#kbd2k16

He still doesn’t understand, and it’s not really his place to question why she does it. Slipping out of the quarantine zone without getting caught is one skill in Adrienne’s repertoire he knows a bit too well, but it’s something he’s come to terms with over the years. He pretends he doesn’t see her heels disappear through the concealed hole right next to one of the checkpoints, and she doesn’t bring it up if by chance she slips back in and catches his eye as she does. They share a look, her body stiffening up for that passing moment until she turns her eyes away again and continues on her way.

There may be a few times when she comes back a bit worse for wear.

Those are the times he finishes his shift with dread creeping under his skin. He holds on to his rifle like it’s his last lifeline, or maybe he just hopes it will break under his fingers and he won’t have to use it on her if that infected blood on her has already gone skin deep. When he leaves the checkpoint behind and makes his way to their block, there’s a weight on the bottom of his boots that’s trying to do its best at making him stumble on the stairs; to get him to fall before he gets the door open and walks into that dusty apartment.

He leaves his rifle – a tool of power and control; his extension nowadays – by the mangled kitchen table and goes to her door and knocks, waits with his jaws clenched until she pulls the door open. She leans heavily on one leg, but that’s just what she does - maybe it’s something he shouldn’t know - and there’s nothing different in the expression she gives him.

So if he masks his worry under harsh words – “use those ration coupons for five minutes at the showers, will you?” – it’s just for protection. Whose protection, he doesn’t know, but when she spits out curse words and intentionally collides her shoulder with his arm as she brushes past him, he feels a wave of relief. She’s still there. She’s angry, but she’s still there.

It’s a stupid kind of fear – being left alone. Most of them are alone. Everyone has lost someone, and those who haven’t usually don’t make it far anyways. Loss is everyday, and not letting it get to you is what he’s been pounding to his head since he was that little kid who kicked and screamed and went silent when he heard his father get shot down. He’s not kicked like that since. He is alone. Being alone is all he knows, and yet, the thought of her one day not coming back from her reckless adventures is the thought he uses most time pushing away. His guilt for all that he’s done may render him motionless at times, but not understanding the need for her existence is what he refuses even thinking about.

There has been times when she’s not come back for the night, and those are the nights he sits on his bed and cleans his boots, or his gun, and grinds his teeth until the first rays of sun pierce the dirty window of his small room, and he can push himself on the move again. He pulls his uniform on, straps his belt to his waist, and grabs his rifle before heading out to find something to occupy himself with.

So maybe he doesn’t follow his orders because he knows she can handle herself. He knows she’d rather die out there than come back infected, and he can’t blame her. The hell outside the QZ’s walls sometimes sounds like nothing compared to the hell raging inside, but then one time it’s not just him turning the blind eye to let her run out into the bombed down areas of Boston. It’s her standing by the wall, hands in the air, and the squad sergeant and three others standing just a few meters away from her.

The weight of his boots is nothing compared to the feeling that sinks to the bottom of his stomach and the lead that replaces his knees as he pushes himself on the move. The sergeant aligns his gun with Adrienne’s forehead, and for a brief second he can imagine her body hitting the ground like he’s seen happen so many times before. He comes to a full stop in front of her, chest wide and hands up; his rifle now dangling by its strap on his shoulder.

He can hear her protest behind his back, but he’s talking before she can say anything. "It was my mistake, Sir – I let her wander too far.” The man’s bewildered look turns into what can only be called pure jeer as Miles continues. “It won’t happen again.”

The sergeant clicks his tongue. He’s not much older than Miles, five years at most, but it doesn’t make him any less convinced that his position trumps any wisp of immaturity in his persona – and by the look on his face he seems to be very pleased with the direction the situation has taken. Adrienne is still behind Miles’ back, and in some twisted little corner of his head he hopes his body is thick enough to stop a bullet if the sergeant decides to pull the trigger.

He’ll later reason this with having a gun pointed at his head. It’s nothing.

“Russell, you’re slipping.”

