really just a whore™*

series

flashpoint | joel miller x fem!reader

18 years after the world ended, and you never thought you'd find yourself stranded and alone in the Boston QZ. you've got one friend, a tendency for violence and sticky fingers, so what happens when you run across two notoriously ruthless smugglers one night and they choose to save your life?

one-shots

sweetheart | joel miller x reader

you're home from college for summer '99 to visit your parents, when your eye wanders upon their next-door neighbor, joel miller.

no strings attached | joel miller x fem!reader

you can't deny there's always been something between you and joel miller. The question is, is either of you going to do something about it?

The rain had been relentless lately.

A veil of mist had descended over Boston, shrouding the towering, decrepit skyscrapers and narrow alleyways in a ghostly embrace. The wind, laden with the chill of a seemingly perpetual storm, whistles through the streets, carrying with it the stinging cold of raindrops that slice through the air like tiny daggers. Faces hidden beneath hoods and scarves bear expressions of weariness, their bags larger and more pronounced than ever, eyes devoid of purpose or hope. The pervasive damp seeps into every nook and cranny, permeating homes and workplaces, creating an unshakeable sense of discomfort and discontent that pollutes the entire QZ. 

Joel doesn't necessarily mind this kind of weather because it seems to match his eternally gloomy moods, but the QZ always seemed much more depressing when it got like this, and he can almost feel the heaviness that overcomes the city in his bones.

As he weaves through the small groups of people on the sidewalk coming home from their daily assigned activities, Joel’s mind wanders.

You’d absolutely kill him if you knew who he was on his way to meet, but he guesses he can handle it if you decide to have a meltdown about it. 

That’s not to say he’d particularly enjoy it; you’d found out once before and gotten so angry about it with him you’d ended up screaming at each other in his kitchen and Joel had honestly thought you were going to try and physically fight him. He’d never found out, because you’d stormed out after Tess had told you both to ‘knock it the fuck off’. You hadn’t spoken to him for two entire weeks after that.

Joel wasn’t normally upset by silence, but for some reason, after nearly two years of knowing you, silence from you was. . . unsettling. He had grown used to your almost continuous conversation, which he noticed only got worse when you were nervous about something. 

Joel turns the corner into an alley, walking down all the way before coming face to face with the tall, barbed-wire topped fence that marks the edge of the Boston QZ. He walks along the edge, before his eyes fall on his target. He makes a straight line for it; the guard post isn’t in use anymore, but they hadn’t bothered tearing down the small structure. The metal sheet overhang is dilapidated and the holes in the top allow some drops to fall onto Joel’s coat, which he ignores as he waits underneath, shielding him from most of the rain pouring down from the sky. He can’t see much, the misty air around him heavy as he hears the telltale boots crunching down on the frozen ground as someone comes to stand under the post next to him. 

“You’re late,” Joel grumbles to the soldier, who heaves a breath, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Barely,” he replies, voice hardened and bitter, and Joel looks up only to find himself staring right into the eyes of Samuel Burke.

Well, he supposed it was Samuel Hartwin Burke, now.

He looks annoyed, eyes shut into bitter slits as he regards Joel. “What did you have that was so urgent?” 

Joel watches as Sam’s eyes flicker over his shoulder, trying to peer searchingly into the mist for a split second. 

“You can quit looking,” Joel says, “She ain’t here,” 

Sam’s irritated silence tells Joel enough, before he looks up at him.

“She alright?” Sam asks through gritted teeth, making it clear he’s having a serious amount of difficulty with the fact that he has to ask Joel about this, of all people.  

“Dunno,” Joel says with a shrug, and the soldier gives him a look. 

“You don’t know?” he repeats back to him sarcastically, “I’m supposed to believe that?” 

“Believe what you want,” Joel says gruffly, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to brush it off.

Sam lets out a scornful laugh, shaking his head. "I know her. . . that girl bonds for life, so I'm betting you're in touch with her, whether you want it or not,” 

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” Joel says in an exasperated tone, blowing an irritated breath, “I’ve got something you’re going to want,” 

Sam frowns slightly, but there’s a sparkle of curiosity in his sullen gaze. “What is it?” 

“Oxy,” Joel says gruffly, “About twelve pills,”

“About twelve?” Samuel says with a scoff, raising a single eyebrow in an eerily similar way to you, “What you do, have yourself a little half for breakfast?” 

Joel scowls, trying hard to suppress the hot spike of annoyance in his chest. “You want them, or not?” 

Samuel extends his hand between the two of them, and Joel reaches into his jacket pocket with a grunt. 

“Where’d you get them?” he asks, and Joel's eyes darken with an expression that advises Samuel not to inquire further as he drops the baggie into his palm. 

Instead, he lets out a scoff. “And I’m going to tell you? Just like that?” 

Joel barely even thinks about the snark when it comes out of his mouth, his mind now so accustomed to your mannerisms he hadn’t even noticed taking some of them over from you. 

Samuel, however, stops for a split second, arms freezing as his eyes fix on Joel, flitting between the pills and his face. Then, clutching the pills in his fist, he reaches into his back pocket for a wad of ration cards. 

“She still your sweetheart?" he asks, his tone a hint of defiant as he cocks his head to regard Joel. 

It's a bitter word, filled with the pain of years of unrequited emotion. Joel feels his own wave of emotion wash over him at the mention of you, and the name he calls you, which stirs up more feelings in his chest he'd like to admit to as crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the kid. 

He lets out a scoffing breath, shaking his own head slightly as he allows his emotion to get the best of him for a minute, eyeing a clip of cards that Samuel has fished out of his pocket. "Grow up, kid. She doesn't want you, never has,"

This strikes a chord with Samuel, and Joel lifts his gaze just fast enough to see as his face fills with a brief flash of pure despair, before he covers it up.

"You didn't answer my question," he says, and the surprising composure and to-the-pointness in his voice also reminds Joel of you.

He realizes to his shock that you're alike, you and Samuel, probably due to spending the last 15 years in each other's company, under each other's wing. . . Joel can't deny he hadn't developed similar habits to Tess, either. Or to you now, as well, at this rate. 

Joel says nothing, only glaring at Samuel, who nods with a raise of his brow as he passes the clip of ration cards between his fingers. “So?” 

His voice doesn’t sound dejected, and much to Joel’s annoyance, he even sounds a little triumphant about the fact that Joel didn’t confirm or deny his question. 

"She's fine," Joel says eventually through gritted teeth, but his tone still sounds sincere enough. 

Sam nods, pursing his lips. "That's good," 

He says it quietly, his eyes fixes on the gravel between his shoes as if deep in thought about something. Eventually, he looks up from where his eyes had been trained on the floor, and pushes the clip into Joel’s hand at last. "Don't tell her I asked, she'll chew your head off."

