#troy x reader

Smoke hangs low over the outskirts of Troy long after the fighting ends.

It rolls through the ruined streets in thick grey waves, stinging your eyes, settling into your throat with every breath. Somewhere behind you, something collapses with a splintering crash, followed by another burst of screaming. The sound barely turns heads anymore.

You keep your gaze lowered as you’re dragged downhill toward the shore.

The soldier gripping your arm is young, flushed with the ugly exhilaration of surviving battle. His fingers are locked so tightly around your wrist they’ve long since gone numb, but that seems to be the least of your problems.

You stumble once over broken stone and he jerks you upright hard enough to wrench your shoulder. “Keep moving.”

You nod quickly before he can do any worse.

Around you, other captives are being herded toward the ships in frightened clusters. Some cry openly. Others call desperately for husbands or brothers who will never answer them again.

The beach comes into view slowly through the smoke.

Ships line the shore in impossible numbers, dark against the water, their hulls towering over the sand. Greek soldiers move constantly between them carrying armour, weapons, sacks of grain and other supplies. They are nowhere near done fighting this war.

A wounded Greek soldier collapses several paces ahead of you with a rough cry of pain. The men around him curse in annoyance more than concern.

“He’s bleeding everywhere,” one snaps.

“Well, pick him up then.”

“I’m not carrying him back to camp like that.”

The injured man tries to push himself upright and fails immediately. Blood pours steadily through his fingers where he’s clutching his thigh.

Without thinking, you slow. The soldier holding you notices at once. “Don’t.”

But you’re already staring at the wound. Deep, but clean-edged. Dangerous mainly because no one is stopping the bleeding properly.

“He needs pressure,” you say quietly.

The soldier gives a short incredulous laugh. “He needs a priest.”

“He’ll die before he gets one.”

That earns a few glances. Nothing more at first. Just irritation from exhausted men who want the day finished. Before caution can stop you, you add, “I can help him.”

The soldier beside you snorts. “And why would we trust a Trojan?”

You swallow. “I know how.”

For a moment no one answers. The wounded man groans again, weaker this time, and one of the older soldiers finally looks properly at you. His gaze flicks over your clothes, your posture, your face, as if he's trying to place you.

“You’ve done it before?”

You nod once. He considers it, then must decide he's got nothing to lose and shrugs. “Let her try. If she kills him, we throw her in the sea.”

Your grip tightens briefly around your own shaking hands before you kneel beside the injured soldier. Up close, he can’t be much older than you. Sweat streaks through the dirt on his face and his breathing has gone shallow with pain.

When you press down on the wound, he sucks in a sharp breath and curses.

“Sorry,” you murmur automatically.

You tear a strip from the already ruined edge of your sleeve and bind it tightly around his thigh, trying to ignore the blood soaking warm across your palms. The soldier watches you with visible suspicion the entire time, as though expecting you to suddenly drive a knife into his throat.

Once your hands start moving, the rest becomes easier.

Your father used to complain that you asked too many questions when the physicians came to the house. You had followed them endlessly as a child, more interested in bandages and herbs than weaving or music. At the time it had seemed useless knowledge.

“He needs the wound cleaned properly,” you say, sitting back slightly. “And stitched, eventually. But he’ll live.”

The man guarding you lets out a low whistle. “Well. Look at that.”

“You sound surprised,” another voice says nearby.

The soldiers straighten almost immediately.

The man approaching is older than most of the warriors around him, though not old exactly. His armour is finely made but worn from years of use, and there’s something measured in the way he moves through the chaos of the beach.

Recognition lands slowly and unpleasantly in your stomach.

This is Odysseus.

His gaze settles first on the wounded soldier, then on the blood covering your hands. “You did this?”

You hesitate. “I treated him, yes.”

“And where did you learn?”

“My father employed physicians.”

He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “A noble family, then.”

You say nothing to that.

Around you, the surf crashes softly against the shore. Somewhere further down the beach, men are arguing over spoils loud enough for everyone to hear.

Finally Odysseus says, “Who was your father?”

You almost answer automatically before stopping yourself.

His expression shifts faintly, noticing the hesitation “You don’t have to look so alarmed,” he says, not unkindly. “I asked for your name, not for your loyalty.”

A few of the nearby soldiers chuckle under their breath.

Heat rises embarrassingly into your face. You lower your eyes for a moment before telling him.

Odysseus stays silent for a moment, then looks back at the wounded soldier. “She’s useful,” he says simply. “Send her to the Myrmidons.”

The soldier beside you blinks. “Achilles’ men?”

“Yes.”

Even before the war, stories about Achilles spread across Greece and Troy alike like something mythic. You’d seen what he did to Troy’s outer defences three days ago, and you know enough to understand men do not survive that kind of violence unchanged.

Odysseus notices your expression and smiles slightly, though there’s something tired in it.

“He's not as bad as everyone seems to think.”

Before you can think of any response to that, he turns away, already calling orders to someone else further down the beach.

The closer you get to the camp, the more unbearable the noise becomes.

The Greeks move with the exhausted confidence of victors. Some are still laughing. Others look half-dead where they walk, streaked with soot and blood, too tired even to speak. One soldier sits directly in the sand while another pours wine over a cut on his arm, both of them grinning at some joke you can’t hear.

It feels unreal suddenly, how ordinary they make it seem.

You wonder vaguely if your father is dead. The thought arrives strangely flat, too large for your mind to fully grasp yet.

The soldier leading you gives your arm another tug when you slow.

“Keep up.”

The Myrmidon encampment resembles a small city built entirely for war. Shields stacked in careful rows, spears planted upright in the ground, fires already burning despite the lingering heat of the day.

The soldier finally releases your arm near one of the larger tents. “Stay here,” he says. “Don’t wander.”

As though you could.

Then he disappears back toward the shore without another glance.

A sudden wave of exhaustion nearly buckles your knees.

You steady yourself against the rough wooden support beside the tent, closing your eyes briefly. Your entire body feels heavy now that the fear has nowhere immediate to go. Smoke still clings to your hair and clothes while dried blood tightens across your fingers.

“Here.”

You start violently. One of the Myrmidons is standing nearby holding out a waterskin. He’s younger than the others, his nose visibly crooked from an old break.

You hesitate before taking it carefully. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “You stopped Nikos from bleeding out. Figured that earned you water.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple kindness of it. You drink too quickly and immediately cough.

The soldier grins faintly. “Easy. It’s water, not treasure.”

Another voice cuts in from somewhere behind him. “Depends who you ask.”

You look up as a man steps around the tent entrance, and his gaze lands on you immediately.

“This her?”

“The healer,” the younger soldier confirms.

The man studies you for a long moment, eyes flicking briefly to the blood on your clothes. “You know how to stitch wounds?”

“Yes.”

“Set bones?”

“I’ve helped before.”

“You faint at blood?”

You blink. “No, of course not.”

“Good.” Then he jerks his head toward the inside of the tent. “Come on, then. Someone split his arm open an hour ago and he’s been complaining ever since.”

By the third day, you stop flinching every time someone shouts.

The Myrmidons work you relentlessly from sunrise to well past dark. Most injuries are minor, like deep cuts, split knuckles and bruised ribs, sometimes burns from overturned cooking fires. But there are enough serious wounds scattered between them to keep your hands constantly occupied.

You clean blood from skin until your fingers wrinkle from seawater and wine. You stitch flesh by firelight while men grit their teeth and pretend not to groan.

No one is cruel to you.

That surprises you most.