Miles doesn’t respond, just bites his teeth together a bit tighter, keeps staring at the man and his hollow cheeks. He knows what’ll come next, what will happen when she’s ordered back to her block and he has to walk his way back to his checkpoint.

He doesn’t argue, because he knows what the cost of just two ?? words can be. Talking back. Disrespecting. Leaving post. Lying. Two hits. A broken rib. Three kicks. Split lip and a broken nose. He knows the punishments by heart, and there’s no point in arguing with someone that can send you to either one of the lineups that’ll get you killed. Biting the bullet or getting assigned to the exploration groups that wander outside Boston – either way it’s a death sentence. Compared to the lineups, watching that malicious smirk while they beat sense into him is nothing.

The sergeant pulls his chin up as he keeps his eyes drilled on Miles.

“Report to the C-gate after your duty is over.” Miles drops his arms to his sides and barks a ‘yes, sir’ and stays still until the squad has left the premises and left him and Adrienne standing by the wall. He doesn’t breathe deep, just turns to look at her. The moments when he thinks he can read her never happen when he’d need it.

“I’ve told you to keep your damn head down.”

Her bewildered eyes turn to look at him for few burning seconds before she exposes her teeth like a threatened animal and shoves her hands hard at his chest, sending him to take a step back.

“Fuck you, Miles.”

He watches her receding back, that immovable weight on his chest just a little lighter. He drops a hand on top of the rifle and pulls it back into his death grip, again clinging on to it like it would make facing what’s coming any easier. He turns on his heels and starts walking through the cracked street that’s now spotted by droplets of rain.

That night, when he drags his tired bones back to Block 3, he makes an effort to walk into his room without waking anyone up. He opens the front door and thinks the lights are off, but as he rounds the corner that leads into the living space, the dim light of the lamp that stands by the kitchen table shines through the corridor. She’s sitting by the table, her gun taken apart in front of her, and raises her sharp eyes to him as soon as he opens the door. He thinks she pretends not to notice the way he holds on to his side, and the new shadow right under his eye.

She doesn’t say anything, not this time.

And with nothing more than a lingering look to her direction he goes to his room and shuts the door behind him, rests his back against it and closes his eyes. He lets out the breath he must’ve been holding since he saw her standing there with the sergeant’s gun aimed at her.

It had all happened too fast. One minute they’re joking, and the next they’re swarmed by the infected, scrambling for footing in a rotting museum. They’d tried to stay together, to have each other’s backs, but soon enough a group of runners had pushed Adrienne to the other side of the building. A good chunk of the hoard follows on Miles’ heels as he loads his gun, tries to take sharp turns and pushes his way through room after room of abandoned clutter. His boots crush the wood below, and there are flashing moments when it feels like his feet aren’t catching up with him -- that’s what happens when you’re running for your life, he’s noticed. He can hear her gun go off in nearly continuous fire that he can only hope is as sharp as he’s seen it be.

When the situation clears and he gets back to where he saw her last, all he can see is bodies of the infected, limbs in positions their joints can’t have bent into naturally, all surrounded by blood and guts that no longer even phase him. The stench of the dying is overwhelming, but when he sees that among the limp bodies there's Adrienne, her back only barely against the far end wall and bloody hands holding her gun and her middle, the smell gets forgotten. He calls out her name and makes his way to her, dropping to his knees and discarding his gun before he's even come to a full stop.

She doesn’t look at him but acknowledges his presence by letting her gun arm fall. "The fuckers.." Her breaths are irregular and shallow as she looks to him for a passing moment, her gaze then dropping to the bodies on the floor and all the way down to her bloodied middle.

"Let me see," he says and tries to keep his voice level, hands prying her arm away from her stomach. She resists but eventually gives in with a wince, her face twisting in clear discomfort as the pressure of her arm gets removed and the stale air brushes against her skin. He's faced with even more blood and a wide open wound with jagged edges; a wound so deep he thinks he can see her insides. "Shit." It's as much of panicking as he allows himself, hurrying to rid himself of his backpack and then his jacket, pushing the worn-out fabric against her stomach so forcefully she cries out between her teeth.

