love's out there.

Interrupted again. "Can't handle the workload anymore, for one. And with power grids going down left and right, it's only a matter of time before we're next. It's right outside our doors; all you have to do is step outside to hear the artillery fire. People would rather—" He shrugs—a gesture that's accompanied by another sigh. "I'm doing as much as I can, and plan to continue doing so until the last second. As for what comes after?"

Robby runs a trembling hand through unkempt hair. The bags beneath his eyes appear as heavy as the invisible weight bearing down upon his broad shoulders—a sight which causes your heart to squeeze painfully.

He hasn't been this bad since Covid.

You were taught to never get attached to your subjects, but he and Jack were different. That, or you made them as much when you started spending ample amounts of time with them outside of working hours. When you left PTMC in the rearview after your assignment was through, your heart ached for them in their absence.

So when the president remained in office for an unconstitutional third term and war began, there was only one place you wanted to be.

"I have no idea what the fuck I'm gonna do," Robby spits. "It's not like there's any safe place left to go. If another hospital will take me... God knows every medical establishment can use all the help they can get right now."

You chew your lip thoughtfully for a moment and watch as personnel clad in dark-colored scrubs run back and forth while body after bleeding body gets rolled in.

"I know some people," you state. "Last we talked, their plan was Washington." Returning your attention to Robby again, you take a small step forward. Reaching for one of his hands, you twine your fingers between his. "Come with me."

Cupping his cheek, you search soft pools of brown pleadingly. "Maybe we can meet them on the road."

"Hey, kiddo." Joel gives you a pat on the knee, then seats himself beside you on a faded metal bleacher. When he extends a plastic water bottle, you take it with a quiet thanks. "You doing alright?"

Unscrewing the cap, you drain a third of the lukewarm liquid before answering. "Are any of us?"

Resting his forearms atop his thighs, Joel huffs a quiet laugh. "Stupid question." Silently watching people mill about, he tilts his head to the side; toward you. "So, war journalism now, huh? What happened to hospital galas and rich philanthropists walking red carpets?"

Hanging your head between your shoulders, you sarcastically swing it in his direction. "Think those days are over, don't you? For awhile, anyway." You lean back. "When Lee called and told me your all's plan, I just made a choice. Well, my first one was to go to PTMC to try and... Document—I guess—what frontline workers were dealing with, same as I did during Covid. But by the time I got there, they had three days left on the clock until the lights were to be shut off. And it's not like this is my first rodeo, y'know?"

Joel nods. "Fair enough." He squints against the beaming overhead sun. "Saw one myself that..." Exhaling slowly, he tries again. "It had a whole wing blown off by C-4," he says with a grimace.

Your mind paints a picture you're more than okay with you not having actually been there to see.

"So," he chirps. "You and the doctor. What's the story there?"

Thankful for the change of subject, you snort. "There isn't one. Not really. Like I said: Covid. And like you said: galas." You gesture to Jack, who's presently leaned back against a tank with crossed arms while he converses with Robby. "They've known each other for years and years. Jack, the soldier, that is, is a doctor too. Not long after the fighting started, he left to do what he could; to help. Robby didn't know what else to do with himself with the hospital being closed, so I offered for him to come along for the ride."

You force a smile and meet Joel's eyes. "To Old Dominion."

"Next stop, D.C.," he quips.

"You really think he's there?" you question doubtfully. "I mean, yeah, maybe he technically is, but it's not like any one soldier will be able to just waltz into the Oval Office to perform an execution. They've probably got him sequestered away in a bunker somewhere."

Joel takes a sip of his water. "Might be the case. And if it is," he stands, "somebody'll know where. City's only defended by radical splinter cells at this point. And with what they've got coming, the Loyalists won't last much longer."

"She seems bizarrely at home here," Robby remarks while observing you acutely from afar.

Jack watches you tightly hug the middle-aged blonde journalist he's yet to become acquainted with. After you brush stray tears from your cheeks, you smile at the younger one and shake her hand.

He'd heard something about one of their riding companions getting caught in the line-of-fire, and wonders then if you knew him well. From the tears, he assumes so.

Studying Robby from beneath his lashes, Jack attempts to gauge whether he's doing as well as he claims to be. "Makes two of us. You?"

Clamping a hand over the back of his neck, Robby rolls his eyes. "Told you I'm fine. I know how to compartmentalize." He eyes Joel warily. "Maybe too well."

Jack purses his lips. "This and Covid are two wildly different things, Mike."