Some barely speak at all beyond telling you where it hurts. Others thank you awkwardly after, as though uncertain whether they’re supposed to. A few still look at you with open distrust, but even that has faded since the soldier you saved survived the night.

Nikos, the man in question, now grins whenever he sees you, which would almost be charming if he weren’t missing half a tooth.

The camp itself settles into rhythms quicker than you expect. Men training near the shore at dawn, armour repairs are done in the afternoon, and loud arguments over food are always held in the evening. At night, the sea wind carries the smell of salt and smoke through the tents while exhausted soldiers collapse wherever they can find space.

And through all of it, Achilles remains strangely absent.

You see him sometimes from a distanc, crossing the beach or training shirtless in the surf at sunrise, his bronze skin gleaming with seawater while younger soldiers watch him. Once, you see him returning from battle still streaked in blood that clearly does not belong to him.

No one speaks to him casually.

Even the other commanders seem to orbit rather than approach.

The first time he walks through camp near enough for you to hear his voice, conversation dies almost instantly around him.

You understand why before he even reaches you.

It is not simply that he is beautiful, though he is. The stories had not exaggerated that part. Achilles moves with the unbearable confidence of someone who has never doubted his own importance for even a moment in his life. Men look at him expecting greatness and he accepts it as naturally as breathing.

He doesn't glance at you once, which should not bother you.

It does anyway.

Later that evening, you are crouched beside one of the fires grinding dried herbs into powder with the flat end of a knife when familiar voices drift through the camp nearby.

“You should let her look at it.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“It’s bleeding through the bandage.”

“That sounds like a problem for the bandage.”

A few nearby Myrmidons snort laughter and you glance up before you can stop yourself.

Odysseus stands near the centre of camp with his arms folded loosely across his chest, looking profoundly unimpressed. Across from him, Achilles is in the process of removing one bracer with visible irritation.

Even from several paces away, you can see the blood darkening his forearm.

“It’s a scratch,” Achilles says.

Odysseus raises an eyebrow. “That's wonderful news. Then surviving treatment should be well within your abilities.”

“I don’t need treatment.”

“No,” Odysseus agrees mildly. “You need humility, but we work with what we have.”

More laughter this time, quickly stifled when Achilles shoots the surrounding men a look. You immediately lower your eyes back to the herbs, hoping neither of them noticed you watching.

Then, “You.”

Your stomach drops. Achilles is staring directly at you now.

The firelight catches against sharp cheekbones and sun-browned skin still damp from sweat and seawater. There’s dried blood streaked along one shoulder beneath the edge of his armour, and his hair curls loosely around his face from the humidity off the sea.

For one horrifying moment, you think he’s speaking to someone else.

Then Odysseus glances toward you too.

“The healer,” he says helpfully.

“Yes,” Achilles says, still looking at you. “I gathered that.”

Heat creeps instantly into your face. You rise to your feet, trying not to make your awe and nerves too obvious.

Several Myrmidons grin openly.

Then, after a beat, he holds out his injured arm toward you with the vague impatience of a man indulging something unnecessary.

“Well?” he says. “Apparently I’m dying.”

Your feet carry you forward before your mind fully catches up.

Every eye in the camp seems fixed on you as you cross the space between the fire and Achilles. You can feel the curiosity, the amusement, the expectation that this will go poorly somehow.

Your pulse pounds hard enough to make your hands feel unsteady.

Up close, the cut looks worse. Much worse.

The bleeding had seemed manageable from across the camp, but now that he’s holding his arm nearer the firelight, you can see how deep the blade went. The skin along the inside of his forearm is split open almost cleanly, blood still sliding steadily down toward his wrist despite the rough bandage tied around it.

You frown before you can stop yourself. Achilles notices immediately.

“What?” he asks.

You don’t answer right away. Nervousness slips strangely to the background as you lean closer, carefully taking hold of his wrist to turn the arm slightly toward the light.

“What happened?”

“Someone got lucky.”

Odysseus makes a quiet noise from nearby. “That’s one interpretation.”

Achilles ignores him.

You barely hear either of them now. Your focus narrows entirely onto the wound beneath your hands. The bleeding isn’t pulsing heavily anymore, which means whatever vessel was hit has likely slowed on its own. You look up sharply.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His brow furrows faintly. “What?”

“Move them.”

For the first time since you approached him, Achilles looks mildly uncertain instead of irritated. He flexes his hand experimentally.

His fingers move.

“Again,” you say, reaching for his hand before thinking too hard about it. “Grip mine.”

A few nearby soldiers go suspiciously quiet. Achilles stares at you for half a second, then curls his blood-slick fingers around your hand.

Gods, he's strong.

You test each finger carefully, watching the movement of the tendons beneath the skin of his wrist. “Can you feel?” you ask, pressing lightly near the edge of the wound.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes.”

“And this?” You lightly trace the inside of his palm.

“...Less.”

You release his hand abruptly and turn toward the supplies near the fire.

“I need clean water,” you say. Someone passes it over immediately.

You kneel beside Achilles on the packed sand, soaking a cloth before carefully washing blood away from the wound. The water turns pink almost instantly beneath your hands.

Achilles hisses quietly when you clean deeper into the cut.

“That bad?” Odysseus asks from somewhere behind you.

“Yes.”

The camp stills slightly at that. You glance up briefly. “Not fatal,” you add quickly. “It's only his arm after all, he'll be fine.”

Achilles leans back against a wooden post with his injured arm braced on one knee, watching you work. You rinse the wound again, and the deeper you clean it, the less you like it.

“Gods,” you murmur under your breath.

“What?” Achilles asks immediately.

You hesitate, then reach for the small clay bottle tucked among the medical supplies. Strong distilled alcohol. You’ve only used it twice since arriving in camp because most soldiers would rather bite through leather than endure it.

When Achilles sees what you’ve picked up, one corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“I’ve been stabbed before.”

“Yes,” you say distractedly, uncorking the bottle. “And apparently learned nothing from it.”

A few nearby Myrmidons laugh outright. Achilles exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh himself, but then you pour the alcohol directly into the wound. His entire body goes rigid instantly.

You continue cleaning the cut carefully while the alcohol evaporates sharp and bitter into the night air. Achilles doesn’t complain, though his breathing stays slightly uneven beneath the silence.

Once the wound is finally clean enough to examine properly, you thread the needle with steadier hands than you feel.

“You’re lucky,” you murmur.

“Odysseus said I was dying.”

Odysseus immediately protests from behind you. “I implied no such thing.”

“You implied it with enthusiasm.”

You shake your head slightly, concentrating on the stitching. “No. You weren’t dying.” Achilles hums softly, smug already.

Then you add, “But you were very close to losing full use of your sword hand.”

The smugness disappears.

Around you, several Myrmidons straighten visibly and Achilles goes still beneath your hands.

You tie off one stitch before continuing carefully. “The blade nearly cut through the tendon. Another inch and you may never have held a sword properly again.”

For the first time all evening, he says nothing.

The next morning passes much the same as every other morning in camp. Wounded soldiers line up outside the medical tent before sunrise. Someone arrives with a split lip from a drunken fight. Another with a shoulder dislocated during training

You work steadily through all of it.

Still, by midday, you realise people are looking at you differently.

Achilles spoke to you.

Which apparently means something here.

You notice it most among the younger Myrmidons first. Men who barely acknowledged your existence three days ago now step aside to let you pass through camp. One even offers you the better seat beside the fire before seeming embarrassed by his own politeness afterwards.

