#chapter fic

BOOM! 

An explosion rips through one of the old University of San Diego buildings behind you, quaking the ground. Dust swoops through the valley between the campus buildings, flooding the plaza with a thick fog of debris. Your arms come up, instinctive, protecting your head from falling rubble that streaks through the air like shooting stars with fire on their tails. 

Chaos erupts through the campus quad. Screams rocket through the space, then bullets. The air burns rancid, something acrid stinging its way into your nose, sharp like sulphur—hot like gunpowder. You hear barking, Hesh hollering for Riley, and as you search frantically for Rue. You scream her name right before you’re swept from your feet. 

“Get down.” 

Keegan’s growl rumbles in your ear, against your chest—which in the span of a heartbeat is pressed tight to his. His breath burns against your neck, scalding, and adrenaline kicks through your veins. Your lungs seem to open up, making you cough through the dust, your eyes focus, and your heart stutters against your ribs—looking for a way out of this mess as your eyes search for the same. 

He slams you to the ground; the ever-present pistol at your back digs in, the force of your less-that-graceful landing punches the air clean from your chest, and a gasp ricochets passed your lips. Whiplash and the wind knocked from your lungs. It’s a take down, not harsh but survival, the kind of reaction that comes from years of training muscle memory. For a fleeting breathless moment, it’s you and him—nothing more than body heat and his weight pressing you down onto the limp grass of the quad. 

And fuck do you need a drink. Or maybe five more minutes of just this. 

Or ten. Twenty? An hour? Forever? 

But then your mind catches up, and you realize Keegan is on top of you, pinning you down to the ground, tucking the pair of you half beneath your old, rusted truck for cover. 

Metal pings against metal ringing like bells in your ears, projectiles ricochet, and a half-frightened noise rips from your throat—rubbed raw from the dusty air. A cough convulses through your chest; fight or flight curls your neck muscles until your face is tucked closer to Keegan’s body, seeking cleaner air to drag in a single, untainted breath. 

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask you for permission or try to get you to cooperate, he manhandles you with bawdy efficiency until you’re on your feet. His body seems to wrap over yours as he forces you forward, pushing for each step like he’s taking ground in a battle with nothing more than sheer will and the pads of his fingers. 

You manage with shaking hands to pull your shirt up over your mouth and your feet stutter over the trembling ground. You whistle, gaze flickering—searching—for Rue, but she’s lost somewhere in the shattered reality of the broken campus, and you’re so focused on finding her that you somehow forget the weight of that pistol in your waistband. Something burning whizzes passed you; the heat rips through the air, and Keegan growls, raw and low. 

“Move.” 

It snaps something primal in you, makes your steps surer, though he steadies you when you careen over uneven ground, like the concrete was cracked from the shaking earth. Something loud slams into Keegan; you can feel his grunt, can feel the jolt of his body as he lurches against you, and his already tissue-thin patience evaporates. 

Did he just get hit? 

Before you can even think to protest, one of his arms twines around your waist and hoists you up, pressing your body to his chest as he runs. His other hand curls tight around the pistol grip of his rifle, lifting it and firing—not blindly but suppressive fire. The shots ring out in your ears—maddeningly loud—almost painful with each quick burst. Every foot fall jolts you in his arms, and each frantic squirm you make against him only seems to grate more against his already serrated edges. 

Something wet and warm seeps down where your back meets his chest, hot and scarlet and smelling like iron. 

Shit. That’s not good. 

The world dives down into chaos—but you, all you can focus on is him. Screams fade in the same way birdsong seemed to fall muted in the forest that first time you met him, like something about his air snuffs out any sensory input beyond where the lines of his body meet yours. It’s like he’s somehow managed to become your own personal signal jammer. 

You’re all too aware of how his muscles shift beneath his Kevlar, like every ridge is a target your mind tracks like a bloodhound on a scent. His gloved palm is splayed against the bare skin of your abdomen where your shirt has ridden up, and each weaponized digit digs in enough to both keep you firmly against him and leave mottled, purple marks you’ll count after all this is over. 

He turns, shifts, shoulders through a haphazardly hanging door of some dilapidated campus building that shudders when another loud boom detonates across the campus, but he doesn’t slow—doesn't put you down either. 

He hauls you deeper into the dark through the windowed foyer like Charon—just another ferryman of the river Styx. Keegan’s boots kick over tinkling broken glass, weave around toppled couches and tables, until you’re around the corner into a hall. His grip loosens, lets you slide down his body slowly like he needs that contact as much as you do, like he can’t help but drag it out, and he doesn’t let go right away as if he’s waiting to be sure your knees won’t give under the pressure—like he’d pick you right back up if they did. 

Nah—let you fall to them. You’d go easily. 

No! Good God woman! Now is not the time. 

When you don’t fold like laundry tossed aside after a long day, his gloved hand finds your shoulder—pins you against the wall just around the angle of the corner that’s blocking your sight from the shattered foyer windows and the firefight beyond them. It’s not quite a biting touch, but he’s not letting you move an inch either—out of protectiveness or a need to interrogate you over your conversation in the quad, you can’t be sure. 

His rifle dangles from a strap, the arm not spiking you to the wall is drenched in red, from his shoulder, dripping down toward his bicep and across his chest. Your belly swoops, not because you’re unaccustomed to blood—you clean kills too often for that—but because he’d carried you with that arm, even after he got hit. 

But his eyes? As he leans around the pillar of safety, fat fingers of sunlight sweep across his face, and those blue depths track across the space with a detached, deliberate focus. 

If you thought seeing him at ease was galvanizing, watching him in his element is mouthwatering. There’s something almost disarming in the way he’s so calculating. If you knew him better, you’d never have to look over your shoulder when standing by his side, because he’s already done it for you. 

The shift of his muscles when he assesses his shoulder is just as enchanting; you track the way his forearm flexes, the veins that pop against his skin. 

Jesus—you feral fucking thing. 

The man is bleeding and you’re thirsting over forearms. Get it together. 

“You were shot. Let me—” 

It’s a statement, not a question, because you felt the strain. The lurch of his muscles. The exact way he wrenched ahead then battered you forward until he got you here. The scent of copper stings your nose, makes it scrunch, and you just know the wet patch painting the back of your shirt is his blood. 

“I’m fine. It's nothing.” 

His words come out gravel-rough, sharp as the shards of glass littering the floor of the foyer he’d just dragged you through and snapping your own tongue still. 

The look that crosses your face is skeptical at best, outright cynical at worst, but you don’t have the patience or the presence to focus on that. Keegan moves before you even get the chance to extend your arm to his aid, yanking field dressings from his kit to staunch the bleeding. The glide of his movements are clinical and precise. He makes fighting and field medicine look more like a dance, like painstaking and practiced choreography. 

And he keeps you at bay, more detached than it is aporetic, as if some maneuver or statement from you has made him apprehensive. 

He hauled your ass here like it was as simple as breathing. 

Without a hitch, or even a second thought. So why look at you like an adversary now? 

His hand isn’t pinning you to the wall any longer, but he is still the bastille you’re jailed by. As though he’s the moat and you’re a fortress, but in place of keeping others out—he’s corralling you in. 

Fine, he doesn’t want your help—then you’ll pivot. 

“You need to let me go. I need to find—” 

Your words shake through the relative quiet of the hall, raining bullet fire muffled by drywall and distance. Because right now, despite the quiet warmth in your cheeks from being pressed to a man like him, what you need is to find Rue and not stare at him bleeding. It might give you thoughts; like pressing your fingers to his skin and working to ease his pain. Those are certainly things you don’t need your mind lingering on. 

Keegan cuts you off, voice sharper than you’ve ever heard it, fraying with tension. 

“You’re not going anywhere. Hesh has your dog.” 

He says it like he knows—both what you were about to ask and exactly where Rue is—and you almost argue, parting your lips to bite back at him with words instead of teeth. 

Fangs is how Rue would handle this if she were here. 

But then you hear it, soft but pointed just cutting through the resounding whine in your ears from too close gunfire. Quiet, salient commands bark through some communication device he has, tucked into his ear if you had to guess. You can’t exactly hear well enough to make out the words, just pointed snaps muted into something small. Orders or battleground intel, you have no clue, but you know whatever this is, it’s bad. 

This is why you don’t come to the market on Wednesdays. 

“You’re going to tell me, right fucking now, why you asked us about ayahuasca, and don’t make that little nine-millimeter I know you have a problem.” 

