Cian O'Connell

Josie shrugs, the only response she can really muster for the time. 

She pretends it’s because she’s hungry, shoveling forkfuls of mushy green beans into her mouth as munching hastily. But it’s just an excuse to give her mouth something else to focus on besides words. 

He’s talking about the future. No, he’s talking about their future. There’s a warming in the muscles of her calves, readying to sprint - a feeling that might not ever go away. She isn’t used to a ‘we’ or an ‘us’. She’s never been a part of another person’s life since she’d been a child; a rocky adolescence that crafted more a monster than a human being.  

“Wilderness,” she decides quickly after swallowing a mouthful of masticated vegetables and the anxiety attempting to dry out her tongue. She doesn’t make eye contact with him, pressuring the thin beans to either sides of the can with her fork as a distraction. “Few people. Few shamblers. Few anything. But probably the best chance of survival if living off the land is an option.”

There’s a quick chuckle that bounces in her chest at the idea of her as a farmer - overalls and everything. Just as silly as Cian being a baker. “Maybe there will be a cabin somewhere,” she suggests, pointing her fork at him but still not looking up, “With an oven.” 

For a moment, Cian thinks she’s going to ignore him. It wouldn’t necessarily surprise him, but it would disappoint him. The fact that she answers him at all fans the little fire of hope that lives in his heart. The hope that she’s capable of loving him back, and not just on the surface but the way he feels it for her. Maybe it’s unfair to hope for that, especially during these times. He shouldn’t want her to love him, but he does. He wants her to burn for him, to love him so badly that it eclipses her anger... hell, her survival instincts even. What kind of selfish bastard was he that he hoped for that? Instead of voicing that he just nods, and smirks, forcing himself to find contentment in this moment. Josie is sitting here, and she’s not berating him for planning something past basic survival. She’s being kind, even if it’s just in her way. Cian’s been living off the bare minimum for over a year now, he’s used to surviving off of the small, stunted affection she gives. He sees her trying, and that’s everything.

“I could learn to farm... probably.” Cian says thoughtfully, picking around the can with his fork, eating the pieces of corn first because they were his favorite. “I mean, we could start out with chickens or something, but I’ve been around cows. I’ve definitely been around a teet or two.” he says, nudging her with his foot playfully. He doesn’t expect a smile, but a snort or an eyeroll would bring him just as much joy. It’s a weird swing, and he notices it most in these quiet moments. The way he moves so easily from being thankful for what he has, grateful for how far he’s come and then flowing into the wanting more, the desire to stop living moment to moment. The conflict is something he covers up with a quick grin and another question.

“So, d’ya think we’d ever be able to find a place like that? Cabin with some chickens and an oven?” Cian asks, putting another forkful of cold vegetables into his mouth. “Might be nice to stay still for a while, even if it’s not forever.”

There’s something elderly about the aroma of the furniture store - that mothball, musty scent that infiltrated the home of every individual the day they turned seventy. But’s cozier than most places they’ve stayed, spending more time curled up together in the cramped backseat of the vehicle or on hard floors of abandoned stores. It’s no way to live. But it is a way to survive. 

Cian gets to work quickly, an efficient survivor in the end of days, as though he’s been training for this his whole life. He’s told her enough stories about his upbringing and his home - a war zone of sorts. Tales of Ireland are bittersweet. The little glimpses into his life before she knew him are an addiction, imagining him as a small child in school or the explosives used by the men he fought alongside. She could even chuckle at the bar stories, hitting on women and the jokes about blinding nuns with bodily fluid. Though there’s never a story about a serious love, and her curiosity wonders if it’s because none existed or because he didn’t want to share. 

After all, Josie knows her place. She isn’t Ireland. She isn’t home. And if he could ever return to his island, he would. Without her. 

The small melody he sang quietly to himself urges her legs into motion, busying herself with a task to keep up with Cian’s pace. If he will start making a place to rest, she could start on a meal. The aches in her back are from the pack of canned goods she brought inside with her. Setting it on the ground, she unzips the bag to meager supplies. They would need to do a food run soon. They’re down to just the canned vegetables now - the majority of their diet. It strikes her then that maybe they should become better hunters, but that also required wildlife which wasn’t the most common site. 