Later, you’re carrying fresh bandages toward the larger supply tent when two soldiers pass nearby speaking in low voices.

“…nearly took the tendon clean through, I heard.”

“He let her stitch it herself?”

“Well obviously someone stitched it, you idiot.”

“That’s not what I mean...”

Inside the supply tent, the air smells thickly of oil, linen, and dried herbs. You crouch near one of the storage chests, sorting through bundles of clean cloth by lantern light while outside the camp slowly settles into night around you.

The distant sound of waves rolls steadily against the shore. You exhale slowly and rub tired fingers against your eyes.

“You look exhausted.”

You nearly drop the bandages. Odysseus stands near the tent entrance, half-shadowed by the lantern hanging outside. He looks mildly amused by your reaction.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“So I gathered.” Odysseus steps fully into the tent, glancing briefly over the organised piles of supplies surrounding you.

“You’ve made improvements.”

You blink. “What?”

“The medical tent.” He gestures vaguely. “It was chaos before you arrived. Men digging through bandages with bloody hands. Wine spilled over half the supplies. One fool used boiled seawater for cleaning wounds.”

You grimace instinctively.

“Exactly,” Odysseus says.

Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes you.

His expression softens faintly at the sound, though only for a moment. “How is Achilles’ arm?”

The question catches you off guard. “He shouldn’t be training with it yet,” you say automatically. “If the stitches tear, it’ll reopen.”

Odysseus hums, unsurprised. “And will he listen to that advice?”

“…No.”

He's watching you carefully. “You frightened him,” he says.

You stare at him in disbelief. “Achilles?”

“Yes.”

“That seems unlikely.”

A smile pulls faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Not for his life. Achilles values that less than he should.” He pauses. “But his sword hand? That’s another matter.”

Outside, voices drift through camp accompanied by bursts of laughter and the crackle of firewood. Somewhere further off, metal rings sharply against metal from men still training in the dark.

Odysseus leans one shoulder against the tent post. “He’s called for you twice today.”

Your head lifts sharply. “What?”

“You were with other injured soldiers both times.” Mild amusement flickers across his face. “He seemed irritated by this inconvenience.”

“Why would he call for me?”

Odysseus gives you a look that suggests he already knows the answer and finds it entertaining. “You stitched his arm,” he says simply.

Before you can press further, footsteps approach outside the tent. Heavy and familiar. Odysseus hears them too.

Then Achilles ducks through the entrance.

He’s changed out of his armour, though the sight of him somehow remains equally distracting. Loose dark fabric hangs open slightly over his chest, exposing sun-browned skin still damp from seawater. His hair is wet, strands plastered to his neck and forehead.

And despite your instructions, there’s a fresh split in one of the stitches across his forearm. “I tore it,” he says simply.

“Of course you did.”

Odysseus makes a quiet sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

Achilles ignores him completely, his gaze fixed on you. “So... it started bleeding again.”

You can only stare at him, then at the sword hanging comfortably at his side, and then back at him. “You trained with it.”

A beat of silence.

“I got bored.”

Over the next several days, Achilles acquires an astonishing number of injuries.

At first, they are legitimate.

A reopened stitch after training too soon. A bruise spreading dark beneath his ribs from a sparring match that apparently became too enthusiastic. A shallow cut across his shoulder from battle that still bleeds enough to justify attention.

Achilles fights constantly. Of course he gets hurt, so there's nothing strange about it. Still, certain patterns begin to emerge.

For one thing, he never sends anyone else for you. The summons always come directly from him, usually delivered by some deeply unenthusiastic Myrmidon appearing at the entrance of the medical tent.

“Achilles wants you.”

The first few times you go immediately, but by the sixth, irritation begins creeping in. Especially because Achilles himself never appears particularly concerned.

You arrive at his tent one afternoon expecting something serious from the urgency of the message, only to find him sitting shirtless beside the table inside, sharpening a dagger while a thin scrape crosses one knuckle.

You stop in the entrance. “…That’s it?”

Achilles glances up. “It’s bleeding.”

“It’s barely skin-deep.”

“It could become infected.”

You walk forward slowly. “You interrupted the stitching of an actual wound for this.”

“You finished eventually.”

You clean the scrape anyway. His gaze never leaves your face the entire time. Afterwards, as you’re packing away the supplies, Achilles says casually, “Your hands are steadier now.”

You look up.

“When you arrived, you shook every time someone spoke to you.”

Heat rises instantly into your face. “I did not.”

“You did. But you’re less frightened now,” he says. The words should sound mocking, and yet somehow they don’t.

You focus aggressively on tying off the bandages. “Maybe I’m simply getting used to arrogant Greeks demanding treatment for papercuts.”

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Then, from outside the tent, “Is the arm being amputated or are you two finished?”

Achilles’ entire face hardens instantly back into annoyance.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard to stop yourself smiling.

The injuries continue.

A split lip after training. A shallow burn across his palm from grabbing overheated bronze. A cut on his jaw that looks suspiciously like someone else barely managed to touch him during sparring and he’s still offended about it.

Each time, he sends for you. Each time, the injury grows less convincing.

This cut on Achilles’ shoulder is three days old and healing perfectly, which makes it deeply irritating that he insists on having it redressed again.

“You do realise,” you say, trying not to sound annoyed as you unwind the linen from around his upper arm, “that wounds cannot improve out of spite alone.”

Achilles lounges beside the fire like a man with absolutely no intention of taking you seriously. One knee bent, forearm resting lazily across it, bronze skin flickering gold in the firelight. Around him, half a dozen Myrmidons sit scattered through the tent cleaning weapons, drinking watered wine, or arguing over some training dispute.

“It reopened this morning,” Achilles says.

“You trained with it again.”

“Yes.”

“Then it did not reopen mysteriously.”

A few of the men nearby laugh.

Achilles glances toward them briefly, unimpressed. “I liked you better when you were frightened of me.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself and the tent goes quiet for exactly one second, because you laughed at Achilles. You realise your error immediately and freeze with the fresh bandage halfway around his arm.

Then, thankfully, Achilles laughs.

The tension breaks instantly around the fire. “Well,” one of the older Myrmidons mutters. “That’s new.”

Heat crawls up your neck as you focus aggressively on tying off the bandage.

Achilles, unfortunately, continues watching you.

“You’re staring again,” Odysseus remarks mildly.

Achilles doesn’t even glance at him. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe she’s pleasant to look at.”

Someone makes a strangled sound into their wine cup and you nearly stab yourself with a needle. Odysseus watches the entire exchange with the expression of a man observing a slow-moving disaster he predicted long ago.

“You could attempt subtlety,” he suggests.

Achilles finally looks over at him then, visibly puzzled by the idea.

“Why?”

The simplicity of the answer sends another ripple of laughter around the fire. You keep your eyes firmly on the bandages in your lap, willing your face to cool.

Achilles, meanwhile, appears completely untroubled.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, like this is an obvious fact no one intelligent would dispute. “I’m not sure what subtlety has to do with it.”

Someone near the back mutters, “Gods help the poor girl.”

You stand quickly, gathering the used cloth before anyone can say anything worse. Achilles' gaze lifts immediately, following you with the same steady focus that’s begun to make your stomach feel strange at unpredictable moments.

“I’ll bring fresh supplies tomorrow,” you say, mostly to the room in general.

“You won’t need to.”

You pause.

“You'll stay,” he says, reaching for his wine, calm as ever.

The words settle over the tent without immediate reaction, almost too casual at first to register.

Then several heads lift at once.

You stare at him. “What?”