His words ring out, sharper than any gunshot, erupting in the space between you like another missile. A demand and a warning. The beast beneath his skin let out to play—or swallow you whole. It’s a warning you heed, opting to leave your Sig Sauer where it is. Your breaths squeeze tight, bottlenecking in your lungs, like your trachea is closing, and something so simple becomes laborious. 

Keegan’s eyes aren’t on you; they’re still tracking the front of the building, then down the halls both ways. Checking. Watching. Checking again. His grip on your shoulder stays firm, insistent and just this side of pain—like a warning that it could be more than it is. That he could make it worse for you. His other hand still grips the rifle, pointing it down and away, but the muscle in his arm is tight—readied—waiting for the need to crop up so he can rise to it. It’s a loop of hypervigilance—one he’s clearly molding himself to like second skin. Survival in bloodshed. Serenity in battle. 

In his element, Keegan is honed steel, as caustic as acid and durable as Kevlar. He’s not soft—not that you’ve ever seen him as such, not in your air. But now he’s less protector and more carnivore, like a wolf sucking it’s fangs to ease the primal urge to bite down into the meat of your muscle. Devour you. Monopolize your flesh until he gets what he wants. 

You ruminate, very thoroughly, the implications of telling the truth. The power held between his palms. What he could do to you if you choose silence. What he might do to you anyway. 

But you’re backed against a wall—both literally and figuratively. 

They have Rue, and no matter how much you love to hate your current predicament, the last thing you’ll do is abandon her. 

You don’t reach for the pistol—right now it would just vibrate rather uselessly in your anxious fingers anyway—but you do finally talk. Lay out truth like it’s payment for a debt, an offering of intel in return for five more minutes of him letting you breathe. 

One step at a time. Be the leaf in the current. Go with the flow. 

It’s gotten you this far. 

“Someone broke into my house. Pilfered my stores. They only took soul vine and canary grass. Both are hallucinogenic, but I don’t keep the other herb used to make ayahuasca. I just don’t know—” 

“Rorke knows where you live.” 

The growl of his statement cuts you off, because that’s true—but your mind isn’t connecting the pins he’s pushing into the murder board—digging imaginary needles into cork. You can almost see the gears in his mind turning as he glances down the hall, watching as the chain catches and the spokes swirl. Those harsh, icy eyes flick to yours—hold—then flit away again, but you see the moment the picture goes clear in his mind. 

“We’re moving and when this is over, you’re going to take us there.” 

It isn’t a request, not even close, and the thought congeals your blood. Three more people—dangerous men if the reputation of the Ghosts means anything—knowing the exact location of your bungalow. That hadn’t been a part of any of your plans—far from it. 

But you can’t just abandon Rue, and you have no idea where she is or any other way to get her back but through him. 

And it’s not like you can fight them off. You could try, not that you have any indication such a thing would go well for you. 

Keegan keeps his hand on your shoulder, studies your lineament for a long stretch before finally letting his fist fall to clutch the barrel of the rifle in his hands. He nods his head, once, jutting his chin toward the hall in a clear command. 

“Rendez-vous point is that way. Move.”  

~ 

Moving through a firefight with a trained operative is slower than you’d originally imagined it would be. You’d always thought of yourself as quiet, able to keep calm in tense situations, able to hide well in shadows and underbrush. Not that you’ve ever been near a full-on battle like this, but you’re also quickly realizing exactly how much of a poltergeist Keegan really is. 

They call him a ghost for a reason. 

Keegan treats you like a fawn, an innocent little thing that just plopped to the ground and has knees that still shake. As though you, the sweet thing you are, haven't spent the last eleven years clawing your way through the fluidity of contested front lines and still come out breathing. 

Your knees are shaking, just not for the reason he thinks. 

Every time he roughhouses you into an alcove to shelter you from the spray of hot lead—from the certainty of death—it sets your teeth on edge. Your heart might as well be drunk on him, pulse pitching higher each time his gloved paws press you against a wall, each time he crowds your air to take cover in the dip of a doorway of this decades old college lecture hall. 

At this crawling pace, everything is in slow motion, and it’s hard not to focus on the way his stalwart chest rises and falls. The granite hewn muscles that cage you against barely standing drywall for cover—a bulwark in Kevlar. A bastion between you and bloodshed. 

And if you aren’t supposed to melt mid-conflict? Your body didn’t get that memo. 

Your spine catapults out of your skin when rounds pepper the ground near your shoes, each vertebra locked and fusing together. Keegan gripes every time but dispatches the threat and growls something low and grating toward you. 

‘Don’t freeze.’ 

‘Keep moving.’ 

And even once, quiet. 

‘I’ve got you.’ 

That last one makes you go a little too gooey inside. 

But with distance, comes calm. The sounds of battle grind down to murmurs of shoots ringing out and muffled orders launched at men. Oxygen finally drowns your blood, a full breath that took much too long to heave in, and you keep pressing forward—as obstinate for survival as the overgrown forests in No Man’s Land. 

He grumbles when you walk behind him, grunts displeasure when you’re in front of him too, skeptical if you’re friend or foe. It’s like he can’t determine if he wants to shove you behind him to shield your body with his own, or push you forward so he can keep those icy eyes on you—and so you can’t put a bullet in his back. 

And maybe he just sorely underestimates how badly you want your dog back. 

Merrick and Hesh have already made their way to the rendez-vous point, and the sight of them is bittersweet. On one hand, Rue lets out a shrill bark—not like the usual rounded and full sound she whoops—but something caught between and whine and a woof. On the other, you know whatever you’ll have to face down from them will be unpleasant at best, torturous at worst. 

But you haven’t survived this long for nothing. 

And maybe you’re holding out a fraction of hope that Keegan feels whatever wild pull is between you, too. 

At the sight of Rue—unharmed if not a bit pissed off—the rigidity built up in your shoulders melts like snowcaps in the warming sun after winter. Merrick, who’s holding her by the collar, lets go. Most likely because she’s squirming and turning her head like she’ll snap her jaws around his wrist if she could just manage to get her fangs around it, break the bone. Break loose. 

Good fucking dog. 

Rue darts forward, twists until she’s underfoot, plants herself between your legs, and snarls—so vicious she might as well be foaming at the mouth. Rabid. Riley bares his teeth back at her show of aggression but doesn’t move from where he’s planted his paws—twin guardians just before a duel. Two soldiers are waiting for their orders. 

Your hand finds her vest, curls around the handle to keep her and yourself steady, because now—with her on guard—you feel like you finally have a leg to stand on. 

Just one. 

You still have yet to reach for the grip of your pistol, and you don’t reach for it now, not when three ghosts loom like shadows given flesh. A hissing command leaves your lips; Rue settles, hackles still raised like she’ll barrel through the world for you, and her caramel eyes look more like fire now than you’ve ever seen them. 

If she had been friendly before, the way they flank you killed her allowance of that kindness. 

Stone cold. Stone dead. 

“Someone broke into her house—stole hallucinogenic herbs.” 

Keegan supplies to Hesh and Merrick, like it’s a mission debrief rather than contraband you’d been concealing, and the two men go taut with something like reckoning. Assessment. Of what you can’t be sure, and you keep your stance defensive, but what’s clear is that the statement means more to them than it does to you. Some underlying thing that’s rearing it’s head, teeth bared and growling. 

Hesh hardens the most—turns his gaze on you like a panther waggling low to pounce. Seconds before a strike. 

“How well do you know Rorke?” 

You totter between truth and deception, like balancing on a tight rope 100 feet skyward. It’s not that you’re exactly seeking to lie, just conceal enough of the truth to keep your head attached and your heart pumping. 

“I’m not helping him if that’s what you’re asking.” 

The words tumble from your tongue, not quite frazzled, but not a falsehood, because that much is true. You don’t and have never sided with Rorke, not once you learned what he was. More truth spills from your lips, vehement and pragmatic like a book report. 

“He used to come down to the water. Taught me how to clean fish and how to skin deer. He used to say I reminded him of someone but never elaborated. I told him to fuck off when I found out he was working with the Federation.” 

It’s succinct, distant in its tone but whole in honesty. Rue shifts, leans against your leg in that way shepherd dogs do, like she’ll herd you to safety if you’d just let her do her fucking job. But you don’t move, don’t so much as shift your weight, keeping your shoulders squared and your stance static. When they don’t immediately put you down like a vagrant mutt, you ask a question of your own. 

“I know he’s hunting you. What I don’t understand is why you think he stole from me. He’s not an addict. What could he possibly want with hallucinogenics?” 