Scrubbing his hands down his face, Robby sighs exhaustively. "What do you wanna know, Jack? Do you want to hear about the bodies we saw swinging from an overhead pass? Or, I dunno, how about the smoking heap of a car with a booster seat in the back that was still fucking occupied by a burnt corpse? That make you happy to know about? Is that what you wanted?!" he shouts irritatedly—a sound which draws unsuspecting stares from nearby spectators.

He doesn't mention how you photographed the former, and that the action horrified him because he failed to understand your lack of tact. But he supposes it's your self-imposed job now: documenting the atrocities this war has wrought so the world can never forget.

As if it seems to give much of a shit as it is.

Jack's brows draw together—bowing slightly at the graying ends in concern. "Yeah, it is. Bottling this shit up isn't good for anybody."

He barks a laugh. "The two of you are!"

"Because we're familiar with war, Robby. She and I—"

"She isn't," he interjects. "So I don't know where the hell you're getting that from."

"Y/N was in Iraq a few years ago, documenting the work Doctors Without Borders was doing there," Jack supplies. "We talked about it one day, after my shift ended."

Robby flinches. "Why wouldn't she have told me that?"

Jack rests steady a palm atop Robby's shoulder. "She just wanted someone to confide in; somebody who'd understand the shit she saw, the nightmares that came from it, and how she was struggling. So I listened, and she did the same for me."

Robby shakes his head and glances back to Jack's olive green tent. "I'm beat." He takes a step back and Jack's hand slips away. "Think I'll just lie down for awhile."

Now he feels on the outs, Jack assumes. Between you and him, you're each familiar with the cost of war, whereas Robby is utterly unfamiliar, apart from whatever he's seen on screen or read in books and articles. "Still daylight out," he mutters disappointedly.

He's only just got here, so Jack had hoped for a bit more time to talk...

"Just for a couple hours." Taking a step in that direction, he half turns back to Jack on his heel. "Lucky you thought to bring it."

"You know me," he calls after him. "Gotta have my go bag. I'm prepared, if nothing else."

At least Robby stocked up on medical supplies—most of which he stole from PTMC when he made the decision at the last minute to tag along like you offered.

It's come in handy more times than he cares to admit.

"Where'd he venture off to?" you ask curiously.

Offering you a granola bar from his MRE, Jack nods in the direction of his tent. "I would say it was to actually grab some rest like he claimed, but I think the real reason is because he feels out of place here."

Peeling the crinkled plastic wrapper open, you regard him with a raised brow.

"You know him," he says while digging into a packet of cold ravioli with a plastic spoon. "Always Mr. Reliable at work. But now that he's out of his depth, and surrounded by strangers who're used to the circumstances..."

You'd taken inventory of it on the way here: how he grew increasingly quiet as the miles passed, and the scenery became all the more gruesome. You hadn't been sure of what to say to coax him back out of his shell, so you didn't say much of anything at all.

Now, you think you perhaps should've. But he's also never been much of a talker. Not when it comes to trauma, that is. You learned as much during Covid when you repeatedly attempted to interview him and only got brief "not nows" in response.

"Should we go talk to him?" you question before taking a bite of the snack you've been given.

What you wouldn't give for a cheeseburger right now with all the fixings—including the toppings you dislike—coupled with a large fry loaded with salt and a cold milkshake to top it all off.

Jack shakes his head. "No. Just give him some space for right now. If Robby feels crowded, he'll snap." After downing a spoonful of ravioli, he chews, swallows, then speaks again. "Told him about your time in Iraq. Think it hurt him—that he was unaware of it."

One more reason for him to feel the odd one out...

"I mean, it's not like I saw any actual fighting. I just documented the healing side of things."

He shrugs a shoulder, then swipes away a bead of sweat from his saturated hairline. "Still. It's how you know them, right?"

"Just Lee," you explain while eying his combat boots. "The younger woman apparently tagged along with them back in New York, whereas Joel and I met a couple times during Covid. There were these journalistic functions we both attended and had drinks afterward." You take another bite. "He works for Reuters."

"And the gentleman who died?" Jack questions gently.

"Sammy. He worked for The New York Times. Lee was closest to him." Glancing away from Jack, you blink back building tears. "He was her and Joel's mentor."

Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I'm sorry."

You take a drink of your rapidly emptying water bottle. "Me too."

Unexpectedly, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against the wealth of his sturdy chest. "Glad you're here, though. Both of you." He gives you a peck on top of the head. "I think you and I knowing large swathes of people got to him. Sure, he knows us, but we know others."