Popping open two cans, she sorts through the backpack until she finds two forks they can use. With a can and fork in each hand, she glances up as the song fades to a simple phrase and her eyes fall on Cian with his gaze on her, a smile on his face, and his hard work paid off. Her lips form a thin awkward smile and with wide eyes, she merely responds, “Uh, yeah. Bread lamb chew to you too.” 

She’d never get the hang of his language and she thinks he might prefer it that way. But she was also starving and hopefully that wasn’t lost in translation. 

Nudging the backpack a few paces over to their living space for the evening, the blonde hands her companion a can of mixed vegetables, gifting him the chance of diversity, no matter how small, while she stuck with just green beans. Turning her own meal in her hand, she scans the label for a name and shares, “Del Monte made you mixed vegetables. Del Monte is a good housewife.”

The can of food is cold and it’s mushy, but his mouth is stomach is too empty to care. He knows he’s thinner than he should be. So is Josie, but the petite woman carries it better than he does. His muscles are still there, but there’s less fat on him, and a part of him worries about how useful he’ll be if he becomes malnourished. They need to restock, somehow find better food, something secure.

“I’d love an oven.” Cian says thoughtfully, kicking off his boots and getting comfortable as he shoves another forkful of vegetables into his mouth and chews it slowly, making it last. “I mean, if you can make fire... you can figure out how to make an oven. Right?” he says, but it’s more for himself than an actual question. He mulls it over as he eats. Clay ovens were used for hundreds of thousands of years, on ovens made of stone. Beyond that, if he and Josie took apart a modern oven he’s pretty sure they could find a way to make it work.

Taking a deep breath through his nose while he chews, Cian let’s his mind wander to imagining what he’d be able to do with a homestead, wondering if animals were still alive, wondering if there was anywhere remote and livable still safe. Surely there was somewhere. There had to be. “Where do you think we’ll wind up?” he asks, curious to see how Josie’s plans compared to his own. He couldn’t really see her cooking and farming, but give her something to build, or something blow up even, any task where she could put that brilliant mind to use- “’Cause all I’m sayin’ is wherever it is, I want an oven. Might even learn to make bread. Christ, what I wouldn’t give for fresh bread.” Cian says with a little laugh, closing his eyes and relaxing further into the short term comforts of their makeshift bed.

The partially covered windows of the furniture store let in a few shafts of bright orange light as the sun begins to sink in the late spring sky. It looks like it had been looted, fortified and abandoned more than once. There are locks around the loading doors and some of the furniture had been demolished. Whether it had been used as firewood or simply the casualty of an attack was anyone’s guess. There wasn’t much blood... that was something. Cian had always been a bit more used to violence, but even he was becoming bothered by just how desensitized everyone left breathing was becoming to the gore surrounding them.

Content with the security of the place, Cian slung his pack off his shoulders and set about making up an area for them to sleep and eat. He was looking forward to the mattress. As he worked he sang quietly to himself.

“Tá mo chroíse go tláithlag i lár mo chuid saothair, Tagann lántocht i mo chléibhse cé nár mhéin liom é a rá, Tá an díbirt i ndán dom ó bhánbheannaibh Éireann Is fánach mo shaolsa is is déarach mo chás,”

It could have been because he just missed his language, but the lyrics helped give voice to what was in his heart. Besides, Josie didn’t speak Gaelic, so he was free to sing or say whatever he wanted. Sometimes, in these moments where things felt damn near domestic, Cian wondered what their future looked like. Was it just to be running and avoiding death? Wandering this foreign country aimlessly until disease or demons took them down? It was a thought that sometimes made it hard to sleep, and harder to get up. Rubbing a tired hand over his face, he glances over at Josie and can’t help but give a smile at the green paint on her knuckles and under her nails. 