Hesh, Merrick, and Keegan don’t have to share a look for you to know they’re all thinking the same thing—like they share some unseen wavelength—ciphering out the risk of sharing intel with someone like you. 

But they will if they want your cooperation, and maybe their fire team realizes that, too. 

Hesh is the one to speak first, the other two studying you with sharp glares that seem to slice through you—and while Merrick’s cuts more like fire, Keegan’s feels like ice sliding over your bare skin. Gooseflesh raises along your spine in response, like the rove of his gaze is a caress. 

“Rorke started out as one of us. He was a ghost, and they used a mixture of drugs and torture to make him turn on his own team. We think he’s doing the same to Logan.” 

Logan—that man in the mask—not that you’ve seen him live, but Keegan told you about him. Merrick showed you a rough sketch. That’s what this is about then, their teammate, their friend, being tortured to the point of breaking. Murderous intent. Cain and Abel. 

Pieces start to tumble into place, like the edges of a jigsaw puzzle coming together and the picture beginning to form. From what you can gather—assume really—they have two tasks. Stop and kill Rorke and locate Logan. The Federation almost seems like an afterthought in all this. 

As best as you can tell, they think you’re the key to the lock keeping them from both. 

But you’re not going to bend that easily. Not just going to lie down and let three men into your house. 

Not if you can convince them otherwise. 

“So, one of you stations at my place, then the others are free to keep looking around.” 

It almost sounds like bargaining, like you’re quid pro quoing your way through another apocalypse market. Or maybe this is one of the stages of grief, as if your sanctuary is being stifled more with each passing moment and you’re fighting acceptance of that fact. 

You don’t mention which one of them should come with you, but the way you’re gaze always falls victim to Keegan’s gravity is enough to grant anyone with any perception skills hints. 

You’re not trying to get him alone. You’re not trying to get him alone. You’re NOT trying to get him alone. 

“I could treat his injury, and he can hang around until Rorke shows again. I have supplies, herbs, knowledge. I can help” 

You’re totally trying to get him alone. 

It’s almost placating, like trying to haggle with unruly toddlers, not that they seem impulsive or immature, but because you don’t know them well enough to know what they’ll do next. Nor do you believe them to be remotely agreeable. 

And the way you say it. You can help. As in, you can help willingly and they’ll get more out of it, or they can drag you kicking and screaming and you could, theoretically speaking, poison them all. 

Hypothetically. Of course. 

But if they’re going to end up at your place anyway, then you’re going to fight for some level of control over who winds up sharing your space and for how long. 

And maybe Keegan just seems like the best roommate at this point. 

Not that you know him well—better than the others, though not by a wide margin—but he seems...doable. 

Tolerable. You mean tolerable. 

No, you don’t. 

“Fine.’” 

Merrick is the one who says it, almost like an order, as though you’re just another soldier under his command, like a pawn in a game for him to position as he wills. 

“Keegan goes with the girl. Comms check-ins every few hours. If anything even seems amiss, you call.” 

Merrick yanks a map out of his pack, unfurls it and thrusts it toward you expectantly. It’s clear enough without words. He wants to know where he can find his friend if it comes down to that. 

It was too good to be true from the start. 

You hesitate, only long enough for him to wriggle it at you expectantly with what looks to be a grimace on his face, and you finally jab your finger in the general location of your bungalow. 

You turn away, a bit huffy, then back to them—well, to Keegan. His eyes meet yours, like he hasn’t looked away, not even once, and you can’t tell if it’s welcoming or wanton or warning. The gravity forcing your gaze to remain permanently glued to him eases, and you look away. 

Cool. Cool. Cool. 

This is fine. Everything’s fine. 

What could possibly go wrong? 

It’s not like he’s going to make you melt against the sheets too, right?

“...married to Renee Devereaux shortly after his release. Looks like they’ve mainly made their living in farm-to-table products. Devereaux worked in interior design before retiring early. No next of kin on either side and it seems like they travel once a year on average.”

“Livin’ the dream,” Leon mutters, taking in the muted blue theme of his lodgings. 

From where he stands, he can see through the window of his balcony door where the darkness of the rural countryside stretches endlessly save for the porch lights of a small, shingled home to the right of the property that had not been visible upon arrival – per Hunnigan’s live research, the home is the original structure where the Jessops mainly reside even after the current home had been mostly planned and built by Beau himself. Both buildings are connected by a short breezeway for easier access.

“No alarms on my end, but keep an eye out if there’s anything else I can assist with.”

“You got it.”

There’s a long pause in which Leon assumes Hunnigan is done reporting for now, but Leon stops as he pushes off the dresser when her voice cuts in again.

“Is everything all right with…”

Hunnigan’s professionalism is less evident as she trails off and Leon is about to ask what she means when his eyes dart toward the folder he’d set on the bedside table.

Thankfully, she hadn’t given him the lecture he had dreaded after sobering from the reveal. The partnership has been going long enough now that casual check-ins weren’t exactly out of the norm, but this new reality is something Leon isn’t quite ready to tackle when he hasn’t fully absorbed it himself.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Another bit of silence, and then: “Understood. Goodnight, Leon – and get some rest for once.”

“Fat chance. Later, Ingrid.”

The silence stretches as his gaze remains fixed on the folder. Leon’s ears strain to identify any movement on the other side of the wall opposite him and he even crosses the space past the four-poster bed to close some distance between himself and the wall. Still nothing.

Clearly the exhaustion had gotten to you, and it takes the reminder that Chris and Claire were vigilant from a distance to discourage him from stepping out onto the balcony just to be certain.

Leon lingers a moment longer before finally allowing his feet to carry him to the edge of his bed, where he remains standing and staring at the contents of his side table. As uncharacteristically comfortable as the lodgings are in this particular mission, sleep doesn’t call to him. It never did.

And why is he stalling? All it would take was a simple tug at the corner of the manilla folder to reveal its contents. 

With all the horrors and evils he’s faced over the last few years, none have ever invoked the raw ache in the pit of his stomach that accompanied accountability and time lost. All the faces of those he’d failed in his lifelong sentence haunted him as soon as his eyes shut, but the face of a child he’d never met made sleep damn near impossible.

The promise of some negligible fraction of closure is what encourages him to get over himself and pull the stack of memories out.

Leon looks through a mix of developed photos and polaroids, the edge of the mattress slowly giving in to his weight beneath him. It seems that you chose photos that barely featured you, if at all, and Leon is thankful only because it would merely add to the sting spreading from his gut.

The first few are of Stella through various stages of infancy, innocent and ignorant of the world around her…and beautiful. 

The very top of the stack holds one of the few with you featured in it, holding a sleeping newborn on a hospital bed and leaning down to rest your cheek against hers while a team of fellow ER friends form a protective barrier at either side of your bed. Leon recognizes Liv immediately among them, her eyes red like the rest of them from what Leon can assume are tears.

The baby pictures that follow are exclusively of Stella. 

One with her peering up at her crib’s mobile with wide eyes; an unmistakable awareness in them as she reaches up with two tiny hands,

Another a few months later: a summer pool day with Stella in a canopied float, wearing a bucket hat and large sunglasses over a scrunched button nose as she flashes a gummy smile. Leon recognizes your hand in the frame holding the float still as baby Stella grips your thumb and it makes his lips quirk if only for a moment.

Another at a birthday party with a few of your coworkers, clearly at her mobile stage of development as one nurse friend holds Stella’s tiny hands while she’s lifting a foot to try and step forward.

Leon’s jaw sets and he quickly flips through the stack to weed out the baby pictures. He tells himself it’s for the sake of time; that he’ll look through the milestones he’s missed later when he wasn’t so on edge.

The more recent ones didn’t even help the matter. 

Class photos where Stella is easily identifiable among her taller classmates. More birthdays that he’s missed. Grade school assemblies and awards that he’s missed. Camping trips. Field trips. Museum trips.

They’re all a blur as he flips through them without lingering on any because he’s greeted with the same face evolving through time that they would never get back. There was no denying that Stella was his; timing aside, certain quirks in her expression – especially unserious candid moments – reflected remnants of an absent father. Any sense of pride at her accomplishments are quickly overshadowed by knowledge of his own absence until shaking hands flip the stack upside down with a sharp intake of breath through his nostrils.

Leon wonders how on earth he’s supposed to face her if he can barely stomach looking at photos of her. Maybe…just maybe…it wouldn’t hurt as much once he knows she’s safe and he can properly atone for the time lost.