Then, with a final look in Joel's direction, he's gone, hunching his shoulder against the rain as he hurries down the street and out of sight before Joel can even mention he’s paid him too many cards. Joel decides to stay sheltered under the metal sheet a little longer and wait out the worst of the downpour, not feeling like peeling the soaked clothes off his body when he gets home.

Eventually it dies down, and Joel takes his chances with the remaining drizzle as he begins the 20-minute walk home. It’s stopped raining by the time he’s climbing the first set of dingy stairs and into the hall. The sounds of life surrounding him, the crying baby, the music coming from the downstairs neighbours, the young couple who’s always arguing. The air is so thick with the humidity it feels stifling, and Joel can’t tell if the patch on the back of his shirt is sweat or damp.

When Joel steps into the apartment, he’s met with the blasting sound of the radio, and the distinctive smell of cigarettes, which can only mean one thing: you’re home.  

Sure enough, he sees you sitting by the open window in nothing but a tanktop and a tattered pair of shorts that had once been someone’s boxer briefs. You’re hunched over slightly as you lean against the knee you’ve propped up to reach your foot, and it takes Joel a second to realize you’re painting your toenails, head bopping along to the blasting guitar in the background. The length of your bare legs are on display as you sit propped against the open window frame, and Joel has to stop his eyes before they instinctively run over your form.

For a second the scene looks strangely like art to Joel; the grey, misty sky through the open window despite the oppressive humidity and heat, the smell of an impending storm heavy in the air. Some ends of your hair have come loose, the shorter strands curling into corkscrews from the humidity, others stuck to the nape of your neck with a slight sheen of sweat. Your face is a mask of focus as you paint a toenail, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you concentrate. 

“She’s got it,” you hum along, cigarette hanging precariously loose on your lips, “Yeah baby, she’s got it,” 

The slam of the front door has you looking up at Joel, smoke curling around you as you take a drag. 

“Home already?”

“It stinks in here,” Joel says in an irritated sigh as he steps towards the kitchen, and you grimace slightly, turning your head to blow the smoke out of the window. 

“Sorry, I thought you’d be out longer,” 

You sound a little put out by his tone of voice, and for a small second Joel feels an inkling of guilt at the thought that his first words to you after not having seen each other all week was a snide remark about the smell of your nail polish. 

“What are you doing that for?” Joel grumbles as he pours himself a glass of water in the sink, before reaching across the table and turning the radio down a little so that he can hear himself think again. 

“It’s for the new man I’m seeing,” you say, not trying very hard to conceal the joking undertone as you paint another toenail, “He offered me three ration cards to suck on my toes. . . figured they should at least look nice,”

You look up at Joel and to your great satisfaction, he looks suitably horrified and disgusted, standing by the kitchen counter grasping his glass of water, which makes you smile cheekily. 

“Gotcha,” you tell him through a laugh, shaking your head as you blow out a plume of smoke, “Man, the look on your face alone would’ve been worth it,” 

“Very funny,” he says dryly as you chuckle, shaking your head. 

“Anything from the radio?” Joel asks as he collapses on the couch, groaning slightly. 

“Nothing new,” you say as you paint another toe, “60’s,” 

Joel frowns slightly as he listens to the song blasting over the radio. “This isn’t 60’s,” 

You give him an obvious look. “Shocking Blue is 60’s, Joel,” 

“Well, did you check the book?” he asks, and you look even more perplexed, eyes widening slightly. 

“You’re serious? I didn’t have to, Joel,” you reiterate in a slow, obvious tone, “Because it’s Shocking Blue,” 

Joel lets out an exasperated sigh as he picks the enormous book up from the coffee table, before moving to the 60’s pages to fact-check you.

“Your trust in me is astonishing,” you let out sarcastically as you turn back to your toenails, and Joel only huffs, before his eyes fall on the bottom of the page. 

Venus – Shocking Blue (1969)

Joel doesn’t say anything, just drops the book back on the coffee table with a thump, defeat written all over his features nonetheless. 

“Told you,” you say, eyes sparkling with mischief as you look back at him, now leaning back against the couch, legs spread and hands over his face in exhaustion.  

“That,” Joel says, moving his hands to nod towards the cigarette you’re nursing, “Is a disgusting habit, you know that, sweetheart?” 

You’re unfazed, rolling your eyes as you inhale the smoke pointedly, eyes back on your half-painted toes. 

“So?” you say, cigarette hanging loose between your lips, “I don’t call you an alcoholic, do I?”

“That’s because I’m not an alcoholic,” Joel huffs back, and you raise a single unimpressed eyebrow. 

“A drink or four every night?” you muse, before grimacing jokingly, “Boy, do I have news for you, Mr. Miller,” 

“Don’t you have your own apartment to go to?” Joel snaps at you, and you chuckle to yourself. 

“Tess asked to use it, trust me, I'm not coming to be your roommate of my own free will,” you say with a snort, and as Joel opens his mouth, you interrupt, “Don’t ask me why, she didn’t tell me,” 

Lie. You knew exactly why Tess had wanted to use your apartment, but something told you that given her and Joel’s history, she didn’t need you sharing that information with him right now. 

“Well, how long will she be needing it?” Joel asks in an obvious tone, already feeling in his gut he isn’t going to like your answer, and you grimace. 

“Probably all night,” you say, and you don’t have to look at Joel to hear him groaning. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Joel lets out in an irritated breath, and you wave him off. 

“You can fucking relax, grumpy,” you tell him, before putting out your cigarette on the metal bars of the fire escape, “I actually do have someone to meet tonight, so you get the place to yourself for a few hours,” 

“How generous of you,” Joel says with a roll of his eyes, but his curiosity is piqued and he can’t stop himself from asking his next question, “Who’re you meeting?”

“Someone I’m painting my toenails for, apparently,” you say through a cryptic breath, shaking your head. You feel Joel’s eyes on you, that piercing gaze you’ve come to know so well looking right through you, and you look up to be met with his unimpressed face “God, don’t give me that look,” 

“What look?” Joel says, tone a hint defensive, and you roll your eyes. 

“That look,” you accuse, “Like you’re my dad or something. . . look, he’s not a serial killer, I know him,” 

“Yeah, I know all about the people you know,” Joel mutters to himself through a heavy breath as he repositions himself to lay flat on the couch, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.

You frown at him from across the room. “Meaning?” 

Joel doesn’t see the look you’re giving him but feels your eyes on him, and gives you the most annoying, nonchalant shrug you think you’ve ever seen. 

“You know what it means,” he says in a nonplussed tone, which makes you roll your eyes as you close up your bottle of polish. 

“Joel Miller everyone,” you say sarcastically, hopping down from the windowsill, “Conversationalist of the fucking year,” 

“You can always leave if you don’t like it,” he remarks, and you let out a scoff, shaking your head as you walk past him to the kitchen. Before you can chicken out, you use your index finger and thumb to gently flick him on the forehead. 

