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Chapter 3 - Gods and Monsters

Based on Gabriel Luna’s song: The Edge of Town co-created with @millermami ❤️

Author notes: This chapter finally tells the flashback of the day of her biggest trauma and why Tommy is her hero! (Please check the warnings!)

Fic Summary: After a traumatic event, you become one of the most tyrant FEDRA soldiers in Boston QZ. Eventually you get closer to the smuggler (and soon to be firefly) Tommy Miller. Lies, love, betrayal, moral choices among nights of wild love. A slow-burn lovers-to-enemies-to-something-more that asks what you both will sacrifice for love and for survival.

Summary for Chapter 3: In a world where monsters wear uniforms and rebels wear halos, one decision shatters everything you thought you were. Before being a tyrant FEDRA soldier, you were just an inoffensive nurse on the night shift in the Boston QZ. A quiet clinic, a locked door, and the wrong man walking through it. Scars are carved — on your skin, on your soul. Now, years later, under rain and rusted washers, the man who saved you finally recognizes the woman you became. Their collision is heat and heartbreak, a spark in a world designed to crush it. But in the Boston QZ, nothing comes without a cost - and love might be the most dangerous rebellion of all.

Relationships: Tommy Miller x Reader, OC x reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, post-outbreak (the last of us), slow burn, romance, smut, angst, past sexual abuse.

wc: 4900

[AO3] [Tktk edit]

3 years and 2 months before

The clinic at night was always too quiet.

You’d worked as a nurse in FEDRA’s QZ long enough to know the rhythm of night shifts: silence thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional drunk soldier or a civilian with a busted lip, foolish enough to break curfew, or hurt badly enough to justify it. Most nights, you sat alone. The curfew kept people inside and, usually, safe. The other nurses hated this rotation. You didn’t mind the loneliness. It was easier than facing the chaos of daylight.

That night, the silence broke with a heavy step. The door creaked.

You looked up, and your stomach dropped. Tall. Broad. Built like a bull. You knew his face. Everyone did. Sebastian. The most wanted Firefly leader.

He shouldn’t be here. FEDRA and the Fireflies were always at war, and this was enemy territory. For a second you wondered how the hell he’d slipped past the night guards. Your hand twitched toward the alarm button, but you stopped yourself. Your kindness hadn’t yet been burned out of you, not completely. If he managed to risk entering a FEDRA restricted area, he might have come for something desperate. Maybe you could help.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.

He smiled, a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Need meds. Got a kid, badly injured. Could die without them.”

He proceeded to tell a story, a story that felt wrong, patched together. But your chest tightened anyway. Against better judgment, you nodded once. “I’ll give you what you need. But you don’t come here again. Next time I’ll have no choice but to call soldiers. Understand?”

“Understand,” he said, too quickly.

You turned, walked to the cabinet, and pulled a few bottles from the shelf. Basic meds, nothing that would raise too many questions if they went missing. He slid them quickly into a worn backpack slung over his shoulder. You had just reached for one last vial when his hand clamped around your wrist.

“Thank you, pretty doll,” he muttered, voice low and mocking. “Too soft for FEDRA, too good for those bastards. A heart like yours doesn’t belong in their chains. You’d be better off with us, you know? The Fireflies could use a good nurse like you. Someone who still remembers how to care, not just how to obey.”

He’s intimidating and it scares you. You try to politely decline and pull back your wrist, but he just grabs the other one, now harder. You freeze for a second, not totally able to acknowledge what's happening.

“Calm down pretty doll, let’s talk. I’m sure we can have a good time if you cooperate. Why don’t we chat a bit and then I leave?”

You can smell his breath. Half beer, half gin or whatever strange alcohol combination.

Desperation kicks in. You can only try to fight against him, uselessly, and ask desperately for him to leave.

“Must be a hell of a dumb girl to decline a request from me. Do you even know who I am? You should be flattered.”

You scream and ask him to let you go. His grip tightened. He could hold both of your wrists with just one hand. The other hand covered your mouth.

You try to scream, panic scraping your throat raw. You can’t believe what's happening.

He shoved you against the desk, one huge hand pushing your back against it, the other fumbling at the tie of your trousers. Your mind went blank. He was too big. Too strong. Fighting felt useless, but you fought anyway, thrashing, clawing. His weight pinned you, his breath hot against your ear.

You heard the scrape of leather, the sound of his buckle coming loose, and dread crashed over you.

“Calm down, doll,” he whispered, breath sour against your cheek. “You’ll see… you’ll like it.”

Then… A click.  Cold steel.

“Get your hands off her.”

Sebastian stiffened. His grip loosened. You twisted, eyes wide.

Tommy Miller. You knew the name, the smuggler from the streets, Joel Miller’s younger brother. You’d seen him passing. But now he stood behind Sebastian, gun pressed to the man’s skull, arm locked tight in a chokehold. His face was hard, but his drawl was low and lethal.

Tommy’s voice cut through the room, low and dangerous - steady despite the slur that showed he’d been drinking. “You touch her again, I’ll paint the wall with your brains. Go, and don’t ever fucking come back.”

Sebastian growled, but he let go. Tommy shoved him toward the door, gun steady until he was gone. The silence after felt louder than screams.

You turned to Tommy, words shaking. “You...thank you...”

Only then did you notice the blood. Dark and heavy, soaking through his shirt. He swayed, the pistol lowering. His eyes were glassy, unfocused.

“You’re hurt!”

“Street fight,” he slurred, clearly very drunk. “Got stabbed. Thought I’d find first aid here.” His mouth tilted in a weak grin, but before you could answer, his knees buckled. You caught him with more instinct than strength.

The next hour blurred into motion. Gloves on, hands steady, heart racing. You were still panicking from the encounter with Sebastian, but you could never run away from helping the man who saved you. He’d stepped between you and a monster, even being injured. You stitched his side, cleaned the wound, pressed gauze until the bleeding slowed. He was drunk and smelling like whiskey. Slurring curses, but alive.

When you finish, you sat back, breath ragged. The medications took effect on Tommy, and he was unconscious, chest rising slow. You let yourself whisper into the dark, words he wouldn’t hear. “Thank you.” You allow the tears to roll down your face for the first time in many years.