Ever helpful, Cian follows without question - the perfect example of a shadow - and places the spray paint cans on the concrete, arranging them by shade of green. She doesn’t double check his work, certain he isn’t color blind. With all the trust she’s ever placed in the man, Josie snatches cans from the sidewalk without a glance at their hue, spraying with concentration written in the lines of her brow. She needs to do this quick and she needs to do this clean. Tessa needs to know where they are and that it’s them. “I mean, I deal with your whiny ass every day,” she jokes as the fumes die down enough for her to speak without inhaling a fun high, “that’s the same as birthing a baby, right?”

The metallic shake of the can is a soundtrack to her thoughts, somewhere a distant memory of guitar chords and a now haunting vocal. It’s almost perfect, because the subject of her art had a cartoony curve to his grin. Tessa needed to see it. Tessa would appreciate it. And Tessa would be the only person to pick out her clue. To finish up the mural with arrays of green, Josie follows the line with white; giving the portrait of the musician an almost neon glow, like a flickering diner sign entice hungry patrons to a greasy burger. Only this trap is meant for two members of their group. And she smirks at the idea of trapping people into friendship. That sounds like something she’d do. 

With a final sharp hiss of paint, she calls out to her body guard just in time, “Have a look.” 

There’s Gabe in all his electric green glory, playing his guitar Lily, though the word Ashley replaces where Lily would’ve been scrawled, almost like an artist’s signature. One of the guitar’s strings are snapped and curled to twist into a curious arrow in the direction of Ashley’s Furniture store. She can leave another clue there. 

And for a brief moment, her mind flickers to Evie and the tears that fell in fat globs when she passed Lily onto her, promising that the musician would’ve wanted her to have it. Somewhere, she hopes, the little girl is playing music to help lift the spirits of the other travelers. She was always excellent at lifting people up. 

Josie will be eternally grateful to her for the life of the man beside her. And she sniffs back the itch of spray paint fumes in her nostrils and wipes at her brow with the back of her right hand before reaching for his own with her left. Because even if she’s hopeful today, looking at the location hint reminds her of all the things wrong in her world. And that’s what holding hands was for. 

“It’s not perfect,” the blonde decides with a cock of her head, before smirking at her piece of art, “Actually, nah, it’s fuckin’ perfect.”

Cian snorts at the idea of him being as difficult as giving birth. Most women found him to be a great deal more delightful than childbirth. In fact he’d wager to say most women would choose conversing with him than the pain of pushing out an infant. “I’m a delight.” he says proudly, and confidently. He is a delight, most of the time, unlike the blonde. They were like night and day sometimes, and yet the perfect mirror to each other. There was some sort of balance here that he couldn’t decipher if he tried. Cian wasn’t sure when or how, but at some point the mouthy, ill-tempered, closed-off woman had become the center of his universe and the only thing grounding him to this world. 

When she announces that she’s finished, Cian turns and backs up a few steps with her to see what she’d done. The smug smile that had been on his face fades to something more akin to awe. He hadn’t known the man very well, only having a few brief exchanges, but he recognizes his face instantly. Gabe. The universally pleasant guitarist who’d been someone to both Josie and Tessa. In fact, Tessa had been with him the day he died. Shot by the same people who had later taken Rose, and then Josie. He’s quiet for a moment, and when she smugly announces it’s perfection, he can’t argue. Instead he just lifts the back of her hand to his mouth and places a reverent kiss there. With her skill at making things blow up, he’d always considered her to have an artists’ hands, but he hadn’t realized that talent crossed over into other things. There’s life in her art, it’s not just the arrow and rude phrase he’d expected. Part of him feels almost guilty for not considering she would create something this impressive.

“You really got his smile.” he says, looking back to admire the art again. The not so hidden, hidden clue- the thing that would only make sense to people who knew the man, all of it was rather genius in his opinion. Cian smirks and shakes his head. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t ya’?” he says quietly before tugging her towards her jeep. “C’mon. We need to get inside that store and make sure it’s fit to bunk down in while we still have some light to work with.”