“With me, in my tent,” Achilles clarifies, as though you’re the one being slow. “You spend half your time there already.”

A few of the Myrmidons exchange looks but no one seems particularly surprised. Your pulse begins beating unevenly.

“I still work in the medical tent.”

“Someone else can handle scraped knees and drunken knife accidents.”

“That is not all I handle.”

“No,” Achilles agrees easily. “You handle me.”

Odysseus closes his eyes briefly like a man asking the gods for strength.

Achilles barely seems aware of the reaction around him. His attention remains fixed entirely on you.

“You’ll have more space here,” he continues. “And I prefer having my healer where I can find her.”

There’s something underneath the words now. Not hidden particularly well. The implication hangs thickly in the air.

You become suddenly, horribly aware that every man in the tent understands exactly what Achilles wants. And because he is Achilles, no one thinks it strange that he should simply… decide.

Your mouth goes dry.

“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”

Achilles only tilts his head slightly, studying you.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You didn’t.”

That evening you're in his tent, and he's told you of one last injury he wants you to look at before he retires. The fire near the centre has burned low, filling the tent with soft gold light and long shadows that shift across the walls whenever the sea wind stirs outside.

Achilles sits on the edge of the cot while you kneel in front of him with fresh linen draped across your lap.

The cut along his ribs is, like always, very shallow.

“Hold still,” you murmur as you clean away the blood around it.

“I am holding still.”

"Then you're not doing it well enough."

It's bizarre. A few weeks ago you could barely look at him without feeling afraid. Now the fear has changed shape into something far more dangerous. You notice too much; the warmth radiating from his skin this close, the scrape of his breathing every time your fingers brush near his ribs.

You focus harder on the bandage.

“Does that hurt?” you ask quietly, pressing near the edge of the cut.

“A little.”

You pause.

“A little?”

“For most men, perhaps more.”

You snort softly despite yourself. “Of course.” Achilles’ mouth curves faintly at one corner.

Trying to ignore it, you reach for the clean linen and begin wrapping it carefully around his torso. The position forces you closer, one hand braced lightly against his side while the other pulls the bandage tight.

His skin is warm beneath your palm.

When you finish tying it off, you start pulling back immediately, suddenly desperate for distance before he notices how flustered you’ve become.

But Achilles moves first.

One large hand closes around your wrist, and your breath catches.

"Are you done?" His voice rumbles low.

You nod, not daring to meet his gaze fully, and his grip turns to iron, completely unyielding. He tugs you closer, effortlessly lifting you onto the edge of the cot as if you weigh nothing.

"Achilles-" you start, but you stop short when you feel his free hand trace the line of your jaw, rough calluses scraping gently over skin.

"I meant it. That I want you here. That you're beautiful."

His voice has dropped an octave, more of a whisper than his usual commanding cadence.

You try to pull back, instinct screaming caution, but he doesn't let go.

Instead, he manoeuvres you with ease, positioning you astride his lap, your knees sinking into the furs beside his hips. You're enveloped by him. His arms encircle your waist, hands splaying across your back, holding you in place.

"Stay here," he orders, and it's not a request.

Your breath catches as his lips brush your neck, a deliberate graze that sends sparks racing down your spine.

You know you should protest, should remind him of your role, your boundaries, but the words dissolve on your tongue when he nips at the sensitive skin there, just hard enough to mark.

His hands roam now, bold and possessive, sliding under the hem of your tunic to grip your hips. He lifts you slightly, adjusting you against the hard planes of his body, and you gasp at the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you.

He manhandles you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion, the furs cushioning your fall as his weight looms over you. Not crushing, but enveloping, his thighs bracketing yours, keeping you pinned without effort.

You stare up at him, breath shallow, as he peels away the last barriers between you. His fingers hook into the ties of your clothing, pulling with a rip that echoes in the tent.

Cool air kisses your exposed skin, but his touch is fire, trailing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts. He pauses there, thumb circling a peak until it hardens under his attention, drawing a whimper from your lips.

"Don't act so surprised", he growls, voice thick with need, "You knew this would happen."

Before you can process, his mouth descends, claiming yours in a kiss that's all teeth and hunger.

The world narrows to sensations.

The scrape of his stubble, the salt of his skin, the way his huge frame dwarfs yours completely. He moves you again, rolling you to your side, one arm hooked under your knees to draw them up, opening and exposing you to him as he slots his body behind yours.

There is no gentleness in his conquest, only raw, unfiltered desire that mirrors the warlord he is.

In the midst of it, you risk a glance over your shoulder, and his eyes lock on yours, showing a flicker of something deeper. There's possession, yes, but it's laced with a fierce protectiveness.

"Are you scared of me, little healer?" He asks; you can feel his breath stir your hair. You shake your head quickly, then slow, deciding to nod instead.

His grip gentles a bit.

"You need not be. I like you too much to break you, I'll be gentle," he murmurs in response.

You hear the rustle of clothing, faintly registering his own clothes being ripped off. Then his skin meets yours, a shock of heat and muscle.

His hand leaves your body to position himself at your entrance. You feel the rub of his cock through your folds, silken smooth against your gathering wetness.

When he finally enters you, it's unhurried, letting your body accommodate the difference. The stretch itself is overwhelming, a burn that blooms slowly into pleasure.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he sets a rhythm that increases steadily in pace, unrelenting. You cling to his arms, nails digging into hard muscle, head thrown back against his shoulder.

The tent fades, the war outside ceases to exist. There's only Achilles, taking you, binding you to him in this most primal way.

The only kind of claim that matters in times of war.

When he's confident you've grown accustomed to him, he speeds up his pace, cock hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

The sound of skin against skin echoes around the tent. His arms draw you further into the cradle of his body, lifting your leg higher so he can hit a spot inside you that you didn't know existed.

You feel his body start to tense, as does your own, the knot in you tightening and tightening with every thrust. His breathing becomes more laboured, the drags of air becoming harsher against the nape of your neck when he leans further into you.

When release crashes over him, it's with a groan so deep it could be considered a roar.

Yet, even as his body shudders against yours, he keeps grinding his hips into you, chasing your pleasure as much as his own. His arm snakes its way around your waist, finding the bundle of nerves that sends lightning rushing through your body.

That, in combination with the deep rolling sensation of him still inside you, finally pushes you over the edge.

You go slack, sagging against his body, whimpering as the aftershocks course through you.

He doesn't withdraw; instead gathers you closer, if that's even possible. His massive arms caging you in and pulling you so you're sprawled over his chest.

"You'll stay right here," he whispers into your hair, the words a vow sealed in sweat and sighs.

And as exhaustion claims you, nestled against Achilles' chest, you accept you've been utterly conquered.

Snow didn’t fall in this part of Texas, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t cold. The wind bit through the cracks of the old farmhouse we fortified when the end of the world first started, howling like a ghost through the cracks. Troy stood by the window, rifle slung lazily over his shoulder, scanning the fields for movement. The world was quiet, but that was just how he liked it these days. I was behind him, humming softly to myself. I was sitting cross-legged on the old wooden floor, surrounded by a pile of scavenged odds and ends, old soda cans, twine, bits of fabric, and something that glimmered faintly in the low afternoon light. Troy turned when he noticed the shimmer. 

“What the hell is that?” He asked, smirking. “Please tell me you didn’t find tinsel in the attic or something.” 

I looked up, my eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“Close.” I said, holding up my hand. A faint golden dust covered my fingers, and I smiled. 

“Glitter.” 