“You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

“Watch it!” Joel barks, sitting upright in anger, but by the time he turns his head to glare at you, you’ve fled into the bathroom with a snickering laugh. 

The peace and quiet is nice.

Joel spends his evening on the couch, enjoying a glass of whiskey and listening to the single CD he has on the radio, which is a limited edition of Fleetwood Mac’s sixth studio album, Bare Trees. It had been a gift from you for his birthday, and even though at the time Joel had muttered and grumbled, firstly to Tess about even telling you it was his birthday, and then to you about how much a waste of ration cards it had been, he hadn’t let the thing out of his sight. 

He would never outright admit it to you, but Joel loves that CD, and he listens to it any chance he gets, so much so that he can exactly point out all the times the record skips during its 37 minute runtime. 

He doesn’t do much else with his evening, spending most of his time looking at his map. He does, other things, too, at the beginning of the evening, but his ears are strained the whole way through, heart beating fast not only at the hand he’d had wrapped around himself, but also the idea he could’ve been interrupted at any time. You hadn’t told Joel when you’d be home or in fact if you’d be home at all, but despite this, he was still a cautious man. After he’d cleaned up, he’d spent most of the evening drinking and looking at the map, propped up in his bed with his boots kicked off on the old floorboards. 

Joel had expected you to be gone most of the evening at least and maybe even well past curfew, so when barely a minute before 10pm he hears the door slam from the bedroom, he frowns.

There’s more noise, followed by a loud clatter, and Joel sits bolt upright from where he’d been sitting against the headboard, studying his map of the QZ. For a second he’s worried you’ve actually had the audacity to bring the guy home, but he doesn’t have to wonder for much longer. 

“Mother of fuck,” he hears you swear at the top of your lungs, “Stupid, fucking–”

There’s another sound of clattering, accompanied by the distinct sound of the trashcan being kicked over and what sounds like the lid rolling across the floor. There’s more noise, like cabinets being thrown open, before Joel hears your heavy footsteps thundering through the apartment and your silhouette appears in the doorway of the bedroom a minute later, arms crossed over your chest. 

“Where’s the bottle of whiskey you keep under the sink?” you ask him bluntly, and he turns his eyes back to his map, deliberately avoiding your gaze. 

“It was delicious,” he replies, and even though he isn’t looking at you, he can feel the glare burning into the side of his face. 

You let out an irritated breath, before your eyes zero in on the half-full bottle of whiskey standing on his nightstand, next to an almost full glass. “Fine then,” 

You trudge over to the bed, kicking off your shoes before crawling onto the spread next to Joel. Before he can even process it, you’ve fully leaned over him and reached for the bottle on his nightstand, and it takes the existing remainder of Joel’s southern manners not to look at the face full of your cleavage your leaning over him like this gives him. 

“Hello?!” he lets out in surprise, his tone almost indignant. You ignore him as you manage to grab the bottle and prop yourself against the headboard next to him, before you unscrew the top and bring the bottle to your lips, taking three almighty gulps. 

“Help yourself, why don’t you,” Joel grumbles as he turns back to his map, shaking his head.

You swallow down the whiskey, before screwing up your face a little at the burn. “I need it more than you,”

Joel lets out a non-committal hum as his eyes roll over the map, examining every little street and mark Tess has made, and for a moment, the both of you sit in silence, the only sound the sloshing of the whiskey in the bottle as you take another sip.  

“Need me to wring his neck?” he asks in an even tone, not looking up from his map, and you let out a snort, which morphs into a groan as you bring your free hand up to rub your forehead. 

“No,” you let out in a breath, before making a face, “I guess he was being a gentleman,” 

Joel lets out a sarcastic snort. “So you’re angry that he didn’t take advantage of you?” 

“I’m angry–” you say pointedly, “–that he spent the entire evening with his eyes glued to my breasts but didn’t even kiss me goodnight.” 

Joel makes a face at this, grimacing slightly. “Sounds like a boy to me,” 

"–and what you need is a man," you say back to him in a rather poor imitation of his voice, and Joel's eyes move up from the map for a second in exasperation, but his head doesn't turn to look at you.

“He was a fucking waste of my time,” you mutter on, taking another swig of the bottle.

Joel shakes his head, raising his brows as he takes another sip of his glass, eyes focused on the map again. 

“He wouldn’t have known what to do with ya,” he says eventually. 

Your head snaps up at his comment, one of your eyebrows raising as you try to ignore the flutter in your stomach when you look at him. 

“And you would?” you return, keeping your voice level and sarcastic, “When’s the last time you got laid, anyway? 157 BC?”

Joel shakes his head again as an almost condescending chuckle escapes his nose, corners of his mouth pulling into the hint of a knowing smile as he deliberately ignores your jab about his age. 

“Practice makes perfect, but wisdom comes with age, sweetheart. . . I’ve got tricks that would make your little head spin,” he says, turning his head to look at you for the first time for the whole conversation. 

His eyes bore into yours as he raises an infuriatingly cocky eyebrow. It’s not a side of Joel you see very much, given his usual default. After two years of knowing him, though, you’ve come to learn that despite his hard exterior, Joel has his moments, and underneath all the grouch and harshness, he’s actually got a personality. 

“Really?” you ask him, your tone sarcastic, before you raise a challenging eyebrow, “Why don’t you show them to me, then?” 

For a second, Joel’s expression sucks you in, eyes boring into yours as you return his gaze with challenge. You ignore the burn in your lower tummy his words have ignited. 

“I have a bad back,” he says eventually, corners of his mouth twitching, and that makes you let out an actual laugh as you turn to look away from him. 

“Don’t worry,” you say jokingly before taking another sip, “I can be gentle,” 

“I can’t,” Joel replies as his eyes continue to roll over the map, and you somewhat choke on the whiskey already burning its way down your throat. 

After a few coughs, your head snaps to look at him, mouth falling open slightly. 

“Hello, Mr. Miller,” you say, your tone amused as your eyebrows raise on your forehead, your voice still somewhat croaky,  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Joel says pointedly, before he snatches the bottle from you and sets it down on the bedside table next to him, “That I ain’t discussing this with you,” 

“Prude,” you snort, and Joel shakes his head as his eyes return to the map he’s studying. 

“Private,” he corrects easily, “There’s a difference,” 

“Well both–” you retort, before leaning over him again to snatch back the bottle of liquor, ignoring Joel’s glaring eyes in the side of your face, “–are boring,” 

Joel lets out a derisive chuckle as he flips the map over with a pointed movement, eyes never leaving the lines. 

“That ain’t an insult to me, kid,” he says with a grunt, “A little mystery keeps us sane,” 

Joel feels your gaze boring into the side of his face, but ignores it, before he hears you scoff, head turning to focus on the bottle of whiskey you’re nursing, instead. 

