wiped over her forehead and face, then down her chest and arms.

  “I'm calling the doctor,” Chloe said. Not saying '  to find out where to get tested'   out loud. But Beca saw the panic growing in her eyes. She turned on the thermometer and waited for it to chime ready. “Open.”

Beca dutifully opened her mouth and closed it again around the annoying plastic and metal probe. As soon as it was in place she watched as Chloe tried her best not to run from the room to get her phone. After several moments she could hear Chloe's voice but couldn't make out what she was saying until she shouted.

“I know the symptoms! They are all over the news and the internet! The last time we were out in public for any reason was thirteen days ago!”

Chloe's voice dropped again but it was obvious she was coming back to the bedroom just as the thermometer beeped.

“Yes, she is running a fever,” Chloe said as she walked up to the bed and plucked it from Beca's mouth. “Shit. It's 100.8, we need to come in today. As soon as possible.”

Beca watched as the tension in Chloe's face started to relax.

“Yes. Both of us. We went to the store to stock up two weeks ago and have been in close contact with each other in our apartment since.” Chloe paused. “Ok. Thank you very much.”

Chloe took the thermometer and the cough syrup back into the bathroom. She swung the door closed behind her so she could lean against the counter and try not to burst into tears. She only managed to stay quiet when she did start crying.

“Chlo?” Came Beca's scratchy voice from the bedroom after several minutes of Chloe not returning from the bathroom.

“Yeah. Just a second.” Chloe called trying to keep her voice even. She wiped at her face and almost considered doing her makeup, but decided that would make it even more obvious since they had both stopped bothering days ago. She slowly pulled open the door and started towards the hallway. “Just stay in bed. I'm going to bring you the breakfast I was fixing.”

Beca started to shuffle pillows around so she could sit up. She had gotten herself set up by the time Chloe returned with her food. She made another trip to get her own breakfast and climbed into bed with Beca.

“What was this for?” Beca rasped.

“I was thanking you for yesterday and all those Disney movies without complaining even once.” Chloe smiled.

“You didn't have too. But I'm glad you did.” Beca said before coughing a few times.

“Our appointment is at one. They have a mini drive-up testing center set up to keep from exposing other people that have other reasons to go to the doctor right now.”

Beca just nodded, not wanting to talk much more than she had to with her throat hurting.

Chloe turned on the tv and started searching Netflix. She turned on something light and kinda mindless to watch while they ate.

After they finished breakfast Chloe went digging in their closet. At the time the lockdown order had gone into effect they hadn't had any orders about wearing masks in public yet, so Chloe hadn't gone looking since they had stocked up enough food for at least another week and a half. She found what she was looking for tucked into a side pocket of her suitcase. She and Beca had joined the Beale family ski trip last year over Christmas. Chloe had gotten them a pair of 'neck warmer ski masks' that looked like a turtleneck that had been removed from its shirt. It could be pulled all the way up over your nose to keep your face warm and Chloe figured that much fabric would be much better than cutting up a t-shirt like the internet was suggesting. But given they weren't even going to have to get out of the car to get tested they might not even need them at all.

Chloe made them some sandwiches and packed them both a lunch because she had no idea how long they might be waiting despite having an appointment. She gathered a clean change of clothes for Beca, who hadn't gotten dressed yet since waking up. All of this in-between sessions of panicked pacing in the living room.

Once Beca was dressed Chloe changed into clothes that were more acceptable to wear in public before hustling Beca out to the car. She ran back inside to grab their packed lunch and took a long slow look around the home that they had built together, fighting back tears again.

Chloe barely heard the music playing in the car as she drove. The trip took less than a quarter as long as she was planning. There were virtually no cars on the road.

  “Is it just me or does it feel like we are in the opening scenes of some post-apocalyptic movie and we are like the last people left on earth?” Beca was the one to say it, which itself said how deserted the roads were.

They pulled up outside the doctor's office at 12:15, a full half-hour earlier that Chloe had expected. She saw a small tent in one corner of the parking lot and every other parking spot around that corner blocked off. She drove over and was waved down by a person in essentially a hazmat suit holding a clipboard. Chloe opened the window less than an inch, just enough to communicate.

“Do you have an appointment?” The person said.

“Yes, we do. Mitchell and Beale for 1 o'clock. Sorry we are early, I honestly didn't give any thought to how little traffic there would be.” Chloe said.

“Don't worry about. Everybody has done the same thing. We will get you taken care of as quickly as possible. Just wait in the car and we will hold up a sign with your name when it's your turn. Go ahead and park over there.” The person pointed to the end of the row in front of them. “Should be about 10-15 minutes.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said as she put the car back in gear. “How are you doing Becs?”

Beca shrugged and reclined her seat a bit before curling up.