“Fuck.” He presses his hands tighter against her stomach as she curses, his dark jacket already changing shade and becoming damp, which only makes him put more pressure on it. She squeezes her eyes tighter together and pulls in breaths that she fails to keep steady. He can feel her ribs rise, but there’s nothing comforting about it.

"Come on," he mutters, eyes running from her pale face to the wound and back up again; his head racing. She groans, her hand squeezing on the loose fabric of his pants, her legs restless on the ground. She keeps digging her heels into the rotten wood below as she takes labored breaths and doesn’t let her eyes land on anything for more than a few seconds. 

"You'll get through this, alright?" He doesn't know who he's even talking to at that point; his brains running through plans that usually come to him so easy, but now all he can see is full stops and forks in the road he can't build a clear path out of. He prides himself on planning, on working out everything to the very last detail and even having a backup plan, just in case. Now he doesn’t see a way out. He can’t carry her, he can’t take his hands off of her stomach, and yet what comes out of his mouth is, "I'll get you out. You’ll be fine."

She lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. It leaves her groaning for a beat before her lips part again. "It's about time." Her words are so macabre he wants to tell her to just shut the hell up.

"Don't do that." "Miles, don't be --" her voice drifts away into a shaky intake of air, her brows knitting tighter together as she shifts under his hold, presses her lips tighter together and blows out a breath through her nose before relaxing again. "-- don't be stupid."

He bites his teeth, jaws so tight again he can practically hear the muscles on his jaw tense up. He looks at her and the pained look on her face that she’s stubbornly changing into a smile he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to tell him. He never properly learnt to read her expressions -- at least not this one. He takes a sharp breath. "I need you, Adrienne, you hear me? I fucking need you. And you can’t make fun of it unless you stay alive, so fucking fight." She looks to him, her bloody hand rising up to rest on top of the hands he has on her stomach. He’s still wracking his brains and trying to come up with a plan that doesn’t risk both of them, that would make things better -- but then she talks and makes his thought process jam up.

"Kiss me."

He swallows, shakes his head. "No, you're not doing this --" "Kiss me, Miles."

He keeps looking at her, at the challenging look she has mustered up on her pale features that he in any other occasion would look at with admiration. His heart is ramming against his chest; his mouth dry. He leans in enough to press his lips on hers; feeling her ever so slightly open her mouth against his. She tastes like blood and sweat; a taste so familiar that every now and then Miles can’t help but wonder what kind of God allows anyone to get so familiar with the taste of dirt and pain that it’d be welcomed like that. It’s a kiss that lasts only a few seconds, but seems so much longer when he has his hands in a pool of her blood; fingers grazing her torn flesh and feeling her pulse on the pads of his fingers.

He presses his forehead against hers and licks his lips before pulling his head up again, trying to ignore how hard it is for him to take a deep and steady breath as he looks at her face again. Her eyelids are sluggish, barely staying open.

He thinks she has trouble focusing on him. The thought makes his skin crawl.

“I love you.” God, he hates it. It’s the first time he hates hearing those three words because it’s her giving up, and she’s not even trying to hide it anymore. “No, you don’t get to say that, not now.” “Miles.”

The hand she has on top of his tightens, her fingernails digging into his skin. She’s trying to get him to listen, but he can’t. He can’t listen when all she has to say is goodbye. He doesn’t need the words to know that’s what she’s doing and he can’t allow it to happen. They don’t give up.

She says it again. “I love you.” His eyes run over her features, as if there would have to be something there that would give him all the answers: give him a way to fix this. As another bundle of seconds pass, him still unable to find a solution for yet another impossible escape they’re faced with, the reality slowly washes over him. And it’s not a wave. It doesn’t come in a rush, but creeps its way up his spine and through his denial. God, when was the last time he was in denial?

She keeps squeezing his hand, eyes locked on him. She’s waiting.

He lets out a breath, finds himself more fidgety than he’d want to, and shifts on his knees before he swallows the piece of whatever that’s lodged itself in his throat and wills his tongue to work. “I love you, okay? So you can’t do this, you can’t --” He drifts off, that piece reclaiming its place in his throat as he shakes his head.