He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees while he holds a stack of drawings limply in both hands, his thumb brushing over a faded pink fingerprint left behind unintentionally. Leon can’t make sense of what Stella tried to convey in some of the pieces; many seemed to be colorful swirls or warped trees that looked more like Dr. Seuss-inspired acid trips. Stella seemed to favor the color blue or underwater settings with schools of fish, notable corals, and jellyfish whose tentacles filled the entire page.

There were your average stick figure family drawings with the appropriate labels, but in lieu of a notable father figure, the letters that spelled out “L-I-V” felt worse than the bullet he’d taken in the shoulder as a rookie.

Leon holds no ill feelings for the woman; if anything, he owes her for all the years he’s missed, but he would constantly look back on what he might have been willing to admit or even save if Liv hadn’t been mediating that day. 

It was humbling to recognize shortly after that blaming your best friend was a cop-out when he’d built your foundation on naive, blind hope that lying would prevent the inevitable outcome.

That’s  enough for now.

Leon sets the stack on his nightstand and runs his palms through his face with a low groan. The air is heavy and suffocating despite the spacious room and it’s all it takes for Leon to push himself off the edge of the bed and make his way out of the bedroom, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

Wall sconces dimly light the hallway with a warm glow as he pads along the Victorian runner toward the stairs, where darkness engulfs the foyer below save for a table lamp and some additional light filtering through the east wing of the home. He follows it to a pair of frosted double doors that lead into a cozy parlor that functioned as both a sitting area and game room. 

Another pair of double doors on the opposite side are half-open and lead out to the wraparound porch, offering a view of the breezeway and stone pathway leading toward a one-story cottage.

Leon’s ears perk as footsteps round the corner from the closed half of the exit, and a familiar portly figure jumps at the sight of him, nearly dropping a stack of linens that had briefly blocked his vision.

“Shit! Are ya tryin’ ta kill me??”

Leon hesitates before moving to help Beau with the pile, but he jerks away with an annoyed grunt and sets it on a card table.

“Did y’all need something?” He asks with the enthusiasm of a criminally underpaid food service worker.

“You’re not the hospitality guy here, are you?” Leon asks bluntly.

“Nope. That’s all Nen.” Beau’s thumbs loop under his overalls and his mustache tilts this way and that, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on Leon as if daring him to give the B&B a shitty review that very second. “I do all the housekeepin’ stuff while she gets her beauty sleep so she can deal with y’all.”

“Well, I won’t make you ‘deal’ with me. I just need some fresh air.”

“S’what the  balcony’s for.”

Leon closes his eyes for a beat, then sighs and turns with the intention of heading out the front door, stopping when Beau’s attitude takes a backseat long enough to ask, “You good, son?”

“Fantastic.” He doesn’t even bother masking the annoyance in his tone, but he sighs a second later. “Long travel day.”

“Mm.” Beau doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, spirits ain’t included with lodging but seein’ as you look like you seen one…”

Leon turns to look at him with some surprise as Beau makes his way back out. He follows him out to the porch where a rattan furniture set offers comfort with a view of the orchard, now bathed in scattered outdoor lighting creating a path toward where he sat.

Sitting out here with his thoughts seemed a good enough way to spend the night. A soft clink draws his attention back toward Beau, emerging from the cottage with a pair of tiny glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other.

Leon raises a brow. “Is that homemade?”

Beau snorts. “Depends. You with the feds?”

“Uh…no?”

His host stops dead in his tracks, brows drawn together as he narrows his gaze on Leon. “Well I was jokin’ but now I ain’t so sure.”

“I’m not!” Hands come up in defense. “I’m just wondering now if you’re the one who’s trying to kill me.”

“Tsk. It won’t kill you, but it may hurt if you’re a pussy. Didn’t take you for a pussy.”

“You’re giving me mixed signals here, Beau.”

“Since ya don’t think I’m the hospitality guy, I’ll be happy ta grab a goddamn bottle of Jameson –”

Leon holds his palm out and Beau hands him a glass that wouldn’t even be able to fit a socially acceptable shot of whatever. The amount that Beau pours is crystal clear and smells like jet fuel and Leon may have hesitated had the man not poured one for himself.

“I don’t whip this out unless Nen’s real mad at me for somethin’ and that’s rare. Figured you’re in hot water with your lady up there.”

“What makes you think that?” Leon asks a little too abruptly.

“Girl’s barely looked at you. Wants a separate room an’ all.”

“That’s just what she prefers.”

“Yeh. What she prefers.”

“And if that’s what she wants, I’m fine with it.”

“Mhm.”

“Is everyone around here this nosy?”

“Son, everyone in the south is nosy but you won’t catch me gossipin’ about your issues. You’re just passin’ through and tomorrow’s a new day anyway. I’ll forget all about ya in a week.”

Beau downs the shot and lets out a cough but hardly reacts as he leans back against the porch railing. Leon twists the glass here and there, staring at its contents and sighing.

“It’s, uh…complicated.”

“Always is, but a piece of advice from a guy who’s seen plenty’a shit – s’only gonna be as complicated as you let it be.”

Leon narrows his eyes at Beau, but he isn’t going to argue with a stranger who couldn’t even grasp just how complicated he himself made things. Instead, he avoids further comment by downing the sample sized alcohol only to immediately regret his decision. 

The burning sensation clung to his throat as it traveled down; even if he spit it out, there was no escaping the fire that spread all the way down his chest, making his eyes water and clearing Leon’s sinuses so much he was sure he could hear colors.

His fist slammed against his own chest as he coughed. Once. Twice. 

Goddamn, when did it stop?

Beau simply watches and waits for Leon to get his shit together as second by agonizing second ticks by. When he finally straightens, Leon wishes his looks could kill.

“See? Y’ain’t dead. First one’s always the hardest.” And he pours another. It takes only a few silent counts before Leon wordlessly accepts it. 

At least the second time around, he was too numb to care.

→ ✶ CH 10

A/N: It's a bit short because I was going to split this into Leon/Reader POVs, but I feel like it kind of takes away from Leon's moment here. I hope you guys liked it! I promise the next won't take two months. It won't even take a week!

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As much as you begged Leon to keep you in the loop moving forward, you’d come to regret it the moment he shared this particular development. The details had been murky at best because according to him, there had been no indication that anyone would know where to find the base. 

Agent Grier was left at the doorstep with a fatal wound between the eyes, discovered by another agent during a midday swap. The lack of any evidence so far has been the reason for the delay as the others scramble to find evidence and an alternative safe spot.

The time on Rebecca’s watch reads just after seven. No wonder you’re going stir-crazy – as if you weren’t already.

Leon and the Redfields have been discussing the next course of action closer to the cockpit while you sit in your seat across from Rebecca, a fold-up table separating you as she preps a tray with vacutainers, syringes, and needles. When you offer to help, she all but shoos your hand out of the way.

“You’re off the clock. I’m not gonna make you work,” she mutters lightly, then adds with a flat smile: “I’m also going to need the leg-shaking to stop.”

“Sorry…” You haven’t even realized it until the sudden stillness makes your jaw clench.

“It’s okay.” Rebecca fastens a tourniquet around your upper arm. “I’m sure we’ll be free soon – may as well make the wait count, right?”

“Yeah.” Your voice quivers and you wince at the sting, but you keep looking straight ahead. Leon and Chris are speaking in hushed tones that don’t carry across the space while Claire seems to offer occasional input, apparently mediating as she holds a hand up between them to interrupt them.

“I looked over Stella’s labs again.”

Rebecca’s conversational tone shifts your gaze to hers, but she’s focused on switching tubes out.

“She’s healthy, of course, but I didn’t spot anything that would explain the healing.” Her eyes shift upward for a second, then back down. “Although, I didn’t see a serology panel and I’m sure she may have inherited antibodies from Leon at the very least.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think…” You tense up, a few nonsensical stutters making you pause with a sharp sigh until you get a grip. “...I mean, she mostly just went in for check-ups. Besides that, I didn’t worry about…maybe I should have –”

“You wanted to protect her. There’s no shame in that.” She responds softly and smiles. Your shoulders relax. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Your eyes burn and when you swallow, it feels like acid coating your throat. “After  what happened, I was surprised when the labs came back looking normal – but it was a relief, I guess. You never know what people are capable of.”

Clearing your throat and tilting your head, you add dryly: “Well, I guess I do.”

“You can do everything right, but it won’t change all the wrong in the world.” Rebecca’s voice is almost a whisper and you can see her shake her head out of the corner of your eye. “Doesn’t stop us from trying to stop it, though; it’s a blessing and a curse.”