“You’re a fucking poet,” you tell him sarcastically, before you down the rest of the bottle in one go.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me,"

Your eyes narrow as they regard Robert, who is standing opposite you, and shrugs his shoulders.

"Don't know what you want me to say," he says in a nonchalant voice, and your eyes almost bug out of your head as you look at him, "Price went up,"

"I want you to say you're a fuckin' grifter is what," you tell him, "This isn't the first time you pull this shit, Robert. . . you're a slimy fucking weasel,"

"You've got a pretty big mouth for such a little girl," one of the boys standing next to Robert sneers, and you fight a serious urge to roll your eyes.

"Come closer and I'll show you just how little I can swing my fist," you rebuff him, and you watch with a degree of satisfaction as his shoulder square slightly at the threat, "Or are you too afraid you'll get your ass kicked by this little girl?"

"I ain't afraid of you," The kid's nostrils flare in anger as he glares at you, taking a small step forward, whereas you stay exactly where you are, perched on the small wall opposite them, eyebrows raised in challenge.

"Noah, enough," Robert says, his voice full of authority, and the guy actually listens and backs off as Robert turns his attention to Joel, who is standing opposite him.

“Yeah, Noah, enough,” you tell him with a condescending smile, and you watch the hatred in his eyes with great satisfaction as he glares at you.  

“I can pay you with some extra painkillers I have left over,” Joel says, looking at Robert, whose eyes seem to light slightly at the mention of painkillers. They were a rare commodity in the QZ, provided you had the right connection and found the right FEDRA clientele to sell them to.

Joel, unbeknownst to you, had found the former. 

If you knew who it was, you’d probably not talk to him for a while, and Joel was strangely eager to avoid it. Not that he cares that you would be angry with him, but your presence is one Joel has gotten used to over the past years, and when you go silent, it still leaves a pretty big hole in his day-to-day that he'll only grudgingly admit to noticing. 

“How many?” Robert asks, an eagerness in his voice that has Joel feeling triumphant. 

“Four,” he tells Robert, knowing full well that the pouch he’s carrying has at least nine. 

Robert nods for a second, making a show of thinking about it, which Joel finds ridiculous, and when his eyes briefly turn to look at you, you make a gagging gesture. 

Joel fights an urge to roll his eyes as he looks back at Robert, making an impatient noise. “Well? You want em’ or not?” 

“Sure,” Robert says eventually, and Joel pulls the pouch out of his pocket and tips 4 pills into his palm. 

He takes a few steps, handing them over to Robert, before pulling the clip of ration cards from last night and pulling out 5. 

What Joel doesn’t notice is the way your eyes zero in on the leather clip, gaze narrowing slightly as recognition sparks in your gaze. A small frown folds itself into your brow, but you seem unsure, eyes still trying to catch a glimpse of the clip as Joel’s body half-shields the exchange. 

“There,” Joel grumbles, stuffing the clip back in his pocket before holding his hand out for the bag Robert is holding him. 

You don’t remember exactly what’s in it, because, if you were completely honest you hadn’t been listening to Joel when he’d been telling you, but you had remembered it was something related to the radio. You knew the radio was important, because it was your only way to get in touch with Bill and Frank. What interests you more, however, is where Joel had gotten those ration cards in that clip. 

Joel leaves you no time to ask as he turns on his heel, and you have to jump down from where you were sitting on the little wall to follow him. 

“Nice doing business with you,” Robert directs at you with a smile that makes you queasy, and you fight the urge to make a face. 

As you level with him, Joel puts his hand on your arm as you walk away, not dragging you, but fingers still firmly and reassuringly wrapped around your coat to lead you away. You don’t mind the display; you know he’s doing you a favor if anything, because Robert is terrified of Joel, and would rather steer well clear of you rather than risk his size 11 boot up his ass for making a pass at you. 

The moment you turn into the alley, you open your mouth. 

"Where the hell did you even get the extra cards?" you ask, but Joel stays tellingly silent, instead shouldering on stoically, "Joel,"

"You don't want to know," he huffs out, dropping your arm, which makes you frown.

Out of the years you've known Joel, he's been many things; angry, gruff, a little inflammatory, but never secretive. Despite his rather cold manner, Joel wasn't known to mince his words or hide things, knowing that a partnership in this industry of the QZ, so to speak, was better done openly and with all the information available.

"Well now I definitely want to know," you say with a frown, and still Joel says nothing as you round the corner of the street. He's walking fast, so you almost have to jog to keep up with him, and he's looking straight ahead, refusing to meet your eye, "Hello?"

"Will you give it a rest?" Joel snaps suddenly, giving you a thundering glare as he abruptly stops, and it makes you recoil slightly, flinching at his tone of voice.

Sure, you're somewhat used to this side of Joel, but you're not exactly sure what you've done to deserve his shitty mood today.

"Jesus Christ, fine," you mutter, putting your hands up defensively, "No need to be a dick about it, you know,"

Joel feels a brief stab of guilt as he looks at the hurt flashing in your eyes for a split second, before he turns on his heel and continues down the street. You walk in silence until you reach the apartment, and when Joel marches through the door with you in tow, Tess comes in from the bathroom.

"How'd the deal go?" she asks tentatively, taking note of Joel's demeanor, and you shrug.

"It went okay," you say, stepping over to the counter before making a mocking face, "He's sulking,"

Joel ignores you pointedly, and Tess frowns slightly, before she heaves a sigh and shakes her head.

“What are you sulking about?” she asks him, but he doesn’t even get the chance to respond. 

“Nobody knows,” you give a dramatically mock-wistful tone, “But it’s always something,” 

At this, Joel turns to face you, unimpressed eyebrows raised. “F’you have something to say, sweetheart, say it to my face,” 

“Yeah, right,” you say through a sarcastic snort, before shaking your head, “If I say it to your face, you’ll knock out all my teeth, and I like my teeth very much,” 

At this, Joel’s mask drops for a split second. It was no secret he wasn’t the nicest man in the QZ, but for you to consider he’d actually use violence against you, especially after the last 2 years, made Joel a little uneasy. Tess seems to notice the look on Joel’s face, and tries to suppress a knowing look. He may have one of the best poker faces she’s ever seen, but she’s also known Joel long enough to see it in his eyes. 

“You have any more ration cards?” she asks, changing to subject instead, “We ran out of milk and I need it to make dinner,” 

“Ask Joel,” you say with a grumble as you walk past towards the kitchen table and drop into one of the chairs, crossing your arms over your chest, “He has plenty,”  

Your tone is childish, and once again Joel feels a stab of irritation as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve what’s left of his cards. He hands the whole clip to Tess with an annoyed expression, eyes glaring at you where you give him a smug look. 