Inhaling the musky scent of sweat and pungent gunpowder which cling to him, your eyes flutter closed.

You feel so very weary.

"We're all together now; safe. At least for the time being. If he gets up in a bit, maybe we can both try to talk to him like I said. Or... Get him to talk to us."

Jack nods in agreement. "Maybe."

"$300 for a cheese sandwich?" you hiss in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Lee rests a knee over an ankle. "They were a lot more interested when I told them I meant Canadian."

Jack lets out a low whistle. "Guess we're partly to blame for it: collapse of the US dollar."

Joel shakes his head and waves a hand in his direction. "Would've happened either way. Military spending was to be expected."

"Might just finally be paying off," Jack replies. "Pun not intended," he finishes with upturned palms meant to signal innocence.

Lee directs her attention behind you. "Looks like we're going to need another seat."

Glancing over your shoulder, you watch as Robby silently approaches with hands tucked into the pockets of his zip-up hoody. You promptly stand and gesture to the plastic chair you've just vacated. "Evening, sleepy head. You can take mine if you want."

He forces a small smile and shakes his head. "It's alright. I can stand."

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, when he sees Joel considering the overturned bucket he's fashioned into a makeshift chair, he knocks his head to the side. "On second thought..." Robby quickly sits, then tugs you into his lap by your hips, which he circles with his arms.

Throwing one of your own around his shoulders, you submerge your fingers in the overgrown hair at the nape of his neck and gently massage. "You get some sleep?"

He nods. "A bit."

Robby bows his head sheepishly, then trails his eyes along each of your fellow reporters. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Can I ask," you begin while turning to Lee. "What happened... With Sammy?"

"Fucking fascists," grumbles Joel. "They... You never met 'em, but they shot two of our other friends too: Tony and Bohai. Was a paramilitary group," he says, finally launching into explanation. "They had this... Mass grave. Asked all of us one-by-one where we were from, and if you gave any answer other than a US state..."

You brows furrow. "But Sammy was from here."

"He ran them over," Lee interrupts quietly. "Came in full speed ahead in our SUV. They opened fire. He got hit."

You tighten your fingers in the hood of Robby's jacket. "I'm so sorry."

"You wanna tell 'em about Christmas Town?" Joel asks with a chuckle—the change of subject an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.

Robby runs a hand up your back, then rests his cheek against your breast.

"There was a sniper," Lee sighs. "Held up in some brick mansion. Guess they were just trying to keep people away. There was already a couple men there trying to fight back, and they won."

The group grows quiet, so Lee folds her arms. "Sorry. I'm better behind the camera. It's why someone else writes the articles."

"You would've liked the small town we passed through," Joel remarks.

Jessie speaks up then. "It was, like, completely untouched."

"Like driving into a time capsule before all of this started," Joel expounds. "If you had no access to the world outside the city limits—no TV, radio, internet—you'd never know that there was a war on."

"How the hell'd they manage that?" Jack prods curiously.

"Chose not to fight," Jessie explains. "If you don't go looking for trouble, then I guess—"

"Yeah, but how long before looters decide to take them for all they're worth?" you utter cautiously. "Places like that... It won't last. I mean, I hope it does, but..."

Silence again.

"Sorry, man, here we are going back and forth while you haven't gotten a word in edgewise," Joel remarks while looking at Robby.

He shifts beneath you, then pulls you impossibly closer. "Suppose I feel out of my depth here. Like I'm sitting with the big leagues while I'm part of the—not even minor—but little league, I guess."

"No, man, you're a doctor. You're out there saving lives while the rest of us—"

"Are either taking them," Jack mumbles. "Or documenting as much happening."

You turn slightly from atop Robby's thigh and press a tender kiss to his forehead. "There is just as much of a need for healers as there is for soldiers," you quietly assure him.

Lying his head in the crook between your breast and bicep, Robby studies your fellow journalists. "So, how do you all know each other? Anything to do with your time in Iraq?" Robby asks with a squeeze of your waist.

"I told him," Jack whispers while leaning over.

Maybe you should've yourself, but at the time, during Covid, he was already dealing with enough of his own grief. He didn't need yours too.

"That's how we do," Lee confirms—gesturing between the two of you with a pointed finger. "But you and Joel met during Covid, right?"

You nod. "Was this whole Spotlight on Frontline Workers thing."

"We ran into each other at a couple expos," Joel concurs with a smile.

"That all it was?" Robby questions suspiciously. "Work thing?"

Lips tugging into a playful smirk, Joel hunches forward. "You don't have to worry." His eyes flit to you. "We never got around to dinner."