The hold she has of his hand stays firm even when she presses her eyes shut, nails pressing harder on his skin as the corners of her mouth tug up just long enough for him to notice.

She smiles at him. She smiles at him and for one, fleeting, brilliant second he thinks it might be okay. They’ve trod through shit all their lives and they’re still here. They’ve been beaten and broken; lost and found again; this isn’t how it will end. They will be okay.

-- She smiles at him until she no longer doesn’t.

The curve of her lips fades away. Agonizingly slow, as if she’s just preparing for another wave of pain that she knows is coming, but then her hold loosens and the smile is actually gone. And that’s when the panic creeps its way to his bones and makes a home there. He says her name, more than once, feels his hands go down with her exhale. He’s witnessing a death he refuses to believe is happening, and the cloud of denial hovers over him again.

Her head lolls to the side and he says her name again.

He repeats her name like a prayer; like saying it enough many times would make a difference, lets go of his damp jacket and lifts his hands up from her stomach and to her cheeks, turning her head back to him. His fingers smear blood on her clammy skin; paint curves along her cheeks and brow as he pushes her hair away from her forehead. Her mouth is ever so slightly open, eyes closed but not as forcefully as they were before. Her brows are still knit together, but the crease between them isn’t as deep.

“No, no, you can’t.. You.. I need you, you can’t --”

It’s hard to breathe. His muscles tense and his lungs don’t work with him; letting him drag in only short breaths that don’t ease his need for air. His hands tremble as he keeps stroking her cheeks, by now knowing there’s nothing he can do to bring her back. He’s not stupid enough to press his palms on her chest; to break her ribs just to ease his pain. 

She’s gone, but she wasn’t the one who was supposed to go this way. She wasn’t supposed to leave him there.

His hands shake as he gathers her up, lets his knees give in as he sits down and pulls her into his arms, drags her to his lap like he’s done before. This time she doesn’t hold on to his middle; doesn’t trail her fingers up his chest and to the ends of his hair. She doesn’t blow warm breaths to his skin, or curl her body to make it settle against him. This time he cradles her body in his arms and buries his face to the curve of her neck. He can’t feel her pulse on his skin.

That’s when he wakes up.

He jolts awake so violently it’s almost like someone’s punched the air right out of his lungs. He knows that feeling well, so very well, and this really doesn’t pale in comparison. He gasps for a breath, his skin sweaty and forehead so slick his hair sticks to it as he brings his hand up and runs his fingers through the curls to make them settle. The memory of blood comes to him like a bullet to his side and he brings his hand right back down, stares at it, but in the dark of the room he can’t see if it’s as stained as it was. It doesn’t feel like it, that familiar stickiness isn’t there -- and as the hand keeps trembling, all he does is curl his fingers into a fist and turn his attention elsewhere.

He looks around. The room is dark. It’s not even early morning yet, and the place is not a museum. It takes him what feels like forever to get a grip of everything, a realization that in reality lasts for just seconds. He tries to will his breathing to turn more regular, to calm his pounding heart, and then she’s asking if he heard something. He shakes his head, a movement she probably won’t even see, but before she can sit up he just lays back down, his words coming out thick and hoarse. 

“Just a nightmare.” She relaxes, curls herself tighter into the blanket she has around her shoulders. If the times before this can be taken into account, she's probably watching him. She knows what his nights are like, and the toll that comes with them. He doesn’t sleep until he can barely stand up straight, but she doesn’t comment on it, and it’s just better. What she doesn’t know is that he no longer dreams about that room -- about sitting in that chair; broken and bleeding. Now he keeps having dreams where she’s laying bloody in his hands, and it doesn’t matter how fast his hands move; how quick his reactions are; her wounds are severe and more gruesome than the one before, and every single time she bleeds out.

He turns to his side and reaches a hand around her waist, comes closer and presses his chest against her back. She moves her hand to take a hold of his, bringing it against her chest; right under her chin. He lets out a breath and lets his eyes fall shut, forces himself to focus on the way he can feel her breathe right there.