Troy blinked. “Glitter? You found glitter?” 

I grinned. “Yup! Found it in one of the craft stores near town. It was buried under a bunch of junk, but I thought… maybe we could make some decorations.” 

Troy’s brow furrowed, like I just suggested painting a target on the whole base. 

“Decorations? For what, exactly?” 

“Christmas.” I said simply, as if that explained everything, which it should. 

Troy raised an eyebrow, his smirk twitching like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or lecture me. 

“You do realize the world’s gone to Hell, right? No Santa, no gifts, no tinkle lights in the window.” 

“Yeah,” I said, still smiling as I brushed a fleck of glitter from my palm. 

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t make it feel like something. You know, remind ourselves that not everything out there gets to die.” 

Troy stared at me for a long second. The afternoon light cut across his face, glinting off his eyes in that way that always made my chest ache. He still looked like a soldier half the time… jaw tight, eyes sharp, fingers twitching on that damn rifle, but sometimes, when he let his guard down, I caught a glimpse of the boy he must’ve been before the world ended. 

“Alright…” He said at least, lowering the gun and leaning it against the wall. 

“You’ve got my attention. What does Christmas look like at the end of the world?” 

A grin crept across my face. “Homemade ornaments. Maybe some garland. I even found a little box of those battery lights at the store. If they still work, we can wrap ‘em around the window!” 

Troy chuckled, shaking his head. “Christ, Y/N, you’re gonna make this place look like Santa’s apocalypse workshop.” 

I gave him a mock glare. “Hey, it’s better than staring at the walls and pretending we’re not slowly losing our minds.” 

He laughed at that, the sound rough and warm. “Fair point.” 

I turned back to my work, spreading the scraps and supplies across the floor. The old wooden boards creaked under my knees as I started cutting shapes out of a cereal box, stars, hearts, whatever came to mind, really. The air smelled faintly of duet and old smoke, but I didn’t care. For the first time in a while, it felt like something was happening. Something good. Troy crouched down next to me, resting his elbow on his knee. 

“So, what do you need me to do?” 

I looked up at him, surprised. “You wanna help?” 

He shrugged. “If it keeps you from covering every inch of this place in glitter, yeah, might as well supervise.” 

I snorted. “You just don’t trust me.” 

“Not even a little.” 

We shared a look, that quiet, teasing kind that said more than either of us ever did out loud. For a second, it was easy to forget everything else. The ranch outside, the dead beyond the fence line, the endless hum of survival. For now, it was just us. 

“Alright, Mr. Supervisor,” I said, handing him a roll of twine. “Cut some pieces about this long. We’ll use them to hand the ornaments.” 

He took it, still smirking. “Yes, ma’am.” 

As we worked, I started humming again, a tune I barely remembered, something my Mom used to play every December. I hadn’t thought about her in months, maybe years. The world didn’t leave room for nostalgia, but sitting here on the floor with Troy, it didn’t hurt so bad to remember. 

“Ya know,” I said after a while, glancing up at him. “We used to decorate the whole house when I was a kid. My Mom would let me hang the lights, even though I always tangled them.” 

Troy looked up from the twine, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Never pegged you for a holiday person.” 

“I wasn’t, not really… but I guess when everything’s gone, the little things start to matter more.” 

He nodded, quiet for a beat, then softly said. “My old man used to make us chop wood for the fireplace. Said it builds character.” His smirk faded into something softer. 

“Didn’t realize back then that those stupid moments were the ones I’d miss.” 

I smiled gently, brushing a bit of glitter onto his arm on purpose. 

“Guess we’re making new stupid moments, huh?” 

He glanced down at the gold dust now stuck on his sleeve. 

“You’re damn right we are, and you’re cleaning this mess up later.” 

I laughed, leaning over to bump my shoulder into his. 

“Deal.” 

By sunset, the house looked… different. The dull space had turned warm and alive. Strings of hand-cut stars dangled from the beams, little bits of glitter catching in the firelight. The windows glowed faintly from the battery lights that, miraculously, still worked. I stood back, hands on my hips, admiring it. 

“See? Told you it would look good.” 

Troy whistled low under his breath. “I’ll admit it… it looks like a real Christmas in here.”

“Thank you!” I said proudly, turning to him. “I accept your apology for doubting my vision.” 

He snorted, stepping closer. “Didn’t apologize.” 

“You implied it.” 

“Pretty sure I didn’t.” 

I arched a brow at him, and he laughed, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. His lips lingered there for a second, longer than usual, and when he pulled away, his voice was softer. 

“You make this place feel like home, you know that?” 

That made my heart skip. I smiled and brushed more glitter off his cheek, leaving a faint gold streak behind. “Guess I just figured if the world’s gonna keep falling apart, we might as well make it a little prettier while we’re at it.” 

He grinned. “You’re insane.” 

“Probably,” I said, stepping closer and resting my forehead against his chest. 

“But I’m your kind of insane.” 

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around me, and the fire popped behind us. For a moment, all I could hear was the wind outside and his steady heartbeat under my ear. 

“Merry Christmas, Troy.” I whispered. 

He kissed the top of my head again, his voice rough but warm. 

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.” 

• Rooming with Troy and Abed had been one of the easiest decisions of your life. Two years of friendship and student debt loans really did a lot to convince a person

• You were a little worried about the actual process of moving, considering what happened last time the study group got together to move, but it ended up going pretty smooth. Jeff didn't even try to pretend he was sick this time, something that Britta sarcastically applauded him for. And Shirley held back from judging you about your lack of Christian memorabilia. She instead resorted to clutching her cross necklace tighter than the time she found out Britta smoked pot

• In between lugging boxes and bedframes around, Annie reassured you over and over that she was totally fine with you taking up the apartment vacancy instead of her. She was honestly looking forward to her new place just off the cusp of campus grounds. Said it would be easier to get in for a midnight study session. Whatever that meant

• You just nodded slowly and excused yourself to pack in a different corner

• Troy and Abed on the other hand were absolutely stoked throughout the move. So much so, that they put most of their shenanigans on pause to get the move over faster. Most of them.

• "Abed, untie Troy from the chair. I need to put that in the back of my car. You can do that when we get to your place."

• "Ten more minutes?"

• "No, guys."

• "Aw man."

• The next few hours ran as smooth as they could with eight people trying to walk up two flights of stairs. Eventually, everything got unloaded into the living room, and excuses were made as why people had to leave. Some more elegantly than others

• "Yeah, as much as I'd love to stay and watch you three nerds discuss which Batman poster goes where—" Jeff hummed as he typed away on his phone, "—I've got places to be and women to charm."

• "What he said!"

• "Pierce, I don't think there's a single lady out there that would touch you with a ten foot pole." You deadpanned

• "Ertha Kitt did. And she did more than just touch me—"

• "Okay. Out."

• Troy and Abed surprised you that night with a new pair of pajamas to match their own, and an impromtu Inspector Spacetime marathon

•Both of them beamed when you came out into the living room later wearing it. A part of you figured they were just happy that you were cool with your blanket fort, though

• You ended up sitting criss crossed on top of an unpacked box while they took to their knockoff la-z-boys

• "Do you guys think we should actually unpack things before starting the next episode?" You asked at some point late into the night, glancing at the blinking analog clock on the TV stand

• "No." Abed answered you without even looking up from the end credits

• "Yeah me neither." You grinned. "I want to see if Reggie kills any blorgons this time."

Her eyes flashed with frustration. “No, he’s not looking for a home. He’s looking for PADRE,” she snapped. I felt my heart sink as I frowned at her, unsure of how to respond.