Tommy left in the morning, when your shift was already over. Not remembering much. You never told him.

The fear stayed. Every shadow felt like Sebastian returning. You hid a pistol in your desk during your shifts, bought a knife to strap at your ankle. You never wanted to feel that powerless again.

You tried to tell yourself it was over.  You’d hoped it was a one-time horror from a man that drank too much and lost what little judgment he had left. Still, some fears don't die; they wait in corners until a sound gives them life.

But a few weeks later, the clinic door opened again in that same wrong way. The heavy scrape that always meant someone had come in with too much drink and too little shame. Sebastian stepped through, and he wasn't alone this time. Two other fireflies, John and Hector, shadowed him behind like vultures.

“Wait outside, your turn with doll here will come.” Sebastian ordered.

Panic ripped through you so fast it felt like your own body turned against you. Your legs wanted to run, but they wouldn’t move; your hands trembled uselessly at your sides.

John and Hector proceed to watch the streets while Sebastian cornered you again in the clinic.

This time, there was no gun pressed to his head. No one to drag him off you.

“Too pretty for this world, doll.” he sneered, blade glinting in his hand. He slashed your flesh across your cheek, marking you, branding you. The pain was white fire, but nothing compared to the sickness on your stomach and terror in your veins.

You don’t remember the exact moment his weight forced you down, or the moment your mind broke into glass. You remember the desk under your palms, your trousers down, your body screaming no. You remember John and Hector laughing from outside. You remember Sebastian’s breath heavy, triumphant.

When he was done, he was sloppy, too drunk on power to notice you reaching for the knife at your ankle. The blade found his throat, his chest, his stomach, his face. Again and again, each thrust blurring into the next. One, two, five, fifteen. Twenty-seven stabs before your hands stopped. You had never killed someone before that. You didn't mean the brutality; it was just an automatic reflex of the violence you suffered.

You hide as you hear John and Hector coming back. With the adrenaline in your veins, you are able to surprise John by his back and stab him more times than you can count. The blade went in before he even understood. His body dropped, lifeless.

Hector saw the carnage. His face went pale. He ran away. Maybe not afraid of you, but of the consequences of being there and not being able to save one of the most important Firefly members.

You stood alone in the wreckage, blood soaking your scrubs, hands shaking around a knife you no longer recognized as yours.

FEDRA agents arrived shortly and encountered the mess you made. When they stormed in, you lied. You would never told anyone you were raped. You said they tried to steal meds. You fought them off. It was easier that way.

FEDRA was proud of you and spun the massacre into propaganda: one of their own had crushed two armed Fireflies with a knife. Not any firefly, the most wanted one. Sebastian was long being chased by FEDRA without success. The brutality factor was a plus that they loved and made sure they spread the details. They rewarded you with rank, privileges, and prestige. They put you in a navy-blue uniform. And you pulled the bandana over your scar, as if you could hide this memory from everyone - including yourself.

At this moment, you learned violence. If you couldn’t be invisible, you’d be merciless. Combat and shooting technical skills weren’t difficult for you to pick up. Your years as a firefighter had left you strong and agile, and FEDRA’s training was broad enough to fill in the rest. At first, you are not shaken to practice violence. You don't like it, but you just set your brain as a must-do and a way to let out the rage. It became a habit, like brushing your teeth before bed, like getting up for a shift you hated. Necessary. Automatic.

Sebastian’s death started a new problem. The Fireflies put a target in your head, silent and patient. You felt them behind you on dark streets, saw shadows that slipped away when you turned. They wanted a payback, a slow payback. If it hadn’t been for FEDRA patrols and Victor’s quiet hand steering you, you would probably be dead long ago.

So, you adapted. You learned when to bare teeth and when to stay your hand. Fireflies cornered, bleeding, or caught doing nothing - those you let walk. You still fought, still killed, but not the ones already broken or unarmed. Kindness also became a weapon, the only shield you had. Slowly, they understood you weren’t all rot, not all FEDRA. The chase lost its heat.

And eventually you start to learn to balance it, to survive. Please FEDRA and keep with your benefits and fame, but also allowing yourself to use the rest of kindness and humanity that is left in your heart.

Still, inside, a part of you still whispered that night. The click of a gun. The drawl of a voice.

Get your hands off her.

The memory of the man who saved you once, even if he didn’t remember. You wish he was there again to prevent your world from falling to pieces. But he wasn’t, and now embracing FEDRA’s purpose was the easier way to try to glue it back together.

You told yourself not to go. Over and over as the hour crept toward 10 PM, as your boots carried you down the ruined street, under the heavy rain, as you passed the checkpoint lamps that burned like eyes. Don’t go. Don’t give Miller another piece of you. Don’t make this worse than it already is.

And yet, your steps found the laundry room again. The hollow of broken washers and shadows, where he’d been waiting last time.

He was there now too, leaning against the machine. Tommy looked exhausted, tense, like every second before you arrived there had been a battle in his chest. He wasn’t just waiting. He was terrified you wouldn’t come. That maybe this time you’d finally listen to your head instead of your heart. He’d spent years surviving for Joel, for smuggling, for scraps. But this, you, were the first thing in years that felt like it might be worth breaking all his rules for. And the thought of losing it before it began carved him open.

When he saw you, his grin cracked through the dim, relief flooding his face.

“Knew you’d come,” he said, drawl warm as whiskey. Even though he didn’t.

“Is this confidence sold in bottles somewhere in Boston?” You sighed, pulling your coat tighter. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Then why are you?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped further inside, shaking the rain out of your coat, the heavy air with dust and the faint smell of rust. You pulled the bandana down for a second, meaning only to breathe, to take one moment of freedom from the soaked fabric. But when you looked up, he was staring.

His breath caught. “Jesus Christ…” The words slipped out hoarse, raw. He took half a step closer, shaking his head slowly, almost in disbelief. “You’re - God, you’re beautiful.”

It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t a line. It was the shock of a man who’d expected ruins, something to prove his worst fears, and instead found a face that undid him. His eyes roamed as if he were memorizing every detail, terrified you might vanish if he blinked.

You freeze, heat rushing your face, ashamed by the lapse of your unguarded reflex. “Don’t.” You move your bandana back, now even higher.