“And that agent?” Your voice finally breaks, but it seems you’ve grown so used to crying, you can control the need to fully give in with just a couple of deep breaths.

Rebecca has already finished and has moved on to halting the blood flow but she pauses while winding gauze around your arm to look up at you, her eyebrows drawn together as you continue.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. Leon wouldn’t have known to call me. I’d be home right now thinking I would never see Stella again because realistically…” The trembling of your lips makes you pause. When you try to take another deep breath, it feels like your lungs are filling with water. “...I know now that I can get her back…and all h-he got in return w-was a bullet to the h-head…”

You trail off as you punctuate the last few words with a couple of involuntary sobs as you notice the corners of Rebecca’s lips trembling.

“It’s…a thankless job,” Rebecca whispers.

“More risk than reward?” You ask dryly.

“Sadly, yes.” She carefully packs the samples and removes her gloves. “We all know the risk – as did the agent. It still doesn’t make it right or fair and it certainly doesn’t make it any easier, but it gives us a motive to continue for the sake of those lost along the way. We’ve been able to de-escalate a few catastrophes along the way because of people like Agent Grier.”

You shift in your seat and shake your head, but the others approach before you can respond. Ducking your head, you quickly brush away the mist clouding your vision.

“You all right?” Leon asks when your head lifts again.

“Define all right...” The words come out before you can think, and you draw in a breath. “I’d be happy to get off this plane finally.”

“That’s why we’re here!” Claire chimes in, a bit strained.

“Well, I’m just about done here. I’m gonna go pack up and get these to the lab.” Rebecca grabs her materials and thanks you before carefully weaving past the others.

“So we have a new base?”

“Well, sort of…” Claire glances at the other two. “We’ll have to take some precautions. Some of Leon’s guys are gonna move in and keep an eye on things covertly now that Grier’s –”

She makes a face, but doesn’t need to finish for you to understand.

“It’ll be best if we all spread out.” Chris adds. “We have the benefit of avoiding eyes on us since we just got here but there’s too much hanging in the air for us to risk grouping up.

Your fingertips flex atop the table and you break out in a sweat that has nothing to do with the local climate.

“I’m not going back.”

“Obviously.”

“Chris.” Leon speaks through gritted teeth and crosses his arms. The lines that appear as he grimaces soften when he looks at you. “You’re staying with me.”

Your lips part and close. The blood loss has clearly made you a bit woozy and it takes a second for you to search for a way to say no. Finally, you scoff. “What about Claire?”

“She’s coming with me,” Chris mumbles. “‘less you wanna pair up with her as a meat shield when things go to shit.”

A choked sound escapes your throat but Claire shoves her brother into an aisle seat and all you can stupidly follow up with is, “Rebecca?”

“She’ll be close, but behind the scenes,” Claire says softly, but she’s side-eyeing Leon.

“I brought you here. I said I’d keep you safe. You’re not leaving my sight,” Leon declares, and you huff in response.

“If it was up to you, I wouldn’t even be here!”

“And that’s still an option, but I have a feeling you’ll say no.”

You throw your hands up. “Okay, whatever. Where the hell are we going? If I don’t get off this thing in the next minute, I’m gonna do something drastic.”

“There’s a B&B run by a couple of locals just east of town.”

“And you’re okay with that?!” You recall something about base being at least half an hour away.

Chris releases a long sigh as he straightens. “Woulda gone with the motel, but comms informed us it’s closed for remodeling. Convenient.”

“I don’t understand. Someone staying at that motel died!” You look from one to the other, exasperated.

“Like Claire said, we’re moving in now that things have escalated and hiding in plain sight might be our best shot for now. It’s also another reason why we can’t just waltz into town grouped up – might as well beg them to off us –”

“Your bedside manner is horrible,” you blurt out, and for once the perpetual wrinkle between Chris’s brows disappears for a beat.

Claire’s lips press together as she crosses her arms and looks down while the other two remain silent.

“Whatever, just get me out of here.”

You don’t wait for confirmation, moving past them and unintentionally bumping Chris’s larger form back toward the aisle seat.

You’re sick of traveling. It makes you feel like you’re rubber banding from one end of the country to the other with no end in sight. The unassuming rental car – a damned pickup truck – made you feel more tightly packed than the airplane.

With only a center console separating you from Leon, all you can do is fold into yourself, your knees pulled up and angled toward the right, and your arms crossed as you rest your head on the side and watch the blur of trees pass you by. 

Suddenly you regret tossing both your personal bag and luggage onto the covered bed of the truck without thinking twice about it; holding Stella’s bunny right now would alleviate the tight pull of your shoulders and the bag could provide a decent enough barrier on the console.

“I’m sorry.” Leon breaks the silence, his fingertips drumming on the steering wheel. “We had a plan – didn’t expect whoever was ten steps ahead.”

You don’t doubt that Leon’s men were competent, but something about the discovery makes you feel exposed. Talking about it further when you’re so wound up doesn’t help.

“So, what – is this where we come up with code names?” You ask quietly.

The few seconds of silence makes you squirm in your seat.

“Maybe – if you want. These missions are time sensitive as soon as we have the sign to move in; an alias for a few hours to a day or two isn’t usually the norm.” 

Leon pauses. The gravelly switch in his voice prevents you from asking about what exactly would warrant an alias as it gnaws at you. “Grier’s the sign. Just need a ‘who’ and ‘where’ before the clock starts ticking.”

“Hm.” 

How quick are these missions really when you’ve been in limbo for more than two weeks? You hold your tongue only because you can’t stomach another back-and-forth. Your eyes actually feel heavy without having to force them shut.

What you need now is to just shut everything out.

“Wake me up when we get there,” you mutter and close your eyes.

There’s no immediate answer. You can’t help partially opening your eyes and turning your head just enough to look at him; Leon grips the steering wheel hard enough for you to see the superficial veins running the length of his forearm, but it’s only a split second before he relaxes his grip. You quickly shut your eyes again.

“You got it.”

All you hear after his response is the motor running, then a long sigh and some shuffling. Your curiosity finally gets the better of you and you turn your head and open your eyes fully to find a navy blue jacket that Leon had tossed in the cramped back seat now blocking your view of him.

You blink and think twice before slowly reaching for it, watching Leon as he keeps his eyes on the road.

“In case you need something to rest your head on,” he murmurs.

“Thanks,” you breathe and fold one sleeve of the jacket beneath your cheek, letting the rest of it drape over your front.

It’s a much better alternative to having your head roll this way and that on the side panel and you feel your body relax fully as you close your eyes. 

There’s a familiarity in the woody, citrusy scent clinging to the jacket that you’re certain might make you sick if you weren’t so damn exhausted. 

You barely have time to process it before nodding off with no effort.

“Hey – we’re here.”

Five more minutes, you think with a soft groan, turning your head toward the jacket’s fabric, drawing in a long breath.

God, that smells so –

You catch yourself mid-smile before your body tenses and straightens just as the driver’s side door shuts behind Leon, giving you a second to ground yourself and push the jacket off your lap. 

The spike of energy that follows might be from your sudden erratic heartbeat or a result of the first successful nap you’ve had in far too long. Part of you wants to keep it going the moment you actually have a real bed to lie on – you’ll likely be playing the waiting game some more until another significant development pops up anyway, right?

As soon as you complete the thought, however, you feel your heart ache with the reminder of why you’re here in the first place.

A knock on the passenger’s side makes you jump and you look out the window to see Leon checking on you.

“You sleep okay?” He asks as you open the door and you nod, standing on wobbly legs and taking a moment to breathe in the fresh breeze after feeling trapped for so long.

“I’ll grab my stuff as soon as we check in,” you say hoarsely.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get our stuff.”

“You really don’t have to –”

“You gave blood earlier and just woke up after an hour-long ride. I’d rather not risk injury.”

“I’m fine!”

Leon doesn’t entertain the argument further, tilting his head toward the house in front of you. “After you.”

You roll your eyes, looking forward instead about how you’re that much closer to a bed. Then you turn toward the cream colored Queen Anne-style home and gasp.

Suddenly, you’re almost grateful that you’re able to see the property just before the sun sets. You weren’t sure what to expect from a rural town you’d never heard of, but this home alone surpasses any expectations. 

It’s no mansion, but the “Peachtree Inn, est. 1979” sign takes you by surprise given that the paint job seems brand new and the white accents adorning the circular tower, wraparound porch, and windows are a work of art in their own right.