When you catch sight of the clip in which the rations cards are held, however, you frown as a flicker of recognition ignites in you. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Tess asks, turning her head to look at you, and you nod towards the clip in her hand.

"That," you repeat, nodding towards the clip, and your expression has become stony as your eyes turn to Joel, who’s trying his best to look unbothered even though he knows he’s been rumbled. 

"Are you fucking serious right now?" you seethe at him, your glare piercing through the side of his face.

"Don't start," he says with a slight groan as he gives you a look, "He's a good buyer–"

"I don't give a shit!" you let out angrily, throwing up your hands as you get to your feet, "Jesus Christ, I knew you were lying to me earlier,"  

Your voice is accusatory as you shake your head, and Joel heaves an exasperated sigh.

"So what?" he snaps, giving you an expectant look, "What do you want me to do about it, hm? I'm not going to go and give them back, am I? S'pose you also don't want the ration cards we got out of selling these, either?"

Your jaw sets angrily as you glare at Joel, whose expression is almost smug as he stands opposite you, his body language standoffish. There’s a moment of silence before you speak, and when you do, your voice is trembling with anger. 

"You're a bastard, you know that?" you tell him, and he huffs a sarcastic laugh.

"What's new, sweetheart?"

Joel knows antagonizing you isn't a good idea; he knows you probably won't talk to him for the next few weeks, but he just can't stop it coming out of his mouth. Sometimes, you really fucking push his buttons, and he can’t help but push yours back. 

With a furious glare in his direction, you snatch your coat off the chair.

"You can keep the ration cards, I don't fucking want them," you snap at him, before you walk past him and Tess towards the front door, making sure to shoulder him on the way and slamming the door shut behind you.

After a minute of tense silence, Tess lets out a low whistle as she looks at Joel, pursing her lips into a half-grimace.

"Nicely done," she says sarcastically, and Joel glares at her.

"Don't you fucking start, too," he warns, turning around to skulk into the kitchen, heavy boots thudding against the floor as she puts her hands up defensively.

"Wasn't going to," she says nonchalantly, before sitting down at the table with a sigh, "When is she going to forgive him? It's been over a year,"

Joel shakes his head as he stands by the sink, back to her as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small baggie of pills from earlier. 

"I was there," he says as he tips the pills out onto the counter to count them, "The answer's never,"  

Tess lets out an exasperated sigh, hand coming up to rub her forehead.

"So then why do we still trade with him? If she's going to have a tantrum every time she finds out we've even been near him–"

"He's the most stable buyer of painkillers we've had in years," Joel says with a shake of his head as he turns to Tess, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the counter, "She'll get over it,"

Tess makes a face, getting to her feet. "It's your funeral. . . if she ever asks, I'm pinning it on you,"

"I can handle her," Joel says with a snort, and Tess' brows go up on her forehead as she gives him another sarcastic look.

"I'm sure you can," she says cryptically as she turns her back on him, but before Joel can ask her what she means by that, she disappears through the doorway and into the bedroom.

You spend the next few hours roaming the QZ; normally, you’d have gone home to your apartment, but you know Tess has a key and you’re not in the mood for her to come over and try and make peace between you and Joel. 

You’re still furious with him for lying to you about trading with Samuel; you weren’t an idiot of course, and part of you had known on some level that Joel was still selling to him after the last time you’d caught him, but you were mostly upset about being lied to. Maybe it was silly to expect Joel Miller of all people to go out of his way to respect your wishes, but it had still been more than a few years since you’d been in each other’s lives, and you expected some degree of loyalty. Even though it put you slightly on edge to even admit it, his dishonesty felt like a nastier gut punch than it would’ve coming from anybody else. Joel was also the only one, apart from Samuel, who had learned the truth about what had happened with your dad, including the extent of your former friend’s betrayal, which made his lying about meeting him all the more bitter. 

The QZ is busy at dusk, the oppressive weight of the day’s heat slowly giving way to the chill of the evening as inhabitants rush to get home. The sky turns a bruised shade of purple as you walk, casting a dull, fading light across the tall, graffiti-tagged concrete walls that rise on either side of the streets, barbed wire spiraling on top. The air smells of rot, more than usual, the heat and humidity of the summer creating an unpleasant mixture of mildew and the collective smell of an exhausted, working population. the streets grow quieter as curfew approaches, and even though you know you should probably get indoors before that, you keep extending your walk, the prospect of having to face Joel or Tess even more grim than when you started. 

Your mind wanders as you continue to walk well into the darkness of the evening; you still remember how beautiful the skies had been in Pasadena, where you grew up, sitting in the backyard eating dinner as the sky turned marshmallow pink. At the time, they had just been part of the scenery and a daily show you had barely paid attention to, but now?

You would trade anything on earth just to enjoy another dinner under pink skies.

Even though you don’t like to be out past curfew, you walk with the practiced ease of someone who’s spent far too many nights doing it–quiet, unnoticed, blending into the crumbling landscape and occasionally ducking to avoid the sweeping lights of passing FEDRA convoys. 

You get tired of walking eventually, turning into an abandoned alley that meets its dead end against the bulky perimeter wall of the buffer zone. There are two walls there, the first having been the original, now-collapsed perimeter, built 20 years ago when the apocalypse started. The new wall delineating the buffer zone only stands a few feet away from it, and where the part of the old wall connected to the facade of the building is still standing, exists the perfect spot for you to sit on and look out across what used to be the rest of Boston. It’s your favorite spot in the QZ, a tiny corner obscured by complete darkness and not in any danger of being spotted by the guards in the turrets or anyone patrolling the outer perimeter walls. 

You sit with your back against the facade of the building for several hours, pressed against the cold, jagged surface, watching the enormous searchlights sweep over the buffer zone and beyond. You’re completely alone up here, and you like it that way– makes it easier to think, to quiet the rushing thoughts constantly echoing through your brain and the jagged flashes of memories from moments in your life that have defined you, their edges sharp and tearing at your insides. 

The Boston QZ hadn’t exactly left you much room to think, which you found strange considering how calm it was relative to your past experiences. Granted, it was still a Quarantine Zone in an apocalyptic hellscape, but where Kansas City had felt like a constant fight for your life, Boston was practically a city asleep. People mostly minded their business and did their work to keep the system running, and the fireflies’ activities hadn’t escalated to such an extent they meant the collapse of the system. Even the FEDRA soldiers in the Boston QZ felt milder and devoid of the brutality you’d seen in other cities, mostly ordinary people concerned with their own problems and objectives rather than serving the system. 

Make no mistake, FEDRA was still an authoritarian regime, but in Boston, people didn’t disappear off the streets for hanging up a poster. 

It had been over two years since arriving, but contrary to the QZ’s you’d been in before, this had been the first time without Samuel. Well, barring the first 7 months. 