“I was there in the med bay when he fell on his head,” she continued, her voice hard and accusing. “I heard him mumbling in his sleep—‘find PADRE’ and and that name he kept going on about ‘Madison.’ He’s obsessed with this childish idea of revenge. It’s dangerous, and you know it. And that’s not even the worst part… he’s still dragging that rotting corpse around with him like it’s some kind of sick trophy—”

“That is his wife.”

I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended. Diane’s eyes widened in surprise.

I wasn’t usually the type to get angry. In fact, most people walked over me without much resistance. But something snapped when she decided to disrespect a man who would have died for her if he had to, just like he would for anyone else in our group.

“Who made sure you were fed all these years? Clothed” My words were harsh. “Do you really think you’d be any better off without us? You’d still be out there, between homes, barely surviving. But at least you had this group. At least you had Troy.”

Diane opened her mouth to protest, but I pressed on, my voice rising. “Your husband won’t be able to protect you out in the real world. And god forbid you die out there and your Jeffrey has to decide what to do with you, you’ll wish he was half the man Troy is. You’ll wish he had the strength not to leave you behind.”

She didn’t respond, but I saw the way her expression faltered, how she took a step back, uncertain. It was like the pounding in my head intensified just from looking at her, every second spent staring into her guilty eyes hammering nails into my skull.

So I turned away. There was nothing more to say.

Then, just as I was about to leave, I heard her sigh.

“You’re right—”

“I wish you all the best. Good luck out there,” I interrupted coldly.

“But—”

“You’re fired.” The words came out sharper than I had foreseen, but I didn’t regret them.

Without waiting for a response, I started walking away. My steps echoed in the silence, but I stopped just before reaching the door to the abandoned warehouse we called home.

“I’ll let your husband know that you are waiting here for him,” I added, not turning back.

I should’ve noticed the quiet stare of the eight-year-old girl, hidden in one of the ventilation shafts, watching the entire scene unfold.

————————

The end :D

Just kidding this has been way too long coming. I know this part wasn’t very eventful but I wanted to set the tone.

But I’m putting it in multiple bite sized parts because that’s what I personally enjoy

Here’s the link to part two :)

You hadn’t meant to snoop.

Jake had asked you to find Troy, said he had to talk to him but didn’t have the time to track him down. He was a busy man, after all, and if Jeremiah needed help, he couldn’t exactly make him wait.

So, you agreed.

You took off toward Troy’s room, assuming that given the time of day and schedule for rounds, that was where he would be.

He wasn’t.

His bedroom was unoccupied by the time you reached it, but not empty.

On the floor, out of place in the immaculate space, was that leather-bound notebook he carried with him all the time. It was one of his most prized possessions and you knew he would be missing it, if he didn’t realize it was gone.

That was it.

By all accounts, you were trying to do something nice. You figured it had fallen out of his back pocket when he was getting dressed or rushing out the door to get to his post.

You had to find him anyway, so when you did, you could take it to him.

It was innocent, at least, at first.

You had only good intentions and you weren’t even going to open it, but almost on instinct, as soon as you touched the leather, you flipped open the front cover. Whether out of curiosity or habit, you weren’t sure but it didn’t matter.

All that mattered as soon as it was open was the ink, dried to the page and committing his every thought, as if recording for posterity.

On the first page, he’d written his name, followed by a date. If you had to guess, you’d say that was the day he obtained it.

It was interesting.

Troy’s handwriting was delicate and even, and you could tell that he put time into every single letter and number. Like he knew they would be there forever and couldn’t handle a mistake.

You smiled, letting yourself sit at the foot of his bed, your fingers tracing each letter as you read them.

For the most part, his notebook was filled with what you would have expected. Factual scribblings and miscellaneous numbers that held no meaning to anyone other than Troy.

In all honesty, you barely understood what you were looking at.

…but it didn’t matter.

Troy had been carrying this time with him everywhere he went since you’d met him, and never once had you held it like this. Never had you looked upon the pages, or even asked what he was always writing.

You just let him keep his secrets, because everyone had something that was just for them, but now that you were seeing it, you didn’t regret picking it up.

No matter how wrong it was.

You felt like, for what was probably the first time, you were seeing Troy for who he was and he wasn’t even in the room with you.

The next few pages were less interesting, though just as telling, with every inch of the paper covered with dates and times.

The watch schedule.

After that, you found what seemed to be a detailed list of miscellanious items, and quantities that had to be supply logs from his runs. You could tell because of the delicate little checks beside each thing, telling you he'd cataloged them.

That was who Troy was.

Organized and meticulous, even when he was within his own private thoughts.

It continued on like that for a while. Page after page full of numbers, little symbols and time stamps, but you didn’t skip over a single one. You took your time considering each little marking, far more than you’d ever studied anything in your life.

It was almost as if you were reading a roadmap and you couldn't forget a single detail, which in a way, you were.

This notebook was a reflection of Troy, and not just who he presented to people on the outside, but the real Troy.

This was the closest thing he’d ever keep to a personal journal, and while it didn’t contain any written feeling or sentiment, you could feel it.

With each word you read, and each number you attempted to quantify, you got it. You understood who he was, more and more.

In a way that he could never have expressed to your face.

You were remarkably relaxed as you read, considering you were actively betraying the personal privacy of one of your closest friends, but that all came to a screeching halt as you neared the center of the book.

There, above everything else you’d seen so far, you found something that surprised you. Something within the collection of thoughts that actually confused you more than anything else had.

It was you.

There, on those worn pages, was you. Or, at the very least, some sort of tribute to you. The resemblance was stark, and you couldn’t have explained it away if you tried.

Which obviously wasn’t what you expected.

Still, you didn’t move to make anything of it at first. You knew Troy well enough to know that there could very well be drawings of every single person he’d ever seen hidden within the covers.

Maybe he just didn’t want to forget the people he knew. Maybe he didn’t want to forget their faces.

That would have been a perfectly reasonable thing to do considering the world you lived in, and how frequently people left your lives.

The second drawing was harder to explain away, and by the time you reached a seventh page, you couldn’t deny it anymore.

They were all of you.

Each one was different, and just as great a resemblance, but they were all of you.

You could feel your face scrunch up slightly as you considered what you were looking at, before eventually turning back to the first drawing of many and just looking at it for a while.

It was good.

A simple pencil sketch, with harsher lines and shading in some areas, where Troy had deemed necessary and softer, lighter emphaisis on others. Complete, of course, with the date in the corner.

It looked a lot like you.

The first one, the one that had caught your attention in the first place, was of your face. There was a soft, almost serene smile on your face and you looked happy.

You looked pretty, if you could look pretty in a pencil drawing.

The second was farther away, and featured you in the middle of cleaning your hand gun on the picnic table. The third was of you reading, your back against the shed and a sharp look of concentration on your face.

Did you really twist your face up like that when you read? You must have.

There were a few others, all capturing you as you existed, in the exact way you must have looked and you couldn’t help but feel like you were watching yourself through Troy’s eyes.

It was strange.

Still, you didn’t stop your quest and continued looking from page to page, until you came to the most recent drawing.

The last drawing in the set.

This one featured you, sitting in front of a roaring fire with the full expanse of the desert at your back. By all means, it was no different than the others, but for some reason, it felt different as you studied it.

You looked peaceful, almost comfortable, with a wide smile on your face and it would be a lie to say that you didn’t find it beautiful.

It was.

That was when it dawned on you.