But he kept staring, eyes caught in a storm of confusion and recognition. His brows pulled tight, as if his mind was chasing something he couldn’t quite catch. He stepped closer, slowly, his hand lifting like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for the memory clawing its way back.

“Just… you’re somethin’ else. Prettiest damn thing I’ve seen since this world went to hell.”

 “You can’t be serious.”  The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your voice tight. “You barely had time to see a thing, anyway.”

His eyes were wide, stricken, like he’d been searching for this face forever. He reached out slowly for you, fingers brushing your jaw.

“You…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I know you. I’ve seen you before.” He blinked, the pieces of memory falling into place. His chest rose hard, like the air had punched out of him. “The clinic. That night.” His eyes widened in sudden realization, his voice breaking on the words. “Goddamn—it was you. It’s been you all along.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your jaw as though the touch could prove it real, then gently pulled the bandana down again. This time, you didn’t fight.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t remember all of it.” Your hand moves without thinking toward him, fingers brushing the faint scar over his shirt along his torso where you’d stitched him that night. The fabric was thin there, heat radiating beneath it, and for a moment you let yourself feel the proof that he had been real in your hands once before.

“I remember enough,” he said, voice low. His gaze locked on yours. “Him on you. My gun at his head. Your scared eyes. Been carryin’ them in my chest ever since. How could I have missed this?”

“Well, the bandana works at least… uniform and soldier hair style helped a bit, I guess.” You smirk, but the truth was obvious: the scared eyes were gone, replaced by something merciless.

“Darlin’,” he said, while brushing his fingers in your face with one hand, and your arm with the other hand. His gaze so intense it felt like he was stripping your soul bare. His eyes flicked down to your lips, lingering there, the silence stretching heavy between you before he found his voice again. “If it’s the scar you’re hidin’ behind that bandana… Lord, have mercy, you’re still the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on. Scar and all. Hell, especially with it. Like you walked through hellfire and came out stronger than it. But I know it ain’t just a mark on your skin.”

Your breath trembled. “Tommy…”

But then his expression hardened, eyes darkening, jaw tight. “He came back, didn’t he? Goddamn son of a bitch…” His thumb stilled against your skin, his breath rough with anger. “That’s why you killed him?”

You don’t want to talk about this. You don’t want him to feel guilty about not being there to prevent the disaster. But your wet eyes betrayal you.

His thumb continues to brush your cheek “I wish I’d shot him that night instead of lettin’ the fucker crawl off. Christ, what the hell was I thinkin’? I had him right there, gun to his head, and I just let him walk.”

“Tommy, don’t do this to yourself.”

His voice cracked, thick with regret. He pulled you into his chest, hugging you tight, his words muffled against your hair. “Should’ve known better. God, I’m so sorry you had to go through this shit. If I’d been there… I swear to you, darlin’, I’d have killed him myself.”

The confession twisted something in you, hurt and comfort tangled into one. You pulled back enough to look at him, forcing a shaky smirk through your tears. “Too bad you didn’t get yourself shot or stabbed again to be there for me.”

He cupped your face like you were breakable, like you were holy. “I’d take the bullet, take the knife, whatever it cost, just to keep you safe.”

He leaned in, rough and certain.

The air went taut. You are not even fighting against your reasons anymore. Your body leaned forward. His mouth met yours, warm and clumsy, desperate and real. A kiss like breaking glass, shattering the walls you’d built, spilling all the things you swore to keep locked away. A long kiss that felt lasting hours, and yet not long enough.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your lips still tingling.

“Is this a mistake?” you whispered.

“Hell yeah,” he agreed. “But it’s ours.”

“Tommy.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop making me smile.”

“Can’t.” A grin broke on his lips, his hand came up to cradle your face, the other sliding firm around your waist, pulling you closer. “Feels like the first good crime I’ve committed in years.” Before you could answer, his mouth found yours again, softer this time but no less desperate. You slipped your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, he groaned into the kiss like he’d been waiting for that touch all his life, as if it was the one thing that can prove he was alive.

But all of a sudden, something inside you cracked open like ice breaking under the weight. Because nothing good ever lasted without a thousand shadows rushing in to haunt you. For a fleeting second, it had felt like warmth. Like the world had given you back something you weren’t meant to have.

What the hell am I doing?

Affection, in this rotting world, wasn’t salvation. It was risk. Risk of being vulnerable, risk of being torn apart, risk of losing it all, waking up one day with nothing but fear where your heart used to be.

You pulled back, breath ragged, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry Tommy… I can’t.” The word came harsher than you meant.

Tommy froze, his hand still resting at your waist. “What do you mean, darlin’?”

“This… us… we can’t. It will only make our lives harder. This is not supposed to happen.” You stepped back, tugging the bandana higher as if it could erase what just happened.

“Sweetheart… I don’t understand- ” Tommy says while trying to pull you back, making you give another step back.

“Tommy… I’m- I’m really sorry. This will never work. We can daydream about it, and gosh, God knows how much I do. But it only belongs in our dreams. Out here, in the real world…  it will only get us hurt.”

“I would never hurt you- “

“Maybe you won’t. But life will.” You swallow, bitterness spiking.

Tommy’s laugh is sharp and disbelieving, a sound with grief under it. “So you’re gonna let fear run you?” He steps forward, hands open like he’s offering a lifeline. “We can choose. We can-”

“Tommy. Let’s be realistic. How long until we cross paths and it’s me or you? Or how long until one of us takes a bullet in our head for any stupid reason? Life’s a countdown, Tommy, and the less attached we are to anything, the better.”

“That’s bullshit. So, that’s it then? You’ll never even try? You will just wait to die, and that’s fine for you?” Tommy’s shoulders slump, but he refuses the dramatics. His voice goes quiet, hard with sorrow and something like accusation.

You turned, boots echoing in the hollow room. “This must end here. You copy, Miller?”

Confusion clouded his face, then anger softened into something closer to hurt.

“You’re wrong, darlin’, you are so wrong.” he muttered into the dim, his voice rough, almost breaking.

And then you were gone, leaving him in the dust and rust of the laundry room, his chest hollowing out.

Tommy leaned back against the dead washer, dragging a hand over his face. The grin, the warmth, the kiss - gone as quick as they came.