As much as you hated to admit it, it feels strange, navigating this world without him. He had been a constant in your life since you had been 14, never leaving your side until your forced separation in Seattle. Even then, he’d left you with a whispered promise as his hands had clasped yours in the chaos of a collapsing city. 

Boston. I’ll find you. 

Those words had echoed through your brain as you’d trekked the over three thousand miles between Seattle and Boston. You still remember the way you’d collapsed and cried out of pure relief when you’d tried out an old bike you’d found stashed in a shed somewhere in Saskatchewan, and it had actually ridden. It had meant being one step closer to Boston, to Sam, and out of the nightmare that the three weeks since your separation had been. 

When you’d finally gotten to Boston and managed to sneak your way into the QZ, you’d searched for him everywhere, in every single face you would cross, until eventually, his familiar features had come into focus, standing on a corner checkpoint with another soldier, sporting a familiar uniform and with a rifle slung over his shoulder. You’d wanted nothing more in that moment than to shout his name and collapse into him, but you’d been careful nonetheless, waiting until he was walking home to appear from the darkness of the alley behind him. 

“You still leave your key in your boot, or did the military finally teach you how to lock a door properly?”

Sam froze, turning so quickly you’d been surprised he hadn’t injured himself. 

You leaned against the brick wall across the narrow street, half-covered in shadow, your hair escaping in messy wisps from beneath a gray beanie, your face streaked with dirt and a threadbare coat zipped up to your neck. 

“Speedy?” he breathed, the word like a prayer he hadn’t dared say aloud in weeks.

A tired, crooked smile curled at your lips. “You didn't think I’d walk across the goddamn country just to not make a dramatic entrance, did you?

For a split moment of panic, you had been afraid of his reaction. You didn't know what to expect, but you’d been living in this hellscape for long enough to know that this world changed people. 

But then he said your name, your actual name, like it was breaking out of him, like it was the only thing holding him together.

And then he was moving.

You barely had time to push off the wall before he crossed the space between you and pulled you into him. The breath left your lungs in a rush as your bodies collided and he held you, arms tight around your back like he couldn’t trust his fingers not to let go. Your backpack fell to the ground with a soft sound as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into the familiar crook of his neck.  

“I thought you were dead,” he said, his voice cracking. “I thought you were fucking dead.”

“I tried not to be,” you murmured against his jacket. “Turns out surviving on foot from Seattle is just a really long, really bad camping trip.”

He huffed a laugh, but it was tight, strained, before something shifted in his voice. It became deeper. Rawer.

“Every day… Every damn day, I looked,” he whispered against your temple, “When they dragged out the bodies, when they left them hanging by the gate. I looked. I went up close, looked at their faces. All of them. Just—just praying yours wasn’t one of them.”

You leaned back slightly, just enough to look at him, hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing dirt and dried sweat from his cheek.

“I know,” you said softly. “I know. . . ”

Your foreheads touched as Sam’s hands came up to brush a stray behind your ear, fingertips running along the fresh scar on your neck, just below your jaw. 

“What happened?” he murmured, his breath fanning against your lips, and you shook your head slightly. 

“I fought like hell. . . I couldn’t let it end out there, Sam, not like that. I just—I needed to get here. To you.”

His hands were shaking against your jaw, and you could feel his heartbeat like a drum between them.

“I waited,” he whispered. “I didn’t stop. I waited.”

And then he kissed you.

It was sudden and raw, full of all the things you hadn’t said, couldn’t say, or had been too afraid to hope for. His hands tightened at your waist, like he still didn’t believe you were really there, and your fingers curled into the collar of his jacket like maybe you didn’t, either.

You knew this wasn’t wise, knew this only would only lead to complications, but something about the force of it — the pure need, the sheer desperation between you. It undid you completely. 

Your hands found the sides of his face, rough with stubble and grime, and you kissed him back harder, pouring every cracked and splintered piece of yourself into him and hoping that would fix it. 

You didn’t care if it was a mistake. You didn’t care what it would mean tomorrow or that it would undoubtedly complicate years of friendship because you knew, deep down, the balance of emotion was off. You just needed to feel him.

The sharp crackle of a megaphone on a moving truck in the street below disturbs your thoughts, but the words quickly fade into the darkness along with the lights, and the remainder of your memories from that night. 

Stay inside. Mandatory curfew in place to fight infection and insurrection. 

It’s always the same shit. 

A rustle from the mouth of the alley breaks the silence, and your whole body freezes up. 

It’s soft, but unmistakable; the sound of boots scraping against the pavement. The alley is dark below you and you can’t see down below, but you can hear them now– low voices, much too close for comfort. You wait, every muscle tense, watching as the shadows shift and a group of three men pass the end of the alley on the main street. They move quietly, but their conversation is too loud, too familiar. They’re not wearing uniforms, and they don’t seem concerned with the curfew at all, which annoys you. The last thing you need is for them to draw attention to your little corner; it may be hidden away, but not so much that a well-aimed sweep of a FEDRA-issued flashlight wouldn’t expose you. You watch as they pass the entrance of the alley, walking further down the street, and your body relaxes a little as you let out a small breath. 

You wait a few more minutes after they’ve passed, just in case. They’re not necessarily a threat, but you’re in no mood to deal with anyone tonight. Besides, you figure you’ve been out long enough, and you don’t want to face the lecture from Joel or Tess about disappearing for too lengthy periods of time if they don’t find you in the apartment in the morning. They’ve trusted you enough to give you the space you need, but that trust only goes so far.

You slide down from the wall, careful not to make a sound, and begin moving toward the alley’s mouth. It’s thankfully easy to blend in at this hour, but you’re still careful and as nimble as you can be, barely stirring the dust beneath your boots. You’re almost at the end of the alleyway when you hear the men again. Their voices are speaking in hushed and hurried tones now, and getting louder and louder by the minute, as you see a faint light of a truck searchlight sweeping over the main street. 

Shit.  

You figure they’re hiding from the same FEDRA convoys you are, but before you can reach the end of the street to disappear into an old doorway or hide behind a collapsed car on the main street, they reappear, ducking into the alleyway and right into your pathway. You resist the urge to swear as you’re forced to take several steps back, pressing yourself against the wall of the alley to stay out of sight. Your body is pressed against the cold brick as you stay low, keeping to the shadows. Sure enough, the hushed voices quiet into complete silence as the FEDRA truck drives past the alley on the main street, light barely reaching a few feet into it before they disappear again. You let out a small breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in, but you also know you aren’t out of the woods yet; ahead of you, the three guys are talking again, and they don’t sound friendly, per se.

You keep moving slowly to get past them as quickly as you can, but in your haste to get there, you accidentally kick a loose piece of rubble, which knocks against the wall with a thunk that echoes through the alley. 

Shit, shit, shit.