The affection that Cian gifts Josie now is a new beast she has to battle, though not an entirely unwelcome fight. Better to wrestle with the emotions that bubble in her chest when he reaches for her hand than fend off a demon or a horde of shamblers, no matter how familiar each scenario is becoming. And he’s just as dangerous as the environment has become to her safety. He’s the perfect weapon against her, leaving her terrified that someone might try and force her hand in proving just what he means to her. She isn’t even sure where her line is drawn when it comes to the Irish man and his safety - almost nothing she wouldn’t sacrifice for him. Someone else. Even herself. 

“Somethin’,” she confirms with a smirk towards the wall of color, already envisioning what will be a rushed image in shocking shades of green. She wants it to appear like it glows, in the hopes it catches the eye of the expecting parents she needs to find. The cigarette is tossed carelessly to the side, not wishing for any surprise explosions in this aisle. 

At Cian’s offer, Josie doesn’t offer him a verbal confirmation or any real acknowledgment of his offer to help. She doesn’t dictate what he could do to help her. But, in mere moments, his arms are filled with spray cans of varying shades as the small blonde puts more focus on what hues she desires over how stuffed his arms may be. He’s been granted the gift of inhuman strength, she reasons he could balance a few paint cans. 

Satisfied she has every shade of emerald this Home Depot carries, the blonde stacked two more cans atop the obnoxious pile in her partner’s arms. “I am Bansky,” she stated simply with a serious expression resting on her features as though she might trick him into believing her lie. But too quickly she smirks, spins two spray cans in her hands in a long past due gesture and nods once more towards the entrance of the store. Transferring one can under her arm, she smacks her open palm playfully against his ass, smirking at the struggle he’ll have to retaliate physically in his state. 

“Move.”

There’s always caution when stepping out into this new world - no longer all that new. Her gaze sweeps the deserted parking lot where the yellow Jeep sits parked haphazardly in the open space of vacant lot, saved for a few abandoned cars and overturned shopping carts. It’s quiet outside, a terrifying silence. No birdsong. Not even the wind through the trees. But, hey, the fog had lifted and she’s grateful every day for that. 

A large open space of white wall stands bare minus a sheen of grime of abandonment. Her tongue is still caught between her teeth at joking with Cian and the expression that crossed his features. She might pay for her antics later, but it will be a welcome torture of rushed breaths and the callouses of his hands harsh against the skin of her thighs. Josie quickly begins working on the wall before her, a feline grace to her movements despite being out of practice. But the art begins to take shape from just a strange array of greens, as though she might be portraying an open field in the middle of the States. Then eyes appear, the curve of a mouth, some hair - more cartoony features as she rushes to get the mural done, something she isn’t entirely unaccustomed to when she’s outrun a few cops when there was such a thing as law and order. 

“I wanna be there for the birth,” she announces suddenly, feeling the pressure of time as though it’s a sunset casting shadows on her goals. “It’s gonna be fuckin’ digustin’, but I wanna be there. Thomas can’t birth a baby. He’s fuckin’ incompetent.” 

Cian stands dutifully as his arms are filled to bursting with various spray paint cans. Her lack of explanation is something he is used to after this long, so he takes no offense and simply lets her use him as her own personal shopping cart. When she declares herself to be Banksy, Cian just rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Course ye’ are, love.” he says, walking just beside her, letting her lead the way to whatever ruin she’d choose as her canvas. The playful smack, which he’s confident she only did because his arms are full has his face pulling into something between a laugh and gritting his teeth. “It’s to be like that, eh?” he asks, fixing her with a heated look. “I won’t forget that, Josie girl.”

Cian gently puts the cans on the ground beside her, organizing them by color for her and ripping off any packaging so she can move seamlessly. Crouching on the ground beside her, he also takes a visual sweep of the area. While she paints... whatever the hell it is she’s painting, he’ll be lookout. It might be nothing, but he’d like to think there aren’t many people she’d trust to have her back like this. The list of people Cian trusted was rapidly dwindling. Layla was dead, Charlotte was dead, everyone from Ireland... well dead or alive he doubted he’d ever see them again. Thomas and Tessa, he understands why they went off on their own. If it were him and Josie with a little one on the way, he’d probably do the same. He’d spirit her away somewhere safe and secluded, away from the chaos that inevitably followed the group. Still, it was good to have people that had your back. For all their faults, the combustive couple with a baby on the way were probably the people he trusted the most. After Josie Jones of course.