You storm away from the laundry room. Your heart pounding with pain, your boots heavy on the wet cobblestones. Rain and tears ran together down your face, your soaked bandana barely letting you breathe.

You have one good reason to stay - but too many to walk away.

It was unfair, cruel, what surviving demands. In a land of gods and monsters, even angels learned to sharpen their claws. The idea of losing someone again, after everything already lost in the outbreak, was crushing enough to keep you from daring to try.

What you need is focus. Discipline. The sharp, narrow path forward. FEDRA’s rules were chains, yes. But they were also armor. Being with a smuggler would only blur the edges of the walls you’d spent years building.

You had a clear goal: to ascend through the ranks, to shape the corporation from the inside, to make it something better. To turn tyranny into order, chaos into structure. A long path, but no one else would walk it if you didn’t.

Play by the rules… until you’re powerful enough to change the rules yourself.

You’d just walked past the old pizzeria on your way back, dragging each step like you were pulling your bones through mud. Every movement felt miserly.

Then Tommy’s voice cut the silence calling your name.

Tommy approaches, catching your hand. “Why?” he asked.

Your guard slipped. You tightened your grip on his hand. “Tommy… we’re fooling ourselves, thinking this could ever be real,” your other palm rising to cradle his face.

“You’re scared of bein’ happy.” he said into the quiet, his voice low, frayed at the edges. He held you gently at the waist and pulled you closer. “World’s gone to hell, and you’d rather wear chains than let yourself feel somethin’ real.”

“Exactly,” you snapped, your throat tightening.

For a moment, his eyes felt like a safe place. And against your better judgment, you let your fears spill out. “I can’t afford to get soft. I can’t afford you. I can’t afford to let you in just to lose you.”

He stepped closer, you didn’t move back. His nearness pressed like heat against your skin, his breath mixing with yours, the space between you shrinking until it hurt to resist.

You continue. “FEDRA doesn’t just have rules about curfew, rebellions, and contraband. They’ve got codes, ethics about relationships. You think they’d let me stay in uniform if anyone knew?”

He shook his head, stepping closer, desperate. “Darlin’- ”

“It can’t be for nothing,” you cut in, voice cracking. “Losing everything in the outbreak. Living in this rotten world. Being…” your hand traced the line of your scar, “…designed as a soldier. Then, all this shit I’ve done.” You swallowed hard. “The only reason I keep moving forward is the idea of climbing high enough in FEDRA to make things work in a fair way. And I know I’m not a hero, not some savior, not innocent. But I do the best I can to serve FEDRA, and still be useful to this community that needs more than just rules to survive.”

Your eyes lifted to his. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. His gaze was steady, comprehensive, carrying the kind of understanding you hadn’t found anywhere else.

You continue. “It might not be the best way, but it’s the only way I’ve found to break the cycle. Push and pull. And so far, it’s working. And this… us… would only drag me further away from it.”

Silence folded over them for a moment.

“I heard it all, sweetheart. I understand you,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, but burning underneath. His eyes searched yours, soft and unshaken. “But now it’s my turn. Can you listen to me, please?”

He took a breath, and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs resting at your cheekbones. His fingers edged toward the bandana for a beat, then stopped. “May I?” he asked, small as a plea. You give a single nod.

With slow, careful fingers he slid the bandana down. “You think I don’t know what you’re sayin’? That I don’t see the weight you carry, the walls you built to keep from losin’ more than you already have? I do. Hell, I felt it before you ever spoke it out loud. That fight in you, wantin’ to change things, even from inside the monster’s belly… that’s what drew me in. That’s what makes me keep comin’ back.”

His jaw tightened, but his eyes glowed with something softer. “You call it duty. FEDRA rules, uniform, fear. But I see it for what it is. You’re rebelling, even if you’d never admit. You’re pushin’ against a world that wants you cold, heartless. And you still choose to care. That’s rarer than anythin’ else left alive in this world.”

His voice deepens, not pleading but certain. “You say love’s a distraction. I say it’s the only thing keepin’ us from turnin’ to dust. You think lettin’ me in will make you weak. But I swear to you, darlin’, it’ll make us both stronger. We both want the same things.”

…You’re fightin’ to make this world better your way, and I… I’m tryin’ to do the same, in mine. He thinks, but didn’t dare to say it aloud. The conversation was already hard enough with you in the dark about him joining the Fireflies; and he couldn’t tell you yet. Hopefully, he told himself, one day your rebellion would find its way to his cause, and they’d be fighting on the same side.

He let out a sharp laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only a crack of hope. “For the first time in years, I feel like I could be more than just a man survivin’ off scraps and sins.”

His hand found yours, rough thumb brushing your knuckles, his gaze never leaving your face. “So tell me again, darlin’. Tell me straight to my face that we’re better off pretendin’ we don’t feel this. Tell me, and I’ll walk away right now. But if you can’t…” His voice dropped to a near whisper, aching and sure, “then stop runnin’. Let this be real.”

His words hung between you like fire in the rain. For a heartbeat, you wanted to step into it. To let yourself fall.

You held his gaze too long, your throat tightening, your heart begging you to surrender. Then, with a slow, shuddering breath, you shoved it all down where it belonged. Bury it deep. Rip off the bandage. You are Butcher. Better to kill this now than let hope rot you from the inside.

Your voice was tender at first, almost breaking. “Feel what, Tommy? You barely know me. I certainly don’t know you. I don’t know what you think you saw in me.” You forced yourself to keep going, each word sharper than the last. “But whatever you’re looking for… doesn’t exist. Not in me. Not in this world. You think I can give you what you need? What you want?” Your voice cracked, but you ground it into steel. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I won’t.”

“And I’m not a rebel.”

Silence. Only the sound of the rain falling.

For a moment his eyes still burned with hope, until he realized your words were the end.

He nodded once, more to himself than to you, and stepped back.

“I know exactly what I saw on you,” Tommy said, gaze deep, voice raw.

He didn’t argue. He just turned away, boots dragging as the sound of him faded into the night, leaving you alone with your hard words.

The silence he left behind caved in on you. Your chest heaved as if the air itself had turned to stone, and every part of you screamed to run after him, to take it all back.