The voices go completely silent for a moment, before a gruff voice calls out. 

“Who’s there?” it yells in a whisper, but you stand as still as you can. You’re almost past them and at the mouth of the alley, almost there and you can just turn the corner and slip away–

Then you hear it– the unmistakable click of a flashlight, before a feeble beam of light cuts across the dark like a knife, and then shines right into your face. 

Your pulse spikes as your eyes squint slightly to adjust to the light. 

“You mind not shining that thing in my eye?” you mutter as you try to make out the faces behind the flashlight. 

“Well, look who it is,” comes a voice, louder and more distinct this time. Your eyes finally adjust and you recognize one of the three faces standing opposite you. 

Your stomach sinks. It’s Noah, Robert’s watchdog from earlier, and two of his cronies. 

Out of all the people you had to run into by yourself, in the middle of the night, and it was these three fucking morons.  

“Evening,” you say with a sarcastic smile, “Nice time for a stroll, isn’t it?”  

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, little girl?” Noah ponders with a mocking smile, and you purse your lips with contempt as you fix him with cold eyes. 

“Well shit, if it’s past mine, it’s definitely past yours,” you fire back, and one of the guys to his left suppresses a snicker as Noah’s mocking smile freezes on his face. His eyes sweep to your sides, before he cocks his head slowly. 

“No bodyguard tonight, hm?” he asks you, and you feel your stomach flutter with unease as you realize he’s referring to Joel. 

God, please, you know you shouldn’t have yelled at him, but don’t make me pay for it now. 

“I’m on my way to him now,” you tell him, “So I’ll be on my way,” 

As you move to step towards the end of the alley, the two figures with Noah move to block the mouth of the alley, moving so comically in tandem it feels like they’ve rehearsed it. 

You freeze, eyes darting between them—tall, broad-shouldered, shadows outlined against the dim light from the main street. 

“I don’t think so,” Noah says in a leisurely voice as he saunters to stand in front of them, now forcing you to face them. There’s no real way around them unless you barrel into one of them, the exit cut off.

You could try and turn back, but you’d have to clamber the wall and try and get over the barbed wire before they caught up to you. Besides, if a FEDRA soldier caught a glimpse of someone trying to jump the wire, you’d be shot on sight, no questions asked.  

You step back, trying to steady yourself, but there’s nowhere to go. You can feel your breath coming fast, the pulse of panic trying to rise in your chest, but you hide it best you can. Your fingers brush the handle of your knife, but part of you knows that pulling it would only make things worse.

“If I recall correctly,” Noah says nonchalantly, “You’re having your midnight stroll on our turf,”

“What is this, West Side Story?” you say with a snort and a shake of your head, “Didn’t have you pegged for the musical theater type,” 

“You’re funny,” he returns dryly, tongue kissing his teeth, “Real funny. . . you know what I mean. You’re on our territory,”  

“We’re negotiating new ones,” you tell him with a dry smile, “Or does Robert not keep his dogs informed of his new plans?” 

“You got a big fucking mouth for such a little girl,” Noah sneers again, shaking his head, “Maybe you finally need to be taught that lesson, hm?” 

Your heart skips a beat at the threat, every bone in your body screaming at you that it’s time to get the fuck out of here. 

“I’m all good,” you say sarcastically, before you take a breath and boldly push past him. 

You don’t get very far, and before you know it you feel a pull on your hair and your head snaps back. 

Fuck.

Noah uses the hand in your hair to yank you backwards and up to get in your face. “Where are you fucking going, hm? Didn’t I just say you needed a lesson in manners?”

“Leave me alone,” you spit at him, and he sneers. 

“Fat fucking chance. . . no ape to protect you now,” 

With that, he uses his grip to all but launch you to the ground by your hair. You land with a hard thump, and it hurts, but not as much as when his heavy boot sinks into your ribs with an almighty kick. The force of it knocks the wind out of you, and the pain of what you’re sure is now a bruised or broken rib sears through your chest. You gasp for breath as he leans over you again, pulling on your shirt collar and tugging you up. You barely have time to register the next hit—a sharp, vicious punch to the jaw that splits your lip and sends a spray of blood onto the pavement.

He drops you back on the ground, the world spinning as he steps over you and hoists you up by your collar. 

“Ready to say sorry?” he tells you, his face inches from yours, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction, giving him a bloody smile and a ragged laugh. 

“He’s going to fucking kill you,” you bring out, and Noah’s eyes flash with hesitance for a split second, before they narrow again. 

“Unlike Robert, I’m not afraid of an old man,” he sneers, before he drops you onto the ground again, head thumping painfully against the gravel, and the rest of the group closes in.  

Another heavy boot strikes you in the stomach, the impact reverberating through your entire body. A white-hot agony shoots through your bones, and you clench your teeth to keep from crying out. You try to curl into a ball, shielding your head, but the beating doesn’t stop, blows landing on every inch of your body. The metallic taste of blood fills your mouth, the pain an overwhelming and constant, searing throb that makes it impossible to think. 

Finally, the blows seem to lessen, the sound of fists hitting flesh echoing into silence as you try hard to stay conscious.  

“Learned your lesson?” Noah asks, giving you a cruel smile as he crouches eye-level with you. 

You lift your head, spitting out a mouthful of blood that lands on the toes of his boots. “You punch like a girl,” 

You know it isn’t smart, but you can’t help it. Fuck these guys. 

His face morphs into snarl, before he looks up at his friends as he gets to his feet. 

“Hold her down,” his voice sounds from above you, and the blood in your veins turns to ice as you hear the unmistakable clink of a belt buckle. Your heart hammers against your chest as you try to fight off the arms that pin you to the ground.

“Stop,” you groan out as the tall one looms over you, finger undoing the belt and button of his jeans. 

“Mouthy bitch,” he says , shaking his head, “S’alright, I know just what to do with you,” 

“Stop, please,” you let out as dread takes over your body, and you feel hands grabbing at you as you try to no avail to thrash out of their grip. The neckline of your t-shirt tears as someone pulls on it, fingers digging into your exposed skin with cruel intention. 

As he kneels over you, you find an extra burst of strength, somehow loosening your wrist from a grip and swinging your arm wildly. It comes up in an arc and smacks your main attacker right across the face, scratching deep welts into his cheek. 

“Shit,” he swears as he recoils, touching his face, before his eyes harden as he glares at his friends, “Now you’re really asking for it, aren’t you? Hold her down, for fucks’ sake,” 

You fight back desperately, but the grips are too tight, and the fear courses through you as you feel his fingers fumble with your jeans. He manages to undo them, having to sit down hard on your thighs to stop you kicking out. You feel the tears pouring down your face as you beg, your voice hoarse and desperate as you feel him pull your pants and your underwear halfway down your legs, moving off of your legs in the process. 