As he keeps his eyes on the parking lot and the space beyond, he hears Josie speak up. He’s glad his back is to her, because he’s almost certain she’d be offended by the look of confusion and disbelief that crosses his face. Josie was good with kids if Noah was any indication, and he knew she had a soft spot for mothers, but even so. Cian could understand her lack of faith in Thomas. The man was easily spooked, and no doubt he would be a wreck watching his wife in pain. If they did make it there for the birth, Cian was fairly certain his job would be to just make sure they were secure enough to make sure Tessa could give birth in peace. “You practice yer midwifery skills between bomb-makin’?” Cian asked skeptically, standing up to keep a better watch. “What the hell are you makin’ back there anyway?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

The two had never had this much privacy when traveling with the group. There were always eyes watching what everyone was doing, especially after Eli’s possession. It was warranted. It was wise. It was what Josie did. She couldn’t place blame on anyone’s shoulders and she hardly believed anyone was truly nosey about the bond between her and Cian. No one ever really bothered her about it, but Thomas. So when her Irish companion presses his lips to the side of her head in a familiar gesture, she can’t help but smirk; an expression aimed at the floor because she still can’t quite fathom that he wants to provide the grace of the endearment. 

So much is said in that small phrase, so much she has yet to say to him despite one quiet evening in a tent as her wounds slowly mended from a trip to hell in a prison. He hasn’t pressured her since perhaps because he knows, somewhere, deep down, that Josie Jones was entirely his. And perhaps they were both tuned into the frequency of an apocalyptic group that either could be used to bait the other - an unwanted weakness. And a group is in their future, consisting of a small pregnant loudmouth and the scowling baby daddy. For now, she’ll accept the sweet gestures with less fuss. 

Josie nods along with his idea of a furniture store, somewhere cozy. Though she thinks Tessa might just find herself a barn and a manger to birth this child so she can call herself a holy mother. 

If they didn’t miss the birth, that is…

But first they need a sign for Tessa to follow. And the paint aisle is still intact. What was once a frustration is now a gift from God. Or Satan. Whichever figure is watching Josie Jone’s back. She plucks the cigarette from Cian’s lips with a smirk until he mentions the use of dynamite. 

“Fuck that,” she mumbles with almost genuine offense before taking a deep drag off the cigarette, “I’m not wastin’ a perfectly good stick on Preggo Eggo and her empty maple syrup bottle of a husband. The fuck you thinkin’?!” 

Blonde locks bounce around her shoulders as she indicates for Cian to follow her. “C’mon, I need supplies,” she insists as she heads down the paint aisle and passes the cigarette back to him without even a glance, falling into an effortless rhythm with his steps. 

She stops before the spray paints with a wide, mischievous grin. It’s been a long time since her tagging days but she deduces it must be like riding a bike while she picks out varying shades of electric green: a color she thinks would grab Tessa’s eye. 

“Ya think that baby’s been born yet?”

Cian’s eyebrows scrunch together as he tries for a moment to understand what the blonde had just said. He figures it was less than flattering, but the actual scope of it is beyond him. For a moment he thinks to give her shit for it, but he’s tired. Josie only deserves his best banter, he won’t give her less. Instead he just shakes his head as he follows her. The nod she tosses him gives him permission, but he would have followed her anyway. Cian would follow Josie Jones as she swaggered into hell itself to take the devil’s throne, if it came to that. Some days, it felt like it might. When they had gotten word that the young, expectant couple had departed the group, it hadn’t even been a question in Cian’s mind whether or not he would follow Josie. He was her constant shadow, the guardian she didn’t need but who came in handy all the same. If there was guilt he felt about leaving some of the others, it was eclipsed easily by what he felt when he watched the prickly blonde peruse spray paint, her eyes bright as she planned only God knew what. 