Chloe watched as Beca nearly dozed off then turned her attention to the team working their way through the few cars waiting. They moved with a practiced efficiency that both impressed and frightened Chloe. She zoned out watching their movements until the person with the clipboard waved to get her attention. They held up a small whiteboard with Mitchell-Beale written on it. Chloe's heart skipped a beat.

Chloe pulled up to the spot she was directed to and rolled down both windows. The workers checked their temperatures with laser thermometers, that Chloe thought were pretty cool. They had both of them stick out their tongues so they could check their throats. Then they performed the test, which was very unpleasant. Before they let them leave they did a second swabbing of their throats.

“We will call you when the results come in. Good luck.” One of the workers said as they stepped back from the car to let them leave.

Chloe could barely bring herself to smile at them as she rolled up their windows. She didn't say a word the entire drive home.

When they got home they both changed back into more comfortable clothes and Beca crawled back into bed and took a nap. Chloe wanted to climb into bed and just hold Beca, but instead, she quietly closed the door before retreating to the living room, turning on the tv for some sound, and began crying again.

Chloe jerked awake at the sound of metal clanging in the kitchen. She looked around in confusion. The sun was setting outside. A blanket slipped off of her as she sat up awkwardly trying to move with a sore back.

She shuffled out to the kitchen to find Beca setting a pot of water on a burner.

“What are you doing?” Chloe said, her voice still thick with sleep.

“I woke up from my nap and you weren't there. I found you asleep on the couch so I covered you with a blanket and watched some tv for a while. Then I was in the mood for ramen. So here we are.” Beca said. Her voice still rough but it was better than it had been that morning.

“Go sit down,” Chloe ordered. “You are sick. I'll fix your food.”

Beca looked like she was going to object right up until Chloe shot her a look that said Beca wasn't going to win this argument. She stepped away from the stove and headed for the living room.

“And thank you for the blanket,” Chloe whispered as she placed a light kiss on Beca's cheek.

The next two days went much the same. Beca slept a lot. Chloe cried a lot and tried not to think about the sore throat she was starting to develop. Beca continued to be stubborn and tried to take care of herself as often as possible. And Chloe almost as often either ordered or, on three different occasions, physically carried Beca to the couch or bed to get her to stop.

The afternoon of the third day, after an especially bad coughing fit, Chloe broke. She started crying in front of Beca for the first time since she woke up sick days ago.

“Hey hey hey. It's ok Chlo.” Beca said as she gathered Chloe into her arms and started stroking her hair.

“No. It's not ok Beca.” Chloe's voice cracked. “I can't do this without you.”

“Can't do what?”

“This! Everything. My whole life. I can't lose you.” Chloe said between sobs.

“You aren't going to lose me Chlo.”

“You don't know that! And I don't want to live the rest of my life without you.”

“What the hell Chloe?”

“Beca I am trying to tell you that I'm in love with you and I don't want you to die!”

Beca stared opening and closing her mouth for what seemed like an hour.

A phone ringing startled both of them. Beca reached over and picked up her phone from her nightstand.

  “Hello? … Speaking. … I see. … Both of us? … Ok. … Yes, the one on file. … Yes. Thank you.” Beca hung up. After she set down her phone she took a slow deep breath. “Chloe. I love you too. I'm  in   love with you too.”

  “On no. Nononononono.” Chloe started crying again. She grabbed her own phone and started furiously started typing. “Fuck!”

“What?” Beca asked as Chloe started typing again.

“Apparently the courts aren't considered 'essential services' right now. Maybe they haven't locked down Vegas yet.” Chloe said distractedly.

“What are you talking about Chlo?”

“If one or both of us is going to die in the next few weeks I want to die knowing I got to be married to the love of my life.” Chloe looked up at the sound of Beca gasping. And found tears running down her smiling face.

Beca slowly reached out and took Chloe's phone from her.

“How 'bout you take me on at least a few dates first? But first, you need to make a run to the pharmacy at the Ralph's down the street.”

“Wha...but the internet says there's no treatment yet.”

“They ran a preliminary test here, but they have to send it to the CDC to make sure.”

“And...?”

“They came back negative for both of us. The test that came back positive was for strep throat.”

“So you're going to be ok?” A smile started spreading across Chloe's lips.

“Yeah. After a few more days of this fucking sore throat. And you're probably gonna get it too so they sent prescriptions for both of us to the pharmacy.” Beca grinned. “Maybe you can pick up some pizza while you are out and we can have that first date. Unless you still want to jump right to getting married.”

“After all this time it still surprises me that I am in love with such a pain in my ass.” Chloe laughed.

“'All this time'? Just how long have you been in love with me?”

“Think I'm going to let you wonder about that for awhile. I have to make a trip to the store.” Chloe said as she hopped off the bed giggling.

“Now who's the pain in the ass?” Beca called after her as she skipped down the hall. The sound of Chloe's laughter echoed back into the bedroom and it was the most beautiful thing Beca had ever heard...so far.