“Please,” you sob, but nobody is listening, and in a final attempt, you clamp your legs shut as best you can. 

“You’re just deadset on being difficult, huh?” he asks as his fingertips dig into the sides of your thighs trying to pry them open, but you’re stronger than he expects, and it doesn’t go as easily. 

Just as you feel your resolve slipping, there’s a sound of a truck engine, and a light sweeps over the alleyway. 

“Hey!” comes a voice as boots crunch on gravel, “What the fucks’ going on here?” 

Almost simultaneously, you feel all three sets of hands lift off of you, and you scramble backwards as fast as you can, hands reaching for your pants and desperately trying to pull them up your legs. You never thought you’d say it, but you’re actually grateful when you catch a glimpse of the headlights of a FEDRA-issued truck. 

“Hands on your head!” comes a shout, but you’re not focused on them, because the tall one, Noah, turns to face you as you pull your pants over your hips. 

With a final sneer, he spits at you, his saliva landing a few inches from your feet. 

"Next time, know your place," he growls, before turning away, putting his hands up against the blinding headlights. 

“I said hands on your head, NOW!” comes another shout, louder this time. 

“Take it easy,” Noah mutters as you watch him get handled, the soldier grabbing his arms aggressively and folding them behind his back, followed by the unmistakable click of handcuffs. 

“You fellas have any idea what the time is?” the FEDRA agent asks in a mocking jovial tone, brandishing his rifle at them as they stand with their back to you. 

When none of the three say anything, he continues in the same tone. “It’s one thirty fellas. . . that’s 0130 hours to you, which means you’re all in serious violation of the curfew." 

The lights are too bright and Noah’s broad figure blocks your vision too much for you to see who the soldier is, and who the two standing next to him are for that matter, but his voice does sound strangely familiar. 

“Come on, we’re just messing around,” comes one of the men’s voices, “We can pay in cards if you let us off,” 

You hear the guard snorting. “And let you kill this poor soul? All the cards in the world ain't worth the damn paperwork. . . or the stain on my conscience, for that matter. Now play nice and get in the truck, will you? I don’t want to do any paperwork for shooting you, either,” 

There’s a great deal of grumbling before you hear the distinct sound of boots on the metal bed of the truck as you try to collect the strength to get up. The slam of the back makes you flinch, your heart still beating a million miles per hour from your ordeal. You try your best to sit up at least, but every inch of your body is screaming in pain, and you’re fighting hard just not to pass out as you struggle to look back up at the soldiers. 

“What about her?” one of the soldiers says, “She must’ve been out past curfew, too,” 

You feel the dread in your stomach at the idea of getting sent to FEDRA lockup with the very guys who just beat the crap out of you, but another voice interrupts. 

“Look at her face, dude,” the third one, who had been quiet until now, speaks up. The minute you hear his voice, it feels like someone has poured ice cold water over your head. 

Now you know why you recognized the first soldier, you’d heard his voice once before, when you’d ridden in the back of Sam’s truck on the first deal you’d ever done with Joel and Tess. 

Carter. 

“She’s had enough shit for one night without us locking her up in there with them, too,” 

When you look up at the source of the voice who’s just spoken, eyes squinting properly against the bright headlights of the truck, you feel your stomach do a sickening somersault. 

Your heart stutters for a moment, and the world seems to freeze. There he is, standing before you in full military gear, his expression unreadable, but there’s something behind his eyes. You’ve known that look for years—too many years—but it’s hard to read now, harder than it ever was back then. 

Of course it’s him. His familiar eyes meet yours, trying to convey a million words without ever speaking them, and every minute you spend looking into them, you feel the emotions well up inside of you. It’s confusing, and overwhelming, and combined with the haze of pain you’re fighting, you’re shocked your brain hasn’t short-circuited yet.  

“Fine,” the main soldier, Carter, says eventually, before looking down at you, “You got a home to go to, girl?” 

You give a short nod, swallowing with some difficulty. 

“Come on, get up,” Sam says, his voice half-authoritative, but you can discern a glimpse of gentleness there, too. You let him help you, his fingers gently closing around your forearm as you slowly get to your feet, every part of your body screaming in pain. You pull your arm out of his grip the moment you can, but even despite yourself, you miss his touch the moment it’s gone. 

You don’t look at either of the three soldiers, instead keeping your gaze between your feet.

“Better get going, then,” Carter sneers, “Cause if I catch you out here again I’m personally dumping you into lockup with those three brutes. . . what they do to you in there isn’t my problem,” 

With that, he turns on his heel and walks towards the car, the other, smaller soldier following.

Sam doesn’t move however, still standing in front of you, close enough that you can feel his gaze boring into you as you keep your eyes fixed on his boots. Eventually you look up at him, and you can feel the tears building behind your eyes as they meet his again, the ones you’ve held back for so long, but you won’t cry in front of him. Not now, not after everything.

Sam’s eyes search yours for a second, asking a silent question. You know he’d seen you pull your pants, know he recognizes the torn neckline of your shirt, know that he’s itching to ask you if you’re okay. 

There’s a part of you that wants to fall into him, to sob and let go of everything you’re feeling and let him hold you like he used to when everything was simpler, and this twisted world was something you could still face together. His gaze holds yours. 

He wants to pull you close. You know he does. The moment hangs between you two like a thread, fragile and taut. You feel it then, a whisper of a touch, his knuckles brushing against your wrist–

For a second, you’re sixteen again, and everything that went wrong hasn’t happened yet. He’s Sam, your best friend, your family, and it’s him and you against everyone else. He was the only person who ever understood you completely. 

You want to say something, anything—apologize, scream at him, tell him how much you’ve missed him—but you can’t. 

He lied to you.

He knew, and he never told you. 

“Let’s go, HB,” comes Carter’s shout, and the spell is broken.

HB. Hartwin-Burke.

His jaw tightens, and for just a moment, you think he might still say something, anything, but he swallows it back. 

You look away and take a stumbling step back, eyes breaking away from his stubbornly. You hear him heave a defeated sigh, before he turns around and leaves. 

Only when the car disappears down the alley do you crawl to the edge of the alley, leaning against the cold brick of the building. The adrenaline leaves your body and you’re overwhelmed by so much pain and fear you curl yourself into your knees for a second and sob, allowing the tears to flow freely over your cheeks. After a second it starts to rain, but you stay there, curled in on yourself as the rain deepens, seeping into your clothes, your hair, the cracks in your skin. 

It would be silly to hope that the rain would wash away the feeling of dread in your chest, or the pain echoing through your body, but it still feels like a sort of momentary respite, hiding your tears and covering the sound of your heartbroken sobs. 

You resolve to stay like that, just for a little moment longer, allowing yourself the small mercies that this cruel world will allow, wishing deep down that the rain would dissolve you until you disappeared.