Not that it hasn't gotten to him, but a civil war isn't what finally sends Robby into a huff. No, it's another man's light flirting, who he's only just met.

The three of you now sequestered away inside Jack's tent, you find that there's not much breathing room—Robby's sour mood causing the air to feel all the more charged.

At least there's privacy with the flaps being mostly closed. Jack decided to leave them each pinned slightly back, so as to allow a bit of fresh air inside, though, thankfully.

You'd give your left arm for a shower. Or a bath—including one that someone else has already dirtied before you.

Creature comforts becoming habit, etcetera.

"You should take the cot," Jack says with a jerk of his head to the right where it stands on small metal legs.

Tugging your shirt up and over your head, you toss it in the corner, opting to sleep in a sports bra tonight as an attempted reprieve from the heat. "No, Jack, you're the soldier here. You need your rest far more than someone who's working from behind a camera lens."

"Honey—"

"Why don't we all just sleep on the floor together?" Robby suggests.

When you and Jack turn to look in his direction, he shrinks into himself. "Sorry." He shrugs off his hoody and folds it into a ball. "I'm just..."

Robby sniffles, his chin wobbles, and then he yanks you against his soft chest like a security blanket. "I'm so fuckin' scared," he sobs into your shoulder.

And finally the dam breaks.

"We all are, Robby," Jack reassures him while you quietly shoosh his ragged cries of exhaustion. "But we're together now, so that has to count for something."

Pressing himself against Robby's back, he wraps his arms around both of you. "By tomorrow night, with any luck, he'll be fucking dead. And this will all be over."

You all three opted for the floor in the end. Jack is pressed against Robby's back with fingers twined between his own while you otherwise have a leg hooked over his hip. His face is shoved between your breasts, and his cock buried inside of you while his pudgy belly rests heavily between your thighs.

You wanted to give him this so he could feel safely surrounded tonight.

You all didn't have sex—you and Jack both offered it; something you know has been a long time coming—but Robby was too frazzled, and all of you too exhausted to bother giving something so intimate your all, like it properly deserves.

So here you nakedly lie instead, drifting off to the soothing sound of crickets and cicadas, praying that what Jack said earlier soon comes to fruition.

You snicker when an anvil is dropped atop Wile E. Coyote's head, a most beloved sound which causes Leonard to lift his chin—choosing to watch you for awhile instead of continuing on with reading the novel currently sat in his lap.

He ruminates over it more often than he'd like to admit: how close he came to losing all of this, and for good, when he cast you out after your calling him a name which he now constantly looks forward to hearing morning, noon, and night. All because he felt like he was betraying a family he no longer has; a daughter he'll... That he'll never see again.

Gazing at you with unabashed adoration from over the rim of his glasses, he knows it isn't a sense of replacement that he's seeking with you like he initially thought—punished himself over.

No, just purpose.

You make his life a bit more worth living now. Alright, maybe more than just a bit.

His daughter will always be his little girl, yes, but that doesn't mean that he can't also make room for another.

Watching as you gently twirl the promise ring he gifted you not terribly long after your return here—rather, his carting you back home in his Duster—which he picked up for a pretty penny at a pawn shop in town, Leo smiles.

Its purpose wasn't just one thing.

He wished for it to serve as a symbol of stability and security in your shared relationship; an assurance that you belonged solely to him and he to you, and that through it, he was dedicating himself to you in every way that you needed so you could finally feel safe. And that he would fill every role you wished for him to this time around without conflict.

Father, lover, husband, confidant, teacher, protector, and provider.

In terms of the latter most... He knows you hate what he does. That it serves only to remind you of the life you were trying so hard to leave behind when you fled the derelict house your parents called home, in exchange for the North Carolina wilds. But so, too, is that ring a promise of better days to come.

A promise that he wholly intends to make good on.

When the dogs start barking outside, you jolt, then jerk your head in Leo's direction and stare at him with wide, frightened eyes. With a sigh, he leans over and grabs his pistol from a nearby table, followed by tucking it into his waistband and throwing his button-up flannel over it in an act of concealment.

A knock sounds at the front door just a moment later.

Speak of the devil and—

"You in, professor?" calls Carlton while welcoming himself inside—presumptuous asshole that he is.

Your heart now pattering away like a jackrabbit's, you pull a folded blanket from the back of the couch and fan it across your naked legs before turning the volume down on the TV.

No time to hide away in the bedroom this time, unfortunately.

"Yeah," croaks Leo. "Come on in."