It’s a lone building with acres of land spanning behind it that includes a pristinely curated orchard of peach trees and additional farmland with harvestables that you can’t make out from where you stand. A quick survey of the land shows just how isolated the area is, but when you turn, you see that the road Leon had driven descends reasonably – enough to offer a glimpse of a few buildings about a mile away and a few other residential homes scattered in the distant hills.

As you get closer, you see another sign hanging beneath the bed and breakfast’s name that says, “Home of Jessop Jams!”

“I don’t know what I expected,” you whisper.

“Not bad?” Leon’s lips lift in a half-smile as he ushers you to move ahead of him.

You choose to walk beside him instead. “It’s really nice, actually.”

“RENEE, WE GOT GUESTS.”

You jump and press your hand against your chest as a gruff male voice cuts through the serenity of your surroundings.

You don’t spot its source right away, but hear a series of beeps and a motor as a golf cart of all things appears from behind the home. A portly man in denim overalls with short, salt and pepper hair beneath a wide-brimmed hat is behind the wheel. His pristinely groomed handlebar mustache, however, must be one hell of an icebreaker.

There’s no time to react or even greet him as you hear the screen door open and a shrill voice answering: “Well, not if you scare them off, honey!”

A middle-aged woman with kind features and freckled, sun-kissed skin stands on the porch, looking over the railing at the man with hands planted firmly on her hips. She wears a pink tank top and ankle-length jeans beneath a floral apron, her dark hair pulled up in a high ponytail and hidden beneath a pink bandana.

“Not scared at all,” you laugh nervously.

“I might be a little scared.” Leon mutters under his breath before either can get close enough to hear, but you nudge his arm with your elbow as subtly as you can manage.

The woman then turns to you and offers a bright smile. “Hey there! I’m Renee. That kooky ol’ curmudgeon over there is my husband, Beau. Welcome to Peachtree Inn!”

“What’d you call me??”

You and Leon speak over each other, offering a long-winded “Hiii!” and “Thaaanks!” respectively.

The golf cart halts between Renee and the two of you, making you stop abruptly as Leon’s arm extends to block your way and keep you from moving further.

Beau looks Leon up and down and then huffs, turns off the ignition, and mumbles something under his breath as he rounds the cart.

“Got any bags you need help with?”

“We’ll be fine. Appreciate it.” 

“F’you insist.” Beau doesn’t make much of an effort beyond that as he lifts his hands and shrugs, looking back at Renee. “I’m done here, then.”

Before Beau walks back to his cart, he tips his hat politely at you, then side-eyes Leon. You aren’t sure what to make of it, but it’s probably the closest thing to entertainment you’ve had in a while.

“But I’m jus’ warnin’ you now, son: mind yours and tone down whatever the hell’s got Nen all starry-eyed.”

“Sir, I just got here.” Leon answers flatly, but your ear perks at the amusement in his tone.

“And I been with my wife longer than you been alive. All’s I’m saying is you can afford to get a little ugly. Builds character.”

“You offering?”

Beau loops his thumbs through his overall straps and huffs in amusement, then turns to make his way up the porch steps. You exchange a look with Leon that has you both pursing your lips to keep from laughing as you follow.

The foyer and entrance to the home is tastefully decorated with not much more than a compact front desk by the stairs, a loveseat, and an area rug; the upkeep displayed on the outside of the home is just as noticeable indoors, with time-appropriate accents bringing the room together.

“Are y’all comin’ up from Savannah?” Renee asks.

“Heading down, actually,” Leon responds and you force a smile.

“Oh, you’re gonna love it – most people do, at least. If you’re stickin’ around, we also have a few brochures lined up. Mosston’s small, but we’ve got a cute historic town square with plenty to see. And y’all get to take a jar of our peach jam home with you. It’s complimentary when they’re in season –”

You’re half-listening as you read some of the brochure titles lining the front desk. There’s a few on the history of Mosston, others on seasonal water activities by the river, and some others advertising the shops at “Old Mosston’s” town square.

“– and if you love nature but hate hiking like Beau, the Spanish moss in town and on the road leading in is a hit with visitors. Might sound a bit weird, but I promise it’s a sight.”

“Guess we can branch out for a day.”

Your immediate reaction is to scoff and look at Leon, who seems satisfied with himself as Renee laughs.

“Well, thank goodness you got yourself a funny one. My Beau had me in stitches when we were goin’ steady.”

Realization dawns on you over what Beau said about Leon ‘minding’ his and you immediately stutter to deny it, but Leon interrupts.

“My ego definitely needed that, ma’am.”

She waves her hand as she takes Leon’s information, her tone relaxed but conversational. As she adds his name to the guest log, you don’t see very many names above it aside from ‘Alyssa A.’ dated about two months prior.

“So, are y’all on a couple’s trip? Just usin’ good ol’ PTO? Mayyyybe a honeymoon –”

“No!” You respond without thinking.

Renee’s still smiling, but her eyes widen as she looks at you. When you open your mouth to try for damage control, a strained noise comes out.

“I’m so sorry.” Renee groans and pinches her nose. “I get in the habit of askin’ too much but I know city folk like to keep to themselves sometimes. We don’t get a whole lotta guests at the tail end of summer usually and my customer service gets a bit rusty.”

Leon is handing her a card and your eyes dart from it to Leon and back again.

“And because I’m bein’ so damn nosy, I don’t mind offerin’ up our best for the same rate as our regular rooms.”

“That…won’t be necessary.” You laugh nervously. You feel Leon nudge your right side and you take a step to the left. “And we aren’t married.”

“Oh…?” Renee’s face grows red by the second and she covers her mouth. It’s clear she thinks she’s only digging herself deeper and it’s as endearing as it is mortifying for you. “I’m so sorry, I –”

“W-we aren’t married…” You feel your heart in your throat as you scramble for anything to say that might lessen the blow of this failed conversation. While Leon seems capable of lying without batting an eyelash, you’re slowly coming to the realization that might just back yourself into a corner for no reason and possibly fuck up the only temporary ‘base’ available. Not to mention, Renee’s obvious guilt alone makes you want to rethink your impulsiveness. 

“...and because we aren’t married, I would prefer not sharing a room.”

You manage one self-congratulatory nod and a strained smile, nearly sighing with relief as you see realization dawn on Renee’s face.

“Well, that’s fine.” She laughs softly, her tone easing into something that you often used when Stella needed reassurance. “I know the south’s got a bit of a reputation, but we ain’t gonna judge if that’s the case, darlin’.”

“Aaaand…that’s so sweet.” Your hands flex at your sides and you hesitate before moving closer to Leon once again to wrap an arm around his lower back. “But it’s all right. He’s used to it.”

While your stance might give the illusion of closeness, you’re careful not to press into his side and Leon remains still despite the obvious muscle spasm beneath his ribs where you’d initially touched.

“Sorry, I should have led with that.” Leon makes a show of tapping his temple. “Been a long twenty-four…you can hold both rooms on the card, no problem.”

“Well, rest up. Usually we shoot for breakfast at nine, but I don’t mind going by what works for y’all.”

After the check-in process is completed, you’re practically rushing to grab your things. Renee leads you upstairs to your rooms, emphasizing – to your horror – that they’re adjacent and share a balcony that overlooks the orchard.

“Great. Thanks so much.” You say. After Renee gives a spiel about needing anything and dialing her extension if you need anything, you quickly thank her and wave a hand at Leon when she heads back downstairs.

“I need to sleep some more. See you tomorrow.”

You don’t wait for a response as you enter the room. You wait until you hear his own door shut before your shoulders drop and you set your things aside to survey the cozy area. 

While you hadn’t seen any of the other rooms, it was clear that the theme of this one was some kind of deep, plum rococo style and a breathtaking view of the orchard from the home’s rounded tower windows. They fashioned a sitting area with upholstered chairs, a coffee table, and a loveseat while the bed sat dead center with a soft, plum-colored duvet and a matching bench at the end.

A second door with small windows leads out to the balcony, while a third on the opposite end of the room likely leads to the restroom. The decor is a little less extravagant, but you immediately make a mental note to get in the clawfoot bathtub as soon as you’re sure you won’t nod off inside it.

You didn’t expect such a gem in the middle of nowhere and the thought that Stella might love it is enough to carry your feet toward the bed where you lay face-down and close your eyes to avoid lingering on the reminder any longer.