Based on Gabriel Luna’s song: The Edge of Town co-created with @millermami

Summary: You are a former skilled firefighter (that never actually fought fire – important to mention!) that was assigned to work for FEDRA’s Boston QZ after the outbreak. After a traumatic event, you become one of the most tyrant FEDRA soldiers. You hide all your traumas under a mask. Eventually you get closer to the smuggler Tommy Miller - someone that was once a hero for you, but has no idea of it. You both will start a post apocalypse Romeo and Juliette romance. Lies, love, betrayal, moral choices among nights of wild love. A slow-burn lovers-to-enemies-to-something-more that asks what you both will sacrifice for love and for survival.

Relationships: Tommy Miller x Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, post-outbreak (the last of us), slow burn, romance, smut, angst, past sexual abuse.

wc: 5029

[AO3] [Tiktok edit]

Chapter 1 - City Walls

Music for this chapter is City Walls, from Twenty One Pilots

Boston QZ, 8 years after the outbreak

The rain never stopped. It either misted the city in a fine drizzle or came down in sheets that turned the streets into rivers. Tonight, it was somewhere in between. Just enough to make the cracked pavement glisten under the lamps of the south checkpoint.

Tommy Miller had been stopped again. It wasn’t the first time, and he doubted it would be the last.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

The voice was sharp, female, carrying the weight of authority. He turned, his hands still raised where the FEDRA patrol had told him to keep them. You stepped into the lamp’s yellow circle. Helmet tucked under your arm, navy uniform gleaming wet. And a bandana— always a bandana. It hid half your face, shadowing your expression.

Tommy smirked, Texas twang curling around his words.  “C’mon, darlin’. A man can’t take a stroll no more without gettin’ barked at?”

“I’m not your darlin” You fold your arms. “Curfew’s been in effect two hours. You’re not just strolling. You’re breaking the law.”

“The law’s got a hell of a lotta rules,” he drawled. “Hard to keep track of ‘em all.”

One of the soldiers beside you shifted uneasily, muttering, “You know the orders, Butcher.”

You raise a gloved hand. “No, it’s fine. I’ll handle Miller.” Your eyes locked on his, unblinking, unreadable. You look at the soldier behind you. “Go on, Victor. Get back to your post.”

Victor mumbles but does what you ask.

When the others were gone, silence pressed between them, broken only by the patter of rain on metal.

Tommy tilted his head, studying the bandana that covered half your face. A crooked grin tugged at his mouth. “Eyes Without a Face.” You frowned, trying not to give him the satisfaction. “You’re showing your age, Miller.” He chuckled. “If you got the song reference, so does you. What can I say? Fits you too well.” “hum…Got no human grace? Thanks, that’s so sweet of you.” You pressed the barrel of the gun against his chest in warning. “You know that’s not what the song is about right? It’s not that literal”

His grin widened, unbothered. “Apologies officer, I wasn’t aware you were a lyrics specialist. Still doesn’t stop me from singin’ it in my head every time you show up.”

You roll your eyes. Stupid. “Come on Miller, enough of the bullshit. Go home before I change my mind”.

“You always let me off easy. Why’s that?”

Your gaze flicked over him, measuring, cautious. Aside from all nonsense he would often speak, he was all sharp edges and Texan charm. Hair at shoulders length, his jaw always perfectly smooth, like he had some secret supply of razor blades nobody else in the QZ could get. Handsome in a way you refused to name. For half a second, you caught yourself staring. You pulled yourself together fast, voice flat, then softer, just a thread of something that wasn’t supposed to be there:

 “Maybe I’m waiting to see if you’ll get smart and stop testing me.”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t think smart’s ever been my strong suit.” He tilted his head. “But I reckon you already know that.”

Something passed between you two. A spark, dangerous as open fire in a dry house. You broke it first, tugging your bandana higher. You can’t give him the pleasure to see you laughing about his bullshit.

He laughs as he notices you fighting with your smile under your mask. “You are losing it, sweetheart”

“Go home, Miller.” You quickly compose yourself.

And maybe he should have. But instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice.  “Tell me somethin’, darlin’. What’s your name?”

Your shoulders now stiffened. “All you need to know is my last name in the uniform, ‘darlin” you mock his accent, in a more serious tone that you planned.

“Nah. Too formal. But I can’t keep callin’ ya ‘Officer neither.’” His grin was crooked, teasing, but his eyes searched for yours. “Feels too cold.”

“Call me by my nickname, then.” It’s not. But it has to be.

“Butcher? No, that’s one for your friends from FEDRA.” Tommy replies.

For a moment, you hesitated. He thought you might walk away. Then you whispered your name, so quiet he almost missed it under the rain.

His grin softened into something real. “Pretty name. Doesn’t fit all that armor.”

“Just... don’t say it in front of nobody else.”

Your eyes darken; you shared too much already. “Go. Now. Before I regret not putting you in the dirt.”

He laughed under his breath, but when he finally turned and walked back into the rain, his chest felt too tight.

And you stood alone under the checkpoint light, hands trembling inside your gloves, cursing yourself for saying your name at all.

This wasn’t the first encounter with Tommy. And certainly, would not be the last.

Just like with his brother Joel and his partner Tess, you’d cross paths plenty of times. Either doing business with them, or catching them doing things they weren’t supposed to, in places they should not have been. They were all faces you knew, names that lived on FEDRA reports and watch lists. But this was the first time the interaction slid off the rails, the first time it edged into something sharp and dangerous. Neither of you realized it then, but a line had been crossed, and from this moment on there would be no going back.

Another morning of work. But today marks your thirdyear as a FEDRA soldier, and apparently that’s the only thing your brain will wander around today.

Thoughts crowd your head from the minute you open your eyes. Three years since FEDRA walked you from nurse to soldier. You hadn’t asked for it. You didn’t want it. But after that night, after the cut that carved a new map across your face, they called you necessary. Useful. Fear made into policy.

Admiration from the brass. Hatred from the streets.

You button the uniform, holster the sidearm, and, before the door clicks shut behind you, pull the bandana up over your mouth and your scar. It’s muscle memory now. The mask, the breath warming your cheeks, the way your eyes become the only part of you people meet. It started as a shield. It became a uniform inside the uniform. Somewhere along the way, it became you.