Rounding the now open front door, the hefty man steps inside and promptly greets you with a toothy smile. "Well," he drawls. "Was wonderin' when we'd get a chance to become acquainted with one another."

When he extends his hand in your direction, you look to Leo before taking it. When he grants you a terse nod, you cringe, but ultimately plant your palm atop Carlton's. When he folds his grubby fingers around the back of your hand, it takes all your might not to cringe. He lifts it to his lips and brushes a kiss over the back of it. "Pleasure's all mine, young lady," he asserts with a wink.

Jerking the limb back to you, you swiftly hide it away beneath the blanket.

Out of sight, out of mind. You'll scrub it with antiseptic later.

Leaning back on his heels, Carlton hooks his thumbs over each of his front pockets and nods to Leonard. "Figured I'd come by for my cut, seein' as I was in the area."

When Leo rises from his recliner, a metal spring groans when it pops back into place.

You watch wordlessly as he heads in the direction of the bedroom to rifle through the strong box stored beneath the bed, and you remain looking in that direction, lest Carlton be left to think that eye contact equals a want for conversation. Now left alone together, you can practically feel his eyes roaming across your skin, much like a parasitic insect does its prey—with spindly legs and searching antennae.

You hate him, and hope he dies a horrible death sooner rather than later.

"Alright," Leo calls from the hall—his return signaled by thumping footsteps. "Got it here."

You breathe a sigh of relief when he reappears.

Slapping a stack of folded bills down in the scumbag's outstretched hand, Leo takes a step back.

Carlton tucks the cash away into a back pocket.

"Not gonna count it?" questions Leo with crossed arms.

"Oh, no, professor. I trust you well enough. 'Sides, if you ever tried to short me... Well, I know where you and this pretty one live," he finishes with a wink shot in your direction. "Might just have you make it right in a non-monetary sort of way, if you catch my meanin', were that to happen."

Brushing his flannel back a touch, Leo settles a heavy hand over the grip of his pistol. "You ever come near her—you ever speak to her again after today—and it'll be the last thing you do. She belongs to me and me alone. You understand?"

Inopportune time for liquid heat to pool between your thighs, but—

Carlton mockingly raises his hands in faux surrender, but you can see the way they lightly tremble, as well as the hint of fear that fills his dark eyes that wasn't there even a moment ago. "Never took you for the possessive type, but a man's property's a man's property." He drops his hands. "I know it well enough." He nods, then turns for the door. "Be seein' ya."

Once the door has shut behind him, you throw the blanket aside and jump up, into Leo's arms. Burying your face in his neck, and wrapping your legs around his ample waist, you whine tearfully. "Daddy—"

Softly shooshing you, he smooths a hand down the back of your head. "It's alright, sweetheart, he's gone. Everythin's alright. You're safe; I've gotcha."

Carrying you back to the bedroom, Leo gently kicks the door shut behind himself before lying you down on the bed with the intention of making all your worries go away with a tender bit of lovemakin' to pass the time.

You pant heatedly against Leo's chest that's smattered with coarse brown hair. Gently pawing at the soft swell of his gut, you stare up at him through bleary eyes. "P-please," you whimper with a pouty lower lip extended for emphasis.

Easing his fingers back between your fluttering walls just the same as he's been doing for the last fifteen minutes, Leo runs the thumb of his opposite hand between your knitted brows. "What is it, honey?" he whispers quietly.

"I want you inside of me," you sniffle. "Please."

Removing his slick fingers from inside your cunt, he dips his chin and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. "Alright, baby, just gimme a minute."

Pushing himself overtop of you, Leo cups your cheek and eyes his bedside table.

"Don't," you insist with raised hips. Brushing your weeping cunt against the thick tuft of hair that sits above his heavy cock, you curl your fingers in his beard. "Just you, daddy."

Bracketing his other arm beside your head, his eyes flit between yours with wavering uncertainty. "Are you sure, darlin'?"

You nod and smile happily. "Yes."

Lifting his arm, he reaches between his thighs and takes himself in hand. Swiping the mushroom tip of his swollen erection between your wet folds, he eases gently inside you—inch by inch.

Your eyes nearly flutter closed at the relaxing feel of him so close. The two of you connected so intimately like this—familiarly—is heaven. He curses quietly once he's bottomed out, then grants you a moment to adjust, same as always.

Kissing warm tears from your soft cheeks, Leo smiles encouragingly. "Is this what you needed, sweetheart?"

You nod fervently, then wrap your arms around his tanned neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," you babble contentedly.