The question about the baby’s birth has him groaning and doing some quick mental math, eyes squinting as he gazes up to the ceiling. “I don’t think so. ‘Least not unless something went wrong. She’s a tiny girl and all, but she was only barely beginning to show. I’d say we still have 8 weeks or so. More if we’re lucky.” he says, but it’s mostly a estimation based on very little knowledge. It was impossible not to think about Becks when he thought about pregnancy, impossible not to wonder if she and their child were still alive, if they were safe. With a deep breath he pushes those thoughts into a box at the back of his mind and walks up closer to Josie, resting his chin on her shoulder and taking a breath, comforted by the warmth of her skin and the smell of her hair. “Ya’ thinkin’ about paintin’ a mural or somethin’?” he jokes, knowing that’s most likely not her plan. Then again, Josie comes out of left field with a lot of her plans, so one never knew. Reaching over her, her picks up a can and shakes it. “Maybe a giant ‘fuck you’ on the side of a building as your calling card. You could be the next Banksy.”

Cian waits for his instructions, ready to go along with whatever the plan was. There were plenty enough times when he dug in his heels and became the stubborn one, so on better days when the world wasn’t collapsing around them and Josie wasn’t barricading her feelings behind a sneer and a shitty comment, he liked to simply be at her disposal. He wanted to be what she needed, at any given time. If today that was just the guy she shared cigarettes with and who carried her spray paint, he’d be that happily. “What can I do?” he asks, his voice kind and even. Casual. The tone would be better suited to a couple preparing to have guests over, but with the world as it was, conversational callousness to the current state of affairs was common. No point in being miserable all the feckin’ time.

Cian, ever the voice of reason, was not incorrect as much as Josie tried to be the optimist - though perhaps only vocally as though it might quell her own fears. But there was no way of communicating anymore. No cellphones or even pony express to find out what someone was up to and, more importantly, where they were. The window of time to reunite with Tessa and Thomas was closing and quickly.

There’s something in Cian’s tone that sits at the wheel of her determination. And perhaps it’s only then she realizes the real reason she’s made it her life’s goal to find the parents. She has to find Thomas for Cian. That’s his friend. That’s someone he relies on. And she knew full well that he needed to vent to someone about Josie Jones. Thomas listened.

But, no, it isn’t just that. She has a duty to fulfill to the mother and, most importantly, the child. A boy, Tessa was so certain. She’s the godmother. She has to take care of that little boy if anything happens to Tessa. And to prevent from that child becoming an orphan, she needs to keep Tessa safe. Mothers are special. They need to be protected. 

At the request to come down, she does as she’s told, probably for the first time in her life, but also because there’s little need to stay so high up when she isn’t spotting anything of use. Quickly lighting the cigarette, she keeps it perched between her lips and she makes her way swiftly back to the ground floor from the ladder. She was one person still and that one person will always be enough. 

“Tessa would leave some cryptic sign,” the blonde decides, syllables muffled with a cigarette dangling from her lips, “Something to guide us. She wouldn’t give up. There’s gotta be something here.”

Josie shakes her head as her gaze shifts from product to product, like it might spell a destination out. The small woman was always pushy, which probably hindered any desire to have a camaraderie with her for the blonde, but she was stubborn. And Tessa had made a decision: Josephine Jones was the godmother. Nothing would be changing that. 

“Maybe like a ‘C’ and a ‘T’ in a heart,” she jokes upon an exhale of white smoke before holding out the cigarette to Cian, “Though that’s not cryptic. That’s just Thomas being an obvious slut.”

Originally posted by gwen-harkness

Cian smirks as she descends and pops a familiar kiss to the side of her blonde head. “Lucky for you, mo ghrá, I prefer ambiguous sluts.” he tells her before taking a few steps away. It did sound like Tessa to leave a marker or a clue. The little woman had strong opinions on family, and for better or worse, Cian and Josie were a part of that. Their departure from the main group had been an upheaval to be sure, what with the pregnancy and the issues of Thomas torturing a captive. Personally, Cian hadn’t cared at all. That woman had put Josie’s life at risk and therefore death was the only fitting end for her.