The day should be easy. Ration queue, patrol, curfew. You tell yourself that twice: easy. You’ve learned to make yourself believe in reasonable lies. Believe you liked what you do. Believe you don’t mind murdering people.

And you were pretty good at convincing yourself.

As you leave your house, FEDRA agents in the street great you enthusiastic Good Mornings.

“Morning Butcher. Great day to do what you do best” the guards proceed on laughing, not as a mocking, but as a confirmation of what they like on you – your merciless acts.

You don’t like remembering the origin of the story that turned you into a warning poster: The cruel murder of Firefly’s lead. You don’t actually like the nickname Butcher in people’s mouths. But it does feel like a trophy. You tell yourself the same thing you tell the rookies you keep alive: Control what you can. Make your square of ground better. If FEDRA is the necessary evil, then you can be the necessary good inside of it, the small hinge that changes how the door swings. Not shifting completely how FEDRA should behave. But with an intricated and dangerous rotation between being evil and being good.

You’re still saying that to yourself when you reach the ration line.

The queue is a frayed rope. Three delays in ten days will do that. Voices spike, then flatten. You project your presence the way you were trained: chin level, rifle low, eyes calm. When you do bark, the sound ricochets and people settle. It’s easier than yesterday’s assignment: Firefly sweeps. War has a rhythm now.

Despite all the terrorism acts and terrible beliefs around FEDRA, you believed in the institution. It was the unavoidable cost of orchestrating what was left of the world. But you know that things could (and should) be done differently. And that's the purpose you grab desperately on to bear with the amount of chaos of surviving in this environment: The hope that, slowly, day by day, step by step... you can influence new behaviors and progress in the corporation to the point of making some difference.

At least that's what you try to convince yourself every day. That the world benefits better of you as a soldier instead of as a nurse. Besides, it's not like you gave up the profession of your life to be a soldier, anyway. What you did enjoy was your former profession before outbreak: Being a firefighter. It was your childhood dream that came true. Not nurse, not soldier. You felt rewarded and happy as a member of Boston Firefighter Department.

FEDRA preferred you to Firefly chasing work. Your reputation walks ahead of you: FEDRA’s sharpest blade. It keeps you fed, keeps you housed, keeps you watched. It also keeps you alive; headquarters knows the Fireflies would love your head on a wall, so they plan your routes like you’re a chess piece with teeth.

You play around with tightening the rope and then letting it go. Being the good cop and the bad cop. Pretending that the calculation doesn’t exhaust you. Shifting between being as cruel as it’s required to be a FEDRA officer, and acting as a comprehensive human being with a heart.

A flare of voices hooks you from the alley to your left, making you wake up from your thoughts. Male, familiar, too close to a brawl. You tilt your head at your partner, Victor. He makes a face that means go; I won’t ask and leans heavier on his post.

Another privilege FEDRA gave you in exchange for your brutal firefly's lead murder is that you get to choose who you pair with. And, of course, you always chose Victor. A good man, a good friend, and mainly, loyal to you.

Victor is the kind of partner who prefers not to move until something is on fire, and then he uses too much water. You do not mind being the one who moves. It leaves the decisions in your own hands. He doesn’t see, or at least pretends he is not seeing, your juggling between being hard and soft.

You slide into the alley on quiet feet and find the two faces everyone in Boston could draw with their eyes closed.

The Millers.

Your pulse does something unprofessional. One of them always scares you, the way a storm makes you scan the sky. And the other... well, he shakes you in a different way.

“Freeze,” you say. You raise the rifle; they stop. They were arguing so hard they didn’t hear you coming until now.

You let yourself smirk under the bandana. “Texas boys. Aren’t you a little old for big-brother, little-brother fight?”

Tommy’s grin is a blade and a bandage both. “You tell me, Butcher. Ain’t you got Fireflies to massacre instead of interruptin’ a healthy family interaction?”

Butcher. The city’s pet name for you. He said he would not call you that. But you are happy he is not calling you by your name in front of Joel. He understood that your name was a little secret just between the two of you. You hate Butcher from most mouths. But you realize that from him, it lands softer, like he’s poking the bruise to make sure it still hurts.

“I always forget how funny you are, Lil’ Texas,” you say, and it comes exactly as mocking as you meant.

Silence presses in. You see it, then - the rawness behind Tommy’s eyes, the swell of his cheekbone, the blood at the corner of his mouth. Not banter. That fight has teeth, and Tommy was not winning it.

“What happened?” you ask, the barrel easing down, the nurse inside you kicking once against her bonds.

They both look for an answer they can stand in. Neither finds it.

You sigh, lifting your free hand in a wrap it up circle. “Look, I honestly don’t care what this is. Take it home. Spare me the paperwork. I can’t keep covering for both of you forever.”

Truth: you’re more lenient with the Millers than policy would allow. Smugglers make the city breathe. Everyone in uniform knows it, even if we don’t say it. Truth underneath the truth: you owe Tommy a debt he doesn’t remember.

They move to go. Heavy air trails them out of the alley like smoke.

“Hey, Joel,” you call.

He pivots, wary.

“If you do kick his ass off, can I have that nice guitar of his?”

Joel doesn’t blink. “Sorry, Butcher. Claimin’ that guitar’s actually why I’m killin’ him.”

They turn away again. Tommy pauses, looks back at you.

“How you even know I got a guitar?”

Heat climbs your throat; thank God for cloth. You tap two fingers from your eyes to him - watching you - and tilt your head: move. He gives you a quick blink, starts walking, hesitates once more.

“Thanks for the patience, sweetheart” he murmurs, just for you.

You curse yourself for liking the way it sounds. Idiot. You glance around to make sure no one caught the soft edges of a FEDRA agent flirting with trouble.

It’s stupid. It’s human. You let yourself keep both truths for another hour.

Curfew crawls closer. You and Victor sweep the last sectors. It’s been a quiet day. No sirens, no Firefly shadows. So, you both split to finish faster.

You catch the voices before you see them. A low hiss of argument, the shape of a plea. When you step into the mouth of the alley, he’s there again. Tommy, shoulders set like he’s holding a wall up with his back, and a kid - sixteen at most, trying to look older with a jaw he hasn’t grown into.