→ ✶ CH 9

A/N: THANKS, GUYS. I HOPE YOU LIKED THIS ONE. I hope this story doesn't feel like it's dragging too much, but I promise the residents will certainly get evil in the near future. Also, stupid pointless side tangent, but I just really thought the golf cart would be a funny little thing and then realized that this is an RE fic, not freakin' Shaun of the Dead, and there is no way I'm going to have zombies swarming a golf cart because that visual is not on par with what I want out of this fic LMFAO okay I'm so sorry for the rambling today. <3

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Sargeant Russ had been right about the trout. A hover—maybe more than one—was all but leaping from the river, and any dog less trained than Rue would have rocketed into the chilled water on prey drive alone. 

You’d caught plenty of them, more than enough for yourself and Rue to feast, and you trudge with your bucket full, even more wriggling and slung on lines over your shoulder back toward your slice of beachfront property. The canopy above is alive; birds flit through the leaves, flickering light and shadows on the floor below, and twitter their songs merrily. Rue prances happily at your side, fur still wet from rushing through the river once allowed, and her eyes flicker between you and the trail. Admiration maybe? Or love? 

She wants those trout and you damn well know it. 

Spoiled mutt. 

Off in the distance is an unnatural rustling of leaves. It’s feet stamping, too noisy for anyone trying to keep from being caught, and if they aren’t worried about coming across you; then you certainly don’t want to run into them. 

You’ve made plenty of friends for one day as it is. 

Just inside the tree line—before you break out into the orange glow of a sunset evening—you pause at the sound; heart rising slow and steady until it sockets in your throat. You crouch down behind a bramble narrowly avoiding thorns, a silent signal for Rue to stop moving, and you coo like a Mourning dove. 

Get down. Stay hidden. Stay quiet. 

A silent stalemate. 

She does, crouching down like a predator poised to pounce, and your ears strain at the same time hers perk up and twist. 

Murmuring voices that only stay quiet because they’re at a distance prickle the edges of your attention, make your hair stand on end and lick goosebumps down your nape. Most of it you can’t catch, but you can tell it’s a group. The best you can tell, they’re agitated, looking for some unnamed someone. 

And that gives you pause. 

Because your new Sargeant—no, not yours you reprimand mid thought—is out to find someone, too. This mysterious Logan character, and when you hear that name floating through the trees like a secret hissed on the wind, you realize that siding with your masked man, means crossing whomever this group is. 

And you still haven’t discovered who’s broken into your stores and looted them like some common, street corner gas station. 

You stay hunched down and hunkered, eyes trained on Rue as you listen to the distant chatter grow closer, booted feet snapping branches beneath heavy thuds, then further away again. Its contents are disturbing at best. 

Seemingly, from what you can glean from the broken bits you do hear, Logan was taken by this group and held captive in some kind of backhanded experimentation—like torment alone could turn brother on brother. Then you hear it, the term that turns your heated blood to frozen slush, swirling through your veins like a slushie in a movie theatre machine. Ayahuasca. Soul vine and chacruna. 

It seems your Sargeant is in deeper than he expects. 

And you wonder if he has any clue what he’s getting into. 

Seemingly, these are the assholes who broke into your stash, though you can’t be certain, and you have no explanation for the missing canary grass. But a lead is a lead, nonetheless. 

You wait, kneel low in the grass for longer than it takes for the voices to be silenced by distance, and for the leaves and underbrush to quiet back into the calm familiar rustling that comes with an undisturbed wilderness.  

Then you scurry home, quick steps like you've got flames licking at your spine. 

And now you’re running from two things. 

That group of men, and whatever the hell emotions Sargeant Russ pulled from the recesses of your wild imagination. 

Because the things you were picturing when you’d met him earlier? Yeah—less than holy. 

And who could blame you, you’ve been trapped here in a warzone without a wanton touch from anyone in a decade. It’d be surprising if you hadn’t gone all gooey for him, but the absolute last thing you need is a schoolyard crush on a mystery man with big hands and broad shoulders and— 

You’re doing it again. 

NO. Bad girl. 

It’s not like you can trust him. Not like you know him well enough to. You haven’t even seen his face and you’re molten like a chocolate bar in the summer sun. 

But oh, what it would be like to let your hair down—your guard—let yourself soften against something steady and strong. Stable. He seemed sturdy enough. And capable. 

For the first time in a long time, you lock your door when you get home, jimmy the rusted old lock until it latches. Rue plants herself between your feet at the end of the night, back to you and ears readied like satellites, like the tension in the salt air is far too much for her to ignore. 

~ 

Wednesday morning you walk Rue like normal, down the sandy shore with a half-chewed stick you found along the way, and to the tidepools. Your bucket of shells is three quarters full by the time you hit your familiar rocky outcropping and your cushion star is still there, clinging to a new rock face. 

But ever present. 

A deep blue royal star has joined the tide pool club and it lingers near the cushion star, like two different halves of a whole slamming together. Two rare kinds, different from each other but both beautiful in their own right. 

There’s a bright, violet urchin in one deeper pool of water, spiny and lonesome. It’s beautiful and prickly—maybe too much like yourself. Rue trails another crab across the rocks, paws dancing in place but never venturing close, and she only backs off when the waves crash hard against the rocks, splashing you and splotching your clothes in saltwater. 

You take it as your sign to head back. 

Along the way like every day since the break in, your stomach flops. It’s hard not to expect the worst every time you leave now. 

But you come back to a quiet bungalow, nothing more than crashing waves and tinkling seashell windchimes. Serenity broken by low expectations and you pray that one day, this place can feel like a haven once again. 

Against both your habits and better judgement, you pack your rickety old Ford with what supplies you have to trade—a bucket and a half of salt, jars of freshly pickled cucumbers and onions, canned pears and jams, and a few stray candles and windchimes. You’d processed the unused fish from last night before bed too, but it’s still curing in salt and isn’t ready to be eaten or traded yet, so you leave it behind. 

The ride to the University of San Diego campus is as uneventful as you can hope for, uninterrupted by passing by Federation soldiers or your GMRS radio chattering. You make your usual stop with Rue along the way, pen a rough sketch of a Black Phoebe into the pages of your book then move on. They’re the type of bird that don’t vary in plumage by sex and you can’t tell if it’s a male or a female, but it sits nice and still, chirping brightly for you as you mark it down in your notebook. A fleeting thing in reality, etched permanently into your life log with ink. 

And when your tires roll slow on the grass into the slot next to Mags and Donny, the older woman is beaming, already waddling over like she knows she got you with her enticing used car saleswoman speech about the new boys in town. 

Little does she know; you’re here for something else entirely. 

To find out if those boys have sticky fingers, or if it was the group you heard on your fishing venture yesterday. 

Rue has already leapt free from the Ford’s passenger window and is circling Grandma Mags in true sheepdog fashion, herding her right up to your driver’s side door. You hardly have enough time to hoist yourself out and slam the creaky thing shut before she’s on you. 

“Oh, Oceana. I’m so glad you’re here. The boys aren’t here yet, but I’m sure they’ll show.” 

Her kind, warm eyes are squinted with a smile, a true one, and she rubs her age-twisted hands up your biceps in that steadying and gentle way any grandmother can do without hesitation. 

Then she starts preening, smoothing down your stray strands of hair, and rubbing away a smudge on your cheek. Normally, you'd protest, but today you let her fuss while you probe about something else entirely. 

“How’s Donny doing with his tea? Do you have enough supply?” 

You ask, because your canary grass stash is gone, and you’ll need time to refill it before you can get her more. She blows out a dismissive breath, like you’re a buzzing fly fretting over something frivolous and silly, but you press before she can banish it entirely. 

“Ms. Margaret.” 

The tone is sharp, insistent in a way you never are with her, and when her chocolate eyes magnetize to yours, you draw your voice down low and conspiratorial, just for the two of you. Like the words are contraband passing between slick hands. 

“Someone came to the beach house when I was out. Whoever it was rifled through my stores. I don’t have what I need to make more right now. Does Donny have enough?” 

Her face scrunches, brow pinched with concern, and you don’t want to plague her more than she already is, but she needs to know as well as you do that there is a wolf in your midst. She takes a blinking moment to consider before she answers. 

“We’re fine a while longer. He’s got enough to last two more Saturdays. Is that enough time?” 

You nod as you calculate the time, the distance it’ll take to travel to where the plant grows, and the difficulty of its harvest and preparation. You can make it happen in a week and a half, so long as you don't have any more of these hiccups occur in between. 