“We could check out the furniture store. Wouldn’t put it past them to choose a nice bed to sleep in. I wouldn’t mind it either.” he admits, stretching his arms out. They’d been driving almost non-stop in an effort to catch up with the couple. Cian was just thankful the fog hadn’t been an added burden. After all, that’s what had happened to so many of the group. Lost to the godawful fog.

“D’ya want to leave something here? In case they circle back?” he offers, plucking the cigarette from her mouth and taking a drag for himself. “Maybe a stick of dynamite wit’ yer initials on it.” Cian proposes.

.little shadow.

Chain stores all look the same and Josie Jones hopes that whoever designed the Home Depot stores had his limbs rearranged by some shamblers when the world ended, however many years ago. What was it now? Two years? Three? Probably more. Time, not only a manmade construct, was now an irrelevant one. The apocalypse did a number on this store - half the building crumbled into dust-covered chaos and her vantage point atop the shelf allows her to scan the area for useful aisles. Somehow the paint aisle seemed to make it. She always wanted to play with the mixing device.

There’s an odd sense of nostalgia from this height that the blonde swears she spots the boot of a recent mother under some debris. Her eyes dart quickly back to that particular spot and her spine straightens into a metal rod at the memory of Rose and the pincer in her leg; the first time she asked Cian for help.

Now he’s her shadow, always hovering a mere step away from her as the sun rotates around the Earth. The Josie Jones in the first Home Depot wouldn’t believe he stuck around with someone like her - that he holds her at night and tells her he loves her. And she’s still bad at hearing those words, believing them, and returning the gestures. But she tries. On her best days, she tries.

This large shelving unit is similar to the bunk she made for herself, where her and the Irish man sat and traded stories, held hands, and he forced her to dance with him. A seed was planted that day, a voice in the back of her skull calling her to his side until she began scanning rooms for his impossibly blue eyes and stitching up his injuries. She had already fallen before she even knew she fell. It was never like her to be so clumsy.

“Bit of a bust,” she states to her companion with a sigh, fingers scratching away the heat in her scalp from another possible failed hunt for new supplies, blonde tresses falling out of place, now mostly made up of her own hair instead of extensions. America was getting smaller and with it, their prospects. More places were picked clean than the beginning, which possibly gave the hope of more human beings left breathing. But the duo traveled light these days, split from the group in a hurried state and she thinks they both have a bomb ticking in their chest with the need to get back to that normalcy and their people.

But even the Apocalypse couldn’t separate her form her shadow. “Maybe they came through this way,” she offers as a hopeful idea, popping a cigarette between her lips but it remains unlit.

Originally posted by effienazzaro

Time is a flat circle. Another Home Depot. Another search for a young mother, albeit this one was slightly less dire than the one a few years back. Cian is wandering near the rubble near the back of the store, content with the fact that it looks as though it had fallen a long time ago, and the odds of their friends being beneath it were slim to none.

“Grab a handful, would ya’? I could always use some more dust.” Cian called back as he continued to look around for anything useful. The shelves were pretty bare when it came to things that were most useful. Nails, hammers, screws- those things were long gone. Blades and motors had been pilfered from lawn mowers. There was still a healthy amount of wallpaper... perfect for redecorating that post-apocalyptic hovel. Making a sweep, Cian finds himself standing beneath Josie’s perch. 

The hope in her is something that makes him smile. “It’s possible, but I doubt they would have spent the night. S’too exposed.” he comments. “If it were me, I’d want somethin’ smaller, more defendable.” he offers, leaning against some of the shelving and glancing around again. Keeping your head on a swivel had become a paranoid habit, one that nearly everyone still breathing had developed. “You stayin’ in your nest for a good while, Josie girl? Should I fuck off a while, or are you gonna grace me wit’ yer presence?” he asked, a warm smile spreading over his face as he glanced upward once again.