“Miller,” you say, lowering the rifle when the sight of him steals the breath it shouldn’t. “What the hell.”

He smiles like sin and salvation. “Evenin’, Butcher. Billy here’s makin’ a wish list for the next batch of merchandise. We’re already done.”

“It’s curfew,” you snap. “Go home. Now. The order is…”

“…execution without further questions,” he finishes, easy as a hymn. “But you won’t. We’re done anyway, darlin.”

The word darling in that drawl sends a cold ribbon up your spin. Terror and tenderness learning how to share a chair.

“Don’t you call me ‘darlin’” you say, repeating his accent. The rifle lifts just enough to nudge his chest, a cold reminder of the line he’s crossing. “Keep testing me and you’ll find out if I won’t, Miller” you add evenly, then flick your gaze to the kid. “Your building’s right there. I want to watch you go through the door, or I’ll personally kick your ass all the way there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he squeaks, and bolts.

You and Tommy stand in the echo he leaves behind. He doesn’t move.

“What are you still doing here?” you ask. “Move.”

He smiles wider, stays planted. Your knees dislike this. You cannot tell if they’re weak from anger on his audacity or something worse.

“What’s so funny, Tommy?” Your voice drops. “You like the idea of getting executed for a curfew jackassery? After all the things we hear about the Millers, seems you deserve a spicier death than this.”

He tips his head, that lazy, infuriating half-bow. “Reckon if I go, I’d prefer it not be borin’.”

You step close enough to smell tobacco, warm and lingering. Close enough to realize, against all reason, that he smells good. Like smoke and rain stitched together. Close enough that the bandana suddenly feels like a wall you want to tear down and a shield you can’t lose.

“Go home,” you say, very quiet. “Victor is right around the corner, and I can’t make more excuses... Please.”

The please betrays you. His eyes catch it. For a second something naked moves over his face. An old memory trying to surface, a hand he once offered a stranger in a clinic lit by bad bulbs.

He nods, just once. “Yes, ma’am.”

He passes you slowly, his sleeve ghosting your elbow. You don’t look back until he’s a darker shadow folded into the dark.

Victor crackles your radio. “All quiet?”

You thumb the transmission. Your voice is the picture of policy. “All quiet.”

You end your shift, boots ticking on wet stone, bandana damp against your mouth, teeth pressed together to keep from smiling and screaming at once. You tell yourself the same thing you told yourself at dawn: Control what you can. You lift your chin. You keep walking.

Victor returns a few minutes later beside you, as you both start the walk back to end your shift. The rain’s turned to mist; the lamps bleed halos on the wet street.

“How long we been partners, Butcher?” he asks.

“Three years, give or take. Why?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.”

You glance sideways, cautious. “Meaning?”

Victor goes off: “Meaning you’re unpredictable. Cold one minute, kind the next. Sometimes you’re soft, sometimes you’re cruel. Sometimes both. With smugglers, civilians. No pattern. If I didn’t trust you, I’d think you were up to something. And if you were up to something… well, I’d have to either report you or live with it. And I’d rather not have to choose.”

You stop. Maybe he saw you and Tommy?

His words are heavy because they’re true. He has been playing blind for long to avoid confrontation with you. Victor’s the closest thing you have to a friend, and actually, to a boyfriend. 2 years ago - you both tried. A gentle hand on your shoulder after a long shift, an invitation to share a bottle of contraband whiskey, shared nights when the loneliness pressed too close and his lips could find yours. You insisted even though it didn’t feel right. There was no reason for you pushing him away. Victor was the type of man most women would want. Younger, handsome, tanned skin, with dark hair always neat. Charming Colombian roots. His build was lean and athletic, the kind that spoke of discipline. His careful touch, his patience, his quiet strength made him a man easy to trust, easy to fall for. Just not for you.

You’d seen the disappointment, the sting, but you couldn’t let him cross that line. The scar on your face, that you carefully hide behind the bandana, is a map of what happens when men decide you’re theirs to take, and you’ve sworn never to be cornered again. Victor took the rejection quietly, even respectfully, but it built an invisible wall between you. Since then, he’s kept his distance, trying to let the friendship survive where the romance died. You like him better that way. Safe, reliable, the partner who doesn’t ask for more than you can give. And you’ve kept him on the outside of your walls. He’s been willing to play blind because you carry weight in FEDRA, but he’s tired of squinting at shadows.

“I know I’m hard to read,” you admit. “And I know you put a lot of trust in me. I appreciate your friendship and patience.”

He tries to avoid sighing on hearing “friendship” again. He watches you like he’s deciding whether to start another discussion or not.

Victor continues “You know I trust and care about you. But sometimes I have this gut feeling, you know?... As you expected me to be a guard dog that follows you and waits for your commands. As if you are the protagonist and not my partner. Fuck, I don't even think I will recognize you in the streets anymore if you are not using your uniform and bandana. I can barely remember your face. You give us no space to interact inside or outside work. I understand you don’t want me as a lover anymore, and believe me, I’m passed that. But when we are patrolling, we should be aligned. You have your own ways and criteria to treat people, and you don't share with me.”

You sigh. There's nothing else to say except to agree with him. You stop and look at him.

“I’m sorry I made you feel this way, Victor. I know how explosive you are, and how much you need to put your instincts aside to allow me to deal with the situations my way. So, I really appreciate your patience and partnership.”

You direct yourself to a close bench to make space for a more serious conversation.

You tug the bandana down. The night air hits your scar. You laugh, brittle. “Hope my face isn’t too much older than you remember.”

Victor stares. He softs, almost startled. “No, you are still beautiful. I forgot how much.”

Passed that. Yeah. As if you believe.

A long silence proceeds from both sides.

“Feels like I’m looking at you for the first time.” he says.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “it’s not just a mask. It’s… hiding. From everything. From myself. You weren’t wrong, I make you a guard dog. It’s easier than letting you see, or to open myself about things.”

He’s a quiet long moment, then he sighs. “I just want to know who I’m standing next to.”