You remembered this, remembered sitting in the dirt like you were on the page, telling the militia jokes and listening to their stories about what life was like for them before the fall.

Troy had been so quiet that night. This notebook of his had his full attention the entire night, and at the time, you thought he was taking notes, strategizing and planning out your next moves.

…but he wasn’t.

If the date in the corner of the page was correct, that meant he was doing this that whole time.

His mind wasn’t wondering to far away possibilities, or bloody disasters that no one could prevent except for him. His was watching you, studying the lines of your body and the contours of your face.

Listening to your voice and doing his best to capture the emotion on your face to the page, so that it didn’t have to live in his memories alone.

Wow.

You were quiet for a moment as you thought over the implications of this, or if they were any implications at all, only stopping when you heard the sound of Troy’s truck coming up the road.

It had to be him.

It was always him.

At the sudden distraction, you released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding after a moment, and forced yourself to close the notebook, but you didn’t put it down.

You couldn’t.

For some reason, you felt like if you allowed the leather to separate from your fingers, it would go away somehow. Like, if you set it down, what you now knew would be lost to you forever.

So, rather than be caught in his room without explanation, you tucked the book into your back pocket, where Troy often kept it on his own body, and left.

In a lot of ways, it was the perfect crime.

There was no way that Troy could actually prove that you had been in his room, and considering the fact that you were sure he didn’t realize his journal was missing, he wouldn’t know you’d seen it.

He didn’t have to know.

…but part of you didn’t want that.

Part of you didn’t want to get away with what you’d done, to get away with reading his notebook and learning what you had without something changing.

Everything had changed.

This proved it, whether Troy meant for it to or not.

~

You decided not to say anything at first.

Not because you didn’t want to, but because you didn’t know how. It wasn’t as if you could just go up to him and ask why he’d been sketching scarily accurate portraits of you in his spare time.

So, until you could make up your mind about what you wanted to do, you decided to do nothing.

Instead, you focused your energy forward toward where Troy was, unloading his pack and guns from the back of the truck with Cooper and Blake.

They weren’t scheduled for a run this morning, at least, not to your knowledge but you didn’t have time to care about that. The important thing was that they just got back and they were too preoccupied to notice you.

…but you weren’t preoccupied.

Not anymore.

In fact, as you looked upon Troy at this moment, you felt like you were seeing him for the first time. Like, you finally had a point of reference for how he thought and what happened inside his head when he got all quiet.

Like you were looking at a brand-new person.

You tried to think back to the way he looked at you, looking over that notebook of his, that soft concentration consuming everything else around him. Maybe if you saw the world like that, it would be better.

If you saw him the way he saw you.

In your head, Troy had always been this untouchable force. He was stoic and solid, barking orders and burying everything he felt no matter how unpleasant it may have been, but that wasn’t all there was to him.

There couldn’t be.

As you watched him and took note of the way his face faltered as he scanned the crowd, you saw it. A glimmer of something that wasn’t quite as untouchable as you would have thought.

He was unsure, and given the way, he winced slightly after slugging on his pack, tired too but that wasn’t all. There was a silent joy in the way he wiped the blood from his hands and a whisper of adrenaline clear from the pep in his step.

How was it possible?

Had he always been this complex and you’d just managed to miss it? Or was it simpler than that? Maybe you didn’t want to notice because you couldn’t handle the gamble.

You couldn’t handle being let down, not by Troy. He was too important to you, and if you were to fall too hard, you knew you’d never be able to claw your way back up.

Not that you had much of a choice now.

You had picked up that notebook, and there was no taking that back. The most you could do now was keep going, and deal with what followed with as much grace as you could muster.

“Hey, there you are”

It was the sound of Troy’s voice that brought you out of your head, but not in time to actually prepare yourself for having to face him.

The best you could do was smile, desperately hoping that your face didn’t look as guilty and conflicted as you felt.

“Yeah, here I am,” you tried, willing yourself to focus on the conversation at hand and not on the way the midday sun made his eyes sparkle. Was he watching you like you were watching him?

Stop it.

“I was supposed to tell you to find Jake. He was looking for you” you forced, giving the blonde a soft smile before continuing on your way, brushing past him only slightly in your hurry.

You couldn’t do this.

How were you supposed to just go about your life like you didn’t know he was silently studying every little thing about you?

How did you do that?

“Y/N, wait up. What’s going on?” Troy called out, shocked by your uncharacteristic briefness and evidently choosing this very moment to start caring about other people’s feelings.

Perfect.

You stopped, considering your options for a second as you waited for him to meet your side, his boots keeping time with his usual stride.

On one hand, you could just abandon your original plan and tell him about the notebook, confess that you’d read it and that you had seen the drawings. On the other hand, you could keep it hidden and say nothing, but that was a bandage at best.

Eventually, you would have to give it back.

So, you took a deep breath and made up your mind. Today was going to be the day that you faced Troy Otto and the feelings you had for him that you’d been steadily burying since you’d met.

You didn’t have any other choice.

It was unceremonious, all things considered, the way you just pulled the small book from your pocket but you didn’t really care. Of all the things currently fighting for the top spot in your mind, finesse didn’t even crack the top ten.

There was no getting away from this and the longer you tried to play it off, the worse it was going to be for both of you.

There was probably a perfectly casual explanation that you just had yet to consider. All you could know for sure right now was that you were never going to know if you didn’t give Troy a chance to explain himself.

“You found it” he allowed, gingerly taking the book from your hands and inspecting it lightly before returning it back to where it belonged.

Safely away in the back pocket of his jeans, away from prying eyes like yours.

“Yeah, I found it.” you could practically feel your blood dropping in temperature as you forced yourself to take the leap. “And I read it too”

Troy’s blood ran cold as soon as you spoke.

You read it? What did that mean? Most of what he’d cataloged in that book wasn’t something you would have been able to understand, even with as clever as you happened to be.

It was an extension of what happened inside his head, and if he was being honest, Troy was lucky he could understand what he’d written most of the time.

It wasn’t possible that you’d read it.

It just wasn’t possible.

“What do you mean?” his words were much more pensive this time, as he waited for you to explain yourself.

Troy was smart, and he knew better than to incriminate himself, even if technically he hadn’t done anything wrong. The drawings were creepy, sure, but not necessarily disallowed.

“It’s a good likeness. It could have been a lot worse. I mean, I didn’t even know you could draw” you shrugged, telling him everything he needed to know without having to actually admit to what you both knew out loud.

It was the most painless option, but knowing that didn’t stop Troy from panicking as he considered what this might mean for the two of you in the future. Of course, he wouldn’t blame you for whatever choice you made.

He’d crossed a line, again.

“You weren’t supposed to see those” he tried, ultimately preparing himself for the yelling or screaming that would follow your discovery.

It was strange.

Troy knew that when he started the sketches, but for the life of him, he couldn’t stop once he’d started. There was just something about you, and the way you looked when you were completely in your element.

It was like the rest of the world fell away, and even if for a moment, he wanted to capture it.

…but there was no way for him to explain that to you without making the whole thing a lot worse than it already was.

After all, the only thing more inappropriate than drawing you without your permission or awareness would be justifying it with unreciprocated feelings of admiration.

Feelings he could hardly rectify within his own head, let alone out loud to you.

“Why do you draw them?” you wondered, heading back down the hill toward your own cabin, Troy following you gingerly.

You had no idea what you were doing here, or what difference this whole thing would make but you knew that you had to talk about it. You had to figure out where to go from here, and you’d rather do it without an audience.