She smooths down the sleeves of your cardigan, and breathes, “I know you think you’re fine out there, but listen to me when I tell you that you don’t have to stay out there alone. Please. Just talk to the boys when they get here, you’ll see. They’re perfectly respectable.” 

You almost sigh as heavily as you feel, because of course she goes right back to this whole spiel. Not that you’d expect any different from miss matchmaker. Even when she’s well aware that there’s no way you’re letting anyone that close to you within her preferred timeframe. 

And no way you’d learn to trust any of them in such a small amount of time, not when there’s a predator among the sheep. 

A breath escapes you when your lips part to speak, but don’t come when Rue bolts up at the sound of a full, rounded bark. Your eyes trail as Rue huffs out a woof in reply and nearly launches like a missile from the spot on the tailgate where she’d curled up. All your muscles tense because it’s entirely unlike her to run off, and you scan the direction she’s heading in until you spot the only thing she could be after. 

A group of men, all in some kind of tactical gear and led by another German shepherd equally as kitted up, amble through what was once a college plaza. As soon as she’s there, Rue and the other dog—Riley presumably if Mags had been correct the last time you spoke to her—begin to play. 

And look who it is among them. 

Your Sargeant Russ. 

One is bald with a mask covering only the lower half of his face, and he’s wearing some kind of communication device on his head. Then Sargent Russ, tall, broad, quiet as he watches the others react to Rue’s approach with caution, but he only shakes his head to signal she isn’t a threat. The last, and the one the dog had been walking closest to, has his face painted entirely, but no covering. 

And Grandma Mags looks thrilled. 

She may be too trusting, but she is tight-lipped when it counts, and she won’t even hint at your conversation. 

The dogs prance and tumble, playing like they’re pups once more, as the men approach Grandma Mags, and coincidentally, you and your sea foam green pickup truck. 

“Hello, Miss Margaret,” the one with black face paint says and judging from how they approached, the shepherd is his. He watches the dogs with a fond smile as they wrestle on the ground and growl in that playful way shepherds do. 

“Well, they seem to do well together. I’m Hesh. Heard you two ran into Keegan down by the river. She’s more friendly than he let on.” 

Keegan. Okay. That’s a name. 

Not one you needed to know since you’ll be hearing it in your dreams now, but oh well. 

The other half masked man grunts out a single word. 

“Merrick.” 

And you take that to be his own introduction. 

“Yeah. She’s friendly,” you say, smirking with amusement because Rue can be prickly when caught off guard, which is exactly what Keegan had done. You force your gaze toward Hesh and shake his outstretched hand, which is useless as your eyes seem to just keep sliding back to meet Keegan’s, like the icy blue depths emit some kind of gravity attuned specifically for lonely beach girls. 

Like a goddamned magnet. 

Jesus. What a set he’s got. 

Of eyes, you mean. Of course. 

“This is Oceana. The girl I was telling you nice boys about,” Mags introduces you and you follow it up with your name. You know she already told them since Keegan had known it, and you can feel her gaze on you, boring into the side of your polite smile like she’s appalled that you haven’t shared the fact that you met Mr. Arctic Eyes yesterday. Such information would have come more pressing than that of her husband’s medication and your break in. 

You’ll take that scolding later. Another time. 

“How was your catch? Did you find what you were looking for?” 

Keegan finally speaks, and his voice is that low, lulling rumble that seems both heated and threat. Like you can’t peg him as friend or foe—or fuckbuddy. Preferably, he’d be a ghost to slip by in the night and stay hidden in those shadows, but you don’t let that thought linger long. 

Mags pointedly bumps into you, her amused chocolate eyes glinting with something knowing. You wonder for a moment if she’s been reading your thoughts, then decide to fret over that display later. 

“It was good. Thanks for the tip.” 

Now give you the other one. 

Damn. Girl, stop. 

“I’ll have to bring some of the extras when they’re done curing for you boys—as a thank you.” 

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. 

Or if you fatten him up, he can’t run away. 

Jesus, get a grip. This isn’t Stephen King’s ‘Misery.’ 

You force your eyes to trail over all of them, then down to where Riley is being pinned by Rue a few paces away. He looks like he’s happy as he can be with her growling playfully in his face. Riley is bigger than her—she is a runt after all—likely stronger could flip the script if he wanted. But he doesn’t. 

It makes you wonder. Maybe Keegan would like that, too. He seems undeterred by your bite thus far. Maybe he’d let you— 

Oh my god. Get a damn grip. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” 

When you ask it, the whole group seems to tense, Hesh especially for some reason you don’t yet understand. Merrick, who has been quietly calculating as much as Keegan seems to have a habit of doing, steps forward pulling open the Velcro of his kit at the side and tugging out two folded pieces of paper. 

One drawing has two images, a face and a mask. Neither of which you recognize but can assume it’s Logan based on the information Keegan gave you down by the river. A black mask with more white splotches than his. The second is ‘the Ghost killer.’ You’ve heard of him, hushed whispers at market and loudmouth Federation soldiers on the trails between here and home. 

So, these men are the Ghosts. The ones you hear rumors about, like the saviors of this lost land. They’re some kind of military force, private or otherwise—if what you’ve been told is to be believed—and they fight to protect the people, those here and those behind the front lines. 

Okay. So, maybe your Sargeant Russ isn’t so bad. 

You still don’t trust him, though. 

Merrick—the near silent one with the half mask—is the first to speak. He’s broader up close, commanding in demeanor. His words are gritty, like he’s got sand in his teeth. 

“You ever see either of these two?” 

You had seen the Ghost Killer—Rorke was his name if your memory served correct—and you remember seeing him long ago in the earlier years of this war. 

“This one. A few times, but years ago, now.” 

It takes everything to keep your face neutral. Rorke is a bad man—you know that now—but there had once been a time when he was kind to you. He’d stop by and make sure you had enough food, even taught you how to clean your kills properly. He’d once told you that you reminded him of someone—a daughter maybe—though he never clarified whom he was referring to. But he’d stopped coming by abruptly, years ago after a disagreement you’d had when you discovered he’d been working with the Federation this whole time. 

Not that you fight in this war—but you are on the side of the people not killing your friends, as a general rule. 

“How many years ago? Have you ever spoken to him?” Hesh asks, each word clipped and tight. 

“Four at least. He stopped coming down to the water when she got big enough to be a threat,” you start, your eyes once again falling to Rue. And it isn’t the truth, not the whole of it, but the truth is muddy and doesn’t seem helpful in the present moment. 

And could get you into trouble, which is the very thing you’d prefer to avoid. 

The twin shepherds roll on the ground, and Rue leaps right over Riley’s back when he almost gets her pinned down. A small smile breaks over your lips and you just shake your head at the pups. 

Merrick steps back to where he was, tucking the pages back into his tactical vest and holding Keegan’s gaze, then Hesh’s, like some kind of silent communication is passing between them. They don’t move, not yet, and you aren’t sure if they believe you entirely, or if they’re trying to find the best course to begin some kind of interrogation. 

You need to divert their attention—and quickly. 

Then you remember the break in—the ayahuasca—and you drag your eyes back up to them. By their voices alone you know they weren’t the men you nearly encountered yesterday in the forest, and that alone isn’t enough to clear them of your suspicions entirely, but you’re desperate for something to keep them from tying you to a chair and forcing every word Rorke ever said to you from your lips. 

Maybe you’d be into it if it were just Keegan and— 

No. Nope. No. 

You shake your head, physically, like the action will sling shot that thought from your head. Then you refocus your thoughts. The break in, soul vine and canary gras. Chacruna. The missing herbs along with this group’s sudden appearance, and your need to fill the space with conversation other than the guilt settling in your belly, it’s enough for you to probe—just to see how they react. 

“Do you boys know anything about ayahuasca?” 

You watch them carefully, though it’s impossible to have your eyes on them all at once. Inevitably, you watch Keegan the most, his arctic eyes sharp and cold where they meet yours. 

God, they’re like a frozen tundra. Him and his fucking eyes. Cold and hard and— 

Jesus—get a fucking grip. 

Thought you didn’t need a man? 

The silence stretches taut, like the question itself lays tripwire between you and them. A trap, whether laid for you or them, is yet to be discovered. 

Hesh’s face hardens, like the question either offends him or makes his mind calculate some answer to a question he wasn’t aware needed asking. Sweat slides down your temple, along your hairline, and a lump builds in your throat. Wrong thing to say. It was the wrong choice, a mistake, but you’d needed something. A distraction. Before Hesh can speak— 

BOOM! 

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