You open your mouth, but he lifts a hand. “A few days ago, after you broke up the Millers’ fight.” He pauses for a second while his eyes meet yours “Yes, I saw you with Millers brothers.” He pauses again. “And I tailed them after they left. Sorry, I had to know.”

Your guts go cold.

“They met Tess. Couldn’t hear much. Orders, smuggling business. But one thing I caught clear as a bell.” His eyes deviate from yours now. “Tess told them not to trust you. Said anyone who plays both sides are only loyal to themselves. I was hoping you could explain this.”

The night is suddenly colder.

“Tess is just jealous because I stopped doing business with her and chose Tommy instead.” You try to crack as joke to softener the conversation.

You see he won’t let it go with a better explanation. You let out a slow breath, rubbing your gloved thumb over the grip of your rifle. “I don’t play both sides, Victor. Don’t twist it like that. I just...” you hesitate, then push through, “I try to practice being human sometimes. If I don’t, if I’m all steel and cruelty every hour of every day, then one morning I’ll wake up and realize I’ve turned into exactly what people already think I am. And I can’t live like that.” Your eyes catch his, steady. “Besides… being unpredictable has its benefits. People don’t know which version of me they’ll get, so they stay cautious. Respectful. Maybe even a little bit more afraid. That’s not weakness or betrayal, Victor. It’s survival.”

Victor’s hand comes down, rough and warm, carefully covering yours. “Okay,” he says quietly, thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hand. “Thanks for opening up with me.”

You look at his hand on top of yours, warm, and for a single, shameful second you let it in - The easy comfort of being held, of not having to be a fortress.

The next evening, Tommy is doing his usual business and found an excuse to pass the south checkpoint again: a backpack full of batteries and a lie about “droppin’ food to a friend.” The lamps buzzed overhead; rain worried the razor wire like restless fingers.

You step from the shadows before the other soldiers could stop him.  “Un-fucking-believable. Hands where I can see them, Miller.”

He lifted them. “Afternoon to you too,” he looks around to check if nobody hears him and proceeds to say your name. He tastes your name like a sweet secret.

Your eyes cut to the pack. “You’re not carrying food.”

“Could be.” He replies to you back. Eyes fixed on yours, those sweet, kind eyes.

“Is it?”

He let the drawl go lazy. “Could be a lotta things.”

“Then what is it, Miller?

“Let’s flip a coin. Heads, I tell you. Tails, you go out with me on a date”

You ripped the backpack from his hands with a violent yank, then shoved him hard on the shoulder so he stumbled back. Your voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. “What about heads, I shoot you. Tail, I shoot you.”

You open the backpack. Food, alcohol and batteries. You walk him toward a quiet corner under the eave of a prefab shack. Your voice drops while you hand his backpack back. “You are going to get yourself killed playing hero for rations and rumors.”

“Aw, darlin’, I ain’t no hero. I’m a businessman with bad clients.”

“Stop calling me darlin,” you say, but your tone had softened, like you’d forgotten how to make it sharp.

He leaned in, rain ticking on the metal above them. “Give me one good reason.”

“Because I said so.”

“That ain’t a reason,” he murmured.

You stare at him for too long. Then you thrust the pack back into his chest. “Go. Straight home. I don’t want to see you at least for two weeks.”

Tommy grinned. “You’ll miss me by Thursday.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He moved past you, then paused. “Hey, darlin?”

You don’t even turn. “What.”

“You ever get tired of bein’ the bad guy?”

Silence. Then, very quietly you reply: “No. Why asking?”

He laughs at the disappointment of your answer. “Everyone in this city’s scared to death of you. But me?” His grin softens. “I’m the only one who sees what’s behind that bandana... it’s just a sweet girl stuck playin’ FEDRA.”

The words hit like a blow you didn’t see coming. Sweet girl. You don’t let yourself be called that. You don’t let yourself be that. And you definitely can’t afford to lose respect that you build at a high cost.

You snap the rifle up, aiming center mass. “Watch your next words, Miller. You’re skating on thin ice, and your luck is bound to run out if you keep mistaking my kindness into weakness and crossing your boundaries.”

“Jesus, sorry. Chill.” He steps back, hands up. “Was meant to be a compliment.” His voice dips, playful. “Guess I’m outta practice.”

You study his face, the lines of it, the way his mouth fights not to smile. His sweet eyes. You hate that you want to laugh. “Are you hitting me again, Tommy Miller?”

“Hell,” he chuckles, “if I am, it ain’t my best shot.”

You lower the rifle with a sigh. “For a second, I thought you were about to ask if I wanted to ‘look for the light.’ I couldn’t tell if you were disrespecting authority or trying to convert me into a Firefly cult.”

His laugh is sharp and quick. “Darlin’, I know what you do to Fireflies. I ain’t near drunk enough to ask you that.”

Silence stretches, taut. Then you start, “Tommy. You’re not a fi...”

He cuts in with a laugh that’s too easy. “God, you’re simple to get in the head, sweetheart. Relax. I’m just a smuggler, that’s all. Def not looking for any God damn light”

Before you can react, he reaches for your free hand. His thumb brushes your palm, slow, deliberate. Normally you’d break an arm for less. But with him… you don’t feel invaded. You feel seen. He’s been pushing his luck for months but tonight feels different. Daring, dangerous, tender.

“I’ll pay you back someday,” he says, lifting your hand and pressing his lips to your knuckles. “For all the help you give me”. Then he lets go, as if he knows holding on longer would cost you both too much.

You can’t tell him he already paid for it three years ago in a clinic full of fear. You can’t even tell him he doesn’t even remember.

When you turn back to your post, Victor is watching. Your gut twists. Fuck. How am I going to explain this again? That’s going to be hell of a long way back home.

But after a beat, Victor looks away, deciding to ignore it. For now.

As Tommy walks away, he can’t avoid processing the feelings you cause when you are around. Your eyes…familiar, stubborn, alive, cut straight through him, leaving questions he can’t answer. You seem like someone he wants to protect, even though you don’t need to be protected. Behind that bandana is a face he aches to see, a face he swears he knows but can’t reach, and the wanting of it burns hotter than it should. Every time you let him close, it feels like warmth in a world gone cold, and he realizes he’s willing to keep breaking curfew, keep defying FEDRA, keep tempting death. Just for the excuse to meet you again.