This definitely wasn’t the business of anyone else at the ranch.

He sighed, watching you out of the corner of his eye as you moved, making no motion to say anything else until he spoke. “Got bored” he tried, his voice wavering in a way you’d never heard before.

“Don’t lie. It’s okay, I just want to know why” you shrugged, practically pleading with him to tell you the truth.

You didn’t blame him for assuming the worst. That was just who Troy was, and who he would always be, but you weren’t angry with him for this.

You were just surprised.

Most of the drawings, kept between important data he’d collected, were of you out in the world, going about your day and unaware that you were being watched.

Which, to some, may have been unsettling but you didn’t think so. You knew Troy and you knew that in order for him to put the time and effort into these, they were important to him.

Because you were important to him.

All you wanted was to hear him say it.

“Truth?” he hummed, more for himself than you as he bought just a little more time before you finally stopped, just far enough away from the center of the ranch to have some privacy.

You nodded, trying to ignore the way his gaze shifted around your face before finally dropping to the dirt.

“You’re real. Real and beautiful” Troy shrugged, in what had to be the most pitiful attempt at minimizing himself that you’d ever seen.

This wasn’t who he was.

Troy was strong and self-assured. You had never seen him doubt a decision or second guess a choice once in all the time you’d known him unless that was just another one of his illusions you’d never looked twice at.

Sensing you weren’t content with just that, he continued, laying his soul bare in a way you’d never expected.

Not from him.

“You know that feeling when you’re staring them down out there, and you know that if you make one wrong move or miss anything, that will be it?” he questioned, clearly referencing the dead and the thrill he got from the sick little game of chicken you’d had to put a stop to quite a few times before.

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with me?” you started, only to stop again when Troy continued, “The feeling after, when they’re all dead and everything is okay again…that’s how I feel when I’m around you”

Troy paused, his eyes meetings yours for a moment as he breathed, clearly trying to gauge your reaction to his confession so far.

He found nothing.

You knew the feeling he was talking about. The relief that flooded your body when the adrenaline peaked after the danger had already faded away and you could revel in what you’d accomplished.

…but the drawings.

You didn’t understand how they were related.

So, clearly following your train of thought, Troy fished the book out of his pocket and opened it, pausing only briefly before showing you the page he’d ended on.

It was further along in the journal than you’d gotten in your initial search this morning but it would seem that there was a reason for that.

It was another drawing of you.

This time, you were curled up in your sleeping bag, fast asleep. It wasn’t entirely different from any of the others, but considering that it was the one he’d chosen, you knew it was special.

It was his favorite.

This was the first one he’d drawn. The one that had started the habit that he’d yet to break, even now.

You had been out with the rest of the militia. Under his direction, you’d wandered too far away from the ranch and bunked down for the night in a cave, but for the life of him, Troy couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t quiet his mind and he certainly couldn’t have hoped to get any sleep, so he picked up his notebook. At first, he was just going to read over his notes from the outpost, but then he glanced over at you.

You were too peaceful and too beautiful. It made him feel something he’d never felt and some part of him felt like if he didn’t commemorate it somewhere, that feeling would just slip away and he didn’t want to let it go.

He couldn't let it go.

“I won’t say I love you, because I don’t think I’d know even if I did, but I draw these because they remind me of what I do it for,” Troy muttered, admiring the graphite as if he’d done it a hundred times before, and maybe he had.

Your phone couldn’t seem to stop vibrating because of the sudden influx of messages from two of your internet friends, a set of twins who looked to the ECHOnet to save them from the boredom of their lives, at least, that’s what they told you. You spent an amount of your time online, talking to them about everything there was to talk about, and they kept in touch with you often, creating a group chat between the three of you to talk in.

‘hey’

‘hey’

‘hey’

‘heyyyyyyyyy’

‘u should get online’

‘nd settle a fight between me n troy’

‘bc this idiot thinks pineapple belongs on pizza’

Tyreen blew up your Echo Device as she often did, desperate to get your attention. The heavy hand unit never seemed to stop buzzing, even as you picked it up, only now you were being bombarded by both twins.

‘ty is a LIAR’ 

‘that is NOT what we were fighting abt’

‘and my pizza opinions have NOTHING to do with this’

‘I SWEAR SHES LYING’

‘plz get on’

‘i need another voice of reason’

This was a very common occurrence, you can’t even begin to count the number of times you’ve been dragged into their weird arguments with absolutely zero context, but it was always fun to watch how passionate they were about these weird disagreements. Ready to join in and get some context, you typed into the group chat you shared with the twins.

‘whats this abt troy liking pineapple on pizza?’

It only took a few seconds for Troy to respond, Tyreen following shortly after.

'‘THATS NOT WHAT I SAID TY IS LYING TO YOU’

‘nuh uh he totally said that’

‘did not’

‘ok he basically said that’

‘basically and totally arent the same thing’

The conversation was taken over by Troy and Tyreen again until you typed back.

‘wait ok so what did troy say?’

‘all i said was that pineapple on pizza can still be valid if you dont like it’

Tyreen was quick to respond, excited by what she assumed was an admission from Troy.

‘y’know who would say that? people who like pineapple on pizza’

‘I NEVER SAID I LIKE IT I JUST SAID ITS VALID’

‘HOW IS IT VALID???? IT’S AN ABOMINATION TO PIZZA’

‘LISTEN SOME PEOPLE JUST LIKE A BIT OF SWEETNESS TO THEIR PIZZA’

‘ARE YOU SEEING THIS (Y/N)??? IM TELLING YOU HE LIKES PINEAPPLE ON PIZZA’

The chat continued to be flooded with messages of Tyreen accusing Troy of liking pineapple on pizza, while Troy tried his best to explain himself, though you weren’t really sure if he was desperate to make Tyreen believe him, or if he was actually hiding the possibility of him liking pineapple on pizza. The world may never know.

‘whenever we meet up we gotta get troy some pineapple pizza and settle this’

‘YESSS THATS SUCH A GOOD IDEA’

Tyreen typed back excitedly, loving the suggestion, much to Troy’s chagrin you assumed.

‘im not eating pineapple on pizza for you weirdos’

‘besides’

‘even if i would’

‘its not like dad would ever let us go see you’

‘he definitely wouldn’t let you come see us either’

‘not like you could find us anyhow’

Oh. That’s right. You’d nearly forgotten. They’d mentioned before that their dad refused to let them go out. Something about him being super protective of them. Well, even if it wasn’t possible, it was a fun idea to imagine, spending actual, in-person, time with the twins. You would be able to see them face-to-face and fulfill all the other weird plans that stemmed from the strange but fun conversations you had with the twins. They’d told you that it was unrealistic to ever actually see each other, but you still held on to that slight hope that maybe one day you’d be able to finally meet them.

Tyreen texted back.

‘ugh thats right’

‘mannnn’

‘its not like he can actually keep us here all our lives’

‘even if he tried’

‘he won’t be able to stop us >:)’

‘we’ll be so sneaky nd run away’

‘and then we’ll come see u’

‘waddya think troy?’

‘i guess…’

‘but i do wanna see (y/n)’

Tyreen was often playful when she talked with you and Troy, but you wondered if any part of her was serious about that. About running away from her father with Troy. Your thoughts were interrupted as your ECHO device vibrated once again, this time a message from Troy.

‘OH UR NEVER GONNA BELIEVE WHAT TYREEN DID LAST NIGHT’

‘SO SHE GOT UP LAST NIGHT CAUSE SHE GOT HUNGRY’

‘AND’